Shadow Dance (16 page)

She needed no convincing, snuggling down in the covers with a blissful sigh. He stood there for a moment, watching her. It would be like this if life were different, if he’d been better born, if he’d been able to court her, marry her. He’d wake up every morning and look down at her, sleeping.

As it was, this one morning would have to suffice for the rest of his life.

He didn’t know how long he stood there staring at her, drinking in every detail of her rose-flushed cheeks, her softly parted lips, the faint blue veins in her eyelids. And then he turned his back on her, deliberately, and began the arduous task of his toilette.

When he finally emerged from beneath the tentlike folds of the landlady’s nightgown, he knew he was in trouble. He’d only managed to fasten the corset around his waist, not use it to manufacture a female figure. The dress was stiff and wrinkled, and no woman in his experience would be caught dead in such an atrocity, and the hat had shrunk. He tiptoed over to the small mirror the inn provided, and his worst fears were confirmed.

It had been almost twenty-four hours since he’d shaved, and no one could miss the light brown stubble on his angular jaw. His eye was quite magnificent, with dark purple bruises almost distracting the gaze from Mrs. Ramsey’s incipient beard. Almost, but not quite. His hair hung limply around his face, and despite the bedraggled female clothes, he looked entirely male.

He could think of no way to avail himself of the straight razor he carried in his reticule, not without drawing unwanted attention to himself, and even dusting powder across his face wouldn’t provide much disguise. He grabbed his hat, yanked it on his head, and pulled down the veil.

He had a blessed hour alone in the taproom. The landlord himself brought him coffee and then made himself scarce, and he sat there, staring at the dying embers of the fire, and considered the cruelty of life.

The rain had stopped at some point during the night, and the sun was shining weakly through the wet leaves. Valerian lifted his veil to take a better look, then yanked it down again as he heard someone enter the taproom.

“I beg your pardon, I thought the room deserted.” The gentleman about to make a hasty retreat could only be the mysterious Mr. Lemur.

“As you can see, it is not,” Valerian said in a suitably frosty voice. The man was obviously harmless, and well enough looking for all that. A bit past his first youth, he was neatly dressed, and his brown hair was combed close to his scalp. He had colorless eyes, a pleasant expression, and small hands, and in retrospect there seemed nothing the slightest bit mysterious about him. Just an ordinary gentleman on a trip to Hampton Regis.

“There you are, sir.” The innkeeper appeared at the door with his habitual worried expression on his face. “Begging your pardon, my lady, but the private parlor sustained some damage last night. The roof’s worse than I thought. Would you condescend to allow this gentleman to share the taproom with you?”

“It is really quite extraordinary,” Valerian began the protest, not in the mood for any company, when Sophie’s sweet young voice interrupted.

“Of course we wouldn’t mind. There can surely be no impropriety, since Mrs. Ramsey and I have each other to lend us countenance. You’re welcome to join us, Mr….?”

“Lemur,” he said, with a correctness that contained not a trace of unctuousness. So why did Valerian’s hackles rise? “Mark-David Lemur, at your service.”

“I am Miss de Quincey, and this is Mrs. Ramsey.” She’d put her own dress on again, and she looked adorably bedraggled in it. She crossed the room to Valerian, pausing to stare at him, her lips compressed as she struggled not to laugh. And then she couldn’t help it. A soft burble of laughter escaped her. “Val! Why in heaven’s name are you wearing a veil this morning?”

“You think I look absurd, you should see beneath the veil,” he said grimly. “Allow me this tiny bit of vanity, if you please.”

“I’m sure you look charming.” Sophie sat down beside him, pouring herself a cup of coffee with an ease Valerian had never managed. “Would you care for some, Mr. Lemur?”

“With pleasure, Miss de Quincey,” he said promptly, taking a chair opposite them.

Valerian leaned back, watching them with a sour expression
concealed by his veil. She was charming Lemur with the same effortless grace with which she’d poured the coffee. It was a social talent, it meant nothing at all, and he was eaten alive by jealousy.

“Are you new to this area, Mr. Lemur?”

“I am. I was on my way to a small coastal village called Hampton Regis when the weather waylaid me.”

“That’s our home,” Sophie said brightly.

“Then perhaps you might have news of the person I’m seeking. A young lad named Julian Smith.”

Thank God for the veil, Valerian thought. He didn’t have to hide his reaction.

