“Your mother?” She gave up all pretense of eating and set her plate aside.
“Lord Tipton shoulders a certain authority that a mere surgeon cannot hope to achieve.”
What he proposed staggered her. She had begged his help, and not only was he giving it, but he also was making plans to change his life to achieve it. “It was not my intention to force you back into a life you abhor. I thought your skills in medicine could—”
“It is done.”
Like a magician, he waved his hand, encouraging her to view the new world he had created just for her. Nerves started skipping along her spine while she instinctively searched for a means to escape.
“The real question is,” he continued in a husky drawl, “are you willing to pay the price for my services?”
FIVE
Two hours later, Rayne was sitting comfortably in a hackney, looking forward to a warm fire and brandy. No more hired coaches for Lord Tipton, he mused. He supposed he should send word that the ones in storage bearing the family crest should be refurbished. When his mother learned of his latest actions, she would definitely conclude her son was under some sort of possession! He was. Her name was Devona Lyr Bedegrayne.
Naturally, he had picked her fair face from the crowd the moment he had entered the makeshift ballroom. She had adorned herself in light blue this evening. The dress was trimmed with silver net at the sleeves and silver-gilt thread at the waist and hem. The soft hue gave her skin a creamy glow that begged to be caressed.
She had had her long hair pulled up artfully and contained within a band of fabric to match her dress. A long gold pin tipped with a large pearl secured the style. He could have spent the evening watching those fiery silken curls dance and shift with every tilt of her heart-shaped face.
Rayne had not been pleased to observe her succumbing to the charms of Lord Nevin. Notorious, seductive bastard! Devona was too naïve to be interesting prey for such a surfeited villain. Rayne wondered what kind of game Nevin was playing. It would end tonight, even if Rayne had to press his point home by sword. At least she had dismissed Nevin easily enough. Placated by the memory, Rayne relaxed into the bench.
Too clever for her own good, she had guessed right away that his presence at the ball was due to her. However, he had managed to surprise the scheming Miss Bedegrayne by introducing a scheme of his own.
“Are you willing to pay the price for my services?”
Appalled, she all but sputtered, “You want money?”
“Some would consider gold an adequate dressing to heal old wounds. Speaking as a surgeon, I can tell you that there are other more effective means.”
“You speak in riddles, sir.”
“I speak of needs, Miss Bedegrayne. The means in which to meet yours and mine.”
She shook her head. “You promised to help.”
“And so I shall. First, I need you to help me fulfill mine.” He lifted her chin with his finger: his gaze held hers. “Are you courageous enough to assist me, Devona, or has all this talk about saving Doran Claeg been just that: talk?”
“I will do whatever you ask.”
“Bold, hasty words, my lady. As dearly as they warm my heart, I confess, I am not such a blackguard as to take your vow without revealing my intentions. I want you.”
Her mouth parted slightly. Shock warred with confusion before a very feminine awareness gleamed in her eyes.
He had set himself up for failure by that truthful blunder. If it would have helped, he would have cut his throat and been done with it. A gently reared lady did not expect to hear such bold declarations. Rayne had assessed her features and thought she had too much color. Rallying what pride he had left, he had pressed onward.
“I want you to help me regain my place in society.”
She didn’t even blink at his announcement. If she was disappointed, she hid it well. “Oh,” was all she said.
“It won’t be easy. Oh, no one will dispute the title is mine by right, but you will learn that I do not possess my family’s support and that will complicate things.”
“I do not see how I can help you, Lord Tipton. My place in society is hardly coveted. At best I am amusing.”
“Then we shall make an interesting pair, you and I. Who better to take up with Le Cadavre Raffiné than the reckless Miss Bedegrayne?”
“You want them to think that you have taken me as your mistress?” Her voice dropped to a horrified whisper. “I would be ruined. My father.” She shuddered. “To be fair, he has been most tolerant. But this goes too far. I would be shunned. Cast into obscurity with no hope to marry.”
