Too Dangerous For a Lady (3 page)

On the terrace he'd been taller, but now she looked down at him. He'd been the stronger one, but now he was her captive. He'd been in control, but now she had command. When she'd allowed kisses over the past six years, the men had played the masterful part once she'd permitted their attentions. This man couldn't hold her, direct her, or keep her close if she wanted to retreat. He couldn't escape her, either, and there was no mother to rush in and save her.

She rested a hand on his broad shoulder, vibrating at his strength and warmth, and lowered her head to press her lips against his.

So sweet.

So wicked.

So thrilling.

Still kissing, but in the slightest way, she put a hand on his other shoulder, and then slid both to cradle his face. Warm skin and the roughness of whiskers, and his lips teasing at hers for more. She drew back to look at him, seeing clearly his long lashes around widening dark eyes.

He felt it, too, this wicked reversal. He, too, wanted more.

It will be my pleasure, sir.

She returned to her kiss, tantalizing him with butterfly touches until she could bear it no more and pressed hard against him. He opened to her, hot and moist, and she sank into that, exploring a new pleasure, for she'd never gone so far with any other man, and never in a situation like this. His tongue taught her new excitements and she almost drew back, but she couldn't, wouldn't.

She was in command.

He was safely bound.

She relaxed into magic, letting him explore as she explored, settling against him, trusting his strength. And she was lost—not in memory, but in something entirely new, something meltingly sweet and so deeply stirring that her
heart beat like a drum and a demanding ache stirred deep inside. She tingled—no, burned!—all over and her breasts felt confined by her light corset.

Simply from a
kiss
.

She pushed away, then had to brace herself against his chest. She recovered, retreated, standing to smooth down her skirts. “I apologize. I shouldn't have. . . .”

“Never has a lady transgressed so delightfully. Please, don't stop for my sake.”

“There are children nearby!” She'd spoken too sharply and she froze, listening for a response from behind the bed-curtains, or even from the next room. How could people have slept though the earthquake that had rocked her?

She and her aching body wanted to return to destruction, but she grabbed her nightgown and fled behind the washstand screen, where she stood, breathing deeply, trying to regain sanity.

Merely from a kiss!

No wonder her mother had rushed her back into company. But then, it wouldn't have been like that six years ago. They'd been different people and it had been a very different situation.

But now it was over. There must never, ever be anything like that again.

Even though he couldn't see her, she couldn't bear to take off any item of clothing. She'd undress in the concealment of the curtained bed even though that meant she couldn't have a proper wash. In any case, she hadn't rung for hot water and certainly couldn't now, so she'd have to make do with the bit of cool water left in the jug from when she'd been putting the boys to bed. As she washed her face and hands, she tried to clean her mind as well.

She would not,
could
not, allow herself to be swept into disaster by lust, even if with a magical man from the past. She paused, towel in hand, dreaming, but then dried her face. Polly's marriage showed that marrying an inadequate
income was unwise, even for love, and Polly had married a baronet with an estate, not a threadbare thief!

Marriage. The tickle of temptation was warning enough.
It's been six years. You know nothing of him now, and all you do know is bad.
Rolling her eyes at her own idiocy, she peered around the screen, just in case he'd managed to get loose, then hurried to bar the doors. But of course he'd done that earlier. If Polly tried to get in, she'd think it odd, but better that than Polly coming in before Thayne left. Despite him being tied up, despite Hermione having once known him, Polly would see only that her beloved children had been in danger, and she was inclined to overreact.

Perhaps it wouldn't be an overreaction.

If her actions tonight were ever discovered, people would think her mad, even without the kiss.

But she couldn't regret giving the onetime Lieutenant Thayne refuge from his enemies. Despite all logic, six years ago they had become friends, and even more than friends. If he hadn't had to leave for the Peninsula, she knew they would have grown even closer. Despite his misfortunes he was still the same man at heart.

She didn't regret that shocking kiss, for it had completed a circle, but in the morning she'd untie him and force him to leave, no matter what danger lurked for him.

