However much he wanted to. He could still taste her, could feel her pressed against him. She was more dangerous than traitors and pistols at dawn, more dangerous than the hangman’s noose. He had to investigate all the antiquarians, even her. Because ladies did not fall off balconies.
Correction: innocent ladies did not fall off balconies.
And it was natural to wonder about her. It was his duty to wonder. It had nothing to do with her self-deprecating smile and clever eyes. Or the way she marched over the fields like a tiny general leading an antiquarian battle. He wondered if she would be as energetic in all aspects of her life. At night.
Especially at night.
He also wondered if the men in this part of England were blind.
He hadn’t missed the way they glanced away from her, all pinched-mouthed disdain. Or stared too long, as though common courtesy wasn’t required. Something very close to anger prickled under his ribcage at the thought.
He was getting distracted. And that was unacceptable.
He had a traitor to flush out of hiding. It was the only thing keeping him here at this ghastly house party with the debutantes and their parents eyeing him like meat at market. He’d been telling the truth when he told his sister it was his best cover, but he didn’t have to like it. He didn’t object to marriage, but the societal circus attached to the institution was tiresome, to say the least. His time abroad had eaten away his admittedly thin patience with that sort of thing. He’d seen too much blood, and his sister had seen too much hypocrisy. And now the girls fluttered at him, dreaming of being a countess.
Except for Persephone who had only warned him away. Curious. Even though she had no other particular prospects. Even after kissing him to distract him from his panic.
He hadn’t expected the fireworks. It wasn’t so much that they sounded like gunfire as she’d supposed. It wasn’t the sound of the bullets and the canons. It was stumbling over the dead after the battle had ended. It was the blood staining his boots, the stink of rot and opened guts. The lingering acrid bite of smoke. It was all of those unseeing eyes, seeing him. He hadn’t been able to stop it. He should have been able to stop it.
And Persephone, an overlooked girl with no prospects, had stopped the shivering, sweating panic before it could clamp down on him.
She was clever and kind. Definitely dangerous.
Because here he was thinking about her again.
A glance at the clock reminded him he had other places to be. He went out to saddle a horse, using the light of the rapidly waxing moon to see him to the village. Some of the gentlemen had decided to host themselves a Hellfire Club night and he reckoned he’d waited long enough that they would be too drunk to realize he wasn’t drunk at all. Men who were foxed on wine and women had loose tongues. With any luck, he’d make progress on the investigation.
He followed the directions he’d been given, leaving his horse at the Druid’s Sickle pub and walking down the hill behind the building, past the well. Behind a line of trees was an opening lit with torches. The flickering light lent it a more dramatic cast, making it feel as if he was descending into a secret sacred space and less like a hole dug into the side of a hill that might collapse at any moment. The sounds of revelries well under way welcomed him: a badly played drum, tambourines, laughter, giddy shrieks. He’d have preferred violin music, truth be told. He’d had enough of this sort of entertainment in the previous three months to last him a lifetime. He pasted on a carefree, arrogant smile, the kind that was expected.
He ducked his head and followed the uneven steps into a grotto that was far better preserved than he would have thought. Water trickled from some underground spring, filling a stone basin lined with broken mosaics A statue of Venus stood alight with candles, the dripping wax the only hint of clothing. On the other side, a mask of Bacchus was painted on the cave wall in various shades of ochre and black. More candles burned in every available nook and cranny, illuminating women in transparent Romanesque chitons dancing with their hair swaying loose down their backs. Two men wearing not much more than loincloths and masks joined them, one beating a drum, one also dancing. Oil gleamed on an impressive amount of bare skin.
“Not bad for a small backwards village, eh?” Darrington asked. His eyes were already faintly glazed over. He’d long since lost his cravat and waistcoat, and likely soon his balance. Behind him, Barton and Snettisham were gambling with dice, two ladies, and very little clothing left between them. “These Roman ruins are nothing to Egypt, of course. But what can you do?”
Conall’s attention narrowed. “Egypt?”
“It’s all a Bacchanalia tonight, of course. But I’d have liked to have seen some dancing girls in the Egyptian style.” He shrugged and nearly fell over.
One of the dancing women approached Conall. ‘I’m Desdemona.” She trailed her fingertips across his chest, aiming perilously south. “So strong, my lord. So handsome.”
He caught her wrist, amused. “Thank you, no.”
She pouted. “But the other gentlemen are nothing to you. They’re foxed enough not to be able to find their own peckers with both hands.” She tilted her head. “Would you prefer Archimedes?”
He was fairly certain Archimedes was Arthur, the son of the blacksmith. “I’m curious about the painting, actually.”
She sighed. “Oh, you’re one of those antiquarians.” She shuddered at the Bacchus painting, and Conall couldn’t help but think Persephone would have already marched everyone out onto the grass so she could inspect the mosaics more closely and preserve them from damage. She’d have told him all about Bacchus as well, he imagined.
And what was wrong with it that it sounded like a better way to spend the night than dragging clinging half-naked women around the place in a drunken stupor?
“That horrid thing,” Desdemona said. “With that gaping maw, he could eat me whole.” She dragged a finger between her breasts. “Bet you could too, my lord.”
He chuckled. “You’re a fine woman, Desdemona. I wish you much success in your pursuits.” He bowed.
She smiled. “Such a charmer, my lord.”
“I’ll take you on,” Darrington draped his arm around her shoulders. She had to plant her feet so they both wouldn’t topple.
“I suppose you’re handsome enough,” she allowed. “But can you dance?”