Act normally. Walk into the dressing room as if you had a right to be there. You have been sent to fetch a…a handkerchief. If he really is there, he cannot know for sure that you are lying. And you can take one and leave. Before he has time to do anything.
She straightened her back and walked quite slowly into the dressing room, looking calmly about her, as if to find where the handkerchieves were kept. There was the chest! And the huge clothes press, and the narrow servant’s bed, and all the other paraphernalia of a gentleman’s dressing room. But there was no one else in the room. He was gone.
‘Thank God,’ she whispered, unable to contain her relief.
It was but a brief moment of weakness. She had no time to wonder about the missing stranger. She must complete her search, and quickly. She returned to the bedchamber and looked about her for the most likely place to start. Yes! The small writing desk by the window. It was an odd piece of furniture for the host’s bedchamber. After all, he did his estate work in the office on the ground floor, and he also had a desk in the library. If he wrote letters and documents here, in the privacy of his bedroom, they would be the sort of thing that no one else must see.
Yes. If there was proof, it would be in the Major’s desk.
The desk, unlike Mr Lyndhurst-Flint’s, was very tidy. There were no papers on the top. Just writing paper, pens and ink. Amy slid open the wide central drawer. It contained more writing paper, and wafers, and sealing wax, and other necessities, but nothing else. She closed it carefully, not making a sound. There were two small drawers on either side. She tried the topmost one on the right. It was locked! She cursed under her breath. Why should a man lock his desk when no one but his trusted valet was permitted to be alone in the room?
Amy refused to despair. She dare not break the lock. But perhaps the key was hidden somewhere about? She began to search frantically in the unlocked drawers.
‘Lost your way again, Dent?’
Oh, no!
‘For a high-class dresser, you have a singularly poor sense of direction, I must say.’
That deep voice sent a shiver through her body. He was there! Again! She had no idea where he had appeared from, but it did not matter. He was there. And he had caught her searching Major Lyndhurst’s desk. What excuse could she possibly make? She pressed her clasped hands tightly against her body and stared down at the worn leather surface of the desk, willing her brain to think of something, to stop terrifying her with images of the ruin she was facing.
‘It would be polite to turn round, you know, Dent, and to answer my question.’
Amy swallowed hard and started to turn, wondering what she might see this time. What if he—?
He was adequately—if not fully—clothed. Breeches and a loose-fitting shirt, open at the neck to reveal his upper chest. He was leaning nonchalantly against the dressing-room door as if his presence in the room were the most normal thing in the world. And those long fingers were absently stroking his still unshaven chin. With that growth of beard and his long dark hair, he looked infinitely dangerous.
He was dangerous!
She fixed her gaze on the floor between them. And said nothing.
For a long moment, he just stood there, motionless. Amy could hear only the pounding of her own blood in her ears.
At last, he spoke. ‘Lost your tongue as well as your sense of direction, I see.’ He straightened and began to move towards her. His feet made no sound on the worn carpet.
In that moment, Amy understood how a cornered mouse must feel, when the cat was bearing down on it. But this cat did not pounce immediately. He stopped in front of her. Waiting.
‘Do you really have nothing to say?’ he asked softly.
Amy looked up then. She swallowed hard, trying to bring some moisture into her parched throat. ‘I…I was sent to fetch…’ Her excuse petered out at the sight of his lifted brows. He knew perfectly well that she was lying. She pressed her lips tightly together. She was unable to hold his penetrating gaze.
‘No, Dent, it’s not a very good excuse. And we both know it.’ He shook his head at her, rather in the manner of a fond relative, bemused by the antics of a naughty child. ‘Tell me,’ he said calmly, ‘why are you doing this?’ He reached out a hand to her.
Amy stepped back in alarm, but it was too late. With a quick flick of his long fingers, he had removed her all-concealing cap. ‘You really should not hide such beautiful hair,’ he said. Then, with thumb and forefinger of both hands, he delicately removed her heavy glass spectacles. ‘And you should not hide those beautiful eyes, either.’
