Anne Barbour (2 page)

With an oath, he grasped the girl by the shoulders.

“You!” he growled. “What have you done with my money? And where have your friends loped off to?”

She gave no answer, but stared back at him, uncomprehending. He shook her ungently, and her head lolled on her shoulders. She mumbled something under her breath, but when he bent his head to listen, Jared could catch only the words, “No, no, no!” repeated over and over.

As he stared at her in bemusement, her gaze widened. For a moment, a glimmer of horrified awareness shone in her eyes; then they closed, and she slipped from his grasp to slide in an unconscious mound at his feet.

A cursory examination showed that the woman— although on further inspection she seemed scarcely more than a girl—was unharmed, at least physically. His efforts to return her to consciousness resulted only in a sobbing moan from her soft, pale lips.

Whether she was in shock, or merely an alcoholic stupor, he could not tell. She must have been drinking gin, for he could smell no evidence of her inebriation. Now what the hell was he to do? He was loath to delay his journey any further, but he could not leave her in a heap by the side of the road, even if she richly deserved whatever fate might befall her. Of course, her sort usually managed to land on their feet—after first having spent a profitable length of time on their backs. But no, he would have to get help for her.

The question was, where? He knew this portion of the road well enough to be aware that he would find no inn or farmhouse nearby. The closest habitation was Stone-field Court.

He sighed. There was no help for it.

He bundled the woman’s inert form into the curricle, cheering himself with the thought that in bringing this sodden little doxie to his home, he at least stood a chance of recouping the money stolen from him. And then there were her companions.

He looked forward with pleasure to learning the identities and whereabouts of those gentlemen.

As he set his vehicle in motion, he glanced down at the slender figure curled beside him in an attitude of almost childlike oblivion.

“May angels of mercy sing thee to thy rest, little tart,” he murmured, “for you will find no mercy in me.”

* * * *

The girl woke to a sense of deep unease; her eyes flew open and then widened. Shafts of early-morning sunlight revealed a small chamber, sparsely furnished. The quilt-covered bed on which she lay was narrow and none too comfortable.

She sat up abruptly and winced. Her hands went to her throbbing head. Good heavens, what had happened to her? She gave her head a tentative shake, and her hair, the color of old gold, tumbled in heavy waves over her shoulders.

The room was strange to her, and the household noises sounding faintly from below were unfamiliar. She looked down at the cotton nightdress in which she was clothed, then sank back into the pillows.

“I have gone mad,” she said aloud, though there was no one to hear her. As if in answer, a light knock sounded at the door, immediately followed by the appearance of a young woman dressed in the garb of a housemaid.

“Ah, ye’re awake, then,” she said breathlessly. “I’m t’tell ye that his lordship wishes t’see ye in the library as soon as ye’re dressed. My name is Kate, and I’ll come back in a few minutes t’take ye down.”

She whirled about, and the next moment she was gone.

The girl rubbed her forehead, and glanced about the room before sliding from the bed. She moved to a tiny mirror that hung over a wobbly dressing table, and stared, mesmerized, at her reflection.

“What has happened to me?” she whispered again. “Dear God, what
is
this place?”

She surveyed the room once more, and for the first time saw the clothing that had been laid out, apparently for her. She contemplated the simple woolen gown, and felt suspended in a nightmare.

Pressing her fingers to her temples, she tried to arrange her whirling thoughts into some sort of order. The events of the previous evening swam before her, jumbled and confused. Images floated in elusive fragments.

The last thing she remembered clearly was partaking of a meager dinner at the coaching inn. After that, everything was a blur. There had been a man—two men—and a dark, musty carriage—and running along a road—and shots! Another man—tall, powerful—grasping her, hurting her. She covered her face with trembling fingers and moaned in confusion.

She turned again to the girl in the glass, and stiffened at the sight of the weeping creature who stood before her.

“No!” she thought fiercely. “I am
not
such a poor, whimpering rabbit!”

Drawing a deep breath, she straightened her shoulders.

“I am
not
mad. There has to be an explanation for this absurd situation.”

