Forbidden (9 page)

The thought of her not being there when he returned almost had Francis swinging the curricle back to collect her, sensitive business or no. Hazy memories of the morning's lovemaking lingered in his mind like her sultry perfume, making him regret bitterly having slept through so much of his first sexual experience.

He might be a virgin—have been a virgin—but he was not ignorant. Talk about sex was open among his friends. He knew that coupling had been truly extraordinary.

He told himself that was all the more reason to put miles between him and Serena Allbright.

Chapter 5

Francis made himself concentrate on his more important business—putting the fear of the devil into Charles Ferncliff.

Did the man actually think that he could frighten ten thousand pounds out of his mother with such a scarecrow? It was true that his mother laid great store in her reputation, but even so it was a strange maneuver.

It was even stranger that Ferncliff had written to Francis. Perhaps the man had despaired of extorting the money out of the mother and thought the son would be an easier touch. A peculiar misconception.

In fact, all the evidence indicated the man was severely unbalanced, and he'd have to be to come up with such a faradiddle.

Francis's mind boggled when even trying to imagine a salacious story involving his mother. Certainly she was a fine-looking woman for her age, but hardly the sort to sneak into the tack room with the groom. Was she supposed to have huddled in the pulpit with the elderly vicar? Made love over the estate records with the steward?

He shook his head and turned instead to formulating a satisfying plan of action. And every time Serena Allbright crept into his mind, he firmly pushed her image away.

Rain had followed the wind, and the road was still muddy. In retrospect, it had been a mistake to take the shortcut from Winchester, and not just because of the state of the road. He had become wretchedly entangled as well....

But he wasn't going to think about his siren.

Even when he reached the better surface of the toll road, it was still hard going. Though Francis was anxious to settle with Ferncliff he didn't push the team, and it was late afternoon when he pulled into the Crown and Anchor in the small port of Weymouth. When he inquired after Charles Ferncliff, he was frustrated to be told that the man was out.

A blackmailer could at least have the courtesy to be waiting for his victim.

He took rooms, for he would doubtless have to spend the night. There had never really been any question of returning to Serena today, but Francis marked the delay down to Ferncliff's account and felt even more darkly toward the man.

Perhaps he
would
thrash him.

He ordered dinner, then paced the room worrying at his problem, which was not Ferncliff.

Should he make Serena Allbright his mistress? A simple decision and she could be his. He could return to the Red Lion tomorrow and enjoy her endlessly. He could set her up in London and give her everything she desired.

She'd be a great hit with the Rogues.

The Company of Rogues had been a schoolboy group, formed for mutual protection. Now it was a company of friends, but one with very deep and firm bonds. It had recently become clear that both mistresses and wives would be accepted as part of the group.

But what of Lady Anne? She was the sort of well-bred girl who wouldn't make a fuss over her husband setting up a mistress, but he couldn't feel right about putting her in such a position.

In fact, he couldn't feel comfortable about setting up a mistress at all, especially such a one. Serena was beautiful and skilled in erotic arts, but she could turn out to be wickedness incarnate. After all, what kind of woman ravished a stranger in the night?

His pressing duty was to marry, to provide an heir. His pressing need was to marry so as to swamp this unwanted obsession with a tantalizing whore.

There was another reason for marriage, too, scarce acknowledged until this moment.

Eleanor Delaney.

When his friend, Nicholas Delaney, had disappeared a year ago and was feared dead, Francis had found himself drawn to his wife, Eleanor. Any expression of his feelings had been restrained by the ardent hope that Nicholas would prove safe, and by Eleanor's advanced pregnancy, but the feelings had been there.

Nicholas's safe return, along with the evident happiness of his marriage, had put an end to the foolishness—or should have done. Francis had been sufficiently uneasy on the matter that he'd been avoiding his friend for a year now. He had hoped that his forthcoming marriage would bury the matter absolutely.

He now doubted that marriage to Lady Anne Peckworth would have any effect on his disturbing feelings for Eleanor Delaney. But Serena Allbright had risen in his mind, and Eleanor was fading like the pale moon in the light of the summer sun.

"Plague take it," he muttered. Serena was certainly no candidate for marriage, not the least because she couldn't produce an heir.

"Is the problem really worthy of such language?" asked an amused voice.

Francis swung around. "Nicholas! What the devil...?"

Nicholas Delaney, a handsome blond man with a rather careless style, came in and shut the door. "Received a cryptic missive from your mother. The mere fact of her writing to me at all was enough to bring me hotfoot. What's amiss?"

"From my
mother
?" Francis echoed, alert to the peculiarity of this turn of events. What on earth could have brought his mother to do such a thing when she had always resented this friendship?

Francis began to wonder whether this whole bizarre adventure wasn't some kind of Machiavellian plot to cut him off from Nicholas. No, that was surely ridiculous. But his mother's behavior was damned fishy.

"From your mother," Nicholas agreed, shrugging out of his greatcoat. "Hope I'm welcome, because I'm not going anywhere tonight."

"Pleased to see you, of course," Francis said abstractedly, "but I'm put out that you've been given a needless journey. I'm here on a simple matter of business. What did my mother say?"

