Maggie MacKeever (4 page)

The same could not be said, alas, for the clientele. Quin was growing tired of pouring inebriated acquaintances into their carriages. It made a man reflect upon the countless occasions when he had been the one being poured.

And upon the company he kept.

Near-sobriety was an uncomfortable condition. Quin contemplated his half-filled glass of whiskey, only his second of the night. He felt restless, unsettled, craving he knew not what.

Solitude, for one thing, Lord Quinton decided, as amber-eyed Daphne shot him a smoldering glance. Ever since Liliane had remained overnight in the house, the other women aspired to do the same. Statuesque brunette Adele claimed to feel a spasm coming on, if not outright palpitations, but was certain her health would improve immensely if she could only gain a comfortable night’s sleep, preferably in his lordship’s bed. Russet-haired Rosamond insisted she had come down with a case of snuffles and only a monster would send her out into the damp.

Quin was surrounded by conniving females. Including, he suspected, Kate.

Was Kate truly in danger? Or had she spent the past seventeen years plotting her revenge?

Verena Wickersham. He hadn’t thought of her in years. His father’s candidate for the next baroness had possessed no finer moral standards than the stable cat.

It hardly mattered. For whatever reason Quin had set out sowing his wild oats, he had long ago become an unrepentant sinner determined to each every step of his journey to eternal hellfire.

Now here was Kate, and what he was to do with her, he had no idea.

Samson touched Quin’s elbow, drawing his attention. “That Coffey cove is raising a rumpus, saying he must speak with you and threatening informations laid.”

Welcoming the distraction, Quin set down his glass.

He walked along the carpeted hallway, descended the broad stair. At the bottom stood a door sheeted with iron and covered with green baize, in its center a small aperture through which visitors could be scrutinized.

Quin put his eye to the peep hole. Coffey waited in the small foyer, one arm gripped by the porter and the other by a footman, neither of whom seemed interested in what he had to say, which had to do with his determination to try his luck at hazard, and their inexplicable refusal to admit him to the hell. What, demanded Coffey, was wrong with his blunt? Granted, he’d possessed more coin when he set out this evening, before he’d tried to catch the smiles of fortune by risking a few pounds he could ill afford to lose. Curious, was it not, how a man started out placing a few cautious wagers and wound up punting recklessly on the spin of the ball, tossing money on the table in competition with his companions as if the lot of them were caught up in some passing lunacy?

Quin closed the aperture. Generally euphoric when intoxicated, Coffey wanted always to be intoxicated, on one substance or another, or preferably several substances at once. From all appearances this evening he was not yet drunk as an emperor, or even drunk as a lord, which was ten times less; but instead merely drunk as a wheelbarrow, and not even David’s sow.

David had been a Welshman who possessed an alehouse, a tippling wife, and an especially fine sow. The wife had lain down to sleep herself sober in the sty, where she was observed by company, who declared her the drunkest sow they had ever beheld.

How he knew all this, Quin couldn’t imagine. If indeed he
did
know it. He might not be as sober as he’d thought.

He opened the iron-sheeted door and entered the foyer, which boasted wainscoted walls and a checkered tile floor, and not a single chair or bench where a caller might comfortably cool his heels. Coffey burst into renewed complaints on sight of him. His nose was still slightly swollen, and there was noticeable bruising around one eye.

“Enough,” said Quin. “Release him.” The servants obeyed.

Coffey straightened his sleeves, adjusted his lapels. “That French trollop lured me into the hallway, and not the other way around. Whose word are you going to take, hers or mine?”

Quin placed himself, casually but firmly, in front of the green baize door. “Neither, I think. You’re not barred because of Liliane.”

Coffey’s pale gaze narrowed. “What, then?”

Quin leaned against the door jamb. During his frequent forays into the less savory sections of London, he had rubbed shoulders with countless
chevaliers d’industrie
and Greeks and therefore recognized the breed. “This is an honest house. No false dice, no marked decks. No such tricks as the Dribble or the Long Gallery or the Stamp. No lambs damp behind the ears waiting to be fleeced.”

“You accuse me of being a Captain Sharp?”

“I accuse you of nothing. But if you think me a pigeon for your plucking, you have feathers in your head.”

