Tempting the Wolf (25 page)

But O’Banyon had come for one reason only— to seek answers.

From across the room, he studied the white countess. She seemed particularly effervescent this night. Bright as a star, fresh as a spring blossom. Even from his distant vantage point near the open doors, he could hear her husky laughter.

Five men were gathered around her, but there was not a warrior amongst them. If he so desired, he could break the lot of them. In fact, he longed to do so, to see them scatter like…

O’Banyon calmed himself. He was not here to wreak havoc. He was here to learn the truth. To think. Mayhap that was not his finest attribute, but he could not afford to fail. Not this time, for ‘twas not his life alone that hung in the balance. There were others at risk. Others he cared for. He was certain of it. Could feel it in the very air he breathed.

“Lord Bentley.” He could hear her voice perfectly, could see her eyes glimmer as she gazed directly at one of her dumpy companions. “I am flattered.”

But she was not. She lied. She flirted. She teased. Why? ‘Twas not like her.

“Sir O’Banyon.”

He glanced to the left at the sound of his name. Mrs. Murray stood only inches away. “You yet live.”

He bowed. “Did ye expect otherwise?” he asked.

“I rather thought there must be some dire condition that caused your hasty departure from my home,” she said.

He had fled her property like a whipped cur. Even now he wanted nothing more than to leave her standing alone, seductive lips curved up at him as he scattered the countess’s suitors and carried her like spoils of war from the room.

“Me apologies,” he said. “But I had no wish to be tempted beyond me own control.”

The countess was leaving the huddle, gliding toward the gaming tables.

“Truly?” said Murray. “And that was exactly my wish.”

He smiled. “I am but a simple knight, me lady. Well beneath yer station. I canna, in good conscience—”

“Beneath,” she said and stepped closer. “That might very well be interesting.”

She smelled of French perfume. A bit too strong mayhap, but that had hardly bothered him in the past. Her breast touched his chest. Her fingers grazed his arm. Not a flicker of desire warmed him.

He glanced toward the countess. She was standing near Pryor Winters. The man removed the cheroot from his mouth and glanced up from his sport. “Come, countess,” he said, his tone expansive. “You can be my luck on this final play.” A generous pile of bills lay before him on the table. His face was flushed with success. His opponents did not look so jovial.

“It’s true then, isn’t it?” Murray asked.

O’Banyon forced his attention back to her. “What’s that, me lady?”

The widow held him in a steady gaze. Her lips turned into a strange downward smile. “She has hexed you,” she said and turned away.

O’Banyon scowled after her, but a noise from the gaming tables brought him around.

Winters’s face looked stricken. His hand shook as he laid down his cards. A young opponent in a dove-gray frock coat whooped with glee as he scooped up his winnings.

The others watched in amazement, murmuring quietly amongst themselves as they wandered away, leaving Winters alone.

“Pryor…” Antoinette’s voice was as soft as a sigh, but O’Banyon could hear it above all else. “I am so sorry.”

“Why?” Winters glanced up, looking dazed. “What have you got against me, countess?” he asked and jerking to his feet, strode angrily from the room.

“Poor luck.”

O’Banyon glanced right. Keelan stood near his elbow.

“What the devil be ye doing here?” He hadn’t seen the lad since awakening some hours hence, and found he hadn’t missed him.

“There was naught to do in yer poor house,” he said. “And little enough to eat.”

“Then ye must surely make yer way back to the Highlands.”

” ‘Twas me intent,” said the lad, “but I did na expect London’s women to be so intriguing.”

O’Banyon turned his attention in the direction of the boy’s stare. The white countess stood in ardent conversation in a circle of friends.

Something rolled up tight in the Irishman’s gut. “Tread softly, lad,” he growled.

“Be the rumors true, then?” The boy grinned and drank his brandy. “Is she a witch?”

O’Banyon watched her breathlessly, then turned and slipped into the crowd. ” ‘Tis me hope,” he murmured to no one.

