Dangerous Beauty

by Cooper-Posey, Tracy

  Natasha released a heavy sigh and looked out the window. The lights in the garden below beckoned. Escape.

  What she wouldn’t give to be a world away from this place! Or even at the townhouse, tucked in her favorite chair while reading John Polidori’s The Vampyre. Her mother would be horrified if she discovered that the headache that had been forcing Natasha to retire to her room early each evening these last few days had been a ruse that gave her privacy to read the lurid, shocking novel and shiver over the deliciously wicked passages.

  “Natasha, dear, will you please bring me a glass of punch?” her mother asked, fanning herself exuberantly with the fan she had purchased just that morning.

  It had been the most expensive fan in Madame le Boutelliers’ shop, and absolutely lacking in good taste.

  Natasha knew her mother had chosen it deliberately, for Aunt Susannah had been with them and such an expense, so casually dismissed, was a subtle way of reminding her sister how much she owed her better-off older sibling. The point had not been lost on either Susannah or Natasha.

  “Hurry,” her mother added, “for I fear this heat shall be the death of me.”

  Resisting the urge to roll her eyes at her mother’s dramatics, Natasha nodded and walked toward a liveried servant in a bright red jacket.

  The bewigged young man remained expressionless, though his gaze drifted toward the low décolletage of her gown. The side of his mouth curved the slightest bit.

  Natasha didn’t bother pretending to be shocked. In truth, the servant’s reaction pleased her. The gown had been the most daring at Madame le Boutelliers’ small store—a creation of royal blue silk with an extremely tight bodice and scandalously low neckline that made her full breasts appear larger.

  Her mother had approved the choice, believing Natasha had the same aim as her in mind—attracting a wealthy husband. Natasha had bought it solely for the shock it would cause.

  How she longed to ruffle these haughty people who didn’t care about her beyond the perennial examination of her marriageless state! At the age of twenty, she was on the verge of becoming a spinster, an old maid—or so her mother reminded her at every opportunity.

  Every reminder, though, sent uneasiness rippling through her. So Natasha smiled prettily at the servant, a silent thank-you for his admiration, took two glasses from the tray and began her return journey through the assembled mass of London’s finest.

  The air was already stifling. Too much perfume mingled with body odor made drawing breath a challenge. Hopefully the host would soon throw open the four sets of doors that led out to the courtyard.

  A tall, slender man was speaking to her mother when she returned. Her father had already departed. He’d made it a point to extract himself from the gaiety at the first available moment. The card room had always held more appeal to him than dancing.

  On occasion, she had seen the man talking so earnestly to her mother and remembered him for his effeminate movements and speech. It was apparent in the way he used his hands when speaking, the graceful steps and the overall way he carried himself. But mostly what she remembered was the large, watery blue eyes that stared at her without blinking.

  “Ah, there you are, my dear,” her mother said, taking a glass from Natasha. “I would like you to meet Lord de Henscher.”

  Natasha curtsied and extended her hand.

  Lord de Henscher’s thick red lips pulled back in a thin smile, while his pale blue eyes raked her up and down. He took her hand in his and lifted it to his lips. “Sholto Piggot, my lady. It is a pleasure to meet one so fair. Your mother tells me you enjoy dancing. I would be delighted if you were to add me to your dance card.”

  “She would be honored, my lord,” her mother blurted, looking quite pleased with herself.

  Natasha penciled Lord de Henscher’s name on her card under a quadrille with sharp movements of the pencil. She would not give him a waltz. She wanted the waltzes left open to men more familiar to her.

  “Lady Munroe,” Sholto said to her mother in his nasally voice as she wrote, “You look so fresh and young, one would think you and your beautiful daughter were sisters.”

  Natasha hid her grimace. It was little wonder the man thought they were sisters, for her mother had to be nearly ten years younger than him. He was lifting a quizzing glass to his eye to inspect them. The glass distorted the watery blue eye, exaggerating the red veins, as he looked from Caroline back to Natasha. “Indeed,” he pronounced, “you could easily pass as sisters.”

