Captain Black had been able to provide very few details other than what he had already given them, and what Ivory already knew. Helmsdale House, perched in a bucolic country setting outside the sprawl of London, had been sold nearly a decade ago to cover the gambling debts of a dissolute aristocrat. For those who needed to know, it was owned now by a man who went solely by the name of King. There were whispers that he had once been the youngest son of an aristocratic family, but had been cast out and disowned, rumors of murder and betrayal muddying the waters. Ivory had never put much stock in those rumors—she had never been able to verify any of it, but she knew very well just how ruthless King could be in his insatiable pursuit of wealth and power.
Yet she had never heard of a girl’s being part of the offerings before. This was something new. Though not that shocking.
Black had departed quickly, and Ivory and Alderidge had returned to the duke’s cabin aboard the Odyssey. The duke had barely said two words, only staring intensely into a glass of brandy that he refilled more than once. His silence, more than anything, was unnerving. She almost wanted the bull in the china shop back, crashing around and demanding to ride to his sister’s rescue. She let her attention roam around the small cabin, her gaze falling on two piles of letters that had been left on the table, bound by string. From where she sat, she could see Alderidge’s name written across the front of the topmost letter, in the same handwriting that she had seen on the messages.
“Are these letters from your sister?” she asked with some surprise. There were hundreds of letters between the two piles.
The duke grunted, which Ivory took to be a yes.
“She is a very prolific writer,” Ivory prodded. She needed to get Alderidge talking again. Tentatively Ivory reached for the nearest pile. When the duke didn’t move, she picked it up. “Is there any mention of anything—”
“There isn’t any mention of anything of import in any of those letters,” Alderidge said, without looking up. “No mention of a man whom she would trust until he betrayed her in the most heinous of manners. No mention of anything that would have had me turning my ship around and sailing back to England as fast as the winds could carry me. Nothing but anecdotes of garden parties and balls, musical soirees, the latest color of gown that is all the rage amongst her friends. Stories of her favorite cat that stalks the kitchens and her favorite gelding in the mews. Ramblings about her favorite flowers, her favorite scent, her favorite cake.” He stopped. “Visions and conjecture of what it would be like if she could travel with me to India.”
Ivory bit her lip, seeing an image of a young girl pouring her heart out to a brother who was a world away. “She wrote what she couldn’t tell you in person.”
The duke closed his eyes briefly, but remained stubbornly mute.
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” she said finally, when she couldn’t stand it any longer.
Alderidge looked up at her, his grey eyes icy and remote. “You don’t want to know what I’m thinking.” He drained what was left in his glass and reached for the brandy bottle.
Ivory leaned forward and snatched the bottle away. She needed him sober, though if a man had ever had a reason to drink, this would be it. She kept the bottle securely in her hands. “Remember our earlier conversation, Your Grace. About alternatives to hiring me to clean up bodies.”
He glared at her. “I hope you have good help,” he said, and Ivory felt every bit of the cold rage in his words down to her marrow. “You’re going to need it. Those who would sell…” He trailed off, seemingly at a loss for words.
“Will be dealt with.” Ivory tried to keep her voice steady.
Grey eyes burned into her own. “I will deal with them.” Alderidge stood up suddenly, the small chair toppling back and crashing against the floor. The flame in the lantern flickered, sending strange shadows dancing up the wall. He paced the small cabin, three steps one way and then back. Abruptly he knelt before a heavy trunk near the door and wrenched it open. Digging under a pile of linens and logbooks, he extracted a long, smooth pistol case.
“And what are you intending to do with that?” Ivory asked as he extracted a long, heavy pistol.
“What do you usually do with guns, Miss Moore?”
Ivory still held the bottle of brandy in her hands, and she banged it back on the table with a loud crash, brandy sloshing from the top. “Do not sign your sister’s death warrant,” she said.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Where is Beatrice right now, Your Grace?” Ivory demanded.
Alderidge looked at her, his jaw clenched in the manner she knew so well.
“You can’t tell me because we don’t know.” She pressed her palms to the surface of the table.
“That is why I am going to go look for her.”
“Where will you look?”
“Somewhere near Kentish Town. She cannot be so far from this Helmsdale House.”
