The Perils of Pleasure (16 page)

“Do you have any children, Mrs. Greenway?”

She shifted restlessly. “What did I tell you about friendship and winning me over, Mr. Eversea?”

“I’m just making mealtime conversation.” He said this innocently around a bite of ham and bread, and he wasn’t looking at her. He was looking up at the sky instead, squinting, as though the man with the mother-of-pearl buttons could be found there. So she found herself studying him again. His hair was dark brown shot through with copper, it waved loosely about his temples and ears and glittered where the sun caught it. His eyelashes were the same color, and nearly metallic in the sunlight. His jaw was beginning to shadow with
whiskers, but the shadows beneath his eyes were all but gone. A good night’s sleep on the flour sacks had done that.

“It’s quite warm today, isn’t it?” she replied point
edly, finally. “I don’t think we’ll have rain for quite some time. We could use a breeze, or the evenings will be insufferable. I wonder if it will be too dry altogether this year.”

He swiveled to stare blankly at her for a moment. And then his face cleared in comprehension and he was laughing. “Ah. Very good. You’re so right, Mrs. Green
way. The weather
does
make for fi ne conversation.”

His eyes were brilliant when laughter narrowed them, and they creased into lines at the corners, and awareness entered Madeleine like a shard of glass. She looked away very slowly, because it was suddenly dif
ficult to meet his eyes now that she was newly certain they were beautiful.

What in God’s name was the matter with her? She breathed in and out through the knowledge, as if it hurt. And instead of answering, because she was at a momentary loss for breath and thinking clearly was out of the question, she reached down and leisurely traced what turned out to be a flower in the dust. She took her time with it.

Colin studied it critically. “I would have drawn breasts.”

She laughed again. She couldn’t help it. He had a knack for coming at unexpected places, for opening up a new chink in her armor the moment she’d slid one closed.

But when she met his eyes, more bravely this time, his smile faded a little, leaving just the corners of his mouth tipped up. His eyes had gone darker, and his gaze was
steady now. And now she knew they were both remem
bering those enclosed moments in the wardrobe, and in this moment she relived it: his breath against her ear, his thumb brushing across her breasts, the press of his hard body against her back, gooseflesh raining over her arms, her throat.

She allowed him to read nothing in her eyes. And coolly looked away.

She hoped it was coolly.

I’m not a callow girl, she reminded herself. She was a woman, and not made of ice, and he was an undeniably appealing man. He had, in fact, made rather a career of being an appealing man. But that was all it was. The fact that she still didn’t trust this man didn’t mean he couldn’t move her body, and he would be given no more opportunities to do so.

She almost laughed at herself, given that it was much easier to wrestle her senses into submission when she wasn’t looking at him, and much easier to say abruptly, “Do you think you’ll continue to be useful? Do you think we’ll be able to find this messenger with the fancy buttons?”

Colin had finished his bread and ham and made as if to rub his hands on his trousers, thought better of it, reached for his handkerchief, recalled she was sitting upon it, and resignedly used the square of muslin in
stead, dragging it over each long finger. He passed it to Madeleine, and she repeated it with her own hands.

“I don’t know where to begin looking. Presuming Harry and Eleanor have been more careful than we credit them, perhaps the good doctor is the only person who knows of their intimate relationship. But why would he have cause to make use of his knowledge? And I’ve never heard him mentioned as part of the group of
investors. I should think Marcus would have mentioned such an eminent new member.”

“By ‘make use of this knowledge,’ you mean why would he use the information to falsely convict you, rescue you, and kill me?”

“I was attempting circumspection,” he conceded ironically, “but yes, that’s precisely what I meant. And you know of the doctor?”

“Yes.”

“Are you personally acquainted with Dr. August?”

“Yes.”

He frowned at her a little, the amused kind of frown. “I’m a great admirer of your vast vocabulary, Mrs. Greenway.”

“We should go to Biddlegate Street,” was all she said. “It’s where he lives.”

Suddenly Madeleine felt very weary, a weariness that had nothing to do with the fact that she hadn’t slept for nearly an entire night. She’d thought a meal would make her feel stronger, but it only somehow made her feel
saner,
which wasn’t precisely an asset on this mis
sion. It all seemed very quixotic.

But what choice did they have? What would become of Colin Eversea if they couldn’t prove his innocence?

What would become of her if she never earned an
other penny?

Unconsciously, her hand went back to touch the wall behind her, just to feel the reassurance of something solid. She could almost feel the abyss of her future behind her, threatening to suck her into it.

