“This is how gentlemen seal bargains,” Leo said.

Wansford shook his hand, but released it quickly. “You will not mention this to Anne?”

“Of course I’ll tell her about it.” Leo stood. “I don’t keep secrets from her.” As he said this, the irony of his words congealed in his chest.

The baron looked dubious, yet he saw that Leo wasn’t to be dissuaded. He rose from his chair. “I thank you.” He edged toward the door.

“Anne can join us again. You’ll stay for dinner.”

“Ah, no. I have ... engagements.”

What sort of engagements an impoverished nobleman might have, Leo could not hazard a guess. He did not care. A footman answered his summons, and escorted Wansford to the door.

Leaving Leo to contemplate the complicated knotwork of his life. Until now, he had kept Anne separate from the commerce that ruled his life. Yet now, they were tied together. Loops and twists irrevocably bound, with no beginning, and no end.

Anxiety coursed through her. This was a test, and she must pass it.

Anne gazed down the length of the dining table. Her first foray into the realm of hosting guests for dinner, and she wanted everything to succeed. For her sake, and that of her husband.

She might have spared herself some apprehension, as the guests were Leo’s closest friends and perhaps less likely to judge harshly. Or that made her every action doubly scrutinized. If she said that she did not care about these men’s opinions, she would speak false.

Flickering candlelight gleamed on platters of roast venison, pheasant with chestnuts, fricassee of mushrooms. Dark wine filled the glasses.

Masculine voices and laughter ringed the table. Anne had brothers, yet she never felt so fully immersed in male company as she was this night.

The Hellraisers sat at her table. They all insisted she call them by their Christian names, yet it did not make them any less intimidating or foreign, visitors from a nighttime realm, bearing shadows and an air of wildness. Even the substantial dining room could barely contain the dark, vivid energy that radiated from all of them—including her husband.

Lord Whitney’s words burned at the back of her mind, acrid and scorching. The men at her table were the Devil’s legion. Or so one madman would have her believe. She did not want to view the Hellraisers through the mist of Lord Whitney’s insanity—yet it clung to her like plague-bearing vapor.

“Missed you at the boxing match the other night.” John chided Leo.

Her husband lounged like an indolent pasha in his chair, his fingers draped over the rim of his glass. “I was busy.”

John’s gaze flicked to Anne, then back to Leo. “I’ve a strong suspicion of what occupied you.”

Her cheeks warmed, and she sipped her wine. She was not so sophisticated as to discuss such private matters so publicly, even with her husband’s close friends. Friends who almost certainly led lives of utter dissipation. Would it shock these men to learn that much of the time Leo spent with her was in conversation? Oh, they made good use of their nuptial bed. Very good use. Yet they shared an intimacy that went beyond their bodies—something she doubted his friends appreciated, let alone understood.

“Shame, though,” continued John. “The match was spectacular. It went forty-one rounds, and ended only when McGill could no longer see, from all the blood in his eyes.”

“This hardly seems an appropriate topic,” said Edmund. “With ladies present.”

The woman sitting beside him merely smiled. Several times over the course of the evening, Anne simply forgot that Rosalind was in attendance. The pretty, fair-haired woman spoke but a handful of words, and these only when addressed directly. Perhaps she was shy. Yet Edmund’s wife kept a bright, wide smile on her face the whole of the night, her gaze cheerful but vacant.

Anne had met Rosalind before, during her previous marriage. She had been witty, given to wordplay, and a respected hostess of levees. But now ... Rosalind seemed empty, as if whatever had animated her before had drained away.

Lord Whitney’s letter was still inscribed in Anne’s memory. Edmund was given Rosalind. Like a child given a doll on Christmas. A pretty doll with no life of its own, merely propped up at the table and fed imaginary pudding.

Ridiculous. One cannot use magic to effect such a transformation. There is no magic.

“The subject of pugilism doesn’t trouble me,” Anne said. “Leo has been telling me all about it, and it sounds fascinating.”

“Violent,” said Edmund, “and bloody.”

Anne noted the wine in their glasses. “Most ancient traditions are.”

“Like marriage.” This, from Bram, sprawled at the farther end of the table. He took what light there was in the room, seeming to draw it into himself so that surrounding him was the absence of light, a palpable darkness.

“Spoken as one with no experience in the matter,” said Leo wryly.

Bram’s chuckle held little warmth. “To the contrary, I know much of married life.”

“Married women,” said John.

“Which provides me with an ample survey. Faithlessness is not reserved for men. Few women hold true to their vows.”

“Where you are concerned.” John smirked. “You are, indeed, very persuasive.”

When Bram’s arctic, calculating gaze fell on Anne, she made herself return the look, though she felt a cold shrinking inside her. “Perhaps, Mrs. Bailey, you might like to—”

“No.” Leo’s voice was no more than a growl. He sat forward, his fists braced against the table. His eyes blazed.

Anne expected him to launch himself across the table and beat his friend into a pile of bones and viscera.

Though Bram continued to sprawl in his chair, his whole body tensed, gathering strength. Anne had felt the hard, hewn muscles of her husband’s body; he would fight with brutal, efficient power. Few men could best him. She understood this with intrinsic knowledge. Yet she also understood that, if anyone could match Leo’s strength, it would be Bram.

They were wolves, circling each other. Ready to pounce and rip out each other’s throats.

Good God. Her very first dinner party was about to erupt into a brawl. The influence of dark magic?

“With such an abundance of opportunity,” said Edmund, “Bram may cast his net further afield.”

The thick tension in the room untangled. Both Leo and Bram eased their postures. Minutely. But enough.

Bram shrugged. “There are some who find the condition of marriage tolerable. Like Edmund, or young Leo. Far be it for me to disrupt such a happy state of affairs.”

“Which reminds me,” said John, “Ancroft announced his engagement.”

“Again?” Leo shook his head. “This will be his third.”

“His future brides have a habit of eloping with other men.”

“Perhaps he owns an inn in Gretna Green,” suggested Bram, “and can profit from the jilting.”

Good-humored banter resumed amongst the men. As they talked, Anne could only wonder. What had Bram been about to suggest to her? And why had Leo been so adamant that Bram not make that suggestion?

Bram received the power to persuade anyone to do his bidding.

Surely not. One could not force another to obey their will. That would exist in the unreal realm of the Otherworldly.

If Lord Whitney had spoken the truth, that meant that John could read others’ minds. And Leo ... could see the future.

She stared at her husband. In the candlelight, he was beautiful and gleaming, and whenever his gaze caught hers, she felt the tug of connection. A shared understanding, for not only did their bodies know each other now and the pleasure they gave each other, but their attachment went beyond the physical. They spent drowsing hours talking of many things, both fanciful and weighty.

He had told her of her father’s request, and his agreement to serve as broker. He even disclosed that her father had offered the estate as collateral. A shocking turn of events, and yet, not so shocking, for every day creditors came dunning. She was, in truth, more surprised that Leo had agreed to help. Instinct told her that it was not concern for her father that motivated Leo. She had been the motivation.