Wicked Little Game

by Christine Wells

  “Oh, but you will say yes,” said Faulkner. “You will say, Lady Louisa, enough to encourage his hopes.”

  Louisa blinked at Faulkner’s presumption. “And why should I do any such thing?”

  Faulkner didn’t answer straightaway. He leaned back on the wrought iron rail that guarded the small terrace, bracing his hands on either side of him. Intrigued, despite herself, Louisa waited, holding herself very still. Anticipation and something close to excitement hummed in her veins.

  Was he about to draw her further into the dangerous, precarious world Jardine had inhabited for so long?

  Why did the idea entice her?

  “What do you know about Radleigh?” said Faulkner. With the moon behind him, his face lay in shadow, but she knew she’d read no expression there even if she could see his features. He was a singularly unemotional man.

  Louisa searched her memory. “I don’t know much about him at all,” she said, surprised to find she spoke the truth, even after the many conversations she’d had with Radleigh. “He told me his people come from the north but he has settled in Gloucestershire. He has a sister, Emma, who has lived abroad until recently. I am to meet her at this party.”

  Faulkner smiled, a gleam of teeth in the darkness, and she could have kicked herself for speaking as if her attendance was a fait accompli.

  “Radleigh is a very wealthy man. Do you know how his fortune was derived?” said Faulkner.

  Her eyes widened a little. “Of course not.” She paused. “Well, I suppose I assumed he inherited it. He told me his parents are dead.” Her brows drew together. “Are you saying he came by his fortune dishonestly?”

  Faulkner shrugged. “If I could prove anything, Radleigh wouldn’t be at liberty today. But make no mistake, Lady Louisa. He’s dangerous.”

  “And you wish me to encourage him? Won’t that put me in danger, too?”

  “There is a lot riding on your success. More than your safety. More than you could possibly dream.”

  Her breathing came a little faster. “And if I say no?”

  Faulkner grunted a soft laugh. “Are you expecting me to threaten you with dire consequences? I won’t do that. I will always find another way. Besides, I expect that after due consideration you will say yes.” He eyed her silently for a few moments. “But if it matters to you, there are issues of national security and many lives—the lives of agents like your brother—at stake.”

  He pushed away from the railing and walked past her. “Think about it. If you want the assignment, send me word.”

  Reaching into his coat, he extracted a card case and flipped it open. “Here is my direction.” He held the neat rectangle of cream stock between his gloved fingertips. Automatically, she took it.

  He moved to the window, and paused as he opened the door and swept the curtain aside. “Don’t delay too long. There is much to arrange.”

  The brief blaze of the ballroom snuffed as the curtain swung back into place. Louisa blinked dazzled eyes and tried to calm her racing pulse. She ought to throw the card away. She dropped it into her reticule instead.

  Breathless, she counted slowly to fifty before she slipped back into the ballroom.

  LOUISA stared dry-eyed out the window of her bedchamber while all her hopes shattered around her like the breaking dawn.

  He hadn’t come.

  No word, not a letter nor a token, not even a halfpenny bunch of daisies sent with a grubby messenger boy. Nothing. On her birthday, the one day of the year she’d learned to depend on Jardine, he’d failed her.

  When last they’d met, she’d screamed at him, told him he was a murderer, that she never wanted to see him again.

  And he’d reminded her that nothing either of them could do or say would change one thing—they were destined to be together.

  For years, she’d believed that, carried the hope of him like a small, flickering candle in the shelter of her hand. She’d stayed up all night—in masquerade costume, no less—waiting for him. Despite what had passed between them those months ago, she’d been certain he would come. She hadn’t given up, not even after the last stroke of midnight marked the end of her birthday.

  Only the lightening sky of a new day finally convinced her. As dawn touched the square below, dancing off the windows of the houses opposite, her foolish hope fizzled and died.

  It wasn’t even that he hadn’t come—perhaps he’d had good reason to stay away. But the pathetic creature she’d made of herself, sitting up all night waiting for him, longing for some sign he remembered her existence, proved it beyond doubt.

  She was nine and twenty, and she needed to get on with her life.

  She wanted a husband, not this dream figure of a man who stormed in and out of her mundane, peaceful world, leaving a trail of destruction and yearning behind him. She wanted a home and children of her own.

  Yet, she’d hoped for all these things from Jardine. She’d set such store by his limited constancy. He’d never missed her birthday, not once in seven years.

  But this time . . . Why hadn’t he come? Cold fear stormed over her like a blizzard. Her hand flew to her throat. What if he . . .