“Maybe. Maybe not.”
The duke was loading the pistol now.
“And if you ask the wrong person the wrong question?” Ivory asked. “If King discovers that her presence might cause unwanted complications to his well-planned event? What do you suppose will happen to her then?”
The scrape of the ramrod stopped.
“She will be replaced. Killed first, most likely, and then simply replaced. And then, Your Grace, we will be looking for her body.”
The duke put the pistol down on top of its case.
“King is a dangerous man. He puts little value on anything save money and the power it brings him. If something no longer has value, he will simply discard it.”
“So then I cut the head off the snake. Go after this King. Then I look for Bea.”
“He is too well protected. Helmsdale is like his own private fortress, with a veritable army protecting it. With the exception of the auction, no one ever has access to the property. And once you’re in, you cannot leave. It’s a brilliant setup. One’s very presence in that house makes one complicit in whatever corrupt activities occur.”
“How do you know all this?”
“I have been at one of his auctions before.”
“Why?”
Ivory cleared her throat. “I was recovering an item for a client.”
“So you know this King.”
“You might say that.”
“Then you can get close to him.”
“Yes.”
“Can I hire you to kill him then?”
“I am not a murderer.”
“No.” The duke let out a humorless laugh. “You only clean up after them.”
Ivory looked away.
“I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair.” Alderidge pushed himself to his feet, his frustration evident. “So what now?” He looked at Ivory. “What am I supposed to do next?”
“You can give me a chance to think.” She pushed herself from her own chair, unable to remain seated. “I don’t know what happened the night of your ball. But I think you’re right in that we have to assume that whoever it was who helped Beatrice out of your house is the same person who was with her at Helmsdale.”
“The person who sold her.”
Ivory winced. “I can only guess that any goodwill he showed her that night hid far darker motivations. Beatrice was vulnerable, scared, and at a disadvantage. Perhaps he seized that opportunity when it presented itself. He might have threatened her. Told her that you or your aunt would be maimed or killed if she didn’t cooperate. She was obviously coerced into writing you those messages. No doubt in the hopes that you would not search for her.”
Alderidge leaned back against the cabin bulkhead with a thump and ran his hands over his face. “I can’t tell Helen this. This will kill her.”
“We will find Beatrice. She is safe for now, because she has value. But we need to be smart. A man like King does not respond well to threats. One must appeal to his vanity.”
“I liked my idea better.”
“And what idea was that? Storm the Bastille and carry out your sister?”
“It worked for them.”
Ivory narrowed her eyes. “No, it didn’t. It started a disorganized riot, and people died. Innocent people. I will not take that chance, and neither will you. We don’t even know where Beatrice is being held. I think it would be best if you let me handle this.”
His hands dropped to his sides. “Don’t shut me out. Not when we’re this close.”
Ivory watched him, saw the worry in his eyes. Her heart lurched.
“Arrange a meeting with this King,” he demanded.
“With you?”
“Yes.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Why?”
“Because he will ruin you.”
“That makes no sense.”
Ivory searched his eyes. “How much is your sister worth, Your Grace? How many of your ships? How much of your company stock? How many of your properties?”
Alderidge stared at her. “All of it,” he whispered, his voice raw.
Ivory braced herself against the emotion that was suddenly burning at the backs of her eyes. “And King will know that. He will see the truth, just as I can see it now.”
“I don’t care. I would trade it all for her. She is my sister.”
Ivory believed him. She felt like crying at the sheer intensity of the unconditional love this man was capable of.
She stomped on her emotion before it completely obliterated whatever perspective she was still clinging to. “While that is a gallant sentiment, I would suggest that such extremes are not necessary, nor are they sensible. King will negotiate, if only because there is a possibility that it might be to his benefit. But you have to trust me to do it.” She wanted to touch him, but she remained where she stood. This man did not need her sympathy right now. He had too much pride. What he needed was her help.
“Do I have a choice?” he asked.
“You always have a choice, Your Grace.”
He looked at her, his expression bleak. “I will do whatever it takes to get her back. Anything I have is his, so long as Beatrice is safe.”
Ivory nodded. “Understood.”
