Sinner's Heart

Chapter 4

Bram awoke with a pounding head and a ghost in his bed. She hovered near the foot, her upper body emerging from the mattress. Her gaze was distant as she watched him.

Rubbing the heel of his hand in his eyes, he stared at her. “Not a dream, then.” His voice was a groggy rasp, as it always was upon rousing from sleep. He’d no love for the first hour after waking, a relationship made more complicated today by the ill-effects of too much brandy. And the fact that a Roman ghost was there to share the unpleasantness. “Damn.”

“The enthusiasm is mutual.” She glanced back toward the fireplace, where an upended chair and empty decanter gave evidence as to how he spent the rest of his night. “How much did you drink?”

“Not nearly enough.” He raised up on his elbows, the blankets sliding down to his abdomen, and he didn’t miss the way her gaze moved over his bare flesh. She looked at the mark of flame, but moved quickly on to the muscles of his chest, the ridges of his stomach. Her nostrils flared. This ghost was not unmoved by the sight of a nude man.

Neither, it seemed, was the man unmoved by her. The curtains were still drawn, the chamber swathed in shadow, and he could see how her tunic clung to the lush curves of her body. Full breasts, rounded hips. A sensualist’s body. Her beauty was both patrician and earthy. The kind of woman who’d command her slaves to bring scented oils, but use her own hands to rub them on her lover.

Against his will, against his judgment, his own body responded to her. His cock stirred, eager as always for the pleasures of women. The damned thing had to suffer disappointment, however. This woman, for all her sensuality, had no substance. He might as well try to fuck the air.

Throwing back the covers, Bram rose from bed. He felt her gaze on him as he walked, naked, to the low cabinet where the chamber pot was kept. For a moment, he debated whether or not to go behind the screen in the corner of the room. Ridiculous. He wasn’t going to affect modesty for this termagant. So, after his partial erection subsided, he relieved himself in full view of her. If she didn’t like it, she could just . . . fade away.

Once finished, he strode to the washstand and cleaned himself. He splashed water on his face and torso, all the while watching her in the mirror that perched on the washstand.

Her gaze never left him, traversing the length of his body, lingering on his buttocks. Hunger gleamed in her eyes.

An image materialized in his mind: her stretched out beneath him, her ankles locked around his thighs and her fingernails digging into his arse as he thrust into her. She would be a fierce bed partner, the both of them struggling for dominance and enjoying the fight.

Oh, his cock liked that. But he didn’t. He flung more cold water on his face and even onto his groin.

What he felt was only thwarted desire. He hadn’t enjoyed Lady Girard last night, thanks to Livia. And it was a very short journey from anger to lust.

A scratch sounded at the door.

“Make yourself invisible,” he growled at Livia. “Don’t want you frightening my servants.”

She scowled at him, but at least she did as he commanded, her form growing less and less substantial until only a vague outline of her shape remained. Unless one deliberately looked for her, she’d remain unseen.

Bram waited until his erection subsided, thinking of the most dull aspects of estate management such as irrigation and drainage, before calling out, “Enter.”

The door opened and Cleeve, the valet, entered and bowed. “Good afternoon, my lord. Might I open the draperies?”

Bram grunted in assent. He squinted against the glare as Cleeve pulled back the curtains, revealing a patchy gray sky. The valet remained disinterested as he went about straightening the room, setting the chair back up on its feet, putting the empty decanter on a table, picking up the discarded banyan.

He held the banyan out. “A shave, my lord?”

Bram took the robe and donned it, then sat. The rich fragrance of sandalwood soap rose up as Cleeve used a boar bristle brush to stir up the foam for shaving. As he did this, a maid appeared in the door, a tray in her hands.

“Coffee and rolls, my lord?”

At his nod, she came in and set the tray down on the bedside table. He paid his servants well to remember his habits, and they did. The maid poured him a cup of coffee—no sugar, no milk, just as he preferred—and set it on the washstand so he might have it close by.

“You chuckle, my lord,” said Cleeve, dabbing the foam on his cheeks and chin. “Something amusing at the theater?”

“This is all so damned ordinary.”

“My lord?”

