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Simon’s party arrived at his Covent Garden box as the bell clanged fifteen minutes to curtain time. A lackey took Maria’s cloak, while Deveril removed the velvet cape from around Victoria’s shoulders.
Simon stifled the urge to snatch it back and wrap it around her. The damned gown had been designed by a devil incarnate. No virile male could ignore the delectable sight of her creamy skin above her dove-gray bodice, despite that a gentleman was not permitted to notice.
He swallowed and glanced at her face. Damn. She had seen him staring at her breasts like a lusty schoolboy faced with his first set of tits. “Take your seats. The first act is about to start.” His words came out far more brusquely than he had intended.
“Unlike you to worry about missing what is on stage, Travis,” Maria said with raised eyebrows.
He shot her a glare. “I don’t care for myself. Miss Yelverton expressed an interest in this particular play.”
Victoria smiled. “I did indeed.”
Charmed by her candid expression of enjoyment, he allowed himself a brief smile in return. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d looked at a visit to the theater as anything but foreplay. A need to be met, before getting down to the business of visceral pleasure with his chosen companion for the evening. Victoria’s countenance, full of eagerness for the words of the bard, rather than a gift of diamonds or pearls a paramour would expect of him in reward for her time, unaccountably lifted his spirits.
Utter rot. This evening was not about his pleasure. The only purpose was to throw her into his friend’s path, make him see what a prize lay beneath his nose. A chill settled in his gut as he ushered them to their seats.
A step or two in front of Simon, Dev stopped short and muttered a curse under his breath that only Simon heard, before raising his voice. “Pardon me, ladies. I will return in a moment or two.” He thrust Simon aside and disappeared.
Now what? Simon glanced across the auditorium and bit back a groan at the sight of Genevieve Longbourne ensconced in the Duke of Rockingham’s box. Genevieve looked as she always did, tall, blonde and frigid. No sign of Rumplestiltskin, Simon’s private name for the short, fat duke to whom she was betrothed. Typical of a woman, Genevieve had stolen Dev’s heart, leading him on until he believed she loved him, then had dropped him for a man with a higher title.
Simon loathed the deceit, but he’d seen it coming and tried to warn his friend, to no avail. He toyed with the idea of going after Dev and bringing him back, but he could hardly leave his party to their own devices. It would look deuced odd.
He slid into the seat next to Victoria and watched her gaze around in wide-eyed appreciation. “Does Covent Garden Theater meet with your expectations, Miss Yelverton?”
He sucked in a breath at her devastating smile. “Yes, my lord. I love Shakespeare, don’t you?”
The urge to make her smile at him again raced in his veins. Several platitudes came to mind, but the words died on his lips. Her refreshing honesty deserved the truth. “I like some of his work. I must admit Romeo and Juliet is not among my favorites.”
She turned to meet his gaze. “My lord, have you no romance in your soul?”
Romance. The very idea made his stomach curl. As far as he was concerned love was a myth that led to the ruination of good men. Dev proved the point.
“Be realistic, Miss Yelverton. What would you say if a man you barely knew climbed through your window in the dead of night? If you had any sense, you’d send him to the right about. More than likely, he’d end up in the bushes with a broken neck.”
She laughed out loud, her piquant face alive with amusement. “You might be right.”
He imagined climbing in through her window and seeing her asleep in her bed, her black hair spread around her, her soft curves barely disguised by some flimsy nightrail.
Blood rushed from his brain to his cock. He shifted, widening his thighs to ease the pressure of the tight satin fabric on his groin. What the devil was wrong with him? He never responded to women in such a visceral, uncontrolled way. He stared down into the crowd, counting ostrich plumes, anything to avoid thinking about Victoria and the delicious scent of her jasmine perfume, and the spot where dark curls brushed her nape. A place he would like to taste with his tongue. Need spiked, hard and urgent.
He inhaled a deep breath, reaching for his legendary control. Where the devil was Deveril? No doubt off drowning his sorrows and after he’d promised to remain sober.
Restless and irritated beyond endurance, Simon stood. At the very least, he ought to make sure Dev didn’t make a complete ass of himself. “Forgive me, I must make arrangements for refreshments to be served at the intermission,” he murmured to Maria.
