Chasing Raven

by Jayne Fresina

  Hale has blood on his hands, Matty Bourne had told her.

  Whether this was true or not, he had certainly hunted her across London for the past few days. Was it because he saw something he liked, or simply because he wanted to reprimand her again the next time she did something wrong in his eyes. Or did he mean to dispose of her? That last thought amused her. Let him try.

  Suddenly she imagined that supposedly blood-stained hand on the side of her neck, gently stroking her with his fingertips. They moved downward, over the base of her throat and slowly traced the curve of her breast.

  Raven closed her eyes, wickedly relishing the progress of his masterful fingers as they slid under the lace trim of her bodice. And further. She thought she even felt some corset laces stretch and stitches break as his large hand firmly cupped her breast with wanton disregard for public decency.

  He was demanding, arrogant, as she knew he could be.

  Her skin pimpled, her nipple puckered, as if she truly felt the proprietary touch of his flesh to hers.

  She was breathing so fast now that she felt dizzy. How fortunate that she was seated.

  Meanwhile, the very proper gentleman who could have no idea of the naughty depths to which her imagination took her, moved only his little finger to brush a curl of her hair. Twice.

  The end of that twisting lock was briefly lifted from her shoulder and then returned. It might have been the caress of a cool draft rather than his finger that caused the movement.

  Small as it was, however, the touch made her tremble. She dropped her reticule, the thin silk ribbon slipping through her fingers again as it had done before in his carriage. Both she and Hale bent for it at the same moment, touching hands in the shadows.

  A sudden loud crack interrupted the music, and the sound of glass shards hitting the stone terrace made them both look up in alarm. An ornamental vase holding a topiary had toppled, apparently, into the glass-paneled door and caused a momentary distraction. Inside the house somebody let out a belated scream and another complained of a cut from flying glass. Several faces clustered there to look out, as if the fault for the falling plant might be blamed on the Deverell who lurked outside.

  She felt his hand slip from hers and when she looked up, her hunter was gone, vanished into the night.

  But Raven could not leave her chair for several minutes. Her knees had utterly lost their strength and all her blood had rushed to the most sensitive parts of her body, making it most unwise that she attempt to get up and have civil conversation. It was not the broken glass that startled her, but the swift brush of his lips to her cheek as they bent together for her reticule.

  Perhaps she was responsible for the door, she thought grimly. Her pulse vibrated hard enough to shake the terrace. Had his lips lingered longer there might have been a few more smashed glass panels.

  Mary Ashford suddenly appeared in the chair beside her. "His lordship left rather precipitously and directly across the lawn in the dark, trampling Lady Faulkner's flower beds, much to her distress," she whispered. "What did you do to him?"

  "Nothing," she managed tightly.

  "And the topiary?"

  "It was not our fault. Perhaps the wind blew it over."

  "Wind? On a still, starlit night?"

  "Well, I know not," she exclaimed. "It was nothing to do with us."

  "Perhaps the two of you caused a chemical reaction of some sort, and a mysterious zephyr formed out of nowhere—"

  "Yes, thank you, Miss Ashford, you are most amusing."

  "You're considerably flushed, Miss Deverell."

  "Because it's far too hot this evening, Miss Ashford."

  "That would account for the goose-pimples on your arm."

  "The music caused them. Of course, I am more sensitive to fine music than you."

  Mary, clearly amused, was too good a friend to mention anything more about it. For the time being.

  * * * *

  "She bit Mr. Vanderbilt, you know."

  "By all accounts, sank her teeth into his finger as if it were a meringue."

  His Aunt Serena leaned across the tea cups, placed a hand on his and said earnestly, "You must take care, Sebastian. She is not our sort. Not at all. They are very different people."

  "But he only danced with her once," Aunt Evelyn hurriedly assured her sister.

  "Once," Serena replied with a terse sniff, "is quite enough."

  Amused, Hale picked up his teacup. "I thought you were eager to see me take an interest in somebody."

  "Somebody is not anybody!"

