by Cara Elliott
Are you feeling ill, my dear?” Anna’s mother squinted through the dim light of the carriage lamp. “You look a trifle peaked.”
Piqued was perhaps a more accurate word, thought Anna, but she kept such thoughts to herself. Unlike her daughters, Lady Trumbull was not overly interested in the nuances of language.
“I confess, I am not feeling overly well either.” Caro shifted on the seat next to her and exhaled loudly. “My head hurts. I think I drank one too many glasses of that lovely champagne.”
“You must learn to control your impulsive urges,” scolded their mother. “Really, Carolina, do try to emulate your older sister’s example.”
Anna closed her eyes, unwilling to meet the fond smile.
“Discretion, discipline,” continued Lady Trumbull. “Follow her lead and you won’t go wrong.”
“Yes, Mama,” replied Caro. But, being Caro, she couldn’t resist adding, “However, not all of us are graced with the good fortune to be a saint.”
“Don’t be impertinent, Carolina.”
“No, Mama.”
To Anna’s relief, Caro left it at that. Not that the ensuing silence was any more comfortable. Left to brood on her own inexplicable impulses, she, too, felt a beastly headache coming on.
Davenport is a disgrace, but so am I.
Of all the buffle-headed, bird-witted things to do, kissing a rapscallion rogue ranked awfully high on the list of Supreme Follies. And to think she had called him an idiot. The epithet was better directed at herself.
Idiot. For good measure, Anna repeated it in Italian. Cretina. She wished she knew German, for no doubt it would sound suitably harsher. Or Russian…
Thankfully, the carriage rolled to a halt, putting an end to her multilingual self-loathing.
“If you will excuse me, I think I shall go straight up to my room,” she mumbled, after handing her cloak to their manservant.
“Shall I have Cook fix you a posset?” asked Lady Trumbull.
“No, no, I’m just fatigued is all. A good night’s sleep is the only restorative I need.” Assuming sleep would come. Anna rather doubted it.
Their mother looked unconvinced but yielded with a reluctant nod. “Very well. However, if you are still feeling unwell in the morning, I shall send for a physician.” A tiny pause. “Lord Andover mentioned that he wishes to take you to Lady Riche’s Venetian Breakfast on Thursday and it would be a pity if you had to refuse him.” Another pause, punctuated by a sigh. “He is such a pleasant young man. Handsome and considerate—”
“Rich and titled,” added Caro under her breath.
“Not to speak of possessing a handsome fortune and being heir to an earldom.”
Anna stripped off her gloves, feeling further unsettled by her mother’s ham-handed hints on marriage. Up until recently, she had dutifully accepted the notion that it was up to her marry well in order to provide security for her family—money, not love, was all that mattered. But now…
“Now that Olivia has married Lord Wrexham, we need not be so desperate to catch a rich peer,” she pointed out.
A frown furrowed between Lady Trumbull’s brows. “I wish to see all my daughters well settled, my dear. Money and position are very important in Polite Society.”
Even if they don’t make you happy?
Anna turned away, leaving the retort unvoiced. What right had she to talk of happiness when she hadn’t the foggiest notion of what it was or how to achieve it?
After lighting a taper from the candelabra on the side table, Anna started up the stairs. Perhaps she, too, had imbibed too much bubbly. Her thoughts usually did not sink to such depths of cynicism.
The patter of steps right behind her warned that Caro was not as easily put off as their mother.
“What’s wrong?” demanded her sister as soon as they reached the top of the landing.
“I’m tired,” she snapped.
“Oh? And since when has fatigue grown clever enough to give a girl kiss-ravaged lips?”
Anna clapped a hand over her mouth. “What do you know about kissing?” she said through her fingers.
“You describe it in excruciating detail in your novels,” replied Caro smugly.
“I’m sorry that Olivia and I taught you how to read.” Anna wrenched open her bedroom door and kicked it shut behind her. No wonder men liked hitting each other. There was something very satisfying about lashing out a solid thwock.
“Ha, ha, ha.” Caro slipped in just before the paneled oak fell into place. “Who was it?”
