Tempted By Fire

by Thea Devine

  He didn't know quite what Dunstan's game was, but sooner or later, a clue would emerge. Dunstan was a little too lighthearted, a little too interested. A little too obviously making full use of Lucretia as a smokescreen for whatever his real intentions were.

  Poor Lucretia, who had loved him so soulfully and so long. Poor Lucretia who had taken him under her wing and tried to nurture him the way his mother might have done had he allowed it, and had she lived longer. Lucretia would find no satisfaction in either of the Carradine men but she refused to believe that—yet.

  He and Dunstan left together that evening, and Dunstan clapped him on the back as they stood waiting for their carriages to be brought around

  "I never thought to see you fall, Nick, but I tell you, the only thing to do is take my advice: use her and lose her, or you'll be leg-shackled before you know it."

  Or maybe you will be, Nicholas thought, glowering. Or maybe she'll enslave us all and then run away with the first coxcomb who asks her.

  "And don't keep seeing plots where there are none," Dunstan added, in parting. "You can only fob off one nabob's heiress on society in a year, do you take my meaning?"

  Nicholas waved him off and entered his carriage. On a whim, he glanced up at the second story of Lucretia's house where one window and only one was lighted up. The curtain moved and a woman's figure appeared, silhouetted against the back light; and the curtain dropped with heavy finality the moment Dunstan's carriage drove out of view.

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  * * *

  She spent the ensuing two days staring out the window, almost as if she thought she could prevent Dunstan from doing anything as long as she could see him.

  But of course he would never make so conspicious a move. He would be subtle: he would unleash a cat, for instance.

  There was no untoward movement outside the house for those two days, no suspicious loiterers. She felt as if she had invented a fantasy, and that if it were revealed to anyone, she would be condemned out of hand.

  The bump on her head receded, leaving a faint bluish mark. She ate on a tray in her room, she drank quarts of tea and barley water, she spent hours drowsing in bed, trying to evade the truth of what had happened.

  No one called, and no one came to see her, and she could have dropped out of sight forever, she thought morbidly, for all anyone cared.

  Lady Waynflete gratefully left her alone and went off to one of dozens of myriad entertainments in the offing each night.

  The streets were filled during the day with carriages and riders and gaily dressed people walking, walking somewhere, and she was bound for nowhere.

  "Monsieur has been tactful these nights," Marie said to her that evening as she brought in the night's dinner on a tray.

  "Monsieur has much to entertain him besides me," Jainee said trenchantly. But she felt lonely and isolated, suddenly, and at the mercy of a man who moved silently in the shadows.

  She did not know what to do.

  She could not pretend to be affected by her accident for the rest of the Season.

  Nonsense. She turned away from the window on the third

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  morning castigating herself for her cowardice. But she didn't even know what her choices were any more.

  Lady Waynflete bustled in. "Well, you look fit as a fiddle this morning, Jainee. I will tell you these last three mornings have been an absolute trial, with all your men callers leaving cards and demanding, to know where you had been the night before. I won't answer for my patience if this keeps up. Do you feel well enough to go out and about today?"

  She felt a profuse feeling of joy. "I believe so, my lady."

  "Very well; the reason being that Dunstan has engaged a supper box at Vauxhall tonight and has invited us and Nicholas to join him for dinner, fireworks and who knows what all. I will tell you that his interest in your welfare puzzles me greatly, and I trust you are discreet enough not to encourage him in the least. Do I make myself clear?"

  "You have always made yourself uncompromisingly clear, my lady. I have no interest in that quarter."

  "I expect that will have to do," Lady Waynflete said grudgingly. "But none of your tricks, my girl: a plain dress tonight, if you please, something to withstand the cool night air. A cashmere shawl will do for a wrap. Perhaps a reasonable neckline will ensure some warmth?"

  Jainee ignored her testy comments. It was enough to speculate on why her father was doing the conspicuous thing. Did he mean to shove himself in her face and fairly dare her to unmask him? Or was this sociable veneer a cover for the subtle warning he would continually issue for as long as she remained compliant—and silent?

  She could not tell from anything in his manner when she and Lady Waynflete were escorted by him into the Gardens. He was ever the gracious host, familiar with the layout of the Gardens and certain of the box that had been engaged for him. It was a matter of a promenade on the Grand Cross Walk, a side tour to the two other prominent walks which featured displays which he was sure Miss Bowman

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  would enjoy and Lady Waynflete would like to see once more.

  From there, it was a matter of nodding to acquaintances and to be seen as well as to see who was there of an evening before Dunstan led them to their supper box where Nicholas already awaited them.

  Dunstan had already ordered the dinner, and while they awaited its arrival, they listened to the orchestra playing in the grove and spoke of mundane matters from Jainee's health to Southam's recent losses at White's, to Lady Waynflete's gossip about the dinner she had attended the previous evening.

  This discourse was interrupted frequently by acquaintances stopping by and finally by the service of the food; Dunstan had not stinted in spite of the high prices and thin helpings of the meat, fowl and accompaniments. The presentation was lavish and included hams, chickens, fruits, biscuits, tarts, wine and, later, dessert.

