Demon's Bride

Chapter 10

“I received a letter from Lord Whitney.”

Leo paused in the act of pulling off his coat. He stood in the middle of the bedchamber, the candles extinguished, only the fire in the grate illuminating the room. Anne hovered near the foot of the bed, still in her gown of heavy green silk, her hair up, her eyes wide.

“What?” He could not have heard correctly.

Anne wrapped her hands around a bedpost, like a woman clinging to a treetop as floodwaters rose around her. “Lord Whitney. He put a letter for me in the carriage.”

“When?”

“Several days ago.”

Leo went very still. “Why have you said nothing until now?”

Her hands tightened around the bedpost. “I wanted to forget.”

“Show it to me.”

“I burned it.”

He strode to her, and though she did not shrink away, he saw the smallest wince in her face. “Tell me what it said.”

At this, her wide gaze slid away. “I cannot remember.”

Leo knew a lie when it was spoken. He witnessed many of them on the Exchange. Never did he expect to see the same prevarication from his own wife. Something in his chest hurt, and he spoke around its cutting edges. “Anne.”

She was no hardened man of commerce, no gamester. Of everyone he knew, including himself, she was the most truthful. And falsehood could not last long within her. Firelight gleamed in her eyes as she returned her gaze to him.

“Mad allegations,” she finally admitted. “Too outlandish to be believed.”

“Tell me.”

“He said ... that you and the other Hellraisers had made a bargain with the Devil. That you each gained powers in exchange for your souls, and ... you’ve unleashed a terrible evil upon the world. A growing danger. But that is all ludicrous. A Bedlamite’s ravings.” She forced out a laugh, hollow as a husk.

Fire coursed through Leo. His heart slammed inside his chest, and every inch of him tensed, ready for battle. A momentary paralysis. It did not last, for he had to act.

He strode to the bedchamber door and threw it open. “Munslow,” he bellowed, calling for the head footman. The hour was late, the remains of the dinner already cleared away, the house put to rights. Leo shouted again for the footman.

The servant appeared a moment later, buttoning his waistcoat and smoothing his wig. “Sir?”

“Have you seen Lord Whitney?”

“No, sir. Not recently, sir.”

“Or a Gypsy woman?”

“Not her neither.”

Leo could not feel any sense of relief. Simply because Whit had not been seen did not mean his threat was any less present. He’d put a damned letter in Leo’s carriage. For Leo’s wife to find. Fury tore through him, his body shaking with it. Leo’s fears were coming to pass. No. No. Whit would take nothing from him, especially Anne.

“He isn’t welcome in my home,” Leo said. “If any servant sees Lord Whitney, even a glimpse, they must tell me immediately. I want at least three footmen to accompany Mrs. Bailey whenever she goes out. The biggest and strongest we have. Hire more, if necessary. I can apply to my boxing salon. I want bruisers, brutes. If I am not present, they must be with her at all times when she leaves the house.”

From behind him, Anne spoke. “Leo, I—”

“And if Lord Whitney should attempt to approach her, he must be stopped. You understand. There is to be no communication between him and Mrs. Bailey. None. Do whatever is necessary to keep him from talking with her.”

The head footman nodded. Like most footmen, Munslow was young, tall, and strong, and the ready shine in his gaze showed that he welcomed the chance to brawl.

“Tell the rest of the servants to keep a watchful eye. Housemaids, coachmen. All of them. And if anyone sees anything, I am to be notified at once.”

“Yes, sir.”

Leo sent Munslow off with a jerk of his head. It did not matter to Leo what the head footman told the rest of the servants. If they thought him mad, or wondered at his reasoning. All that mattered was keeping Whit away. From Anne, above all.

Turning back to her, Leo shut the door behind him. Locked it. The protection offered by the lock was minimal, but he would seize any means of warding off the man Leo once considered one of his closest friends.

Leo advanced on Anne. She continued to hold fast to the bedpost, her features drawn tight.

“Should Whit attempt to contact you again,” he said, “tell me. If I am not here, send a running footman to Exchange Alley. Swear that you will do it.”

Her eyes were round, her cheeks pale, even in the hot gleam of the firelight. “He speaks nonsense, doesn’t he? There is no Devil. Not truly.”

“Swear it.” He stepped closer.

