A Rake's Midnight Kiss (50 page)

The only result Lydia could envision if she fell in with her brother’s plans was her disgrace. Her brother’s machinations seemed half-cocked, which was odd—Cam rarely did anything without plotting long in advance.

Lydia had no difficulty working out what Simon wanted from the scheme. To cause trouble. She read the old reckless enjoyment of mayhem in his glittering blue eyes as she faced him down with what she prayed was a dismissive expression. Nor was he averse to the idea of a flirtation. She’d been out in society for nine years. She immediately recognized that particular light in a gentleman’s glance.

“May I request the pleasure of this dance?” Simon asked with a charming smile that had her on guard immediately.

“I already have a partner,” she said coldly.

“That’s me,” Cam pointed out cheerfully, interrupting his conversation with Grenville to prove that he’d always been alert to what Simon and Lydia said to each other. “Your brother is happy to step aside in favor of an old chum.”

The most bizarre element of Cam’s conniving was that he toyed so heedlessly with scandal. Camden Rothermere always trod carefully, as if to prove that he was a man of
unwavering principle and decorum, whatever the circumstances of his birth.

Lydia’s glare branded her brother a traitor. She’d have plenty to say to him once they were home. He shrugged with a hint of apology that didn’t mollify her at all.

Gritting her teeth and consigning all Derbyshire men to Hades, she turned to Grenville. At her side, she sensed Simon’s avid interest in her interactions with her fiancé. She fought back the urge to jab her childhood love with her elbow and tell him to take himself and his curiosity elsewhere. Preferably Outer Mongolia.

“Grenville, we’ve hardly spoken a word to one another all evening. I’m sure Mr. Metcalf will renounce his claim.”

“I’d hoped to discuss Grenville’s plans for the next session in the Commons.” With unlikely enthusiasm, Cam clapped his hand on Grenville’s stocky shoulder. No chance now to divert her betrothed, curse her brother’s strategems.

“My love, His Grace’s interest could be vital.” Grenville’s eyes brightened at the prospect of enlisting Cam’s political influence. Lydia had never deceived herself that at least part of her appeal to her fiancé was her kinship to a major power broker. “You go and enjoy yourself.”

“In that case, this dance is mine.” Simon’s hand snaked out to circle her arm in a ruthless grip. Had she imagined that he’d gone unnaturally still when Grenville called her his love? Surely she had. Simon had never been the jealous type. She couldn’t picture him getting het up about a woman he’d known a decade ago.

Quickly her eyes raked the room. To her surprise, the reunion of rakish Simon Metcalf and punctilious Lydia Rothermere hadn’t created a stir. She had no wish to alter that state of affairs by making a scene, so with ill grace, she nodded. “Very well.”

South Devon Coast, November 1826

S
torms split the heavens on the night Sidonie Forsythe went to her ruin.

The horses neighed wildly as the shabby hired carriage lurched to a shuddering stop. The wind was so powerful the vehicle rocked even when stationary. Sidonie had seconds to catch her breath before the driver, a shadow in streaming oilskins, loomed out of the darkness to wrench the door open.

“Here be Castle Craven, miss,” he shouted through the sheeting rain.

For a second, terror at what awaited inside the castle held her paralyzed. Castle
Craven
indeed.

“I can’t leave the nags standing. Be ’ee staying, miss?”

The cowardly urge rose to beg the driver to carry her back to Sidmouth and safety. She could leave now with no damage done. Nobody would even know she’d been here.

Then what would happen to Roberta and her sons?

The remorseless reminder of her sister’s danger prodded Sidonie into frantic motion. Grabbing her valise, she stumbled from the carriage. When the wind caught her, she staggered. She fought to keep her footing on the slippery cobbles as she looked up, up, up at the towering black edifice before her.

She thought she’d been cold in the carriage. In the open, the chill was arctic. She cringed as the wind sliced through her woolen cloak like a knife through butter. As if to confirm she’d entered a realm of gothic horrors, lightning flashed. The ensuing crack of thunder made the horses shift nervously in their harness.

For all his understandable wish to return to civilization, the driver didn’t immediately leave. “Sartain ’ee be expected, miss?”

Even through the howling wind, she heard his misgivings. Misgivings echoing her own. Sidonie straightened as well as she could against the gale. “Yes. Thank you, Mr. Wallis.”

“I wish ’ee well, then.” He heaved himself onto the driver’s box and whipped the horses into an unsteady gallop.

Sidonie hoisted her bag and dashed up the shallow flight of steps to the heavy doors. The pointed arch above the entrance offered paltry protection. Another flash of lightning helped her locate the iron knocker shaped like a lion’s head. She seized it in one gloved hand and let it crash. The bang hardly registered against the roaring wind.

Her imperious summons gained no quick response. The temperature seemed to drop another ten degrees while she huddled against the lashing rain.

What on earth would she do if the house was uninhabited?

By the time the door creaked open to reveal an aged woman, Sidonie’s teeth were chattering and she shook as
though she had the ague. A gust caught the servant’s single candle, making the frail light flicker.

“I’m—” she shouted over the storm but the woman merely turned away. At a loss, Sidonie trailed after her.

Sidonie entered a cavernous hall crowded with shadows. Muddy brown tapestries drooped from the lofty stone walls. Ahead, the fire in the massive hearth was unlit, adding to the lack of welcome. Sidonie shivered as cold seeped up from the flagstones beneath her half-boots. Behind her, the heavy door slammed shut with a thud like the strike of doom. Startled, Sidonie turned to discover another equally geriatric retainer, male this time, turning a heavy key in the lock.

