Three Heroes (3 page)

Madness. She was probably all cool composure in bed, too.

When a ragged crossing-sweeper hurried to clear some horse droppings from his path, he dug out the sixpence, the penny, and the farthing, and dropped them into the lad's hand. With the boy's enthusiastic thanks loud in the air, he strolled on, a sparkle starting inside him.

With difficulty, he recognized mischief and challenge. How long was it since he had felt that way? Despite his employer's command that he not touch her without permission, surely in six weeks of adoring companionship, he could find out whether she was cool in bed.

Even a servant deserved amusement.

As he passed the gunsmith's on the way home, however, he remembered the flint, and fingered it in his pocket. It comforted him. If the strange Mrs. Celestin demanded anything intolerable, he had the easy way out.

The next night, Maria entered the Yeovil mansion in a state of unusual turmoil. Few would guess, for it was her nature to conceal her emotions, but she knew, and she knew why.

He'd paid his debts. Everyone gossiped about that as much as they'd gossiped about his ruinous night at the tables.

Where had the money come from? they'd asked.

Had he gone to the moneylenders? If so, poor man.

Would he lose again? Then what?

A sad case, both men and women agreed. Hero in the war. Fine old family. No hope, though. Father ruined the properties, and the son doesn't have the heart to start from scratch. Shame for such a promising young gentleman.

A promising young gentleman.

On hearing that, Maria had thought of the slack-lidded, stubbled man in the rumpled clothes, and the way he'd taken that pistol from her. Promising? Of what? Perhaps it was the fact that he was still a gentleman that had prevented him from shooting her.

If he was a gentleman, he'd work off his debt to her. He'd be here tonight. That terrified her almost as much as him not being here. If he was here, she'd have to deal with him.

For six weeks.

He did terrify her, and only the smallest part was a fear that he'd attack her. Instead it was fear of the energy and intensity he'd given off. She'd wanted to back away. To be safe.

Worse, she'd wanted to press closer, to inhale that energy, to absorb it, surrender to it.

She'd surrendered to her physical nature once before, and lived to regret it.

She would not make a fool of herself again.

Harriette knew how she felt. Harriette was the one person who knew everything, and now her aunt glanced sideways and smiled—the sort of chins-up! smile given to someone before a trying experience.

They greeted the duke and duchess—the duchess was Maria's cousin, twice removed—and their daughter. Lady Theodosia, who was being launched here. Then they moved into a reception room, and on into the glittering ballroom.

It was, of course, a most sought-after invitation, and therefore well on its way to being a

"crush." It might be hard to find her quarry. Or for him to find her. Maria felt an absurd temptation to climb on one of the chairs set around the walls, both to see and be seen.

"I don't see him," said Harriette, who was indeed stretching on tiptoe.

"Don't make a fuss," Maria hissed as she smiled and obeyed the beckoning Lady Treves. A pleasant lady, but she had a handsome, hopeful son, and so was destined to be disappointed.

So many hunted her fortune. She hadn't lied to Vandeimen about that, or that she'd pay a fortune to be able to attend these events without a swarm of what she thought of as her wasps. She saw two of the more persistent ones buzzing toward her now.

Ten proposals she'd had so far. Ten. And she'd only been free of mourning for a few weeks.

Of course it wasn't just the money, she acknowledged as she greeted Lord Warren and Sir Burleigh Fox. She was a Dunpott-Ffyfe. Marrying Maurice had not done her credit any good, but he was, after all, dead, and had left her a very wealthy widow with excellent bloodlines. A jam pot for wasps.

She smiled and chatted, trying not to favor any particular man and parrying the more clumsy attempts to flirt or flatter. Where was Vandeimen? Why wasn't he here?

She froze in the middle of an idle comment to the duchess. What if he'd paid his debts and gone home to shoot himself?

"Maria?"

"Oh! So sorry, Sarah. Of course I'll be a patroness of your charity for wounded soldiers.

The government should have done much more. And after all, Maurice made a great deal of money from supplying the army."