“Goddammit.” A world of frustration and anguish was contained in that one word. Here was a man who commanded men, who was used to controlling every aspect of his life. Who was used to taking action to achieve his ends.
And she was asking him to place that control in her hands. She did not underestimate the significance of that.
“I trust you.” He hadn’t looked away from her.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
He banged a fist against his thigh. “I was the one who was supposed to be able to protect my sister. To keep her from harm.”
“And you’re doing that, Your Grace.”
“How? By standing here?”
“By hiring me.” She aimed for gentle levity, needing to break the strange spell that seemed to have fallen in the small cabin.
He dropped his head. “You’re impossible,” he said, but without resentment.
She bit her lip. “You were right in the end, you know.”
“About what?” he said, suddenly sounding weary. “That I didn’t know my sister well enough to keep her safe?” Ivory suspected that all the brandy he had consumed was starting to take effect. Which was probably just as well.
“On the contrary. You knew her well enough to recognize that something was amiss. That she was trying to tell you something in her messages.”
The duke ran a hand through his hair. “I was also wrong.”
They regarded each other in the glow from the lantern. “If I might suggest, Your Grace—”
“Might I suggest you stop calling me Your Grace?”
“I beg your pardon?” Ivory started.
“I want you to call me Max. That is what all the women who extract dead lovers from my sister’s bed call me.”
“Max.” She repeated the name.
He closed his eyes briefly. “That’s better.” He met her eyes again. “And for the record, I make absolutely no guarantees that I won’t kill this King. And the one who already sold Beatrice can measure his life in hours once I discover his identity. Are we clear?”
“Crystal.” There was little point in arguing at this juncture.
“Excellent. I will try and give you a little notice, if you like. For body disposal purposes and all.”
Ivory grimaced. “That would be nice.”
“I don’t anticipate there being enough left of them for you to prop up in a guest bedroom.”
“Rather bloodthirsty, aren’t you?”
“I’d do the same if it was you this man had taken.”
Ivory stared at him.
Max cleared his throat, as if realizing what he had just said. “But then again, I’ve been warned not to underestimate your ability to take care of yourself. I don’t expect you’d ever find yourself at a house party on an auction block set to be bid on by any number of men with no moral compasses, would you?” He laughed, though it sounded a little desperate and uneven.
“Is that even a question?”
“I’m not sure. I’m not sure of anything anymore.” He sighed, his head and shoulders still resting back against the bulkhead. “My aunt was the only one who was completely right, you know. If I had come home earlier, then perhaps—”
Ivory snorted softly. “Self-recrimination does not become you. Nor is it helpful.”
“But perhaps I could have prevented Beatrice from becoming involved with Debarry—”
“You’re delusional if you think you would be able to control the will of an eighteen-year-old girl when she’s made up her mind about something. If she wanted Debarry, she would have had Debarry. Whether or not you were here.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because I used to be an eighteen-year-old girl.”
That earned a weak smile that faded quickly. They sat in silence, the ship’s timbers creaking occasionally around them.
“Did you know my parents and my brothers had been dead for over six months before I even learned that I had inherited the title? And it was a year before I was able to return to London?”
“Do you miss them?” She wasn’t sure what made her ask that question. Maybe it was the bizarre circumstances that had brought them to this point. Maybe it was the cocoon of intimacy they had found in his cabin.
“I barely knew them. I was away at school for most of my childhood. Went to sea when I was thirteen. Came back to London only once before they passed away.”
“Why didn’t you stay?” she asked quietly. “In London, I mean. After you found out that you had become a duke?”
Max leaned his head back against the wall again. “I did. For a while. But I didn’t…fit in anywhere here.” He looked at her. “Do you remember what you told me that first night when I came home? You told me that this was not my world. And you were right. It wasn’t my world then any more than it is now. I came home ten years ago to find that there were stewards and secretaries and solicitors and all manner of men who competently oversaw the dukedom. Bea was eight and was fully dependent on Helen—she certainly didn’t need me. Aside from a few signatures from time to time, my presence was superfluous. I was suffocating here. You can’t imagine how it feels to be trapped somewhere you don’t belong.” He abruptly stopped.