“My name is Diana.” She spoke the words aloud, her thoughts clear for the first time. “My name is Diana St. Aubin, and I do not live in this house.”

But why am I here? How did I get here? And where
is
here?”

The questions spun in her mind and then tumbled into chaos. If only she could remember!

She thought again of the maid, Kate. She had seemed friendly enough. Perhaps she could help.

Diana pulled on the woolen gown, and swept her hair into a makeshift bun on her neck with hairpins she found scattered on the dressing table. When Kate returned in a few minutes, she greeted the little maid with a smile.

“I’m sorry to have been such a sleepyhead when you came in before,” she said, choosing her words with care. “You see, I’m a little lost. I—I’m not quite familiar with the house.”

“Well, mercy, how could you be?” chuckled Kate. “You being brought in at the dead of night. You’ve been having your troubles, sure enough, haven’t you?”

Diana remained silent, nodding warily, but Kate had nothing more to say. Instead, she opened the door for Diana to pass into the hallway outside.

“We’d best hurry. Lord Burnleigh doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

She led the way through several corridors and down narrow flights of stairs before they reached what was apparently the main house. Diana found herself somewhat intimidated by the size and grandeur of the rooms through which she passed, and her curiosity about the unknown Lord Burnleigh mounted. He must be a powerful personage indeed to be the owner of such magnificence. Surreptitiously, she smoothed her skirt, and patted tendrils of hair that had escaped the bun.

When the maid paused at last before a pair of paneled doors, Diana gathered her courage and allowed herself to be ushered into a spacious chamber. She was aware that the room was lined with books, and furnished in the first stare of elegance, but her attention was absorbed by the room’s sole occupant.

Standing before the fireplace was a tall man, dark of countenance and harsh-featured, who appeared to be about thirty years of age. One shining top boot rested casually on the fender. His coat of blue superfine indicated the finest tailoring, though he could by no means be called a dandy. Fawn-colored pantaloons fit superbly about a trim waist and muscular thighs. His dark hair was cropped shorter than the current style, and his physique spoke of hours spent in athletic pursuits.

All this was absorbed by Diana with some interest in a matter of seconds, but as her eyes traveled to his face, a wave of terror nearly overcame her.

“You!” she whispered hoarsely. “It’s—last night—you are the man in the curricle!”

Chapter 2

Jared made no move to approach the girl, controlling with difficulty his astonishment at her appearance. Was this splendid creature the stumbling tart who had set him up for robbery the night before? He observed her huge gray eyes, fringed with smoky lashes, her straight nose, and the wide, generous mouth set over a rather decided chin. His gaze moved along the slender column of her throat, noting the pulse that beat wildly at its base, and the rapid rise and fall of her breasts. The thought sprang unbidden in his mind that her waist would feel supple and slender in his hands. For a surprised instant he felt an urge to pull her to him, to feel her slender length along his, the gold satin of her hair soft against his chin. He returned hastily to the purpose at hand.

“I see you recall our encounter.” His voice was cold.
Our encounter!
Diana fought for composure. She would not stand trembling before this arrogant stranger.

“I fear,” he continued, a sneer lifting the comers of his firm mouth, “that circumstances last night did not permit a formal introduction. I am Jared Talent, Earl of Burnleigh, and you have spent the night in my home, Stonefield Court.”

“Your home?” she repeated in a shaking voice. “Yes. I trust you are fully recovered from your— indisposition?”

Diana made no response to this, but went directly to the concern uppermost in her mind.

“What am I doing here? How did I get here?”

 “Events a little hazy, are they, pet?” Cynical amusement flashed in the earl’s eyes. “You have my sympathy, for I have experienced the same unpleasantness myself after a night on the tiles.”

“A night on the . . . ? I don’t understand, my lord.”

Jared frowned.

“Are you saying you remember nothing?”

“Only vaguely.’’ Diana lifted a hand to her head. “My head aches abominably.”

“Yes, I should imagine it does, but you will forgive my indifference to your problem. Very well, I shall explain why you were brought here—it’s very simple. I want my money back, and I want the names of your confederates.”