She released her death’s grip on the bedpost, and though he could see the furious beat of her pulse in her neck, and heard her agitated breathing, she did not shrink away. “This is not what we have built together.” She tipped her chin up. “All this time. We’ve made more, you and I, than a husband who threatens and a wife who meekly obeys.”

“Whit is dangerous, Anne. Understand? He is a threat to everyone. You and I, especially.”

“Why?” she cried. “What is it that he threatens?”

Leo’s jaw tightened. “Everything.”

He would not allow it. He refused. Leo had built his entire life with his own hands. From the foundations laid by his father, he had constructed an existence, borne the weight upon his own shoulders, his hands scraped raw and bloody. Whatever he possessed belonged to him on the strength of his will. A foolish, lazy man would have squandered the Devil’s gifts on ephemeral pleasures, but not Leo. He took the granted power and became even stronger, more ruthless, more determined.

Like hell would he sit idly by as Whit tried to steal from him.

Anne. His own wife. The woman he had come to know almost as well as his own heartbeat. By revealing the truth, Whit wanted to take her away.

Leo’s rage knew no limitation. Never.

“Nothing,” he amended, his voice barely more than a growl, “and no one will take you from me.”

“I am not leaving.”

To keep her, he would commit any crime, destroy anyone who sought to tear them apart. For now that she was in his life, he could not imagine it without her. He would bind her to him, as he was bound to her.

“I cannot ...” He struggled to speak. “No one means more to me than you do.”

The wariness in her gaze sifted away. “Leo—”

Words were not enough. He was a man who spoke plainly, and had no interest or skill in constructing artful webs of words. There was nothing he could say that could equal what he felt within the innermost reaches of himself. So he had to use his body to do what his words could not.

He closed the remaining distance between them. Their bodies pressed close, and against his abdomen he felt the swift contraction of her own stomach as she drew in a sharp breath. He threaded his fingers into her hair, cradling the back of her head, and tipped her chin up. Her lips parted. For a moment, they only stared at each other, gazes locked. Her eyes were the shifting hues of forest shadows, holding depths few ever realized.

But he knew. He saw and he understood.

On a groan, he brought his mouth down onto hers. Fear of losing her sharpened everything, and he wanted all he could take. He was ravenous, his hunger sudden and unchecked. She tasted of almonds and sweet woman. And she met his kiss with her own need. Their tongues stroked as their mouths opened. Each velvet touch spread desire through him.

She had lost her tentativeness. They both had. Over the course of the week, they had gained knowledge and confidence. How to touch each other. How to make demands and how to satisfy those demands.

She gripped his shoulders, rising up on her toes to press tight against the aching length of his body. They swallowed each other’s breath as the kiss went even deeper. A desperation in both of them, straining toward something, as if by the heat of their desire, they could burn away doubt.

Needing more, wanting all of her, he walked her backward until her legs met the edge of the bed. One hand he slid from her hair, down her neck, feeling the softness of her flesh and the thrum of blood beneath. He urged her down to sit on the edge of the mattress, though his mouth never left hers as he bent over her and she leaned up into him.

Pins and ties lined the front of her gown. His hands became huge and clumsy as he fumbled with these tiny, feminine fastenings. They seemed deliberately designed to bewilder and confound a man. Yet he had an ally. Anne also worked at her gown, her fingers making quicker labor of the fastenings. Until, with a sigh, the green silk came open, the stomacher peeled back like a fruit ready to be savored.

Beneath were her stays and chemise. He growled at these impediments, wanting the touch of her bare skin. He took his lips from hers and trailed hungry kisses down her throat, over the bows of her collarbone, and along the floral, lush flesh of her breasts, rising in silken curves above the stiff stays. She gasped into his hair as he touched her with his mouth and hands, dipping below the top edge of the stays to find, like treasure, the tight points of her nipples.

He’d never known greed like this. Not for a person. It filled him with dizzy madness, his body hard and aching in its hunger. And he needed her pleasure, too, with a voracity that outpaced his own demands for sensation.

Whit would not steal her from him. Leo would ensure it, branding her with his body.

They pulled at each other’s clothes. Her hands were quick and clever as she shoved his coat to the floor, as she plucked at the silk-covered buttons that ran down the length of his waistcoat. Each brush of her fingers against the tight muscles of his torso sent knives of pleasure through him.

