Shana Galen (11 page)

She stared at him, eyes wide and dazed. He saw in her expression a mirror of his own reaction. The feel of her skin between his hands, the heat of her body, and the bottomless blue of her exotic eyes threatened to overwhelm his tenuous control. He was spinning, his blood racing.

She closed her eyes, titled her chin up. Inviting him…

“Say it, Lucia.” His voice was husky with need.

“Alex.” It was little more than a breath, but the sound of his name on her lips sent a bolt of white heat through him.

His mouth descended hungrily, and he crushed her to him. Her body melted into his, molding to him, fitting him like a finely tailored coat. He was struck by the thought that she belonged in his arms—her lush flesh pressed against his, her lips moving tentatively under his mouth, her hands clutching the collar of his shirt.

Her skin was hot under his cool mouth and fingers, and she tasted of vanilla. He moved his hands to plunder her thick tresses, to cradle her head, reveling in the feel of her silky strands caught between his fingers. Her taste, her smell, the feel of her penetrated every pore. And when she gripped him tighter, kissed him more deeply, each of his senses exploded. He forgot who he was, where he was, knew only the feel of her lips beneath his, her body against him.

Their kiss was hard. Demanding. He probed her teeth with his tongue, and with a gasp, she opened her mouth to him. Exploring her was another new experience. He touched. He tasted. He tantalized.

She moaned, and he broke the kiss, moving to trace the line of her jaw, the curve of her throat. He breathed in her ear, and she shivered violently.

“Alex.” It was a sigh, erotic as hell in his ear. He almost yelped when she slipped her hands inside his tailcoat to caress him more intimately.

“Bloody hell!” With a feeling akin to physical pain, he pushed her away. Reality, like a slow leak, seeped into his brain.

He had to stop this or take her right now. Already his erection was hard, straining against his trousers. He leaned an arm against the wall of the house and took several deep breaths. She was silent, and he cast a glance at her. Her face betrayed every emotion—confusion, anger, desire. The last made him throb anew.

“Lucia, we can’t do this.”

“Of course not!” For once,
she
sounded exasperated. “Why did you start?”

“
I
started?” He laughed hoarsely. “You came to me, sweetheart.”

“Not for—I wouldn’t have sought you out again tonight except for my brother. If you have any new information, I’m asking you to share it.”

He should have known. “You’re as persistent as a dog digging for his bone, aren’t you?”

She huffed. “Well,
that’s
a lovely comparison. At least I try to be pleasant. Just tell me what you’ve learned about John.”

He shook his head, assessing her silently. She glared at him. “Are you going to tell me or not?”

It was probably the only way to get rid of her, though he doubted he’d get away that easily. “I didn’t learn anything,” he said finally. “I visited several more businesses, and went to White’s. None of
the merchants or the members of his club have seen or heard from your brother since March.”

“Aha!” She beamed and jabbed a triumphant finger at him. “Then you have to admit that John is no longer in London.”

“No, I don’t.”

She was inches away from him now, her finger hovering in the space between them. Her smug gesture irritated him, and he almost grasped her hand, stopping himself just in time. She was close enough that he could smell her and feel her heat.
Touch her now
, the chorus of bells clanging in his head warned,
and you won’t be able to stop
.

He stepped back. “You’re jumping to conclusions. As usual.”

“And you’re being stubborn.
As usual
. All the evidence is on my side.”

He snorted. “Hardly. There’s no reason to believe that your brother’s friends are telling the truth.”

She put her hands on her hips, clearly offended he’d impugned the honor of her brother’s acquaintances. “You have no reason to believe otherwise.”

“Yes, I do.”

“What is it?” she demanded.

The prickle of irritation ballooned. Who was she to question him? Demand answers? Answers, he had to admit, he didn’t have yet. But he had a bad feeling…

“It’s not your concern, Lucia,” he said.

“Oh!” She fisted her hands at her sides. “You are the most annoying man! And what’s worse, we’re wasting time. You—”

“I agree, darling.”

Lucia jumped at the silky voice behind her, and Alex tensed for a fight.

