by Connie Lane
Within minutes, the passageway outside the room filled with the sounds of shuffling feet, barely contained laughter and more than a few good-natured oaths. The door clicked open.
“M’lord.” Newbury stood back so that Nick’s guests might enter. “It is His Grace the Duke of Ravensfield and his companions, m’lord,” he said as if Nick could not see the men who stood in the passageway beyond. “They have come to call.”
“Well, let them in, Newbury. And be a good man, will you? Get us a few more bottles of claret. Our guests have come a long way on a chilly night. No doubt they are thirsty and cold.”
“Yes, m’lord.” After only one fleeting and quite dubious glance at something in the passageway that Nick could not see from where he stood, the butler went about his duties.
“Ravensfield.” Nick made a cursory bow to the only man who came through the doorway. Thomas Flander, the Duke of Ravensfield, was as much the unofficial head of the Blades as Nick was of the Dashers. He was the same age as Nick and though Ravensfield’s title was more prestigious and his fortune a good deal larger, Nick had always taken some small bit of satisfaction from the fact that the ladies of their mutual acquaintance had never been quite able to decide which of them was the most handsome. There was no similar debate about which of them was the most notorious rakehell. They ran neck and neck there. Or so the gossips all said. They also said that was where the similarities ended.
While Nick was golden-haired, Ravensfield’s hair was as dark as midnight. While Nick’s eyes were blue, Ravensfield’s were as black as coal. Nick favored buff-colored trousers, well-cut coats in claret, brown or the shade of indigo that Wenterly, his valet, insisted brought out the color of his eyes to their best advantage. Ravensfield had the habit of dressing entirely in black, except for a linen that was blindingly white and neckcloths that were so perfectly arranged they made him the envy of every other buck within miles.
They were so different in appearance that they were known about the ton as Night and Day, and standing across from each other now, Nick could well see why the labels not only had been conceived but had also taken hold.
Ravensfield looked as if he could smell success riding the night air. He smiled with all the warmth of a snake eyeing its dinner.
Nick tossed a cursory look at the clock in the corner. “You’re early.”
Ravensfield popped open the gold watch that hung from a chain in his fob pocket. “Right on time.” He snapped the watch shut and slid it back into place. “I do believe you have one thousand pounds that belongs to us.”
Nick could hardly help himself. He had to laugh. The man was as bold as brass. “What? Are you willing to dispense with the formalities?”
When Newbury appeared at the door with a tray of refreshments, Nick signaled for him. He handed one glass to Ravensfield and kept one for himself. “It’s early,” Nick said, holding up his glass in salute. “And though the Blades may be old and ready to retire…”
The Dashers applauded Nick’s stroke of wit and buoyed by their loud and enthusiastic encouragement, he goaded Ravensfield further.
“Though the Blades may be old tabbies ready to sleep before the fire, the Dashers say the night is young! Finish your drink, Ravensfield, and have another. My claret will help soften the blow you’re sure to feel when you hand us that one thousand pounds.”
“You crow well enough. But you know it’s all fustian.” Ravensfield downed his drink in one long swallow and came up smiling. “I am afraid this night, there will be disturbing echoes of that fateful weekend at Weyne’s. Another loss, but at least this time, you will not do it with your trousers down.” Laughing heartily he clapped Nick on the shoulder and continued on.
“No. It’s neither the hour nor your esteemed company that compels me to cut short my visit. I have a charming bit of muslin waiting in my carriage. She’s as skilled at what she does as she is pretty,” he confided with a wink. “My share of the one thousand pounds ought to be enough to please her and that should make her very, very grateful.”
“Then I hate to disappoint her. And you. You will have to pay the doxy with your own blunt, not mine. You’ll get none from the Dashers this night.”
“We’ll see about that.” Ravensfield’s dark eyes flashed. He set his glass on the nearest table and Nick knew it was time to get down to business.
With a flourish, Ravensfield motioned toward the doorway. “Gentlemen! I give you the most amazing, the most astounding, the most remarkable thing you Dashers have seen or will see in a good long while!”