“All this.” Bram waved at the shaving supplies laid out on the washstand, and the maid tidying his bed. “Everything’s changed, and nothing’s changed.”

Cleeve did his best to hide his confusion. Perhaps he thought his master still weathered the death of a close friend. Perhaps he believed his master showed the very first signs of madness. Whatever the valet thought, he simply answered, “Yes, my lord. Will you hold still, my lord?”

Bram remained motionless as Cleeve glided the razor down his cheeks, but his gaze flicked to the ghost’s hazy outline hovering in the corner. What did she think of this, the daily rituals of an English nobleman? Were they different from how men of her time met the day?

Likely she thought him a selfish rogue, attending to his toilette instead of rampaging up and down the streets of London, seeking the Devil and preparing for battle.

“Please do not frown, my lord. It makes it more difficult for me to shave you.”

He attempted to smooth out his scowl. But anger still seethed within him. He’d seen his share of battle and wanted nothing more to do with it.

Life would continue as it always had for him. Everything must remain the same. And if Livia or John objected to that, they could go hang.

“Lay out my fencing clothes,” he said once Cleeve wiped the last of the shaving foam from him. The academy had a chamber for changing one’s garments, but he did not want to go through the tedium of dressing, undressing, and dressing again.

The valet bowed and, after putting away the shaving supplies, moved to the clothes press. He pulled out a lightweight shirt and soft doeskin breeches, and a short padded jacket. Bram and Whit often practiced their swordsmanship first thing in the day. Bram had abandoned these regular training sessions after Whit deserted the Hellraisers—training at home rather than try to cling to what had been lost. Yet Bram would make everything return to normal.

Dressing for his practice, he felt Livia’s continued stare. His jaw tightened. Yes, he’d go on as he always had, and there wasn’t a damned thing the ghost could do about it.

The shouts and grunts of men echoed in the arched ceiling. Pale sunlight washed down through high windows, illuminating men moving back and forth across the scarred wooden floor. They lunged and danced, thin swords forming arcs and whistling as they cut through the air, and off to one side, a man vaulted up and over a wooden horse. Though she had no sense of smell, Livia imagined the large chamber reeked of sweat.

She hovered, unseen, beside Bram as he strode into the hall. Though the clothing and weapons differed from her own time, she recognized this place.

Men are always looking for an excuse to fight one another, she thought.

Because we’re good at it, Bram answered.

And not much else. It’s a marvel we women keep you around at all.

You like us between your thighs well enough.

She had no answer to that. Gods and goddesses, how she missed the pleasures of the flesh! So basic, so satisfying. The most essential element of life. She hadn’t felt a man’s touch for over a millennium. Was it any surprise that her thoughts kept straying toward the carnal, especially when Bram flaunted his delicious masculine form?

Easier to think of frustrated lust than the Dark One’s strengthening power. She had been pulled behind Bram as he rode toward this fighting school, weaving her way through the streets. Even in daylight hours, a combustible tension lay heavy over the city, a thick, choking net of malevolence revealed in mistrustful glances and broken windows.

“Good day, Lord Rothwell.” A red-faced man with close-cut hair stepped forward, a sword beneath his arm. He wiped his forehead on his sleeve. “It’s been a spell since last we’ve seen you.” He glanced past Bram, and for a moment, Livia thought the man might see her. But his gaze moved right through her. He was looking for someone. As though Bram usually arrived with company.

“Afternoon, Tranmere.” Bram’s voice was clipped. “I’m looking for a good, hard fight today.”

Tranmere made a tsking sound. “You an’ everyone else, my lord. Not so much practicing proper swordsmanship as it’s a battle royale. Been like this for weeks, but today’s especially fierce.”

Turning her attention back to the rows of men, she noted their bared teeth, their wild swings at one another. As if they were truly battling, driven forward by a need for blood and pain.

She knew who was responsible.

“Perfect,” said Bram. “Find me a partner.”

Tranmere bowed before hurrying off.

Why do you come to this place? she asked Bram. I would’ve thought you’d had enough of fighting.

Anger coursed through him. He still didn’t care for the fact that she’d experienced his memories.

Always need to be prepared, he answered.

Prepared for what?

Anything.

