Tempting the Wolf (6 page)

He found another chair, removed a pile of leather scraps and lowered himself into it. “As it turns out, she be a quick little nipper.”

“Is she?”

“I believe she travels in a carriage crafted by yer own clever hands.”

“Yes.” She nodded. “In fact, we’ve made two, a phaeton and a brougham, especially for her.”

“Why white do you suppose?”

“White?”

“Her carriage, her gowns.”

“Oh.” She shrugged. She had strangely casual mannerisms, almost as if she had no desire to impress him. Damned Hiltsglen. ” Tis simply her preferences, I suspect.”

“Ye know her well, then?”

“Not particularly. I spent a bit of time in Paris at her estate there.”

“Ahh,” He grinned. “And that is where ye first saw me, in Jardin de Jacques.”

She stared at him, her face expressionless. “That is where I first saw the Black Celt.”

“Oh aye.” He grinned. “I fear I had forgot that great chunk of accursed stone. Did the countess accompany ye to the gardens?”

“No, I don’t believe…“she began, then stopped. “Why all the questions, O’Banyon?”

He shrugged. “Curiosity. Naught else.”

It was her turn to grin. “It sounds more like obsession.”

He snorted. “And here I thought ye to be a sensible lass, but for your choice of husbands, of course.”

“So the Irish Hound cannot bear to be rejected.”

“The wee lass did na reject me,” he countered. “Indeed, she did na even—”

“As I heard it, she took one look at you, conjured up with a poor excuse, and vanished like a puff of gun powder.”

He opened his mouth to argue, then shook his head. ” Tis damned unnatural.”

“Vanishing?”

He scowled. She was not so foolish as her spousal choice suggested. “That too. Does she do so often?”

“This is the first. Generally, she’s exceptionally well mannered. Though perhaps a bit stand-offish. I do believe she detests you, O’Banyon.”

He gave it some judicious consideration, then disagreed amicably. “I dunna believe any lass could detest me.”

“I detest you.”

“Well…” He tilted his head in concession. “I have never once tried to kill
her
husband.”

“Simple negligence on your part I’m sure.”

He couldn’t help but like this woman. “When did her mate die exactly?”

“I say, O’Banyon,” she groused, rising from her chair, “this is the worst excuse of a seduction I have ever yet experienced.”

“Aye, well, I don’t wish to overwhelm ye with me charms.”

“You’re doing well then.”

“If it means anything to ye, I vow to do me best to avoid killing yer husband in the future.”

“How generous of you.”

He shrugged, agreeing. “What do ye know of the white countess?”

“She was born in France I believe and married fairly young. If I recall correctly, the count was some years her senior, but I’m not entirely certain. I fear I didn’t meet her until well after his death.”

“Which was caused by…”

“Really, O’Banyon, I knew you to be a murderer and a womanizer, but I didn’t suspect you of gossip.”

“Aye, well…” He shrugged as he rose to his feet. “There seems to be a dearth of hand-to-hand combat these days. I’ve been searching for a likely hobby.”

“So cricket has failed to hold your interest?”

He sighed and glanced out the window, remembering a tattered girl and a lady in white. “My latest opponents no longer wish to play.”

The conservatory was over-warm. It was dirty and humid. It smelled of rotting peat, and there was nowhere in the world Antoinette would rather be. For there was life here. Life that she could touch and coddle and urge to new, lush heights.

Garden succory, for instance. Boiled with black adder bark, it became a bitter liquor that could draw down excess phlegm, but what would happen if she added a bit of wild endive? Twas a fascinating question, but just now, she was mixing an elixir.

While traveling down Cornhill she had heard a child’s rasping cough. A bit of dried vervain and sweet cicily should turn the trick. But she would add a few drops of distilled loosestrife to—

Sibylla appeared suddenly at her elbow. Antoinette glanced up, only to find the girl holding out a small, squat bottle. It was made of thick brown glass and contained the essence of loosestrife.

