“His lordship knows yer father?” Charity asked, clearly startled.
“I’m not sure. But he claimed to be friendly with some Maynards.”
“That’s good, ain’t it? Perhaps his lordship will help you find yer father.” Charity cast her a sly glance. “And you must admit he’s a fine figure of a man.”
“Aye, but he’s not stupid. I can’t afford to have him guessing my game. His eye is too sharp and his tongue too quick to serve my purpose.”
“I take it you got a taste of that tongue firsthand.”
“You’re having a pleasant time with this, aren’t you?” Annabelle snapped.
Charity hid her face, but not before Annabelle glimpsed her smile.
Annabelle sighed. “I can’t decide what to do. He means to come to my lodgings two days hence, and you know what he wants.”
“So give it to him.”
“Charity!”
“Nay, I mean it.” Charity moved behind Annabelle to undo her laces. “Let him sniff about your honeypot, and then ask him yer questions while he’s in the throes of passion. When a man’s breeches is open, he’ll say anything to keep you in his bed.”
“And you complain about my language! My ‘honeypot’ indeed.”
“ ’Twasn’t original with me. Sir John says the rakes are always buzzing about the actresses’ honey-pots.”
“You shouldn’t listen to Sir John,” Annabelle grumbled as she stepped out of her gown. “That man will lead you astray faster than you can say ‘honeypot.’ ”
“Aye. Well I know it.”
Annabelle glanced over in time to catch Charity’s dreamy smile. “Surely you’re not interested in a thorough scoundrel like Sir John.”
“He’s not a scoundrel.” Charity sniffed. “He may not be a marquess like yer Lord Hampden, but he’s still a nice man.”
“The marquess is not my Lord Hampden,” Annabelle bit out.
“Oh, but he will be, you wait and see.”
“He will never marry me,” Annabelle warned, “if that’s what you’re hoping for.”
Charity planted her hands on her hips. “No, but he’ll give you some enjoyment, which you sorely need.”
“And then what? After I leave here and want to have a real life again—”
“You’ll pretend to be a widow, that’s all.” She shook her head. “Hoping to keep your virtue while making yourself out to be a whore to shame your father is trying to have your cake and eat it, too.”
“Doesn’t everybody want that?” Annabelle quipped.
“Aye, but it never works. Mark my words,” Charity said with conviction, “this game you’re playing will land you in some man’s bed. So why not let it be that of a fine man like his lordship?”
Before Annabelle could retort, Mrs. Norris and Moll Davis entered, discussing their latest conquests. Charity grinned, then vanished out the door.
Faith, but the woman was cocky.
As for Lord Hampden . . . Though he could prove useful if he really did know some Maynards, he’d said nothing specific, and it might all be just for show.
Meanwhile, allowing the man too close could prove dangerous. He would never be put off as easily as Lord Somerset, and she refused to follow Charity’s mad advice and go willy-nilly into the man’s bed.
So if she was serious about her vengeance, she must halt his pursuit of her before it went any further.
Chapter Three
“For secrets are edged tools,
And must be kept from children and from fools.”
—John Dryden, Sir Martin Mar-All, Act 2, Sc. 2
Two days after he’d tangled with Annabelle Maynard, Colin stood in the doorway of the coffeehouse The Grecian in Threadneedle Street and grimaced. In the three years since he’d last been here, things had certainly changed. No longer was it just a gathering place for wits and men of science; now there were also fops showing off their latest petticoat breeches and brocaded vests. London had become a city of fawning peacocks like Somerset.
That reminder of Mrs. Maynard’s “companion” made him scowl, then curse under his breath. Why did he care if the woman had lovers?
But he did. And it annoyed him. He wasn’t used to being put out of sorts for anyone, even a pretty female.
By God, she was pretty . . . and lush and sweet and intoxicating to kiss. Her mouth held more mysteries than a sultan’s harem, and her skin was silky soft, as fragile and delicate as the fine filigree of her swan brooch.
Yes, that damned swan brooch. She had grown decidedly nervous when Colin asked about it, which made him wonder if Walcester was right to be worried about her. Could it be coincidence that she and the earl not only bore the same surname, but that the gallants called her by the same nickname that had served as Walcester’s code name during the war?
