Channing knew the thrill Amery spoke of: the thrill of sex as a tool for pleasure or power. The games one could play were limitless. He’d learned years ago those games served him far better than anything more emotional, more meaningful. Sex in that particular arena left one too vulnerable. Although that specific game had been heady, he’d not cared for the aftermath of that experience or the woman who had served it to him. Since then, he’d limited himself to the business of pleasure and women like Marianne Bixley.
Amery leaned forward. ‘Will you do it, Channing? I would be for ever grateful.’
There was nothing for it. There was no one else to send and he did owe Amery for filling in for him in February. It was only fair. Channing nodded. ‘I’ll do it. Now, go on and pack.’
Channing leaned back in his chair, pushing his hand through his hair again, this time in restlessness. He hadn’t intended to be out of town. He’d hoped to use the Easter lull as a chance to catch up on paperwork, go over the League’s accounts and maybe work with some of the new escorts before the Season. But perhaps a house party was what he needed to shake himself out of these megrims. He did admit, even in his current state of exhaustion, a twinge of curiosity over meeting a woman who’d managed to rout Amery DeHart.
He hoped the party had a decent hostess. He should have asked Amery where it was being held. The right activities were the key to any house party’s success. If not, given his current state of mind, this was going to be the house party from hell, no matter how ‘Continental’ Elizabeth Morgan was.
Chapter Two
This was going to be the house party from hell. Lady Lionel’s Easter getaway was not where the sophisticated and worldly Comtesse de Charentes would have chosen to be of her own accord. The venue promised to be bland and boring, the mediocre tone of the guests currently assembled already attesting to her hypothesis. But the comtesse had a mission and it had to be accomplished here. She was looking for men, two men to be precise.
The comtesse surveyed Lady Lionel’s drawing room with a cool sweep of her eyes, her aloof exterior giving away none of the hot temper that simmered beneath the surface.
Her eyes landed briefly on her quarry: Roland Seymour. Her pulse quickened, her temper rising at the sight of him. The bastard stood twenty feet away and she could do nothing, yet. But when the time came, she was going to rip his balls off. Seymour had stolen money most insidiously from her family and then attempted to compromise her sister into marriage in order for the family to make their money back. But Seymour had made a tactical mistake there. No one touched her sister. One bad marriage in the family was enough. That was where ball-ripping came in. For that, she needed the second man, who was most notable by his absence.
Another sweep of the room confirmed Amery DeHart wasn’t there. She certainly hoped he’d arrive soon. At the least he’d liven things up, at the best she could start to put her plan into motion. Without him, she could not effect the introduction to Seymour she needed.
Aside from what was going to be a tardy arrival, she liked the young escort with his manners and wit. Her plans for his balls were somewhat gentler than what she’d planned for Seymour, although she couldn’t imagine actually bedding DeHart with any large degree of interest. In her experience, young men in bed usually lacked a certain finesse. She appreciated something a bit more refined when it came to the art of amour. Not that she was in the market for an affaire. There was no time for such a dalliance. She was, however, in the market for revenge and that made DeHart’s easy-going mannerisms useful.
She was counting on him to befriend Seymour and then introduce her. His introduction would make it easier for her to insinuate herself into Seymour’s circles without raising suspicions. Once in, she would take things from there.
A stir at the doorway drew the comtesse’s eye. A surge of energy flowed from the hall. Amery must be here at last. It was the kind of excitement his presence could generate. She smiled, relieved. She hated to be kept waiting, it made her anxious. But her smile froze when a different man stepped through the doorway: Channing Deveril. The most arrogant Englishman to walk the earth. Out of all the house parties in England, he’d chosen this one. Well, that made three sets of balls she’d have to deal with.
She wanted to be wrong, but even at a distance there was no mistaking those blond good looks, the tall, slender grace of his movements, the impeccable fashion with which he wore his clothes. Today it was a coat of blue superfine, the buff trousers tightly fitted to show the perfection of his physique and perfectly polished high boots. There was a sensuality to everything he did. Even the simple gesture of greeting their hostess took on an intimate cast as she watched him bow over Lady Lionel’s hand. She had not seen him in over a year, not since they’d parted badly at a Christmas house party she’d hired him to escort her to, and it was like seeing him all over again for the first time, so striking was his appearance. A woman could look at him all day and never tire of the view. But it would not be in her best interest.
The comtesse knew how dangerous all that handsome sensuality was. Beneath the good looks and laughing blue eyes lay a master of bedroom politics. She’d experienced a tangle in those sheets on two occasions. The first time had been in Paris, a brief but explosive affair during her marriage that had not been carnally consummated, but had not been less explosive for the lack of it. It had ended poorly and that had admittedly been her fault for even starting it. She’d been young, desperate, vulnerable. But the second time—oh, the second time she held him fully accountable.
It had been here in England a few years later. She had hired him as an escort who could help her reintegrate into decent society after so many years abroad. It was to have been business only between two mature adults who knew the rules. She had not understood how deeply he held Paris against her, or how compelling he could be, how he could make her believe it wasn’t only business for him. He’d made her believe what he felt for her wasn’t only a job, but genuine emotion, and then he’d dropped the pretence most cruelly. In doing so, he’d had his revenge. She had yet to forgive him. No one made a fool out of the Comtesse de Charentes. Roland Seymour was about to become one example of that and Channing Deveril could be the second if he chose to engage.
