Tempted By the Night (10 page)

He cocked his head, for he swore he hadn’t heard her correctly. “I could do what?”

“The charter,” she said, turning back to her books. Over her shoulder, she said, “The one that binds you as the Paratus. You could end it with Milton’s Ring.”

He rose as well. End the charter? Why it was unthinkable. And he told her so. “I couldn’t do that. Then there would be no one to—”

When she glanced again at him, he found her eyes alight with an excitement he hadn’t seen there since they were children and he’d shown her London from atop St. Paul’s. “That’s just it,” she told him. “You would wish for the doors to be closed. Forever.”

Forever?
Rockhurst’s breath caught in his throat. He’d be free. Suddenly the warmth of the room overwhelmed him, so he walked over to the window and opened it in search of a bit of fresh air. Free? He’d never imagined his life thusly.

And while he tried to, Mary nattered on. “…of course, Cricks would have more information on this, but the possibilities are unbelievable.”

That, he had to wager, was an understatement.

“Oh, Minny, there you are,” Lady Walbrook called out, as Hermione walked gingerly into the breakfast room. “Feeling better?”

Hermione nodded. “Yes, Mother, quite recovered.” She paused, still teetering at the doorjamb, unwilling to cross the threshold just yet. Good thing she did, for her mother immediately launched into her latest campaign.

Getting Hermione married.

Now that Sebastian had wed, the countess was determined to continue her matrimonial streak and see Hermione happily united with an entirely perfect
parti.

“Lord Hustings sent flowers over. First thing. Such an attentive man. How unfortunate that he is so dull.”

A spark of suspicion rose in Hermione’s breast. What was this? Her mother was no longer championing Lord Hustings’s suit?

Her mother, meanwhile, stirred another lump of sugar into her tea and glanced up at Hermione as if she were surprised to see her still standing at the threshold. “Come along and take your seat. It is terrible for your posture to loiter about like that.”

Hermione did as she was bid and took her place, albeit reluctantly, for she wasn’t entirely unconvinced that the better part of valor would be to flee. That is, until Fenwick came by with her favorite breakfast, kippers and toast, which she tucked into with her usual gusto.

Her life might be upside down, but her stomach seemed to be in working order. She couldn’t say the same of her capucine gown and slippers.

Or her new gloves! Hermione paused between bites for a moment of mourning. At least she’d saved one of them. The other…well, it had best enjoy the rest of its life in the Dials, for Hermione wasn’t going back to fetch it, no matter that it was her favorite pair.

Perhaps Monsieur Bédard could be enticed to make another one. That is if she could get Sebastian to advance her a portion of her next year’s allowance.

“Well, it seems you are feeling better,” her mother noted. “You must do your best not to be overset every time the earl is about. It will not do, Minny.”

“I can assure you, Mother, it will never happen again,” Hermione told her. All she would have to do was remember the earl stripped down to his shirt and breeches. The sight of his magnificent body had been enough to stir a different sort of trouble inside her.

“I should hope not,” the countess remarked, waving at Fenwick to bring her another serving of ham. “For I think you should pursue a match with the man.”

Unfortunately, Hermione had just filled her mouth with a large gulp of tea, which she nearly sprayed all over the breakfast table. “You-u-u wa-a-ant me to do wha-a-at?”

“Pursue Rockhurst,” her mother said with the same detached sort of manner that one might say “sugar or cream?” or “please pass the toast.” The countess glanced up at Hermione. “He is far too rich and really quite a fine specimen of a man. If half the rumors about him are true, he’ll make you a content wife.”

“Mother!” Hermione’s face felt as red as the strawberry jam in the pot before her. Never mind the fact
that she’d been thinking a very similar thought not a few moments earlier, but really, did her mother have to say it?
Aloud?
Let alone notice such a thing?

“Well, he would. And don’t look at me so! I have more experience in these matters than you do, and I can tell you that a man with some prowess makes a better husband.”

“You’ve always declared him the worst sort of rake,” Hermione said, hoping to reawaken her mother’s former opinion of the man.

“So I did,” the lady replied, waving her toast like a scepter. “But since he took us to the opera
—”

“He took Charlotte,” Hermione corrected. “We were but there to lend some respectability to the entire evening.”

