St. Raven (8 page)

Soon, if this plan worked, they could return there. Even if her father remained unwell, she and her mother would be in familiar surroundings and among friends. If her plan failed, however, they could never return.

If only her father had stayed in India.

If only he hadn’t taken to gambling.

If only she had noticed and done something!

That was the knife that turned in her. She’d been distracted by London. Society events had soon bored her, but London had fascinated. She’d begun to think that she might like to marry a man of that world. Not an idle aristocrat, but an active, involved man. A member of Parliament, perhaps, even a member of the government. That would be wonderful.

Or a merchant. She wasn’t drawn by profit, but by the wonder of supplying masts to one country, wool to another, and spices to a third. Her friend Lavinia was engaged to marry a sea captain, and she looked forward to traveling to far ports. That was too much for Cressida, but she would like to be involved in the workings of the world.

All that was over now, unless she retrieved the jewels. It had been obvious during her season that she wouldn’t achieve a fashionable marriage on her face alone, even with false curls.

She glared at them, still stupidly attached to the turban.

Fashionable circles were so stupid! Cruel, petty, and vicious, too. When her father had his wealth, many lords and ladies had visited, but since his loss and illness, they’d evaporated. Of course, it was summer now, when London largely emptied, but still, it showed their lack of heart.

Someone knocked, “It’s Harry, miss.” Cressida opened the door and he carried in a pile of books and some cloth. He put the books down and, blushing, offered white cotton stockings, plain garters, and a piece of thin cloth. “Me mam sent these, miss. She hopes they’ll do.”

Cressida took them as if they were jewels. “Indeed they will. Do thank her for me.”

He piled the remains of breakfast on the huge tray. “You just ring if you want anything, miss.”

When he’d left, Cressida took off her slippers and put on the solid, comforting stockings, tying them firmly with the garters. Then she sat before the mirror and arranged the triangle of fine cotton around her shoulders and tucked the ends down the front of her gown. She pushed the edges under the neckline all around and at last was decent.

Decency was a strange thing. She’d not minded wearing this dress to a ball, but what was decent for night was not decent for day. She considered the bed. Trousers were not decent for anything.

St. Raven had offered to retrieve the jewels alone. With every passing moment, it became more sensible.

She hadn’t been making feeble objections, however. Some of the ivory statuettes were similar. They all showed people… having sexual congress in strange positions. Five showed standing couples, and one of those was the one with the jewels.

She truly hadn’t noted some precise detail that she could pass on, but she believed she could spot the right one when she saw it. And she did know the house.

She pulled a face. Truth was, she wanted to go. She’d keyed herself up to be the heroine of this adventure, and she didn’t want to back out now.

Think of it as a masquerade party, Cressida
. She had attended a quite proper one in London, where some of the ladies and gentlemen had been outrageously dressed. There had been one woman dressed in similar Eastern garb.

She picked up the trousers and stood in front of the mirror, holding them against her. “Are you Cressida Mandeville, or Cressida Mouse?”

She was, she decided, Cressida Mandeville.

Having made up her mind, she sat in a chair by the window and went through the books. Had St. Raven chosen them? They were a careful assortment—poetry, history, a three-volume novel, and, she noted with a smile, an account of travel in Arabia.

A hint that she study for her part? She settled to it. She’d always loved accounts of travel to exotic lands. She’d sometimes thought that she was like her father and would thrive under foreign skies, but she had a strong streak of her mother’s conservatism. Small adventures such as the move to London were enough adventure for her.

Time passed until another knock brought Harry, beaming as he carried in her valise.

“Oh!” To Cressida it was almost as wonderful as having the jewels presented to her. “Harry, thank you!”

“No thanks to me, miss. Mr. Lyne found it by the road and sent it back.”

As soon as he’d left, Cressida opened it to find her silk shawl on top and—miracles!—her reticule beneath it. Crofton must have tossed it out with her bag. She might no longer need the emetic, but it felt like a weapon in her hands.