Tranmere trotted forward, a large man trailing behind him. He and Bram nodded to one another.

“Mr. Worton will be happy to spar with you, my lord. I believe his fighting style matches well with yours.”

“I don’t care for pretty forms and dainty foot positions,” Worton said. “Just a good, tough fight.” The sword he carried wasn’t as thin as those used by the other men, looking more like a weapon of war than a genteel sport.

“Then I’m your man.” Bram hefted his own sword, and it was equally brutal.

Without another word, Bram and Worton paced off toward an unoccupied portion of the chamber. Unseen, Livia drifted through the fencers as they leapt and attacked. Intriguing, how the techniques had changed over the millennia. Though Tranmere had bemoaned the lack of finesse the fighters showed today, they were still quite different from the soldiers and gladiators she’d seen practicing or in actual combat.

She’d always had a fondness for soldiers and gladiators. They made for very good company in bed. Their calloused hands, their uncomplicated need. Subtle and nuanced? No. But she seldom wanted subtlety in lovemaking. Had wanted. Never again would she feel the sweat of a lover’s body on her own skin, or the vibrations of their groans against her flesh.

She must stop thinking these tormenting thoughts. Yet it was difficult when surrounded by young, hale men in their prime, all gleaming with perspiration as they vigorously used their bodies.

The tie that bound her to Bram drew her through the chamber and close to where he and Worton stood. They each took a few practice swings through the air, loosening their muscles, until, satisfied, they faced one another. After a terse bow, they took up ready stances, swords upraised.

Worton swung. His blade only tapped Bram’s sword. Once, twice. Getting a sense of Bram’s readiness. Bram held his position, not allowing Worton to drive him back. Yet he wasn’t content to let his opponent do all the testing. He, too, took a handful of investigative swings, as though sounding the depths of a shore. The men held themselves loosely, but the casualness belied a tension even Livia could sense.

Bram and Worton circled one another. Their strikes grew harder, more direct. A swing, a block.

The tension suddenly broke as Worton lunged. Bram countered with quick, fluid motion. And then the fight truly began.

She had seen combat. In the gladiatorial ring. In a few skirmishes as she had journeyed from Rome to Britannia. Like any good Roman, she admired fine fighting skill, for it revealed not merely a strong body, but also a quick mind. She could claim no expertise in the techniques of armed battle, only knowing talent when she saw it.

Her gaze held fast to Bram. She could not look away even if the Dark One appeared right beside her. This—Bram in combat—this was beautiful.

Bram and Worton traded strikes. They circled, struck, lunged and darted back. Worton had the advantage of height and reach, yet Bram had speed and vicious accuracy. Their swords rang as they exchanged blows. A furious exchange.

She was rapt. This was not a genteel sparring exercise. These men seemed gripped by a need to hurt one another. They grunted as their padded jackets absorbed the sword point’s force—though the points were dulled, the strikes still would have wounded were it not for the jackets’ protection. Worton fought hard, relentlessly, yet he could not match Bram for ability.

In truth, Bram seemed made for this. He had a fluidity of motion that enthralled her. Each strike from Worton he blocked with the speed of a serpent, and his own attacks were brutally, savagely beguiling. She had seen him practice his combat, but with a true opponent, he transformed into another man. A man well-versed in the art of killing.

Had he been this adept, or did soldiering shape him into an expert fighter? Whatever the origin, it came to full fruition here. Men would gladly lose years off their lives if they could wield a blade with half of Bram’s ability.

Murmurs distracted her enough to pull her gaze away from Bram for a moment. The other swordsmen had stopped their practice in order to watch Bram and Worton fight, as though drawn by the force of Bram’s skill.

“A guinea says Rothwell takes it,” someone said.

“Only a damned fool would bet against him,” came the answer.

Worton must have heard this pronouncement, for his attacks increased, growing stronger, more aggressive. Yet Bram continually beat him back. He fought with targeted hostility, as though far more than a gentleman’s reputation with the sword was at stake. She wondered if, when Bram looked upon Worton, he saw someone else, something else. The Hellraisers? The Dark One? Perhaps even himself?

