Dante feared nothing except for failing to find the fiend who murdered his parents. “Either you have no experience of pain, or you’ve suffered so greatly you’re indifferent to the emotion.”

Her watery smile said the latter was true.

He decided to press harder, elicit a reaction.

“The fault lies with your mother. Did she not alert you to the dangers of attending a party hosted by a disreputable rake?” He glanced at the daring silk gown hugging her hips like a glove. “Did she not tell you a virgin maid should wear white, so those of us seeking a bed partner for the evening know who to avoid?”

“How could she? She’s dead.” The sharply spoken words sliced through his conscience. “My mother died many years ago.”

“Mine too,” he said, unnerved by the instant connection. “Though I doubt they met the same grisly end.” To banish the horrific image of his mother’s blood-soaked body, he focused on the maiden’s breasts, lush and bountiful, large enough to fill his hands.

She glanced down. “Did I forget to remove the label?”

“The label?”

“The label informing you of my virginity.”

He snorted. “Love, I can read your body like I read a book. Every movement tells a story. In your lavish gown, you’re the heroine who wants to appear confident and worldly-wise. Yet from the stiff way you walk I know you’ve never parted your legs, never gripped a man between your soft thighs, never climaxed beneath the skilled strum of his fingers.”

She should have gasped and blushed, gathered her skirts and darted back to the ballroom, but she arched a challenging brow. “So, you’re a reader who skims the pages and misses vital parts of the story.”

“You’re saying I’m wrong?”

This was quickly becoming a rather interesting conversation.

She sneered. “Not entirely. While I know what it’s like to have a man’s filthy paws maul my flesh, to feel the disgusting weight of him pressing down upon me, squeezing the last breath from my lungs, I am proud to say I’m still intact. But

while the bruises heal, Mr D’Angelo, the harrowing memories remain.”

Damn. He didn’t like the graphic vision bombarding his mind—an ugly beast of an abuser marring her porcelain skin. He didn’t like that she might understand why nightmares plagued him, why he was scared to sleep, why he walked and walked and walked until he was too tired to stand.

“I admire your candour, Miss—”

“Sands.”

What a shame she wasn’t a widow or some ageing lord’s wife. They might spend a pleasurable night keeping their demons at bay. He would make her come so many times she would never see the filthy devil’s face again. Would fill his mind with the sound of her pleasure, try to remember her passionate cries, not his mother’s haunting howls.

“Now we’re acquainted, Miss Sands, might you explain why you’ve been watching me all evening? And if you are a virgin maid attending a party for the debauched, please tell me you brought a chaperone.”

She peeked over her shoulder as if about to confess a government secret. “I am here in a professional capacity, sir, and do not need a chaperone.”

“Damnation! Don’t tell me you’ve sold your virginity to the highest bidder.”

Babington enjoyed playing depraved games. Though if the bids were still open, Dante would pay a king’s ransom for the pleasure of bedding this intriguing maiden. Once would be enough to satisfy his curiosity.

“Sold my virginity? Don’t be ridiculous! I work for Lucius Daventry and Damian Wycliff. I’m an enquiry agent for the Order. I’m here tonight because I’ve been assigned to the widow Emery’s case and am merely following a lead.”

Dante froze.

An enquiry agent for the Order? The woman was a few cards shy of a full deck. There were ways to get his attention without making absurd declarations. Yet, his disappointment at not winning a coveted place in Miss Sands’ bed proved equally puzzling.

“I don’t know what game you’re playing, madam, but I work as an agent for the Order. I have been assigned to the widow Emery’s case.” Dante firmed his jaw, for he did not appreciate being treated like a dolt. Though how she knew such personal details was a mystery. “If you know I catch liars and thieves, why invent such a ludicrous tale?”

Miss Sands frowned. “Surely Mr Daventry told you of his project.”

“Project? What project?” As the master of the Order, Lucius Daventry kept many secrets, but never those that might hinder a case.

“Mr Wycliff wishes to help ladies who find themselves alone and destitute. Mr Daventry is his partner in a new venture, for he believes a woman’s insight might be invaluable when solving cases. I live in Mr Wycliff’s house for waifs and strays on Howland Street and am employed by Mr Daventry as an agent.”

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