She fingered through her gowns and underwear, delighted that Crofton no longer had them in his soiling possession. But then she stilled. He would have been furious. Might he try some revenge? Might he ruin her by telling the world she was seized by Le Corbeau?

No, he couldn’t do that. He would have to explain her being with him. That would ruin her just as surely, but it would ruin him, too. Even the careless ton would shrink from such blackmail of a lady. If he turned his anger anywhere, it would be against the highwayman.

But, she thought, closing the valise, if she went through with the plan, she would meet Crofton again tonight. She must make very sure she could not be recognized. The outrageous garments along with mask and veil should do that.

She made herself settle again to the book, and enjoyed her vicarious journey to Arabia, broken only by Harry bearing a tray with some bread, fruit, cheese, and tea.

She heard the distant clock sound four before her host returned with pale, filmy fabric in his hands. “I hope you haven’t been too bored, Miss Mandeville, but if you have, the adventure now begins.”

She leaped to her feet, mouth dry, heart speeding at St. Raven’s words.

Or perhaps simply at his presence.

“I haven’t been bored, Your Grace. I’ve been to Araby.”

He dropped the material onto the table. “I thought it suitable. And it is fascinating.”

“You’ve read it?”

“Why else would I have it?”

“Do you do business with the East?”

His brows rose. “Trade, Miss Mandeville?”

“There is nothing wrong with trade, Your Grace.”

“Certainly not, but it does not fall within the province of a duke.”

“Why not?”

“The stability and prosperity of England lie in the land, Miss Mandeville. They always have and always will. It is my honor to serve that.”

There was no unpleasantness in his voice, and yet she felt put in her middle-class place.

“See what Cary found,” he said, picking up the filmy material he had brought, and separating the silk into two pieces. He held the small one in front of his face. “Just thick enough to obscure your features.”

She couldn’t help but chuckle at the sight of his lashes fluttering over the veil, but her confidence in everything was shaken. “I’m not sure I can go in public in those clothes.”

He dropped the veil on the table. “Time to try them on and see. You will have armor.” He loosened the drawstring on a bag and spilled out a glittering pile. “Cheap stuff from a theater troupe, but it will serve. Do you want Annie Barkway to help you? I think her honest soul would be sorely tried to dress you in these clothes.”

Cressida swallowed, but she gathered her courage and turned her back. “If you would loosen my clothing, Your Grace.”

“If I am to be so forward, you really must call me St. Raven, you know.”

He was impossible. “St. Raven,” she said, and he started on her buttons.

Last night, even when she was fogged by shock and exhaustion, it had disturbed her to have him doing this. Now, every touch of his fingers sent something coiling through her, and she couldn’t help thinking of him and her in other circumstances.

Married.

As wild and absurd as an orgy, but today she had been more at ease, more casual with this man than she’d been with any man in her life, never mind a young, strikingly attractive one. In their discussions, in their plans, she’d come to feel that she knew him. That they might even be friends.

It was an illusion. That clash of incomprehension over trade showed that. How could he be interested in foreign lands yet have no desire to explore business opportunities? How could he not want to be part of the fascinating advances in science and technology and, yes, the profits they were going to bring?

They were foreigners who did not even speak the same language, but that didn’t make the illusion powerless. She was both exasperated by him and drawn to him, and he’d kissed her last night in a way she’d never imagined being kissed. What’s more, if she was to believe what he’d said, he’d desired her.

He’d desired her.
Her
, Cressida Mandeville, the most ordinary of ordinary women…

Her clothes fell loose again. She clutched them again. She took a steadying breath and turned. “Thank you, St. Raven. I can manage now.”

She saw that look in his eyes again.

Quieter, but still hot. It stirred something tentative but real and deep within herself…

Cressida! He’s a rake. He holds orgies here. He is doubtless aroused by any woman in loose clothing.

He smiled as if he could imagine her thoughts, and then he was gone.

She blew out a breath and let her gown fall. She wriggled her corset over her head and then, reluctantly, took off her shift. Now she was covered only by her drawers and stockings. She pulled on the silky trousers and tied the cord at the waist. They did fit, though they were a little snug around her hips. When she looked in the mirror, however, she gulped.

