Anne Stuart (4 page)

Nathaniel finally subsided into blessed silence, and Killoran closed his eyes once more, dismissing both his new companion and the far more distracting vision of a voluptuous, bloodstained, red-haired female from his thoughts. Dreaming, instead, of Ireland.

There had been a time, some twelve or so years ago, when he had been as young as Nathaniel. Perhaps never quite so stalwart and innocent, but he had once believed life held possibilities. That certain things were worth fighting for, and that right always triumphed over might.

It had taken a bloodbath to disabuse him of the notion, and he hadn’t been the one to suffer. It had been his parents who died in his place. And his punishment had been to live with that knowledge through the rest of his endless, empty days.

Nathaniel sank back into the lushly cushioned seats of Killoran’s carriage. Although his father was wealthy enough, he wasn’t used to such luxury. There was a sybaritic elegance about the thick velvet squabs that seemed almost decadent.

The man who’d agreed to take on his social education was an enigma. He sat across from Nathaniel, eyes closed, having dismissed both his young guest and that poor girl without a trace of regret, not to mention the corpse he’d left behind. But then, it was all of a piece with what Nathaniel knew of the man. Even as far north as Northumberland, he was notorious. Any number of people had been willing to tell Nathaniel all about him, and everything he’d seen so far had lived up to that reputation.

James Michael Patrick, the fourth Earl of Killoran, was a notable figure in London society. Not that he was accepted everywhere—for one thing, he was Irish. Which, according to Nathaniel’s informants, automatically made him a wastrel, a scoundrel, a gamester, and a sot. Killoran had never been known to do anything to disabuse society of that opinion.

Being Irish, he was also possessed of a certain lethal charm, a ruined estate somewhere back in Ireland, and eyes the color of Lady Winnimere’s world-famous emeralds. Add to that an almost sinful beauty of face framed by black curls, a tall, graceful body and quite the most elegant hands in all of London, and Killoran, who disdained to use his title, was indeed a dangerously attractive member of society.

Dangerous because the man was reckless, decadent, and far too handsome for his own good. A wicked tongue and a care-for-nothing attitude made him a force to be reckoned with. He had come from nowhere (or Ireland, which some accounted to be the same place), and in the years he’d been in London he’d amassed a prodigious fortune, all through his astonishing success at the gaming tables. His current worth was so impressive, it was rumored that he either cheated or had made a pact with the devil. Of the two possibilities, the latter seemed far more likely.

Though if he wasn’t a Satanist, there was always the dread possibility that he might be far worse—a Catholic.

Most gossips considered that such slander might be going too far. To be sure, Killoran had been educated abroad at one of the Irish colleges in France, but few of the Protestants of Ireland were even allowed an education in that boggy country. He seemed to have no interest in papist notions; he held lands and a title, both a bit shabby, to be sure, but Catholics weren’t allowed those possessions. In other matters he was as English as one could possibly wish. He could drink large quantities of port and claret and never show the cost, he could stay up all night gaming and walk away, winner or—on the rarest of occasions—loser, with a singular lack of regard. He could ride, hunt, shoot, and box, and he’d been known to kill his man in a duel on more than one occasion. What would be considered a liability in a lesser man, his very Irishness added to his allure. He was a great favorite with some of the more adventurous ladies—those who were considered mature enough to withstand his dangerous, drawling charm—and with the gentlemen as well. Those who didn’t mind his mordant streak of humor or his withering contempt.

There was no doubt among the cognoscenti that Killoran had arrived in London with the sole purpose of making his fortune and bringing prosperity back to his name and estates. The most logical way to go about such a commendable course was to marry well, but Killoran, being Irish, hadn’t been given that option. He’d had a number of close calls, including rumors of a clandestine elopement, stopped at the last minute by an angry brother, and the near alliance with a certain unpleasant widow whose jointure was almost as impressive as her bulk. That had come to nought, and Killoran appeared to have settled into a life of indolent, cynical ease. After the first year, he never even spoke of Ireland, and the faint traces of a brogue vanished from his deep, drawling speech.

