by Louise Clark
Then Stephanie had cautiously trotted up and there had been a short period of stillness as each had waited for the other to act. It had been Stephanie's impatience that had broken the stalemate, and at first, when St. Luc burst from the shadows, Nicholas had thought the man meant to do violence to her. He had almost kicked his mount into motion when the scene finally sorted itself out. So, instead, he had listened to the conversation with not a little amused respect for Stephanie's daring and courage.
But he could not allow her to sell her jewels. He understood why she felt the need to convert the precious stones into hard currency, but he knew that she was chasing a will-'o-the-wisp in her belief that her father would emigrate to England. One day, if she carried through with her impulsive plan, she would rue the decision. He had to ensure that it did not happen.
And so, instead of following St. Luc back to his lodgings as he had planned, Nicholas shadowed Stephanie as she returned to Wroxton House. Once he was certain that she was close enough to the stables to be safe, he kicked his gray into a gallop and raced the rest of the way home.
The quiet scrape of a turning latch alerted him to her arrival. He grinned to himself as he leaned down to ignite a spill in the fire, so that he could light the candelabra resting on the mantelpiece. The comedy was about to begin. By the time it was over, he planned to have convinced the lady that selling her jewels was the last thing she should do.
She was stealthily closing the door, her back to him, when he lit the candles. A small smile played about his mouth as he said, as sternly as he could, "You might as well throw the bolts while you are at it, Mademoiselle. I doubt there will be any more surreptitious entries this evening."
* * *
Stephanie jumped guiltily and turned. "Mon Dieu! Milord, you startled me."
He viewed her sardonically, lifting his quizzing glass to better examine her attire. "My dear," he drawled, his glass sweeping her person, "you are dripping on the carpet. Pray do come over to the fire to dry off."
And find herself within inches of him? No, indeed, Stephanie thought, well aware that the closer she came to Lord Wroxton, the more likely it was that he would realize that she was wearing male clothing and demand an explanation of her late night activities.
Put on a bold front, she told herself silently. Never admit to being in the wrong. She lifted her chin, tilting her head in an oddly vulnerable little movement as she did so. She could not gauge the effect her gesture had on the Earl, as he, too, had his defenses well in hand. They stared at each other across the dimly lit room, each measuring the other's resolve as the candlelight flickered eerily.
Stephanie made the first move. "I think, milord, that I should bid you good night and retire. I am wet and tomorrow—"
"By tomorrow you will have had the time to create a neat little explanation for your unorthodox behavior. Oh, no, I think not, Mademoiselle."
Amusement colored his deep voice, easing the dry asperity of his words. Still, Stephanie stiffened angrily. "I protest, Monsieur! It may amuse you to malign my character, but I am far too fatigued to be in the mood for jesting. Tomorrow I will be happy to discuss the evening with you. But for now I will retire." Haughtily she turned toward the door, intending to sweep out in a grand, imperious exit.
Instead, forgetting that she was not wearing a fine gown, she stumbled over her own booted feet and the clinging folds of the heavy cloak. Stifling an unlady-like curse, she twisted, trying to save herself from falling.
In the dim light, Nicholas saw her shadowy form sway, then pitch forward. He moved quickly, familiar with the layout of the room and sure of his path even in the gloom.
Stephanie felt his hands catch her waist, stopping her fall. The momentum pressed her body against his hard chest and his hands slid round her waist to wrap her securely in his strong arms. Her heart thundered—because of the narrowness of her escape, she assured herself, patently ignoring the sensations that his long, lean body was arousing in her.
"My, my. Mademoiselle, I had no idea you knew such colorful language." His words were light and mocking, but there was a telltale unsteadiness in his voice. Evidently the Earl was as much affected as Stephanie knew herself to be.
The house was very still: silent evidence that they were truly alone. Stephanie knew that there was danger, not because Lord Wroxton would do anything to hurt her, but because he roused feelings in her that she was hard put to control. The absence of others freed her from constraints that would normally have kept her safe. "Please, milord," she whispered.
