To Catch a Flame

by Kimberly Cates

  She reached out, catching his rigid arm. "It is forgotten."

  "We can never forget it, either of us," Jack said softly, his eyes a-brim with misery and loss. "It will never be the same now between us two. For we cannot ignore... ignore the truth of it any longer."

  "The truth?"

  "Aye. That I love you, Isabeau DeBurgh. Have ever since you grew into a woman. But you..." He turned away, and a harsh laugh tore from his throat. "You seem to be the one woman in all Christendom who is immune to my legendary charms."

  "Blast it, Jack, you are my best friend. Without you I'd not have survived."

  "You would have fought your way through life if you'd been dumped in a desert, Isabeau. I don't want your gratitude! I want—"

  Your love.

  Though Jack didn't voice the words, they hung between them, an invisible barrier that could never be breached. The knowledge slammed into Beau, ripping away the shield of security she had always felt in her friendship with Gentleman Jack Ramsey.

  The silence yawned between them, endless minutes filled with the things they wanted to say. Things they dared not. And Beau wanted to rage at the injustice of it all—that she could not give this man, whose friendship she had cherished above all others, the one thing he desired in return.

  "Beau, please. Don't—don't stay here. Come back where you belong."

  She sighed wearily. "In truth, I don't belong anywhere anymore, do I, Jack? Lord Stone—he knew my mother. And it seems I have a grandmother. The dowager countess of a family named Devereaux. Hardly the usual patrons of Blowsy Nell's. But considering that I am also the get of Six Coach Robb, I am scarcely a fit ornament for a ton ball either. However, Lord Stone intends to attempt to restore me to my birthright."

  "The Devereauxs don't want you, Isabeau! After your mother died I went to their fancy estate, talked to the earl himself. I told them you were orphaned, all but begged the old bastard to take you in. In answer he had six of his footmen fling me off of his estate."

  Isabeau chewed at the inside of her lip, uncertain, strangely hurt by the rejection she had never even known about.

  "Damn it, Isabeau, listen to me," Jack pleaded, attempting to press his advantage. "These stiff-necked nobles will never accept you, and you—you'll suffocate under all of their blasted rules. It will kill you after a time—more certainly than one of Bow Street's pistol balls."

  "I know that. But I gave him my word."

  "And you intend to keep it?"

  "One month, Jack. No more." She gazed steadily at her friend's face.

  "I should knock you over the head, and drag you from this bloody chamber."

  "I would only return." She walked to where a silver candelabra graced a gilt table. The wood nymph fashioned by an artist's hand held the melancholy aura stealing over Beau herself. "You could not keep me prisoner forever, Jack. But if it is any comfort, Lord Stone will not be able to do so either."

  Ramsey's shoulders sagged beneath his immaculately tailored coat, and he rammed his fists into his pockets with an alarming disregard for the crisp lace at his cuff's.

  "I know," she said, "that in the light of all this I haven't the right to ask anything of you. But I must ask this one last favor. Molly—I fear for her. What with me unable to provide for her, old dame Rooligan will be casting her to those curs of men that dally about Blowsy Nell's. Jack, please take care of her, and of Owen, for just a little while. I swear as soon as I am free of my promise to Lord Stone I will find some way to repay you."

  Ramsey rounded on her with an oath, and Beau took a step back beneath his piercing gaze. "You don't have to repay me, damn it! I'll do it for you. Freely. I wouldn't take your coin in payment if I was bloody starving to death!"

  His words were like a knife twisting in Isabeau's belly, but she quelled the urge to go to him, knowing she could offer him nothing but more pain.

  Jack wheeled and, retrieving his walking stick, stalked to the window. The breeze wafting in from the night plucked at the edges of his mantle.

  "Jack," Beau called suddenly, beset by foreboding. He looked over his shoulder at her, his lips set in a tight line.

  "I'm sorry," Beau said in a low, shaky voice. "I never meant—"

  "It is not your fault I ran blindly into an unsheathed blade," Ramsey bit out. "Take care that you do not do the same, Isabeau."

  In a heartbeat he was gone, leaving only the open window and the mournful sounds of the night. Beau crossed to the casement and closed it slowly, feeling as if she were shutting away a part of her life as well.

