Lord Lightning (3 page)

He drew even closer to Violet. “Is my only reward for the kindness I have shown you to be that you abandon me? And that you do so
now,
when I depend on you to help me claim my inheritance?”

Backed almost to the wall, Violet stood her ground, shaking her head decisively. “I’ve chosen to act the lead role in Saturday’s performance. I was only offered the part because Helena took ill so suddenly. It could make me the first actress in London. It would be the making of me—”

Hartwood cut her off coldly.
“I
have been the making of you, Violet. Did you really think the director selected you to fill that role because of your talent? You read your lines tolerably, but so do many other girls. No, it was the hope he might draw on my deep purse to pay off the theater’s debts that motivated him to choose you.” Lord Hartwood rubbed his forefinger over a large glass jewel embedded in the broken hilt of the stage
dagger. “How quickly you’ve forgot where you came from and what I’ve done for you. But it is only as I expected; I’ve never found women to be capable of loyalty.”

He tilted his strong chin upward, clearly aware of the many female eyes following his every move. “What you choose to do is of no importance to me,” he said, shrugging his exquisitely tailored shoulders. “As you’ve guessed, I have grown weary of you. You’ll be most easy to replace.”

With that, he bowed ever so slightly, still staring at the mortified Violet. Then he slowly removed an enameled golden snuffbox from his pocket, withdrew a pinch of snuff, sniffed and savored it, and with a dry ironic laugh said, “And they say that
I
am fickle.”

E
dward Neville stood outside in the alley where he’d retreated after making his perfect exit. Though he had carried it off well, considering the circumstances, he needed a moment to collect himself and master the rage welling up within him. He breathed deeply and smashed one fist into his gloved palm, feeling the heavy signet dig into the flesh. He’d made a fool of himself. Again. He’d treated Violet as if she were something more than a trollop with little to recommend her beyond a well-formed pair of legs and a willingness to display them. And even more foolishly, he had hoped to get something in return for his many kindnesses—to be exact, two weeks’ worth of loyalty. It was so little, but she had refused him even that much.

The old familiar pain rose within him, and
again he slammed his fist into his hand. Women were incapable of loyalty. He might just as well have expected some mare he’d bought at Tattersalls to recite Hamlet’s soliloquy.

But even so, Violet would have come with him had it not been for the interference of the self-appointed seeress. It was she who’d talked Violet into walking out on him just when he needed her most. It infuriated him. He’d so looked forward to bringing the superbly vulgar Violet with him when he went to Brighton to fulfill the terms of his brother’s will. Though he would still find pleasure in having his mother totally at his mercy after all these years, without Violet at his side it wouldn’t be the same. To pull the thing off properly he must find a replacement for her. But he could think of no one.

The Season was in full swing, and though none of the ladies who would acknowledge his acquaintance were part of the ton, the demimonde, too, had its balls and routs, its visits to the theater and its nights in the gambling hells. Even if he’d known someone suitable, it was unlikely he would be able to pry such a ladybird from the delights of London without offering her carte blanche. And
that,
his adventure with Violet had just brought home to him, was too high a price to pay.

Just then he heard footsteps behind him and the swish of a woman’s gown against the pavement. He felt a surge of relief. Violet must have tallied up all she had got from him and decided not to throw it away. He unclenched his fist, grateful
that after her absurd display of independence Violet had finally seen reason.

But the woman who stood huddled in the alley was not Violet. It was the little fortune-teller, clutching a lumpy satchel and dabbing at her eyes.

How like a woman to willfully destroy his plans and then act as if
she
were the one to be pitied! But her display should not surprise him. Women were always in tears, those damnable tears that let them get away with everything.

A sudden thought occurred to him: Why should she get away with anything? He needed a woman for his scheme. Why not abduct the little seeress and force her to play his whore? His closed carriage stood only a few feet away, the coachman at the ready; it would be only a matter of a few moments to overpower the chit. Once in the carriage, her ruin could be completed, and then what choice would she have but to come along with him?

But as quickly as he imagined the scheme, he saw that it was flawed. Whatever the world might think of him, he had no taste for rape. And, besides, he needed a willing helper.