“Yes, yes, but Hermione, you aren’t looking at this with the right perspective. He was only showering Charlotte with attention to rouse Sebastian. Such a dear man to help those two find each other.”

“Harrumph,” Hermione sputtered. Her mother had been too busy chatting with her friends that night to notice how the earl had been looking at Charlotte. But that was neither here nor there, since Charlotte was now wed to Sebastian.

As for the earl, now that was an entirely other matter.

Her mother continued on. “What Rockhurst might lack in morals, he more than makes up for in wealth. And now that he is inclined to marry—”

“I don’t think the earl has any intention of—”

“Of course he intends to marry. He made his bow at Almack’s.”

Which of course every matron in London knew was code for:
I wish to marry your daughter immediately.

“Either the man has finally gone mad, like the rest of his ramshackle relations,” the countess declared, “or he intends to wed. I prefer to think him inspired by Sebastian and Charlotte’s happiness, rather than to give in to the rather uncharitable alternative.”

Hermione wondered if she should enlighten her mother that she was closer to the truth than she knew.

The earl
was
mad.

So as the countess nattered on, having obviously given up most of the night and morning to planning Hermione’s future as the Countess of Rockhurst, Hermione did her best to eat her breakfast and plot an escape route. Perhaps she could take up the scholarly life like her sister Cordelia and hide in Bath. Or if her mother was persistent, as she appeared, she might be forced to join her father on some heathen island in the Pacific.

Far from her mother. And
him.

The Earl of Rockhurst. And his blue eyes. That steely jaw. And the long lean line of his muscled…

Viola and Griffin filed in, taking their seats, and as they caught the gist of the conversation—that it had nothing to do with either of them—they grinned at Hermione and betook of their breakfasts with unabashed joy.

Hermione, on the other hand, found that her kippers tasted off, and her toast, well it was like sawdust in her mouth. For resolving to have no interest in the earl and actually doing it was proving more difficult than she would have supposed. Naturally curious, she couldn’t help but wonder a thousand different questions…

First, why had Melaphor called the earl “the Paratus”?

And why did Lord Rockhurst think it was his duty to rid the Dials of such creatures? Why didn’t he just call the Watch and be done with the matter?

Oh heavens, she’d stumbled, quite unwittingly, into something far beyond her ken. If only Cordelia was here instead of off in Bath digging about the old ruins in their aunt’s cellar. She’d be able to determine what a “Paratus” was, and for that matter, what sort of creature Melaphor might be.

“I think a minor production of scenes from
The Tempest
would be the perfect setting for a courtship,” her mother was saying.

This was followed by a long, pregnant pause as both Griffin and Viola stared at Hermione, as if waiting for her protest.

Oh, good heavens, what had
maman
come up with now?

“Hermione, stop woolgathering,” Lady Walbrook scolded. “I think a theatrical evening, with the earl in attendance, will be the most divine way to show you to your best advantage.”

Griffin’s and Viola’s heads turned in unison, as if they were watching their mother’s verbal volley lob its way down the table.

It hit with the same deadly precision as the earl’s cross-bow. A theatrical evening? With the earl?

Never mind the fact that for the time being, she wouldn’t be exactly visible at night, but her mother wanted to enlist the Earl of Rockhurst into one her amateur theatricals?

Hermione bit her trembling lips together. Perhaps she could induce Rockhurst to shoot her the next time she saw him and save them both the misery of such an evening.

Not that she intended to go following him about again…

“The Tempest
is the perfect play,” Lady Walbrook continued, completely oblivious to her daughter’s horror and her other offsprings’ utter delight. “Rockhurst
is
Prospero, don’t you think? An anguished soul if ever I saw one.”

“Add tortured, once you get done with him,” Viola muttered.

Griffin began tucking into his breakfast with the speed of a coachman, and from the looks of it, ready to bolt for the nearest carriage out of town. Or at the very least, next door to the Kendells, where he’d most likely spend the next fortnight hiding in Sir Joshua’s laboratory.

Hermione was almost afraid to ask. “And you want me to play Miranda?”

“Heavens no, dear child. You would have utterly no scenes with Rockhurst. I want you to play Caliban.”

She shook her head, for she was certain she hadn’t heard her mother correctly. “You want me to play the monster?”

“Why of course, my dear. For the earl will be sure to see your beauty shine through even the most hideous of characters.”