She wanted no part of a criminal's life.

M
ark Louis Thayne, Viscount Faringay, smiled wryly at the low-burning fire. He'd survived his dangerous life by planning carefully and keeping a cool head, so how had he ended up tied to a chair in a lady's bedroom? Being tortured in a lady's bedroom by the rustling sounds from behind the curtains that clearly meant that Lady Hermione Merryhew was undressing.

She must be wearing the lightest of corsets to be able to undress without help and that explained the softness when she'd pressed against him in that kiss. A man became so used to the ridges and bones of a corset that the lack of them could make him lose his wits. As he had.

By Jupiter, that kiss. Nothing like the one they'd failed to achieve on that terrace six years ago. Once he'd recognized her, the years had evaporated and he'd seen in the plainly dressed woman the girl who'd enchanted him at his last English ball. Lady Hermione, glowing in pink and white and sparkling with anticipation and zest for life. After she'd granted him a second dance, he'd coaxed her out onto the terrace. He should be ashamed of his younger self except that he'd had no vile intent. The evening had been cool and everything still damp from a rain shower, so he'd known they might be alone out there, and he'd wanted her to himself.

She'd been as innocent as a lamb and expected to walk
and talk. He hadn't minded and he'd soon become lost in it. He'd never before or since felt such open ease with another person, and as they'd strolled back and forth, he'd found himself telling her about his parents, even about his mother's peculiarities, something he'd rarely spoken of with anyone.

Perhaps it had been the thought of death that had lowered his restraint, for with youthful drama he'd anticipated a glorious one. Certainly that had been behind his request for a token to take into battle. The white silk rosebud, much battered by time, was in his breeches' right-hand pocket, where it always lived. The thought of her finding it there if she'd searched his pockets had alarmed him, but it had done its job. He'd survived.

She'd demanded something in return and he'd cut off one of his buttons. Did she still have it? She seemed too sensible for that. Only then had he tried for a kiss, simply to seal the moment—the knight leaving his lady to go into battle.

It would have been the sweetest, most reverent kiss.

Their kiss tonight had been of another order, just as she was a different person and even more remarkable. But he could no more pursue her now than he had been able to back in 1811. Duty called then and it did now. What was more, he needed his wits and a cool head. He hadn't lied about his peril.

He was in this room because of instinct and impulse. Both had won the day at times during the war. This time, he didn't know. He could feel the stolen papers in his breeches pocket, but he hadn't had the chance to read them, so he had no idea whether he'd risked everything for a good reason or not.

The day had gone as expected, with him playing a minor supporting role as Julius Waite had given speeches and accepted the adulation of the Ardwick crowd of weavers and
other working people. They'd cheered Waite for his condemnation of corruption in high places and his demands for honesty and justice. They had no idea of his true plans—that he was paving the way for bloody revolution. Nor did Waite have any idea that Mark was not who he seemed, and had infiltrated his organization only to destroy it.

Waite's organization was called the Three-Banded Brotherhood, after the flag of three colors adopted around Europe by revolutionaries. The prime example was the French
Tricolore
, but Waite's flag was black, red, and green. Black for the pernicious current state, red for the blood that would destroy it, and green for the glory to come.

There were members of the Three-Banded Brotherhood throughout the country, numbering thousands. They wore the three colors in whatever way they could so as to recognize kindred spirits. This had been one of Mark's first suggestions when he'd gained a place on the central committee, the Crimson Band. The committee had seized on the suggestion, not realizing how it could mark the members to the authorities. Mark had found that even the cleverest of them were blinded by their fanatical dreams. They'd stop at nothing, but Mark would stop at nothing to destroy them and their cause. From his mother's experience, he knew what evil revolution had created in France. He had pledged his life that such horrors would never happen in England.

Now he had a new embodiment of his purpose. Hermione Merryhew, “aristo,” as the French revolutionaries would have called her, would never see her family murdered, or need to flee in terror, or face the guillotine's bloody blade.

The papers in his pocket might at last be the key that would lead to the Crimson Band's arrests, convictions, and deaths.

