The Ravishing One (7 page)

Carr employed all the people in the house, with the exception of Gunna and the butler, Porter. All of them were his spies and agents and sneak thieves.

With a few deft movements of her hands, Fia removed the padded seat from the chair. In a small hollow area beneath lay a slender packet of letters. She smiled, a smile that in no way resembled any of those she wore outside this room. It bespoke an honest, easy, and uncomplicated pleasure.

They were letters from her brothers and their wives, collected over the past five years, eight each from Ash and Raine, five from Favor, and six from Rhiannon.

With the air of a connoisseur she selected one of the thin envelopes from her stash and gingerly unfolded it. It had been read so often that the folds had grown thin with wear and the edges frayed.

It was two years old and from Raine, sent all the way from his sunny estate in northern Italy. For months after it had first arrived she’d imagined she could smell the nectarines her brother had once described.

My dearest sister
,

Glad news! This morning Favor was delivered of a daughter, as beautiful as her mother and, I quite proudly own, just as vocal. We have named her Gillian Charlotte, after no one because, as Favor so
succinctly says, she must be our future and we shall not look to the past
.

My lovely wife, as you can see, is not much of a sentimentalist. But she did ask specifically to be remembered to you in this letter, so perhaps there is hope for the frightful wench yet
.

I wish you and Gregory well. Perhaps the day will come when you, too, will begin a family. I own I, with all of nine hours’ experience, am utterly besotted of the experience
.

With my deep regard, your brother
,

Raine Merrick

Fia carefully refolded the letter and returned it to its envelope. She hesitated a second before replacing the seat without reading another, wanting to dole them out judiciously so that the pleasure of reading them might stay fresh and alive for years to come.

Gillian. Gilly. And a year later a son had been born, Robert. Ash, too, had fathered a son, a redheaded boy to inherit his Cornish horse-breeding enterprise.

Fia shook her head in wonderment. Her brothers were either far more fearless than she was or far less fearful of the suspicion that had ruled her. Or perhaps they had simply forgotten whose blood ran in their veins—God! If only she could!

But then, what did she know of her brothers? They had been virtual strangers to her when she’d been growing up, and she’d always assumed they’d had no feelings for her. Too late she’d come to realize that
Carr had manufactured the distance between her and her brothers.

Heat stung her eyes. The control she donned each waking moment slipped. Reflexively she shored it up, forcing herself to confront those thoughts that threatened to undermine her self-discipline. It was an exercise she always insisted of herself.

There was much she’d discovered late and she recalled too clearly the day her naivete had ended. She’d been a pitiful, lovelorn little girl who’d sneaked out of the castle to follow her hero, the handsome Scot, Thomas Donne, and the lovely Rhiannon Russell.

It had begun storming, hard. She remembered how he’d held himself to take the brunt of winds, protecting Rhiannon, while Fia had hunkered down, drenched by the downpour, contemptible and pathetic, straining her ears to hear his words. She’d heard, all right.

“Carr killed his first wife then killed the next two.”

“He left his sons to rot.”

“Fia is nothing but Carr’s whore.”

There, Fia thought with satisfaction, her gaze fixed impassively on her fingers. No trembling. Not even a hesitation. The memory no longer had the power to set her heart racing and her body shaking. She had healed even harder than she’d originally been. But crooked, like an ill-set bone, flawed and twisted. Sometimes she wondered if, like that ill-set bone, another break could set her right. Not that it mattered.

Yes, she was tainted with Merrick blood. But even that could be put to use. Who else besides she, raised
from birth to be his accomplice, could anticipate Carr? And if she could use the poisonous gift of her upbringing to checkmate him, then she would get down on her knees and thank God for the stigma of being Carr’s favored child.

A knock sounded.

“What is it?” she called.

“A gentleman to see you, madam. A Mister Do …” Porter’s voice lowered discreetly.

Her pulse began to race. “Mister Donne, did you say?”

“No, madam,” the answer came back. “A Mister Dolan.”

Her shoulders slumped—nay, relaxed. “Tell Mister Dolan I am not at home.”

“As you wish, milady.”

