Juliette’s gaze sharpened. “You noticed more tonight than it seemed. Why have you not cursed the man and moved forward?”
And why could she not? Why couldn’t he be like the others? Why couldn’t she laugh and go on as if nothing had transpired between them? After all, nothing had transpired between them.
And yet something had . . .
He had protected her. Risked his life for her own. What man had ever done this for her before? Tears burned in her eyes. “I don’t know. I can’t just walk away, but I don’t like acting like a fool either. What if he is my fate? Is he the only one?”
“You will meet someone new.”
“Juliette, I’m three and twenty. Do you know what I fear even more than falling in mud or playing a fool?”
“What is that?”
“Being alone. Sitting in my room with a purple turban on my head and a fat pug in my lap, playing my cards for hours on end. And no one to talk to at all.” It sounded like a bloody miserable existence, and she wanted no part of it.
“You will always have us,chérie . You will not be alone.”
Sarah dashed the tears away with her hand. “Juliette, I hope you won’t take offense, but you and the comte are not as effective in easing my loneliness than if I had a husband of my own.” She pounded her hand on her knee. “I want to be with the earl. I do want to marry him. Who would not? I compare him to the rogues and the fortune mongers who have darkened my door before him, and I imagine what it would be like to be a part of his world, to have him smile at me, to be respectable.”
Juliette shook her head. “The man is not a prince. It is all make-believe, nothing more.”
The comtesse didn’t understand at all. Sarah sat up a bit straighter, the truth of her situation abundantly clear. She smiled sadly. “Then so be it. I have no pride left. I’ve few friends and am the current court jester for the ton. Clap a tasseled cap on my head and let me dance on their strings. That’s my real world, such as it is. Can you blame me for choosing make-believe?”
The comtesse clucked in sympathy. “I’m sorry,chérie. I fear you destined to be disappointed.”
Sarah thought she was destined to be disappointed as well, but then she had never feared disappointment—she saw it too often. “Perhaps after a good night’s rest, I’ll awaken a little wiser and can lock away all my foolish dreams, and realize that I must make the best of the world and my place in it. Or perhaps not.” She looked at the comtesse, the moon casting long shadows on the woman’s face, and she felt so weary. Outside, the carriage wheels clattered against the cobblestones, the nighttime rain beginning to fall upon the roof. The world went on, with or without her. As if she didn’t matter at all. She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the seat, letting the rhythm of Haverwood’s carriage comfort her.
“I have to believe in something, Juliette. And now, as foolish as it may be, it’s the earl.”
The Horse Guards loomed high in the city, a cold structure, sparse and imposing, well suited for the government offices that were housed there. At the very top of the building, in a dusty corner forgotten by most, sat the Depot of Military Knowledge. The rooms were small, the furniture shabby, and the men who worked there gazed longingly at those who occupied the grander offices below.
There was nothing dashing or refined about the men who worked for Colonel Scovell. They were loners who did not care for the decorations of war. There were no grand parades for the exploring officers of Wellington’s army. No, it was an arrangement designed for men who lived in shadows. And Colin had lived in shadows all his life.
As he waited patiently for the colonel to appear, Colin gazed out the window, the heavy morning fog shrouding the courtyard below. He stared down into the flowing mist, watching the shifting shapes but seeing only the gray depths of Sarah’s eyes.
With his hand he traced the coarse wooden edge of the casement, thinking of the way her skin had felt beneath his rough fingers. As soft as eiderdown. He had never held such a fine delicacy in his arms before. The drawing rooms of London were a far cry from the mountains of Portugal, the sophisticated games of society much different from the simplicity of war, yet what he felt for her was primitive and uncaring. Quite simply, he wanted her with all the bloodthirsty lust that had ruled his father.
He would not be his father’s son.
