Elizabeth Thornton - [Special Branch 02] (4 page)

And where Jason went, she was sure to follow, even if she had to do it by stealth, which she frequently did.

All that changed when he turned fifteen. He didn’t want her near him at any price. Trish told her why. Jason, it seemed, had discovered girls, not skinny girl-children like they were, but older women of eighteen or nineteen, women whom they were not likely to meet in her mother’s drawing room.

In short
, Trish told her with a giggle,
bad women, and the badder the better
.

She, Gwyn, had straightaway succumbed to a monumental huff. She was no longer wanted, not even accepted on sufferance, and that hurt. In fact, she was crushed.

The years passed, and her hero-worship of Jason
faded. By the time she was sixteen, she was as scandalized as Grandmother Radley by Jason’s reputation. Scandalized and fascinated. She’d seen how Jason looked at women and how they looked at him, and it did something peculiar to her insides.

Sickening
, she thought, as she watched during those country assemblies how women vied for his attention. She made up her mind, then, that she was one female who would never fall under Jason Radley’s spell. And just to show him how immune she was, she attached herself to George.

As though Jason cared.

“He’ll never marry you, Gwyn,” Jason said once. “Don’t you understand? George has to marry for money. Now take me, I’m a younger son. Nobody cares whom I marry. Why don’t you try those soulful looks on me for a change? Of course, we’ll have to wait a few years till you’re all grown up.”

His eyes gleamed with laughter. She stomped off in a rage.

After that, she’d treated him with silent disdain, and sometimes not so silent, and that’s when he’d started to call her Princess Charming.

Time passed. Jason spent more and more time in London. Trish married and moved away. She and George became close friends. She loved George, but she wasn’t in love with him, nor he with her. Besides, she’d met George’s friend, the handsome and dashing Captain Nigel Barrie, who was stationed at Brighton, and she was flattered by his attentions.

On Jason’s last visit, he brought a party of friends as wild and reckless as himself down to Haddo to help him celebrate his birthday. One night, some of them went out sailing, and George went with them. A sudden storm came up. Jason was washed overboard, and George drowned trying to save him.

A blur of fragmented memories swamped Gwyn’s
mind. Grandmother Radley’s cruel words; Jason, his face haggard, flinging out of the room; much later, her own frantic search for him; the wind, the rain, the suffocating darkness.

Finally, the abandoned fishermen’s hut at the foot of the cliffs.

She never allowed her thoughts, if she could help it, to take her beyond this point. The memory was locked away in the deepest part of her psyche. As far as she knew, Jason had never worked out that it was she who had found him that night, and she never wanted him to find out.

She gazed at her reflection without really seeing it.

We’ll be seeing a lot more of each other from now on
.

She was twenty-six years old. She’d been a soldier’s wife. She’d seen things, done things, that most women had never imagined. She wasn’t going to let Jason’s careless words frighten her.

It was time to go. She rose without haste and went around the house making sure all the doors were locked and the curtains closed to prying eyes.

H
e hadn’t expected Gwyn to fall into his arms when she saw him. There was too much between them, too many regrets. But her coldness fired up his own temper.

Hell, what did he expect? He was the other brother, the opposite of George; he was the hell-raiser; the black sheep of the family. He had survived and taken George’s place as master of Haddo. In spite of all that came to light after George died, she had to resent him.

Jason bolted the brandy in his glass and helped himself to another from a tray one of the footmen offered him. But the brandy wasn’t helping to take his mind off Gwyn, and he didn’t think this house of ill repute would make a difference either.

It wasn’t exactly a bawdy house. The house belonged to the Honorable Bertie Sackville, a bachelor and hard-working member of parliament, hard-working and totally inept. His main claim to fame lay in his notorious parties. The guests were admitted by invitation only. The women weren’t all high-priced courtesans. Some of them, the ones who were wearing masks, were society ladies who would dare anything just for the thrill of it. They were here to watch
a performance, something lewd and highly titillating, and after the performance, they were free to join in the orgy or go their separate ways.