Sophie shook her head. “I’m afraid I don’t know him. He can’t have lived in Hampton Regis for long, or I’m certain I’d have heard of him …”

“I imagine he’s been in town only for a week or so. He’s a bond servant of mine, one who stole from me and ran off. I’ve heard that he was seen in this area, and I hope to catch up with him.”

“A distressing tale,” Val said in a silken voice. “What did the wretch steal?”

Lemur looked at him with calm, trustworthy eyes. “A pair of diamond-and-pearl earbobs belonging to my wife.”

“Shocking,” Val breathed. “Yet I wonder why you’re in search of the lad yourself. Why not send the Bow Street runners after him?”

“I have a fondness for the boy. He’s made a mistake, but I have no doubt that with proper discipline he can be made to see the error of his ways.” Lemur smiled, and Val felt a frisson of horror slide down his spine. He’d spent so little time at Sutter’s Head recently that he had no idea if
Phelan knew what had sent Juliette into boys’ clothes. The answer lay in the pleasant-faced creature in front of him.

Val stretched out a hand for his coffee, hoping the seemingly placid Mr. Lemur wouldn’t notice its size. “Now that you mention it,” he murmured, “there was a young lad working at the Fowl and Feathers who was newly come to town. I don’t remember the boy’s name, but he was a well-turned-out lad. Small, brown hair, brown eyes, almost girlish-looking?”

Lemur couldn’t disguise his eagerness. “That’s him. Where did you say he was? The Fowl and Feathers?”

“Not anymore,” Val said sadly. “I gather he ran off more than a week past with half the landlord’s silver. Someone said he was seen heading north.”

Sophie turned amazed eyes toward him, but she said nothing.

“North? I’ve just come that way,” Lemur said, for a moment letting his placid demeanor slip. “If you ladies will excuse me, I’d best be going.”

Valerian could afford to play with him now. “Oh, do stay and have some more coffee,” he said affably. “Perhaps the roads are flooded to the north as well. You wouldn’t want to get too early a start.”

“Thank you, no,” Lemur said hastily. “The roads I traveled on traversed higher ground. Even if they are underwater, I’ll simply wait. Your servant, ma’am. Miss de Quincey.” He almost bowled over the landlord in his speed.

“Has something happened, my lady?” the innkeeper inquired anxiously.

“Nothing at all, my good man,” Val said lazily. “Mr. Lemur simply discovered a pressing engagement back the way he had come.”

“And I just wanted to inform you all that the road to Hampton Regis is now clear.”

“Your timing is excellent. Any sooner, and our friend might have taken off on a wild-goose chase. Would you see to it that the horses are put to the carriage? Miss de Quincey and I should be on our way as well.”

The innkeeper pronounced himself more than happy to do the lady’s bidding, and quickly absented himself. There was a moment of silence, and then Val cast a glance at Sophie’s disapproving expression.

“You lied to him, didn’t you?”

She was far too observant, his darling Sophie was. “What do you mean?”

“I remember now—that young boy at the Fowl and Feathers went home with your husband. He didn’t steal anything, and he didn’t go back north at all, did he?”

“Since you’ve already told me you despise liars, I’ll tell you the truth. Julian Smith is safely lodged at Sutter’s Head, and we intend to keep him as far away from Mr. Lemur as we can. I don’t believe the lad stole a thing. He’s been the subject of cruel treatment, and we’re not about to hand him back to a master who abuses him.”

“Even though it’s the law?” she asked, and he couldn’t sense whether she approved or not.

“Even though it’s the law,” he said firmly. “People should come before the law.”

She smiled at him. “You are truly a wonderful woman,” she said.

Val controlled his urge to snarl. “Why? Because I take pity on helpless creatures?”

“Yes. And because you don’t mind risking your own well-being to help them.”

“Don’t be ready to grant me sainthood, Sophie. I’m not as kind or noble as you think. I have hidden flaws you would find quite unacceptable.”

“I doubt it,” she said, her eyes shining. “I think you are truly the most wonderful, kind, honorable human being I have ever known.” And she leaned over and kissed him through the veil.

Her aim was far too good. Her mouth touched his through the thin, filmy stuff, and her lips clung to his for one incredible, earth-shattering moment. And then she pulled away, a startled expression on her face.

“Well,” she said breathlessly, “if we’re going to leave shortly, I’d best see to … er … That is … I’ll need a few moments …” She was babbling as she backed out of the room, and her face was pale with confusion.

