Her Quicksilver Lover: Even Gods Fall in Love, Book 6 Read online

  “You should not have let her see.” Like all immortals with differing forms, Lightfoot had the ability to appear normal. Generally he preferred not to, and kept his hooves and hairy legs. All immortals had clear blood, but they kept the illusion firmly planted in the deepest part of their brains that it was red, and so it appeared red to others.

  Anger simmered through Amidei, and he had to pause to calm himself. He had lived a long time, surely long enough to cure irrational bursts of temper. They had plagued his youth, and he had worked hard to overcome them, but faced with incidents like this, the effort was harder. “I told you to read her. I was asking for a second opinion, not a damned exposure of what and who we are!”

  He gulped his drink, using the burn of the brandy to calm his mind and force himself to the truth. Self-deceivers were the worst kind of fools. His interest in the new maid was not entirely for the benefit of his kind. “Tell me how she reacted to seeing your hooves.”

  Lightfoot gave a satisfied grin. “Total and utter shock. It gave me time to read her, as much as I could without causing her pain. She was locked up tight. Either someone has done it for her, or she has natural resistance to mind-to-mind communication.” Lightfoot shrugged. “I read enough to be sure of one thing. She is mortal, that’s all. She came for a reason I have yet to discern, but I sensed none of the immortal about her.”

  “Neither did I.” Joanna’s mortal vulnerability had affected Amidei far too much for his liking. He had gazed into the soul of this perfectly ordinary human and found more than he wanted to in the depths of those dark eyes. For too long he’d kept himself apart. That one moment of absolute contact had floored him.

  Try as he might, he had not been able to get the memories of the little maid out of his mind. Under those dowdy clothes and bottle-bottom spectacles, beauty lurked. His annoyance that he could not control himself so much as to take his eyes off one of his own employees added to his irritation with Lightfoot’s reckless act.

  “Your tactics were too drastic,” he said eventually. He put down his empty glass and allowed Lightfoot to refill it, watching the amber liquid rise. “Why did you do it?”

  Lightfoot’s hand didn’t tremble as he put the decanter back in the tantalus. “It was highly enjoyable to observe her reactions,” he said slowly, sitting down once more.

  “You did it for devilment, then.”

  Lightfoot shrugged. “You know what I am. Why should I not play a few pranks?”

  Amidei had accepted that part of the satyr’s nature when he’d taken him on. Lightfoot had proved too much for his previous master, even though that had been Eros, currently embodied in the person of the Duke of Kentmere. Lightfoot had become an excellent manager for the club, and in many ways acted as Amidei’s deputy, but his forays into mischief occasionally needed correction. That would not stop him, but it would make him think twice before doing something too drastic.

  Amidei drew a sharp breath and tried to forget how she felt in his arms. In her immediate distress she’d curled into him, and roused instincts he’d thought long dead. Protective instincts, to be precise. She was surprisingly small, but that was because of her ill-fitting clothes. That caraco jacket was much too large for her, but she’d stuffed an extra kerchief into the capacious bosom. He’d seen the extra folds peeking out. Her warmth had touched him and when she’d touched his bare skin, brushing her hand over his, he’d had to suppress his reactive flinch.

  Nobody had evoked that reaction in him, not for a long, long time. He must not allow his instincts to override his judgment now.

  “Was polishing the marble to the consistency of glass amusing too?”

  “No. Read me, lord. See if I did it.”

  A satyr would be capable of such dangerous jokes. Amidei set his jaw and met his factotum’s eyes, reading him as the man opened his mind fully.

  Lightfoot was telling the truth. Used to reading his employee, Amidei detected no false notes. No prank. “We’ll keep her under observation, but at least we know she isn’t an immortal sent to spy by the Titans. Of course, she could be a mortal sent to spy.”

  He got to his feet and went to the window, examining the small bureau that stood to one side of it. “The lock is intact.” The drawer was easily forced, and he kept it locked as a test. Nothing significant lay inside. There were no fresh scratches on the brass plate or the polished surround. Relief untensed his stiff shoulders, and he felt easier as he sat down. The truth was, he didn’t want the little maid to be guilty of prying for his enemies. He wanted to like her. Perhaps more.