“Never mind.”
Ignoring the order, her sister took a seat on the edge of the bed and began fingering her chin. “Not Andover. He’s much too polite. And Chittenden wouldn’t dare—he’s far too in awe of you.”
“Kindly stubble the speculation. I’m really not in the mood for it.”
“Major Grove is a possibility. Or perhaps that American merchant, Mr. Hale. He’s a little rough around the edges.”
“Caroooo.”
“But it’s amusing to try to guess,” responded her sister with a grin. “Who in the name of the Devil would be bold enough—” Her words suddenly came to a halt in mid-sentence.
Drat.
“Ye gods. Not Lord Davenport.”
Anna dropped her reticule on the dressing table and sat down. A hard yank freed a handful of hairpins. The stinging in her scalp actually felt rather good.
“That is to say, he, of all people, would be bold enough,” went on Caro. “But you would never allow it. You dislike him.”
She picked up her brush and set to combing out the topknot of curls.
“Intensely,” added her sister.
Anna continued to work in steadfast silence.
“Though I confess, I’ve never quite understood why. You once tried to explain it, but it didn’t make a great deal of sense.” Caro’s voice turned more tentative. “Something about how the two of you were more alike than you wished to acknowledge because you were both forced to be on the hunt for a plump-in-the-pocket pigeon to marry.”
Caro had a habit of making rambling speeches, mused Anna. Perhaps she would simply tire herself out and go off to bed.
“But that’s a moot point now. Wrexham is rich as Croesus, and Olivia has assured me that neither of us has to worry about marrying for money anymore.”
Their eldest sister had recently wed the Earl of Wrexham—much to the surprise of Society, for Olivia was regarded as an outspoken, opinionated hellion while John was admired as the oh-so-proper Perfect Hero. However both portrayals were only skin deep. Beneath the surface were hidden complexities. Hidden secrets.
Anna repressed a sigh. Secrets seemed to run in the family.
“So if you ask me…” Caro’s voice drew her out of her brooding. “I think the Devil’s aura of danger is exciting.”
That a part of her—a very small part—obviously agreed with Caro turned Anna’s mood even more prickly. Abandoning the I-Will-Not-Say-A-Word strategy, she huffed out a sharp “hmmph” and turned in her chair.
“My head is aching enough right now without having to listen to you prattling on like a silly schoolgirl about something of which you know virtually nil. So could we kindly continue this conversation in the morning?”
As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Anna wished she could summon them back. Caro, who usually accepted the set-downs from her older sisters with cheerful good grace, flinched and went white as the down-turned linen sheets.
“Oh, sweetheart, I’m so sorry.” Rising, she hurried to the bed and enveloped Caro in a fierce hug. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me of late—I’ve not been myself.” And the trouble was, she wasn’t quite sure who “myself” was anymore. “It wasn’t you I was sniping at—it was my own tangled thoughts. Please forgive me.”
“The fault is mine,” mumbled Caro through a teary sigh. “I should have known better than to tease you when clearly you are feeling blue-deviled. Mama is right, I must learn to control my impulsive urges. It’s c
hildish. And selfish.”
“Don’t ever let anyone tell you to bridle your exuberance.” Anna stroked a hand over her sister’s dark curls. “It’s part of your essence, and without it you wouldn’t be you.” Lifting Caro’s head, she pressed a light kiss to her brow. “Or a poet.”
“I—I’m not a very good poet, but perhaps if I work as hard as you and Olivia do at writing, I shall have a hope of improving.”
“You are exceedingly good, Caro. And you’re going to get even better. You have a rare talent for expressing emotions.”
Sniff. “Even though they sometimes get out of control?”
“Emotions are perverse little devils.” Devil—the word brought a fresh rush of heat to her cheeks. “They seem to have a will of their own and defy any attempts by us mere mortals to control them.”
Caro quirked a watery smile. “Perhaps I’ll write an Ode to Hellfire Emotion.”
“An excellent idea. But it’s probably best left until morning, when the flames of Passionate Feelings have burned down a bit.”