  "Now, at nine promptly, the orchestra will take a brief respite," Dunstan said, "and at that time, with your permission, I will escort Miss Bowman to view the wonder of the Cascade—which I am certain both Lucretia and Nicholas have seen enough times to last a lifetime. Now, do try the chicken; it is quite tender."

  And he ignored Lady Wavnflete's pained expression as she outlined his plan, Jainee thought. He did not care about her or how he hurt her feelings. If she had had a choice to refuse him, she would have, but soon enough the music stopped, and Dunstan indicated to her that they must depart.

  Outside the box, he took her arm roughly and led her quickly away.

  "You have been admirably reticent," he said as they joined a crowd of patrons gathered around a scene of a quiescent waterfall and some kind of mill.

  "Where is the boy?" Jainee asked softly, hoping to shock

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  him, and to catch him off-guard. But it was a mistake. His expression changed into something dangerous, lethal.

  "I'm sorry you remember about the boy," he said finally, and the tone of his voice did not change. "Look ahead, my dear. The waterfall begins and will turn the waterwheel below. It is quite the attraction here, but perhaps it will seem mundane to you."

  "I remember everything," Jainee said fiercely.

  "That is too too bad, my dear."

  "My mother is dead."

  "It grieves me."

  "And now you try to kill me."

  "You cannot prove that."

  "You engineered that almost disastrous fall — "

  "Nonsense. I was nowhere near Lucretia's house."

  "Where is the boy?"

  He gave a harsh laugh. "Safe, my dear. And that is all you need to know. Ah, the spectacle is over. I hope you enjoyed it. I hope you take to heart just how tenuous your position is. I truly cannot bring myself to threaten my own daughter with out-and-out violence, but please believe me, I will stoop to it if you cross me. If one word about our mutual past is bruited about, you will join your mother in whatever hell she occupies."

  He took her arm again, tightly, ruthlessly.
"Enjoy your Season, my dear. Put Nicholas through hoops: you would be the first woman in many a year to attract him so intensely. Take all you can get, and then get out. I trust you will take me at my word. You will be sorry if you don't."

  They came in sight of the supper box nearby the Grove.

  "This is the last warning you will get from me, Jainee. The next step is action. Ah, Lucretia, my dear, the Cascade remains the same frothing stage show it always is. You missed nothing, but your protegιe was suitably impressed, weren't you, Miss Bowman? Oh yes, I see by your eyes, you were very impressed by the presentation."

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  * * *

  The man was a chameleon, changing his appearance to accommodate whatever his surroundings demanded in coloration.

  He would ever be Lucretia's hero, Jainee saw it plainly in her eyes, and he had become his nephew's nemesis, purely by his untoward interest in her.

  And he was implacably her enemy, with no familial affinity whatsoever.

  She could not steep for thinking of all the things he had said and everything he had not said.

  The boy lived—safe, he had said . . .

  She felt tears creep out from under her eyelashes.

  Join your mother— in hell. . .

  Poor Therese, to have adored a man like that.

  Poor Lady Waynflete, to be so fruitlessly in love.

  And Southam, so silent and brooding, saying nothing, seeing everything, imagining the worst while Dunstan considered him negligible.

  They had escorted her and Lady Waynflete home and had left to spend the remainder of the evening in deep play at Lady Badlington's gaming house.

  Jainee's fingers itched to take hold of a card. She felt furious that she did not have the freedom of a man to go where she wished and do whatever she pleased.

  The truth was, she was too jaded to partake of the innocent delights of a Season, and her background and status in Lady Waynflete's home precluded her receiving invitations to certain other events to which most marriageable young women looked forward.

  But she was walking a fine line in some ill-defined middle ground, squeezed on both sides by the pressures from her past.

  What she really wanted to do was call a carriage and drive to Lady Badlington's, wager her silver, and show them

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  her mettle.

  She walked to the window and looked out into the night longingly. Somewhere, there were still people at dinner, at parties, playing cards, playing with living.

  And somewhere out there, someone lurked in the shadows, hiding behind bushes, skulking in the night.

  She didn't know if she imagined it: she thought she had, but in the dim light of the street light, she thought she saw a movement, she thought she saw a man with his head turned toward her window and Lady Waynflete's house.

  ******************

  Her father was watching her; her terror ran deep. His threats were not idle. Once again, she could not sleep.

  In the morning, Marie brought her a note which she unfolded hesitantly. "Monsieur will call today, formally, downstairs." She looked up at Marie. "I must be sure to dress appropriately."

  "Bien, mademoiselle. We will make Monsieur take notice."

  "Monsieur notices too much already," Jainee said repressively. "Something with long sleeves, I think, and one of those infernal waistcoat bodices. I do not feel like attracting Monsieur this morning."

  Nor did he feel like playing games with her. Lady Waynflete had had him shown to the parlor, was mindful not to serve chocolate, and left him alone to await Jainee.

  She arrived ten minutes later and shut the door briskly behind her. It was obvious from his expression that Southam was in no mood to bandy words.

  "What do you want?" she asked directly, seating herself without a preamble and without the usual protocol from him.