He turned his back on Amy and carefully laid her spectacles on the Major’s desk. Very quietly, he said, ‘You are playing a very dangerous game, Miss Devereaux. What on earth possessed you to do such a thing?’
Amy found herself staring in horror at his back. He knew who she was! Somehow, he had recognised her, even though he was a stranger to her. She was sure to be ruined now. And it was all for nothing! She had not rescued Ned!
Marcus turned very slowly. It was important not to frighten her. One look at her stark white face told him he was too late. She was already terrified. Indeed, she looked to be on the point of collapse.
He picked up the chair from beside the desk and set it down at her back, pushing gently on her shoulder until she sat down. ‘Forgive me, Miss Devereaux. I did not mean to upset you. But, truly, it is a mad start for a lady to come to a gentleman’s house in the guise of a servant. With colouring as unusual as yours, you were bound to be recognised. And recognition spells ruin, as I am sure you know.’
Her hands were tightly clasped in her lap. Her knuckles were white. But when she raised her gaze to meet his, there was a spark of defiance in those violet-blue eyes. It was in her voice, too. ‘I have taken the greatest of care, sir, to ensure that no one in this house would catch sight of my hair. If you had not removed my cap just now—’
‘I recognised your hair at our last meeting, Miss Devereaux. And, on that occasion, if you recall, you were wearing your cap throughout. It just went…slightly awry.’ He tried to prevent himself from smiling at the memory. Apart from those tell-tale wisps of hair, she had been more than adequately covered. He, on the other hand, had not.
‘And how is it, pray, that you know who I am? I am not aware that we have ever been introduced.’
Marcus was glad to see that she had recovered much of her natural dignity. And some courage, besides. Miss Amy Devereaux was certainly no shrinking miss. ‘That is easily explained,’ he said, with a nonchalant shrug. ‘I recall that you were pointed out to me some years ago at…some function or other. Colouring such as yours is not easily forgotten, even by one who has not been introduced. It was your first Season, I collect?’
She rose to her feet. Her back was ramrod-straight. ‘If you saw me in London, sir, it was seven years ago, during my first—and only—Season. Do you expect me to be flattered that you have remembered my name?’
‘No, ma’am. I expect you to be concerned. For if a man who set eyes on you only once can remember who you are, then other men will recognise you, too. You must leave the Chase before you are utterly ruined.’
‘I cannot,’ she replied immediately, with a small but decisive shake of her head.
‘Why not?’ snapped Marcus in exasperation.
She said nothing. She was refusing to look at him now.
Marcus took her firmly by the shoulders. ‘I ought to shake you until your teeth rattle, madam. What on earth can be so important that you would risk your reputation for it?’ A thought occurred. Instantly, he dropped his arms back to his sides. ‘Oh, of course. I should have known. It is always the way with women. You are here because of a lover.’
Her open palm struck him full on the cheek before he had time to realise quite how much he had insulted her. Her face was alight with fury.
For a tense moment, they stared at each other, like warring stags. Then Marcus raised both hands, palms uppermost, in a gesture of surrender. ‘Miss D
evereaux, I beg your pardon. That was an unforgivable thing to have said. And I fully deserved your chastisement.’ He put a hand to his cheek, rubbing the throbbing skin. He smiled wryly down at her. She had a heavy hand, indeed. And she was beginning to look a little uncertain. His ready acceptance of her rebuke seemed to have thrown her off balance. Now was the time to press home his advantage.
‘Miss Devereaux,’ he said gently, ‘it must be a matter of immense importance that has made you take so great a risk. Will you not confide in me? I may be able to help you.’
She looked at him in surprise. ‘You? But I don’t even know you.’
‘No,’ he said with a slow smile, ‘but you are here at Lyndhurst Chase for a reason. And I know a great deal about what goes on here.’
‘Do you?’ she asked quickly. For a moment, she sounded eager. Then her voice dropped again. ‘But I dare not trust you. Or anyone.’
