CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Lucien Montaine slid across the worn leather seat of the rented hackney carriage so that Jason could climb in. A few feet away, a lamp burned beside the door of the Haversham town house in Berkley Square. Lucien could see Velvet standing beside the heavy draperies at the window.

Whipping his cloak out of the way, Jason took a seat on the opposite side of the carriage. “Nasty bit of weather,” he said. “Won’t be many out in a cold drizzling rain like this.”

Lucien’s gaze swung back toward the window as the hackney rolled away. “I don’t suppose so. Still, I half expected to see your bride accompany you into the carriage.”

Jason grunted. “The little hellion actually suggested the idea. She wanted to dress as a lad and wait out in front of the tavern. She could warn us, she said, if any sort of trouble arose, or go for help if it was needed.”

He shook his head, his brown hair nearly as dark as Lucien’s in the light seeping out of the establishment windows. “Can you believe it?”

Lucien chuckled and leaned back against the squabs. “I believe it. I can only imagine how well that went over with you.”

Jason sighed. “The woman is a handful, I can tell you.”

“Quite a lovely handful, if I may say so.”

“Spare me. If you’ve an ounce of pity left in your soul, you won’t remind me. I ache for the little wench most of the time as it is.”

Lucien smiled but said nothing more. Circumstances had thrown the pair together. It was up to fate and Velvet Moran whether or not their marriage would endure.

Jason stared out the window. “God’s blood, I hope Foote shows. I hope the gold we’ve offered is enough to entice him.”

“Have no fear. A man like Foote won’t be able to resist the lure of a chance for golden guineas.”

Jason said nothing more and the rest of the journey slid past in silence. A heavy mist had begun to fall across the city and even the beggars had bottled themselves up indoors. Once they reached the alehouse in Bell Yard, they paid the hack driver to wait out in front. They then left the carriage, crossed the muddy street, and entered the grimy interior.

The place was as smoky and dim as it had been before, though with fewer patrons crowding between the rough board walls it smelled a bit less earthy.

“’Ello there, ’andsome.” Gracie, the big-breasted tavern maid who had been there before, sidled up to Jason and winked. “I wondered if ye’d keep yer word.”

He forced himself to smile. “I said we’d be here at midnight. It’s ten minutes till. Is Foote here yet?”

“’E’s ’ere, all right. Waitin’ over there in the corner.” She cocked her head in that direction and Jason followed the movement with his eyes.

Oddly enough, he remembered the big, rough-looking man from prison. He was tall and thick through the shoulders, with a swarthy, porous complexion and pockmarks gouging holes in his face. Eight years ago, Jason had made a point to avoid him. Apparently it was a good thing he had.

“Evenin’, mates.” Foote came to his feet at their approach. “Heard tell you was lookin’ for me.”

“That’s right,” Lucien said. They settled themselves on rough plank benches around the table. “You’ve some information we’re interested in buying. You supply it, and we’ll make it well worth your while.”

Foote eyed them warily. “I thought you had a job you wanted done.”

“The job’s already been done,” Jason told him. “Eight years ago. What we want to know is who paid you to do it?”

His eyes darted suspiciously from one of them to the other. “I’m afraid you’ve lost me, mates.”

“Newgate,” Jason said. “There was a man there, an aristocrat who was accused of murder. His name was Jason Sinclair.”

The air hissed out from the space between Foote’s front teeth. “Carlyle. ’Tis the bloody young duke you’re talkin’ about.”

“That’s the man,” Lucien said. “We want to know who paid you to kill him.”

The bench scraped as Foote jerked to his feet. Jason’s hand clamped on the hulking man’s shoulder, shoving him back down in his seat. A pistol pressed into Foote’s ribs.

“Easy,” Jason warned. “It isn’t you we’re after. Tell us what we want to know and no harm will come to you.”

Every muscle in Foote’s body thrummed with tension beneath Jason’s hand. For several long seconds, the man said nothing, just stood there gauging the toughness of his opponents. Then he shrugged his beefy shoulders.

“I suppose it doesn’t bloody matter. I’m a wanted man already. Another murder more or less won’t make a fiddler’s damn.”

“Who was it?” Jason pressed. “Who paid you to kill Jason Sinclair?”

Foote grunted. “Believe it or not, it was the poor sod’s brother. Paid me a bleedin’ fortune to see the young duke dead.”

“You’re speaking of Avery Sinclair,” Lucien put in to be sure there was no mistake. “The current duke of Carlyle.”

“That’s the blighter. A rare bastard, he is. But if you think I’ll be tellin’ that to a constable, you’ve got another think comin’. Hangin’ from a gibbet weren’t part of the bargain.” He grinned wickedly. “Now hand over the coin and I’ll be gone from here.”