Her thoughts turned to earlier this day. She’d been immersed in her role of seductress, painstakingly feeding her own legend with lurid, salacious, and ultimately false stories. It kept the choicer suitors from seriously considering offering for her hand. And if no one asked for her hand, how then could Carr give it?

She’d known who stood over her before she’d ever raised her eyes. And when she did, she’d wished she hadn’t. Thomas had worn the face of a guardian-warrior, devoid of compassion or uncertainty. He’d never been overcome by the enemy within or any enemy without. Thomas Donne did not know defeat.

Tall, lean, and broad-shouldered, he bore little resemblance to the indolent roué who’d gamed at her father’s tables.

He was even more arresting now.

His dark rumpled hair was salted with gray. His body looked harder and more powerful. His skin was so dark and weathered that no amount of powder or cream would ever conceal the evidence of years spent on a ship deck or erase the lines that fanned from the outer corners of his clear gray eyes. His lips were carved wide and hard, his jaw square and lean.

For a moment she’d been a girl again, helplessly in the throes of a deep infatuation, hopeful for his notice, desperate for his good opinion, and deep down within, wishing that his power and ferocity were on her behalf and that he’d come to vanquish her foes.

But
she’d
been the foe he’d come to vanquish. Amazing that it should have hurt so much when he’d accused her of practicing her wiles on Pip—that poor, decent boy. The phantom of the girl she’d once been had shuddered and died all over again. Abruptly she’d remembered who she was and what.

She
wasn’t
a good woman. She’d married Gregory MacFarlane because he was rich and malleable, but most of all because he’d been Scottish and when he died she’d inherit his estate. But things had not worked out the way she’d planned. Once more she was her father’s puppet. But it
hadn’t
been a role of her choosing.

She lifted her chin and walked through to the boudoir. She had little left to recommend herself except a perverse and deep-rooted pride. It had served her well after she’d discovered what her father was; it had driven her to elope with MacFarlane. Pride had seen
her through her marriage and her husband’s ever increasing dependency on her father, and pride had allowed her to meet unbowed the news of MacFarlane’s death and her renewed subjugation to Carr. Pride had kept her from giving up and yielding to her father’s machinations.

And pride was at the root of the vow she’d made—and meant to keep—to Gunna in that closed carriage a few hours ago.

If Thomas Donne thought her
bad
—well, she would show him just how
bad
she could be.

Chapter 5

C
ome with us, Tom. You can’t spend every hour playing nursemaid to that ship of yours,” Robbie urged.

“Heed him, Thomas. Robbie’s an expert on reckoning the exact amount of gaiety a man must have to maintain his vigor.” Francis Johnston approached the table at which Robbie and Thomas sat and pulled out an empty chair. He motioned for the proprietress to bring him a cup of coffee, and groaned. “Three o’clock in the afternoon and I’m still not awake. However shall I conspire to revel this evening?”

“You might try forgoing the revelry for once,” Thomas suggested dryly. He tilted back, lacing his fingers across his flat belly.

“And miss attending the Portmann’s masque?” Francis’s blond brows climbed. “Never! ’Twill be the
event of the Season. They expect a horrible crush and to accommodate it they’re said to have erected special venues in the fields behind the house.”

“It sounds to be a pleasant time but I’ll likely spend the evening with Pip,” Thomas said.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” groaned Johnston. “Grant that poor family a temporary reprieve. They must be nigh well sick of seeing you.”

“Come, Johnston,” Thomas replied. “I’ve visited five times in the past two weeks. I’m hardly living in their pockets.”

“Loath as I am to point it out to you,” Johnston said, his tone growing mild, “as Miss Sarah’s former—if undeclared—suitor, your presence in her home can only cause her embarrassment.”

Thomas frowned. He wouldn’t knowingly cause Sarah Leighton distress. In his concern for Pip had he been lax in his sensitivity to her situation?

“Blast!”
he muttered. “How blind an oaf can one be?”

“Exactly,” Robbie said approvingly. “So now that you won’t be going there this evening, you might as well come with us.”