For all her talk and joy of reckless adventure she was still quite young, Rayne suddenly realized. “I thought you would do anything?” he taunted, then felt remorse at her stricken expression. The unbridled jealousy he felt at her loyalty to Claeg had surged, overriding common sense. Rayne needed her loyalty toward Claeg to be unflagging. It served his selfish purpose as it did that bastard Claeg.
“What do you want of me?”
Her solemn question cut into Rayne’s flesh, as clean and precise as a scalpel. Victory had a bitter aftertaste. Cad that he was, it did not deter him. “You. Your adoration. Your affection. Your friendship.” Your heart, body, and soul. “Not as mistress,” he continued, ignoring the puzzled frown between her brows. “Although I am certain there will be talk, I want your support. Your betrothal.”
“You want to marry me?”
“Just your word will do. Despite your penchant to challenge propriety, you and I suit each other well. At my side, you will lend a certain respectability that I have never achieved on my own. Later…” He shrugged. “Well, we all know how fickle a young lady’s love can be.”
Rayne had sensed she would have argued his point. He had all but thrown down a gauntlet at her slippered feet. Unfortunately, they had dallied too long at supper. Their association tonight, the rumors over the weeks, and his unexpected return to society were too much of a curiosity to ignore for long. Lady Geary had been the first to approach them. Her eyes full of conjecture and her painted mouth twisted in tolerant amusement, she had cornered and then separated them, each being pulled to opposite sides of the room. Their prying, new friends had spent the remainder of the evening trying to glean news of the elusive Tipton and his intentions regarding Bedegrayne’s youngest daughter.
Rayne knew he had left his audience wary and full of questions. He assumed Devona had done the same. It wasn’t as if she were used to games of deceit. Rather, she just did not know what to think of him yet. He had done a fine job keeping her inquisitive mind off balance.
Something rapped the side of the moving hackney, startling him from his thoughts. A tree branch, perhaps? He would have dismissed the sound if he hadn’t heard the odd rap again, this time followed by a frightened yelp. Rayne stuck his head out the window only to see his coachman’s body tumbling, flailing wildly on the ground as the coach blurred past him, a pole with a hook still speared through his clothing.
Rayne heard a shout and saw a flash of light. Reacting solely on instinct, he ducked his head back inside before the pistol ball smashed into the window frame. The coach rocked perilously as the spooked horses picked up speed. Rayne rapidly assessed his circumstances. His coachman was gone, the horses out of control, and someone was doing his damnedest to make certain Rayne remained right where he was. The coach pulled to the right, throwing him across the compartment. He crawled his way to the front and knocked open the small opening that was used to direct the coachman. If this was a robbery, Rayne would have thought the thieves would have taken over the reins by now. The seat outside was empty.
To remain inside was certain death. He had seen more than his share of broken bodies from such accidents. Coldness rushed through him. Whatever this was, this was no accident. Still, someone had gone to a great deal of trouble to make it look so.
Rayne kicked open the door with his foot. Another ball struck the door before it snapped back into place. Considerin
g the time it took to load a pistol, against one, even two pistols he stood a chance. He heard shouts as the runaway coach roared its way down the street. The thunder and rattle of the coach’s wheels pounded violently, matching the cadence of his heart’s beat.
Rayne kicked the door again, this time springing out to grab an outer ring, and used his foot to hold the door open. Although flimsy, it provided some cover. The coach was going too fast for him to hear the discharge, but he felt one thud, then another against the door.
Deciding the odds weren’t going to get better than they were at that moment, he straightened his crouched position and reached high for a leather strap near the coachman’s perch. Airborne dirt and gravel stung his face, and the wind pulled at his clothes while he worked his way to the front perch. Rayne moved like a blind man slowly feeling his way to the higher purchase, not knowing if the reins were secured to the coach or if they danced beneath the deadly hooves of the horses.
He would never know.
