Silver Deceptions

by Sabrina Jeffries

“Nay, but I could go back to Aphra’s.”

  “Not a chance.” They’d reached a huge, mud-spattered bay tethered near the entrance, and, without warning, he lifted her into the saddle, then untethered the horse before swinging up behind her.

  She might have fought him if his arm hadn’t gripped her waist, holding her in the saddle. And in truth, a part of her wanted to hear what he had to say for himself, the wretch.

  “You know,” he growled as his mount trotted down the thoroughfare, “none of that mess with Rochester would have happened if you’d kept your promise to wear my ring.”

  The audacity of the man! “I might have kept my promise if I hadn’t learned what a deceitful, unfeeling rogue you are.”

  “What in God’s name are you talking about?”

  “I’m well aware you didn’t go to Kent. I also know you asked Sir Charles to keep that a secret from me.”

  He muttered an oath under his breath. “I see Sir Charles has trouble keeping his mouth shut,” he said unrepentantly.

  Any hope she’d harbored that Sir Charles had misunderstood vanished. “You wretched, lying—”

  “Bastard?”

  “Aye! Bastard! Your dear friend Sir Charles didn’t say a word to me, but he told every other wit at court, and that’s all it took for it to get back to me. Of course everyone realized at once that you . . . that you . . .”

  “That I what?”

  “Hid your destination because you were going to meet another woman.”

  He tensed behind her. “The devil I did! You thought I was with another woman?”

  His incredulous tone seemed awfully convincing, but she wasn’t fool enough to believe him again. “Of course! You made me promise not to be unfaithful, but you gave no similar promise. Nor have you given me a reason to think you’re any different than the other gallants.”

  “Haven’t I?” Pressing his mouth to her ear, he lowered his voice to a taut murmur. “Even when I protected you from the king and told you of matters no other man would have discussed with a woman? Our night together should have revealed something of how I feel about you.”

  She couldn’t keep the hurt from her voice. “Not nearly as much as your abrupt departure the next morn and your attempt to cover up where you’d gone.”

  He muttered something under his breath.

  Attempting to sound sophisticated, she added, “That’s when I learned that men and women look at such things differently. Like Sir John, who expects Charity to share him with his fiancée. I would have thought him different, too, but I was wrong. Men care only about having their pleasures sated.”

  “Not all men,” Colin ground out. “I am not like Sir John.”

  “No? Then why did you lie to me?”

  His arm tightened on her waist. “Why did you break your promise? You took off my ring and went on teasing every fop and whey-faced wit who caught your fancy until you had them following you around like insolent pups . . .”

  “Oh, it didn’t take any effort on my part,” she said bitterly. “When they learned you’d abandoned me, they were all too eager to leap into the breach.”

  He let out a low hiss. “I wanted to kill Rochester for touching you. You have no idea.”

  “I have some idea,” she said, choking back tears. “Where were you these past two weeks?”

  “Not with another woman, for God’s sake,” he growled. “I can’t even handle the one I have.”

  Realizing she had begun to sound like a jealous shrew, she forced some nonchalance into her voice. “It doesn’t matter. None of it matters in the least.”

  “Oh, it matters very much, dearling, as you’ll realize after we talk,” he murmured. “But not here in the street. We need privacy for this discussion.”

  She couldn’t imagine why. Unless he meant to seduce her out of her temper.

  Oh, Lord, she hoped that wasn’t his plan. She was having enough trouble as it was ignoring his arm about her waist, his breath against her hair, and the intimate way they sat atop the horse. Her thighs rested on his corded ones, and she could feel every sinew through the thin breeches she wore.

  Their last night together sprang into her mind, heating her blood and sending anticipation prickling over her skin. Sweet Mary, how could she have forgotten what it was like to be held by Colin?

  Even as her anger smoldered, a lovely, erotic longing threatened to sweep away all her determination to resist his smooth words this time. It didn’t help that the horse’s pace slowed or that Colin began stroking her thigh.

