Flame of Fury

by Sharon Green

  Bryan helped his wife into the carriage, then climbed in after her. It had been a silent meal they'd taken together, and that silence was now continuing. He'd expected anger from her, but it wasn't anger he felt behind that heavy withdrawal. It was more like a deliberate pulling away, a determined reserve meant to be an unbreachable wall. He had no need to ask who the wall had been built against.

  He sighed as the carriage began to move, taking them to Alicia de Verre's party. The girl had fallen asleep in her rooms, something he'd discovered when Harris came to tell him she hadn't rung for the bath she'd wanted. He'd entered quietly to find her asleep in a chair, and although he couldn't understand how anyone could sleep in clothes and corsets and hoops and things, he ordered her left alone. If she got a good rest, things might go better between them.

  But things didn't seem destined to go better, only more quietly. She'd been awakened in time to bathe before dinner, and then they'd both had to dress. He was conservatively resplendent in royal-blue brocade, white ruffles and hose, and silver buckles and buttons. She, however, was breathtaking in a turquoise-green sacque that fell from her shoulders like a windswept cloak. In front the thing showed off her breasts to an incredible degree, and the diamonds at her half-belt were echoed at throat and ears. Whoever her dressmakers in the country had been, they'd been well in touch with London style.

  But she herself was out of touch, with the world and certainly with him. He was sure he'd really put his foot in it by being rough the night before, and then failing to apologize properly. Her habit of not showing fear made him believe she felt none, and that had goaded him on to excess. It was true he was beginning to want to tear her clothes off all the time, but he'd damned well better be sure never to do it again.

  In his limping campaign to court her, he hadn't gotten much beyond paying her compliments and attentions. Since he didn't know what else serious courting involved that wasn't surprising, and having her in his bed wasn't helping as much as he'd hoped it would. That was due to his lack of control, and he was growing truly disgusted with himself. Because of that lack of control, he seemed to be losing whatever tiny amount of ground he'd gained; if he lost any more, she would be gone even before they found their quarry.

  Jack had been prompt about getting an invitation to him, knowing that Alicia's parties were so infamous no one got in without one. She had a place not far from Ranelagh Pleasure Gardens, where all those masquerades were held. Alicia was so wild about the appearance of the Gardens - even though she'd never ever be found at a masquerade - that she'd had her own gardens designed to match them. If it had been possible, she would even have had a rotunda. Bryan had been to Ranelagh twice, and each time had enjoyed himself thoroughly. There was something about a woman masked and costumed … sometimes almost uncostumed…

  "How are we going to approach this Reginald Tremar?" the girl asked suddenly, surprising him. "I mean, we can't just walk up to him and ask whose creature he is. I've been thinking about this, and I'll be very surprised if he turns out to be our quarry."

  "Why do you say that?" he asked. If she thought there would be no one at the party for her to identify, why had she bothered to come? "Don't you think our luck could run that good and his that bad?"

  "It isn't a matter of luck," she replied with a headshake, her gaze on the darkened streets they rode through. "Don't you remember what Mr. Michaels told us Tremar's clerk said? Tremar had been trying to get an invitation to this thing forever, and now that he had one he was ecstatic. That's not a description of the man we want."

  "You're absolutely right," Bryan agreed slowly, looking at it from that new angle. "Our man would have no interest in silly parties with silly people. If he tried for something, it would more likely be a knighthood."

  Bryan considered that, trying to imagine what their quarry would really be after. At least one of his pawns, Harding, had had the sort of social position most of the common-born would happily kill for, but what did that do for the quarry? He couldn't take Harding's position, even if the man had been willing to give it up. What you got at birth could be lost, but not transferred.

  "I think we may have to let Tremar approach us," Bryan said after temporarily shelving an impossible question. "If he's that eager to be at the party, he must be certain he can impress people with what he has and who he knows. We'll let him find out that most of those there won't even listen, and then we'll listen. If we play it right, he'll end up mentioning everyone he's ever met. And we'll pretend not to know about his relationship to Harding until and unless he mentions it."