He found the ties of her stays. Loosened them just enough to tug the stays down, so her breasts were free and luxuriant beneath the tissue-thin cotton of her chemise. He broke the narrow ribbon threading through the chemise’s neck, and pulled this down, as well. Baring her breasts.

She still wore her gown, her stays, yet with a small, vital core of nudity, her breasts exposed to him, her nipples succulent. As though he, and only he, could ever know her like this, the prize of her body beneath her clothing. She gazed up at him, eyes heavy-lidded. Her hands had been tugging on his shirt, pulling it from the waistband of his breeches, but they stopped now. She reached for his hands. Then placed them onto her breasts, his hands covering her. She arched up into his touch.

Leo sank to his knees. He seized her mouth again with his as he stroked her breasts. He circled her nipples, teasing them into even harder points. Then took them between his fingers, rolling, lightly pinching. Her gasp drew his own breath.

“Leo, yes.”

Nothing in the world felt like her. Nothing matched her as she writhed and moaned, a silken tempest. And when he licked her nipples, one and then the other, drawing them into his mouth, she clutched at his head.

Her skirts rustled as her legs eased open. He felt the press of her knees against his sides, her feet attempting to hook around his calves, yet hindered by the swaths of silk. Against the front of his breeches, his cock strained.

Hell. He couldn’t have enough. He needed more.

“I want you,” he rasped against her skin. “Let me have you.”

He urged her back, until she rested on her elbows, her legs draped over the edge of the bed. He continued to kneel between her legs. With shaking hands, he gathered up her skirts. They filled his hands with silk the color of spring, whispering a woman’s secrets, layer upon layer, her body restless beneath. Until he uncovered her legs.

He plucked her slippers from her feet and dropped them to the carpet. Stroking up her legs, he untied her garters and drew down her stockings. These, too, he let slip to the carpet, and they lay like discarded reveries, bearing the echoed shape of her legs. Such delicious legs, smooth and pale. He had to touch them. He did, gliding over her flesh, feeling her tremble and tense.

“I love your hands on me,” she whispered. “Their size. Their feel. Just a little rough.” She shivered.

“I love to touch you.” And he did. He stroked her legs with hot possession. Then peeled away her drawers.

He hissed in a breath. All around her were rivers of silk, yet here, here she was bared to him. He allowed himself a moment to admire her, the soft golden curls, the rosy flesh, ripe and ready. But it took far more control than he possessed to simply look. His thumb rubbed along her folds, and she gasped as he discovered sleek wetness.

“Give me everything, Anne.”

In response, she spread her legs wider.

With an animal sound, he bent down and put his mouth on her. Her taste flooded him, rich and sweetly musky, and the feel of her against his lips and tongue engulfed him in sensation.

This. This private joy, this secret pleasure. It belonged to them alone. No one and nothing would take that from him.

He teased, he delved. Hands spread over her thighs, he kissed her intimately, sucking and licking. She dug her heels into the small of his back. Her elbows gave out as she splayed across the bed, fingers woven into his hair. And when he drew her clit between his lips, she pulled him tight against her. He sank his fingers deep.

She bowed up and cried out her release, a long, liquid sound that filled him with wild pleasure. Yet he was not satisfied, not until he brought her to the edge and over again, and again.

At last, she fell back, gasping, arms outflung, legs spread.

“More,” she panted. “I want more of you.”

“Yes.” He began pulling off his remaining clothing—stockings, gaping waistcoat—but when he reached his shirt, he paused.

His marks. He could not show her, especially now, with Whit’s poison in the air. But he had to feel her bare flesh against his. Craved it.

He strode to the fire and banked it, extinguishing every last glowing ember, until it was nothing more than charcoal. Not a gleam of light shone. Still, the chamber was not dark enough. He paced to the windows and tugged the curtains closed, cutting off the wan moonlight and faint glow from London’s streets.

Turning back, he was satisfied. The chamber lay in utter darkness, black as the depths of the ocean.

He found her through sound, the soft rustling as she removed the last of her garments. Inflamed through sound alone, Leo tore off his clothes, shedding them like regret. He pushed through the darkness until he found himself at the bed. He touched the counterpane, the rumpled sheets, and then her, kneeling in the center of the bed.

