by Cara Elliott
“Hadley,” she repeated. “I—”
“I should like to hear my name on your lips.”
She hesitated. No, no, no. That was too dangerous. Yet the word seemed to slip out of its own accord. “L-Lucas…”
His mouth quirked in an odd little smile. “Hell, it sounds uncomfortably close to Lucifer, doesn’t it? But then, I suppose that’s only fitting. A pity that it’s not nearly as poetic as yours.”
“I wonder that you always feel compelled to paint such a black picture of yourself.” In spite of her own misgivings, she couldn’t help adding, “You are far from evil.”
“I’m far from good, sweetheart.” His features suddenly hardened. “Don’t be a fool and forget that.”
Heeding the warning, Ciara finally drew back from the comfort of his arms. He made no attempt to keep her close. “Thank you for the reminder, Lord Hadley. You need not worry—I’m not about to join the legion of ladies chasing at your coattails.”
“It’s not my coattails they are after,” he murmured.
Ah, back to being the lewd libertine.
It was just as well, she told herself. Lucas had so much practice sliding in and out of the role. It now fitted him to perfection, like the soft York Tan leather of his fancy gloves.
Fisting her hands in the folds of her skirts, Ciara matched his cynical tone. “You need not explain the graphic details. I am well aware of the thrust of your comments. As well as your feelings on sentimental attachments.” She feigned a careless shrug. “But Peregrine is not.”
Lucas ceased smiling. “Whatever my faults—and God knows they are legion—I would never hurt a child.”
“No, perhaps not deliberately,” she replied. “Yet I fear he is forming an emotional attachment to you. One that will only lead to pain and heartache when it is broken.” She drew in a gulp of air, trying to steady her voice. “Perry is too young to understand our arrangement, and he’s already experienced enough rejection.” Oh no, not tears again. It was absurd to be acting like a horrid novel heroine. “He’s so vulnerable. I beg you, do not encourage his—”
“Ciara.”
She fell silent.
“You think I mean to toss aside Peregrine, like a defective cricket ball?” asked Lucas.
Her gaze remained riveted on the tips of his boots.
“Whatever comes of our situation, I should be happy to continue my friendship with your son,” continued Lucas slowly. “He’s an engaging imp, and, well, I rather like showing him some of the basics of being a boy.” After a moment, his expression turned a touch more serious. “You need not fear that I will introduce him to any of my vices.”
Somehow, Ciara sensed that she could trust his word on that. “I don’t. But…” She heaved a harried sigh. “I don’t know, it just all seems so complicated.”
He touched her cheek. “You have been teaching me that a scientist must step back and break down a complex problem into a progression of simple steps. Let us not jump ahead of ourselves. Somehow, if we exercise care and caution, things will work out.”
Ciara felt her mouth quiver. “Oh, how very humbling it is to be reminded of my lectures. Do I really sound so pompous?”
“Wisdom is always worth repeating,” he murmured.
Fighting the flutter of her heart, Ciara wagged a finger. “Now you are doing it too brown, Hadley. Flattery will only get you so far.”
“And from there?” His tone was light, and yet the fringe of his lashes did not quite obscure the odd glint in his eyes.
She regarded her hands, which were still knotted in the folds of merino wool. “I—I suppose we will just have to cross that bridge when we come to it.”
Chapter Fifteen
Wicked, wicked, wicked.
Lucas propped his slippered feet on the fender and stared at the fire licking up from the burning logs. Oh, he was an evil man. Only the worst sort of depraved devil would be thinking such impure thoughts.
The flames flared, nearly singeing his soles.
Lady Sheffield—the sinfully sensuous Ciara—had turned to him for comfort, and he had been all too happy to oblige. He had held her, stroked her, offered her a shoulder to lean on.
And said it was all in the name of friendship.
Liar.
Lecherous, lascivious liar. Loosening the sash of his dressing gown, Lucas shifted uncomfortably against the soft leather cushions of his chair. Damnation, an honorable man would not have taken shameless advantage of her momentary weakness.
