The Spring Bride (11 page)

They subsided into companionable silence.

After a while Gil said, “So you'll stay for the hearing?”

“To assert my status as the living heir? Of course.”

“Good.” Gil pulled out a card and wrote on the back of it. “Then take this to my tailor tomorrow—his address is on the back—tell him I sent you, and order yourself some decent clothes. You'll need to look like a gentleman.” He passed Zach the card, and sat back. “And after that?”

Zach sipped the brandy thoughtfully. “Not sure, to be honest.”

“Wainfleet?”

“Can't leave it to rot.” Much as he felt like it.

Wainfleet had always been very much his father's domain. Now it was his. He wasn't sure how that made him feel.

“If I could sell it, I would, sight unseen, but the damned place is entailed, so I'll have to put in a manager, I suppose.”

“And then you'll do what? Return to the same work? After eight years of it?”

Zach shrugged. “Why not?” But truth to tell, he didn't know what he wanted. Yesterday his plans had been simple, his future crystal clear: Get the Hungarian papers to Gil, then return to the Continent and take up where he'd left off. Now . . . now the past
was rising up to haunt him. There was a court case, possibly two. And obligations.

And a girl with wide, fathomless blue eyes . . .

“Aren't you tired of that life? It's not the same now, since we've defeated Boney.”

“There's still a need for intelligence and information.”

“Of course, but . . .”

“But what?”

“Nothing,” Gil said. “If you enjoy it, I suppose . . . I just thought now, since you have alternatives . . .”

And there was the rub, Zach thought. Gil's words had struck closer than Gil knew. Zach had been getting weary of traveling, of dwelling in the shadows, living a life of adventure and uncertainty. It had been exciting at first, but after eight years—and a war—the zest of danger had palled.

He'd served his country well but now, being here in England after twelve years abroad, had . . . unsettled him. Against all his expectations, it felt almost like—no, that was ridiculous. He'd never felt at home in England. Or anywhere else. Certainly not at Wainfleet.

What to do with the rest of his life? He had no idea.

He drained his glass. “I hate making plans. They inevitably fail.” It was easier to go where chance took him.

“Not inevitably,” Gil reproved him. Gil prided himself on his ability to plan. “Still, if you're planning to stay and thwart your cousin's claim—not to mention sorting out that murder charge—there'll be plenty of time for you to make up your mind. You're welcome to stay here as long as you need. The guest quarters are a little poky, but—”

Zach laughed. “I've slept in coal cellars and haystacks. Your spare room is palatial by comparison.”

Silence fell. They sipped their brandy. The fire hissed and crackled gently. Outside, the patter of rain against the windows and the incessant rumble of the city that never slept.

“Tell me, Gil, what do you know of the Chance family?”

Gil frowned. “Chance family?”

“In particular a Miss Jane Chance, lives with a Lady Beatrice someone on Berkeley Square.”

Gil nodded. “Freddy Monkton-Coombes, who I just mentioned—fellow who used to live downst—”

“Chance, I said, not Monkton—”

“I'm getting there. Freddy married Miss Damaris Chance—Miss Jane's sister. Lady Beatrice—well, strictly speaking, she's the Dowager Lady Davenham, but she's a law unto herself, the old girl, and prefers to be called Lady Beatrice—daughter of an earl, you know. She's said to be the girls' aunt.”

“Said to be?” Zach frowned.

Gil made a vague gesture with his wineglass. “All a bit havey-cavey, if you ask me.”

“Everything is havey-cavey to you,” Zach pointed out. “You're probably suspicious of your own mother.”

“Not my mother,” Gil retorted, unperturbed. “Above rubies, my mother. M'father, now . . .”

Zach gave a snort of amusement. “So tell me about these sisters and their havey-cavey aunt.”

“Oh, there's nothing havey-cavey about Lady Bea, apart from being a little eccentric. Ancient noble family, counts half the
ton
as her friends and the other half she's related to. But the sisters appeared out of nowhere six months ago—supposedly from Venice. The story is they're the daughters of Lady Bea's half sister Grizelda and a Venetian
marchese
.” He paused and eyed Zach over his wineglass. “The
Marchese
di Chancelotto
.” His lips twitched.

“The
Marchese
di Chancelotto
?” Zach choked on his brandy. The name was outlandish. Nothing like any Italian or Venetian name he'd ever heard.

Gil nodded. “Precisely so.”

“So the girls are adventuresses?”

Gil shrugged. “Not clear. They're very popular. Lady Bea conducts what she calls a literary society. Everyone who's anyone attends, and the girls read the books aloud, so even though the season hasn't yet commenced, they're very well known, especially with the older set, who positively dote on them.”