She'd be paying conscience money—to the soldiers who'd worn shoddy boots and uniforms, and to Lord Vandeimen who'd been ruined. Military charities were Sarah Yeovil's passion, however, because she had lost her younger son at Waterloo. She was dressed tonight in dark gray and black.

Maria remembered Lord Darius as a charming young rascal, always up to mischief, but her mind was presently fretting over another young man of about the same age. Was Lord Vandeimen lying in a puddle of blood?

She itched to invade his rooms again, to prevent disaster, but she stayed where she was and smiled. If he was dead, he was dead, and discovering it would not repair matters.

"Tattoos, Mama?" queried Lord Gravenham, the duchess's older son.

Maria paid attention and tried to guess what they were talking about.

"Sailors have them," Sarah said earnestly. "So if they drown, their bodies are more easily recognized. If soldiers had tattoos, it would serve the same purpose."

"It would do no harm," said Lord Gravenham, but Maria suspected he was thinking as she was. There'd been more than ten thousand corpses to deal with after Waterloo, most thrown into mass graves to prevent disease. One of them had been Dare's, but in a situation like that, who was going to note tattoos for identification?

"I had the idea from Lord Wyvern,” Sarah was saying. "A friend of Dare's,” she added to Maria. "One of this Company of Rogues they formed at Harrow, though of course he wasn't Wyvern then. Just plain Con Somer-ford. Such good friends, and such good men . . .” She pressed a black-edged handkerchief to her eyes and took a visible moment to collect herself. "He and two friends had tattoos done before going to war. On the chest. A G for George.”]]>

"That's a very common name, though, isn't it?” Maria said, trying to cover the moment and show an interest. "For true identification, it would need to be more distinctive. A full name?”]]>

"They were all called George."

Maria flashed Lord Gravenham a look, wondering if Sarah had finally slipped over the edge.

"So of course they needed something else,” Sarah went on. "Wyvern has a dragon. It fits the title he's inherited, though at the time he could not expect to. The other two men were a George Hawkinville—a hawk, and George Vandeimen, a demon. It goes with the sound of his title, of course, and it's the family name too. But not a wise choice.” She shrugged.]]>

"But then, they were only sixteen. I'm so glad to hear better news of him."

"Vandeimen?" Maria asked, and it came out a little high. "The one who lost his fortune?" He had a demon on his chest?

"I was saying to the duke that we should do something. He and the others were so kind to Dare last year. Professional soldiers, you know. But Vandeimen's affairs seem to have sorted out. So, can you help me there, too, Maria? I will have to hire people who can do these tattoos, and obtain the cooperation of the Horse Guards . . ."

The orchestra struck a louder note, alerting all that the dancing was to begin. Sir Burleigh hovered. Maria promised support for the foolish tattoo fund and gave the persistent wasp her hand.

She loved to dance, though she knew she did it with grace rather than verve. They called her Lily because of her pale complexion and habit of wearing pale clothes, and Golden for her outrageous wealth.

She knew they also called her the Languid Lily, and shared scurrilous jokes in the men's clubs about whether she was languid in bed.

She would love to be able to sparkle, and perhaps she had as a rompish sixteen. The years had taught her control and discretion, however, and they reigned even in the dance.

In the bed—well, that was a private matter.

Then as she turned in the dance pattern, she saw him.

She missed a step, and with a hasty apology she concentrated on the dance. When she glanced back across the room, Vandeimen was gone.

He was here, though. She couldn't have mistaken that tail lean grace and primrose hair, made more brilliant by dark evening clothes.

He was here.

Alive.

Ready to fulfill his bargain.

With a sudden beat of the heart she knew it had begun.

When the set was over, Maria felt flushed, an unusual occurrence for her. She plied her fan as her wasps gathered, all seeking the next chance at the jam pot. Maria playfully put off choosing.

Where was Vandeimen?

Had she imagined him?

Then she saw him, in company with Gravenham. Beside the marquess's mousy solidity, Vandeimen seemed a wild spirit, despite his perfect, tidy appearance. His primrose hair shone in the candlelight, and his scar, doubtless honorably gained, suggested wickedness, especially with the lingering marks of dissipation.

"Mrs. Celestin," Gravenham said, "you have enraptured another of us poor males.

