The Ravishing One (31 page)

“Now then, Pip, me lad,” Johnston said, finding his voice.

Pip prodded Thomas’s chest, his eyes riveted on Thomas’s face. “Don’t come any closer, Johnston.”

Johnston raised both hands palm up, smiling. “Only if you allow, Pip. But I know you won’t kill an unarmed
man. Think of the scandal ’Twould bring on your family.”

It was the right note to hit. The fury faded from Pip’s countenance, replaced by abashed frustration. “Of course not. Draw your sword, Donne!”

“No.”

“Bloody hell,” Robbie muttered, searching for some way out of this fix.

“Damn you! Draw your sword! I love her, can’t you understand that?” The boy’s voice broke on a sob. “Damn you, damn you. You will
not
deny me the privilege of fighting for her honor. Even you must have that much conscience, that much decency.”

“ ’Sblood!” Johnston said under his breath to Thomas, his gaze unwavering on the young man’s red face. “You’ll have to fight him. He’s at the end of his rope, poor lad. He could not live with the knowledge that you didn’t consider his challenge worth answering.”

“What are you saying?” Pip demanded hotly. “I am not some schoolboy to be ‘handled,’ Johnston! I thought you were my friend!”

“He
is
your friend, you young fool!” Thomas said, grabbing hold of the sharp blade-tip in one hand, pulling it aside, and launching his other fist into Pip’s jaw. A look of surprised pain sprang to Pip’s face and then he crumpled to the ground.

“Now he’ll not have to fret over his precious dignity. See that he gets home, eh?” Thomas stepped over the lad’s inert form, leaving Johnston and Robbie standing staring after him.

“But where are you going?” Robbie called.

“I am going to see Fia, and this time, by God, she
will
see me.”

She wasn’t sleeping. It seemed sleep was simply one more thing that she had always considered necessary but was not. She sat in the armchair she’d pulled next to the window and waited for the dawn. It would come, she told herself. The unreasonable fear that it would not and that she would forever be in this dark room alone made her fingers tremble on the page of the book she held.

She answered the boudoir door on the first knock. Porter admitted himself.

“I am so sorry, milady. But there is—”

The door behind him opened and Thomas filled the shadowed frame with his tall, broad figure. His eyes met hers. “Send him away,” he said.

Porter’s jaw tightened perceptibly. “I shall get the footmen at once, milady, and we shall—”

“No,” Fia said. “No. It’s all right, Porter. You may go now.”

“But—”

“Please, Porter.”

Unhappily, Porter bowed and exited the room. Thomas closed the door behind him. Her heartbeat fluttered in her chest and her lungs tightened painfully. He looked awful. His eyes were stark in his face. He’d not shaved. The stubble lining the hard angle of his jaw glinted with silver in the soft low light of her table lamp. His hair was unkempt, his neckcloth loose and disheveled.
She’d known he’d come, that eventually he would simply sweep away whatever obstacles stood between them. He couldn’t do any less. Because of what and who he was. He felt she’d been wronged and that he was to blame, and Thomas—noble, angry Thomas—could never tolerate another’s paying for his actions.

She thought she’d prepared herself for the sight of him, but nothing could prepare her for the hunger his appearance awoke.

But, Lord! he was beautiful. So large and intense and strong. She yearned to go to him, to be shielded in his arms by that strength, a strength of spirit as well as body.

But who would shield Thomas from her, from what she might one day do? Because even as she knew Thomas could do no less than come to her because of who he was, she knew who she was, too. Carr’s daughter. Someday she might not choose the higher course. Someday she might be willing to sacrifice others for her own ends.

“Fia.” His voice nearly undid her with its yearning.

“Yes?” She forced herself to ask calmly.

“You look awful.”

She smiled. Sometimes Thomas forgot his gentlemanly manners and reverted to those of a blunt merchant-ship captain. She found the discrepancy most appeal—She stopped herself. A month ago she would have countered with an ironic rejoinder but now … She didn’t have the heart for it.

“I am fine.”

“Truly?” He came one step farther into the room, his gaze warily scouring her face. “You are not unwell?”

“Despite the evidence of your eyes, I am well.”