Coffey looked less cast away than he had mere moments past. “You’ll regret this, Quin.”

The footman stepped forward. The porter opened the door. With a last furious glower, Coffey stepped out into the night. Rather than returning to the gaming rooms, Quin made his way to the private portion of the house.

His valet was waiting in the hallway, nodding in a chair set outside the bedroom door. Wibbert was a thin brown-haired man of some sixty years, with a slight paunch and a receding hairline. Quin grasped his shoulder. “Why are you sitting out here in the hall? You should be in bed.”

Wibbert jerked awake. “Oh, sir. I mean, my lord! I meant to tell you that—”

“Tell me tomorrow. When did I become so harsh a master that you feel you must sit up half the night?”

“Oh no, my lord! Not harsh! But—”

“Wibbert. Are you trying to make me cross?”

The valet wrung his hands together “No, my lord! Not cross! Very well, I’ll go! But pray remember you said—”

Impatiently, Quin gestured. With one last anxious glance, Wibbert scurried away. Quin entered his bedroom, shrugging out of his snug-fitting coat.

The curtains had been drawn, the fire let die down until mere embers glowed on the hearth. The chamber’s gloom was broken only by the single lighted candle on the shaving stand. Wondering whether his valet might have got into the whiskey, Quin tossed his coat in the general direction of a chair. He pulled off his cravat, unfastened his trousers, sat down on the edge of the bed to pull off his shoes—

And paused. His nostrils twitched. The hair on the back of his neck stirred. Before he could collect his wits, small strong hands grasped Quin’s shoulders and pulled him down on his back.

The hands seemed determined to remove more of his clothing. The hands’ owner smelled as if she’d rolled through a particularly pungent flower bed.

No wonder Wibbert had been jumpy as a cat on a hot bake-stone.

Quin’s eyes had grown accustomed to the shadows. He made out the shapely form of his assailant, who was clad only in a thin shift, and struggling with one of his boots.

He jerked his foot away and said, “Give over, Liliane.” The boot thudded to the floor.

“
Oui, c’est moi!”
Liliane flung herself atop him, effectively hampering his escape. Her plump breasts flattened against his chest, a not-unpleasant sensation, as noted by a portion of Quin’s anatomy not directly connected with his brain. They lay thigh to thigh, belly to—

She wriggled. You see?! We are
très sympathique
. I suggest—”

 “
I
suggest,” growled Quin, as he grasped her arms and pushed her off him, “you pray to
le bon Dieu
that I do not strangle you
.
”

“Voyons!”
Liliane hurled herself at him, scrabbling for a hold. “Oof!
Ah, now I have you, milord.”

She had him, indeed. Quin froze.

“Ooh, là là!” cooed Liliane, giving him a none-too-gentle squeeze. “You are
magnifique
!
Splendide. Formidable—
”

“Whereas you are
inapproprié
.” Kate stood in the doorway of the adjoining chamber, a lighted candle in her hand. “Unhand my fiancé,
mademoiselle.”

“Your fiancé?”
Liliane shot off the bed as if she’d been stung by hornets. “
Merde!
”

Chapter Eight

Quin grasped Liliane by the elbow, snatched up her clothing from the chest where she had neatly placed it, and propelled her into the hallway. Kate heard their quiet voices but could not make out the words.

She raised her lighted candle and inspected the room. It was a remarkably ordinary chamber, from the tall wardrobe to the short chest of drawers to the corner shaving stand fitted out in Spode blue and white. A mahogany wing armchair was drawn up in a cozy manner near the hearth. A Turkey carpet covered the wooden floor.

These were hardly the sort of surroundings in which one imagined orgies taking place. Kate eyed the canopied bed. Some
manner of activity had been about to take place, and without Quin’s cooperation, judging from the conversation she had overheard.

Honestly, she’d just meant to take a peek.

Curiosity was a character trait not limited to felines.

Quin returned, closed the door and leaned against it. Kate spun round to face him, mortified at having been discovered staring at his bed. The man should have looked ridiculous, rumpled and disheveled, his shirt pulled out of his breeches — which may or may not have been unfastened, she didn’t dare look — and wearing only one boot. He did not. Kate’s mouth went dry. Quin in disarray was temptation personified.