  She would just have to stay strong, have to keep reminding herself of the fact that he’d deceived her and seemed utterly unrepentant over it.

  It took them only a short while to reach his house in the Strand, one of the most fashionable districts in London. When they drew up before the imposing marble columns of a three-story brick edifice with a dazzling array of mullioned windows, she felt sick at heart.

  No wonder he’d lied to her. Men who lived in mansions didn’t deign to worry about what a lowly actress might think of them. What a fool she’d been even to dream of being Colin’s wife. Colin would never marry a woman like her.

  Colin dismounted, then helped her down as a footman came running out to take the horse. The moment they entered, a whole slew of servants greeted him, clamoring for his attention after two weeks away and gaping at her.

  Oh no, she was still dressed in her male garb. No doubt they were appalled. This awe-inspiring house, with its marble floor and walls covered with expensive paintings, was not the place for a scandalously dressed actress.

  No matter how much she reminded herself that Colin was a bastard like her, it did no good. She knew she didn’t belong here.

  And why did this evidence of Colin’s wealth sway her anyway? She’d known he was rich, that he had power and a title given to him by the king himself. So why was she standing here, gawking in amazement like the street urchins to whom she fed oranges?

  Because he’d never behaved like the other wealthy men who’d frequented the theater. He’d never emphasized the difference between their stations. She’d known so many pompous men who wore their wealth and power on their sleeves and spoke with contempt to the actresses that she’d half expected Colin’s lodgings to be modest to match the casual disregard he seemed to have for his rank.

  But of course Colin lived in a mansion. That was why he’d brought her here, to remind her that his power and standing surpassed hers as sunlight surpasses moonlight.

  Her heart sank. If that was his intent, he’d succeeded. She’d been a fool to believe that he truly cared for her. Who could hold the affections of a man who could buy anyone’s affections whenever he wanted?

  Then the steward said, “I do hope you had no trouble finding Norwood, my lord. It has been some time since I traveled that way, and I’m not sure my directions were adequate.”

  And her whole world tilted on its axis. Sweet Mary in heaven, Colin really hadn’t gone to see a woman. He had gone to Norwood.

  Her gaze shot to him in alarm only to find him regarding her with eyes as inscrutable as the ocean. “I had no trouble at all, Johnson, thank you.”

  Panic gripped her. How had he known where she was from? She’d only revealed the name of the county. Could Charity have said something? If she had, she would have told Annabelle about it once she’d heard that Colin had left town and lied about where he was going.

  And why had he lied? Why had he gone in search of her past?

  Oh, Lord, he knew it all now, didn’t he? There was no way on God’s green earth that Colin could have gone to Norwood and not discovered every dirty secret from her past. The only thing he didn’t know was her purpose for coming to London, but she had no doubt he’d try to get that out of her, too.

  “If you’d like a bit of supper, my lord—” the steward began.

  “No, I’ve already eaten. Just bring some wine into my study.”

  “And for . . . for the young lady?”

  Annabelle could tel
l the steward was choking on the phrase, but she no longer cared about any of Colin’s numerous servants.

  “Annabelle? Would you like something?” Colin asked calmly, as if he hadn’t just jerked her off her feet.

  “No,” she whispered, “nothing.” What she wanted was to disappear, and she doubted the steward could manage that.

  “Very good,” the steward murmured and left.

  “As I told you,” Colin said in a tone of pure steel, “I have not been with a woman for the past two weeks. And you and I do have a great deal to talk about.”

  His words and his tone of voice hardened her resolve as he led her up the stairs to the first floor. She didn’t know why he’d gone to Norwood or why he was so obviously angry over what he’d learned, but she meant to find out.

  As soon as they’d entered a large room lined with bookshelves, Colin faced her, his expression dangerously dark. “Why didn’t you tell me your mother had been hanged for killing your stepfather?”