Dandridge stepped into the light. “We are wasting time. We are wasting our time talking to Lord Selbourne, especially when his carriage is waiting.”

Dandridge stood at Lucia’s side, and she shrank back slightly. Alex could see on her face that her thoughts were racing, see her struggling for excuses and explanations.

“And you, Selbourne,” Dandridge said. “Dare I ask why you’ve lured my fiancée out here alone? No, sir, your reputation precedes you.”

What tortures I must bear.
The words from the song came unbidden to his mind.

“Go inside, Lucia.” Alex’s voice was quiet, but the order was undeniable. It was time he was rid of both Lucia and her fool of a fiancé. Once and for all.

Pietà
.

“Do you think to protect her from me, Selbourne?” Dandridge said, laughing. Alex didn’t respond. Instead he crossed his arms and jammed one shoulder against the wall of the house. Casual. Unconcerned. He was going to walk away from this. He was going to ignore the tension in his body—the combination of arousal for Lucia and anger at himself for allowing things to go so far.

“Or perhaps you forget that I am Miss Dashing’s fiancé? No.” Dandridge turned to Lucia, face red with rage. “Perhaps there is more to this. Something you don’t want me to know.”

Lucia made a strangled sound. “Reginald, no.” She jumped forward and gripped Dandridge’s sleeve. “Please don’t insinuate—”

“I’m not
insinuating
, my dear. I’m
accusing
.” He glared at Alex.

“Go
inside
, Lucia.” Alex’s tone hardened, but he kept his features impassive. Once she was safe, he could walk away.

She shook her head, stepping between the two men. “Alex—”

“
Alex?
” Dandridge shrieked. “How touchingly familiar. Why, you little bitch!” He grabbed her arm, shoving her roughly against the wall of the house. “All this time putting me off and playing the trollop with Selbourne.”

Every ounce of control in Alex snapped when he heard her cry of pain and fear. With a roar, he seized Dandridge’s shoulder, spun him around, and smashed a fist into the man’s face. Dandridge flew backward, his head hitting the ground with a hollow thud. The battle howl of fury in his ears, Alex tore into Dandridge. Reaching down and grasping the other man by the tailcoat, he pulled him to his knees. Again and again, Alex pummeled his fists into Dandridge’s face, no longer seeing him as a man, but as an outlet for exorcising all his frustrations with Wentworth for not allowing him to return to Paris, with the halting search for Dashing, and with his own weakness—his foolishness—for Lucia.

“Alex! No!” Desperate fingers clawed at his sleeve. “Alex, stop!”

His hand paused in mid-air, fist clenched tight.

“No,” Lucia said again, and he glanced at her. Her eyes were wet with tears. Alex looked back at Dandridge, and the viscount swayed, then moaned. Alex tightened his grip. One more blow…

But it wouldn’t change anything. It wouldn’t send him to Paris, it wouldn’t find Dashing, and it wouldn’t rid him of his desire for Lucia.

Bloody hell. He released Dandridge and allowed Lucia to pull them apart.

“Just leave, please, before he gets up,” she sobbed.

“I’m not going to leave you with him.”

He saw her glance at Dandridge. Her fiancé was
crouching, arms thrown over his face to shield himself from further blows.

“You can see he’s no threat. I need to explain about my brother. He’ll understand once I explain.” Her voice was high, panicked. Alex wondered whether she was attempting to convince him or herself.

“But you have to go, Selbourne. Leave.”

Alex didn’t move.

“Please, Alex,” she whispered.

“Is that what you want?” Alex flicked a finger at Dandridge, still cowering and emitting small whines of pain.

Lucia closed her eyes and covered her face with her hands. Her voice was so low that it was a moment before he comprehended her reply. “Yes.”

“I leave you to him.” Turning, Alex strode from the garden. He didn’t look back.

“O
h!” Lucia winced.

“Sorry, miss. Another tangle.” Jane smiled at Lucia apologetically in the mirror of her rosewood dressing table and raised her weapon again.

