The Midnight Man. Charlotte Mede

      

The Midnight Man

      The Midnight Man

      CHARLOTTE MEDE

      KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

       http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

      It is not the strongest of the species that survives, nor the most intelligent, but the one most responsive to change.

      —Charles Darwin

      Contents

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      Chapter 10

      Chapter 11

      Chapter 12

      Chapter 13

      Chapter 14

      Chapter 15

      Chapter 16

      Chapter 17

      Chapter 18

      Chapter 19

      Chapter 20

      Chapter 21

      Chapter 22

      Chapter 23

      Chapter 1

      June 1860

      Oblivion is what she craved.

      Strands of blue smoke snaked along the low ceiling. The room was hushed, its plush red upholstery absorbing sounds of both pleasure and pain. It was a place people came to forget, to slay their demons by slaking their desires.

      Helena Hartford sank deeper into her chaise, unable to resist the images that bled before her eyes. It was always like this. Her work could make her forget anything, even the tightness in her lungs and the fear gnawing at her bones.

      Her mind was already elsewhere and her fingers itched for her palette and brush, the crimson, blue, and flesh tones of the room fusing in a cacophony of color. That man in the corner. She watched as his high, starched cravat was loosened by the nimble fingers of the half-naked young woman kneeling by his side. His eyes were closed as he sucked hungrily on the opium pipe between his lips. It was an Hieronymus Bosch canvas come to life.

      Nearly three hundred years ago, the Dutch painter had captured all too well the symbols and iconography of sin and human failings. She noted several men, lounging next to the broad stairway, eager to make their ascent to the private rooms on the second floor.

      Helena’s eyes narrowed at the assembly of guests, all of them scions of England’s noblest and wealthiest families who in the dark pursued pastimes that wouldn’t hold up to the bright light of day. The world could be an infinitely forgiving place—if you were male. And a friend of the noble Duke of Hartford who now lay deep in a cold grave.

      Helena’s smile was cynical as she focused on the small blue pipe delicately balanced on the side table so that its contents would not drop out. When she had first arrived a few minutes past midnight, there were several raised eyebrows, an unusual reaction in a venue renowned for its discretion. Helena Hartford, the widow of the old Duke of Hartford, was known for her flaunting of society’s strictures. But this…

      She took hold of the pipe with surprisingly steady hands. The warm smoke filled her lungs, its sweetness a new sensation. Another inhalation, then another. To forget, to obliterate the fear, to fall into the comfort of nothingness.

      They would never dare to look for her here. She knew she was safe for the moment because for anyone to divulge her whereabouts would be to disclose secrets so ugly that even society could no longer look away.

      She sank into the cushions of the alcove just as her limbs began to relax, the room coalescing into a swirl of patterns on a canvas. Time was suspended in a blanket of pure physical sensation.

      The voices beyond receded like a bad dream. With vision simultaneously sharp and blurred, she examined the pipe with preternatural concentration. The contours were smooth beneath her fingers, etched with a stream winding into an endless horizon, a perfect, perspectiveless landscape. She placed it carefully on the side table before welcoming the soft red cushions that enfolded her in their embrace. She was alone in her private cocoon. Images, elusive as butterflies, danced behind her eyes, their scorching yellows and virulent blues carrying her away to a place where she was finally free. No father, no husband, no fears.

      She blinked slowly, then focused.

      The hand on her wrist was beautiful, large and strong, and male. A sinewed forearm, the shirt cuffs turned back, led to shoulders that blocked her view of the salon. Broad shoulders, but sculpted beneath the fine linen shirt, no cravat, and a waistcoat with the top two buttons undone. A torso she suddenly ached to draw.

      She couldn’t see his face against the dim light of the chandelier. He was sitting on the chaise, leaning over her, saying something. The deep voice was rough velvet.

      “I’ve seen your work.”

      She pushed away the haze clouding her thoughts, unable or unwilling to concentrate as a ribbon of fear unfurled deep in her chest. “You have.” It was more of a statement than a question. Her artist’s eye traced his body, a sculpture that was large-boned, long-limbed, but elegantly made. Like nothing she had ever seen in real life. More like a hallucination or a bronze at the Victoria and Albert Museum.

      “It’s magnificent.”

      He was so close that she could detect his scent, the ocean, sun, and something else. Languorousness seeping into her bones, her words were slow to come. “I must have misunderstood.” She heard herself laugh, the sound throaty and low. “Most of the critics, not to mention the friends of my late and beloved husband, aren’t that generous in their praise.”

      “You’re bitter.”

      The blue-gray smoke combined in the air between them. “How discerning of you, sir. Whoever you are.” The metallic taste in her mouth stung as a flare of panic flickered in her chest.

      She made to sit up and couldn’t. Although he wasn’t touching her, she instantly felt caged by his body limned in the shadows of the alcove. Closing her eyes, she tried to shut him out, following the shapes and patterns her imagination conjured. A stream distorted by sunlight. A face shattered into geometric planes. A rough-hewn mountain range. She was only vaguely conscious now of the low and constant sounds of strangers humming in the background.

      Then the hand skated down her arm and a jolt of awareness pulled her back. And all she could do was focus on his touch, as compelling as the opium in her bloodstream, the calloused fingers moving slowly over the sensitive skin of her wrist before he pressed one finger into her bare palm. A shiver traveled from the top of her spine to the tip of her womb.

      She opened her eyes. What if he is one of them? The thought crawled out the thick morass that was her reality. She wanted to move, to run, but she couldn’t, held down by a force of nature invading her senses. The urge, out of nowhere, was contradictory and overwhelming: to reach up and loop her arms around his neck, then trace the hard muscles and warm skin of this man’s body. First to feel and then to draw him.

      “What’s in that head of yours, Helena? In your mind’s eye?” The low gravel voice mesmerized and she’d barely registered that he knew her name. His hard fingers traced a sensual pattern on her palm, the fine veins of her wrist.

      From under heavy lids, she strained to discern his features. He was so close she could track the cadence of his