She continued on her way and searched the chamber. No sign of David Kean. A white-wigged footman, dressed in vivid scarlet livery, came to her bearing a gleaming silver tray filled with crystal punch cups.
She tried to speak but found her throat wouldn’t function. She accepted a cup of punch and put it to her lips. Cool liquid washed over her dry-as-dust throat. The relief was so great that she couldn’t resist the urge to gulp the lot down as fast as her gullet would work. When the cup was drained, she took another and downed it almost as rapidly.
Her stomach suddenly cramped, violently, and she feared her full-throated gluttony would soon end in disgrace. She placed a hand over her belly and took several slow, shallow breaths until things settled themselves. Then she asked for Kean.
“Mr Kean was called away on business tonight,” the footman said.
“Called away?”
It didn’t seem possible. Not tonight, when she needed someone. Anyone.
“He’ll be back in an hour or so.”
She closed her eyes and nodded.
“Would you prefer to retire to a more private chamber until Mr Kean returns?” the footman asked in a deferential tone.
Without opening her eyes, she shook her head. Her legs had begun to shake so hard, she couldn’t possibly have walked any distance. “I shall be fine.”
Her voice sounded remarkably steady.
“Are you certain?”
She opened her eyes and forced a smile on her trembling mouth. “I shall be fine,” she repeated, rather dumbly. “Will you bring me some paper and a quill to write a note?”
The footman nodded and walked away. She watched him making his rounds with the other guests on his way out of the chamber.
A numb yet tingling sensation settled into her hands and feet. Her lips.
She hadn’t realized how much she had looked forward to seeing—needed to see—Kean’s friendly face. She just needed someone to share her horror with. Someone to assure her that everything was going to be all right.
She was going to be all right—wasn’t she?
Her stomach gave a little lurch. Her breath began to come faster and faster and pressure built in her throat as though she might cry at any moment.
Get control over yourself. Losing your wits won’t help anything!
How long did she have before Maria made good on her threats?
Rebecca had faced sickness, battle and death in her life, and she had learnt to force her fears down and to act calmly in the moment. To do what was needed in order to keep herself safe and to protect and support others. But how was she to respond to something like this? How did one fight a mighty Duchess when the balance of power of her wealth and station would be unfairly weighted all on Maria’s side?
And suppose Jon had already gone to his bed—no, worse, suppose he’d gone to his countess’ bed—and the servants would be reluctant to disturb him. What if he wasn’t able to come here tonight?
How much time did she have? Rebecca put her fist to her mouth and pressed softly. Oh Lord, what was she to do?
“Becky.”
The deep, slightly hoarse-husky voice sounded behind her. She caught her breath. No one had spoken that nickname in ages.
Not since Jon.
She half turned her head and glanced up.
Time hung suspended as she stepped into a dream…
Dark blue eyes stared intently into hers. Those heavily lashed, beautiful eyes made her feel she must be in a dream. Perhaps she had fainted. But no, he seemed solid. Real. The same thick forelock of ebony hair falling over his broad forehead. Full, sensual lips. And yet, though she couldn’t quite place what, something was different.
Stephen Drake reached out his hands.
Chapter Two
Rebecca watched, transfixed, as Stephen’s large hands took hers, their grip firm, gentle.
Warmth radiated through her. It had been so long since anyone had touched her. So long since she’d allowed anyone close enough for touch. All the fear drained out of her and she couldn‘t quite recall where she was. What had been so urgent just a moment before.
His gaze seemed to devour her. As though he had longed to see her for ages and ages.
No man had ever looked at her like that.
How strange that he should have that reaction. She hadn’t thought of him. Not much. Yes, she’d spent a few days after that night at Eastwood Place, unable to stop herself from wondering what would have happened if she had left with Stephen.
Such thoughts had been a torment of guilt. But then the intensity of being cocooned with Jon in the small cabin on the ship bound for New York, of being the sole focus of Jon’s voracious carnal appetite, had overwhelmed her and driven everything else from her mind but him.
They had become closer than ever before.
They had remained that way until that last, fateful night on the homeward bound voyage…
Stephen caressed a stray lock of hair back behind her ear. Such a simple gesture but filled with intimacy. And perhaps a desire to possess?
Her heart leapt with pure fear. But a different sort of fear than she had experienced thus far this night.
There had been no man in her bed since Jon.
There would be no man ever again.
She had promised herself that. Carnal intimacy was just too risky. The inevitable breaking apart was too painful.
“Becky.”
She stepped back several paces. “Oh, no, please don’t call me that.”
“Does he own a name?”
“Please don’t.”
“How soft your voice is. How utterly girlish. Even after all these years.”
“Oh, please, don’t.” True, she hadn’t thought of Stephen. Not much or often. But now, with him standing here, it was as though no time at all had passed. The attraction between them hit her full force. Hit her so hard, she couldn’t collect her wits.
This night was fraught with danger. Many types of danger. He caressed her cheek with the backs of his fingers.
“Does he still own you?”
“He’s married.” She paused and searched for a way to say what she really meant. “He’s married.”
