“Are you nearly packed?” Victoire’s hero spoke from just inside the bedchamber door, his face and tone as impersonal as if speaking to a stranger. “Where is your maid? Should she not be doing that?”
Victoire, kneeling beside a small trunk, responded in kind, her tone cool and composed. “Annie has gone to retrieve the last of our things from the laundry. Due to your generosity, we have a good deal more to pack than when we arrived. Mrs. Biddeford was kind enough to find this trunk for our use.” He acknowledged her thanks with a negligent wave of his hand. “Pray tell me what has happened. I thought we were fixed here for several more days.”
“It seems we were observed leaving Mrs. Giddons’s. Possibly one of London’s many caricaturists lives in that area. Jack’s lips curled in disgust. “Whatever the reason, this is the result.” He stepped forward and handed her the caricature.
“Quelle horreur!” Victoire whispered. “I am so sorry. “I have brought this on you—”
“Silence! You’ve worried that bone to death.”
“And I heard talk . . . I have brought you trouble at work as well.”
“Our journey to France had nothing to do with you. It did, in fact, add to your troubles since I was so tardy in coming to your aid.”
“Nonetheless, I am a danger to you—”
“I will skin through, I always do. And knowing you are safe in the country will help.”
“But you will be questioned?”
“Possibly, but you will recall Ravensden has put it about you are recuperating from your fall at Ravensden Park, which makes it highly unlikely he will dare demand a search of my house. No matter how much he might wish to.”
Awed, Victoire stared up at him. “Machiavellian, Mr. Harding—Jack. Clearly, you thrive on intricate plots.”
“Why else do you think Tobias Brockman hired me?”
“You are still employed, I trust?”
“By the skin of my teeth. During my days in France my friend Terence O’Rourke returned, very much mellowed, I’m happy to say, by his wedding journey. He approved my extended journey to France on Brockman Company business—so long as I don’t go haring off again without his permission.”
Victoire groaned. “I can imagine how long that will last. I suspect you’ve been doing exactly as you pleased since you were out of leading strings.”
“And nearly hanged for it,” he responded airily, adding before she could question him, “Finish your packing, my girl. A friend has offered his carriage in case there’s someone keeping an eye on mine. And you’ll have outriders, men to guard you on the road and at the cottage as well.”
A sudden silence. “I will miss you,” Victoire murmured. The very least she could say after all he had done for her.
When, in spite of the admonitions of her common sense, she wanted so much more.
Hypocrite! If you really cared for him, you would rejoice you are escaping to the country, sparing ruin to you both.
Still far from fully recovered, Victoire used the edge of the trunk to push herself to her feet. She faced her host squarely, chin high. “I had hoped we might have time to recapture the rapport we once had, but it seems it is not to be so. There are no words adequate to expressing my thanks. You are a true friend.” She held out her hand. When he grasped it, lightning flashed, eyes sparked. Speechless, Victoire gazed at him as his other hand closed over hers. Dear God, was it possible he cared, truly cared?
Perhaps at this moment, but passion does not last, cautioned the cynical common sense learned at Claude Darrincote’s knee.
Hers would, she feared, and she felt every last nuance of it shining from her eyes. Laying her soul at his feet. “Would you . . . would you kiss me goodbye?” she whispered before her head could overrule her heart.
His Adam’s-apple jolted as he swallowed. Jack Harding, afflicted by an attack of nerves? If she weren’t so mortified by her forwardness, she might have smiled.
He was still staring at her, eyes intense, but doing nothing. Ma foi! Must she throw herself into his arms?
His hand rose, his index finger pausing just short of the red line of her scar. Slowly, he traced the finger down her cheek. So simple a thing to send shivers exploding through her. Cupping her chin, he raised her face to his. She couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe. “We are both mad,” he groaned softly, just before his lips touched hers.
For a moment she was too shocked to feel anything at all. She had dreamed of his kiss, but that was fantasy, and this was real. More than she could ever imagine. He pulled her closer, their bodies melding together. Sensation crashed back with scorching heat, the imprint of solid flesh, the scent of man the hunter, the surety that she was meant to stay in his arms for life. His lips devoured hers, demanding, even as she felt him harden against her. Thanks to some of the younger Abenaki women, her education in matters of the flesh had gone far beyond that of most young women of her class. And, truthfully, this evidence of her power pleased her. Until she recalled all the other women for whom his cock had crowed.
