Teresa Medeiros (36 page)

T
he moon caressed a face of pure masculine beauty. Not a single whisker marred the purity of its narrow planes. Except for Justin, he was the first clean-shaven man Emily had seen in London. An ivory cigarette holder hung from his lips. His dark eyes seemed not opaque, but translucent, lit from within by a diabolical fire.

With a flick of his elegant fingers he held up one of her calling cards. “Miss Scarborough, I presume?”

She could not help staring at his hand. His nails were trimmed to precise points, their beds as pink and smooth as a baby’s. He cleared his throat and Emily realized she was behaving like a churl.

“Why, thank you. I’ll just take that.” She reached for the card, but he slipped it into his breast pocket with the deftness of a magician.

“Allow me.” He handed her the purse and straightened, looming over her in the growing darkness. An opera cloak rippled in ebony folds from his narrow shoulders.

“Have you come calling today, Miss Scarborough?” His voice held the faintest trace of a continental accent.

“Not quite. I’m afraid I’m lost,” she said lamely.

He tapped the ash from his long, slender cigarette. “A condition my soul is quite familiar with.”

The dark humor in his voice was irresistible. Emily laughed, then wished she hadn’t.

He flicked the cigarette from the holder. The polished heel of his boot ground it to pulp. “Will you allow me to escort you to a safer haven?”

He smiled, his canine teeth gleaming in the moonlight. Whoever filed his nails ought to take a crack at his teeth, Emily thought uncharitably. She hesitated, feeling a bit like Red Riding Hood being invited to picnic with the wolf.

He read her mind with eerie accuracy. “I fear you’re safe with me. I’ve already gobbled up three lost young ladies this evening. I’m quite sated at the moment.”

She flushed. Mayfair
was
a genteel neighborhood. He was probably some nice gent, whose wife didn’t allow him to smoke in the house, eager to get home to his cozy fire and three chubby babes.

Feeling sheepish, she tucked her hand in the curve of his arm. “I’d be honored.”

The new moon shone through the naked branches, casting a silver latticework across their path.

“I couldn’t help but hear your charming little song,” he said. “Was it Swahili?”

“No. Maori.”

“Ah, the Maori. Natives of”—he hesitated as if searching his brain—“New Guinea?”

“New Zealand.”

“My goodness, you are lost, aren’t you? Did your boat capsize?”

Emily thought of the tangled chain of events that had returned her to London. “In a manner of speaking, yes.”

They emerged from the trees onto the gaslit street to
find the brougham silhouetted against the darkening sky. An unbidden sigh of relief escaped Emily. In this light the whiteness of the stranger’s shirtfront was dazzling. She was tempted to shield her eyes from its brilliance.

She bobbed an awkward curtsy. “I can find my way from here.”

His response was interrupted by Lily, who came running up, her bustle listing to starboard. “There you are! My head is positively spinning from circling this block. Harvey is going to slay me for coming home after dark. If he forbids me the opera next week, I’ll die a thousand gruesome deaths. Oh.”

Her rebuke died as she realized they had an audience. Her hazel eyes widened to mesmerized splendor as she gazed up at the stranger’s compelling face.

He inclined his head and brought Lily’s gloved fingers to his lips. “Good evening, madam.”

He turned to Emily. “Perhaps another time, Miss Scarborough.” He lifted her hand to his lips, but instead of kissing her fingers, he brought his moist lips to bear against the naked flesh of her inner wrist. Emily would have sworn his teeth grazed her skin.

“Thank you for your kindness,” she said, withdrawing her hand.

“My pleasure,
cara mia
.”

He tipped his hat to them both, revealing a sleek, dark cap of hair, then strode off into the night, his opera cloak swirling around his ankles.

“Oh, my.” Lily rubbed the tips of her fingers absently against her lips. “Wasn’t he the most gorgeous creature you’ve ever seen? Like some sort of archangel.”

“Look again, dear. Your angel has fallen from grace.”

Lily’s mouth fell open as they watched him saunter across the street and up the stairs to Mrs. Rose’s establishment. The stained-glass door swung open. A burst of music and laughter tarnished the winter stillness. Then he was gone, so quickly they might have imagined him.