  "And then we can be totally uninterested," she agreed with a nod. "Or at least I can be. Why is there a big hole in the ground in your neighborhood, when no place else seems to have the same? Wasn't there enough money to finish laying the street properly?"

  "That's not a hole in the ground, it's a basin," Bryan explained. It was strange, but he'd gotten to the point of not noticing the thing, even though it was 120 feet in diameter and almost smack in the middle of the district in St. James Square. "They're supposed to be putting in a pond, but the basin was constructed in 1726 and they still haven't filled it in. They swear we will one day have a pond, but refuse to commit themselves to what century the day will be in."

  "Well, they only have forty-nine years left in this century, so they'd better get moving," she said with a faint smile he could hear in her voice. "If they take a lesson from us, they'll have it finished in no time. We won't be taking half a century to do what we have to."

  "No, we won't," he agreed quietly, wishing she'd turned even once to look at him. It would have warmed him to see her face even in the dark, a desperately needed addition to the very few memories he would have when she was gone. And she would be gone, so terribly soon, as she'd just reminded him…

  Alicia's place was lit so brightly, it was visible from almost a block away. The street was full of carriages of all sorts, taking turns going up the curving drive to the front of what had been built to look like a miniature palace. Liveried servants were everywhere, handing guests glasses of champagne as soon as they were out of their carriages. By then it had already been determined that the people were guests; large footmen met each carriage as it pulled up, and politely requested sight of an invitation. If none was immediately available, the carriage was sent on its way.

  After showing their invitation, Bryan helped Rianne out of the carriage, then guided her up the steps to the front door. She moved with such regal grace that most of the men they passed stopped to stare.

  They moved out of the pleasantly warm night into the large entrance hall, and from there to the left into the ballroom. The terrace doors on the far side of the room were all thrown open in anticipation of many more people than currently filled the ballroom, and the orchestra played the latest popular tune. Bryan had no idea what it was, nor did he care. He looked around casually, as though he were bored, then began leading Rianne deeper into the room.

  "Which one of these women is our hostess?" the girl asked in a murmur, still playing regal and unimpressed. "And wherever did she find enough crystal for all those chandeliers? If they all fell at once, no one in this room would escape."

  "Alicia has a passion for crystal chandeliers," Bryan answered with a swallowed smile. He'd often thought the same thing himself. "She feels that just one or two in a ballroom is positively scandalous, and shows nothing but that a person hasn't the price of more candles. And she won't be down for a while yet, not until almost everyone is here. She also has a passion for entrances."

  "But our designated victim for tonight won't be doing the same," she said with a radiant smile that Bryan knew was just for show. "I'd wager on his being already here, quivering and anxious to begin mingling. Which we should begin doing ourselves."

  "We'll let everyone else mingle with us," he disagreed, gesturing to a servant with a tray of glasses. "I've been to enough of these things to know it won't be long now. Would you like some champagne?"

  "Yes. Thank you."
Her reply was somewhat distracted, possibly because of the entrance of a rather large group of newcomers. They greeted some of those who were already there, but paused no more than a moment with anyone. Their ultimate destination drew them, and where they were headed was abundantly clear.

  "Machlin, you cur, how could you do that to us?" Sir John Merriman, leader of the pack, demanded as soon as he was near enough. "You arrive with a vision from heaven itself, then walk her past us without so much as a nod. I'd always thought you were raised in a stables, and now I'm certain."

  "It's good to see you again, too, John," Bryan responded mildly with a bland smile. "How have you been?"

  "None of us is doing as well as you obviously are," Pinky Sedgwick came back with a laugh while Merriman growled wordlessly. "Not to mention the fact that we've sworn to return quickly to our ladies in the hall, who believe we're taking a moment to arrange a very private matter of honor. Happily, they won't enter the room without escort to find out the truth, so we've got a few moments to make thorough fools of ourselves."

