Olivia and the Masked Duke Page 4

  “Pete—” Ben found himself looking at the lad’s retreating back.

  “Some horses were not meant to be tamed.”

  Turning at the calm words, Ben bowed. “Master Chen.”

  Chen returned the bow. A few inches shorter than Ben, the healer embodied strength and balanced power. This evening, his wiry form was clad in a plain grey tunic with matching trousers, but he often walked the streets dressed like an Englishman. His precisely clipped layers of black hair surrounded a noble face with piercing eyes.

  Chen was probably not much older than Ben’s own age of one-and-thirty, yet the master possessed an air of sagacity that made him seem beyond the reach of time and place. His accent had the polish of elocution lessons. Although Ben had heard whispers in the clinic about Master Chen’s origins—rumors circulated that Chen was everything from a retired sailor, exiled royalty, to a former monk—the shifu’s past remained shrouded in mystery.

  “The English have a saying about leading a horse to water,” Chen said.

  Ben bit back his frustration. “Yes, but Pete could do much better for himself.”

  “It is not your choice to make, Your Grace. I noticed your practice was disturbed this evening.”

  As usual, the master missed nothing.

  “Yes, shifu,” Ben admitted.

  “We will discuss over tea.”

  Chen led the way to his study, a room as simply furnished as the rest of the clinic. There was a desk, a pair of vertical calligraphy scrolls on the wall behind it, and a round rosewood table where tea awaited. The men took their seats on the round stools, and Ben picked up his cup, a lidded porcelain vessel with no handles. When he lifted the lid, a faint jasmine scent escaped, bringing back the moonlit garden and the yearning in Livy’s eyes.

  You are the only man I could ever love. If I can’t have you, then I won’t marry at all.

  His chest clenched. She was so young and innocent. He supposed it was normal for a girl her age to form a tendre, but she deserved far better than him. She needed a younger man and one who didn’t have a veritable army of skeletons rattling in the closet. As a man of experience twelve years her senior, Ben should have anticipated their kiss and prevented it.

  He definitely should not have responded to it.

  With twisting guilt, he recalled the crazed instant when he’d lost his mind. When she’d pressed herself against him, giving and soft, her sweetness flooding his senses. When he’d pulled her closer instead of pushing her away…

  I deserve to be drawn and quartered.

  His sins were already too many: he was a murderer, a recovering opium addict, and an all-around bastard. He would not add seducer of an innocent to the list.

  Furthermore, he would not betray his friendship with Livy’s father, the Duke of Strathaven. For years, Ben had kept company with selfish scoundrels like himself. Ben’s destructive tendencies had led to his estrangement from his remaining family member, his sister Beatrice. While he’d worked to make amends, she remained wary of him, and he did not blame her.

  Some sins were unforgivable.

  Strathaven was the rare male friend Ben had who he actually respected. The duke and, indeed, the whole Strathaven family, had offered Ben steadfast support. The thought of dishonoring their kindness churned Ben’s insides with self-loathing.

  And hurting Livy? His tenacious little queen who had reminded him how to smile, to laugh, to see the promise of life rather than its worst?

  I would rather tear my heart out than harm a single hair on her head, he thought starkly.

  “Your mind is a restless ocean this eve,” Chen said.

  Ben dragged his attention to Chen, who was drinking tea and watching him.

  “I cannot seem to control my thoughts,” Ben admitted.

  “The harder one tries, the less control one has.” Chen set his cup down on the table without making a sound. “The goal, therefore, is not to try.”

  This sort of paradoxical saying was typical fare for the shifu. At first, Ben had thought Chen’s principles were nonsensical and wholly un-English. Over time, however, he had begun to see the wisdom and usefulness of the other’s philosophy.

  Unlike the quacks Ben had previously consulted for his opium problem, Chen had not prescribed the taking of waters, bedrest, or bloodletting. He’d introduced Ben to a new set of skills. Ben had learned to sit and contemplate the workings of his mind, a surprisingly daunting task (who knew that being still could be so damned difficult?). He’d built his stamina and strength through physical and mental exercises. He’d even temporarily removed meat from his diet…which had led him to consider terminating the treatment.