He watched her go, unmoving, his expression hidden behind the concealing veil. And when he was alone in the room, he began to curse in a quiet, steady voice.

But the sound of his voice brought him no comfort. And he suspected nothing would. Nothing ever would again.

The sun shone fitfully through the damp leaves as Valerian whipped the horses along the muddy road. He was driving too fast, he knew that full well, but he didn’t slow down. He needed to get Sophie back to the formidable bosom of her mama. He needed to warn Phelan about the sudden appearance of Mark-David Lemur. Most of all, he needed to shave.

The wind was whipping his veil past his stubbled chin, but Sophie had curled up against him, her eyes closed, her cheeks flushed, and he could only pray she wouldn’t notice. Driving at a sedate pace was beyond him at this point. He needed to get home before disaster struck.

He had no idea who Mark-David Lemur was, but he expected Phelan knew full well. Phelan knew just about everything. He would need to be warned. Whatever Lemur’s connection to Juliette was, he didn’t mean well by her. And neither of the Romneys was going to stand by and let him take her.

He glanced down at the woman curled up beside him. She felt warm, her eyes were overbright, and she complained haltingly of the headache. He suspected yesterday’s
drenching hadn’t done her any good, and he wanted her home, in bed, with hot tea and a posset.

Actually, he wanted her home, in bed, with him, but that wasn’t a possibility. He’d already spent the one night he’d ever have with her, and his body was still in torment from it. He probably wouldn’t survive another one. Could a man die of frustration? Could his member get so hard for so long that it simply stopped working?

He was going to have a chance to find out, he through wryly, slowing the horses as they approached the outskirts of Hampton Regis. As a medical experiment, it lacked a certain charm. He thought he might possibly prefer death.

Sophie lifted her head when he stopped the carriage outside her parents’ house. It was late morning, the sun shone brightly overhead, and her beautiful blue eyes were dazed and feverish.

“Where are we?” she asked, looking up at him with undisguised adoration.

It just about killed him. “Home, love,” he murmured.

“That’s good. I’m afraid I feel a bit … unwell,” she said as the front door opened and her mother appeared.

“Sophie!” There was no denying the passionate concern in her mother’s voice as she raced to the carriage. “What has happened? We heard the road was flooded, but we had every faith in Mrs. Ramsey …”

“She’s feeling unwell,” Valerian said tersely, jumping down from the carriage with a complete disregard for ladylike decorum. By that time Mrs. de Quincey, her tiny, ineffectual husband, and several members of her staff had surrounded the carriage, with the matriarch issuing orders in a stentorian voice. Valerian ignored her, scooping
Sophie’s light body up in his strong arms and starting toward the door.

“My dear Mrs. Ramsey!” Mrs. de Quincey gasped. “Let one of the servants carry her. It is quite unseemly …”

He ignored her, striding through the open door and heading for the broad front stairs. “Tell me where her room is.”

“I really don’t think—”

“Tell me where her room is,” he said again, in a voice reminiscent of his brother, and the formidable Mrs. de Quincey nervously complied.

“Is she all right?” she chattered, racing along beside them, the small army of servants thundering in their wake. “Was there an accident, has she been hurt …?”

“I told you, she’s feeling unwell. Too much rain, and she caught a chill. A few days in bed and she’ll be fine.” He sounded graceless, but Mrs. de Quincey was so caught up in her daughter’s well-being that she didn’t notice.

Sophie’s bedroom was the stuff dreams are made of. At least, his dreams. Her bed was large, high, and piled with soft white linens, and he laid her down carefully.

“She needs a hot bath,” her mother announced. “She needs a mustard poultice for her chest, and I shall brew an herbal posset for her that will put her in good heart. Mrs. Ramsey, we cannot thank you enough. We’ll put a room in order for you immediately—you will not wish to be seen in public until you can secure a change of clothes. We’ll send someone out to Sutter’s Head to reassure your husband. Mr. de Quincey, see to it. Walker, tell the cook to make some chicken soup. Mary, accompany me …” She disappeared, issuing orders, taking her crowd of servants and her husband with her. Leaving Valerian alone with Sophie.

It would last only for a moment. Her maid would reappear,
once she’d absorbed all of her mistress’s commands, and he would be effectively banished. He stared down at Sophie, and he told himself this would have to be the last time he saw her. He couldn’t trust himself otherwise.

