The Danger of Desire

by Sabrina Jeffries

  “Bloody hell!” he cried as he jumped up to blot the wine staining his perfect white shirt. Mary hurried over to help, as did others.

  And while all was chaos, Delia slipped out the front.

  Owen followed her quickly. “Are you mad, miss?” he muttered under his breath as she hurried away from Dickson’s. “I daresay you would have won the game and a tidy pot as well.”

  “Winning has never been my only aim, as you well know. And tonight I had other concerns.”

  She called to a hackney. If they escaped fast enough, Lord Knightford wouldn’t be able to follow them, and once they were out of sight, he wouldn’t be able to track them to her aunt’s house. He might have his suspicions about her true identity, but without proof, he wouldn’t dare expose her.

  Though she’d have to avoid Dickson’s for a while. It was too risky to be caught by his lordship.

  As soon as she and Owen were ensconced in the hackney and it was racing away from the gaming hell with no one following them, she relaxed.

  She was safe now. Or mostly, anyway.

  “Lord Knightford may have recognized me,” she told Owen.

  “Are you sure?”

  “We danced together earlier today. Then tonight he kept mentioning things we talked about and watching to gauge my reaction. I had to leave. I couldn’t risk his challenging me about my identity. And with my fleeing, he’ll never be able to confirm it. It prevents him from unmasking me before witnesses, and he’s not reckless enough to accuse a woman of good family without proof.”

  “I see. Then I suppose your wine ploy was clever. We’ll have to take more care in the future.”

  “Yes.”

  Owen sighed. “I’m sorry I can’t gamble in your stead. But you’d be broke in a week if I did. I don’t know a thing about cards.”

  “I realize that. And I wouldn’t want to force you to act against your beliefs, even if you could play piquet. You have enough trouble participating in this subterfuge as it is.”

  Owen was a strict Wesleyan and didn’t drink or play cards. He wasn’t keen on lying, either, but so far they’d managed it so she was the only one doing that.

  “I hate that I haven’t been able to learn anything about the tattooed man since we’ve been in London,” he persisted. “But there hasn’t been a single person in the hells who’s ever heard of him. Or if they had, they weren’t saying.”

  That was the trouble. A man of rank was rarely gossiped about to outsiders by those who ran the hells. They knew that they owed their bread and butter to such men, and they weren’t about to risk that.

  “You did your best. That’s all I can ask.”

  “Have you considered that your brother might have lied about the man who beat him? That Mr. Trevor might have overstated the case because he couldn’t bear losing?”

  She stiffened. “Certainly not. While I wouldn’t be surprised anymore to hear that Reynold lied, he was as good a player as Papa, if not better. He wouldn’t have lost unless someone cheated him.”

  “I suppose you know your brother better than anyone.” Owen looked skeptical, which annoyed her.

  “I bloody well do.”

  “Miss! You’re picking up all sorts of bad language from these jaunts to Covent Garden. If you’re not careful, you’ll start using it in society, and then you’ll never find a husband.”

  She glanced away. “I don’t want a husband. Men only care about themselves.” When he bristled, she added hastily, “Present company excepted, of course. But you’re a Wesleyan—you’ve been raised to care about people. Most men do whatever they want, without considering what’s good for their families.”

  Papa had dragged the family from pillar to post during the war and afterward, looking for better chances to make money at the tables. If he hadn’t won Camden Hall in a stroke of amazing luck, who knew how long they would have wandered the world?

  Then there was Reynold. She’d never forgive him for abandoning his family. For gambling away her and Brilliana’s futures. And sweet little Silas’s.

  Tears stung her eyes. Silas would have a future, even if she had to gamble herself into the grave.

  Lord Knightford could probe all he liked into her life, but he wouldn’t stop her from finding the man who’d cheated Reynold.

  And he damned well wouldn’t stop her from getting back what Silas deserved to inherit. Woe be unto him if he tried.

  Six

  The day after Miss Trevor disappeared from the gaming hell, Warren waited in the foyer of Lady Pensworth’s town house for his card to be accepted.