“Thank you, Travis,” Maria replied. “Sherry for me, please.”
Fortunately, it wasn’t necessary for Simon to run the gauntlet of the queen of glaciers. He met Dev marching back along the corridor on the other side of the auditorium, his face full of rage.
Simon planted himself before his friend, forcing him to stop. “What in hell’s name are you doing?”
“She wouldn’t speak to me.”
Simon saw what he had failed to notice at dinner. “You’re foxed. For God’s sake, you promised to stay sober tonight. Come back and watch the play.”
“No.”
A black cloud of misery hung over Dev. Short of hitting him over the head and dragging him to his seat, Simon had little hope of forcing him to finish out the evening. “You gave your word.”
“And I told you it was a bad idea.”
“You’re an imbecile to let her do this to you.”
No doubt too distraught to recall the reason he had agreed to accompany Simon in the first place, Dev shoved past him.
Simon heaved a sigh. Deveril was useless to anyone in this state. Simon followed him down the stairs and into the lobby. “Come on, old friend, let me put you in a hackney carriage.”
Dev ignored him, but Simon followed him outside where carriages lined the street waiting for their owners. Ragged street urchins held the horses in hopes of receiving a groat for their pains. Simon gave a driver Dev’s address and the money for the fare, but whether the fool would actually go home was anyone’s guess.
While he watched his friend start out in the right direction, he lit a cigar and savored the burn of smoke in his throat.
Damn it. Why couldn’t Dev see past Genevieve, to the real beauty of Victoria Yelverton?
Disappointed, yet somehow relieved, he returned inside. The task of entertaining Victoria for the rest of the evening now fell to him and for some reason, he found himself looking forward to it.
Spending time with Victoria was certainly less of a chore than he’d expected. He’d delighted in her company on their drive through Hyde Park. Unlike Miss Eckford, Victoria’s wit and understanding were needle-sharp. He could be himself, never needing to explain what he meant. He also liked her teasing laugh, her smile, her delicate, slender body. He pushed that thought away. That way led only to madness. Dark shadows of memories swirled through his mind. He shrugged away a sudden sense of foreboding.
Perhaps Dev had done him a favor, after all. Just this once, he would make the most of Victoria’s charming company, before someone worthy snapped her up.
Victoria couldn’t believe she was really was here at last. Her brother had considered it dull stuff and had never once offered to bring her. Since it was likely to be the only time she’d attend the theatre, she intended to make the most of every moment. She gazed around her, taking in every detail. Plush velvet drapes closed off the stage from view. Row upon row of white and gilt private boxes crowded with ladies and gentlemen in glittering finery lined the walls. The scent of smoke from the oil lamps filled her nostrils. And the noise! The auditorium reverberated with the racket of conversation and the exchange of ribaldries from the noisy throng in the pit. Victoria even recognized some of the patrons as those she had met at Lady Corby’s ball or seen on her outing in Hyde Park.
She leaned across the seat vacated by Travis to speak to Maria. “Who is she?” She nodded at the lovely blonde woman who held herself like a queen in one of the boxes on the other side of the auditorium.
“Genevieve Longbourne,” Maria said. “Soon to be the Duchess of Rockingham.”
Diamonds flashed fire in her hair and at her throat with every regal motion of her head. She looked like every girl’s dream of a fairy princess. “She’s beautiful.”
“And ambitious. Rockingham gave her a king’s ransom in family diamonds on their betrothal. That’s her mother behind her. The Longbournes certainly made the match of the century there. The duke is yonder, one row down and a little to the left. The man with orders on his chest. He just arrived.”
Following Maria’s glance, she identified a large-girthed, bald man with a buxom brunette in red perched on his knee. “But surely...”
Maria chuckled behind her fan. “His mistress. Genevieve’s is a marriage of convenience. She gets the title and he gets her plump dowry and connection to one of England’s most powerful financial houses.”
The diamonds lost some of their glitter in view of the man she had agreed to take as a husband. Poor Miss Longbourne. Was that to be Victoria’s own fate? She shuddered. Not if she had anything to say in the matter.
The bell rang.
