Devil's Desire (28 page)

"How are you, Peter?" Charles finally asked, taking his eyes from Elysia's reclining figure reluctantly.

"I could have died right here on the spot for all you'd have noticed," Peter complained with resignation, watching Charles' look of infatuation.

Charles flushed and sent him a baleful look. "You're just miffed because the Count didn't bring you any flowers."

The Count looked nonplussed and sent an apologetic look to Peter. "But I am most embarrassed. I did not know that this was the custom―please to forgive me."

Peter scowled fiercely as Charles gave a hoot of laughter, and re-pressing a smile, Elysia explained to the chagrined Count that they were just jesting.

The Count's chin lifted higher and he looked. Haughtily down his thin, aristocratic nose at the two young English gentlemen sitting in the elegant brocade chairs, their long legs outstretched carelessly, and his lips thinned. "It is not polite to make the joke at a guest in my country;" he admonished in a stiflly-aflronted voice.

Peter had the grace to look slightly ashamed. "Accept my apology, Count, but it was not meant as a slight to you." He sent a quelling look at Charles, who shifted uncomfortably. "He doesn't always think before he speaks."

"That seems to be something that you and Charles have in common, Peter," Alex said, sauntering into the salon still wearing his riding clothes. He glanced about at all the faces turned towards him and smiled his crooked smile. "I leave my wife unattended, and hopefully resting, for a moment, and what do I find when I return? My wife holding court for all of her admirers―and you certainly have collected quite a few."

"Not as many as you, M'Lord, I should imagine," Elysia retorted. He seemed slightly put out at finding her entertaining. She could almost believe he looked jealous―but that was absurd, had he not just been out riding with the all-too-lovely young widow? If
he
could enjoy the. company of others, then
she
would too!―despite the obvious displeasure
it
caused,

Elysia cast a look at him from under her lowered lashes. He was so handsome in his riding breeches and high boots, as he sat listening politely to the Count. The Count might have dark good looks―his profile reminding her of a Greek god, his eyes smouldering when he gazed at her, his lips sensuous, but she preferred Alex's cool, good looks. He exuded power and strength with every movement of his big, muscular body. The Count seemed to fade into insignificance beside him-looking effeminate with his soft white hands, his gestures seeming theatrical.

"Well, I've lost out on it now. Today was to have been the match―and I'd a winner with my bird, eh, Charles?" Peter was declaring disappointedly.

"Biggest and meanest rooster I've ever seen! Would've wagered my whole allowance on it."

"Never spent so much time on one thing before in my life," Peter said with disgust, "and all for nothing―we'd set this match up to take care of that upstart Peterson's bird―put a stop to his infernal braggings once and for all."

"I did not realize that people trained roosters for cock-fights," Elysia commented ignorantly. "I thought you just found one and let it loose in the ring."

Peter gave her an outraged look and snorted rudely. "Good thing you don't lay wagers or you'd be out of pocket post-haste. It's a science―an art―raising and training a good fighter," he continued ponderously, as if explaining to a small child. "He should be in his prime, about two years old when you start a rigid training program to bring him up to the mark. I trained my rooster for about six weeks, sparring him off with several other birds for practice."

"Wouldn't he get hurt?"

"No, his heels are covered, of course," Peter answered in exasperation. "Don't you know anything, Elysia? They only wear gaffles in the real fight."

"What are games?" Elysia laughed, looking confused. "I am afraid this is completely incomprehensible to me."

"A gaffle, my dear," Alex explained in amusement, "happens to be a spur. It's made of silver and about two inches long, and curved in similar fashion to a surgeon's needle―and quite deadly."

"How perfectly awful!" Elysia protested. "That is cruel and inhumane! And you, of course, enjoy this . . . this sport, although I could think of a more appropriate description for it."

"No, as a matter of fact, I find it rather distasteful. Not at all what I fancy for amusement," Alex commented in a bored voice.

"Well, I do not care for it at all, and think it despicable―even though I've no great love for roosters."
 

"I would not put in a bird that could not defend himself," Peter said staunchly in defense of his sport. "I go to a great deal of trouble and effort to train him. See to all of his needs myself―even get up early to help fix his feed. Sweated him in a basket of straw after feeding him, too! Then in the evening, you are supposed to take him out of the basket and lick his eyes and head with your tongue," he continued, beginning to warm to his subject until halted by the gasps of dismay from the others.

