A Much Compromised Lady (16 page)

“How do you know that about him?” she
asked.

“Let us just say that we had a brush more
than a few years ago over a certain lovely widow. And after being
disappointed, Nevin actually thought he could lead Society’s in
cutting my acquaintance. Instead, he made a fool of himself. The
earls of St. Albans have put kings on the throne of England, and he
thought to challenge me.”

She heard the cold satisfaction in his voice
and a chill trickled down her back. Curiosity also nibbled at her.
If what he had done had displeased Francis Dawes, she wanted to
hope that it was something that would please her. But if a woman
had been involved—a widow—she was not certain she wanted to hear
this story of his.

The carriage stopped and Christo opened the
door for them. He handed Glynis out. St. Albans stepped out without
aid and looked him over. With a shake of his head, he moved away.
“And the world calls me disreputable.”

Worn out by the evening, Glynis wanted only
her bed. She had been ready for this night to change her world—only
nothing had happened really. She had thought to face her uncle, she
had braced herself for potential disaster, and all her energy had
been spent on that.

With a smile she turned to St. Albans. “Thank
you.”

He glanced at her, surprised and a little
wary. “For what, my Gypsy? For a lovely evening?”

“For making it all go exactly as you said it
would.”

She hesitated a moment, then stood on tiptoe
and kissed his cheek. Turning, she ran up the stairs.

St. Albans stood watching her. Becoming aware
of a stare on him, he turned and saw his Gypsy’s brother watching
him, his eyes dark and snapping. He lifted one eyebrow. “Such a
pity you are not really my footman. It would give me such great
satisfaction to sack you without notice, reference, or pay.”

Christo offered an unrepentant grin. “Too
bad,
gaujo
. But we shall be gone soon enough.” He started up
the steps, taking them two at a time, looking light-hearted.

His own mood darkening, St. Albans watched
him. This young idiot had taken some scheme into his mind, no doubt
of it. He was tempted to allow the fellow to find the hangman in
his own fashion. However, his Gypsy would not like that.

And he realized, with a touch of surprise,
that somewhere along this path what his Gypsy liked had become
important to him.

* * *

“Well, what did you find out?” Glynis said,
sitting up in her bed, feather pillows plumped behind her and her
bare feet tucked under the fine linen sheets.

Eyes alight, Christo gave her a sly smile.
His expression sobered and he perched on the edge of her bed. His
footman’s uniform was rumpled almost beyond recognition, with his
shirt open, his waistcoat undone and his coat collar turned up like
a highwayman’s.

“You first. All went well?” he asked, his
tone brusque.

She nodded. “If you call it well to have done
no more than to have seen him from across the room. But he saw me.
Now St. Albans says he will call. And when he does not see me, he
will write and invite me to come to him.”

Her stomach tightened and she rubbed cold
hands together. “To own the truth, Christo, I was glad not to have
to look into his eyes tonight. I am not certain I can do that and
not spit in his face.”

Christo covered her hands with one of his
own. His eyes darkened with a reckless glint that had worry
tightening inside Glynis.

“What? What are you thinking?” she asked.

“That you won’t have to face him until after
we have the papers in our hands to prove him a liar.” He leaned
forward. “I learned of another way into Nevin House.”

Glynis pulled her hands from under her
brother’s touch to fuss with the collar of her high-waisted
dressing gown, tugging its velvet edging closer around her bare
neck.

“But, Christo, the Earl said—”

“And what do we care of that’s
gaujo’s
schemes?”

“We care because everything he said would
happen tonight, did happen—exactly as he said it would. He knows
how Francis Dawes thinks. He knows how to lay traps that neither
you or I could ever build, and he has the power and influence that
we lack. If we listen—”

“Listen!” Rising, Christo strode away from
the bed. He turned, one hand rubbing the back of his neck. “How do
we know this
gaujo
is not leading us into one of his traps?
One baited with our own desires! He is like the devil, that one. He
knows what we most want, and then he smiles and just names the
price of your soul for it!”

