Jo Beverley - [Malloren 03]

by Something Wicked

  Dazed, almost weak-kneed, Elf looked up the steps to the door of Walgrave House, scene of her impending, and obviously thorough, debauch.

  She shivered. Part of her was close to terrified. But nothing, not even threats to the king, could make her back away now.

  “Last chance, Lisette.” His crisp voice dragged her out of her daze. “If you come inside and get cold feet again, I will be very displeased.”

  He sounded as if her answer mattered as little as whether he had chicken or pork for his dinner. And yet something in his eyes, or perhaps in the way he shielded his eyes, made her think that wasn’t true.

  She didn’t want it to be true.

  It seemed, however, that she could walk away. She could put this wickedness behind her and return, still pure, to Lady Yardley’s house.

  She would never have to worry about her brothers finding out.

  There’d be no danger of conceiving a child.

  Amanda would be most relieved.

  And yet . . .

  She couldn’t.

  Deeper than the physical need that pounded between her legs, she wanted this night, perhaps the only possible night with Fort. She wanted the intimacy of sex which would reveal the truth of him.

  But to have this night she had to be Lisette. Not Elf Malloren, who could perhaps love this man, and who wished to heal and comfort him. Tonight, she was Lisette Belhardi, a naughty creature who wanted only to exploit his body for her own sensual education.

  So Elf cocked her head and smiled cheekily. “Cold feet, my lord? I’m the very opposite. I’m burning hot for you.”

  He laughed and ushered her into the house.

  Chapter 9

  From his seat on a shabby cart, Nat Roberts watched the scarlet lady and the earl stroll through the streets. He knew his people were at their posts nearby, but if any of them saw sight of Scots traitors it was more than he did. ’Course the streets were fair humming with people, but even so, if the Scots were around they were cunningly hidden.

  He watched the couple go up the steps and enter the house. As the doors closed, he scratched beneath his tricorn with the handle of his whip.

  Now what?

  He’d figured right off that the lady in the red dress would be Lady Elfled. A quiet word with Mam’zelle Chantal had confirmed that milady had just such a gaudy outfit, and planned to wear it tonight to the masquerade. Gawd, but she was showing her old colors, for she’d been a rare handful as a child. He’d pondered telling that stiff-rumped Grainger his suspicions, but it went against the grain. And anyway, what could anyone do?

  She was a member of the family. Were they supposed to lock her in her room like a naughty child?

  Nat had brought in some extra people, though—this area was thick with them—ready to snatch her from the earl at any cost if she screamed. But she hadn’t looked as if she wanted snatching. No. Not she. Judging from the way she’d been looking up at him, Milady wasn’t no prisoner.

  Scandalous, it was, the way the quality went on, but it wasn’t his place to interfere.

  Perhaps all that business of watching the earl had come out of female jealousy. Nat knew all about that, having a suspicious-minded wife.

  But now what? None of his people had spotted anyone in particular watching Lady Yardley’s, though he hadn’t had a report since Lady Elf had come out with the earl.

  He took a little sip from a rum bottle, contemplating the sticky situation.

  He didn’t think the marquess would be too happy at his sister spending the night—and a naughty night at that—in any man’s house, never mind the Earl of Walgrave’s. He doubted, however, that his employer would be any more pleased if Nat Roberts dragged Lady Elf out of there by the hair.

  Even if he could.

  “Women,” he muttered, taking another swig. “Nothing but trouble.”

  Like those two there.

  A couple of maidservants strolled down the street, arm in arm, singing a ditty, and winking at any man they saw.

  They paused by the coach. “Hello ’andsome!” called out the blond one and moved right to the side of the coach. “Give us a sip at the bottle?”

  Nat grunted something and passed it over, saying quietly, “What’s up, Sally?”

  Sally giggled as if he’d said something funny, then scrambled up beside him on the box. “Well, I don’t reckon she was kidnapped, do you?” She winked as she took a real drink of his rum. A right handful was Sally Parsons, but a tempting armful, too, with her generous curves and merry eyes.

