Seducing the Rake (Mad, Bad and Dangerous Heroes) (4 page)

Yes, tonight had been dangerously close.

But what choice had she? Last night’s note had been very specific, both as to where she must go and what she must look for.

And also about what would happen to her father if she refused.

 She fought a wave of despair. Where was it, this ancient book she had crisscrossed the roofs of London in search of? And why would men go to such lengths to possess it?

But she knew the answer to
that
question, at least. It was pictures that gave the pillow book its worth, hand-painted designs that glowed with exquisite clarity.

And the pictures all had one theme.

Pleasure.
Pleasure in a thousand different shapes and guises. Pleasure in every way that man and woman might share it.

Midnight’s beautiful violet eyes darkened. She had seen the book briefly, long ago, when she and her father had visited a wealthy Chinese salt merchant during one of their secret trips to Yangchow. But she had been only twelve then, and her quick glance had only confused her.

Now their purpose was crystal clear.

Midnight frowned as something warm and sticky trickled down her arm. Pain jabbed at her shoulder.

Outside, the dark streets rushed past in a blur.

One more night lost.

She thought of her father, and prayed that he was unhurt. Only her raw determination kept back the tears.

She couldn’t weak now.

With a jerk, the carriage came to a halt and she realized they were home.

Home?
She almost laughed at the idea. This cold, ugly city would never be home.

Her eyes traveled over the narrow two-floor townhouse with the drab curtains at its windows. This was no more than a stopping place until she freed her father.

Only then could she
really
go home, back to the white sand beaches of the South China Sea, back to the thousand little islands where the water ran azure and the sky seemed to go on forever.

The carriage steps were let down with a bang. “You coming out o’ there, Miss Chessy, or do I have to come fetch you out?”

“I’m coming.”

“Damned crazy schemes, the lot o’ them! Don’t know what you’d have done if that earl caught you. He’s too smart by half,”

Francesca Cameron, known to her English friends as Chessy and her Chinese friends as Midnight, gave a defiant sniff. “Not smart enough to stop me.”

“I don’t care to think what your father’s going to say when he finds out I let you do such a damned fool thing!”

“Let
me?” Chessy stared at the groom and jack-of-all-trades who had been with her and her father as long as she could remember. “You couldn’t stop me if you wanted, Swithin. I’d have thrown you before you took your first step. Besides, you love the old reprobate as much as I do.”

At that moment the moon slipped from behind a cloud, revealing the silver tears that covered Chessy’s cheeks. With an angry sound, she brushed the hot drops away.

Swithin sighed. “So I do, Miss Chessy. But it’s a damnable business just the same, and we’re no closer than when we started.” The leathery-faced servant shook his head. “And I can’t shake the feeling that things are only going to become worse.”

~ ~ ~

Fifteen minutes later, Chessy stripped off her silk jacket and smoothed an herbal paste on the jagged wound across her elbow.

With that painful task complete, she slipped out of her black trousers and attacked the thick twill that bound her chest. Round and round the fabric came, then spilled onto the threadbare carpet.

She stood for a moment, pale skin prickling in the cold air. Suddenly she recalled the sounds of the man and woman behind the screen.

The dark whisper of skin upon bare skin teased her memory. Hot sounds. Hungry sounds that lovers made.

Heat rushed to her face as she remembered how Morland’s strong bronze fingers had inched over Germaine’s ivory skin, pushing her to pleasure.

Her own skin began to tingle, oddly flushed.

What would it feel like to be touched that way, to be
wanted
in that way?

Enough!

Red-faced, she jerked her lawn nightgown from the bed and yanked it over her head.

She had done no more than throw back the bedcovers when she heard Swithin pound up the stairs. Outside the door he paused. “Miss Chessy? You awake still?” His voice was unnaturally tense.

Chessy opened the door quickly. “What’s happened?”

“I just found this one.” The old servant shoved a piece of folded paper into her numb fingers.

Slowly she opened the note. It was written in the same spidery handwriting as all the others. The dark letters blurred beneath her tears.

She pushed it back to Swithin. “Please—just read it. I-I can’t—” Her voice caught.

The servant frowned. “
Morland,”
he read.
“Tomorrow. Find the book or your father loses his hand. Our patience is done.”

~ ~ ~

Tall and silent, the man sat in the fire lit darkness, toying with a silver-handled knife. His intelligent face was marred by a vast cynicism. “So you think you have information that might interest me?”

The woman’s beauty was striking. “I am certain of it.”

A glint of triumph lit his eyes as he contemplated the beautiful woman before him. “Why should I trust you? I hardly know you, after all.”

“Because we are after the same thing, you and I. It is revenge that drives us both.”

The man’s eyes narrowed. He touched the cold muzzle of the pistol hidden in the pocket of his jacket and thought about killing her. She knew too much already, and he was not a man who took others into his confidence. Not
ever.

But as he studied her lush curves, he decided there were better things he could do with a woman of her beauty. Perhaps she could be forced to serve his own goal of revenge.

And in the meantime he might amuse himself with the ripe pleasures of her body.