The light of fury rose in Bram’s eyes. Sweat glossed his forehead. As soon as Worton began his retreat, Bram pressed forward, giving no quarter. Worton backed away, until he couldn’t go any further, the wall behind him. He tried to block a strike—too late. The point of Bram’s sword struck him right in the heart. A fatal blow without the padded jacket and dulled tip.

Worton lowered his blade. “I yield,” he panted.

Yet Bram advanced, his expression hard and merciless. His sword point hovered close to Worton’s right eye. The bigger man sucked in a breath as he pressed against the wall. He dropped his sword, and the sound reverberated metallically through the chamber.

Would Bram actually drive his blade into Worton’s skull? He truly might. Even with the tip of the sword blunted, it could pierce an eye—and, wielded with strength, go even further.

“I say, Rothwell,” someone called. “The man’s yielded.”

“My lord,” added Tranmere nervously, hovering near, “you’ve won.”

Bram showed no signs of hearing them. A demand to kill seemed to have him, unrelenting. He kept his sword close to Worton’s eye. The bigger man screwed his eyes shut, as though something as flimsy as an eyelid could stop a blade.

This must not happen.

She drifted close, keeping herself unseen, and spoke directly into Bram’s thoughts.

Fine warrior you are, to slay an unarmed man.

He’s the enemy, Bram answered.

Of what? Hygiene? I’m sure the sweat of his fear stinks like rancid meat.

I have to kill him.

Go ahead. Yet it takes a special variety of coward to kill a man with no weapon.

I’m not a damned coward!

Then put your sword down.

Bram blinked, as though awakening from a daze. He stared at the cringing Worton, then down at the blade in his hand. Slowly, he looked around at the faces of the gathered men, their eyes wide and expressions cautious.

“My lord?” Tranmere took a wary step forward.

The tip of Bram’s sword lowered, then he dropped his hand, so the point scraped against the floor. Worton and everyone else within the chamber exhaled. Even Livia, who had no need of breath, eased out a sigh.

Bram glared around the room, almost in challenge. No one accepted. Without a word, he strode from the room.

He stormed down the winding, narrow stairwell. Men ascending the stairs pressed into the wall, careful to avoid his gaze and angry scowl. Bound as she was to him, Livia hovered at his side, his rage and confusion twisting beneath the surface of her own phantasmal skin.

This has happened before, she said.

Not to me. His voice in her mind was a snarl. Not since I left soldiering.

When I freed the Dark One, she amended. A madness gripped everyone, a need for blood. I saw a respected citizen, a merchant, stab the proprietor of a bathhouse for having the water too hot. There were riots in the marketplace. The army mutinied.

So I’m a symptom of a greater illness, he answered.

Not an illness. A plague.

She and Bram reached the street. Clouds obscured the sun, throwing the remaining daylight into early shadow. A servant hurried to open the door to the waiting carriage, but Bram was faster, and he threw the door open himself. He flung himself into the vehicle. It rocked with the force of his body against the upholstered seat.

“Home,” he snapped to the servant.

The servant closed the door and hopped onto the back of the carriage.

She hovered at the sidewalk, invisible, watching the carriage drive away. A woman crouched by the side of the street, a child in the crook of her arm. The woman stretched her hand out to all the fine gentlemen walking past. No one threw her any coin. The child—girl or boy, Livia could not tell—stared directly at Livia.

“Strange lady,” it chirped. Yet its mother paid no attention, busy wheedling and beseeching the passersby.

Someone walking quickly knocked the woman to the ground. They did not stop to help her up. Nobody did, and the child began to cry.

A sharp tug yanked Livia from where she hovered. She was dragged behind Bram’s carriage like a tattered ribbon. Helpless to stop herself, she could only follow, unseen by everyone she passed. She had never felt so alone.

Not quite alone. Down the length of the connection binding her to Bram, she heard his thoughts.

I don’t know myself anymore. I don’t know a damned thing. I’m lost.

She had been lost too, not so long ago. Yet Bram had an advantage that she had not: a guide. Would he accept her guidance, or continue to fall headlong into the dark unknown? Once, she might have cast an augury spell taken from the arcane wisdom of the Etruscans. Her magic had been split apart since then, and as to what the future held, in that she was as lost as Bram.