Jason propped one elbow on the sideboard and let his gaze roam over the crush of people. Few candles were lit, with the purpose, he supposed, of adding to the illicit atmosphere. Conversation was subdued; the laughter was brittle, verging on nervous. A space had been cleared and a wooden platform set up in the middle of the floor. Everyone seemed to be waiting with baited breath for the performance to begin.

Not for the first time that evening, Jason wondered what in hell’s name he was doing here. He had a nodding acquaintance with his host, but only because they were both members of White’s Gentlemen’s Club. He supposed most of the men here were members of White’s, and that’s where he wished he was right now. Then why was he here?

He’d been in a filthy mood when his cousin, Brandon, had invited him along. His meeting with Gwyn that morning was what had set him off.
Why not?
he’d thought, the old recklessness taking hold of him. He was a bachelor and answerable to no one, least of all to Gwyn.
Why not?

“You seem very restless tonight, Jason.”

Jason turned to look at Brandon. They were the same age and both had the Radley coloring: dark hair and green eyes. As adolescents, they’d led each other into one scrape after another until their parents had hit upon the idea of sending them to different schools. Jason had been far closer to Brandon than he’d been to his own brother.

Time had made a difference to their friendship, time and their diverging interests. As master of Haddo, Jason had responsibilities that Brandon did not envy in the least. He enjoyed the finer things in life, as his immaculate garments clearly showed. The
trouble was, Brandon didn’t have the money to support his expensive tastes.

“Restless?” Jason said.

“You’ve been drumming your fingers on this sideboard for the last five minutes.”

Jason’s fingers stopped drumming. He put his glass to his lips and took a healthy swig. “I’m not restless, Brandon, I’m bored.”

Amusement colored Brandon’s voice. “I can’t believe my ears. How can any red-blooded male be bored by so much beauty in one place?”

“I prefer one man, one woman, and a locked door.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve never been to one of Bertie’s parties?”

“Several. But that was years ago. I think I’ve outgrown them.”

“Then why did you accept my invitation tonight?”

“I was at a loose end.”

Brandon paused to take snuff and studied Jason curiously. Jason had been only twenty-three when George died in a boating accident, and the only mark he’d made on the world, so he’d told Brandon at the time, was in the bawdy houses of St. James, and with the magistrates and runners of the Bow Street Office. All that changed when he became master of Haddo. The last shovelful of earth had hardly been scattered over George’s grave when creditors descended. George, the family discovered, had got into bad company in Brighton, and in the course of a month, had lost everything at the gaming tables. If Haddo had been entailed, it wouldn’t have been such a disaster, but the estate that had been in the Radleys’ possession for generations would have to be sold to stave off bankruptcy.

Brandon’s first thought on hearing of the mess George had left behind was that he had taken the
easy way out because he couldn’t face the shame of discovery. But this wasn’t the case. It seemed he’d made appointments to meet with various bankers in London, though what he was going to use as collateral to secure a loan was anyone’s guess. Unlike Jason, he wasn’t a romantic figure. There was no rich lady waiting in the wings to rescue him. But besides all this, he’d died while heroically trying to save Jason from drowning. Heroically and foolishly, in Brandon’s opinion, because George couldn’t swim. It ended with Jason trying to save George. They both might have drowned. The others on the boat were either too terrified or too drunk to even chance going into the choppy waters.

In that first year, Jason had been like a man possessed, trying to come up with a plan to satisfy his creditors. He’d sold off his own assets, including a small holding in Derbyshire. There had been talk of marriage to some wealthy lady who would be happy to trade her fortune for Jason’s ring on her finger. And he would have done it, too, if it had become necessary. But either his charm, or his facile tongue, or the rumor of his advantageous marriage, had persuaded his creditors to give his plan a chance. And it worked.

So Jason changed his ways and settled down to take George’s place as master of Haddo. Tonight, however, he seemed more like the old Jason, and Brandon wondered why.

He shut the lid of his snuff box with a snap and said casually, “I presume your presence here means that you and Daphne have had a falling out?”

“Hardly. Daphne and I have an understanding. We’re both free to do as we please.”