Then again, he had never pretended to be a paragon of virtue.
Making a face, he poured himself a drink.
Lud, her body had felt so damnably good against his bare flesh. The pliant curves molding perfectly, as if made to fit him. A part of him—admittedly a very small part of him—wanted only to offer stalwart support. The rest of his body wanted to slide up her skirts and make mad, furious love to her.
The voice of reason in a shouting match with the howl of carnal desire?
It didn’t take a genius to figure out which one would overpower the other.
The coals hissed and crackled, setting up a plume of smoke. Wicked man, he repeated. Most likely his cods would roast in the deepest pit of hell for all eternity.
But the warning did not cool the heat of lustful, lecherous longings swirling deep inside him. He had never been a good man. He lived for sybaritic pleasures. There was no reason to think he could change now.
He was, after all, Mad, Bad Had-ley. Wasn’t he?
Reaching for the brandy, Lucas saw that the bottle was empty. Like his own craven soul? With a sardonic snarl, he tossed it over his shoulder. Yes, it had been rather nice having a lady look up to him as a hero for once. A knight, not a knave.
But it was too damn hard to be noble. Playing the ruthless rake was far easier than girding his loins to joust at fire-breathing dragons.
Ciara didn’t really expect anything more, having been disappointed by all the men in her life. Lucas felt a twinge in his gut. She deserved better, of course. And yet he wasn’t altruistic enough to walk away. Life was full of bitter disappointments. If he couldn’t give her peace of mind, he could at least offer her physical pleasure, if just for a fleeting moment.
What was wrong with that?
Prying the cork from a bottle of claret, he wet his lips with the wine. It was not as if she was a sheltered miss, innocent in the ways of the world. She had experienced the slings and arrows of scorn. Right now what she needed was someone to make her feel wanted. To make her feel alive again. He had sensed her softening.
Seduction, he reasoned, would be doing her a good turn. She might even thank him in the end.
Evil, evil, chorused the tongues of flame.
He didn’t need their wagging whispers to know that the rationalization was a self-serving twisting of the truth. But closing his eyes, Lucas chose to listen to the dark side of his nature. Their bargain was for an equal exchange of services.
She meant to teach him all about intellect?
Well, he would give her some lessons in lust.
So far their exchanges had only been foreplay…
Uncorking a vial of juniper essence, Ciara set about brewing a batch of medicinal bath oil for one of Ariel’s invalid friends. The pungent evergreen was a powerful balm for calming both body and spirit.
Perhaps she had better make up an extra tub of the stuff. Both her mind and her muscles felt as if they were tied in knots.
Relax, she scolded herself. All things considered, they had escaped the accident relatively unscathed. Peregrine seemed to be suffering no lingering effects of shock. As for Hadley, by the time he had taken his leave last night, his limp was hardly noticeable. This morning he would probably be a good deal stiffer…
Oil. It was time to add oil to the mixture.
She hurried through the last few ingredients, and then left the pot to simmer over a low flame. In the meantime, she could spend the next hour with the baron’s manuscript.
“M
ilady?”
Repressing a sigh, Ciara paused in the doorway of the library. “Yes, McCabe?”
“There is a gentleman downstairs to see you.”
“Please tell Lord Hadley that I am too busy for visitors this morning.”
The butler cleared his throat. “It is not Lord Hadley, milady.”
Her blood froze. The only other male who dared to call at Pont Street was her nephew. “Sir Arthur?”
“Yes, madam.”
“Tell him I will be down in a moment.”
As the servant headed for the stairs, Ciara caught a glimpse of her reflection in one of the glass-framed botanical prints. Hardly a pretty picture. Steam had reddened her cheeks and curled her hair into unruly ringlets. Tucking an errant lock behind her ear, she smoothed at the folds of her work dress. Not that it mattered what she looked like.
The Sheffields were blinded by their own selfish greed.
“Good morning, Aunt.” With an insolent shrug, Arthur placed the small Roman bronze of Mercury back in the curio case. “What an odd collection. You seem to have a fondness for pagan deities.”