"Good God! You didn't really lick the damned bird?" Alex asked, astounded.

"Of course not!” Peter exclaimed indignantly.

"What do you take me for―a jackdaw in peacock's feathers? I'm no Tom Noddy, had one of the stableboys do it, of course."

"Ah,
ie ne suis pas dupe, eet temps,"
the Count said mockingly.
"Vom plaisantez."

"No, I am afraid Count, that this time Peter is serious. He is not fooling, and I am never surprised at the extent to which he will go when "he becomes involved in something," Alex said in resignation.

"Mon Dieu,"
the Court murmured, shaking his curly, brown head with bewilderment. "Ah, you English. But I must take my leave of you," he apologized, casting a regretful glance towards Elysia. "I hope I will have the pleasure of your company soon, when you are completely recovered." He kissed her hand, but his dark eyes were on her mouth.
"Ie suis enehanté."

"Thank you for the lovely roses,
Monsieur Ie Comte,"
Elysia thanked him graciously, withdrawing her hand from his tightening grasp when she noticed Alex's eyes narrow as he stood to escort the Count to the door.

"Odd fellow, that," Peter commented after the door closed behind the Count and Alex. "Don't understand all that French gibberish. Fellow ain't got a sense of humor either," Peter got reluctantly to his feet and made for the door. "Better leave, too. Feeling a bit seedy." He looked to Charles. "You coming?"

"Momentarily," Charles answered hesitantly, looking about nervously.

Peter paused in the doorway. "You know, Elysia, you're all right. Didn't think I could get along with anyone Alex married. Had my blood stirred at the thought of who it could possibly be. Didn't know of any I'd care to call a sister-in-law, by God. But you're a thoroughbred," he mumbled shyly, unaccustomed to displaying his feelings, and quickly left the room.

Charles coughed, cleared his throat, and nervously shifted his weight from foot to foot. He pulled a small piece of paper from his coat and dropped it onto Elysia's lap. His color was high as he said haltingly, "Don't hold much for bending the knee to poets and the like―I'm no scholar―no one can accuse me of that, but well . . . " he stopped, not knowing how to continue, " . . . I just had to write this for you. Don't ask me where the words came from, 'cause I don't know. Never happened to me before." He seemed bemused by the experience.

Elysia unfolded the paper and read the hastily scribbled lines of poetry:

Green, green eyes, as green as the grasses, .

Red-gold hair as bright as the sun

Soft, soft skin as creamy as molasses,

Our singing hearts shall beat as one.

She looked up at the young man standing uncomfortably before her, anxiously awaiting her reaction. "Charles . . . this is the kindest and most thoughtful deed anyone has ever done for me. I shall treasure it forever. Thank you, dear Charles." Elysia stood up and impulsively kissed his scarlet cheek, as the door of the salon opened and Alex walked in, only to abruptly stop at the apparent embrace of Elysia and Charles.

Charles bowed, and hastily made his retreat from the room and the frowning countenance of the Marquis. His heart was indeed singing, as he closed the door and jubilantly made his way down the hall, a wide smile on his face-unaware of the ogling housemaids' giggling looks.

"Well, well, I had no idea you dispensed your kisses so freely―or is it just me you do not care to endow them upon?" Alex asked sarcastically.. "I do seem to recall your once saying you were very discriminating in your tastes. I had no idea your taste was for young unfledged and callow youths, barely out of the schoolroom."

He closed the distance between them in a quick fluid movement, until he stood just before Elysia. "I was under the impression, obviously a misconception, that you were fond of a
man's
kisses and caresses."

Alex reached out and pulled her hard against him. "That you responded when he made you feel fire in your blood, your breath coming quickly and unevenly. Didn't you feel hot when he covered your milk-white body with his kisses?" he murmured huskily, nibbling about her neck and ears, his lips caressing her throat slowly. Alex's arms tightened about Elysia, pulling her closer into him, hurting her side that was healing.

Elysia shivered as his lips parted hers and he kissed her deeply and passionately, his mouth holding hers possessively as if he could not bear to release it. Then suddenly he picked her up and carried her through the door to his room, laying her down gently on the bed she had lain in only once before. Elysia closed her eyes and waited. She wanted this-even if it was only desire and not love, on his part. She would take what she could—her pride be damned!

