A Much Compromised Lady (5 page)

And who would question the death of a couple
of Gypsies if a lord named them thieves?

Christopher had to know all of that. But
would he allow caution to rule him—for this night, at least?

Reluctant, his steps dragging, he allowed her
to turn him from the inn. A few steps later, they were at the
stream, swollen from the spring rain. He lifted her over, and
jumped across the rushing water, his long legs easily clearing it,
and his soft boots barely making a sound on the opposite bank.

Neither of them spoke as they slipped along
the wooded path, back to where
Dej
and Bado waited for
them.

Glynis tried to keep her thoughts on stepping
over roots and ducking low branches, but her mind kept slipping
back to that
gaujo
. It would be best if they traveled on
tonight. She wanted miles between herself and the wicked Earl of
St. Albans. But the uneasy feeling tickled along her spine like a
spider dancing there that no matter where she went she would see
him again.

Lord, how she hated things that were
fated.

* * *

By dawn, St. Albans knew with a bone deep
resignation that he was going to be less than wise about this.

With a cooler head to rule him, he knew that
he ought to allow the girl to slip away. Whatever mischief she was
making was her own concern. She was, after all, a Gypsy, and
therefore about as likely to behave herself as a feral cat. He had
only his dislike of being made her dupe to drive him to hunt
her.

Of course, there was also that too tempting
form of hers, which had kept him restless and tossing last night.
And she had shown sense as well as a cleaver mind—yes, a good deal
of sense to run from him when she could instead of giving into his
bad intentions.

However, she had set her will against his
own.

And he simply could not allow her to do
that.

Which meant he would have to hunt her down.
And the next time she turned her face up to him, it would not be
with eyes shut tight and her mouth set, as if offering herself as a
sacrifice. No, it would bloody well not be so. He wanted an image
of her wanton and passionate, her body burning as his now
simmered.

Blast her, but she had left him in an
uncomfortable state, and that would have to be remedied. There was,
after all, nothing that the Earl of St. Albans could not have if he
so desired it.

But a voice inside mocked his thoughts with a
sly, doubting memory of the things he had once wanted which had
turned to dust when he had reached for them.

Oh, yes, you can have anything—anything that
is made of vice and sin and earthly pleasure.

Quite stupidly, some small part of him still
ached for the ghostly follies of his youth—the other things for
which he’d once upon a time had fancied. He could recall being very
young and inventing memories of the parents he had never known.
This wistful longing was very like that.

His mouth twisted at such childish desires.
Someday he really would find a way to destroy that last part of
himself, which still clung to this miserable nostalgic weakness. It
really was a most uncommon nuisance to be plagued with that blasted
emptiness. And he wondered with detachment if to obliterate that
hole inside him might mean that he would have to destroy himself in
the process. He rather suspected so.

Of course, his departure from this life would
be no great loss to the world, but it rankled him that it would
cause a good deal of celebration in some parts of London. He did so
hate to give his enemies any satisfaction.

However, such gloomy thoughts did not become
a spring morning, when birds sang like blissful idiots, and there
was a pretty armful to find with an amusing game of fox-and-hound
to play.

With that in mind, he rose and summoned the
landlord in a better mood than he would have anticipated.

It took the better part of two hours to make
himself presentable. He vowed a dozen times during that time never
again to travel without his own servants. What had seemed in London
a nuisance of an entourage following him became now a much desired
necessity. He ignored his ruined blue coat, choosing instead a
brown one from the light trunk he had had packed by his valet
before he had left London a week ago. It took him six lengths of
linen to tie a decent cravat, and he had to clench his back teeth
to keep from muttering the oaths that filled his mind. But he would
not lose his temper, despite being short of rest, badly dressed by
his own exacting standards, and frustrated by his gypsy’s
disappearance.

The only thing he could be grateful for was
that the landlord’s son had not cut him while shaving him.