She put her hands on his chest to push him away, but as her palms touched him, they seemed to take on a will of their own. Slowly, she smoothed the fine fabric of his shirt with her fingers, savoring the warmth of his skin beneath. His heart pounded, beating as erratically as her own.
"Mademoiselle." Nicholas caught her roaming hands. His voice was ragged, and he cleared his throat before speaking again. "Mademoiselle, I am now sure of what I only surmised before."
She looked up quickly. "Q'est-ce que c'est?" Instantly, she realized that she had made a mistake. Her mouth was inches from the Earl's and the temptation to rise up on her toes to eliminate the intervening distance was almost irresistible. Their eyes locked and she thought he was moving toward her. But then he drew back, deliberately breaking the spell between them.
Shakily she said, "Pardon, milord. I forget my English at times. What was it you were asking?"
Before responding, he prudently stepped back. Still holding her hands, he paused at arms' length to examine her. Even in the gloom, Stephanie was able to watch the passion that had darkened his eyes being damped down, until it was nothing more than a pale smoldering gleam in the blue of his eyes. That he had himself well under control was confirmed when he spoke in a cool, amused voice. "Apart from the dampness of your outer garment, which you have transferred to my own apparel, I cannot help but be aware that you are not clothed, er, shall we say respectably?"
Stephanie offered no resistance as he gently guided her toward the fire and the incriminating light. Bravely, she turned to face him and boldly she met his challenge with one of her own. "I am dressed for riding, Monsieur. What of it?"
A smile tugged at the edge of his mouth and was ruthlessly suppressed. Stephanie took heart.
"I am loath to be the one to point this out, Mademoiselle, but a man's breeches, coat and cloak are not normal dress for a lady of your quality when she goes riding."
Stephanie borrowed one of the Earl's most effective expressions. Raising her brows, she said dismissively, "I suppose you expect me to wear my velvet riding habit on a night like this! Bah, Monsieur le Comte, that would be madness!"
Once again, Nicholas was hard put not to laugh. There was a certain amusing absurdity in discussing sartorial standards with a very wet lady two hours after midnight. "No more madness, Mademoiselle, than it is for a lady to creep out of her home in the middle of the night dressed as a man. Especially when that lady was at pains to give the impression to her protectors that she was ill, and so not able to attend the party she was invited to that evening."
Stephanie had used the excuse of a pounding headache to avoid the evening's entertainment. Madeleine had been solicitous and understanding, making Stephanie feel like a traitor.
Nicholas's hands still held hers; they were warm, strong, demanding. Stephanie clenched her fingers against his, inadvertently admitting what she would rather have denied. Knowing that her bold front would no longer work, she changed tactics. "Milord, I am sorry. You are correct, n'est-ce pas. I did plot to leave the house alone this evening. I was wrong. I see it now."
"Confessions, Mademoiselle? Why am I more suspicious of your penitence than your defiance?" When Stephanie shot him a fuming look that denied any thought of penance, Nicholas laughed, but he sobered quickly. "Come, Stephanie. Enough fencing. The hour grows late and I am tired. Why were you out this night, masquerading as a man?"
If she told him the truth, he would undoubtedly stop the sale of h
er jewels and possibly forbid her association with St. Luc in the future. And, although she disliked the Vicomte intensely, he had certain uses.
So, how to explain her costume and suspicious excursion?
She gazed silently up into Nicholas's eyes, searching for—what? A clue to his thoughts. A hint of what sort of story he might accept without too many questions. But his thoughts were well-hidden. She could read nothing. Desperation made her grab at an ages old excuse.
She stared into the leaping flames in the fireplace, loath to say the words.
"Well, Mademoiselle, I am waiting." Impatience gave his words the imperative authority of a goad.
Reluctantly, Stephanie raised her eyes to his. Her voice was husky with regret and defiance. "I went out, milord, to meet—a friend."
