A burst of gray-green flame flashed deep in Tess's eyes; her chin rose in mute defiance.
But Jack did not notice, already turning to pace again. "Aye, I've too damned much on my mind to be worrying about you, lassie. Not while a madman haunts the marsh, brutalizing any female luckless enough to fall in his path. And leaving my own calling card behind him, damn his soul! By God, I'll garrote the bastard when I find him."
Tess's breath checked sharply. "What are you talking about?"
"You truly do not know then? Things have not been exactly quiet in your absence," he muttered grimly. "I could hardly believe it myself, when I first heard of it. Aye, I put it down to Hawkins and his old mischief." Frowning, he dragged a large hand through his hair. "The Fox is now a figure of terror. Already three women have died from his cruelty, each left with a single black rose beside her. Dear God, how many more until I catch the villain?"
"But you would never —"
"Of course I would not. But someone dares, and he dons my disguise to do it. Very careful, the scum is, too. He allows himself to be seen, but never too closely — just enough that there are witnesses to his crime. Even that fool Ransley dared to task me with the offenses today. He said my boldness made him respect me more than ever." A low curse exploded from the smuggler's lips. "Respect me? For murder — for the cruel violation of a woman?" he said harshly. "God knows, I never thought it would come to this. But it's made Hawkins look a fool for boasting far and near that he'd murdered me on the beach." Abruptly his features creased in shock. "Never tell me that was you, lass?"
Tess simply shrugged. "So it was. He very nearly succeeded in his boast that night."
With a startled exclamation, Jack strode to her chair and seized her in a harsh grip. "Are you mad, Tess Leighton?" he demanded, shaking her fiercely. "By God, I'll —"
"Don't, Jack." Tess closed her eyes, overwhelmed with the memories of all that had followed that ill-fated run. Remembering the fire and fury of the Frenchman who had saved her life, plucking her from the stormy Channel seas.
Suddenly hot tears spilled down her ivory cheeks.
"Ah, lassie, none of this. 'Tis a cruel brute I am, for sure. Hush, now — hush. Don't cry." He knelt beside her, his big fingers drawing her to his chest.
Shuddering, Tess gave herself up to the emotional storm that had been building ever since Marthe had awakened her long hours before.
"What did he do to you?" Jack growled, after her sobs abated slightly. Tess stiffened. "Who?"
"That bastard Ravenhurst, of course. I know what happened the night Lady Patricia came knocking at his door, purring like a cat with a bowl of cream she's just itching to taste. Aye, more than one person saw you darting down Mermaid Street the next morning."
Tess flinched before the raw fury in Jack's face. "It wasn't —" She swallowed. "He isn't —"
"Don't tell me I lack a proper set of eyes in my head, Tess Leighton. Now nor five years ago." He shot her a sharp, probing look. "Aye, if the man's so much as touched a hair on your head, I'll —"
Tess pulled away slightly, brushing away her chill tears. Ravenhurst had touched a great deal more than a hair on her head, Tess thought bitterly, and she had a fairly good idea of what Jack would do if he had any notion of that fact.
Lies. Disguises. Deception upon deception.
Suddenly she was tired of it all, mortally tired. "Ravenhurst means nothing to me, Jack."
"Lennox, then? I never had much liking for that bloody exquisite — too cool and careful by half. Just tell me what he's done to you and I'll —"
Tess sighed faintly. "Nothing, Jack. I swear it." She swept tired fingers across her eyes.
"Then who —"
"It doesn't matter. He's — he's gone. I shan't see him again, not for a long, long time. Perhaps ..." Her voice caught. "Perhaps not ever. So I beg you to stop this interrogation. From all you've said, you must have far more important things to consider than the status of my unruly heart."
Tess would tell him no more than this. Andre must remain her secret, the embers of his memory to be clutched to her heart, guarded protectively, so the cold disapproval of others could not drown its faint flame.
And there she could hide her own dark fear — that the bold Frenchman was in league with the very spy Ravenhurst had come to track down.
Wiping away a final tear, Tess sniffed and sat up straighter. "Tell me instead what can I do to help you."