Marcus reached for her hand. It was not as soft as a lady’s hand should have been. It was the hand of someone who was used to much more manual work than any lady should be. ‘Miss Devereaux, I give you my word as a gentleman that you may trust me. No matter what you may tell me, I promise you, on my honour, that I will not betray you.’
She did not remove her hand from his. Nor did she look at him directly. She seemed to be turning his words over in her mind. He could tell from the set of her shoulders that she remained undecided. And more than a little afraid. Marcus knew he must simply wait for her decision.
At last, with a deep sigh, she said, ‘I do know that you saw my hair before. And I know, too, that you did not betray my identity then. If you had spoken of it to anyone, I should have been gone from this house long since. So, it seems that I should be able to trust you.’ She shook her head a little. ‘Indeed, it seems that I have no choice.’
Marcus tried to smile reassuringly at her. ‘Miss Devereaux, you must understand that I have every reason to be suspicious of you. I did catch you searching Major Lyndhurst’s desk, after all. Forgive me, but that is not quite the behaviour one expects of a lady.’
She coloured deliciously. Marcus suddenly realised how beautiful she had become, in spite of her appalling, shapeless clothes. All those years ago, she had been pretty enough, but young and unworldly. Now she was strikingly handsome, and a woman of character, to boot. He had thought her just another débutante on the catch for a rich husband. As, indeed, they all were. But to take a risk like this…? There might be more to Miss Amy Devereaux than met the eye. And what met the eye—to do the lady justice—was very attractive indeed. A veritable feast for the eyes of a man who had been cooped up for weeks without female company.
‘I…’ Her voice had sunk to the tiniest whisper. ‘I came to Lyndhurst Chase to find my brother. I fear he has been kidnapped. Or worse. I came because I had to do something.’
If Marcus could have laid hands on Ned Devereaux at that moment, he would gleefully have strangled him. The lad was a selfish brat. And a loose-tongued gossip, into the bargain. He thought of no one but himself. Yet this young woman—an older sister, taking the part of Ned’s dead mother, no doubt—was prepared to sacrifice her reputation and her future to save such a ne’er-do-well of a brother. Ned Devereaux did not deserve such a sister.
In that moment, Marcus determined that Ned’s sister would not lose her reputation for such an unworthy cause.
‘Miss Devereaux,’ Marcus said earnestly. ‘Pray do not be concerned. I know your brother. And I can assure you that he is perfectly safe.’
‘You know it?’ she gasped. Her hands had flown to her mouth.
‘Yes, ma’am. I know it for a fact. I promise you that he is safe. There is no need for you to go on with this dangerous masquerade.’
‘You know? I pray you, sir, tell me where he is. I must go to him at once.’
‘I cannot do that, Miss Devereaux. The information is not mine to share. But I promise you, on my honour, that Ned will come to no harm.’
Marcus could see in her face that she was trying to believe him. Trying, but failing. She thought it was just a story, to persuade her to give up her servant’s role. Her face had become a picture of misery, followed by despair.
‘Oh, my dear girl,’ he said, touched immeasurably by her pain. He took her in his arms and put a hand to her hair, stroking gently as he would a frightened child. Then he turned her face up to his, seeing the tears in her shadowed eyes.
And then—he could not help himself—he kissed her.
It began as a kiss of comfort. And tenderness. To ease her fears and remove the frown from her pale brow. But soon it developed into something deeper. And when, a little hesitantly, Amy at last reached up to place her arms around his neck, Marcus had forgotten every notion of comfort. His whole body was driven to possess her luscious, tempting mouth.
It was like no kiss he had ever before experienced. Here was innocence and knowledge, purity and passion, all at once, spun together into a powerful whirlpool. He could feel himself being pulled down, and under. But he had not the slightest desire to resist.
Until his hand strayed to her breast and she groaned in response to his touch.
Marcus jerked away from her as if he had touched a living flame. What on earth was he doing? He was a fugitive, for heavens’ sake!
If it were not for Anthony, Marcus would have been taken up long ago and thrown into gaol. Perhaps even hanged. It did not matter that Marcus was innocent of the attack on Frobisher. The whole world would believe him guilty. His own angry words would stand as his accuser.
