The Black Cat
HAYLEY ANN SOLOMON
KENSINGTON e-CLASSICS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Title Page
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
Copyright Page
ONE
Not a glimmer of a moonbeam brightened the velvety black night as Lord Santana muttered a curse under his breath and squinted to look at the sky. The winds were wild and stormy, but the dark rider in the elegant greatcoat of Bath superfine urged his horses onward.
He did not stop to check that his carriage and outriders and footmen and grooms were in slow attendance several waterlogged miles behind him. That he took for granted. What he did do was spur his animals ever forward, grim determination etching faint lines across his sardonically handsome features.
“Likely get a wetting,” he thought as the first telltale drops of rain brushed against buckskins. Again he cursed the necessity to be out on such an unpromising night. Just his luck that the evening should be moonless, blessed with thousands of stars but not one bright enough to act as a guide or luminary.
Foolhardy, he’d been called, but that was him all over. He was needed in London and nothing—certainly nothing so paltry as inclement weather and a midnight sky—would stop him from getting there.
He transferred the reins lightly from one hand to the other, for he was a notable whip and would have scorned to allow the constraints of a brewing storm to hinder his handling. Indeed, even now, two frisky but perfectly matched chestnut bays trotted quite steadily into deepening mist. When the twinkling stars seemed suddenly to all but vanish, the dark was even thicker than the earl had first thought.
He adjusted the collar of his greatcoat so that perfectly starched shirt points crept ever closer to his skin. For an instant, he wished he’d brought a scarf; then he thought the better of it. A scarf could be the very devil with a cravat and he was in sufficient trouble with his valet not to care for another dressing down.
The problem was his household still thought of him as a child in small clothes rather than the strapping, war-weary, worldly elegant and supremely bored young nobleman that he was. It amused him, at times, to allow their illusions to continue, for there was no doubting the kindness behind their regularly issued scoldings, nor the fondness behind their endless cosseting.
Of course, the newer staff looked up to him as a demigod and would never dream of addressing him in the terms of his butler, his valet, his nurse, and his rather plainspoken head groom, but then they had only ever seen the handsome ape leader of the Four Horse Club, the elegant arbiter of fashion, the select young gentleman who was at once mentor to the Prince of Wales and the headstrong champion of such noxious causes as the plight of chimney sweeps.
A flash of lightning interrupted his stray thoughts. He eased the reins ever so gently, for the animals were prone to be restive. They’d require skillful reassurance if the thunder sounded any closer. He listened, alert for the loud, heavy drumrolls that followed every dangerous flash of light. He did not have to wait long, for now that the clouds had burst, the sky was a ferment of activity, dark and haunting and illuminated in patches by sheets of light rendered slightly opaque by the mists.
He uttered a soothing, gentle gabble of words to the horses, one of which—the left—had stumbled slightly in fright. He tightened his hold to communicate control and prayed that she had not sprained a fetlock. The superfine was now saturated. Wet, wild water sprayed down the nape of his neck and trickled under his collars and cuffs. My lord did not care. For an instant, he knew a moment’s pure exultation as lightning split the sky in two.
The instant passed as exultation turned to fear and urgency and a deathly, ghastly transition from sitting to standing, a loud scream at the horses, a desperate whinnying as reins wrenched and a thundering heartbeat pounded mercilessly in his ears. The world was once more plunged back into an inky black, but this time his lordship knew of a certainty he was not alone in the storm. He drew a cautious halt and leaped down, cursing, from his high perch.
Somewhere out there, the glistening emerald eyes of an animal had been reflected in the lightning flash. It had sprung from the branches overhead and vanished into the mists. My lord did not concern himself with such a paltry thing. This was England, after all. He was, however, perturbed and more than a trifling displeased that the animal had been closely followed by a wisp of a girl. His heart still pounding, he felt his devastating horror turn instantly to violent fury as he realised that his horses had not, as he had first feared, trampled her to death. The sketchiest glimpse he’d caught in the sudden, split light suggested that the lady had not even thought of his oncoming chaise as she’d chased after the animal. Even in the dark and pelting rain, she surely must have been aware of his approach. As his warmly booted feet touched the ground, he stared into the fog, hoping his eyes would adjust.
Common sense urged him to continue on his way, but unwilling chivalry coupled with serious fury forced him to remain. If there was a stranger out there in the mists, she might have need of his help or shelter or . . . a good whipping. The earl whirled around as he heard a soft chuckle behind him.
The wild beast of the great green eyes had apparently not vanished into the storm as he’d first imagined. Instead, he was even now being cradled. A kitten resting soulfully in creamy, sultry, defiant arms of satin white. The sky lit up once more and Lord Santana was dazzled by the unexpected magnificence of that which he glimpsed. Even as darkness descended yet again, the earl could tell that the young woman was as rain drenched as the cat, her mane of tousled hair loose to her waist and her gown—if such it can be called—shockingly damp. He drew in his breath, for subsequent lightning revealed his initial impression to be correct. She was more beautiful by far than even his wildest imaginings.
“You could have been killed!” The anger in his voice was unmistakable, for the very thought of crushing such a creature under his wheels shook him to his impeccable core.