“It’s my fault,” Lucia said. “I should have waited for you before I took my hair down.” But it seemed as though she’d been in a hurry about everything tonight. She couldn’t wait to leave Ethan and Francesca’s dinner party and only escaped the ball she was to have attended afterward by pleading a headache. For once her mother hadn’t argued with her, only kissed her forehead and told her to get some rest. After the night she’d had, rest was exactly what she needed. She rolled her stiff neck to get rid of the kinks and nodded absently at whatever Jane was saying.

The worst of it was that she hadn’t even lied about the headache. The pounding in her temples had be
gun with a vengeance as soon as Alex left the garden, and she’d been forced to soothe Reginald’s bristling temper.

He was angrier than she’d ever seen him. Even confiding her worries about her brother hadn’t dulled his fury. He’d appeared suitably sympathetic but obviously not sympathetic enough to refrain from lecturing her for a quarter of an hour. And, in what Lucia assumed was supposed to be a magnanimous gesture, Reginald had apologized. Well, he’d said he regretted that he’d been forced to behave in such an ungentlemanly fashion, which was the closest Lucia had ever seen him come to an apology. She closed her eyes, trying to still the drumsticks in her head. She prayed Reginald and Alex wouldn’t cross paths again for a long,
long
time. The mere idea brought the drumsticks back up to tempo.

With a groan, she dismissed Jane and curled up on her bed. Beside her, Gatto purred and kneaded her belly. Lucia could see the life ahead of her all too clearly now, and the picture was bleak. Lady Dandridge was never going to be satisfied with her. The dragon would always be sniffing out some fault or other to be corrected. Reginald was firmly under his mother’s thumb, not that Lucia expected to have any sway with him after tonight’s events anyway, but it was dispiriting to know for a certainty that she’d have little influence in her own marriage. She was miserable, and she wasn’t even married yet.

Her first impulse, as always, was to go to John with her worries. She couldn’t remember a time when she’d needed his advice more.

She rolled onto her back, and Gatto mewed in protest. “Oh, hush,” she said stroking him. Where was John? Was he safe? In good health? She was horribly selfish to be worrying about her own problems
when John could be in real danger. But oh, how she needed him. Rising, she pulled on her slippers and lit a candle, then padded down the hallway to his room.

She opened the door and stepped inside. Immediately she felt better. John’s presence was strong here. She could almost smell Guard’s Bouquet, the cologne he favored, and hear his teasing laugh. Everything was exactly as he’d left it. Nothing had been moved, only dusted and straightened. Sinking onto the bed, she wondered if he’d left behind any clues to his whereabouts.

And then she wanted to kick herself because the possibility hadn’t occurred to her before.

But a hundred possibilities occurred to her then. With a rush of excitement, Lucia bounded off the bed and spun in a circle, hardly sure where to begin. She glanced at the small oak desk pushed against the wall near the door and ran to it first. Pulling open each drawer, she rifled through its contents, heedless of the disorder she created. There were bills, invitations—a few love notes. Hmm, those looked interesting…

She slammed the drawer. She didn’t have time to read love notes right now, not that she would have anyway…well, perhaps just one.

The next drawer was locked, and she hunted for the key but couldn’t find it. She might have to break in later, but things weren’t to the destruction-of-property stage yet. She crouched down, balanced on the balls of her feet next to the desk, and tried to think logically. The desk hadn’t yielded any clues, but John was clever, and it was an obvious hiding place. Where else might John hide something?

Her eyes flicked to the cherry clothespress near the bed. Nothing of interest in there unless…

In her haste to rise, she almost tripped over her
night robe. With a jerk, she pulled the clothespress’s heavy door open and scanned the contents, then frowned and bit her lip. Everything was as it should be. All of John’s clothes were in their usual order, or disorder, as it were. She noted a few items missing, but wherever he’d gone, he hadn’t taken much with him.

She had the paneled door half shut when she thought of the waistcoat. She grabbed a handful of garments and sorted through them, separating the waistcoats. She tossed the older ones to the side, discarded several others, and had three left. One she didn’t remember seeing him wear. It was dark green with embroidery, and she brought the waistcoat closer to the candlelight, examining it from every angle. But if there was something special about the garment, she failed to see it. Although Lucia wasn’t overly familiar with men’s waistcoats, it seemed to her that all the pockets and buttons were in their rightful places.

