My Fair Mistress (14 page)
Two evenings later, Burton St. George paid a visit of an entirely different sort.
Seated in a chair he’d been compelled to brush off beforehand with a handkerchief, Burton watched his old friend Sir Stephen Hurst pour himself a fresh whisky.
Hurst’s hands shook as he drank the glass’s contents in a few gulping swallows. A thin line of alcohol escaped his thick lips to slide over his chin, a single droplet collecting on the full underside. The drop waggled there for a long moment before falling off to stain his cravat. Hurst wiped his lips dry on his shirt cuff, then reached again for the whisky decanter to pour himself another glass.
Unable to stand seeing a repetition of the other man’s repellent display, Burton looked away to survey the shabby interior of Hurst’s drawing room. Years ago, the room had been lovely, pristine and fresh, styled with fine furnishings and elegant silken appointments done in warm shades of blue and gold. But that had been in the day when Hurst’s parents had been alive, before he had come into the title and been allowed to run unrestrained through the family fortune.
The whole townhouse needed a good airing and a thorough scouring, since the rooms now smelled of alcohol, stale cigar smoke, and dust. A plate of half-eaten cheese sat moldering on one of the Chippendale end tables.
Disgusting really, how low the man has allowed himself to sink,
Burton decided. Anyone else would have maidservants to keep things tidy. But Hurst had trouble retaining the girls he hired, since he insisted on bedding them all, even the ugly ones. Of those who hadn’t run away, Burton knew of at least six Hurst had gotten pregnant before turning them out into the streets.
There was such a thing as prudent discretion, after all. A gentleman, Burton believed, should never let himself devolve into mindless animal behavior. Nor fall so deeply beneath the power of his own urges that he forgot things like cleanliness and comfort.
There truly was no excuse for such stupid, excessive debauchery. He didn’t know why he continued to tolerate Hurst. Loyalty to a boyhood friend, he supposed. Loyalty, however, had its limits.
“So what’s this all about, Hurst?” Burton demanded with unconcealed impatience. “What’s so urgent I needed to cut short my evening to come over here and listen to your whining?”
“I don’t whine,” Hurst whined, wiping damp fingers through his disheveled brown hair. “And I take exception to your tone.”
Burton got to his feet. “Then I’ll take myself off. I have far more interesting things to do than sit here watching you drink yourself into a stupor.”
“N-No, Middleton, don’t go. I’m sorry. P-Please, please sit. I…I need your help.”
“My help with what?”
Hurst’s eyes widened in a rather bovine bulge as he leaned closer. “Pendragon. The bloody bastard’s after us. All of us. He’s hunting us down one by one, and you and I are next.”
Burton shot out a laugh. “Don’t be ridiculous. I have told you before, Pendragon’s not a threat. The whoreson may have his fingers in half the business dealings in the country, but he isn’t after any of us. He knows we can’t be touched. After all, who would believe him or his slanderous accusations?”
“No one needs to believe them. He’s finding ways to destroy us behind the scenes. Haven’t you heard about Challoner?”
Intrigued, Burton resumed his seat. “What about Challoner?”
“He’s in debtor’s prison. They came and clapped him in irons yesterday morning and dragged him off to Fleet. He mortgaged his estate for a huge sum and now it’s gone, all of it, when he couldn’t pay.”
“Did Pendragon hold the note?”
Hurst shook his head. “There was no note. Challoner invested heavily in a shipping company that went bankrupt. When its four best vessels sank, Challoner’s fortune went down with them.”
The slight tension in Burton’s shoulders faded. “Man’s a fool to have tossed his money away on a speculative investment. If he landed himself in the River Tick, then it is no more than he deserves. As for Pendragon, he may be an admittedly cunning bastard, but I fail to see the connection.”
“I don’t know, it’s just a feeling I have, especially after hearing the truth about what happened to Frank Underhill.”
Burton thought about Underhill.