St. James Park was a picture of pastoral beauty. It was pleasant in the cool-dappled shade of the towering horse chestnuts. Their leaves rustled musically in the breeze. The lawn was lush and soft beneath Antoinette’s slippers and she was a good two strikes ahead in a fierce game of pall mall.

She wished to God she were elsewhere.

“I am deeply sorry for my behavior on Tuesday last,” said Pryor Winters.

She glanced up. A bevy of so-called friends stood behind her in a semicircle. She could feel their attention against the shivering skin of her back. “Whatever do you mean?” she asked.

“At Brooks,” he said, his tone shamed. “I simply…” He exhaled carefully. “I lost a great deal I fear.”

She watched him, unblinking, unbreathing. Pretense was everything. Panic was fatal.

“I had no right to blame you, countess,” he added. “It was foolish and unforgivable.”

“I am certain you shall win the funds back,” she said. “Luck is an uncertain commodity, and most often present when you least expect it.”

“Indeed. And could not possibly be adversely affected by a lady of your quality.”

“My thanks,” she said, but she could yet feel the others’ attention upon her. She couldn’t stay much longer in London. Indeed, she must leave soon. Perhaps for Italy. She had a small villa just outside of Florence. But she could not leave yet. ‘Twas important that she be here for now, acting as if all was well. As if the nightmares from long past had not come to haunt her once again. Who or what had attacked Sibylla? And why? Was it because of her? Because of fear or ignorance or something even worse?

“I should not feel sorry for myself,” he said. ” ‘Twas my own folly to gamble so impetuously.”

Bending, she swung her mallet. The ball rolled across the green and bobbled to a stop inches from the wide wicket.

“Good show,” Winters admired. “Mr. Unger, ‘tis your turn, if you feel up to the challenge Lady Colline offers.”

The Ungers were little known to Antoinette, but the wife already seemed to regard her with quiet suspicion.

Mr. Unger left their companions to take his place behind his ball.

Winters turned back toward Antoinette.” ‘Twas naught but money, after all. And we are, the lot of us, far more lucky than poor Lady Hendershire.”

Antoinette felt her insides quiver. She tightened her grip on her mallet. “What about Amelia?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Her husband informs me that she is growing weaker by the day.”

She felt herself blanch. She should not have touched the girl. Should have yelled for help instead. But she hadn’t been thinking clearly. The baroness was drowning. Surely ‘twas better to pull her from the water than to leave her be. But she had been wrong before.

“I’m sorry,” he said, looking suddenly pale. “Are you quite all right? I thought you surely knew.”

“No,” she said. “I did not.”

“I have heard the lady is ill,” said Unger, strolling up. “But I’ve not quite got the full story of it. Whatever is amiss with her?”

Winters shook his head. “Dr. Lambert has little idea what to make of it.”

“Dr. Lambert is seeing her?” Antoinette asked.

“So I’ve heard,” said Winters.

“What’s this?” asked Mrs. Unger, approaching from behind. “Wasn’t young Amelia on holiday at Bath only a few days past?”

“Indeed she was,” Winters said. “Our own Lady Colline was there in the waters with her when first she faltered.”

Annette could feel their eyes on her again. Her skin itched with their attention.

“She was lucky the countess was there,” Winters added. “Or she would not have survived the day.”

“Oh?” said Mrs. Unger.

“Yes indeed. She laid her hands on the baroness and pulled her from beneath the surface.”

Mrs. Unger flickered her gaze from Antoinette to her husband. “And the poor girl has been ill ever since?”

“I’m afraid so, but at least she yet lives. And, as they say, where there is life there is—” Winters paused. “Say, there’s Lady Trulane.” He laughed. “And her infamous hounds.”

Antoinette glanced up, heart pounding. ‘Twas a small step from here to open accusations, she knew. A tiny step, but she kept her expression serene as she glanced toward Pall Mall. The aging baroness was just dismounting from her coach. Three small dogs accompanied her, rearing wildly at their leashes and pawing the air when they spotted the sport across the park.