It didn’t seem likely, but “The Silver Swan” was a popular madrigal. Perhaps Mrs. Maynard simply liked music. Then there was her quoting of that morbid poem. What did that mean?
Most telling, however, was her reaction to his remarks about her “rich relations.” Colin had to admit—that alone made her behavior a little suspect. At least it warranted further examination.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t her behavior that he ached to examine. ’Sdeath, it had been a long time since a woman had heated his blood so fiercely. In Antwerp he’d been too busy doing the king’s business to spend much time wenching, and since his return, he’d grown disenchanted with the court’s single-minded pursuit of pleasure at the cost of the country.
Yet here he was, unable to stop thinking about Mrs. Maynard—the scent of oranges that clung to her, the way her lush body curved into his arms. If he didn’t watch himself, he’d be sucked into the merry-go-round of the court’s sexual abandonment. Then he’d be nipping at her heels like the other bucks, without a thought for his future.
He frowned. That was absurd. He could handle his desire for a woman, if anyone could. Surely it was just part of the general restlessness he’d felt ever since his return. And it wasn’t because of a lack of anything to do—the king wanted to send him somewhere else to gather intelligence, yet he’d been balking. He couldn’t even explain why.
“Hampden!” called a voice from a table at the back of the dimly lit room.
It was Sir John, whom he’d come to find. And with him was Garett Lockwood, the Earl of Falkham.
Colin broke into a smile of genuine pleasure as he headed for their table.
“Decided to brave city life for a while, have you?” Colin asked Falkham as he took a seat on the bench opposite his closest friend in the world.
Falkham gave a rueful sigh. “It seems that even Mina has the urge to acquire a new gown once in a while.” He shook his head in the way affectionate husbands always do when speaking of their wives. “Besides, she’s been eager to attend the theater. She’s got her eye on some play called The School of Compliments.”
Colin’s smile slipped. A certain actress was said to have a role in that upcoming play.
“Now, that’s the face of a man who’s been rejected by a beautiful woman,” Sir John told Falkham with a laugh.
He gritted his teeth. No doubt Sir John had heard from Charity about Colin’s useless attempts to capture Mrs. Maynard, the roving target. Those two were thick as thieves these days.
“How can that be?” Falkham said. “I thought Hampden had perfected the art of seduction. In fact, my poor wife despairs of his ever finding a wife, since he has enough women to warm his bed without benefit of clergy.”
“Your wife ought to know by now that I will die a bachelor.”
“I daresay you will, since beautiful women have finally begun rejecting your advances.” Falkham dug his left elbow into Sir John’s side, and the two men laughed like witless fools.
Hell and furies. Now he wished that Falkham hadn’t decided to visit. The man had been waiting years for a chance to pay Colin back for flirting with Mina when Falkham had her in his sights. Sir John’s gibes were bad enough with
out Falkham gleefully joining in.
Falkham smirked at him. “So tell me, what female is wise enough to spurn you?”
“She’s not spurning me,” he ground out. “She’s merely avoiding me, a small circumstance I mean to remedy shortly.”
According to Charity, Mrs. Maynard had disappeared from her lodgings at morning’s first light. He had watched the place half the morning after that, but Mrs. Maynard hadn’t returned.
Sir John snorted. “Why don’t you admit that the woman isn’t interested in you? She prefers a man she can twist around her little finger. The Silver Swan can’t abide being told what to do, and we both know you can’t abide keeping your opinions to yourself.” He winked at Falkham.
“The Silver Swan?” Falkham asked.
“She’s one of the duke’s players,” Sir John explained. “You’ll have a chance to see her if you attend The School of Compliments. Rumor has it she’ll be playing the lead role instead of Moll Davis.”
Falkham shot Colin an assessing glance. “An actress isn’t your usual preference.”
“No,” Colin clipped out.
And his friend knew why. Colin’s mother had been a vain, pretentious French actress and sometime courtesan. Over the six-year-old Colin’s frightened protests, she’d eagerly relinquished her son to Marlowe Jeffreys, Colin’s father, when the wealthy merchant had come to France in search of his bastard son.