“Good. I could not—I needed to assure myself. I am sorry for the intrusion.” He inclined his head in a bow.

He was leaving? No! Not yet
. It had been but two weeks since the
Alba Star
had brought them back to London. Two weeks since the hired coach had driven her away from the silent, taciturn man whom she’d caught only glimpses of during the short journey back.

“I have had word from a friend in France. My father has left there and should be arriving in London by the week’s end.”

“Yes?” he asked.

“You must leave London, Thomas,” she said. “He’s only waiting to return to inform the authorities of you so that he can be here to gloat.”

“Let him.”

“Thomas …” She held out her hand beseechingly. But the sight seemed to offend him, for he closed his eyes.

“I won’t leave you here alone to face the consequences of my actions,” he said.

“Our actions. I could have stopped it at any time.”

“No.” He shook his head. “I would have found a way. You were right, you see, I wanted you. It had nothing to do with my honorable concerns and my righteous anger. I wanted you and I would have found a way to justify it to myself. I know that now. I am not
as good at honesty as you, Fia.” He stood rigidly, as though held by steel bands.

“Don’t, Thomas.” She could not bear to see him hurt like this. “Please.”

“No. Don’t worry. I won’t badger you.” He took a deep breath and released it slowly. The lamp guttered; the light flickered over his visage. “If you would just retract your claim to have gone with me willingly, I would leave you in peace and … and go.”

“I can’t do that, Thomas. You’d be arrested forthwith … for abduction … possibly for rape.”

“I promise, I will not be arrested,” he said smoothly. “I vow it.”

“But you once promised you would not shed blood on my account and you’ve proved that a lie. Yes, Pip told me. He said you sustained no deep harm.” Her tone made it a question.

“None at all.”

“But that is a lie, too. For I know there was blood on your shirt. So how can I accept your word on this?”

“I don’t know,” he said numbly, and she saw that she had wounded him by calling him a liar. She hadn’t meant to do that.

“Stop these duels, Thomas, I beseech you. It’s a profitless endeavor. It won’t stop one tongue from wagging, nor one gaze from being raised in speculation.”

“I can’t do that, Fia. I have nothing I can give you that you will accept, but I can force you to accept the defense of your name.”

She could stand no more. She felt her composure begin to shatter inside, a small breaking of glass that
would result into a million fragments. He must not see it. It would cause him too much pain.

“Please,” she managed. “Please go, now.”

“But Fia …” He moved a few steps closer, and she turned her head, holding up a hand to stay him. It did not stop him. He reached up and gently swept his fingertips along the curve of her jaw. “Fia—”

“No.” It had all been said. She could not even stand imagining what he would look like, the sound of his voice, the expression in his eyes if she ever failed in her fight against the nature Carr had bequeathed her.

She’d come so close to embracing her bloodlines. She’d
wanted
to keep Carr’s blackmail material. She loved the rush of power she’d felt holding them, knowing she could destroy Carr with them. She’d even found the justification to keep them, nearly fooled herself that her motive—to return Bramble House to Kay—was worth the damage to her soul. Next time she might not be so strong.

Next time she might fail.

She closed her eyes, the heat of imminent tears burning behind her lids.

“Go, Thomas. I beg you.”

His caress lingered. She thought she felt his hand tremble. Then his touch was gone. She dared not look. She dared not move. She heard the door open and close. And she sank to the floor, her body racked by silent sobs.

Thomas descended the stairs without a flicker of emotion betrayed on his harsh countenance. At the
foot of the stairs Porter waited in silent censure to let him out.

Whatever Porter saw on Thomas’s face caused the butler to stare in amazement. He’d never seen such …

Thomas threw his cloak over his shoulders.

For the rest of his life Porter would wonder what made him ask, but ask he did. “If Lady Fia desires to … contact you, sir, where might she send a note?”

Thomas laughed, and the sound raised the hairs on the nape of Porter’s neck.

“I will be taking all my future correspondence at Hyde Park, I believe,” he said with dark humor.

“But—”

He smiled. “Don’t worry. I was only making a little joke. And she won’t want to contact me.”

And with that, he left.