“Not quite yet.” Jason pressed the gun harder into Foote’s ribs while Lucien drew a folded up piece of paper from the inside pocket of his tailcoat. They had anticipated Foote’s reluctance. The only way he would admit to the crime was if he could somehow escape the consequences.

“I don’t suppose you can read?” Lucien said.

Foote surprised them with a laugh. “Believe it or not, I was a teacher before I took up a life of crime.”

Jason had noticed he spoke passable English. His mark signed in front of a witness would have been good enough; this was a bonus they hadn’t expected.

“Then you can see this document says nothing more than what you’ve already admitted,” Jason continued, “that Avery Sinclair paid you to dispose of his brother during the time his brother was in prison.”

He scanned the ink on the foolscap. “Aye, that’s what it says.”

Jason nudged him with the gun. “Sign it and you get the gold, then you can be on your way. If you’re smart, you’ll get out of the country. Refuse and we haul you into the magistrate’s office. Whether you admit to the murder or not, you’re sure to wind up swinging from the three-legged mare.”

Without waiting for Foote’s reply, Jason motioned for Gracie to come to the table. “Bring us a quill and some ink.” He tossed her a coin and she wiggled away, returning with the pen and a thick glass bottle. At Jason’s insistence, she remained at the table to witness Foote’s bulky form bent over the paper, his rough hands swirling his signature onto the page.

Jason allowed it to dry for a moment, then folded it up and shoved it into his pocket. By itself, the document wasn’t all that much, the word of a murderer, certainly not enough to acquit him. But combined with the documents he had found in Avery’s safe, it was more than they’d had before.

“I’d suggest, my friend,” Lucien put in while Jason handed over a small pouch of coins, “you get as far from London as you can manage.”

Foote grumbled something beneath his breath. “Never did much like the bleedin’ city.”

“You’ll like it even less,” Jason warned, “if our paths ever cross again. I don’t much like paying out gold to a killer.”

Foote scowled and clamped his jaw, but he didn’t argue. What he saw in the hard lines of Jason’s face warned him that he had met a man as worldly-wise and tough as he.

Foote left the room and so did Litchfield and Jason, stepping into their carriage and settling back against the hard leather seat. It wasn’t until a voice drifted out of the darkness in a corner of the carriage that they realized they were not alone.

“I am happy to see you and Litchfield are safe, my lord. I had begun to worry that you might have run into trouble.”

Jason’s head swiveled in Velvet’s direction. Fury warred with amazement, making his jaw go tight. “It is you, my lovely little vixen, who has run into trouble this night.” He rapped hard on the roof of the carriage. “Driver—take us the bloody hell home!”

*   *   *

Tossing back the hood of her cloak, her head held high, Velvet preceeded Jason into the drawing room, then turned as he slid the heavy doors closed behind him with a thud.

He blew out a frustrated breath. “In God’s name, woman, what did you think you were doing? Bell Yard is in the worst part of the city. A woman traveling there alone—I cannot credit you would be insane enough to follow.”

“’Twas not a matter of sanity, my lord. ’Twas simply that this man, Foote, you and Lord Litchfield went after, is obviously a dangerous villain. I thought a person stationed outside the front door to warn you in case of trouble would be the wisest course.”

“The wisest course! If one of those degenerates had guessed you were a woman—”

“I hailed a hackney at the corner as soon as you were gone and instructed him to follow you. I climbed aboard and stayed out of sight. Once I arrived at the alehouse, the driver dismissed your carriage. I simply watched and waited. As it was there was no need of my assistance. Had things turned out differently, you might have been surprised how useful I could be.”

Jason muttered an oath beneath his breath. “You are insane, Velvet Moran.”

She tossed her damp cloak over a chair. “Velvet Sinclair … Hawkins,” she corrected softly.

Jason’s eyes blazed to life. He gripped the tops of her arms and hauled her so close she could measure the curling length of his thick black lashes. “I’m a man, Velvet. You are a woman. I am twice as big and more than twice as strong. Believe it or not, I can take care of myself without help from you or anyone else. I have been doing so for the past eight years.” He shook her. “Can’t you understand—I don’t want you hurt!”

Velvet said nothing, just stared into those fierce blue eyes. When he let her go, she surprised him by stepping closer instead of backing away. Sliding her arms around his neck, she raised on her toes and pressed her cheek against his.

“I don’t want you hurt, either, Jason. That is the reason I followed you to Bell Yard.”

His powerful muscles went tense. She thought he might push her away. Then he made a sound low in his throat and crushed her against him. “I don’t understand you. You’re not like any woman I’ve ever known.”