She dropped the waistcoat on the floor and turned back to the wardrobe. Then, on impulse, she reached down and scooped it back up again. She shrugged her robe off and pulled the waistcoat over her chemise. With a nervous glance at the door, she went to stand before the cheval mirror. She didn’t know how she’d ever explain what she was doing in John’s room wearing his waistcoat over her underclothes if someone found her. The garment was huge, swallowing her slender figure, but she fitted it against her ribs, running her hands along the soft material. She jerked with surprise when she heard a crackle as her fingers passed over the left side.

Lucia parted the garment and peered at the lining. No pockets. Nothing that looked out of the ordinary. Had she just imagined the sound of paper rustling?

No. Running her fingers along that spot again, she was sure she felt something inside, but when she opened the garment, once again she saw nothing.

Frustrated and impatient, she was about to dash to the kitchen in search of a knife to slit the material open when she spotted the seam. The craftsmanship was impeccable, the seam so tiny as to be rendered almost invisible. She could see where Schweitzer & Davidson had acquired its reputation. Reaching inside the tiny pocket, she pulled out a scrap of wrinkled paper. Holding it near the candle on the desk, she smoothed out the creases.

There seemed to be no rhyme or reason to the words hastily scrawled in what was unmistakably John’s handwriting. She read
Toulon
and a date,
March twenty
something. And after the date a name:
Wentword
or
Went with
? Only the last phrase was clear:
Madame Loinger, Calais
.

Who was Madame Loinger? A lover? Lucia bit her lip. Perhaps she
should
read through those love letters after all. But what about Calais and Toulon? John in France? Why would he be in France with a war on?

She sank into the desk chair and dropped her head in her hands. She wasn’t an expert on the political situation but, being the daughter of a politician and engaged to another, she knew something about Napoleon Bonaparte. Some members of the government feared the war with France was not going well, that Old Boney might even be bold enough to attempt invasion.

Reginald thought the whole notion ridiculous. Even Bonaparte couldn’t be that foolish. Her father, on the other hand, was more circumspect. Once when he hadn’t known she was listening, she’d heard him remark that it was damned unfortunate Pitt was running the country at a time like this. If Fox
were in office, he’d see to Bonaparte’s defeat, by God.

She raised her head. One thing was certain. She had to show Alex this note. This was hard proof that John was no longer in England. The date written after Toulon was shortly after John’s departure from London. Toulon must have been John’s true destination.

Her heart began to thud. And if her brother was in France, he might be in grave danger. He could have been caught by French government officials who questioned his presence there. He might be rotting away this very minute in some French prison.

Lucia’s breathing hitched. Dear God! Did they still guillotine aristocrats over there? She had no idea. Perhaps her father—no, he’d tell her to stay out of it. And Reginald was a lost cause. But—

Alex had lived on the Continent, in France, for a time.

Alex. Alex would know what to do. Alex would save John.

Lucia raced back to her room, tore off the waistcoat, and pulled her rose-colored gown over her chemise. She didn’t have time to fuss with a petticoat, but she was glad she hadn’t removed her silk stockings earlier. She shoved her feet into her slippers.

Stuffing John’s note into her reticule, Lucia shrugged into her cloak and had her hand on her bedroom doorknob when she froze. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.

She pursed her lips. It was barely twelve o’clock; late, but not exactly the middle of the night. The
ton
would still be about, going to their various clubs, balls, the theater. It was so early, Alex himself probably wouldn’t be at home. She just prayed his mistress wouldn’t be there instead.

“No,” she said to herself, dismissing the idea immediately. Men installed their mistresses in separate
residences and visited them when they wished. She didn’t even want to consider that a visit to his mistress could be the reason Selbourne had left the Winterbourne dinner party early. But Lucia supposed if he wasn’t at home, she’d just have to wait for him. Of course, it would be social suicide if she was seen on St. James’s at this hour, any hour really, but there was no hope for it.

