The Devil May Care (Brotherhood of Sinners #1) (9 page)

The second question made him grin. “Who can say?” he said. “A great many people seem to want to kill me, wherever I go.”

“A perfectly sensible response for anyone who’s spent time with you. But this man never met you before tonight.”

His eyes sparkled. “I work fast.”

“He nearly slit your throat.” She broke off, and tried to recover a more dispassionate tone. “Did you at least learn what you needed?”

Sebastian’s gaze narrowed. “What makes you ask that?”

“The way you moved, the way you let him hit you—you were testing him, weren’t you?”

He shifted somewhat uncomfortably in his seat. “Observant of you. You’re more like your sister than I thought.”

“Well?”

Sebastian hesitated, brow creasing, as if in debate with himself. Then his forehead smoothed. “I learned a great deal, in fact. Lord Henry's not a liar about his fencing, in any case. He truly was trained by du Magnin—the style is unmistakable. And well trained, too.” He made a quick series of gestures in the air with an invisible sword. “His
fausse-attaque
, his
parade composée,
his
coulé,
his
enveloppement,
all were most elegant, and quite masterful, and so very much in the French style. What’s more, there were several idiosyncratic elements to his footwork which suggest he studied for some time with Don Pedro Medina-Alvarez in Toledo itself.”

“In Toledo?” A chill trickled through her. “So he’s been in Spain as well as France?”

“Yes.” Sebastian grinned again, and stretched his arms out comfortably across the leather squabs of his seat. “For sufficient stretches of time, and with sufficient social connections, to train with one of Spain’s most exclusive fencing masters. A fencing master who didn’t come to prominence until six or seven years ago. When Iberia was already under the influence of the French. Intriguing, isn’t it?”

So she’d been right to feel uneasy about the man—his ties to France were worrisome. “You’ve truly never met him before?”

“Never, though I’ve tried and failed to track him down abroad.” A muscle twitched in Sebastian’s cheek, leaving a dark hollow. “Helm’s longed for years to get Lord Henry Walters in a locked room for . . . well, for a few hours’ careful questioning.”

“You think Lord Henry is a spy?”

Sebastian shrugged. “He doesn’t work for Whitehall, whatever he does. But he travels with remarkable freedom across large swathes of the world, through places it should not be safe for a civilian to go. His holdings in York shouldn't yield anywhere near the money he appears to spend. He’s certainly had the acquaintance of a great many powerful men in France, both before and after the Revolution, and he seems to have developed the ability to disappear at will, often for months at a time.” His shoulders lifted again. “But if he works for the French, we have no proof of it. No captured agent or intercepted document has ever betrayed his name.”

“Then he could be an entirely innocent man.”

Sebastian’s mouth stretched into something like a smile. “And I could be a capuchin monkey. One thing’s for sure—that man’s no coward. He’s a determined fighter. Remarkably strong for his age. I will be a mass of bruises come morning.” Sebastian’s spread arms folded tight to his ribs again, and he bent forward, suddenly very serious, hands clasped between his knees. “You must understand something, my dear. I cannot think it a coincidence that Lord Henry turned up in London at an obscure party, where
you
were promised to be in appearance.”

"How could he have known I’d be there? Only Lady Barham knew we were coming.”

“Lady Barham likes to chatter. And she knows everyone, which is why I find her such a useful source of information. I suspect Lord Henry befriended her for precisely the same reason."

She remembered the odd looks the man had given her, and her stomach tightened. “Why would he have any interest in me?”

“Not in you. In
Sal
.” Sebastian fixed her with a hard look. “Listen to me, Rachel. There's a very good chance that, the moment he leaves Lady Barham’s, Lord Henry will report your presence to . . . well, to
someone
tonight.”

Her heart skittered, and the temperature in the carriage seemed to drop. “You mean to the people who killed my sister? Victoire de Laurent? You think Lord Henry works for her?”

“He might have a thousand reasons to do so, prompt cash payment likely first among them. His money comes from somewhere. So put your guard up, my dear. You’re out in the open now.”

She shivered. “Well, that is the point, is it not? To lure out our enemies?”

Sebastian’s mouth had become a very hard line. “Yes. Of course it is.” He gazed toward the roof for long minutes before finally speaking again. “Incidentally, my dear, you handled yourself well tonight.”

She took that in quietly. From Sebastian Talbot, Marquess of Hawkesbridge, such words felt like high praise indeed.

“However,” he continued ominously, now lowering his head to look straight at her, “there is one improvement we might make.”

“And what is that?”

“It’s best if you and I become lovers.”

Her heart flipped, nearly leapt out through her throat. “
What
?”

Had she not been convincing enough after all, in her role as courtesan? Did he really plan to continue their
lessons
?

“Relax,
ma belle
.” His eyes now gleamed with mischief. “If the idea horrifies you so much, it need only be in word, not in deed. Unless you simply can’t help yourself, that is. But I mean to set the rumor abroad that I’ve claimed you for my own, so you won’t have to fight off the likes of Cardross and du Bourge. I’m known for jealously guarding what’s mine. As well as for my skill with a sword. I don’t know why I didn’t think of this before.”

She couldn’t argue with his logic, and she wasn’t eager to be groped again by either of those men. But she wished she could wipe the look of amusement from his face.

And she wished she could stop the bloom of heat and the odd sense of thrill that coursed through her flesh at his words.
I’ve claimed you for my own
.

Damn it all, more than anything, she wished he wasn’t studying her face so closely, his expression that of a cat with a mouse. “Why the hesitation, love?” he asked, teasingly. “I assure you I’m an excellent protector. I’m ridiculously wealthy, and keep my mistresses in lavish style.”