Velvet didn’t answer, just snuggled closer, pressing herself against his chest, absorbing his solid male strength. His clothes smelled of rain and a faint hint of smoke from the alehouse. She clung to him and felt his heart pulsing against her breast, felt its steady pumping tempo increase, then the thickening ridge of his desire as it hardened to iron and surged against her belly.

Desire slithered through her, warm and enticing. She recognized it now for what it was. She pressed a soft kiss against the side of his neck, tasted a hint of salt and the warmth of his skin. Her lips moved to the rim of his ear and a tremor slid through his tall body. She bit down gently on the lobe then kissed the pulse at the base of his throat.

Jason groaned. His hands moved down her back, settled around her waist and he drew her even closer. He kissed her throat, the line of her jaw, then his mouth captured hers in a searing kiss that scorched the breath from her lungs.

Oh, dear God! She tingled all over. Hot, damp heat slithered through her limbs, pooling in the place between her legs. Her breasts began to swell, the nipples distending, chafing against the chemise beneath her gown. She wanted him to touch her, to soothe the ache he stirred. She wanted him to make love to her as he had done before.

With trembling fingers she unbuttoned his shirt, slid her hands across the hard bands of muscle beneath the fabric, laced her fingers in his curly brown chest hair.

A deep sound rumbled deep in his throat. Big warm hands slid over her bodice, delved inside the neckline to cup and mold a breast. He kissed her deeply, his tongue sweeping in, little swirls of heat tugging low in her stomach. His fingers teased a nipple and her legs went wobbly.

“Jason…” she whispered. “Good sweet God…”

The hand on her breast grew still. His chest rose and fell with each of his ragged breaths even as he forced himself away.

“Hell and damnation!” Gripping her arms, he set her apart from him, holding her at arm’s length as if she posed some sort of threat. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

“I-I was kissing you. You seemed to like it. Surely one little kiss—”

“One little kiss! In another five minutes, I would have had you down on the floor. I’d have had your skirts tossed up and my breeches undone. I’d have buried myself inside you as deeply and as hard as I could and to hell with the consequences.”

Though a flush swept through her, Velvet’s chin went up. A soft ache throbbed in her woman’s place and her breasts felt tender. “’Tisn’t as though it hasn’t happened before. At least now we are married.”

“We aren’t married! I told you from the start, this was only a temporary arrangement. I don’t want a wife—I’m not cut out to be a husband—not now, not ever.”

Ignoring the heat still thrumming through her, Velvet’s gaze came to rest on his face. “I think you would make a fine husband, Jason.”

He only shook his head. “You don’t understand.” He turned away from her, his voice low and gruff. “’Tis late. Past time you retired upstairs.”

Her heart was beating, thudding with a soft heat that made her ache to touch him. She didn’t want to go; she wanted him to kiss her again. One look at those hard, determined features and she knew the wiser course was to leave him be.

“Good night, Jason,” she said softly.

She got a slight nod and a scowl in return.

He was sleeping in the room next to hers. She didn’t hear him enter until several hours later. Once she knew he had arrived, her eyes began to close and she finally fell asleep.

*   *   *

Dressed in a leaf green gown trimmed with yards of white lace, Velvet descended the stairs to the breakfast room. She hadn’t expected to hear the sound of her grandfather’s gruff laughter or the deep rumble of Jason’s own mirth as he joined in. It was a pleasant, happy sound and it drew her toward them like a bird homing back to its nest.

“Good morning, my dear.” Her grandfather smiled. Both men rose to their feet at her appearance. “Your husband and I were regaling each other with tales of our days at Oxford. Some things never change, don’t you know. That school seems to be one of them.” He chuckled good-naturedly. “My old classmate, Shorty James, was my best friend when I was a student. He was headmaster when Jason attended. They didn’t call him Shorty then, as you can imagine. Except behind his back.”

Velvet smiled at Jason and he smiled back. The past was always easy for her grandfather to recall. It was the present that posed a problem. Apparently Jason had shrewdly discerned the fact and directed the conversation to a subject that put the old man at ease. Velvet’s heart filled with gratitude at his compassion.

She watched the pair from beneath her lashes, noticing how comfortable they had already become with each other. If only her marriage were real, if they could truly be the family they appeared. A sweet yearning rose inside her, but Velvet forced it down. She rarely allowed herself to think of Jason as her husband. It would only hurt more when he left.

A light knock sounded. The black-clad butler appeared in the doorway. “Lord Litchfield has made an unexpected arrival. He wishes to see Lord Hawkins. I have shown him into the drawing room.”