That is, if he doesn’t kill me first.

Rockhurst was in the process of taking his leave, when Mary’s butler, Cosgrove, came in to announce more guests.

“Mr. Griffin Marlowe and Lady Hermione Marlowe to see you, miss. Are you at home?”

“Of course I am,” Mary replied. She nudged her cousin. “That is how it is done properly. You ring the bell and ask Cosgrove to announce you. Then you wait patiently in the foyer for him to grant you entrance, not barging in and bellowing like the French have taken up position in Hyde Park.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he told her, taking up his hat and gloves from where he’d tossed them. “If the French ever invade.”

Mary laughed. “You are the very devil, Rockhurst.”

“So I’ve been told.” He glanced at the door and frowned. “Demmed luck.”

“What is?”

“Marlowe! That scamp has been trying to buttonhole me for a week, and so far I’ve done a good job avoiding him.”

“Griffin doesn’t mean any harm,” Mary chided.

“No, not to me, just to my pocketbook. Poor Battersby—the lad had him cornered at White’s for most of a night listening to him natter on about his electrical theories. Electricity, indeed!”

“Then you’d best go out the back and quickly if you want to avoid him,” Mary said, opening the door, only to find Cosgrove’s dignified presence blocking his path.

“Lady Hermione Marlowe, miss,” Cosgrove intoned as formally as one might announce the Prince Regent.

“Where is Griffin?” Mary asked, as Lady Hermione Marlowe came bustling into the room, leaving Rockhurst wedged behind the door and completely unseen. He smiled over the girl’s shoulder, for her enormous feathered bonnet kept him completely out of her line of sight. He winked at Mary and pointed toward the door as he slipped out of the room.

He tried his best to avoid debutantes at all costs, but a Marlowe? Sebastian Marlowe seemed a steady sort, but the rest of the family? Rockhurst shuddered. Ramshackle. The entire lot of them.

The man who married into that family might just as well book a corner room at Bedlam.

He made his smooth escape as he heard this particular Marlowe let out a little puffy sigh, then say, “Griffin
took a detour down to see if Mrs. Jacobs has any scones baking. Really, Mary, I am so sorry my brother is such a trial to you. I’d send him packing if I were you—but then again, there’d be nothing left in our larder if he didn’t spend most of his days over here.”

Feeling overly smug that he was about to escape undetected, Rockhurst made it to the front foyer when all of a sudden he stopped.

And inhaled.

For there it was—a hint of apple blossoms lingering in the hallway.

Her perfume.
He sniffed again. Yes, there it was. How was that possible? Unless…

Rockhurst turned around slowly and stared down the hallway toward the library door. Lady Hermione Marlowe?
No!

But then just as quickly, the hallway filled with the tall figure of her brother, Griffin Marlowe. And when the young man spotted him, his face broke out in a wide grin. “Rockhurst! Devil’s own luck running into you! I’ve been meaning to talk to you about my electrical machine. A time carriage if you will—I’ve but a few more adjustments to make to my calculations and, of course, the blunt to put it all together, but you seem an intelligent sort—” He clapped his hand on the earl’s back and all but pushed him out the door and down the steps. “On your way to White’s? No? Well, no matter, I’ll trail along with you if only to share with you some of my recent scientific findings. I’m on the verge of discovering how to use self-generated electricity to alter
—”

Rockhurst was about to shake himself free and go back inside when a gaggle of young ladies scurried past them, their mothers bringing up the rear and hurrying them along so as to be well out of his notice.

Then he caught a whiff of apple blossoms yet again.

Of course Marlowe’s sister wore the same innocent fragrance that nearly every other young miss in London preferred.

Which meant it would be impossible to find his Shadow by her perfume alone. Not that he was about to give up so easily. There was still her glove…and her perfect breasts…

But his musing was interrupted by the nudge of an elbow into his ribs.

“Scone?” Griffin offered, plucking one from out of his coat pocket. “I can highly recommend them.”

“Minny, you are just who I wanted to see,” Mary declared, after pouring her a cup of tea.

“Then it is fortuitous that I came over,” Hermione replied.

“Indeed. I need to know who might have made this glove, or better yet, have you seen it on anyone this Season?”

Hermione glanced up to find Mary holding a piece of gold silk. The tea in her cup sloshed about and she had to use both hands to steady it.