  "Which we're guaranteed to do as soon as you introduce us to this angel," Peter Albright said with a wide smile. "And please do get my title right for once, there's a good chap. Ladies do so love titles."

  Two or three other voices spoke together then, all apparently demanding the same. Bryan wished he could be amused, then said to hell with it. Right now the woman was his, so he had a right to be amused.

  "Peter can't wait for the day when he becomes earl in his father's place," Bryan explained to Rianne as though they stood alone. "It isn't the estate he's interested in, just the title. Pinky over there will be Baron Holwell after his father, John already has his knighthood, Ian - I forget exactly what it is that he's heir to - Gentlemen, allow me to introduce Rianne Lockwood Machlin - my wife."

  There was a moment of stunned silence during which time every eye went to the girl's ring finger. Her wedding band was plainly visible to anyone making the effort. After that the moaning began, right along with the complaints.

  "Machlin, you're enough to make a man wish he were a younger son like you rather than an heir," Peter Albright said in disgust. "I don't understand how you do it, not only finding what the rest of us dream about, but actually getting it for your own. Are you certain your father's no more than a baronet?"

  "Unless he's been hiding things from us," Bryan answered with a grin. "If he has, my eldest brother Richard will be delighted when he inherits. He likes titles as much as you do."

  "Mrs. Machlin, I'm Sir John Merriman," the pack leader announced, coming forward to take the girl's hand. "That lout you're married to will never introduce us properly, so I've decided to see to the matter myself. Are you by any chance one of the Southwick Lockwoods? The eldest brother was supposed to have married a distant Hanover cousin."

  "My father and mother," Rianne acknowledged with a faint smile. "They've been gone for years, so I know only a little about the family."

  "Her father's title went to a nephew," Bryan supplied from what Robert Harding had told him. "That and the small estate it included, though, were all that went. The family fortune came from a different branch, and so was part of his private estate."

  "What beastly rotten luck!" pinky exclaimed, having taken his turn at Rianne's hand. "Imagine inheriting a title, and then finding it comes with nothing but a piddling small estate. If that ever happened to me, I should sit in a corner and cry."

  "But you'll notice the cur Machlin isn't crying," Merriman pointed out with amusement. "Even if this delightful lady had a brother, her dowry would be more than impressive. Do you have any sisters, my dear?"

  "Not a one," Bryan answered for her, back to looking bland. "The inheritance is all hers which was, of course, the only reason I married her."

  Catcalls and jeers came from every man within hearing, one and all branding Bryan a bald-faced liar. The spontaneous reaction brought a real, full smile to the girl's face, which was the end result Bryan had been hoping for.

  "You know, I feel as though it's been more than a few months since the last time I was at one of these things," Bryan said once the noise had died down. "There seem to be more faces I don't recognize than ones I do."

  "We've decided someone has turned merchant," Pinky Sedgwick said in agreement. "They - Oh, dear, I believe the ladies have found other escorts into the ballroom."

  The rest of the men turned to see the crowd of new arrivals, bowed their regrets, then hurried off intent on reclaiming the ladies they'd brought. Only Pinky stayed, and Bryan was curious.

  "What about your lady, old chum?" he asked. "Don't you want her back, or did you come alone?"

  "It was my honor to escort Miss Elizabeth Bowdler," Pinky answered with a very bland smile. "The idea wasn't mine but Mum's, and now the lady has latched onto poor Sellars. He'll be fine when she learns he won't inherit, but for the moment his bad luck is my good. Where were we in what I was saying?"

  "That someone has turned merchant," Bryan reminded him, exchanging an amused glance with Rianne. She apparently found Pinky as amusing as he did.

  "Ah, yes." Pinky nodded. "The rest of us noticed the strange faces as well, and we've decided someone has pinched a handful of invitations. At a sovereign apiece, they'd make the man a tidy night's income. When Alicia comes down, she'll be livid."

  "But some of them must be legitimate new guests," the girl protested, using her silk fan in a way that somehow made her look lost and helpless. "However is one supposed to tell the difference?"