Alex wasn’t going to like it. Or, more correctly, he wasn’t going to like that she’d ignored his order to stay out of the investigation. Men liked to feel they were in charge. Usually it was simply easier to play along. But she couldn’t afford to humor male vanity tonight. And surely Alex would see that this note was more important than any silly dictate he’d given her? Surely he’d see the need for her urgency? He couldn’t possibly fault her this time.

It was easier than she’d anticipated to sneak out of her parents’ house. Almost too easy, she thought as she tiptoed down the dark stairs of the town house and slipped out. Keeping the hood of her cloak close about her face, she ran the short distance to Bruton Street.

Though her escape had been simple, she wasn’t out of danger yet. Carriages streamed by, and Lucia couldn’t afford to be recognized. The night shadows closed in, and her heart drummed in her ears. She snatched a look behind her and quickened her step.

It wasn’t only the gossip she feared. Even elegant Berkeley Square wasn’t safe from pickpockets and ruffians. Fear rising like bile in her throat, Lucia remembered that the Prince of Wales and his brother the Duke of York had been robbed on Hay Hill, just off Berkeley Square, a few years before. If the Prince of Wales wasn’t safe, what hope did she have? She heard the clatter of a carriage behind her and
whipped around, almost collapsing in relief when she saw it was a hack. She waved frantically and the hack slowed, then stopped. She almost tripped in her haste to be inside.

Lucia pulled the door closed and looked up when the jarvey opened the hatch. “Where to, miss?”

It was a moment before his words registered. Her relief at being safe turned to disgust as the stench in the cab overpowered her. She coughed and pulled a handkerchief from her reticule. The perfumed linen masked the stench, but she scooted forward so less of her touched the seats. They were sticky and damp. She dared not look too closely.

“Ahem!” the driver said. “Do you want a ride, miss, or to sit there gaping?”

“Ah, yes.” She wiped her hand—wet from God knew what—on her cloak. “Take me to the Earl of Selbourne’s town house.
Immediately
, please.” Lucia peeked at the jarvey. She’d sounded confident and experienced, hadn’t she? The driver would never guess she’d only been in a hackney once, years before.

“What’s the direction, luv?” the jarvey asked impatiently.

“Direction?” She frowned and let the handkerchief drop away from her nose a bit. “You don’t
know
?”

The jarvey rolled his eyes. “This lord, that lord. They’re all the same. Live in big fancy houses. Which one you want, miss?”

“Ah…” Her plan was sinking around her, and she struggled to find a means to buoy it. She had no idea precisely where Selbourne lived and couldn’t exactly ask anyone who did at this hour. Well, the driver could take her to St. James’s and somehow she’d figure it out. A hazy plan, but she wasn’t sunk yet.

“It’s on St. James’s Street. Drive there, and I’ll instruct you further.”

The driver made no move to shut the hatch. “If you don’t mind me asking, luv, do you really think you ought to be going into that part of town?” He nodded at her, eyes sharp in his round face. “A lady like yerself, I mean.”

Lucia swallowed, her uncertainties threatening to tip the lifeboat she’d latched on to. She knew exactly what the jarvey meant. A lady of the
ton
was not—under
any
circumstances—seen on St. James’s or thereabouts. To enter that male preserve was to risk social ostracism. An outcast. Forever.

Lucia straightened. Well, she was prepared to take that risk, if it came to it, and she certainly was not going to be lectured by a hackney driver.

“Sir, I appreciate your concern.” Her voice was frosty, the tone she used when a dancing partner misplaced his hands one too many times for coincidence. “I must insist you drive on. The hour is getting late.”

The driver shrugged and dropped the hatch shut, but not before Lucia heard him muttering to himself about hoity-toity females.

A few minutes later the coach stopped, and Lucia heard the driver call to some passing gentlemen. She hunched down and pulled her hood over her face, but inside the muffled cocoon, she heard the jarvey mention Selbourne. One of the men replied, his voice thick and slurred, but she thought she heard the number seventy-seven. She’d have to remember that.