Chapter 1

1

Ianthe

London, April 1812

The wolf bared

its teeth and exposed long white fangs that glistened in the moonlight. Its front paws rested on the fallen body of the horse. In the shadows, another creature scuttled back and forth. It might have once been human, but no longer. Long skinny arms ended in talons, it crawled hunched over, and its skin was blackened and peeling as though it had walked through fire. It gave a high-pitched scream and jumped forward, gnashing its teeth at the wolf and tearing a chunk of flesh from the slain equine.

Ianthe squeezed the bridge of her nose and willed the vision away. She didn't want to watch the two creatures feast on the horse. It was enough that life cursed her with the sight; she didn't need such gruesome images played out in her mind.

A great-great-uncle of Ianthe's had been mage-born. At any one time, there were only a dozen mages in all of England, Scotland, and Wales. Mages were powerful men and women who could wield frightening magic and bend the laws of nature to their own dictates. Once a family had a mage born into it, the following generations would see a scattering of those known as aftermages. A faint magical trace ran through their veins and bestowed a range of lesser abilities.

Ianthe had a particularly useless form of second sight. The snatches she saw never made any sense, except in hindsight. Who would lay coins into the hands of a seer who could only tell you what had already occurred?

Life had further cursed her as she left childhood with a form that attracted the attention of men and the envy of women. After suffering a broken heart and body at seventeen, she found her way to London and the welcome embrace of the

demi-monde

.

Ten years later, at age twenty-seven, Ianthe was so very tired of it all. Not the muscular ache of a hard day's physical labour, but the heartache of walking a lonely, empty road. This was the deep, unrelenting mental fatigue that arose from being trapped on a path that held no appeal—a path scattered with images that had no meaning except to torment her.

Ianthe's life was defined by shallow appearances and useless fripperies, and it ate at her. Over the years, all the hopes and dreams she'd ever held as a young girl had been slowly drained away, until she had become an empty shell. Now she was merely a decorative vessel to be filled by the leavings of men.

She sighed, scrubbed her hands over her face, and tucked a red curl back behind her ear. Phillip would be here soon and he had paid for a bright and vivacious mistress, not a woman so bone-weary she could lie down and sleep for a century.

Ianthe uncorked a bottle of tonic and poured a scant inch into the tumbler on her dresser. Taking a breath to steel her nerves, she downed the brown concoction. It tasted vile and burned a path down her gullet. She washed it down with cold tea and waited for the mixture to work its way through her limbs and up to her head. The tonic performed a dual role—it would banish the visions and provide a burst of energy through her veins that would make the evening bearable. Not that Phillip was a problem. No, the issue was most definitely her.

Ianthe stared into the mirror and examined her appearance for any sign of wrinkles or grey hairs. Courtesans had limited reigns, for there was an endless supply of younger, firmer, and perkier bodies waiting to replace them. Wealthy men could grow old and fat, whereas the women reliant upon those men were discarded at the first signs of age.

While men might not realise there was a mind hiding behind her porcelain exterior, Ianthe approached her career with a business-like attitude. She learned the lessons of other women who had fallen from favour before her. By taking a patron instead of a regular clientele and keeping herself apart, she maintained an air of the exotic and unattainable. Ianthe was a rare bloom men wanted to pick, but could not grasp. Many sought her, but few had her.

Seconds elapsed and the tonic worked its magic, loosening her limbs and diminishing her worries. Selling her body kept a roof over her head and food in her stomach, but it hollowed her out. Ianthe promised herself she would escape before she turned thirty, or there would be nothing left of her worth saving. There were few prospects for aging courtesans, and she didn't need the sight to foretell her future. She would slip from the upper echelons and slide down to the brothels. It was a continuous tumble. Before you knew it, you were fifty and fighting over the best street corner in Whitechapel.