“Why do you need the money, Mrs.Greenway?” His voice had gone politely interrogatory once more.

She swiveled her head toward him, startled. “I beg your pardon?”

“You told me you needed the money urgently. Why? Debts? Blackmail? Where would you have gone if you hadn’t come with me?”

Why, in other words, should he continue to trust her? After all, rumor had it an award was now attached to his head.

She couldn’t help but wonder if this was true, and how much it would be, and if it was enough to get her to America.

“I’ve made plans to leave the country. And the money was necessary for me to complete my plans,” she said coolly. “I very much need the money, Mr. Eversea, and I need a good deal of it. I spent every penny I had rescu
ing
you
.”

“I hear Botany Bay is lovely this time of year.”

“Oh, very clever. I had another country in mind. America.”

“What are you running away
from
, Mrs. Greenway?”

“Funny question from the man I rescued from the gallows.”

He smiled at that, amused, and leaned back against the wall, gazing up at the sky again.

So they’d reestablished mutual distrust. But Colin’s smile lingered a little, as though he knew it was only a matter of time before he knew all he wanted to know about Madeleine Greenway.

His certainty was maddening, and absolutely compelling.

Then again, she imagined poking away at her with questions was a wonderful diversion from the fact that he’d been nearly hung for a crime he might not have committed, and from the possibility that a brother he’d loved his entire life was behind it, and about to marry the woman he’d loved his entire life.

The muscles of her stomach tightened, taking this in. She could hear in his voice the same weariness she felt, and wondered if it had a little something to do with the possible futility of ever proving his innocence—if he was indeed innocent. Of ever trusting anyone, or ever being trusted again.

Ah, how much easier all of this would have been if he did not persist in becoming a person to her. Madeleine fought the impulse to brush her hands over her face in frustration, and she suspected she looked a fright, and it irritated her that this was a concern because it hadn’t been in ages.

Colin gestured with one hand to the little bundle of food and raised a brow in query. She gave her head a shake: no, she didn’t want more. So he knotted the napkin and stood quickly, gathering up his bundle, and reached a hand down.

She stared at the hand knowing he’d extended it out of solicitousness and breeding, out of challenge, out of a wish to touch her because he knew he could move her, out of a wish to restore some order to his world, because in his world a man simply held out his hand to women.

It wasn’t as though she hadn’t risen to her feet on her own a thousand times over the past several years. It wasn’t as though she needed him to
help
her rise. But she took it, allowed his fingers to close over hers, al
lowed him to help her to stand.

When she was upright, he held onto her hand a moment longer than necessary. And she allowed that, too, to prove he couldn’t move her so easily, or scare her.

Today, however, he’d proved he could do both.

His expression was somber, but one of his brows

twitched up:
There
,
that wasn’t so hard
,
was it
,
Mrs. Greenway?

He released her hand.

Madeleine pulled her gloves on as she walked, strid
ing out of the mews in search of a hackney. She would do the hailing of it, as it was safer than parading Colin Eversea through St. James Square.

nm

nglish law enforcement was sadly fragmented, established in one parish and nonexistent in the next, which was marvelously convenient for thieves, who needed only to steal in one place and fl ee down an alley and—
voilà!
They were all but home free. The scaffold and the hulks and transportation had done little to discourage enterprising criminals. Everything in London could be stolen and resold.

All of this worked beautifully in their favor—for now. Though Colin was aware that he might well be a desperately wanted man, that there might indeed be a grand price on his head—though they hadn’t been able to confirm this yet—his best protection was to stay away from his usual haunts and not look any soldiers in the eye.

Madeleine hailed the hackney in Grosvenor Square, and Colin, in his rumpled coat with the collar up, cravat tied with what he hoped would be construed as day-after-debauchery-devil-may-care—a common look among the young bloods of the ton—climbed into it while Madeleine discussed their destination with the driver.

Colin knew the doctor’s street. It was home to bank
ers and merchants, doctors and barristers, but it was a mere few minutes to Rotten Row by carriage, and the day’s weather—a great sheet of hazy blue for a sky, no clouds, and a forgiving but adamant heat—was the sort that drew out open carriages filled with people whom Colin had gambled, fought, or flirted (or rather more).

And despite the occasion of his hanging, he doubted all of these people would miss an opportunity to be seen by each other and to talk about him.

