Don't Bargain with the Devil

by Sabrina Jeffries

  “This is Peter Burnes,” Lucy said in a low voice. “The Earl of Hunforth.”

  “I gathered as much.” Diego loathed him on sight.

  The earl took a threatening step forward. “You’ll stay out of this, sir, if you know what’s good for you.”

  Diego smiled thinly. “A pity I never seem to know what is good for me. And I damned well know what is not good for her.”

  The two men took each other’s measure. Diego wished Lucy’s sketch had been a girlish exaggeration, but alas, the young earl was probably every Englishwoman’s idea of perfection.

  Lord Hunforth possessed the tousled golden curls, fair skin, and blue eyes that were the latest fashion in England. Even worse, he was broad-shouldered, well built, and nearly as tall as Diego. Not a milksop Englishman at all. Next to him, Diego felt every bit the dusky-skinned foreigner.

  For a moment, he was catapulted back to the age of fourteen, before he’d grown an extra foot and put on some muscle, when his underdeveloped frame and brown skin had prompted the bluff English soldiers to dub him the Conjuring Crow.

  Hostias, what had brought that to mind? No one had dared call him that in years—not since the day he’d bested a burly sergeant in a brawl that had left the man with two broken ribs and a bloody nose. If this pasty-faced Englishman thought Diego would back down at idle threats, he would soon learn otherwise.

  Ignoring Diego’s glower, Lord Hunforth appealed to Lucy. “Call off your dog. I want to speak to you alone. Tell him to go back to changing the colors of cards and drawing scarves out of his sleeve.”

  His sneering seemed to grate on Lucy’s nerves as much as it did Diego’s, for she tucked her hand into his elbow. “Anything you say to me can be said in front of Diego just as well.”

  “Diego? Don’t tell me you’ve taken up with this . . . this . . .”

  “Perhaps I should introduce myself.” Diego put as much condescension into his voice as the earl. “I am Don Diego Javier Montalvo, Conde de León. I do not believe we have ever met.”

  As Lucy gaped at him, Lord Hunforth let out a contemptuous snort. “Conde? You’re a Spanish count?”

  “A Galician count, actually,” Diego retorted. Though he might as well be Count of Nothing, with his family’s estate sold to pay his dead father’s debts.

  The earl looked skeptical. “I never heard that about you.”

  “I choose not to use the title.”

  He had not used it in fifteen years. At first, it had been a way to preserve the dignity of his family name until he could regain Arboleda. Then it had become something he aspired to be worthy of, something that would make his parents’ suffering have significance.

  So why had he trotted his title out now? Because that damnable Hunforth had strutted into the ballroom as if he owned it. As if he had the right to bully Lucy simply because he was an English earl. Diego did not like that. At all.

  “Whoever you are,” Hunforth said, “be a good fellow, will you, and leave us alone a moment? Lucy and I are old friends.”

  “Friends?” Diego uttered a harsh laugh. “Is that what you call it when you kiss a girl barely old enough to flirt, then call her a hoyden for it?”

  The man cast Lucy an accusing glance. “You told him about that?”

  Lucy released Diego’s arm to march to the front of the stage. “Why not? You told your fiancée about . . . about our discussion at the ball.”

  The hurt in her voice made Diego want to leap off the stage and throttle Hunforth.

  “I knew you would misunderstand.” The earl’s tone turned peevish. “I had no choice. At the ball, after Juliana saw you and me go off together, she had the impression that—I mean, I couldn’t very well let her go on thinking that—”

  “That you and I were friends?” Lucy said. “Of course not. Much better to laugh at me behind my back.”

  “Not a very friendly thing to do, Hunworth,” Diego said darkly.

  The earl glared at him. “Hunforth. And you stay out of this.”

  Lucy planted her hands on her hips. “Why do you care what I think, anyway? You have your perfect fiancée. What has it to do with me?”

  Wondering the same thing, Diego watched Hunforth cast furtive glances at Lucy’s lovely bosom, and the answer began to dawn on him. Why, that cretino—

  “I want to preserve our friendship, that is all,” Hunforth replied.