Victoire broke away, stepped back. How very fortunate she was going away, since, for all his warnings, he seemed to be flint to her tinder. A conflagration inevitable when they touched. “Will you visit?” Ah, bah! The very last thing she intended to say!
“Only if I can avoid leading some spy directly to you.” Determination firmed his chin, even as his pale eyes darkened to steel.
Annie scurried past their motionless bodies, carrying a stack of chemises and petticoats toward the open trunk. “Will you see us off, Mr. Harding?” Victoire asked, grasping at formality to refute her fall into idiocy.
“Naturally.” He proffered a swift bow and stalked from the bedchamber.
Victoire sat down hard on the edge of the bed. She was undone. Through all the days of her infatuation with Jack Harding, her common sense had assured her she would survive her present unreasoning passion to become a good wife to a worthy gentleman to whom she would bear a conventional number of children, raising them in a sensible manner to become rock solid examples of English respectability.
Now . . . ?
Now her problems had multiplied ten-fold.
At an unnaturally early hour the next morning, two Bow Street Runners pounded on the door of South Audley Street. Jack suffered a bad moment when informed that one of the two well-dressed men accompanying them was Ravensden’s solicitor. Was this visit, then, the result of his midnight prowl through the man’s office? But no, the other gentleman was Launsdale’s man of business, Jarret Pilkington, and one of the Runners was waving the damning caricature in his face, demanding to search the house.
Striking a carefully crafted pose between outrage and offended innocence, Jack informed them that the caricature was a product of the artist’s lively imagination, the likenesses extracted from the stories of his carrying Miss du Bois into Ravensden House after her close-call in Hyde Park. They might search the house from attic to cellar, he assured them, but they would find no trace of Miss du Bois. Traces of less virtuous women? He favored his visitors with a salacious wink. Now that, of course, was another matter entirely. And, besides, had no one told them Miss duBois suffered a fall and was currently recuperating at Ravensden Park?
The unwelcome visitors departed forty-five minutes later, with the Runners shaking their heads and Ravensden’s scowling solicitor offering apologies through his teeth. Launsdale’s man of business, however, was a bit of a puzzle. Jack would almost swear Pilkington had looked . . . thoughtful. Wondering where Victoire had gone. Plotting, planning? The man bore watching.
The last thing Jack wanted to do that night was attend Lady Ashburton’s soirée, but his appearance was mandatory. He might have outfaced the Runners and Ravensden’s minions, but if he cowered from the ton, his efforts of the morning would be wasted. Evidence be damned, they would tear what was left of his claim to hard-won respectability to shreds.
If only he had received word that Victoire was safely at Willowood . . .
Too soon. He knew it was too soon, and yet his attention kept drifting during his afternoon meeting with Terence, as Jack recounted all that happened during his absence from Brockman and Company, plus a swift summary of the recent jewelry thefts and the problems facing Victoire duBois. From Terence O’Rourke Jack had no secrets. He was as much a brother as Avery.
“You’ve been busy,” Terence returned, a wicked gleam in his eye. “All that and Tobias too. It seems I have missed all the fun.”
“You’d best not let Beth hear you say that.”
“Ah, but that wasn’t fun, my friend, that was ecstasy.” He leaned forward, as if imparting a secret. “And the best part, Jack? It’s not over. I get to keep the girl, go home to her every night for more of the same. It’s high time you considered the benefits of marriage instead of crying craven at the sight of a beautiful virgin like your Miss duBois.”
“We’re not here to discuss—”
“Then why tell me?” While Jack fumed, Terence sat back in his chair, one fist clenched on the edge of his desk. “You may use the Hellions, if needed,” he said at last. “For any of the problems you mentioned. And perhaps we should consult the twins. God knows they have a talent for subterfuge.”
Jack’s scowl dissolved into a laugh. “By all means suggest we enlist a marquess and his twin. One future duke to catch another.” He shook his head. “I think not yet. I’m hoping it won’t come to that.”
“You’ll keep the girl locked up at Willowood ’til she’s old and gray? The problem’s not going to go away, you know. Unless . . . I suppose marriage—marriage to a man of strength, one with an army at his back—might do the trick.”
“Damn you, Terence. You always did have a way of saying what I don’t want to hear.”
“You must end this, Jack. Use as many of our spies as you need. Investigate the lot of them—duke, marquess, the whole family. Their solicitors, the man of business.” Terence frowned. “Jarret Pilkington. I’ve heard of him, and nothing good. In fact . . . give him special attention. He could easily be the worm in the woodwork.