She was asleep, or nearly so, her cheeks flushed, her breathing rapid. And then her eyes opened, and she looked up at him, and smiled.

“You look an absolute quiz,” she said softly.

“Flatterer,” he replied in not much more than a whisper. “Your mother’s rallying the forces, and I’m getting out of here. Good-bye, dear girl.”

Distress crossed her face. “You’ll be back.”

He’d lied so much, he didn’t want to lie again. “I’m not certain. Mr. Ramsey has talked about leaving for the Continent, and a wife’s duty is to follow her husband.”

“You never struck me as particularly dutiful.”

“There’s a great deal about me that might surprise you,” he said wryly, giving in to temptation and stroking her cheek.

She turned and pressed her lips against his hand. “Promise me,” she whispered. “Promise me you won’t leave without saying good-bye.”

“Good-bye,” he said, leaning down to kiss her cheek.

At the wrong moment she turned. He’d lifted the hem of his veil, just enough to let his lips brush against her face, but instead, his mouth landed on hers. Hot and wet and open.

He wanted to use his tongue. He wanted to climb onto the bed, push her down, and make love to her. He groaned, deep in his throat, and pulled away before he could do worse than simply give her the beginnings of a man’s kiss.

She was staring at him, white with shock. The crumpled
veil obscured his face, and God only knew if she’d felt the stubble on his chin. He didn’t think so, but he couldn’t stay around long enough to find out.

“Good-bye,” he said again. And he turned and left her, without a backward glance.

Phelan Romney’s mood had gone from bad to worse. His uncertain temper wasn’t improved when his brother strode into the library just before noon, taking his bedraggled hat off his head and throwing it into the fireplace. On a warm summer’s day no fire was burning, but the gesture still retained force.

“Good God,” Phelan said faintly, surveying his sibling. “Did you drive through town looking like that?”

Valerian threw himself into a chair. His black eye was magnificent in coloration, he needed a shave, and he looked as if he wanted to hit someone. Phelan wondered idly whether he was to have that honor.

“I had no bloody choice. We were stranded ten miles away from Hampton Regis and forced to spend the night in an inn.”

Phelan sat up in alarm. “Val, you didn’t …”

“No, I damned well didn’t. I spent the whole bloody night in her bloody bed with her bloody head on my bloody shoulder and I never touched her!”

“Good for you,” Phelan said faintly.

Valerian surged out of the chair and stalked across the room, leaning over the desk with a pugnacious expression on his face. One that was particularly comic, given his limp, ruffled apparel. “Good for me,” he mimicked. “I’ll tell you what’s good for me. We’re getting out of here. I’m sick and tired of waiting for Hannigan to come up with a
happy solution, I’m sick and tired of sitting around on my bum doing nothing, and if I see Sophie de Quincey again, I’m going to—” He stopped, belated gentlemanly restraint keeping him from informing his brother exactly what he longed to do to his bluestocking.

“I can imagine,” Phelan said wryly.

“I won’t fight you anymore,” Valerian said. “You’ve got your wish. We’re getting out of here, and we’re taking Juliette with us.”

Phelan froze. “No! I’ve told you, she’s staying. You’re not going to get rid of your sexual frustrations on her.”

“Do you think I’m that kind of man? I ought to black your eye,” Valerian said dangerously.

Phelan barely managed a wry smile. “You’re looking for an excuse to hit me, and doubtless I deserve it. I might enjoy a good mill as well—I haven’t been any too satisfied myself recently, but it would be a waste of time. Thank God you’re finally willing to get out of here, but we’re leaving Juliette behind.”

“To the tender mercies of the man looking for her?”

Phelan grew very still. “I didn’t tell you about him,” he said with great surety.

“No, you didn’t. We ran into him in the inn. A seemingly pleasant fellow named Lemur, who said he was looking for his runaway bond servant. A boy named Julian Smith.”

“Bloody hell.”

“Oh, don’t worry, brother mine. I told him she’d taken off north with half the contents of the town, and he raced off after her. But I don’t know how long that will wash. Sooner or later he’ll come back. And I’m not about to hand her over to him.”

“No,” said Phelan. “Neither am I.”

“She isn’t his bond servant, is she?”

“She’s his wife.”

Valerian let out a low whistle. “Then we’d better get out of here,” he said. “And fast.”

“Are you traveling like that?”

