A Much Compromised Lady (13 page)

Christo stiffened. “Are you saying our mother
is a—”

“Christo, he is only asking! And, yes, she
did tell us. But she also showed us her wedding ring.”

“Ah, iron—or in this case, gold—clad
proof.”

Christo thunked his brandy glass down on the
table. “If we had proof,
gaujo
, we would not be here. This
is useless,
phen
! This one, he would find lies more
believable.”

St. Albans regarded the young hot-head with
dispassion. “Please, do feel free to leave at any time.”

For a moment, the Gypsy fellow glowered, his
body tensed as if he would fling himself from the room. But he
glanced at his sister’s worried expression, huffed a breath, and
leaned back against the couch again.

“I’ll stay,
gaujo
.”

St. Albans turned to his Gypsy girl. “For
argument’s sake, we shall assume that
a
marriage took place. It is not unknown, however, for such unions to
be—shall we say, right-handed affairs? And very far from legal. Did
your father ever do anything to recognize you, or take you to his
family? And why did your mother not come forward years ago?”

Glynis’s face darkened. “You met Bado. You
saw the scar on his face. And you have met my mother.”

St. Albans frowned. “Yes, but what—”

“Francis Dawes gave him that face, the night
Bado saved my life, and Christo’s, and my mother’s from Dawes’s
men. A club swung by one of his men struck my mother and stole her
sight. To him, a pair of
poshrats
—half-gypsies such as
we—are a cancer to be cut out.” She leaned forward, her expression
intent, her eyes black pools. “Now tell me that my mother was wrong
to hide us from a man who by law would have been given his
brother’s children to raise. I was four. Christo one. Tell me we
could do anything but hide until we both were of age and strong
enough to challenge him.”

St. Albans swirled his brandy. Well, that
part of her story he could believe. Particularly if, after Edward
Dawes had died, the mother had gone looking for what she could get
from the estate. It would be like Francis Dawes to think himself
doing right by the world to rid it of a few, such inconvenient,
dirty Gypsies.

However, a few details still remain
unexplained, such as why would any Dawes marry so far beneath him?
St. Albans had had no acquaintance with Edward Dawes, but he found
it difficult to believe that a man of his class would look for a
wife in the woods.

Of course, here was his own Gypsy, sitting
here, looking desirable as sin. If her mother had been anything
like this, he could see the attraction that Edward Dawes would have
felt. But a legal marriage? Why, the man would have had to have
been ready to give up the world—his own world.

That seemed quite unlikely.

However, what mattered here was that his
Gypsy believed this tale.

She stared up at him, her wide mouth fixed
with determination, her dressing gown parting slightly to show that
tempting valley between her breasts where he so ached to rest his
head.

And there seemed but a single method to rid
her mind of this obsession.

He was going to have to get that blasted box
into her hands so she could see it contained no legal marriage
lines. He was going to have to ruin her dreams, and then he could
show her how to take what pleasure she could from this life.

Of course, her being an illegitimate Dawes
offered a certain appeal—no wonder she had the look of quality upon
her face and her voice. And he would convince her that she could
still have revenge upon Nevin through lording over London as the
Earl of St. Albans’s mistress. Yes, that would be amusing for them
both.

Only something about the scheme troubled him
still, and he was in no mood to pry into his own feelings on the
matter. He wanted her. He had sworn he would have her. By any
means.

And that settled that.

Tossing back his brandy, he set his glass
down, then strode to the bellpull to summons Gascoyne. He could
feel his Gypsy’s eyes on him as he moved, but he avoided meeting
her gaze.

Gascoyne arrived, and St. Albans turned to
him, annoyed and not even certain why he should be so, other than
that this seduction seemed to be becoming a damnable tangle.

“Miss Chatwin’s brother will be staying with
us, Gascoyne. See that the green room is readied for him.” St.
Albans turned to his pair of Gypsies. “I think we have all had
enough stimulation tonight. Tomorrow I shall give you a far better
plan than your skulking about Nevin’s house.”

“I was not skulking,” the Gypsy said again,
and at the same time his sister said, “A plan? What is it?”