Antoinette laughed out loud, prompting the shadow of an almost grin to lift the corner of the child’s cherub mouth. How long had it taken the girl to do so much as meet Antoinette’s gaze? Months surely.

Oh, aye, they had made some progress since that first November night. The wind had been bitter cold then, biting with acid intensity as Antoinette turned toward the scruffy girl. The child had been huddled against the rough face of a shabby inn, her face freshly bruised, her eyes haunted.

No words had been spoken. No questions had been asked. Antoinette had merely opened her carriage door. The child’s approach had been hesitant, but she had come, climbing silently into the vehicle and shivering like a starved whelp in the corner until the countess draped her velvet cape about the girl’s skinny shoulders.

She’d slept then, nodding off against her will, her split lips parted, blowing frosty, shallow breaths into the dark air.

Antoinette called her Sibylla, though the child never managed to give a name. But over the months, she’d gained a bit of weight. And grown. Still, she would not speak. Or allow another’s touch. Indeed, she insisted on wearing the same tattered gown she had been found in and could rarely be convinced to wash.

There was the hint of healthy color in her cheeks now and a bright light in her cobalt eyes, but the girl’s gaze flickered shyly away and Antoinette turned aside, busying her hands.

“You’ve a bit of dirt on your nose, child,” she said. “Just about there.” She pointed to her own face. “Check the mirror and see.”

Sibylla turned toward the looking glass that hung beside the door.

The countess almost laughed as the girl stared at herself, for her face was covered in dirt, only the skin beneath her scattered bangs showing her true, fair color.

“Been swimming in the mud again,
ma petite
?”

Sibylla blinked at her. A swell of feelings rushed in on Antoinette. Dangerous, so dangerous, but too late now to change the course of things. The girl had been sent into her life, and she would stay. “Never mind,” she said, “I like a child who’s unafraid to get her hands dirty. Or her face…” She skimmed the child’s tattered gown. “Or her clothes.Or… However did you get mud in your ear? It’s not yet—”

The door swung open.

Sibylla started like a frightened fawn. Antoinette jerked toward the entrance.

“Good morningtide, countess.” The Irishman stood in the doorway. He bowed and turned his sparkling attention on Sibylla. “And wee—” He paused, raising his brows. “God’s truth, ye are the grimiest child I have ever yet seen, lass. And I was raised on the dirt paths of Dublin. Congratulations to ye.” He bowed. “When I was but a wee lad, me mum told me turnips would grow right out of me pate if I did na wash me ears.”

The girl rubbed the side of her head distractedly.

“But she was entirely mistaken.”

Sibylla watched him, her eyes as wide as the heavens, her pixie face absolutely sober.

“I could grow naught but carrots, no matter how I tried. Nonetheless, I was a favorite amongst the village steeds.”

Sibylla stared at him a moment, and then, like a bit of white magic, the waif’s gamin face broke into a cautious grin.

Antoinette looked on, stunned to silence.

“Ahh, lassie,” said O’Banyon, watching the girl, “ye look like sunshine itself when ye smile. Tell me, do the wild lads of London follow ye aboot like lampkins on a string?”

Sibylla stared, then shook her head with slow uncertainty.

“Well be cautious nonetheless,” he advised. “For they will soon enough. And ye canna trust a lad, na with a bonny smile the likes of yers.”

The girl watched him with sparkling eyes.

The countess kept her expression perfectly serene, but inside, Fayette scowled. She had few enough friends and had no wish to share. “I thought I had made it clear to my staff that I was to receive no visitors while I’m in my conservatory,” she said, and whisking off her barely soiled apron, stepped out from behind the workbench, barring the girl from his view. “I shall have to speak to them.”

O’Banyon grinned. It felt like sunshine in her soul. But she dropped the apron on the bench and lifted her gaze resolutely to his.

” ‘Tis na their fault, lass,” he said. “Indeed, I dunna think they be yet aware of me presence.”

“You’ve snuck onto my property?”

He shrugged. “It seems to me, snuck is a word reserved for cowards and curs while—”

“Well, you are the Irish mutt are you not?”

