Ruthless Charmer

For Matt.

And Jimmy and Duane and Raymond and David . . . For all of them who helped to shape my life yet didn't live long enough to shape their own.

Of all the pains, the greatest pain

is  to love, and love in vain.

"the happiest mortals once were wee"

George Granville, Baron Lansdowne

"Know ye in this death the light of our Lord, the quality of love, and the quality of life, And know ye the quality of mercy, Amen . . ."

The vicar's words scarcely penetrated his consciousness. Standing over Phillip Rothembow's open grave, Julian Dane felt as if he were trapped in some sort of macabre dream, for what had happened on that yellow field was simply inconceivable. One shot fired—Adrian deloping, bowing to Phillip's inebriation and the absurdity of the duel. It should have ended at that moment, but Phillip had actually fired on Adrian—had tried to kill him—and Julian had been stunned almost beyond comprehension.

Phillip's shot was absurdly wide; he could barely hold the gun straight. Yet in the blurred moment that followed, he seemed to regain his balance, twisting around and lunging for Fitzhugh's double-barreled German pistol, which protruded from that fool's coat. Phillip had looked wild, almost maniacal as he turned on Adrian then, and Julian had tried to stop him, but his legs and arms had felt as if there were weights tied to them, and everything happened so quickly.

In what seemed like the blink of an eye, Lord Phillip Rothembow was dead. Shot through the heart by his very own cousin, Adrian Spence, the Earl of Albright, who had fired in self-defense.

Julian remembered seeing his shock and disbelief mirrored on Lord Arthur Christian's face. He remembered falling onto Phillip's body, pressing his ear against the blood-soaked waistcoat, and hearing the words from his own mouth, "He is dead."

That was the moment the dream had taken hold of him, deepening every hour since, holding him down and refusing to let him wake fully. But even the dream could not spare him from the ugly realization that Phillip had actually meant for Adrian to kill him, that he had sought to end his own life after months of drowning in debt and drink and Madam Farantino's women. Months Julian had spent with him, duly con-cerned about his excesses . . . but never in his wildest imaginings did he suspect Phillip so desperately wanted to end his life.

How could he have possibly imagined it? Phillip, Lord Rothembow, was one of the bloody Rogues of Regent Street! An idol of every man of the Quality, just like Julian Dane and Adrian Spence and Arthur Christian. They were the Rogues for God's sake, living by their own code, risking their wealth to make more wealth, never fearing the law or society. They were men who purportedly broke young hearts among the clientele of the upscale Regent Street shops by day, extracted intended dowries from their papas in the Regent Street gentlemen's clubs at night, and saved the best of themselves for the notorious Regent Street boudoirs. They had pushed every limit, but this time Phillip had pushed too far, falling like an angel at their feet.

And Julian had tasted his own mortality.

He understood that he was, in part, responsible for this tragedy. He stared blankly at the pine box in the gaping hole before him, wondering if this dream would find its end. What had the vicar said? Know ye in this death the light of our Lord and the quality of love . ..

The notion was so absurd that he almost laughed out loud. He knew what it was to love a father so much that he would swear to almost anything as the throes of death descended. He knew what it was to love a sister like his own child and have his heart wrenched clean from his body as she lay dying in his arms. And God help him, he knew what it was to love a man like a brother and watch helplessly as he spiraled down into the clutches of madness and suicide.

He knew the quality of love, all right, and it was of little comfort.

Julian tore his gaze from the grave and looked at Arthur standing rigidly as the gravediggers pushed earth into the hole. Arthur, the peacemaker, the one with the admirable ability to fall into pace with any of them. Arthur, who had broken down last night as they drowned their sorrows in a bottle of brandy, confessing he'd noticed the downward slide, but did not understand the depth of Phillip's trouble until it was too late.

Neither had Adrian.

Julian shifted his gaze to their unofficial leader, Adrian Spence, who wore the horror and disbelief of what had happened etched deeply in lines around his eyes. Adrian hadn't seen Phillip's slide, he had said, because he had been blind to all but his, his ongoing war with his father.

And while his friends had grieved, he, Julian Dane, the Earl of Kettering, had sat there ruminating, thoroughly numbed by guilt and despair.

A fine rain was falling now, but Julian's gaze remained transfixed on the mound of dirt that was quickly turning to mud. It was hard to believe that the man who had been his constant companion since the four of them had met at Eton so many years ago was lying in that grave. God! It was so bloody difficult to understand how this could have happened. How could he have allowed it to happen? Had he been too mindful of Phillip's pride? Too sure of his strength? Had he not been forceful enough with Phillip, not made his concerns clear?

Had he perhaps been too infatuated with Claudia?

It hardly mattered. It remained that he hadn't done enough to stop Phillip's decline, and death was his reward. The misfortune being, of course, that it was not his own.

Aha! he was being smothered by a pair of

breasts.

That at least explained the strong scent of a woman. Julian shifted between the two luscious mounds and gasped for air as a most delectable female creature murmured unintelligible phrases in his ear. Unfortunately, even the touch of the little French goddess couldn't raise him higher than half-mast. A crane couldn't raise him higher than half-mast—damned appendage was nothing but trouble of late.

Julian sighed, realized he was still holding a bottle of whiskey, and managed to take a good swig of it before burying his face between her breasts again. A bead of perspiration trickled down his temple and he couldn't help smiling; perhaps he just wasn't trying hard enough. As if on cue, sweet Lisette sighed longingly, inflaming all of his masculine senses—except that one, curse it to hell—and Julian attempted to position himself for another go at it. His fingertips brushed a taut nipple; his palm cupped the firm swell of her breast—

The cold hands on his shoulders startled him so badly he couldn't even cry out. Suddenly, he felt himself being lifted and heard Lisette's muffled shriek as the bottle of whiskey flew out of his hand and scudded across the bed. He caught just a glimpse of the elaborate frieze moldings on the ceiling before he hit the hard wood floor with a resounding thud.

