Read Desire Becomes Her Online
Authors: Shirlee Busbee
Desire Becomes Her (3 page)
“But I told you, it was only until I could raise the funds to redeem it,” the other man protested. “I have the money now and to, to compensate you for waiting for your money, I’ve offered you more than the original debt.” Accusingly he stared at Charles. “You promised I would have it back.”
“Well, yes, I know,” Charles admitted, “but, you see, you offered such an, er, generous amount for its return that it made me wonder if it would be unwise of me to let it go.”
The other man surged to his feet, sending his chair tipping over backward. Fists clenched, a dangerous cast to his face, he growled, “You’re a fool if you don’t give it back to me.”
Charles shrugged. “Perhaps, but all that needs concern you is the fact that at the moment I have no intention of giving it back.” Speculatively, he eyed the man. “I wonder why you are so desperate to get it back and what it is really worth to you.”
“No more than I’ve already offered,” the gentleman snapped.
Smiling, Charles shook his head. “Oh, I think you’ll go higher. It’s obviously worth a great deal more to you than the sum you offered me.”
Infuriated, the other man leaned forward and snarled, “Give it back to me, you bastard!”
“Temper, temper,” Charles taunted, toying with the younger man like a cat with a mouse. It was a mistake.
With a cry of rage, the young man tossed the table between them aside and launched himself upon Charles. “Give it back to me!” he cried. “Give it back!”
Charles sought to throw off his attacker, but caught by surprise, his opponent bore him to the floor. Hitting with a thud and more annoyed than hurt, Charles didn’t realize his danger. It was only when he saw the dagger that suddenly appeared in the other man’s hand that he realized he’d pushed his luck too far.
Shaken from his complacency by the sight of the dagger, Charles defended himself savagely, and locked in a mortal battle, the two men rolled and tumbled across the floor, sending tables, chairs, cards, dice, snifters flying. Against an enraged, armed attacker, Charles had no chance. The dagger rose and fell and Charles knew a moment of panicked disbelief as the blade sank deep into his chest. By God! He’s actually killed me, was his last thought.
Breathing heavily, Charles’s attacker rose to his feet. Stunned by what he had done, he stared at the body lying on the floor amidst the scattered cards and dice and overturned furniture. He swallowed. He hadn’t meant to kill him. He’d only come for what was his. It was Dashwood’s own bloody fault, he told himself, vindicating his actions.
His thoughts raced as he stared at the body on the floor in front of him. His jaw clenched. What was done was done—and now to retrieve the cause of it all.
Dropping down on one knee he systematically searched Charles’s body. Not finding what he was looking for, he cursed and stood up. What had the bastard done with it?
The sound of an opening door sent him leaping into a shadowy corner. He must not be discovered here with a dead body on the floor!
Startled by the sight that met her gaze, Gillian paused on the threshold. In the faint glow of the candlelight, she saw the overturned tables, the complete disarray of the room. “Charles! What is going on in here?” she demanded, taking a few cautious steps into the room. Thinking her husband must be hiding in the shadows, she snapped, “Oh, stop it! I know you’re here, the butler told me so.”
Silence met her words. In no mood to play hide-and-seek, she said, “Very well! Hide like the coward you are, but know this! You ...” Something on the floor, sticking out from behind one of the overturned tables, caught her eye and she froze. Peering through the shadows she made out what looked like a boot... .
Mouth dry, her heart thudding, she stepped nearer for a closer look. She recognized the man lying so still and lifeless amidst the wreckage of the room. Charles! With a cry she sank to the floor next to the body.
In shocked disbelief she stared at him. It was Charles. And he was dead.
Frightened now, averting her eyes from the bloodstains on his embroidered waistcoat, she staggered to her feet. Help. She needed help.
Gillian spun around, looking for the bell rope to summon assistance. She never saw the man who crept from the shadows and struck her a vicious blow to the temple with the handle of his dagger. Light exploded behind her eyes, and she dropped to the floor beside the body of her dead husband.
Chapter 1
W
hen the news that Marie Antoinette, the imprisoned queen of France, had been executed on the 16th of October of 1793 reached England, it hit Luc Joslyn hard. It wasn’t that he was an admirer of the queen or that he felt any loyalty to France, but for her to die under the blade of the guillotine seemed a terrible end for the woman who had ruled over the glittering court at Versailles. Of the poor dauphin and, since his father’s execution in January, titular king of France, there was little word.
hen the news that Marie Antoinette, the imprisoned queen of France, had been executed on the 16th of October of 1793 reached England, it hit Luc Joslyn hard. It wasn’t that he was an admirer of the queen or that he felt any loyalty to France, but for her to die under the blade of the guillotine seemed a terrible end for the woman who had ruled over the glittering court at Versailles. Of the poor dauphin and, since his father’s execution in January, titular king of France, there was little word.