Colin thrust those dark memories from his mind. How he felt about actresses had nothing to do with this. He was pursuing Mrs. Maynard only on Walcester’s behalf.
Right. And clouds were made of cotton.
“So what do you plan to do about Mrs. Maynard?” Sir John pressed when Colin wasn’t forthcoming.
“Don’t worry. Just because she’s been avoiding me all day doesn’t mean she’ll escape me forever. She can’t bow out of the play, can she?”
“Will you abduct her from the stage, then?” Sir John asked.
“There are better ways to deal with Annabelle Maynard, I assure you.” Like how he’d dealt with her in the tiring-room. His blood heated at the mere memory of the way she’d responded to his kisses.
“Just be certain Charity doesn’t object to your methods,” Sir John pointed out, “or you’ll have not one but two angry women on your back.”
“That’s why I need your help.” Colin caught a passing serving boy and ordered more dishes of coffee all round. “This afternoon I want you to keep Charity busy while I . . . deal with Mrs. Maynard.”
Sir John laughed. “Now, that’s a mission I am more than happy to be charged with. I didn’t realize until you started dealing with her mistress that Charity was such a fiery little thing. But now that I know, I am happy to help in any way I can.”
“Which means he intends to seduce her,” Falkham put in dryly.
“Why not?” Sir John said. “That’s what Hampden intends for her mistress.”
Colin merely smiled. He wasn’t entirely sure what he intended for Mrs. Maynard. Walcester had said nothing about seducing her, and Colin could find out her secrets well enough without that.
No, what he wanted was to understand her. Why was she coy one moment and wary the next? What did she fear? Whom did she fear? And why the devil was she perfectly happy to give herself to a fool like Somerset but skittish about giving herself to a marquess of twice his consequence?
One way or the other, he meant to figure that out. If it took seduction to do that, then so be it.
AS THE FIRST act of the play ended and Annabelle exited, the tenor who was to provide the musical interlude between acts brushed past her as if she were invisible. Too bad she couldn’t be invisible. Because Lord Hampden was out there in the audience. She’d felt his gaze on her even when she couldn’t see him, and it still made her pulse race and her palms go damp.
In the two days he’d given her, she’d asked about him . . . to her infinite regret. She’d discovered that the Marquess of Hampden was a powerful man with powerful friends. Rumor had it that he’d been a Royalist spy during the war. The king held him in highest esteem, as did several influential nobles.
But was her father one of them? Could she find out who he was at last just by cozying up to Lord Hampden?
No, that method was far too risky. Best to avoid the overbearing and too-fascinating marquess entirely.
Thus it was with great alarm that she found the cause of her distress leaning against the wall as she approached the tiring-room. She forced nonchalance to her face. “My lord, what are you doing here?”
He pushed away from the wall with a dark glance. “Reminding you that we had an appointment for this morning. One you missed.”
“I believe I made it clear that I changed my mind about our appointment.”
“So you’re a coward after all,” he murmured. “Tell me, why would a woman with a reputation for enjoying the finer pleasures of life turn tail and run after one paltry kiss?”
He had her there, devil take him. She couldn’t let him think she was anything except a wanton actress. Unfortunately, if she accepted the challenge, it would be like trying to cage a tiger. But if she refused, it would be like trying to outrun one. Either choice was bad.
Suddenly the door to the tiring-room burst open and Moll Davis sailed out. Through the open door, Annabelle could see Lord Somerset, tapping his foot with impatience as he attempted to fluff out the flounces of his petticoat breeches.
To her relief, he glanced up and spotted her. He sauntered out to join her, followed by Sir Charles Sedley, a pretty-faced rake known for his outrageous exploits, most recently for disporting himself naked on a balcony.
“Hello, angel,” Lord Somerset cooed. “You are captivating tonight as always.”
He stank of some strong perfume that nearly made her choke. Still, when he bent to kiss her cheek, she turned so that his wet mouth met hers. He drew back, his surprise at her response showing in the lift of his plucked eyebrows.