If the old earl were alive today, he would be beside himself at the sight of Colin out mingling in society as if he belonged. He pulled at his cravat, wondering how soon he could run away. The old man had always wanted him to hide, afraid that one day someone would see the dragon that lurked inside him, would recognize the desperate glint in his brown eyes, or see the way his jaw resembled his father’s. Colin preferred to be alone. He was the very image of his father, and he knew it.
For St. George, he would be married to the compatible Miss Lambert and he would depart to Rosemont that very day, the very minute the vows were said. His wife could choose where she wanted to live. He didn’t care. Each time he saw Sarah, his hunger grew. And she was a perceptive woman who soon would see through his façade. She would see how badly he wanted her, how he imagined her lying beneath him, her soft breasts pressing into his chest . . .
The slam of a door startled him and he turned, embarrassed by his thoughts. Colonel Scovell strode into his office, the small man’s bearing perfect as always, and placed some papers on the weathered table that served as a desk. “Haverwood?”
“Sir?” He could still hear her soft sigh against his ear. It was the most seductive sound he’d ever heard.
“You asked to see me?”
For a moment Colin stared blankly, and then blinked, clearing the images in his mind. “Yes, yes, I saw D’Albon last evening. You have heard the rumors, I assume?” He retrieved the worn letter from his pocket. “This seems to confirm them.”
The man scanned the paper, his blue eyes somber. “Yes. The rumors have come from everywhere but Elba. Campbell’s reports still insist that Napoleon is forlorn and beaten and no longer a threat. Yet here and in France, already they are anticipating his return. Bloody frogs, why can’t they make up their minds?”
Colin cleared his throat. “Have you had word from Vienna?”
“Yes, Wellington is hunting at Schonbrunn and posing for paintings and doing his bloody best to achieve an equitable balance of power.”
“I have the utmost faith in the general’s abilities.”
“Yes, we can all hope.” He rocked back on his heels. “Where is D’Albon now?”
“He is staying in London for a fortnight. Then he will return to Paris.”
“Send him to Paris as soon as you can and let me know if he finds more information.” Scovell tilted his head, his eyes curious. “Can you trust him?”
Colin nodded, certain of Etiénne’s loyalty. “Yes. He has not betrayed us yet.”
The colonel waved a hand dismissingly. “A man who betrays his own country should never be trusted.”
Colin would trust Etiénne with his life, but he chose not to argue. “I believe the letter is accurate, sir. However, you may do what you wish with the information.”
“We wait, then. Wellington will be in England soon enough. If you hear anything else, tell me.” The man clasped his hands behind his back and stared out the window. “If we do go to war, will you return to intelligence?”
“It’s what I do best, sir.”
“When I was informed of your arrival today, I had assumed you would be resigning your commission. Men in your position should not be taking such risks. I understand you’re soon engaged. There are people who depend on you.”
“No, sir, I’ll go where my skills are most needed.” Only a coward would run from his battles.
Scovell turned and faced Colin, his expression filled with concern. “I heard the other news about you as well. A wager? Bad business, Haverwood. Gambling will cause nothing but trouble for you. I’ve seen more than one man lose his shirt on the roll of the dice. And then this morn
ing’s edition told of your involvement with Miss Lambert.” He shook his head. “You should do the right thing by the young woman. Both of them.”
Colin started to correct the man, but then abandoned any notion of his own defense. Better to let the stories wither away on their own. “Of course, sir.”
The man shuffled his papers and flushed, his cheeks ruddy and round, an innocent look for a powerful man. “At the very least, make sure you provide for all the women in your life. You were lucky to return alive once. It is unlikely to happen again.”
“I do not believe in luck, sir. A man should study his enemy and learn to either outwit him or destroy him.” He accepted the risks. If he were to be killed in battle, he would die a good and noble man.
It seemed the best solution for them all.
On his way home, Colin took a circuitous path toward the confines of Newgate. It was a pilgrimage he made each time he visited London, and it was the primary reason he hated the bloody city.