Nicholas tossed over a sheet of paper.

My dear Mr. Delaney.

Francis is traveling to Weymouth, to meet a gentleman at the Crown and Anchor Inn there. I am very afraid of the consequences and believe your presence could be of benefit.

Cordelia Middlethorpe.

"What maggot's in her head now?" Francis asked. "Does she think I can't even handle a half-mad tutor without help?"

Nicholas laughed. "Remembering some of the half-mad tutors from our school days, she might have cause. Remember Simmons? Went after Dare with a horsewhip after one notable exploit. Have you ordered dinner? Yes? Then I'll ask them to double the rations. I'm starved." He opened the door and called for the innkeeper. In minutes an order was under way and a bowl of hot, spiced punch had been produced.

Nicholas settled in a chair by the fire, glass in hand. "Now, tell me what the pother is about."

"There is no pother," said Francis coolly.

"Ah." Nicholas appeared to accept it, but Francis did not miss the penetrating look in his eye. "Have you kept up with the comings and goings?" Nicholas continued lightly. "Leander is back in England, and I'm hoping he'll make it down here eventually. His property is in Somerset after all. And Miles is in Ireland to deal with some trouble at one of his places there. Smuggling, I think. There's a possibility Simon will be back from Canada soon. Perhaps we can have a grand reunion of the Rogues, the surviving ones, at least..."

Francis threw himself into the opposite seat and took a deep drink of punch. "There's no need for idle chat, Nick. I'm sorry if I froze you out, but you don't need to worry over my affairs. It's just that my mother seems of the opinion that I couldn't take the skin off a pudding without your help."

"I'm amazed. I thought she considered me a disreputable influence."

"She does," said Francis thoughtfully. "It's dashed peculiar. If there's anything in the dinner that I dislike, don't touch it."

Nicholas laughed. "Shades of Lucrezia Borgia! I'm sure even your mother wouldn't go to those lengths."

"Somehow these days, I don't know."

"Parents have a way of disconcerting us, don't they? Being one myself now, I find it quite demoralizing. After all, one day Arabel will think me a fogy with no understanding of life at all."

It was Francis's turn to laugh. "I find that hard to believe."

"So do I, but that doesn't affect the probability of it being true."

They passed some time sharing gossip of friends and family, and by then their meal had arrived, with the message from the innkeeper that Mr. Ferncliff still hadn't returned to the inn.

As they sat at the table, Nicholas said, "This Ferncliff is the reason you're here?"

"Yes." It went against the grain for Francis not to tell Nicholas what was afoot, but he was still suspicious of this whole affair.

"And your business?" asked Nicholas, addressing an excellent oxtail soup. "You see, I am not to be put off, so you may as well tell me."

"It's not my story to share," said Francis firmly.

"Ah. In that case, I'll desist. I thought I'd given up meddling, anyway." He glanced across the table. "It was just that something in your manner when I arrived made me think it was personal."

Francis winced under this perception. "That's another matter."

"And also not to be shared? Should I be hurt?"

"You don't need my problems."

"You don't need them, either. Share them."

Francis met his friend's eyes, aware of a need and a disinclination to tell all. The disinclination had nothing to do with the momentary resentment he'd felt when Nicholas had appeared, for now, as usual, he felt close to him as to no one else. It was a matter of not knowing what to say.

Nicholas had been out of England a great deal in recent years and didn't know about Francis's sexual inexperience. Francis had no desire to enlighten him. Francis didn't know, however, how his adventure would appear to a man like Nicholas, who had a reputation as an experienced lover.

Perhaps being seduced in the night by a stranger was quite common in some circles.

He put down his spoon. "I picked up a woman on the road yesterday in the middle of the storm and spent last night with her at a farmhouse. I've left her at an inn with a promise to return and help her, but I don't know what to do for the best."

"You intend to abandon her?" asked Nicholas with a faint but forceful hint of disapproval.

"Of course not. But what do I actually do with her?"

Nicholas's lips twitched. "What are the options?"

"Anything, I suppose, from marriage to murder." No, not marriage, he reminded himself.

"Really? Is she ripe for either?"

"How the hell do I know? I'm not even sure I have her real name."

Nicholas raised his brows. "A truly Roguish adventure. Tell me."

So Francis did, even including the strange dreamlike seduction. Nicholas whistled. "Many men would envy you that."

"Would you?" And Therese Bellaire hovered in the room between them. That notorious and beautiful French whore had set out to ruin Nicholas, forcing him to serve her sexually in any way she pleased.

"Probably not," said Nicholas soberly, but then a smile glinted. "However, I shall drop pointed hints to Eleanor when I return home."

"That's the point, isn't it?" said Francis. "What kind of woman would do that to a stranger, uninvited?"

"A well-trained whore, I'd say, who wanted to make you her debtor."

"Quite."

"I have nothing against well-trained whores in their place. Do you?"

Francis didn't answer. He was strongly tempted to tell Nicholas that he knew nothing of whores, well-trained or otherwise.

"You're not a married man," Nicholas pointed out. "My guess is that you find this woman damned attractive. Why not take her up?"

"You forget. I'm about to be married."

"Ah. All settled, is it?"