Dangerous to Love (15 page)

She might have borne it. After all, she was the suppliant here. Then she had come face-to-face with the woman she despised most in all the world. Lady Amelia Lawrence, dark, statuesque, and well favored if not well endowed, drew her skirts away from her as though she, Serena, were a foul-smelling beggar. All the ladies were masked, but Serena would have recognized Lady Amelia if
she had met her on the river Styx. She had her own distinctive perfume, a mixture of cloves and rose, and she never changed it.

Now Serena’s indignation knew no bounds. And her brothers were members
here?
It was no wonder that she and Catherine had never been able to persuade Jeremy to take them to Raynor’s place on those nights when suitably escorted females were permitted on the premises.

“This is no better than a bawdy house,” she declared, voicing her thoughts aloud.

At this, Lord Alistair made a halfhearted attempt to turn the conversation. “I think we have managed to throw them off the scent,” he said.

Flynn glanced up at the ceiling, as though seeking inspiration, before returning Serena’s glare. “You ’as a nasty mind, my girl, that’s what you ’as. This is a gaming ’ouse, don’t you know? What did you expect? So it’s not as demure as taking tea in your dainty little parlor. If it was, Raynor wouldn’t ’ave no patrons, now would ’e?”

“I might have known you would take his part,” was all she would allow herself to say before she resumed pacing the floor.

Ignoring her ignoring him, Flynn said, “You’d best get a civil tongue in your ’ead if you wants the major to ’elp us out of the fix we are in. If I’m not mistaken”—he flicked aside a crimson curtain, and glanced out the window—”the militia will soon be closing in for the kill, and you knows as well as I do that our retreat ’as been cut off.”

At the mention of the militia, Lord Alistair stumbled to his feet. Unsheathing his sword, he stood, rather shakily, at the ready. He still looked to be suffering the effects of his nerve-wracking experience in the underground passages.

Flynn let out an impatient oath. “Put up, man, for God’s sake, before you do yourself an injury.”

What Lord Alistair might have said was forestalled as the door opened and Julian Raynor strode into the room. Serena’s humiliation was complete. He had the appearance of a man who had risen late from his bed to enjoy a leisurely bath before donning his freshly laundered garments. He was immaculately turned out in a gray velvet coat and white satin breeches. The lace at his throat and cuffs was as pure as the driven snow. Even the smell of him irritated her. It was a pleasant blend of starched linen and cologne, and was discernible, but only just, over the stench of her own tattered and mud-spattered gown. She stank of the sewer she had just crawled out of, and the knowledge both shamed her and set her temper to simmering.

“Victoria,” he said, laughing at her, “does this mean that you have had a change of mind?”

The barb, a reference to the position of mistress he had once offered her, fell wide of its mark. She was too aware that unless she could persuade this man to help them, it would be all over for them. “Julian,” she said meekly, “you know that my name is Serena.”

His face fell in an attitude of mock sorrow. “Then, Serena, my question still stands. Does this mean you have had a change of mind?”

This reference, of course, was to his humiliating offer of marriage and her insulting refusal of it. A sideways glance at Flynn showed him nodding his head vigorously. She moistened her lips and tried to look properly beseeching. “The thing is, Julian .  .  .”

“Good God!” he said. “What is that stench? And what happened to your gown?” Without waiting for her to reply, he acknowledged Flynn, then looked with interest at the young man with the drawn sword. “Good evening,”
he said. “Serena has forgotten her manners yet again. I am Julian Raynor, and you might be .  .  . ?”

“Lord Alistair Cumming,” said the young Scot in his unmistakable brogue. He bowed.

Julian stood there, staring at that drawn sword. Then his eyes swept over Flynn and Serena, taking in their filthy, disheveled appearance. “Don’t say .  .  .” he began, then his gaze suddenly sliced to Serena, searing her with the intensity of that look. “The Thatched Tavern?” he said. “The militia? The Jacobite fugitive? That’s why .  .  . ?” The silence fairly blazed with his dawning comprehension of past and present events. “Now what are you trying to involve me in?” he yelled.