She could make it easy on them both and await Amery in the gardens just outside. But the thought occurred too late. Before she could quietly slip outside, Channing spied her and she was caught in the web of his blue gaze.
He inclined his head in her direction in sardonic acknowledgement and query, his eyes registering quickly veiled surprise over her presence. What was she doing here? She returned his nod with the cool, regal smile she’d cultivated for the men of Paris, the smile that invited men to look, but reminded them they touched at their own peril.
Well, at least she could take consolation in the fact that Channing’s presence meant Amery was close behind. It stood to reason that, as friends, Amery and Channing would have shared a coach and come together. It was not beyond the scope of possibility that Channing had been hired by another lady at the party. But a glance beyond Channing into the hall revealed nothing. Perhaps Amery was still out at the coach, making arrangements for his trunks.
A few minutes more passed and Amery had still not appeared, although Channing continued to linger by the door, talking with the hostess. Something was wrong. Lady Lionel’s fair brows had knitted together in consternation, just before Channing took his leave and began to cross the room towards her.
Within moments he stood before her, bowing over her hand much as he’d bowed over Lady Lionel’s. ‘The Comtesse de Charentes, enchanté, although I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.’ The blue eyes holding hers were full of mischief, secretly laughing. Channing was always laughing with his eyes, with his mouth. It had, unfortunately, been a rather endearing quality in the past.
‘I have a bit of a dilemma and I thought perhaps you could help? I am looki
ng for a guest, only Lady Lionel is not familiar with her, which I find extremely odd. After all, it’s her party and her guest list.’
‘And you thought you’d ask me,’ she finished with cold politeness.
‘Well, yes, since you seem to know these sorts of things.’
She understood the mischief in his eyes now. It was true. She did know everyone. She’d made it a point to know as many people as possible since her return from the Continent over a year ago. She’d been gone too long and acquaintances had lapsed. She’d done her best to restore those lines of friendship, although not everyone had welcomed her overtures. But it was more than that. ‘These sorts of things’ implied Channing had his suspicions about the identity of Elizabeth Morgan. His mind was fast like that.
‘I will be glad to assist if I can.’ Alina smiled politely, but inwardly her concern was growing. Where was Amery? Her gambit was off to a shaky start. ‘I do need to let you know, however, that I am waiting for someone. He should arrive momentarily.’ It was a weak ploy at best. If Channing had come with Amery, he’d already know that.
Wherever Amery was, Alina wished he’d hurry up. Even so, it was too late to avoid explanations. She’d given Amery a false name when she’d applied for the League’s assistance this second time, wanting to avoid Channing. ‘Who are you looking for?’ she asked Channing. The faster she could help him, the sooner he’d leave her alone.
‘I’m looking for a Mrs Elizabeth Morgan. Perhaps you know her? Amery DeHart was to meet her.’
She’d been right to worry, not that she’d let Channing see it. Her stomach churned as she realised the implications of Channing’s presence. If Channing was looking for Elizabeth Morgan, it meant Amery wasn’t coming. She had two choices: either brazen it out and confess or deny knowledge of the name and send Channing home, which would leave her on her own with Seymour, unless the perverse man decided to stay and make the house party miserable for her anyway, something he just might do given their track record.
She opted for the former, her chin going up a notch in defiance. ‘Amery DeHart was supposed to be meeting me. I am Elizabeth Morgan.’
Channing’s face hardened. She could see that he’d already grasped the basic tenets of the situation. The quick acuity of his mind made him a dangerous opponent, a reminder that everything she’d counted on would have to be rethought. Amery would have done her bidding with no questions asked. But Channing would ask. He’d want to know why she was using one man to meet another. He would demand explication and perhaps much else—after all, he was a man of extraordinary passions. You are not in the market for the ‘much else,’ she told herself sternly. Things had a habit of going badly when she and Channing were together.
His mouth formed one word. ‘Liar.’
She took the verbal blow with aplomb. ‘Fabulous. I see you’ve come to ruin another house party.
Ah, so she hadn’t forgiven him for the débâcle at Christmas—not last Christmas, but the Christmas before that. ‘Angry and beautiful, just as I remember you,’ Channing said calmly, knowing it irritated her to no end that he wouldn’t rise to the bait of her temper.
Her pale blue eyes flashed with an icy fire. Beautiful was something of understatement when it came to describing Alina Marliss, Comtesse de Charentes, an Englishwoman turned French countess, and now a returned Englishwoman. She was like a living diamond with her platinum hair and flawless skin. She sparkled from every facet. Not all of those facets were physical. Her personality sparkled as well. She could be positively charming when she chose. She was not choosing to be so now when she was on the defensive. Channing decided to push his offence.
‘You lied. You gave Amery a false name. Why don’t we stroll in the garden and you can tell me all about it? I find it quite interesting you needed to give an alias when you already have so many other names to choose from. Now we can apparently add Elizabeth Morgan along with Miss Alina Marliss and the Comtesse de Charentes.’