He wished desperately for clean clothes and for some
one vacuous to flirt with. More than that, he wanted to sit across from the calm blue eyes of Louisa Porter, hold her knitting, and listen to her talk about how the chick
ens weren’t laying as well as they ought. He wanted to talk and talk, because that’s what he usually did with Louisa, and she did a good deal of listening and laugh
ing. He missed the cooler, cleaner air of the downs, and he wanted to be out walking them with her.

He also wanted a pistol. He rather coveted Mrs. Greenway’s handsome stick.

It had done no good to ponder and want, because now that the facts he’d gleaned and the ones he hadn’t— specifically information about Mrs. Greenway—were settling in and beginning to gnaw at him and he at them, he was in a mood.

“
You’ll
have to see if the good doctor is in, Mrs. Greenway.
I
can’t very well waltz up to the door.”

His companion gave a start, and he studied her shrewdly. Ah, so Mrs. Greenway wasn’t made of iron. He suspected she’d been dozing with her eyes open. The fragile skin beneath her eyes was mauve. Her hair was also coming loose: one narrow little strand was trac
ing her pale, angular jaw, another fl oating close to that
generous mouth, perhaps as a result of those moments in the wardrobe. She looked as though she’d been rav
ished. He doubted she would welcome the observation.

“You look as though you’ve been ravished,” he said, as he was in a mood to make unwelcome observations.

He had the satisfaction of seeing her eyes widen and—this was a lovely sight— color slowly spill into her fair cheeks.

She ignored him and turned her head toward the car
riage window, watching sedate streets roll by.

“We’re going to need to pawn another button soon,” he pressed irritably, undaunted by her silence. Shame was wearing upon him a bit. They had one shilling.
One
shilling.

“Perhaps you should have asked the countess for money.”

“Oh, she never has money. She has debts that would make your eyes water. She’s quite the little gambler. Her husband takes care of all of that. The earl is unimagin
ably wealthy, so everyone is happy in the end, because gambling makes her happy.”

“You certainly know a good deal about her.”

“I certainly do.” He smiled.

There was a pause. She cleared her throat. “Do I really—”

“Look as though you’ve been ravished? I’m afraid so. Your hair is listing a bit.”

She frowned a little, and her hand went up to her temple as if to smooth it back. “I can’t walk up to the doctor’s door and just—”

Colin reached out and tucked the strand of hair behind her ear.

It was an impulsive, whimsical . . . and very wrong thing to do. Because something odd happened to time
then: it slowed when his fingers touched her hair. His hand lingered as though caught in a net, seduced by, even shocked by, the cloudy-soft feel of it, by the cool silky edge of her ear.

And he knew he really ought not, but his mind was not at work here, only his senses, so he did: as he tucked her hair away, he very deliberately and delicately traced the contour of her ear.

His fingertips hovered near her earlobe for an instant.

And then his hand fell heavily back into his lap. Rather like Icarus tumbling from the sky.

Absurdly spellbound, they stared at each other.

Colin could not have guessed how long the silence lasted. The color had spread from her cheeks to her throat, and he wanted desperately to know if that soft expanse of skin across her chest was rosy, too, and whether he’d once again stood her nipples on end. He couldn’t see in the dark of the carriage.

“Better?” Her voice was husky.

“No,” he said.

She smiled a little at that, wryly, and turned her head. Seconds later he saw her swallow.

And it occurred to him distantly that now that he’d touched her, he was probably only going to continue searching for excuses to touch her, which was probably mad and foolish, and this baffled him and made him restless, and did nothing but color his mood darker.

The hackney halted before the doctor’s stately yet reassuringly ordinary home. Five steps ramped up to a solid, respectable, brass-knockered door, behind which, hopefully, they would find the doctor and answers.

The hackney heaved and squeaked as the driver took himself to the ground, and then he was at the door and
pulling it open and extending a hand to Madeleine, who took it and disembarked with alacrity.

The driver peered in curiously at Colin, who had tipped the hat farther down over his face and slumped in the seat, arms crossed over his chest, legs stretched out.

“He’s ill,” Madeleine explained in hushed tones. “We’ve come to see the doctor.”

“Oh.” The driver looked worried now. “Contagious, is it, madam?”

“No. It’s more of a . . . ” She lowered her voice even more, though there wasn’t a soul within earshot or another sound apart from wheels and hooves of a few carriages returning from Hyde Park. “ . . . masculine problem.”

Colin sighed. Then again, she’d perhaps hit upon the one thing guaranteed not to inspire questions.

Hilarity, perhaps. But questions? No.