  Yet his instincts had urged him to continue. Had known this was his last hope. Having hit despair’s rocky bottom, he’d had nothing left to lose. He had been a wreck, his drinking and opium use raging beyond his control. His entire existence had been focused not on chasing the pleasure of the drug but on avoiding its consuming anguish.

  More and more and more. For less, less, less.

  The more he took, the less of a man he became. Less of a human. Less of a soul.

  He had dabbled with opium for years. Arabella had introduced it to him…the way she had introduced many damaging things into their marriage. The familiar tide of regret and remorse rose.

  “Tossed on the waves once more.” Chen raised his brows. “What is this storm that has taken hold of your mind?”

  Ben set his cup down with a clink. By nature, he was a private man, disinclined to trust. Yet Chen had been present with him as he had sweated, hallucinated, raged, and wept through his withdrawal. Chen had also helped Ben to recognize that the demon of craving would always have a corner of his mind. It was ready to pounce at any opportunity. And nothing gave it more power than anger, shame, and secrets…things Ben possessed in spades.

  Expelling a breath, he said, “It is a girl.”

  “Ah,” Chen said.

  Ben heard a hint of disapproval in the other’s tone. During the recovery period, Chen recommended abstinence from what he called “vices” (and what Ben had thought of as a good time). On the list were activities such as sexual congress, drinking, and gambling. It was rumored that Chen, himself, was celibate from all three.

  Ben had managed to give up alcohol and gambling which, he had come to realize, had fueled his temper and recklessness. Without them, he was clearer of mind and more in control of himself and his actions. Giving up fucking, however? That was a different story.

  To his credit, he had abstained for several months. During that time, he had recognized how destructive his marital relations had been. His relationship with Arabella had brought out the worst in both of them.

  When he’d started bedding women again, he did it on his own terms. His rules were simple: no games (other than those mutually agreed upon), no manipulation, and no emotional attachments. He was always in control of his sexual encounters, and the women he tupped had matching needs. Cherise Foxton, for example, craved the feel of a man’s firm hand on her backside as much as Ben liked the feeling of dominance.

  His partners were, without exception, ladies of experience, and he made sure they got what they wanted out of the negotiated transaction: pleasure, money, or both. He thought he had found a way to appease his hot-blooded nature without anyone getting hurt...or hurt in a bad way, at any rate.

  Livy had destroyed his complacency.

  I knew then what I wanted from you. Her words tore through him like a bullet. I wanted you to touch me, kiss me. To be with me the way you were with her.

  He did not know which was worse: the fact that he had inadvertently exposed Livy to his degenerate behavior or that she had been intrigued by it. Recalling her wide-eyed interest sent a hot, unsavory thrill up his spine.

  Stop it, you bastard. You will not fantasize about debauching Livy. Ever.

  “Your lady must be quite fascinating.” Chen’s tone was dry. “She appears to hold your thoughts captive.”

  “She is no
t my lady,” Ben said curtly. “She is the daughter of a friend. I’ve mentioned her before. The girl I rescued from the pond.”

  As part of his healing, he had shared his history with the master. Not all the gruesome details, but the essential facts. He had told Chen that he’d caused the death of two people. Four, if one counted the fact that Arabella and his unborn child had died due to complications in her pregnancy. Yes, Chen knew about the damage Ben had done. He also knew about Livy, the one good thing in Ben’s life.

  “Ah, yes,” Chen said. “Her name is Olivia?”

  Ben rotated his cup in its saucer. “Yes.”

  “And why does she create ripples in your contemplation?”

  The master oft compared the still mind to a smooth, glass-like pond upon which all reflections could be seen. Ben did not know if he was capable of achieving such a state.

  “If you knew Livy, you would know the chit doesn’t create mere ripples,” he said with dark humor. “She throws herself into the pond wholeheartedly and splashes water everywhere.”