There were members of the Brotherhood all around Britain, but the Crimson Band was based in London, where
they hoped revolution would erupt as the French one had in Paris. They'd traveled north to attend the ceremonies to commemorate the third anniversary of the death of Thomas Spence, hoping to inspire the crowd to march on London.

Spence had been a revolutionary, but of a more Utopian type. He'd never advocated slaughter or violence, but had wanted to completely reorganize England on egalitarian principles. He'd wanted land divided equally among all, and government by parish councils supervised by a national senate. Some of his plans might have worked in the Middle Ages, but not in the modern world of industry and cities.

Spence had worked for change with his pen and he must be weeping from on high to see his work exploited by men like Julius Waite and Arthur Thistlewood, who wanted total destruction of law and order. Waite was more subtle than Thistlewood, who'd been on trial for high treason earlier in the year. A shame he'd been acquitted, for he was half-mad and capable of extremes Waite and the Crimson Band would blanch at.

At the memorial service today Thistlewood had ranted, but Waite had spoken in his usual calm and noble manner, urging the return of habeas corpus, drawing on the fact that Spence had been unfairly imprisoned a number of times. It was a safe subject, for many of the most righteous in Britain felt the same way, but he'd managed to turn it toward a general criticism of the government without saying anything to rouse the crowd. Yet.

Tomorrow would be different.

Tomorrow, thousands, perhaps tens of thousands, of people from all over this part of Lancashire would hear more Spencean speeches. Waite would again be moderate, but Thistlewood could be depended upon to let rip. With the crowd well seeded with Brotherhood members, the inflamed mob would set out for London on what would be called, apparently spontaneously, the Spencean Crusade. The name had been another of Mark's suggestions, and
applauded by the rest of the Crimson Band. Crusade or not, the marchers wouldn't make it five miles, if they left Ardwick at all. The magistrates were ready and the military stood by.

There could be trouble in the town, however, for many of the Brotherhood would be armed, and he realized Lady Hermione and her family could be in danger. He was tempted to wake her and warn her, but she'd think him mad, and she and her party could hardly leave in the middle of the night. He'd stir alarm early in the morning—once he got out of here. He tested his bonds. He'd suggested stockings because they had stretch, but she'd tied them thoroughly. Getting free could take a while.

By the time the Crimson Band had sat to dine in a private parlor, they'd all been satisfied with the day. Waite, a gray-haired patrician man, had sat at the head of the table opposite his French wife, Solange. Despite her nationality, Solange Waite enhanced his apparent respectability.

Her public story was that she had fled France in the Revolution as upper servant to aristocratic émigrés. She claimed to have seen vile Jacobins at their murdering, pillaging worst. In fact she'd been a Jacobin herself and in private boasted of bloody deeds. She played her part well, however, emphasizing her solid, middle-aged respectability with sober clothing and decent white linen.

Pete Tregoven had been given the place of honor on Waite's right, and Mark the seat on Waite's left. The other two present had been Benjamin Durrant, scribe and speechwriter, and Isaac Inkman, the very odd young chemist.

Waite had begun the toasts with a reference to his choice of inn. “To the King's Head. Soon we'll have the king's head off on our guillotine!”

Indeed, they had a beheading machine built and stored in a warehouse in East London, so everyone had drunk to that.

Solange had added, “And the head of the monkey-faced queen and her far too many whelps.”

The woman disgusted Mark, but he'd drunk and added, “Especially the fat Regent's.”

“And his p-pampered daughter,” said Benjamin Durrant. “B-before her whelp is b-born.” Durrant was a bitterly frustrated man. He had the words to be a great orator, but his stutter betrayed him. He could only compose speeches to be delivered by men like Waite, who had the voice and manner, but no true oratory of their own.

Durrant might have had trouble commanding a crowd even without the stammer, as he was thin and bespectacled, with a high-pitched voice, but he blamed the injustice of fate. Perhaps that had turned him to the extreme of revolution, for in other respects he'd been given a comfortable life.

