St. Raven (7 page)

He was treating her like a child. “I had a plan.”

“I don’t doubt it.”

His condescending amusement put her teeth on edge. “I had in my reticule a liquid that promotes vomiting. I planned to complain of carriage sickness, then sip a little shortly before we arrived, claiming that it was a restorative. I doubt any man would be eager to bed a woman who was throwing up her dinner.”

He laughed. “Bravo! And you would need only a little time to seize the jewels and make your escape.” He lifted her chocolate pot and poured the last of it into her cup. Then he raised his cup. “A toast to enterprising, courageous women.”

She raised her cup and chinked it against his, unable to resist mirroring his smile. She’d had to pursue her terrifying plan in secrecy, and it was warming to have someone’s approval.

As she licked chocolate from her lips she said, “I hope you see now, Your Grace, that you did me no service by stealing me from Lord Crofton.”

“Alas, no.” He put down his cup. “I commend your plan and your courage, Miss Mandeville, but you don’t know Crofton’s world. He might have found some novelty in using a sick woman, and he would certainly have locked you up until you recovered.”

She stared at him, stomach churning at what might have been.

“Your other point of ignorance is that you were not going to Stokeley Manor to be there with Lord Crofton alone. He is holding a house party.”

“A
house party!”
He promised I would not be ruined in the eyes of the world!“

“Perhaps a truth. It’s to be a masquerade. However, it is also to be an orgy. You know what that means?”

“A bacchanalia?” she said hesitantly. “Immoderate drinking and sexual license?”

“More or less. People who attend such events tend to be jaded. They demand novelty. I fear you were to be Crofton’s centerpiece of novelty. Well-bred virgins are quite hard to come by, especially ones who go willingly to their fate.”

Her shocked mind raced ahead of him. “In
public
!” She sucked in thin air, struggling not to faint.

“At least in front of privileged guests. Good Lord. My apologies!” He dashed around the table. “I should never have put it before you so bluntly.”

Everything went gray; then a firm hand thrust her head down between her knees. “Keep breathing. It’s all right. None of this is going to happen to you. My word on it.”

That hand rubbed her neck. That and his words helped. She pushed upward, and he let her straighten. Dark spots flickered for a moment, then cleared.

She looked into his concerned eyes and swallowed. “I find I must sincerely thank you for rescuing me, Your Grace.”

She thought perhaps he blushed a little. “I certainly couldn’t leave you with him. And we must go about our adventure carefully.”

Cressida reached for her chocolate pot, but found it empty.

“Wait a moment.” He left the room. He returned in moments with a decanter and glasses. “Brandy. Drink up.”

She’d never drunk neat brandy, but sip by sip, she drained the glass. By the end she felt steadier, but also more frightened. She’d thought herself so clever and in control! But now… Was there no hope for her and her family? Then she remembered what he’d said.

“
Our
adventure?”

His eyes were bright with enthusiasm. “You can’t deny me a part in this, Miss Mandeville. And I’m sorry, but I cannot let you go to an orgy without an experienced guide.”

Cressida put down the glass. “The term ‘experienced guide’ does not precisely reassure me, Your Grace.”

She remembered thinking that he lived in another orbit, and it was true. A higher orbit of elegance and confidence. A much lower one of morals. The description “middle class” was singularly appropriate for her family, as well. Not the heights of pristine virtue, but not the degrading depths, either.

“I enjoy a gathering where men and women—all enthusiastic, of course—enjoy sensual pleasures more freely than is common.”

He showed no trace of shame.

“I suppose you have an invitation.” She regretted the tartness in her voice, but really!

“If you can’t control that vinegar face, Miss Mandeville, I can’t take you anywhere naughty.”

“I have no desire to go—” She halted because she had. Or at least, had to go.

His eyes twinkled. “You could think of it as educational.”

“There are some things best not learned.”

“Wemworthy. Definitely.”

That stung. “I am
not
… Oh, you are an exasperating man!”

“I try. Come, come, Miss Mandeville, you have the name of a romantic explorer.” He leaned forward, bright eyes challenging her. “Is there not a tiny part of you that wants to see this through to the end, that wants to witness a licentious party? Did you not, perhaps, enjoy your bold venture with Crofton, delighting in the prospect of outwitting him?”