  Chen raised his brows. “Why is she splashing in your pond?”

  Ben expelled a breath. “She kissed me.”

  “The little girl?”

  “She is not little now. She is nineteen—still young,” Ben said hastily. “Far too young for me. Not that I would ever think of her in that fashion. She is like a sister to me.”

  “She is like a sister…or she is a sister to you?”

  At the mild inquiry, heat crawled up the back of Ben’s neck. Of course he thought of Livy as a sister; if he didn’t, he was a damned pervert. A lecher. He had known her since she was a child, for God’s sake. Through the years, she had turned to him as a trusted adult, and God knew she’d been the only one to do so. He had tried his best to guide her through painful formative experiences and to cheer her on during her triumphs.

  In return, she had been his stalwart little friend. The one person in his life who always thought the best of him. Who gave him hope that even a bastard like him had something worthy left to give.

  He told himself that the kiss had happened because he’d been taken off guard. By Livy’s new buxom figure and his own neglected needs. He hadn’t tupped a woman in weeks.

  “I would never hurt Livy,” he said flatly. “She is not for me.”

  “You rejected her advances?”

  “Of course I did. What kind of man do you take me for? No—don’t answer.” Ben dragged a hand through his hair. “You know me too well for your reply to be flattering.”

  “I am not in the business of flattering. I seek the truth.” Chen sipped his tea. “As should you.”

  “The truth is that kiss should have never happened. It was my fault that it did. Now I’ve hurt Livy and that…” Infuriates me. Makes me want to punch a wall—better yet, myself. Why am I cursed to hurt anyone who comes near me? “That is unacceptable.”

  “What do you intend to do about it?”

  What could he do? “I’ll stay away from her, I suppose.”

  The idea of avoiding Livy did not sit well with Ben. In the past few months, he had embarked on a secret mission with Chen. The worthwhile cause had taken much of his time, and he’d seen less of his plucky little queen. He’d missed her. Missed bantering with her, listening to her amusing anecdotes, or even just sitting with her in companionable silence. She was the dancing flame in the gloom of his existence.

  “It is for the best,” Chen said. “You have other matters that require your concentration.”

  The master’s somber tone indicated a shift in the conversation, one that Ben welcomed.

  “Do you have news?” Ben asked. “Concerning the body we found in the alleyway?”

  Months ago, Chen had spearheaded an ambitious project to keep the streets around the clinic free of opium. He’d done so to reduce temptation to his recovering patients. As the drug was readily available from druggists, tobacconists, and the like, the task had not been easy. Nevertheless, Chen had convinced local merchants that it was in the interest of neighborhood safety to limit sales of the drug.

  This victory, unfortunately, had brought other problems. With his efforts to limit opium’s damaging effects, Chen had made no friends in the dark underbelly of the trade. Men who profited from the drug—including opium den owners, moneylenders, thieves, and other cutthroats—viewed Chen as a threat. The healer’s clinic had been vandalized on several occasions, the front step littered with slaughtered rats.

  Authorities showed no interest in what they considered fighting among underclass factions. Nor did they take the concerns of a “Chinaman” seriously. Consequently, Chen had taken matters into his own hands. For he was a master of both healing and fighting; the physical exercises he taught his students could be used as powerful tools for defending oneself and defeating opponents.

  Chen had set up a night watch composed of volunteers. The initial aim of protecting the clinic and its patients had expanded to include the neighborhood at large. Ben had joined the group, wanting to give back. For the past few months, he’d spent three to four evenings a week keeping watch over the streets; like the other guards, he wore a mask to safeguard his identity.

  The work had given him an unexpected sense of purpose. For the first time in his life, he was channeling his energy toward something good. While redemption was too much to hope for, at least he was atoning for some of his sins. He and his fellow guards had protected their territory with success…with two notable exceptions.