On cue, the Blades who had been waiting in the passageway outside paraded into the room two by two. Nick recognized every one of them: Ravensfield’s cousin, John, side by side with the Earl of Whiting; Archie Greene, the celebrated novelist, with Stephen Wolf, the astoundingly wealthy banker; Joseph Heathe, James Varclay, Thatcher Kent, Maynard Hudson. Each of them carried a bottle and each was drinking to the health of the Dashers as they entered. Bringing up the rear of the procession was Lewis Hinter-Paxton.
Nick wasn’t sure if there had ever been a Royal Italian Opera House production about India, but if there had been (or if there ever would be), he imagined that the native characters in it would be dressed in much the same theatrical way as was Hinter-Paxton.
He was wearing wide white trousers that were gathered at his ankles just above his bare feet and a sort of waistcoat that exposed his arms and a good portion of his bare torso. He sported an elaborate, saffron-colored turban with a large and very real-looking emerald pinned to the front of it and a huge feather sprouting from the top.
As exotic as the outfit certainly was, it was not the most singular aspect of Hinter-Paxton.
That was certainly the fact that he was leading a baby elephant.
“No Julius Caesar!” Nick laughed and when Ravensfield looked at him in wonder, he laughed even harder. “No Archbishop of Canterbury! And not a purple peruke in sight!”
Obviously, he had expected something a little more rhapsodic. Ravensfield sniffed decorously. “I do not know how you can be so cavalier,” he said, casting a glance over Nick and on to the rest of the Dashers. “It took a great deal of ingenuity to pinch the little brute from Astley’s and a good deal of convincing to get it into a carriage and bring it over here. I take it you’re in shock, Somerton, or you’d have the sense to recognize defeat when you see it.”
“Defeat. Hmmm.” Being careful to stay away from the probing and inquisitive trunk the elephant moved from side to side, Nick did a turn around the scrawny little beast. He wrinkled his nose. “It’s singular, right enough, Ravensfield. I will admit that much.” He let the comment register and just when the Blades were looking damned pleased with themselves and damned sure they’d won, he added, “However…”
“However?” His voice edged with disbelief and just the slightest touch of annoyance, Ravensfield pulled back his shoulders. “You can’t possibly tell me you’ve seen anything like it,” he said, jabbing a finger toward the animal. “At least not here in Somerton House.”
“That’s where you’re wrong.” Nick came to a stop directly across from Ravensfield. “You’re forgetting the times we’ve all spent here together sharing a bottle or two. I can myself attest to the fact that on those nights when we’ve landed under the tables and up in the altitudes, there has been at least one elephant on the premises. I’d wager you’ve seen a few yourself.”
While Ravensfield and the other Blades laughed at the quip, Nick took the opportunity to signal to Latimer and Palliston.
As if they’d practiced the maneuver and drilled it to perfection, the Dashers backed away in concert, and Hexam marched forward with Willie Culpepper on his arm.
“Zounds!” Ravensfield was enough of a man of the world to be suitably enchanted by the young lady so surprisingly revealed, enough of a gentleman to know not to say anything more suggestive lest he offend, and enough of a realist to take a startled step back when Willie’s steely eyes met his.
“Zounds
!” He murmured the word this time and closed in on Willie, taking much the same kind of turn around her as Nick had done around the elephant.
There were spots of dark color in Willie’s cheeks. Her eyes flashed, not at Ravensfield or at the other Blades and Dashers who had made her the center of their attention, but straight at Nick.
Like lightning.
“I trust this means our business is concluded,” she told him. “And you, sir…” She shifted her gaze to Ravensfield. “You can stop eyeing me like a bolt of cloth in a shop.”
Never one to be easily deterred, Ravensfield’s smile grew broader. “You’ve had one too many drinks this night, Somerton,” the duke said. “She may be charming in her own steadfast sort of way, but the young lady is hardly extraordinary. As you yourself mentioned, we have all seen elephants here in Somerton House on nights when the spirits are flowing and the candles are burning to their stumps. But we’ve seen young ladies here on those nights, too, Somerton. Dozens of them. Just like this one.”