In the glass, Bram surveyed his appearance, a soldier readying himself for battle. The night and its pleasures were a battle, one from which he always emerged victorious. Nothing would change that.

He studied his reflection as his valet made final adjustments to his ensemble. The deep red velvet of his slim coat appeared almost black until candlelight turned it the hue of spilled blood. Complex embroidery worked its way down the front of his bronze satin waistcoat and at the very cuff of his matching breeches. The black silk solitaire around his neck could not fully hide his scar—nothing did. He’d grown almost used to the fact by now.

With his hair pulled back into a simple queue and bagged in silk, his stockings faultlessly white, his buckled shoes gleaming, and the jeweled shortsword at his side, he appeared every inch the aristocrat, a man who expected and would receive entrance anywhere he chose. No one would suspect that only hours earlier, he’d nearly killed a man for no reason. All that had prevented him from taking Worton’s eye—and life—had been the scornful words of a ghost.

A tremor worked through him. God, he’d almost murdered someone. And he had wanted to, to see Worton sprawled upon the ground at his feet. Bram hadn’t thought of him as simply a fellow swordsman engaged in training, as Bram himself was. A red-edged fever had taken hold of him. Worton had transformed into the Algonquin, into a French soldier, into a creature with a twisted face and a mouth full of fangs.

Insanity. Yet he’d been driven by a need to kill this enemy. Was this the madness of which Livia spoke? The one that had gripped her own time after she had freed the Devil? He tried to picture what London would be like if its streets teemed with men and women eager for blood—and shoved the image from his mind. The hell he’d experienced in the Colonies would resemble a May Day fete by comparison.

No—it wouldn’t come to that. It couldn’t, no matter what the ghost claimed.

He felt her near, somewhere at the edges of his bedchamber. She was never far. Strange—he thought he’d find her presence an anathema, but there was a curious . . . comfort in having her close.

As if one took comfort from the millstone around one’s neck.

Cleeve tugged gently at the lace at Bram’s wrists, ensuring that just the proper amount showed. It was easier to prepare for actual warfare. A check to make sure the weapons were all sharp enough and ready to fire, and then into the heat of battle. A French grenadier didn’t care if Bram’s stock lay perfectly snug against his throat. He only wanted Bram dead.

The fine hairs on the back of Bram’s neck rose. Livia was drawing closer, hovering near. He couldn’t see her, but he sensed her, his body growing alarmingly attuned to her presence. If he let his eyes almost close, he could nearly see her, the soft outline of her curved form.

What might she look like if she truly walked upon the ground? All women had their own innate rhythm and movement, unique to each female. He had made a considerable study of it. Some moved with intrinsic sensuality, others with deliberate provocation as if throwing down a gauntlet. Both intrigued him, for he did enjoy challenges. There were women who moved with the rigidity of automatons, uncomfortable in their bodies. He avoided them.

How might this Roman ghost move, had she a corporeal body? She might carry herself with patrician stiffness, a queen descending from her throne to unwillingly mingle with the rabble. No. She’d be a seductive thing, those rounded hips canting from side to side with each step, a lure no living man could resist.

He was alive, but she wasn’t. She was also a virago, a presence to be endured only because he hadn’t any choice.

Splendid attire. Her words drifted through his thoughts, laced with slight hints of admiration. Not suitable, I think, for a quiet evening at home.

I haven’t spent a quiet evening at home since I was fifteen, he answered. Tonight won’t see me break that tradition.

Where will you go?

Anywhere I can have female company.

He felt her sardonic smile. But you’ll have an audience.

Don’t sodding care.

Fighting at the fencing academy had done nothing to quell the restless, dark energy burning within him. Only one thing offered him any kind of respite. He needed the gentle voices and soft hands of women, their beguiling smiles and silken sighs. The peace he achieved never lasted long enough, but he’d take whatever he could get. A parched man would rather have a drop of water upon his tongue than nothing at all.

If the world was truly going to hell, as Livia claimed, then he would seize his pleasure wherever and whenever he could.

He expected Livia to object to his plan for the night, yet when he turned to leave, she only drifted beside him.

