The Reckless One (12 page)

“You’re not considering Orville for a potential mate, are you?”

“Orville?” Favor repeated.

“Your smile was hardly pleasant. I thought perhaps you’d determined Orville had the deepest available pockets and for all his lack of charm would serve your purpose.”

She didn’t consider telling him the name of her projected spouse. Rafe might be a distraction for her, but she knew next to nothing about him. She would take no risk with Muira’s plans. Besides, he’d only laugh at her. Or worse, pity her or even—
damn
that inner voice!—be disgusted with her.

“No. Not Orville. He’s married. I haven’t really decided on anyone yet.”

“Oh?” He moved closer to her. He was very, very tall. She had to lean her head back to meet his eyes. “Then I suppose you’ll be in a lather to get back to the mart and queue up the prospects.”

She snorted in an utterly unladylike manner. “Hardly.” The word came spilling out before she could stop it, giving far too much away.

One heavy brow climbed above a toffee-brown eye. “Good.”

“And why is that?” she asked.

“Because,” he said, “I’ve decided that food and clothing—the latter of which, by the way, I don’t see—are too little to demand by way of reparation. Especially from someone who was anticipating rape.”

Her heartbeat kicked into a gallop. Her mouth went dry.

“What do you want?” she croaked.

“You’ll see,” he said, his sensual gaze gliding over her face and body. “But first, you’ll have to take off those clothes.”

Sweat covered Favor’s bare arms and neck. The fine hairs at her temple coiled into damp tendrils and clung in little black commas to her throat and collarbone. She licked her lips, sampling the salty mist. Her limbs felt weak and logy. Muscles she hadn’t even known she owned ached with overuse.

She looked in the mirror, barely recognizing the well-tumbled-looking, relaxed wench staring back. Her makeup had long since gone. Her skin glowed.

“Oh,” she whispered guiltily, “that was grand!”

“What did you say?”

She turned from the mirror, smiling innocently at Rafe. He’d stopped rummaging through the huge crate he’d hefted to the top of a breakfront. “Nothing.”

It would never do to admit that helping him search for McClairen’s Trust had been more reward than punishment. She’d shed her beautiful gown and donned the old smock he’d unearthed from some box, trying to hide her elation. She’d spent too much time in front of too many mirrors trying to be Janet McClairen. The relief of her release from that role made her giddy.

It had been wonderful. She’d rummaged, poked, and rifled through cabinets and wardrobes, drawers and chests, under beds and through rolls of bunting and stacks of linens. She hadn’t found the Trust or the ornamental box he claimed legend said it resided in—though she’d never heard that part of the legend before.

She
had
found little mysteries and precious keepsakes: a child’s ebullient account of his life written a hundred years before; a broken scimitar reverently wrapped in a faded Moorish flag; a woman’s crystal flacon that still carried the faint scent of roses. They captivated her with their unspoken histories. McClairen histories.

Her history.

She remembered few of her mother’s stories and none of her father’s. She barely recalled him at all. He’d returned from London soon after the massacre, his plea for mercy refused; her brothers’ fates sealed. He’d returned and been met with the news of his wife’s death and his people’s slaughter. He’d been dead within the year.

Muira had written to her about her ancestors; long lists of names and dry recitations of battles won and lands conquered. But
these
things, Favor gently touched a child’s pearl ring, they related intimate stories. For the first time her ancestors had become real.

What fond mother had tucked this leather slingshot into this drawer? Had someone died wielding this scimitar or had it been broken symbolically? This flacon may have been a great aunt’s, this diary her grandfather’s.

Rafe didn’t object to her dawdling—even when she spread a pack of tattered playing cards upon the floor and pored over it until she’d discovered that the knave of hearts was missing. He’d remained silent, systematically going through each piece of furniture and chest along one wall.

Only occasionally she’d crow with delight over some oddity and look up to find him watching her with an unreadable expression. She didn’t know what to make of him. These past few hours, he’d seemed nothing more than a young man filled with enthusiasm for their task. It was as if in this room both of them had found some part of the innocent pleasures of a childhood neither had owned.

“Well, this is the last thing large enough to hold a two-foot-square box,” she said, tapping on the lid of a traveling trunk. It was just as well. The sun would set in an hour or so. If she wanted to escape an interrogation by Muira, she’d have to be back in her room dressed for evening by the time the old lady knocked on the door.