Brash, bombastic, swaggering Frank, who had always been primed for a prank or a dare. Years ago, in their salad days, the four of them had been inseparable: Underhill, Hurst, Challoner, and himself. They’d wenched and caroused and gambled from one end of the English Isles to the other. But times changed, men matured. Friends, even close ones, drifted apart.
Three years ago, Underhill had gone missing during a trip to Southampton. At the time, no one knew for certain what had happened to him, but the authorities surmised he’d been kidnapped by a press-gang. Inquiries had immediately been put out seeking his recovery, but no trace of him had ever been found.
Then, two months ago, his family received a letter from the Royal Navy. The notice informed them of Underhill’s status as a common seaman and his death by execution for deserting his post in His Majesty’s navy. They went on to offer their posthumous apologies for not ascertaining his true identity until after his trial and execution.
The shock of it had sent his loved ones into the deepest of mourning. The puzzlement of it had given others, friends and enemies alike, much speculative grist. Had he simply been the unlucky victim of happenstance? Or had someone deliberately lured him to his unhappy, and ultimately fatal, plight?
“Sent chills down my spine when I heard the news,” Hurst muttered, swilling more whisky. “Been watching my back ever since.”
Paranoid sot,
Burton thought,
seeing shadows everywhere he goes.
Hurst really was beginning to unravel.
“It’s doubtful that you will be impressed after all this time, Hurst,” Burton said derisively, “especially here in the heart of London. Underhill’s kidnapping was unfortunate, but he ought not to have frequented taverns in dangerous parts of seaport towns. No doubt he was looking for a drink and a likely whore when he was set upon.”
“Yes, but what was he doing there in Southampton? Not a place Underhill seemed likely to go.”
“Who knows what he was up to by then. If it will put your mind at ease, I did a bit of investigating at the time of his disappearance and found nothing suspicious. The press-gangs were very active that year. I think the poor blighter was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
Hurst frowned and poured another drink. “Still, what about Challoner? Two of the four of us, seems suspicious to me.”
“Coincidence. Challoner is an idiot when it comes to money; you know that as well as I. I’m not surprised he has ended up in the gaoler’s grasp. Which may be your next home, if you aren’t more careful.”
Burton surveyed the room with revulsion before pinning a condemning eye on Hurst. “Straighten yourself up, man. You’ve turned into a disgrace, letting drink and dissipation addle your mind.”
“But what about Pendragon?” Hurst whined.
“What about him? You give him far more credit than he deserves. He is an insignificant worm I crushed years ago, and you worry far too much about matters that are best left in the past where they belong. He’s
not
some avenging angel sent down to punish us, you know.”
“More like the devil, that’s what he is.”
“You may fear him, but I do not. I lose no sleep worrying over Mr. Rafe-bloody-Pendragon,” Burton spat with dismissive vehemence.
God, I hate the very sound of the bastard’s name,
Burton thought, his hands curling into fists at his sides. Pendragon had been a plague upon his life for as long as he could remember. Even as a young child, he had known the name and despised it.
But he had put Pendragon in his place once, and if the lowborn jackanapes had the temerity to strike at him again, he would find himself sorry.
Very sorry indeed.
Pendragon might have a reputation for ruthlessness, but there was no man alive more genuinely ruthless than Burton St. George.
Burton rose from his chair. “Put away the bottle, Hurst, and get someone to clean up this pigsty you call a house. And while you are at it, take a bath.” He wrinkled his nose. “You smell.”
Hurst sputtered out an objection.
Burton waved it aside. “And don’t bother me again with any more of your ridiculous rantings. If I get another summons from you like the one tonight, I’ll take pains to make sure you regret disturbing me. Do I make myself clear?”
Hurst nodded furiously, his hands shaking like leaves in a storm. To stop their movement, he curled them into balls on his lap. “Yes, Middleton,” he murmured obsequiously.
“I bid you good evening, then,” Burton said, donning his hat and picking up his cane. “Do call when you are feeling better. Perhaps we can take in a boxing mill or a horse race. Nothing better than a good bit of sport, eh?”