“Thank you, Snead,” Jason said. He turned to Velvet and the aging earl. “If the two of you will excuse me…”

“By all means,” said her grandfather, but Velvet rose and followed him down the hall.

She caught up with him just before he stepped into the drawing room, stopping him with a hand on his arm. “I’m your wife, Jason—at least until you leave. What Litchfield has to say concerns me, just as it does you.”

He started to argue, must have seen some truth in her words, and instead made a slight bow of his head. “As you wish, my lady.”

Litchfield stood at the mantel when they walked in, his dark countenance a thundercloud of emotion.

“What is it?” Jason closed the heavy doors, assuring they would be private.

The marquess’s steady black gaze swung to Velvet, noting her unexpected presence, but there wasn’t the least hesitation. “’Tis Avery, I’m afraid. Apparently he has married Mary Stanton. The settlement he has gained is rumored to be huge.”

“Oh, dear lord, poor Mary,” Velvet said.

“Quite so,” said Litchfield.

“I had hoped if the gossip of their involvement proved correct,” Jason said, “their betrothal would be long enough for her to discover the truth about him.”

Litchfield frowned, his bold black brows drawing together. “They say it was a love match. The pair was so taken with each other they eloped while her father was away. I asked our man Barnstable to search out the veracity of the affair and he claims Mary Stanton was forced into the marriage. He says the girl was lured away from the Briarwoods house party on the pretext her father was ailing.”

“Sounds like Avery,” Jason said darkly. “There’s no length he wouldn’t go to get the money he needs.”

“Sweet God, it must have been terrible for Mary.”

Jason’s gaze fixed on Velvet. “As much as I pity Mary Stanton, I am equally glad the woman was not you.”

Surprise swirled through her. Velvet said nothing, but the protective gleam in Jason’s eyes stirred a blossoming sweetness inside her.

Litchfield’s face looked grim. “If the man was a fearsome opponent before, with the backing of his powerful new father-in-law and his wealth securely back in place, he is at least twice as dangerous as he was then.”

“We’ll have to move up our timetable,” Jason said.

“You’re speaking of Celia,” said Lucien.

Jason nodded. “Among other things. At least several dozen invitations have arrived since news of Velvet’s marriage leaked out. Half the ton is demanding to meet the lucky man who has married the Haversham heiress. We won’t be able to put them off much longer without stirring up more gossip. Avery will be even more curious than the rest. We have to figure a way around the problem and continue to search for evidence against him.”

Velvet bit her lip. “You shouldn’t have married me. Your life was already at risk. Now the matter has worsened.”

Jason shook his head. “It makes no difference. Steps have been taken to release your dowry. As soon as I have it, I shall see it signed into your name. It was a debt I owed you. Soon it will be paid.”

Velvet’s heart squeezed. A debt he owed. The price of her innocence. She knew that was how he felt, yet it hurt to hear him put it into words.

“In the meantime,” he was saying, “I want to speak to Barnstable, see what else he might have unearthed.”

Velvet hoped the Bow Street Runner had found something that could help them. Avery Sinclair was a vicious, evil man. Every day Jason stayed in England the chances grew worse that he would be discovered. If he was, he was certain to hang. There had to be a way to prove his innocence. Velvet vowed that she would find it. Once she did he would be safe.

She ignored the jolt of pain that reminded her that once he was, he would also be gone.

*   *   *

Christian Sutherland, earl of Balfour, leaned against the door leading out to the terrace. An hour ago, Velvet Moran, now married to her distant Northumberland cousin, had arrived at the crowded soiree in company with Lucien Montaine along with Lord and Lady Briarwood, who had become her close friends.

Velvet had sent a message to Christian, of course, a letter informing him of her marriage the day after it had occurred. It explained that she had long been enamored of her cousin but hadn’t expected that he would make an offer. She asked for his understanding in this, a matter of the heart, and hoped that they might remain good friends.

Christian watched her now, saw her smiling as she paused to speak to the countess of Brookhurst, and found himself wondering at the story that her husband was a bookish, shy sort of man who preferred his scholarly endeavors to the fashionable world of the ton. Not to worry, she had said with what Christian believed was a false amount of gaiety, she and Lord Hawkins were planning a celebration of their marriage in the very near future. Her friends could meet her illusive husband then.

He had offered his congratulations of course, and for the most part, he had meant them. If Velvet was happy, he was happy for her. In the matter of wives, however, it galled him mightily that the first two women he had wanted to marry had flatly turned him down.

