Touch of Rogue (6 page)
Authors: Mia Marlowe
Tags: #Fiction, #Romance, #Fantasy, #Historical Romance
Julianne swallowed back a smile. She suspected the man would be mildly entertaining in the manner of all those who are addicted to the sound of their own voices.
She didn’t watch him long. After a second glance, his companion was far more interesting. Tall and broad, the man was easily Jacob Preston’s match for size. But while Jacob was dark, this man’s pale blond hair was all the more striking because he wore only black, topped by a rather theatrical cape instead of a double-breasted frock coat like his friend.
His features were sharp and raw-boned, his nose handsomely hawkish. Deep grooves were carved between his pale brows and his jaw seemed solid as granite. Then he smiled at his smaller friend and his face changed from that of a brooding demon to a beneficent archangel. Still warlike in countenance, but now blessed with the quality of lightness as well.
Julianne’s belly fluttered slightly in response to the sight of a singularly attractive man.
“Find someone you’d like to tip the eye?” Jacob said as his gaze swiveled from the newcomer to her and back.
“Of course not. I’m simply trying to discover if one we seek might be here.” Julianne buried her nose in her ale, pleased to discover it was rich and yeasty as warm bread. She was saved from further explanation when the girl returned with their pie. Its wholesome aroma reminded Julianne she’d skipped breakfast. She forked up a bite of the flaky crust and steaming gravy. “Delicious.”
Jacob pulled a three-tined fork from his vest pocket and did the same. The white metal didn’t shine with the same patina as silver, but neither was it rough pewter, like the forks the tavern had provided.
“Do you usually bring your own tableware when you dine out?” she asked.
“Always.”
“Why?”
“A friend of mine is studying to be a physician. According to George, there are tiny little beasts called ‘germs,’ so small we can’t even see them. He says that’s what causes sickness in London, not the foul air of the Thames. At any rate, George claims these germs live everywhere, moving from person to person like minuscule lice.” Jacob looked around the room at their salt-of-the-earth dining companions. “At least, when I bring my own fork, I know whose mouth it has been in.”
“Ugh! Trust you to ruin my meal.”
“Nonsense. I’m sure yours is fine. George has been known to be wrong about a good many things. Eat up.”
Because the delightful smells had made her so hungry, Julianne did—but only after she scrubbed her fork with her coarse napkin for the space of about a minute.
In case this George person was right about tiny little beasts called germs.
C
HAPTER
5
HAPTER
5
“Y
our money’s no good here, Digory,” Malcolm said, plunking down sufficient coin on the bar. “This one’s on me.”
our money’s no good here, Digory,” Malcolm said, plunking down sufficient coin on the bar. “This one’s on me.”
“Much obliged, Ravenwood.” Lord Digory stopped talking long enough to quaff down half his drink. It left a foamy mustache on his protruding upper lip, which he licked clean with a smacking sound. “Lady Digory is being swayed by those pestilential temperance busybodies. There’s not a drop of spirits in the house. She still allows me wine with dinner, but I ask you, what’s the world coming to when a man can’t have a wee dram in the comfort of his own parlor?”
“In that case, we’ll make the next round whisky,” Malcolm said, signaling to the barkeep. “Make it your best single malt, Tobias, and step lively.”
The man scuttled behind the bar where the better bottles were kept. The light-skirted barmaid passed by Malcolm and his companion without a second glance, intent on following her employer.
Malcolm had considered the wench a time or two when the Order met at the tavern. She was comely enough in a raw sort of way. He preferred women with more polish himself, but she’d be an adequate vessel for some of his adherents when the next clandestine gathering was scheduled.
“Tobias,” she said, half-whispering, but Malcolm was keen enough of hearing to make out her words. “We got us a real honest-to-God countess in here this day.”
“Where?”
“In the back booth.”
Lord Digory was pontificating about the evils of the temperance movement again to everyone in general and gaining several “Hear, hear’s” and nods of approval from the surrounding patrons. Malcolm was free to let his gaze and his attention wander.
Even in the dimness of the tavern, he could tell that his glimpses of Lady Cambourne in his gazing ball had not done her justice. She was fine-boned, delicate as china, with large, speaking eyes and a waiflike point to her chin that made a man want to shelter her. The curve of her bosom made him want a number of other things.
She was exquisite. It was easy to see why the old earl had overlooked her somewhat tawdry background to make her his countess.
She’d do just as well as a queen.
The barmaid’s urgent whisper interrupted his thoughts. “I was wondering have ye any of them fancy biscuits left?” she said to Tobias. “I’m thinkin’ we ought to give her and the gent she’s with a bit o’ something extra just for dressin’ up the place. If they likes us, they might bring in more of her snooty friends and ye can raise yer prices.”