Her glove.

“However did you
—”
Hermione started to say, but stopped herself. Not that Mary noticed, for she was in the process of turning the poor glove inside out and
quite possibly ruining the embroidery. It was all Hermione could do not to reach out and snatch it out of Mary’s irreverent grasp.

Didn’t she know one didn’t crush silk like that? Especially not when…Hermione paused in her indignation as she realized a more important point.

Her glove! Rockhurst had saved it. As he’d saved her by bringing her back to Mayfair. She still wasn’t all that convinced he’d carried her out of the Dials for anything other than another prize for his harem, but her glove? Now that was heroic.

Mary shook the piece out. “Does it look familiar?”

Hermione steadied her cup again, then shook her head. “No, I’ve never seen it before. Where did you find it?”

“I didn’t, Rockhurst did. He wants to discover the lady who owns it and see it returned.”

She might have been pleased if it hadn’t been for the fact that now the earl had a clue as to how to find her. And worse yet, had enlisted Mary to help him.

And now her, by default. Oh, Hermione was growing dizzier by the second.
He wants to find me.

He wants to kill you,
a wry voice corrected.

Hmmm. There is that. Oh, this is a terrible muddle.
“You say he wants to find the owner but doesn’t know who she is?” Mary nodded. “Why, it is just like some Cinderella fairy tale,” Hermione said, hoping she sounded lighter than she felt.

Mary smiled. “I suppose it does sound rather like that, doesn’t it?” She worried the glove some more until she nearly had Hermione about to leap from her seat and claim it outright. But finally she stopped wrinkling it, and
said, “We should probably keep this between us, though. Poor Rockhurst, I fear he’d be pelted with shoes and gloves and fans everywhere he went if it got out that he was trying to find some chit because she lost her glove.”

Hermione laughed.
Yes, why hadn’t I thought of that before? Before I knew who he was, that is…

Her hostess continued on, “He just wants to return it…because it’s expensive,” she hedged. “It is, isn’t it? I fear I’m no expert in matters of fashion. What do you say?” Mary held it out for her.

Hermione didn’t want to take it, but then again, it was safer in her grasp than Mary’s. She caught hold of her prized glove and nearly sighed with delight.

Expensive? It had taken nearly all her pin money and then a lucky hand of casino against Griffin to raise the coins to pay for the exquisite pair.

Money was always in short supply in the Marlowe household, and even though Sebastian had gained a substantial windfall recently with a lucky investment, knowing her prudent and overly sensible brother, he’d insist on putting it all away for a real need or an emergency.

As if replacing her lost glove wasn’t such a necessity.

“Is it?” Mary asked again. “Expensive?”

“It might be,” she said, taking one last look of longing at the poor lonely mitt before dropping it down on the curio table beside her. If she held it much longer, she was afraid she wouldn’t be able to let it go. “But I’ve never seen it before.”

Mary reached over and caught it up in her mangling grasp much to Hermione’s chagrin. “You know all the best glovers. Who might have made it?”

Hermione glanced over at it.
Monsieur Bédard.
And his best work, in her discerning estimation. “There are hundreds of glovers in London,” she hedged. “It would be impossible to guess.”

“Yes, but only a handful or so who could make such a fine piece. I suppose I could go around to the ones I know and see if anyone recognizes the work.”

Gulping back the frisson of panic running down her spine—for Monsieur Bédard would most readily remember that particular pair, she said, “I don’t think it is all
that
fine, Mary. Most likely an imitation someone had made up in the country and brought to Town.”

Mary’s brow wrinkled. “Oh, dear. I hadn’t even thought of that. Why, it could have come from anywhere.”

“Sadly, yes,” Hermione told her, holding her breath. Oh, thank goodness, Mary cared more for her books than fashion and would readily swallow such a large bite of gammon.

“I fear Rockhurst will be sadly disappointed if he’s unable to return it,” Mary said, catching up the glove and carrying it over to her desk. When it appeared that Mary was just going to drop it in a drawer, Hermione couldn’t stand it any longer.

The pair were after all, her best gloves.

“Perhaps, I could help you,” she offered, almost biting her tongue in the process. No, she shouldn’t do this.
Stay out of it…
But, oh, those were her favorite gloves, and she had a chance to…

“Yes?” Mary asked, her hand poised over the drawer, which probably had ink and all sorts of other things that could possibly ruin the glove for good.