  Chapter 11

  The glossy hunter tensed its massive hindquarters, skimming over the stone fence with the dangerous grace of a soaring eagle. Griffin leaned low over the gelding's neck, the silky ends of its mane whipping back against his face, the heat of the rippling muscles between his thighs warm and vital and alive as he urged the horse to even greater speeds.

  Yet even if Brutus had sprouted wings and flown into the new-risen sun, Griffin would not have been able to elude the demons chasing him this morning. Demons that would give him no peace.

  Charles had returned. Griffin had heard him arrive hours earlier, and since then the youth had set the household topsy-turvy with his demands. Griff had wanted to confront the boy at once, about the troubles between him and his father. But Septimus Howell's description of Charles's pain—however difficult Griffin found it to discern—made Griffin curb his own impatience.

  God knew he'd caused enough disasters in his own life. He did not want to be the one who pushed the scatterbrained youth beyond his endurance.

  Nay, he decided, he'd wait until Charles was settled comfortably in his rooms, wait until his own emotions had cooled. Yet even the difficult prospect of dealing with Charles seemed like nothing compared with other matters that had left him sleepless the past night.

  He shifted in the saddle, his hands clenching the reins as the glorious parklands of Darkling Moor blurred before his gaze and became green eyes wide with wonder, and riotous waves of red hair.

  She had burned him... Isabeau... had seared her image into his soul forever with one kiss. A low ache throbbed in Griffin's loins as he remembered the taste of her, the feel of her crushed against him, eager, so eager.

  He had kissed more than his share of women, women who had refined the play of lips upon lips into an art form. Yet never had he been struck through to the heart by a single kiss.

  The pressure in Griff’s loins twisted tighter still. The cravings that had tormented him through the night clamored again. He had wanted her. He had wanted to devour her with his hands, his mouth, wanted to take the sweet gift she had offered with her heart-wrenching blend of innocence and defiance.

  She had looked so beautiful garbed in his mother's gown—a tumbled angel cast before him as a jest, or one of Satan's own sent to bewitch him. But if Isabeau DeBurgh had been luring him toward the gate of hell, Griff knew he would have plunged through it, and gladly, to taste her sweet fire.

  Aye, except that he could not forget the look of trust that had shone in her face.

  Griffin cursed, leaning even closer to his mount's neck, driving the gelding to run faster still. Trust. How many times had he seen that emotion in the face of someone he had cared about—a trust untarnished by doubts or scorn?

  But in spite of everything that had happened between him and Isabeau—despite his rages and dragging her to Darkling Moor under the threat of calling in Bow Street—she had placed her life in his hands with all the faith of a child—a stubborn child, true, and maybe a reluctant one. Her reluctance had made it more precious still, for Griffin had known it had cost her a portion of that fierce, swaggering pride.

  His horse cleared a bramble hedge, the impact of hooves striking earth scarce jarring Griffin, poised as he was in the polished iron stirrups.

  Resolve roiled through him. He had vowed to do his best by Isabeau. Reunite her with her family and introduce her into society. And, he had added to himself, secure her a fitting mar
riage. A man to cherish her, to temper the recklessness that constantly threatened to plunge the girl into calamity. A man worlds different from rakehell Griffin Stone.

  He smiled wryly, imagining for a moment he and Isabeau married. In his mind he painted images of Isabeau astride her midnight-black stallion, the beast keeping pace with Brutus, Beau's hair streaming back from her face, her face flushed as she tried to best him.

  He could see her green eyes snapping with delighted challenge in the fencing room as he schooled her supple, lithe body into the graceful poses and swift moves with the rapier that he had learned so long ago.

  As if you would bring her anything but misery, Griff could almost hear Judith Stone's acid voice. You would make her even less fit to take her place at her grandmother's side.

  Griffin's smile faded, his whimsical musings slipping away, leaving only a gray, empty void.

  But even robbed of his imaginings, Griffin knew the voice of caution whispering inside him was right. For Isabeau DeBurgh he would be the worst possible choice.