“Check the pantry.” Tobias reappeared with a bottle of Glenlivet he had to dust before opening, and poured up two jiggers for Sir Malcolm and Lord Digory. The baron clinked his drink with Malcolm’s and downed it in one gulp. He signaled for another.
When the girl reappeared with a tray of sweets, Malcolm grabbed her arm as she passed. Her eyes flared for a moment when she recognized him, and then she cast her gaze to the tips of her slatternly shoes.
Did she somehow sense what he’d like to do to her at the next gathering of his secret sect? he wondered. He’d even make sure she enjoyed some of it. The line between pleasure and pain was a blurry one. It needed to be crossed on occasion in order to be certain where one was.
“Did I hear you mention that a countess is with us this day?” Malcolm asked.
She nodded.
“Her name,” he said, tightening his grip on her forearm.
The girl winced and rolled her eyes. “The Countess of ... Can ... Cambore.”
“Cambourne?” he supplied helpfully.
The girl nodded with vigor and tried to wiggle out of his grasp.
“Cambourne!” Lord Digory lifted his snout from the jigger long enough to repeat the name, then knocked the contents back with barely a sputter. “Why, that was the fellow who was in possession of those ceremonial daggers, wasn’t it? Of course, it was. I have a memory like a steel trap. The old earl might not have been one of us, Ravenwood, but by gum! He knew his history. Pity he did away with himself.” Digory glanced around the room. “I should so like to meet her.”
“She’s right over there,” the girl said with a toss of her head. Lord Digory lifted his foppish lorgnette, a throwback to an older age, and peered in that direction. “The lady’s with that handsome bloke in the corner. I was just after takin’ them this plate o’ biscuits.”
“We’ll take it,” Malcolm said, wresting the tray from her hand. “Come, Digory. You can give the lady your personal condolences.”
“Yes, by all means. Quite.”
The baron adjusted his jacket, trying to make it hang straight over his paunch and failing miserably. The fashions of the day were unkind to Lord Digory, a fact of which he seemed blithely unaware as he strolled toward Lady Cambourne.
The man sitting with the countess rose as they approached.
Jacob Preston.
He might be accepted in higher circles than Malcolm could aspire to, but only on his brother’s account. Despite his wealth and privilege, Preston was a mere commoner.
He might be accepted in higher circles than Malcolm could aspire to, but only on his brother’s account. Despite his wealth and privilege, Preston was a mere commoner.
Far beneath a knight of the realm,
Sir Malcolm thought with understandable smugness. Even though Preston was on his feet, there was no deference in his gaze. The way he stood, shoulders back, hands fisted, it was more a challenge than an expression of respect and polite self-deprecation.
Sir Malcolm thought with understandable smugness. Even though Preston was on his feet, there was no deference in his gaze. The way he stood, shoulders back, hands fisted, it was more a challenge than an expression of respect and polite self-deprecation.
Cheeky bastard.
In a vague, disconcerting way, Malcolm recognized a bit of himself in Preston. The man seemed to sense real power didn’t lie in rarified titles, but he probably didn’t know what Malcolm did. Power was in the air, in the elements, waiting for an adept man like himself to harness and use it.
When Lord Digory reached the dim corner, he sketched a courtly bow.
“The Countess of Cambourne, I presume. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Baron Digory, but you might recognize me better as head of the Ancient Druid Order. I believe your husband and I were onetime correspondents. At your service, milady.”
He bowed once more over her proffered hand as she thanked him.
“And may I also present my associate?”
Digory’s manners always became more stilted when a bit of whisky warmed his belly.
“Sir Malcolm Ravenwood.” Digory waved his hand in Malcolm’s direction.
With barely a nod of acknowledgment to either of them, Preston plopped back down and returned his attention to his trencher.
“May I offer my sincerest sympathy for your loss, countess?” Digory said.
“You’re most kind.”
Her voice was low-pitched, sultry even. Malcolm remembered she’d been an actress before her marriage, a good one by all accounts. She obviously still knew how to charm an audience. She introduced Jacob Preston, who barely looked up from his pie. Then once Malcolm presented the tray of biscuits, Lady Cambourne invited Digory and Malcolm to join them.
“Not wishing to seem indelicate”—Lord Digory began and then blundered ahead without the slightest hint of delicacy in any case—“but would you still happen to be in possession of those daggers about which your husband and I corresponded?”
She glanced at Preston, who appeared to be preoccupied with stuffing overly large bites of mutton and potatoes into his mouth. “Yes, I still have them.”
“Unusual that your husband didn’t see to it the daggers went to his heir,” Malcolm said. For a man not to hand such power on to his son was unconscionable, but the manner of the earl’s death proved he had no magecraft in his soul. Perhaps Cambourne hadn’t known the full extent of the daggers’ strength.