“I think I shall give her assist,” said Winters. “Mrs. Unger ‘tis your turn next,” he added and strode across the green toward the busy thoroughfare some thirty feet away.

An uneasy silence fell over the green.

“So, countess,” said Unger, clearing his throat. “You were born in Paris, were you not?”

She glanced toward him. Her chest felt tight. “Norway,” she lied, remembering the story, the endless lessons. “I lived there for some years.”

“Indeed?” he said, sounding pleased. “Wherever do you hail from in that fair country?”

Winters had reached Trulane’s coach. He took the leashes from her hand. They lunged against their constraints, tongues lolling.

“I doubt you’ve heard of it,” she said. ” ‘Tis a small village and far off the usual path.”

“I’ve spent some time in Norway,” he said. “Indeed, I traveled quite extensively in—”

But suddenly there was a gasp from the street.

Antoinette jerked her head around. One small dog had broken loose and was dashing across the road, leash flapping like a runaway kite.

Two polished phaetons came spinning around the corner, young bucks at the ribbons, laughing wildly. The dog tried to crowd back, but it was too late. There was a whimper and then the hound lay still as the carriages whirred away.

“No. Oh no!” Lady Trulane’s sobs could surely be heard across the globe. They rang in Antoinette’s head like a death knell.

She watched the baroness scoop the small, lifeless body into her arms. Watched her lift her watery gaze across the green and knew, without a doubt, that the
ton
had finally found its scapegoat.

***

O’Banyon gazed across the ballroom. Lady Bevre had assured him the white countess would be there. But she was not. He would know if she were. He would feel it like a pleasant burn against his skin.

And yet, all the rest of London seemed to have come in her stead. Even Prinny was present, corseted and rouged and talking to Mrs. Murray.

Mayhap the widow had set her sets higher than a roguish Irishman who tended to abandon her in moments of high passion.

“Shall I expect ye home this night?”

O’Banyon turned.

Keelan stood only inches away, his silver-blue eyes gleaming as he bounced a pair of bone dice in his hand. “Or will ye be on the prowl yet again?”

Banyan gave him a wolfish grin. “If I hear so much as a whisper that ye’ve been cheatin’, lad, you’ll know whether I’m prowling or na.”

The boy laughed. “I’m na the one to watch, Irishman.”

O’Banyon scanned the crowd again. Where was she? She had not been at her estate. He had gone there, though he had tried to remain home, had tried to believe he was far better without her.

“These English,” Keelan continued. “They be an odd lot”

Suspicion clicked in O’Banyon’s mind. He turned back slowly. “What are ye saying?”

“Yer friend Winters, he does na necessarily play by the strictest of rules.”

“Winters.” The world focused down to the boy’s face. “He cheats at the table?”

“Aye,” said the lad. “He does. And fair well.”

O’Banyon stared at him a moment “He should have employed his talents some nights past then, when he lost all and his pride while gaming.”

“Aye.” The boy’s eyes were unusually bright and sharply focused. “Ye would think he would have. But say, Wolfgang, isn’t that your white witch?”

O’Banyon felt it then. That inexplicable stab of pleasure, that hard punch of need. He turned toward the door. She entered like a princess, as regal as a royal swan, as enchanting as a song.

Heads turned toward her, and by slow degrees, the room went quiet, hushed but for a few whispers as they watched her glide in.

“What’s that?” The Regent’s voice boomed in the silence as he leaned his fleshy face toward Mrs. Murray.

She whispered something, her painted lips a breath from the Regent’s ear.

“Dead, you say,” said the prince.

His companion nodded.

“My lady,” he called, staring across the room at the countess. “Come hither.”

Antoinette went without delay, gliding toward the prince to bow with regal elegance before him.

He smiled drunkenly and reached for her hand.

O’Banyon tensed, imagining the lightning feel of her skin against his own fingers, smelling the magic that was hers alone, and awaiting the Regent’s reaction.
But
she was gloved and the prince besotted.