If you must go out tonight, she said as they made their way down the corridor, be careful. It gets worse after dark. I remember that, as well.

This sword isn’t merely decorative.

Use it if you have to.

He stopped walking, then said aloud, “That’s not what you said this afternoon.”

A nearby footman glanced toward Bram. “My lord?”

Bram was about to snap that servants weren’t supposed to intrude upon the master’s private conversations, before realizing that, to the footman’s eyes, Bram was alone, conversing with no one. He walked quickly on. The servants would talk about the master’s strange behavior, but this was the least of Bram’s concerns.

You were about to kill an unarmed man who presented no threat to you, Livia continued. That’s not the same as protecting yourself in a dangerous situation.

I know the difference.

This afternoon you didn’t.

He had no riposte, and her words sunk into him like a blade. Again he thought of a London clutched in the frenzy of bloodlust, hundreds of thousands transformed into riotous beasts. No safety. No peace. Only chaos and death.

It will come, she said, seeming to know his thoughts. It’s already here.

You’re wrong. He had to believe that.

Reaching the foyer, a footman handed him his tricorn hat and cloak, then opened the door once he’d donned them. The carriage waited, ready to speed him off into the night and his ceaseless quest for pleasure.

Go then, she said coldly. Go and see.

Everything appeared exactly as it ought. Hundreds of expensive beeswax candles threw blazing light from atop massive crystal chandeliers. The parquet floors gleamed. Musicians stationed in the corner filled the chamber with the very latest from the Continent. Talk and jewels packed the room, both sharp and calculated to dazzle. Footmen circulated with trays bearing glasses of wine. Someone had organized a card game in an adjoining chamber, and shouts of the players mingled with the music and voices.

By most standards, the assembly at Lord Millom’s would be considered a success.

But something was wrong.

Standing in the doorway, with an invisible Livia beside him, Bram surveyed the chamber. He knew most of these men—aristocrats and nobly born gentlemen, and a handful of wealthy burghers who had bought their way into the ranks of the elite. And they knew him, offering him polite bows or nods as his gaze moved past them. Distracted, he barely returned the gesture.

Despite the smiles, the attempts at cheer and insistently ebullient music, a wrongness hovered over the assembly like an invisible pestilence.

Then he understood.

He snared the arm of the Marquess of Lapley, affecting a careless stroll past him.

“Where are the ladies?” Bram demanded.

Lapley grimaced. “Damned strange, ain’t it? Aside from Lady Millom”—he nodded toward the woman in question, a tense middle-aged lady laced tightly into yellow satin—“there ain’t another female here. No one’s dancing.”

The space normally occupied by dancers going through their intricate steps stood empty, a lacuna of parquetry. No bright silk or fluttering fans circled the chamber. The low drone of masculine voices was unrelieved by female chatter. Not a giggle or trill. Gallants awaited the arrival of fair maidens, eager to prove themselves by fetching glasses of negus or offer up sparkling compliments in the continuous ritual of courtship.

Every man at the assembly wore a baffled smile as false as pasteboard marble.

“It’s like someone’s blotted out the stars,” Bram muttered.

Lapley snorted. “Aye. What’s the use of coming to these bloody assemblies if there ain’t no ladies to flirt with?”

“Your wife isn’t here.” Bram looked pointedly at the empty space beside Lapley.

“Wouldn’t come. Said she felt nervous and out of sorts. With all the peculiarity going on around town, I was glad of her choice. Ain’t been safe after dark. Last night, five different gentlemen were almost shot in their own carriages. Covingham barely escaped with his life.”

All this was news to Bram, but without Whit and Leo to meet him at the coffee house for the day’s intelligence, he hadn’t gone and heard the latest reports.

“What of the other ladies?” Bram pressed. The Season was at its height. No woman of social standing missed an assembly. At the least, they needed to parade their daughters before eligible bachelors.

Lapley shrugged. “The same, I’d wager. Makes for a sodding dull assembly. Unless,” he added, brightening, “you brought some females with you.”

I don’t believe I count, Livia said, her voice wry in Bram’s mind.

“I’m alone,” Bram answered.

With a disappointed mutter about wasted opportunity, Lapley drifted away.

