Breathless (5 page)

Donnelly brought his booted feet down to the floor. They were brown leather, scuffed, a far cry from the shiny black Hessians preferred by the ton. “I heard you might be getting married.”

Lucien raised one eyebrow. He shouldn't be surprised at the speed of Donnelly's information. He hadn't said a word to anyone, but he'd made a few inquiries, and the King of Thieves had informers everywhere. He was more than adept at putting two and two together. If Jacob had been born a gentleman there would have been nothing he couldn't do. As it was, even with his hazy fore-bears, he'd risen high enough that there was little out of his reach.

“How prescient of you. I suppose you wish to congratulate me?” he said in a lazy tone. “There's no hurry: I'm afraid the lady has no idea what's in store for her.”

Jacob's laugh was mirthless. “I don't think it's a wise idea. I know who you're after, and why, and you should let it alone. Revenge is the enemy of good business sense, and I'm your business partner. I don't like it. Haven't you done enough? Forget about her.”

“As my business partner it's none of your damned business what I do with my life,” Lucien said in a silky
voice. “I've decided it's time I married and produced an heir, and Lady Miranda Rohan will suit me very well.”

“Marriage has never been part of your plans before. Why now?”

“Dear boy,” he said in his haughtiest voice. “Do you really think I would discuss my nuptial issues with the likes of you?”

Donnelly simply laughed. “Yes, you would. I'm the only man you trust. Slightly.”

“I trust you as much as you trust me.”

Donnelly grinned. “As I said. Slightly. Though in truth I trust you as much as I trust anyone. It's just that I'm not by nature a trusting man.”

“Which is why we're so well-suited. Don't worry about Lady Miranda. She'll have no regrets. At least, not in the beginning. And who can say that her life would be any better with another choice?”

“Thanks to you she doesn't have many choices, now does she?”

“So now I'm making up for it,” Lucien said with a sweet smile. “She'll get to be a countess.”

Donnelly shook his head, rising. “She doesn't strike me as the kind of woman who'd care about such things. I'd think twice about it if I were you.”

“All women care about such things, Jacob. Don't worry about me. We all do things that are perhaps unwise. I should keep away from Lady Miranda. You should keep away from practicing your thieving skills and let your associates do the job. But what's the fun in that?”

Donnelly laughed. “You have a point. Except you stand to benefit with a tidy portion of the proceeds from
my little gamble. Whereas if you marry that girl I'll get nothing but headaches.”

“You'll get a business partner who's more versed in dealing with revenge and business at the same time. Now go away and let me get some sleep.”

“It's only four. The shank of the evening,” Donnelly mocked, heading for the French doors that led directly to the gardens, bypassing curious servants. “Don't let that girl tire you out.”

“It will be the other way around, as soon as I can manage it. I expect I will be taking her away once I have her, rather than let her family interfere with our so-happy honeymoon. So you can count on my presence in London being sporadic for several months. I trust our business can survive without me?”

“'Course it can, guv'nor,” he said, letting his voice drop into a thick cockney drawl. “Just be careful it don't survive so well that we don't need you back.”

Lucien smiled thinly at him, the expression that could put the fear of God into his servants, his associates and anyone he happened to run across. It left Donnelly completely unmoved. “I'm not about to give up my investments that easily.”

Donnelly snorted. “Then I'll be wishing you many felicitations. Maybe I'll have to give your blushing bride some of Lady Carrimore's diamonds as a wedding present.”

“If my wife needs diamonds, I'll see to it.”

“I'll come up with something.”

A moment later he was gone, into the shadows with the same grace that he'd used since he was a boy, Lucien thought. Theirs was a strange business arrangement, complicated by an unlikely friendship.

They had known each other for many years. Young Jacob had found his way onto a ship borne for the tropics, indentured to a pair of wealthy male planters, and he'd run away, ending up at the decaying ruins of La Briere, the plantation house of the de Malheurs. Lucien had been living there alone, the only survivor of a virulent outbreak of cholera, and the two young men, barely more than boys, had bonded together, determined to escape.

Escape they had. Jacob had ended up back in London, and within a decade was responsible for the thieving kens and smuggling imports controlling half of the city. He no longer had to do the dirty work himself—he had scores of eager underlings.