  “We have another matter to deal with. Find out who was too eager with the polishing cloth.”

  The factotum nodded.

  “Get the landing and the stairs carpeted. Club colours.”

  “Immediately. An excellent notion, if I may say so.” Lightfoot didn’t mention the expense, nor would Amidei expect him to. Safety came first.

  “She spilled some cream on the way there and slipped on it on her way back.”

  The satyr shrugged. “She could have done it deliberately, in order to get in here. She wanted to see this room, there’s no doubt about that.”

  “And she’s curious about me. But she could have broken her neck with that stunt. Would she have taken that chance?”

  “Some people would.”

  Amidei took a cautious sip of his replenished drink. He needed to think. “We’re agreed that she is not an immortal.”

  “Unless she’s a very clever immortal,” Lightfoot pointed out.

  “No.” Only a fraction of doubt remained about that possibility. Amidei was too wise to assume he knew everything. “Nothing in her mind says ‘immortal’ to me, none of the signs are there. I will pursue other possibilities first.” He would love her not to have any ulterior motive. He wanted—he wasn’t quite sure yet.

  He was lying to himself. He knew exactly what he wanted, and it did not involve clothes.

  Lightfoot shifted. “Before you allow your basic urges to drive all your decisions, we need to discover who she is and what she wants with you.”

  Typical that Lightfoot had noticed Amidei’s burgeoning desire for the woman. “I want to know quickly. I need to know if I have to protect her or—something else.” Oppose her, ensure she didn’t discover what she was looking for. He could think of many reasons she might want information, but he wanted to know for sure. With her mind as protected as it was, he could not discover it that way.

  “I could use my attraction to her.” He knew better than to deny his desire, now that Lightfoot had detected it. “Seduce her.”

  Lightfoot grinned and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “I’m not sure who would be seducing whom. She likes you, you know.”

  And he liked her. If he did not regain his common sense soon, he’d lose all sense of danger. He was a god, after all, able to combat everything thrown at him so far.

  “You’re a wicked old satyr,” Amidei growled at him, turning back toward the window.

  “I am indeed,” said the man smoothly. “I take it we’re done here?” He heaved himself to his feet. “Why you insist on employing mortals I will never know.”

  Amidei sighed and cast a glare over his shoulder at his annoyingly perceptive factotum. “Mortals are sometimes sensitive. Some can detect the presence of others. Besides, it makes for an interesting mix.”

  Usually, that was. Amidei preferred to keep his life interesting. He added, “And this time, I will not make an exclusively immortal establishment.” He paused, thinking back thirty years to the blackest, most shocking moment of his long life. “Gather a group of immortals together and they are a natural target. Blend in mortals, and they provide a shield. If we ever have to announce our existence, we want them to join with us, not against us. I will never allow immortals to isolate and destroy us again.”

  The party that had started so well had killed his contemporaries. He had been instrumental in arranging the gathering of the immortals. Encouraged by the Duke of
Boscobel, he’d found an old hall in the grounds of the Boscobel house. He’d been cheated and fooled and it had resulted in the deaths of the people whom he held most dear. Boscobel had blown up the hall and almost everyone inside had perished.

  Even now, thirty years later, he couldn’t think about that night without grief pouring through him in uncontrollable waves, together with fury.

  He would not have that happen again, not while he was alive to prevent it. Even now, when he was working to rebuild what they had once taken for granted, the grief would sometimes hit him in the middle of the day, when he was doing something else, and a little moment, even something as small as a gesture, reminded him of his friends and family. One of the dead had been his father, the man who had sired the body he now occupied.

  That worked. Now his desire for the woman subsided, and his mind cleared. If he had to remind himself of that day every time he was in her presence, he would, even if it killed him.

  A small sacrifice compared to what he had already lost.