“And nobody's ever called them on their story?”

“Well, it's not called ‘polite society' for nothing. In any case, the eldest girl married Lady Beatrice's nephew, Max, Lord Davenham, who must know the truth, and another married Freddy Monkton-Coombes, Davenham's best friend.”

“Which suggests that there's nothing havey-cavey about the girls.”

“That or they're such charmers their husbands don't care,” Gil said. He took a sip of brandy. “But you asked about the younger sister, Jane, did you not? She's not out yet—none of them are—but she's reputed to be a beauty, a diamond of the first water.”

“She is.”

Gil glanced up sharply. “How the devil do you know that?”

Zach shrugged. “Ran into her in a dark alley.”

Gil gave him a skeptical look. “Planning to run into her again?”

Zach didn't respond.

“Even though you said the lawyer advised you to lie low?”

“I also told you, the whole thing is a mistake.”

Gil drained his glass. “You never did like following orders, did you?”

Zach gave him a lazy grin. “I followed yours, didn't I?”

“No, you got the results I asked for,” Gil corrected him. “There's a significant difference.”

*   *   *

Z
ach tossed and turned in his bed. It was ridiculous that he couldn't get to sleep. He could sleep anywhere—he prided himself on it—a moving coach, a haystack, a cold cellar, even with enemies close by who planned to kill him. Anywhere. Anytime. It was a skill he'd honed over the years. Sleep when the opportunity presented itself.

And yet here, in Gil Radcliffe's very comfortable spare bed, with its feather mattress, fine linen sheets, warm blankets—and in perfect safety—he couldn't sleep. He turned over again, punching his pillow into a better shape, and contemplated his sleepless state. He was tense, restless.

It had been a long time since he'd had a woman. Perhaps that was the problem. No doubt Gil could direct him to some establishment where he could have his needs met . . .

He considered it. The idea didn't appeal. Zach was choosy about the women he took to bed.

Too choosy.

Curse it. He punched the pillow again. He knew what the problem was and there was no possible solution to it. The last woman he should be thinking about was Miss Jane Chance. She
was an innocent; a sweet, young, sheltered miss, the last person a jaded fellow like him should be thinking lustful thoughts of.

A gypsy—if not in truth, in lifestyle.

But Gil was right, he wasn't good at doing what he was supposed to.

He shouldn't be thinking about Jane Chance, but he was. He shouldn't be thinking about returning to Berkeley Square in the morning either, but he was.

He'd spent years relying on his instincts, and now they were at war, and all over this one girl.

Admittedly she was ravishingly beautiful.

But he'd known many beautiful women in his life, and though he admired beauty in a woman, it didn't necessarily call to him, didn't compel him to possess a woman, or even to want to know her better. It certainly didn't usually keep him awake at night.

But those wide blue eyes, blue as the Mediterranean on a summer's day, and just as easy to drown in . . . and that complexion, silken English peaches and cream. And the softest-looking, most kissable, cherry-dark mouth he'd seen in a long time . . .

He groaned and turned over. He was leaving England as soon as practicable. He shouldn't be thinking about any female except some temporary woman who wanted nothing more than a night or two of bed sports.

But he couldn't get Miss Jane Chance out of his mind.

How long had it been since he'd felt that . . . instant connection with a woman? Had he ever? Not lust—well, not just lust, but something . . . else.

Whatever it was, it had shaken him. When had he
ever
lost concentration like that? Not since he was a boy.

He'd lived with danger and deception so long that it was like a second skin to him now. He never forgot who he was supposed to be and that danger was ever present.

But today . . . his accent had slipped—several times—and he'd forgotten for a moment—actually forgotten—about those young thugs.

And all because of a pair of wide blue eyes, open and trusting.

And that mouth, tender and ripe and moist . . .

All right, so she appealed to his baser desires; she also intrigued him. On the surface she was the loveliest specimen of womanhood he'd seen in a long time. And yet she'd attacked a
bunch of thugs over an ugly stray mongrel—and was going to keep said mongrel in her elegant Mayfair mansion, what's more.

And according to Gil—and who would know better?—she had secrets, and not the kind of tame little secrets any gently raised girl would have. A fabricated background with a faux Venetian
marchese
for a father, no less. And that scuffle with the street toughs had revealed a streetwise awareness that no sheltered miss ought to have.

The skill with which she played the innocent young girl, how much of that was real? He thought again of the way that slow, enticing blush had risen from the neck of her dress, and he stirred restlessly.

He'd known a lot of women skilled in the arts of arousal and deception—it was inevitable in his line of work—but he'd never met a woman who could blush on command. Could she be as innocent as she seemed?