Snug! Her round hips and full bottom might as well be naked. And she
was
naked on top. She grabbed the jacket and put it on. The silk lining slid cool against her skin but rubbed her hardened nipples. She hastily buttoned it.

Then she looked in the mirror again.

She was covered. As she’d thought, she was better covered on top than she had been in her dress, for the jacket’s neckline was a little higher. She couldn’t ignore, however, the fact that her breasts were unconfined beneath it. When she shrugged, they moved! And the long line of gold buttons down the front was the only thing between her and exposure. She stretched back, and they gaped.

Well, she’d simply not stretch back.

The worst thing was that the jacket only just reached her waist. At any movement a bit of skin showed there, skin that had never, ever been exposed to public gaze before.

Slowly, still watching herself, she raised her hands and pulled pins out of her coil of hair. A band of pale midriff showed, including the top of her navel.

Impossible.

And yet, moment by moment, she began to think that these garments might suit her better than conventional fashion. Her plait tumbled down her back. She drew it forward and loosened it, then shook her hair free, down to her waist.

Her hair went with the costume, with the stranger in the mirror. It was as if she were looking at someone else, an exotic foreigner from Araby.

She was plump, but she had a trim waist. The high waisted gowns of fashion did not flatter her, but the outrageous trousers and jacket did, making her full breasts and hips look right in some way. Indecent, but right. In balance.

She picked up the face veil and tied it just below her eyes. Perhaps it was true that no one would know her if she were dressed like this.

She broke connection with the exotic stranger in the mirror and went to plunder the jewelry. Bracelets. A half dozen narrow ones on each wrist. Two gaudy armbands on her upper arms. A necklace of red glass and false pearls that didn’t look at all Eastern.

Reluctantly, she decided a “diamond” tiara wouldn’t do. She’d always wanted to wear a diamond tiara. Even so, when she studied the whole in the mirror, she laughed with delight. She was someone else entirely, flamboyant as she’d never been.

She picked up the long blue veil and draped it over her hair, then had to use the tiara to hold it in place. She was laughing at the effect when someone knocked on the door.

She froze. It had to be St. Raven, and he was going to see her like this.

‘“Come in.”

Her nervousness fled at the sight of him, another being from this fantasy world. His loose trousers were very like hers but in a deep red, and his jacket was black, sleeveless, and braided in gold. He wore it over a shirt with billowing sleeves, however, and she was a little regretful that he was so well covered.

“And why don’t I get a shirt, Your Grace?”

He grinned, his eyes sweeping over her in a way both outrageous and flattering. She saw her own feelings about her appearance mirrored there. “Because,” he said, “that would definitely spoil the fun.”

She blushed, but couldn’t help being delighted at his reaction.

“I’m not armed, either,” she complained, noting the curved knife in a jeweled scabbard stuck through his black silk sash.

“Of course not. You’re a lady of my harem.”

She looked him in the eye. “Oh, no. I, my lord sultan, am your principal wife.”

His grin turned wicked. “Including wifely duties?”

More blushes, but she didn’t flinch. “Only with a ring and proper vows.”

She couldn’t believe she’d said that, but he didn’t draw back in horror. Did that mean they were friends? Could they be friends for this little while?

She considered the rest of his costume, which had obviously been well thought-out and expensive. It included a black turban and a glittering “ruby” in his ear. Or at least, she assumed it was fake.

“Why do I feel that earring is real?”

“Because you have a good eye. Ducal privilege.” He looked her over. “Most excellent, my dear Roxelana, though the tiara will not do.”

“Something has to hold the veil on, O great Suleiman.”

He held out a narrow black mask. “Try this. Your pale eyes are too noticeable, and if we tie this over the veil, it will hold it in place.”

He came to do it, tossing the tiara aside. His hands on her head made her shiver, and peering through the mask moved reality one step further away. “Ah, yes. Look.”