Thomas did not reply at once. The repairs on the
Alba Star
were taking longer than expected. At this rate it seemed unlikely he’d be able to deliver the cargo by New Year’s Day as he’d promised.

Perhaps he could persuade James to take the route round the Cape of Good Hope on his new ship, the
Sea Witch
. Then, once the
Alba Star
was seaworthy again, he would take James’s shorter route along the northern
coast of Africa. It was an idea worth pursuing—and one he would pose when next he saw James. His expression grew grave.

He’d seen little of James since they’d parted company the morning of his assault on Fia’s house—no, he corrected himself with brutal honesty, his assault on Fia. His actions had been inexcusable. Once more his passionate distrust of the Merricks had cost him some of his hard-earned self-esteem.

Yet he’d only to see Pip’s drawn face to feel again the wrath that had led him to Fia’s door. ’Twould be best if he never saw her again, and he’d sought these past two weeks to ensure that he didn’t.

“Come on,” Robbie urged. “ ’Twill give you something to tell Pip about during your next visit.”

Thomas looked up. “Why would Pip be interested? Will Lady Fia be there?”

Robbie blinked. “Lady Fia? I don’t think so. She ain’t been seen in public for over a week now.” He chewed on his lower lip. “Layin’ low, most like, what with those nasty rumors circulatin’ about her and—”

“And whether she was responsible for Pip’s misadventure,” Johnston hastily cut in.

Thomas turned his gaze on Johnston. Johnston smiled blandly, not fooling Thomas for a moment. Johnston had heard about his visit. Well, Thomas needn’t give a damn about Fia—as long as she didn’t embroil James in any of her schemes.

In the meantime, if he had an opportunity for a night of good-natured revelry and one where he could
be relatively certain of not seeing that black-hearted siren, he might well take it. He was accomplishing nothing by hanging about the dockyard.

“Will I need a costume?” he asked.

“Good Lord, no!” Robbie exclaimed, laughing. “You can go just as you are and people will think you a splendid specimen.”

“Specimen of what?”

Robbie and Johnston looked at each other and grinned. “A pirate,” they answered in unison.

The Portmanns had devoted eight years to the construction of their enormous Palladian home. Unfortunately, by the time Tiburn House had been completed the popularity of its architectural style was already waning. At least the Portmanns could congratulate themselves on its site, that being less than a half mile north of Grosvenor Square.

It would only be a matter of time before the city overtook Tiburn House and the flat, unadorned sheep fields surrounding it were filled with a swarm of fashionable squares and streets. But for now Tiburn House marked the exact point at which countryside met city, its front facade greeting its urban neighbors while its back overlooked a great, dark, rural expanse.

Johnston’s reports proved accurate. Beneath an indigo sky, striped pavilions had been erected. Farther out, winding paths had been mown in the grass. Tall wands, top-heavy with glass globe lanterns, illuminated various vignettes, a company of actors posed in
tableau vivant
, and a troupe of minstrels.

A short distance from the back gardens a large circle had been cut for country dancing. Around its perimeter, bull’s-eye lanterns directed rays of light across the center, to be caught by mirrored lanterns and returned. Thus the whole circle was crisscrossed with brilliant beams, and the dancers in their shimmering silks and glistening brocades flickered in and out between the slender threads of light like silver minnows in some giant fisherman’s seine.

Thomas stood back, nursing the cup of negus a harried servant had pressed into his hand, and watched the crowds disperse and regroup. There were easily five hundred people in the field and probably half again as many in the house. All of them were in costume, including amongst their numbers a half-dozen Cleopatras, twice that many Spaniards, several Chinamen and Indian princesses, a disconcertingly large number of men in women’s garb, and a full complement of pirates.

Thomas had bowed to convention by clubbing his hair, clipping on a gold earring, and donning a nobleman’s ragged coat, stripped of its ornamentation, that he’d found in a Cheapside market. Most of the revelers had much more elaborate disguises. Though Thomas knew that Portmann’s guests would have hotly denied the word “disguise” as being misrepresentative, he could not put the term from his mind, for all about him the anonymity afforded by masks and dominoes and face paint had purchased licentiousness.