Jack's look of concern fled, replaced by fierce exasperation. His silver eyebrows flew together in a scowl. "Naught, lass! Absolutely naught. And I want you far away from Fairleigh when I spring my traps, do you hear?" he blazed, his eyes hard and challenging. "The murderer might be any one of a score of men, each more desperate than the last. I've made a wheen of enemies in my life, just you remember that. Aye, men who would stop at little to see me brought down to grovel in the dirt. My own fault, perhaps — or the fault of fate." His fingers tightened on her slim shoulders. "But I'll be damned if I see you fall prey to their sordid schemes!"
Tess did not speak, frightened by the flat violence in his voice. It struck her again how many things she did not know about this man, for that had always been how Jack had wanted it. Shivering, she wondered about those enemies he had spoken of and just how dark his secrets were.
"You're not involved in gold shipments, are you, Jack?" She had to ask, for the question had been burning inside her ever since Ravenhurst had spoken of it to her. And of course there had been that terrible conversation she had overheard in Brittany.
The smuggler whirled about, his face hard. "What do you know of gold shipments from the Romney Marsh?"
"Nothing much. I — I only heard it hinted at."
His eyes narrowed. "You know a great deal more than that, lassie, but I can see 'twill do no good to ask you to tell me."
Tess studied him in chilly silence.
"And equally little good to task you with the rest of what happened during those days you were in France, I see. Aye, you've told me naught but half, lass — you've not a hope in Hell of hiding your feelings from me," he added gruffly.
The line of Tess's mouth grew even tighter.
Jack snorted. "Hobhouse and that motley crew up at the Angel have set it about that you were up at Oxford visiting your scapegrace brother. Which," he said flatly, his eyes keen on Tess's guarded face, "is only a little bit more daft than this story you've fed me."
Tess could only smile at her majordomo's loyalty. "On the contrary, I had a lovely visit. Ashley showed me all about the Botanic Gardens, Radcliffe Camera, and the Church of St. Peter-in-the-East."
Jack's eyes grew blacker, snapping furiously. "I've half a mind to turn you over my knee, lassie, so don't go pushing me."
Tess returned his angry look with cool defiance. "Don't push me either, Jack. I'm — tired." The word came out like a sigh. "So tired. Can I go up to sleep now?"
The smuggler's face immediately relaxed, his eyes softening with concern. "Never one to give an inch, were you? Nor do I wonder at it, considering the way that bastard of a father treated you."
Tess did not answer. The only sign that she had heard him came in the whitening of her fingers on the arm of the chair.
Smothering a curse, Jack waved his hand in resignation. "Very well, then. I've affairs of my own that need tending. But I'll be back tomorrow at sundown. Wait for me at the priory ruins. And then, Tess Leighton, I mean to have some answers, I warn you!" Still scowling, the smuggler turned and swept up his black tricorn and cloak.
For a long moment he studied her, his eyes unreadable, the whiskered mask dangling forgotten from his fingers.
"Tomorrow up at the priory. And try, if you please, to stay out of trouble until then, lassie." With that final gruff utterance, the Fox strode from the room.
Long after he had gone, Tess sat staring at the empty doorway. A vein pounding at her temple, she reached into the pocket of Marthe's woolen dress and pulled out the little wooden mermaid.
For a long time she studied the sculpture, her eyes bleak with pain. Then slowly she rose to her feet, lifted the guttering candle, and walked mechanically toward the stairs.
Chapter Thirty-Five
It was nearly midmorning by the time Lord Ravenhurst slid tiredly from his horse, a battered leather satchel wedged beneath his arm. The trip from Dover had been a nightmare. He had nearly been run down by a drunken coachman; then, to make matters worse, his horse had thrown a shoe.
His face was etched with exhaustion, and a thick stubble darkened the unyielding line of his jaw. His last hurried, near-dawn meeting with the Admiralty's agent in Dover had been brief and entirely fruitless, raising more questions for which he had no answers.
Ravenhurst shook his head, slanting a disgusted look at his mud-spattered boots and dusty greatcoat. Yes, the only bright spot in his day so far had been his anticipating the consternation on his valet's face when Peale saw the viscount's disreputable state.