Elysia felt his hard hands move over her body, removing her robe and gown with impatient hands until they lay together naked, entwining into one. Alex pressed soft kisses onto her yielding mouth, murmuring lover-like words into her ears. "Do you really need another's kisses? Can Charles or that fawning Frenchman give you this?" he demanded, his lips hardening' as he kissed her again, his fingers threading through her hair, forcing her lips hard against his as he kissed her. She struggling for breath.

"It was only gratitude," Elysia spoke, breathlessly, "He wrote a lovely poem to me. It was sweet and I was merely being grateful."

"Charles wrote a poem! You must indeed be a sorceress–weaving your spells like a gossamer web about poor unsuspecting mortals. Well, I will give you more than words penned on paper in response to your sorcery."

Elysia gave herself up completely to, his ardent lovemaking. Returning kiss for kiss, caressing him until he groaned with pleasure and desire, taking her swiftly and urgently, until they both lay panting. Still wrapped together, their bodies entwined with her ear against his chest, she could hear the rapid beating of his heart.

"They say I am a devil straight from Hell–but you M'Lady are named for paradise. The ancient Greeks sought Elysium, but I have found it, and hold it here in my arms," Alex whispered thickly, his lips still kissing hers hungrily. "Take me there again, Elysia," he demanded.

Elysia smiled sadly. Heaven and Hell
—
they both shared a little of each.

Cruelty has a human heart

And Jealousy a Human Face,

Terror, the Human Form Divine,

 
And Secrecy, the Human Dress.

                                           
Blake

Chapter 12

“L
ady Trevegne, please wake up. Lady Trevegne!”

Elysia murmured protestingly and snuggled down further beneath the covers, pulling them about her shoulders. But the maddeningly insistent voice persisted, like a buzz in her ear.

"Oh, please, Yer Ladyship, ye've just got to come," the squeaky voice pleaded tearfully, until finally Elysia felt herself being shaken from her sleep. She turned over onto her. back and peered into the shadowy darkness above her bed. "What is it?" she asked drowsily .

. "It's me, Yer Ladyship," a small voice spoke weakly from beside the bed.

Elysia reached out her hand and drew back the hangings of the bed, seeing before her a small shivering form vaguely discernible by the light from the fire. ''Who is it?"

"I'm the upstairs maid, Annie.
I–I
sometimes help Lucy."

"Annie?" Elysia yawned sleepily. "Yes, well . . . " she yawned again and sighed. "What is it you could possibly want at this hour?
It
must be after midnight, at least?"

"After two, Yer Ladyship; Annie answered promptly.

"After
 
two!" Elysia sat up, shaking the sleep from her brain. ''Whatever is the matter?"

"I've a note fer ye. It's a matter of life and death I be told te tells ye," she whispered, thrusting the paper forward with a crackling noise.

Elysia took it cautiously, looking suspiciously at the young maid. "Who is it from?"

"Oooooh–I'm never to tell. Seein' how it's a secret an' all. I gave me word of honor, that I did."

Elysia tossed back the bulky covers and slid reluctantly from the warmth of her bed, slipping into her slippers as her feet touched the floor. She walked over to the fire and opened the note, her eyes scanning the contents quickly as the light from the fire threw shadows across her face. "Get my cloak from the wardrobe, Annie. The dark one with the fur hood–and be quick. We must hurry!”

Elysia wrapped herself in the thick cloak, pulling the hood forward over her hair. "Are there some back stairs that will let us out near the stables, Annie?" Elysia questioned the girl

"Oh yes. There be the side stairs
—
for the servants."

"Show me quickly–but be quiet. No one must find that we've gone," she cautioned as she swept out of the room, the edge of her cape catching the corner of the table like the snap of a whip, sending the thin sheet of paper :Boating to the middle of the floor.

Elysia followed the little scurrying maid down seemingly endless darkened corridors, until finally Annie stopped before a plain, narrow door, the flickering light from the candle she held in her shaking hand their only guide.

. "This be it, Yer Ladyship. Ye'll be careful, fer it's a might steep. The stables be te yer right."

"Thank you, Annie. Now, I will knock twice; she explained, "and you let me in. I do not know how long I shall be."

"Oh, Yer Ladyship!” Annie exclaimed in a frightened voice. "I don't rightly care to be a-stayin' here in the dark."

