Tempted By the Night (5 page)

Quince heaved a sigh. “Of course I am well aware of what she wished…and the implications. What do you suggest we do?”

“We?” Milton shook his head. “I have no intention of taking any part in this. Especially when you were less than convincing when you told her she could disavow her wish.”

“How could you have heard that?” Quince asked. “Not unless you were lurking about the ladies’ retiring room.” She clucked a
tsk, tsk
under her tongue and shook her head. “I would have thought such adolescent tricks beneath you.”

“I wasn’t ‘lurking about’ as you so eloquently put it. I was merely waiting to see if you were going to do as you promised and get my ring back before any further mischief happened.” He glanced over at the far wall, where Hermione stood—unseen to anyone other than Quince or Milton. “And now this is the consequence.” He shuddered and pressed his fingers to his brow.

“’Tis nothing but a minor invisibility spell.” Quince flicked her fan back and forth. “She’ll tire of it quickly enough, and you’ll have your ring back.”

“And what if she doesn’t? There is the other part of this wish. Dealing with
him.
” They both looked across
the ballroom to find Lord Rockhurst striding in their direction. Instinctively, they stepped farther back into the shadowed alcove as he passed. “What if she were to follow him. To discover—” Milton turned the same green shade that Quince had in the retiring room. “You must take back this wish.”

Quince shook her head. “You know as well as I that I cannot take back a wish.”

“Yes, but
she
can. Convince her to disavow her wish before—” His words came to a quick halt, but Quince was too piqued to notice why.

“Must you always quibble over the finer points?” she asked, examining her fan. “If only—”

“Quince—”

“Milton, why is it that you are always convinced that disaster is but a moment away. If you would only allow—”

“Quince! Where is she?”

“Where is who?” Quince said, looking up and around them.

“That chit of yours. Where has she gone?”

Quince gulped.

Rockhurst.
Neither of them needed to say it aloud, for they both took a quick survey of the room to find that he too had disappeared from sight.

“She wouldn’t have
—”
Milton choked out.

“Oh, heavens. I daresay she did!” Quince said, taking his arm to steady herself.

This wasn’t the impending disaster Milton had foretold.

It
was
a disaster.

“Jiminy! What am I to do now?” Hermione muttered as she glanced down at her sleeve. Though she could see the capucine silk, she knew from the mirror in the retiring room it was exactly as she wished, exactly as that foolish French novel had described the perpetually cursed Zoe. To everyone around her, there was no sign of her exquisite gown, her perfectly coiffed hair, or even the dainty slippers she’d chosen because the laces wound enticingly up her ankles and calves—and if a lady knew how to turn her hem just so during a dance, they offered a teasing glance at her legs.

Now it was all a complete waste of her pin money!

Just then, Lord Hustings wandered by, punch glasses still in hand, searching the wings for her. Hermione opened her mouth to call to him, then instead, snapped her lips shut.

The poor man could barely find her when she was visible, but in her current state? But as luck would have it, Thomasin and India bumped into him, relieved him of his punch, and gave him the news of her “illness.”

Thank goodness for her friends, she thought, as the young baron took the disastrous turn in the evening’s events in great stride by asking India to dance.

“Oh, poor India,” Hermione whispered as she watched her friend accept and put her hand on the baron’s sleeve. Hustings was a terrible bore, and India and Thomasin were forever teasing her about his attentions. “She’ll never forgive me for having to stand up with him.”

And worse yet, how was
he
going to notice her. Not Hustings.

Him.
The only man who truly mattered to her heart.

Rockhurst. She sighed and rose up on her tiptoes to search the room for him. Her gaze lit first on Quince making her excuses to her mother, and true to form, Lady Walbrook believed the story without fail.

There were advantages to having a mother who wasn’t…well, quite all there.

So where the devil was Rockhurst? It would be just her luck to make such a nonsensical wish only to find the man had already left! But even as she was about to give up, a tall figure swept past her.

Hermione’s stomach turned with that all-too-familiar queasy tilt. The one that overcame her every time the earl came into view.