“I collect classical antiquities,” she replied coolly. “As do a great many educated members of Polite Society.”
He flushed slightly at the subtle barb. “You also appear to collect misfortunes, Lady Ciara. I just heard about the accident in the park and came to inquire about my young cousin.”
“Peregrine is perfectly fine, thanks to Lord Hadley’s quickness.”
Arthur’s eyes narrowed to a razored squint. “Perhaps if you had been keeping a careful watch on your son rather than making mooncalf eyes at your lover, the boy would not have been in any danger to begin with.”
Ciara drew in a harsh breath.
“Perhaps he would be better off with more attentive guardians, Aunt. You seem more concerned with brewing up black magic than in looking after your child.”
She couldn’t contain her indignation. “How dare you accuse me of neglect.”
“Oh, I assure you, it’s not just me.” A casual flick of his finger knocked over the statue of Juno. “The drawing rooms are all abuzz with talk about the Wicked Widow.” He paused. “And have you seen the morning headlines?”
Though a frisson of fear ran down her spine, Ciara lifted her chin. “You may not find it quite so easy to turn all of Society against me. I am not without… friends.”
Arthur’s face darkened for an instant, and then his lips parted to reveal a flash of teeth. “You dance through a few balls and so think that you are a match for us? Trust me, my family knows the ton far better than you do. They know who wields the power here in Town—and who does not.”
She didn’t trust her voice to answer.
“So you see, it really would be best for everyone involved if you would agree to our earlier suggestions and cede legal guardianship of the boy to us, his father’s family,” continued Arthur. “That way, Master Peregrine would get the attention he deserves, and you, dear Aunt, would be free to pursue your unnatural interests.”
“Over my dead body,” she muttered through clenched teeth.
“Oh, that can be arranged. Perhaps sooner rather than later.” He gave a nasty laugh. “You do know, don’t you, that the magistrate is considering our petition to reopen the inquest into my uncle’s untimely demise. If we were to withdraw it, the case would remain closed…” The unspoken words hung heavy in the air.
Ciara took a moment to master her outrage. “Are you threatening me, Sir Arthur?”
“Think it over, Aunt.” His sneer became more pronounced. “You really think Hadley will protect you? Ha—what a farce! God knows what secret wager has him playing the besotted swain. But he’ll tire of the game soon enough.”
“Get out, sir,” she whispered.
Arthur shrugged and sauntered for the door. “Suit yourself,” he called. “But then be prepared to call Newgate prison your new home.”
Ciara waited until the click of his boot heels died away before allowing herself to sink into one of the parlor chairs. Only then did she realize her hands were trembling so badly that the fringe of her shawl was tied in knots. As were her insides.
Arthur was a despicable dullard, but his words were not idle boasts. The Sheffield family did indeed have power and influence. Was it enough to poison Society against her and make good on their threats to convene a second inquest?
She stared down at tiny loops of silk and felt her throat constrict. As if she needed any reminder that murder was a hanging offense.
The soft rap on the door caused her head to jerk up. Looking around in a blind panic, she sought for some means of escape. If only she could slip away to somewhere safe—Italy… India… a remote South Sea island far, far from the lies of London.
“Your pardon, milady, but you have another caller. The gentleman says he will take up only a moment of your time.”
Standing in the shadow was Lord James Jacquehart Pierson.
Coming to voice his own disapproval? Try as she might, Ciara couldn’t muster the strength to stand.
“Forgive me for calling at such an early hour, but I found this in my curricle”—he held out a small gold earbob—“and thought you might be worried about it.”
“Thank you,” she said numbly, making no move to take the piece of jewelry. “I assumed I had lost it in the park.”
“Er. Well.” Jack shifted his feet. After waiting a moment longer, he took a few steps and placed it atop the curio cabinet. “I’ll just leave it here.” However, his hand remained hovering over the burled walnut. “By Jove,” he murmured. “That is a remarkably fine example of Octavian bronzework. It is by Flavius, is it not?”
“Yes,” she replied without looking up.