“Five minutes to curtain,” Maria muttered. “Where on earth is Travis?”
As if he’d heard her, Travis dropped into the chair between them.
Victoria raised an eyebrow and glanced behind him. “Is Lord Deveril coming back?”
“He isn’t feeling well,” Travis replied. “He went home.”
“Hmph,” Maria muttered.
The sleepy eyes and slight sway Victoria had noticed during dinner had indicated Deveril’s illness came from a bottle. She’d seen her father on the way to drunken oblivion often enough to recognize the signs.
A splash of red caught her eye. She leaned forward. “Do look, Travis. Isn't that the young man we saw in Hyde Park? He has an enormous bouquet of roses.”
Travis grinned. “Hawkfield,” he confirmed.
“Do you think Miss Dodds, I mean Senorita di Consuello, is in the cast?”
“No doubt about it. Part of the chorus. I’ll wager a pony, I spot her before you do.”
Victoria stiffened. Michael had been trapped into losing everything with such foolish bets. “I do not gamble, my lord.”
His face went blank. “I apologize. I spoke in jest.”
An apology from Travis? How unexpected. She forced herself to present a calm demeanor, though much of her pleasure in the evening seemed to have faded. “’Tis of no importance.” She sat back in her seat.
“Come, Miss Yelverton, a different kind of game,” Travis murmured. “If I see Miss Dodds first, you must forfeit the rose in your hair. If you are more observant, I will take you, Lady Julia and Deveril out to Richmond for a picnic. Does that seem fair?”
She cast him an arch look. “A rather mundane outing for a rake, so certainly a forfeit for you.”
He shrugged and laughed. “Touché. A fitting punishment, don’t you think? Come, will you play?”
To be disagreeable to her host on such a wonderful evening felt rude, and giving way to him in this had nothing to do with his attractive countenance and charming smile. She nodded. “Agreed.”
He rewarded her with a grin of unabashed boyish delight as if she had bestowed upon him some treasure. Delight gleamed in his eyes as their gazes locked. Her breath caught in her throat at the beauty of his smile. Heat suffused her body in a rush.
The curtain rose breaking intensity of the moment and she turned toward the stage, determined not to let him disturb her any further.
The theater slowly hushed.
A pair of star-crossed lovers. Victoria knew the words by heart, but the actors gave them life and meaning as they played their parts. Around her, the theater, the crowds, even Travis, disappeared from her awareness, leaving only the mesmerizing unfolding story of heartbreak.
The Montague ball was almost over when she recognized Senorita di Consuello in the corps du ballet. She had almost forgotten their game. She pointed. “There she is.”
“Who?” Travis asked, his voice a warm tickle against her ear.
She gasped at the pleasurable sensation and glared her disapproval. “Di Consuello. You forfeit,” she whispered.
“So I do,” he whispered back with a smile.
Her heart fluttered and skipped and she edged away from him. He seemed much too close in the confines of the box. She refocused her attention on the play.
What light through yonder window breaks? Travis had it all wrong. If a man truly loved her, and she him, she would welcome him at her window.
Paris thrust, and Mercutio received his mortal wound. Victoria jerked back in her seat.
Simon chuckled. “It’s not real.”
“I know,” she flashed back at him. “Do hush.”
With a sigh, he stretched out his long legs and remained silent. Victoria did her best to ignore him, but there was something about his presence that kept pulling at her awareness. He was watching her, instead of watching the play, it was most...unnerving.
Intermission came as a relief. Several of people she met at Lady Corby’s ball came to pay their respects, Mr. Greely and Lord Pelham among them. Travis greeted everyone with frigid politeness, especially the young bachelors who flocked into their small space.
She could not help a small smile as she caught his expression of panic when a determined, matchmaking mother and her daughter cornered him. He grimaced at her. No doubt this was another new experience for a confirmed rake determined to play at the role of worthy guardian. Just deserts in her opinion. He must have caught her smiling because he shook his head at her and she had the feeling she might pay a price for letting him see her glee.
At the sound of the bell Maria urged several young gentlemen who seemed inclined to linger out of their box.
“Thank God,” Travis breathed.
Victoria laughed at his chagrinned expression as he realized he had spoken out loud.
