The Ravishing One (9 page)

“But do you have a say in the matter? I don’t recall a discussion about when and where the loser would reward the winner,” she said challengingly. She spread her arms in a beseeching gesture and turned to their audience. “What say you, gentlemen?”

“She has you, old son,” said a dandy dressed in Turkish robes. Others, including Johnston—damn him for a disloyal dog—voiced their agreement.

Thomas forced a smile. “And I don’t recall agreeing that the public might be called upon to moderate.”

“You didn’t,” she answered, her arms slowly falling to her sides. “So I must appeal to your sense of sportsmanship and your honesty. You
are
honest?”

“Do you doubt it?” he asked tightly.

“I?” she asked. “I don’t
know
you, sir. No better than
you
know
me.”
Her voice had grown cold. “At least I have the advantage of realizing my ignorance. But that,” she said, her voice abruptly returning to its former teasing lightness, “is beside the point. I will assume you are a fair man and ask this: If you had won the game, would you have been content to unmask me at some future date?”

She had him.

“No.” He sketched her a mockingly short bow. “I am, milady, of course, entirely at your service.”

Not well done
, he thought as the men about them broke into snickers and her exposed flesh grew rosy.

“I suppose it would be asking too much for you to come to me?” she asked in the tone one used on a spoiled child.

“Not at all,” he responded, and in two broad steps covered the distance separating them. He looked down at her, very conscious of how he loomed over her. “What would you have me do next?”

Her head tipped back. “Nothing.”

He did not look away as one of her hands stole up his chest. Their gazes were locked in some contest neither was willing to lose. It was ridiculous, nonsense,
Thomas told himself, and yet … and yet it seemed so damned important.

Her fingers crept about the back of his neck and winnowed through his hair. The shadowed blue of her eyes deepened with a lambent quality. Her lips parted, revealing a sliver of the dark mystery within. Her nostrils flared delicately, as though she’d scented his arousal, and her cheeks flushed in response.

“You are too tall.” Her other hand joined the first behind his neck and she stretched against him, pressing her soft breasts to his chest as she raised herself slowly on her tiptoes and pulled his head down. She made a throaty sound, like a purr, and then her lips were skating just above the surface of his jaw, so close he could feel their warmth, an electrical tingling.

And he wanted more. He wanted the velvety plush mouth pressed to his flesh.… No, to his mouth.

“Turn your head, sir,” she whispered so that he alone could hear. “For while I am sure
you
would never ask for more than a lady would willingly give,
I
am not made of so strong a moral fiber. I want what I want, Lord Pirate, and I want to kiss your mouth.”

She smiled slowly, and slowly touched her lips to his mouth, teasing him, tormenting him with what she withheld.

He would not let her win. He would not turn to force a fuller, deeper union. He stood rigidly and felt the light trill of her laughter wash over his lips.

The very tip of her tongue touched the sensitive corner of his mouth.

Desire speared him and he jerked back. Behind her mask, her eyes gleamed with maleficent satisfaction. Then, quick as a cat, she pulled his head down and swept her little tongue fully across his lips. Before he could react, she danced back, smiling.

Suddenly Thomas became aware of the men all around them. Most were strangers to him but all stood silent and fixed, the air charged with ill-suppressed sexual excitement. She’d awoken something there, something primal and predacious. Something dangerous.

She ran her tongue lightly over her lips, tasting. “Brandy. And a good brandy, too. I believe the Pirate King takes his share of the profits in liquor.”

She noted it then, the unnatural silence of the spectators. The smile died on her lips. Her eyes moved slowly over the still, intent crowd, a spark of dawning fear in their shaded blue depths.

They were still far from most of the crowd and the paths leading back to the dance circle were dim and poorly lit. She held up her hand, motioning him near.

Grim satisfaction flooded through him. She would need to appeal to him now, to the “gentlemanliness” she’d derided, and ask that he accompany her back to safer ground, away from the impulses she’d so heedlessly awakened with her little performance. He moved to her side.

“We are quits, milord pirate,” she whispered. She smiled mockingly. She’d known that, too, that he would assume she’d appeal to him for help. “Goodbye.” She moved away.