“Yes, yes, quite right.” Her sister smoothed her skirts and rose. “I’ll leave you to sleep…” She opened the door and then looked back over her shoulder with an impish grin. “And to dream of the Devil.”
“Minx.” Letting out a rueful laugh, Anna tossed a pillow at the paneled oak as it clicked shut.
Which left her alone with her own thoughts.
Touching her tongue to her kiss-ravaged lips, she fell back upon the counterpane and stared up at the ceiling, where the play of shadows cast by the candleflame were dancing like underworld imps of Satan flitting across the plaster.
Shadows, not imps of Satan, Anna reminded herself, trying not to let Caro’s penchant for exaggerated exuberance color her own already overheated imagination. The night promised to be uncomfortable enough without added demons.
“You look like Hell warmed over.”
Devlin slouched into the leather armchair and poured himself a glass of brandy. “Have you any idea how often I hear such thoroughly unoriginal witticisms? From you, I expect a tad more cleverness.”
“I’m not feeling terribly clever at the moment,” replied Anthony Thorncroft, pinching at the bridge of his prominent nose. Dark smudges of fatigue underlined his gunmetal-gray eyes and his usual predatory smile was looking a little pinched around the edges.
“Nor am I. It requires far too much effort, especially at this hour of night.” He lit a cheroot and took several long puffs before leaning back and exhaling a perfect ring of silvery smoke. As it hovered for an instant overhead, he let out a rumbled laugh. “Oh, look. I’ve got a halo.”
“You,” growled Thorncroft, “are an ass.”
“So I’ve been told.” Devlin tapped a bit of ash on the expensive Turkey carpet. “And I don’t disagree.”
Thorncroft slid his boot out and stamped out an errant spark.
“Which begs the question of why you asked me here.”
“I have a job that might suit you.”
Devlin took a long moment to consider the statement. The ancestral title and estate passed down by his profligate father had come with crushing debts piled upon the fancy family crest, whose fancy Latin motto translated as Restraint and Resolve.
Ah, yes, the Gods of Greed had a wickedly cynical sense of humor.
Not that I have any right to be holier than thou. The task of repairing decades of damages had been daunting to a callow youth of seventeen. Instead, he had chosen to emulate the example of his predecessors. Devilry, like brandy, ran hot and potent in the Davenport blood. Why fight Fate when it was far easier to give in to temptation than try to be…
A better man?
Ha! And pigs might fly.
“How much does it pay?” asked Devlin after blowing out another series of tiny rings.
A grimace spasmed across Thorncroft’s face. “You’re not in any position to negotiate, Davenport. According to my sources, you’re badly dipped at the present moment.”
“I’m always badly dipped,” retorted Devlin. “The degree really doesn’t matter.”
“Considering what we paid you for the last job, I would have thought you would have settled some of the accounts at your gaming hells.”
“Good God, why?” he drawled.
The comment drew a ghost of a smile from the other man. “I confess, your utter lack of morality has a certain charm.”
“Of course it does. It suits your purpose.” Devlin tossed back a long swallow of his spirits. In truth, Thorncroft might faint if he knew what the money was really spent on. “Now that we’ve exchanged pleasantries, shall we get down to business?”
Settling back in his chair, Thorncroft tapped his well-tended fingertips together. “It’s actually a very simple and straightforward task, though it does require you to be absent from the pleasures of London for several weeks.”
Which might, mused Devlin, be an excellent idea. Given his inexplicable reactions to a casual kiss, a respite from the usual revelries was needed to reorder his wits.
“I will warn you though, the spot is remote.”
Even better.
“I’m willing to listen,” he said softly.
Tap, tap. “And I,” replied Thorncroft, “am willing to negotiate the price.”
The first slender fingers of dawn’s light poked through the draperies, pulling Anna fully awake. Strange dreams had plagued her sleep. Teasing, taunting dreams, filled with a whirling dervish tangle of menacing creatures and threatening whispers. A black cat—there had been a black cat, a tiny tabby who had, in an instant, transformed in a burst of flame and brimstone smoke into a terrifying beast. Ha, ha, ha! Its topaz eyes had turned scarlet, with flames spitting out to scorch her face—
“Drat.” She covered her face with her hands, trying to cool her burning cheeks. “Would that I could dream of something useful.” A wry sigh. “Like the plot for my next chapter.”