  Her mother tittered gaily, while her hand encircled Natasha’s wrist and squeezed.

  A liveried manservant stepped up to Piggot’s side and whispered in his ear. Caroline took the opportunity to say to Natasha in an undertone, “Could you at least try to be personable?”

  Natasha smiled prettily for her mother and for anyone who might be watching. “I don’t care who he is, or what title he possesses.”

  Piggot nodded at the manservant then turned his attention back to them. “Lady Natasha, would you care to take a stroll about the gardens? The air in here is quite stifling, is it not?”

  “A lovely idea, indeed,” her mother replied, stiff smile in place.

  Natasha accepted his extended arm, feeling rough broadcloth beneath her fingers and a spindly forearm below. He led her toward the nearest pair of double doors and she hoped there would be others in the dimly lit gardens. Her mother might have at least offered to act as chaperone!

  “Your mother tells me you will be spending the entire Season here in London,” Piggot ventured. “Are you looking forward to the extended visit?”

  Natasha glanced up at him and caught him staring straight down her bodice. No doubt from his height he could see more than most. She lifted a brow and he abruptly shifted his gaze.

  “I find the sights of London stimulating,” she said stiffly.

  “I can think of many stimulating opportunities.” His thin lips stretched into what she assumed was a smile, but the expression was so distorted it made her shiver.

  They were out on the long balcony now and the night air was welcome. However, the light was considerably dimmed out here. There were quite a few people lingering on the balcony and on the pair of stairs on either end that swirled down to the gardens.

  Despite the witnesses, Piggot slid his arm around her waist, pulling her closer to him. She caught her breath as his long, emaciated fingers stroked the underside of her left breast. The indecency of the man!

  Torn between slapping him silly and kicking him between the legs—a position she had heard was particularly painful—she stopped in mid-stride, which tore his arm away from her.

  He spun to face her and merely lifted his brow a little, watching her. With her heart pumping in her ears, she gave him one of her most brilliant smiles, to disarm him, took a half step forward to bring him within range, then stomped on his instep with the heel of her dancing shoe. She heard his choked cry of pain as he bent over sharply, but didn’t wait for more.

  She stalked back inside, fury and despair swelling her heart. Her mother was determined to find her a husband and now, after Natasha had resisted for so many years, it appeared she would push her into any vaguely suitable man’s arms, regardless of the proprieties, or the price it might extol upon her daughter.

  The walls of the trap were starting to close in. She could feel them shuddering closer. In all these years of scheming and plotting…had she extended her parents’ goodwill on the matter of a husband to breaking point? Would they force the issue now?

  If only…if only she had not met Vaughn and Elisa Wardell, her life would be considerably simpler!

  Chapter Two

  The footman’s brows lifted all the way to his hairline. “I am sorry, sir, but I can not allow you entrance without the invitation.”

  Seth counted to ten. Twice.

  The young man had no idea how close he was to losing his relatively straight front teeth. “As I stated before, I left the invitation on the bureau in my study. Now, le
t me through. Your stubbornness is causing all these fine ladies and gentlemen to wait.”

  There were a group of cloaked and hatted people standing behind him, but he knew they were more interested in his situation than in gaining access to the ball and that galled him.

  It had been so long since he had attended one of these damned things he had forgotten that an invitation would have to be produced to be allowed entry. The doorman’s insistence on seeing his invitation was drawing attention to Seth—attention he did not want.

  He could feel his frustration mount with each head that turned curiously to study him. And, too, the peaks of his brand-new shirt collar dug into his chin in a most uncomfortable way. The new styles were irksome to wear and with each scratch he thought longingly of his comfortable shipboard rags.

  However, judging from the appreciative glances he gained from some of the bolder ladies watching him, the new style suited him well enough. He forced a smile to his lips and addressed the doorman again. “It’s as cold as hell—heck, out here.”

  “Perhaps your man could fetch the invitation for you.”

  “In Yorkshire?”

  “I am sorry, sir.” The footman didn’t look at all sorry.