After a few more minutes, Ianthe's world looked a little brighter. She powdered her already pale face, added more rouge to her lips, and practiced her smile. Being a courtesan was like being an actress, only the audience was smaller. Ianthe played for one man and hoped her performance pleased him. Her patron paid for her modest town house, and a year ago he'd promised to make over the deeds in her name. Tonight she planned to ask, again, to have them in her hands. Owning the house was a step toward independence and it would give her an asset to sell—other than herself.

"Let the performance begin." Smile in place, Ianthe rose, brushed out her skirts, pulled down her bodice to reveal more of her bosom, and headed downstairs.

She found Phillip drinking in the room that fronted the road. Ianthe called it her library, but it wasn't really; it was just a parlour that she'd converted to a cosy snug lined with books. There was a desk by the window and large armchairs to either side of the hearth. Her patron sat in one of the armchairs, staring at the dancing fire. Phillip called the room his

petite office,

and he often met associates here to discuss things of a sensitive nature. The courtesan's discretion extended to all that happened under her roof, and she would never surrender a confidence.

"Phillip, darling, I hope you have not waited long." She swept into the room and bent down to kiss his cheek, letting him peer down her cleavage as a precursor of things to come.

"Not at all, my dear. I’ve enjoyed the quiet time to think." He gave a distracted smile and waved his glass at the fire. Phillip was a large man whose body displayed the excess flesh of a life richly led, with far more dinners than dances. His worries showed in the lines deeply etched over his brow and the thick grey hair covering his head.

She understood his wife to be something of a harpy, who thought any silence required noise to fill it. Ianthe squeezed his arm and took the seat next to him. "Shall we go through to dinner, or would you prefer more time for your contemplations?"

She waited for his response and would never dream of rushing him. For three years Ianthe had been the Cyprian, or mistress, of Sir Phillip Dunne. A man of good family, he worked as a solicitor with an affluent and eminent clientele. There were rumours that he advised the prince regent himself, but Phillip remained tight-lipped about who among the

ton

sought his legal expertise. His complete discretion was a factor in his popularity—and was something he and Ianthe had in common. Sometimes, when deep in thought, he expressed bitterness that the

ton

sought him professionally but spurned him socially as being only a lowly knight.

When he had turned fifty, he’d treated himself to a lavish gift. He procured the jewel of the

demi-monde

, Ianthe Wynn, as his mistress. Wealthier men gnashed their teeth as she was taken off the market, and Ianthe breathed a sigh of relief.

For three years he had held on to her, while others marvelled at his prowess. The reality was far more prosaic. Ianthe ensured he was content and wouldn't pass her over for younger and more energetic women. She was weary of selling her body and worn down by feigning passion as yet another boor pounded into her. There was a quiet relief in the company of the undemanding solicitor, and they both appreciated the value of silence.

Depending on Phillip's work and social commitments, they were seen out at the best spots once or twice a week. Physically, he only required release once a week. The rest of the hours in the week were hers to do with as she pleased, and Ianthe spent most of them at the stables near Hyde Park, where she trained horses. Ladies of the

ton

paid a premium for a sidesaddle mount schooled by her seat and hand. Shame they didn't take the same view of their husbands.

Despite what noblewomen thought, Ianthe was no prostitute. There was far more to her role than lifting her skirts. To rise in the

demi-monde

, a woman had to be intelligent, witty, and—above all—able to listen to a man. She always put Phillip's wants and needs first. Under her roof, he was king, and his every whim was anticipated and served by his loyal concubine.

She held in a sigh as she regarded him. What would it be like to have a man consider

her

needs? To put his own desires aside and learn what fuelled her fire? Although truth be told, very little roused her these days. The thought of a cup of cocoa, bed, and a book was far more thrilling than leading a peer to her bedroom.

Phillip dropped his glass on the side table, and the soft thud brought her back to the present. "Let us go through to dinner."