A jumble of emotions surged through Nicholas. In the forefront was jealousy, swiftly followed by envy—that she would go to the treacherous St. Luc before she would confide her troubles to him. "What is his name?" he growled angrily, determined to drag the admission from her. "'Who was it? St. Luc?"
The Earl's accuracy shook Stephanie's composure. She moistened her suddenly dry lips. "I cannot say, milord. You must understand. Honor forbids me to speak a name."
"Honor!" Nicholas spat out the word as if it were a curse. "What honor is there in a midnight rendezvous with a traitorous—" Appalled at what he had just allowed to slip, he set his jaw in a hard line.
Stephanie used the moment to draw her hand away from his slackened grasp and to step backward. "I will not discuss the Vicomte with you at this hour, milord. Permit me to retire, now that you have the explanation you seek."
Knowing that it was dangerous in more ways than she knew for her to stay, Nicholas bowed with dignified concession. "Until later, Mademoiselle."
To Stephanie, his words sounded too much like a promise.
Chapter 5
The Vicomte de St. Luc drew in his breath in a sharp hiss. "Magnificent," he murmured. The jewels in his hands flashed red, green and blue—the finest of cut stones available in France. As a man raised to believe in his inalienable right to such baubles, but without the wherewithal to purchase them, he felt a deep resentment toward the young woman who was planning to sell them that day with his help. Did she not know what she held in her dainty little hands? Jewels such as these were a sacred trust, to be passed from generation to generation. They were not to be sold for mere trifles, like financing a counterrevolution. It was fools such as Stephanie de la Riviére who had disposed of his heritage and left him in the degrading position in which he found himself. His burning resentment was soothed only a little by the sweet revenge of his plan to cheat her of a substantial portion of the proceeds of the sale.
"The Marquis de Mont Royale has excellent taste." Stephanie's statement was a mix of hauteur and pride. Looking at the jewels, she had to force back a pang of regret. The stones were flawless in cut and color, but it was not their beauty that made her wish there were some other way. The Marquis had given them to her as security for her future, it was true, but they were also a gift of love that she was loath to dispose of. Resolutely, she hardened her heart to such sentimental notions. These were dangerous times and a pragmatic attitude was necessary if her father was to be rescued.
"Very true," the Vicomte agreed absently. He returned the jewels to a soft chamois pouch. Rich, fiery color winked and glittered, mocking him. He pulled the drawstring tight with more force than was necessary.
While St. Luc lusted after the jewels, Stephanie had been keeping a wary eye on the traffic around them. Although there was nothing untoward in meeting the Vicomte in a public place, in the middle of the day, she was concerned that prying eyes might notice the fortune in jewels and wonder why she was showing it to the man. Moreover, the Earl had not asked her any more about her midnight rendezvous and that unsettled her. Much as she wanted the sale to be completed, she hated the thought that Nicholas believed her to be romantically involved with the odious St. Luc. It would almost have been a relief to have him known the true purpose of her meeting with the Vicomte—after the jewels were sold, of course.
All in all, she wanted the sale completed quickly. "Where is the shop?"
The Vicomte, absorbed in his calculations, was not alarmed by the direction the conversation had taken. He stowed the pouch in a secret pocket in the slate gray waistcoat he wore beneath a violet tabby coat, before replying easily, "In the City. It is quite a respectable shop, if you are worried." Personally he doubted that she cared a whit where her baubles ended up, so long as she got her money. Barbarian.
"Excellent! Then I need not be alarmed at waiting outside in the carriage while you conduct our business?"
This was a twist that the Vicomte had not been expecting. He gaped unattractively at Stephanie. "You cannot do that!"
"Why not?" she asked reasonably, smoothing the skirt of the dark blue coat she had donned against the mid-March cool.
St. Luc opened his mouth to tell her that he did not want her around, but he managed to control himself, before his temper made him say words he would regret. Carefully adopting a concerned expression, he said, "But Mademoiselle, your reputation! You do not want to be seen, remember?"
Stephanie waved this objection aside as inconsequential. "That need not concern you, St. Luc. I prefer to be nearby. My hat is equipped with a veil, so I have little fear I will be recognized, as long as I remain in the coach."