“My confederates!”

“Yes. Surely, after what happened, you can feel no loyalty to them. You will soon be going to jail, my lovely, and I’m giving you the opportunity to bring down with you the men who tried to kill you.”

The feeling of nightmarish unreality returned to Diana, and though she had not been invited to be seated, she sank into a convenient armchair of cherry-striped silk.

“What are you talking about?” she asked, desperation in her tone.

A hint of impatience touched Jared’s frown.

“I am talking about the episode that occurred last night at the Green Man, where you and your confederate contrived to rob me of fifty pounds.”

“What!”
Diana leapt to her feet, stiff with outrage.

“By the by,” continued the earl without pause, “whatever did you do to change your lover from the ardent swain I saw at the Green Man into an infuriated assassin?”

“I think you must be mad!” Diana gasped. “I insist that you tell me why you brought me here, and—and that you release me this instant.”

“Oh, very well done,” drawled Jared. He raised his quizzing glass, allowing his gaze to travel from tear-filled eyes to heaving bosom. “Quite the picture of persecuted innocence. However, I am in no mood at the moment for histrionics, my sweet. I—what
is
your name? I cannot continue addressing you in nauseating endearments.”

Diana felt the blood rush to her cheeks.

“Your endearments are no more repugnant to you than they are to me, my lord,” she snapped. “My name is Diana St. Aubin, and I know nothing of robberies or confederates—or—or lovers.”

“You are beginning to try my patience. Miss, er, St. Aubin. Please believe me, you have nothing to gain from these protestations of ignorance. I had thought my fifty pounds gone forever, like a lover’s promises in the light of day, but since circumstances have delivered you into my hands, I see no reason not to pursue the matter.”

Diana’s forehead wrinkled in concentration. Her memory of last night’s events was sketchy at best, but the images that flashed before her mind’s eye gave credence to the accusations of this insufferable man. Before she was taken from the Green Man she must certainly have presented the appearance of a—well, a drunken slut. She blushed hotly. As for the robbery . . .

She whirled to face Lord Burnleigh, whose stony expression remained unchanged.

“My lord,” she began, “I don’t know precisely what happened last night, but I am willing to admit that you have grounds for your suspicions.” She ignored the muffled snort emanating from the earl. “However, if you will let me explain, I’m sure you will be convinced of my innocence.”

Jared sighed. He would have to make it clear to this clever adventuress that he was not the man to be cozened by a lovely face—too many had tried before. The appeal in her smoky eyes was undeniable, however, and the earl admitted to a certain curiosity as to what she could possibly say in extenuation of her actions.

He sat down on a settee near the fireplace and gestured Diana to one opposite.

“Pray go on. I’m sure your tale will prove entertaining, if not particularly instructive.”

Restraining an urge to respond in kind, Diana seated herself and clasped her hands together in an effort to concentrate.

“To begin with, I am a French citizen. I live in Paris.”

She essayed a smile at the earl, who returned it with a stare of undiminished skepticism.

“In that case,” he said with a sardonic smile, “I must congratulate you on your grasp of the English tongue. You speak with no trace of an accent.”

Diana raised her hand to her forehead.

“Please, my lord. I was born in France to English parents. My father died when I was very young, and my mother took care that I should not forget my heritage. She spoke only English to my brother and me in our home.

“My brother,” she repeated slowly. She sat very still, her expression intent. “I remember now. That’s what the man wanted!”

“The man?” asked the earl in a puzzled voice.

“The man in the carriage—the one who waited there when I was forced inside. He kept asking me about some papers—family papers, and when I did not understand, he wanted to know where he could find my brother! ‘Where is Marcus?’ he asked—over and over. ‘Come now, missy, you’d better tell me!’ He knew my brother’s name. How—”

The cool voice interjected once more. “I must compliment you again on your seemingly endless powers of invention. The introduction of a brother in mortal danger lends a certain piquancy to the tale—but I wonder if we could return to the, er, main thread.”

Diana whirled to face the earl.