Lady Dunleith gave him a speculative look. "If you are thinking about pursuing her yourself, darling, you should reconsider. I've heard she is rather cold-blooded as a lover."
Whether the beautiful widow spoke out of jealousy or spite or the charitable desire to spare him a futile effort, Dare wasn't certain. But he could attest that she was mistaken; Julienne Laurent was as cold-blooded as flaming coals.
"And in any case," Lady Dunleith added in an amused tone, "M
iss Laurent has announced that she will not make her choice of protectors until the end of the season. Wagers are already flying about who will win her."
Her choice would no doubt have deep pockets, Dare reflected resentfully. Actresses often augmented their meager incomes by finding rich patrons, but he knew from painful experience that the mercenary Mademoiselle Laurent wouldn't settle for any but the wealthiest protector.
What interested him most, however, was the particular gentleman who claimed the Jewel's attention just now. Viscount Riddingham evidently had garnered the privilege of driving Miss Laurent in his curricle. They had stopped in the Row and were surrounded by a half-dozen eager admirers on horseback-
"Darling…?"
The sleepy voice jolted Dare back to the present. Behind him Lady Dunleith called again. "Why do you not return to bed?"
Wincing at the intrusion, he suddenly noticed the cold that roughened his flesh. The chill of the bedchamber reminded him that he was naked, that he'd left a warm bed in order to study the handbill that bore his former lover's image, like a tongue probing an aching tooth.
That same ache had driven him to accompany the Widow Dunleith home and spend the evening indulging her carnal needs. Yet he'd executed the task purely as a mindless exercise, his performance habitual from practice. His lust tonight had been determinedly manufactured-an attempt to exorcise his restless passion and the painful memories of another woman.
He'd attempted a great deal of exorcising in the years since Julienne Laurent had savaged his heart. In the wake of his broken betrothal, he had returned to London and embarked on a rampage of debauchery, including assuming leadership of the Hellfire League, a notorious club of England's premier rakes.
His outrageous exploits and determined pursuit of sexual gratification had added a new luster of glamour and notoriety to his reputation, earning him the nickname the Prince of Pleasure.
Dare disliked admitting even to himself that his profligacy had been his way of drowning his pain, of masking the emptiness of his life. Night after night he sought to lose himself in a warm, female body, to drive away memories of Julienne in an excess of sensual indulgence.
Yet even when he was buried deep inside a woman, bound in the most intimate way possible, he felt alone. Worse, he couldn't stop himself from yearning for the taste of another beauty's flesh. Julienne still tempted him, still tormented him.
Damn her to hell.
Seeing her again this afternoon had made him realize the wound she'd inflicted had never truly healed. He still wasn't completely over her. Even after all this time, his heart had stubbornly refused to abandon its obsession.
"Dare?" the widow implored, this time with a note of impatience.
"Forgive me, my sweet," he forced himself to reply.
He crumpled the playbill in his fist, resisting the urge to hurl it into the fire. A new performance was to begin tomorrow night, starring the celebrated new actress Julienne Laurent. But he had yet to decide if he would attend.
He would do better to keep as far away from her as possible, Dare cautioned himself. He knew how lethal she could be. He would never willingly make himself vulnerable to her again. He'd worked too hard never to feel so afflicted again. Still, a plan had begun to take shape in his mind…
Suddenly impatient for action, he said over his shoulder, "I'm afraid I must go, Louisa."
"Now? But it is so late."
"It is not yet midnight."
Momentarily ignoring the pouting of the lush, naked lady in the bed, he dressed silently. Then, going to her side, Dare employed his most charming manner to beg her forgiveness, kissing her breathless but evading her pleas to return soon.
All her servants had retired for the night, he realized when he went below. And the mount he'd ridden in Hyde Park this afternoon was snugly stabled in the mews behind Lady Dunleith's mansion. Rather than rouse the household, Dare let himself out and walked the short distance along Mayfair's dark streets to Lucian's home.
Lucian Tremayne, the Earl of Wycliff, was one of his closest friends, as well as one of England's chief spymasters. Lucian preferred not to advertise that he'd employed Dare in the hunt for a deadly traitor, so they had agreed to limit the frequency of their meetings. Yet they needed to confer about the latest developments.
Bending against the frigid night air, Dare drew his greatcoat around him. This was the coldest winter in memory, and only now was the country thawing out. In London even the Thames River had frozen. And in Yorkshire, where he'd recently visited for several interminable weeks, the snowdrifts had piled higher than a man's head, shutting down roads and bringing commerce and travel to a complete halt.
Tonight would be his first opportunity to update Lucian regarding his clandestine endeavors. He'd sent a message this morning, arranging to make his report.
There were several lights burning in the windows of the regal Wycliff residence. Dare was admitted without question and shown into Lucian's study, where the earl was at work at his desk.
The two men greeted each other with the fondness of long acquaintance.