Ivory was silent for another long moment. She bent and righted the overturned chair, then sank into it. She reached for the bottle left on the table and brought it to her lips, letting the liquid fire burn down her throat. “I used to be a duchess.” It was out before she could consider the wisdom of that statement.
“You used to be a what?”
“You asked me once why my friends called me Duchess. It’s because I used to be one.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I need to explain how one becomes a duchess?”
“Yes. No.” He frowned slightly. “If you are a duchess, why are you here? On a ship with me? Living in Covent Square? Working for Mr. Chegarre?”
“Because I am not a duchess any longer. My husband died five years ago.”
“That makes no sense. A duchess is still a duchess, even if her husband dies.”
“Not if she was an opera singer before she was a duchess. Not if she was despised by the duke’s family, who took her to be a money-grubbing opportunist.” Holy hell, why was she telling him this? And why couldn’t she seem to stop?
Max had come off the bulkhead and was staring down at her in the lantern light, and she could almost see the pieces of information falling into place behind his eyes. Even he, who was never in London, must have heard the improbable tale of the opera singer who had become a duchess.
“God almighty,” he breathed. “You were the Duchess of Knightley. Your nickname is not a nickname at all.” Max came around, dropping into the chair she had vacated, watching her intently.
Ivory smiled a little sadly. “Then you will know, Your Grace, that I too understand what it is like to not fit into a world in which you have found yourself. There was not a soul in Knightley’s world who didn’t make it clear that I was an imposter, including his family. A charlatan who had forgotten her place and should be punished for it. My place was in a quiet, out-of-the-way cottage, where I could be kept on the side out of sight and out of mind and used as a diversion when the mood struck. I was not the sort of woman a man married. Certainly not a man like Knightley. But he didn’t care. He—we simply defied them all, because we could.”
“Did you love him?”
“Yes.”
“And he loved you?”
“Yes.”
“Was it worth it?”
“Yes.”
Another silence fell.
Ivory finally broke it. “That’s all you’re going to ask?”
“What else matters?” Max reached for the brandy bottle and plucked it from her unfeeling fingers.
“You surprise me sometimes.”
His lips curled slightly, as if this amused him. “Why did you vanish after he died?”
“Knightley’s family tolerated my presence out of deference to the duke so long as he was alive. Once he had passed, they made certain that I understood that they would find a way to destroy me should I continue to lay claim to a title that should never have been mine.”
“I’m sorry.”
Ivory shrugged. “It wasn’t unexpected. Opera singers do not marry dukes without their eyes wide open.”
“Then why not return to the stage? You’re still a legend. You could have any man you wished.”
Ivory was silent for a moment, trying to find words to make this man understand. “Do you know how I came to sing on some of the grandest stages in Europe?”
“No.”
“When I was thirteen, a man passing by the hovel we called home heard me singing, quite by accident. My family was poor—poor enough that there were stretches of days when we didn’t eat. This man gave my parents five pounds—more money than they had seen in their entire lives—and took me with him when he left. Turned out he owned an opera house in London.”
“He bought you?”
“He would tell you that he invested in me. Taught me to read and write. And in exchange for lessons in Italian and French and proper instruction in music, I became Ivory Bellafiore, and earned him quite a return on his investment.” She paused. “But Ivory Bellafiore was not a legend. She was an illusion. She was a femme fatale, a seductress or an enchantress, depending on the night. An illusion men wished to own so that he could boast to his friends that he had done so. An illusion that could be bought. Ivory Bellafiore was no different, really, than the objects Captain Black sells, destined for the highest bidder.”
She could see a muscle working along the side of Max’s jaw.
“I did a lot of things to survive in my life, things that I cannot apologize for because they have, in the end, brought me here. But I am done surviving that life. Ivory Bellafiore no longer exists, nor will she ever again. I am no longer something to be owned. My destiny is mine to choose, mine to control. Do you understand?”
He was watching her, a turmoil of emotion swirling in the grey depths of his eyes. “Yes. It’s the same reason I bought the Odyssey. I did not want to be sailing someone’s ship with men who weren’t my own, plotting courses to destinations that were not of my choosing.” He paused. “It’s the same reason I can’t stay in London. I am not a duke. I never have been.”