“Bah! He doesn’t even believe in his own
soul. What he wants is to make trouble for Nevin.”

Christo’s hand dropped from his neck. “What
he wants is to make you as corrupt as he! He wants you in his bed.
And when he has you there, do you think you will come away with no
mark upon you? I know you,
phen
. It is not just your body
you will give when you give yourself. But how will you feel after,
when he discards everything else you offer?”

Crossing her arms, she hunched one shoulder.
“How I feel about anything is my concern.”

“And it is mine, as well. If you really wish
to jump off a cliff, I cannot keep you from it. But I can warn you
of the jagged rocks at the bottom.” He came back to her and sat
down again on the bed next to her. Her glance slid to where his
hand lay, so brown in contrast against the white linen.

She did not want to look into his eyes. She
knew all this. She needed no reminder.

He let out a long breath, and said, “Ah,
phen
, I wish I could tell you to just take your pleasure
from him as he wants to take his from you. Some women are made so
they can do that—as are some men. But some of us cannot separate
our souls from our bodies, and we cannot separate our hearts and
our heads. And so what is easy for others becomes something tangled
for us.”

Gently, he lifted her chin so she had to look
at him. Sadness touched his eyes and his smile. “
Jek rat, jek
jakha, jek dji, jek porh, jek bat
.”

The Romany phrase echoed in her.
Same
blood, same eyes, same soul, same belly, and of one
happiness.

He let go of her chin. “Sometimes you cannot
help where fate takes you, but there are heartaches enough in this
world without seeking those that can be avoided. You do not have to
settle for the little this
gaujo
has to give you in return
for what you can offer him. Wait. Wait for a man who can love you
as you deserve.”

She stared up into her brother’s dark eyes, a
hollow ache in her chest. “But what if I cannot love any
other?”

He smiled at her. “If you can learn to love
one, you can learn to love another.”

“Mother never did.”

His smile faded, and she was sorry that she
had allowed those words to slip out.

Ah, but she did not want to walk in her
mother’s steps. She did not want to fall in love with a high-born
lord. She wanted a simple life. An easy life. Instead, it always
felt as if she struggled up a hill that never crested.

Covering her brother’s hand with hers, she
smiled at him to take away some of the worry her words had caused
him. “But we are both talking by moonlight, and you know that
Dej
says that is a time for dreams, not plans. Go to bed,
Christo. Tomorrow we’ll talk, and make our plans in hard
daylight.”

He took her hand and squeezed it tight.
Rising, he strode from the room, taking with him his restless soul
and his dark moods.

Glynis let out a sigh, and curled up on her
side, staring at the candle that burned steady on the table beside
her bed. She left the flame aglow. She did not want the darkness
tonight. She did not want her thoughts, either, but she could not
seem to let go of them as they spun in an endless circle.

Rain began to patter on the window, a soft
tapping. The soft rhythm began to sooth her. She could almost
imagine it drumming on a tent as she lay on a carpet settled over
leaves. Only such a bed was never as soft as this feather one, and
a tent was never as warm—as free of drafts—as this lovely room. Ah,
but this earl was seducing her, with comforts that he would one day
tell her to leave and promises he might not keep. But what else
could she do but keep walking the path she had started down?

Slowly, her eyelids became too heavy to hold
open. Exhaustion numbed her arms and legs. Her breathing slowed and
uneasy dreams claimed her night.

* * *

The drumming rain changed to
hoofbeats—thudding into mud as the horse galloped down the road,
its sides wet and hot, its breathing labored. Cold chilled the
night, clouds hid the moon and stars, and the rider’s cloak snapped
and fluttered like a warrior’s banner.

My father is dying, I must get home.

Glynis stirred in her sleep, both saddle
weary and yet not, hunched over her mount’s neck, and also hovering
above the world, watching with fear tight in her chest.

The rider drew rein momentarily at a
crossroad. He lifted his face, considering his choices, and in that
instant in the dark, she saw both herself and Christo in the lean,
hard profile of Edward Dawes.