St. Albans ignored the brother and gave a
tight smile to the sister, whose eager questions had managed to
tease some of his ill humor from him. She would no doubt go to the
grave questioning death himself.

“Well, my dear,” he said. “For a start, I am
going to take you to the Cyprian’s Ball next week.”

* * *

“Prostitutes! He wants you to become one of
them, and he thinks by taking you to this—”

“Bah! I know what he thinks. But if he says
he has a plan, then do not underestimate him, Christo. He is a
lord. An earl. He can help us if he so chooses.”

Christopher glowered at his sister. They
stood in the salon adjacent to her bedchamber, with coffee and tea
and delicate china laid out on a mahogany drop-leaf table beside
the window. Sunlight streamed in from between the parted, green
velvet drapery, and a light breeze carried the promise of summer’s
coming.

Hunching a shoulder, Christopher scowled, his
dark eyes black as night. “It is it not his help that I doubt. It
is the price he will want for it. That one thinks the world is his
to order. Don’t trust him,
phen
.”

Glynis looked down into her tea cup. It was a
measure of Christo’s agitation that he spoke in Romany to her now,
and used the Rom for sister. He worried for her. Rightly so. But
the Earl had said that he knew how to ensure that Francis Dawes
would be at the Cyprian’s Ball. For that, Glynis would risk
anything.

Even herself.

She had to make certain that Christo found
his place in this world. For without it, she saw as clearly as her
mother saw the cards that he could become a bitter, hard man.

Looking up at him, she smiled. “A fine one
you are to urge caution. You were the one who risked hanging when
you stole that fine stallion from Nevin, after
Dej
told us
the truth this spring about how our father died.”

Christo gave a grim smile. “I cannot steal
what should have been mine by rights. But what will this
gaujo
steal from you?” He came to her side, and put his wide
hand on her shoulder. She felt his strength ease into her. His hard
grip and calluses reminded her of the years they had worked side by
side simply to survive.

“Be careful,
phen
. It is not how this
gaujo
looks at you that tightens my heart. It is how you
watch him.”

She forced a smile, and covered his hand with
hers. “Of course I watch him. I watch this one very carefully.”

A soft tap on the door made them both turn.
Gascoyne entered, his bow polite. Glynis had noted that since that
last time she had taken back her blue gown, he had treated her with
almost the same deference he gave the Earl.

I could like being a lady
, she
thought. Only she was not much of one, really. Ladies did not grow
up running wild in the woods, learning to trap and skin rabbits.
They did not know how to light campfires with flint, and did not
dance on the grass under the full moon. They did not steal from
others with guilty hearts, and they did not pose as a scoundrel’s
mistress.

Well, she had done what she must. She had
helped keep her family from going hungry, or getting sick. Now her
skills—and her ability to handle the Earl of St. Albans—could make
the difference in helping Christo regain his title. Then she could
leave this city and find her quiet village and the life that she
wanted.

When Gascoyne said the Earl waited for her
downstairs, she rose, said she would dress at once, and be
downstairs in fifteen minutes.

It took twenty-five, because her maid argued
with her about what she was to wear. Glynis saw no reason not to
done her blue gown. It was the best she owned, and she only wore
the gowns St. Albans had had made for her when she was to be seen
with him in public.

However, when the maid began to look fearful,
insisting his lordship had requested riding attire, Glynis
submitted. The dress clung to every curve, and she secretly loved
the fabric, a wool so soft and light that it seemed alive. Black
braid trimmed the gray habit, and it had a matching shako that
delighted her. She knew she looked well in it, but she found it
hard to think of herself as anything but a barefoot, ragged
Gypsy.

When she came downstairs, she found the Earl
waiting for her, standing quite still and staring at the clock in
the hall, his hands folded behind his back and tapping his riding
crop on the back of his boots. His black coat and riding breeches
contrasted sharply with his golden hair and his white shirt and
buff waistcoat.

She bit her lower lip, and came down the
stairs. “I hate being late. I am sorry.”

