The Devil May Care (Brotherhood of Sinners #1) by Lara Archer Read Free Book Online Page B

brain fogged, as though he’d been drinking. Damn and blast. Where they were going, he’d need his wits sharp; he’d need total control of himself, and of her. Or they’d both end up dead.
    This mission was bad enough to begin with. This morning, he’d have sworn nothing could possibly make the situation they found themselves in any worse.
    Now it was worse.
    Now it felt like outright catastrophe.
     

 
     
    Chapter Four
     
     
    Given all the things conspiring to kill her, Rachel wasn’t sure she’d survive the night.
    Already, she’d spent a half-hour with shears snicking near her flesh while Jenny cut her hair to match Sarah’s. Weighty hanks slid down her back, years of growth hitting the floor like so much scythed wheat. The marquess stood by the entire time, implacable as an executioner, swirling blood-red wine in a crystal glass.
    Now they sat in his carriage, rattling headlong through dark, narrow streets in a part of London famed for gruesome murders. Lady Barham, he’d explained, enjoyed a bit of slumming in her glittering life.
    The air inside the vehicle was distressingly close, concentrating the neighborhood reek of boiled cabbage and a fetid hint of raw sewage that, whatever its exact source, was nowhere near far enough away. And outside, a world of threatening shadows raced by, punctuated by shouts and cries that sounded as much animal as human. The wheels bumped and lurched alarming, careening, perhaps, over carelessly discarded corpses. Of course, what awaited them at their destination was even more frightening: at Lady Barham’s, she’d either prove herself in the role of Salomé Mirabeau or be exposed as a fraud.
    Sebastian—so Sarah had called him now, so she wouldn’t slip up in company—lounged in his seat at his usual princely ease. He was handsomely garbed in cream breeches and a velvet coat dark as midnight, with a gold-headed walking stick held loosely in one hand. His gaze skimmed over her, critical, detached, the one readable emotion a vague amusement at her discomposure.
    Still, that gaze felt like a touch. Her heart hammered harder.
    She was dressed as Salomé, jewels at her throat, an ivory fan at her wrist, and a soft green silk gown cut shockingly low at her bosom. Simultaneously ornate and laid bare. Artfully wild ringlets spun free around her face, with two tortoiseshell combs sufficient to hold up what remained of the length. The skirts of her gown skimmed so close, the least motion displayed the outlines of her hips and belly and thighs.
    Winter air pricked everywhere at her flesh. Sarah, apparently, had never bothered with cloaks—too much wrinkling of her silks.
    “All right, my dear?” asked Sebastian, the icy glitter of his eyes showing he knew she wasn’t.
    “Excellent well, thank you,” she answered, in the French accent Sarah used as Salomé. Rachel flicked open her fan, gave it Salomé’s insouciant wave. She mimed the wide, inviting smile he’d made her practice ad nauseum .
    His lips curved upwards very slightly, but his eyes remained arctic. “Now tell me about Lord Cardross.”
    She dropped the smile. Would he never leave off quizzing her?
    “Lord Cardross,” she answered, snapping her fan shut against her knee. “Given name Eustace Brigham. Thirty-six years of age. Taller than me by a hand. Broad pug nose, brown hair, small yellowed teeth, half-inch crescent scar under the left eye. Wealthy. Much enamored of Salomé. Runs to fat, with an unfortunate taste for brightly-striped waistcoats.”
    “His drink of choice?”
    “Scotch whisky, if a good make can be had. If not, a superior vintage of burgundy.”
    “And where did you first meet him?”
    “Two years this past October, at Lord Shelbourne’s very private masquerade. Cardross came costumed as a goat. With full anatomical enhancements.”
    “Correct.” Sebastian let out a short breath, but a hardening of his mouth made it seem her answers angered him somehow. He’d been like this for the