Natalya (47 page)

He stood for a moment, considering, then sighed and opened the door. Striding into the spacious room, he looked around for Francesca. "For God's sake—"

Quickly and quietly she closed the door, locked it, and slid the key underneath it to the hallway. Grey whirled around in time to see her straightening. Clad only in her Chinese silk wrapper, her hair flowing loose over her shoulders, she met his flinty stare with fiery emerald eyes. "Darling," she murmured, with a secret smile, "you're late."

"What the devil are you up to this time?"

"I think it's time that you and I forget what has happened these past two years. Let us return to the way it was between us." Her voice and expression were seductively feline. "I know you haven't forgotten. How could you?"

Grey was standing conveniently near the bed, taut and handsome in a dark blue coat, white cravat, snug buckskin breeches, and riding boots. Her eyes devoured him as she walked to the side of the bed.

"You must be mad," Grey muttered impatiently. "Just give me the jewels, Francesca."

She stared at his hand, which was gripping the bedpost in anger. A scar stood out across it, white in contrast to his bronzed skin. She sensed the tight rein Grey held on his dangerous temper, and this excited her beyond measure. Shrugging, she let the wrapper fall to the floor in a liquid, silken pool, then lay back naked across the bed like an artist's model. "Remember, Grey?" she taunted hoarsely, stretching her arms over her head, conscious of the way her breasts stood up and her belly flattened. "Take me again. No one could ever love me as you did. I'll do anything you want, anything...."

As Francesca opened her thighs and lifted her hips toward him, Grey knew a nearly overpowering urge to wrap his hands around her neck and tighten his grip until she could no longer breathe, move, smile, whisper, or plot evil against another human being.

"You have completely taken leave of your senses." His tone was deadly and a muscle moved in his jaw.

"On the contrary, darling," Francesca purred, caressing herself. "As you can plainly see, and are intimately aware, I am quite myself... perfect in every way."

He reached down, scooped up the silk wrapper, and threw it over her. "Get the hell up and give me my mother's jewels, damn you! I wouldn't touch you if you were the last woman on earth, so spare yourself the effort."

Her eyes hardened as she rose slowly to a sitting position. "It's that insipid little spinster, isn't it? Has she deluded you into thinking that you can be faithful to one woman?" Harsh laughter broke from her, filling the bedchamber like poison. "Believe me, darling, it's not in your nature. She'll never be able to satisfy you the way I can, and you're a fool to give up the chance to take me back. Can't you see, we're perfectly suited. We're alike, you and I—hard-hearted and in love only with pleasure. Oh, you may think you've changed, but I know better. Men like you
never
change! It's in your blood, my wild devil, and a conventional marriage would bore you to tears and eventually drive you mad. I'm the only woman, the only woman—"

Grey gripped her arm with such force that she gasped in pain. "That's quite enough.
You're
the one who's mad." His voice lowered to a menacing tone. "Give over the jewels, madame."

Francesca began to laugh again, this time maniacally, straining upward so that their faces were inches apart. "What if I said that you would have to earn them first?"

"Nothing on this earth could induce me to touch you in the manner you suggest."

"Well, nothing on this earth could induce me to part with my jewels," she spat. "Did you really imagine that I would be so foolish as to keep them in this house? If so, my dear husband, you woefully underestimate me!"

A vein pulsed in his forehead as he released her and turned to look around the bedchamber. Raking a hand through his hair, he realized that it would be pointless to search for the jewels. She was right; they would certainly not be anywhere he would think to look. And his disgust with Francesca was so overpowering that he couldn't bear to spend another minute here. Without a backward glance, he strode to the door, turned the knob, and found it locked.

"Oh, dear," she cooed from the bed, "I've locked it and lost the key."

Realizing that he would surely murder her if he remained another moment, Grey stepped back, pretended the paneled door was Francesca, and brought his booted foot against it with deadly force. It splintered, the lock broke, and he took his leave.

* * *

When she heard the front door slam, Francesca flew off the bed in a rage, grabbed an exquisite Sevres vase that David had given her for her birthday, and threw it against the wall. As it smashed into a million pieces, she uttered a long, primitive scream.

Why?
Why was it that she, who had never been denied anything in her life, was now frustrated at every turn?