What in heaven’s name have I done, coming to this godforsaken place?

With the door shut, the silence within was more ominous than the shrieking tempest without. The only sound was the sullen drip, drip, drip of water from her sodden cloak. Fear, her faithful companion since Roberta had confided her plight, settled like lead in Sidonie’s belly. When she’d agreed to help her sister, she’d assumed the torment, however horrid, would be over quickly. Inside this dismal fortress, the horrible premonition gripped her that she’d never again see the outside world.

You’re letting your imagination run away with you. Stop it.

The bracing words did nothing to calm spiraling panic. Bile rose in her throat as she followed the still-silent housekeeper across acres of floor. She felt like a thousand malevolent ghosts leered from the corners. Sidonie tightened numb fingers around her bag’s handle and reminded herself what agony Roberta would endure if she failed.

I can do this.

The stark fact remained that she’d come so far and still
might fail. The plan had always been risky. Arriving here alone and vulnerable, Sidonie couldn’t help considering the scheme devised at Barstowe Hall feeble to the point of idiocy. If only her clamoring doubts conjured some alternative way to save her sister.

The woman still shuffled ahead. Sidonie was so rigid with cold that it was an effort forcing her legs to move. The man had offered to take neither her cloak nor bag. When she glanced back, he’d disappeared as efficiently as if he numbered among the castle’s ghosts.

Sidonie and her taciturn escort approached a door in the opposite wall, as imposing as the door outside. When the woman pushed it open, it shifted smoothly on well-oiled hinges. Steeling herself, Sidonie stepped into a blaze of light and warmth.

Trembling, she stopped at one end of a refectory table extending down the room. Heavy oak chairs, dark with age, lined the table on either side. It was a room designed for an uproarious crowd, but as her gaze slowly traveled up the length of board, she realized, apart from her decrepit guide, only one other person was present.

Jonas Merrick.

Bastard offspring of scandal. Rich as Croesus. Power broker to the mighty. And the reprobate who tonight would use her body.

“Maister, the lady be here.”

Without straightening from his careless slouch in the throne-like chair at the room’s far end, the man raised his head.

At this, her first sight of him, the breath jammed painfully in Sidonie’s throat. From nerveless fingers, her bag slid to the floor. Swiftly she looked down, hiding her shock under her hood.

Roberta had warned her. William, her brother-in-law, had been merciless in his excoriations on Merrick’s character and appearance. And of course, like everyone else, Sidonie had heard the gossip.

But nothing had prepared her for that ruined face.

She bit her lip until she tasted blood and fought the urge to turn and flee into the night. She couldn’t run. Too much depended upon staying. In childhood Roberta had been Sidonie’s only protector. Now Sidonie had to save her sister, no matter the cost.

Hesitantly she lifted her gaze to her notorious host. Merrick wore boots, breeches, and a white shirt, open at the neck. Sidonie tore her gaze from the shadowy hint of a muscled chest and made herself look at his face. Perhaps she’d detect a chink in his determination, some trace of pity to deter him from this appalling act.

Closer inspection confirmed that hope was futile. A man ruthless enough to instigate this devil’s bargain wouldn’t relent now that his prize was within his grasp.

Abundant coal black hair, longer than fashion decreed, tumbled across his high forehead. Prominent cheekbones. A square jaw indicating haughty self-confidence. Deep-set eyes focused on her with a bored expression that frightened her more than eagerness would have.

He’d never have been handsome, even before some assailant in his mysterious past had sliced his commanding blade of a nose and his lean cheek. A scar as wide as her thumb ran from his ear to the corner of his mouth. Another thinner scar bisected one arrogant black eyebrow.

A gesture of the graceful white hand curled around a heavy crystal goblet. In the candlelight, the ruby signet ring glittered malevolently. The claret and the ruby were the color of blood, Sidonie noticed, then wished to heaven she hadn’t.

“You’re late.” His voice was deep and as replete with ennui as his manner.

Sidonie had expected to be frightened. She hadn’t expected to be angry as well. This man’s palpable lack of interest in his victim stirred outrage, powerful as a cleansing tide. “The journey took longer than expected.” She was so furious, her hands were steady when they slid her hood back. “The weather disapproves of your nefarious schemes, Mr. Merrick.”

As she uncovered her features, she had the grim satisfaction of watching the boredom leach from his expression, replaced by astonished curiosity. He straightened and glared down the table at her.

“Just who in hell are you?”

The girl, whoever the devil she was, didn’t flinch at Jonas’s irascible question. Under disheveled coffee-colored hair, her face was pale and beautiful in the heavy-lidded, voluptuous manner.

He had to give her credit. She must be scared out of her wits, not to mention as cold as a cat locked out in a snowstorm, yet she stood calm as a marble monument.

Not quite. If he looked closely, faint color marked her cheeks. She was far from the indomitable creature she struggled to appear.

And she was young. Too young to tangle with a cynical, self-serving scoundrel like Jonas Merrick.

At the
bella incognita
’s side, Mrs. Bevan wrung her wrinkled hands. “Maister, ’ee said to expect a lady. When she knocked—”

“It’s all right, Mrs. Bevan.” Without shifting his gaze from his visitor, he waved dismissal. He should be piqued that his original prey evaded his snare, but curiosity swamped anger. Just who was this incomparable? “Leave us.”