Not for the first time, Luc blessed his own timely escape from France and his unorthodox arrival in England in February. He’d known it was a fool’s errand, but ignoring all advice to the contrary, he’d sailed to France from America the previous fall, determined to find if any of his mother’s family had survived the savage upheaval that was taking place in the land of his birth. Despite a careful, diligent search, he’d found no trace of his mother’s family, and it was only by a stroke of luck that he had not died in France himself.
A crooked smile curled the corners of his mouth. Thank
le bon Dieu
for Emily’s smugglers.
le bon Dieu
for Emily’s smugglers.
Seated at a table in a quiet corner of The Ram’s Head tavern, Luc brooded over Marie Antoinette’s fate until his attention was caught by a pair of gentlemen playing cards at a nearby table. Through hooded eyes Luc watched Jeffery Townsend lead Lord Broadfoot’s youngest whelp, Harlan, down the path to perdition. In the brief time he watched the pair, by his reckoning Jeffery had won over four thousand pounds from Harlan, and Luc, familiar with the Broadfoot family through his half brother, Viscount Joslyn, knew that Harlan couldn’t sustain those kinds of losses. A fashionable family could live for a year on six thousand pounds, and while Lord Broadfoot was known to be warm in the pocket, it was unlikely he would look with favor at his youngest son throwing away a small fortune in one night of gaming.
Convinced that Jeffery was cheating and glad of the distraction from his bleak thoughts, Luc paid close attention to the flash of the cards, but he had yet to catch him at it. His azure eyes narrowed as Jeffery quickly won another hand and he decided that he really didn’t like Jeffery Townsend very much—even if he was the local squire and they were related by marriage.
Staring at his sister-in-law’s cousin as Jeffery ordered another round of undoubtedly smuggled French brandy and suggested another game to his companion, Luc shook his head.
Zut!
How Emily, as warm and charming a young woman as one could find, could be related to an egg-sucking weasel like Jeffery puzzled him. Oh, there was a superficial physical resemblance, the Townsend cousins were blond and tall, but while Emily was as true and honest as the finest English steel, Jeffery ...
Zut!
How Emily, as warm and charming a young woman as one could find, could be related to an egg-sucking weasel like Jeffery puzzled him. Oh, there was a superficial physical resemblance, the Townsend cousins were blond and tall, but while Emily was as true and honest as the finest English steel, Jeffery ...
Luc’s mouth thinned as the two men rose from their table and walked, in Harlan’s case unsteadily, in the direction of the private gaming rooms at the side of the tavern. The boy was foxed, and Luc had been aware of the liberal supply of liquor Jeffery had kept coming to their table since he had been watching them.
It wasn’t his responsibility to guide the steps of a green boy, Luc admitted, but neither could he sit by and allow Harlan to be plucked naked by the likes of Jeffery Townsend. Unless he missed his guess, once Jeffery had Harlan in one of those private rooms, Harlan would be lucky to stagger home with his boots. Sighing, he rose to his feet.
For many reasons, Luc wouldn’t normally be found in the environs of The Ram’s Head, and before he had taken more than two steps, one of those reasons stepped directly in his path. He groaned inwardly. Bandying words with Will Nolles, the proprietor and owner of The Ram’s Head, was as appealing to him as dancing nude with a copperhead.
Nolles was a diminutive man, his build slender, and wearing a close-fitting dark green jacket, a wide white cravat tied in a bow adorning his throat and striped hose on his legs, his leaning toward dandyism was obvious. His pale green eyes glinting in the smoky candlelight of the inn, Nolles blocked Luc’s path. “I couldn’t believe my ears,” Nolles murmured, “when one of the barmaids came into my office and told me that you were here tonight.” His eyes as unblinking as a snake’s, he asked, “I don’t believe I’ve seen a Joslyn in my humble tavern in ... months. How is it that we’re honored with your presence tonight?”
Luc regarded him, deciding his next move. On the surface, Nolles was an honest tavern owner, but he made his profits, rather large profits, as the leader of a gang of smugglers—Luc had already spotted several known members of the gang scattered about the room. With good reason, none of them had any love for the Joslyns, and Luc was quite certain that there wasn’t one of them who wouldn’t enjoy putting a knife between his ribs.