Wringing her hands, she turned to Flynn. “I told you how it would be. You got us into this, Flynn. Now what do we do?”

His eyes on Julian, Flynn said, “The militia are on our trail. They must know we are ’ere, or they will soon work
it
out. We left some of them in Billing’s cockpit. I reckon we ’as five minutes, ten at the most, before they gets ’ere. Where can we go? Who can we turn to? I knew you would not refuse to ’elp us, Major Raynor, sir, because you owes Miss Serena ’ere your protection. Is that not so?”

“She doesn’t want my protection. She told me so.”

“That was then. This is now. If you chooses not to ’elp us, Major Raynor, sir, it’s the gallows for us.”

They stood staring at each other for a long, long interval, then both gentlemen suddenly broke into broad grins.

Serena could not believe that they would stand around joking when every second brought them closer to discovery and the gallows. “Julian,” she said desperately, “this is no laughing matter. There is a horrid constable pursuing us, and at any moment he and his militia are going to
come storming through your doors, demanding that you hand us over to them.”

Julian looked to Flynn. “Flynn?” he invited.

Flynn inhaled sharply, then took the plunge. “Lord Alistair, ’ere, is the least of our worries, as I see it. That’s if ’e can be persuaded to keep ’is mouth shut and ’is sword sheathed. ’e could easily pass ’imself off as one of your patrons. Mind you, there’s still the problem of getting ’im to ’is ship, but we shall cross that bridge when we comes to it.”

“He’ll never pass himself off as one of my patrons with that stench on him,” Julian pointed out.

“Yes, well, we could all do with a bath and a change of clothes.” Sniffing his sleeve, Flynn grinned then went on carefully, “It’s Miss Serena who stands in the most danger. That constable fellow was following ’er, you see. ’Im and ’is soldiers chased us through the sewers. They knows we are up to something.” He gave Julian a man-to-man look. “It won’t be easy to convince them of ’er innocence.”

“Innocence of what? That’s what I should like to know,” said Julian, his eyes boring into Serena’s.

She gritted her teeth, meeting that look with all the fervor of her passionate nature. “If it is treasonable to help Jacobite fugitives escape to safety, then convict me. But nothing will convince me that I am a traitor!”

The hard look in Julian’s eyes gradually softened. Crossing to the door, he opened it and yelled, “Tibbets!” The summons was answered almost immediately by a very superior-looking servant.

“Ah, Tibbets,” said Julian, “this young gentleman”—he indicated Lord Alistair—”is in need of a change of clothes. See to it. And Tibbets, use the back stairs. And I’d be obliged if you would send Mr. Blackie to me. At once, Tibbets, at once.”

He turned to Flynn. “Go with him, Flynn.”

“No!” This came from Serena. “That is, they know we were together. They don’t know about Lord Alistair. Flynn must stay with me.” She looked at Flynn imploringly, but his eyes were on Julian.

“Yes, I get your drift,” said Julian. “But I wish to speak with you in private. Flynn will return in a few minutes.”

No one was more surprised than Serena when Lord Alistair fell on his knees before her. For one awful moment, she thought that the boy had swooned, then she was wishing that he
had
swooned. Lifting the hem of her filthy skirt, he pressed his lips to it. “You are the loveliest, bravest lady I have ever known,” he said, and with one fond look, he was gone, and she and Julian were alone.

“You need not look like that,” she said, shifting uncomfortably. “It is only a mark of respect. The boy meant nothing by it.”

“Oh, you need not tell me that. I know it means nothing.”

She bristled. “And I suppose you would never dream of according a lady such an honor?”

He smirked. “My dear Serena, the day I meet the lady
worthy
of such an honor is the day I shall admit myself to an insane asylum. In short, no such woman exists.”

She had been feeling somewhat kinder toward him, but at this insulting remark, she drew herself up.

“Serena, I—”

“You need not wonder why we thought we could count on your support. Julian Raynor always pays his debts, or so you once told me. I’m calling in the debt.”