  Salt-black fury flowered in him. Seth gripped the man’s lapels in both fists and drew him closer, feeling the rage pounding at his temples. The doorman’s eyes opened wide, his mouth too. Seth had no idea what he was going to do beyond the overwhelming desire to shake the man until his head rattled.

  “Hey! See here!” came an indignant cry from behind.

  Abruptly, before Seth could do more than lift the doorman off his feet, many hands were laid on his arms and shoulders and around his wrists.

  A large, rounded face inserted itself in front of Seth’s gaze, peering up at him. “You don’t want to hurt him, sir. He meant no disrespect. Let him loose, and we’ll discuss this civilly.”

  Behind Seth, the delighted audience of gentlemen and their ladies were making sounds of shock and dismay, while gobbling up the drama with pure delight. The hypocrisy made his temple thud even harder. But he dropped the doorman back on his feet, anyway. Come what may, he must gain entrance to the ball, and letting his damnable temper loose would not assist him.

  He took a deep breath. Another.

  The doorman scurried backwards like a frightened chicken, straightening his overcoat.

  Seth nodded at the man with the rounded face—a much older man in hotel livery. Butler? Concierge? No matter, he was someone who knew how to deal with gentry and diplomatic situations.

  The manservants who held Seth back now ranged behind him. Clearly, he was a leader of some sort. “Now, sir, if I could simply have your name, and someone to vouch for you, then the matter is done with,” the concierge said with a pleasant smile.

  Seth almost laughed. Bitterness touched him. Who would vouch for him here? And his name! He shrugged his coat back into place, and ran his fingers through his hair, to give himself time to answer.

  He couldn’t give his real name, yet his real name would give him instant access… “Harrow,” he said at last, but did not add the expected, usual tail of titles. Nor did he add his first name.

  “Harrow?” The concierge frowned, struggling to fit the name into his knowledge of the upper-class families. Clearly, the name was not instantly recognizable.

  Seth relaxed a little. They wouldn’t, of course, be used to including that name amongst society anymore.

  “Did you say Harrow?” came another voice from behind the concierge and his ranked men.

  Seth caught his breath. A man stepped around the grouped servants, limping quite badly. He was a rail-thin anemic-looking fellow, with large, watery blue eyes that reminded Seth of a frightened doe. He was dressed in absolutely correct evening attire, but not the latest fashion. He stepped up to the concierge and raised a quizzing-glass to his eye.

  “Harrow?” he repeated. “Seth Harrow?” He blinked at him.

  “You can vouch for the gentleman, Lord de Henscher?”

  The man just looked at Seth, waiting for him to confirm his identity. Hating the very public revelation, Seth nodded, barely moving his head.

  The man de Henscher gave a small nervous smile and thrust out his hand. “So pleased to meet you at last,” he said, as Seth shook his moist, spindly hand.

  The concierge and his men moved away.

  Seth frowned. “You know me, sir?” he asked warily.

  “By correspondence only. Sholto Piggot, Lord de Henscher, at your service, sir.”

  And finally, Seth coupled up the names and titles and realized why Piggot knew him. “Piggot. Pleased to meet you,” he said with formal stiffness. “I was pleased to receive your letter this morning, informing me of this affair.”

  Piggot was drawing him into the foyer of the grand building, past the doorman who had taken up his place once more. “A mere trifling matter,” Piggot assured him.

  Seth did not point out that the man had signed all his correspondence over the years merely as “Piggot”, with no mention of his title, which was why Seth had not recognized him.

  For nearly ten years Piggot had been acting as Seth’s agent in England and clearly had no wish to advertise that he was a lord dealing in common business affairs. Seth kept his mouth shut now, because the man had just helped him.

  Piggot was leading him down a wide, carpeted corridor. At the end were four sets of double doors that must surely lead to the ballroom. But halfway along the corridor, another set of double doors opened up and men were entering and leaving in pairs and groups and the odd individual. The smoking salon, Seth assumed.