  If he were that sort of man, of course.

  She was also a chatterbox about some things, so he could only thank God she hadn’t twigged to it being her ladyship.

  “It was attack by the Scots we had to look out for, Sally.”

  “That didn’t ’appen either. But—”

  “But?” he asked, flashing her a quick glance.

  She snuggled up against him. Gawd, there’d be hell to pay if his Hettie ever heard about this! “But, a group of street monkeys followed ’em.”

  Children! The streets were always full of ragged urchins, thieves most of them, and he’d not given them a thought. He looked around and saw two crouched in a gutter not far away playing some game. Dice probably.

  “Them?”

  “Could be part of ’em. Most of ’em ran off, though. Roger and Lon’s following to see if they report to the Scots.”

  Nat muttered a few curses. “But still and all, they can’t get at ’er in the ’ouse, can they?”

  “Don’t suppose so,” Sally whispered into his ear, pretending to be enticing him. “But what’s the problem? Roger and Lon’ll follow the ratkins to the Scots. That’s the point, i’nt it?”

  “Aye, that’s the point.” But Nat was distinctly uneasy.

  He remembered now that the scarlet lady was supposed to sneak a look at whatever the earl had in his cellars. Never mind her virtue, that could be bloody dangerous. “Look, Sal, I’ll get this rig back to its owner. Can’t keep the poor nag out ’ere all night. I’ll be back as soon as I can, and we might ’ave to go in. You stay ’ere and keep your eyes open.”

  Sally fluttered her eyelashes at him. “Don’t I always, ’andsome?” Then with a kiss on his cheek, she clambered down off the box, linked arms with Ella, and strolled off.

  As he drove the coach back to the livery stables, Nat muttered to himself.

  Women.

  Nothing but trouble.

  At the Peahen, Michael Murray, in his persona as the Reverend Campbell, listened to the leader of the pack of street monkeys. How wise he’d been to hire the urchins. Besides being cheap, such ragamuffins went unnoticed by all, except that people held on to their purses and other valuables when they were about.

  Yes, it had been wise to recruit the children, but he’d not expected such news as this. So, the scarlet doxy had turned up again, and at a society function. He knew that sometimes whores slipped into masquerades, or were sneaked in by their lovers, but everything about that creature unsettled him.

  Pity the monkeys hadn’t noticed her go into Lady Yardley’s house. Murray would give a deal to know whom she’d arrived with.

  Not Walgrave. He’d walked around alone in his monk’s costume. Mack had been following him.

  And now they’d gone back together to his house, happy as rats heading for their hole. Perhaps she was his mistress after all. Some silly young wife deceiving her husband when she got the chance.

  But that didn’t fit with those bloodstained garters.

  Murray didn’t understand it, and he didn’t like that one bit.

  He tossed the boy a sixpence to send him on his way, then sat there, chewing on his lip. No, he didn’t like it.

  His plan was ready. Even now, Jamie was putting the stone in a safe place. Soon he’d have the device. Tomorrow the Hanoverian Pretender would die. He couldn’t abide uncertainties now.

  He paid his shot and walked back to Lord Bute’s house, fretting about the earl and his scarlet tr
ollop. Walgrave had always been an uncertainty and Murray regretted ever making the connection.

  Walgrave had been one of the names he’d been given, however, on a list of English people who had been secret supporters in the Forty-five. Most of them had never had to reveal their hesitant support of Bonnie Prince Charlie, and some of the younger ones were now in high places.

  When Murray had realized that his relationship to Bute wouldn’t get him close to the king, he’d started contacting people who had been particularly careless, ones who had left some evidence. In no case was it strong enough to force them into supporting him, but it was enough to make them very reluctant to expose him.

  Murray sneered up at the fine houses as he passed. Half a dozen peers of the realm were on his list, and these days they sat in fine houses like these, worrying about Michael Murray and what he might tell.