The coach bucked, its joints screaming at the torture. Losing his hold, he fell backward into the ink blackness of the unknown. His senses were fully alert, focused for some sort of stimulus. The impact gave it to him. The air punched out of his lungs when he took the brunt of the fall on his back. He slid across the abrasive surface, dirt, fabric, and skin fusing hot.
Then he was still. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see, couldn’t move, but his hearing was keen. He listened to the thunder and the terrified sounds of the horses as they rumbled past. A few heartbeats later he heard the sounds of several riders in pursuit. It mattered little now whether they were friend or foe. Rayne forced some air into his lungs and was grateful his body was beginning to cooperate again. His back was starting to sting. Soon it would give way to an awesome pain, which would remind him that he had survived. Scraped and bloody, he dragged himself to his feet. The sounds of his ordeal had long since faded, yet the question remained. Who the hell was trying to kill him?
* * *
At the Black Galleon, a small drinking tavern off the Thames, no one paid much attention to the four men huddled together. Drinks were in their hands, although they seemed to be forgotten. The furious man, sometimes friend and benefactor, more lately the promising fist to their painful demise, was not pleased with their failure.
“He was trapped in the box.” The angry man’s voice was clipped and tight. “How did you let him get away?”
The man who dared to defend them was at least three stones heavier and had seen his share of danger. He also was smart enough to recognize that the man before him could be quite deadly. “You told us yourself the man was wily. He has a certain reputation and he lived up to it.” He shrugged. “Next time he won’t.”
“Some say he has the gift of sorcery since he once mingled with the dead. Can call them up at will. Maybe they spirited him away,” another man suggested.
The leader tilted his head, a gesture to suggest he’d consider the thought. Without warning, his foot lashed out from underneath the table and connected with the man’s groin. The sound out of his mouth was barely a belch. He slid boneless out of his chair and out of sight.
“No wonder you can’t kill one man. You have frightened children doing your bidding.” He leaned forward, his menacing stare holding them in their seats. “Perhaps my faith in you is misguided.”
The larger man bristled. “It’s the manner you’ve chosen that’s chancy. You never know if you are going to maim or kill with a coach. I think we should try a more direct approach to your problem.”
“Fine. Do it. No mistakes this time.”
The promise of death lingered like a bad odor between them. “What of the lass?”
The man frowned. The image of Miss Bedegrayne flickered in his mind. It laughed and taunted him, then twisted into something hideous. She had linked herself with Tipton. He’d wager the man had done more than touch her with his eyes. Damn him! There had been other plans made on her behalf. Now they would not do. All these years she had held herself aloof and pure, only to succumb to that monster’s touch. The thought could not be endured! Mayhap there was some truth to him consorting in the dark magic. It was an acceptable excuse for Miss Bedgrayne’s disappointing weakness for Tipton. His companions eyed him warily, knowing he was a thread away from losing his control. His face hardened, reinforcing his resolve in a mask of hatred.
“She has allowed herself to be tainted. She must be punished.”
* * *
“His Lordship ain’t receiving visitors, Miss Bedegrayne.”
“See here, Speck, I am not a visitor. I am”— His betrothed? No, she could not quite say the words, since she could hardly believe them. It was one of the reasons why it was so important to see him today. “I am his friend. If he knew I was here, he would want to see me.”
The gargoyle was in fine intimidating form this afternoon. His pointed teeth gleamed with threatening intent. “I doubt it. Since he can probably hear you squawking from his bed.”
Devona straightened, preparing for the interesting verbal battle ahead of her when Speck’s words sank in past her pride. “Bed. What is the man doing in bed this time of day? Is he ill?” She did not hesitate or wait for Gar to smooth her way. She just slipped under Speck’s barring arm and went inside.
“See here, Miss Bedegrayne!”
Gar moved silently behind him. “Not a hand on her, Speck, or you will be dealing with me. There is little we can do, now. If your lord wants her out, he can manage the task himself.”