Here's Vandeimen begging me for an introduction. Now mind," he added, "I wouldn't agree if you were a sweet young innocent, but I judge you well able to deal with rascals such as he."

Maria appreciated Gravenham's subtle warning. It showed that Vandeimen was in danger of losing his place in accepted circles.

"A rascal, my lord," she said to Vandeimen, offering her hand. "How intriguing."

She managed a cool manner, but was alarmed that she hadn't thought of this essential detail. Of course he couldn't just walk up to her. He had to find someone respectable to introduce him.

He bowed gracefully over her hand, perfectly judging the distance. A slight inclination would be cool. To actually touch his lips to her gloves would be scandalously bold. Just over halfway was within bounds, but hinted at interesting ardor.

She kept her light smile fixed and prayed not to shiver. This perfectly turned-out young man with deft social skills was not what she had expected.

"Then perhaps I might persuade you into the dance, Mrs. Celestin?" he said straightening but still holding her hand. "Some opportunity there to be rascally."

"Really? I was not aware of that."

"How dull your partners must have been." He tucked her hand into the crook of his arm.

"Come, let me brighten your life."

He stole her from under the noses of her wasps, and she wasn't sure whether to be outraged or wildly amused.

"My partners have not been particularly dull," she said, as they joined a set.

"Good. Then you won't be shocked." She wasn't sure about that. What did he plan?

She did know about rascally dancing. If she let her mind slide back to her folly with Maurice, she could remember times when he'd used the dance to full advantage. After all, where else could a slightly disreputable man get close enough to a lady to tempt her to folly?

The music started and they began the steps. For the moment it was just a dance, giving her room to think.

She hadn't anticipated him planning to kill himself.

She hadn't anticipated him being dangerous.

She hadn't anticipated the need for introduction.

She hadn't anticipated his perfect management of the situation, or how he matched the steps of society as skillfully as he matched the steps of the dance.

She should have expected all of it. Heavens, social duties were part of an officer's life. And yet, she had failed to anticipate his social skills.

What else had she neglected?

That he would be wary.

As she met his eyes in the dance, she recognized that. Of course her quixotic actions must appear suspicious. As they joined hands and passed, she wondered what he feared. What did he think she wanted for her twenty thousand pounds?

And what—even more fascinating—would he be willing to do for it?

She danced back toward him, wicked thoughts stirring despite every attempt to bury them deep in her mind. They linked arms in an allemande, and turned, eye to eye, bodies moving in harmony.

A sudden awareness rippled through her of exactly what she could demand from him in service—for six long weeks. She knew her rare color was building, and spun off to the next gentleman with relief.

She'd never thought of such a thing when she'd planned this. Never! She must immediately put it out of her mind. It would be both foolish and wicked. She was supposed to be rescuing him, not exploiting him, and he was eight years her junior.

She fiercely concentrated on the present, on the weaving steps of the dance. She couldn't help but watch, however, as he danced with other women in the set. She was not alone in her reaction. Each one, young or old, responded with a brightening of the eyes, a widening of the smile.

He was a flirt. A handsome, instinctive flirt whom women could not resist responding to. She'd not anticipated that, either. She'd known the world would assume she was buying youth, but not that she had been charmed out of her wits and money.

The idea was so repulsive that she wanted to cry halt now. He could have the money and go to hell or heaven—

Then he was back to partner her. As they stepped together, first one way then the other, he said softly,

"Am I supposed to fall madly in love with you, or is this a more considered affair?" Mouth dry, eyes locked with his, she said, "Madly in love. Why not?" If she was going to be thought a fool, she'd rather be thought a mad one.

His eyes held hers, and then, as the dance moved him on, they lingered for a speaking moment.

Fascinated, she realized she was doing the same thing, and hastily looked at her new partner, Sir Watkins Dore, to see an understanding smile.

"A handsome rascal," the middle-aged man remarked, "but penniless and with a taste for the bottle and the tables, dear lady. A word to the wise." From there on, Maria passed through the dance unable to block the mortifying awareness that everyone thought they were witnessing a powerful attraction between an older woman and a charming young rascal.