“Really? How very civilized.” Brandon’s tone was dry. Not Daphne, then. After a moment, he chuckled. “Is she still as pretty or has she run to fat?”

The word
who?
hovered on Jason’s lips, but one look at Brandon’s eyes made him stifle it. Instead, he said simply, “She’s hardly changed at all.”

That had been his first impression, when she’d walked in on Mark and him that morning. Her fine, fly-away hair that, as he remembered, was the bane of her existence, feathered her brow and cheeks. The same line of freckles marched across the bridge of her nose. He’d forgotten about her dimples. But he could never forget her lovely eyes or how they mirrored her thoughts. He’d always known when Gwyn was happy or sad or in a temper.

And that’s when he’d begun to see the change in her. Her eyes gave nothing away now. Then he’d noticed other changes: she was too thin, too unsmiling, and too fragile beneath that calm exterior.

But he’d discovered one thing. There was no man in Gwyn’s life. The guile he’d used to extract that piece of information didn’t trouble him at all. As though a secret admirer would name him as trustee! Not if he had any sense he wouldn’t. It had been pure pleasure to see her come to life—those gray eyes that could match any tempest, and that little catch in her breath. He’d wanted to put his lips on hers and suck that little catch in her breath and swallow it.

“I’m sorry to hear it,” said Brandon.

“What?” Jason had lost the thread of their conversation.

“That she hasn’t run to fat. I don’t believe I ever told you that when we were boys, I had this monumental thing about Gwyn. Puppy love, I suppose. Of course, as we both know, she only had eyes for George.” Brandon sighed. “I’m not sure that I ever got over it. But if she’d run to fat or lost her looks, well, that would make a difference, don’t you think?”

Jason turned his head and gave his cousin a long, hard look. Brandon was lounging against the
sideboard, and dim light or no, nothing could conceal the twinkle in his eyes or the grin on his face. Jason said, “Be careful, Brandon. Remember I’m the head of our house.”

“Meaning?”

“If you’re offering to marry Gwyn, I may hold you to it.”

Brandon’s jaw dropped. “I was joking! You know I was joking! Gwyn never meant anything to me. She’s not my type.”

Jason snorted. “You’re right about that. She doesn’t have enough money to keep you in the style to which you’d like to become accustomed.”

“This,” said Brandon, “is turning nasty.”

After a moment, both men grinned. In the old days, this mutual baiting would have ended in a friendly bout of wrestling. Now, all their sparring was done with words.

After a moment, Jason said, “Brandon, what in Hades are we doing here?”

Brandon shrugged. “I thought you needed taking out of yourself. I thought we both did.”

“If your creditors are hounding you,” said Jason seriously, “I’d be happy to help you out.”

“When are my creditors not hounding me? No, no. I’m not short of money, thanks all the same. My luck still holds good at the gaming tables. All I’m suffering is a prolonged case of boredom.”

“That settles it,” said Jason, straightening. “Let’s go down to one of those dock taverns and trade insults with shipworkers and sailors. That ought to liven things up a bit.”

“Too late,” said Brandon. “The performance, I believe, is about to begin. And you know what that means. The doors will be locked.”

“I need another drink,” said Jason, looking around for a footman.

“No you don’t. The rumor is that the drinks are laced with something, you know, to make the men more virile and the women more compliant.”

“You’re joking,” said Jason.

“Don’t say you haven’t been warned.”

Jason scowled at Brandon’s grinning face. He didn’t believe him, but he waved the footman away without taking another glass. Then he gave his attention to the stage.

A hush descended as their host rose to address the spectators. Bertic Sackville was in his forties, and well upholstered like the chairs and sofas in this grand salon that also served as the picture gallery. He was beaming, and kept rubbing his hands together.

“The rules of the house are as follows,” he said. “After the performance, you are free to go or free to stay.” This was greeted by guffaws, catcalls, and a round of applause.

He held up his hand. “If you decide to stay, just remember the servants’ quarters are out of bounds.”

“That,” said Brandon in an amused aside to Jason, “is to stop the females from hounding the footmen. Oh, not that the footmen mind. It’s the gentlemen guests who object.”