Any Wicked Thing Read Free

with.”
    â€œFreddie, Freddie. Such a shrew you are. And I thank you for it.”
    They entered the armory, a vast space newly filled with deadly and deteriorating weaponry. Standing on tiptoe, she tried unsuccessfully to return the sword to its bracket.
    â€œHere, brat, I’ll do it. I take it you’ve stopped growing.”
    â€œOnly vertically. There seems to be no limit to the horizontal,” she muttered.
    â€œYou’ll find some man who likes you as you are. As long as you don’t talk.” And with that parting shot, he found it prudent to jog away from her and run through the warren of corridors and stairwells to his room. There was not a thing to do up here but wait for the masquerade party to commence tonight. Sebastian had met some of the guests over breakfast—not a soul was younger than fifty. A few more were arriving today, but no doubt they would be equally ancient. The duke had the clever idea of housing most of them in the dungeons. Sebastian really couldn’t distinguish the dungeons’ condition from the bedchambers’—everything was primitive. Sebastian’s own room was as spare as a monk’s cell, although he had noted his father’s to be filled with all the trappings of comfort. A massive gilt bed. Tapestries hanging on the walls. Carpets. And chairs whose upholstery was not fraying. Quite a difference from the rest of the dwelling.
    But Sebastian would never spend a minute in the duke’s room. Once the pater popped off, this castle and all its contents would be sold to the highest bidder.
    Sebastian rummaged through his traveling trunk and found what he needed to pass the day. He filled his pipe with hashish, saving the opium for later, once the festivities began. His grand tour had been, as he told Freddie, very educational. He’d picked up a few bad habits and was glad of it. A mellowing of his senses came in handy when he had to encounter his father for any length of time.
    Not that he often had. The duke was much too busy with other things. He was very good at ordering Sebastian about from a distance, but, when confronted with him in person, tended to retreat into his library or abscond on a trip. He’d given Sebastian a quick tour of the castle yesterday, more to spout off knowledge than welcome his only son home after two years.
    No matter. Sebastian would make his own fun. There might be a wayward wife to seduce, or Freddie to torment. The evenings ahead were likely to be a dead bore, but he could endure it for a few days.
    He took a deep draft of his pipe, felt the lassitude creep into his limbs. Yes, he could endure it. Especially knowing that in two days’ time, he’d never see Goddard Castle again if he could help it.

Chapter 2

    The worst night of my life.
    â€”FROM THE DIARY OF SEBASTIAN GODDARD, MARQUESS OF DEANE
    Â 
    The worst night of my life.
    â€”FROM THE DIARY OF FREDERICA WELLS
    T he castle was ablaze with candles. Sebastian wondered how much of his patrimony was tied up in tallow. People had taken his father’s intentions to heart, and were arrayed in a variety of absurd costumes. The duke’s authentic mail vest and spurs clinked every time he moved about the banquet hall, which had had been set up as in days of yore, its usual dining table dismantled and a dais built at one end of the room. Plain wooden benches and tables were set in rows; plain wooden trenchers served as plates; plain wooden goblets held mead and ale. His father had commissioned local carpenters to make all this useless stuff, at what cost Sebastian could only imagine and cringe.
    â€œWhat do you think? Isn’t it marvelous?” Freddie was at his elbow at one of the lower tables, wearing an unfortunate pink velvet dress that looked very much like a discarded curtain. With one hand, she balanced a pointed hat on her head, its veil falling over half her face. The other half was obscured by a pink silk mask, but