He looked up abruptly. “Are you all right, Lady Sheffield?”
“Yes,” she whispered, stifling the urge to break out in hysterical laughter.
“You look a little faint,” he insisted. “Please allow me to pour you a glass of sherry.”
“Tippling from the bottle is not one of my bad habits, sir,” replied Ciara a trifle sharply. “We witches and warlocks usually wait until midnight to drink our black-magic libations.”
To his credit, Jack accepted the sarcasm with a show of good grace. “I suppose I deserved that. Would it help matters any if I apologized once again for putting my foot in my mouth? I am not usually so clumsy, or so rude.” He hesitated. “I am sincere in saying that I was mistaken in jumping to conclusions based on hearsay and innuendo.”
“It is I who ought to be making an apology, sir,” she assured him. “I—I am a bit overset at the moment, but that does not excuse my taking it out on you.”
He nodded. “I saw Battersham leaving just now. I assume he has something to do with your current state of mind.”
“You could say that,” she said softly.
“Hadley says the fellow is threatening you.” It was half statement, half question.
“You did not come here to listen to a litany of my woes, Lord James.” She rose, unwilling to unburden herself any further. “I imagine every family has its skeletons in the closet.”
“True.” Jack moved away from the curio cabinet, though his gaze seemed to linger for a moment on the display of Roman art. “Don’t let him rattle you. He’s a toad, and all of the ton knows it.”
“I agree that Sir Arthur is a reptile, but I see him as more of a serpent. And unfortunately, the Sheffield species have poisonous fangs.”
“Hadley seems intent on pulling out their teeth,” he replied after a hint of hesitation.
“I cannot blame you for sounding unhappy about the fact that your friend is putting himself at risk, sir. I am aware that Hadley’s association with me is… dangerous.”
“As you may have noticed, Lucas isn’t afraid of taking a risk,” murmured Jack. Averting his eyes, he quickly changed the subject. “Speaking of risk, I was admiring your Turner watercolor yesterday. The artist is not afraid of defying convention by using a bold palette,
is he?”
“Or a bold imagination.” She studied his profile as he approached the painting and subjected it to a closer scrutiny. Strange, but at first blush, Jack had not struck her as a man who would care for art. Like Lucas, he was quite handsome, but his features were a little harder, his gaze a little darker. His olive complexion and long black hair only added to the aura of brooding introspection.
Intimidating. Ciara stared a moment longer. An occasional ondit in the newspaper hinted that he was almost as rakish as his friend, but the particulars were never mentioned. Whatever his escapades, “Black Jack” Pierson kept them very private.
“Have you seen the current exhibit at the Society of Painters in Water-Colours?” he asked abruptly.
She shook her head. “I don’t go out much in public.”
“You ought not miss it. I shall tell Lucas to take you. You should also see the latest works that Mr. Turner has on display at his gallery in Harley Street.”
“I doubt Hadley would know a Turner from a turnip.” Ciara made a face. “I’ve inflicted enough punishment on the poor man, I’ll not ask him to spend hours in an art gallery.”
“He might surprise you,” replied Jack. “Have you ever had a look at his sketchbooks?”
“Hadley draws?” she asked.
“Quite well, actually.” He paused a fraction. “Perhaps because he had such a devil of a time learning his letters. We used to laugh ourselves sick over the pages of his copybook.”
“What do you mean?”
“He wrote the letters in reverse—E’s and F’s facing left instead of right. It seemed funny to us; however, the teachers were not so amused. They used to birch him until he was black and blue. The trouble was, he didn’t do it on purpose.”
“Yes, I have heard of such a thing,” said Ciara.
“I believe he eventually outgrew it.”
“Still, it must have been very hard on him,” she mused.
“Who enjoys being the butt of ridicule, Lady Sheffield?” replied Jack slowly. “Lucas was not stupid. Quite the contrary. So he quickly figured out how to deflect the jeers and catcalls of ‘imbecile.’” He paused for a fraction. “A devil-may-care recklessness tends to draw whistles of admiration.”