On his knees, he moved over the mattress, feeling it dip beneath his heavier weight. He edged toward her, and when their bodies pressed against each other, length to length, finally, utterly stripped, they both moaned. God, the feel of her breasts against his bare chest, her curved belly to his flat abdomen, the whole of her—he was dizzy and demanding, aflame with need.

He gripped her buttocks, urging her even closer. His cock was thick and nestled tight against her. Unashamed, she cupped her hips to his, and her mouth opened to his when he claimed a kiss.

The edges of fear crept into sensation. He could lose this. Lose her.

No—he was a born ruffian. He fought for what he wanted. Anne was his.

With rough tenderness, he tipped them both, until she lay back on the bed and he stretched over her. Sight was gone, and all he knew was touch, sound, scent. As he stroked her everywhere, with her own hands bold in their caresses, he submerged himself in sensation. Her skin, her fragrance.

He positioned himself between her legs, hooking one over his arm. Her breathing came in fast, shallow gulps, her hips angling up.

Leo rubbed the length of his cock along her opening, coating himself with slickness. Then surged into her.

He lost himself in pleasure. Everywhere was her, tight and hot and wet, gripping him. He pulled back, then slid forward, sheathing himself. She moaned his name.

His will and his body wanted the same thing: her. He thrust, his hips moving, and sweat filmed him as he gave his entire self to this, to her. Anne made luscious, lascivious sounds, as lost to pleasure as he. He wanted to keep her here, where nothing existed but them and the communion they shared. Minds, bodies. All.

Fierce demand wanted everything. Abruptly, he withdrew, and she mewled a protest. Yet when he turned her over so she was on her stomach, her protest dissolved. He urged her hips up, gripping her, but kept one hand on the middle of her back.

They had experimented over the past week with different postures, even this one, but not until this moment had the position been imbued with such animal need, such raw hunger. He had usually gone into her gently, tenderly. Yet now, his control slipped. He was desire and want.

He surged inside her. And again. His thrusts were rough, and she met him stroke for stroke, pushing her hips back into his, gripping him tightly from within. Desperation marked their movements, as if they could demolish fear and uncertainty through the pleasure they created, as if the heat of their bodies could raze the twisting spirals of doubt, of mistrust. A foolish hope, but one they both chased as they gave themselves to each other.

But even this could not last. He felt his climax near, could not stave it off. So his hand left her back and glided down, over her stomach, until he found her bud and stroked it. Tight little circles that drew gasps and moans from her, straining eagerly. And then she cried out once more in release—a sound that drove him directly into the teeth of his own climax.

It tore from him, hot and unforgiving, excruciating pleasure. He poured into her, her name on his lips, on his heart.

Only when the very last of his release faded, only when she was lax and supple, only then did he withdraw. He pulled back the blankets and covered them both, his arms around her waist. They lay together, bodies slick, hearts pounding. He brushed his mouth back and forth across her damp nape, delicate hairs soft against his lips.

Neither spoke. Silence lay as thick as the darkness. He’d never made love to a woman the way he had just loved Anne. He’d never felt such a storm of emotion, frantic and furious. He’d never needed anyone as he needed her. If the Devil’s magic was ripped from him, he could suffer any financial loss, knowing he could regain what was taken. He could never regain her. And that filled him with a panicked savagery, the likes of which were unknown to him.

Yet he could speak none of this. Instead, he held her close, as close as two people could be, damp flesh clinging, limbs intertwined, and still he felt the chasm between them widen.

“This way.” One hand on the small of her back, Leo guided Anne up the stairs of the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane. They passed women in wide, sparkling gowns, men in jewel-hued satin coats. Powder, sweat, and perfume scented the air. Everywhere was talk, talk. So many voices. All of them bright and sharp as shattered crystal.

“One more flight,” Leo said.

She moved up the stairs, threading through the crowds. They passed the lobby for the pit, and then the first gallery. There were clothes of every variety, all mingling together as everyone searched out their seats. From stained frieze, worn every day, to gleaming moiré silk, perhaps donned for the very first time this night.

As she and Leo climbed the stairs, they passed men who knew him. No one stopped to speak with him, only nodded with chary respect and moved on. She wondered: was it respect or fear she saw in the other men’s eyes? Fear of him. Her husband.

They reached a landing, and Leo directed her down a corridor lined with doors. He pushed one open and waved her in.

“We have arrived.”