“No. Not like this one.”
Nick marched over to stand nearer to Ravensfield and Willie.
“Your Grace,” he said, turning to Ravensfield and addressing him in formal fashion. “Gentlemen.” He looked at the others. “While you may think the young lady alltoo-familiar, I tell you this: she is unique. And far different from anything any of us have seen in a good, long time. Gentlemen, may I present…” He paused for effect, enjoying the moment nearly as much as he knew he would enjoy spending Ravensfield’s money. “A virgin!”
“What!” Willie’s infuriated gasp was nearly lost beneath the sounds of a hearty ovation and a good deal of laughter.
Ravensfield had chosen that unfortunate moment to take a drink. He choked it down, coughed and pounded his chest. Eyebrows quirked with curiosity, he gave Willie one final look. “She’s a beauty in her own way. But the gown…the bonnet…her crusty demeanor…” He shivered. “I have no doubt you are right about her, Somerton. However did you find her?”
Latimer stepped forward and because his peerage was equal to Ravensfield’s and his family line was even older, he presumed to put a sympathetic hand on the duke’s arm. “Somerton’s a genius. Admit it, Ravensfield. The man is above your touch when it comes to being clever.”
Though he wasn’t about to admit it, Ravensfield knew he had no choice. He reached into his coat pocket and produced a stack of banknotes.
“Success!” Nick brandished the notes for all to see and the Dashers cheered. “And drinks,” he called. “Drinks all around!”
The preliminaries over, the score evened—at least for one night—the Dashers and the Blades linked arms and exchanged greetings. Chatting and laughing, they adjourned to the nearby tables where an army of servants had earlier set out plates of figs and bowls of dates and platters of Westphalian hams and plump sausages.
Nick said his farewells to Ravensfield (who, in spite of the fact that he was not any richer, was anxious to get back to the woman who waited in his carriage) and made a move to join his guests at table. He was pulled to a stop by the unyielding pressure of a hand against his sleeve.
He turned and found himself nose to nose with Willie.
Her eyes blazing, Willie dropped her hand the moment she had Nick’s attention. She propped her fists on her hips. “Are you simply going to walk away?”
It was not a question as much as it was an expression of outrage. Had Nick been as wary of women when he was drunk as he was when he was sober, he might have realized as much. Instead, he took Willie—and her comment—at face value.
“Of course I am going to walk away. That’s it. That’s all. I told you as much when you got here. I promised you wouldn’t be touched. I guaranteed you that you would not be harassed in any way. So you see, we don’t need you any longer. You were anxious to leave earlier. You can leave now.”
Which didn’t explain why Willie didn’t budge.
The realization trudged through Nick’s head as if in heavy boots. But he had to give himself credit, it didn’t take him long to figure out the thing. “Do forgive me, Miss Cul…Cul…Culpepper.” He spoiled the fervor of his apology with a hiccup and slipped a sovereign from his pocket. He held it out to Willie. “Here you go. For your trouble. I will have Newbury tell Burnam to bring my carriage around. You’ll be home in no time.”
Her expression turned from a glare to a grimace. Nick couldn’t think why. He poked the gold coin in her direction again.
This time, Willie’s spine went rigid. She stood up straight and tall, suddenly looking less like an innocent virgin and more like the unyielding figure Nick had seen beside her father that afternoon.
“I will not be paid off and dismissed like one of your friend Ravensfield’s doxies,” she said, her words clipped by her clenched teeth. “And I will not head off in a carriage in the middle of the night all by myself. You brought me here, you’ll take me home. Now.”
“Yes. Er…Well…” Nick glanced over his shoulder to where his friends were digging into their suppers. “That’s all well and good, but we’re having a feast here, you see. If you’d like to stay—”
“I would not.” Folding her hands together, Willie clutched them at her waist. “And I will not be turned into the street. You can be certain of that.”
The two bright spots of color Nick had seen in her cheeks earlier were gone. Her skin was the color of fireplace ashes.
