One Night of Sin (12 page)

Virgin.

“Christ!” Alec dropped the thing with a wild gasp as though it had burned him. His heart lurched, then began pounding madly. How could he not have felt her barrier? But—
the condom.
A string of expletives exploded from his lips and ended with a self-directed “Fool!”

The reputed greatest lover in all England had not even realized last night that he had despoiled a virgin. He never tangled with virgins. Never!

But if she wasn’t a whore, then who the hell was she and where was she off to?

He wasn’t even sure now if Becky Ward was her real name. All he knew was that he had blundered and that he was bound by honor to make it right.
Good God, I might actually have to marry her.

He could not even think about that yet or he might drop dead of an apoplectic fit.

He swallowed hard, his heart racing. One thing at a time. First he had to find her. Already in motion, he threw the bloodstained robe back onto the bed and raced out. Yet again, the mysterious waif had him chasing her—and that was new, indeed. Usually it was the other way around. Not this one. How much of what she had said last night had been a lie?
The jig is up, my girl, and when I catch you I’m going to wring your deceitful little neck.

Dashing down the stairs, taking several steps at a time, he ran out into the courtyard, glanced to the right and left, but did not see her.

“Becky!”

“Ah, so she’s your little morsel, is she? Figures.”

Alec whirled to find his piano-playing neighbor ambling across the courtyard, idly swinging his walking stick and smoking a cheroot.

“Did you see which way she went?”

“Why, yes. She asked me the way to St. James’s Square.” Roger Manners pointed his walking stick at the Piccadilly gate.

“Thanks.” Alec nodded and raced after her, his heart pounding, but he was more puzzled than ever as he left the quiet, cultivated grounds of the Althorpe and rushed out onto the busy thoroughfare.
St. James’s Square?
What could she want there?

He suddenly caught sight of her ahead and hastened to follow, but on second thought decided to hang back and watch her so he might find out what the little minx was up to before he confronted her. One way or another, he would get to the bottom of this. Now he really wanted to know why she had been sleeping on Draxinger’s doorway.

If she had stuck around this morning scheming for marriage, that he could have understood, because despite his own racy reputation, he was still a family member of the mighty Duke of Hawkscliffe. It didn’t get much more blue-blooded than that, and Alec knew that if he ever did decide to marry, his eldest brother, Robert, would certainly restore his income from the family fortunes.

But obviously that had not been Becky’s scheme, so why on earth would any chit in her right mind throw her virtue away on a total stranger and then sneak away in the morning? It made no blasted sense.

From time to time he saw her stop to ask directions from various people on the streets. Now that he knew the truth, Alec tensed with an almost obsessive protectiveness each time she did, but she was sensible about whom she approached.

It was not long before he trailed her into the stately garden square. He eased around the corner, watching from a wary distance as she searched out the house numbers, then stopped when she faced the enormous town house of the Duke of Westland.

Alec knew the residence because he had attended several social events there in the past, including the fair Lady Parthenia’s debutante ball, where he and Fort and Rush had tried to trick Draxinger into wooing Westland’s daughter by making a rakish wager about which of them could thaw the ice-princess.

Everybody knew that Draxinger and Parthenia belonged together. Drax had been a goner from the first time he laid eyes on the elegant frost-maiden, but neither of the two equally haughty creatures would make the first move. The lads’ attempt to push Drax and Parthenia together had not worked, though, and when her father found out about their bet, he had taken a severe dislike to Alec and his friends.

Across the square, Becky advanced bravely to the Westlands’ front door.

What on earth is she doing?
What business could a Yorkshire hoyden have with a leading Whig lord? He knew by her slight, charming Yorkshire burr that at least that much of her tale was true.

Leaning on the corner, Alec had to maneuver a little to be able to see her through the green leafy boughs of the plane trees planted in the square’s central garden. As she came into view, he saw her pause on the doorstep, square her shoulders, and take a deep breath, steeling herself with a valiant air.

She knocked soundly on the door.