“Damn vultures, the lot of them,” he muttered and grinned back.
“Then I must thank you doubly,” she said as she settled her skirts around her chair.
“Doubly? Why so?”
“Why, there can be nothing more tedious than being required to attend things one does not enjoy. To be forced into the company of people one would prefer not to meet is twice the sacrifice.”
His eyes widened and his mouth kicked up in a devilish smile. “I can assure you, Miss Yelverton, I would rather be in no other company than yours.”
His low, seductive voice resonated a chord low in her belly. Her heart skipped strangely. She took a deep steadying breath. She knew better than to be fooled by a man of his ilk, no matter how smooth his charm or appealing his wit.
Turning her shoulder to cut him out of her line of sight, she leaned forward and allowed the poetry of the play to flow through her mind and heart. And still his nearness fought for her attention. She glanced sideways. With his chair slanted toward her, he couldn’t possibly see the stage. His predatory expression made her feel hot and cold and strangely breathless. He was taking delight in teasing her so.
She shot him a warning glance. “You are staring.”
His dark eyebrow lifted. “Me?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “Stop it.”
“Be quiet, you two,” Maria said.
Victoria bit her lip. She had forgotten Maria.
The corner of Travis’s mouth quirked up. He leaned close, his breath warm on her cheek. “Anything you wish.”
A delicious shiver hurtled down her spine. How did he do that? She frowned and he chuckled. Then it all came clear. He was bored and so he was flirting with the only female in his vicinity. It meant nothing at all.
“I wish you to watch the play,” she said.
He did stop staring, but she sensed an uneasy tension in him as the performance continued. His growing irritation disturbed her and she had to force herself to concentrate on what was occurring on stage. Finally, she got caught up in the action and once more everything around her receded.
Romeo’s pain pierced her heart as he drank the poison, and she clutched at Travis’s arm. Through her tears, she heard his sharp in-drawn breath and seconds later he pressed a handkerchief into her palm.
She sniffed and wiped at her eyes with a shaky laugh. Her heart contracted at Juliet’s discovery of Romeo’s dreadful mistake and her fateful decision.
Travis squeezed her hand, a comforting pressure of warm, strong fingers.
Silence echoed in the great hall for a moment, then the audience roared its approval.
The players took their bows and Victoria, numb from the depth of emotions they had stirred, rose to her feet and joined the applause. She glanced at Travis. On his feet, he stared at the stage with a shuttered expression.
“Thank you so much for bringing me, my lord,” she said.
As if pulled from somewhere deep within himself, he blinked, then flashed his rakish smile. “You are more than welcome. I don’t know when I have enjoyed the theater more.”
“You hardly watched the play at all, sir.”
His eyes held sardonic amusement. “Exactly, Miss Yelverton.”
Flirtatious nonsense—and yet she couldn’t prevent her answering smile.
“Well, my dears,” Maria said. “I, for one, am exhausted. I hope you don’t mind if we don’t stay for the farce. It’s time I retired for the night. Let us go home.”
Simon made himself comfortable against the carriage squabs as they made their way through London’s streets to his townhouse. He hated being driven. Damn Dev for leaving him in the lurch. What an idiot. Crying over what might have been never served any purpose. If anyone knew that, Simon did.
The flash of streetlights into the carriage became less frequent. Simon peered through the window. This was not the right way to his house. Cold fingers traveled up his spine. He rapped on the overhead trap with his cane. No response. He frowned and rapped harder. Across from the nodding Maria, Victoria gazed at him curiously.
“The driver has taken a wrong turn,” he said.
Victoria nodded.
Simon unlatched the window and slid it down. The fetid stench of London hit the back of his throat as he stuck his head out. “Griggs. Pull over.”
Hunched in his coat, the coachman did not seem to hear. Simon looked around, trying to get his bearings. Where the hell were they?
God rot it. They had passed the Seven Dials and were in one of the poorest, most unpleasant neighborhoods in London, heading away from Mayfair. The fool had lost his way. “Griggs,” he shouted. “Stop the carriage, now.”
The horses began to slow. Relief coursed through him. Now he would find out what the hell was going on. The man must be drunk. Simon ducked back in the carriage.