He rose, held out his thick arm to her and they walked through to the adjoining dining room. Here she had clad the walls in lush red-and-gold patterned wallpaper. The chandelier over the table lit up the room and candlelight danced in the wall brackets. In her little home, Ianthe kept an equally modest table. The dark rectangular table only seated a maximum of ten guests. It was a scandalously small number for a courtesan to entertain, but Ianthe didn't open her home to others. If Phillip chose to bring his closest colleagues to the house, at most they would number four or five, and be a select group who required the most discreet entertainment.

Tonight, only one corner of the table was set, with Phillip at the head and Ianthe at his right hand. She kept the household staff to a minimum. The backbone of her house was her abigail, Sarah, and Sarah’s husband, Perkins the butler. Those two loyal retainers had served her for eight years now, ever since she had taken her first patron and could afford staff. Apart from them, there was only a maid and the cook. A smaller staff kept her expenses down and made her monthly payment stretch a little further. It also allowed Phillip greater privacy, with fewer ears to overhear sensitive conversations.

She signalled for Perkins to begin serving. Over a quiet meal Ianthe played the attentive mistress, always following Phillip's lead and looking for clues as to what he wished to talk about. She kept herself abreast of politics, war, the arts, and the spread of Unnaturals across England, so she could converse on any topic. Ianthe layered her conversation with touches and caresses, subtle groundwork for after-dinner activities.

She aroused his waning libido with gentle strokes of a finger, or a lingering look from under her lashes. At the same time, she asked Phillip about his work and conversed intelligently about matters of law. When he began going into great detail about numerous property acquisitions he was making for a notorious rake, she recognised the ideal opening to discuss her own property transaction.

Ianthe laid down her fork and took up her glass. "Speaking of property, Phillip, there was a more personal transaction we were going to conclude."

Phillip drank his wine and stared at her over the top of the glass. Ianthe feigned indifference as she sipped hers and signalled for Perkins to clear away the dinner plates. Her lungs could scarce draw breath as she waited. This was a delicate game, to push so gently that he noticed the nudge, but not so hard that he became resentful. If only the second sight would reward her with a vision of Phillip handing over the deeds and her riding off into the sunset.

She leaned forward and tugged her bodice so the fabric slipped and barely covered her breasts. His gaze dropped and he wet his lips at the distraction, but would it work? One moment stretched into two, then Philip smiled, and she managed to breathe again.

"You have been a most patient and understanding mistress, Ianthe. The papers are drawn up and signed. I will have them delivered to you tomorrow."

She raised her glass and toasted him. "You are a most honourable man, Phillip. I only hope I can thank you sufficiently."

Ianthe smiled. After three years of selling her body to this man she would finally receive the long-promised bonus—ownership of the house she lived in. Yet deep down, a tiny part of her broke away and shrivelled up on itself. Like a fallen leaf in the harsh sunlight, a fragment of her soul curled up and died. The house was a step in the right direction, but would she need to sell her entire soul before she broke free of this life?

Even the warm numbness of the tonic didn't stop her feeling tired to the depths of her bones. The smile remained in place on her lush lips while inside she calculated how much more money she needed to escape London. Their world encouraged a frivolous lifestyle, where expenditure far outstripped income. Ianthe was an anomaly, worrying over pennies and squirrelling them away as she worked toward a larger plan.

Phillip set down his glass and rubbed his palm. He massaged his fingers deep into the tendons, and scowled at his arm.

"Is everything all right, dearest?" Ianthe asked.

He tried to turn a grimace into a smile, but failed. "Nothing. Just a cramp." He shook the limb and opened and closed his fist. Clenching and releasing his fingers, he tried to work the tightness free. "I'm sure we can do something about it upstairs."

"An excellent suggestion." She followed him up the stairs and steeled herself. In her mind, she rehearsed her lines and stage directions so that her reactions would appear natural.

They entered a bedroom, but not hers. She never took him to her room. This was a separate room she kept for entertaining Phillip, decorated in a more masculine fashion with deep greens and blues, and dark wooden furniture.

The workroom

, she and Sarah called it, the place where Ianthe conducted her business. She couldn't have a man in her bedroom. That was too personal and an invasion too far. A man might momentarily possess her body, but he would never touch her sanctuary.