At least, he thought as he sat down to a meal
in the private parlor downstairs, the landlord set an excellent
table. A pottery jug held ale—strong and dark. And upon the dark
wood table sat a goodly sized beef haunch. Thick slices of ham lay
upon a pewter plate, and hot bread that smelled of heaven, had been
carved into thick slices and left with a plate of fresh butter and
a bowl of gooseberry jam. Simple fare, but it could almost make
this forsaken hostelry reputable.

He ate well and spent his time leisurely
gazing out the window to the village of Littlebury, now bathed in
mist, and thinking of his Gypsy.

It was all Gypsy stories that she had given
him last night, he was certain of it. And yet...and yet...the curse
of his own honesty thrummed in his chest like the shimmer of a bell
that had been struck. He had learned the hard way how to detect a
lie. And he had learned to beware of those who used the illusion of
virtue as a way to justify their sins. They were far more dangerous
than any honest sinner.

But which parts of her story had been the
truth, and what had been invention? She was very good at blending
the two. Which meant that she had had a good deal of practice at
it.

That thought roused a smile from him, and a
stir of anticipation. What would she say when next he saw her? More
lies? More tantalizing mixtures of truth and nonsense? He had no
doubt that he would see her again. It mattered not where she hid.
And it mattered even less if she were wed, for vows were made to be
broken. It was why he avoided them.

Well, if she honestly did want something from
Nevin, perhaps he would help her get it.

He frowned again.

Had that part been lies? It was possible that
the robbery was no more than a way for her to cast herself into his
path. He had certainly had other females attempt to gain his notice
for their own purposes. An earl’s coronet was a rather tempting
prize, even if it came attached with a devil as black as he.

But, no, that did not feel right. He knew a
few women capable of such twisted machinations, but he would wager
the hundred guineas he had won at Newmarket this past week that she
had simply leapt to take advantage of opportunity.

What could she really want from Nevin? What
really lay in that box, if there was such a box?

The jingle of harness and the stamping of
horses in the yard roused St. Albans from the puzzle his Gypsy had
posed. Curious, he rose and went to the window.

A heavy black coach stood in the stable yard,
a gold crest upon the door, with seal bay horses being put into
harness. Outriders in the somber dark blue of Lord Nevin’s livery
stood beside their mounts, talking idly with each other in the
warming morning.

What ridiculous pomp. And altogether too
tempting.

Putting on a pleasing smile, St. Albans
sauntered outside to await Nevin’s appearance.

He passed the time by critically surveying
Nevin’s team— too short in neck and too narrow, but flashy enough
with their matched white stockings. He would not have given even
one of them room in his stables.

Finally, Nevin came out of the inn, and St.
Albans nodded a good morning to him.

The older man scowled, but St. Albans was far
too accustomed to such black stares to take any notice.

“Did you ever find your Gypsy wench?” St.
Albans asked, casually pulling out his snuff box and speaking loud
enough for grooms and servants to hear. As he expected, Nevin’s
face reddened at the innuendo that Nevin’s reasons for wanting to
find a Gypsy girl last night were far from proper. The man’s
self-righteous pride really was far too easy a target.

Nevin’s mouth pulled down, accentuating the
deep lines that bracketed his lips. “If you mean the thief who
ransacked my rooms, I am certain she had aid in escaping justice.
But I plan to lay a complaint with the magistrate before I quit the
district. I am certain the law will not be kind to those who help
such criminals.”

Unmoved by this not-so-veiled threat, St.
Albans selected a pinch of snuff and asked, “Ransacked? Now there’s
a strong word. Tore your room apart, did she? Why, she must be a
veritable Amazon. No wonder you were so anxious to find her.”

Nevin’s face darkened to the color of his
burgundy coat. He really ought not to wear such a color, St. Albans
thought, looking over the heavy coat with its gold brocade which
would better suit the last century. Nevin was such a stick to abide
by court dress that was more suited to the Queen’s drawing
room.

“You are insulting,” Nevin growled, his fists
clenched.

St. Albans allowed his stare to travel up and
down the man’s too-formal attire. The fellow prickled like a
hedgehog, but something dangerous lay under that prickling.
Something savage. It roused a like sensation in St. Albans.