Calming herself took an act of will, but at last Francesca was able to consider her situation dispassionately. She sat at her dressing table and stared at herself in the mirror, pondering what was to be done about Grey... and her own future.

Soon the answer came to her, and she smiled at her own brilliance. If she could not regain her place as Grey's wife, she would see him dead. Then she could marry David, and they would return to England together.
David
would be heir to the earldom, Grey would be out of the way, and before long that nasty old earl would die and all the Hartford estates and holdings would belong to her.

Of course, it would mean killing that silly authoress, too, but that didn't bother her in the least. David was already with her. Francesca would join them, wait for Grey to walk into her trap, and all her problems would be solved by day's end.

Throwing on her wrapper, she went into the hallway to call for her carriage, then ran back to her dressing room and selected a gown of blood-red velvet. Perfect, thought Francesca, feeling utterly and deliciously mad; the evening promised to be thrilling beyond belief. Slipping her feet into white kid slippers and rushing toward the door, she gave one fleeting thought to Grey, who might just be persuaded to beg her pardon before he died.

* * *

As he walked from Francesca's house to his own on Spruce Street, Grey couldn't wipe the memory of her eyes from his mind. When he had married her in London, she had been provocative and even wicked at times, but something had happened to her since then. Was it possible that she actually
had
tripped over the brink into true madness? And, if so, what did that mean to him? Of course, he could more easily obtain a divorce, which required an act of Parliament, but did his involvement end there? He saw her again, naked, laughing crazily, taunting him, and realized that Francesca was fully capable of attempting to harm him or someone else. Was there some way of returning her to her father in England, of having her confined?

Deep in thought, Grey scarcely noticed the carriage in front of his house. Fedbusk met him at the door, clearly disgruntled.

"Your supper's ready, sir."

"Good. I'm ravenous," Grey replied, and started past him toward his study, where he usually took his meals when alone.

"I tried to tell 'em that you wouldn't have time," Fedbusk grumbled, following him, "but they said they'd wait anyway."

"What are you prattling about?" Preoccupied and hungry, Grey had no patience for Fedbusk's cryptic mutterings.

"Them, sir," he said, pointing toward the parlor. "Somebody Gladstone and a girl."

Suddenly feeling as if he were suffocating in the warm May evening, Grey stripped off his coat and strode into the parlor to discover the identities of his uninvited guests. Whoever they were, he fully intended to send them away. The stocky, sandy-haired man who stood when he entered the room looked vaguely familiar, but then Grey's eyes fell on Kristin Beauvisage and he bit back the curt greeting.

"Ah, Miss Beauvisage, how nice of you to drop by." Forcing a smile, he crossed the parlor and was introduced to Hollis. "On any other evening, I would consider it an honor to sit down and visit with you both, but I'm afraid you've come at rather an awkward time. I do hope you won't think me unforgivably rude if I—"

"Mr. St. James," Kristin broke in, "are you on your way to Belle Maison?"

"Eventually. I have some matters to attend to first."

"I know this will sound preposterous, and perhaps Hollis is right when he says that I am being overanxious, but there is a man visiting my sister, and—"

Grey's jaw hardened and his eyes grew steely. "What man?"

"He's English; an admirer of Natalya's book, he says. I'm sure he's perfectly harmless, but I just had an odd feeling about him, and I felt that I couldn't enjoy the theater tonight unless I made you aware—"

"What does he look like?" Grey interrupted.

"He was rather slight, and older. He has thinning gray hair..."

"Spectacles?"

"No, a quizzing-glass, but now that you mention it, I wouldn't be surprised if he normally does wear them, because he was squinting."

Grey forced a smile. "As you say, there's probably nothing to worry about, but if it will make you feel better, I'll ride out now and make certain this fellow isn't attempting to compromise your sister's virtue."

"He hardly seems capable of that"—Kristin laughed as they walked toward the door—"but I appreciate your understanding. I do hope you don't think I'm terribly silly for bothering you."

"Nothing could be farther from the truth!" Still wearing his most charming smile, Grey led them to the front door and bade them good night.

