His Mask of Retribution (11 page)

They stood hand in hand and he slid his thumb against the soft skin of her palm. He could see the rise and fall of her breasts beneath the embroidered bodice, see the way the cotton caught against their hardened tips. And he felt his mouth go dry and an ache within his breeches. He swallowed hard and knew there were a thousand reasons he should not be doing this, that this was madness.

‘If you were not Misbourne’s daughter...’ But at this moment it made no difference whether she was Misbourne’s daughter or not.

‘What would you do?’ she whispered.

‘I would take you in my arms.’ He slid his arms around her and felt the slight tremble go through her body. ‘Like this,’ he whispered against the top of her head and inhaled the scent of her hair. ‘And then I would tip your face up to mine.’ He touched his fingers to her chin and gently angled her head up.

‘Yes,’ she whispered.

‘And then I would kiss you.’ His mouth lowered inch by inch towards her, until their lips touched and he took her mouth with his own. He kissed her as he had dreamt of doing since the circulating library, tasting her this time, teasing her until her tongue met his, shyly at first, then more boldly. One hand rested against the swell of her hip, the other on the small of her back. He slid a hand higher to the narrowness of her waist and higher still to cup one breast, feeling her nipple pebbled beneath his palm, sliding his fingers to capture the bud through the thick cotton of her nightdress. She gasped, broke off the kiss, staring up at him with startled eyes, her breath suddenly ragged. He could feel the rise and fall of her breast beneath his hand, feel the harried thud of her heart. He stilled his fingers, but left his hand where it rested.

‘I...’ she whispered, and her eyes scanned his. ‘We should not be doing this.’

‘We should not,’ he agreed. He could feel the way she trembled, standing poised as if about to flee.

Her teeth nipped at her lower lip. He kissed the hurt away with a single gentle kiss. ‘I would that any other woman in the world but you were his daughter.’ One last kiss and then he released her and stepped back. Then he turned and disappeared through the open window.

* * *

Marianne watched him go and did not know what to think. Her heart was racing and her lips throbbed and tingled where he had kissed. Her breasts were heavy and so sensitive that they ached for his touch. Where his hand had lain her breast seemed to burn and even just the memory of his fingers playing upon its tip made her catch her breath with the sudden sharpness of yearning that shot through her. She wanted him to touch her there, she thought with amazement. She wondered what it would be like were he to touch her without the barrier of her nightdress. Touch her, skin to skin. The imagining made her heart beat ever more wildly. Imagining was safe. And with it the darkness of past remembering seemed to fade.

She stared across at the desk with its open drawers and piles of papers emptied upon its surface. Her father’s documents. His private papers. And she thought again of the document that was so important to her father that he had refused to relinquish it even for her life. The highwayman said he had not found it. She moved to the window and quietly closed the sash, the blinds and the curtains—just as her father did every night. Then she began a calm and methodical search where the highwayman had left off.

She did not know what she was looking for. But she looked through all of the papers anyway, convinced that she would know the document when she saw it. She read, looked, searched, every drawer, every cupboard and shelf. And she found many things that her father would not have wanted her to find. Things that shocked her to learn of him. A small portrait of a woman who was not her mother, a great roll of crisp white bank notes tied with a ribbon, and the most scandalous playing cards on which had been painted naked women in provocative poses. But nothing that might qualify as ‘the document’.

She heard the opening of the front door and the deliberate quietness of its closing. Francis, she thought, remembering the highwayman’s warning. But she did not attempt to tidy away the evidence of her search or even to extinguish her candle. She did not hear his footsteps. He opened the door with surprising speed and without knocking, stilling when he saw her, before entering and closing the door behind him as quietly as all the rest.

‘I know Papa has the document, Francis.’

He made no effort to deny it.

‘I need to know what it is.’

‘Whatever the answer to your question, Marianne, you are mistaken if you think he will have it so casually stored with his other papers.’ There was something about the expression in his eyes that made her realise.

‘You have already searched for it.’

‘It is not here. Nor within the safe.’