Earlier in the year, Barnaby, Luc’s half brother, had cost the smugglers a fortune by capturing the huge cache of smuggled goods they’d been hiding in the tunnels beneath Windmere, the ancestral home of the Joslyn family. Not only was the contraband turned over to the Revenuers, access to the tunnels had been destroyed. If Barnaby could have brought Nolles to the hangman’s noose he would have, but during the confrontation in the old barn, Nolles had managed to slip free.
The discovery of the contraband had been a nine-day’s-wonder, and no one had acted more astonished than Nolles. Publicly, all was polite, but Luc knew that the intervening months had done nothing to lessen the desire for revenge that burned in the breast of Nolles and his gang, and he winced. He could almost hear Lamb’s voice in his ear berating him for sticking his head in the lion’s mouth.
Standing six feet four and with the muscle to match his imposing height, Luc wasn’t the least intimidated by the situation, but conscious that every minute he delayed allowed Jeffery to dip deeper into Harlan’s purse, Luc decided to forego the pleasure of inciting a brawl and shrugged. “I felt like a change of pace,” he answered with barely a trace of a French accent in his voice. One sleek black brow rose. “Any objections?”
Nolles spread his hands. “Of course not.” He smiled tightly. “The Ram’s Head is a public tavern after all, open to one and all.”
“Precisement,”
Luc said, noting out of the corner of his eye which room Jeffery ushered Harlan. “And now if you will excuse me ... ?”
Luc said, noting out of the corner of his eye which room Jeffery ushered Harlan. “And now if you will excuse me ... ?”
Nolles half-bowed and moved out of his way.
Feeling Nolles’s gaze on his back like the kiss of a blade, Luc walked toward the door through which Jeffery and Harlan had just disappeared. Reaching the door, he didn’t knock; he simply opened the door as if he was expected and entered the room.
It was a pleasant room. A small fire crackled on the brick hearth, keeping the faint chill of the October night at bay, and pairs of candles burned in pewter sconces placed around the room. Beneath a window that faced the front of the tavern was a carved oak lowboy, decanters filled with spirits and glasses neatly set in the middle. On the opposite side of the room, flanked by two brown leather chairs, squatted a small chest, the top littered with several packs of cards, dice and other items used for gaming. In the middle of the room was a large, green baize-covered table; a half-dozen wooden armchairs with padded leather seats were placed around the table.
Harlan was slumped in one of the chairs on the far side of the table, and Jeffery, in the act of tenderly pressing a snifter of brandy into Harlan’s hand, glanced up at Luc’s entrance. Recognizing Luc, annoyance on his handsome features, Jeffery said, “This is a private room.”
Luc smiled, and there were those who would have warned Jeffery not to be misled by that particular smile. “Come now,
mon ami,
” Luc said, “we are practically cousins. Surely you cannot object to my joining you.”
mon ami,
” Luc said, “we are practically cousins. Surely you cannot object to my joining you.”
Harlan stared happily at him. “It’s Luc Joslyn. I like Luc. Luc’s a friend of m’family,” he said, smiling beatifically at Jeffery. When Jeffery remained unmoved, Harlan added, “He’s Joslyn’s half brother. Half French, you know. Your cousin Emily married him.” He giggled. “Married Barnaby, not Luc.”
“I’m aware of that,” Jeffery muttered.
Harlan frowned, seeking a thought. “Older than Barnaby. Would have been the viscount,” he said finally, “but born on the wrong side of the blanket.”
Gritting his teeth, Jeffery said, “I’m quite familiar with Luc’s antecedents.”
Harlan reared back in the chair and stared at him in astonishment. “You know Luc? His half brother is Lord Joslyn.”
“I know that,” Jeffery said tersely. “Lord Joslyn married my cousin, remember?”
Harlan nodded cheerfully. “Married your cousin, Emily.” He looked at Luc. “I like you. M’father likes you, too.” He thought a moment. “My brother, Miles, likes you, too. Says even if your mother was French that you’re a good ’un.”
“Yes, yes,” Jeffery snapped. “Everybody likes Luc.” A wheedling note in his voice, he said, “But I don’t think we’d like him joining us, do you?”
That Harlan was cup-shot and in no condition to be gambling was obvious, but he was an amiable, well-brought-up young man, and even as drunk as he was, it would never have crossed his mind to deny another gentlemen his company. “I like Luc. No reason he shouldn’t join us.” A huge yawn overtook Harlan and he added sleepily, “Think I’ll nap. Change my luck.”
