Suzi Love (2 page)

He jumped back and every muscle clamped like a vise as his error, his own greenhorn foolishness, registered like a slap in the face. She was awake.

“Stand up.” He raised his knife and waved it in a circle between them. “Let me see the person audacious enough to break into my house.”

Taking her time, she slid off the chair and stood. The cloak, more decrepit than any respectable housemaid would wear, fell into soggy folds over her skirt. A damp dark veil drooped over the hat’s brim while from beneath the hat, bright auburn hair tumbled like a waterfall to her shoulders and wet strands clung to her cheeks. He reached out to lift her veil but she leapt back, skittish as a new foal, and banged the backs of her legs against the chair.

“I won’t harm you if you behave.”

Silence.

As a sign of trust between them, he lowered the knife. “But I am intrigued. Many people try to slip past my butler. Before you, they’ve always failed. You’ve obviously had a lot of practice at entering houses illegally.”

No comment.

“You must be an excellent thief.”

Her hands clenched at her sides. Her cloak was pushed aside when she planted her fists on her hips. “I. Am. Not. A. Thief.”

Though he’d finally goaded her into speaking, her indignation barely registered. His eye was drawn to the feminine form she’d unwittingly exposed when the thin fabric of her skirt pulled tight across her stomach.

“If you’re not here to steal, why go to such lengths to get inside my house.”

“I needed to see you.” She flicked clumps of wet hair over her shoulders. “Alone.”

“And I would definitely like to see more of you.”

For a second time, he tried to lift her veil. She flinched. He waited. Frustration rose as he pondered her need for obscurity. Was she a ruthless robber avoiding detection? A harlot trying to appear exotic and mysterious? Or worse, a husband-hunting miss pretending coyness to ambush a duke.

He let his eyes drift upwards from an ill-fitting brown skirt to hover where her full breasts strained against bodice fabric thinned with age and moisture. After a long appreciative look, his gaze meandered up and over those never-ending cascades of bright coloured hair.

His scrutiny might unnerve many women but this mysterious female merely huffed, stiffened her spine, and waited. Her breathing sounded louder, a little faster, yet she stood squarely and anchored her gaze around his upper chest. And took the offensive.

“I’m relieved you discovered my face at last. I was beginning to think I’d need to draw you a map.”

He treated her to his most roguish and unrepentant grin. “Ah, but you see, my sweet, if you haven’t come here to rob me — ”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Then, you’re a puzzle. If you were better dressed, I’d assume you’d come to entertain me.” He stared at her sodden and shapeless cloak and dull clothing. “Ladybirds tend to dress like peacocks. Even my maids dress better than you. And though I approve of what’s on display — ”

He nodded towards her chest where her breasts squeezed up and over her ill-fitting bodice like fruit spilling from a basket. She glanced down and gasped. She tugged the bodice’s folds together but managed a mere thumb’s breadth. That garment obviously belonged to someone far less endowed.

“Your speech is far too refined for any street walker.” He tapped a finger to his mouth. “Did my well-meaning brothers send you?”

A crease dipped between narrow brows the same hue as her hair, reddish-brown but leaning more towards red, and the colouring blend he’d always preferred.

“Your brothers?” Noticing that his eyes were roaming over her body again, she huffed and tried to tug her bodice upwards. “I wish you’d stop speaking in riddles. You’re making my head spin.”

With reluctance, he lifted his attention back to her face. “I thought they might have sent you to cheer me up. Consolation for my fortitude in dealing with all this.” He waved his hand to indicate his house.

“Nonsense. You were trained from birth to take charge of all this.”

Another moment of déjà vu tugged at his mind. He ignored the off-putting and ill-fitting garments and tried to make out the female beneath.

His doorknocker clanged for the third time.

“Bloody hell! Can I never have peace?”

He spun towards the door, eager to reach it before the knocker echoed a fourth time. Before it woke every servant in his household. Or worse. Before it roused the Dowager Duchess of Sherwyn, who’d retired an hour ago to her own expansive wing.

“No. Wait.”

His still unidentified female ran behind him. She clutched the sleeve of his right arm, the one dangling his knife. As one, they looked down at the blade swinging beside his thigh. She made no sounds of terror. Nor did she recoil or tremble. He was struggling to sort out this female paradox when she tightened her grip on his arm.

