Cates, Kimberly (14 page)

He should have been relieved things were so calm. After all, there was a small chance Juliet could be attacked inside the house. But instead he'd felt tension coiling tighter in the back of his neck as the day wore on, a dull throbbing in the old wound in his left thigh—sure signs that trouble was brewing.

He levered himself to his feet, pacing the drawing room, feeling suffocated with lace and ribbons and women's furbelows. But maybe his problem was that he remembered all too clearly the feel of a female body without the mountains of padding and petticoats, whalebones and lacings, that were supposed to come between a man and a proper lady.

Somehow, despite all the amorous liaisons Sabrehawk had experienced, the most bone-melting, soul-searing contact he'd ever had with a woman had been when he'd found himself trussed up like a roasted partridge with a vicar's daughter. He just hadn't realized it until he spent the entire day recalling the lush curve of her half-bared breast, the delicious weight of her against his chest, the heaviness she'd caused to gather in his groin.

The windows were catching fire with sunset. Blast, where was the woman? He could hardly begin his campaign to extricate her from the city if she wouldn't even speak to him.

"Where is Miss Grafton-Moore?" the demand sprang, unbidden, and more than a little gruff from his lips.

"I believe she had some sort of engagement tonight," Violet stammered. "It's impossible to keep track of where she buzzes off to."

"Yes," Millicent added. "But she was putting her fighting bonnet on."

"Her fighting bonnet?" Fletcher echoed.

"The black one she wears whenever she's off to beard the lion in its den. It doesn't suit her at all, and it's monstrous severe," Violet offered.

"Perhaps I should find out exactly what mischief she's getting into," Adam snapped.

"She won't thank you for it, that I promise you," Millicent said, nibbling at her bottom lip. "She doesn't like interference."

He muttered a questionable suggestion of what she could do with her objections and stalked out of the chamber. But when he reached Juliet's room, the woman and her objectionable bonnet were nowhere to be found. What he did find, however, sent a chill scuttling down his spine.

Elise was curled up at Juliet's desk, trembling like a doe with a wolf's jaws about its throat.

"Where is Juliet?" Adam demanded, the tension in his neck knotting tighter.

"She went out... I begged her not to. She said they wouldn't dare hurt her with so many other people around, but I think they'd all be glad if something bad happened to her. All of them."

Hellfire, the woman was already gone! He wanted to bellow at Elise, but feared that one roar from him would shatter the girl. "You're not making any sense. Where did she go? What mischief is she up to?"

"Ranelagh Gardens. He's got a box there for tonight. He and the duchess. She—I don't know why she has to face him, to—to..." Elise's throat clenched in a wrenching spasm. "It's my fault. I should have kept her from finding out. Maybe if I'd given Millicent my bit of lace she wouldn't have told."

"Told what? Blast it, what happened?"

"L-Lord Darlington and his friends. They—they came upon me while I was at the market a few days ago and—" The silence was dark and damning.

Adam's gut clenched with raw fury. "What did they do?"

"Nothing, really. Just... just forced a kiss on me, and pinched my bodice—" She gave a sick shudder. "Told me what I already know. That I'm not pretty. Not anymore."

Adam's blood thickened with fire, muscles tensing with the need to smash something—preferably Darlington's face. "And Juliet?"

"She intends to take him to task before the duchess and everyone in his party. Intends to shame him."

Thunder and fire! The whole time he'd been downstairs grinding his teeth in frustration, Juliet had been plotting mutiny. No wonder half of London was ready to dangle her from Tower Bridge. Damn little fool. Damn brave-hearted little fool.

"How long ago did she leave?"

"An hour. She rode off by herself on her mare."

"She's ranging through London at night by herself? Hell, if Darlington doesn't murder her, God knows who will. Half the city would give its right hand to catch her alone!" Adam raged, stalking into his part of the room, scooping up his sword and scabbard, belting them around his waist. "You know how much danger she is in! Why the blazes didn't you tell me?"

Tears welled up in chocolate-brown eyes. "She made me swear I wouldn't."

In that moment, Adam was certain that if Elise had been placed on the rack, she'd never betray her lady. What kind of woman was Juliet Grafton-Moore, to inspire such fierce love and devotion and loyalty, such scorn and outright hatred?