“Ah, but does he still own your heart?”
“No man owns me or my heart.”
Liar. Jon will always own you. There can never be anyone else.
She struggled to collect her wits. And as the sense of enchantment over him faded, there was one refrain that echoed immediately in her mind.
Vicious, ghostly pale grey eyes, glowering into hers. The scent of refined lemon perfume and feminine sweat. Spit hitting her face. Sharp-as-claws nails penetrating her sleeves and digging into her arms.
You’ll hang! I’ll see to it!
Oh God. No, no, no! She needed to find David Kean. He would send for Jon. No, wait. He was gone. She would have to send a note to Jon herself. She hated to do that. And she hated leaning on him, ever. But this was something she wouldn’t be able to face on her own. She had no idea how to fight a woman like Maria. She needed Jon’s tactical thinking, his ruthlessness, his self-assured strength.
“Rebecca, are you in some distress?” Stephen squeezed her hand.
She started then stared at him blankly. “I am here for Mr Kean.”
His eyes widened as though he were shocked. “You belong to Mr Kean now?”
“No.” She shook her head. “Goodness, no.”
“Then I do not understand.”
She glanced down at their joined hands. “I don’t have time to explain my life at the moment.”
“You’re in trouble.”
His firm tone and strong grip made her feel safer. Dangerously safer. She couldn‘t look at him. Didn‘t dare look at him. “What makes you say that?”
“Your pallor. The way you came running into this house of ill-repute without a mask or any attempt to disguise yourself. The way your hands are trembling.”
She longed to tell him. To spill the whole matter out in a gush of words an
d share the fear with one other person. But he wasn’t the other person whom this matter concerned. It wasn’t her place to tell anyone else but Jon. She had to preserve his reputation. But her liberty, her very life was in danger… A wave of panic made her heart beat harder. “Mr Drake, would you—”
“Mr Drake?” he asked. “How can you speak as though we were strangers?”
She looked back to his face and caught a flash of emotion in his eyes. “Please understand. I-I… You can’t possibly help me with this.”
“We were friends once, were we not?”
As a boy of eighteen, he’d possessed the same quiet demeanour. He’d been so patient in his efforts to teach her how to play chess, when she just couldn’t think in such strategic terms as was needed to play well. But he had provided her with much needed distraction during a very trying time in her life. Learning to adapt to the hardships of life as an army wife following the drum, yet tied in marriage to man who could never give of himself to her in the way she’d most needed. How could she ever forget Stephen’s kindness? “Yes, of course we were.”
“Then why won’t you allow me to help you?”
He possessed such an air of quiet calm. It called to her and made her want to allow him to guide her. And yet, she couldn’t possibly. “It is just too…”
“Too what?”
“Too private.”
He glanced about. “Well, then is there someplace private we can go?”
Unthinking, she looked over her shoulder at the row of antechambers, each entrance covered with a deep burgundy velvet curtain trimmed in gold braid. But she couldn’t tell him, no matter how private the circumstances.
He touched her hand again. “Let us go there and you can tell me all about this private matter that has you so terrified.”
“I can’t.” She couldn’t stop her tone from rising. She just needed to get a note to Jon. He would come. Just as soon as he could. But then she would have to tell him—oh, God. Why, why had she allowed herself to get entangled with Maria Seymour?
“Rebecca, I would never do anything to harm you.”
Stephen’s deep voice settled over her like a blanket offering warmth and safety on a cold night. He had such broad shoulders, such strength of presence. And she had walked alone for so long now. She’d grown so weary. This, tonight…it was simply too much. She couldn’t bear up under life alone. She longed to share her burdens with someone else. Not just with Jon, who would listen and try to help but could never, ever come inside the circle of her world and share her life again.
“Please trust me,” Stephen said.
Then she noticed what was different about him. His formerly long, straight nose was now slightly crooked. There was something also about his left cheekbone. It appeared thicker. No quite so chiselled. Changed. It gave him an exaggerated air of danger.
You do not really know this man. Not in the here and now. Don’t let mawkish sentiment mar your judgment. Don’t be foolish.
She inhaled deeply to clear the beguilement from her senses.
“This matter concerns someone else. A very intimate thing.”
“About the Earl of Ruel?”
She caught her breath.
“It is about Ruel,” he insisted.
The urge to tell him welled up inside her stronger than ever. She bit her lip to hold it back.
“I’ll keep whatever you tell me in strictest confidence.”
She sighed. “It is not my place to tell.”
“But it has put you in peril?”
Her heart leapt with fear. Oh God. Oh God. Tears wetted her eyes and she swallowed hard.
He grasped her hand.
She gulped, harder this time but her tears spilled down her cheeks anyway.
“Rebecca.” He caressed the side of her face.
His voice was so kind. He had always been her dear, kind boy. The years since that time long ago seemed to fall away.
His dark blue eyes suddenly seemed as familiar as the rise and setting of the sun. She remembered, with visceral clarity, how eagerly she had looked forward to spending the evenings with him in quiet companionship over the chessboard. The comfort she had found in his unruffled, patient manner.