Until the end.
“My stepson has no interest in such things,” Lady Cambourne said briskly. “The weapons remain in my keeping and I’m looking for more information about them. My husband was so taken with the set, you see. It eases the pain of his parting for me to continue his interests. I’ve engaged Mr. Preston to assist me in my search.”
Jacob Preston looked up for a moment and bared his teeth in a wolfish smile. Then he shoveled another bite into his mouth and washed it down with a large swig of ale without adding a thing to the conversation.
“A commendable way to honor the earl’s memory,” Digory said. “Perfectly understandable, my dear. Is there any way I might be of assistance?”
She glanced at Preston as if expecting him to take the lead, but when he didn’t, she plowed ahead. Malcolm thought he detected irritation glinting in her large brown eyes.
“I’m sure a gentleman of your scholarship is steeped in the lore surrounding this sort of artifact,” she said. “If you could share any information you might have about the set of daggers, I would be most grateful.”
“Actually, I meant since they can only be a reminder of your sorrow, the Order would be pleased to offer you something for them and take them off your hands.”
“Oh, the daggers aren’t for sale,” she said quickly.
Care to wager on that?
Malcolm thought.
Malcolm thought.
Digory puffed himself up, a nattily dressed little toad of a man. “I would like nothing better than to aid you, but the rules of my Order constrain me. To be honest, Lady Cambourne, the lore of the Druids is forbidden to the gentle sex.”
If she was offended, she hid it well. Her smile was intoxicating. “Oh, I quite understand, Lord Digory, but surely a man of your considerable enlightenment is aware of the changes in our modern society concerning what’s appropriate for my gender.” She leaned toward him, and Digory seemed to melt a bit. “Why, a petition was even lodged in the House of Lords urging that august body to grant universal suffrage for women—”
“Eight years ago and nothing has been done with the petition to date,” Malcolm said stonily. If she wanted information about the daggers, he’d make sure she had to come to him.
She flicked her gaze toward him, barely concealing her annoyance over his statement of the obvious. Proud, intelligent, and blithely unaware how powerless she really was.
How lovely it will be to humble her, to teach her the way of things and make her beg in quivering need.
“Lord Digory, in view of the unique nature of the artifacts in my possession, surely you’d make an exception just this once. If we might be able to attend one of your meetings—”
“Impossible.”
She fiddled with the jaunty slant of her bonnet, adjusting the bow near one ear. “In case you’re unaware, before I married Lord Cambourne, I was an actress of no little talent. I could come disguised as a man and I promise you, no one would be the wiser.”
Lord Digory laughed. “Forgive me, my lady, but no one could mistake one of your delicacy and beauty for anything other than a woman, no matter how well disguised.”
“I’ll bring one of the daggers for your membership to examine.” Tears made her eyes glisten like amber, and she reached across the table to lay a slim, gloved hand on Lord Digory’s forearm. “Please.”
Digory screwed his mouth to one side and made a small noise of frustration. “I greatly fear I’m unable to comply. But I’ll tell you what I can do. A week from this Saturday, Lady Digory and I are hosting a little soirée at our home. The members of the Order are allowed to bring their wives to this sort of event. There’ll be dinner and dancing and then when the ladies retire to the parlor, Mr. Preston can join the gentlemen for port and cigars. It won’t be the same as a regular meeting of the Order, you understand, but a great many things of interest will come up for discussion then, I assure you. Especially if Preston brings the dagger with him.”
Lady Cambourne sighed in frustration. “But my lord—”
“We’d be delighted,” Preston said, those few words the first indication he could do anything with his mouth besides chew. He wiped his fork on his napkin and stowed it in his vest pocket. “Come, my lady. It’s past time for your appointment at the modiste and now you’ll need a new ball gown, no doubt.”
Lord Digory smiled indulgently as they took their leave. “What do I always say, Ravenwood? Women are all the same. As easily distracted as children and all it takes is a bit of French lace. Suffrage for women indeed!” He shuddered. “Unthinkable.”
Malcolm watched them leave, wondering at the rather unusual behavior of Mr. Preston. Taciturn and surly in the company of his betters, then lifting a fork from the King’s Arms, of all things. He was either a very odd duck, or he wanted them to think he was and so underestimate him.
“Yes,” Malcolm agreed with a frown. “Unthinkable.”
Jacob gave the driver the name of the mantua maker’s shop favored by the fashionable. Julianne bit her lip to keep from countermanding him. Admitting she was a bit light in the pockets might make Jacob reconsider his decision to help her.
She hoped she could afford a new gown without having to pawn some of her jewelry. She hadn’t worn anything but the pearls and jet for a long while, but she’d brought some of her good pieces to London with her, just in case. She hated to part with them for an unnecessary extravagance like a ball gown.
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