Page 35 of The Devil in Her Bed
Or wherever else he could have her.
He let her go because if he went after her, the urge to pull her back on top of him might prove overpowering.
She was after information from the Lord Chancellor; all he had to do was ask the man what it was she’d demanded of him.
And then Chandler would not only have a leg to stand on, but a leg up on her.
CHAPTERNINE
Less than a week later, Francesca found herself in the arms of a devil.
Lord Luther Kenway, Earl of Devlin, waltzed her expertly around the Marchioness of Davenport’s ballroom, gazing down at her as though she were the only woman in the world.
Francesca, however, could barely bring herself to look him in the eyes for several reasons. The chief one being that she kept inadvertently searching the ballroom for a certain intriguing, infuriating Scot.
But, alas, she didn’t see Lord Drake anywhere. Chances were, he didn’t run in circles quite so illustrious.
“Are you looking for someone, Countess?” her dance partner astutely inquired.
Francesca mentally admonished herself to pay attention to the task at hand, and batted what she hopedwere flirty lashes. “Forgive me, my lord, but I’m a bit awestruck by your attentions, and I’m doing what I can to compose myself.”
“I don’t believe that for a moment.” Kenway patted her rib cage in a rather fatherly gesture, and then pulled her closer in a way that was anything but.
The Earl of Devlin was handsome in that disarmingly attractive yet subtly menacing modality that left a woman breathless. Even the debutantes in their first seasons cast their eyes in his direction, even though he’d probably lived a half century at least.
To distract herself from her racing thoughts, Francesca listed what she knew about him. He’d married young to a beautiful country baron’s daughter and had sired three children, a son and then twins, a girl and a boy. Some years ago, his wife had apparently gone mad and drowned their three children. The tragedy still kissed his every interaction in society, even after all this time.
Such a pity, they’d say behind their fans.Wed a lunatic and lost everything. Quite probably why he never deigned to marry again.
Despite all that, he was obscenely wealthy, powerful, and possibly the vilest man alive.
At least according to what she’d gleaned from the Lord Chancellor. While she’d interrogated him at the safe house, he’d revealed to her that Kenway was the top point of the Triad.
It all made so much sense now.
The name Kenway had been spilling all around her Red Rogues for ages, but always in the periphery.As something like fourth in line to the Mont Claire title, he had been far down on her list of suspects, but because of his tragic past, his philanthropic reputation, and more compelling evidence leading her in other directions, she’d allowed her suspicions to wander away from him.
All this time. She’d been so close.
Months ago, a dead girl had been found in his garden, but he’d submitted to every form of investigation, and they’d found the immediate culprit in Cecelia Teague’s own household.
The body had been placed out of spite for the man pulling the strings of many a marionette.
Why hadn’t she pieced that together before?
The Lord Chancellor had been another angle of the Triad, and because of a recent death by natural causes, the conclave was in search of a third. They’d several candidates, many of them astonishing, and a few of them surprised her not at all.
When she’d asked the Lord Chancellor if Francesca’s father, the previous Earl of Mont Claire, had been a powerful part of the Crimson Council, he’d shocked her by laughing.
The Cavendishes were not killed for who they were in the council, he’d slurred up at her,they were killed for the secrets they couldn’t keep. Every person in that household had become a liability, and so they were dealt with.
Further interrogation had been interrupted by that skilled and… perverse agent of the Crown.
Blast that man, whoever he was.
What she didn’t know didn’t matter. Not tonight. She had a name. Luther Kenway. She was in his arms. The waltz would soon be at an end and she’d done nothing to further their acquaintance.
Speak, Francesca, speak!she bade herself.Say something witty, or snide, or flirty, at least.
