Helena just squeezed Cynthia’s arm in response before letting go. Cynthia stupidly missed the warmth of her fingers.
‘Mind yourself. We’re being watched.’ Helena tipped her chin to a line of curiously positioned mirrors set high along the western wall of the gaming room. They reflected the light of the chandeliers but otherwise served no purpose. They sat just below the ceiling and extended halfway down the wall. One would need to be thirty feet tall to see their reflection. Cynthia said as much to Helena as they followed their burly escort, winding carefully around tables full of boisterous members of the peerage in various stages of intoxication.
‘They aren’t mirrors. It’s a special window that allows the person on the other side to see out, while we only see our reflections.’
Cynthia narrowed her gaze on the seemingly innocent mirrors. ‘How could you possibly know that?’
Helena’s smug smile brought a flash of mischief to her eyes. ‘When your uncle is the Superintendent of Scotland Yard, you learn many things, Lady Burrows.’
She missed her name on Helena’s lips. ‘I think we’re past such formal titles. When I walk into a gaming hell with someone, they’ve earned the right to call me Cynthia.’
A lord well into his cups pulled away from the table and caught Cynthia’s eye; he licked his lips and lurched forward. Alarm winged through her but before she could shift out of his path, Helena moved like mist, stepping in front of her. The man came nose to nose with the red-headed woman. She leaned close to him. A crimson curl had broken free of her twist, and Cynthia was captivated when it brushed against Helena’s smooth cheek. Her irises glowed as she whispered something in the drunk man’s ear. His eyes widened. He stumbled back, sitting hard on the chair he had recently vacated, his mouth moving much like a carp gasping for air.
Helena turned back to Cynthia, her expression fierce and frightening.
Cynthia would have given all her pin money to know exactly what Helena said to make his face turn so ghastly pale. She swallowed, suddenly desperate for water as something strange stirred in her belly.
Helena took her hand and pulled her close to her side.
‘What did you say to him?’ Cynthia glanced back at the man before Helena tugged her along. Whatever message she delivered had an extraordinary effect on the poor lord. His hand shook as he reached for the dice.
‘Not nearly as much as I wanted.’ Helena refused to meet her gaze. She quickened her steps, her grip unrelenting as Cynthia’s slippers skittered over the polished floor.
Their escort continued his quick gait to the corner where a nearly hidden corridor led them up several flights of narrow steps to the second floor. Turning right along yet another narrow hall, he paused at a solid oak door and knocked.
‘Enter,’ a low, rough voice called.
The man pushed open the door and stepped back.
Cynthia wasn’t sure what to expect, but it wasn’t a room as neat and clean as a solicitor’s office.
The walls were dark panelled wood, relieved only by a wall of windows. A large mahogany desk dominated the space directly in front of the windows. The glass gave a clear view of the tables below. Helena had been right. These were the mirrors they had seen from the gaming floor. The carpet covering the wood floor was deep green, and gas lamps lit the space, creating a warm glow.
When Helena would have stepped across the threshold, Cynthia tightened her grip and halted her. Whoever this Sinclair fellow was, if he was as powerful and dangerous as Superintendent MacDougal said, it was imperative she appeared equally powerful and dangerous. Being tugged into his office would hardly lend dignity to the image she must create.
I am the Marchioness of Kentmore. I do not shudder in the face of danger.
She squared her shoulders, let go of Helena’s hand and strode into the lion’s den with her head held high and her legs only quivering a little beneath her skirts.
‘Mr Sinclair. I believe you were expecting me.’ She used her most imperial tone, the one she reserved for desecrating debutantes who dared speak ill of her family. Tightening her spine, she approached the beautifully carved mahogany desk behind which Damien Sinclair lounged.
If she ever wondered what the Devil might look like, she no longer needed to guess. He could very well have been carved from obsidian, so hard was his expression. But harsh features didn’t detract from his masculine beauty. A menacing sort of charm flashed in eyes so dark, she couldn’t determine if they were blue or brown. While Cynthia appreciated the aesthetically pleasing high cheekbones, powerful jaw, rakish hair, and sinister smirk, she felt nothing. No hint of attraction, no whisp of need, no stirring low in her belly. This is why she questioned her ability to feel desire. If any man could inspire that elusive emotion, it would be this dangerous creature so clearly comfortable with all manner of wickedness. But nothing shifted within her until she glanced back and caught Helena’s gaze. There it was. That long, liquid pull.
Her desire was not dead. It had lain dormant until a woman with hair like fire and eyes like a stormy sea brought it to life within Cynthia.
Keep your focus on the deadly man behind the desk and stop mooning over the dashing witch behind your back, silly ninny!
Cynthia turned back to Sinclair as he rose to a dizzying height. She was forced to tip her chin up to maintain eye contact. He dipped his head in mocking imitation of a respectful bow. ‘I weren’t expecting you to bring a… friend.’ His gaze flicked over her shoulder to Helena. Without the door to muffle its tone, his voice was even rougher, tinged with the accent of the rookery and resonant in the quiet room.
‘This is my—’ Oh dear. How did she describe what Helena was to her? Friend wasn’t right. Companion was hardly suitable. Infuriating witch determined to unsettle every aspect of Cynthia’s carefully balanced life was far closer to the truth, but hardly something she could admit to the Devil. Or Helena. Or herself, for that matter.
‘I am here to ensure Lady Burrows’ safety.’ Helena’s footsteps echoed loudly in the quiet room as she took her place next to Cynthia.
Damien Sinclair lifted a black eyebrow, the corner of his mouth curling in an expression far too predatory to be considered a smile. ‘Really? And ’ow might you propose to accomplish such a task?’
‘With relish, Mr Sinclair.’ Helena’s voice was cool water rushing over granite stones.
Sinclair’s mirthless laughter conveyed insulting disbelief.