  “It’s not the sort of thing a person wants widely known,” she attempted to say offhandedly.

  That only seemed to infuriate him. “Some in Norwood claim you had a part in the murder.”

  Shock gripped her. “I did not! Surely you can’t believe that I would—”

  “Nay.” His expression softened. “I didn’t believe it. Fortunately, I found someone who’d seen everything and confirmed me in that. Of course, it would have all been clearer if you’d told me yourself.”

  A knock sounded at the door, and Colin barked a curt command. A footman entered bearing a tray with a flagon of wine. Colin moved away to stand by the newly laid fire roaring in the grate.

  With her emotions in turmoil, Annabelle waited impatiently for the servant to leave. As the footman headed for the door, Colin said, “See to it that we aren’t disturbed.”

  “Aye, my lord.”

  As Annabelle watched the door shut behind the footman, she drew together the fractured bits of her courage. “How did you know to go to Norwood?”

  He didn’t answer at first. Still staring into the fire, he rested his hand on the mantelpiece. The flames limned his golden hair with fiery lights that made him look like a tigerish devil, ready to tear into her with his claws. The fire stripped away the patina of civilization he normally wore and reminded her Colin could be almost savage when his temper was roused.

  “Why did you go to Norwood?” she persisted.

  A shuttered expression crossed his face. “Because I wanted to find out all your secrets, even the ones you wouldn’t tell me.”

  “But I never told you where I was from.”

  “I was a spy for the king, remember? We have ways of finding out such things. And in any case, how I found out is neither here nor there.” He went to the flagon and filled a pewter goblet with wine, then downed it quickly before leveling a wild-eyed gaze on her. “The fact is, I did find out, and now I want answers.”

  She didn’t flinch from his gaze, though the dark determination in it alarmed her. “You have no right to them. Except for protecting me from the king, for which I paid you amply,” she said with biting irony, “you haven’t given me many answers yourself.”

  He raked one hand through his hair. “What answers do you want?”

  “I want to know what prompted you to go to Norwood, and I want to know who my father is.”

  “Why do you assume that I know?”

  “You’re the one who pointed out your abilities as a spy. If you’re so accomplished at it and so knowledgeable about affairs in London, why didn’t you recognize that coat of arms? Why did you rush off to Norwood to root out all my secrets when you knew how much I wanted to know his identity?”

  He seemed to consider her words, then said evenly, “Your father is Edward Maynard, the Earl of Walcester. It’s his coat of arms on your signet ring.”

  Stunned to have him state it so bluntly, she searched his face for signs that he was lying. “When . . . how long . . .”

  He tossed the goblet down onto the tray. “I recognized his coat of arms the very night you showed me the ring.”

  She dropped into a nearby armchair. So she knew the truth at last. She’d thought she’d feel more relief or anger or something, but the words held little meaning. It was simply the name of another noble with a title. A man she still didn’t know. Unless, of course, that had been him at the theater tonight. “Why didn’t you tell me his identity as soon as you knew it?”

  Colin’s eyes narrowed as he approached her. “Because I wasn’t sure what you intended to do with the information. In truth, I’m still not sure.”

  She certainly wasn’t going to tell him. He would construe it in the worst way.

  He leaned down and braced his hands on the arms of her chair, trapping her. “Now,” he growled, his face scant inches from hers, “it’s your turn. And don’t think you can lie to me. I’ve told you what you wanted. I want my own questions answered.”

  “You already seem to know all the important answers.” Her hands grew clammy, and she wiped them on her shepherd’s smock.

  “Yes, I know about the murder. Your mother killed your stepfather to protect you from him and was hanged for it. That needs no explanation.”

  The almost manic intensity in his gaze struck her with terror. “S-so what is it you wish to know?”

  “They told me in Norwood that you were a proper girl, even religious. They said that to all outward appearances, you were modest and respectable.”