  But not worrying very much. No, they told themselves, patting their fat paunches and pouring another glass of brandy, the days of the Stuarts are over. That Murray is just a madman. Their youthful follies would not come back to haunt them.

  Murray would prove he was not mad, and that those days were not over. Soon these haughty Hanoverians would be out in the gutter scraping for a living, just as honest followers of the Stuarts were today.

  When he’d met with Walgrave, he’d found his tool. The incriminating evidence was strongest there—some firsthand accounts of a meeting with King James and Prince Charles. Of course, the evidence was against the present earl’s father. That had been a shock to Murray, but the new earl had seemed much concerned about scandal, as well as being bitter about royal ingratitude. A wild young man, as well, much given to drinking and wenching.

  A person easy to use, he’d thought.

  He ducked into another house—a hovel really, cramped in an alley near grand houses—and quickly changed from his churchman’s clothes into his normal wear. The old woman here gladly gave space and silence in exchange for a few pennies. Then, as Michael Murray, he left by another door and continued on his way to his rooms in the Earl of Bute’s house in South Audley Street.

  Yes, he reassured himself, Walgrave had been the right choice. Murray had only needed someone who knew the Court well enough to devise a way to get a lethal object close to George of Hanover. In that, the earl had done his part. Moreover, in the process he’d revealed his real driving impulse—a vindictive hatred against a certain marquess of Rothgar.

  Murray had no interest in the marquess, but he’d been happy to know what rode the earl. He liked to understand people’s weaknesses.

  He’d been satisfied with the situation until he’d heard reports of too many casual meetings between Walgrave and the new Secretary of State, Grenville. That had led to the Vauxhall meeting, which in hindsight had probably been a mistake. But Murray still wished he knew what part that scarlet doxy had played. Had she been Walgrave’s spy? And if so, what had been the point of it?

  At Bute’s house, he hurried to his small room before someone noticed the way his hands had begun to shake. He was so close. So close. Nothing could be allowed to upset his plans at this stage.

  He pulled a miniature out of his pocket and opened it to look at the fine painting of a handsome young man with white powdered hair. Charles Edward Stuart. His friend.

  Of course, Prince Charles was not so young anymore, and could not afford such a fine artist these days. That only made this miniature—a gift from the prince himself—a treasure. And a reminder of what should be. Murray’s idol was reduced to wandering Europe, dependent on the charity of various monarchs.

  That must change.

  That would change.

  The prince’s father, James III, wasn’t expected to live long. Then Charles would be rightful king.

  King Charles III.

  Murray intended to make him king, in fact, of Scotland if not of England. If only his careful plans had not been so dogged by mishap.

  First the old king had died, appropriately suffering an apoplexy while trying to force his bowels. Murray rejoiced to see any of the Hanoverians dead, but it had not suited his plan. The old upstart had been a German autocrat in the true Hanoverian style. He hadn’t been popular and his death would have been accepted with little upset, perhaps even with pleasure.

  If George II’s eldest son had lived to claim the crown, he would have sufficed. He’d have ascended the throne a dissipated middle-aged man.

  The present usurper, however, George II’s grandson, was a handsome young man, recently married to a dutiful wife expecting her first child. He had been born and raised in England, and didn’t even have a German accent.

  The English people would not like his death.

  But in the end, it didn’t matter whether they liked it or not. The king would die, and the stone would do the rest.

  The Stone of Destiny. What the English—curse their thieving hearts—called the Stone of Scone.

  Reputed by myth to be Jacob’s pillow, it had been used as part of the coronation ceremonies of Scottish kings as long as memory could tell. In 1303 it had been wickedly stolen by Edward I, murderer of Wallace, as part of his attempt to seize Scotland as he had seized and subjugated Wales.

  As further blasphemy, the stone had been incorporated into the coronation chair here in London, in Westminster Abbey. Every English monarch since then had been crowned while sitting on top of the sacred stone of Scotland.