  Diego could just guess what kind of friendship the earl meant. The kind a man hid from his wife. The kind that could ruin Lucy.

  His temper near to exploding, Diego was about to tell the man what he could do with his offer of friendship, when a door opened and a footman hurried in. “Miss Seton, Her Grace would like to talk to you about the musicians.”

  Lucy looked relieved. “Yes, of course.”

  “I’ll go with you,” Hunforth said.

  “Actually, I’d like a word with you in private,” Diego put in. He was not about to give the imbécil any chance to insult Lucy further. She seemed oblivious to what he offered, and Diego preferred to keep it that way.

  Hunforth hesitated, then lifted his chin with stiff pride. “As you wish.”

  As soon as Lucy was gone, Hunforth said, “What’s this about, Montalvo?”

  Diego strolled to the front of the stage, enjoying his two-foot advantage over the earl. “Just a warning. Since you are engaged to another and can clearly have no honorable intention toward Lucy, I suggest that you leave her be.”

  The earl’s face darkened. “And your intentions are honorable? I’ve heard about your string of women and your smooth ways and your—”

  “Ah, but I am not betrothed to anyone. I am free to court Lucy if I wish. You are only free to make her your mistress.”

  From the guilt flashing over Hunforth’s face, he had at least considered the possibility. “Look here, you bloody arse. Here in England, married men can have female friends without its being dishonorable.”

  “Unmarried female friends?”

  The earl stiffened. “When they are old family friends, yes. Lucy and I have known each other since childhood. We are very close.”

  “Does your future wife approve of this ‘close’ friendship?” Diego bit out.

  The earl blanched. “My future wife is none of your concern.”

  “So, she does not know.”

  “She understands that Lucy is like a sister to me.”

  Diego crossed his arms over his chest. “You do not look at her as a man looks at his sister.”

  Hunforth scowled. “You can’t possibly understand. Lucy and I grew up in the same regiment. Her mother washed my family’s shirts for extra money. It was I who dried her tears after her father died in battle. So don’t interfere between us.”

  The conversation abruptly shifted meaning for Diego. “You knew her father?”

  “Didn’t I just say that?” the earl snapped.

  Yes, but it was impossible. Her “real father” had to be a fabrication of the colonel’s, if the man had been the nurse’s soldier lover.

  “I do not believe you.” He took a stab at the truth. “She does not even remember her real father.”

  “Of course not; she was only four when he died. But I had already turned eight. I remember Sergeant Thomas Crawford very well.”

  Diego’s world tilted on its axis. Hunforth actually had a name for the man? How could that be? “And Lucy’s Spanish mother? You remember her, too?”

  “Catalina? Yes, why?”

  His pulse quickened. Catalina? Could the nurse have had the same name as Lucy’s mother? No, that was too much of a coincidence. But she might have taken her mistress’s name to comfort the child.

  Still, would that not draw attention to her and the girl she had stolen? It made no sense.

  “If you and Lucy traveled with the same regiment, then you must have known Lucy in Gibraltar, too, where she was born.”

  “No, I was never in Gibraltar. My father’s regiment was the one Colonel Seton transferred into. I first met h
er and her real parents in Spain when both regiments were on the same march.”

  That might explain the earl’s strange memories. If Hunforth had only met her “real parents” in Spain, then they might have been anyone. Perhaps the colonel had not been the nurse’s lover after all. Perhaps it had been some other soldier.

  But why would an unmarried officer take on the stolen child of another soldier? And it still seemed odd that the nurse would have used Doña Catalina’s name. Then again, perhaps she had felt safe to do so once they left San Roque outside Gibraltar. He sighed. This grew stranger and stranger. What if he and Gaspar had the wrong woman?

  There was only one way to be certain. Get a look at Lucy’s thigh to see if she had the birthmark.

  “I say,” Hunforth broke into his thoughts, “what the devil does this have to do with anything?”