Victoria, gazing out her window, seemed to have no sense of the danger they were in and Simon had no wish to scare her, so he said nothing. The carriage halted.
“There he is!” someone outside shouted.
A pistol cracked. The dull thud of a bullet striking the velvet squabs beside his head sent Simon diving across the carriage. He threw Victoria to the floor and pushed Maria down next to her.
The coach rocked and footsteps clattered on the street. The idiot coachman had run off. Bloody hell. Self-respecting highwaymen didn’t waylay carriages in the middle of London, not even in these parts. This was no random robbery any more than the attack the other night had been.
“Simon St. John,” Maria said, outrage in every syllable. “What is going on?” She struggled to rise.
“It’s all right, Maria,” he heard Victoria say as he snatched his pistols out from under the seat. “It seems we are being held up. You are safer on the floor.”
Admiration at her coolness welled in his chest, but there was no time to examine his reaction. Another shot rang out. A horse whinnied. Simon lunged for the door, but the coach lurched as the team shot off at a gallop throwing him off balance. He struggled to his feet.
Ice filled his veins. He forced himself to think, not to freeze. He stuck his head out of the window and winced as he stared forwards. Out of control, the horses were careening along the street as if the devil himself was whipping them on. Up ahead the road took a sharp turn.
He glanced behind. Two men on horseback were following at a gallop.
If he didn’t do something, and quickly—
Another shot cracked. Simon pulled back inside, swearing. At this speed, the carriage would never make it round the bend in the road.
The picture of a wrecked carriage, water rising, a baby screaming, filled his vision. He swallowed bile and shuddered.
Her face white, Victoria stared at him from her crouched position on the floor. Trust shone from her eyes. Trust in him. He could not fail, not this time.
Acting on instinct, he stuffed his pistol in his coat pocket and stood on the seat. Bracing himself against the carriage’s wild pitching he reached for a handhold on the ornamental carving on the roof outside. He squeezed his shoulders through the window. To his surprise Victoria gave his feet a boost and he sprawled across the roof, his legs hanging over the side.
Battling the rocking of the carriage, he maneuvered onto the driver’s seat and looked for the reins. He cursed. They were snaking along the ground out of reach.
Another crack.
Burning pain tore at his arm. He clutched it and his hand came away bloody. Shot, by God. He forced the pain out of his mind. If he didn’t get the horses under control in the next minute, they’d hit the corner at full speed.
Blood pounded in his ears. They were going to crash. His hands gripped the transom. No. He must not freeze. Forcing his fingers to open, he eased over the front of the box, placed one foot on the pole, judged the distance, and dove for the rear animal’s back. Foam flew back at him. Jagged pain ripped up his arm. He clung on to the harness. The thunder of hooves drowned everything out. He gritted his teeth. They were almost out of time.
He pulled his feet up onto the rocking back.
Steady. Found his balance. Go.
He lunged forward at the broad arse ahead and scrabbled for a purchase. He slid sideways, cobbles rushing up and past him, ringing hooves slashing at his head.
He clung in desperation. He would not allow Victoria or Maria to come to harm. He must not. With steady pressure on the bridle, he talked nonsense, quieting the horse as he would a crying woman, nothing words. All tone. Assuring, gentling, sweet nothings.
The trembling creature slowed and its partner followed suit.
Their problems weren’t over, yet, he realized after the first rush of relief when the horses drew to a halt. Other hooves clattered on the cobbles. Their attackers closing in.
He took a deep breath. He’d sooner face a dozen men with pistols than a runaway carriage.
Simon leaped down, reached for the dagger tucked into his waistband. He’d taken a leaf out of Dev’s book after the attack in the alley. He slashed the traces and cut the horses free. This carriage wasn’t going anywhere.
Victoria stuck her head out of the window.
“Stay inside,” he yelled.
The blackguards were almost on them. Only two. Decent odds. Simon glanced about. Where the hell were they stranded? Wherever it was, no help from the residents was forthcoming.
Their pursuers pulled up their horses a few yards off. Cowards. He reached into the carriage and grabbed his pistols, cocked them and set one at his feet. Aiming carefully, he fired at a shadow and heard a satisfying scream. One down.
