Vanity (27 page)

She merely looked at him and his heart turned over at the despairing recognition of reality in the tawny eyes. He could release her. A word would do it. And he could still pursue her vengeance. Hector Lacross and Dirk Rigby were begging on bended knees to fall into his trap. It would cost him nothing; indeed, it would afford him considerable satisfaction to bring about the downfall of such a pair of vicious and greedy rogues.

But then he thought of the years wandering in the wilderness, the years of hand-to-mouth existence in the capitals of Europe with the man whose name he now bore. The real Rupert Warwick had been a rogue in his own right, a renegade and a rebel who’d taken advantage of men’s greed and vanities—but never the frailties they couldn’t help—to keep himself and his young companion in funds.

Rupert Warwick had saved the young Cullum Wyndham from a miserable death in a hovel in Calais. He’d saved him from despair and taught him everything he knew. And he’d died in a drunken brawl in a tavern in Madrid. And on his deathbed he’d told his young friend to go home. To take back what was his. Because the life that Rupert Warwick had led was no life.

So Cullum had taken his mentor’s name and come home. And now he needed Octavia to enable him to be avenged … for Gervase, and for his own years in the wilderness.

He turned away from the mute appeal in her eyes. He knew she would do what she had to, because she always had. She was determined and courageous, and she would let neither of them down.

“Keep me informed of all your dealings with Wyndham,” he said in his customary cool tones. “I wish to know when and where you’ll be meeting with him.”

“Why?”

“Because I’d like to keep an eye on you,” he said.

“You think he might hurt me?” There was an edge to the question.

“No. If I thought that, we would be doing things differently,” he returned patiently.

“But what if he catches me picking his pockets?”

Rupert frowned. “He must not do so. You’ve worked crowds throughout London and you’ve not been caught yet. Why should it happen now?”

Octavia shrugged. “There are always risks. And I’m out of practice.”

“Then you must perfect your skills,” he instructed briskly. “You must practice before you attempt anything.”

“And just how do you suggest I do that?” she demanded, even though she’d already come to the same conclusion and decided exactly what she should do.

“You could do a little light-fingering among our guests,” he suggested. “It would be simple enough to leave your pickings lying around afterward so it would look as if they’d been accidentally dropped or mislaid.”

“Oh,” Octavia said, nonplussed by this accurate rendering of her own plan.

“A good idea?” He raised an eyebrow.

How could she say it wasn’t when it had been her own? “It’ll serve, I suppose,” she said grudgingly. “Although stealing from one’s guests seems a bit much.”

“Borrowing,” he corrected gently. He took her face again and lightly brushed her mouth with his fingertip. “Go and wash your face and tidy your hair, sweeting. You’ll feel more like yourself.”

“Instead of like someone who’s been crushed in an unwelcome embrace?” She couldn’t help throwing it at him.

Rupert’s eyes went blank. “No one is forcing you,” he repeated. “You’ve had no difficulty with the idea before, why is it a problem now?”

It’s a problem because it doesn’t seem to matter to you what I have to do. It’s a problem because I am not a whore. When I agreed to seduce Philip Wyndham in cold blood, I didn’t know
what it was to make love with you … when I am you and you are me. When we are one. That’s why it’s a problem.

But Octavia said none of this. She rose to her feet, smoothing down her skirt. “It isn’t, of course. I suppose I’m a little shaken … now that it’s begun.”

Rupert concealed his relief. “The sooner it begins, the sooner it will be over,” he said, getting up from the sofa with her. “I’ll go and visit your father. I found a copy of Xenophon’s
Memorabilia
in an old bookstore in Charing Cross. I think he might find it of interest.”

“You’re very considerate of my father.”

“Should I not be?” He looked puzzled.

Octavia shrugged slightly. “It surprises me.”

“You think me inconsiderate?” He frowned, looking both puzzled and dismayed.

“Single-minded.” She dropped him a half curtsy and left the drawing room.

Rupert gazed at the door she’d left slightly ajar. The scent of the orange flower water she used to rinse her hair still delicately perfumed the air.

Octavia believed he didn’t consider her feelings or her welfare. It was so far from the truth! She couldn’t know how he was racked by the prospect of what she must do. She couldn’t know, because he had gone to great pains to give the impression that it was a matter of indifference to him. Once it had been. But now that he knew Octavia, nothing to do with her could ever again be a matter of indifference to him.

Rupert paced the drawing room with long, angry strides, trying to convince himself that he wasn’t manipulating Octavia. She knew what she was getting into. She knew what she’d agreed to do. And she’d agreed of her own free will.

Or had she?

What about the first time … what about the drug concealed in the cloves sprinkled on the brandy punch? He hadn’t known her then. If he had, would he have done such a thing to her?

“Death and damnation!” he hissed through his teeth,
his hands gripping the mantelpiece until his knuckles whitened. He fought to regain the cold, detached clarity of his purpose. It was done. The stone was rolling and would gather momentum. No one was hurt. Octavia would not be hurt. He swore a silent oath on Rupert Warwick’s grave that Octavia Morgan would never again be injured through his actions.

Calm once more, he left the drawing room and went to visit Oliver Morgan.

T
he soft scents of spring were in the air, and Octavia paused to break off a twig of golden forsythia from a blazing bush beside the steps leading up to the front door. She was in a strange mood, excitement mingling with apprehension, and her blood moved restlessly in her veins.

She felt as she always felt after spending time with the Earl of Wyndham. She passed those hours on a mental knife edge, matching her wits against his in continual verbal fencing, fighting to keep her emotions hidden.