As well as the shock on one other person's face, Ravenhurst reminded himself grimly.
His eyes were opaque as he hammered the knocker impatiently, knowing the delay was his own fault, since he had given his servant no expectation when he would return.
The door opened to reveal Peale's startled face. "My — my lord!"
The way they were spoken, the words might have been a blasphemy rather than a direct address, Ravenhurst thought grimly, moving inside. Without a word he shrugged off his greatcoat and tossed it down on the banister, then continued upstairs without any check in his stride.
"That is — you're back!"
Unseen by Peale, one jet brow climbed to a point. "Your eyesight remains reasonably acute, Peale, a fact which delights me, of course. Since it has been nothing short of a hellish morning, however, I beg you to restrain your effusions and bring me water and towels in my room instead."
"Of course, my lord." The valet's impassive mask was firmly back in place. "Immediately."
Quick, that man, Ravenhurst thought, deciding he would have to increase his valet's salary. Long, fluid strides brought the viscount swiftly up the stairs. At the threshold to his bedroom he halted, remembering it as he had seen it two weeks before, glass shards scattered across the floor, his sheets bloodied and knotted, hanging through the casement.
For a moment he did not move, his face an impenetrable mask. Not a trace of the wreckage remained, of course. Peale was far too efficient for that.
Only the shard-sharp memories haunted Ravenhurst still.
Slowly he crossed to the far wall, stopping before a massive pedestal desk of burnished mahogany with brass fittings. The viscount twisted a key in the ornate brass keyhole, opened a drawer, and lifted out a small object. His eyes were bleak as he studied the carved hairpin, which Tess had dropped in this room a fortnight ago in her frantic effort to escape him. He had glued it back together as carefully as he could. Why he had done so, he refused to consider.
Unconsciously his fingers tightened. He tensed, awash in painful memories, trying to forget the way her hair had floated in a wild auburn cloud on his pillow.
The way her skin had burned against his naked arousal, all softness and woman, lavender-scented.
The way her eyes had pleaded with him, dark and haunted, while she twisted in the grip of Lady Patricia's foul drug.
Desire knifed through him, sharp and insistent.
Forget her, a harsh voice warned. By now she has almost certainly forgotten you.
With a low, hoarse growl, Ravenhurst replaced the hairpin, then slammed the drawer shut.
Pain and more pain. Desire and deception. Why couldn't he let it go? Especially now, when he knew that the memories could bring him only torment.
Because he could not, even though it seemed it was their lot in life to cause each other nothing but pain.
He had just finished removing the last of the stubble from his cheeks when a light tap sounded at the door behind him.
"Come."
Peale's face was impassive as he held out a cream-colored envelope. "This just arrived, my lord."
Ravenhurst sniffed the air suspiciously. "What, no perfume? It is, how ever, a trifle early for billets doux, I suppose." His smile faded as he took the vellum missive, noting the spidery handwriting.
So the Old Man was back at his cloak-and-dagger tricks, Ravenhurst thought, frowning. Still, he supposed the stiff-rumped old martinet had his reasons.
"Thank you, Peale. That will be all."
The valet cleared away the basin and towels and left, closing the door softly behind him. As soon as he had gone, Ravenhurst strode to his bookshelf and took down an old, dog-eared volume of Shakespeare's sonnets. For a moment his long fingers riffled the pages until he found what he was searching for.
His lapis eyes narrowed. With a faint sigh, he carried the open volume to his desk and began the laborious process of converting the Admiralty's coded document.
It might have been worse, he supposed. His next mission might see him brushing up his Greek with a volume of Homer.
Twenty minutes later, the sheet before Ravenhurst was full of scribbled text. Once again the viscount read the message, his face hard.
So the push in the Peninsula was to be very soon then. If only there weren't so many questions, so many pieces of the puzzle that did not fit.
Ravenhurst's face hardened as he recalled the strange, slanting mark on the right cheek of the dead woman he had examined earlier that day in Applegate. Bile filled his mouth at the memory of those pale limbs, the dark bruises mottling her naked flesh.