  “That should be obvious, given my interest in her.” Remembering Hunforth’s cruel words to Lucy about her “blood,” Diego said, “I wish to know more about her real family, especially if one of them was Spanish. Her mother may have come from nobility.”

  Hunforth snorted. “I seriously doubt that. Sergeants don’t marry so far above their station. Besides, judging from how her parents behaved around each other, their marriage wasn’t particularly warm. I’m sure Catalina was just some little Spanish whore who got her hooks in Crawford when she went whining to him about being with child, and he was foolish enough to marry her for it.”

  Diego nearly choked on his sudden rage. He remembered all too well the soldiers calling his own mother a “little Spanish whore.” And she, a lady! “Is that why you think it’s acceptable to treat Lucy with disrespect? Because of her mother?”

  “How I treat Lucy is not your concern.”

  “I am making it my concern.” Diego glowered at the man. “You had your chance with her, and you were too foolish to see her worth. So leave her alone.”

  The earl sneered at him. “Or what?”

  “I will tell your fiancée about your ‘close friendship’ with Miss Seton.”

  The color drained from Hunforth’s face. “She wouldn’t believe you.”

  Diego flashed the man a cool smile. “I have never had trouble persuading a woman to believe me before. I cannot imagine it being a problem now.”

  “Why, you bloody, scheming—”

  The sound of a side door opening made the earl break off. Gaspar strolled in, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “Diego, you have to try the food. I don’t know where the duchess found her cook, but he can season a haunch of pork as well as any Spanish . . .” Gaspar trailed off when he spotted Hunforth.

  “It’s about time you got back,” Diego said, ready to be rid of the earl. “We have much to do before the performance.”

  “This is not over, Montalvo,” the earl growled as Gaspar climbed onto the stage.

  “I did not think it was,” Diego shot back. “Now, if you will excuse me . . .”

  And turning his back on the earl, he headed for the wings.

  He ought to be pleased that the earl had answered some crucial questions about Lucy’s background, but he was too furious that the man thought to continue pursuing her while wedding another woman.

  He could tell himself he was only angry because Hunforth’s interference could ruin his own plans. Or that he considered himself Lucy’s friend and did not want to see her misused.

  But honestly, he simply didn’t like that cretino going near Lucy. It was jealousy, pure and simple.

  Besides, the earl would continue to be a thorn in Lucy’s side if Diego did not take action, so Hunforth was in for a surprise. Once Diego was through with that damned Englishman, the man would never dare to trouble Lucy again.

  Chapter Nine

  Dear Charlotte,

  I don’t know how to tell you, but Pritchard is unlikely to sell Rockhurst to you. There are things you don’t know about the man, things I cannot reveal. All I can say is, be careful how you deal with him. He cannot be trusted.

  Your concerned cousin,

  Michael

  By the time Lucy returned to the ballroom, Peter had vanished, thank heaven. Diego and his assistant, whom she remembered seeing once, were so busy setting up for the performance that they didn’t spare her a glance. She listened to them a moment, surprised to understand some of their Spanish quite well. Papa had said that her mother had often crooned to her in Spanish, and she’d certainly heard a great deal of it in the regimental camp, but she hadn’t expected to remember it.

  She wished she could stand there longer, but she had other matters to attend to. Regretfully leaving the delicious sight of Diego in rolled-up shirtsleeves, she headed for the gardens. Sighing over him would only encourage him to take further liberties, anyway.

  Though she hadn’t minded the liberties he had taken. What an amazing feeling to have Diego kissing her breasts! Even now, heat rose at the memory. The harem tales hadn’t prepared her for the full glory of that; reading about it wasn’t nearly as exciting as doing it.

  She almost wished Peter hadn’t come in and interrupted them. Though Diego had probably had many such encounters, it had seemed to mean more to him than a mere dalliance. Especially after Peter’s arrival. Diego had seemed overprotective, possessive, even jealous. She’d actually feared they might come to blows. It made no sense. Peter had a fiancée, and Diego claimed not to be free to marry.