None of the men in the Crimson Band had suffered poverty or hardship, and they were all involved in revolution for their own gain. Waite intended to be a British Napoleon, rising from the ashes to rule. Durrant needed to hear his words move crowds to action. Tregoven was a wastrel in it for the spoils, and Inkman enjoyed blowing things up.

Only Solange was honest, and that made her the most dangerous of all. She proved it by saying, “If the revolution is delayed, we can make a grand display of dashing out Charlotte's baby's brains as we guillotine the mother.”

The other men smiled, though perhaps uneasily. For sanity's sake Mark had established a distaste for crude violence, so he was able to say, “The child is an innocent. It can be reared by a simple family to be of use.”

“Its public death will be of more use,” Solange said. “You are weak, Granger.”

“I look to our main purpose. Many will be disturbed by the death of a child.”

“They will feel as we wish them to feel. Durrant will ensure that, won't you, my friend?”

Durrant actually flushed with pleasure as he agreed.

Mark disliked them all, but he detested Solange Waite. He detested her vile plans, but he was revolted by her past for personal reasons. She'd been an ardent supporter of the revolution in France twenty-five years ago, and active in the worst times, commonly called the Terror. She claimed to have killed a number of “aristos” with her own hands, including women and children, and to have been present to see both the king and the queen lose their heads on the guillotine. She had dipped her fingers in their blood and smeared it on herself, and danced the day and night away in celebration. A celebration she hoped to repeat here.

Had she been present to see his uncles, aunts, and other relatives perish that way? Had she dipped her fingers in their blood? Such murder was why he'd fought Napoleon, and why he'd sunk himself into this work—to keep Britain safe from the bloody French.

How she'd come to marry Waite, Mark didn't know, but she'd turned a muddled Spencean organization into a dangerous revolutionary one. Despite her sober appearance, she was the vicious goddess of the Three-Banded Brotherhood and Mark knew he should kill her. It might come to that, but he'd never killed anyone in cold blood and hadn't yet been able to bring himself to do so. He planned to bring them before the law and see them all hang.

Dinner over, they set to a review of the day. It was tedious, for Waite was like an accountant about such things, going over and over details as if in search of a missed penny. He fretted about whether enough people would turn up tomorrow.

“They will flock to hear you speak, sir,” Pete Tregoven said, “and the Brotherhood members will bring their women and children as instructed, to deter any soldiers who are ordered to attack.”

Tregoven was a toadeater, who could be depended upon to stroke Waite's pride. He dressed his wiry frame like a dandy and was overly fond of gaming and drink. His only
useful service was as an artist. He created scurrilous cartoons showing royalty and government in the worst light, and noble illustrations of Waite addressing the multitudes. These were printed off and sent to Three-Banded Brotherhood groups around the country.

After a bit more fretting, Waite closed his record book and Mark hoped they were done, but Solange spoke again. “Isaac has something to say.”

Solange had found Isaac Inkman early in the year and brought him into the Crimson Band despite objections. She appeared to dote on him, and perhaps she did, for he knew a lot about the destructive capabilities of chemistry. He was a pale, pudgy young man who hardly ever spoke for himself and now his eyes shifted. Mark thought he wouldn't say anything, but then his eyes flickered with excitement.

“Exploding letters,” he said.

“A, B, C?” queried Tregoven with a sneer.

“Correspondence,” said Solange coldly.

“A damp letter,” Isaac said. “When it dries . . . bang!”

Even Waite seemed unimpressed. “How is it damp, Isaac?”

“Sent damp. In an oiled pouch.”

It sounded idiotic, but Mark didn't underestimate Isaac's notions. None had proved effective yet, but all were alarming.

Solange took up the explanation. “When the recipient opens the pouch and finds the letter damp, he will set it to dry so as to be able to read it. Perhaps even by the fire.”

More interested, Waite asked Isaac, “How big a bang?”

“Shattered a pot nearby. Set things alight.”

“Imagine if the recipient was actually holding it,” Solange said. “The prime minister, for example.”