Arrogant man. Her body could thrill all it wanted; her mind was in command. “Spread the word to your charming friends,” she bit out. “But rest assured I’ve no actual interest in your money, nor anything else you might wish to
lavish
on me.”

He shot her a rakish grin. “No? Still, we’ll have to make the charade convincing. It might be wise to practice a bit, just so we’ll look comfortable together.” He shifted forward in his seat again, as if about to cross to hers and make his offer good. “We have the better part of an hour before we’re home, and I promise you my blood is most definitely still up.”

She flung her fan at him, aiming square at his chest. The fan half-unfurled in flight, and the outside spoke cracked when it hit him.

He merely chuckled, low in his chest, the bastard.

Damnably inefficient weapons, fans.

The image of Lady Barham came back to her, the sight of Lord Gargoyle’s face pressed between her breasts, and the hands of all those women pawing him. “You know what you are, Lord Hawkesbridge?” she said, leaning forward herself in defiance. “You, sir, are . . . ” She blinked, realizing she had no reasonable word for what she meant. “You, sir, are a
trollop
.”

At that, he burst into an outright guffaw.

She chose to ignore the laughter, turning her head to stare out the window at the dark city rolling past. Hard as it was to believe, she actually found Lord Gargoyle more bearable in his bad moods.

Blast it all
, though—she could
feel
his gaze still poring over her.

The longer she tried to ignore him, the thicker the silence around them felt. When he spoke again, the sound of his voice actually made her jump.

“Rachel,” he said, low and terrifyingly earnest. “I wasn’t joking about you needing some practice. You really must grow more comfortable with me. When I put my palm on the small of your back tonight, your spine was stiff as a board.”

“That was good posture.”

“That was
fear
.”

Her eyes snapped back to his face again. “I’m not afraid.”

“No?” A smug smile played about his lips, and he stretched out a hand towards her. “Then come here.”

Oh, the look in his eye was hypnotic—a blend of challenge and heat. The force of it tugged at her, as surely as if he’d seized her wrist and were pulling her physically towards him.

Her pulse quickened, began to throb. The heat of it bloomed up her throat, spread over her cheeks. Damn him. No doubt he could see the effect he was having on her, and no doubt he was enjoying the sight.

His smile broadened. “When I said I was an excellent protector,” he murmured, “I wasn’t just talking about my generosity with money. I assure you my mistresses are always more than satisfied in my bed.”

Oh
. All those sprawling couples at Lady Barham’s party tonight flashed back into her mind—and the gasps of pleasure they’d made.

More than satisfied.

Her chin lifted. Hopefully, Sebastian would see her resistance, and not her trembling hands. “Are they indeed?”

“Most definitely.” He still held out his hand in invitation. His arm was rock-steady, his eyes gleaming, his expression so utterly confident.

She swallowed hard. Against all her efforts to steel herself, her nerves began to thrum, and suddenly it was as if she still felt the pressure of Sebastian’s hand against her back—and
worse, far worse
—as if she still wore that plum-colored gown she’d worn that night in the bedroom of his townhouse, when his hands had stroked her arms and breasts and even slid between her thighs, when she’d nearly surrendered everything to him.

The flesh throbbed now at the joining of her legs.

How easy it would be to let it happen, to let him touch her like that again—and perhaps not stop him this time. Her breasts seemed to strain against the tightness of her bodice, and she caught herself biting at her lip.

“You’re curious,” he said, his voice deepening still more. “That’s obvious. Why don’t you come find out exactly what I’m offering?”

His extended his hand just a few more inches closer. Now he did seize her wrist, and it was as if a tongue of flame lashed her. He pulled, not hard enough to force her, but enough to break through the last bit of her resistance. Her insides quavered, but she let that gentle tug pull her to her feet, make her step towards him, her knees unsteady.

“Excellent,” he said, grinning. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“What wasn’t?”

“Giving in.”

Her spine stiffened again. “Who says I’ve given in?”

He chuckled again. “I suppose that remains to be seen, doesn’t it? Clearly, you enjoy a challenge. So let’s up the stakes.”

“How?”

His fingers released her wrist, and his hands went to the sides of her skirts. He took the fabric in both fists and began to lift it towards her knees. “Straddle me.”

“What?”

“Sit atop me, with your legs on either side of mine. The way a man rides a horse.”

Her breath caught in her throat. “I’ve never ridden a horse.”

“Or a man either. I’m well aware of that. Don’t worry; I won’t take this any farther than you want tonight. But if I’m going to teach you more about pleasure, I’ll need access.”

Access
? Her mouth went dry, and a hot-cold shaft of panic went through her.

He cocked an eyebrow at her. “Unless you don’t think you’re up for the challenge.”

“But you said you were a mass of bruises,” she said desperately. “I—I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Bruises are of no consequence. I assure you, I find you soothingly soft.”

She licked fitfully at her lips. “Do you?”

“Oh, yes, very soft. Very soft indeed.” His voice seemed strangely abstracted as he repeated the word, and his gaze left hers for a moment, as though drawn off into some profound philosophical conundrum. Then he heaved a sharp breath, and looked her in the eye again. “Come now, show me how brave you can be.”

She stood stock-still for a long moment, her mind racing. She really did need to get over her awful stiffness around men—she’d nearly given the game away tonight, several different times. And that sort of mistake could get them both killed.

Sebastian promised not to take this farther than she was ready for, and oddly enough she trusted him to keep his word. His damnable self-control was dependable for that, at least.

Brave
, yes. She could be brave. Heedlessly, thoughtlessly brave.