And Lucien had gone on to Italy, where he'd made his first fortune at the gaming tables, and a second, as well. By the time he made his first appearance in London he was wealthier than his family had ever been, due to a gift with the cards and a willingness to cheat when need be. His partnership with his old friend Jacob only profited his overflowing coffers.

He'd lied to Lady Miranda, of course. He studied his enemies well and she was, by dint of her family, his enemy. He knew asking for friendship would touch her as nothing else could.

Friendship wasn't exactly what he had in mind. If he needed one, Jacob would do.

But if anyone was going to be draping diamonds on Miranda Rohan's beautiful white flesh it was going to be the Scorpion.

And it would drive her family mad.

T
he white vellum envelope lay on the silver salver, her name written with a perfect hand, a delicate, feminine one. Miranda looked at it in surprise when her butler brought it in, and Jane, who was sitting on the floor amidst a welter of brightly colored ribbons, looked up.

The arrival of Jane Pagett had almost broken Miranda free from the doldrums that had assailed her after her brief taste of friendship. Jane was engaged to marry Mr. George Bothwell, a worthy gentleman indeed, and she'd come to town for a visit and a bit of early wedding shopping. Her mood, however, had been almost as glum as Miranda's.

“That's an invitation,” Jane said, stating the obvious. “I didn't think you ever got any. Do you think you've finally paid enough penance to be allowed back in society?”

“I doubt it,” Miranda replied. She was loath to open it. The obvious source would be Lucien de Malheur. It had been more than a week since she'd been to his house, and she hadn't heard a word from him. She'd expected at least a note, perhaps flowers, some recognition of
the wonderful evening they'd spent together, but so far there'd been nothing.

She'd come to the conclusion that it was not nearly as wonderful for him as it had been for her. Which shouldn't surprise her. It had been her first adult, intelligent conversation in weeks, and the first with someone outside her family in almost a year, not counting Jane, who really was family.

She tapped the envelope against her other hand, reluctant. If it was the note she'd expected it was both overdue and something she wanted to savor in private. Jane knew her too well, and Miranda wasn't even sure of her own feelings and reactions to Lucien de Malheur. She certainly wasn't ready to share them.

“Aren't you going to open it?” Jane demanded, rising and leaving the ribbons behind. Jane was tall, dark-haired like her mother, but lacking Evangelina Pagett's extraordinary beauty or her father's cynical grace. She was a little thin, a little plain and the best and dearest friend in the world.

“I'll open it later.” Miranda set the note back down on the salver.

“Oh, no, you won't,” Jane said, lunging for it, grabbing it before Miranda could stop her. “I'm the one with the stultifying life. At least I can live through you vicariously.”

Miranda leaped to her feet, reaching for the letter, which Jane laughingly held over her head, and fixed her with a stern look. “You're about to marry a good man who adores you, and you'll live in a lovely house and have wonderful children and…what's that face for? Don't tell me you're not happy?” Miranda stopped
reaching for the invitation, falling back to look at her troubled friend.

Jane tried for her usual smile, but Miranda could see the pain behind it, the pain she should have recognized before, and she forgot about the letter.

“Things are never quite what they seem,” Jane said carefully. “Mr. Bothwell feels that I'll make a suitable wife and that I should breed quite easily. He's most desirous of an heir. He likes that I'm quiet and well-behaved and conduct myself just as I ought, and he thinks I'll do very well.”

“
You'll do very well
?” Miranda echoed, incensed. “And you agreed to this affecting proposal?”

“I'm three and twenty, Miranda. I'd had five seasons and no other offers, and Mr. Bothwell is a gentleman with a significant income.” There was a faint wobble in her voice.

“And your parents agreed to this iniquitous match?”

“Don't be absurd. I told them I was madly in love with the man. I can't live with them forever, and I want children. I want a life of my own. Mr. Bothwell will do very well, I'm sure.”

For a long moment Miranda said nothing. And then she put her arms around Jane's waist. “Dearest, you should have told him no. You could come and live with me, and we can become two strange old ladies who keep a great deal too many cats and wear eccentric clothes and say things we shouldn't. It would be grand fun.”

Jane shook her head. “No, it wouldn't. You can't convince me you're any happier than I am.”

“I do well enough. And besides, I deserve my banishment. I'm a lightskirt, remember? You deserve a man who adores you.”