‘Francis, what is this document, that a man would abduct me for it and Papa would risk my life to keep it?’

‘That is what I mean to discover.’ Her brother produced a piece of paper from his pocket, all wrinkled as if it had been screwed to a ball, then smoothed flat again. He opened it out and let her read the words of the highwayman’s demand.

‘Something happened on Hounslow Heath in 1795,’ he said. ‘I am going through the archives of
The London Messenger
for the whole of that year.’

‘Have you found anything?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Will you tell me if you do?’

‘You would do better to leave this to me. Our father has men searching for the villain. If they do not find him, I will.’

‘You do not understand.’ She shook her head. ‘He could have killed Papa so very easily had he wanted to. And he could have...’ she glanced away uneasily before looking at him once again ‘...taken advantage of me. But he did neither, even when Papa twice failed to pay the ransom and sent men to kill him. He holds Papa responsible for some heinous crime of which he does not speak.’

‘Marianne, he abducted you on the way to your wedding, held a pistol to our father’s head and cost you Pickering as a bridegroom. And you defend him?’

‘All of that is true. Yet, even so, he is not what you think him. It is true that he is a hard man, a ruthless man. A man who does not flinch or hesitate from anything, and one in which there is undoubtedly something dark and tortured. Yet I cannot rid myself of the sense that he is, beneath it all...a man of integrity. He believes in what he is doing, that it is just and right.’

‘Integrity? Marianne, have you taken leave of your senses?’ Her brother peered at her in a too-knowing way. ‘Do not fancy that he is some Claude Duval, a gentleman highwayman who will dance with you and quote you words of love poetry.’ Her brother’s gaze sharpened. ‘Or perhaps that is precisely what he did and you have developed a
tendre
for the rogue?’

‘Do not be foolish,’ Marianne snapped, fearing her brother was coming too close to the truth. ‘Given my past, I am unlikely to develop a
tendre
for any man.’

Her brother looked away, a look of discomfort in his eyes. ‘Forgive me, Marianne, I should not have said that.’

‘I should tidy away Papa’s papers. It would not go well if he knew what I have been doing in here this night.’ She thought of how the highwayman had held her in his arms, of his kiss and the feel of his hand upon her breast. And her cheeks grew warm. No, it would not go well at all, if her father knew.

‘I will help you, Marianne.’ And together she and Francis began to put the papers away.

* * *

‘So it was not in his desk?’

‘Nor anywhere obvious within his study.’

‘It could be anywhere. You haven’t a hope in hell of finding it.’

‘I have if I rattle him enough.’ Rafe looked at Callerton. ‘If he thinks I’m getting close, he’ll move it.’

‘And how exactly are you going to convince him of such a thing?’

‘A few little scares here and there. He seems to be growing more nervous by the day. I need to keep a closer eye on him.’

* * *

Definitely nervous, thought Rafe as he watched Misbourne mop his brow and glance furtively around the glasshouse in the botanic gardens later that week. Misbourne’s glance lingered on him for a moment, making his heart notch a little faster with the realisation of what he was risking by being here. But then the earl’s gaze moved on, scanning the crowd. Rafe had not the slightest interest in the exotic plants on display and neither, he was prepared to bet, had Misbourne. Yet the earl, his wife and Marianne were here at the event, facing down the murmur of gossip over Pickering.

Rafe’s gaze shifted to Marianne standing in front of her father. By her side Lady Misbourne was engaged in conversation with a woman of the
ton
. Marianne’s eyes met his across the distance. Their gazes held and the moment seemed to stretch between them. She looked away, feigning interest in some plant, nodding and listening to something her father was saying. She glanced up again, her gaze again meeting his, a small half-smile upon her face, her eyes a rich brown in the sunlight that flooded the glasshouse—shy and filled with a pleasure that mirrored what he felt filling his chest at the sight of her. Rafe knew he should look away, but he could not, even though Misbourne was standing right there and he knew he was risking too much. And then her eyes shifted to something behind him and everything in her changed.