  "My dear lady, I'm at your disposal," Pinky replied immediately with a smile and a bow. "And do call me Arthur, unlike that husband of yours. He's not only a scoundrel for keeping alive embarrassing nicknames, he has the gall to stay away from our fascinating circle in order to make money. I know three times the number of people he does, and I'll consider it an honor if you'll allow me to help you sort them out."

  "How wonderfully gallant you are, Arthur," she said with a smile that nearly knocked Pinky over. "I would be so grateful for whatever help you were able to give."

  When she batted her eyelashes at him, Pinky was done. He bent over her hand again, to show that his help and he himself were both hers; that was when she looked at Bryan and closed one eye. Bryan had been keeping his face expressionless despite the churnings of his insides, and that wink was like the balm of the gods. She wasn't encouraging Pinky, she was using him! Bryan couldn't believe the relief that knowledge brought. He still didn't care for the idea of her playing up to any other man, but at least she was doing it for the two of them.

  And you'd better get a handle on that jealousy, you fool, he told himself sternly. If she finds out now that you don't want to let her go, she could well take off at the first opportunity. You've made a deal with her, so for the moment you'd better stick to it. You need every advantage you can get.

  Bryan let the amusement show in his eyes as he nodded to her, which in turn brought her her own satisfied amusement. Her ploy with Pinky had given her the opportunity to take over the lead in the night's investigations, and she dove into it without hesitation. Taking Pinky's arm she let him begin to lead her around the ballroom, both of them apparently forgetting about Bryan.

  Which, for the moment, was fine with Bryan. He ambled along behind, occasionally nodding to acquaintances, carefully listening to everything his wife was being told…

  "…and he's rather strange but completely harmless," Arthur said, the third useless description he'd given Rianne. She was beginning to feel a bit impatient, but firmly pushed the emotion away. She wasn't likely to hear anything worthwhile for quite some time, and it wasn't as if she were unused to boring male chatter. If she'd been able to stand it before, now she certainly could.

  Remembering that Arthur should have been escorting another woman would have made Rianne feel guilty, if the other woman had been anyone but Elizabeth Bowdler. Elizabeth and Rianne had more or less grown up together, but only because Elizabeth's father had been a close acquaintance of Robert
Harding. It had been hate at first sight between the two girls the first time her father had brought her to Rianne's house to visit, and the snide little piece had never outgrown her nastiness. Dismissing concern for Elizabeth Bowdler was something Rianne had no trouble doing.

  But what she couldn't do was keep her mind from darting off on its own trail every time she realized she needn't listen closely to what was being said. Arthur Sedgwick was a fairly handsome young man with a pleasant, friendly disposition, but Rianne couldn't help feeling she'd rather be on a different man's arm. That different man had managed to surprise her again, first by knowing personally all these people of position, and then with the unexpected mention of his family. He'd never even hinted that his father was a baronet…

  Which was what her own father had been. Rianne smiled and nodded when Arthur pointed out his cousin, who wasn't there under his own name. His cousin's family, much stuffier about appearances than his own, would have been outraged if they'd found their son associating with the notorious Alicia de Verre, so the young man socialized under a pseudonym. Just as so many of the people there seemed to be doing, including her own husband. Everyone apparently knew the truth about everyone else, but proprieties were observed as long as no one spoke proper names aloud.

  And Arthur was Pinky because of his tendency to color, not because of his hair, which was plain brown. Every time he paid her a compliment and she smiled, his complexion shifted more toward the florid. She could read him as easily as a book, not like someone else she could think of. He never let anyone read him, not unless he wanted them to…

  "And that is Miss Lydia Worden," Arthur said, nodding toward a slender blonde beauty who fanned herself vigorously. Her face wore a smile that seemed to be covering the agony of torture, and she shook her head firmly to whatever was being said to her. The man talking to her was tall and thin and nearly old enough to be her father, although hardly likely to be. Miss Worden's gown and jewelry showed excellent taste, whereas her companion's finery screamed expense with no taste at all.