Meanwhile, she was swathed in a voluminous night garment that covered her from head to toe.

Not that she had come here to be ravished, which was a good thing since Quin clearly had no interest in ravishing her. Doubtless she failed to meet the Black Baron’s standards. Kate felt like smashing her candlestick over his rakehelly head.

“This has set the cat among the pigeons,” he said, as he moved away from the door. “Why the devil did you tell Liliane we are betrothed?”

He was cross, realized Kate, and for good reason. Whereas she had no right to be annoyed at finding a female in his bed. “I wasn’t thinking. The presence of a fiancée will impede your usual pursuits.”

Quin passed by her, so close she felt the heat of his body; sat down on the edge of the bed and took hold of his remaining boot. “I assure you the presence of a fiancée would make no difference whatsoever to my ‘usual pursuits’. However, it doesn’t suit me to have you known as such. We can only hope Liliane will keep her tongue between her teeth.”

Kate watched him wrestle with the boot a moment before she set down her candle, stooped, grasped the heel and tugged. The boot came off in her hands. As she set it aside she asked, “Do you think she will?”

“‘
Close as oysters, milord,’ ” Quin quoted.
“‘
So long as you pay my price.’ You’re freezing, Kate. Come here.”

The room
was
cold. Warily, Kate approached the bed. Quin pulled off the coverlet and wrapped it around her shoulders. His touch was impersonal. Kate couldn’t decide whether she was resentful or relieved.

He settled himself against the carved headboard. Kate arranged herself facing him, her back against a bedpost, trying not to contemplate what sort of bargain Quin might have struck with Liliane. “I’m sorry if I’ve created problems. It sounded like you needed assistance. I couldn’t think what else to do.”

“Assistance? My dear.”

Despite herself, Kate smiled. “Liliane aspires to be your mistress in truth?”

Quin settled more comfortably among the pillows. “I don’t take mistresses.” Light from the candle on the bedside table only faintly penetrated the thick shadows cast by the bed hangings. Kate could not make out the expression on his face.

She drew the coverlet more tightly around her. Her aunt had subscribed to the London papers, regarding outdated scandal as better than no scandal at all. Kate had snatched up the newssheets after Dorothea discarded them and pored over the pages in the privacy of her bedchamber, searching for mention of Quin.

More often than not, she found it. “I’ve heard otherwise.”

Quin regarded her sardonically. “The word ‘mistress’ indicates a relationship lasting longer than one night.”

Kate wondered if he too was thinking of how many nights they’d had. Or if not nights, then stolen moments. Lazy afternoons.

Seventeen years, thought Kate. Seventeen years gone, though hardly in the blinking of an eye. Now here she was, alone with Quin in his bedchamber.

In his bed.

At the opposite end of his bed, to be precise. Kate cleared her throat. “I have heard it suggested that a man may be allotted a finite number of indulgences in one lifetime. I pass this theory along in case you might care to pace yourself.”

Quin reached out and clasped her ankle. “And you?”

“Me, what?” Kate asked, rather faintly, distracted by the warmth of his fingers against her skin.

He pulled off her slipper. “Have you been chaste? Or shall I have distraught admirers pounding on my door?”

His fingers stroked the top of her foot, toe to ankle. It was an old familiar ritual, relaxing and rousing at the same time. Kate managed to respond, “No one is likely to come looking for me here.”

“That’s not what I asked you.” He moved his thumb and fingers in circular motions over the sole of her foot. “If you tell me about your conquests, I’ll tell you about mine.”

How many slippers had Quin removed during the years since he’d last removed hers? “I’ve no desire to hear about your conquests,” Kate snapped.

He released one foot to pick up the other, tossed aside the second slipper to join the first. “It’s just as well. I would find it difficult to be precise. As with anything done in overabundance, the details tend to blur.”

Kate tensed. He held her injured leg. She tried to draw away, but he refused to release her. She closed her eyes as his fingers traced her scars.

Quin said nothing. Nor did she. His hand returned to her foot, rubbing, soothing her into a curiously calm intimacy that transcended time and thought. She was only vaguely conscious of the lateness of the hour, the quietness of the house, the sheltered depths of the huge bed—