A Much Compromised Lady (8 page)

He could not follow the words, but from the
tone of it, he could guess that it was not a question of how much
salt to add. No, he was quite certain they were talking about
him.

Why had the older woman decided that he could
stay?

“Why did you ask him to stay?” Glynis
muttered to her mother, speaking in Romany. “He will only make
problems.”

She cast a glance from the corner of her eyes
at St. Albans who had stretched his tall, lean frame out beside the
fire, lounging on the golden carpet as if he lay in the woods every
night.

Her mother gave a shrug that could mean
anything. “Yes, this one is good at making problems. But it is
problems that we also seek to make, daughter.”

“You are the one always urging
caution—patience.”

Anna smiled at her daughter. She had so much
to learn, yet. For a moment, the worry came back. Had she shielded
them too much? Should she have told them the truth sooner? But
when? When could she have told them? When they were children and
their lives still in the shadow of danger? No, fate had woven the
pattern. She had kept them safe. She had taught them caution. She
had wanted them grown and strong, and so she had kept the truth to
herself because it had been the only path at the time.

But this
gaujo
lord brought new paths.
She could feel them stirring. Her Glynis was right to be cautious.
But too much caution now could be as fatal as too much daring. They
walked a rope over a chasm now. And the only way to walk on a rope
was to look ahead—not down at fears for what might or might not be,
or backwards to the past.

So Anna put away her own fears and her
unspoken regrets. She smiled at her daughter, and put her to work
cutting the carrots and potatoes bought from the village market
yesterday.

* * *

“An excellent meal,” St. Albans said. He lay
back, propped up on one elbow. He had been on alfresco picnics that
were far less enjoyable than this. The firelight warmed his face,
and while a slight chill lay on his back, the wine heated him from
within. But what warmed him even more was watching his Gypsy
girl—Glynis, the older woman had called her.

No one had asked for his name, so he assumed
they knew it. He was accustomed to having his reputation precede
him, just not in these unlikely circles.

In truth, the meal had been quite good. The
blind Gypsy woman managed to bake bread in a pot—heavens knew how.
The stew, if not a delicacy, at least provided decent fare. And
they finished with apples—stolen, St. Albans suspected, but ripe—a
sharp Stilton cheese, nuts and a strong but drinkable red wine.

Of course, conversation had been somewhat
lacking.

The older man—Bado, he seemed to be
called—sat beside the younger Gypsy, his covetous stare focused on
Cinder, who grazed contentedly beside the Gypsy horses. The younger
fellow—Christo—glared at St. Albans and said nothing.

The older woman seemed content to say little,
and his Gypsy, Glynis, glowered at him as if this situation was all
of his making.

So he did his best to amuse himself.

He told them how he had paid a fellow to
learn their Gypsy signs. His Glynis exchanged an uneasy glance with
the one called Christo, who shrugged back an answer, and St. Albans
wondered just what relation these two had to each other that they
could speak without words. A close one, he thought, disliking the
young Gypsy fellow even more.

His story wound down until there was nothing
but the crackle of young wood on fire. The scent of stew and smoke
hung in the clearing, a gamy, sharp pleasant smell. The wine danced
nicely in St. Albans’s head.

He did not want to leave—mostly because that
young Gypsy idiot seemed to be wishing him on his way. But also
because he had not hit upon a plan to pull his Gypsy girl away from
the protection of her kind and more firmly into his reach.

Unfortunately, she seemed quite close with
the older woman—her mother, he decided, after studying the
similarities in face and form. With all the freedom she seemed to
enjoy, she would have no wish to rebel. So she could not be tempted
into defying her elders. But he needed her indebted to him.
Gratitude was always such a useful emotion in a seduction. And he
wanted her in a setting that was more conducive to intimate
relations.

Pleasant as this spring night was, he was
also starting to get a crick in his back, and he had never been
fond of moonlit forests for trysts. Far too many insects, animals,
and scratching thorns.

Well, there was but one way to gain
knowledge.