Mortification and duty dueled in the older servant’s eyes. “That woman. Your mistress—”
“Aye, she is.” Admiration and respect glowed on his face while they watched her grip her skirts and rush up the stairs.
* * *
“Rayne?” She rapped on the door, then opened it, peering inside. The room was empty. Where was he? This was her second visit inside his house. She always seemed to be reduced to a childish game of hide-and-seek to ferret him out. She approached another likely door. “Rayne?” She peeked inside.
Devona saw him on the bed, huddled under numerous blankets. She must have cried out. His eyes opened the moment she stepped into the room and ran to his bedside. “What is it?” She tugged off her gloves and touched his face. “You have a fever.” Now that she was closer, she could see his face held a pinkish cast and his eyes were too bright. He was hot enough to make her frightened.
“J-just f-fever,” he managed between chattering teeth. “Common reaction. Once infection s-set in. N-not too bad, I think.”
“Infection? Are you injured?” He moaned, when she pulled back the blankets and saw the bandages on his arm and wrapped around his torso. Devona wanted to peek under the binding to see how badly he was wounded, but the linen looked clean and secure. Every movement seemed to bring him more pain, and she was just too softhearted to cause him more to satisfy her curiosity. She carefully tugged the blankets up to his shoulders. He shuddered, burrowing himself deeper. Dragging the nearest chair closer to his side, she sat down.
“Who did this to you?”
“I don’t know.”
He was too sick to remember, she thought. She felt the sting of tears and looked away, then up to keep them from falling. The last thing he needed was a hysterical woman.
Reading her thoughts correctly, he slid a hand out from his warm cocoon. She eagerly clasped it, as if she could hold him to this earth by sheer will alone. “I’m not out of my head, Devona. I feel like someone has pounded nails into my bones, and my head aches. Symptoms I can understand and expect. There is no need to worry.” He nodded his head toward the cup on the table. “Since you’ve chased Speck away, you might as well help me with that.”
“It’s not my fault the man is so skittish.” Devona brought the cup to Rayne’s lips. He managed a few swallows before collapsing back onto the pillows. Her nose twitched as she sniffed the suspicious contents. “Not barley water.”
“No. Cinchona bark for fever, saffron for its sedativ
e effects … strong black tea to disguise the taste.” He tried to smile. “What c-can I say? I like to experiment.”
She noted the bruise and scrape on the right side of his face. “Did someone beat you?”
He managed a laugh, then groaned, his hand going to his head to soothe the pain. “What an opinion you have of me! I can assure you that until I met you, my life was quite sedentary.” He frowned, mulling over the observation.
Following his thoughts easily, she said, “Do you think Brock attacked you?” It sickened her to believe her brother or anyone else in her family could have hurt Rayne on her behalf.
“I don’t know for sure. It was dark and I was trapped in the hackney. When the coachman was felled, I thought robbery. The lead balls punching into the door made me think it was a bit more personal.” Not liking her coloring, he snapped, “Sit down, Devona. I cannot catch you if you faint on me.”
She dutifully sat, not even checking to see if the chair was still behind her. Feeling chilled, she wrapped her arms around her body. “Brock is impulsive, loyal to his family. He was not pleased with you—us,” she amended. “I will talk to him.”
“No, you will not.”
She raised a brow at Rayne’s tone. The beast was feeling well enough to bare his teeth. “It was my fault that Brock thirsted for a duel. When you wouldn’t oblige, he sought out an unscrupulous manner to satisfy his revenge. He will pay; I swear it.”
“Such a fierce, protective creature you are, Devona.” Rayne’s eyes took on an interesting light that had nothing to do with the kind of fever that burned within him now. “One might think you have feelings for me.”
She fidgeted, then in typical Bedegrayne fashion reacted in the best defensive manner available. She ignored the comment. “If Brock is responsible—”
“Still taking on more guilt?” Rayne softly queried. “I would think the burden those graceful, fine-boned shoulders carry now would buckle under the additional strain.”
The No Good Irresistible Viscount Tipton Page 6