The maiden, far from being cowed, looked directly into his eyes and laughed. Her lips were invitingly red, her throat appearing a perfect cream against the remote and unlikely backdrop. From the recesses of his consciousness, Santana became aware of the faint strumming of a lute and a Spanish guitar. The flicker of a circle of lanterns momentarily caught his attention. He turned back to the girl.
“You ought to be horsewhipped! If you have not a care for your own life, think, at least, upon my beasts! Even now, they are sweating from fright.”
The girl looked at him impishly. “They will recover, my lord—faster, I am sad to say, than your lamentable temper!”
Santana’s eyes narrowed. He was unused to being treated so cavalierly, and this by a little slip of a girl with no business being out on a cold and dangerous night. Smugglers were abroad. That was one of the reasons for his recall to London. His concern for her deepened his sense of outrage. He drew himself up to his full—and not inconsiderable—height.
“I take leave to tell you, my dear, that you have not yet witnessed the full splendour of my wicked temper. I have it very well in check right now and you may be thankful for that, for I assure you that your curvaceous little rear end would even now be smarting had I not.”
The cat ceased licking its paws and impaled his lordship with a glare that seemed to be almost luminous in its intensity. Santana had the faintest glimpse of unsheathed claws before it relaxed back into its comfortable position and resumed its artless posture.
The w
oman’s vexing retort transformed itself to a slight giggle as she noted the gentleman’s own clinging shirt and magnificent torso beneath. Sad to say, she did not avert her eyes in maidenly confusion. She allowed them to rest quite provocatively upon his frame before placing her splendidly ungloved hands upon a trim, delectable waist.
“Temper, temper, my dear sir! No need to be so odiously stuffy! All is well and you may continue on your precious way. I daresay a night like this would not suit all of England’s beaux!”
Her tone was mocking and slightly—ever so slightly—provocative. Santana cursed and did what he had sworn he would never do on English soil again: He took her in his arms and kissed her with the abandon the night deserved.
When he had done, the laughter had fled entirely from the young girl’s gaze.
“I am not what you think me, my lord.”
“No? What are you then, my little gypsy queen?”
She looked at him strangely, almost tenderly, and answered him with faraway eyes and a voice that was hardly her own.
“I, my lord, am your destiny.”
Santana fought the uncomfortable hammering of his heart with a light, slightly mocking riposte.
The mists seemed to close in around them, and when he looked up, she was gone. The night was faintly disturbed by the clatter of coach wheels in the distance. His carriage and outriders and footmen and grooms, no doubt. Shrugging rather dazedly, he called out in the pouring midnight rain. There was no answer, save for the cheery voice of Patterson, his head groom.
“Child, I think you know you are different.” Laura Rose cast beseeching eyes at Melinda, the only anchor she acknowledged in her carefree, will-o’-the-wisp existence. Now that Lord Henry was dead, there was nothing keeping her from returning fully to her roots—to the delicious, exotic, semimystic world of the Romanies.
“I am a gypsy, mother! Born one, bred one!”
“Born a lady, bred a gypsy. A strange mix, my child, but you were never one to laugh off destiny.”
Melinda shrugged her expressive shoulders. Wild hair tumbled to her knees and she brushed it back crossly.
“Am I no longer to share in your existence then? Never again to dance to the moon, never to lute with abandon, never to feel soft sand under my feet and sleet in my hair?”
A tear played at the back of Laura Rose’s eyes. She smiled brightly, however, and assured her daughter that becoming a lady did not necessarily mean being shielded from the elements.
“Come, Mother! You know what I mean! What about passion?”
“What about passion?”
Mother regarded daughter keenly. Melinda felt a soft blush suffuse her being. It was true that she had never before experienced passion as incarnate as the night before, when she had entered the half world of a lady rather than the more familiar one of a gypsy. She wondered, when she entered society, if she would ever encounter that particular gentleman again. Her heart gave a strange lurch at the thought. Her mother, keen to sense these things, pushed her point home.
“Fate, Melinda, is an uncontrollable force. It drives one and empowers one if one has the vision to allow it. I believe you have that vision, my dear. It is one of the gifts I have bestowed upon you—just as the gift your father bestowed is the legacy I now wish you to fulfill.”
“You do?”
Laura Rose nodded firmly. “The marquis is a strange man but a kind one despite his bellicose way. Ignore his exterior and seek his hidden depth. Though born to the world of society, he is simpatico with the Romanies. I would not entrust you to his care if I did not feel him to be worthy.”
“Worthy? He is a notorious scoundrel!”
“Look beyond you, Melinda! Always seek deeper than appearances. You know that! Still waters flow deep and your grandfather is as complex and as wily a man as ever there was.”
“You will stay with me?”
“You know that I cannot, Melinda! Your birth is irreproachable and I fancy I have taught you to speak with the manners and intonations of a lady. But my presence will cast a blight on that. Go out into the world you belong to unfettered by these gypsy chains.”
“They are not chains, mama! They are invisible strands of angel dust, and light and gossamer as—”
“Melinda!” The voice was faintly stern.
“You will visit me?”