Rafe didn’t answer so she raised the heavy lid. Inside lay carefully folded satin clothing, copper and plum colored, studded with gems and metallic threads, glinting like the scales of an exotic fish beneath long-desiccated lavender sprigs.

“What is it?” Rafe asked, peering over her shoulder.

“I don’t know,” she replied, keeping her face averted. He smelled of dust and heat and male exertion, a potent scent, distinct and earthy. She dared not turn. He still wore his shirt open.

“Begad, at least one of those Highland heathens was a dandy.” His laughter tickled her ear.

“What is it?” she asked, gingerly lifting the gleaming material.

“I believe it’s a gentleman’s coat in the Persian style. Quite the mode in the last French court.”

“It’s fantastic!” she exclaimed, shaking lose the folds and holding the garment up by the shoulders. “What is the purpose of these loops of ribbon, do you imagine?” She glanced over her shoulder.

He stood very close behind her. A long streak of grime marked his exposed pectoral like a brand. His labors had sheathed his dark skin in a silky dampness, accentuating each contour and ridge in the slanting light. A white scar on his belly disappeared under the waistband of breeches, which rode low on his hips.

“Decorative.” He reached over her shoulder and flicked his finger against a jeweled bauble. “Damn, it’s only glass.”

“Oh, and you’re an expert on gems?” she asked dryly.

He grinned cheekily, his sidelong glance too knowing by half. “You’d be surprised at what areas I excel in.”

She rather doubted that.

She looked away, unwilling to be caught and held by his gaze. It had already happened several times too often that afternoon. It was like drowning in a warm pool of honey.

She quashed the errant thought. The longer she spent in his company, the more easily such thoughts came. ’Twould never do. They were … well, if not exactly sworn enemies, hardly friends. After all, she was here under duress, not because she wanted to be here. Even if she
did
enjoy being here, he didn’t know that.

She was getting damned—she bobbed her head and mumbled a
mea culpa
for her profanity—confused.

“What are you doing?” he asked curiously.

“Thinking.”

“About?”

“How … how perfect this would be for the masque.”

“What masque?”

“Friday evening, a week hence,” she answered, glad to escape her uncomfortable thoughts. She peered into the trunk. More garments lay exposed. Buff breeches, garters of pink rosettes and buckles sparkling with crystals. “We’re all to dress in costume and conceal our faces.”

His expression smoothed to indifference. “Ah. There’s good hunting,” he said. “Just make sure the bait isn’t taken before the trap is sprung.”

“Pardon me?”

His smile was suave. “It’s a perfect opportunity for a spot of dalliance. How did you so charmingly put it? ‘All I own is my virtue’? I’m simply advising you to retain it so that come your wedding night you can … deliver the goods. A masque offers a unique opportunity for men—and women—to sample that which they have no intention of purchasing.”

She felt as though he’d slapped her. From easy camaraderie, he’d plunged them back into Wanton’s Blush’s sordid world. She could not think to reply. Her hands fell to her sides, carrying with them the copper-colored coat.

“Here now,” he said, “that expression of censure will never do, Miss Donne. As a prime piece in this particular marriage mart you are here to be approved, not to condemn your fellow guests for taking advantage of that which they came expressly to enjoy.”

“And what is that?” she asked stiffly.

“An amoral, conscienceless society.”

“You overstate the case.”

His laughter contained no humor. “Perhaps you choose not to see what is abundantly clear.”

“How do you know so much about it?” she challenged him.

“Everyone knows about Wanton’s Blush, Miss Donne,” he replied. Pity softened his tone. “Didn’t you?”

“Of course.” Carelessly she tossed the gentleman’s coat back into the trunk. “Whatever odd notions you have about me, you exceed yourself. You know nothing about me. Even less than I know about you.”

“Which is exactly what?” he asked.

“That you are a thief. You are a blackmailer. You are here to steal jewels and you have forced me to be your accomplice.” Her gaze dared him to deny the charge. He didn’t.

“I take it our truce is off,” he said glibly.

“Yes. I got your food. I helped you search this room. I have done enough for you. I bid you
adieu,
Monsieur.” She wheeled about, sailing past him and to the door with stately indifference.

“Brava.”
Clap. Clap. Clap.
He was applauding!