  It made no difference to Murray that these days the thrones of England and Scotland were joined. When James VI of Scotland had inherited the throne of England, he should have stayed in Edinburgh and governed his kingdoms from there! And he should have had the stone taken back to its rightful home.

  If he’d done that, then surely the Stuart line would not have experienced such disasters.

  But look what had happened. James’s son, Charles, had been beheaded by those wicked Parliamentarians.

  Charles’s older grandson had eventually been restored as Charles II but, despite a virile sowing of wild oats, had failed to create a legitimate child to inherit the throne.

  Then Charles I’s other son, James, had shown signs of righteousness. He’d embraced the Catholic Church and even talked, so it was said, of restoring the monarchy and the stone to Scotland. Of course the English had turned on him and thrown him out, denying even that his son was his true child.

  That son’s son was Murray’s beloved prince, who had led so valiant an invasion in 1745. It would have succeeded, Murray was sure, if only James III had sworn his coronation oath on the Stone of Destiny in Scone, in Scotland.

  Charles III would do so, and so come in time into the right.

  Murray chuckled. The English would grieve at their king’s death, but they’d crown another one, never realizing the real disaster. They’d lost the stone. The new monarch would not be able to be crowned on the stone, which would be far away in France with the rightful king, awaiting its journey home.

  They already had it in a safe place, just waiting for the box in which it would travel. In time, the Stone of Destiny would work its magic and the false line of Hanover would rot away without invasion or violence.

  Which left just the last task, killing the king.

  In the gloomy hall of Walgrave House, under the disapproving gaze of Roman senators and the blank one of a footman, Fort turned to Elf. “Do you require any refreshment, my dear?”

  Strangely embarrassed by the impassive servant, Elf shook her head, reminding herself that she was masked and powdered beyond recognition.

  “Come then.” And he led her up the wide stairs she had crept down but a few nights since.

  In moments she entered his bedchamber, and memories of her previous visit caused a frisson of fear. Strangely, it merely seemed to add to the passionate excitement driving her.

  Glancing at Fort, she saw the man who was going to guide her through the maze of carnal sensation. Because she’d demanded it. Perhaps, after all, she was Lisette the exploiter, not Elf, the nurturing savior.


  She had no idea except that she wanted him, wanted all he had to offer. She wanted the fornication thundered against from the pulpit, and the guilty pleasures whispered about behind fans.

  All thought shattered at the touch of his hands on her shoulders, thumbs brushing her collarbone. She looked up, helpless in the first winds of a growing storm.

  “I would prefer that you take off the mask,” he said softly. “I will keep your identity secret, my word on it. Carnal pleasure is best enjoyed with all barriers down.”

  For an idiotic moment, she was tempted, but she shook her head and he let the matter go. With a wry smile, he traced the edge of the soft leather, and the merest brush of his fingers sparkled on her skin. Then he cradled her head, teasing the edge of her jawbone with his thumbs.

  “I do wonder who you are . . . But,” he added, brushing his lips over hers, “it hardly matters now, and the element of mystery is intriguing.”

  He kissed her again, a dozen wayward, fleeting kisses, kisses so tantalizing that she stretched closer, seeking to trap and relish them. His smiling lips evaded hers, but his tongue touched. A flicker of hot moistness.

  She laughed and did the same to him, dancing lips and tongue at play, until he snared her close. No mechanical, testing kiss this. It rendered her wax beneath his flame.

  Warm, liquid, ready to be consumed.

  At last he released her lips, and she turned her dizzy head against his chest, drifting under the touch of his hands. The wide sleeve of his dark monk’s robe had fallen back to his elbow, revealing one strong forearm, sinuously decorated by raised veins.

  She’d seen arms like that on the stable grooms. Were all gentlemen like that beneath the silk and lace?

  Why had she never noticed before how beautiful a muscular arm could be? She curled up one hand to touch, to adore the entrancing masculinity.