She had forgotten how she had come to depend on that comfort back in those days. Though their friendship had been innocent, the strength of her feelings had made her uncomfortable because of the difference in their ages and the fact that she’d been a married woman.
Then Donald had been transferred to Jon’s regiment.
God, on the ship that took her far away from the Caribbean and back to England, how she had grieved for Stephen. Guts aching, can’t-eat-can’t-sleep grief. However, she’d possessed the resilience of youth and had thrust it from her. Buried the memory.
Then Jon had come into her life and his powerful presence had dominated her heart and mind and obscured all else.
But now she stared into Stephen’s eyes, as deep and beautiful as midnight. How could she possibly continue to distrust her dear, dear boy?
Her throat began to ache badly. Oh, no. She ought never to have allowed him close enough to touch her. Emotions continued to swirl up, the pressure in her throat grew unbearable.
“Oh, Stephen!” she sobbed loudly.
“Come,” he said and he drew her toward the antechamber.
She stumbled along after him.
He drew the curtain closed behind them. She shook all over, her body weakening. Her knees collapsing. It was as though she’d been waiting for the seclusion to come undone.
He pulled her to himself and held her close. Six years ago, at Eastwood Place, she had flirted shamelessly with this man. Had resisted his ardent overtures despite the overwhelming temptation to surrender. But she had never been wrapped in his arms. For all his lean appearance, his body was so solid, so hard. His hands were large, his embrace strong. He supported her, pressed her head to his chest.
His heart sounded against her ear. Thrump. Thrump. Thrump. The steady beat lulled her. Her muscles went even more limp. Warmth enveloped her. Her racing thoughts and escalating emotions slowed and cooled.
For long moments, he simply held her.
And she relished being held.
She pretended, for the briefest time, that she was his. It made her feel safe, cherished.
She sighed and leant into him.
His lips brushed the top of her head.
She caught her breath. They were crossing lines here. Lines that wouldn’t be so easily uncrossed. Was that wise? Was it what she really wanted?
The sudden tension in her body must have communicated itself to his, for his muscles tightened against her. “I’ll go and get you something to drink,” he said.
His embrace loosened and she pulled away and nodded. As she watched him leave, her mind swirled with the conflicting feelings of relief and yet disappointment at the loss of his closeness. He returned quickly with a cup of the wine punch and a quill and paper.
He handed all the items to her. “The footman says you asked for writing materials.”
Again she nodded numbly. She took the cup from him.
Under his gaze, she attempted to drink the punch slowly, though again, its wetness made it hard for her to resist the urge to down it as fast as she could.
As he set the writing materials on a small table, he watched her speculatively. Then he took the empty cup from her. “What’s all this about, Rebecca?”
“The Duke of Saxby has died.”
He nodded and brushed a strand of her hair off her face.
“The duchess says she will have her maid testify that I poisoned him—then, then smothered him. That she saw me do so…no, no, that her maid saw, that’s what Maria said.” Rebecca’s breath came quicker, made her words sound breathy and broken. “I am innocent. Completely innocent.”
“She’s not a kind or trustworthy woman.”
At his dry tone, Rebecca startled.
He stared at her with a blank expression. Then a hint of a smile
graced those sensual lips. “She’s a right nasty bitch.”
With her chest still tight from anxiety, she gave a harsh, barking sort of laugh. “To say the least.” She took a deep breath. “She asked me to come and have a look at His Grace to see what I could do. My father owns an apothecary. I help him with the shop, but as an experienced nurse, I also do consult with people from time to time. Midwifery mostly, but sometimes other concerns.” She put her hand to her forehead and rubbed for a moment. “How stupid of me to have allowed myself to become entangled with her.”
She lowered her hand and found him studying her intently.
Did he not believe her? Had she been wrong to trust him?
Her heart began to pound again.
“What?” she finally asked.
“What indeed?” His dark brows drew together. “What does the Duchess of Saxby really want from you?”
She gaped at him. “She wants to protect herself from the accusation of murder by pointing the finger of accusation at me.”
He shook his head. “No, that’s not what she wants.”
He sounded so certain. It unsettled her. “What makes you so certain?”
“No matter Maria Seymour’s disgraced reputation, she is a wealthy duchess now. And Saxby has—” he paused then made an ironic expression. “Had no close relatives save his cousin, the Countess of Ruel. Well, she has not been on speaking terms with him for years.”
“Of course she wouldn’t be…” Rebecca bit her lip.
Stephen was watching her very closely. “You think they were lovers?”
“I don’t know. Some people say they were.” It was none of her business and certainly not her place to spread gossip.
”She’s quite a reserved lady.”
“That’s putting it mildly again.”
He raised his brows. “Should I have dubbed her an ice-queen like the gossips?”
Rebecca inhaled sharply. “Ice-queen is a most unkind way to put it.”
“And not likely true, elsewise you’d be safely tucked away with Ruel tonight, not out playing nursemaid to the Duke of Saxby. Don’t you think?” He gave her a penetrating and, was it…yes, it was a rather challenging look.
Perilous Risk Page 6
