Cheryl Holt (8 page)

“Yes, thank you. I bought this dress with some of it.” She held out the flare of the skirt so he could observe how fetching it was.

“I’m glad you spent it on yourself.” Unable to resist, he reached out and toyed with a lock of hair that had fallen from her chignon. “You look just the same.”

“Liar,” she teased, but her smile faded as she noticed the ring on his finger. It was a gold band, with a collection of sapphire stones in the shape of a bluebird—an exact replica of the cursed piece of jewelry that had ruined them.

“Where did you get that ring?” she demanded.

“Don’t worry. It’s not real.”

“Then . . . why?”

“So that I won’t ever forget what they did to me.”

“Oh, James . . .” She sighed, clearly wanting to chastise but comprehending that he wouldn’t listen. Instead, she queried, “How are you obtaining so much cash? I wish you’d confide in me.”

“I work, silly. From where would you assume it comes?” He supplied nothing further, for he didn’t care
to expound on vice and gambling, on extortion and intimidation. She would never understand or condone his acquired habits.

His tribulations had furnished him with an interesting glimpse into his character that he wouldn’t have had if his previous life had lumped on as planned. He could be ruthless, could be brutal, and he’d mustered his less savory traits to maximum effect.

He didn’t mind wallowing with the lower classes of London’s squalid neighborhoods. After all that had transpired, he wasn’t destined to hobnob with the gentry as he had when he was a boy, but he hated that
she
had to work for a living.

By now, she should have been a matron with a successful husband and gaggle of children, mistress of a fine house, and a pillar of the community. None of those circumstances had come to fruition, and he was sure their father would never rest in peace until she was settled.

Two goals drove him: revenge—and a desire to have his sister comfortably situated. The twin objectives influenced his every move, and he would not relent until they were both achieved.

He didn’t suppose they had much time to talk, so he needed to hurry. He’d spied on Ellen as her employer had flitted into a shop, and she would reappear soon. Ellen wouldn’t want to be caught conversing with him.

“Tell me,” he started. “Where is Father’s grave located? I have to pay my respects.”

She frowned, then said very gently, “There was no money, James, for a proper funeral. He was buried in the pauper’s field, behind the church.”

Which meant no stone had been carved, no marker had been left, to indicate that the kindly man had ever
existed. It was another cross for James to bear, and it was awfully heavy. If he’d smote the dear fellow, himself, his burden couldn’t have been any more profound.

The news hardened his resolve, focused his energy and determination. His family would be avenged! If it took till his dying breath, he would see to it.

Suddenly Ellen pulled away and straightened, and James glanced up to ascertain that her employer was returning.

The woman was younger than he’d presumed and extremely beautiful, with fabulous brunette hair and big green eyes. She was short but delightfully rounded in all the right spots, and she was very merry, exuding an aplomb and grace that only the very rich can convey.

She symbolized everything he loathed, and James detested her on sight. Swiftly and covertly he evaluated her jewelry, her purse, assessing value and worth, as he conjectured as to which item would be easiest to pilfer and pawn. He hoped she wasn’t too attached to any of them, for one would be missing when he walked away.

“Ellen,” she greeted, as she approached, “you’re so sweet to have waited for me.”

“It’s no trouble,” Ellen replied. “You know that.”

“I couldn’t decide on the fabric I wanted, but ultimately, I picked the blue.”

“Excellent. It will be superb on you.”

There was an awkward pause as the woman scrutinized James, then Ellen, then James again. Obviously, she expected an introduction.

Ellen was embarrassed, and she tried to figure out what to say, but her tongue got rolling before her brain kicked in. “Rebecca, allow me to present my . . . my . . .”

She couldn’t finish the sentence, so he stepped forward, clasped the lady’s hand, and bowed over it. “I am
Mr. James Duncan,” he lied, providing a false surname. “Ellen and I are old friends. We grew up together in Surrey, and we haven’t seen each other for. . . oh . . . ten years or more.”

“Ten years! My goodness!”

“Isn’t it amazing? We just bumped into each other on the street.”

“After all this time?” she gushed. “How marvelous for both of you. I’m Miss Rebecca Burton,” she added, making the overture herself since it was apparent that Ellen couldn’t.

“A
Miss
Burton?” he inquired. “How is it that no lucky man has snatched you up?”

“One has.” She grinned and flashed a ring with a diamond the size of Ireland. “I’m in London to become officially engaged.”

“Really?”

This was information that Ellen hadn’t shared in the few letters she’d penned. In fact, she’d been particularly reticent about her post, but Miss Burton seemed acceptable enough.

“Perhaps you know my fiancé?” Miss Burton tentatively ventured.

The question finally prodded Ellen to speak. “James, she’s betrothed to Alex Marshall.”

It was a shock to hear Stanton’s name uttered aloud, and he was proud at how calm he acted. A thousand thoughts raced through his head, the primary one being that he couldn’t believe Ellen would take a job from such people. No wonder she hadn’t mentioned it!

As to Miss Burton’s devoted fiancé, James had never discovered which of the spoiled, vain aristocrats had actually stolen the ring that had secured his desperate
future, but Alex Marshall had been in attendance, and he was on the list of those from whom James would extract retribution.

“Congratulations,” he offered to Miss Burton. “He’s incredibly fortunate.”

“You’re very kind,” she responded.