“I will visit your grandfather. It is not fitting that I see you. ” The words were uncompromising and the daughter opened her mouth to protest. She was silenced by a delicate wave of the hand. “Once a year, on St. Agnes’s eve, I shall visit you. We will dance to the stars and sing ballads until our throats are hoarse. You shall have your passion, but I predict, Melinda, that you shall not need it.”
“No?”
“No! You were born to passion far greater than any you shall get roaming the earth with our people.”
Melinda opened her lips to argue, but something in her heart stopped her. Instead, she yielded to the murmuring of her soul and laughed instead. The sound tinkled tremulously in the air as she changed key, of a sudden, and began to sing.
That was almost a year ago and the lure of the little baggage in crimson had almost ceased to haunt Lord Santana’s dreams and waking moments. If he still chose to puzzle over the incident in the odd, contemplative moment, none was more annoyed by these stray thoughts than the earl himself. He had admirably completed his little mission for the home office—and several more of the same kind in the interim—with the result that even now, a band of particularly unsavoury smugglers were awaiting trial at the assizes.
My lord sighed as his eyes flicked over yet another dinner card from Lady Darcy. He hesitated for an instant before dropping it unceremoniously into the regrets etc. pile. Sedgewick would see to it in the morning.
To his indignation, his services were no longer to be called upon. Some bright young sprig at the home office had decreed that his title and rank placed him a little too far above their touch. It was useless to argue that this had been of little consideration during the war, when he’d risked life and limb on a daily basis for king and country. The impossible little man in drooping shirt points and a singularly poor cravat had merely blinked, executed a ridiculously elaborate bow, and stubbornly refused to see reason.
Lord Guy Santana, the third Earl of Camden, scowled prodigiously. He grappled with the rebellious notion of consigning his entire correspondence into the cosy fire flickering before him, then thought better of it. Instead, he dutifully scanned the waiting heap of calling cards and gilt-edged invitations for anything vaguely of interest. He found nothing that might arouse his spirits in the slightest and dropped them all into the regrets etc. pile. Then he poured himself his fourth drink of the day. An excellent cognac, but sadly unappreciated.
“Damn that woman!” The gypsy incident was still in his blood, hovering dangerously in his thoughts. He tried not to admit that the little widgeon’s hellishly intoxicating aura held him in its thrall, but it was useless to lie to himself. It was an undeniable fact that, since that fateful ride, my lord was bored with every female that he encountered. So irritated was he with their simpering ways, their modish blond ringlets, and their limpid blue eyes, that his temper was fast gaining the wicked reputation he’d boasted of that wet, storm-driven night.
Quite apart from all this was the vow he’d taken on the Peninsula. No more dabbling with womankind—he’d had more than his fill of them and they did nothing but cause expense and disillusionment on both sides despite a few moments’ passion. He, of course, refused to be married; they, on the other hand, could become quite irksome in their wiles to accomplish this very thing. After several close shaves, two duels, and a great deal of bother, my lord had taken the unprecedented decision to set aside lust, avoid all lures, and generally play the monk in his dealings with the gentler sex.
His lordship now prided himself, amongst his confidants, of being the most wily of bachelors. He was awake to every suit and not above discomposing the most pretentious of dowagers
—not to mention tender young things—with cold conversation and stiff, haughty manners.
Nonetheless, his wealth was so prodigious that he could not be ignored. Nor could his rank. Guy Santana continued to receive invitation after invitation, card after card. His credibility was set as impossibly high—almost legendary—when he’d arrived at Almack’s in pantaloons and gained admittance. The occurrence was sufficiently unusual for the patronesses to bend their rigid dress code for such an auspicious occasion, causing the Duke of Wellington himself to scowl and remark that he had not been treated with such civility!
The Earl of Camden had never spent a duller evening and had resolved not to repeat his mistake in the future. Now, as he gazed out of his thirteenth-century castle window, he saw not a thing. In truth, there was a hive of activity, for gardeners were trimming the hedges and several carriages were drawn up alongside the servants’ entrance bearing—though he did not know these details—such essentials as sealing wax, flint, ice for the icehouse, and wheat from his country estate. Flour in London was close to inedible and Cook insisted on this luxury at least.
Trifles. All trifles. Life was intolerably dull. The sun just caught the gleam of his signet against long, slender fingers. They were not used to being idle and he did not like it. Two kitchenmaids looked up, caught sight of him, and giggled. My lord was intolerably handsome with his lean frame and firm, tightly clad chest. His black hair was cropped short—unfashionable, perhaps, but intoxicatingly sensuous to the silly young maidens casting sheep’s eyes at him from below. He returned inside. He had ceased noticing such things.
TWO
“Camden, I insist you avenge my honour!”
“Insist, Lady Leigh?” The words were polite but the tones were insulting. Lady Lavinia Leigh contemplated throwing the half-full decanter of wine about his person, then thought better of it. There was something about Santana . . . something about the firm set of his mouth and his lithe, sinewy body that did not auger well for feminine wiles of this sort. She twirled around the room, a delicate confection of organza and pearls, and tried a different tack. Fluttering her eyelashes, she allowed a small tear to overflow from her limpid green eyes, then licked her lips tentatively.
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