The blood appeared to drain from her face, leaving her powder-white, her eyes widened and he could see shock, horror and abject fear in them. She stared as if the very devil had appeared before her, frozen in terror. He followed her gaze, glancing behind him at what she was seeing, but there was only the crowd that had been there before, and a neat tailored back disappearing through it.

And when he looked at Marianne again he saw what her father, standing behind her and busy in finding a fresh handkerchief within his pocket, could not, and what her mother, still engaged in conversation, did not notice. He saw her bloodless pallor and her eyes beginning to roll up in her head and he was already moving across the glasshouse towards her.

Lady Misbourne let out an exclamation as Marianne crumpled. Misbourne reacted, realising what was happening, but not fast enough. Rafe caught her before she hit the ground, scooping her up in his arms.

‘Your coat, sir,’ Rafe directed Misbourne, who shrugged out of his coat and spread the garment upon the ground. He laid Marianne gently down upon it. She was pale as death and limp, her long fair lashes feathering against the ivory of her cheeks. Her eyes flickered open wide, suddenly filled with the same terror he had seen in them before. And then she saw him and the terror faded. And there was in its stead such vulnerability, such raw honesty, as if she were letting him see some the private hidden depths of her soul just as she had done that day within the rookery, and in response he felt something squeeze tight within his chest. He was seized with the urge to take her in his arms and protect her from whatever had frightened her, to save her from the darkness that the world could inflict. But Misbourne was leaning over her, his face pinched with concern.

‘Marianne?’

‘He was here, Papa,’ she whispered.

‘The highwayman?’ Misbourne’s words were so quiet Rafe had to strain to hear them.

‘Not him,’ she said. ‘Ro...’ But it was as if she could not bring herself to say the name.

Misbourne’s face seemed to sharpen and pale. Rafe thought he saw the dart of fear in those devil eyes of his before he raised them to the small crowd gathered around. He snapped at his footman, ‘Have the carriage brought round at once, James. Lady Marianne is unwell.’

She tried to sit up, but Misbourne pushed her back down. ‘Stay where you are, girl.’

‘I am feeling better,’ she said, her gaze fluttering over the surrounding crowd. ‘Please, let us leave now.’

Marianne was small and slender, but Misbourne was in his sixties and run to fat. Already his face was ruddy from the exertion of crouching down. He glanced up at where Rafe still stood, his eyes meeting Rafe’s directly.

‘Thank you, sir. Your prompt action saved my daughter injury.’

Rafe gave a nod of acknowledgement, his expression a mask that hid the emotion beneath. ‘My carriage is outside and ready, if you do not wish to wait to transport your daughter from this place.’

Lady Misbourne was flushed with embarrassment, but Marianne was scanning the faces of the crowd and he knew she was looking for the one that had frightened her.

Misbourne’s gaze held his with a strange intensity. ‘If it would be of no inconvenience to you, sir...’

‘None at all,’ replied Rafe. He did not ask Misbourne’s permission, just scooped Marianne up from where she lay and carried her out to where Callerton waited with the carriage. Lady Misbourne climbed inside beside her daughter. Misbourne hesitated by the open door.

‘I am in your debt, sir,’ he said with a sincerity of which Rafe had not thought the man capable. Only two feet separated them. He looked the murderer directly in the eye, knowing what Misbourne had done to his parents. He felt his gall rise at the knowledge and wondered if anything of the hatred showed in his eyes. Then Misbourne climbed inside and Rafe shut the door behind him and watched while Callerton drove away.

The crowd was dissipating now that Marianne had gone. He headed home at a steady pace. It was only when he was halfway there that he realised that he had not introduced himself and neither had Misbourne asked his name.

Chapter Eight

T
he nightmare, which had subsided since Marianne had met the highwayman, returned that night. It started, as it always did, with Marianne blowing out the candles in her bedchamber. But this time when the villain came with his sweet scent of cigar smoke that so filled her with revulsion, she realised that they were not the only two in the darkness. The highwayman stepped out between her and the man whose name she could not bring herself to say.