Word had come, she knew, by the way that word
came to those who traveled the road, from one mouth to the next
until it reached the man who needed to hear it.

Lord Nevin is dying.

How long had it been since the argument? Four
years? Five? He could not leave that between them. He had to go
back, even thought the children were babes still. Even though his
Anna begged him not to. He had to go back.

And so he rode.

With a troubled sigh, Glynis turned again.
Urgency filled her. Anxiety and fear. And she drifted deeper.

Edward burst into the room—his father’s room.
It was too late. He knew that from the black crepe that hung on the
front knocker, limp and dripping from the rain as if even the house
mourned the baron’s passing. He knew it from the silence in the
house and the darkness of his father’s chamber, where only a fire
burned, its embers red and themselves dying.

His cloak hung limp and wet from his
shoulders. His hair laid slick against his head and the rain had
chilled him through.

He ought to have come back sooner, and regret
lay on him, heavy on him as his dragging cloak. He strode to the
bed, and looked down at his father’s face, now peaceful and pale.
He covered his father’s cold hand with his, the skin so much colder
than his own.

“
I will make you proud of me. And so will
my son.” The vow came out from a voice cracking with emotions, a
voice he hardly recognized as his own. But he meant it. He had
never intended it to end this way.

Turning, he saw his brother in the
doorway—Francis, with his eyes glowing angry and his face livid and
red, as if he now stood in place of their father, with his pride
and his scorn.

Francis’s face darkened. “So, you’ve a Gypsy
bastard?”

Anger flared in Edward. He did not want this
again. It had been bad enough with his father, but he would not
stand for this from Francis.

“
My son is no bastard. I married the woman
I love.”

“
You killed him,” Francis said, stabbing a
finger towards the still figure on the bed. “For a Gypsy
whore.”

Two strides and then Francis lay on the
floor, his mouth bleeding, and Edward stood over him, rubbing his
knuckles. “Don’t you ever, ever refer to my wife with anything but
respect. I am Lord Nevin now, and she is my lady-wife.”

He started for the door, his cloak swirling
around his ankles, those unforgivable words between him and his
brother. Francis had never understood. He had always been too like
their father—too ready to put himself above the rest of the world.
Well, that ended now. His Gypsy wife would bring her laughter into
this cold house, and his children would bring their voices and
dancing.

Thinking of them, he started down the
stairs.

A voice made him stop and turn on the top
step.

Francis came forward, the vein on his right
temple throbbing. Edward glanced down at the pistol in Francis’s
quivering hand. He looked up at his brother again.

“
You won’t shoot me,” he said, utterly
certain of it. Francis was many things, but he would not shoot his
brother.

His face twisting, Francis stopped in front
of Edward. “How dare you come back!”

Edward glanced at him, sorry for what his
brother had become. Sorry that their father’s rancor had found so
ready a home within Francis. He could only shake his head, and be
grateful that his Anna’s love had saved him from that. He did not
even recognize in this man the boy who had once tagged along at his
side.

Well, Francis followed him no longer.

Bitter fury twisted Francis’s face. “Get
out!”

Turning away, Edward started down the stairs
again.

“
Get out!” Francis yelled again.

The jarring blow fell on Edward’s shoulder.
The pistol butt struck him, so strong it shook him off balance,
tangling his wet cloak around his feet, tripping him. He clawed for
a handhold on the railing but damp fingers slipped. He could not
stop himself and the world turned upside-down.

Glynis screamed.

She came upright in her bed, shaking, the
image of her father’s broken body at the base of the stairs
lingering, more vivid and real than the darkness around her. Heart
still pounding, blood surging in her veins, she drew in a ragged
breath and fisted the linens in trembling hands.

The sob came out on its own, shaking and
lost.

And then from the darkness strong arms
enfolded her. She let go the bedding and threw her arms around
blessedly strong muscles. Burying her face against warm flesh and
soft fabric, she breathed in his scent, and tried to blot out the
images.