“Don’t open the door. Please.”

“I must or they’ll knock again and awaken my servants.”

She clung like a limpet. “Please, I beg of you. Send them away. Don’t give me up.”

“Them? Who’s after you? The watch?”

“I’ve broken no laws. Do as I ask, please. For your own safety.”

He frowned at her in the dull light, trying to see past the hat and the endless hair to the woman beneath, to understand what she thought. What she plotted.

“Very well. But in return, you’ll reveal yourself and explain why you’re here. Agreed?”

The ugly hat bobbed twice, before she disappeared back into the shadowy corner. He opened the door, knife grip tightened, to confront the two men who stood in the rain wearing sodden coats and sheltering under black umbrellas.

The nearest of the two men stepped forward in a deliberate move to block his view of the other, raising Cayle’s shackles and rousing him from apathy after his tedious night. With a quick flick, he raised his knife, circled it inches from the chest of the first visitor. The man’s loud catch of breath was music to his ears and suited his disposition to unnerve others tonight, especially if these men threatened the woman.

“Your Grace, I’m Lord Mitchell.”

Cayle ignored the extended hand. The second man pushed forward, attempting to wedge his shoulder into the doorway beside Cayle. He shifted sideways, blocked the intruder, and again waved his knife. “I know you.” He pointed the blade near the man’s neck. “Lord Bennett. Arthur Bennett. It’s been some years since we met.”

“Sherwyn.” The man gave a short nod, careful to keep his neck well above the knife’s reach. “Why are you opening your own door? And with a knife in your hand?”

“Why are you pounding on my door at this hour?”

“We’re after the woman who was seen coming into this square, sneaking into one of the houses. We think it was this house.” Bennett edged his shoulder into the small gap between Cayle’s upper body and the door supports, using weight to try to bully his way into the house. “Let me inside, Sherwyn, and I’ll remove her before she causes you any bother.”

“Woman? What woman? Is she someone I know?” Cayle reached across and slouched against the opposite jamb, knife twirling.

Bennett flinched, moved his umbrella into an offensive position. “Just a whore. Her name’s not important.” He flinched when the knife met him on eye level. “Damn you, Sherwyn. You’ll cut me.”

He chuckled. “No, no, no, Bennett. Not that I’m loathe to pierce your loathsome hide, mind you, but the maids get upset when I spill blood across the Italian tiles.”

“Now see here, Sherwyn. You’ve no right to mock me. We’ve not even been in contact since you left England. Haven’t spoken since that night.” Bennett’s sneering look made Cayle itch to lean closer with the blade. He’d avoided this cowardly sneak at school, and detested the namby-pamby man as an adult. Bennett leaned in and smirked. “You caused quite a scandal by seducing Lady Sybila on Hetherington’s desk.”

Cayle clenched his teeth, bit down on his habitual retort. No point defending himself against that charge now, not after his father died believing the lies. Hopefully, his younger brothers now knew the truth, and their opinion mattered, and no one else’s.

Lord Mitchell used his elbow to forcibly shift Bennett aside. Pity. A few red drops to scrub off white tiles didn’t compare to the satisfaction of pricking Bennett’s self-opinionated bubble. Mitchell’s mouth turned up at the edges. A peace-making smile?

More the grin of a rabid dog. “Please, excuse Lord Bennett. Overeager to locate our lost friend. We were to be entertained by a … female acquaintance tonight.”

“I take it you mean a light skirt.”

Mitchell’s laugh was forced, grating. “Well, yes. A trifle embarrassing really. This agreeable ladybird promised all sorts of delights if we could offer a warm and dry gathering place nearby.” He laughed, self-consciously, and again forced. “My fault. Muddled the directions. You know how it is when you’ve overdone the wine with dinner. Head and stomach rebel.”

Cayle, his eyes pinned on Bennett, nodded at Mitchell. Jenner’s ironic words of wisdom echoed in his head. ‘Gentlemen who seek mindlessness by over imbibing frequently suffer embarrassing afflictions of their anatomy the next day.’

“ — agreed to meet at our friend’s house.” Mitchell gestured vaguely. “Down the square. Blow me down if Bennett doesn’t sight the silly girl entering the wrong townhouse.”

“It was this house.” Bennett dipped his umbrella, wielded it like a battering ram.

Cayle scowled and stood his ground. “No, not this house.”

