Rogues Gallery (13 page)

Not without possessing a blacker heart than Edmund owned.

The unmistakable sound of a distant carriage's approach reached Gabriel's ears. He heard Gilbey's soft whistle, signaling him to take position.

Gabriel nearly answered it with a call to return to the abandoned abbey, so that he might inform Jamie of his discovery: he was not the sort of man who could harm an innocent after all. He could then spend the next weeks brooding on his ill fortune, a bottle of spirits his only companion.

He pulled his lips back in a grimace, wishing he had brandy blazing through him now, desperate for distraction from the angel who consumed his every waking moment.

He wished he had never set eyes on Marisa Dunsmore, for she had complicated his life beyond bearing.

He knew now he had made a grave mistake by prolonging the seduction. Now she was a woman whose company he enjoyed immensely, whose visits filled him with anticipation. No longer was she a convenient tool of revenge he could easily forget once the deed was accomplished.

Marisa could make everything, even the way she relished the brandy, into the most sensuous of experiences. In truth, Gabriel wondered if there was anything about her that did not stimulate him. He had come to enjoy her saucy conversation as much as anything else.

And her passionate responses—could he walk away from those forever?

Every moment with her underscored all that had been stolen from him, of the life that was no longer available thanks to Edmund's wrongdoing.

At times such as these he could almost wish he had never been born. There seemed little point to his existence.

He galloped onto the thoroughfare, positioning himself in the very center of the well-traveled road as the huge coach lumbered toward him.

He had to exorcise the angelic miss from his mind if he ever meant to see his uncle's destruction.

His uncle
.

Soon the bastard would be wed to Marisa. Gabriel's dark mood worsened, for by leaving Marisa alone, he was actually feeding her to a most ravenous beast. Little though he wanted to leave Marisa to any other man, he especially did not want his uncle's murderous hands on her.

Yet what choice did he have?

Cocking the hammer of his pistol, Gabriel pulled off one shot before yelling with uncommon ferocity, "Stand and deliver!"

***

"T
here was the most daring raid on Lord Colecroft's coach," Lord Westbrook said, striding into the breakfast parlor.

Marisa glanced at him from the sideboard, the serving spoon of shirred eggs halted in mid-air. The cheerful sunshine spilling through the mullioned windows was at complete odds with the dark cloud of emotion surrounding Lord Westbrook.

He tossed a well-worn newspaper onto the rosewood pedestal table before seating himself, nodding once at Bernard.

Bernard lifted his coffee cup in salute.

"What happened, my lord?" Marisa finished serving the eggs, and concentrated on the sausages, adding several to her plate in an attempt to mask her interest.

Could it possibly be her highwayman?

"Apparently some Irish fellow accosted Lord Colecroft and his family. They were on the way home from something or other, and it says here he was—how do they phrase it?"

Marisa returned to the table, setting the plate down with both hands. She was certain it was Lord Midnight. Or at least she hoped it was, for she had to know he was still in the vicinity. Surely his last visit was not his
last
visit.

Lord Westbrook glanced down once more at the paper, but continued with such speed it seemed he had memorized the words. "Yes, it says here he was an amiable fellow. Charming. Lady Colecroft says she regretted not having worn more jewelry for she wished to have rewarded his dashing behavior."

"Indeed?" Marisa took a sip of hot milky tea to calm herself. Her heart pounded faster, yet she managed to set down her
Sèvres
teacup with a deceptively steady hand. "Was there anything remarkable about him?"

Bernard raised his eyebrows but did not say anything. Marisa would have ignored him in any event, since she had avoided conversation with him since his last act of betrayal.

"Something about a dimple, I believe," Lord Westbrook said, examining the paper once more.

Marisa's breath caught in her throat. It
was
Lord Midnight. Surely a dimple as he possessed could not be another's trademark as well. Her heart nearly stopped, though if it was from relief or disappointment, she could not be certain. Apparently he had not been apprehended, as had been her initial fear when his visits had ceased a sennight ago.