Anne stepped into the box. Curtains hung on the walls, and a bench was pushed up to the railing. She swayed forward to stand at the rail. Chandeliers glittered from the high, ornate roof, and gilded sconces threw more smoky light into the echoing theater. People filled every available space: boxes, pit, galleries, orchestra. A seething mass that laughed and shouted and jostled with a hard recklessness.

Leo stood beside her. She did not need to gaze at him to know how cuttingly handsome he looked this night. In his dark gray velvet coat and breeches, his red lustring waistcoat embroidered with twisting vines, his tawny hair pulled back with a tie of black silk—no man compared with him. From her high vantage, Anne could see the many admiring glances he received from women in other boxes, even from the women in the upper gallery.

“That is where I usually sat.” She pointed to the rows of benches in the first gallery. Up there were the tradesmen, the professionals.

“Not there?” He nodded at the amphitheater, situated beneath the first gallery, where the fine ladies of quality fanned themselves and gossiped.

“Only if we came after the third act.” Later entry meant paying half price. When she wanted to see the earlier acts, she had to elbow her way into the first gallery instead, beside the ranks of the mercers and Grub Street scribblers.

The whole of the theater echoed the tight regulations of class, for no one ventured where they were not welcome. Young noblemen and officers kept to the benches of the pit, where they could strut, paw prostitutes and orange sellers, and enjoy all the privileges of sex and birth. Less rowdy nobility gathered in the amphitheater. Then came the galleries—the first for tradesmen, the second for servants and ordinary people. The varying price of the seats enforced hierarchy, but tacit understanding did far more to keep everyone apart.

“We didn’t go to the theater,” Leo said, watching the crowds assemble. “Even after my father had made his fortune. He thought it frivolous, a waste of time and money.”

“Then this is your first time in a box, too.” Only the very wealthy took boxes, visible to the entire theater, as much part of the spectacle as what transpired on stage.

He shook his head. “Bram always found us one.” He nodded toward a box across the theater, empty at the moment. “We all came together, after supper. They’re probably all at the Snake and Sextant now. John and Bram anyway.”

At the mention of the other Hellraisers, Anne felt the strings of her nerves tighten further. She attempted a smile, yet it was brittle and could not be long sustained.

Leo pushed back the bench in their box, and seated Anne before settling beside her. She noted the neat movement of his wrists as he flicked the long tails of his coat out of the way. In all things, he was eff icient, tolerating no excess or unnecessary showmanship.

“We are the subject of scrutiny.” Anne tipped her folded, ebony-handled fan toward the many faces turned in their direction. “You are notorious.”

“Perhaps, but you are the one who draws attention, not me.”

She glanced down at her ruby brocade gown, gold lace frothing at the sleeves and low neckline. Still, she had not acclimated herself to wearing such fine clothing. “Is something amiss with my dress?”

He smiled. “Only that you look stunning in it. That is what has everyone intrigued. They are all wondering about the identity of the beautiful woman, and how a knave like me could be so fortunate.”

“Your skill with compliments grows daily.” She flicked open her fan and waved it, stirring hot air against her face.

“Only because I’ve reason to give them.”

Who were these people? These shimmering, shallow people she and Leo had become tonight? Words came from their mouths, but the words were empty, facile. Their emptiness echoed in direct opposition to what was not being said. For it lay between them, the river of doubt, that would drown them if they ventured even a toe into its waters. Fast and deadly, its currents, and so she and her husband stared at each other across the rapids, mouthing pleasantries over its roar.

After the performance at the Theatre Royal, they would proceed on to Ranelagh and its famed rotunda. She had never been, nor to Vauxhall with its Chinese temple and clockwork wonders, and felt no desire to go now, but Leo was determined to fill their hours with as many pleasures as possible—as if to distract her from the black abyss at the heart of their marriage.

The discordant orchestra silenced as a man strode onto the stage, shouting about the evening’s program.

“The performance is about to begin,” Leo murmured.

His breath upon her neck traveled warmly through her body, drawing forth memories of the night before, its furious passion. Only in absolute darkness had he finally stripped bare, so she knew him by touch alone. And in that heightened sensitivity, she discovered something upon the hard, solid muscles of his shoulder.

A scar. Thin, as if made by a rapier’s point.

Just as Lord Whitney had described.