  She needed someone who would nurture her, pamper her, pet her, without flying into a fury every time she opened her mouth. She needed someone who could hide his smiles at her antics, a man of more sober temperament who could guide her. Not someone who would urge her on to even greater absurdities, delighting in the mayhem she created. Not someone who would make her even less acceptable within the confines of polite society.

  Griffin was stunned to realize how much he wanted for her. Wanted her safe, cared for. Loved. And he wanted it ,not with the detachment of one fulfilling a tiresome moral obligation, but rather desired it with a depth that made him willing to do anything necessary to secure her such safe harbor.

  He reined in Brutus. Silence engulfed the parkland, even the wood creatures seeming to pause and listen. "Isabeau." He said her name, his throat tight with regret and a very real longing. Then he tucked away the fantasies he had woven of the time they could spend together, locked away the memory of her mouth, soft and eager beneath his, her eyes, alight with a vibrant, glowing enthusiasm for life he knew he could never share.

  He would be her friend during the coming month. Drink in her warmth, her sparkling gaiety and her fiery temper. Drink in the dreams he now knew he had shut away beneath a facade of bored arrogance and reckless ways.

  Desire fled, replaced by emptiness even colder than before as Griffin turned his horse back toward Darkling Moor. But try as he might, he could not drive from his mind the vision of Isabeau trembling in his arms upon the brink of discovering what could prove the most delightful adventure of all.

  * * *

  Griffin combed his fingers through his wind-tousled hair and stalked into the study, knowing how a condemned man must feel approaching a gallows. The servants had not drawn back the curtains, and the room had the aura of a tomb. Only the meager flickering of a fire upon the grate lit the study, but the flames did nothing to drive back the damp chill clinging about the chamber, nor did it chase away the shadows groping up the walls.

  Griff’s jaw set hard, and he wanted to go anywhere, set himself to any task in order to escape burying himself once again in the estate's morass of paperwork. But he forced himself to stride into the room, knowing that he needed to comb through the figures one last time. Check the numbers and then collect his thoughts before mounting the back staircase to confront his nephew.

  Griff grimaced, taking a taper from a silver candlestick and plunging its tip into the embers upon the stone hearth. The flames flared at the disturbance, and the warmth trickled over Griffin's fingers with the same welcome sensation as Isabeau's hair. His hand clenched upon the silver as he made his way to the desk that was covered by an even more daunting pile of correspondence and ledgers than there had been the night before.

  With an oath Griff swept one palm across them, attempting to clear a space for the candleholder, but the pieces of parchment scattered across the floor in total disarray.

  Griff wanted to drive his boot into the desk in total frustration. But instead he thumped the taper down in the tiny space he had cleared and dragged his burning eyes down to the topmost layer of parchment.

  On the first paper he recognized the instructions as having been written by the steward at one of William's lesser estates. Most of the others were inked in other unfamiliar hands. Yet suddenly Griff’s gaze locked upon one other bit of parchment. This one bore a bold scrawl he had seen not only in England, but at Marrislea as well. Those rare, precious letters he had taken out to read and reread, that fed that part of him hungry for news of England and the life he had left behind.

  It was from Tom Southwood. And, most astonishing of all, it was addressed not to William, nor to Charles, but to Lord Griffin Stone himself.

  Griff took up the sheet, a faint smile playing about his lips. Thunder in heaven, how did Tom always know when Griff desperately needed a bit of cheer? In every crisis, whenever things appeared the bleakest, a note would be delivered bearing the seal of the Southwoods of Myddleton.

  Flopping down into William's leather chair, Griffin broke the seal of wax, cheered by the prospect of being diverted by his friend's ever-amusing tales.

  But when Griffin unfolded the parchment and scanned the first lines his anticipation dimmed. Instead of Tom's customary jovial greetings and amusing anecdotes, the missive was a warning.

  regret the mess that awaits you... urge you not to do anything rash... Charles so flighty, I feared to confront things until your return... will arrive from France in two weeks... I shall send word and meet you in London and we will figure out what to do....

  "What to do?" Griffin swore aloud.

  What incident had triggered Tom's words of caution, his plea for patience? Nowhere did he say what Griffin was supposed to remain calm about.