After three years, she knew what Phillip expected. She played her role of coquette, giving a subtle tease as she undressed and then dropped her gown to pool at her feet. Underneath, she wore only short stays, a shift that barely grazed her bottom, and stockings held up with pink ribbons. His gaze fell to the creamy thigh exposed between stocking top and the edge of the shift. Ianthe stroked a hand over her thighs and up higher. She dragged the shift as her hands caressed over her stomach and up to her breasts. A sigh escaped her red lips, as though she imagined Phillip doing it himself.

She pulled the shift from her body and tossed it to the floor. Standing before him in only stays and stockings, Ianthe caught Phillip's darkening gaze and held it while she played the valet and undressed him. Her hands stroked his body as she removed each garment. She gauged his breathing to know when to linger, where to kiss or caress, and when to hurry things along. Phillip was her sole focus. Inside this room, his pleasure was the only thing that mattered. The heights he reached with her would likewise influence the size of his payment.

When she had massaged his member enough to awaken it to the task, he pushed her to the bed and climbed between her knees. Ianthe closed her eyes and gasped with fake wonder, while her mind flitted to the stack of bills on her desk, waiting to be paid. She had a particularly high invoice due in just over a week and possessed no answers as to where she would find sufficient funds to meet it. Phillip had not increased her monthly payment in over two years, despite her turning in a consistently satisfactory performance.

In between gasps and moans, Ianthe pondered if she should ask for a raise in her allowance when he finished up. With the issue of the house's ownership settled, she could tackle the other problem of needing a higher monthly income. For her to escape London before she turned thirty, she needed to secure more funding to purchase both a small acreage and the foundation breeding stock.

But first, she had a more pressing task to complete. Ianthe called out Phillip's name as continued to labour and she uttered the words men liked to hear at such moments. Ianthe gasped about his size and prowess, and cried that her release was imminent due to his skill.

"Oh, Phillip," she breathed as she clutched at him. He usually just needed a little encouragement to finish, but tonight he seemed to have trouble finding his peak. His weight settled heavily on her and Ianthe hoped he wouldn't take too much longer, or she would drown under him and disappear into the mattress. As it was, one of her stays had shifted and was pressing into her breast quite uncomfortably.

He gave a long groan, his body twitched, and then he stilled.

At last

. She muffled a relieved sigh.

His arms buckled under him and his body slumped over her. Ianthe stifled her cry, and it wasn't one of ecstasy but alarm. Phillip was a rather large and heavy man, and her lungs struggled to work with him pressing down on her chest.

"Phillip, dearest, would you mind terribly if we moved?" She tried to roll him to one side, but couldn't lever his weight with him wedged between her legs. Her knees were thrown wide to accommodate his bulk, but it left her in an awkward position.

"Phillip?" He still hadn't moved or answered her and concern grew in her chest. She couldn't hear the wheezy gasps he'd been uttering moments before. Cold dread washed through her as she grasped his head between her palms and lifted his gaze to hers. She promptly wished she hadn't. His eyes were open, but the black pupil had taken over his iris and his stare was blank and vacant. This was no moment of intense ecstasy. Phillip had taken a journey, but he would not be returning.

Ianthe closed her eyes and took a deep breath—or as much of one as she could, in her compressed state. She tried not to think about his member still inside her. Despair washed through her trapped body as she thought of the house deeds he had promised and now would never deliver.

"It's not fair," she whispered and fought a sudden rush of tears. She had been so close to freedom, and life had snatched it away from her. Why had the sight not warned her to secure the deeds first? What was the point of being an aftemage when the supposed gift failed her time after time?

"Sarah! Sarah!" She called for her abigail who would be lurking out in the corridor.

The door opened, and her constant companion peered around. "Yes?"

Ianthe waved her hand at the mound of flesh burying her in the mattress. "I need your help, Sarah. He's dead."