Bram continued to stand in the doorway, surveying the assembly that was not truly an assembly. The men in the chamber continued to circulate and affect conversation, but it felt like a sham. Or there had been a Biblical purge, and instead of slaying first born sons, the Angel of Death had killed every last woman, save one.

Citizens’ wives wouldn’t come out after dark, Livia said. They hid in their homes, cowering in corners with their arms around their children. Only female slaves forced to venture out of doors did so. I walked the streets disguised so no one knew my sex.

Powerful witch like you, he retorted. You’ve nothing to fear.

All women share the same fear, magic or no magic. And their fear is well-founded. I saw what happened when the mobs caught women out after sunset.

He felt her shudder, and his own blood iced.

It isn’t like that now.

You’ve looked out the window of your carriage. You’ve seen.

Maybe he hadn’t wanted to see, for, at the time, it made no impression on him. But thinking on it now, he remembered the protectively hunched forms of women scurrying inside. Only the women forced to earn their livings on the street remained—whores, orange sellers, beggars—and their eyes had been wide with fear.

In the span of a single night, the world had changed. He felt the whole of society, both high and low, clinging to a precipice, the rocks crumbling beneath their fingers. Soon the whole cliff would collapse. All that remained was the fall into darkness.

But his hands were strong, and he’d hold on for as long as he could. The darkness wouldn’t claim him just yet.

From the exterior, the building appeared like any other home in this fashionable part of town. Tidy and reserved, its modern brick façade looked out onto the street with perfect respectability, proportioned according to the most classical standards.

Bram ascended the short flight of steps, hearing the clatter of his carriage pulling discretely into the mews. Livia drifted behind him. Her curiosity was a flame at his back.

What’s at this place? Another gathering?

Without answering, he tapped at the door, and it opened immediately. They knew him here. Inside was just as tasteful as the exterior, done up in the latest style, with cream colored paneling, and paintings of serene landscapes upon the walls. A liveried footman took his hat and cloak.

“They are gathered in the drawing room, my lord,” the servant murmured. “Shall I show you in?”

“I know the way.” He strode down the corridor, Livia just behind him. Along the way, he passed a maid in cap and apron, and she curtsied, her eyes upon the ground.

Female voices drifted into the hallway from behind the drawing room’s closed doors.

Wherever we are, Livia mused, fear hasn’t kept the women away.

We’ll assuredly find women here, he answered.

He opened the doors of the drawing room. Settees and couches were arranged throughout the chamber. Upon them lounged young women in filmy gowns, and they all turned their gazes toward him as he entered the room. Some attempted to smile enticingly, but their attempts failed—the smiles withered like hothouse flowers.

“My lord, you are most warmly welcomed.” An older woman came forward, her hands outstretched to take his. She wore artful amounts of powder and rouge, a patch applied to just below the corner of her mouth.

“Mrs. Able.” Bram bowed, pressing a kiss to the back of her hand. “Like always, lovely as the evening star.”

“La,” trilled Mrs. Able, “pretty words from a pretty knave.”

“I save all my pretty words for you alone.”

“Then you must have a very short supply, my lord.”

“More than Dr. Johnson’s dictionary, ma’am.”

Mrs. Able laughed. “Such a charming rogue! ’Tis no wonder you’re the girls’ favorite.”

She says that to all the customers, Livia said, her voice sour. You might’ve told me you were going to a brothel.

And ruin the discovery?

He sensed her move away, straining against the bonds that tethered them together. Her presence left the chamber, and he couldn’t decide how he felt about that.

“Pick any girl, my lord,” Mrs. Able said, gesturing to the women upon the settees. “Almost all are at liberty tonight.”

It was then he realized that the brothel suffered from the inverse of Lord Millom’s assembly. Normally, men crowded Mrs. Able’s establishment. But aside from one morose gentleman with an anxious girl upon his knee, Bram was the only man in the drawing room.

“Slow this evening,” he murmured.

“Aye,” agreed the madam, and she made a sound of displeasure. “Patrons haven’t been coming round much these past weeks, and those that do want the kind of services we usually don’t provide. Not our usual sort of client. And when we do get regulars, the girls don’t want to go with ’em.” She tightened her painted mouth. “Uneasy, they are. Scared.”