  He’d dragged himself out of bed early to make certain he caught the ladies before they went shopping or some such feminine foolery. After Miss Trevor had left him dripping with port and his clothes ruined, only to disappear, he wasn’t about to let that happen again.

  Last night he could have roused her household and told her aunt what she was up to. But he hadn’t wanted to make trouble for her—just put an end to her dangerous game.

  He needed to speak to her privately, and he wasn’t leaving until he did. Fortunately, Lady Pensworth was sure to have him admitted, since she wanted a husband for her niece.

  The footman came back. “Her ladyship is in, my lord, if you will follow me.”

  With a nod, he allowed the servant to escort him back to the drawing room. Before the man could announce him, Warren heard Lady Pensworth say, “Out, you beast! I’m not putting up with your shenanigans today!”

  The footman showed Warren in, where they found Lady Pensworth shooing a Persian cat. Or trying to, since the feline merely scurried beneath the furniture.

  Either the baroness had not heard them enter or she was too intent on dealing with the puss to notice, for she stamped her foot in front of the settee.

  That would have sent any other feline fleeing; this one hissed at her from beneath the settee.

  “Lord Knightford, milady,” the footman announced.

  The tall, bespectacled woman whirled around. “Knightford! So glad you’ve come to call. Perhaps you can coax that horrible creature out from under the settee. The damned thing never heeds what I say.”

  He chuckled as he bowed. “I don’t think there’s a cat alive who will. If you want a pet who will obey you absolutely, madam, you should probably get a dog. They’re more easily trained.”

  “Oh, the beast is not mine, but my niece’s. She hates me.”

  “I doubt seriously that Miss Trevor is so foolish as to hate—”

  “Not her.” Lady Pensworth rolled her eyes. “The cat. I’ve no idea why it despises me. It’s not as if I’ve done anything to her.”

  “Some cats are cantankerous.”

  Rather like Lady Pensworth, who had a reputation for being forthright, irritable, and a little eccentric. But he’d known her as a boy, when she’d visited his mother, and he always remembered her giving him lemon drops.

  That had been before Mother had converted to Methodism and lost some friends in the process, including Lady Pensworth.

  With a rustle of skirts, the baroness took a seat and eyed him closely. “How kind of you to call,” she said, as if recalling her manners. “Though I assume my niece is the person you actually came to see.”

  So she knew of his attentions to Miss Trevor? Apparently the gossips were already pairing them.

  That was just as well. It would make it easier for him to learn what was going on. “I assure you I came to see you both. And you’re looking very well today. That color becomes you.”

  “Hmm.” When he strolled over to take her hand and kiss it, the corners of her lips twitched. “Delia is still abed, I’m afraid. The poor girl had such a headache after dancing in the heat yesterday that she came home early, retired straightaway, and has not yet risen.”

  “Ah.” He would swear the baroness believed what she was saying, which meant she didn’t know about Miss Trevor’s activities. A useful bit of information, though not a great surprise. “You must tell her I’m sorry to have missed
her.”

  But he meant to take full advantage of having the aunt to himself to learn whatever he could about Miss Trevor’s true situation. He began to think it was quite different from what either Miss Trevor or Clarissa had described.

  “I have told Delia many a time not to overexert herself at these things, but she simply will not listen.”

  “Rather like her cat,” he said.

  “Precisely.”

  As if it knew they were talking about it, the puss crept from under the settee and strolled over to wind itself about his trousers.

  “Flossie, stop that this minute!” Lady Pensworth snapped her fingers. “I swear I will have you banished to the garden, neighbor dogs or no!”

  “No need for that.” He picked up Flossie, then took a seat on the settee and began to scratch her behind the ears. She purred and nuzzled his fingers. “My mother had three tabbies and a tortoiseshell, so I don’t mind cats in the least. They generally seek me out, as a matter of fact.”

