A Daring Passion (4 page)

Seated in the comfort of his carriage, Philippe Gautier was singularly unimpressed.

He had traveled too widely to suppose the inn could offer more than watered ale, food boiled to tasteless mush and an infestation of vermin. No matter how cold and miserable the night, he intended to press onward. His carriage was preferable to the hospitality of the King's Arms.

A preference that the innkeeper clearly found galling as he waddled his way through the snow and pulled open the carriage door to offer up the steaming mug of hot cider that Philippe had ordered.

“Here you are, sir.” The man shoved the mug in Philippe's hand with a fawning smile on his round, ruddy face. “Nothing like a bit of cider on a cold night.”

Philippe pulled back, his austere features frigid with distaste. There was an overwhelming stench of stale tobacco and onions that clung to the man.

“That will be all.”

Impervious to Philippe's icy dismissal, the innkeeper cleared his throat even as his gaze covertly took in Philippe's exquisitely tailored greatcoat and Hessians that had been polished to a blinding perfection. The avaricious gaze lingered a moment on the gold signet ring that graced Philippe's slender finger before returning to meet the narrowed green eyes.

“Such a miserable night and only to get worse, I fear.” He raised pudgy fingers to smear back his thinning patch of gray hair. “The cook swears that she smells snow in the air, which means it shall be upon us before long. She is uncanny, she is. Never wrong.”

Philippe gave a lift of a chiseled brow that perfectly matched his raven locks. He was well aware the man was attempting to frighten him into remaining the night at the inn. The ridiculous imbecile.

“Do you mean to tell me that you possess a cook who is also a witch?” he demanded in a low, silky tone that was only faintly accented.

The innkeeper gave a choked cough. “Oh, nay, sir. Nothing of the sort. She merely has a nose for weather.”

“A nose? Like a bloodhound?”

“All perfectly natural, I assure you.”

“It does not strike me as perfectly natural.” He lifted the mug to drain the cider. The dregs were bitter on his tongue, but it at least provided a warmth to his chilled body. “Indeed, I should think it most unnatural.”

“Aye, well.” The innkeeper awkwardly cleared his throat. “She is harmless enough, and makes a fine shepherd's pie that will melt in your mouth. Just what is needed on this cold, miserable night.”

“I abhor shepherd's pie,” Philippe informed the man as he shoved the now-empty mug back into his hands. “And before you begin to bore me with the delights of your boiled-oxtail soup and the perfection of your ale, be assured that nothing could prevail me to remain beneath your roof.”

The beefy face flushed with offended pride. “Sir, I must protest…”

“What you must do is close the door before you allow any more of the night air into my carriage,” Philippe announced in a voice that brooked no argument. “I grow weary of your chatter. Be off with you.”

“As you wish.” Offering a stiff bow, the man backed away just as a large, dark form slipped past him to enter the carriage and shut the door in his flushed face.

Philippe watched as his companion settled himself on the leather seat across from him.

At a glance Carlos Estavan did not seem the sort of man that Philippe Gautier would choose as a trusted friend. While Philippe was a slender, elegant gentleman with a cool, some would say aloof, composure and an aristocratic air, Carlos was broad and dark with the swarthy complexion of his Portuguese ancestors. He also possessed a fiery temperament and the sort of earthy passions that were decidedly absent in Philippe.

The two men had, however, been the closest of companions since Philippe had arrived at his father's estate in Madeira when he had been but a tender lad. At the time Philippe had been devastated by his mother's death and ready to strike out at anyone who crossed his path. Carlos had been the son of a local fisherman and an English maid who worked at Philippe's family estate, and not at all shy about holding his own, even against a nobleman.

Philippe had been beaten senseless, but much to the astonishment of all, he had refused to allow Carlos to be punished. In truth, he had developed a grudging respect for the ill-tamed rascal who would rather risk the pillory than be bested.

It was a friendship that had flourished despite the disparity in their social positions, and Philippe knew there was no one he trusted more in the world.

Which was precisely why he had insisted that Carlos accompany him on this journey to England.

“So you do not possess faith in the cook's uncanny nose?” Carlos demanded, revealing he had been lurking in the shadows to listen to Philippe's conversation with the innkeeper.

“Ridiculous jackass.” Philippe settled back in the seat and pulled his coat about him. Lud, but he had forgotten just how cold and miserable England could be in November. “As if I were not perfectly aware he was attempting to cozen me into spending the night at his shabby inn.”

Carlos smiled as he rammed his hands through the long black hair that had been tousled by the stiff breeze.

“Well, you can hardly blame the man. He is stuck in the midst of this dreary landscape with no companionship beyond cows and half-wits. How often do you suppose such a fine and elegant gentleman arrives at his humble establishment? No doubt he was already plotting to have the town crier inform the local citizens that you halted for a mug of cider. Just imagine the bragging he could have done if you were to have actually slept in one of his beds.”

“Along with the bedbugs and mice?” Philippe shuddered. “No thank you.”

“We have bedded down in worse.”

That was true enough. Over the years Philippe and Carlos had bunked down in hovels, fields, and on one unforgettable occasion, in the dank cells of a Brazilian prison.

“Only when promised enough of a fortune to make it worth my while, and never where I am forced to endure such a despicable toadeater,” Philippe drawled. “What news from the stables?”

“There have been no strangers pass this way for the past fortnight.”

Philippe swallowed a curse. It was, of course, a great deal too much to hope that he would simply stumble across the scoundrel he was seeking, but not to have even the smallest inkling of the dastard's location was straining his already raw nerves.

“No wonder the innkeeper was so desperate for my blunt.” He glanced out the frosted window. “How far are we from London?”

“We are still some thirty miles, with many of the roads impassable.”