“I could take it with me. Shopping that is,” Hermione said, smiling brightly. “I could help you.” Mary’s brow furrowed for a moment, so she continued. “Think of the time it would save you, and you know how you detest Bond Street. Especially since it seems you have so much work at hand,” she offered, waving her hand at Mary’s cluttered desk, awash in books, papers, and journals.

Mary’s lips pressed together, and for a moment Hermione held her breath. Then she glanced once more at the glove, then back up at Hermione. “You don’t mind?”

“Not in the least. Not for a friend,” Hermione said brightly, holding out her hand and counting the moments as Mary returned from her desk and deposited the prized glove back in its rightful place.

In Hermione’s delighted grasp.

Mary sighed. “Now, with that settled, what brings you over? I had half expected Griffin to come by—to see Father, that is. Well, I always expect Griffin over—especially when Mrs. Jacobs is baking.”

They both laughed.

“Actually, it was my mother who sent me over,” Hermione told her. “She is staging another theatrical evening.”

Mary’s features widened with horror. “Oh, no.” She dropped down into her chair.

“Oh, yes.”

Her friend reached for her teacup as if she needed the fortification. “What is it this time?”

“The Tempest
,” Hermione told her. “And Mother would like me to fetch a book on monsters.”

Now it was Mary’s turn to slosh her tea. “Monsters?” she said faintly. “I don’t think I have—”

“Griffin said you had an entire shelf on old creatures and such,” Hermione interjected. “Mother is quite adamant to ensure that Caliban…oh, how did she say it, ‘reflects Prospero’s tortured soul and the darkest elements of his lost magic.’”

“Yes, well…” Mary managed as her lips twitched traitorously. However, she was far too polite to make any comments about Lady Walbrook’s notorious rewriting of the Bard. “That sounds—”

“Perfectly monstrous,” Hermione finished for her. “In a manner of speaking.” Again they both laughed. “Stay clear of her for at least a week, while she’s casting about for likely players.”

Mary nodded in agreement. “Thank you for the warning. I’ll also tell Mrs. Jacobs to lay in extra provisions for Griffin. No doubt you’ve noticed he tends to move here when your mother is in one of her—” She bit her lips together as she tried to find the right words.

Hermione knew the expression all too well. “Artistic moods?”

“Yes, exactly.” Mary sighed with relief. “And whom does she have in mind for Prospero?”

“Oh, this is where it becomes unbearable. She thinks to corner your cousin for the role.”

“Rockhurst?” This time Mary’s tea spilled over onto the carpet.

Hermione shuddered, then handed her friend a napkin. “Yes. I fear so. Since he was at Almack’s last night…well, you know what that means.”

“I fear I do. My Aunt Routledge was over quite early, ready to launch her own campaign. But, poor Minny. Does your mother think to have you play Miranda?”

“No, even worse.” Hermione paused, almost unwilling to admit what would most likely become the most humiliating evening of her life. She heaved a sigh and got it over with. “Caliban.”

Mary paused from wiping up her tea, her mouth falling open. Then she began to laugh, heartily and thoroughly and really, Hermione couldn’t take offense. One had to have a sense of humor about Lady Walbrook’s theatrical endeavors because sooner or later all her acquaintances found themselves cornered into one of her infamous productions.

Hadn’t Mary done a turn as Lady Macbeth not two years earlier?

“Mother would like me to capture the ‘devilish’ qualities of my character, and Griffin assured her you had just the book.”

“Actually, I do. Probably several,” she confessed, rising and walking over to the far bookshelf. Pulling out a footstool, she got up on it and ran her finger over the spines of the tombs on the top shelf. “Do you read Latin?”

Hermione shook her head. She barely understood French. Unless that is, it was a French fashion magazine.

“Too bad. I have a wonderful treatise on dark creatures that is impossible to put down. Alas, it is in Latin.”

“How unfortunate for me,” Hermione said, trying to sound disappointed.

“Ah, here is one. And in English. Mostly.” She tugged a thick volume free and blew the dust from it. Glanc
ing at the book fondly, she held it out for Hermione. “As long as you don’t read it before you go to bed, you shan’t have nightmares.