Fighting the urge to wipe her lips, she ignored Lord Hampden’s scowl and took Lord Somerset’s arm. Today the man wore three patches on his rouged cheeks. Together with his new periwig of flowing yellow ringlets, they made him look like a truculent child awaiting Mother’s treats.
“I’ve missed you,” she leaned up to whisper.
Now his surprise became full-blown. “Can’t have that, can we?” He tossed his horrible corkscrew curls, then lowered his mouth to hers again.
Lord Hampden cleared his throat loudly, prompting Lord Somerset to peer into the shadows. “Ah, Hampden. Decided to have a look at all our lovely actresses, have you?”
“Only one in particular, although the woman has apparently forgotten our assignation.” Lord Hampden’s gaze steadied on her. “Such a damnable shame, too, since I very much looked forward to stroking the dear creature’s feathers, if you know what I mean.”
“Indeed.” Lord Somerset slipped his arm around Annabelle’s waist to draw her closer. “Even this wild creature is prone to the occasional shy moment.”
She wasn’t sure she liked being called a “wild creature,” but at least the viscount hadn’t realized whom Lord Hampden was hinting at.
“Oh yes,” Sir Charles put in. “We all know the Swan hides behind her feathers whenever possible.”
A pox on Sir Charles! Fortunately, Lord Somerset was obviously too intent on peeking down her low-cut gown to realize he was being mocked. “Yes, yes,” was all he said as he smoothed his hand down her derriere.
“I can scarcely believe Mrs. Maynard hides from anyone,” Lord Hampden snapped.
“I know,” Lord Somerset said. “She can be a bold little thing at times. Quick-tongued, you know.”
Sir Charles grinned. “Well, not all of us have had the privilege of receiving the end of Mrs. Maynard’s tongue.”
Annabelle shot Sir Charles a murderous glance.
“She saves her tongue for me,” Lord Somerset said, preening a bit.
“Because she enjoys slicing you to ribbons with it?” Lo
rd Hampden said, with thinly disguised irritation.
“As long as she allows me a thrust or two of my own occasionally,” Lord Somerset joked, “I don’t mind her barbs.”
Normally, Annabelle could tolerate all the double entendres, but not today in front of the marquess, especially with Sir Charles laughing at her expense.
Though Sir Charles’s laugh was cut short by Lord Hampden’s glare. And when Lord Somerset, pleased with his wit, pressed a kiss to her hair, the marquess stiffened. “You know, Somerset,” he drawled, “I’m glad to see you enjoying yourself. After the terrible news you received this morning, I thought—”
The viscount’s head snapped around. “What terrible news?”
Lord Hampden feigned surprise. “You didn’t know? Hell and furies, I’ve spoken out of turn. Of course, perhaps I misunderstood His Majesty . . . Yes, I’m sure that’s it. Never mind.”
Sir Charles, always one to make trouble where he could, took up the theme with glee. “I believe I heard the same thing.”
Lord Somerset released her. “Out with it, man! His Majesty spoke of me? What did he say?”
The marquess shrugged. “I don’t know if I should tell you. Perhaps I’m wrong.”
“It’s my petition, isn’t it? His Majesty has refused it.” Lord Somerset whirled on Sir Charles. “You heard it too?”
“It’s possible that I misunderstood as well, but . . .” Sir Charles trailed off meaningfully.
“God-a-mercy!” The viscount turned to Annabelle. “Listen, angel, you won’t mind if I go to Whitehall for a bit, will you? I must find out about my petition. Terribly important.”
Silently cursing Lord Hampden, she forced a smile for her inamorata. “As his lordship says, they may have misunderstood. Must you leave before the play’s over? If you stay, then perhaps after the play we could go back to my lodgings and . . . well . . .” She trailed off with a seductive smile.
He blinked and looked as if he might change his mind. Then he shook his head. “Later, angel. I won’t be gone that long. You understand, don’t you?”
“Of course she understands,” Lord Hampden said in a steely voice. “Don’t worry, Sir Charles and I will watch over her to make sure the other gallants leave her be. Since my own companion hasn’t yet arrived, I might as well make myself useful.” His smile of victory made her itch to slap him.
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