She stared. It was as if he could see into a secret part of her soul. Though terrified, though hating to let Crofton touch and command her, she had sung with excitement, with
life
, as never before.

“Yes,” she admitted.

He smiled. “Would it not be a shame to return home, to return to Matlock, without seeing this through?”

“Perhaps…”

Tris was aware of being wicked, but it was harmless. He truly was an expert guide and could ensure Miss Mandeville’s safety, and he wanted to see this world through her astonished eyes.

Time to put a twist on it.

“There is no need, of course,” he said carelessly. “I am willing to go to Stokeley and retrieve the statue for you. It should present little problem.”

She bit her lip—uncertainty, temptation, struggle, all as clear as if she’d spoken them.

He pushed a little more. “You can stay here in comfort and security.”

Her neat white teeth released her lower lip. Her tongue poked out to lick. Such full, soft lips, especially when moistened… He reminded himself that the amusement here did not include the lady in his bed. Virtuous ladies from Matlock were forbidden territory.

“It might be cowardly to leave this all to you,” she said.

“Cowardice is sometimes the epitome of wisdom.”

Let her talk herself into it.

“There are also practical considerations. I know the house, and you do not. I know which statue among others is the right one, and how to make it reveal its secrets.”

“You could tell me that.”

“It is not something easily described, and time might be short.” She licked those lips again. “It is even possible that Lord Crofton will have moved them.”

“Why?”

Pretty pink flushed her round cheeks. “They are… the sort of thing well suited to a bacchanalia.”

Desire stirred. She made him think of swirls of cream on plump, sweet strawberries. “Then yes, he will have them on display. If you feel you can do it, your presence would be helpful. I can guarantee your safety.”

Honesty compelled him to add, “I cannot guarantee that you won’t see things that embarrass you. In fact, I can guarantee that you will.”

He saw a flash of excitement before she frowned.

Ah, it would be criminal to deny her this treat. “So, do you want to come? Tonight?”

Cressida looked into his bright, challenging eyes. Oh yes, she wanted to go. “Staying here would be like Wellington sitting in Brussels sipping tea while Waterloo raged.”

He rose. “Delightful woman! Very well, we must make plans for battle, and the first is to disguise you. I can be recognized, but it’s essential on all levels that you are not.” He tugged on the bell pull. “How well does Crofton know you?”

“Not well.”

“Then how did this extraordinary bargain come about?”

“He asked for permission to court me, but I had my father turn him away. I didn’t like him, and he was clearly one of the ones after my large dowry.” She looked up at him. “I worry that this is all revenge.”

“Possible, but you could have done nothing else. And I assume he didn’t force your father to the card tables.”

She sighed. “No, and after the disaster, he offered me this chance to recoup. In exchange for my virtue, my family could keep all the Indian artifacts. He tried to express distress, to present it as a kindness, the louse. I almost had him thrown out, but saw a chance to get the jewels.”

“It makes me wonder just how straight the play was, but the important matter now is your disguise.”

He rose and went to open the door. “Harry?”

A young footman stepped into view. Cressida saw a strong resemblance to Mrs. Barkway. “Your Grace?”

“Find Mr. Lyne for me.”

When the footman left, the duke turned and looked her over. “You already look different… What happened to the curls?”

She blushed. “They are false.”

“Lord above. But their absence changes your appearance. With a mask… Or a veil. Yes, that’s it! I have a sultan’s costume somewhere. If you go as a houri, with a veil over the lower part of your face and a mask over the upper part, it will do. Is your hair as long as it looks? You can wear it down…”

With a knock, a new man walked in. Another tall, fashionable man, though lighter haired than St. Raven and square faced.

Cressida raised her brows. “What became of the plan to keep me out of sight, Your Grace?”

“Cary’s already seen you. Garters,” he added, clearly to put her to the blush. “Stockings.” Before she could respond, he said, “Miss Mandeville, may I present Mr. Caradoc Lyne. Cary, Miss Mandeville.”