  Piggot turned into the room and Seth stifled his protest. He wanted to get to the ballroom. Now. But Piggot, like most men, would rather linger in the salon and drink inferior hotel brandy.

  Piggot made an extended fuss of trimming and lighting his cigar and puffing on it until it was drawing smoothly and Seth reined in his impatience. His gaze shifted over the man, from his thinning, lifeless, carefully brushed hair, the thin lips and the odd twisted way he had of holding them, to the slender, nervous fingers and almost emaciated body.

  The lapels of the man’s suit jacket were the slightest bit shiny and showing a hint of threadiness and the hems of his pants were just a little bit faded. The shoes were bright with polish, but showed deep creases in the leather from much wear. Piggot, then, had little money to support his title. No wonder he was in trade.

  Finally, Piggot drew on the cigar with satisfaction, then handed it to Seth. Seth shuddered at the thought of smoking a cigar another man’s lips had touched. Was this a new custom, then? One that had become all the fashion since he had been away?

  He did not want to appear rude, particularly since the man’s timely intervention had saved him from pummeling a footman. He drew on the cigar and swiftly handed it back. He did not enjoy smoking as many men did.

  “You have made me a tidy sum over the years, Harrow,” Piggot said. “For that I thank you.” He took another long draw on the cigar, savoring it.

  “And I have appreciated your services,” Seth responded.

  Piggot stood with his hip cocked and leaned his elbow on the mantelshelf, his hand hanging loosely and Seth marveled at Piggot’s unexpected appearance. Seth had always envisioned him as a large, barrel-chested man, who cared little about his dress, with sharp eyes and a head for business. From Piggot’s looks, Seth judged him to have spent hours on his appearance.

  The man was taking Seth’s measure, too. His gaze drifted over him. Did he imagine it, or did Piggot’s gaze pause for a moment in the vicinity just below his waistcoat?

  “So…what brings you to London after ten years?” Piggot lifted his gaze to Seth’s. Uneasy with the man’s perusal, Seth shifted on his feet. “A small business matter. Then I’m off to Ireland.”

  “Ah, I thought I detected a bit of brogue.” Piggot stuck out his tongue and removed an offending piece of tobacco, then ran his tongue over his lips. “Black Irish,�
� he judged with a knowing gleam in his eye. “That would explain the tantrum I just witnessed out there.”

  Seth clamped down on a flare of irritation. “One could say that, I suppose.” He kept his tone even. Polite. “I am most anxious to return.” He held Piggot’s gaze. “Return to Harrow,” he added deliberately.

  Piggot blinked, visibly coupling Seth’s last name with his destination. His brow rose the smallest fraction, the most shock an English lord could be permitted to show. After a moment, Piggot tapped his cigar into the heavy crystal ashtray next to his wrist. “While you remain on English soil we should get better acquainted…personally. To assist our business arrangements. Perhaps tomorrow. Would brunch be too uncivilized for you?” Piggot’s voice was a casual drawl, but his eyes speared Seth, relentlessly assessing him.

  He’d had enough of this strange little game. “Perhaps.” Seth straightened his cuffs and nodded his head. “Thank you for vouching for me.”

  Piggot nodded. “Anytime, Harrow. I shall find you later?”

  “Certainly.” It was the polite answer, but Seth had no intentions of being found at all. He headed for the doors, feeling the man’s gaze on him the entire way.

  * * * * *

  Natasha found a quiet corner of the room, as far from her mother as geography would allow and, thankfully, far away from Piggot. The baron had reappeared, his mouth pulled back into a thin, meaningless little smile as he scanned the ballroom, no doubt searching for her.

  She shivered at the memory of his fingers so near her breast. All she wanted was to go back to the townhouse and hide away in her room for the night, read her book, and forget about men like Lord de Henscher.

  There was a group of three debutantes giggling and gossiping behind their fans, just to Natasha’s left. She glanced at them. Her own first season had been barely three years ago, but comparing herself to the girls made her feel very old and oddly tired. She had giggled and gossiped just like them, once.