He turned and smiled, his expression amused,
the corner of his mouth quirking. “I thought you enjoyed making me
wait.” He took her hand. “For everything.”

Keeping his eyes on hers, he raised her hand,
turned it over and pressed his lips to her palm.

Heat shot from the touch of his mouth, up her
arm and then pooled deep inside her. She struggled to hide her
reaction, but she saw the satisfaction glimmer in his eyes.

She frowned at him and pulled her hand away.
“I only know one way to ride—astride, without a saddle.”

“Then you have something new to learn.”

He bowed, indicating for her to step outside.
She did so, and then stopped on the top step to stare into the
square.

A groom led St. Albans’s black horse up and
down the pavement. Next to the large animal walked a smaller one,
dainty with huge dark eyes, delicate hooves, and an equally black
coat.

Glynis glanced at the Earl. “Do you not own a
single horse that is not black?”

His mouth quirked. “No. I do not. It is one
of my conceits. Now come meet Martif. She is a half-breed, like
you, so you already have that in common. And she is almost
pony-sized, although you will have to ride side saddle, unless you
would rather shock London by doing without all that leather.”

Glynis wrinkled her nose and thought about
it. In truth, she was not a very good rider. Christo was far
better. She did not get enough practice, and she preferred their
pony ‘Lisi, with her broad back and comfortable paces, to the
bad-mannered horses that Christo bought to retrain.

However, she did not want to show any
weakness in front of St. Albans, so she gave a shrug. “It does not
matter. But why are we riding? Why not drive? And why so early in
the day?”

“Always questions. Well this time, my sweet
torment, you must wait until you’re mounted to have your
answers.”

He led her down the steps and took her by the
waist before she could do more than open her mouth to protest. His
hands tightened and her breath seemed to lodge near her heart.
Lifting her, he tossed her into the saddle as if she weighted
nothing.

The black mare stood quite still, as patient
as if a baby had been sat upon her. Gratitude warmed Glynis, for
both the mare’s steadiness and St. Albans’s hold. With both of her
legs dangling on one side of the horse, she felt as if she could
tip off the other side if she so much as leaned an inch that
direction.

St. Albans gave her instructions. Sit
straight, not twisted. Keep her balance in her seat. He put her
foot into the single stirrup, and made certain her right leg hooked
over the single pommel horn. She was too busy trying to sort
everything out to do more than absently notice how his hands seemed
to touch her everywhere.

When he had her seated to please himself, he
strode to his own black gelding and swung lightly into the saddle,
looking very pleased with himself and the world.

She envied how easily he did that, and
wondered if he would teach her that trick of swinging up without
the stirrups. Getting on even stout ‘Lisi usually involved a lot of
struggling, wiggling, and breath-stealing effort on her part.

“Now, shall we ride to the park and talk
about your attire for the Cyprian’s Ball? It’s fancy dress, and
should be something to attract Nevin—beg pardon, I mean Francis
Dawes’s attention.”

Her horse placidly fell into step next to St.
Albans’s mount, and for a moment Glynis had to concentrate on the
odd sensation of being seated sideways. But her black mare moved
like spring water—fresh and smooth. She began to relax.

Tilting her head, she studied St. Albans.
“You went to all this trouble to take me from the house to talk
about this ball? Why—because of Christo?”

The lines around his eyes tightened. “He
is—”

“Hot tempered? Yes, I know. Difficult also.
And perhaps also, for you, inconvenient?”

St. Albans’s smile widened. “Very. But I do
not want to spend this lovely day talking about him. Here are the
gates. Do you feel able to do more than sit a walk?”

That lovely chin lifted, as St. Albans had
known it would. His Glynis could pass up many things, but not a
challenge. She was like him in that fashion.

“Of course,” she said, although he noted with
a smile that she wrapped a few fingers into the mare’s black
mane.

He spurred Cinder to a slow canter, knowing
the mare would follow. It was a fast pace, but a smoother gait than
the bouncy trot. For a moment, Glynis’s face paled, but her mare
moved steady and sure, and she began to smile. A moment later, she
gave a laugh of pure delight.