She smiled, dimples creasing her cheeks. It charged the air and lit up the space around him, and a wicked notion occurred to him, one that was cruel and wrong, and thus exactly the sort upon which he thrived.

Stanton might think he was about to marry Rebecca Burton, but now that James had crossed her path, the chances of it ever happening were very remote.

“I’d been apprised of the engagement,” James fibbed, “but not about the loveliness of the bride-to-be.”

She laughed. “You are a terrible flirt, Mr. Duncan.”

“When confronted with such splendor,” he gallantly declared, “I can’t help myself.”

“It sounds as if you know Lord Stanton,” she probed.

“We’ve been acquainted for years.”

The answer was literally true, if not entirely correct, and was meant to give the impression that James ran in her social circle, that he frequented the types of places where Stanton might show his smug face. The fabrication would make it so much simpler to arrange a second meeting.

“We should be going,” Ellen interjected, looking grim. With a decade having elapsed, James was nearly a stranger, and she couldn’t be certain what he intended.

“How long will you be in London?” he asked his sister.

“Through the summer,” she stated, “but after that, I can’t predict what my plans will be.”

Miss Burton jumped in. “You’ll stay with us till the wedding, won’t you? You can’t leave before then. I’d miss you too much.”

“Through the summer,” Ellen repeated, “then we’ll see how events play out.”

“I’ll be in touch,” he told Ellen, but the same applied to Miss Burton.

“I’d like that,” Ellen said.

“Good day, Miss Burton, Miss Drake.”

He bowed and departed, sliding around Miss Burton and pretending to be jostled against her as he went. The crowd swallowed him up, but as he strolled away she exclaimed, “Oh, my purse! Where could it have gone?”

He kept walking.

  5  

Miss Drake had stopped following him. Why?

Wherever Alex went, he kept peeking over his shoulder, expecting to espy her—and her damnable deck of cards—but she was nowhere to be found, and her vanishing nagged at him.

He sneaked down the dark hall toward her room, unable to halt the forward progress of his feet. What bizarre whim was urging him on? When she opened her door, what would be her response?

She’d faint, so he wouldn’t knock. He’d simply enter and discover what had happened. It wasn’t as if she could protest to anyone, and if she was brave enough to tattle, who would listen? He was lord of the manor, and the staff comprehended that he could act however he pleased.

Gad, but he was being an ass! This was madness, this was lunacy, this was danger and stupidity and every other cautionary word he could conjure, yet he couldn’t desist. He felt as if a magnet were leading him to her.

Memories kept creeping in, as he recalled how she’d
looked, how she’d tasted, when he’d kissed her senseless a few nights earlier. He’d done it to teach her a lesson, to knock her off her lofty moral pedestal, but
he
was the one who had been unsettled.

Since that ignominious meeting, he hadn’t seen her, though not for lack of trying. He’d dawdled at home, spending many tedious hours waiting—in vain!—for Miss Drake to appear, but she’d been markedly absent.

Most likely, she was embarrassed at how her preaching had backfired, which was precisely the emotional state he’d been hoping to inspire. Yet he was fretting over how she’d weathered the ordeal and, if he was candid, craving the chance to do much the same with her again.

Somehow, the aggravating female had slipped under his defenses, had flustered him until he was no longer sure of what he’d meant to achieve. By trifling with her he’d unleashed an odd reservoir of want and need that he hadn’t grasped he’d been harboring.

Miss Drake had put her whole heart and soul into their embrace, had joined in as if they were the last couple on earth. Her enthusiasm had jangled loose a desire to return to the heady days when sex had mattered. How had the joy been lost? Why couldn’t it be resurrected?

In some deeply buried, disregarded part of him, he was positive that if he kissed Miss Drake a few more times, he might find something for which he’d been searching without even realizing he was.

He arrived at her door, and without delay—where he might have taken a moment to reconsider—he spun the knob, tiptoed in, and . . .

She was mostly naked.

Her back was to him, her fabulous golden hair down
and brushed out, her feet bare, and she was dressed only in a petticoat. She was washing, dipping a cloth in a bowl and stroking it across her body.

In all his fantasizing about how he’d barge in, it had never occurred to him to wonder what
she
might be doing. He was stunned, elated at having stumbled upon the erotic sight, and too uncouth to slink out as he ought. Like the worst voyeur, he watched.

Without planning to, he must have made a noise, because she gasped and whipped around. Her cheeks were flushed, her blue eyes glittering like diamonds in the dim candlelight. Clutching the cloth to her bosom, she tried to shield what he shouldn’t be allowed to view, but with scant success. She was sensuous and adorable, and the most marvelous impression of anticipation swept over him. Any spectacular thing might transpire and it would be all right.

“You shouldn’t be here,” she said.

“Probably not,” he agreed.

“Go away.”

“No.”

He approached until they were toe-to-toe, and she gazed up at him, refusing to recoil, refusing to cower.

“What do you want?” she asked.

“I had to see you.”

“Well, now you have.”

“You’ve ceased hounding me”—he grinned, anxious to ease the awkwardness of the encounter—“so I thought I’d better check on you.”

“I don’t care where you go or what you do,” she claimed. “It’s none of my business.”

“But your harassment was beginning to grow on me. Why quit when you’re having such incredible results?”

“I shouldn’t have pestered you. As you so elegantly pointed out, I’m in no condition to chastise over the weaknesses of others. I have plenty of my own flaws about which to worry.”