An ache started deep inside her, at the realization of just how impossible it would be to hold on to a man like this. She saw so much of herself in him.
“Why did you tell me all this? Who you are?” he asked presently.
Because I trust you. Because you possess honor and heart and strength. Because in another life, I could probably fall in love with you. “Because I hold your secrets, and I wanted you to have one of mine.”
He tipped his chair forward on two legs, bringing himself closer to her. She held her ground. He was close enough to kiss her. He braced his elbows on his knees, the bottle dangling from his fingers, his ice-grey eyes searching her face. There was a sheen of liquor on his lower lip, the moisture visible in the flickering lantern light. She could taste it on her own tongue, imagined tasting it on his. Her heart seemed to be crashing in her chest louder than it should, and her stomach felt as it would have on heaving seas. Her control was slipping, and taking with it her judgment and her wits. “Do you think differently of me? Now that you know who I am? The things I’ve done?” The questions slipped out of their own volition.
“The things you’ve done?” His forehead creased.
“I sold myself, Max.” There. She’d said it. “Before I had enough power to control my own destiny.”
He stared at her. “I know who you are. You are Ivory Moore. You are the woman who redressed a corpse to save my sister. The woman who kissed me to save me from myself. You are the only one who understands why I can never be put in a prison that was built for me by fate and circumstance.”
She swallowed, emotion clogging her throat.
“You are the woman I trust.” He pushed himself away from her abruptly, and the chair came back down on four legs with a thud. He stood and set the bottle back on the table with great care. Reaching down, he caught her hands in his and pulled her to her feet. He studied her hands before bringing them to his lips. “The woman I want more than anything.”
Desire streaked through her and settled somewhere deep in her belly. Time seemed to have slowed. His lips grazed the insides of her wrists.
“Max.” It came out like a plea, when she had meant it as a protest.
“I lied,” he said. He pressed his mouth to the flesh of her palm, and her knees nearly buckled.
“What?” It was hard to follow the thread of conversation, what with the feel of his lips on her skin.
“I said I wasn’t sure of anything anymore,” he said quietly. “But that’s not true. I am sure of you.”
Ivory searched his eyes, seeing only a raw vulnerability in those clear grey depths.
“You’ve more courage than anyone I’ve ever met,” he whispered, pulling her closer to him, their hands still joined.
“You’re drunk.”
“Not nearly enough. But I wish I was.”
“What?”
“If I were drunk, it might excuse what I’m about to do.”
Ivory didn’t have time to even respond before he kissed her.
This kiss was not one of gentle exploration. This was the kiss of a man seeking oblivion and solace. She whimpered beneath the onslaught, returning his desperation with her own. He let go of her hands and ran his own down her back, over the curve of her buttocks and her hips, then up along her ribs and shoulders. She felt his fingers trace the back of her neck and drop lower to stroke her collarbone, and then the side of her breast, his thumb finding her nipple through the fabric of her bodice. He was exploring the recesses of her mouth, his tongue delving and demanding as he covered her breasts with his hands, cupping and stroking and sending currents of pure ecstasy pulsing through her.
He backed her up two steps, until she hit the cabin’s bulkhead. She wrapped her hands around his neck, her fingers tangling in his thick hair, and arched into him. He growled in approval, and his hand dropped from her breast to the curve of her backside, his fist crumpling her skirts as though frustrated with the barrier. She could feel the press of his erection against her lower belly through the layers of their clothing, and she too felt an impatience at the hindrance.
Her fingers left his nape, traveling down his back, tracing the valley of his spine that she had admired a lifetime ago. Except now her hands continued where only her eyes had gone before, over his buttocks and the muscle bunched beneath the seat of his breeches. God, but he was hard everywhere. She urged him against her, and he groaned, plundering her mouth with his tongue. She opened herself willingly, letting him assume full control.
His hands moved to her face, holding her steady beneath his kiss, until his fingers slid down, skimming over her breasts, along the edges of her ribs, finally caging her hips within their steely grasp. His mouth left her lips, leaving a trail of scorched skin down the side of her neck and along the tops of her breasts. Her head tipped back, and she tried to catch her breath, but it was impossible. She wanted this man’s hands on her skin. His lips on her skin. Everywhere. All at once.