"Ah, yes, and he left a 'token of his visit' with her ladyship."

"Yes?" Marisa prompted, her relief replaced by uneasiness. "What sort of token?"

When Lord Westbrook looked up, Marisa was surprised to see his lips disappear into a thin white line. "A scarf, emblazoned with a crescent moon."

"How fanciful," she replied, her heart sinking, though his reaction puzzled her. Why should he care that a highwayman bestowed scarves on his victims? She was the one who suffered from Lord Midnight's excessive gallantry toward other females, particularly after his last pleasurable visit with her.

He had introduced her to yet another forbidden delight, one which she suspected was a mere prelude to further ecstasy. Only women with a propensity for wickedness were permitted to indulge in that sort of experience.

Surely married women did not enjoy such pleasures.

She could not suppress the sigh. Just when she had begun to believe her highwayman might reciprocate her growing feelings, he had ceased his nightly visits. She had mistaken his attentions for something else entirely.

Perhaps that was her penance for deciding that night to give herself, body and soul, to a faithless rogue. She felt the heat rise in her face. It was a sinful choice, but it had been made to assuage the pain of failing at escape, and she could not regret it. In truth, her only remorse was that before she could fully experience the passionate moments, the decision had been taken out of her hands.

"This brazen lawlessness has become quite intolerable," Edmund fumed. "I shall have to speak to the Prince Regent about it. We law-abiding citizens cannot travel anywhere without being accosted by brigands, fearing for our very lives."

Bernard nodded. "Indeed, it appears as though there are a multitude of the vagrants. I do not recall ours hailing from Ireland. So I am certain this one must be a newcomer."

Marisa gritted her teeth. When had Bernard become a sage on the topic of highwaymen? Even more baffling, why would Lord Midnight affect an Irish accent during his recent raid? She could only hope there would be an opportunity to quiz him about it. Yet she knew the possibility of that occurring was more remote each day.

"I did not fear for our safety during our encounter with the highwayman," Marisa commented.

"Perhaps because your brother was there to keep you from harm," Edmund said.

Or perhaps because the gallant highwayman had been more interested in stealing kisses than causing bodily injury.

"My lord," Bernard demurred. "You are too kind."

Marisa nearly rolled her eyes at the volley of compliments between the two men. She decided to change the subject. "Is there any gossip from Town?"

It would not hurt for Edmund to continue to think her vapid. The more he underestimated her, the better her chances of escape. If liberation remained impossible, she could hope to live a separate life from Lord Westbrook, particularly if he were to find her company intolerable. Though that should not prove difficult. Even Lord Midnight had finally found more diverting activities.

Lord Westbrook's smile was an adoring one. "Perhaps we shall go to Town and gather the gossip firsthand."

Marisa's heart leapt in her throat. London! She could escape once there, and never be seen again.

Never to be seen by Lord Midnight again.

She pushed the thought aside. Escape was finally at hand, just when she feared there would be no more possibilities before the wedding. She could not let childish romantic longings dissuade her from that, not when Aunt Althea relied on her only niece. She had nearly made that mistake once, and could not do so again.

"When shall we depart?" Marisa asked, as though it were of little import. In truth, her heart pounded so heavily she was surprised she did not stumble over the words.

Lord Westbrook's lips turned down. "I do not mean to disappoint you, my dear. But I intended for your brother and I to go. I think the trip would be too much of a trial for you just now. Perhaps after the ball."

"But I am fine," Marisa protested. "Truly."

"You have had quite a number of megrims lately," Bernard said.

She narrowed her eyes at him, though he did not respond with the fear such an expression warranted.

"He is quite right," Edmund concurred. "And besides, it is much too dangerous. What if we were to encounter this cutthroat on the roadways? I shudder to think what might happen."

Marisa hid her amusement with the napkin. She was certain what would occur: Lord Midnight sweeping her onto his horse, galloping off into the dark night while she covered his face with grateful kisses.

"I cannot bear for anything to endanger you," Edmund continued, "so you must stay here where it is infinitely safer." He added in a knowing fashion, "I know how much you love it here at Westbrook Hall."