  He took a hasty sip of tea. It was far too sweet, but the excess of sugar was helpful in this case because it turned his smile into a wince. His aunts would not have found anything amusing in this situation, although it was becoming increasingly comical in his opinion. Darkly comical. Today, fortunately, they had not invited any other "Suitable Gell" to simper at him above the tea urn. Instead, he was summoned urgently because they had grave advice to impart.

  "It has been a long time, Sebastian, since your wife passed on," Aunt Evelyn reminded him tenderly, her grey eyes wide and round. "You should not let that tragedy put you off trying again. For the sake of the estate's future."

  "But with the right gell. Not a trollop. Raven Deverell is a hussy, dear boy." Serena passed him a napkin. "Perhaps you are not aware of her reputation, since you are so seldom away from Greyledge."

  "You do not think that sometimes these things are exaggerated?"

  Both aunts looked at him in horror.

  "It may be that she has not had many good influences in her life," he added. "A field that is always in shadow never loses its frost to let anything grow."

  They continued to stare, as if he had told them he was selling up and leaving for America with Mr. Vanderbilt and his wounded finger.

  "That is to say," he explained gently, setting his cup down, "it may be that one wrong step— "

  "One wrong step is all it takes. A young lady can never be too circumspect in the company she keeps and in her behavior. But the Deverell gell has been left grievously unguarded."

  He could not argue with that, unfortunately, for he'd seen the evidence for himself.

  Aunt Evelyn added solemnly, "She was witnessed, in public, drinking common stout like a navvy. It is said she was with a gang of riotous university students who dared her to drain the glass."

  "And she deliberately broke one of Lady Faulkner's priceless Chinese vases only the other night. Smashed it in a fit of temper. With her shoe."

  "Her shoe?" Again he struggled not to laugh.

  "They say she was entangled with Felix Faulkner and when his mama put a stop to it she flew into a rage and threw her shoe."

  "As a matter of fact, I was there," he replied calmly, "and I can assure you it did not happen that way at all."

  But they were not about to listen to anything he had to say. They had sent for him to listen to them.

  "And there is something else you should know, Sebastian, dear boy."

  "There is?" What more could there be?

  The two aunts exchanged anxious glances above their tea cups. Finally Serena, the braver sister, leaned over again and whispered, "She has made a wager with her brother that she can seduce you by the grouse season." Sitting back again, she shook her head, the edges of her lace cap trembling with indignation. "Can you imagine such a terrible, brazen thing?"

  He frowned. "How do you know this?"

  "It was overheard in the foyer at the Queen's Theatre. Some of Lady Newcombe's friends were most concerned and passed it along to her at the first opportunity."

  Slowly and carefully he ran a fingertip over his eyebrows, first one and then the other.

  "So now you see why we are deeply troubled, Sebastian. You must stay away from that gell at all costs."

  Ah, but it was too late.

  "Lady Newcombe is a dear. So very well mannered," Aunt Evelyn exclaimed. Leaning closer, she added gravely, "She most obligingly took the smaller slice of cake when she w
as here yesterday and left the sugared flower for me. I could talk of little else but her generosity and sacrifice for a full evening, could I, Serena?"

  "Indeed you could not."

  "The lady sounds very shrewd," he muttered.

  "Lady Newcombe would certainly never throw her shoe across a room and then run barefoot like a savage across a well-tended bed of geraniums."

  "And when she told us about the Deverell gell and that shocking wager, she was most concerned for you, Sebastian. She was so overwrought, she could barely get the words out, and how she blushed to tell us! Such a lovely, innocent gell— Jane Newcombe— and so very suitable. When we introduced you to her in this parlor last week, we had high hopes."

  "Indeed." Aunt Serena stirred her tea violently, her little spoon clattering against the china. "He cannot find fault with this one, we said."

  "Lady Newcombe has an impeccable reputation. And although she is a widow she still has some childbearing years ahead of her."