W
HAT’S THIS?” JULIANNA asked as she crossed into the Queens Square sitting room.
Resembling a bright patch of ocean, a wide blue cotton blanket lay on the floor before the fireplace, the wood in the grate burning with a contented crackle. Off to one side stood a wicker hamper, the top closed so its contents remained a mystery.
“This,” Rafe declared as he followed her into the room, “is a nuncheon. I thought you might enjoy a light repast. After that welcome at the door, you must have worked up an appetite. I know I have.”
A sizzle streaked over her skin, her body even now alive with the memory of his passionate greeting. During the weeks she had been meeting him here, Rafe hadn’t once let her come upstairs without stopping her beforehand to give her a most thorough and enthusiastic embrace.
One time, in fact, he’d been so impatient for her that he’d lifted her into his arms and taken her right there against the front door, the two of them setting the door knocker a-tapping as he brought them both to an extraordinarily satisfying climax.
Of all the things she admired about Rafe—and there were many—it was his ability to constantly captivate and surprise her that she enjoyed the most. Generous and ever inventive, he never failed to delight her with his creativity, both in bed and out.
For example, today’s impromptu nuncheon. What other man of her acquaintance would think to pleasure a woman with such simple, yet thoughtful, arrangements?
She smiled and strolled toward the blanket, intending to take a seat. Before she could, he stopped her with a touch.
“Don’t sit down. Not yet. First, take off your clothes,” he commanded on a velvety rumble.
There it was again—surprise. “But I thought we were going to eat.”
“Oh, we are.”
Unbuttoning his coat and shirt, he tossed the garments onto the nearby sofa. “I thought we’d dine alfresco. Not out-of-doors, but
out-of-our-clothes.
”
Her mouth fell open. “A naked picnic?”
He laughed wickedly and arched a single eyebrow. “What better?”
“But it’s chilly out. We’ll take our death,” she protested weakly.
“Don’t worry, the fire will keep us warm. And if it doesn’t, I shall find a way to heat things up.”
Faintly scandalized, yet aroused all the same, Julianna unpinned the lace fichu covering her bosom. As she laid the delicate garment across a chair, Rafe shucked off his shoes and stockings, then reached to remove his pantaloons and drawers.
Saliva pooled in her mouth as he drew off the clothing, the sight of his sculpted, hair-roughened thighs and muscular calves sending her pulse speeding. Half naked, with his shirt and starched cravat still in place, she found him somehow more provocative than if he were completely nude.
What might he look like, she wondered, if he moved to the bedroom doorway and stretched his long, powerful arms overhead to grip the frame? A hard quiver traveled through her at the idea.
Staring with undisguised hunger, she licked her lips.
He padded toward her. “And what are you thinking? You look like a vixen who’s found a tasty morsel.” Gently, he turned her so he could help her out of her dress.
“Oh, I was only noticing that you haven’t taken off your neckcloth yet.”
“Hmm.” He leaned down and brushed his mouth over her nape in a spot she particularly liked. “I’ll get around to removing it eventually. One never knows when a nice length of cloth will come in handy.”
Sense-memory tingled through her, recalling last week and the way he’d bound her wrists together above her head as they’d made love, Rafe bringing her to a peak so stunning she recalled the power of it even now.
Catching a small, escaped tendril of her hair between his fingertips, he gave the lock a teasing tug. “Springs back like a little cork,” he murmured. “It’ll go well with our wine.”
An answering smile moved over her mouth as he unfastened her dress. Laying the garment neatly aside, he set to work on her stays. With the dexterity of a skilled dresser, he soon had her stripped bare.
Quickly, competently, he plucked the pins from her hair, then finger-combed her tresses so they fell in a dark wave down her back. Rafe crossed to place the pins in a little pile on a side table. Turning, he raked his gaze over her exposed body with a sweeping perusal that turned his cool, green eyes dark with heat.