When Fedbusk trundled back into the stair hall to remind his master that supper would soon be inedible, he stopped short at the sight of Grey's stormy expression. "You look like the devil himself, sir, and I doubt that a cold supper will do much to cheer you up."

"Get me my coat!" Grey shouted. "And be quick about it!"

* * *

Overcome by an attack of conscience and curiosity, Charlotte Timkins crept into the house through the servants' entrance and stood in the darkened hallway, listening.

For the past hour she had lain on her bed, thinking alternately about Lady Altburne and Natalya Beauvisage. Money, titles, and promises were all well and good, but there was something about her ladyship that didn't set right. And Miss Beauvisage, for all her independent ways, was kind and genuine. Charlotte felt truly guilty when she remembered her mistress's face, concerned and sympathetic, after she'd lied to her about being ill.

Now, in the back of the house, she wondered what she should do. If she disobeyed her ladyship's instructions, she would surely be punished somehow. The truth about her spying and the money she'd taken would come out, and then Miss Beauvisage wouldn't want her, either. And yet how could she betray someone who was so honest and good? It was a terrible dilemma.

Muted voices drifted to her from the north parlor. Charlotte tiptoed toward the stair hall, somehow managing not to trip or break anything on her way.

"Mr. Standish, I really must ask you to leave now," Natalya was saying, a note of alarm in her voice. "I must insist. Do not touch me again, sir!"

"You're old enough to know about the pleasures of the flesh," a man's voice replied loudly. "And I can teach you things you never dreamed of, my beauty."

"Loose me or I shall scream!"

He laughed. "But there's no one to hear, is there? The servants are all eating supper, and your parents are away."

"How do you know about my parents?" Natalya's voice rose with real panic. "Who are you? What do you want with me?"

Charlotte froze, beads of perspiration breaking out on her forehead as she waited in vain for the man's response. There were sounds of a struggle, followed by a thump, as if bodies had toppled onto the floor. Her heart pounding in her ears, she peered into the shadowy room and saw a man in a frock coat and brown pantaloons lying on top of her mistress on the beautiful English rug in front of the settee. His hand covered her mouth, but Charlotte could hear Natalya's muffled cries mingled with the man's muttered replies.

Tears of sympathy for her poor mistress pricked her eyes. Without thinking, she picked up a brass candlestick from the nearby Pembroke table, crept soundlessly toward the figures struggling on the carpet, and struck the man on the back of the head. He fell forward without a sound, and Natalya pushed him away, weeping.

Charlotte was staring, her eyes like saucers, at the evil visitor who lay prostrate before her. "A ghost! God save us all, it's a ghost!"

As she shrank back against the settee, Natalya managed to whisper, "What? Who is he? Tell me, Charlotte!"

"Mistress, it's the Earl of Hartford's second son, David St. James!"

"But, it can't be! He's been dead for two years!"

He had begun to stir, and Charlotte jumped backward in terror. "He's a ghost, that's what!"

A voice spoke from the stair hall, high-pitched with wicked amusement. "Hardly, you silly twit."

Natalya whirled around to behold Francesca St. James standing in the arched doorway. Clad in a gown of blood red velvet with a black mantelet, her auburn tresses flowing around her shoulders in wild disarray, she was pointing a pistol at them. Somehow Natalya marshaled the wits and strength to stand and meet her venomous gaze.

"Madame, I must ask you to put away that weapon and leave my house."

Francesca threw back her head and laughed. "My dear Miss Bluestocking, has no one taught you that the person holding the weapon issues the orders? I must ask you and your loyal servant to stand against this wall." When the women did not immediately obey, her face twisted with fury. "
Do as I say—now!"

Putting an arm around the trembling Charlotte, Natalya obeyed. Her gown was torn at the shoulder, the lawn tucker crumpled and forgotten under the settee, and her hair was tumbling down in loose curls, but she lifted her head proudly and returned Francesca's stare.

"I say," David groaned, sitting up and rubbing the back of his head. "I've a cursed big lump coming on."

"Stop blubbering, you bloody fool. Get up and help me," Francesca snapped. When David had struggled to his feet and crossed to her side, weaving slightly, she said, "My reticule is inside the front door. There's a knife in it. Cut strips from the draperies so that we can bind their hands and feet."