“Can you believe his boldness?” Lily said. “Most of the gentlemen have the decency to use the back entrance from the alley. He just strolls up to the front door as if he owns the place. Who does he think he is?”

“I wish I knew,” Emily murmured.

He had not offered his name. She remembered her calling card disappearing into his breast pocket. He knew who she was, though. A faint shudder rippled down her spine.

Lily patted her shoulder. “You poor dear. You must be chilled to the marrow.”

“I dare say she is.”

The voice came out of the shadows behind them, as cool and lethal as pistol fire. Emily started as if she’d been shot. Justin stalked out of the trees like a hungry wolf who has spotted a helpless fawn.

His tie was no longer knotted. His greatcoat was littered with twigs and smudged with dirt. His hair was wild, as if it had wrestled with more than one tree and lost. But even a fresh limp did not mar the murderous grace of his intent.

“Good evening … sir,” she said weakly.

“A little late for a stroll in the park, isn’t it, dear?” he bit off.

Lily wisely drifted toward the brougham.

Emily stared straight ahead. “I find the air invigorating this time of night.”

His eyes narrowed to amber slits. “So do all sorts of dangerous characters.”

Emily found it laughable that only minutes before she had found a suave stranger so menacing. No man was more dangerous to her than this one. She lived daily with the mortal risk of falling to her knees at his feet and begging him to love her.

He circled her, then stopped so close behind her that she could feel the angry heat emanating from his lean form. His lips touched her ear, bringing the tiny hairs
along her lobe to tingling life. “How would you like to be robbed or murdered … or raped?”

“Are those my only choices?” His sigh scorched the back of her neck. She turned to face him. “Why were you following me anyway? Don’t you trust me?”

He rubbed the back of his neck. “I wasn’t following you. I just happened to be passing by.”

At that moment his carriage rumbled around the corner at a full gallop with Penfeld hanging out the window, waving his handkerchief. “Thank the Lord, sir!” he cried as the carriage clattered to a halt. “You found her. If anything had happened to her, I would have blamed myself.…”

He trailed off beneath Justin’s glower, realizing that Emily was grinning like a Cheshire cat.

“You might be a bit more inconspicuous if the Winthrop crest weren’t emblazoned on your carriage door,” she said, brushing a stray twig from the shoulder of Justin’s greatcoat. “I’d suggest you pay Bentley Chalmers whatever it takes to keep him in your employ. The two of you make rotten detectives.”

With those words she marched away, disappearing into the brougham with a twitch of her sassy little bustle.

Justin muttered, “I’d like to put my foot—”

The coachman twisted on his bench, craning his neck.

Shaking his head in disgust, Justin threw himself into the carriage. As they drove into the night, the dark figure at the window of the house across the street lifted his glass in a mocking toast.

Emily’s behavior in the next week was beyond reproach. Each expedition she made was chaperoned by the duchess or one of Justin’s sisters. When her newfound popularity showed no sign of abating, even Cecille and her diminutive mama deigned to woo her affections. Justin heard not even a whisper of impropriety as she became the toast of London. He heard other things, though. How she had
leaped out of a moving carriage to rescue a terrified puppy darting among the congested traffic of the Strand. How she had tossed the silk purse containing her entire allowance to a shivering beggar child on the street. How she had shamed Cecille and her fast set out of going to Bedlam to poke fun at the lunatics.

Justin could find no fault with her. To complain would have been the worst sort of hypocrisy. She was the kind of daughter every father dreamed of having. But Justin wasn’t a father. And he suspected the ways he dreamed of having her were not only immoral, but possibly illegal.

The whirl of activity left little time for him. At each soiree and ball her dance card was filled minutes after arriving. At each luncheon and card party the seat next to hers was taken by some fawning young toff who hung on her every word as if it might be her last. Justin was relegated to the position of watchful uncle even though he knew none of the eager young men were the threat to her virtue that he was.

He tripped down the stairs late one afternoon, struggling to knot his tie for the opera that evening. Penfeld had a way of disappearing whenever Emily was preparing for a night out, leaving Justin to struggle with the damnable scrap of silk alone.

Two strange young men were hovering in the foyer.

“Excuse me,” he said, brushing past them.