Fixing a cold stare on Nevin, St. Albans
drawled, “Always so satisfying to achieved a goal. Do you now feel
compelled to call me out? If you do, I should mention that I never
duel before noon. So tiresome to have to shoot a man before
breakfast, but I thought we were speaking of you and your thief.
What did she come for that you turn so prickly—the family
jewels?”

Nevin’s jaw worked, and St. Albans’s smile
widened into something almost genuine. There really was nothing
better than to make oneself an irritation to those who were too
smug in their delusions of righteousness.

For a moment, he really thought the man would
turn away. Nevin was one of those who disdained dueling as
barbaric—such nonsense, of course.

But the fellow hesitated, his chin still
jutting forward, and a stubborn look in his eyes as if he could not
let go of this, as if he had to make others see the truth of the
matter as he saw it. “I have no idea what she could have
wanted—other than whatever money or gems she might have found.
That’s the way of those Gypsies.”

He spat the word out as if it was an
unpleasant taste, and St. Albans had to check a spurt of anger. He
took a breath, and took a rein on his temper, and illumination
clicked into place.

Good heavens, the man actually has
something to hide.
Fear had flickered at the back of Nevin’s
pale gray eyes. And a touch of shame, for which he would probably
die before admitting.

St. Albans recognized the emotion at once. He
always committed his sins in public, for it was impossible to carry
shame for something the entire world knew. But what shameful sins
did Nevin hide?

Smiling, St. Albans flipped closed his snuff
with his thumb and slipped the carved ivory box into his waistcoat
pocket.

“I suppose those Gypsies look for whatever
plump pocket is near. Yet, it is quite amazing then that she went
to your rooms, and did not bother with the guineas I left in mine.
Do you think that mysterious Gypsy sense told her that you traveled
with something far more valuable?”

Nevin’s scowl deepened and turned away, as if
the conversation was over.

“It’s Retribution,” St. Albans said.

His expression startled, Nevin swung around
to glare at St. Albans, that faint shimmering fear back in those
pale eyes.

How satisfying to score a point
, St.
Albans thought, now thoroughly enjoying himself. There seemed to be
some truth to his Gypsy’s story, after all.

“Retribution,” he repeated. “The horse that
won those coins for me at Newmarket. Quite an amazing animal. By
Aston, out of Forgetful.”

Nevin’s eyes blazed and his mouth curved into
something close to a snarl. St. Albans held still, waiting. How
close to home had he struck?

With his expression souring to disdain,
Nevin’s heavy chin lifted. “You’re a damned wastrel, and a disgrace
to your name.”

“Oh, I waste nothing. I assure you of
that.”

Scowling, Nevin opened his mouth as if to say
more, but a shout from one of the grooms drew his attention.

“Ready, m’lord.”

With a last contemptuous glance at St.
Albans, Nevin stalked away. His servants bowed before him, lowered
the steps before he reached them and put them up again with a
jumpiness that spoke of insecurity in their positions. With a coach
horn blowing imperiously, and outriders leading the procession, the
heavy coach lumbered forward.

An impossible cavalcade to miss. And any
fool—or Gypsy—could track and follow that parade. Well, that
certainly made clear how his Gypsy came to take note of Lord Nevin.
But just what had she come here to steal from the man?

It would take some work, unpleasant as that
was, to discover the truth. However, he would console himself with
the fact that his Gypsy would make it up to him someday. She
would—in one fashion or another.

* * *

Glynis watched her mother lay the cards upon
the thick, gold Turkish carpet. Even though her mother could not
see, she still knew the pattern of the cards, for she had been
laying out cards since she was a girl herself. And she knew the
cards by the feel of them, by the edges and nicks and the painted
images on the old deck.

They sat on the ground, red pillows under her
mother, but Glynis preferred the hard earth. She liked the
connection to land, and she liked to feel the hum of it through her
bones, and she loved the reassurance it gave her. The land would
always be there. The seasons came in order. The world turned as it
should. Those things she trusted. All else she regarded with deep
suspicion.