So he had been unable to resist the lure of the unsealed letter she had recently penned to her aunt, extolling the beauty of her new home. She had suspected he would read her missives, and now she knew for certain.

If only she could tell him why she had loved her sojourn at Westbrook Hall.

"When shall you leave?"

Marisa plotted with renewed optimism. With Bernard and Edmund in London, she would be left here alone.

"There are one or two items that must be seen to prior to the ball, so we shall leave in the morning. But never fear," Lord Westbrook said, as if assuring an apprehensive child there were no dangers lurking in the dark, "we shall return in plenty of time for the betrothal ball."

"Of course," Marisa responded, hating that her pose was so successful. Now he insisted on treating her as the most witless infant ever born.

Still, it would work to her advantage, for he clearly believed her incapable of planning an escape, let alone executing one. What pleasure it would be to demonstrate to him just what she could accomplish.

He would soon learn, as would her father, the danger of underestimating her intelligence, as well as her resolve.

She presented Edmund with the most vacant air she could conjure. "How could you not return for your own betrothal ball? Why, it would provoke the worst scandal."

Imagine the clamor when the future bride was absent.

"I thought you might have need of something from Town," Edmund answered, his lips twitching, "and I will be glad to bring whatever it is you wish."

She opened her eyes wide, and put a finger to her chin. "Some fashion magazines, perhaps? I have been away from Town for a short while, but it seems ages. I'm certain everything has changed radically in that time. Why, this frock is sure to be yesterday's news. I am certain I would be given the cut direct if I were seen in it."

"You have nothing to fear on that account, my dear."

"Truly?"

Lord Westbrook's eyes traveled over her ensemble, a sprigged muslin dress with long sleeves. She had covered herself with a square cashmere shawl, as well as a lace fichu, so the only skin for Lord Westbrook to peruse was her face, and her hands.

Even she would not have attempted a veil and gloves at breakfast.

He swallowed with some difficulty before saying, "You are the very picture of fashion."

Marisa pictured his greedy mouth on her breast, and had to bite her lip to keep her breakfast from coming back up. There was no doubt his lovemaking would be nothing like the gentle torment her highwayman had given her.

She ducked her head, grateful the heightened color in her cheeks could be attributed to her demure sensibilities. Lord Westbrook constantly reminded her of her purpose, while Lord Midnight, unfortunately, continually distracted her from it.

Fortunately there was an end in sight. And just when she had nearly abandoned hope.

***

M
arisa checked the lock on her bedchamber door, reassuring herself that no one would interrupt her. She removed the valise from beneath the bed, setting it atop the counterpane, impatient to be on her way.

Unfortunately, she could not leave until the morrow, after Bernard and Edmund were well on their way to London. The mantel clock ticked slowly, as if deliberately prolonging each second before she could flee her imprisonment.

Marisa forced her mind away from the timepiece's maddening taunt. Better to spend the hours packing her meager necessities, selecting those items that would prove vital during the journey to rescue her aunt. She opened the linen press, removing delicate clocked stockings, as well as chemisettes.

If only she could don something more practical. She would wait until after Bernard's departure, and then see what items his armoire would donate to her cause. At least she could be certain it was the first stare of fashion. She reveled in the delicious thought of arriving on her father's doorstep, dressed as her brother, demanding Aunt Althea's release.

Yet, as exciting as that thought was, it was difficult to accept that Lord Midnight was no longer a part of her life. He had appeared in the most surprising fashion, and in a very short time he had managed to lift her spirits despite her grim circumstances. In the process, he had made her laugh, when she had believed she had no reason to, and he had made her feel desirable, when she had always believed otherwise.

He had made her feel loved.

Marisa stalked to the fireplace, as if she could outrun such a notion. What made her believe the fleeting attentions of a rogue were anything akin to love? She picked up the Staffordshire figurine on the mantel—a shepherd courting a young miss—and found herself remembering Lord Midnight's similar wooing.