“Wait.”

She paused.

“An honest gambler would allow his opponent a chance to recoup his losses.”

“But I’m not an honest gambler—which should come as no surprise to you.” She turned, looked back over her shoulder, and pitching her words so that only he could hear them, said, “And even if we were to play again and this time you were to win, are you so certain you would know me even without my mask?”

She did not wait for his answer. With Fia’s unearthly grace she moved toward the phalanx of men. She did not pause as she approached them, and this—and her absolute and imperial refusal to acknowledge them—caused such disconcert that they stumbled apart and allowed her to pass.

A man near the edge of the circle swung around, his dark eyes marking her departing figure. The others milled uncertainly. He started after her.

“I wouldn’t,” Thomas called out calmly.

The man checked, glanced back at Thomas, his upper lip lifting in a sneer. “She made arrangements with you, then?”

The others looked at Thomas, their faces variously filled with jealousy and resignation. Only Johnston looked unhappy and confused.

“Aye. She’s mine.” It didn’t matter that it was a lie, he thought, watching her disappear into the light.

As long as he remembered it himself.

*   *   *

The lighting in Tiburn House did not begin to do justice to him or his costume, Lord Carr thought critically.

He turned his face this way and that. Perhaps it was this damned mirror. Made one’s skin look splotchy and tended to emphasize the middle of the face, which happened to be the nose, which was no longer perfect. He would have to see he repaid his son Raine for that someday.

He returned to contemplating his reflection. There was also the irksome matter of some other people here wearing the same costume as his. He’d been quite certain his costume was unique. In fact, he was
still
certain his was the original notion, and when he returned to his town house he would have a little discussion with his current valet about the importance of discretion. Hopefully the fellow would survive to benefit from the lecture. Breaking in new valets was such tiresome work.

“Lord Carr.” Another face joined his in the mirror. A cadaverous-looking Spaniard with an imbecile fake goatee and a perfectly noxious black velvet doublet.

“What is it, Tunbridge?”

“She’s here.”

He already knew that. “Do you think my complexion looks uneven, Tunbridge, or is it simply these cheap tapers Portmann is using?”

Tunbridge flushed, and Carr smiled. How Tunbridge hated his position as lickspittle. Poor fool, even though he must realize that the more his hatred of
Carr grew the more delight Carr had in tormenting him, he still could not mask his loathing.

“Well? An honest answer, now. You know how I depend on your honesty,” Carr purred.

“The tapers, sir. Without doubt.”

“Hm. As I thought.” Carr turned to face his toady, glancing about to assure himself they were alone. “What have you learned about Captain Barton and his relationship with my daughter?”

“Barton’s last two voyages met with disaster. A Swiss company insured the first. I have been unable to ascertain whether he collected on his losses or not. The last was insured here in London, and that Barton definitely collected on. He’s bought a new ship and he’s been spending money hand over fist. Most of it on Lady Fia.”

Carr’s mouth grew tender. “How enterprising of her, but alas, how futile.”

“Sir?”

“Why, it’s apparent, isn’t it?”

A stumper, apparently. Tunbridge wrinkled his brow. “They’re lovers and she’s taking him for all she can get?”

“No, no, no. Really,
think
, man. What do you know of Fia? Other than that you once had the audacity to think she—or more to the point,
I
—would ever consider allowing you to marry her.”

Tunbridge did not reply. His face … well, now
that
was a splotchy complexion. Carr glanced at his own reflected visage, but seeing Tunbridge’s slack expression of bewilderment mirrored behind his own regal
countenance, he sighed, resigning himself to once more having to illustrate to a lesser intelligence what was abundantly clear.

“They’re not lovers. They’re
partners.”

“Partners?”

“Yes, you dimwit. Oh, he’s courting her, all right, but Fia is, after all, my daughter. Would she be content with sitting at the table waiting to receive whatever bones this … this
colonist
is willing to throw her, when she could have the entire feast?” He snorted at the very notion. “Hardly.”

“But,” Tunbridge stammered, “but if she’s his partner, why is he showering her with all these gifts?”