‘Not this time, Rotherham,’ he said in her dream. ‘Never again.’ Then he punched the villain again and again until the limp body slithered to the floor, just like the men had fallen in the rookery and in the burying ground. She knew the villain was dead and she was glad of it. When the highwayman turned and reached his hand to her the darkness vanished and the daylight was bright. And the room in which they stood was no longer her own bedchamber, but that of the man who had saved her.

She took the hand that he offered, with its scraped and bleeding knuckles, and kissed it; then she reached up and held his face between her hands and kissed that, too, his cheeks and then his mouth, with a passion she did not know was within her. And when she awoke she was not crying out in terror as she normally did when the nightmare came. She felt safe, and in her mind was not that pale-eyed gaunt face, but a pair of amber eyes. And her thighs burned hot and her heart glowed warm.

* * *

Within the drawing room of the Earl of Misbourne’s town house the next day the clock ticked too loud.

‘It is not possible,’ Lady Misbourne said. ‘He is gone to the Continent and would not dare show his face in London again.’

‘I know what I saw, Mama.’

‘You must be mistaken, Marianne. It will be the fiasco with the highwayman that has stirred up dark memories of the past. Do you not recall how you were seeing him at every turn for months after we knew he had left the country?’ Her mother squeezed her hand and glanced across at her father.

‘Maybe you are right, Mama.’ Maybe it was her carnal feelings for the highwayman that were making her remember. But she did not feel like she was remembering, she felt like she was finally beginning to forget.

‘Maybe we should cancel my birthday party. I am in no spirit to celebrate.’

‘I will not hear of it,’ her father said. ‘You need something to take your mind off all that has happened. Besides, now that Pickering is out of the picture, we need to think about arranging a new match for you. I have invited every eligible bachelor in London—including young Wilcox. That gentleman has long expressed an admiration and interest in you.’

Marianne felt a flare of panic in her stomach. She began to count her breaths, her eyes seeking Francis’s across the room.

Her brother pushed off from the wall against which he was lounging.

‘Surely you jest, sir? Wilcox is a lawyer’s clerk. He has neither money nor status. He is not good enough for Marianne. And after the mess with Pickering it smacks of desperation. The dust should be allowed to settle for a while before any new deals are struck.’

‘You forget yourself, Francis. I know what is best for Marianne. The sooner she is married the better.’ Her father spoke as if she were not even present.

‘Even though the matter of the highwayman remains unresolved?’ said Francis, refusing to back down.

‘The highwayman is nothing in the greater scheme of things.’ Her father waved a hand dismissively. ‘My men will find him eventually.’

‘They have found no trace of him so far. Nothing. No one is speaking, not for all the money you have offered. He is still out there. And all the while he remains free he is a threat, not just to you, but to Marianne.’

‘I have two hundred men looking for him. What more can I do?’

‘Bait a trap to catch him.’

‘Lest you have forgotten, we have already tried that,’ said her father. ‘And it did not work.’

Francis betrayed not even the slightest flicker of response to his father’s scorn. ‘He knows our every move. He has to be watching us. Go to your safety deposit box at the bank, remove a few pages of paperwork and bring those home. They will lure him to us. And this time, we will be waiting.’

Her father looked at her brother. ‘You may be on to something there.’

‘No!’ The word was out before Marianne could
stop it.

Three faces stared at her.

‘Do you not want him caught?’ her father asked.

‘If you catch him, then everyone will know that I was abducted. It would come out in the courtroom and not all of the court reporters work for your newspapers.’ It was the only excuse she could think of. ‘If it became known that I was gone from home overnight, unchaperoned and in the company of a man...’ She did not need to finish it. They all knew the scandal would blight the whole family.

‘You misunderstand, Marianne,’ her father said. ‘It is a private family matter of extreme sensitivity. It was never my intention that the matter go through the courts.’

She stared at him. ‘But you said that you meant to bring an end to him.’