Having a scar upon one’s shoulder did not constitute evidence that one was in league with the Devil. It meant only that, at some past moment, Leo had been wounded by a sword. And Lord Whitney knew about the wound.

And yet ... And yet ...

Anne gazed at Leo as he sat back to watch a flock of dancers in gauzy skirts take the stage. A chorus of hoots rose up from the pit. Long and sleek on the bench, Leo observed the dancers with a cool remove, as if indeed witnessing the behavior of a species of pretty, giddy birds. He watched the theatergoers with the same detachment. But when he looked at her, his wintry gaze warmed, and her heart responded with a painful, sweet throb.

I have fallen in love with my husband. But, God help me, I do not trust him.

People came and went across the stage. The dancers flung themselves around with more flamboyance than grace. A man came out and belted comic songs, earning him roars of approval. Then painted backdrops of Italian gardens were propped against the back wall of the stage, and a clot of actors pranced out, mouthing words of intrigue.

Many times in the past, Anne had sat in the gallery and wondered about the experience of sitting in a box. The unobstructed view of the stage. The even better view of the theatergoers. How marvelous, she had thought. What a rarified place, untouched by deprivation, rich with delight.

Now she sat in one of those boxes. She could see everything, everyone. And she felt herself utterly removed, as if she were encased in glass. She could not smile or laugh. There were only the thorned vines knotted around her heart, piercing her with every breath.

Yet she was not alone in her disquiet. Throughout the theater, the crowds stirred, restless, ill at ease. The theater was never a calm place, but this night, it felt volatile. Voices from the crowd came too loud, people shoved one another. Tears from women, angry words from men, as if everyone tapped into a font of bitterness beneath the floorboards.

“There’s Bram and John,” Leo murmured.

She glanced across the theater and saw the two men come into a box. Heads turned at their entrance, and no wonder. They were striking men, both tall, commanding attention by their presence alone. John escorted a lady in a low-cut yellow gown, and Bram ushered in two women. Courtesans, clearly, by their gaudy laughter.

As Anne watched, the Hellraisers took their seats, the courtesans fluttering around them. Bram whispered something to one of the women and she giggled, nestling closer, while the other toyed with the buttons of his waistcoat. John seemed less engaged in the actions of his companion, spending his time surveying the crowds with an icy, critical eye. When his gaze fell on her and Leo, Anne suppressed a shiver.

Can he hear my thoughts? Does he know what I think, even across the expanse of the theater?

Leo raised a hand in greeting, but kept his seat.

She was glad he did not want to join his friends in their box. For at the Hellraisers’ entrance, the crowd grew yet more restless. The actors could barely be heard, bawling their lines above the growing din.

“An ill feeling tonight.” Leo frowned and leaned forward, scanning the theater. He looked down into the pit. Perhaps he recognized some faces there, for his expression tightened. He stood and placed his hand on her elbow. “Time to leave.”

Anne rose, grateful. She needed out of this place. Yet as she got to her feet, a girl down in the pit shouted.

Two orange sellers struggled. One of the girls had her hands wrapped around the throat of the other, whilst her opponent gripped her hair. Men close by tried to separate the orange sellers, but the girls could not be pulled away. They struggled with each other, knocking into the people around them. Like a pebble dropped in a lake, their violence rippled outward, as men in the pit began to fight one another. Elbows and fists were thrown. Someone drew a sword.

Several men threw a bench onto the stage. The actors scurried back, and shielded themselves as more benches came flying up. The actors fled into the wings as men clambered onto the stage.

Women in the amphitheater screamed. The galleries erupted. People strained to reach the exits, their progress impeded by brawls. What had been, moments earlier, simply a theater now became a scene of chaos. Even the boxes exploded into violence.

“Goddamn it.” Leo wrapped an arm around Anne’s shoulders and urged her back.

A man’s hands appeared at the railing of the box. He began to haul himself up, his eyes glassy and wild.

Leo released Anne, stepped forward, and slammed his fist into the intruder’s face. The man toppled backward, falling into the surging crowd below.

In an instant, Leo was with her again. Grim-faced, he guided her to the back of the box. He paused next to the door.

“Do not leave my side.” He drew a pistol from inside his coat.

Anne stared at the weapon. Her husband looked very comfortable holding it. Her gaze never leaving the gun, she managed a nod.