‘Don’t call me that,’ she hissed, falling in step beside him, but she did not, he noted, take his arm. The minx was determined to declare her independence at every turn.
‘I thought a widow got to keep the title as a matter of honour. Was I misinformed?’ Channing answered in low tones. He’d known beforehand how much she despised the title. She’d tried to shun it, but society had forced her to keep it at every turn.
‘You were not misinformed. However, if it were up to me, I would prefer not to wear his brand.’ Her tone left no doubt about the unpleasant depths of that marriage. Of course she would detest it, would see it as a man’s attempt to label her from beyond the grave. Alina Marliss belonged to no one. It was what made her such an intriguing and delicious challenge. But despite her efforts to simply be Lady Marliss, society would not let her forget she’d once had access to a higher title, even if it was French.
Out of doors, the gardens were full of sunshine and the quiet conversations of others who strolled there. Channing guided them to a less-populated walkway and changed his tack. ‘Perhaps you could enlighten me about your arrangement with Mr DeHart?’ Part of him hoped that arrangement might be more superficial. He didn’t want to know if Amery was sleeping with her. It shouldn’t matter. This was just a job and objectivity was as important in this line of work as discretion.
‘Why isn’t he coming?’ she answered with a question of her own.
‘He has a family wedding to attend. His sister is getting married. Now, about that arrangement?’ Whatever her answer, they were both adults. They could muddle through a week together at a house party. They’d be surrounded by others. There would hardly be any time at all to be alone. Not all escort jobs included sleeping with the client. Amery certainly wasn’t sleeping with the Misses Bakers when he took them to the opera.
She gave him a coy smile as if she’d read his mind. ‘Do I detect a hint of jealousy beneath your attempt at bland enquiry?’
‘You detect a hint of self-protection,’ Channing replied. ‘I want to know what I’m up against. When we were last together, I ended up with a vase thrown at my head.’
She snorted at this and dismissed it with a wave of her hand. ‘You deserved it. You made me look like a fool.’
‘I’m sorry about Christmas. I can only apologise so much,’ Channing said stiffly. She was not without grounds to complain. The unfortunate incident had happened eighteen months ago. It was to have been her first foray into decent English society and she’d hired him at considerable expense to ease her return into that society, which he had. From an objective standpoint, he’d discharged his duty admirably. However, there had been what one might call ‘interpersonal complications’. But how had this turned into an interrogation of him when he’d meant it to be an interrogation of her? ‘I’m here now and I would like to fulfil whatever contractual obligations you had with DeHart.’
‘Really?’ She drew out the word into a provocative drawl as she gave the idea consideration, tapping one long, perfectly manicured finger against her chin. Channing felt another primal stab of possessiveness as the thought recurred. Was she sleeping with Amery? How did he feel about taking Amery’s place in her bed or, for that matter, how did he feel about Amery having taken his place? The League never shared clients in that regard.
She gave a throaty laugh. ‘DeHart and I have a purely social arrangement. He introduces me to people I want to meet and I’ve discovered that regularly having the same gentleman by my side has defused the amount of unwanted attention someone in my situation might attract.’
By ‘situation’ she meant widowed and wealthy and that made her available to all manner of advances. It did not help that her husband had been a French count and everyone knew life on the Continent was far looser, morally, than it was in England. There were even some who felt a good English lady was better off coming home than remaining among such a debauched set. That was a story Channing had spun.
Channing had spent a good deal of his time that Christmas setting the script into play for her and in the intervening months the story had hatched into plausibility, even if their relationship had hatched into disaster.
‘What is it that you need from me? An introduction or a shield?’ Thanks to his efforts, Miss Alina Marliss had been accepted back into society. But they both knew that acceptance was tentative. One false move on her part and society would not hesitate to expel her.
‘Both.’ Alina flicked open the fan she carried about her wrist, a pretty white-lace affair with painted pink flowers, the kind of accessory a decent Englishwoman would carry and a testament to how carefully she crafted this facet of her persona. ‘I need to meet Mr Roland Seymour.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know him.’ He didn’t sound like someone Amery would know either. Mere misters were not their speciality.
‘But you will know him. That’s the point of house parties, isn’t it? To mingle and hopefully expand one’s social network in useful ways?’ Alina waved the fan back and forth in a slow languid gesture. The action called subtle attention to the expanse of bosom on display in a deceptively demure afternoon dress of soft pink muslin.
Channing gave a wry grin and tried to keep his eyes above her neck, but it was deuce difficult and he knew she knew it. ‘You want me to befriend him and then insinuate you into his crowd,’ Channing divined.
‘Essentially. Play a little billiards.’ She smiled at him over the top of her fan. ‘Shoot a few things, preferably not each other, whatever it is gentlemen do.’ She was trying awfully hard to distract him; smiles, fans and bosoms. It made him suspicious, especially coming from a woman who’d been icily distant a few minutes ago.
‘Why?’ Even knowing she was playing with him, he couldn’t help but flirt back. Channing leaned closer, breathing in the light rose fragrance of her soap. She’d even gone so far as to smell like an Englishwoman.
London's Most Wanted Rake Page 2