“Hound,” he corrected, “and I did not sneak… exactly.” His grin cranked up another quarter of an inch. “I felt it me duty as a gentleman to pay ye a visit.”

“Your duty.”

“Aye,” he said and sobered. He looked like nothing more than a fallen angel, gilded and gleaming even after his descent to earth. ” Tis worried I’ve been.”

Antoinette pursed her lips. The hours amidst her plants were jealously guarded. Tugging loose the fingers of her cotton gloves, she set them aside, wiped her fingers on a damp towel and carefully rolled down her sleeves. They were white, pristine, pearly. “And what, pray tell, were you worried about?” she asked.

“Aboot ye and the wee lass here wandering aboot alone on the dark streets of London, of course.”

“As I have told you before, sir, you are entirely mistaken. Neither I nor my young servant would have any reason to wander
aboot
.”

He grinned at her attempted burr. “Indeed?”

“Indeed.”

He skimmed her work bench, eying the plants and vials and dried flowers that remained there. “I thought mayhap ye had delivered a tonic to one of the needy souls what live on the east side.”

Reaching under the table, she pulled out a new pair of gloves and slipped them on. “I am ever so sorry to disappoint you, monsieur, but I know no one there.”

“There was a woman,” he said, “In the very midst of the street. I saw her with me own two eyes, na ten paces from me. I was certain she was yerself.”

She shrugged and motioned toward the door, away from her sanctuary. Away from Sibylla, for she was yet too fragile and easily frightened. Surely she had only smiled because she was nervous, not because she was charmed. “I am ever so sorry to prove your fallibility.”

“She was dressed all in white, much as ye are.”

“Would it surprise you to learn that others have been known to wear the color? Indeed, it is quite fashionable in these days of the regency.”

He watched her carefully, his eyes alight. “And what of ye, lass?” he asked, and stepping smoothly sideways, addressed the child. “Were ye out at night on the notorious east side?”

Sibylla raised her peaked chin.

“My apologies,” Antoinette said, turning to face him. Anger brewed in her soul, but she contained it. “I do not allow others to address my servants.”

His brows rose with a snap. “Ye dunna allow—”

“Sibylla, hasten up to the house and assist Mrs. Catrill with the wash.”

The girl scuttled sideways and dashed out the door. O’Banyon watched her go.

The conservatory went silent.

“You’ve something to say, sir?” she asked.

“Aye,” he said, examining her for a moment, “she seems a wee thing to be doing heavy labor.”

“Does she?” Skirting him herself, Antoinette stepped outside. She sighed with relief when he followed her into the open air. It was safer in the gardens, not so close, not so intimate. “Well, perhaps I think she owes me, since I saved her life.”

“Saved her, did ye?” he asked, his gaze holding hers.

She pulled hers away with an effort. “She was quite starved when first I found her in Shoreditch. Indeed, Mrs. Catrill did not think—”

“And what were ye doing in that dark side of town, lass?”

She paused, her mind blanking for an instant. Damn him. He was surely too handsome to have caught her in a verbal trap. Too alluring to be clever.

“I don’t believe my business there is any of your concern, good sir.”

He shrugged. His shoulders looked broad and capable in his dark serge coat, his legs long and lean, encased in snug breeches and scuffed riding boots. His shirt was open at the neck, revealing skin that was as smooth and solid as polished bronze.

“Shoreditch is not meant for such a delicate lass as yerself. Chivalry demands that I warn ye against traveling there.”

“Have you not heard?” she asked, glancing over her shoulder at him. “Chivalry is long dead.”

He grinned. Something coiled up tight in her stomach. “Grievously wounded, mayhap, but surely not deceased. Na so long as there be lassies such as yerself.”

“Like me?” She was leading him toward the arched wooden gate that closed in her garden.

“Aye, bonny lassies what make men like meself do foolish things.”

She laughed. “Forgive me, O’Banyon, but I do not believe I can be blamed for the foolishness of men like yourself.”

“What was she doing there?” he asked from some distance behind.