  Chapter Four

  “Hairy legs and cloven feet?” With both bushy brows raised, Charles Spencer grinned. “Girl, I asked you for the truth, not some fairy tale.”

  “It wasn’t a fairy tale!” Indignantly, Joanna pushed to her feet, but her father waved her down again when she stumbled.

  She sank into the deep wing-chair before the paltry fire. Joanna unfastened the white housemaid’s cap and took it off, laying it on her lap when she’d rather have given it to the flames. She hated that thing, so heavily starched with not a scrap of lace or ribbon, but it served to hide her hair. While she was not possessed of a particularly unusual colour, her mane was hard to tame, and if anyone had seen it—and her efforts to control the thick mass—they might have remembered her.

  She couldn’t rely on her spectacles to hide her any longer. Both Lightfoot and the comte had seen her without them. Neither had shown a scrap of recognition, so that was a good thing. But then, why would they? She hardly moved in their circles, either below stairs or in society. Using her real name had not been a risk, either. Her name was common enough.

  With swift, angry motions, she pulled out the hairpins. All day they had poked and prodded every time she moved, and a few had embedded themselves into her scalp. Her hair flowed down, untamed and uncontrolled, tangling into knots. It was the bane of her life.

  Waiting for her father to speak again, because she knew he would, she went over that astonishing sight once more. “Cloven hooves,” she said. “I swear he had them.”

  “You are sure you saw them?”

  “Yes.”

  Her father shifted in his chair. His was a duplicate of the one she sat in, except it was upholstered in an entirely different fabric, a worn dark green where hers was faded deep red. “Some unfortunates are born with unusual characteristics. We could get a story from that. I will look around me for more examples. Did you learn anything else? Did they leave you alone in his drawing room?”

  Before she could think properly, Joanna nodded.

  “Your foot does not seem too badly hurt.” To do him justice, her father had examined her ankle before he had begun questioning her. He’d even made tea. The brown teapot sat on its trivet in the hearth, waiting for the replenishment of their tea dishes. Joanna had finished hers ten minutes ago, but her father did not seem to notice.

  Her esteemed parent continued to speak. “Did you investigate the room? He took you to his private drawing room, you say? What did you see?”

  Joanna spread her hands. “Nothing of note. It was just a drawing room. Gracious and well furnished, as you’d expect of a peer, but nothing out of the ordinary. If he has papers or information, then he keeps them elsewhere. He receives visitors in that room, so perhaps that is the reason.” Although the locked desk by the window said otherwise. Joanna would not mention it.

  “I need more,” he said flatly. “Mr. Gough wants the journal to become the first journal people turn to in the morning, and when they enter a coffeehouse. He says if we can produce some useful information about Lord d’Argento, he’ll increase our budget.”

  She heaved a sigh. “I know. But these things take time. I’m in the main rooms now, serving the customers, so I’ll hear a lot more.”

  This was the first time her father had found a way to infiltrate the clubs. Most were male bastions, and employed mainly male servants as a consequence. They ran the journal on a tiny budget, so paying for gossip would be beyond them. They were not circumstanced to pay the huge vails most of the staff at the clubs in St. James demanded. Although, if their new patron actually lived up to his promises, they would. Already they lived in this house on a peppercorn rent and had enough to buy the paper and ink they needed, even a boy to help with the printing and a few to distribute, but the tight-fisted Gough would give no more until he got results. At least, that was what her father said. Since he met Mr. Gough in the coffeehouse, Joanna had not yet met him.

  “That as well, but I’ve always suspected more goings-on at the club than they care to admit. A club for both sexes is scandalous enough, but my word, if we can discover gossip about the owners, we’ll increase the circulation hugely.”

  “I heard that Lady Davenport has seduced Lord Stephens,” she said brightly.

  “The peers’ bishop?” The nickname had been bestowed on the baron a long time ago, gained by the very public piety of the man. Her father grinned broadly. “We can use that, for sure. I shall make enquiries at the coffeehouse tomorrow. If we can publish the story first, we can guarantee selling a few dozen extra copies of the Argus.” At her quizzical look, he lifted a bushy brow. “Our new patron asked for a change of name. I like it. Don’t you?”

