Dangerous to Love

T
he first time Serena saw him, she knew there was going to be trouble. He had that look. It was the sudden stillness that alerted her to his presence. She looked up from the cards Flynn had just dealt her and became aware of a silent, menacing figure in the open doorway. One hand rested casually on the hilt of his smallsword, and even in that dim light, she could see the distinct challenge in his eyes as they scanned the various tables in the tavern’s crowded, smoke-filled common room.

Dangerous. Reckless. Wild.
Those were the words that passed through Serena’s mind. When his glance fell on her, taking in her filmy costume, lingering on her artfully painted face framed with soot-black curls, and the wide expanse of white bosom, especially the wide expanse of white bosom, her fingers itched to reach for her cape to cover herself. She had no idea why his interest should fix on her. In relation to some of the other “ladies” who were present that evening, she was hardly worth a second stare. Nothing too much, nothing too obvious—that was the rule she and Flynn followed.

Remembering the role she was playing, she smiled at him vaguely and drew Flynn’s attention to the stranger by fingering the black silk patch at the corner of her mouth, her signal to be on the alert. Then the stranger’s eyes passed over her, and calling for a tankard of ale, he found a place for himself at a table against the wall. Only then did the hum of conversation resume.

Serena darted a quick, questioning look at Flynn. It
was one of the other players, however, a resident performer at Drury Lane, who answered Serena’s pointed look. Cassie, in Serena’s opinion,
was
worth a second stare. The girl’s looks were dramatic, and her tightly laced hooped gown of crimson damask set off her supple curves to admiration. Serena had left off her hoops this evening, knowing that they would only get in the way once she and Flynn embarked on their mission.

“Julian Raynor,” whispered Cassie, her eyes fairly devouring the gentleman in question, “you know, the gamester. Oh Lud, he’s looking our way,” and she slanted Raynor a flirtatious look that was half challenging, half mischievous.

Cassie’s partner, a young actor, let out an impatient sigh. “Ladies, may I remind you that a card game is in progress? I suggest you mind your cards.”

“And I second that suggestion,” said Flynn, giving Serena a very straight look.

It was hard to concentrate on the game of whist that was in progress when the name of London’s most notorious gamester was reverberating inside her head. Somehow Serena managed to contribute to the lively conversation that went on about her, as well as play her cards without drawing attention to herself. But behind her smiles and carefully untroubled expression, her mind was hard at work.

What she could not fathom was why Raynor would deign to visit a ramshackle place like this one. The Thatched Tavern was not, by any means, a hovel, but it was no palace either. Its patrons were a motley lot, ranging from the upper echelons of household servants to the odd student as well as a plethora of theater people from nearby Drury Lane. As for the gambling, it was desultory, and rarely for high stakes.

For their purposes, the tavern was an ideal rendezvous.
There was much coming and going. Neither Flynn’s untutored tongue nor her cultured accents would rouse anyone’s suspicions. Flynn was, in actual fact, a footman. She was passing herself off as an actress, or an aspiring actress to be precise. The most compelling reason for choosing The Thatched Tavern for their rendezvous, however, was because it sat above a secret Roman drain which led to a labyrinth of underground passages. Flynn knew these underground passages like the back of his hand.

Raynor’s setting was far different from this. He was a professional gambler, and kept a gaming house, a magnificent place just off Fleet Street where, it was rumored, fortunes were won and lost every night on the turn of a card. The patrons of his establishment, among them her own brothers, were drawn from the wealthy upper classes.

Raynor was so out of place here that Serena’s mind worried at it like a dog with a bone. She had good reason to be worried. At any moment, their “passenger” would be delivered, and it was their job to transport him to a safe house, close to the docks, where her younger brother, Clive, was waiting for them. At first light, weather permitting, their “passenger” would be aboard ship taking sail for France and freedom.

That thought put her in mind of something else she remembered about Julian Raynor, or Major Raynor as he was generally known. The man was credited with being something of a war hero. His daring exploits at Preston-pans were almost legendary. Some said that if there had been more like him on the field that day, government forces would have crushed the Rebellion that much sooner, and there never would have been a Culloden.

He was an enemy of the Rebellion, and that made him her enemy too. If he once got wind of their real purpose in being here this evening, it could prove catastrophic not only for their “passenger,” but for Clive, Flynn, and herself
also. Aiding and abetting Jacobite fugitives was still a capital offense.

For a fleeting moment, Stephen’s face swam before her eyes. The thought of Prestonpans, where Raynor had won such glory for himself, never failed to revive the old memories, the old ache. At Prestonpans, Stephen had cruelly perished, and all her dreams with him. It was entirely possible that it was Raynor’s hand that had cut down her betrothed.

No good could be served by perpetuating the old hatreds. She understood this. She accepted that the Cause was lost. But so long as the authorities hunted down Jacobite fugitives as if they were vermin, there was still something to fight for. Her own father was one of the lucky ones. When the Rebellion failed, he had managed to escape to France, where he now languished. Until amnesty was offered to all Jacobites with a price on their heads, their escape route must remain open.

From the corner of her eye, she saw Raynor adjust the angle of his chair, as though to get a better view of her table. Why was he here? What was he doing watching their table? She fervently hoped that it was Cassie who had caught his eye, and not herself or Flynn. Cassie might have been playing to the gallery, so animated were her expressions and gestures. Evidently, she was playing up to Raynor, hoping to attract his interest. Flynn, on the other hand, looked perfectly unremarkable. In his powdered toupee and wire-rimmed spectacles, he had aged ten years. No one would have taken him for the flamboyant young chairman who was forever getting into fisticuffs with other chairmen when their sedans got in his way. Her own getup was equally deceiving. According to Flynn, the black wash in her hair and the powder and paint had completely transformed her.

If they were ever caught, their safest course lay in sticking
as closely to the truth as they dared. It was not unknown for ladies of fashion to risk their reputations in their search for novelty and amusement. Her presence here might cause a brief scandal, nothing more. The real danger lay when she and Flynn were in possession of their “passenger.” The sooner he was delivered, the better it would be for all concerned.

Apart from Raynor’s presence, things were going according to plan. With a quick, meaningful glance in Flynn’s direction, touching her little ringer to the curl on her brow, she signaled that it was time to move on. The next hand must be their last.

It was her turn to deal. There was a time when she would have invented any pretext to avoid this chore. She’d had a year of nights in places like this one to hone her skills. Flexing her fingers, she skillfully sliced and cut the cards, then quickly dealt each player a hand. Her eyes lifted without volition, and were caught and held by Raynor’s inflexible stare.

The fine hairs on the back of Serena’s neck rose in foreboding. Oh God, she knew when she first saw him that there was going to be trouble. Swallowing, dragging her eyes away, she threw out her first card.

She played as if her life depended on it, not because she wanted to win, but because she couldn’t help herself, not when Raynor’s gaze was fixed on her, and she was sure, now, that she was the one he had singled out. Winning, in this company, was easy. It was losing that took all her powers of concentration. When she took every trick, Flynn slanted her a warning frown. She knew what that signified. The last thing they wanted was to draw attention to themselves, and there would be plenty of attention if she was suspected of being a cardsharp. Win a few, lose a few, that was the strategy they followed. It wasn’t as though the card-playing were essential. It was a means of
fitting in with the crowd until their “passenger” should arrive. By sheer force of will, she managed to lose the last two tricks. Then the game was over, and as Cassie and her young actor became involved in a heated lovers’ tiff, she and Flynn pocketed their winnings.