He saw her head turn and knew where she was looking. He smiled coldly. “So my pictures amuse you, do they?”

He ran his finger slowly across the row of a dozen portrait miniatures. All were of the same man, captured at different ages and in different dress.

But all were of Anthony Morland
.
The man who would soon die at his hand.

The woman laughed softly. “Yes, I enjoy them immensely. I didn’t think—”

“Nor shall you start thinking now, my beautiful Louisa. I shall decide what is to be done to Lord Morland. I decide when and where. Do you understand me? I shall tolerate no interference in my plans.”

Lady Louisa Landringham tossed her hair over her shoulders and shrugged. “As you will. As long as he suffers, it is enough for me. He has humiliated me, and no man may do
that
without punishment.”

“I shall remember that, my dear.” The man turned and studied the row of smiling portraits. “It is good to know the face of one’s enemy, don’t you think?” He chose one of the miniatures and pulled the canvas from its gilt frame.

Then he tossed the painting into the fire.

Orange flames hissed up, enveloping Tony Morland’s smiling face in smoke. Black splotches ate through the canvas as the fire took hold.

The man at the grate laughed as the painted features were slowly consumed and then crumbled away to ash.

“It pleases you?” he asked the woman behind him.

“Vastly.”

He released his knife and reached for his cravat. “Come here and show me how much.”

 “A pillow
what
?”

“A pillow book. Used all the time in Asia, so I’m told.” The bushy-browed admiral scowled down from the head of a polished walnut table.

His tone was decidedly huffy. Even at the best of times he did not care to have his ideas attacked.

At the far end of the table, the object of the admiral’s anger sniffed contemptuously. “Bloody nonsense, if you ask me. Nothing but a lot of damned suggestive pictures.”

“I don’t believe I
did
ask you, Atherton. In fact, I, distinctly remember the board deciding last month that
you
were not to be involved in any further decisions made in this chamber.”

“Begging your pardon, but I think that recommendation was rescinded.” The Earl of Morland stood at the opposite corner of the room. His eyes were sharp, in contrast to the studied casualness of his bearing. “Surely you remember that message, Admiral. Last week, I believe.”

Oh, yes, the admiral did. He was not likely to forget the moment when his clear wishes had been countermanded.

But he did not care to admit it in front of that snake Atherton. “Message? What message?”

Lord Morland’s sapphire eyes narrowed. He noted the admiral’s growing flush. “How remiss of me. I fear you must have been at Carlton House at the time,” he said smoothly.

“Last week, do you say?” The admiral sniffed. “Wonder that I could have missed it.” He shrugged, then turned back to the earl. “Enough about that. I want to hear more about this pillow book.”

Atherton shifted, mumbling irritably.

Morland heard every word. “So you think it’s a pack of nonsense, Atherton? Nothing but suggestive rubbish? Now there I really must disagree. Much more than suggestive, I assure you. Such books leave very little to the imagination. They are meant to be used as physical guides, after all.”

“Aye, guides to hellfire and damnation, by the sound of it!” This salvo came from Lord Warburton, whose views were notoriously rigid.

Lord Morland smiled faintly. “By our way of thinking, Warburton. But there are those who say physical union may be a technique to ecstasy and even to salvation. When it’s done properly, of course.”

The other men around the table burst into sharp guffaws.

“Never heard of such a thing!” Atherton barked, tugging forcefully at his waistcoat, which had ridden up over his protuberant stomach. “I’m beginning to think you’ve had your head in those heathen books of yours too long, Morland. The whole idea is preposterous!’

With a lazy smile Morland crossed the fine Persian carpet, his limp only slightly visible.

He poured himself a drink from the rosewood side table and then stood silent, staring out at the comfortable bustle of Great George Street and Westminster Bridge.

It was all so normal, he thought. So different from the noise and color and clutter of Macao or Cairo.

But it was no more true or correct, just for being British. Not that Morland could ever say as much to these men. They would never agree.

He twirled his drink slowly. “Do you really think so, Atherton? On that I suppose we shall always disagree. But as it happens, I’ve brought a pillow book with me. Not in the grand style of the treasure I’ve been describing, of course. Mine lacks the pearls and jade and the master brushstrokes of that ancient masterpiece. Still, it will serve well enough to give you an idea of what we’re talking about.”

Carefully Morland reached down for the leather satchel by the table, then drew out a silk-bound volume.

If the committee was going to back out, he thought grimly, he wanted it to happen now and not later. Better to let them know
exactly
what they were getting into.

The men around the table leaned forward as Morland set the silk-covered folio before them and slid open the ivory clasps, revealing the first page.

“B-but—” Atherton broke off in choked sputtering. “These—these are—”

“Bloody irregular,” the admiral said flatly. “A damned good likeness, nevertheless. Religious salvation, you said?”

“Something like that.” Morland turned to the next page, where two lovers were framed amid peony and hibiscus blooms.

“Never taught us anything like
that
when I was young.” The admiral’s bushy brows knit. “Mayhem if they had, believe me.” He looked up at Morland. “So how is this book of yours supposed to help us with our diplomatic mission to the blasted Chinese emperor? We need
trade
, not art.”