Now that hurt. Wincing painfully, Julian glanced up at his assailant. "What in blazes did you do that for?" The response was the toss of his shirt onto his head. He yanked it from his face and glared up at the infidel towering high above him—Louis Renault, otherwise known in this godforsaken country as Monsieur le Comte de Claire. A scoundrel if Julian had ever known one, an insufferable Frog with all the manners of a toad, and most unfortunately, the husband of his sister Eugenie.

Unsteadily, Julian gained his feet.

With disapproval seeping through every pore, Louis let his gaze sweep over Julian as he folded his arms across his chest. "Did you come to Paris to make trouble for me? Is that how you repay my kindness to your sister?" he demanded in that smooth, silky way he had of speaking English, and stooped to pick up Julian's trousers. "Come. Your frolic is fini. You must go from here."

Go? Julian glanced at Lisette, who smiled seductively and twisted a blonde lock around one finger. From here? His focus slipped to the rumpled bedding—ho there? Where was his whiskey?

"Kettering, listen to me!" With supreme effort, Julian forced himself to look at the Frog—no small feat given that there appeared to be at least two of him. "You are in danger. . .. Do you understand?"

He understood all right. "Ridiculous," he mumbled, and waved dramatically at the little French goddess. "What danger is Lisette?"

With a snort, Louis tossed his trousers to him, which Julian caught clumsily against his chest. "If you do not leave Paris at once, Monsieur LeBeau will see you shot. Or worse. Dress, will you?"

Dress. One glance down his naked body and Julian silently agreed that he ought to at least cover up the offending parts. All right, he'd dress, but he wasn't going anywhere with Louis. He was going to crawl right back into that bed and pick up where he had left off. Needing both hands to attempt the trousers, he dropped his shirt and lifted one leg. He missed.

This would, apparently, require some keen navigational skills.

"Mow Dieu! I'll be forced to carry you from here!" Louis exclaimed, and grabbing Julian's arm—rather tightly—steadied him so that he could get his trousers on. "I distinctly warned you of the trouble you were causing, didn't I? LeBeau is a hateful man. I told you this, more than once I told you this, but would you listen? No! I ask you now—Madame LeBeau, is she so appealing for all the trouble you've caused?"

Julian paused with one leg in and one leg out of his trousers to ponder that. He could vaguely recall seeing Gisele LeBeau. Had she actually kissed him again? Probably. The woman could fill an ocean with her gall.

"What, so you think he would ignore this?" Louis heatedly continued. "Some of the most important names in Paris attend the balls on the Boulevard St Michel. How could you humiliate him so? Dallying with his very own wife!"

Actually, Gisele had cornered him when he wasn't looking, not the other way around. And what was he to do? When a comely woman pressed her breasts against him, he was only human. "Ha!" Julian interjected, thrusting the second leg into his trousers with such force that he swerved right into Louis's chest. "LeBeau is a
. . .
"—he had to think about this—"a shrimp. With ears," he added firmly, and clumsily attempted the buttons.

A hard jerk of his arm, and Louis was suddenly standing so close that Julian had trouble focusing on his flaring nostrils. "You would do well to heed my advice, mon ami. In France, a discreet affair is something a man expects and may tolerate, but to publicly coqueter with his wife in the most crowded ballroom in all of Paris is another thing entirely. These things turn deadly when a man's honor has been compromised! Trust me, LeBeau will see you dead if you remain here!"

The image that conjured up suddenly made Julian laugh. For some unknown reason, so did Lisette.

A rapid-fire, heated string of French fairly burst from Louis's lips. Although Julian thought he spoke French fairly well, when Louis was in a mood, he spoke that fast, never-let-an-Englishman-understand-you French. Hell, even Lisette seemed to be having trouble keeping up with him. With an impatient flick of his wrist, Julian said, "You fret like an old woman, Renault. Off with you now."

What was amazing, Julian would later recall, was that he never saw Louis move. He never even felt the impact of Louis's fist against his jaw. He just had the strange sensation of flying before everything went black.

Barefoot, Claudia was walking toward him across the wide green lawn at Chateau la Claire, her skirts free of stiff petticoats and dragging the grass behind her. Her hair was loose and flowing, skimming over creamy white shoulders and down her back. His longing for her was so great that it threatened to choke him—and in fact, he could scarcely breathe. . . .

Because there was a blasted noose tied tightly about his neck, and obviously, he had been strangling for sometime. As Julian roused himself from the deepest remnants of sleep before he choked to death, he slowly comprehended that not only was his head pounding and threatening to split wide open, but everything was moving—up and down, up and down. Or maybe sideways. He couldn't be entirely certain.

Miraculously, he managed to force an eye open and struggled to push himself to a sitting position, propping himself against_. . ._ God, who knew? Everything hurt. A vague memory of Lisette and Louis came to him, but the only explanation his aching brain could conceive was that he had been beaten within an inch of his life—pummeled and kicked and stomped.

Expecting to find nothing but pulp, he very gingerly probed his nose, his face, and even his eyes. Oddly enough, nothing seemed too terribly damaged. But he was suffocating, and therefore, the first order of business was to get the bloody noose from his neck. The thing was pulled so tightly it was a wonder he was able to breathe at all.

He felt for the rope, feeling everything from his ears to his shoulders, but there was no noose. Nothing at all unusual, just a collar and a neckcloth—which had been knotted very tightly. Good God, he was choking to death on his neckcloth! Not only that, he noticed as he clawed at the offending piece of linen, his waistcoat was fitted strangely, too—all hiked up in the wrong places and buttoned in a very odd way.