And what was happening to her now? Alone somewhere in the vast London night?

He started to stalk to the door, heard the softest whimper behind him. He turned back to see Elise's face buried in her hands, her molasses-colored tresses tumbling around her shoulders.

He'd always been damned bad at comforting weeping women. But he crossed to Elise, laying one scarred hand upon her curls.

"Don't worry. I'll find her."

"You will, won't you? You won't let anything happen to her. She doesn't know how—how awful it can be. She's never learned to—to be afraid."

Fletcher was waiting in the entryway as Adam charged down the stairs.

"What is amiss?"

"The infernal woman has gone on some brainless quest. I have to stop her. Saddle up my horse."

"As soon as I get my sword. I'm going with you."

That was all he needed—Fletcher charging about, sword flailing. Hell, his nerves were so taut at the moment Adam was afraid
he'd
bludgeon the youth in frustration.

"No. You have to stay here. Juliet's enemies won't know she's left the house. And there's no way to know when those cowardly curs might strike, or where. You have to guard the house and the ladies inside it." He saw the boy getting balky as a farmyard mule.

"You just want to be rid of me—brush me out o' harm's way as if I were a raw lad. I won't be shunted aside—"

"Fletcher, you'll damn well stay put! I need to know you're here to watch over things. I trust you."

At the word
trust,
the boy seemed to grow a full two inches in height. "That's it, is it? You're not lyin' to me?" His Irish lilt slipped through, making him sound even more boyish and so oddly vulnerable it tugged at a raw place in Adam's chest.

"Why the devil would I bother to lie?"
I'd have to care about the boy to lie.
A frisson of unease spread across Adam's shoulders.

"But who'll be watchin' your back? You're not as young as you once were."

Adam grimaced, embracing the familiar prickling of irritation with something akin to relief. "I'll just have to manage on my own, won't I? Now, go get that infernal horse!"

The boy raced off, leaving Adam with his own chaotic thoughts.

Blast and damnation, how was he ever going to find Juliet in the mayhem of Ranelagh Gardens? Throngs of people, insanity everywhere. And in the darkness to make matters worse.

But he knew exactly where to find her. At the box Lord Darlington had reserved, getting into an abundance of trouble. He knew enough about the ways of the aristocracy to know they did not suffer public humiliation calmly. Especially from what they considered social inferiors. Even an innocent like Juliet had to realize that.

Yet, did she have any idea what lengths such men might go to in order to silence a slandering tongue? No one knew better than Adam that wealth could buy anything—a sword-blade in the night, a silent death while sleeping in one's own bed. Or punishments far worse—tortures so slow and diabolical an angel like Juliet could never begin to imagine them. And when wealth was mingled with power...

Adam grabbed up his cloak, swirling it around his shoulders with a grim scowl.

What was it Elise had said? Juliet Grafton-Moore hadn't learned to be afraid.

It didn't matter. Adam suddenly realized he was afraid enough for them both.

Ranelagh Gardens glittered like a duchess's jewel box. Ladies in elegant confections of satin and lace flirted above the delicate scallops of painted fans, their hair teased and powdered into impossible masses of curls piled so high it seemed their necks must snap.

London's most notorious beaux meandered down lantern-lit pathways, their handsome figures draped in their finest garb as they minced along on shoes with dazzling buckles, black velvet patches affixed to their cheekbones, debauchery on their minds.

Juliet shivered beneath the folds of her simple cloak, feeling like a drab gray moth among an explosion of gay butterflies. Quite invisible among the crowd.

She'd never seen the famed Pleasure Gardens before, but she'd dreamed about them during the long winter nights at the vicarage. She'd seen the beauty of that famed site reflected in Jenny's sparkling gray-green eyes as tales were spun out over the drawing-room hearth. Glorious, breathtaking tales of dashing men and their glittering lady-loves that had danced into the corners of Juliet's mind that had previously been occupied by her father's serious sermons and gentle attempts at guidance.

Jenny.

The distant cousin who had come to the vicarage to escape the whispering of scandal, and to be "improved" by serving as Juliet's companion. Yet instead she had opened doors inside Juliet she'd never realized were closed, revealing worlds Juliet had never even begun to imagine.