“And as for the jewel thefts . . .” Terence O’Rourke proceeded to offer advice on that as well. Tobias Brockman hadn’t named him successor to his empire simply because he’d had the temerity to marry his daughter.
Since Lord Cheyney had assumed command of Victoire’s small cavalcade to Willlowood, Jack attended the Ashburton soirée with only Gabe Hammond and Harry Blacklock at his side. As their carriage waited in line, Jack repeated words both men had heard before. “Keep your eyes sharp, note who slips off for a while. Or, if a theft occurs elsewhere tonight, we must note which members of the ton were absent from the Ashburton’s.”
Gabe laughed. “My apologies, Harding, but it’s plain you don’t know much about the ton. Even at the starchiest events, people slip off all the time. The garden bushes positively shake with bare bottoms.”
“A bit chilly this time of year,” Harry offered.
Jack, recalling a bedchamber at the Tuileries, failed to be amused.
After several moments of pregnant silence, Harry said to Gabe, his face a mask of innocent inquiry, “Was it the Bard who called love a plague?”
“Some poet of the last century, I believe,” Hammond muttered, “but no matter the origin, the illness remains the same. Deadly and untreatable.”
Jack slammed his fist against the side of the carriage. “The lady is a virgin of good family. And as far as I am concerned, she shall stay that way. I am her protector in the literal, not figurative sense. Is. That. Clear?”
His last words boomed out into the night as a footman opened the carriage door and let down the steps. Still grumbling, Jack waved his friends out before taking a moment to snap his mind back to task at hand. Jewelry theft, not Victoire. Capturing a thief, not an assassin.
At least not at the moment.
Beau Brummel might have fled to the continent, in debt and in disgrace with his long-time mentor, the Prince Regent, but his influence remained in the garb of every gentleman in the room. Tight-fitting pantaloons that molded to the leg—and woe to any gentleman as corpulent as the Prince. Dark jackets, cut short in front with the much longer back split into two squared-off tails. Pristine white shirts, worn with elaborately embroidered or brocaded waistcoats, the only vestige of the colorful finery worn by gentlemen of the previous generation. And topping this display, sparkling white cravats arranged in an artful display of ingenuity. Gentlemen might no longer be the colorful peacocks their fathers once were, but their sober façade provided an elegant backdrop for the ladies whose gowns seemed to be in every rainbow hue, with only the youngest, fresh out of the schoolroom, left to simper in angelic white.
If only Victoire were one of them.
Devil a bit, must the little Canadian haunt him wherever he went?
A young man who had been walking toward him suddenly scurried off, and Jack realized he’d let his bland society mask slip into a scowl that frightened the poor boy away. Bloody idiot, that’s what he was. He was here to brazen it out, to show the ton his utter indifference to any claim of misdeeds on his part. Fine. He was here to look for a jewel thief. Scowling like a hanging judge would accomplish neither. Smile, Harding, smile.
And still no word from Willowood. The coach could have been attacked . . . Victoire dead . . . The string quartet at one end of the spacious drawing room struck up a piece by Mozart. The smiling, chattering crowd kaleidoscoped into a whirling mass of color against which he saw the coach overturned, Victoire’s lifeless body sprawled upon the ground. She was gone, he’d never see her again, the light in his life extinguished . . .
“Good God, man, stop standing there looking as if you’d lost your privates.” Fortunately, Gabe Hammond’s whisper carried no farther than Jack’s ear. “Come, let us accost the Darrincotes face to face. Tempt fate, don’t you know, and see what happens.”
Jack blinked, his thoughts returning to the Ashburton’s drawing room with a sickening thud. Bloody ballocks, but he’d gone stark, raving mad. Over a virgin.
God and the Devil knew he’d tried to keep his distance—
“I see the youngest Darrincotes in the far corner,” Gabe said. “Wouldn’t you like to speak with the young lady who may have pushed your inamorata down the stairs?”
Curtly, Jack nodded. He and Harry followed Hammond through the crowd toward the place where Lord Tarrant and his sister stood, looking down their aristocratic noses as they examined the guests at Lady Ashburton’s soirée. When the three men reached their quarry, Jack made the necessary introductions, continuing without further preamble. “Lady Odelia, Lord Tarrant, I have heard a shocking rumor that your cousin, Miss du Bois, is quite ill. Something about a fall, I believe. I trust you have better news to impart?”