It was, Anna decided, the unaccountable absence of her creative muse that had her emotions in a muddle. Perhaps the perverse goddess had heeded Caro’s suggestion and headed off to the spa at Baden-Baden on her own for a prolonged stay, taking all her clever words with her.
Leaving me to face a looming deadline without so much as a dribble of inspiration.
Slumping back against the pillows, Anna tacked on a few well-chosen oaths to her grumbling. Think! Surely it shouldn’t be so hard to strike a few fresh sparks of imagination. All that was needed was to find the right flint and steel…
Determined to banish her brooding mood, she quickly dressed on her own and headed downstairs. Her late father’s library, a cozy, comfortable refuge that always seemed to help focus and clarify her thoughts, offered far more prospects for helpful ideas than a jumble of twisted bedsheets.
She had been reading for an hour or two when the door pushed open and Caro entered, patting back a yawn.
“You’re up awfully early,” murmured Anna as she jotted down a few notes before turning the page of the book.
“I was having trouble sleeping.” Her sister grimaced. “Ugh, my head feels even worse than last night and my stomach is a little queasy.”
“Champagne’s sparkle turns a little flat when one overindulges,” replied Anna, with a tiny smile.
“But it tasted so good.”
“So said Eve about the Serpent’s apple,” she pointed out. “Temptation usually does.”
“Thank you, but wisdom isn’t easy to swallow at this hour in the morning.” Tightening the sash of her wrapper, Caro pushed one of the armchairs closer to the hearth and curled up on the well-worn cushion. “What are you reading?”
“Lady Mary Wortley Montagu’s Letters from Turkey.” Another turn of the page. “They contain some really fascinating details about the Ottoman Sultan’s court in Constantinople.”
“You’ve already had Emmalina imprisoned in a pasha’s harem in Tripoli.”
“Yes, yes, but Lady Mary also explored the country along the coast, including a fabulous
city of classical ruins at Ephesus. Her descriptions of the towering marble columns silhouetted in the moonlight are quite wonderful.” Anna read aloud a short passage. “She says the Temple of Artemis was one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World.”
“A midnight chase scene through the stones offers some interesting possibilities,” mused Caro.
“Precisely. I have a few rough ideas taking shape, but they need to be refined.” Plotting her novels was usually a very personal and private process, but on occasion she did find it helpful to talk out ideas with her sisters. This morning, however, aside from the purely practical advantage of stimulating ideas, Anna decided that involving Caro would help assuage the hurt of her thoughtlessly cruel comment from the previous evening.
“Would you care to hear them?” she asked. “I would welcome your suggestions, seeing as my own brain seems to be acting a trifle sluggish.”
Caro’s face lit up.
Anna bit her lip, feeling even more guilty. Caught up in her own moods, her own worries, she had forgotten that this transition from schoolroom to ballroom was still new and perhaps a little daunting for her younger sister. And with all the recent changes to life at High Street—Olivia’s marriage to Lord Wrexham, the myriad alterations in their household routine now that finances were no longer so pinched—Caro and her concerns had been shunted into the shadows.
It was, mused Anna, not easy being the youngest of three very strong-willed siblings. Caro’s penchant for melodrama was…
“Balloons!” exclaimed her sister. “What about a chase that leads up and up through the Temple columns, and then suddenly Count Alessandro swoops down in a hot air balloon to rescue Emmalina from La Chaze.”
“Hmmm. Intriguing.” Anna considered the idea for a moment. “But where has the balloon come from? It’s not exactly something he can conjure up out of thin air.”
“Oh. Right.” Caro scrunched her mouth in thought.
Coals crackled as the burning logs suffused the companionable silence with a mellow warmth. Watching the dancing flames slowly melt the early morning shadows, Anna felt her own mood begin to brighten. It was silly to let thoughts of a hellfire rogue upset her.