‘And so I will, my dear,’ he said as patiently as if he were explaining it to a child. ‘I mean to deal with the highwayman personally.’

‘Personally? I do not understand.’

‘He is vermin, Marianne. And vermin must be exterminated. Once it is done you need never worry about him again.’

Her eyes widened with horror.

‘Father, you distress Marianne with such details,’ Francis said.

‘Forgive me, my dear. My sole aim is your protection.’

Her protection.
As he said the words she could not help herself thinking of the document he held more precious than her.

‘Eleanor,’ her father said to her mother, ‘take Marianne upstairs. I am sure you ladies have many arrangements for a certain twenty-first birthday party to busy yourselves with.’

* * *

‘All finished, m’lady,’ the maid said and stepped back that Marianne might see in the looking glass the hairstyle she had been creating for the past hour. ‘You look so different, m’lady. It suits you well.’

‘She’s right. You do look different,’ her brother said from the doorway.

Marianne felt her cheeks warm. ‘I wish that Papa had cancelled this ball. I find I have no stomach for it.’

‘And let the highwayman win?’ her brother queried.

‘This isn’t about the highwayman,’ she said. But in a way it was. She had not stopped thinking about him, not stopped worrying about what her father meant to do to him, or he to her father. She was deeply anxious about the plan her father and Francis were hatching. And at the back of her mind lurked the shadow of Rotherham.

‘You and Papa spoke of a plan to catch him... What do you know of it?’

‘I know that it is your twenty-first birthday next week and tonight is a ball to celebrate it, Marianne, and that our father will be here in a moment to lead you down the stairs and into the ballroom to greet your guests. I know that it is your duty to look beautiful and enjoy yourself and make our mother proud and our father glad that he spent his money throwing this ball for you. Tonight of all nights you should not be thinking of that villain.’

But she was thinking of him, more so tonight than any other.

Marianne looked at the coil of hair pinned high on her head and the loose curls cascading down from it in the classical style that was so in fashion. She did look different, she thought. But it had nothing to do with her hairstyle or the fact that almost a hundred people were waiting for her in her father’s ballroom. She was not even thinking of the waxen-faced Mr Wilcox. She was thinking of a pair of amber eyes and what it would mean if her father was to succeed in capturing the man to whom they belonged.

* * *

From his place lounging against the wall by the window, Rafe watched Misbourne lead Marianne into the ballroom.

A ripple of applause broke out and Marianne blushed and looked embarrassed. The dress was white, its bodice scattered with pink pearls and fixed with a single large ribboned bow, its skirt edged in a deep scallop of pink lace. Her pale curls teased artlessly against her face, making her look like some dark-eyed Aphrodite.

‘Misbourne’s looking for someone to fill the shoes that Pickering recently vacated,’ said Devlin. ‘I’d tumble her.’

‘Ever the gentleman,’ muttered Rafe, unable to hide his irritation.

‘And you wouldn’t, given half a chance?’

‘I’ve no mind to be caught in parson’s mousetrap,’ said Rafe coolly.

‘None of us have,’ said Fallingham. ‘We’re hardly suitable fodder for a débutante. Makes you wonder why Misbourne invited us.’

‘We’re five of the
ton
’s most eligible bachelors,’ said Bullford, ‘and he’s looking for a husband for his daughter: that’s why he invited us. He’s rumoured to have spent three grand on this bash.’

‘I heard Prinny’s on the guest list, although quite how he managed that I don’t know,’ said Razeby.

‘Also heard that he’s lined up Frederick Wilcox as next in the betrothal line.’

Rafe had heard that too.

‘Never heard of him. Who the hell is he?’ asked Devlin.

‘Apprentice lawyer. Works with Misbourne’s man of business,’ answered Rafe.

‘Hardly a suitable match for the daughter of an earl,’ said Bullford.

Fallingham smirked. ‘Must be in a hurry to get her married off. Maybe little Lady Marianne isn’t quite so pure as she looks.’