“Devil take it. If we are to have a decent roof over our heads before the night is out then we shall have to dare the main road.” Philippe grimaced. He had lived too long in warm climates not to feel the bite of the winter air. “No matter, there will be few travelers about at this time of eve.”

“Not with the cook smelling snow in the air.”

Philippe narrowed his gaze. “Tell Swann to take the turnpike before I leave you here to grub among the natives.”

Lifting the hatch in the top of the carriage, Carlos passed the command on to the groom before resuming his seat with a smile that revealed a flash of perfect white teeth.

“I wouldn't complain at lingering an hour or two. There is a very eager barmaid who was casting her eye in my direction. She would no doubt warm a man on such a cold night.”

The carriage swayed from the stable yard and began to pick up its pace as it hit the turnpike. Philippe gave a shake of his head as he resigned himself to a chilly, disagreeable night.

“Good God, do you never think of anything else?” he demanded.

Carlos gave a low chuckle. “That is your trouble, you know, Gautier.”

“What? That I do not tup every chit who tosses herself at my feet?”

“That you don't tup any of the chits who toss themselves at your feet. It's no wonder you are so grim and cross. A man needs the comfort of soft arms to keep him in high spirits.”

Philippe smiled at the familiar chiding. Unlike Carlos he felt no need to possess a different woman in his bed every night. Oh, he was no saint. And certainly he was no eunuch. He had bedded the most beautiful, the most talented and the most exclusive women throughout Europe.

But his affairs were always discreet and conducted with the same cool precision he approached the rest of his life.

The mere thought of a hasty tumble with some tavern wench was enough to make him shudder in distaste.

“Do you have a point, Carlos?”

Sprawling with indolent ease, Carlos gave a small shrug. “Only that life is meant to be enjoyed.”

“I would enjoy life a great deal more if my brother was not languishing in Newgate prison.”

The dark, forceful features hardened at the mention of Philippe's younger brother. Not surprising. Carlos held Jean-Pierre in barely concealed contempt, considering him a frivolous dandy who could boast no accomplishments beyond dallying away Philippe's fortune.

Unfortunately Carlos was not entirely wrong. Jean-Pierre was only one year younger than Philippe's one and thirty, but he had been absurdly pampered by their father. As a result, Jean-Pierre had grown into a man of weak character and dissolute habits who cared for nothing beyond his own pleasure.

“Jean-Pierre is always courting some sort of trouble or other, and you are always charging to his rescue,” Carlos said dryly. “It is what you do, after all.”

“His troubles to this date have involved moneylenders, illegitimate brats and cuckolded husbands, not treason,” Philippe felt compelled to point out. “This snare may be one that not even I can untangle.”

Carlos remained indifferent. “You will find the means. After all, he is for once not guilty.”

“Of course he is not guilty, but how to prove him innocent?” Philippe clenched his hand as he thought of his brother stuck in a rat-infested cell surrounded by cutthroats and lunatics. For all his sins not even Jean-Pierre deserved such a brutal fate. “By God, the authorities must be worthless lobcocks to believe for a moment Jean-Pierre could concoct such a scheme. The fool cares for nothing beyond the cut of his coat, bedding his latest paramour and paying outrageous sums of money on what anyone with even a modest eye for art would consider worthless tripe. Certainly he has not the wits to dabble in politics.”

“No one has ever claimed that the king is the most brilliant of gentlemen.”

“True enough.” Lost in his dark thoughts, it took Philippe a moment to realize that the carriage had inexplicably slowed and was coming to a halt. “What the devil is the matter now?” Yanking open the window, Philippe glanced upward to ensure his groom had not come to some injury, before his narrowed gaze moved to discover the vague outline of a horse and rider standing in the center of the road before them. “Damn.”

Pulling in his head, Philippe reached into his pocket to touch the dueling pistol he always carried.

Easily sensing Philippe's sudden tension, Carlos straightened, a dangerous fire burning in his dark eyes. “Trouble?”

“It seems we are about to be introduced to the local bandit.”

Far from worried by the news, Carlos slowly smiled. “Entertainment. Good.”

Philippe chuckled at his bloodthirsty friend. “Hold, Carlos. I do not wish him dead. At least not yet.”

“Why ever not?”

“If anyone is to have noticed the coming and goings on this road it will be the resident highwayman. I wish to question this scoundrel before you put a bullet through his heart.”

With a sigh Carlos reached down to flip open the trap door that Philippe had installed in the floor of the carriage, a clever addition that had saved their lives on more than one occasion.

Philippe waited until Carlos had slipped from the carriage, knowing that his cunning friend was plotting to circle around the highwayman and take him from behind. It would be Philippe's task to keep the scoundrel distracted until Carlos was in position.

Keeping the pistol in his pocket, with his finger on the trigger, Philippe waited until the carriage stopped, then stepped out onto the road and walked toward the head of the horses.

“Stand and deliver.” The highwayman was gruffly commanding as he waved a small pistol toward the offended groom.

Swann gave a snort of disgust. The groom possessed a rabid dislike for thieves and cutthroats and was always happy to shed the blood of any who crossed his path.

“Get out of my way, you pathetic worm, or I'll rip out your heart and…”

“That will be enough, Swann,” Philippe drawled as he stepped toward the middle of the road.

“Bloody hell, I am well able to handle a half-grown rapscallion without your assistance.”

“I haven't the least doubt in the world, but it does not seem entirely fair that you should have all the fun.” Philippe kept his gaze upon the highwayman, who had shifted the pistol in his direction. Seated upon a dappled gray, the bandit sported a brilliant crimson hat and flowing cape, and he had possessed the sense to wrap a muffler around his lower face. Still, Philippe sensed that beneath the gaudy costume he was a small, nervous sort of man. A cold smile touched his lips. “There is nothing like a bit of target practice to relieve the tedium of a journey.”