Ripe for Pleasure (2 page)

They’d always dismissed their grandfather’s tales of hidden treasure and tragedy as the stuff of legends, no different from
the stories of Shellycoats and Kelpies Leo’s mother had told them when they were boys. But the tragedy of Charles’s family
was real enough, and it seemed the treasure was, too. The small packet of treasonous letters left no other conclusion. Though
the assumption that it was still waiting to be found—like a princess in a tower waiting for the first kiss of love—was questionable.

True or not, two villains from the stews weren’t going to find it. But their intrusion would give him the opening that he
needed, a chance to make the lady of the house beholden to him. And all he’d had to do to earn that opportunity was spend
a few nights lurking outside her house waiting for his cousin to strike.

The night watchman had just turned the corner, his halloa of “all’s well” echoing back faintly. Leo smiled into the dark.
Any minute hell would break loose in number
twelve. All he had to do was wait. Charles’s men would deliver Mrs. Whedon directly into his hands.

A scream rent the humid darkness, bringing every detail sharply into focus as his pulse raced to meet it. A woman in nothing
but her nightclothes erupted from the house. Her hair flamed in the lamplight as though it were afire, red-gold curls tumbling
down to her hips. Mrs. Whedon. With that hair, it could be no other. Not a maid or a housekeeper but the lady herself. His
luck was in.

Her eyes met his, and the night seemed to stretch. He could see terror there, a layer of anger below it, all the more intense
for its impotence. Curses raced after her, low and guttural, intermixed with the sound of heavy, booted feet coming down a
flight of stairs.

Leo shot out one hand and caught a flailing wrist, hauled her around, and held her fast. A scent that was pure summer—grass
on a warm day, flowers drowsing in their beds—washed over him.

“Men. In my house.” Her words were clipped, laced with fury. Her hand trembled, and she balled it into a fist, twisting in
an attempt to free herself.

Leo thrust her behind him as a man in a dark coat came flying down the steps, a knife clutched in one hand. Leo drew his sword,
using his left hand to hold Viola in place. It was only a dress sword, and though razor sharp, the rippled facets of the pastes
covering the hilt were less than reassuring in the moment. Mrs. Whedon clutched the back of his coat, hampering him. A breath
shuttered out of her, and her hand tightened, pulling him back.

“Where is it, bitch—” The man choked off as he hit the walk and his gaze locked on Leo’s sword. He fell back
a step, clearly assessing things, eyes darting about the empty street.

Leo shifted his stance, leveling his blade. “Wake the neighbors,” he said over his shoulder.

His coat swung free. A flash of white and gold moved past the edge of his vision. Thank God. Mrs. Whedon wasn’t famous for
doing as she was told, but then what woman was? An unholy pounding resounded down the street as she beat against her neighbor’s
door, marking time as the seconds ticked by.

His cousin’s gutter rat stared him down. The man’s head sat upon his shoulders like a rock set on a stump. His jaw was heavy
and his mouth hung open as though it were too small to contain his tongue. Not large enough to be a prizefighter, he had a
menacing air all the same. A mad butcher’s dog on the loose, capable of violence far in excess of his size. He hefted the
blade, shifted his weight. Then with almost lazy disinterest, he thrust his knife into his boot and sauntered away, whistling.
He turned into the entry of the mews down the block, nothing but the sharp notes of his ditty marking his presence, until
that too dissipated into the gloom.

Leo glanced back over his shoulder. His quarry stood on her neighbor’s porch, watching him. His hand shook as the rush of
confrontation left him. He lowered his sword to hide it. He couldn’t afford even the slightest sign of weakness. Not now.
Not when Mrs. Whedon stood not four feet away.

“The knocker’s off the door,” she said matter-of-factly, one pale hand clutching the torn neckline of her gown. “No help there.”

“Finally drive one of your protectors to murder, ma’am?”

A small smile curled the corner of her mouth as she descended the stairs, one slow, deliberate step at a time. Naked feet
appeared and disappeared below her hem. Her toes gripped the ground. Her arches flexed, slim anklebones leading up to a flash
of calf with every step. Her wisp of a gown slid from her grip, exposing one pale shoulder and a great deal of pale décolletage.

A deliberate maneuver. It could be nothing else. Like all women who rose to the top of their particular trade, Mrs. Whedon
was a consummate performer. She had to be. Even under circumstances such as these. Gone was the fleeing victim, replaced by
a feral Venus. Leo swallowed hard, wanting to touch, to reach out and grab. To possess that startling beauty, if only for
a moment.

What man wouldn’t?

“Possibly, my lord.” Her reply jerked his attention away from her breasts. He’d been reduced to staring like a green boy by
that damn wisp of a nightgown. “There were two of them, by the way.” Her voice dropped, becoming an intimate, throaty entreaty
of its own. “Intruders I mean, not protectors.”

Leo smiled in appreciation. She’d certainly had more than two protectors. And based on that “my lord,” she clearly knew exactly
who he was, though their paths had never formally crossed. Paying for a bedmate was both repugnant and utterly unnecessary
when the world was brimming with willing widows and unsatisfied wives. Besides, younger son that he was, he didn’t command
anywhere near the kind of fortune it took to secure a
highflier like the one standing before him, even had he desired to do so.

A rivulet of sweat slid down his spine, like the ghostly touch of a past lover. He forced himself to ignore it, shifting his
attention instead to the house. Armed intruders were far safer opponents than Mrs. Whedon. Especially when she was only a
thin layer of cloth away from being naked. Even in the dim light, he could clearly make out the teasing circles of her nipples
and the shadow at the apex of her thighs.

