Wicked Promise (18 page)

He was dressed in a dark blue tailcoat over a white frilled shirt. She tried not to notice the way the moonlight fell on his hair, the way it cast his cheekbones into shadow and outlined his jaw.

"I wanted to remember how lovely it is."
I wanted to remember the place where you first kissed me.
"It's beautiful out here, especially this time of the evening."

He gazed toward the men who patrolled the walls, checking to be sure it was safe.

"I won't stay long, I promise.''

His mouth curved faintly. His eyes moved over her face, his expression growing intense. "I've been meaning to talk to you. I should have done it sooner. I tried to tell myself it was better to leave the matter alone, but the truth is I was a coward." He stared off into the shadows then back again. A muscle ticked in his cheek. "I want you to know that I'm sorry. What happened between us was a mistake, a terrible, costly mistake I'll regret for the rest of my life."

Elizabeth's heart twisted up inside her. "Please . . . please don't say that."

"Why not? It's the truth. You were a virgin, for God's sake. I'm supposed to be your guardian."

Elizabeth's spine went rigid. "You are a man, nothing more. You told me that yourself. I was the one who came to you. I begged you not to send me away. If anyone should regret what happened, it is I. I am not sorry, my lord. My only regret is that you are."

Nicholas said nothing, just stared at her as if he tried to see inside her. Tension thrummed through his long, lean body. His shoulders seemed honed in steel. Then his head came up and he took a step away.

"We leave for London at seven o'clock in the morning. It would be a good idea for you to get some sleep."

Elizabeth made no reply, just stood there watching as he turned and disappeared into the darkness. Her heart beat painfully. Something burned at the back of her eyes. She didn't regret what she had done. She didn't believe she ever would.

She only wished that Nicholas did not regret it. And that she could forget his hurtful words.

Maggie leaned back against the carriage seat, feeling a sense of unreality. It had been nine years since she had traveled, to London. It was the year of her coming out, a young girl of sixteen, making her debut in Society. Her father had been so proud. Dozens of young men had vied for her hand, but she was young yet, and having far too much fun to think of marriage.

Then fall had come and the end of the Season, and they had returned to Ravenworth Hall. Nine years later, she couldn't imagine what it was about Stephen Bascomb that had made her fall head over heels in love with him. In truth, he had simply seduced her, and in her innocence she had believed it was love. 

Maggie looked out the window as the carriage bowled along. Great fields of green slipped past, gently rolling hills bordered by low stone walls. Occasionally they passed through a hamlet or village where children and dogs rushed out to greet them, but mostly they simply rolled on toward the city.

It was quiet inside the carriage. Elizabeth sat across from her, next to her plump aunt Sophie, while Nicholas rode up on top with Jackson Fremantle, the coachman. Mercy Brown, Edward Pendergass, and Elias Moody rode in the coach behind that transported their baggage.

Maggie looked down at the nine-year-old gown she wore, one of dozens still hanging in the rosewood armoire in her bedchamber. With its overfull watered-silk skirt and rows of pink ruching around the hem, it was hardly the height of fashion. It reminded her of all the years that had passed, of the shame that had turned her life upside down.

In one way or another, the days ahead would be painful for all of them. She and Nick were social pariahs, though in fact, few people knew the truth of what Stephen had done. Elizabeth, she guessed, would rather be marrying for love than simply accepting a match that her brother and Sydney arranged.

But all of them were survivors, and all of them were determined. Nick wanted his ward safely wed. Elizabeth wanted to be free of Oliver Hampton, and Maggie wanted a chance to discover life again.

At least they wouldn't be alone, she thought, and for the first time that day, she smiled. She remembered Rand Clayton from when she was a girl, tall, broad-shouldered, dark-haired, and imposing. If the Duke of Beldon was the same man he had been when she had last seen him, there was every chance their plan would succeed.

Constructed of sturdy red brick, Nick's town house in Berkeley Square stood three stories high and was built in the classic mode. His mother had furnished it lavishly in the neo-Grecian style, using elegant Sheraton sofas, Wedgewood urns, and Hepplewhite tables. Just walking through the halls made him think of her, made him a little bit wistful and also made him smile.