“You aren't a lightskirt. And we all deserve a man who adores us. Haven't you yet learned we don't always get what we deserve?” Jane said. She handed her the vellum envelope. “Why don't we see your invitation? It might be something diverting.”

Miranda cast one last troubled glance at her dearest friend and then turned her attention to the envelope. It was addressed with a feminine hand—she knew it hadn't come from de Malheur, but she was nevertheless disappointed when she tore open the envelope to find a card inviting her to attend a ridotto given by the Duke and Duchess of Carrimore, in honor of their fifth wedding anniversary. She showed it to Jane, then tossed it back onto the salver with a negligent air, taking her seat by the fire.

“It was very sweet of them,” she said. “At least, sweet of his grace. He was in awe of my shocking grandfather when he was young, and he's always gone out of his way to be kind to me no matter what. I won't go, of course.”

“You will go,” Jane said firmly. “I'm invited, as well. You know it's impossible to drag my parents back to town and I could scarcely go alone. If Mr. Bothwell was in town he'd refuse on the grounds of propriety—he doesn't hold with masked balls. If I don't go with you I'll never have the chance to attend one again, and besides, I'm dying to see Lady Carrimore's diamonds. Apparently she has one the size of a pigeon's egg.”

“They'll have other parties that aren't shocking to your fiancé's delicate sensibilities. Bothwell can accompany you.”

“Bothwell doesn't approve of the Carrimores at all.
Says they're bad ton and he doesn't want to associate with them.”

“And what does he say about me?”

“He wouldn't dare criticize you,” Jane said, a little too swiftly, and Miranda knew he'd done just that. “Please, Miranda. It's been ages since you've been out. And if any one dares cut you I'll kick them. You're acting like it's something shocking, like, like an orgy given by the Heavenly Host.”

“Assuming they give orgies,” Miranda pointed out. “No one really knows what they do.”

“Orgies,” Jane said flatly. “I would be too disappointed if they indulged in something tame, given their atrocious reputation. But that's neither here nor there. It
isn't
the Heavenly Host, it's a perfectly respectable gathering hosted by a duke and a duchess. Besides, most people will wear a mask and domino. They needn't have any idea who we actually are. We'll show up, wander around and laugh at all the ridiculous people, and then come back here and drink too much champagne and thank God we don't live like that. Mr. Bothwell says diamonds are much too gaudy. He prefers me in something more subdued, like jet.”

“Something cheaper, more likely,” Miranda muttered. She'd always confided everything to Jane, her dearest friend since childhood, just as her mother had been best friends with Jane's stunning mother. But it suddenly occurred to her that she hadn't breathed a word about her midnight rendezvous with Lucien de Malheur, and she wasn't quite sure why. She hesitated for another moment. If the Carrimores had lowered their standards enough to invite her, then she had little doubt they'd invited Lucien de Malheur, as well. And since he seemed to
have forgotten her existence her best chance might be simply to arrive at a place he was likely to be. She was used to being ignored by the ton. She wasn't going to accept being ignored by a fellow outcast like the Scorpion, not if she could help it.

“I'll do it. As long as we leave before any planned unmasking. People will be incensed if they find out they've been polite to a shameless whore.”

“Stop it! You're no such thing! This isn't like you, Miranda. You know it's going to be fun. Like old times. No one will have any idea who we are, and we can behave very badly indeed.”

“I think most people will attest to the fact that I've behaved badly enough for one lifetime, precious,” she said wryly.

“Oh, I don't mean that,” Jane said in a dismissive voice. “I was thinking more along the lines of going places we shouldn't go, ignoring people we don't want to see. I'm about to be trapped in a dutiful marriage when there are so many places I want to visit, things I want to do. Grant me this much, Miranda.”

“You should have been born a sailor, love.” It was too tempting, what with the promise of a cape and mask to disguise even her gender if she so chose. And the sadness had momentarily left Jane's eyes, which were sparkling now with excitement. “When is this going to be?” she asked, wondering if she could come up with a sudden trip out to the countryside. That would be the wise thing to do, remove herself from temptation. But then, when had she ever been wise?

“Didn't you read the invitation? In three days. We got our invitation weeks ago—yours must have been delayed.”

“Or it took them that long to make up their minds whether to invite me,” Miranda said. Or had someone talked them into it? Someone powerful and mysterious who seemed to have disappeared out of her life as suddenly as he had entered it.