He pulled at the reins and stopped his horse, staring up at the gray stone of Old Bailey. There were no crowds today, only a few ragged beggars that stood outside the heavy walls. Very few remembered Jack Cady these days. He was an old memory, a monster for children’s bedtime stories, little more.
When Colin looked at the confines of the prison, he could put away the foolish hopes of an eight-year-old boy. The old earl had never accepted him, no matter how he tried. He could invent as many stories as he pleased, but no matter how many dragons he slew, real or imagined, he still carried the vile blood of Black Jack Cady.
On most days, he could forget his parentage. Men would scrape and bow before him, women would eye him with interest, and suddenly hewas the hero from his stories. The DragonSlayer. Invincible and strong, a good and honorable man. The son the old earl had wanted.
But the illusion never lasted. He would lose his temper, cursing like the commoner he was. Or perhaps he stared at a woman a little too long, and then closed his eyes, taken away by carnal thoughts. He was a man no less capable of violence than his father. How many men had he killed without thinking twice? More than most, and England thought he was a bloody hero.
Only with his contribution to St. George had he found something good within himself. The old earl had thought he could strip him of that as well, but the old earl was wrong. Once again, Colin would prove himself.
Finally, he could take no more of the cold wind, and he tipped his hat at the beggars and tossed a few coins their way. He would return to his town house for now, but as soon as the marriage to Miss Lambert was done, he would depart for the quiet solitude of Rosemont. He did not want to belong here—among the ton and the sanctimonious crowds who received enjoyment from a wicked man’s demise. Sarah belonged here. London was her home, but not his. It would never be his.
Alcyone’s was blessedly calm. Sarah secluded herself in the back room with a small wooden table and chair that she used as a place to do the accounts. She could hear the quiet humming of voices from the kitchen, punctuated by bursts of vehement French swearing when the comtesse yelled at François, scullery pans her favored accompaniment when necessary.
Other than at a gaming table, Alcyone’s was the place Sarah felt closest to her father. This was her legacy, unusual as it was, but for Sarah, it was also home. She had spent hours here watching the gentlemen play, hearing the howls of rage, the clinking of counters. The soothing voice of her father as another dandy found himself destitute. If Oliver Banks were alive today, he would understand her feelings. He would scoff at all the others and puff out his chest, proclaiming that of course she was destined to a countess. For some reason, when she could hear her father’s voice, such words did not seem ludicrous at all.
The countess of Haverwood.
She said it aloud, timidly at first, and then with growing conviction.
The countess of Haverwood.
Soon, it did not sound ludicrous at all. She stood up and waltzed about the room, introducing herself to the wall, the teacup, and anything else that would listen.
“Hello, I’m Sarah Wescott, the countess of Haverwood.” She curtsied to the taciturn chair, giggling at her own silliness. After last evening, she had wondered if she would wake up any wiser. Not surprisingly at all, she was just as foolish.
But wasn’t a gaming establishment the haven of fools? She picked up the betting book, stroking a hand across the brown leather, opening and closing it, hearing the crack of the spine. In this book, men’s wagers were written, trivial bits of stuff and nonsense penned in sprawling, and most times drunken, handwriting. This was the world she knew, where money and goods were exchanged more easily than honestly.
Mr. A. Bailey was willing to offer up his favorite waistcoat if Mr. R. Sumner could beat his time to Bookham. The earl of Derby promised to pay seven guineas if Lady Lucy C. spoke to P. Pufey before the fortnight was out. Mr. J. Perry wagered that he could shoot a rat at seventeen paces. Judging from the burgundy stains and the crooked lines, Mr. J. Perry would be lucky to hit the Thames at seventeen paces. As she scanned the pages, smiling to herself, feeling the best sort of camaraderie for those who asked for the moon, one name emerged. A name she coveted for her own.
G. Bennett wagers his white-stockinged mare that Haverwood will wed C. L. before the year is out.
C. L.? Someone would wager his best mare that Haverwood would choose a wife other than her? As if she were nothing more than a bit of flotsam on the sea, to be flicked away when unwanted. She slammed the book shut, wanting nothing more than to rip out the page. She paced back and forth, muttering furiously. Finally, she opened up the volume and ripped out the offensive page, scattering the bits of paper across the floor.