Having Mademoiselle de la Riviére waiting outside the shop for delivery of her funds was not part of the Vicomte's plan of action. He had intended to take the money to his rooms, extract what he considered to be a fair commission for organizing the sale, then deliver what remained to her. The foolish woman would never know that she had not received the full amount of the transaction. As a bonus, she would pay him for his part in the arrangements a portion of what he had turned over to her. He would not have been at all surprised if he ended up acquiring a larger part of the loot than she did.
Annoyed, he launched another valiant attempt to convince her to return to Wroxton House and wait for him. "But Mademoiselle! The dangers—"
"Are negligible," Stephanie interjected ruthlessly. Her slanting brown eyes danced with mischief. "Vicomte, I am charmed by your concern for my welfare. But I must overcome my womanly fears in this instance and be strong! Now, pray come into my carriage and we will be on our way."
As he had walked to the rendezvous in Hyde Park to remain inconspicuous, St. Luc did not even have the excuse of his own transportation to avoid taking Stephanie with him. Hiding his chagrin, he bowed politely. "As you wish, Mademoiselle."
Traffic on London's streets was varied and congested, slowing the carriage. St. Luc made another desperate attempt to convince Stephanie that she should not accompany him. "You must see how much time this will steal from your day, Mademoiselle. Surely you will be missed."
She eyed him warily. "Possibly."
Encouraged by her response, he tried a little harder. "You do not want to disturb your protectors. Return to Wroxton House, Mademoiselle. You may rely on me to bring you the proceeds of the sale at an appropriately discreet moment."
Stephanie contrived to look down her nose without moving her head. "Your concern does you great credit, Monsieur, but I do not think it is fair for me to burden you with the full responsibility for this venture. I will wait outside the shop, as I stated."
"Permit me to guide you in this, Mademoiselle. Your presence is not needed, I assure you. Come, I will order the coachman to change his direction, so he may set you down at Wroxton House—"
"You will do no such thing!" Stephanie whipped the small, but lethal, pistol out of a pocket hidden in the folds of her dark blue riding coatdress. "The jewels are mine, Monsieur de St. Luc. As much as I need and value your service to me today, I do not intend to wait passively at Wroxton House while the deed is done."
St. Luc glared at the weapon, humiliated that he had once again lost the upper hand to her, adding yet another lay
er to his resentment. "Very well," he said in a cold, furious voice. "I hope you do not live to regret this decision, Mademoiselle."
"I may. However, that is not something you need concern yourself with, St. Luc."
A charged silence continued between them for the rest of the drive. Stephanie took the precaution of pointing the little pistol steadily at the Vicomte, while he watched and fumed.
When they reached the shop, the Vicomte strode inside with the hasty steps of a man who had escaped an unpleasant duty and was now on his way to one much more to his taste. Stephanie chuckled to herself, well-satisfied. He would drive a hard bargain, not for her sake, but to assuage his wounded pride.
The laughter died in her throat as a tall, dark-haired man riding a handsome gray stallion drew up in front of the shop. He dismounted with the lithe grace Stephanie knew only too well and threw the reins to a loitering urchin. A brief word and the exchange of a coin told Stephanie that he had arranged for the boy to hold the horse—an ominous sign. At the door of the shop, he paused and shot a quick, amused look in the direction of the carriage, then went inside.
Stephanie, who had been staring fixedly out the window, hastily drew back. Dismay filled her thoughts, but her heart gave a great, excited leap. Wroxton! He had discovered the true reason for her meeting with St. Luc. But how had he known to come to this jewelry shop, on this day, at this hour?
It was not long before the Vicomte appeared in the doorway, chagrin written largely on his features.
He glanced venomously at the carriage, but did not approach. Despite her disappointment at having her scheme disrupted, Stephanie was rather impressed by the dispatch with which the Earl had sent St. Luc packing, and she wondered with idle amusement what he had said to make the Vicomte look so grim. She suspected that she would never know.