It was also rumored that he’d once been in love. Foolishly, impetuously in love with Maude Darnley, the reigning toast of London when he’d first arrived, a red-haired, blue-eyed innocent who made a perfect foil for his dark beauty. No one knew for sure whether he’d actually made an offer. Some held that he knew it would never have been accepted and he’d simply been amusing himself, another one of his infamous little games. Others hinted darker possibilities, that despite his already wild reputation, he’d made an effort to mend his ways and earn the hand of his love, and had gone so far as to declare himself.

Impossible, of course. Maude was a beauty and an heiress, of impeccable lineage and family. She would never be allowed to throw herself away on a penniless Irish peer. She was dead now
anyway, and it was all past history.

Some counted the Darnley affair as the start of Killoran’s descent into truly determined decadence. Others insisted he had already been well on his way. In either case, it mattered not the slightest. As long as Killoran could play cards, hold his liquor, and behave like the titled gentleman he was, no one minded how swiftly he went to hell.

His acquaintance were many; his friends, almost nonexistent. “Fine fellow, Killoran,” they would harrumph. “Wouldn’t do to get too close to the man, though. Irish, y’know. Not quite like us. Knows his way around a bit of horseflesh though. And a demmed fine card player.”

And Killoran was known to have overheard these loud, drunken encomiums and simply smile his cool, cynical smile.

He should have stood up to his father, Nathaniel thought bitterly, and not put himself in Killoran’s graceful, decadent hands. But indeed, his father was a kind, blustery soul who seldom asked for much from his son and heir. And with Elspeth Pottle’s defection, there was no real reason to resist. He could just imagine her reaction when he returned, jaded and cynical, a man of the world. She’d regret her hasty actions, she would, but it would be too late.

Nathaniel shot a surreptitious glance at his host. It would be foolish to underestimate the man
and he had no intention of doing so. He was condemned to London and Killoran’s corrupting influence until springtime. He would make the most of it.

The trip back to London was short and silent. If Killoran hadn’t known better, he would have thought his reluctant guest was asleep, but from the occasional grunt of displeasure emanating from the young man’s shadowy form, he surmised that Nathaniel was sulking. The day, which had started out so miserably, had brightened for a short while during Killoran’s run-in with the murderous female, but life had once again subsided into bleak boredom. He’d been counting on Nathaniel to entertain him. Instead the young man merely made Killoran long to toss him into the Thames.

Perhaps he’d been foolish to dismiss the temptation the redhead had offered. It would have been much more entertaining to have left his unwilling guest back at the Pear and Partridge and take up the bloodstained female in his place. It had been years, perhaps a decade, since Killoran had had any interest in virgins, but the innocent young female with the bloody hands was unlike any virgin he’d yet to encounter. There might have been a certain spice to deflowering her in the carriage during the drive back to London.

Ah, but then there would have been the problem of what to do with her once he’d finished with her. He had little interest in rape, even less interest in true love. If he brought her pleasure, she’d follow him like a ghost. If he didn’t, his own physical pleasure would diminish, and there would have been no need to bother in the first place.

He cast a curious glance toward his companion beneath half-closed lids. Nathaniel was staring out into the darkness, his full lower lip thrust out. Perhaps he should have brought the young female as well as Nathaniel, and simply sat back and watched his guest do the honors.

Doubtless the starched-up Nathaniel would be unwilling to provide even that much entertainment. Killoran sighed. There was no help for it; he would drop the tedious creature off at the house at Curzon Street and then repair to his club. There he would drink a very great deal, enough to provide a warm glow to his bleak heart, and then he’d endeavor to lose a great deal of money at Faro. Chances were, things would go from bad to worse and he’d end up winning. He had the devil’s own luck.

“
What will happen to her?”

Killoran wasn’t expecting the sudden gruff voice from his companion. He glanced across the carriage toward young Hepburn, trying to gauge his reaction by the muffled timbre of his voice. “Who knows?” he said casually. “I suppose she might go back to wherever she came from. I didn’t bother to ask how she happened to be in a private bedroom with her uncle, but I imagine there could be a perfectly innocent explanation. Perhaps she was eloping, and her uncle had come to put a stop to it. In which case her intended should show up at any moment, and they’ll be off to Gretna Green.”