“You’re looking more the thing, Miss Mandeville. I hope you haven’t been too frightened.”

“No more than is reasonable, sir.”

He pulled an apologetic face. “We couldn’t leave you in the hands of that loose fish, Miss Mandeville. Truly.” He turned to the duke. “What’s to do now?”

St. Raven efficiently laid out the situation. His friend argued about the wisdom of taking a lady to such a scandalous affair, but was overborne. Cressida reflected that the Duke of St. Raven was accustomed to having his own way.

“So, our pressing need is a costume,” he said. “Something vaguely Arabian with a face veil.”

“There are some things… er… left behind, I think.”

He returned in moments and spread a pair of purple silk trousers on the bed, adding a glittering, multicolored short-sleeved jacket.

Cressida stared. “I can’t wear trousers!”

“This will be an
orgy
, Miss Mandeville.” The duke’s eyes were laughing at her again.

She went over and picked up the jacket. If she was lucky it would just reach to her waist. “My corset will show beneath this!”

Mr. Lyne cleared his throat. “I think you’re supposed to do without. We could try for something else—”

“Nonsense.” The duke cut him off. “The outfit’s perfect, especially with my sultan’s costume.” Cressida tried to object, but he carried on. “We need a face veil and head veil, both fairly opaque.” He studied her. “Mask, face paint…”

The door shut behind Mr. Lyne, who clearly followed orders. Cressida did not. “I am not wearing those clothes, Your Grace.”

“Why not try everything on first? You can back out at any time.”

“I don’t want to back out. I simply want something more ladylike! Can’t I go as… as a nun?”

He laughed. “Trust me, sweetheart, if you want to blend in tonight, the less ladylike you look, the better. The less likely that anyone will recognize you, you see.”

She did, but she still rebelled. “Why would anyone even imagine that I’d be at such an event?”

“Most of the women there will be professionals, yes, but some ladies enjoy wild adventures. An unmarried lady would be a rarity, but not entirely unknown. The key, of course, is never to raise the thought.”

He paused for a response, but Cressida didn’t have one. Now that she’d seen the costume, she wasn’t sure she could go through with this, but at the same time it was a challenge. She’d not known she’d react so strongly to a challenge.

“It is your choice.”

Did he know that was as seductive as Lucifer’s whisperings?

“I have a number of things to arrange,” he said, “so you have time to think it over. It would be wisest for you to stay in this room. Can I send some books for your entertainment?”

Still frowning at the outrageous garments, she agreed, and he left. Cressida picked up the trousers, symbol of her extraordinary situation.

Trousers! Many people still thought ladies’ underdrawers indecent because they resembled male clothing. Impossible to imagine wearing trousers and nothing else, and these silky things would feel like nothing.

They were opaque, at least. She’d seen drawings of Eastern women in similar trousers that were more like veils. These were quite pretty, too, braided with gold at the gathered ankles and up the sides, and tying at the waist with a golden cord. She held them against herself and thought they would probably fit. They’d be too long, but the gathered ankles would help there.

She put them down and picked up the jacket made of purple and red brocade embroidered with gold thread. It was short sleeved, low necked, and buttoned up the front. She told herself that it would cover her as well as the upper part of an evening dress, but without underwear, that was scant comfort.

No shift? No corset? How could she go out in public like that?

She wanted to put the outfit on now, to see the worst, but was hindered by the usual problem. She couldn’t get into and out of her fashionable clothes alone.

It had been different in Matlock. She and her mother had shared a ladies’ maid, but most of their gowns had been made for practicality and comfort, and they’d been able to dress and undress themselves.

Matlock. She dropped the scandalous jacket back on the bed.

Their lives there had been so smooth and comfortable. She’d lived all her life in the handsome house provided by the money her father sent. She and her mother enjoyed good friends and solid positions in Matlock society. Not at the upper level, but the height of respectability, despite her father’s strange absence. Her parents had been married there, after all, so no one could hint that the absentee husband had never existed. Her mother’s many good works had kept them busy, and Matlock was a minor spa town, so there were concerts, plays, parties, and assemblies in the summer.