  Perhaps they recognized that he was as nocturnal as they. His mother’s old tomcat had often kept him company at the estate. Thank God, because he detested nights in the country if there were no houseguests. Lindenwood Castle was too dark, too quiet. Too full of troubling memories.

  “Especially the female ones, I’m sure,” she said archly. “From what I understand, females of all species generally seek you out.”

  “My reputation precedes me, I see,” he said with a thin smile. Obviously he would not be leaving here with any lemon drops.

  “Oh yes. Let’s just say that your mother wouldn’t have approved of your late-evening jaunts.”

  “I doubt many mothers approve of their son’s ‘late-evening jaunts’ in town, but mine most certainly would not have.”

  She must have noticed the strain in his voice, for she sighed. “Yes, well, she did change quite a bit after those Methodists got hold of her. It was impossible to speak to her anymore without getting an earful of religion.”

  The last person he wanted to discuss was his intensely devout mother. “Indeed. You were saying, about your niece and how she does not listen to your advice . . .”

  “May I be frank, sir?”

  “I was under the impression that you already were,” he said dryly. “But go ahead and see if you can exceed your efforts so far.”

  She looked as if she fought a smile. “Very well, then. I noticed how much time you spent with my niece at the breakfast. It was more than she generally allows most gentlemen. She’s rather impatient with them, I’m afraid.”

  He acted on a hunch. “Because of her suitor back home, you mean.”

  “What suitor?” She paled. “She has no suitors back home.”

  “She mentioned a rich farmer by the name of Phineas Owenouse.”

  A frown beetled her brow. “I have no idea who that is. And I’ve never heard of any Owenouses in the village. Sounds suspiciously foreign to me.”

  “He’s Welsh.”

  “As I said, foreign. And entirely unacceptable as a suitor to a woman with her connections and fortune.” She cocked her head. “You do know she has a small fortune, don’t you?”

  That put him on his guard. “I’m not sure what that has to do with me.”

  “I assume that you’re here because you’re looking for a wife. You do not, as a general rule, pay calls on eligible young ladies.” Her voice turned steely. “Unless, of course, your intentions aren’t honorable.”

  He stifled an oath. “I assure you, madam, that if I were to pursue your niece, it would only be for the most honorable of reasons. And since we’re being frank, you should know that her fortune, small or otherwise, is immaterial to me. I have no need of it.”

  “Don’t be silly. Fortunes are always useful, even to a man like you. But does this mean you are interested in my niece?”

  “I’m interested in being her friend.”

  “I do hope ‘friend’ is not a salacious euphemism you bucks are using these days to mean women you hope to entice into your bed.”

  Time for his marquess stare. “I am a gentleman, madam. And your niece is a lady.” When she wasn’t pretending to be a lad named Jack Jones. “And this is beginning to feel oddly like an inquisition.”

  “I merely want to determine why a man who has shown absolutely no interest in marrying heretofore has suddenly decided that my niece—”

  “Lord Knightford!” cried a voice from the door.

  Miss Trevor had apparently left her bed after all.

  As he rose with the cat in his arms, she rushed into the room. She looked utterly different from when he’d danced with her yesterday. Her gown was a soft yellow that made her eyes shine pure azure, and her hair was very messily done, as if she’d put it up herself—or hurried a maid along to do it.

  Someone must have told her he was here, for panic flickered in her eyes before she regained her composure. If he hadn’t caught that glimpse, he would never have known she was rattled. Aside from the messy hair, that is.

  He’d thrown her off her game, which gave him an odd pleasure. Because Miss Trevor at home was another creature entirely from the two versions that he’d met. Thrown out of kilter by his visit and clearly fresh from her bed, she was flushed and unguarded and the loveliest thing he’d seen in a long time.

  Not that it mattered. He wasn’t looking for a wife, and definitely not one who played a different character every time he saw her.

  Then her gaze dropped to his arm, and her pretty mouth hardened. “What are you doing to my cat?”

  Now that was the impudent Miss Trevor he’d met yesterday. He could practically see the walls going up around her. Which intrigued him even more, damn it.

  “Petting it. Why? Is that not allowed?”