They had arrived late yesterday afternoon in a flurry of baggage and servants, but everyone had quickly settled in. The house was so inviting it had a way of doing that, making people comfortable even in their unfamiliar surroundings. This morning he had received a message from the Duke of Beldon requesting a meeting. As he descended the spiral staircase, Nick checked the time on the tall gilded clock in the entry. The duke would be arriving any minute.

Rand Clayton, Duke of Beldon.
Nick hadn't allowed himself to think of his friend since his return to England, had ignored any overtures Rand had made, certain they came only from a sense of obligation. That Rand had stepped forward again, making it clear he still valued their friendship, made a knot of emotion rise in his chest.

Nick made his way into his study and had almost reached his desk when Pendergass tapped lightly on the door.

"My lord?"

"Yes?"

"I am sorry to disturb you, my lord, but His Grace, the Duke of Beldon, has just arrived. I have shown him into the Green Drawing Room."

"Thank you, Edward. Tell him I'll be right there." Nick took a steadying breath. He owed his friend an apology. It seemed lately he'd been doing a lot of that.

He walked down the hall and into the drawing room, an elegant affair with moss-green walls and ornate white-painted moldings. Heavy green draperies hung at the windows, a sienna marble fireplace stood at each end, and his mother's small gilt harpsichord sat along one wall.

Rand stood up from a long moss-green velvet sofa as Nick came through the door and started walking toward him. He was a big man, thick chested and hard muscled, with coffee- brown hair and gold-flecked brown eyes. He was smiling such a warm, familiar smile, some of the tension Nick was feeling drained away.

"Your Grace—it's good to see you."

Rand grinned, gouging a dimple in his left cheek. "Your Grace, my arse. I'm still Rand to you and always will be."

Nick grinned back. He couldn't remember when he had last done that. He gripped Rand's big hand and Rand gripped his shoulder. "I feel like a fool," Nick said. "I just didn't want to embarrass you."

"You didn't do anything I wouldn't have done, under the same set of circumstances. The rot of it was they sent you to prison."

Nick smiled. "I fooled them though—I lived." He turned and started walking toward the carved oak sideboard along the wall. "How about a brandy? I could certainly use one."

Rand nodded. "Sounds like a winning idea."

Nick couldn't seem to stop smiling. "God, it's good to see you." He had seen his friend only once since his return to England, just weeks after his arrival. Rand had insisted Nick come to the house for a visit but he had declined, worried his past would cause problems for his best friend's family. Until today, Nick hadn't realized how badly he had missed him.

Rand joined him at the sideboard. "I started to come to Ravenworth a dozen times, but something always seemed to crop up. And I wasn't really sure of my reception."

Nick poured the amber liquid into two crystal snifters. "As I said, I was a fool. But you would have been more than welcome." Nick handed the glass to his friend and they carried their drinks across the deep Turkish carpet. They sat down facing each other on a pair of sofas in front of the hearth.

"I have to tell you," Rand said, "there were times these past few years, I wondered if you would ever make it home. I heard stories about the treatment of indentured prisoners. It must have been a nightmare."

"At times it was worse than that." Because he valued Rand's friendship, Nick told him a little about the life he had lived in Jamaica, about the scorching days and the backbreak- ing labor, about the dysentery, the discipline, and the bugs. It sounded like hell, but in truth there was nothing he could say to describe how bad it really was.

"I'm glad you're back," Rand said, "but I gather your troubles haven't quite ended."

"If you mean Bascomb, you couldn't be more than right. I really appreciate what you're doing for us, Rand."

"Sydney tells me your ward is quite charming. Apparently Oliver thinks so."

Nick felt a niggle of guilt, then the usual surge of anger. Briefly, he told Rand the lengths to which Bascomb had gone in his efforts to force Elizabeth to his will.

"In a way it doesn't surprise me," Rand said. "The man was always obsessive when it came to the women he wanted. There was that actress from Drury Lane—what was her name?"

"Maryann Wilson."