With slightly shaking hands, Marcus put her from him and bent to retrieve her cap from the floor. When he straightened, he saw that she was still totally bemused by what had happened between them. Her violet eyes were wide and unseeing. Her lips were red and a little swollen. And still so very tempting.
He fought against the pounding desire to kiss her again. He must not. He was hiding from the law. It was thoroughly dishonourable to treat her so.
‘Miss Devereaux.’
She did not react at all.
‘Amy,’ he said, more urgently now. ‘Amy! You must go from here. Your brother is safe. You must believe me when I tell you that. But you are not. If you should be found here, in this guise, you would be ruined. You must leave here. Ned is not worth such a sacrifice.’ He put a hand on her cheek. It was a gentle caress. Passion had been replaced by concern.
But she would not have it. She shook him off. ‘Ned is my brother,’ she said in a low, determined voice. ‘Who are you—a man of the shadows—to tell me I must abandon him? Who are you—a man who takes advantage of a lone woman—to tell me what I must do?’ She grabbed the cap and dragged it over her hair. But she was not so angry or so hasty that she failed to cover every last strand. Amy Devereaux was still being very careful.
Marcus knew that he had lost. With a despairing shrug, he reached out to the desk for her spectacles. Another part of her disguise, and a good one. They were so ugly that no one would try to see beyond them. They would not see those beautiful eyes, the colour of bluebells in the gathering dusk.
She took the spectacles and slid them into place with a nod. ‘Thank you, sir.’ She was back in control. ‘And thank you for your assurances about my brother. You will understand that, with so little information, I am not prepared to give up my quest.’ She turned and began to move towards the door. ‘But I do thank you,’ she added, in a low voice, ‘for what little reassurance you have provided.’
‘Amy—’
‘Have no fear. I collect that you must have your own reasons for lying concealed here. I will not betray your presence in this house. You have my word on that.’
‘And you have my word,’ Marcus began, but the door had closed behind her retreating figure. He sighed. ‘You have my word, Amy Devereaux,’ he said to the empty room, ‘that I shall not betray you.’
He stood for some time, gazing at the closed door. It had been the strangest encounter. He should have been in control. But somehow, his cont
rol had faltered. Faced with a strong, determined and totally idiotic woman, he had been outmanoeuvred.
Marcus sat down in Anthony’s chair and began to stroke his chin. He must be starting to look like some mad hermit with this growth of beard. It had its uses, however. He had been able to fool Amy Devereaux into thinking that they had never been introduced.
Would she have recognised him if he had been clean-shaven? Probably not. Why should she? She had had admirers a-plenty during that single Season. There was no reason why she should have remembered those few dances with Marcus Sinclair. Indeed, Marcus himself was not at all sure why he remembered her so well. It could not have been merely her striking looks.
He recalled that she had been simple and innocent. And that she had shown a naamp2;¨ve enjoyment of her first Season. Unlike so many of the débutantes at the balls and routs, Amy Devereaux had not appeared to be on the catch for a rich husband. Marcus had assumed, at the time, that it was a clever act, that Miss Devereaux was no different from the rest of her kind. But, if that were so, she had been singularly unsuccessful. For she must now be in her middle twenties and she still had no husband. Instead, she had a feckless younger brother. Poor girl! Ned Devereaux was a heavy burden for anyone. Marcus would lay odds that Ned paid no attention at all to his sister’s advice or even to her pleading. The boy seemed intent on gambling away his substance before he was more than a couple of years into his majority.
Marcus rose and crossed to the window, taking care that he remained sufficiently in the shadows that he could not be seen from the garden. He looked out. He could picture Ned Devereaux in his prison. Not only was the lad safe, he was also well away from the temptations he seemed unable to resist. If Amy Devereaux only knew the whole, she would surely be grateful that her brother was being preserved from further harm. And that she was, too. Marcus had been right to extract that promise from her. She would certainly be unmasked if she spoke to Anthony about discovering Marcus—
A Regency Invitation to the House Party of the Season Page 13