So they were. Even the most veteran of Mrs. Able’s girls had a pinched, nervous mien, twisting their hands in their laps and casting fretful glances around the normally cheerful drawing room.

If he sought solace and peace, they wouldn’t be found here. Acid churned in Bram’s stomach. Piece by piece, the world rotted away, leaving decayed flesh and pallid bones.

Mrs. Able seemed to recollect herself, and to whom she spoke. “Of course, my lord,” she beamed, “any of my ladies will be more than happy to entertain you. Let me arrange it for you. Kitty, Cynthia!” She clapped her hands.

Two girls rose up from a couch, one fair, one with hair tinted a vivid shade of red. Though they were dressed in audaciously transparent robes, they approached slowly, timorously. The redhead took hold of the blonde’s hand. It wasn’t a flirtatious gesture designed to stoke a patron’s lust, but one that sought reassurance.

He’d believed that he had no heart left, that his time in the Colonies and since then had cut it from him. But, to his surprise, he now felt it withering in his chest, watching these two whores approach him like martyrs going to the lions. He could use his power, say something persuasive to both women so that they would eagerly take him to their bed. The idea tasted rancid.

He turned away, and Mrs. Able peered at him, a worried frown creasing lines in her face powder.

“Some other girls, my lord? You might enjoy Rosabel. A very sophisticated one, Rosabel. She can—”

“No. I don’t want any of the girls.” The words came of their own will, and it stunned him to realize he meant every one. He’d become a stranger to himself.

Mrs. Able’s mouth dropped open. “But—”

Bram did not hear her objections as he felt Livia’s presence come rushing into the chamber. Though she kept herself unseen, he sensed her distress. Candles flickered and the fire guttered. Shivering, several of the girls wrapped their arms around themselves and huddled close to one another.

“What is it?” Bram demanded.

The madam glanced around. “Are you speaking to me, my lord?”

He paid her no heed. Instead, he heard only Livia’s voice in his mind.

Go upstairs. Go upstairs right now.

“Why?”

Hurry.

He stalked from the chamber, leaving a room full of baffled women behind. One hand on the hilt of his sword, he took the stairs two at a time. Livia’s faint outline drifted at his side.

Reaching the next floor, he saw nearly all the doors lining the corridor standing open—a testament to the brothel’s lack of business. Two doors, however, were closed.

“Behind the door on the left.” Livia spoke aloud, not attempting to hide her presence.

He hesitated outside the door. The sound of a woman weeping forced him into action. Trying the door and finding it locked, he pounded his fist on the wood.

“Let me in,” he shouted through the door.

The woman inside only cried harder.

Cursing, Bram backed up then kicked the door’s latch. Several girls peered fearfully from open chambers, but none tried to stop him. With another kick, the door to the locked room flew open.

Bram strode inside, then stopped abruptly. A nude woman huddled in the corner, her head on her knees. Sobs shook her. Sprawled on the bed lay a man, partially dressed. A stiletto stuck up from the side of his chest. His eyes stared vacantly at the ceiling. Judging by the amount of blood soaked into the mattress, he’d been dead for several minutes.

Throat tight, Bram moved toward the bed and stared down at the dead man’s face.

“Thomas Auden,” he said quietly. “Poor bastard.” He’d been a genial man, always quick to laugh.

“He attacked me!” cried the woman in the corner. Her paint ran down her face in watery streaks. She tilted up her chin, revealing a necklace of bruises around her throat. “Just started throttling me, calling me filthy names. He would’ve killed me if I hadn’t—” She glanced at the knife protruding from Auden’s ribs and burst into tears again.

Bram backed from the room, his gaze riveted to the stiletto. Not so long ago, he’d seen a sword plunged into Edmund’s heart. They buried Edmund last week. Auden’s family would bury him, too. But the chain of death would continue. On and on, until the dead outnumbered the living and the cobbles were slick with blood.

Heedless of who might see her, Livia appeared before him, her face tight and grave.

“This is how it will be,” she said. “I’ve seen all of it before. I know what will follow. Whether you believe it or no, this world is truly going to hell.”