All the time he had found himself thinking it might have been Tess lying there, her lifeless body crisscrossed by bloody welts.
With a smothered curse Ravenhurst tossed down the coded document and jerked to his feet. His plans were made, his traps laid, and yet ...
Something was wrong — bloody everlasting wrong. Somewhere deep in his mind he felt the old familiar tingling, a feeling he had learned never to ignore. But he could not stop now, not when everything was riding on his success at trapping the elusive Fox.
When the viscount looked out the window toward the distant hills a moment later, his eyes were hard, the color of sleepless nights and broken promises.
* * * * *
Tess was almost at the Angel's front steps when the hastily scrawled notice nailed to an adjoining fence caught her eye. She moved closer for a better look, her face darkening as she read its contents.
TO THE INHABITENTS OF RYE ROYAL
AND PLACES AJACINT
"Wanted by his Majesty's Customs and Revenue Service,
for crimes against the Crown, including,
but not limited to, the smuggling of conterband,
the asalt of Crown offacers, and the brutil murder of
three innocent females,
The villin known as THE ROMNEY FOX.
Reward for information leading to the villin's capture:
ONE THOUSAND POUNDS.
Reward for information about the identity and wherabouts
of the Fox's accomplisses and comrads:
FIVE HUNDRED POUNDS."
Tess's heart slammed against her ribs as she read the ill-spelled notice, recognizing it as Amos Hawkins's work.
With angry, trembling fingers, she ripped down the sheet and crumpled it into a tight ball, then marched up the Angel's steps, two bright flags of color in her cheeks.
How dare Hawkins post such a sign on the very steps of her inn?
Her head held high, Tess strode through the oak double doors and past the intimate little breakfast room whose bay windows overlooked Mermaid Street; all she could see before her was that scrawled notice.
If it was war that Amos Hawkins wanted, Tess swore silently, then it was war the brute would get!
Three pairs of eyes flashed up in surprise as the auburn-haired beauty marched furiously up the Angel's polished steps.
So the little bitch has returned after all, Lady Patricia Lennox thought, swirling the last a
mber residue in her bone china teacup. Seeing the Duchess of Cranford smiling at her across the room, she answered with a polite greeting of her own, but the warmth did not penetrate to her sharp emerald eyes.
Yes, I know exactly what you 're after, Tess Leighton, for all you try to pretend you are indifferent. But you won't have him, do you hear? He's mine. He's always been mine. I shall teach you that very soon — and delight in watching your face when he betrays you.
Again.
With a cold, secretive little smile, the blond beauty rose to her feet in a swirl of topaz skirts, dropped her napkin on the table, and moved gracefully toward the door.
* * * * *
Across the room, the Duchess of Cranford studied Lady Patricia's retreating back. The woman was really quite lovely, of course; it was easy to understand why Ravenhurst had been attracted to her.
He had always had a taste for beautiful things, even as a little boy, and in recent years he had earned a singular reputation as a connoisseur of female beauty.
The duchess's eyes darkened. Even she had heard the stories circulating about his opera dancer. After that, there had been a voluptuous pair of twins, whom he had plucked from the slums of Shoreditch. Yes, there were always "friends" only too eager to carry the duchess all the latest sordid gossip about the man known in beau monde and tenements alike as the Devil of Trafalgar.
The duchess's frail fingers tightened on her teacup for a moment, pain seeping through her. If only his mother had lived. If only she could turn back the clock and do things differently ...
He had lost so much in this wretched war, after all — parents, brother, and fiancee. It was no wonder he had become so hard. If he ever learned that ...
The slim fingers trembled, and the duchess's cup lurched.
But there was no going back. She knew that better than anyone.
Which left only Lady Patricia Lennox, and she, the duchess decided, would make a very ill sort of wife for Lord Ravenhurst. Shallow, vain, and petty, the woman had a lush sort of beauty that went no deeper than her silken skin.
A man of keen intelligence, wit, and good breeding, the viscount required far more in a wife, the duchess decided. But was he, in fact, seeking a wife? Perhaps her sources had been wrong, and he was merely pursuing more transitory pleasures.
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