  A month ago, Ben had come upon Baron Winford, an acquaintance. Since many gentlemen ventured into Whitechapel to sample its sordid pleasures, encountering the young rake had not been surprising. What had shocked Ben had been Winford’s state: the man had been viciously out of control. Winford had seized an innocent bystander, a hapless chestnut hawker, strangling the man half to death. When Ben had intervened, Winford had turned on him with eyes crazed and blinded by animal rage.

  It had taken Ben and another guard to subdue Winford. Suddenly, the baron had begun to convulse, falling to the ground. His eyes had rolled back in their sockets, saliva frothing, twin trails of blood dripping from his nostrils. Chen had been unable to save Winford, concluding that the man must have been afflicted with some rare illness.

  Then, five days ago, another toff had died in the same fashion.

  Ben had found this second man attacking a prostitute, the dilated pupils and raging expression eerily familiar. He’d just hauled the man off the woman when the bastard’s knees buckled, his body shaking with paroxysms as he hit the ground.

  This time, Chen had managed to revive the man. Searching through the fellow’s pockets, Ben had found a small snuffbox. Made of glazed crimson ceramic, the distinctive round container was trimmed and hinged with bronze. The letters “D” and “B” were painted in gilt on the lid…and it was identical to the one Ben had found on Winford. Inside the box were the same white powdery dregs.

  “Is this what made you ill?” Ben had demanded.

  The man had stared up at him with glassy eyes. “I had a wager with the Devil…”

  “Where did you get this drug?” Chen had asked.

  “All gone. But the Devil will be at London’s fanciest masquerade—”

  The man’s singsong voice had dissolved into a choking fit. Convulsions seized him, blood leaking from his nose. Despite Chen’s best efforts, the fellow had soon lain lifeless in the dirt.

  “His name was John Hagan,” Chen said now. “We located his family. His father is a well-to-do merchant and had no inkling of his son’s drug use.”

  “Have you spoken to Hagan’s friends?” Ben asked. “Perhaps they know more about his habits.”

  “Not yet. I have been focused on identifying the substance in the snuffboxes. The chemist I consulted thought it might be some highly potent derivative of opium. Something neither he nor I have seen before.” Grooves bracketed the healer’s mouth. “I’ve also been inquiring at shops to see if anyone has information on the snuffboxes themse
lves. No luck thus far.

  “This drug is dangerous, killing two men—that we know of—in a month alone. We must find the source, the Devil Hagan spoke of, and put a stop to the spread of this poison.”

  “I have an idea where to look,” Ben said.

  Chen lifted his brows.

  “Hagan mentioned that the Devil will be at London’s fanciest masquerade. The Earl and Countess of Edgecombe are holding a costume ball in ten days, touted as the fête of the Season.”

  “How does one secure an invitation to such an exalted event?” Chen asked.

  “As it happens,” Ben said resolutely, “I already have one.”

  5

  1843, London

  Livy is 14; Ben is 26

  “Are you in here, little queen?”

  Hearing Hadleigh’s deep voice, Livy quickly dashed away her tears.

  “In the nook,” she called back.

  The nook was a lush alcove in the orangery and her private hideaway. It was shielded by a wall of potted citrus on one side with a glass-framed view of the gardens on the other. Usually, she enjoyed the tranquility of the space, yet today she found no comfort in the solitude. She felt separated and cut off, a barrier between her and the outside world.

  A fresh wave of heat rose behind her eyes. Befuddled, she didn’t know what was wrong with her. She prided herself on being a level-headed girl. Since she had turned fourteen and started Mrs. Southbridge’s Finishing School for Young Ladies, however, her emotions had been as bumpy as a country road. Up and down, up and down they went, like a runaway carriage she could not control.

  She hated feeling powerless. Hated acting like a ninny.

  In fact, she felt so unlike herself today that she was even avoiding Hadleigh, one of her favorite people. In the two years since he’d saved her life, he had been a frequent visitor to the house. He and Papa had become friends and partners in various business ventures, and Mama invited him to all the family celebrations. He often came alone as his wife apparently kept a busy social calendar and was in much demand.