  A hundred-eyed god. She supposed it had its points. “It’s a good name.” She had liked the London Artificer, but the Argus would serve.

  He clapped his hands, and then reached into his pocket and brought out his snuffbox. “This calls for a celebration.” He smiled in a benign manner. “Add a few snippets about Lord d’Argento and we will have him.”

  “I have discovered nothing yet,” she protested.

  Why she felt so…protective towards Lord d’Argento, she had no idea. Except he’d been kind to her today. That had been the first significant time she’d spent with him and the first time he had noticed her. “I cannot go back.” Although the notion of never seeing Lord d’Argento again set up an ache she should definitely not be experiencing, Joanna would cope with that. Goodness knew she’d managed worse.

  Thanks to the generosity of the new patron, she and her father occupied a narrow house in Fore Street. They had known far worse. That time when they had shivered through a winter in a room that was little better than sleeping in the street, for instance. And in Vinegar Yard too, miles from anywhere, infested by every creature in London, especially the flies that hovered above the vats of spoiled wine that gave the place its name.

  She couldn’t go back there either. Rather than that, she’d walk into a Covent Garden brothel and offer her services. Or become a domestic servant in truth. Heaven knew she had plenty of experience at the work.

  “And why can you not go back?” her father demanded. At last, he picked up the teapot and poured for them both while he was speaking. “You say the comte took a fancy to you. Did he touch you in a way you didn’t like?”

  Joanna snorted. “You mean as if he wanted me? No, Papa, he did not. He attended to my ankle, only moved my skirts as far as he needed to, then left me to rest.” She ignored the fact that his touch had made her shiver, that she’d actually wanted him to touch her. That was nobody’s business but her own. And that he’d sent her home in a sedan chair.

  “Well then, perhaps he will regard you as a pet or some kind of special case.”

  She shrugged, ignoring how appealing that sounded. “No.” Picking up her tea, she noted that her hands were not entirely steady. “I need to hover and be unnoticed. At least I didn’t take a tumble in the ladies’ drawing room. If I go back, I’ll b
e the talk of the kitchen.”

  “Ach!” The sound of frustration almost made Joanna smile, but she remained straight-faced and silent. Her father spoke again. “That doesn’t matter. Perhaps you can make some particular friends. You know how to do this, girl.”

  Yes, she did. Make friends with the staff, particularly the ones who would overhear juicy snippets of information. “Parliament opens next month. Perhaps I should take a position there.”

  “As what? A gentleman usher?” Her father grunted. “Besides, they know us there. We’d never get past the initial scrutiny. No, keep going to the club. Listen for special pieces of information and talk to the servants. These places give us new opportunities. Gentlemen’s clubs, exclusive to the upper crust, where the cream of the gossip is exchanged. We can cut out all the nonsense, all the small stuff, and go straight to the top.”

  “How long do I do this?”

  “Keep going.” He shrugged, his generous shoulders shifting against the coarse but serviceable fabric of his tobacco-brown coat. “You’re a good girl, Joanna. You know I do not expect you to imperil yourself. You’re a good and sympathetic listener. You’ll find something, I have the utmost faith in you.”

  She was glad that somebody did. Today she’d had a glimpse of what she could have had. If her mother had married a man less indigent, if she had not forced him to retire from his position as a Fellow at Cambridge, they might be living in a snug little house in a beautiful city. Instead, her father had put his considerable talents to other uses, and they now scraped a living in London, with no hope of anything better. They needed the gossip to leaven the commentaries her father wrote, learned pieces about political affairs and economic dealings. He haunted the coffeehouses while she scrabbled about gathering the society chat.

  Sometimes she enjoyed her work. Very few women had the opportunity to experience some of the things she’d seen and done. Under the guise of “Peter Pepper”, she even wrote articles for the Argus. Most people who bought the paper imagined a large staff of journalists, but in truth there were only two, and they were both in this room.