  "As usual, your plain speaking is disarming," he said, positioning himself opposite her. "I want to know how your search is progressing, Diana. And I want to know why my uncle has such an unholy interest in your welfare."

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  "I have nothing to report on either account."

  "My dear Diana, Lucretia and I have taken you and thrust you into the highest circles, just as you enjoined us to, so that you could circulate and meet every possible prime candidate who could be your father. And you are telling me, there is not a one, not a familiar voice or face or mannerism of any person in the whole of London who reminds you of the man we seek?"

  Oh, she would be lost now if she so much as moved a muscle. Dunstan's malignant expression flashed through her mind. Not a one, not a single solitary person......she could not fit the words to the tune, / can't bring myself to threaten my daughter with violence . . .

  Yet. But he would, he would—she had seen it in his eyes and the feral expression of a man who would do anything to protect himself. He would.

  And yet she had to give Southam an answer: he had paid for an answer, and in the end, perhaps, that was all that mattered: the answer—the right answer.

  She lifted her head, her mind racing furiously. What was the answer to the man who was fast losing patience with her, and with himself?

  "Not yet," she said finally, unequivocally. What was another lie heaped on the rest?

  He began to pace around her, slowly, thoughtfully; there was no hint of temper in his attitude, only a kind of weariness, as if this were a game he was growing tired of playing.

  "Perhaps the man does not exist," he said, his voice devoid of expression.

  "The man exists," she said flatly, without missing a beat; and even he was nonplussed by the conviction in her voice.

  "He may not be in London."

  "He is not in France," she countered in that same flat tone. "But then, he may not wish to be found, my lord, and you may not wish to pay the price to buy the time it may take to uncover his whereabouts."

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  "Time is easy to buy, Diana. But what is the cost of credibility?"

  "It has been but two months, my lord."

  "Only two? It seems like years you have been having a grand time spending my money and acquiring a smarmu collection of coxcombs and court-cards, and with nothing to show for it but Lucretia's growing exasperation with your brassy mouth and your public displays."

  Yes, Lucretia Waynflete had gotten to him, she could see that, and she had to wonder in that fleeting moment whether Dunstan had made any connection between them. Did it matter? How could things be worse?

  She turned away from him abruptly and walked to the window that fronted the street and looked out. It was a fine sheltered life. Lady Waynflete lived in this beautiful home-she nursed her hurt feelings like an animal tended to its child, coddling them, protecting them, sustaining them to give her some hope of the future.

  But she had no dreams to sustain her now: she had fulfilled her promise, she had kept her bargain, and when she would leave, she would have no life to return to, no hope to give her sustenance. She wondered if Southam had even thought of that. She was astonished that she, the ever practical planner, had not.

  "And of course," she said dreamily after a moment or two, "there is always Lady Desire."

  She heard a faint movement: her back was to him, and then he said impassively, "Oh, so you heard about that? You're damned lucky Lucretia hasn't."

  "And if she does?"

  "The games are over," he said brutally. "So I suggest you hone your senses for this last debut event before the Season gets underway, because after that, dear Diana, your name will be known, your reputation will be ruined and Lucretia will assuredly demand your removal from this house before the taint of your disgrace touches her."

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  Each word hit her with the subtle nick of a rapier. "I see," she said heavily, turning her face away from him. She wasn't going to cry, not her, but still, she had not thought there would be such an ignominious end to this adventure, really she hadn't. "I must produce results or my lord will cut his losses."

 
He came up behind her, stealthily, edgily. "A goddess can only turn a man into a fool for so long, Diana. And then one day he understands that it has all been a big cosmic joke for her entertainment only. I am not a fool, but you— you are a siren: you fascinate, you lure men to do your bidding, and then you abandon them, laughing at their puny efforts to please you. Yes, you must produce results, Diana. And this time, you must please me."

  And what she had done, she realized, as her too-bright gaze skimmed the busy street in order that she did not have to look at him, was avoid planning for the outcome of this monstrous brainstorm of hers. She had never thought past the objective of getting to London. And she had never ever considered what might happen if she did not find her father.

  What she had loved was outwitting Southam, but there was no reasonable way out this time.

  Well, yes, my Lord, indeed I have found my father; he is your uncle. Why did you wish to know?. . .

  Why did he wish to know?

  Attack, attack, attack . . . She whirled to face him and was startled to find he was close beside her, watching her profile, inhaling her scent.

  "Why do you want to find this man?" she asked bluntly — touchι, Monsieur. . .

  His black gaze seemed fathomless; he would never reveal anything to her, but she would not back down. Her eyes snapped with anger as he did not answer.

  "My lord?"

  "Let us say," he said finally, "that I have reason to believe

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  that a man I am seeking and your father might be one and the same."

  "And why are you on his trail, and how could they be the same person? How?" she demanded. It made no sense, none. Southam was a well-to-do aristocrat who had bowed to the great god of the cards: he did not work, he did not seek, except at night, roaming the city for a game and a tumble.

  "That," he said roughly, "is none of your business. The man is a traitor, and with you or without you I will find him, and that is all you need to know. So—en garde, goddess. The day of your reckoning approaches, the day when all the idols with feet of clay shall be toppled from Olympus and become mortal once again."