At least Nick supposed it was the color of fireplace ashes. He’d actually never gotten close enough to a dirty fireplace to see what color the ashes were. That was a job for servants.
And so was this.
“Newbury!” His voice revealing far too much of the panic Willie’s level gaze caused to erupt inside him, Nick caught his butler’s eye. He took hold of her hand and hauled her over to where Newbury was stationed.
“Be a good fellow,” he told Newbury, “and see Miss Culpepper home. Here.” He added another sovereign to the stack and dropped both coins into her hand. “That ought to more than make up for your trouble. Good night, Miss Culpepper. Good-bye.”
There wasn’t much Willie could say in the face of such a straightforward, albeit heartless, dismissal. She raised her chin and held her jaw so tight, it felt as if it would snap. With a toss of her head and a look at Nick that would have withered any man not so wet to the gills with spirits, she followed Newbury out the door.
If Nick wasn’t quite so foxed and not so eager to join his guests for an evening of drinking and cards, he might have noticed that Willie paused outside the door, her eyes suddenly bright.
As if she’d just thought of a very clever idea.
4
Nick dreamed of an angel.
Not an angel of the sort he’d seen in picture books. No flowing white gown. No downy white wings. No halo of pure, white light around its golden head.
This was a fiery angel.
An avenging angel.
An angel with granite-hard eyes and hair the color of an August sunset. An angel with posture like a pikestaff and a personality to match.
Solid.
Rigid.
Unbending.
Being careful not to move too quickly, Nick groaned and dug his shoulders farther into his featherbed. His head pounded like a military band. His mouth tasted like the bottom of a birdcage. He could see light against his closed eyelids and the very thought of a world waking to morning sunshine and chirping birds made his stomach turn.
He knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that it would hurt like hell to face the day, so he took the only rational course of action.
He decided not to.
As he had done so many times before on so many mornings after so many such nights in the company of the Dashers, he lay perfectly still because still was the only thing that didn’t make his head thump. With any luck at all, by the time the sun slipped into the afternoon sky and he stumbled out of bed, his head would be blessedly free of the hammering inside it and his stomach would settle back where it belonge
d.
Pity it didn’t work.
“Damn!” Carefully, Nick opened one eye. When he suffered no more ill effect than a swooping in his stomach and a fierce pain behind his forehead, he summoned the fortitude and what little of his energy had not been pickled in claret to open the other.
And sat up in bed like a shot.
There was a woman in the room with him. A woman dressed all in black who was stationed at the foot of his bed looking for all the world like the fiery avenging angel in his dream.
Only far more cantankerous.
“Willie?” Even as he said the name, he prayed she would not answer. That way, he would know she was nothing more than a spirit-soaked vision.
“It’s about time,” she said, dashing Nick’s hopes. “I thought you would never wake. It’s nearly eight. Most decent folk have been up and about their business for hours. Do you always lay in bed so long?”
The face was familiar.
The voice was unmistakable.
Nick’s stomach lurched and he held up one hand as if that alone would help keep the memories at bay. “Wait a minute! Are you telling me…I didn’t dream you? You’re real? It…It really happened?”
“Since I cannot say what you dreamed, I cannot say one way or another if your dreams coincide with reality or collide with it. However, if you are talking about last night—”
“Yes.”
“And if you’re remembering your trip to the Church of Divine and Imperishable Justice—”
“So it seems.”
“And if you are referring to the fact that I was unceremoniously bundled up and brought here against my will—”
“I am.” Nick’s spirits plummeted. It was not some twisted trick of his imagination. “Is there any more…” Almost afraid to look, he glanced at the pillow that lay beside his. It was not crumpled; it hadn’t been used.
Nick sighed with relief.
Willie followed his gaze as clearly as his thoughts and her expression darkened along with the color in her cheeks. “You needn’t worry on my account,” she assured him. “You were quite foxed, you know. Even had you been inclined to debauchment, I doubt you would have been capable. No, you have quite enough to be remorseful for without adding seduction to your sins.”