  She didn’t care why Peter had behaved like an idiot. After how he’d betrayed her to Lady Juliana, she could never forgive him anyway. And when he’d gone on about their being old friends, she’d realized that he meant to keep her dangling on a string forever, an admirer he picked up and discarded at whim. Which she would not allow.

  Diego was another kettle of fish entirely. She’d assumed that his nonsense about not being free to marry meant he only wanted meaningless dalliances. But he didn’t talk like a man who saw her merely as a conquest. Even before Peter had started insulting him, Diego had been downright rude to the earl, defending her as fiercely as Papa would have done.

  And why had he wanted to speak to Peter? She fervently wished she could have heard their conversation. According to Mrs. Harris, men talked one way around women and quite differently around other men, but she hadn’t explained why. What else had the schoolmistress left out about men?

  Like why they were so confusing. Lucy sighed. Mrs. Harris often warned that they might have ulterior motives for their attentions, but she hadn’t said it would be so very hard to figure out what those motives were.

  Half an hour later, as people took seats in the ballroom, Lucy still hadn’t figured out either man. Although Lady Juliana latched onto Peter like a barnacle to a ship’s hull, he cast Lucy furtive glances that made her distinctly uneasy.

  Diego stood deep in conversation with the duchess while also shooting Lucy glances, but his sent a jolt of excitement to her senses.

  Why must he always look so fine? He’d changed into evening attire that sent her pulse stampeding like a cavalry charge. How did he manage always to be perfect? It wasn’t as if he dressed to impress—his attire was spartan compared to the other gentlemen’s flashy satins and colorful waistcoats. His figured waistcoat was plain white, as were his shirt and simply tied cravat.

  But his attire was also of the highest quality, from his fine top hat and perfectly tailored black tailcoat and breeches to the black dress shoes with silver buckles. The ruby pin in his cravat, winking blood-red whenever it caught the sunlight, gave credence to his claim that he was a count.

  A Spanish count—how could that be possible? Wouldn’t someone in the press have discovered it if it were true?

  She glanced around, noting half a dozen newspapermen with notepads ready. Even Charles Godwin, the owner and publisher of The London Monitor, was here. He’d probably attended only because he was Mrs. Harris’s good friend, but if anyone could find out about Diego’s past, it was Mr. Godwin.

  Then again, it was one thing to uncover secrets in England and quite an
other to uncover them in Spain. The war, followed by a series of conflicts, had kept that poor country in turmoil for some time.

  Besides, while Diego might tease and evade, he never lied. He seemed to follow a code of honor all his own. Perhaps he was indeed a count. At this point, it would scarcely surprise her.

  Either that, or she’d badly misjudged his character. She prayed not, because if he didn’t keep his promise not to make them look like fools . . .

  Too late now. The duchess was signaling the footmen to turn up the gas lamps at the foot of the stage and close the curtains, dimming the sun’s rays to a thin wash of light that instantly transformed the room into an enchanted hall.

  Lucy waited tensely for Her Grace or Mrs. Harris to introduce Diego, but he apparently had persuaded them to let him introduce himself. He strode up the stage steps, and the audience broke into applause as he bowed and doffed his hat. “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen. I am told that you already know who I am”—more applause ensued—“so I won’t bore you with an introduction. I will only say that I am happy to participate in raising money for such a worthy cause.”

  Around her, people began speculating about whether he actually knew what he was raising money for.

  He continued, “I am sure it comes as a surprise to you that I am advancing a cause so opposite to my own aims. You have Miss Seton to thank for that. She has spent the past few days arguing so eloquently on behalf of Mrs. Harris’s lovely academy that I sometimes quite forget what my aims even are.”

  That brought laughter and more applause, this time for her. Lucy’s heart began to race, though she wasn’t ready to let down her guard just yet.

  “I have decided to be open-minded and let you voice your opinion about my pleasure garden in the only way that matters,” he went on. “At the back of the room are two donation bowls. The contents of Mrs. Harris’s will go to the fund to buy Rockhurst out from under me. The contents of Lady Norcourt’s will go to the Newgate Children’s Fund, an equally worthy cause.”