It was a thought that drew Christian’s gaze to the opposite end of the crowded salon. Her grace, Mary Sinclair, duchess of Carlyle, stood like a ghostly waif next to the lean, smiling figure of her tall blond husband. He was decked out like a peacock, in a suit of gold and royal blue encrusted with seed pearls and brilliants. The clothes must have cost him a fortune. It was a statement of his wealth and the power that his marriage to Mary Stanton had created.

But what of Mary? In truth, Christian had wanted to marry the girl himself. He was taken with Mary from the moment he had met her. Seeing her now, looking so pale and forlorn, stirred a painful throbbing in his chest.

It made him wonder if the gossip he had so far discounted might, after all, be correct. That instead of a love match, Mary had been forced into marriage with the duke.

Unconsciously, Christian’s hands formed into fists. Mary Stanton had needed a man she could count on. He had wanted very much to be that man. Turning away from the small, fragile picture she made next to Carlyle, Christian strode out onto the terrace.

*   *   *

The hour was late. Velvet’s face felt brittle from the abundance of smiling she had done and accepting the endless rounds of congratulations. Up until now, she had endured the evening without complaint, pretending to a gaiety she did not feel, determined to discover some small shred of something that might be of value to Jason.

Standing beneath a glittering chandelier at the edge of the Gold salon, she laughed at a ribald remark her current companion, the beautiful black-haired countess of Brookhurst, had whispered behind her hand painted fan, an intimation that the young Baron Densmore was equipped much like a Scotish bull and with just that much fortitude in bed. The remark made the heat creep into Velvet’s cheeks. She hoped the countess would not notice.

Celia Rollins had been her quarry from the time of their first meeting at Carlyle Hall. Each time they had spoken, with Velvet’s subtle attempts at friendship, Lady Brookhurst’s interest had grown.

Velvet laughed at another lusty sally, this one describing Lord Whitmore’s male anatomy as compared with that of a shriveled up toad.

“You are delightfully wicked, my lady,” Velvet said, wondering if Jason had ever seen this side of the woman. She doubted it. Lady Brookhurst was extremely good at enthralling a man, teasing him to distraction while disguising the true depths of her depravity.

“My dear,” she said, “it is past time we ended the formalities between us. From now on you shall call me Celia and I shall call you Velvet.”

Velvet forced another of her painful smiles. “I should be delighted … Celia.”

The countess leaned closer. “I abhor most women, you know. But once in a while, a female comes along who knows what she is about. I sensed that in you, Velvet. You are a woman determined to live as she pleases. I do not know your husband, but whatever manner of man you have married, a woman of your passionate nature will not settle for less than an ardent lover.” Her thick black lashes swept down in a way they hadn’t before. There was something seductive in the look she cast Velvet that made her suddenly uneasy. “’Tis another thing we have in common.”

Velvet nodded as if she agreed, but for the first time she felt wary. She had done it—formed a tentative friendship with a woman who preferred the company of men. It was odd, but in the past few moments, Velvet could swear that Celia had begun looking at Velvet with the same sultry glances she usually reserved for her unwitting male prey. Surely she was only imagining Celia’s softly veiled sensual scrutiny. Surely the whispered stories Velvet had heard about women taking other women as lovers weren’t really true. But suddenly she wasn’t so sure.

Celia glanced over a creamy white shoulder. “My escort, the baron, is walking this way. I believe he has plans for me that will require the balance of the evening.” She flicked the young man a seductive smile, then returned her regard to Velvet.

“You must come to tea,” the countess said with a seductive lowering of her lashes. “Perhaps this coming Thursday?” She smiled. “I promise I shall have all the juicy gossip on your ex-betrothed’s hasty marriage to Mary Stanton. You may count on hearing every sordid detail, right down to the wedding night.”

Velvet’s pulse increased. Tea with Celia Rollins. And Avery would be the topic of discussion. It was the chance she had been seeking, the perfect opportunity for her to ask questions, though the notion of an afternoon spent with Lady Brookhurst made her decidedly uneasy.

“I shall be delighted … Celia.”

The countess smiled with satisfaction, then her perfect black brow arched up as she spotted the young Scottish bull, Lord Densmore. “Here he comes now. I daresay, I like the look on his face. I believe his intentions are entirely dishonorable.”

Velvet said nothing as the countess waved and strolled off to meet her lover. A few moments later, Litchfield arrived with Lord Briarwood and his tall, blond wife, Elizabeth, in tow. Balfour had introduced them, so she would have a proper chaperone. Fortunately she and Elizabeth had liked each other at once and even her marriage to Jason had not altered that friendship.

They left the soiree half an hour later, all of them exhausted from the strenuous round of parties they had attended throughout the eve.

All the way home, Velvet thought of her meeting with Celia on Thursday next. She decided telling Jason would not be the wisest course.