They should not have bet against her. Did everyone consider her a fool, an unworthy match for the most noble earl of Haverwood?
They had considered her father a fool as well. And each time they laughed, they would lose a hand of cards, and Oliver Banks pocketed a bit more gold. Now it was time the world saw her for who she really was. She would not hide any longer. They could sneer and turn up their noses like a foxhound at the death, and she would smile graciously, all the while charming the earl until he could no longer deny the feelings that vibrated between them. For she was Sarah Banks, and a Banks would never lose.
Etiénne was waiting for him at an inn off the main road to Rochester. It was a tiny place frequented only by weary travelers and wary men who had no desire to be noticed. Two battered mugs sat on the table, and with a heartfelt sigh, Colin picked up the tankard and gulped. The drink eased the dust from his throat and afterward he stared into the depths of the dark ale, the smooth metal cold against his hand. “Who knows you’re in England?”
The Frenchman leaned back against the wooden bench, looking to all the world like a black-haired, fair-skinned Irishman. “You, Mackenzie, and a lovely dancer who fancies me songs. You believe the accident was a warning?”
Colin took a long swallow, and then placed the tankard carefully on the table. “Either that or a very blind driver mistook Sarah for part of the road last evening. I won’t take chances with her safety.”
“Mais, non!You, it would not be such a surprise . . . But who could harm such a beautiful woman?”
“I don’t know.” Damn. It was much easier to protect himself than to protect her. “When are you leaving London?”
“I planned to leave tomorrow, but the little dancer . . . ” he shrugged, “she begs me to stay. I could not say no.”
“Good. I need you to stay with Sarah.” Colin remembered what Scovell had said, and for the first time deliberately disobeyed an order.
“What?”
“Follow her. Protect her. I don’t know what happened last evening, but I won’t have her hurt.”
The Frenchman sighed heavily. “Celine will be disappointed. But for your sparkling Sarah,” he grinned rakishly, “I will sacrifice.”
“I trust you, Etiénne,” he said with a smile on his face, but steel in his voice. �
�I trust her even more.”
“A man can dream.”
“No, you can’t.” He couldn’t fault his friend, though. Sarah did inspire a man to dream. Since he first laid eyes on her, he had done little else. When he caught Etiénne staring in amusement, he frowned and took a long drink of ale to clear his head. “Does anyone know you stole the letter?”
Etiénne sat in stubborn silence, eyeing a buxom serving girl across the room.
Colin sighed and continued with dogged determination. “Who?”
“You.” The Frenchman winked at the comely maiden, and she blew him a kiss.
“No one else?”
Etiénne turned his attention back to Colin, his dark eyes cold. “No one that’s alive.”
Then why the accident last evening? It made no sense. Perhaps it was nothing more than an accident after all. Or perhaps he had been the target, not her. “You know of no one who would want me dead?”
“No. Several times I thought of it myself, but after much deliberation, I thought . . .non .”
Colin smiled, surprised at how much he had missed Etiénne. “Funny thing, I thought of killing you more than once, as well.”
“When?”
“At Villa Franca.”
“Mais, non!I saved your life!”
“Yes, and you were exceedingly proud of that fact, weren’t you? Talked of nothing else for weeks. There’s nothing worse then being stuck in the sweltering heat of Spain with an arrogant Frenchman. It’s no wonder your country lost.”
“The French did not lose, only Napoleon.” Etiénne took a long drink of ale and then wiped his mouth. “Did you give the letter to Scovell?”
“He doesn’t believe you.”
“He’s a fool.”
Although he might agree, Colin kept his opinion to himself.
Etiénne eyed the wench once more. “So, you’re to be married.”
Colin pulled at his collar. “I have to decide something soon.”
Touched by Fire Page 11