But when the driver met this revelation with dumb-struck—perhaps even horrifi ed—silence, Madeleine continued. “Will you be so kind as to wait while I see if the doctor is in?”

“Of—Of course, madam.” The poor man was stuttering.

The hackney door closed and the window curtain shimmied back into place.

Colin immediately sat bolt upright and swept the curtain aside again to watch Madeleine walk briskly up the steps. He smiled a little. He wondered if Madeleine Greenway ever
meandered.

“Argh!” Colin reared back in shock when the coach-man’s face loomed in the window, and dropped the curtain.

The man tapped on the door.

Colin dragged his hat down over his face again, crossed his arms again, and ignored him.

“Hssst,”
the coachman said, his lips to the window.
“Sir
.
”

Colin pretended not to hear, which went against ev
erything bred into him. The Everseas were rogues, but they had politeness the way other people had diseases.

“Guv,” the driver said a bit more loudly.

He was going to have to address this. Colin sat slowly, cautiously up, trying to make it look as though simply doing this was painful, though God only knew what conclusions the man would draw. His heart was thumping in earnest now.

Christ, he hadn’t a pistol. They really needed to remedy this.

“Yes?” He made the word gruff. An attempt at a voice disguise. But he didn’t open the coach door. If the man attempted to drive off with him, or pull him out of the hackney, Colin could lash out with one long leg and get him in the knees. Good trick, that one. He’d learned it from Marcus.

The coachman had his face pressed to the window, and his lips fogged it as he spoke. “Go see McBride in Seven Dials. ’E’s in a right scary road, but trust me, guv: ’e’ll ’ave summat fer every
masculine
complaint. The doctor ’ere”—the driver’s thumb jerked behind him, and Colin desperately wished he could peer behind the man to know whether Madeleine had vanished into the house—“canna do more than McBride, I can assure ye of that.”

Message delivered, the jarvey gave a little nod of en
couragement and satisfaction, and clambered aboard the hackney again. It swayed as it took his weight.

And all was quiet again.

Colin closed his eyes, eased a long breath out, and pondered the exchange. God, but the past few weeks had certainly played merry hell with his pride. It was a funny old world, full of heartbreak and injustice and violence. And unexpected kindness and warmth and advice.

And delicious, dangerous attractions.

He wondered what would have happened if he’d lifted his head up to show his face to the coachman, and just in case he wasn’t recognized straight off, perhaps propped two fingers up above his head to indicate horns of the Satanic variety. Would the driver have beamed and stuttered his admiration for Mr. Colin Eversea and offered them free hackney rides all over London? Or would he have pulled out a picket pistol and dragged him off to the authorities for his reward?

He would have liked to ask the driver if he knew how much was being offered for Colin Eversea’s capture.

Funny old world.

Colin swept the coach window curtain aside again and saw Madeleine coming down the steps. She was tucking a hair behind her ear. And somehow . . . that very simple gesture communicated immediately to his groin, and he felt the most peculiar, sharp breathlessness.

When she reached the bottom step, she looked toward the hackney window and gave him a slight shake of her head. Colin gave a start, unwrapped his bundle of clothes and rapidly worked one of the silver buttons free from his waistcoat. He knew a bit of regret when the thread snapped.

Beautiful waistcoat, that. Expensive. Not that he’d actually paid for it yet—
credit
had paid for it—but nevertheless.

The driver was down from the carriage to the
ground in a thrice—a heave and a squeak told Colin this—eager to help the handsome woman aboard once more. But Colin had the door open before the driver could reach her, and before she could react, he’d seized her hand, pressed the button into her gloved palm, and fl ung himself back against the seats.

She stared blankly down at it. Then comprehension dawned, she turned and said sweetly to the driver, “I fear we’re without coin. But would you be so kind as to take this? ’Tis silver.” She showed it to him.

“I’d take you to Surrey for this button,” the coach
man said fervently.

“Would you?” She sounded genuinely interested.

“No, but ’tis a fine button. Where can I take you next?”

“To Edderly Hospital. We’ll wait for the doctor there.”

The sun was on its downward slide now, and the out
lines of buildings were beginning to fade back against the sky. The jarvey lit the coach lamps before he set out, knowing it would be dark by the time they reached their destination.

And the dark had once signaled a time for play to begin for Colin, and play for him wouldn’t have ended until the sun rose again. Now he both welcomed and resented the dark because he felt safer in it. The entire world had once been his, everywhere in it, from dawn until midnight.