“I can arrange for the dominos and masks,” Jane said eagerly.

It would be a mistake, as surely as attending Lucien de Malheur's salon had been a mistake. And she was going to do it anyway—and to hell with all the old biddies who'd be horrified at who was lurking beneath the domino. “Get me a red one,” she said firmly. And the last bit of shadow left Jane's warm brown eyes.

 

It was the evening of the Duke and Duchess of Carrimore's ball and Miranda was angry. Not that she was willing to admit it—after all, why should she care about the likes of Lucien de Malheur? He'd rescued her from a disaster with her carriage, invited her to a musical evening, spent hours alone with her, talking to her, his acid wit and his eccentric charm beguiling her until she half fancied herself attracted to him. And then nothing.

At one point she thought he might have left town, but she'd overheard two stout matrons discussing the latest scandal concerning his appearance at the opera and a certain dancer, and Miranda couldn't acquit him of the unspeakable crime of simply forgetting about her. He'd been polite, he'd done his duty, but he must have found her deadly dull.
Tant pis.
She had no interest in entertaining the likes of him. All she wanted was the quiet of their Dorset home near the high cliffs. It wasn't as
if she was running away. Clearly there was nothing to run from.

Jane was almost feverish with excitement when she arrived at the house wearing a pale blue domino, the scarlet one Miranda had requested over one arm. The street outside the Carrimore mansion was thronged with carriages, and by the time Jane's hired hackney carriage brought them to the front portico Miranda was regretting her impulsive decision. It was too late to do anything; the footmen were already opening the door and letting down the steps, and Miranda pulled her hood up over her head, made certain her loo mask was carefully in place and followed her friend into the brightly lit gaiety.

But her bad mood had begun to lift as she heard the sound of music floating down the stairs from the second-floor ballroom. It had been so very long since she'd danced, and she'd always loved dancing. Tonight she wouldn't have to worry about who was good ton or bad, who was a proper partner and who was a bad hat. Since she'd come, she'd enjoy herself, and stop worrying about it.

She met Jane's mischievous eyes. Her friend was almost her old self, the wicked behavior stripping away the layers of restraint Mr. Bothwell had heaped upon her. If Miranda had been around she could have done something to forestall the match, but it had been made in the drawing rooms where Miranda was no longer welcome, and it was too late. Jane would never cry off.

A moment later Jane had disappeared, swung into the arms of a dashing young man in uniform, a half mask over his handsome face, and Miranda wanted to laugh at her startled expression. And then she did laugh, as an older gentleman bowed before her, and she moved
into his arms smoothly, sailing onto the crowded dance floor for the first time in years.

It was glorious, it was breathtaking, and she felt as if she were flying. Her hood fell back as she whirled around the floor, but it didn't matter. With her plain brown hair sedately dressed and the loo mask firmly in place no one would have any idea who she was. She could dance, she could flirt, she could laugh and pretend there wasn't a cloud of shame hanging over her head. A cloud of shame she refused to give in to.

The Carrimores were casual: no one solicited dances ahead of time, and Miranda moved from one partner to another, her feet flying on the polished wood floor. She danced until she could dance no more. Dinner was announced, people were pairing up and heading into the heavy-laden tables, but Miranda backed away. Her loo mask covered a good two-thirds of her face—there was no way she could eat without getting food on its silk, and the brighter lights of the dining room might be dangerous.

She faded back into the shadows, pulling her hood back over her head. She'd been silly to ask for a scarlet cape, but it was hardly as gaudy as some of the other outfits that night. She glanced over to the row of dowagers who sat against the wall, most of them unmasked, watching their charges with disapproval.

These were the ladies who despised her the most, and it gave Miranda a certain pleasure to join their ranks, keeping her disguise firmly in place. They nodded a tentative greeting in her direction, clearly not sure about anyone who wore a red domino, and she nodded back, sinking gracefully into one of the small, straight-backed chairs that creaked dangerously beneath some of the
other women's bulk, grateful to rest her feet. She sat back, listening to their malicious gossip, trying to catch a glimpse of Jane to see if she still danced or had gone in for supper. As long as she sat with the dowagers no one would try to entice her into the dining room, and it was safer that way. Even though all her exercise had worked up an appetite.