“This will be the last time I climb into these damned skirts,” he warned.

“Don’t be any too hasty. It might take a day or two to book passage. In the meantime, keep away from your bluestocking.”

“Oh, I intend to. But I wouldn’t take my time. I may have put Lemur off the scent, but it was a temporary thing. He’ll be here sooner or later, and I expect it will be sooner.”

Phelan considered the notion. There would be nothing he’d like better than to vent some of his frustration on that little worm. He’d hurt Juliette, hurt her quite badly, and for that he wanted to kill him.

Unbidden, the train of thought continued. If he killed him, as Lemur no doubt deserved, then Juliette would be a widow.

Why the hell should her marital status matter to him? He simply wanted to see her safe. As far away from her husband as Valerian’s bluestocking.

“We’ll leave,” he said. “In the meantime, keep out of town. You must have caused enough comment already.”

Valerian glared at him. “You aren’t going to give me a chance to hit you, are you?”

Phelan laughed bitterly. “Not this time. When we reach France you can do your damnedest to pummel me. Then it won’t matter if you have a second black eye.”

“You think so, do you?”

“I’m bigger than you, little brother. I always could outbox you.”

“I’m madder than you, big brother. And a hell of a lot more frustrated.”

Phelan thought back to his encounter with Juliette in the rain-soaked garden. “I wouldn’t count on it,” he said wryly.

In the end, they had far less time than Phelan would have hoped. He rode into Hampton Regis that afternoon, with the ostensible purpose of calling on the de Quinceys to make certain their daughter had suffered no ill effects from her sojourn on the road. In reality, he had two goals. One, to make sure that Valerian hadn’t given himself away. And two, to book passage on the next boat, ship, or raft bound for France. Or anywhere away from England.

He failed in both those endeavors. Mrs. de Quincey received him, but she was distraught, distracted, and barely civil. Sophie was decidedly unwell, the doctor had been called, and she would be unable to receive visitors for any length of time. Phelan had politely taken his leave, wondering whether Sophie’s indisposition had any emotional component.

The search for passage to the Continent was even less fruitful. The one ship in the small harbor had sustained damage during the heavy rains, and none of the smaller boats could be hired for love or money. The best he could come away with was a promise for three days hence. He had the uneasy feeling that might be too late.

He wanted to get back to the house. He hadn’t seen Juliette since their midnight encounter in the rain, telling himself he didn’t care, knowing he was lying. He forced himself to stop by the Fowl and Feathers, strolling into the taproom with a negligent air, intent on proving to the world that Mr.
Ramsey had nothing to hide. Seeing Sir Neville Pinworth in the corner, deep in conversation with another man, didn’t improve his mood, and he almost turned and left.

“There he is!” Sir Neville announced in his high, mincing voice, after lifting his head and espying Phelan. “What luck! Philip, join us. You’ll never guess who this gentleman has come in search of.”

Bloody hell! Phelan didn’t move, couldn’t move, as Mark-David Lemur turned to face him, a placid expression on his blandly handsome face. And then his colorless eyes narrowed as he looked into Phelan’s face.

They’d met only once, several years ago in Alexandria. They’d shared a bottle of wine and enough desultory conversation for Phelan to recognize that Lemur was a strange soul, then had separated. Another man might not even recognize him.

“We’ve already met.” Lemur rose. “It’s been a long time, Romney.”

“Indeed, it has,” Sir Neville said with a giggle. “You’ve even forgotten his name. It’s Ramsey, Philip Ramsey.”

“Of course it is,” Lemur said smoothly, a pleasant smile on his face. “Forgive my
gaucherie
.”

“There’s nothing to forgive,” Phelan murmured, knowing he had no choice but to brazen this through. “It’s good to see you again, Lemur. What is it you’re in search of? I’d be more than happy to be of assistance.”

“It’s the boy,” Sir Neville crowed.

Phelan arched an eyebrow. “The boy? I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t be deliberately obtuse. The serving lad who was working here. You spirited him away from under my nose, and if he isn’t still happily ensconced at Sutter’s Head, I
would have heard about it. I made it my business to enquire after his well-being.” Pinworth’s predatory smile exposed yellow teeth. “I have a kindness for young boys in need of a helping hand.”

“I think I may have met your wife,” Lemur said smoothly. “At a small inn not ten miles north of here. I look forward to making her acquaintance again. And to finding my nephew.”