  If he were dead, she would know it. She would feel it. She would.

  Louisa shot across the room to the clothespress and rummaged until she found the plain black domino and loo mask her maid had put away. She swirled the domino around her shoulders and tied the string, pulled the hood over her distinctive pale hair.

  Quickly, quietly, she eased out her bedchamber door and crept along the dark hall, past the half-moon table with its ornate ormolu clock. No squeaks or creaks betrayed her as she hurried down the stairs, the tread of her soft slippers on the carpet runner the barest whisper in the grey light.

  The skivvies would already be up, sweeping hearths and laying out fires. She needed to be quick. A bribe in hand, she approached the door, but she didn’t need to part with her money this time. The hall boy slept curled up in the deep armchair by the heavy front door.

  She let herself out, winced at the slight creak of the hinge. She whipped a glance at the hall boy, but he didn’t rouse save for a childish, snuffling snore. Closing the door behind her, Louisa secured her mask, then hurried toward Russell Street.

  Her heart beat a frantic tattoo in her chest, and the wet soaked through her thin slippers to chill her feet. Her breath came in sobs. She must know if he was alive and well. She’d forgive him anything, everything, if only he still lived.

  Louisa blinked hard, barely seeing where she went through the blur in her eyes. She had the impression of passing traffic even at this early hour, the odd cart rumbling along with deliveries or a maid on her way to market. But Jardine’s house was only around the corner. Surely, luck would favor her if she was quick.

  Too distraught to think of a stealthy approach, Louisa rapped a sharp summons on the door with the brass knocker. Despite the early hour, the door opened instantly. Jardine’s butler, Emerson, looked down at her without apparent surprise. As if masked incognitas visited his master at cock-crow every other day of the week.

  Perhaps they did.

  She forced down a spurt of unreasonable jealousy and demanded the man’s master.

  Emerson bowed and conducted her to a sitting room, a darkly opulent parlor filled with crimson velvet and mahogany, a rich Aubusson carpet smothering the floor. “I shall inquire.”

  Louisa sagged, light-headed with relief. Surely, Emerson would have told her if Jardine was dead, or ill, or injured? She drew a deep, shuddery breath. Even contemplated slipping away, now that she’d received the information she sought.

  But leaving when she was so close to him would be like changing the course of the planets around the sun. Impossible.

  She perched on a plushly decadent couch, then she stood and paced as she waited. Why was she always waiting for him?

  After a long interval, the click of boots on wood made her head jerk up.

  Jardine slouched in the doorway, looking every inch the dissolute
aristocrat.

  Hair black as night sprang back from the suspicion of a widow’s peak at his brow. He wore it longer than when she’d seen him last, and it was tied carelessly in a short queue. His skin was dead white, his eyes like gleaming jet under those devilishly drawn brows. He had thick, long lashes, high, slashing cheekbones, and lips that turned down sulkily at the corners when he wasn’t curling them into a sneer.

  Such unearthly, satanic beauty. Simply looking at him made Louisa’s heart stumble and kick and race.

  In truth, he belonged to another age, when men dressed in satins and silks, fought duels, and damned everyone’s eyes. He had all the sleek, lethal elegance of a jungle cat, the stinging sharpness of a rapier’s blade.

  It never ceased to awe and frighten her that she, plain Louisa Brooke, had somehow caught his interest.

  The visceral thrill of seeing him again held her silent, breathless.

  And then he opened his mouth.

  “WHAT the Devil are you doing here?” Jardine leaned against the doorjamb, felt himself slip a bit, and jerked upright. The woman before him ripped off her mask, but he didn’t need to see her face to know who it was.

  That mouth. He’d know that mouth anywhere.

  “Dammit, Louisa. Get out.” His speech slurred only slightly. Though he tried to enunciate the words, his tongue remained damnably heavy and slow. He hoped to God the foul concoction Emerson had given him would work its magic soon so he could think.

  The startlingly blue eyes blazed. “You are drunk! I don’t believe it.”

  “Drunk,” he muttered. He’d give a lot to exchange the agony of last night for an evening carousing with the brandy bottle. But it was a good explanation for the state she found him in—worse for wear, muzzy with the opiate they’d given him to numb the pain, trembling like a jelly.

  Drunk? Yes, it would serve.

  He forced his head to nod in agreement. “Three sheets to the wind, m’dear.” Damned if the look on her face wouldn’t terrify a man into sobriety, if drunkenness had been what ailed him. Curling his lips into a faint, mocking smile, he watched her beneath half-lowered lids. “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

  “You . . .” The tip of her tongue touched her upper lip, before her teeth clamped on it. She threw her shoulders back. “You forgot my birthday.”