She spun around to find the Earl of Rockhurst standing not ten feet from her. He’d paused in a doorway, one she thought she’d seen a servant using earlier. Hermione swore his gaze bore directly into her.

Of course that was foolish. He couldn’t see her.

Not that he ever has before,
she thought wryly.

Still, if being ignored by him was so devastating on her nerves, bearing the full light of his towering examination was enough to send her fleeing all the way back to the retiring room.

It was all she could do to breathe, for she’d never been able to just stare at him thusly.

Well, to be honest, gape at him, as she was doing now.

His tawny hair, like burnished gold, was combed back, though the style barely contained the wavy mane.
Her fingers curled into her palm, as she gazed at the strong line of his jaw. How she’d always wanted to trace over his jaw, run her fingers over the stone cut of his lips. Then there were his eyes. How she’d longed for that cool blue gaze to cast its magic in her direction, to shine for her and her only.

For then he’d cross the most crowded ballroom, ignoring one and all as he rushed to be by her side, his gaze burning with desire. And there she would be, surrounded by beaux and would-be suitors, and he’d brush them all aside to take her hand.

But before she could get to her favorite part—where he kissed her and she swooned to a chorus of matronly protests at such rakish behavior—something nudged her awake.

Her eyes sprang open, only to find the earl was gone, having slipped through the door and out of sight. Odder still, she had no idea who had bumped her, for there was no one around her. Then that something nudged her again, pulling her toward the door through which he’d disappeared.

After a few involuntary steps, she stopped, only to find herself being yanked again, but this time she knew why.

She glanced down at her hand, where the culprit sat wound around her finger. Charlotte’s ring!

Hermione froze, on the brink of nausea and something else. Curiosity. Undeniable, unbearable curiosity.

Wherever was the Earl of Rockhurst going in such a hurry?

And whether it was the ring nudging her forward, or
her own desire to discover his secrets, she rushed to the door and slipped through it. Pulled along, the ring thrumming happily on her hand, she made her way down a narrow hallway, which she discovered led to the kitchens in the back, where the chaos of the evening was in full swing.

It was one thing to gracefully navigate a crowded assembly room—even when one was visible—but to get through a raft of servants bearing great collections of cups and trays of Almack’s infamously stale offerings, when one was unseen, was an entirely different matter.

Yet there was her quarry, dashing out the back door and into the alley, and Hermione could not resist the compelling and undeniable need to follow him.

She dashed and darted and weaved her way through the room and almost made it to the other side when a large man, laden with an enormous tray of cups swung around, another man sidestepped him but in the process bumped into Hermione, sending her skittering into the tray. She caught her balance by catching hold of the tray, tipping it and sending the cups flying in all directions.

“Why you idiot, look what you made me do!”

The accused turned a black-eyed gaze on his fellow server. “I dinna come near ye. Dinna be blamin’ me for your clod-handed ways.”

“Oh, dear,” Hermione whispered, as the two men came close to fisticuffs. She was going to have to learn to be more careful, she realized as she found her way the last few feet through the kitchen and out the back door.

The alley was a far cry from the grand entranceway of Almack’s, and in the dim gloom it was nearly impossible to discern a path. She grimaced, that is until she looked ahead and spied at the end of the byway, silhouetted in the streetlamp, the narrow figure of a wolfhound.

“Rowan,” she whispered, never so glad to see the earl’s grand dog. For if Rowan was there, the earl wasn’t far away.

And then, as if on cue, Rockhurst stepped from the shadows, his hand reaching over and giving his constant companion’s head a friendly ruffle. The dog gazed up at his master, and the two of them stood there, on the edge of night, not quite stepping into the light beyond, still clinging to the safety of the shadows.

This time her breath froze in her throat for other reasons. She couldn’t shake the notion that the two of them had stood thusly many times—countless nights—watching the darkness fall upon the city before they ventured forth.

And she had to imagine it had nothing to do with spooning broth to orphans or aiding war widows. A chill ran down her spine as she crept toward them, drawn by a desire she didn’t even understand.