Smiling, he sipped his wine from the pottery
cup provided to him, and he asked, “I take it that you travel to
London? Still after Nevin, are you?”

Glynis scowled at him. She had been poking at
the fire with a sick, and now her hand stilled. She glanced at
Christo, who looked as unhappy as she at this question.

Ah, this
gaujo
lord, this St. Albans,
knew too much about them. What if, in London, he talked to others
about their interests? And what if such talk got back to Francis
Dawes?

That could ruin everything.

Turning slightly, she covered her mother’s
hand, her grip tight, asking the silent question—
what do we tell
him?

Her mother sat very still. Firelight danced
over her face, making familiar features seem mysterious. For a
moment, Glynis glimpsed the young woman who had broken so many
men’s hearts before she had given her own—once and forever.

Slowly, her mother nodded, as if coming to an
important decision, and she said in Romany, “It is in water that
one learns to swim. It is started. Answer him. And let us see where
fate takes us next.”

Beside her, Glynis felt Christopher stiffen.
He answered in Romany, his words hot and low, “What if this
gaujo
talks to others? He asks too many questions.”

Glynis shifted her touch to Christo’s arm.
“Then let us answer some so that he stops asking.”

“Why? He has no reason to help us? And what
if he is a friend to Lord Nevin!”

He spat out the last words, and his hate left
Glynis frowning. He was not seeing clearly because his feelings
blinded him, she knew.

She glanced across the flames to the earl.
She trusted him no more than she trusted any
gaujo
—and
yet...ah, something inside her whispered that she could. She did
not want to listen to that voice. What if it was only desire
talking? What if that voice was a wish that held as much substance
as the smoke from the fire?

Staring across the flickering flames at his
handsome face, at his fine clothes, and those wicked green eyes,
she thought of Christo’s words, and she remembered how little love
this
gaujo
had had in his voice when he had spoken to
Francis Dawes.

It flashed into her mind that perhaps they
shared a common dislike. And he had offered, had he not, that
perhaps he would help her get what she wanted.

She also had something this
gaujo
wanted—herself. Could she dance with the devil and not lose her
soul to him? It had been done before, if one was clever and fast,
and willing to make the devil the one who danced to the tune.

Excitement began to stir inside her as plans
began to form.

Looking at Christo, Glynis asked in Romany,
her voice shaking a little from the daring of her ideas. “This one,
he goes where he pleases in London. We cannot do that.”

Christo shot a dark look at the
gaujo
.
“And what do you think his help will cost you?”

Glynis’s chin when up. “Only as much as I am
willing to pay. Remember that. I have a right to my own choices,
too.”

Frowning, Christo thought this over. His
expression did not lighten, but at last he nodded. “You do. As I
make mine.”

Glynis nodded, not very satisfied with his
answer, but she doubted she would get any enthusiastic agreement
from him for what she was now thinking.

She glanced back to St. Albans and found him
staring at her, his eyes narrowed and his mouth twisted. He looked
hard and dangerous, and Glynis’s certainty that she could handle
him faded.

Sitting up, he said, his voice careless, but
with a sarcastic tone underneath the drawl, “Do you know, I had no
idea a few simple questions could stir up such controversy? Are you
discussing my poor choice of topics, or whether he should slit my
throat now or later? So tedious of me, I know, not to have a better
grasp of the Gypsy tongue, but then my education was sadly
restricted to French, Italian, German, Greek and a smattering of
Latin that never took.”

Glynis almost smiled with relief. He was
insulted, that was all. Typical of a lord. He did not like being
shut out by their discussion. Ah, but it had been rude of them to
speak of him as if he were a thing, not a person.

“I am sorry,” she said, her face hot, and not
just from the fire. “We are not accustomed to guests, and so you
shall have to consider that it is only that we feel as comfortable
as if you were one of our own.”

His mobile face shifted, the left eyebrow
lifting with skepticism. She had overdone her apology, offering too
much flattery. She shifted her tone to one more matter-of-fact.
“But you had asked of Lord Nevin—and if we go to London.”