  “Ah.” He held up a hand that felt like it weighed a ton. “Now that’s where you’re wrong. I did remember. Just before I dropped off to sleep, I knew there was something. . . .”

  She gasped, every muscle in her body stiffening in outrage.

  To an outsider, her reaction might seem out of proportion to the event. But it wasn’t about the birthday. This wasn’t the kind of feminine tantrum that one soothed with easy words and hot kisses. He knew that.

  He knew her.

  And he knew he risked losing her. Risked everything he had on this one last throw of the dice.

  A searing tide of remorse and impotent fury surged through his aching body, enlivening torn muscles, clearing the fog in his brain. His gaze focused on Louisa’s untouched features, her skin, pale and flawless as cream, and his hands curled into fists.

  If wounding Louisa made her keep her distance, it was worth it. Even though that flare of pain in her eyes seared him like a brand.

  “Jardine! Are you listening to what I’m saying to you?”

  There was a catch in the stoical Louisa’s voice that struck him to the soul. No, he hadn’t been listening, but he guessed what she’d said.

  The need to hold her was an ache in his gut, but instead of taking her in his arms, he gave her his best attempt at an insufferable shrug. He must enrage her, make her leave him without a backward glance, but he mustn’t overdo it. She was smart as a whip, and she knew him too well. This would have to be the performance of a lifetime.

  He flicked his hand carelessly. “Yes, yes, it was your birthday. I forgot. I apologize. Females set such store by things like that, don’t they?”

  The murderous look that fell over her features told him his offhanded apology had the desired effect. Her eyes shot lightning bolts, her cheeks flushed, the lines of her body tightened until they trembled. “They do, do they? You utter blackguard, Jardine!”

  She launched into an impassioned diatribe, but the effect her fury had on him was the opposite of chastening. Despite his manifold aches, his body roused at the sight of her, standing there tearing strips off him like some avenging Norse goddess.

  She wasn’t a beauty, his Louisa. She was tall and lean and strong with small, firm breasts that fit snugly into a man’s hands. Her jaw was a little too decided, her nose boldly defined, her straight, black brows an odd contrast with the cold, flaxen tone of her hair.

  But one look into those fierce warrior-woman eyes and he’d been bowled over, knocked for six. As he hadn’t recovered in the many years since, it didn’t look like he ever would.

  And that mouth. A ripple of lust eddied through him as he thought of Louisa’s mouth.

  In her lips, she was all woman—contours and soft, ripe sweetness. And she was talking in that low, husky tone again, saying a lot of things about the future, about commitment, about fairy tales and impossible dreams, and all he wanted to do was take her to bed, drink from those lips while he made love to her slowly, sink into the blaze of her, burn to ashes in her arms.

  He’d missed the chance for such lengthy exploration last night. And now . . . well, now she would hate him for what he was going to do to her. What he must do.

  At last, he cut through her emotional speech.

  “Louisa, why are you here? We had an agreement.”

  “Why do you think I wore this stupid mask?” she flashed. “I thought something had happened to you. I thought you were injured, or . . . or dead.” Her voice scraped on the last word. He struggled to ignore it.

  “Well, I’m not.”

  At the flippant rejoinder, she visibly ground her teeth. “More’s the pity,” she muttered.

  He knew she didn’t mean it, but something in his chest gave a painful twist.

  “What would you do if you were free of me? Marry one of those vultures you have buzzing around you?” It hadn’t escaped him that since her brother had settled a large dowry on the girl, Louisa had become quite the matrimonial prize.

  Quietly, she said, “I am nine and twenty, Jardine.”

  “Really?” he drawled, “I’d forgotten.” He strolled toward her, tamping down the panic, choking off the urge to tell her the truth.

  He knew to a minute how old she was. He thought of the night he’d planned for her birthday, the heady anticipation that had probably made him a trifle less careful than usual, an easy target for the abduction and mild form of torture that followed.

  The real torture was knowing she waited for him last night, yet he couldn’t go to her.

  He reached out and took her chin in his hand, tilting her head so the weak, morning sunlight illuminated her remarkable features. Her face was all planes and angles—except for that most sensual pair of lips. So tempting to take that mouth, to lose himself in her, forget what he’d sworn to do.

  “You have been a lovely . . . diversion, Louisa.” Disregarding her cry of fury, he went on. “You were never anything more to me, you know. And now, I find that I’ve tired of our little game of cat and mouse.”

  Softly, he said, “The time has come for us to part.”