  “It’s just that . . . well . . . Flossie hates everyone but me.”

  “Clearly not everyone,” he drawled.

  Lady Pensworth stepped in. “Delia, do come sit down. His lordship has done us the honor of paying us a visit, so the least you can do is be courteous.”

  She flashed him a tight smile. “Of course. Forgive me, my lord, I’m not used to seeing Flossie cozy up to anyone.”

  “Cats are unpredictable,” he said. “Much like their owners.”

  Casting him a wary glance, she took a seat on the chair across from him. “It’s either be unpredictable or be boring.”

  He sat down on the settee and let the cat leap off to go to her mistress. “We certainly wouldn’t want the latter. But then, I doubt there’s any chance of that.”

  Lady Pensworth leaned forward. “I believe there’s a lovely compliment buried in there, Delia.”

  “Buried quite deep, I’m sure,” she mumbled as Flossie jumped onto her lap. Delia cast a furtive glance at her aunt, as if to gauge what he might have said to the woman before her arrival. “What brings you to Bedford Square, sir?”

  “I’m paying you a call. That should be obvious.”

  “What’s not obvious is why.”

  “Funny, but your aunt was just asking me the same thing. And I told her—as I’ll tell you—I’m hoping we could be friends.”

  “Friends? I somehow suspect you have more than enough of those.”

  “But none as intriguing as you. Although I did make an acquaintance last night in the gaming hells—a fellow by the name of Jack Jones—”

  She rose abruptly. “My lord, perhaps you would like to take a turn about the garden across the street. It’s lovely at this time of year.”

  Suppressing a smirk, he stood. “What an excellent suggestion. Assuming it’s all right with your aunt, that is.”

  Lady Pensworth blinked at them both, clearly thrown off by the odd conversation. “I’m sure a turn about the garden would be fine, sir.”

  “Thank you. I promise I won’t keep your niece long.” He offered his arm to Miss Trevor. “Shall we?”

  Taking it, she practically dragged him from the room. How amusing that he could rattle her so easily. The chit was obviously suffering fr
om a guilty conscience.

  As soon as they were outside, she released his arm and stalked ahead to the garden. He followed at a leisurely pace. With five brothers, he’d learned early on how to draw out the suspense, make them nervously await his pronouncements. Miss Trevor might be a woman, but the same tactics applied.

  Which was evident when they entered the garden and she rounded on him. “Why are you here, my lord?”

  Time to put his cards on the table. “To ask you about Jack Jones, of course.”

  Though she blanched, she held his gaze. “I don’t know who that is.”

  “Don’t play games with me, Miss Trevor. I recognized you the moment I saw your pretty blue eyes at Dickson’s last night. And you had Owen with you, which helped. I gather that his name was the inspiration for Mr. Owenouse, your supposed Welsh farmer suitor.”

  She glared at him. “You’re quite mad, do you know that?”

  “Not as mad as you, to be risking certain ruin by dressing as a man and gambling in the hells.”

  Whirling on her heel, she marched off down the path through the garden. “I have no earthly idea what you mean.”

  He strode after her. “Don’t try to play me for a fool, Miss Trevor. You and I both know you’ve been masquerading as Jack Jones. My question is, why?”

  “What a fascinating tale you spin,” she said sweetly. “I can’t imagine how you would think that I’m some dirty gambler.”

  Ah, he had her now. He halted her with a hand on her arm. “I never said that Jack Jones was a gambler, much less a dirty one. I said I met him in the gaming hells.”

  She blinked, then said in a hollow voice, “Isn’t everyone in a gaming hell a gambler?”

  “Hardly. There are hangers-on, servants like your Owen, and those who come to take advantage of the free ale and wine. As you well know.”

  “I don’t understand why you persist in thinking—”

  “I wonder, if I ask your aunt about your ability to play cards, will she enlighten me? I’m sure she knows how good you are.”

  Miss Trevor turned on him with panic in her gaze. “You can’t speak of these ridiculous theories to my aunt.”