Byrne, a man so mysterious not even the scandal sheet had much to report on him other than that he was a wealthy industrialist who stood on the very edge of respectable society. His relentless rise to power and influence in the ton had been remarked on frequently, and his background which was shrouded in uncertainty was also whispered about.
Is he your slice of wickedness, Ophelia?
The slight shift of the man’s head, a cant in her direction implied he knew they were no longer alone. Maryann stepped back from the room, closing the door. Yet her feet did not move, and she admitted it was with worry for her friend. Anything to do with a man of Devlin Byrne’s ill-shrouded reputation could not be good.
She bit into her lower lip, torn between wanting to protect her friend and also celebrating whatever wickedness she was enjoying for herself. Ophelia had recently turned four and twenty, the oldest amongst their sinful wallflowers group, and for the last year or more there had lingered a shadow of pain and doubt in her eyes, something that bespoke of a private agony she had not shared with her friends.
Accepting this must be what her friend wanted, she slowly released the knob.
“Maryann?”
That shocked tone arrested her retreat and had her sharply turning around. It was Crispin.
“What are you doing here?”
She could think of no possible reply.
Her brother wiped his hand over his face slowly, shook his head, and stared at her unblinking.
“How did you recognize me?”
“Is that what you are concerned about?”
“Yes,” she said mildly.
“You are my sister—how could I not recognize you?” he said furiously.
Crispin grabbed her hand and drew her away with rapid strides. Not wanting to cause a scene, Maryann followed him out the side doors and into the garden. They passed a few couples whose actions caused her to blush, to a small private alcove.
“How are you here?” he demanded. “I…I just cannot credit it.”
“I am here with Lord Rothbury,” she said honestly.
Her brother’s mouth hung open. “You have irrevocably lost all sense of yourself. I cannot even think of the scandal. That bloody bounder—”
“Do not be ridiculous, Crispin,” she snapped, tugging her arm from his clasp. “What scandal? I am in disguise. There is no need to worry about it.”
“You reckless hoyden with no sense of—”
The soft sound of footfall crunching on leaves sounded, and they looked up to see the marquess, standing in the shadow of the gardens. He had been deliberate in alerting them to his presence.
She moved toward him, only to falter upon realizing he stared past her.
“What is it that you wear?” Nicolas murmured, his tone a purr of lethal menace.
Maryann glanced back at her brother, her gaze falling on his cravat pin.
“Oh,” she said, “it is a cravat pin from our grandmother. I have the brooch to match it. They were made by a most famous London jeweler in the shape of a…”
As her heartbeat slammed deafeningly in her ears, she faltered into complete stillness. They had been done in the shape of the dahlia flower, and in the center of each jewelry was a black onyx stone.
The black Dahlia. She shook her head sharply, a place in her shattering. “Crispin?” she asked with a voice that shook.
He stumbled back and she understood; the sheer menace in Nicolas’s expression was frightening.
“Are you familiar with a certain inn at Wiltshire ten years ago, and a girl who drowned?”
Her brother paled, and Maryann pressed a hand over her mouth. She whirled to face Nicolas. “There must be an explanation,” she began. “Please—”
Crispin rushed past them, all but running back inside the gambling den. Nicolas whirled to follow, but she grabbed the sleeves of his jacket. “Nicolas, please, let me talk to him first.”
His eyes were so chilled, she felt frightened.
“No.”
“The cravat pin is not proof of his guilt!”
“Then I will ascertain it, tonight. Because I must know what it will mean for us.”
“What it will mean for you?” she demanded shakily. “It does not have to mean anything.”
His expression closed, and he peered down at her as if she were the oddest creature. She recalled then his certainty they would be enemies should her brother prove to be the black Dahlia.
“Nicolas…I…”
With an air of dark resolution about him, he pulled away from her, and she stood there, her heart a beating mess, before springing into motion and rushing after him.
Chapter Twenty-One
She rushed through the throng in time to see Nicolas drag her brother by the back of his