Were those blushes and that rosy, delectable mouth signs of a promise as yet unawakened?

Probably, he told himself grimly. And that was the very reason he shouldn't be going within a mile of Miss Jane Chance. She was young—eighteen or nineteen—and if not totally sheltered, she was, he was sure, untouched. And if he'd learned one thing in his lifetime with women, it was that you don't dally with young innocents.

Women tended to view bed sports differently, and some—especially the young ones—tended to confuse sex, even harmless flirtation, with . . . emotions. They had a tendency to deceive themselves about the meaning and significance of such acts.

He'd seen that in his father's young second wife, Cecily, met her as a dewy young bride, dazzled and infatuated by her handsome older husband.

His father was certainly pleased with his pretty young bride.

Zach at sixteen might have developed a bit of a crush on her himself. She was pretty and gentle and helpless in a way that might have appealed to a young lad, except that he had just discovered the joys of bed sports with a comely local widow five years his senior, and he only had eyes for her.

Zach was just relieved that his father was too busy with his new bride to bother making Zach's life a misery. It gave him a new sense of freedom. He could stay away from the house as
long as he wanted; his father never cared. So Zach kept out of the newlyweds' way.

When he finally noticed his father's young bride, it was because she was moving with a stiffness he recognized. And when he looked at her, really looked, he'd seen that the happy glow of young bridehood had disappeared and that she'd gone quiet and was no longer so pretty, but was somehow pinched-looking.

She'd sat silently at the dinner table that night as his father broached his second bottle of wine for the evening, pleating and repleating her table napkin with nervous fingers, watching her husband with quick, furtive glances and an expression that Zach recognized with a sick inner certainty. Dread.

And he realized why his father had eased up on him lately. He'd found a fresh victim.

Cecily's plight, her helplessness in the face of his father's bullying ways, had awakened Zach's protective instincts. And look where that had got him.

He had no plans to stay in England. He had no plans at all, and girls—respectable, young, unmarried girls—particularly young, unmarried girls with exotic invented backgrounds—would be all about plans.

So it would be pointless—pointless and foolish—trying to see her again. Much more sensible to go to Wales and fetch Cecily.

He closed his eyes and tried to sleep.

And pictured that rose-silken mouth, lips slightly parted . . .

His body stirred with awareness. He turned over and jammed his eyes shut.

And found himself drowning once more in a pair of wide blue eyes.

His mouth curved with cynical self-knowledge: She was not for the likes of him. Dammit. He punched the pillow again.

An engaged woman is always more agreeable than a disengaged. She is satisfied with herself. Her cares are over, and she feels that she may exert all her powers of pleasing without suspicion. All is safe with a lady engaged: no harm can be done.

—JANE AUSTEN,
MANSFIELD PARK

T
he gypsy was the first thing Jane thought of when she woke. The curtains were stirring with the breeze from the open window, but she could hear no rain. Good. She could take Caesar to the park.

Perhaps, if you happen to walk your dog in the mornings, say around ten, we might happen to meet.

A slow smile curved her lips. Of course she wouldn't meet him—that was out of the question—she was a betrothed woman.

Still, it was exciting to have a man suggest an assignation. And not just a man—a stranger. A dark, unshaven gypsy stranger who gazed at her with the most beautiful eyes. As if he'd like to eat her up.

Like the big bad wolf.

A little thrill of excitement rippled through her. She lay snuggled in the blankets, the cool air from the window fanning her warm cheeks.

It wasn't as if anything could come of it, after all. She wouldn't be meeting him alone and unchaperoned. Young, unmarried ladies of the
ton
didn't go anywhere alone. Besides, ever since that kidnap attempt last year—right in Berkeley
Square!—Lady Beatrice was stricter than ever and William or Polly or one of her sisters always accompanied Jane when she went out.

What if he did come to the park again? What would she do?

She'd never so much as flirted with a man before. Growing up, she'd had so many problems with men trying to touch her—in the street, and even in church, twice!—and expecting things from her, and imagining she felt about them the way they felt about her. She'd learned not to give men the slightest bit of encouragement.

Though discouragement didn't always work. Some men enjoyed the challenge. Even when she was a young girl and had no interest in boys or men or anything like that, it had been a problem.

At school, the drawing master had kept her back one day, and with no warning he'd grabbed her and tried to kiss her. Luckily Mrs. Bodkin had come in and stopped it. But the drawing master had blamed Jane, saying she'd tempted and encouraged him—and it was so untrue! He was old and hairy and had gray hair sprouting even from his nostrils and ears. She hadn't even thought of him as a man, just the drawing master.