Carr stared at Tunbridge. He couldn’t believe he had to explain this. When Tunbridge’s brows lowered in fierce, if unfruitful, concentration, Carr gave up. “She’s accepting his gifts
at the same time
that she’s bundling away her portion of the insurance. That way she reaps more than a half share.” His gaze grew fond. “Savvy little beast, ain’t she?”

“How do you know this? How can you be sure?” Tunbridge asked, eyes wide in his cadaverous face.

“You don’t imagine for an instant that I rely solely on
your
reports for my information, do you?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “I’ve looked into the matter. Fia has invested nearly a thousand pounds in various instruments since Captain Barton’s arrival.

“Besides, if they were lovers Fia wouldn’t be going about flaunting her availability to every man in town, would she?”

Tunbridge’s expression hardened. The fool still had
feelings for Fia, though from his expression it was clear they were no longer of a romantic nature.
“She
might.”

“She might if her lover were
you
, Tunbridge,” Carr conceded dryly. “I doubt, however, that she’d play so fast and lose with a man like Captain Barton. No, she hasn’t committed any acts of insanity, such as taking a colonist water rat for a lover.” And insane it would be if Fia were to put herself beyond the pale once and for all.

Carr considered further. He’d encountered Fia earlier in the evening, on the terrace. It had quite startled him to see her mouth was tremulous beneath her silver mask and the mantle of angry color covering her shoulders and throat. His daughter, usually about as easy to read as Chinese characters, looked near to sobbing with fury.

A few minutes later Thomas Donne had stalked across the back lawn, his face set in taciturn lines. Had the tall Scot given his little Fia a set-down? Oh, if only he had been there to witness that!

He glanced up and noticed Tunbridge still hovering miserably. “Well?” he snapped irritably. Toadies were all very well and good, but even baiting one such as Tunbridge palled after a while. “You’ve said what you came to say. Unless you have further information of a pertinent nature, be gone.”

Tunbridge dipped at the waist and began to scurry off. Carr, his attention once more focused on the mirror, frowned. “Tunbridge!” he called.

The thin figure came to a quivering standstill by the doorway. “Yes, milord?”

“You don’t think the pink was a mistake, do you?”

Tunbridge’s hand curled at his side, the side hidden from Carr’s view. “No, milord. A most flattering shade.”

Carr nodded complacently, accepting the compliment as his due. “That’s what I thought. Go on, now. I don’t want people getting the lowering notion that you and I are associates.”

Without responding, Tunbridge disappeared, leaving Carr still examining his reflection. Perhaps it was time to rejoin the party, he thought. There were still people to meet, secrets to hear, intelligence to be gathered. He composed his lips into a smile, adjusted his pink, lace-covered bodice, snapped open his ostrich-plume fan, and sallied forth.

Chapter 7

T
homas stepped out into the early afternoon sun and snapped the papers he held against his thigh. His mouth still held the grim lines it had taken on during his interview with Sir Ffolkes, one of Lloyd’s Insurance Company’s senior partners. He’d run into him on leaving Portmann’s masque two nights ago. Ffolkes had invited Thomas to his offices for an “informal conversation.” His curiosity piqued by Ffolkes’s somber manner—he knew the man only superficially but had always gauged him a decent, even-tempered sort—he’d agreed.

The information he’d gathered in the last half hour had been worth the effort. It had also infuriated him that the rumors surrounding James Barton had reached so far and been taken so seriously. Thomas had assured
Ffolkes that Barton was not guilty of insurance fraud and offered to supply proof. He looked down at the copy of the manifest for the
Iona
still clenched in his fist. He’d promised Ffolkes he would have a letter from the Swiss company that had insured Barton’s shipment confirming that it had, indeed, been delivered. He would dearly like to find who was at the root of these foul accusations.

In such a mood he descended the steps and crossed the street, maneuvering through the swelling throngs of carriages and lorries to the park opposite. For once, the perpetual haze shrouding London had lifted, leaving the sky above clear except for an occasional puff. Soon the sun warmed on his shoulders and Thomas slowed his pace, his temper dissolving.