"Nothing will harm you here in the house, Annie.”

"Well, yenever know what's to be about at night–maybe even one of them Frenchies–cut yer throat they will," she paused apprehensively, "after they've done worse te yer body–if ye knows what I means." She stood nodding her head knowingly as she hunched her shoulders together, hugging her thin arms protectively about herself.

"As long as you remain as quiet as a mouse–not fidgeting about–then you shall be perfectly safe. Sit here and wait for me," Elysia said authoritatively, anxious to be on her way, as she firmly guided the timid girl into a chair near the door. She sat there, perched on the edge, shaking as much as the flickering flame of the candle.

Elysia reached the stables without mishap, entering through a side door that was concealed from the windows of the house. The strong smell of horses and hay struck her nostrils as she moved silently along the stalls, the occasional neighing of a horse in greeting accompanying the swish of her cape, as Elysia made her way towards a faintly-glowing light in a comer of the stable.
               
.

"Ian!”

"Shsssh!” Jims cautioned her, placing a warning finger against his lips. "We'll not be wantin' the whole stable to be awakin' up, now do we, Miss Elysia?"

"Ian, what has happened to you?" Elysia demanded, kneeling down beside him on the straw and taking his bruised face gently between her hands.

"I suppose you would not believe me if I told you that I walked into a tree?" he joked feebly.

"No indeed, I would not–more than likely it was a taproom brawl, by the way you look and smell,” Elysia declared indignantly, wrinkling her nose with distaste. She moistened a soft pad of cotton with water and patted it carefully against his swollen eye, holding it firmly despite his wincing at the contact.

"Don't know why Jims had to call you in on this. You're hardly fit to be out of bed. I'll deal with you later, Jims," he bit off angrily between gritted teeth.

"Now, now, Master Ian," Jirns said placatingIy, not at all intimidated by Ian's promise of discipline. "How was I to know you weren't hurt real bad? Being covered with blood and all–you looked half dead. Miss Elysia'd never forgive me if I'd not called her, and you'd of died or something." He shook his head worriedly, pursing his lips thoughtfully. "Reckon these parts around here ain't safe fer Demarices."

"Jirns was right to call me, but enough of what should have been. The important thing is, what happened to you, Ian? I hardly think a tree delivered what must have been a fine left hook to your eye," she said drily, wiping away most of the blood and dirt that had covered his face.

"Ye’ll be havin' a real shiner, Master Ian," Jims commented.

“I can feel that for myself," he grumbled.

"At least you are beginning to look human again."

Elysia sat back on her heels, handing the soiled rags to Jims. "Are you in pain anywhere else?"

"My pride has been dealt a mortal blow, along with a few well-aimed punches into my stomach?" he told her as he felt his stomach gently.

“I’ll wager a monkey you did some damage before they laid you low," Jims chuckled, relishing the thought of some broken noses and missing teeth.

"Not as much as. I'd like to have–but I can guarantee you they will remember the feel of my fists," he added grimly, "and they will be nursing a few bruises before the night is out."

"Ye always could place a punch where it counted," Jims added proudly, as he rinsed out the soiled rags in a bucket of water.

"Well, they certainly made short work of me this evening," Ian admitted ruefully. "Dusted my jacket but good'"

"There were more than one?" Elysia demanded outraged that a gang of cutthroats should accost her brother.

"There were a couple of brawny, ham-fisted fellows that I’d not invite for afternoon tea, sweet sister."

"Oh, Ian, do be serious. You've very nearly had your brains bludgeoned, your face pummelled into a pulp–and you sit here calmly cracking jokes which I do not find in the least bit amusing," Elysia stormed, near to tears.

"I'm sorry, my dear–I only sought to relieve the tension. Sometimes a joke, regardless of its merit, does help."

"No, I am the one
w
ho is sorry for snapping at you," Elysia said repentantly, "
but if you only knew how worried I have been. I cannot introduce you to my husband, or friends. You skulk about the countryside by night with disreputable types who would kill you–masquerading, as heaven knows what? I know you are involved in something–can't I be of any help?"

"There is too much at stake in this
masquerade
I am playing to take any chances," Ian said, giving Elysia and Jims a hard stare. "The future of England may be in jeopardy."

"Oh," Elysia murmured, dismayed.