She flirted with Philip. She kissed him with every appearance of passion. She promised more but continued to withhold it. He was beginning to grow frustrated, but so far he’d played her game. And so far she’d failed to discover anything remotely resembling that tiny silk pouch that Rupert had shown her. It was so small, she knew that it would be hard to detect with a cursory brush of her fingers, and the time was fast approaching when she would have to steel herself to take the next step.

Somehow, somewhere, Octavia believed that there was a way to avoid that final surrender, if only she could come up with it

“Thank you, Griffin. Isn’t it a beautiful afternoon?” she greeted the butler as he bowed her into the hall.

“Indeed, my lady.”

“Ask one of the footmen to cut some of that forsythia and put it in the salon for this evening,” she said, taking off her gloves. “It’s so lovely, but it won’t last for very long.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“In the copper jugs,” she added, going to the stairs. “Is his lordship within?”

“No, my lady. Lord Rupert went out about an hour ago. He said he would not be here for dinner.”

“Oh?” Octavia paused, one foot on the bottom step. Rupert had definitely been intending to dine at home; he’d asked the cook to prepare his favorite casserole of sweetbreads.

“Did he say where he was going, Griffin? Leave a message for me?”

“I don’t believe so, my lady. He had a visitor and left soon after.”

There was something in Griffin’s voice that seemed to imply doubt or disapproval about the visitor.

“What kind of a visitor?” She glanced at the butler over her shoulder.

“I couldn’t rightly say, my lady. Not a gentleman, I would have said. No, definitely not a gentleman.”

“I see. Thank you, Griffin.” Octavia continued up the stairs, a thoughtful frown creasing her brow. Ben. Perhaps it was Ben.

And what would bring Ben to Dover Street? Information that might be of interest to Lord Nick, of course. Rupert had mentioned a few days earlier that they were running low on funds. He hadn’t mentioned how he intended to repair the situation, and Octavia had simply assumed he would increase his gaming. But perhaps Lord Nick was taking to the road again.

In her bedchamber she went to the window, frowning down into the street, tapping a fingernail against her front teeth. Restless, nervous excitement still coursed through her veins.

She didn’t want to be sitting in Dover Street twiddling her thumbs while Rupert rode the highway across Putney Heath. He kept so much to himself, but this was something they could share. She enjoyed the fruits of the highwayman’s activities, so she should surely share the dangers … and the thrills.

She grinned to herself, remembering the last occasion when he’d held up the coach that had contained the witch Cornelia and the Earl of Gifford’s rent rolls. Presumably Ben had information about another richly loaded conveyance crossing the heath.

Octavia gave the matter no further reflection. She ran to the armoire, pulled out her riding habit, boots, and cloak. Five minutes later, she was dressed. She pinned her hair out of the way in a knot on top of her head, slung her cloak around her shoulders, and drew the hood up over her head.

At the door she stopped. Highwaymen wore masks. With a chuckle of pure exhilaration, she took a black silk loo mask from a drawer and slipped it into the pocket of her cloak. Then she ran downstairs.

“Griffin, I shall not be here for dinner. Mr. Morgan is at the circulating library at the moment, but make my excuses when he returns. Explain that Lord Rupert and I have an unexpected engagement.”

“Yes, my lady.” Griffin opened the front door, concealing his surprise. “May I summon a chair for you?”

“No, thank you.” Without further explanation she jumped lightly down the steps and hastened to the mews. Her own dappled mare was fine for riding in the park, but not for a highwayman’s work. She would take Peter again. Rupert, of course, would be riding Lucifer.

She waited while the groom put her saddle on the big roan. Rupert rode the distinctive silver stallion around town as often as he rode Peter. Octavia found it an extraordinary piece of recklessness for a man who planned with such care and foresight, She kept waiting to hear someone who’d fallen victim to Lord Nick on his silver mount exclaim in recognition of the singular horse.

Rupert laughed when she expressed these fears, and his eyes glittered with enjoyment at the defiant challenge he was throwing to the fates. One needed to take risks if one were not to fall asleep at life, he said. Octavia considered a highwayman’s existence to be sufficiently risky without courting disaster, and yet she couldn’t help responding to the boldness of his challenge. A challenge she was now taking up herself.

She mounted Peter with the aid of the mounting block and walked him out of the mews. She hadn’t ridden him sidesaddle before, but the giant horse seemed no more perturbed by the unfamiliar weight and position of his rider than he had when she’d ridden him bareback with only a halter.

The five miles to the Royal Oak took less than an hour, and the April evening was drawing in as Octavia halted Peter at the corner of the street leading to the inn. The horse raised his head and sniffed the wind, then turned without guidance toward the inn and the familiar stable.

“No, wait a minute, Peter.” Octavia pulled back on the reins. Peter stopped, patient puzzlement in every muscle. If she made herself known at the Royal Oak, there was no telling what reception she would get. If Rupert was there, he would be bound to insist she stay at the inn while he went about his business on the heath. And if he wasn’t there, Ben or Bessie would be sure to make difficulties.

However, she didn’t think Rupert would be at the Royal Oak. It was not yet dark, and there would still be traffic across the heath. Lord Nick would already be in position, waiting for his particular quarry.

Octavia tied the loo mask behind her head. It had the most astonishing effect. She felt as if she wasn’t herself, as if she was a participant in some wild and dangerously exciting frolic. Which, of course, was only the truth.

“This way, Peter.” She turned him toward the heath.