Jenny had glowed as she rhapsodized over all the wonders she'd seen. And in the months she'd come to live at the vicarage, she'd dragged all such marvels into the staid little house in her wake, like a trailing cloak of the most magnificent hues ever woven.

In those delicious months Juliet had been desperate, eager to gather up every drop of sunshine Jenny had brought, as if it were some mystic elixir from another world. A world as fantastic as the fairy tales she'd read. And as far beyond Juliet's reach.

But now she saw past the glitter and the laughter and the music, and understood far too well how they could lure the unsuspecting, like a moth to a flame. Beauty—there was that in abundance. But also, destruction.

A pair of macaronis, dressed with impossibly ludicrous elegance, teetered past, the absurd dandies all but tripping over her as they ogled the ample bosom of an opera dancer strolling by.

"Dull little bird," one of them dismissed Juliet, pulling a sour face.

She shouldn't have minded. Heaven knew, the last thing she wanted was admiration from two such ridiculous figures. The last thing she wanted was admiration from any man, wasn't it? Yet it was Adam Slade's scoffing dismissal that sprang to her mind, bringing with it an echo of unexpected hurt.

And a thick lump of dread that lodged beneath her ribs.

Lord, instead of indulging in this preposterous melancholy over his reaction to her charms, her frazzled emotions would be far better employed in wondering what kind of fury he'd kick up if he ever learned of her trip to these gardens.

No, Juliet brought herself up short, her heels clicking with renewed militancy on the pathway. She shouldn't be thinking of Adam Slade at all. She should be thinking of Elise, the shame that had enveloped her like an unholy aura, the fear that had clouded her eyes, and the terrible burden she'd suffered, trying to keep it secret.

She should be concentrating on finding Lord Darlington, and confronting him. A number of inquiries led her to a row of boxes in the grand rotunda, the most festive of all led by a handsome man of about thirty-eight, dripping jewels and arrogance. His powdered wig was curled to perfection, tied with a silver ribbon, his white frockcoat and breeches trimmed with silver
galon
that glinted like ice in the sun. But the effect of deep-set eyes and a patrician nose were spoiled by just a hint of cruelty playing about the weak curves of his mouth.

Juliet watched the man, all but certain she'd found her quarry.

"Pardon me," she said, stopping a spritely servant. "Can you tell me who that gentleman is? The one in the ice-white frockcoat?"

"That be Lord Darlington. And the lady, there is the Duchess of Glynne and her daughter. Darlington's just gotten himself betrothed to the girl and is celebrating right proper tonight." The servant looked at Juliet, taking in her simple garb, then gave a conspiratorial wink. "Can't blame him. Earned a bleedin' fortune in the bargain."

Juliet felt a twinge of discomfort as her gaze skimmed over the features of the young woman at his lordship's side—a conservatory-bred rose of a girl, pruned and tended, fussed over and spoiled, yet unmistakably beautiful, and innocent in this disaster. The thought that she might merely be a means to settle gaming debts was repugnant. Juliet genuinely regretted the hurt a public scene might cause her. And yet, wouldn't it be better for Darlington's betrothed to discover the truth about her intended husband before the wedding ring was on her finger and it was too late to escape him?

The servant nudged her and pulled a sour face. " 'Course, no doubt the entire affair will be paid for with the duchess's coin." His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "Darlington gets a nice enough income, but he's ever squandering it away on prime horseflesh, absurdly expensive garments to rig 'im out, and lights o' love for entertainment."

Juliet's lips compressed in a thin white line at the memory of how he and his friends had entertained themselves at Elise's expense. She slipped the servant a shilling, then sucked in a steadying breath, heart hammering, stomach churning. Her fingers knitted together, clutching tight to still the trembling of anger and outrage that beset them every time she sought out this sort of confrontation.

She glimpsed the duchess patting one of her daughter's curls into place—not with the brisk efficiency of one who disliked any imperfection, but rather, it was the tender touch of a mother, eager for any excuse to surreptitiously caress a child who was grown.

Juliet couldn't fight a twinge of longing, remembering the last touch of her own mother's hand, frail and wasted yet indescribably gentle before death had scooped her into it's ghostly-white arms.
Do not be afraid, little one. Every time you feel the wind upon your face, it will be my spirit, kissing your cheek.