  "That Deverell gell can have nothing in common with you. Look at her family! Her father, a gypsy foundling from who knows where! A fortune made from gaming and other illicit means too, no doubt. A tribe of bastard children with one murder already attributed to the eldest boy, although they say the father's money got him out of it. And now the daughter — by all accounts a villain worse than the others— boldly announces an intention to seduce you. To make you another of her playthings."

  "You have a ghostly pallor, Sebastian! You need food." Aunt Evelyn pushed the plate at him. "Do have a slice of cake."

  Cake? He needed something much stronger. He took a breath and assured them both that he was quite capable of defending himself from the villainy of 'That Deverell Gell'. It really should not be such a surprise to him that she would take such a wager. After all she had brazenly proposed marriage to him the very first time they met.

  "I am one and thirty," he reminded them. "I think I might outfox the schemes of that young lady, don't you?"

  Aunt Evelyn shook her head worriedly and muttered, "She is half gypsy."

  "And one whole hussy," her sister snapped, head twitching with every word.

  "Nevertheless..." May as well get it over with. "I have invited Miss Deverell and her mother to Greyledge. Now, I fear, I must muddle on as best I can, for the invitation cannot be rescinded."

  Now it was the aunts that needed cake. One of them lost her entire slice and plate to the carpet.

  "I had better put away all the heirlooms," he muttered, picking up his tea cup, "in case of flying slippers."

  * * * *

  Raven found her mother being fitted for a new gown, surrounded by samples of silk, taffeta and muslin, and giving orders for two of everything. In some cases three, "If there is time enough."

  "Mama, this looks...expensive. Is it entirely necessary?"

  For that she received a scowl that might have felled a six-foot stevedore. Only when the seamstress and her harried assistants had left the suite, did Lady Charlotte confront her daughter.

  "One never mentions expense in public, especially not before the servants and lower classes."

  "I'm sorry, mama, but I'm afraid it must be mentioned."

  "I do not comprehend your constant desire to scrimp like a pauper, Raven. Money is there to be spent. What else is to be done with it?"

  "But the money is not always there, is it? You spend on account and when the bill is due you cannot always pay it."

  "Ugh," her mother stripped a new pair of silk evening gloves from her arms and tossed them to the chaise. "Tedious arithmetic is for tradesmen!"

  "It is practical sense. Papa has raised your allowance and yet it is never enough."

  Lady Charlotte spun around from the full-length looking glass in which she admired herself. "Your father has no shortage of coin and is generous to everybody but me. I," she thrust a finger at her bosom, "who have suffered so much at his hands. Might I remind you what I gave up to marry that man and bear three of his children? I am an Earl's daughter—"

  "And even grandpapa Rothsey decided you'd had more than your share already when he died."

  "Yes, he used my divorce as an excuse to leave me with a pittance, while my cousin Frederick received every other penny, candlestick, cushion and carpet there was to be had."

  "I daresay, when your cousin inherited the earldom too, he needed as much as he could raise to maintain the estate in Scotland. Grandpapa knew you had only yourself to manage. As for my father, he gives you plenty. Considering how you speak of him to everybody, he is remarkably fair. If you managed that stipend better, you would never be short."

  But her words fell on muffled ears. "As Alphonse says, we must live for the moment and enjoy ourselves. Wait for nothing. Do not save what we have in expectation of spending it another day." She waggled a finger at her daughter. "A day which may never come. Nobody lives forever. Time flies, as I keep reminding you, Raven."

  "I would not take too much financial advice from Monsieur Reynaux, mama. If it is true about all those investment failures he has suffered, he is really in no position to —"

  "Alphonse has been unlucky and trusted the wrong people, but he still maintains a cheerful front. That is most important. One should always dress well. Spare no expense on one's appearance." She looked at her reflection again and put up her chin proudly. "Let all those old gossips rattle their sabers in outrage, but at least I shall never be caught in last year's gown. As Alphonse says, looking well is the best revenge." Her eyes gleamed like winter sun on an ice-covered pond. There might have been tears if they did not freeze where they flourished. "One does not attend an estate such as Greyledge in homespun wool and hobnail boots, daughter."

