Lost to the Night (The Brotherhood 1)

“Caroline. There you are. I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

The warm, feminine voice caught her off guard, and she swung around with a gasp, her fingers fluttering to her throat and coming to rest on the topaz necklace — another of her sister’s prized possessions.

“Why, am I late?” Grace said, knowing that her voice lacked confidence, knowing that the lady before her was a stranger.

“No,” the lady replied, her curious gaze roaming over Grace’s hair. “You’re not late. But Barrington is looking for you, and he is not best pleased. I thought I ought to warn you.”

Grace recalled no mention of a Barrington in her sister’s diary. There had been a whole host of unseemly tales about other gentlemen; so she had to suppose this man lacked the skills necessary to capture Caroline’s attention.

Guilt flared.

Reading the evidence of someone’s innermost thoughts was a gross invasion of privacy, and she’d spent a whole day holding it in her hands before finally deciding to peel back the cover and peer inside.

“And what could I possibly have done to warrant Barrington’s displeasure?” Now she sounded far too haughty.

Oh, this was never going to work.

A frown marred the lady’s brow. “Don’t be coy. You know full well you were to meet him at the theatre last night. But looking at the state of your hair, it’s clear you’re not well.”

“I do feel a little out of sorts.” Feigning illness would go some way to account for her character flaws and a perfect opportunity to broach the subject of her quarry. “I would have stayed at home tonight, but I need to speak with Lord Markham.”

The lady made an odd puffing sound. “Markham? Don’t waste your time. You know his rule about never bedding the same woman twice.” She leaned closer. “Was he so good you would risk facing rejection?”

What was she supposed to say to that?

“He … he was so good I’d ride backwards on a donkey and cry tallyho just for another chance.”

The lady screwed up her nose and then giggled. “What’s wrong with you tonight? You’re normally so serious.”

“My heart’s all jittery thinking about Lord Markham. Where is he? Have you seen him this evening?”

“He’s standing near the alcove. Markham’s the only gentleman in the room not in costume, so you’re unlikely to miss him.” The lady placed her hand on Grace’s arm. “What are you going to do about Barrington? He will not tolerate your blasé attitude and without the protection of a gentleman, he can make things difficult for you.”

Grace didn’t have to worry about Barrington and neither did Caroline, not anymore.

“I’ll do what I always do,” she said making an attempt to sound vain. “I shall smile and flutter my lashes and all will be well.”

In their youth, Caroline had used the trick a hundred times or more.

“Oh, you’re incorrigible. Let me know how you fare with Lord Markham. Although I’m sure to hear tales of your humiliation. I may even rouse the courage to try myself.”

As Grace walked away, she was overcome by a wave of sadness. Was this how Caroline spent her time — comparing conquests and juggling suitors? There was something so shallow, so degrading about succumbing to the voracious demands of men.

Where had it all gone wrong?

After reading the diary, she had a fair idea.

There was only one gentleman wearing evening clothes. He was conversing with a man dressed in the garb of a Turkish prince, whose crimson pantaloons were attracting much female attention.

Lord Markham, or so she assumed, had the bearing of a man who bowed to no one. Dressed all in black, he exuded raw masculinity. With his arrogant chin, sinful mouth and lethal gaze he embodied all the qualities she imagined of a scandalous rake. His decision to forgo a mask made him appear all the more masterful, all the more dangerous.

Grace swallowed down her nerves and tried to muster just an ounce of her sister’s steely composure. It was the height of rudeness to interrupt a conversation and so she hovered at his side in the hope he would notice her.

The first thing he did notice were her breasts and his lustful gaze lingered there for longer than necessary. Grace could feel her cheeks flame under his scrutiny. Her instincts cried for her to flee, the feeling only tempered by her sheer desperation to discover what the gentleman knew.

His expression altered dramatically as his gaze drifted up to the topaz necklace, up to the mole on her cheek. Recognition dawned, and his countenance resumed the same tired, world-weary air.

“Ah, Miss Rosemond,” he said glancing down at her breasts once more. “I see you have found a way to enhance the paltry assets bestowed upon you. Some poor devil will have a fright when his hand curls around a pair of old stockings.”