“I had,” he said, his voice neutral.

“You must know that we do. We have to. You
see, Francis Dawes—the man you call Lord Nevin—he is my uncle, and
he stole my inheritance.”

St. Albans almost laughed.

Here she was—gaze steady, hands still in her
lap, not so much as a quiver of her lip or a flicker of
discomfort—giving him yet another
swato
. First mistress,
then married, now a niece. Still, he liked this tale better than
the others. It even seemed plausible.

In truth, he could almost picture Nevin
refusing to acknowledge any such a low relation as a Gypsy niece,
even one born on the wrong side of the blanket. The man’s
insufferable pride was renown. But had there been a brother—elder
or younger?

Dredging through memory, St. Albans could not
recall enough of the Dawes family, but it would be the matter of a
moment to verify the lineage. She must know that. But the rest of
her story seemed as difficult to prove a lie as it would be to
proven the truth.

Interested, despite that he knew better than
to be taken in by such tales, he said, “And may I ask, without
engendering another long discussion in your native tongue, how do
you plan to gain what is owed you?”

Her stare dropped for a moment, so that she
gazed into the dancing yellow flames. He had the feeling she was
weighing what else to tell him.

Looking up, she admitted, “I did not lie
about that box. There is one and it holds papers that could prove
my claim.”

“And so you plan to...?” St. Albans let his
words trail off. He had been about to ask if she thought, once she
had these papers, to take Nevin to court. It would certainly take
that—and more—to pry anything loose from Nevin’s hands.

However, that assumed there honestly were
papers hidden in some box, as well as a box to steal. For all he
knew, she had made up this entire story from smoke and starlight.
Only one thing stood quite clear—she was withholding something. He
could sense that.

Which meant he would have to dig further, and
it annoyed him more than a little that he actually wanted to know
the whole story.

Well, since his Gypsy certainly seemed to act
only on opportunity—while he was cursed with a mind that constantly
saw around corners—he began to calculate those corners for her. And
the more he turned over the schemes in his mind, the better he
liked them.

He swirled his wine in its cup. “Do you know,
I actually might be able to offer some assistance.”

The young Gypsy gave a rude snort, but Glynis
glared at the fellow, and glanced back, her expression unmoved.
“Why would you want to help us?”

“Why not? It is no matter to me what trouble
you plan for Nevin, and it would be amusing to be at hand to see
the mischief. But I would ask for something in return.”

Her dark eyebrows lifted. “What would you
ask?”

St. Albans smiled. “Your company in London
while you are there as my mistress.”

Everyone seemed to be on their feet at once.
Knives hissed from their scabbards and flashed in the firelight.
The sudden movement startled the horses, and St. Albans felt their
hooves thud against the ground and their nickers stirred the
air.

He remained stretched out on the carpet, his
pottery mug of wine in hand, looking up with a mild interest at the
faces that glowered over him. It seemed these Gypsies were quite
protective of their women. Well, now that he had shocked them
thoroughly, he could now make his offer into something that seemed
reasonable, and more acceptable.

St. Albans glanced back to Glynis, who stood
next to the younger gypsy fellow, a restraining hand on his arm.
“Really now, I could hardly pass you off as anything except a
mistress. The ladies I take up with are too soon ladies no longer.
But the pose would guarantee you proximity. Nevin may be high in
the instep, but he has the normal vices, and he moves in the same
world I occupy.”

Her mouth pulled down and her chin lifted. “I
am not interested in being any man’s mistress!”

With a shrug, he put down his mug. “That, my
dear, would be your choice. I am simply offering you access.”

He spread his own hands wide, palms up, and
offered one of his more innocent smiles. And if he could not seduce
her into doing more than posing as his mistress, he did not deserve
to be called the worst scoundrel in London.

The young gypsy, Christo, started to say
something in his language, his tone low and fierce, but his meaning
quite clear. He was not the trusting sort. The older woman silenced
him with a word, and frowned. She wasn’t the trusting sort either,
it seemed.