“Revenge,” he said, the word rol ing off his tongue so casual y she wondered if he was as dead to emotion as she was. He would have to be to live the life of crime he did. No remorse, no regret, no conscience. “The agency has meddled in my life one too many times.”
“I’ve no notion of what you are talking about.”
“No? A pity, that.” He stepped around her, leaning close as he moved by. “I will be available, should you figure it out.”
For a moment, she refused to turn and watch him depart. But it was only a moment, and then she studied him avidly. Starting with his height and breadth of shoulder, down his satin-clad form to his heeled shoes, she missed nothing. Dressed as he was, he could not fade into the crowd that milled in the gal ery. His pale yel ow coat and breeches stood apart from the darker colors of the other theater patrons. She fancied him as a god of the sun, a shining overpowering presence. His casual stride was unable to hide the danger inherent in him, a fact noted by the peers who quickly moved out of his way.
Now she understood his appeal.
Maria returned her attention to her footman. “Come along.”
“My lady,” he cried plaintively, stil ing her midstep. “Please forgive me.” The young man looked as if he might cast up his accounts. His dark hair fel over his brow, framing immature features. Were it not for the livery he wore, he would appear very much the boy he was.
“For what?” Her brows arched.
“I-I did not come to your aid.”
Her stance softened. Reaching out, she touched his elbow, a gesture that startled him. “I am not angry with you. You were afraid, an emotion with which I sympathize.”
“Truly?”
She sighed and squeezed his elbow gently before releasing him. “Truly.”
The grateful smile he gave her made her heart ache. Had she ever been so…open? She felt so disconnected from the world at times.
Revenge. That goal was all she had. She tasted it every morning for breakfast and rinsed her mouth out with it at night. The need for retribution was the force that pumped blood through her veins and fil ed her lungs with air.
And Christopher St. John could be the means by which she would acquire it.
A few moments ago, he had been a chore to complete as quickly as possible. Now the possibilities were beyond intriguing; they were seductive. It would take careful planning on her part to utilize them and St. John effectively, but she had no doubt she could manage it.
For the first time, in a very long time, she smiled.
Christopher whistled as he walked away, feeling the weight of Lady Winter’s stare fol owing after him. He had not anticipated actually speaking with her. He had merely hoped to see her up close and take note of how well she guarded herself. It was a wonderful turn of events that she had chosen that moment to leave her box. They’d not only met, but he had touched her, held her in his arms and smel ed the scent of her skin.
He was no longer dreading boredom in the bedroom, not after feeling the point of that hidden blade. But beyond that, he found that more than his carnal interest was piqued. She was younger than he had assumed, her skin beneath powder and patch unblemished by lines and her lovely dark eyes displaying traces of both wariness and curiosity. Lady Winter was not yet completely jaded. How was that possible, when she was widely considered to have kil ed at least two men?
He intended to find out. The agency wanted her more than they wanted him. That alone intrigued him no small amount.
As he exited the theater, Christopher noted the black lacquered carriage that bore the Winter crest. He paused beside it. Making a barely discernable gesture, he listened for the answering birdcal that told him his order was seen by at least one of his men stationed around the area.
The coach would be followed until he said otherwise. Wherever the fair lady went, he wanted to know about it.
“I shal be at the Harwick house party this weekend,” he told the driver, who stared back at him with wide eyes and rigid body. “Make certain her ladyship knows this.”
As the man nodded violently, Christopher smiled with deep-rooted satisfaction.
For the first time in a very long time, he had something to look forward to.
Chapter 2
“There is the possibility that she was sold into slavery.”
Maria paused her pacing before the fire to stare hard at her investigator and former paramour. Simon Quinn wore only a multicolored silk robe, his tanned throat and chest visible in the parted opening. His eyes, a startling blue, stood out in stark contrast to his dark skin and black hair. Irish coloring. The complete opposite of the golden St. John, and younger by several years, but extremely handsome in his own right.
Aside from his innate sexuality, Simon appeared innocuous enough. Only the intense way he studied his surroundings hinted at a livelihood fraught with danger. In the course of their association, he had broken nearly every law there was.
So had she.