Lust grabbed disdain by the throat and shoved it down. Leo held his breath for a moment, searching for the control that seemed
to have deserted him. Yes, he wanted her. And he meant to have her before all this was done. It was integral to the entire
plan. But it would be on his terms, not because he allowed himself to be swept up in the drama and illusion of this not-so-chance
rescue. And certainly not because he’d paid whatever price she might have in mind.

Leo turned away from her and strode into her house, making a vague gesture for her to follow. Inside, hysterical sobs greeted
him. Two maids sat at the bottom of the stairs in a sea of flannel wrappers. A much older, harassed-looking housekeeper stood
over them, nightcap askew, a large kitchen knife clutched in her hand.

One of the maids looked up and hiccupped, her face red in the candlelight. “He’s dead. We came down when we heard you scream
and found Ned like-like…”

Mrs. Whedon pushed past him, her hand perfectly steady as she shoved him aside. “Is there anyone else in the house, Nance?
Did you see another man?” The sob
bing girl shook her head from side to side, her hand covering her mouth.

“Back door was open though, ma’am,” the housekeeper said.

“Then it’s likely your other intruder has also left the premises.” All four women turned to look at him as though he’d sprung
from the ground like a fairy toadstool. The little maid sucked back another hiccup.

He picked up one of the candles and set his foot on the first tread of the staircase. “Stay here while I check the house.
No, one of you had best wait out on the steps for the nightwatch.”

The housekeeper nodded her grizzled head and turned toward the door. Leo put her, the sobbing maid, and the dazzling Mrs.
Whedon firmly out of his mind as he crept up the stairs.

The house was utterly quiet. Soft, dark room after soft, dark room greeted him. The mantels had been swept clean, pictures
ripped from the walls. A clumsy attempt to be sure. The treasure had to be better hidden than that. A porcelain figurine lay
smashed on the floor of what appeared to be the only occupied room—Mrs. Whedon’s, judging by the faint hint of
Eau de Cologne
that permeated the space.

Leo set the candle down and sheathed his sword. The men were gone, and his cousin had never been inside the house in the first
place. A personal assault wasn’t at all Charles’s style. There was no point in roaming about armed like a buccaneer on the
deck of a ship.

Her room was surprisingly simple. Plainer, in fact, than his own. It was hardly the lair of a woman famed for wanton indulgence.

No paintings or prints adorned the walls. The curtains surrounding the bed were a deep, solid blue. No embroidery to enliven
them. No trim to soften them. The bedclothes spilling from between them were nothing but crisp, white linen. No silver brush
sat atop the dressing table. No profusion of scent bottles lay scattered atop its surface. Just a few serviceable dishes and
boxes, such as any woman might have for her powder and patches and pins. In fact, the only decoration appeared to be a mirror,
a bit tarnished about the rim, and the smashed figurine.

Leo crouched down and scooped up a few of the larger, opalescent shards. Two legs ending in cloven hooves. A delicate head,
ears pricked. A white deer. A symbol of good fortune in Scotland. A sign to the knights of old that it was time to begin a
quest. A creature straight out of legend. Something not unlike Mrs. Whedon herself.

CHAPTER 2

V
iola yawned and poured herself another cup of tea. She fingered the hot, aching mark that ringed her wrist. In a few days,
she’d be sporting a blue-black bracelet where her rescuer had manacled her wrist.

It had been a long night, hours spent waiting for the night watchman to summon the constable and for poor Ned to be taken
away. Viola shuddered and swallowed a mouthful of lukewarm tea. Her stomach protested, and she set the cup aside.

She’d paced and drunk tea and watched with slightly horrified fascination as her rescuer stepped into the breach. He handled
absolutely everything with the swift efficiency of a man who was used to giving orders, all the while giving every indication
that he’d much rather be doing anything but helping her.

There were now a handful of hulking footmen guarding the house, and the hall had been cleaned by a swarm of women who’d arrived
from his own home along with
the footmen. He’d sent her own maids back to bed, an act of kindness that she couldn’t easily dismiss.

It was fascinating.
He
was fascinating.

Lord Leonidas Vaughn. The Corinthian with the mismatched eyes. One blue, the other green, and both of them cold as the North
Sea in February. Viola knew exactly who he was. One of the Mad Vaughns. The second son of the Duke of Lochmaben.

His grandfather was renowned for having intentionally burned down an entire wing of the family seat in a fit of rage, his
father for kidnapping his bride from the steps of the church as she was arriving to wed someone else. And only last year,
one of his cousins had been tried for the murder of his valet. He’d been acquitted, but all the same… There were rumors and
stories of the Vaughn family’s quirks and indiscretions going back to their knightly ancestor who had supported Queen Eleanor
against her husband, Henry I.

Viola had been close enough on several occasions to judge those mismatched eyes for herself, but she’d failed to find them
as arresting as the rest of London. Not until tonight, when she’d run headlong into him, while wearing just this side of nothing.
Suddenly she’d been transfixed, for his famously frigid gaze had been anything but cold.

Viola stretched until her joints strained and her elbows popped. There was no point in dwelling on those eyes of his. He was
notorious for never having kept a mistress, a fact much bemoaned among the ranks of the fallen, and she had neither time nor
use for cicisbei. Only the money from her memoirs stood between her and debtor’s prison, and the payment she’d received for
the first volume was
very nearly gone. But the offer she’d secured for the second volume would keep her in coal and lobster patties for years to
come…