But even though he'd been dismissed, Mrs. Bodkin had subjected Jane to a severe lecture on forwardness, temptation and brazen behavior, and she'd been punished every night for a week afterward by having to copy out tracts from the Bible about the sins of women.

She'd learned not to tell anyone if a man was bothering her. Nobody except her sister ever believed she wasn't to blame, and Abby had left the Pill by the time Jane was twelve. So she'd learned to recognize the signs and do her best to avoid them.

Now, for the first time ever, she was tempted to follow Daisy's suggestion and flirt with a man. Not just any man, with Mr. Zachary Black, of the darkly handsome face, the gleaming silvery eyes and the dashing smile that caused her insides to curl up deliciously. She hugged the thought to herself.

The idea of an assignation with a dark and dangerous stranger thrilled her. But she couldn't bring herself to do it. An assignation was a little too . . . calculated.

But if she took the dog out later, and they happened to meet. Nobody could say she'd made an assignation then, could they?

And if he didn't wait for her? Well, that would be that.

In the meantime, how had Caesar fared in his first night in a lady's residence? Jane quickly threw off her bedclothes and dressed hurriedly, hoping her dog had not disgraced himself.

To her great relief and pride, he had not. It seemed he'd also made a friend below stairs: Cook had seen him dispatch a rat in the yard that very morning. “Snapped its spine with one bite, miss—a joy to watch 'im, it was.” She gave Jane a choice bone for the dog, adding, “I never thought much of dogs, to be honest, but 'e's better than them spoiled, useless moggies of 'er ladyship's, any day.”

It was a good sign, Jane thought. Cook was very influential with the other servants, and if she approved of Caesar, he would be well treated in Jane's absence.

*   *   *

A
fter breakfast, teeming with repressed impatience, she sat upstairs with Daisy, sewing the seams of the dresses she would wear during the season—Daisy wouldn't trust her with anything visible. They sewed until the clock chimed half-past ten, then Jane set her sewing aside, went downstairs and clipped Caesar's leash on.

She was determined not to hurry. She didn't have an assignation. She'd made it very clear she wouldn't meet him at ten. So.

In the square, she casually glanced around. There were nursemaids talking in small clumps while around them children played, bowling hoops and playing hopscotch. She saw one or two people walking dogs and taking the air, but of a tall, dark gypsy there was no sign.

She tried not to feel disappointed. Of course he hadn't come. She'd made it quite clear she had no intention of meeting him. So.

She felt William glance sideways at her, and immediately started walking briskly along one of the paths, leading Caesar, affecting an airy unconcern as if it hadn't even occurred to her to look for anyone.

If Mr. Black didn't care enough to wait, he wasn't worth looking for.

Caesar suddenly jerked at the chain, pulling hard away from
the path. A rat? A squirrel? “Caesar!” she reprimanded him. But the dog took no notice. He strained eagerly at the leash.

She looked up and saw what the dog had noticed already: Zachary Black, on the far side of the square, rising from a bench. Her pulse leapt. She tried to look unaffected. It wouldn't do to look too interested.

Caesar had no such compunction. Panting, wagging his tail and uttering small yips of delight, he towed Jane firmly in the tall man's direction, practically choking himself in the process. For all his skinniness, he was a strong little dog.

She was breathless and laughing by the time she reached him.

No wonder she hadn't spotted him at first. He'd discarded his gypsy coat and earring. In a plain dark coat, well-worn buckskin breeches and boots, he ought to have looked quite ordinary, but he was so tall and broad-shouldered and strode toward her with a careless arrogance, as if he owned the square—which he quite obviously didn't.

With his overlong hair and dark, unshaven jaw, he didn't look the least bit gentlemanlike, and even looked slightly menacing, so why she should feel a delicious shiver of awareness the moment he fixed her with that silvery gaze and strode toward her, she didn't understand.

“Miss Chance, fancy meeting you here on this fine crisp morning.” His eyes gleamed as he gave her a small, casual bow. “William, delightful to see you too.” He glanced at Polly and gave her a nod and a wink. “There's something on that bench over there, William, fetch it, would you? It's a gift for—”

“She don't accept gifts from gypsies,” William growled. “And you don't order me around.”

“It was a request, not an order. And I wouldn't dream of offending Miss Chance by offering her a gift,” the gypsy said with a virtuous air that deceived no one. “This is for RosePetal—the dog,” he added when William gave him a blank look. “I hope you don't mean to tell me that after one night in a lady's establishment, the dog is now too high in the instep to accept a small token of my friendship.”

William hesitated.