Didn’t know if she wanted to…

Just then, a curricle pulled up to the curb, the driver hopping down from the high perch. “My lord,” the man said, bobbing his head.

“Evening, Tunstall.” Rockhurst said.

“Evening, my lord,” the driver replied. “I heard a fine one just a bit ago—”

Hermione continued to draw nearer still, for she couldn’t make out all of what Lord Rockhurst’s driver was saying. That is until her slipper squished into something. In the meager light she couldn’t tell how bad it was, but she had to imagine that in the morning, her slipper would be beyond repair.

And she certainly wasn’t about to take it off and see the damage for herself, for she’d most likely ruin her gloves, and they were her best pair—why it had taken her weeks to find just the right shade of silk, then another week to find the right embroidery pattern—

Rockhurst’s deep laughter drew her attention back to the matters at hand. “You say Trent and his wife were thrown out of the British Museum? Gads, that Miss Wilmont is a remarkable woman to have led Trent so far astray. Who’d have ever thought—” His words ended, and she swore the earl glanced toward Mayfair, toward Berkeley Square, where her brother would eventually bring his bride home.

A niggle of jealousy ran down her spine. So the earl had held a
tendré
for Charlotte!

Still might…
a little voice whispered in her ear.
And without her ever wearing a hint of capucine.

Hermione shored up her shoulders. It was that blue opera dress she’d convinced Charlotte to buy. Well, first thing tomorrow she was going to Madame Claudius’s shop and engage her to make another gown just like Charlotte’s.

And then she’d wear it to Lady Hogshaw’s soiree, and the earl would be unable to…

She stumbled forward as the ring once again
nudged her. “Yes, yes,” she complained, realizing her dreams of new dresses were for naught as long as she remained invisible. So there was nothing for her to do but continue to follow the earl until she could put an end to this wish. Simply discover his secret haunts, then she’d be back to her old self. That sounded sensible enough. But when she glanced up, she found Rockhurst leaping up into the driver’s seat of his curricle.

Tossing a coin to his man, Tunstall, he said, “Catch a hackney back home, then seek your bed. I don’t think I’ll be home before first light.” Then he whistled to Rowan, who trotted a few steps back, then turned and loped back toward the carriage, jumping into his place beside his master.

Hermione glanced over her shoulder toward the door to Almack’s. She had promised Quince quite faithfully that she would wait for her in the alcove, but how could she when she had this opportunity?

With the ribbons in his hands, Rockhurst whistled to his horses, and the animals’ ears flicked and turned at the sound, their hooves dancing.

And like a child called by the sound of a pipe, Hermione moved as well, dashing across the pavement and onto the back of the carriage, the spot usually reserved for the tiger.

Luckily for her, the street wasn’t well paved, so when she bounced onto the back, jolting the carriage, the only one to give any note was Rowan, who barked and growled.

Rockhurst shot a glance over his shoulder, and seeing
nothing, gave the dog another scratch. “Settle in, you foolish hound. There’s nothing back there. Save yourself for the real fight ahead.”

Fight? Whatever could that mean
? Hermione wondered, as she scrambled into place. Oh, he must be jesting. Or so she thought. That is, until they left the more civilized part of London behind, at least the London she knew, and very quickly descended into the very depths of hell.

The house on the dark street was only discernable from the other dreary shops and doorways by the grand peacock painted on the double portals.

When Rockhurst had pulled the curricle to a stop before it, Hermione’s heart sank. For secretly she had wished, dreamed really, that Rockhurst’s nightly ramblings had some grand
raison d’être—
he was gambling to save orphans, or to rescue a distant, yet noble cousin from a French prison.

But whatever he was doing
here
had nothing to do with anything grand, she surmised as he got down, not that she could see. Shadowy people made their way along the dark street, creeping along, giving the earl and his carriage a wide berth, as if he were the one to be feared.

Yet there he stood, casually leaning against the side of his curricle. He struck a match to the heel of his boot and lit a cheroot, paying no heed to anything other than the bright glow of the burning tobacco.