“
I don’t think so.”

“
Don’t you? For some reason, I don’t think so either.” Killoran leaned back. “She might very well take that money and present herself to Mrs. Withersedge. Or she might simply head out into the streets and earn her crust of bread that way. I do hope not.”

“
Why not?”

“
Because it would be such a waste. She’s worth more than a ha’penny a tumble.”

“
We shouldn’t have left her,” Nathaniel said.

Killoran yawned. “You will discover, young Nathaniel, that there are a great many strays and lost souls in this life. You can’t waste your time worrying about them. Granted, few of them are quite as luscious as Miss Incognita of the Pear and Partridge, but few of them are as dangerous.”

“
Dangerous? Why would she be dangerous?”

Killoran contemplated telling the truth, and only one good reason stopped him. If he informed Nathaniel Hepburn that he’d taken the blame for the old man’s death, the young fool might mistakenly think he’d done something noble. Killoran certainly had no interest in nobility, no interest in anything other than his own amusement. And he had no desire for anyone’s good opinion, least of all that of his sullen companion. The very thought alarmed him. “Dear boy,” he said faintly, “all beautiful women are dangerous. Haven’t you learned that at your advanced age?”

“
I don’t—”

“
We’re here,” Killoran said abruptly, interrupting him as the carriage drew to a halt outside his town house. He glanced at the huge gray-and-white structure and sighed. “And I doubt we’re alone.”

“
You have guests?” Nathaniel was horrified.

“
Presumably just one. I should have expected her.”

“
Her?” His voice rose in shock.

It was almost going to be too easy, debauching this stalwart innocent, Killoran thought fondly. Perhaps he’d start tonight, with the aid of the woman who was waiting for him.

The house was warm and well lit, the rich, almost decadent elegance of the place soothing to his soul. Nathaniel followed behind him, staring around with unconcealed wonder. Doubtless Killoran’s house on Curzon Street was like nothing he’d ever seen in Northumberland, full of ornate, Oriental colors and furnishings, more like a sultan’s palace than an English town house. It amused Killoran to keep it that way, a reaction to the simple country farmhouse in Ireland where he’d lived with his parents. Until that wretched day his father had inherited the title from his drunken older brother, the second Earl of Killoran, who had a tendency to ride too fast and too carelessly when he’d had too much to drink. And Killoran’s life had never been the same.

Jeffries, his majordomo, was waiting, an expression of vague concern marring his usually imperturbable face.

“
Don’t look so distressed, Jeffries,” he drawled as his servant and guest trailed him into the salon. “I gather Lady Barbara is here.”

The concern vanished. “She is, your lordship.”

“
And where, may I ask, is she?”

“
In your bed, your lordship.”

“
Lady Barbara grows very tedious,” he murmured. “Send Mrs. Rumson up to inform her that I’m here with a guest, and if she doesn’t get her delectable little arse out of my covers, then I’ll have her tossed into the street in what she’s wearing. Which I imagine isn’t much.”

“
Would his lordship object if it were phrased as a polite request?”

“
His lordship would object,” Killoran said, throwing himself into a chair by the fire. “And bring me some brandy. Three glasses, assuming Lady Barbara will dress and join us.”

“
I don’t drink brandy,” Nathaniel said, sounding shocked.

“
Yes, you do,” Killoran corrected him lazily.

“
I shouldn’t be here. Your… friend would be embarrassed to meet a stranger under such circumstances.”

“
You mean my mistress, do you not? Friends do not usually arrive at a house uninvited and avail themselves of the master’s bed. Though Lady Barbara is not, as yet, my mistress. She’s merely campaigning for the post.”

“
Sir!”

“
Nathaniel!” he mocked in return. “It’s time for your education to begin. Meeting Lady Barbara should be a most felicitous start.”