“It's over there on that bench, William. But if you're unable to carry it, I'd be delighted to bring it home for Miss Chance.” Without even looking to see if William had obeyed him, he
squatted down and energetically scruffed at the loose folds around the dog's neck. Dog bliss if Caesar's expression was anything to go by.

Jane glanced at William, and with a scowl, he tromped toward the bench.

“Oh, you like that, don't you, RosePetal?” Zachary Black said. “You have landed on your feet, haven't you? Spoiled rotten already, I'll wager.”

His hands were bare, big and elegantly shaped with long, strong fingers. His knuckles were grazed. Wounded in her service.

“He's called Caesar now,” Jane told him. Her words came out a little throaty.

Zachary Black laughed as he straightened, but not in an unkind way. “He'll always be RosePetal to me. Though perhaps I should start calling him Lavender now. He smells a good deal better, and that ointment looks to be working already.”

“It is. We bathed him with the herbs you gave me too. Thank you so much for them.”

William returned carrying a large, shallow, woven willow basket.

“Oh,” Jane exclaimed. “A bed for Caesar—thank you—it's exactly what I needed.”

“I thought so, when I saw it in the market.”

He was spending quite a bit of money on her—her dog—Jane thought. “Can I pay you for—”

He put up a hand. “Not at all. It's my pleasure. As I said, it's a gift. For
the dog
.” He smiled at her, a swift slash of white in the tanned face. She felt her cheeks warm. When he smiled at her like that . . .

“Shall we walk? That dog needs exercise,” he said, and Jane nodded.

“So tell me,” he asked as they strolled along the path, “how has he settled in? I hope he didn't disgrace himself on his first night.”

“Not at all,” Jane told him, matching her steps to his. Walking made things easier; if she didn't have to look at him, her brain wouldn't get so scrambled. “In fact, he has done amazingly well, much better than I expected for a dog raised in the streets.”

Dark brows rose. “Housebroken?”

Jane laughed and crossed her fingers. “It's early days yet, but so far so good. He also impressed Cook by killing a rat.”

“Oho, that's the sort of ingratiating creature you are, is it, RosePetal?” Zachary Black said. “Very clever, making friends with the cook. And I see someone has bathed you—I bet that was a shock.”

Jane laughed. “Yes indeed, but he was quite the gentleman about it—in the end, that is. He struggled at first—I was quite drenched—”

“You bathed him yourself?” he said, surprised.

“Of course. He's my dog, after all, and it's important he knows that. And as I said, he put up quite a fuss at first—he was fearful of drowning, poor lamb, but eventually he accepted his fate and simply endured.” She smiled and added, “You should have seen the profound expression of martyrdom on his face. It is a shame dogs cannot be actors, because I'm sure he played the martyr better than any actor I've seen on the stage.”

He chuckled.

“Of course, the cuts and abrasions must have hurt, but he never once snapped or growled or threatened me in any way. He really is a very gentle creature.”

“That might be why those lads were kicking him. They'd probably hoped to make him a pit dog, and he didn't have the temperament for it.”

She shuddered. “It's wicked the way men set innocent creatures to fight against each other, simply for their own entertainment.”

They walked on a little, then he said, “Didn't you say you also had cats? How did that go?”

“To tell you the truth, I was terrified he'd attack them—we have three, you see, all half grown, all from the same litter, and—”

“Don't tell me, you rescued them too.”

She stared at him. “Well, yes, I did. How could you know that?”

He gave her a lazy smile. “Just a feeling.”

The smile seemed to curl around her insides and it was a moment before Jane could gather her wits and continue the story. “They were in a place we—er, an old building, scheduled for demolition, and they would have been killed. We brought the mother cat with us, but she abandoned them—and us—soon afterward.”

“And so you kept all three kittens, of course you did, why would I even ask? So how did these lucky cats react to RosePetal's arrival?”

She laughed. “They were horrified—they spat and growled and climbed up the furniture.”

“And RosePetal?”

She described how, as everyone watched, Max-the-cat approached the dog, “with menace in every claw and whisker. He's the bravest and most dauntless of the kittens. Well, of course I had no idea what Caesar would do, and I was so worried, because Lady Beatrice was by no means convinced we needed a dog and she's very fond of the cats—and then . . .” She glanced down at the dog and smiled.

“Then?”

“Caesar rolled over and just . . . went to sleep. You should have seen the cat's expression. And everyone else's.”

He laughed then, a rich, deep laugh that warmed her insides.

A sudden flush of heat rippled through her, and though she glanced away as if perfectly composed and indifferent, she could not help but be aware of his stance, the close proximity of his tall, hard body, the angle of his head as he looked at her. And the intensity of his gaze, which she affected not to notice.