“She tripped, I’m told,” Julius responded coolly, “and near broke her neck falling down the stairs at the Park. Unfortunately”—he managed a look so lugubrious Jack had to fight an urge to flatten him where he stood—“the doctor is uncertain of her full recovery.”
“Most unfortunate,” Hammond murmured while Jack was fully occupied with controlling his temper. “So you think it unlikely she will make her come-out this Season?”
“Most unlikely,” Julius intoned, shaking his head in a show of sorrow.
“Then I trust you will make it clear to the guests tonight,” Jack inserted smoothly, fists clenched but his temper still in check, “that Miss du Bois is far too ill to come to town. That I have met her but once in my life, when I had the honor of stopping her runaway horse in Hyde Park. And that the scurrilous caricature currently making the rounds was created by the artist and the engraver to plump up their pockets and bears no relation to reality.”
“But if our dear cousin were in London,” Lady Odelia all but hissed, “I cannot think of a more likely place to find the granddaughter of Lord Claude than in the arms of one of the Devil’s Disciples.”
“Odelia!” Julius clutched his sister’s arm, appearing genuinely alarmed.
Jack offered a thin smile. “Ah, I begin to understand. It seemed so odd that a young woman I had met only in passing could have her name linked to mine. But perhaps you commissioned the engraving, Lady Odelia, hoping to besmirch your cousin’s name? How better to do that than insinuate she is acquainted with me?”
“Now see here, Harding—” Julius began.
“Stubble it,” Harry Blacklock interrupted. “Your sister asked for this set-down.”
“Don’t be absurd!” Odelia snapped.
“Nothing is absurd,” Jack responded, emphasizing each word, “when a fortune is at stake. Make no mistake, Tarrant, Lady Odelia. Do not drag me into your quarrel with your cousin. I am a dangerous man to cross.”
The three Devil’s Disciples turned and strolled away as if they had been indulging in nothing more than polite conversation. Finding an out-of-the-way space behind a potted palm, they paused, Jack’s breath rushing out in a soft whistle between his teeth. “We have engaged the enemy,” he murmured, “and each is lying with fervor. But demmed if I know who won that round.”
“Tarrant seems to comprehend that you would make a bad enemy,” Gabe responded carefully, “but I’d swear Lady Odelia cares not a whit. They both suspect the caricature is drawn to life, but must keep up the charade the family has invented. A tantalizing situation. You must send a further caution to Willowood, I think. The battle lines have been drawn, and while the young Darrincotes may pass on your version of the tale, they will make certain the family explores every possibility that you are hiding their quarry.”
“Victoire was too credible a witness for me not to believe her story,” Jack mused, “but until just now I had to take her word on faith. No longer. That pair made my hackles rise. There is more substance there than I had supposed. A future duke and his sister—the supposed crème de la crème—are far from the greedy simpletons I took them for.”
“’Ware, Darrincotes,” Hammond agreed. “After that exchange I can well believe Lady Odelia pushed her cousin down the stairs.”
“While Julius would prefer to wed her, by fair means or foul.”
Gabe, ever the cynic, nodded thoughtfully. “A clever move,” he offered, “for then all the money would come to him.”
“With none for Launsdale or Odelia,” Jack added, pouncing on the idea. “Which makes him at odds with both father and sister.”
“Desirous of keeping her alive, while the others want her dead.”
“And all of them frantically searching for her.”
“Ravensden—do you think him in on the plot?” Hammond asked.
Jack considered the question a moment before replying. “The duke had to agree to the deception about Victoire being confined to her bed at Ravensden Park, but it’s likely the London Darrincotes found some plausible excuse to convince him. Perhaps fear of the scandal that would result from a great hue and cry for a missing heiress. Ravensden would dislike that intensely.”
“And so the family maneuvers him into creating a fiction that spares them the inevitable revelation of their plans. Neat, I must admit.”
“And makes it all too easy for them to say she took a turn for the worse and died.”
“Bloody schemers,” Harry muttered.
“So what do we do?” Gabe asked.
“We mingle, we drink champagne and brandy, we smile charmingly, while I appear the epitome of innocence. We keep our ears and eyes open for every nuance, while staying long enough to make certain the evil duo repudiates the caricature by spreading our version of the tale.”
What he really wanted, was to bolt out of Lady Ashburton’s drawing room and ride hell for leather to the cottage. Throw his own body between Victoire and any possible danger. He wanted . . .
Hell and the devil, he wanted Victoire.
“Come,” Jack growled, “we’ve hidden long enough. “Time to smile and smile and keep dark thoughts to ourselves.”