Chapter 25

L
ate the next morning the post delivered a batch of packages that had been mailed some days before.

The first arrived at the modest home of a successful banker, who looked up when his butler delivered it. He was relieved by the interruption; the column he’d been poring over would not tally. He would have to make additional cuts to the household expenses and he didn’t know how to tell his wife, who sat darning his shirt before an open window.

Fall was in the air, bringing to the banker’s mind other autumns, particularly one fifteen years ago which the banker would have done anything to erase but which quarterly he was forced to relive. It had been the autumn when he’d embarked on a pointless, ego-stroking affair.

Looking now at the figures beneath his hand, he wondered if he should have confessed the affair to his wife, but then … His wife was his closest friend, his most cherished companion, and truly the center of his world. He would not hazard her love for anything.

As these thoughts crossed his mind, the banker slit open the seal on the small package and dumped out the contents. It looked to be an ancient letter, yellowed and darkened so that the address was barely—

With a sharp glance at his wife, he opened the letter. He recognized it at once even though he had not seen it in nearly fifteen years. It was the letter he’d written that woman—the letter she’d sold to Carr and that he had used all these years to extort money from the banker.

He frowned, peered into the package that had contained it. Nothing. No note. Nothing.

He sat back, the overwhelming sense of freedom dizzying. Then slowly, piece by piece, his fingers shaking, he rent the letter into tiny, tiny strips.

In a neat, fashionable house in Berkeley Square, Sir Gerald Swan stared down at a document bearing his signature, the package that had contained it at his feet. He’d never dared hope to see that document again, let alone hold it in his hand.

He’d been a young member of Parliament avid to see his policies adopted when he’d been approached by one of his party’s power brokers. The man had offered Gerald his support if Gerald would sign his
name to a document that would ensure a very profitable contract was won by a very disreputable company. He’d done so. There’d been a scandal soon after but since the document bearing his name had never come to light, he’d remained free from the stigma that had attached itself to many of his fellow members.

Carr had somehow come into possession of the document. And ever since, Gerald had been paying to keep it from the public with little favors. Now, for whatever reason, it was back in his hand. He would no longer need to compromise himself.

When, a short while later, Gerald’s butler arrived to investigate the scent of burning paper, he found his master smiling blissfully at a pile of ashes at his feet in the front hall.

“Lord Carr is due back from France this afternoon,” Gerald said. “I was to send my carriage to the pier to meet him.”

“Yes, sir?”

“Cancel that order.”

“Should I send a message explaining you will not be able to accommodate the earl?”

Swan considered a moment before saying, quite lightly, “No. No explanation is necessary, and should the earl inquire after me, I am not at home to him. Now or ever.”

In Mayfair a young woman brought a letter dated seven years ago to her husband’s hand. Her eyes were wide in her face, her expression bemused.

“What is this, Anne?”

“Bart”—she held out the paper—“I believe it is the affidavit the midwife signed testifying that our Reginald was born before our marriage.”

Her husband took the proffered paper and stared at it long moments before folding it carefully. When his gaze returned to his wife’s, it was filled with amazed relief.

“I don’t know why he would return it now,” she said, her voice troubled, her eyes dazed. For so long they’d hidden their firstborn’s illegitimacy. Bart had been a young soldier and they’d made a baby and then he’d had to go away and she’d gone away, too.

As soon as he’d returned they’d wed, but it was too late to make their son legitimate and therefore next in line for her father’s title. The midwife had since died, but somehow Lord Carr had gotten his hands on her written testimony. Lately Carr had been impressing upon them his willingness to disclose the truth if he was not allowed a certain portion of their son’s anticipated inheritance.

“Carr must know my father is ill and it’s only a matter of time before Reginald inherits his title,” she whispered.

Her husband rose and embraced her softly. “I don’t think Carr sent it, my darling.”

“Then who?” she asked.

“I don’t know, but thank God for him.”

In the front hall of a small, mean lodging house in Cheapside, Lord Tunbridge accepted the package after paying the bearer an additional shilling to keep
him from revealing Tunbridge’s whereabouts. He looked from side to side down the rain-soaked streets before closing the door and returning to his room.