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and tucked her daughter in securely.
    It was hard to imagine this woman had once been known for her ability to drive a man mad with her clever use of a riding crop, her tongue, or even just her smile.
    Harder to imagine she was a demoness.
    She crept backward, carrying her candle, and only when she had retreated past the bed did she turn to him. Raw hope blazed in her large blue eyes. “Can you do anything, do you think?”
    “Come. We need to go somewhere private. Quiet. Where we can speak of what is wrong, what could be done … and what you’ve already done.”
    Sarah was safe again. Safe for a few days. And now Vivienne had to pay the price for this temporary miracle. That price was striding behind her into her drawing room, exuding all the masculine smells she knew so well. Sandalwood soap that had been lathered over his bare skin, witch hazel slapped to his cheeks after a shave, the polish rubbed into his leather boots, the rich earthy scent of his sweat.
    She remembered his mad claim that he was a vampire. But he smelled like a live, healthy, carnal man.
    Vivienne moved shakily to the brandy decanter. She wanted to ask him about Sarah, but she had to seduce him first—though all she yearned to do was fall onto the rug in front of her, shut her eyes, and sleep.
    “Would you care for a drink?” she asked, keeping her tone throaty and sultry.
    A chair creaked slightly as Heath settled into it. He stretched his endless legs out straight before him. His friend Julian had left the house. “Don’t trouble yourself, love. Warmed brandy and fluttering lashes won’t work. I’ve resisted some of the best.”
    There was
no one
better than she was. “Perhaps it is a thank-you for the rescue on Derwent Lane. Perhaps I want nothing more than to serve you, please you in this simple way.”
    “You’ve a pretty voice and you are a delectable woman, Miss Dare. But I don’t believe you want to thank me for that.”
    Miss Dare. He’d used her real name. How had he known?
    “I know you were with my brother. And now he’s missing.”
    Before, when he’d demanded to know about his brother, he had grasped her arms hard and she’d expected violence. Even that had not been as terrifying as the way he kept his voice restrained now—like thunder before a storm that could fell a mountainside.
    “I don’t know
anything
about your brother,” she repeated on a frustrated rush of breath.
    “Indeed. Lord Matlock. Did you sleep with him?”
    She jerked and brandy splashed to the inlaid table. How had he known about Matlock? “Yes,” she answered, feigning composure. “Though that is none of your business.”
    He fired four more names at her suddenly, watching her with a steady, penetrating, unblinking gaze.
Lord Wentworth. Cavendish. Beltane. Avers
.
    She had retreated behind the table, her gloved hands clutching the decanter, and his gaze settled on her grip. He must know she was holding it like a weapon.
    “Were they your protectors?”
    “No,” she whispered. Then she saw a way out. “Yes. And they were all peers—so it is obvious I never bedded your brother.”
    “The pattern of the deaths has intrigued me. You sleep witha man for a month. A fortnight later, on a full moon, he dies of an attack of the heart. Matlock died in a boxing ring. Wentworth in a gaming hell. The third, Cavendish, in a brothel.” He counted on his long, elegant fingers. “Fourth during a horse race. Fifth in his wife’s bed.” Even in the dark, his eyes gleamed. Two silver disks, glittering like a predator’s eyes.
    The last one made her blush. She had normally taken unmarried protectors. But with the last man, she’d had no choice. No matter how much she had protested, Mrs. Holt had been unmoved. “I have done nothing,” she said. “And I’ve hurt no one.” But was that entirely true?
    “So you expect me to believe it’s a coincidence that five of your lovers are dead?”
    “They all died naturally. Their hearts gave out. Men do