The Duke of Westland’s drawing room overlooking Berkeley Square made General Prince Mikhail Kurkov a trifle homesick for his beautiful palace on the Moika River in St. Petersburg, for despite rumors to the contrary, he was, on occasion, a civilized man.

He faced the ugliness of war without flinching when he had to, but between battles he appreciated the finer things in life as much as any educated nobleman.

The airy, spacious room was beautifully appointed. Bright morning sunlight streamed in through large arched windows and danced on the silver tea service laid out on the round mahogany table buffed to a high sheen. Light yellow walls complemented couches and armchairs upholstered in a lavender striped silk.

Any minute now he expected his feckless young cousin’s arrival. He was already in position, prepared with a reasonable explanation to shoot down her predictable accusations. Did she take him for a fool?

It had been but a trice to learn where she would go, to whom she would turn. Mikhail had big plans, and he did not intend to have them undone by a mere slip of a girl. Upon arriving at Westland’s house, the first thing he had done was to put a word discreetly in the butler’s ear.

“My good fellow,” he had murmured, “if a young lady with dark hair should come to the door while I am visiting with His Grace, would you please detain her as quietly as possible? Her name is Miss Rebecca Ward, a kinswoman of mine. I am her guardian, you see. My grandfather’s recent death entrusted her . . . but, ah, how shall I say?—fair Rebecca suffers from an unfortunate malady of the mind.”

“Oh, dear. I am very sorry, Your Highness,” the butler had said with a sympathetic nod.

“She may try to follow me here. In recent days, she has shown a tendency to break away from her caretakers, trying to follow me wherever I go. This is, of course, very dangerous for her. She is unable to care for herself. If she were to wander off in the city, we might never find her again.” Mikhail had shaken his head regretfully. “Perhaps I am too tenderhearted, but I cannot bear for her doctors to restrain her. She cries so piteously. It is enough to break a man’s heart.”

“I’m sure it must be a terrible burden, Your Highness.”

Mikhail had sighed and nodded like a saint. “I do not
expect
that Rebecca will follow me today, but this morning she did seem particularly agitated. Telling her nurse I am the devil. Very sad.”

The butler winced and shook his head sympathetically.

“It is not her fault, of course, but I should not wish to bring any embarrassment to your master’s doorstep. Her fits tend to cause a scene. If Rebecca does appear, I would ask that you have your footmen lay hold of her and send for me at once, so that I can take her home. You need not worry—I would not say she is dangerous—she is only a young girl. But she can be a bit violent. Her doctors say she suffers from hysteria.”

“We will see to her with compassion, if the young lady should arrive,” the butler had assured him with a bow.

“Thank you,” he had answered, slipping a fiver into the servant’s pocket with a quick smile. “Your staff will not discuss her condition, I trust.”

“Never, Your Highness. I will make sure personally that they do not.”

“Good man.”

The obliging fellow had then escorted Mikhail to the breakfast room, where the Duke of Westland had agreed to receive him.

And so, staked out here and lying in wait for her, Mikhail was irked, but not unduly alarmed, by his little cousin’s success thus far. True, Rebecca had eluded his men for nearly a week and had made her way to London in good time, but he had frankly expected as much, for they shared the same superior Talbot blood. The chit had merely exhibited—in miniature—his own fundamental competence in achieving his chosen aims.

All the same, she was only twenty years old and a female, a basically insignificant being. It was inconceivable that a rosy-cheeked country lass could be of any real threat to him.

No, he would soon have the temperamental young beauty in hand, and when he did, they were going to have a
discussion
about her snooping, her meddling, and her insubordination.

Then he would teach her a lesson she would not soon forget.

As with drilling soldiers or breaking horses, he merely had to show her who was in control. Westland, for his part, suspected nothing. The duke innocently believed that he had only come to discuss politics.

If Westland had been startled when Mikhail arrived so early without an appointment, the duke was too impeccably well-mannered to let his astonishment show. After all, they had been introduced just a week ago through Countess Lieven, and Westland had extended to Mikhail an open invitation to drop by anytime if he wished to discuss the latest bills in Parliament.