  "I have not even decided I will go yet."

  But in her mother's mind it was all arranged and, like a heavy ale barrel rolling downhill, it could not be stopped by any human effort without risk of injury.

  "If only the seamstress could work faster. You need at least three new day gowns for Greyledge. Alas there simply isn't time. But Hale will surely buy you anything you need eventually."

  "Why would he buy me anything? I do not want his money."

  Her mother cast her a dark look over one shoulder. "As I've told you before, if you must be naive about a man's motives, do so in front of him, but don't bother pretending to me."

  Raven, surveying the gloves, stockings, petticoats, perfume and silk scarves, spread out across the room, feared that her mother's French gentleman's spendthrift attitude was more dangerous than that theoretical runaway ale barrel.

  "Hale has compensated Lady Faulkner for her vase, you know," her mother exclaimed, smug. "The one she blamed you for breaking."

  Deeply annoyed, Raven tossed a bottle of scent onto the chaise. "I had nothing to do with that vase falling, and he knows it. I was nowhere near the damn thing."

  "Nevertheless, I daresay he wanted to keep the peace and that tiresome old bat would not stop complaining about it to all and sundry. It was an ugly vase in any case. Reynaux says he doubts it was even genuine Ming."

  Like an unwanted genie conjured by the mention of his name, Alphonse arrived at that very moment, sweeping in with his usual grand entrance, surrounded by the thick wave of tobacco which must permeate every item of clothing he ever wore.

  "Mademoiselle!" he exclaimed, making directly for Raven. "I 'ave a billet doux from a young gentleman in the street. 'E stopped me and asked that I give it to you." And he pushed a sealed square of paper into her reluctant hand. "The poor fellow, 'e look so sad. I think you 'ave broke 'is 'eart, as I 'ear you so often do." He exhaled a bellow of laughter, took out his old snuff box, and strolled across to her mother, just as eager to give his judgment on her many purchases, as she was to hear it.

  Raven hurried to the window, but there was no sign of anybody lurking outside. She tore open the wax seal and found a rather pathetic note from Matthew Bourne, declaring his unfailing adoration for her— despite his engagement— and wanting Raven to meet him in private.


  It was so very typical of him to think they might go on as before. Poor Louisa Winstanley had her hands full.

  The final line of his letter was this odd statement,

  Hale was very lucky the other evening, but he will not be so fortunate again. I warned him.

  She went to her own room and wrote a reply. Tactful letters were never her greatest strength, but once again she wished him the best of fortune with his marriage and explained that to meet him in private would be impossible. About his threat to Hale she said nothing. It was childish chest thumping meant to impress her and not to be encouraged. Besides, she could not believe Matthew capable of harming a fly. Unless he accidentally stepped upon it while inebriated.

  Later she would ask Mary Ashford to take her reply to Matty at Redvers House. Mary would be gentle but firm. She always knew the right thing to say and took no nonsense.

  Her letter written and sealed, Raven was relieved to escape the hotel suite and join her brother Ransom for a ride in the park— an appointment they kept as often as they could when the weather was fine.

  * * * *

  St. James' Park was busy on that sunny afternoon, but even in the milling crowd Hale was a man who could not be missed. Unfortunately Ransom recognized him at the same time and before she could stop her brother, he was calling out for the man's attention.

  "I wish you had not done that," she murmured, fearing he would think them too eager, and like all those other horrid people who pushed themselves at him during the party at Lady Faulkner's house. She had seen how they clutched at him. The man could barely take a step without being accosted.

  "Why should I not wave him over?" Ransom grinned. "He's been dining at the club every evening and asking me questions about you. Now he can ask you directly."

  She caught her breath. "What sort of questions does he ask about me?"

  "Where you might be and with whom. Why do you suppose he stayed in town this long? And when he turned up at the theatre the other night? Did you think that was a coincidence?"