"Yes. Every time she refused him, he bought her another expensive piece of jewelry. In the end, he paid a bloody fortune to set her up as his mistress."

"I remember."

"There were others while you were away. Last summer there was a pretty young widow. Her name was Cynthia Crammer. Apparently money couldn't sway her. Rumor went round—Oliver threatened her children."

"Tell me you aren't serious."

"I wish I could."

Nick swore an oath beneath his breath. "God's blood, the man is a menace."

Rand took a sip of his brandy. "Elizabeth Woolcot is the only woman he has ever offered marriage. I don't imagine her refusal sat lightly."

'That is to say the least."

"I've set my secretary to work planning the first step in our campaign—a ball scheduled for Saturday next. I believe he could use some help, though. Perhaps your Elizabeth would be willing to assist him."

Your Elizabeth. Guilt rose again, mingled with a shot of desire. Every time he thought of her, he remembered the night she had spent in his bed. "I'm sure she'll be happy to do whatever she can. I don't know if Sydney told you—my sister is here as well,"

"Little Maggie is here?"

He nodded. "She's left the convent for good. You wouldn't recognize her, Rand. She's no little girl anymore. She's grown into a beautiful woman."

Rand's mouth curved into a smile. "She was pretty when she was sixteen."

Too pretty. And far too naive.
Easy prey for a bastard like Stephen. "Maggie's as much an outcast as I am. You're sticking your neck out for us, Rand, and this time I won't forget it."

Rand leaned back against the sofa. "I don't like Bascomb any more than you do. I'm happy to do what I can."

They finished their brandy, relaxed now, laughing over old times as if the years had never come between them. Stories of their years together at Oxford, pranks they had played as boys, women they had known. The hour slid past and all too soon it was time for Rand to leave. Nick walked him out into the hall.

"I imagine you've heard about the dinner party Sydney has arranged on Friday evening. He's invited David Endicott, Lord Tricklewood, one of the men on his list of prospective suitors. He hasn't yet said whether or not you are planning to attend."

Rand smiled. "It's already marked on my calendar. I can't think of anything that I should like better. It will give me a chance to renew my acquaintance with Maggie and finally meet your ward."

Nick smiled, but an unwanted thought occurred: Rand Clayton was a bachelor, a handsome and powerful man. He wasn't in the market for a wife, he had told Sydney. But he had yet to meet Nick's lovely, fiery-haired ward.

Irrationally, he worried his friend might change his mind.

Nick lounged against his chair in the breakfast room, enjoying the familiar sight of his sister standing next to the window. She looked no more than twenty, blond and attractive, in the first blush of womanhood. The convent had helped do that, shielding her against the harshness of life these past nine years. At five and twenty, Maggie had regained the strength to return to the world and still possessed the vitality to enjoy it. Some of the loneliness he lived with seemed to fade whenever he looked at her. God, he was glad she was home.

She stared down at the gown she was wearing and frowned in disgust. "These clothes of mine are dreadful, Nick. I need a whole new wardrobe and Elizabeth needs a few things, as well. Mercy says you have forbidden her to leave the house, but she must come, Nicky. Please say you'll let her."

He only shook his head. "Bascomb is in town. I've had a Bow Street runner keeping tabs on him ever since Elizabeth's abduction. The earl arrived this morning and I'm not about to take any chances."

"Fine, then you can come with us." Maggie smiled the endearing smile he had missed for so long. "Elizabeth will be safe as long as you are there to protect her."

Nick glanced to where Elizabeth sat silently watching, and steeled himself. He knew how persuasive his sister could be. "No."

"Come on, Nick. Look at me. Do you really want me gadding about all over London looking like a sixteen-year-old girl?"

He studied the out-of-date clothing that made her look so young and smiled with a hint of amusement. "I didn't say you couldn't go, Maggie."

"But Elizabeth must go, too. You want her to find a proper husband, don't you?"

His smile disappeared and a knot tightened in his stomach. He glanced at Elizabeth and then looked away. "Of course I do."

"Then she must be properly clothed. Come with us, Nick. We shall have a grand time, the three of us. Once we are done with our shopping, we can explore a bit of the city."