The scoundrel! The wretch! She swallowed an angry retort, refusing to acknowledge his audacity. She took hold of the door handle and pulled. It remained stubbornly shut. Damn! She closed her eyes, mumbled a prayerful apology, grasped the handle in both hands and yanked. Nothing.

“Damn! Damn!
Damn!”

“Miss Donne?”

Frustration vied with mortification. Frustration won. She seized the handle, shaking the brass handle violently.

“Miss Donne?”

“What!” She swung around.

His arms overflowed with emerald velvet, yards and yards of the stuff. “You forgot your dress.”

She bit down hard on her lip, refusing to give vent to the string of epithets piling up behind her clenched teeth. She stalked back across the room, snatched her gown from him, turned, marched back to the door, seized the handle in both hands, and, setting her heels for leverage—

“You might want to try pushing the door rather than pulling it.”

Striving for some shred of dignity, she pushed. Silently, the door swung open.

“Tomorrow we’ll search the room next to this one.”

She wouldn’t reply.

“Also, though the beef was good, I wouldn’t mind some fowl. Try not to mash up the cake next time.”

He
couldn’t
make her respond.

“And do remember my clothes. I should hate for my aroma to offend you tomorrow and I intend to keep working this evening.”

“I’m not coming tomorrow,” she bit out.

“Now, that”—his voice, all afternoon so easy and unruffled, now flooded with darkness—“would be a mistake.”

“Miss Donne.” Carr stood back from the chair he held out, waiting for her to take her seat. For him to have not only taken her in to dinner but then to seat her so high at the table was beyond irregular. Speculative murmurs rippled beneath the squawk of drink-infused conversation. Favor slid into the seat, refusing to acknowledge the glares of those who would point out that by doing so she usurped a marchioness, a pair of baronesses, and at least half a dozen ladies.

“Miss Donne.”

Favor looked up and found herself facing Fia Merrick across the table. The girl looked faintly amused. But as far as Favor could tell, Lady Fia always looked faintly amused, her black wing-shaped brows forever canted at an ironic angle, the ice blue of her gaze perpetually glittering with secret wisdom.

“Lady Fia,” she returned politely. What could this enigmatic and aloof girl want of her? Though at least three years her junior, in some ways Fia seemed older than any woman in the room.

“Lord Tunbridge begs an introduction.” Long, slender fingers moved fractionally, stirring the air in a little ballet of grace, indicating a hitherto unnoticed gentleman. “Miss Favor Donne, may I present Lord Tunbridge. Lord Tunbridge, Miss Donne.”

He nodded, his hooded gaze assessing her closely. “Miss Donne, my pleasure.”

Tall and cadaverously thin, the unpadded skin of his face cleaved tightly to a well-shaped skull. He looked angry and hungry. His white hands moved restlessly among the silverware, fidgeting and aligning the pieces.

Favor mentally skewered her right cheek with a dimple, emulating Janet McClairen’s one-sided smile. “Thank you, sir.”

“Tunbridge is a great friend of Carr’s,” Fia said smoothly. “Aren’t you, Lord Tunbridge?”

Beside Favor, Carr remained silent, clearly comfortable in the role of spectator.

“But not so great a friend as he would like to be,” Fia said. Briefly, affecting sympathy, she touched Tunbridge’s hand, lingering just a shade longer than simple sympathy would merit. Tunbridge speared her with a ravening glance, which she adroitly avoided.

“They appear to have had a falling out, however,” Fia continued. “These things sometimes happen among intimates, Miss Donne. Particularly ones with so long a history as Lord Tunbridge and my father. We must apply ourselves to smoothing things o’er between them. It is our duty as women, being the pacific creatures that we are. Don’t you agree?”

The girl’s lines were designed to give Favor an opportunity to perform her role. Yet she found herself resisting. The afternoon had given her a taste for freedom. How ironic that a thief and a blackmailer should have provided her with a momentary escape from her fate—a fate she herself had chosen, she reminded herself sternly.

Fia was still calmly awaiting her answer.

Favor still had a debt to repay.

“I am sorry to contradict you, Lady Fia, but I have never considered myself particularly pacific. Perhaps it is your nature to forget a wrong. It is not mine.”

Beside her she heard Carr’s faint but discernible inhalation. The veins on the back of his hands stood out like ropes.
En garde.

“So you believe in a biblical variety of justice?” Fia asked.