Still, the woman deserved to pay for her damnable interference. There had been something so consoling about the idea of her abduction. He rather hated to give it up. It wasn’t right that the little fortune-teller should get off scot-free. Could he not indulge in just a tiny bit of abduction? Just enough to frighten her out of her wits and ensure she would never again pull a trick like one she’d just played on him?

Lord Lightning chuckled. A plan was beginning to form in his mind, and there was nothing he liked better than a plan. His black mood began to lift. There were times when it was a definite advantage to have no morals.

After dawdling indecisively for some time in an inconspicuous alcove near the theater doorway, Eliza, who still had her morals but very little else, reminded herself that there was no point in blubbering. Aunt Celestina would have been disgusted with her. It was time to buck up and go on, to prove herself worthy of her forebears. But bracing thoughts like these, so comforting only days before, now fell flat. How could she go on, when she had no place left to go?

She pulled open her tiny netted reticule. As she had expected, all she found within it was four pence ha’penny. By now the bailiff must have taken her father off to debtor’s prison, after seizing the few possessions her beloved aunt had left her that her father had not already gambled away. What a fool she’d been to welcome her father’s unexpected reappearance after her aunt’s death and to let him take her with him to London. He’d not been attracted by love for his long abandoned daughter, but by the small hoard Aunt Celestina had so carefully saved for Eliza’s future. At nine-and-twenty she should have known better than to greet him like the small girl who had so missed her vanished papa. Her aunt had warned her about trusting him, just as she had warned
her against so much else that might cause her to repeat her mother’s errors. But it was too late for regrets. She dabbed at her face to get rid of her shameful tears and squared her shoulders.

But just as she stepped out onto the pavement, she felt a strong, gloved hand come from behind her and grasp her by the arm. It pulled her toward the large closed carriage emblazoned with a crest that waited some dozen yards down the alley. She struggled to free herself and was about to cry out for assistance when a cultivated voice growled into her ear, “Do not attempt to resist me, my pretty one. If you do as I bid, I will not harm you.”

She recognized the voice—and she recognized the sense of drama. It was Lord Hartwood.

As he drew her toward the carriage, a liveried postillion opened the door smoothly, allowing her captor to shove her inside. Then the elegant lord clambered in, taking a seat at the far end of the deeply upholstered bench as the coach door shut with a well-oiled click. He signaled to the coachman with a single rap on the compartment’s roof and the carriage began to move.

She was being abducted! She knew she should be alarmed. But as she breathed in the aroma of well-oiled leather and the subtler scent of the varnished burled maple paneling that surrounded her, it was not alarm she felt, but relief. For a few moments longer she could postpone facing the fact that she had nowhere to live, no one to turn to, and four pence ha’penny with which to plan her future. It was even possible that despite his
cynical pose, Lord Hartwood had been so impressed by her earlier reading of his character that he wished to know more. Had she found a patron after all—one capable of showering her with the golden guineas needed to stave off disaster?

But one look at her abductor dispelled that notion. A sneer darkened his eyes and narrowed the sensuous lips that in other circumstances might have been described as inviting. His eyes drilled into hers, and suddenly she knew why they called him Lord Lightning. His eyes raked up and down her slender figure, lingering on the bodice of her dress as if with his gaze alone he could divest her of that garment. Eliza shrank away from him, sliding toward the other end of the bench, and raised one hand protectively in front of her chest.

“Lord Hartwood—” she began, but he cut her words short.

“Did your fortune-telling tricks not warn you to beware of a man with fair hair? Were you not cautioned to make no short journeys? Or do you read the stars only for those you attempt to bilk?”

“What do you mean?”

“You will address me as ‘Your Lordship,’” he admonished her. “And you will remember at all times the respect owed to my rank. What’s your name, young woman?”

“Miss Farrell, Your Lordship.”

“Well then, Miss Farrell, you’ve greatly displeased me with your damnable interference in my life. Now that you are completely in my
power, I’ll make sure you don’t play such tricks again. Would you like to consult the stars to find out what I have planned for you? Will your almanac teach you how to escape me?”