“B-but I saw her. She slipped inside. Through someone’s open door.”

So, they weren’t positive which door she’d entered. Excellent. Plus, Bennett’s habitual cowardice could be played upon.

“Brown cloak. Brown hat,” Mitchell said, using his hands to indicate the woman’s size. His tone of voice had sped from conspiratorial to annoyed in a matter of moments.

“I-I was certain she came through this door,” Bennett said.

Better and better. If he was to shield the hiding woman, so near he could smell her floral bouquet, he needed to sound convincing over Bennett’s confusion.

“Gentlemen. I too may have over imbibed on the brandy this evening, but not so much that I wouldn’t notice a harlot walking through my door. A delightful one at that.”

“Where’s your butler?” Bennett said. “Perhaps he let her in by mistake.”

Cayle drew himself upright to stare down at Bennett using his most ducal scowl, and was delighted when his adversary looked away first. “My butler makes no mistakes. Besides which, he’s retired for the night. Only me here, and I’m for my bed.” He grasped the door handle but Bennett, in a rush of bravado, thrust a booted foot into the opening. Cayle snorted, shifted his knife forward to touch Bennett a few inches above his trouser-clad knee. “Step back, or I won’t be held responsible if it slips.”

Bennett sucked in a loud breath. “You wouldn’t dare.”

He laughed. “Ha! Remember, I’m now Sherwyn. I’d dare anything.”

He shoved the door closed though he resisted the temptation to slam it in their faces. He listened with his ear to the door until he heard their footsteps on the pavement. He spun around and bumped into the woman who stood directly behind him, oblivious to the water dripping from her lank hair and forming a puddle at her feet.

“Are they gone?” Her breath caught a little on the question.

“I think so.” She heaved a heartfelt sigh.

• • •

“Thank you for not giving me up.”

“Apart from loathing that particular man, I’d not let anyone take a woman against her will.”

“There were two of them. One of you.”

“I’ve a knife.”

“Oh, please,” she said in cultured tones that dripped with sarcasm.

Though her hat shielded her face, he sensed that his visitor was rolling her eyes. “As your breath reeks of brandy, I suspect that you are foxed. Fortunately, I came prepared to protect myself.”

Something jabbed his thigh. He looked down, squinted, frowned, and then grimaced. Cursed himself again. Ignoramus! Lack-wit! Dunderhead! From between her cloak’s front folds, he caught the bright shine of metal.

A pistol, the type men concealed in coat pockets when traveling, pointed directly at his groin. Held by a small, yet remarkably steady, hand. Blind-sided by a slip of a girl! How his educators on the continent would laugh at all his novice missteps tonight.

“So I see.” Every nerve jangled and his body readied for fight, or flight. “As I value the sector of my anatomy at which your weapon is pointed far too much to argue, I’ll remove my weapon. I trust you’ll follow suit.” He slipped his knife back into its sheath. “A gun-wielding woman makes me nervous. Mistakes happen.”

“I never make mistakes.” Her demeanour was far more self-assured than any thief or prostitute had a right to. “I was taught to shoot by an expert when I was a girl.”

She retracted her pistol and secreted it on her person, probably in a concealed skirt pocket, and a hiding place any well-trained spy should have considered. Whew. He hadn’t realised he’d been holding that breath until it whooshed out.

“Now. Who are you and what do you want?”

“You really are foxed. My disguise didn’t fool those two.” She waved a hand towards the street. “And whoever they had following me. Yet you! You still haven’t recognized me.”

He frowned. “Despite what Lord Mitchell inferred, I’m positive you’re not a light skirt. I’m guessing you’re a lady of the
ton
, perhaps after a re-enactment of some amorous night we spent together in the past.” He waved her away from the door and ushered her into the hallway. “But I’m mortified to say if we
were
together, it’s so long ago I’ve forgotten.”

She sighed. Disappointment or resignation? “You’ve forgotten all about me.”

He halted her under the wall lamp. “If you’re looking to renew an old friendship,” he said as he trailed a finger across her décolletage, “we may be able to arrange something. But at a time when my wits are more collected.” He shifted his lower body closer to her legs and leaned into her.

She raised a hand between them and backed away. She shook her head. “No, no, no.” She spun towards the door. “I made a mistake in coming here. To
you
. I must leave.” She tripped, stumbled.