  Griff frowned as he examined the cryptic note again. His patience with this ordeal was growing thin. "How the devil can I figure out what to do if I don't even know what the blazes I'm supposed to be doing something about?"

  He came to his feet, crumpling the letter in his fist. "If it is something with Charles... by God's wounds, the gudgeon has done enough damage to Darkling Moor already. No matter how much pain the boy is in, the dukedom can't afford three more bloody weeks of coils." Griffin's jaw clenched. The one thing he'd discerned after hours in William's study was that whatever strange accounting William had made had been for his son.

  ... urge you not to do anything rash... Southwood's plea echoed in Griffin's mind. All the anger, confusion, pain, and passion he'd tried to suppress since his arrival on English shores erupted into pure fury.

  Maybe he could do nothing about his desire for Isabeau or the ugliness between him and his grandmother. But Charles—Charles and the fool disasters the boy was indulging in—now, that was an affair Griffin could damn well deal with, swiftly, even ruthlessly, if the cursed dolt would not see reason.

  Fists knotting, Griffin stalked from the study. "Where the devil is his grace?" he snarled at a snipe-nosed servant.

  "H-his grace? Why, I believe he is abovestairs, being attired by—"

  Griff did not allow the man to finish. He charged up the stairway and down the winding corridors to the far wing, where Charles's apartments were.

  Without knocking Griffin charged through the bedchamber door. Inside the room looked like a battlefield, strewn with casualties of the finest laces, gem-hued velvets and brocades, waistcoats, stockings, shoes, and jeweled shoe buckles.

  A snuffbox that had apparently offended the sensibilities of its owner lay rejected amid a pile of cast-off wigs. The whole chamber reeked of soured wine.

  In the midst of the mayhem Charles sat draped in a white sheet, his entire face engulfed in a powder cone as his valet busied himself with pomatum and powder, attempting to arrange the intricate curls of his ornate wig.

  "It is about time you brought my tray, you lazy wench!" Charles complained, blinded as he was by the white cone. "It would drive me mad to have to suffer the company
of my infernal grandmother and my hypocritical oaf of an uncle."

  "Y—your grace... nay," the flustered valet tried to caution his master. "It is—"

  "The hypocritical oaf," Griffin snapped.

  Charles emerged from the powder cone sputtering, red-faced, and as guilty-looking as a boy caught slipping pepper into his tutor's tea. "U-uncle Griffin... I mean, my lord... I..."

  But Griff ignored his nephew's stammers and glared frigidly at the valet who seemed determined to fend off his master’s nemesis with the powder cone. "You are dismissed," Griff said, gesturing toward the door.

  "My lord... his grace... he needs..."

  "What his grace needs is..." Griffin's furious words trailed off as he thought that if the duke were a child he would take grim satisfaction in applying a willow switch to Charles's backside, or relieving him of his riding privileges.

  But Griff swallowed the harsh words, unwilling even in his fury to humiliate Charles in front of a servant.

  "His grace needs a few moments alone with me," Griffin said in dangerous, measured accents. "We have had precious little time to converse since my return. And I am most eager to hear of all his adventures."

  "A-adventures?" Charles choked out, his face flushing with unease as the valet skittered from the room. "I... I... don't understand."

  "Neither do I. Perhaps you could enlighten me." Griffin thrust Tom's letter forward. The boy flinched as though he half expected to be dealt a leveler, but then his anxious gaze saw the paper.

  "I say now. It is the outside of enough, charging into my very bedchamber, ordering out my servant! I tell you, I had nothing to do with—"

  "With what, pray tell? You've not even glanced at the letter, let alone read what it says. Not that it says much, by God. Only that I should keep my temper and not do anything rash."

  "I—I think that must be good advice." Charles licked his lips nervously, taking the note as gingerly, as if it were a dead rat.

  "You do?" Griffin said coldly. "I wonder what Tom considers rash. It is all in one's definition, you know. For myself, I'm beginning to be tempted to thrash you within an inch of your life unless you tell me what the devil is going on here. After the muddle I've found in your father's account books, thrashing seems a mild punishment."