The others sniggered. Rafe knew the rake he was playing would have laughed, too, but when he looked at Fallingham he could barely smother the urge to punch his smirking mouth.

He walked away before temptation got the better of him.

‘What’s got into him?’ he heard Fallingham asking after him, but he was out of earshot before the answer came.

Rafe kept to the background, but there was never a moment he was not aware of Marianne. He told himself that he was here because it was an excuse to make a foray into Misbourne’s lair, that any extra knowledge he could glean of his enemy was of potential use. But it was not Misbourne that he watched. He knew the risk he was taking in being here, but when it came to Marianne he just could not seem to stay away.

Marianne seemed to sense him. She was dancing with Wilcox when she saw him and he wondered if he had gone too far in coming here, to her birthday ball. Her gaze met his for those few seconds and held and he saw something flare in her eyes, but she gave no other sign that she had recognised him. And then Wilcox led her away and she did not look back until she could do so as part of the dance.

Wilcox’s pate was gleaming with sweat, his hand possessive upon Marianne’s at every opportunity. She seemed to withdraw, shudder almost at his touch, just as she had done with every man who danced with her. Rafe watched and knew that he should not care. But then her gaze touched his again, and he knew that he did care, more than he would have thought possible. And he knew, too, that no matter how dangerous, he could not stand here all night and watch her dance with men she did not care for. So he waited for the music to end and then made his way steadily through the crowd towards Misbourne and his family.

* * *

‘Thank you, Papa, for going to so much trouble for me.’ Marianne forced herself to smile at her father, knowing that he must have worked very hard to have so many of the
ton
’s best in their ballroom.

‘It was no trouble, my sweet. I am glad that you are happy. You have your choice of young gentlemen as dance partners this evening.’

She bit her lip and could not help from stealing another glance towards the highwayman’s group. His friends were still there, but he seemed to have disappeared. She felt her heart sink a little and something of her excitement waned. She smiled all the harder that her father would not see it.

‘I have not been introduced to most of them.’

‘That will not be a problem. I will ensure that the necessary introductions are made.’

‘You know everyone here?’ she asked.

‘Of a form,’ her father said.

‘Even those gentlemen over by the windows, the ones who are reputed to be so very dangerous and wild and rakish?’ And one of whom was more dangerous than he could imagine.

‘The gossipmongers exaggerate. I see three viscounts and two wealthy gentlemen there—all young and all unmarried, each and every one of them.’

‘Papa!’ Marianne chided, turning away to find herself looking directly at the approach of the highwayman.

Her heart stopped. Her stomach turned a somersault. He could not actually mean to approach her before her papa, could he? But then those amber eyes met hers and she knew that was exactly what he was going to do.

‘Lord Misbourne.’ He gave the smallest of bows and she saw the warmth vanish from his eyes as he looked at her father.

Beside her she sensed her father stiffen.

‘Lady Marianne.’ Just as in the botanic gardens that day, his voice without the disguising whisper was rich and deep and delicious. Like a feather stroked from the bare skin at the nape of her neck all the way down, it made her spine tingle. Marianne felt the blush heat her cheeks. ‘Would you grant me the honour of the next dance?’ He had not asked her father, nor had he waited for an introduction.

‘I would be pleased to partner you,’ she said quickly before her father could disagree, then shot a look up at her father. ‘Papa?’

Her father did not look angry or slighted, maybe because he saw only the man who had helped them at the botanic gardens. But she could not help noticing the strange expression upon his face as he held the highwayman’s gaze. ‘Marianne, may I introduce Mr Rafe Knight,’ he said, his voice revealing nothing of his thoughts.

Rafe Knight.
She had thought of him as ‘the highwayman’ for so long.

‘Mr Knight,’ she said and curtsied. Then he took her hand in his and, before her father and the best of London’s
ton
, led her out on to the dance floor.

It was a Scotch reel, hardly conducive to conversation or any degree of intimacy.

‘Rafe Knight,’ she repeated, her eyes meeting his. She knew his name at last. And she knew, too, that the opportunity for which she prayed had just been delivered.