Mikhail knew full well it was too early to come calling, but he could not risk Rebecca getting here before him; besides, as a foreigner, he could plead ignorance of London ways. That, along with his high rank and the fact that the Whigs frankly needed him, had silenced any curious comment on Westland’s part regarding his unexpected visit.

Mikhail had soon discovered upon arriving that the duke was a man who appreciated the work ethic of any aristocrat who did not loll abed till noon but got down to business straightaway. When the butler had shown him into the breakfast room, Mikhail found Westland sitting alone at the table, back from his morning gallop and dressed with smart reserve; eating his breakfast, sipping coffee, reviewing two newspapers, and preparing for the day’s meetings all at the same time—and making it all look quite easy.

Now they had repaired to the drawing room, where Westland was amiably determined to persuade him to join the Whigs instead of the Tories.

Ever since Mikhail had inherited his British grandfather’s earldom, the Whigs and Tories had been fighting over him. It was quite amusing. As an outsider to English politics, they knew he could go either way.

His grandsire had been a staunch Tory, like all the past Talbot earls, but as far as the world could guess, his first loyalties might lay with his boyhood friend, Czar Alexander of Russia, and the Czar could not have made his preference for the Whigs any plainer on his last state visit to this quaint little island.

The Tories were now in control, but the Czar firmly believed their days in power were numbered and that the future of England lay with the Whigs.

Mikhail agreed. Not that he really gave a damn for either side. It was only a question of which could be more useful to him. The obvious answer was the Whigs, but he intended to make them work for it. If their party would indeed control England’s future, then it was imperative that in time he get control of them.

“We envision great changes in the future,” Westland continued with admirable conviction. He proceeded to explain.

Mikhail barely listened, keeping one ear on the front door, a bit on edge with this whole situation. He nodded his head and seemed to deliberate, but he had hammered out his plan long ago.

He would gain a foothold among the Whig elites and use it as insurance on his life if anything went awry when the plot was carried out back in Russia. Such enterprises were delicate.

Czar Alexander suffered from enough paranoia to keep scores of spies on the lookout to sniff out rebellions before they occurred—as well he should be, after what had happened to his father. Mikhail’s own uncles had helped to overthrow the brutal, bloodthirsty Czar Paul.

If the present coup succeeded, Mikhail knew that he would soon be called back to Russia to help restore order. They would need him to help run things with the iron fist that he was famous for. The army loved him, and at their head, he would consolidate his power.

If the plot failed, however, and he were implicated, he would simply deny everything—he was too smart not to cover his tracks. How could they blame him, after all, when he was a thousand miles away here in England? Yes, if things went wrong, he would have already ensured his own survival by embedding himself inside the Whig party as an advocate for Russian interests. Mikhail knew that the Czar would be a fool to prosecute him when he alone would be in a position to influence English politics in ways that benefited Mother Russia and harmed her enemies. From trade agreements to military alliances, the Czar would have to see that if he left Mikhail untouched, Russia could reap considerable rewards from British industry and sea power. It was a foolproof plan, with only one little fly in the ointment.

At that moment, the little fly came knocking on the Duke of Westland’s door. Mikhail turned his head toward the sound and narrowed his eyes.

Waiting for the door to be answered, Becky had never been so nervous in her life. She was mentally rehearsing her words to the august lord lieutenant when the great white door before her creaked open. At once, the imperious-looking butler raised his bushy white eyebrows.

“Good morning, young lady.” He opened the door wider and nodded at someone behind him.

Becky gave him a slight curtsy, her heart hammering. “G-Good morning, sir. I . . . have come to see the Duke of Westland.”

“Very good, my dear. Everything will be well, I’m sure,” he said gently. “Do come in. Step inside and take a seat. That’s right.”

Becky eyed him warily as she stepped inside. He was awfully obliging for the butler of a duke, she thought. She had been sure she would’ve had to argue at some length to be granted an audience with the great Westland.