Leo checked to make sure the gun was primed, then returned it to his coat. Lips compressed into a tight line, he eased the door open. The narrow corridor was full of people, some running, some fighting. An impassable morass.

“We cannot make it,” she said.

“I am getting you out of here.” Resolution hardened his voice.

Intuitively, Anne knew the safest place was beside him. She pressed close and, at his signal, moved with him as he pushed his way through the corridor.

He cleared a path, shoving aside those who got in his way. Around her churned insanity, the thin veneer of civilization shattered like the wood and broken glass beneath her feet. She could scarce believe that these people, many in damask and lace, brawled like beasts. But there was Lady Corsley raking her nails down Mrs. Seaham’s face. And there was Sir Fredrick Tilford, trading punches with a top government minister. These were only the people Anne knew. Merchants, physicians, costermongers. Rank and profession made no difference—everyone had succumbed to madness.

And there were other faces, too. In the hectic blur, she thought she saw twisted, inhuman visages, the flash of talons, the gleam of fangs. Yet she could never gain a better look, for the crowd would surge, and she saw only more rioters.

God, would she and Leo survive the night?

He cut steady progress down the stairs. When a man stepped into his path, fists swinging, Leo rammed his own fist into the man’s chest, then knocked him back with a blow to the jaw. As Leo shepherded her from one level to the next, he continuously beat away attacks. He moved with lethal grace, swift and clean. No extraneous movement, no attempts at showmanship. His was a violence of intent, of purpose, and it was brutally beautiful to see him fight.

Anne felt a sharp tug on the train of her gown. She staggered backward, and found herself suddenly facing a wall and pinned against it, a man’s hulking form pressed into her back.

“Pretty bird,” he said, his breath rank and hot in her ear. Coarse hands fumbled with her clothing.

She did not have thought to scream. Instead, ferocious instinct gripped her. She took her folded fan and rammed it hard into what she hoped was her attacker’s eye. She must have succeeded, for he howled in agony and released her. Anne pushed back from the wall in time to see her assailant fall to the floor. He disappeared from her sight as panicked audience members scrambled around and on him.

A hand closed around her wrist. She spun, swinging out with her fan. But it was Leo, his face an icy mask. He neatly ducked, avoiding her blow. Before she could apologize, he was pulling her behind him.

“When we get out of here,” he threw over his shoulder, “I’m teaching you how to throw a punch. A fan does no bloody good.”

She might have mentioned that her fan had caused a grown man a good deal of pain. Might have, but she could find no words to speak, no thoughts to think other than they must get out of this place before it was torn to the ground, before the candles were knocked over and the building went up in a curtain of smoke and flame.

At last, they made it down to the ground-floor lobby. Chaos was thick here. Anne had never seen so many people brawling before. She caught glimpses of blood on the floor. Men’s shouts and women’s screams thickened the air. There, on the other side of the lobby, were Bram and John. While John ducked and wove through the crowd, Bram had his rapier out, and he slashed at a group of advancing men. As skilled as Leo was with his fists, so Bram was with his sword, and she understood now how he had survived the long-ago attack in the Colonies. Even to her untrained eyes, she saw few could best him with steel.

There again—strange faces swirled within the crowd. Unearthly faces that came straight from the depths of a nightmare. Yet they vanished before she could verify whether they were real or products of wild imagination.

Leo tugged her forward, carving a route for them both to the doors. Closer and closer they crept, their progress impeded by the hundreds of others all fighting to also get free. There were too many people trying to get through too small a space. Someone cried out as he was trampled in the doorway.

Leo encircled Anne with his arms. His heart beat hard against hers. “Hold tight to me,” he said.

She wrapped her own arms around his waist. Felt the solidness and heat of him through his damp clothing. And she clung to him as he barreled through the door. His arms served as a protective cage, keeping her from being crushed.

Then, at last, they were out. Yet here was little better than inside, for the riot had spread into the streets, drawing in those who had not been in the theater. Those within spilled onto the street in every direction, and those on the outside met them in a fierce clash.

Another surge of people shoved against her and Leo. Her grasp around his waist broke. Suddenly she was alone in the mob. She was caught on a tide of humanity, noise and pandemonium on every side. Perhaps those strange creatures she had thought she saw were truly part of the throng, were moving closer to her. Though she fought against it, shouting for Leo, the flood was too strong. She was borne away, deeper into the storm.