"This is far more important than either· of us, right now," he explained, "and furthermore, I am not here under my true identity. People know me as David Friday."

"David Friday!” Elysia exclaimed. "But you can't be-you are the one that Louisa was telling me about!”

"Louisa Blackmore . . . . she has spoken of me?" Ian asked hesitantly.

"Yes she has," Elysia told him, looking at his flushed face with knowing eyes. "In fact, she is quite enamored of you."

"S-she is? Louisa has some small fondness for me?" he asked with a shining light in his blue eyes.

"Hardly a small one. You made quite an impression on her, I should imagine." Elysia stared at him in puzzlement. "Why must you assume a false name?"

"When you do not know who the enemy is
—
or what information he has–then you must take all possible steps to safe-guard yourself and your mission. My name might have been mentioned at the Ministry, and as the saying goes, walls have ears. Possibly we are over-reacting, but no precaution is too great, if it insures success."

"I see
—
it sounds very dangerous," Elysia said thoughtfully, as she stared at Ian's bruised face.

"Yes, these men deal roughly with intruders. I would not care to have you within a mile of them, Elysia–that is why I hate having you even remotely involved."

"How did they discover your identity?"

"They do not know yet who I really am, or I would be fish bait now–not merely suffering from a few bruises."

Elysia shuddered at the horrible thought of what could have happened, taking hold of one of his big hands and holding onto it tightly as if she'd never let go. Ian smiled, knowing she must be frightened, and squeezed it comfortingly.

"They think I'm a no-account sailor
—
dishonorably booted out of the Royal Navy, and a little too fond of the bottle to be reliable." Ian sniffed distastefully at his clothes, which reeked of cheap whiskey. "I took the precaution of liberally dousing myself with the horrid stuff before venturing too close
—
just in case I was seen–which, as it so happens, I was," he concluded with self-disgust.

"Too close to what?" Elysia asked anxiously.

"Too close to a vicious smuggling ring."

"Here? But I thought most of those stories were
bombast–and what could a few barrels of brandy and several yards of velvet matter to you–an officer in the Navy?"
     
 

"These smugglers do not traffic solely in contraband cargoes–they smuggle in French spies who steal and buy secret information–at great cost to our country and people."

"Treason!" Elysia whispered. "But surely no Englishman would dare to betray his country. Are you quite sure?”

"Yes," Ian answered grimly. "There are men who would sink to the basest of foul deeds in seeing to their own interests. They'd sell their souls for a few gold sovereigns."

Who could possibly be so treacherous to sell out their country, Elysia thought, a frown marring her forehead?

"Squire Blackmore," Ian answered her thoughts.

"The Squire? Oh, no! But that is quite impossible. "Why . . . he is a . . . a puffed-up peacock," Elysia exclaimed in disbelief.

"A peacock, yes, but beneath that brilliant plumage is a greedy, power hungry man–coiled like a snake ready to strike, should someone interfere with his plans. He plays the bountiful host, while he starves his tenants. He shows a benign and affable face to his guests while he tyrannizes the countryside with his cruel ultimatums and threats."

Elysia sat stunned, disbelief written on her face. Squire Blackmore? A smuggler–a traitor! But he acted such a buffoon, an obvious braggart, bloated with pride, obsequious and toadying up to his affluent friends, that she had never imagined he could be dangerous. Elysia remembered how he bullied Louisa though, and he did remind her at times of a jack rabbit-hopping about the place, his nose twitching at the least little thing, aware of every movement in a room–almost as if he were expecting some danger—as if he were on the alert.

She had been fooled, blinded by the flashiness of his dress-not seeing the real man bedecked by the glitter–a glitter that was tarnished.

"We must apprehend this traitorous band of smugglers before they can succeed with their plans," Ian continued in a hard voice. Elysia watched him as he talked. He had changed more than she had realized, for he was a man with a purpose–a determined man who would be a merciless enemy.

"I do not wish to involve you, Elysia, but you could supply me with information. You could be my eyes and ears. You have access to Blackmore Hall, which I do not. You must watch for any new arrivals-anyone you have not met before. I also want you to keep an eye on the Squire, and those with whom he would hold private conversations, although I doubt that he would be so obvious about it. But one can never overlook the obvious, it is sometimes the best form of concealment. The one person I am especially interested in, as to his movements, is the Comte D' Aubergere."