The steady throb that had ignited in her belly and was building at the apex of her thighs was becoming unbearable. She tried to get closer to him, as if she could somehow meld her body with his and find the release she so desperately craved. But there were clothes to deal with, and they were in the way. She made a sound of frustration and suddenly Max’s hands dropped to her arse, and he hauled her up against him.
She wrapped her legs around him awkwardly, hampered by her skirts. But it didn’t matter because through the fabric she could feel the bulge of his erection there, right where it needed to be, pressed against the spot that was already sending sparks of pleasure coursing through every cell of her body. She might have moaned but she couldn’t remember because Max was surging up against her. She bore down on him, and her eyes closed, and her head dropped to his shoulder, her fingers tangled around his neck and in his hair, and she gasped, struggling for breath as her orgasm ripped through her like a tidal wave.
He held her tightly as she shook, pressing kisses along the curve of her neck, letting her ride out the spasms and the eddies secure in his arms. When the last tremors had drained from her limbs, she raised her head, never having felt in all her life as lost for words as she was at that moment.
Max didn’t give her a chance to find those words. He kissed her hard, letting her down, his hands not leaving her back.
Which was just as well, for Ivory wasn’t at all sure she could stand under her own power.
He drew away slightly, searching her eyes again with his own. His fingers were still stroking her back, and his continued touch was making it difficult to put her thoughts into any sort of rational order.
“I promised myself that I would wait to finish this,” he said. Against her she could still feel the hard evidence of his need. “I promised that I wouldn’t allow myself this until Beatrice was safe at home.”
“Max—”
“I can’t do this right now. I can’t give you what you deserve right now.”
What she deserved? He had just given her pleasure the like of which she had never, in all of her life, experienced. Pleasure that had tilted her world and wiped everything from her mind except for him. And he hadn’t even undressed her.
But what had happened to her own principles? What had happened to her own rules about clients and the distance that should be kept from them at all times? When had she abandoned everything for the chance to be with this man? Because Max was right. They could not do this. She could not do this. Not yet. She had known that once.
God help her, but she was in way over her head.
“Don’t think that this is because I don’t want you, Ivory Moore.” He sounded as if he were in pain.
“No,” she whispered. “I don’t think that.” Her fingers skimmed the sides of his breeches, over his hips.
He groaned and stepped away.
“We should probably get some rest,” she said quietly, trying for a tone of pragmatic normalcy. “There is little we can do until morning.”
Liar. There were all sorts of things they could do until morning.
“I’ll come back first thing.” She took an unsteady step toward the door.
“Where do you think you’re going?” the duke demanded.
“Home.”
“Like hell you are. It’s too dangerous out there.”
“I’ll be fine.”
“You’re not going anywhere until it’s light out. And I’m with you. You’ll sleep there.” He jabbed a finger at the narrow berth that ran along the far end of the cabin.
“With you?” She regretted it instantly. What was wrong with her?
His eyes darkened to the color of tempered steel, and he was clenching his jaw again.
She was aware that her response seemed to mark her acceptance of his command. As if now they were simply sorting out the details of the whole arrangement.
“Double occupancy in that berth would be most uncomfortable, Miss Moore.” His face betrayed nothing. He was trying to do the sane, honorable thing.
Not if I was on top of you. Or beneath you.
“I can’t take your bed.”
“There are two more berths in the surgery, one in the first mate’s cabin, and dozens of hammocks hanging belowdecks. I’ll manage.” He seemed to have made the decision for her. “There are extra blankets in the trunk if you’re cold. You will not be disturbed.”
She didn’t know which was worse: her relief that sanity and honor had prevailed or her disappointment that they had.
“Max—”
“I couldn’t keep my sister safe. Can you find it within yourself to let me keep you safe for one night?” The raw misery in his voice made her breath catch and pierced her heart.
“Of course.” She swallowed the lump that seemed to have lodged in her throat.
“I’ll fetch you in the morning.” He turned from her, pausing only when he reached the door. “And then we’ll go fetch my sister.”