“Your Grace, may I have a word with you?” The one with the flaming red hair trotted after him. Justin took the freckled hand he offered and he pumped eagerly. “Claiborne, sir. Richard Claiborne. My friends call me Dick.”

Justin looked him up and down from his yellow boots to his checkered jacket. “I dare say they do.”

The other man rushed forward, clutching a stovepipe hat. His slicked-back hair reeked of bear’s grease. “Henry Simpkins, Your Grace. At your humble service.”

“Yes, well, that’s very nice,” Justin said vaguely. His tie curled like a serpent around his Adam’s apple. He
tugged at it and started to walk away. “If the two of you are seeking employment, I suggest you make an appointment with my offices.”

Dick Claiborne flushed to the roots of his hair. “I wish to speak to you about a very private matter.”

“Bite your tongue, Dick. That’s not fair. I was here first!” Henry cried.

Claiborne whirled around and stabbed Henry’s chest with his forefinger. “Sod off, Henry. I
saw
her first.”

A horrified suspicion grew in Justin’s mind. Leaving the irate young gentlemen nose to nose, he lifted a lace curtain and peered out the window. Two more carriages had drawn up to block the drive. One of their occupants was hanging out his window, shouting insults at the man emerging from the other carriage. As Justin watched, the young swell thrust up his shirt-sleeves and launched himself past a stoic footman into the window of his taunter’s brougham. The brougham rocked wildly. The driver grabbed the lamp to keep his seat.

Justin groaned to find his mansion under siege. The snarls from behind him were becoming more rabid. He marched back to Simpkins and Claiborne, dragged them apart by their collars, and shook them like limp puppies.

“Cease this nonsense,” he snapped. “I’ll tolerate blood on my grass, but I won’t tolerate it on my marble tiles.”

He shoved them toward the door without loosening his grip.

Claiborne dragged his heels. “But, sir, I’d make a very good husband. Truly I would!”

“Thank you,
Dick
, but you’re not my sort. Simpkins is looking for a mate. Perhaps the two of you can come to an arrangement.”

He thrust them out the door. As they went tumbling down the shallow steps, a dead silence fell over the waiting carriages.

Justin waved cheerfully. “Do call again. I’d love to tell you more about my years with the cannibals. Charming
tribe, the Maori. They’ve been known to pluck out the eyes of any man who offends them and eat them whole.”

Dusting off his hands, he marched back into the house. The frantic jingle of harnesses and bridles was followed by the gratifying clatter of galloping hooves. Justin leaned his back against the door, blowing out a slow breath.

“A pity we’re not living in the days when maidens were locked in stone towers.”

Justin slowly lifted his eyes to find Emily sitting like an elf on the balcony above, her stockinged legs dangling through the balusters. It was obvious she had witnessed the entire spectacle.

His gaze traced the curve of her thighs as they straddled the thick post. A hoarse note touched his voice. “It wouldn’t do me any good. I’d still have a key.”

At that moment Lily and Millicent entered from the parlor, chattering about their opera dresses. When Justin looked up again, the balcony was empty.

For those seeking the drama of the bards, the Theatre Royal in Drury Lane was the favored choice, but those craving the loftier charms of opera flocked to the Theatre Royal in Covent Garden. The theater had been a glowing jewel in the crown of London since the first majestic strains of Handel’s
Rinaldo
had graced its stage over a century before. As a small boy clinging to his father’s trouser leg, Justin had believed its elegance a taste of heaven itself, and the busty diva one of God’s own angels.

A touch of the old magic brushed him as he ushered Lily and Millicent into the Winthrop box. They settled into the red plush seats behind him as the orchestra began to tune their instruments. Penfeld hovered in the narrow aisle beside them, holding Justin’s perfectly draped opera cloak over his arm. Knowing how the valet loved fine music, Justin had invited him as a guest, but he was obviously more comfortable in his role as human cloak stand.

An expectant murmur raced through the audience, accompanied
by the rustle of satin and broadcloth. The private boxes and seats below started to fill. Justin’s own awe was dampened by apprehension. Naturally, Emily had been too busy to attend with the family. Against his better judgment he had allowed her to accompany Cecille, leaving only the delicate countess to chaperone them.