His vehemence caused his snuffbox to slip from his pocket and roll onto the floor, but he did not stop to pick it up. “But of course, you wouldn’t consult the stars to learn your own fate,” he taunted. “You’re a fraud, some scullery maid looking for easy money—no, you speak too well to be a scullery maid—a lady’s maid perhaps. But whoever you are, I’ve had enough of your meddling.”

At these words, something in Eliza snapped. The nerve of the man. Calling her a jumped up lady’s maid? She who was a direct descendent of England’s finest astrologer!

“I am no fraud,” she retorted. “I was trained in the practice of astrology by my Aunt Celestina who studied with her father, who was William Lilly’s great-grandson. Your insults can mean nothing to me.”

“Surely,” Lord Hartwood responded in an unpleasant tone, “though my insults may mean nothing, you must fear for your safety at my hands.” And with that, he reached out one languid hand and caressed her thigh. A shock ran through her body. No man had ever touched her in such a brazen way. She twisted her neck sharply, pulling away from him. The man was impossible. It was time to put an end to his nonsense.

“Your Lordship,” she snapped, “I, too, have read the novels of Mr. Richardson, which you
have apparently confused with real life. Had you not caused me so much distress just now in the theater, I might find your posturing amusing. But though you may have the reputation of a Lovelace, I am no Clarissa. I am a woman of some nine-and-twenty years, quite past my prime, with my living to be earned, no thanks to you. And you have caused me quite enough trouble for one day.”

“Surely,” Lord Hartwood said, his hard look now replaced by something very akin to amusement, “though not Clarissa, you must owe me a little bit of terror. After all, I do have you in my power.”

“Oh don’t be silly,” Eliza countered. “We read Miss Austen now, not Mr. Richardson, and the ladies in our modern novels only run off with bounders when they fall prey to their devastating charm—not because some man drags them off in a closed carriage.”

“I am abashed, madam,” replied Lord Hartwood, “to find you do not consider my charm to be devastating.”

“I have no idea if your charm is devastating or not, for you have favored me only with your bad temper. Though, on reflection, I’d imagine you have charm enough when you choose to use it—at least, you would if you really have the Libra ascendant that’s on the chart I drew up for you.”

Lord Hartwood lifted one pale eyebrow. “So you truly believe that drivel you spouted to Violet?
You actually think you can divine my character with your mystical documents?”

“There is no need for you to insult my art,” Eliza said firmly. As she spoke, a part of her watched in astonishment as she administered a set down to a man who was, after all, a powerful nobleman. He, too, appeared to be astonished. His deep brown eyes had widened and he was clearly having trouble maintaining the harsh expression the role he had taken on required. He removed his beaver hat with a flourish, revealing a startling mass of pale, tousled curls, and said in an ironic tone, “Accept my apologies, madam. In the future I shall refer to your art only with the greatest respect.”

“Thank you, Your Lordship. I am glad to hear it. But I am annoyed with you, too. I so badly needed the money Violet had promised me for my help. And I would have earned it, too, were it not for you. It was what I told her about
your
character that ruined everything.”

“But what you said was all so complimentary.” The expression of amusement still flickered across Lord Hartwood’s sensual lips. “I found it refreshing to hear myself described in such unfamiliar terms.
A kind and thoughtful lover. A man who lives for love.
I’m more accustomed to being compared to Byron—though my crimes are mild compared to what he’s accused of.”

“Of course they are,” Eliza said brusquely. “Lord Byron’s chart is far more afflicted than yours. I’ve studied it.”

But then she remembered with a pang that the
birth time she had for the incestuous poet was accurate, coming as it did from Lord Byron’s mother who had consulted Aunt Celestina for help in governing her unruly son. She had no such certainty about the accuracy of the horoscope she had erected for Lord Hartwood. In fact, it was probably wrong.

She sighed. “In truth, I have my doubts about the information I was given about your birth. My interpretation would not have seemed so wrong to those who know you if the information you’d given Violet was correct. But if you had deceived her, it would explain why they laughed at the character I gave you.”