A muscle jerked at the corner of his mouth, and the softness went out of his expression. “My protection, I believe, Flynn mentioned? How may I serve you?”

Serena looked away. “All you need do,” she said in a
subdued way, “is support our story—that is, that Flynn was bringing me to you so that we could .  .  . elope.”

Julian folded his arms across his chest and regarded her steadily. “You do realize that by helping you, I may be putting my own head on the block?”

Her eyes were unfaltering on his. “I realize it.”

“Victoria,” he said gently, “this time your price is exorbitant.”

A trembling began deep in her body. “You won’t help us?”

“I didn’t say that. All I am saying is that the exchange is unequal. I shall expect you to make up the difference.”

“And how may I do that?”

His brows rose. Her color heightened.

The door was flung open, and a young woman, one of the house’s crack card players, rushed into the room. “Julian,” she got out breathlessly, “there is a constable demanding to see you, and .  .  . and he says that militia have surrounded the house. You must come at once.”

Serena stared at him with huge stricken eyes.

His whole posture was unbending. “Well, Victoria, is it to be yes or no?”

In her mind’s eye, she saw herself poised on the brink of a bottomless precipice. “Yes,” she whispered.

“I want your word on it.”

“You have it! But what are you going to do?”

His eyes mocked her. “Marry you, my dear Victoria. I’m going to marry you.”

I
t was not at all as Serena had imagined her wedding would be. It didn’t feel like a wedding. She didn’t feel like a bride. There was no church, no organ music, and no flowers, only Julian’s private little office, cluttered with books and ledgers. Her gown was borrowed from one of the gaming-house wenches, and looked it. The band on the fourth finger of her left hand had been hastily fashioned from a curtain ring. A curtain ring of all things! In lieu of family and friends to toast the “happy” couple, she had the benefit of one footman, who was grinning like a Cheshire cat, and an officer of the law whose coat pockets bulged with pistols and hand irons. Worse by far was the minister who had conducted the service. Mr. Hargraves was an inmate of the Fleet, a debtor on day parole who was obliged to return to the prison before the night was over. Oddly enough, it was Mr. Hargrave’s presence in the house (and she still did not know how Julian had managed it) that had finally convinced the constable that they were telling the truth.

A Fleet marriage, a trumped-up affair—she might have known what to expect of Julian Raynor.

At that moment, Constable Loukas caught her eye and he raised his glass of champagne in silent tribute. This benevolent, bewigged old gentleman scarcely resembled the ferocious officer of the law who had cross-examined them all, less than an hour ago, in this very room. At that time, Constable Loukas had seemed a formidable adversary, and an irate one to boot. He had not appreciated the
mad chase through the sewers any more than Lord Alistair had.

Julian, naturally, had done most of the talking, having previously warned her to keep her mouth shut and her eyes downcast in the manner of a blushing bride. He need not have bothered to warn her. His recitation of events would have shamed the most brazen harridan. Not only did he support the story they had concocted, namely that their flight through the sewers was nothing more sinister than an elopement that had gone seriously awry when the bride’s footman had panicked, but he had also embellished the tale, giving the distinct impression that the marriage was a matter of urgency since the bride might or might not be in what was politely referred to as “a delicate condition.”

After this, the constable had become all solicitation. He meant to see, so he told her, that the major did right by her. His signature would be on their marriage certificate as witness to their union. Let Raynor try to get out of it, Fleet marriage or no, and she had only to call on him, and he would vouch for her. He really was a dear, sweet man.

She wouldn’t call on him, of course. The first chance she got, she was going to burn that certificate, and it would be as if the marriage had never taken place. That was the reason Julian had felt safe in going on with it, and that was the reason Fleet marriages were so notorious. They were easily invalidated. Many a gullible woman, thinking that she was a wife, had lost her virtue to some unprincipled scoundrel who had decamped with the marriage certificate safely in his pocket. Without it or unimpeachable witnesses, nothing could be proved.