Before Jeffery could argue with him, Harlan’s head dropped to his chest and to Luc’s relief, he passed out. Harlan was safe from Jeffery for tonight.
Strolling over to the small chest, Luc picked up several pairs of dice. Taking a chair across from Harlan, he placed the majority of the dice to one side, keeping one pair. Tossing the dice with a careless ease that spoke of experience, he smiled at Jeffery and said, “Hazard? Shall we toss a few? I understand from your cousin that you are a great gambler.”
Jeffery hesitated. Passed out, Harlan was of no further use to him tonight, and while he had a pocket plump with Harlan’s vowels, the gambler in him wasn’t ready to walk away and end the evening so tamely—not when there was a bigger prize to be won. In the seven or eight months that Luc had been on British soil, his reputation, earned in the gaming hells in London, for winning all games of chance, was well established. Besting Lucifer, so called because no one denied that Luc had the devil’s own luck, had become the goal of many a foolish young man ... and some older, wiser gentlemen who should have known better.
Jeffery considered himself an expert gamester, and the thought of beating Lucifer was an exciting one, but he was wary. He had confidence in his own skills, but he couldn’t dismiss Luc’s reputation. Dare he try his hand?
From beneath lowered lids, Luc watched Jeffery struggle with prudence and temptation, betting that temptation would win. Jeffery was, after all, a gambler, and he smiled to himself when Jeffery shrugged and said, “Why not? The evening is young yet.”
Luc kept a cool head when gambling, eschewing, except for an occasional glass of wine, any liquor. He ascribed that one trait to his phenomenal luck, that and an instinctive skill with the cards and knowing when to call it quits. Jeffery appeared not to have learned that lesson.
Luc was correct. Jeffery was unlucky and threw crabs again and again while Luc knicked it every time the dice were in his hands. After several tosses of the dice, instead of realizing that luck did not favor him tonight, in a bid to recover his losses, Jeffery kept raising the stakes. Luc did not stop him until boredom set in and, perhaps, a touch of compassion. From Emily he knew that Jeffery had been draining The Birches, the family estate, for years to support his gaming and that if Jeffery did not change his ways, he would lose everything. Luc was a calculated gambler, but he wanted no man’s ruination on his conscience, even a weasel like Jeffery, and after a few hours, he ended the game. Rising from the table, Luc had not only Harlan’s vowels in front of him, but he had vowels from Jeffery in the amount of two thousand pounds.
His face tight, Jeffery rose from the table and after giving Luc a curt nod barged from the room. Alone with Harlan, Luc shook him awake. Harlan started when Luc said gently, “Come,
mon ami,
I think it is home for you.”
mon ami,
I think it is home for you.”
Harlan smiled angelically at him. “Luc. I like you. M’father likes you. Miles does, too.”
Luc laughed. “
Bon!
Now let me stay in everyone’s good graces and get you to your horse.”
Bon!
Now let me stay in everyone’s good graces and get you to your horse.”
Harlan glanced around and, spying the dice on the table, he blinked. “Did we gamble?”
Luc nodded. “
Mais oui!
And the Lady Luck, she was with you. You won your vowels back.”
Mais oui!
And the Lady Luck, she was with you. You won your vowels back.”
Harlan’s blue eyes opened very wide. “I did?” he asked, astonished.
Luc smiled and waved the vowels in front of Harlan’s face. “Indeed, you did. Now before the night is much older, I suggest we go home.”
Harlan nodded and said confidingly to Luc, “I’m foxed, you know.”
Even after his nap, Harlan was quite inebriated, but Luc managed to get him into his greatcoat and maneuvered the staggering young man out of the tavern. Outside in the chilly October night, with no little exertion, Luc hoisted him onto his horse and stuffed the vowels into one pocket of Harlan’s greatcoat. When he was certain that Harlan was alert enough not to fall off, he mounted his own horse and, holding the reins to Harlan’s horse, began the journey to the Broadfoot estate, Broad View.
By the time they reached the tall iron gates that marked the entrance to the driveway to the house, Luc was more than ready to be relieved of his drunken charge. The journey to Broad View was necessarily slow, and only Luc’s quick action had prevented Harlan from falling off his horse numerous times. If Harlan wasn’t on the verge of taking a bad spill, he was telling Luc how much he liked him, how much every member of his family liked him and singing at the top of his lungs every ribald ditty he’d ever learned.
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