A rush of booted feet sounded in the deserted street.
Hell. More, arriving on foot.
“Hold your fire,” one of them called out. Simon narrowed his eyes, trying to pierce the gloom.
Muttered instructions and the sound of men fanning out, the sounds indicating their positions.
Victoria stuck her head out yet again. Bloody woman. Hell. She had a pistol in her hand. She must have found the one in the coach holster. She fired and missed. The men hesitated. Good try.
To Simon’s relief, she disappeared back inside.
Simon picked up his other gun and waited. There were at least four men out there. His last shot had to count.
They rushed at the carriage. He took slow and careful aim, focusing his attention on the target in his sights, his pistol an extension of his arm, a deadly part of him.
He fired. A man fell with a cry. The three remaining men moved in, using the body of the carriage for protection. Simon put up his hands and stepped out. He couldn’t let them harm the women when it was him they wanted.
But the villains were not looking at him. They were backing away. Simon looked back over his shoulder. Ice ran through his veins.
A lumbering mail coach, its lantern swinging, rounded the bend. In the heat of battle, none of them had heard its approach. Shock twisted the driver’s face as he fought to avoid Simon’s coach.
Please, God, let it pass. The sickening, splintering screech of wood and metal as the stage’s wheels ground against those of the town coach sent terror racing down his spine, shock holding him rigid. A shout of warning died on his lips as his carriage rocked, hung balanced on its right-hand wheels for an agonizing second then finally crashed onto its side. The street echoed with the tinkle of shattering glass.
And the sound of running footsteps.
Horror churned in Simon’s gut.
He pried the door up and pulled himself over the edge. Darkness. He couldn’t see a thing. He heard a moan.
“Victoria. Maria. For God’s sake, say something.”
Shaking so hard, he could barely climb, he dragged himself onto the upturned side of the carriage.
Please, God, don’t let them be dead.
Maria, her turban crooked and her face bloody, raised her head. Thank God.
Other people arrived, climbing up beside him, helping to pull the old woman clear. The other men staggered as they took her weight.
“There’s another one,” Simon said reaching back inside, his hands searching, grasping. He felt an arm. Grabbed it. “Victoria. You next. Out you come.”
Nothing. She didn’t move. Dear God. No. This could not happen. Not another death at his door.
“Here,” a calm voice said behind him. “Why don’t I hold your legs and you pull her out?”
With his ankles braced, Simon dropped his head and shoulders through the opening. The splintered doorframe caught on his coat as he wriggled forward. He felt around and located her shoulders. Careful not to cause her further injury, he grasped her beneath the arms. “Pull me back slowly,” he called to his helper.
He lifted her tiny frame with ease. She hung limp in his hand, boneless, silent. The man behind him pulled them both clear and Simon cradled her still form in his arms. Despair washed over him.
“Sir, you’re wounded. Let me take her.” A serious-faced, young man, held out his arms.
Fear curled in his gut. “Stand back.”
She was just too damn still. Her face white, her lips bloodless, she lay like a broken doll. He placed his cheek close to her mouth and felt a faint breath on his skin. His gut clenched. Not dead. Not yet.
“Get a doctor,” he bit out.
He ran his hands over her, back, arms, and legs. Nothing broken.
“Sir, let me bind your arm. You are bleeding.”
He brushed him off. “I’m fine. Get a bloody doctor.” The man recoiled. Simon didn’t care. It was Victoria who needed help. Her pallor might mean internal injuries or a head wound. He reeled at the awful thought she might yet die.
“This will help,” the persistent young man said and climbed up beside Simon holding a coach light. “There’s a nasty bump on her head, see.”
The ugly lump near her temple, swelled evilly, even as he stared at it. No blood. She had cuts on her arms and her gown was torn.
A cold weight pressed on his chest. She was dying.
Drops of water fell on her pale cheeks.
Rain.
His fingers shook as he gently wiped them away.
More fell.
Oh God. Not rain. He dragged his sleeve across his eyes.
He swallowed the burning lump in his throat. God. Don’t let her die. I’ll do anything. I’ll stay away from her. I swear.
Please. Don’t let her die because of me.