  She glared at him. “It was either be modest and respectable in public or risk my stepfather’s temper. Believe me, that wasn’t who I was inside.”

  His jaw tightened. “They also told me you were left penniless, with no man to protect you.”

  She nodded, bewildered. If he understood all of this, then what was he so intent on learning? And why was he so angry? Simply because she hadn’t told him any of it?

  “So you found out you had no means of support, but you had a father in London. You and Charity set out for London. That much is understandable.”

  He paused, his eyes playing over her face. Not certain what he wanted of her now that he knew so much, she held her tongue.

  “What I don’t understand,” he said softly, “is why you chose to go on the stage. Why not find employment more suitable to your upbringing—a position as a governess, perhaps?”

  “I told you before—Charity had a friend in the theater.”

  Abruptly he straightened. Crossing his arms over his chest, he smiled, though it didn’t bring any warmth to his eyes. “That doesn’t explain why you didn’t use your real name once you arrived. Or why you didn’t take more active steps to find your father. It took me a week to convince you to tell me you were looking for him. You could have shown that ring to any number of people who’d have brought you to your father. Why didn’t you?”

  She couldn’t meet his eyes. “I wanted to be discreet.”

  “Rubbish. Try another tale, my lying swan. While you’re at it, explain why a ‘proper girl’ would turn into a wanton in the city. And don’t tell me any of that nonsense about its being the only way to protect yourself. Other actresses manage to live respectably and not be troubled by forward gallants.”

  “I could see no way to fend them off—”

  “Stop it!” he thundered, leaning down to trap her in the chair again. “Stop lying to me! You came to this city and set yourself up as a wanton amongst the actresses with a purpose in mind. I want to know what that purpose is.”

  He was so desperate that it frightened her. “Why do you care?”

  Torment gleamed in his eyes. “Because I’m afraid I know what your purpose is, and it smacks of a deeper treachery than I’d thought you capable of.”

  Suddenly she couldn’t bear it anymore, his presuming to pass judgment on her. She shoved him back, then leapt to her feet, feeling as if he were smothering her, closing her into a tight box of condemnation without even seeing the real her. She was tired of pretending to be someone el
se, especially with him.

  As she paced, unable to meet his eyes, the words spilled out of her like corruption from a lanced canker sore. “Is it treachery to want to punish the one who abandoned my mother and me to a daily torment? Is it treachery to want vengeance for being discarded without a thought? Is it?”

  He remained ominously silent.

  “You want to know my purpose? All right, then. I came to London to punish my father. I came to humiliate him before all the world and make him ashamed to lift his head in public.” She whirled to face him, and added in a voice bitter and low, “I came to make him suffer for his crimes by being the bastard daughter of his nightmares. That’s my darker purpose, my treachery.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “Trust not your daughters’ minds

  By what you see them act.”

  —William Shakespeare, Othello, Act 1, Sc. 1

  Colin could only stare, stunned into silence. This wasn’t what he’d expected. He’d been certain that her plan for vengeance centered around exposing Walcester as a traitor.

  But he should have known that Annabelle always defied expectation. “You wanted to humiliate your real father?” he choked out, still taken off guard.

  “Aye.” She turned her back to him. “I thought to be the kind of daughter no man would want to own. Then I planned to reveal my identity publicly once I determined who he was.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Of course you don’t,” she said bitterly. “Your father claimed you—a little late, perhaps, but he did. Mine didn’t. As far as I can determine, he didn’t care one whit that he’d fathered a child.”

  “Perhaps your mother never told him.”

  “That’s not the point!” she hissed. “Because my father couldn’t keep his blessed ‘sword’ in its sheath, Mother was consigned to a life of hell. You say you understand about the murder.” Her voice thickened with pain and anger. “But you weren’t there. You don’t know what it’s like to see your mother, normally mild as a nun, take a knife and plunge it over . . . and over . . . and—”

  She broke off on a sob, and with guilt eating at him, he gathered her up in his arms.