by Never A Lady
He tossed back the brandy in a single gulp, closing his eyes to absorb and savor the heat easing down his throat. If he’d been able to summon up anything resembling amusement, he would have laughed at himself for being so bloody unsettled. Opening his eyes, he poured another drink, then moved with jerky steps to the fireplace. After easing himself onto the overstuffed brocade settee, he leaned forward and rested his elbows on his spread knees. The cut-crystal snifter dangled from his fingers, and he stared into the dancing flames.
Immediately an image of her rose in his mind, accompanied by the gut-clenching shock he’d experienced when he’d seen her in Lady Malloran’s drawing room.
Madame Larchmont. Alexandra, as he’d learned from Lady Malloran. Finally, a name to go with the face that had haunted him for the past four years.
He’d recognized her instantly, with a visceral punch that had staggered him. Stolen his breath. He’d been surveying Lady Malloran’s guests without much interest when his gaze had happened upon the fortune-teller he’d heard several people discussing. Although she’d been hired for the evening’s entertainment, he hadn’t paid particular attention as card reading was of no interest to him.
Then she’d looked up. And his gaze had riveted on her face…those unforgettable features that had been branded in his memory from the first instant he’d seen them in Vauxhall that long-ago summer evening. He’d stared in disbelief, and for several seconds it had seemed as if his entire being had stilled—his heart, his breath, his blood. And as it had that first time, everything else, the crowd, the noise, the laughter, had faded away, leaving only the two of them. As he’d stared at her, the words Thank God you’re alive pounded through him.
She was no longer dressed in rags as she’d been in Vauxhall, no dirt marred her complexion, but there was no mistaking those dark eyes. That stubborn, square chin, which bore a shallow indent, as if the gods had pressed a finger there. The small, straight nose above those impossibly full, plush lips that were entirely too large for her heart-shaped face. She wasn’t beautiful in any conventional manner…her features were too mismatched, too nonsymmetrical. Still he’d found her unusual looks compelling. Captivating. In a way that had stunned him. Yet what had flummoxed him most, even more than the fact that she’d attempted to pick his pocket, was the way she’d looked at him.
He hadn’t expected to find himself face-to-face with a female, but there was no mistaking the dirty urchin he held for a boy. The play of emotions that shifted across her face as he’d clutched her arms were quick, fleeting, yet utterly unmistakable. First shock. Even though he’d caught her in the act of relieving him of his gold watch, he’d only been able to do so because of his own razor-sharp skills in that particular area. She was talented and clearly not accustomed to being caught.
Her shock had given way to unmistakable fear. The sort that made it clear she believed he’d hurt her. Both of those reactions were understandable. But then she’d blinked and stared at him for the space of several heartbeats, her eyes widening with what he could only describe as recognition. And whispered the words, It’s you.
Before he could question her, she’d jerked from his grasp and ran as if the devil pursued her. He’d given chase, but she vanished like vapor in the crowd. He’d kept up his search until mauve streaks of dawn had painted the sky, even venturing into the dark, dirty alleyways of St. Giles and the rookery, compelled by reasons he didn’t understand to find her. Talk to her.
What had her cryptic words meant? He knew he’d never seen her before—he prided himself on never forgetting a face, and hers was not a countenance he would forget. Something about her beckoned him, tugged at him in an unprecedented way he couldn’t comprehend. When he’d held her for those few unnerving seconds, he’d felt her desperation. Her despair. They, along with hunger and poverty, had rolled off her in waves. And then that fear. He could almost smell it pumping from her, and his heart had filled with pity. She’d been robbing him, yet somehow he’d inexplicably wanted to reassure her that he meant her no harm. And wanted to help her. Damn it, after he’d seen her profound desperation and fear, he’d wished he’d let her have the damn watch.
His fingers clenched on the cut-glass snifter, and he pulled his gaze from the crackling flames to look into the amber liquid. How many times over the past four years had he thought of her? More than he could count. Those eyes had haunted him, while his conscience berated him for denying her something that was an easily replaced trinket to him but could have meant the difference between survival or death to her. He well knew the various dire fates that awaited women in her position, who earned their livings as thieves, and his gut clenched every time he thought about her, which was far too frequently.
He thought about her most often when he lay awake at night, wondering if she were still alive. Or if she’d been caught and hanged. Or killed in the rough underbelly of London where thieves and pickpockets dwelled. Or been forced into the nightmare of prostitution. The thought of her hurt—or worse—ate at him, as did the confusing yet undeniable fact that she’d seemed to know him. And he’d done nothing to help her. He’d traveled to London three times since that night, and on each occasion had spent long hours strolling Vauxhall and the seedier parts of town, alternately making himself an easy target, then hiding himself to covertly observe the crowds, hoping to see her, or be her victim once again. But his efforts had proven unsuccessful.
Even on this trip, he’d spent his first two nights in Town not at Almack’s or the opera or private soirees in search of his future bride, but combing the underbelly of the city and wandering through the poorly lit sections of Vauxhall and Covent Garden in an effort to locate her. He’d been spectacularly unsuccessful, and had arrived home both nights disturbed and saddened by the abject poverty and unrelieved suffering and violence he’d witnessed. The second night he’d barely avoided an altercation with a giant of a man who’d made it plain he wouldn’t hesitate to gut Colin in order to relieve him of his money. Fortunately, the giant’s gutting abilities were severely curtailed after Colin relieved him of his knife. By the time he’d arrived home, he’d realized his search was pointless and had finally given up, believing he’d never see her again.
He sure as hell hadn’t expected to see her in Lady Malloran’s drawing room.
There was no doubt in his mind that she’d recognized him, which filled him with a grim satisfaction as he sure as hell hadn’t forgotten her. Still, she was clearly adept at hiding her emotions—a trait he easily recognized, as he himself had perfected it long ago. He’d seen the flicker of stunned recognition in her eyes, eyes which, thanks to the light cast by the dozens of lit candles, he realized were the same shade as rich, melted chocolate. The glimmer of recognition passed so quickly it was nearly indiscernible. But his years in service to the Crown had made him keenly observant, especially in regard to reading people. She’d recovered well, he’d give her that, but then, just as she had in Vauxhall, she’d disappeared into the crowd. He’d searched for her, yet, as she had four years ago, she escaped him. Determined not to lose her, he’d gone outside, knowing she would have to exit the house eventually. And she had—through that window.
He’d seen her hanging from the sill and his heart had leapt into his throat while his worst suspicions were confirmed. Clearly she was up to something and clearly that something wasn’t anything good. Before he could so much as move, she’d jumped to the ground. Not wanting to reveal his hand, he’d pretended she’d stumbled.
And so their game had begun.
Leaning back, he took a deep swallow of brandy. He had to admire the way she’d regained her aplomb and gone along with the game. Clearly she felt safe in the belief that he hadn’t recognized her, and he intended to keep it that way. At least until he determined what she was up to.
He stared into the flames, wishing their flickering red-and-gold depths could provide the answers he sought. Her appearance at tonight’s soiree both intrigued and alarmed him. Even though he’d only been in
London four days, he’d already heard about the wildly popular Madame Larchmont. How in demand her fortune-telling services were at parties and for private readings. But how many of Society’s finest, into whose homes she was invited, knew that four years ago Madame Larchmont had been picking pockets in Vauxhall’s dimly lit pathways?
“Not many, I’d wager,” he murmured.
So, the question was, had she turned over a new leaf or was her fortune-telling just a ruse to bilk the wealthy partygoers of money? Or worse, pick their pockets? He didn’t believe for a minute that she could actually tell fortunes. Didn’t believe anyone could predict the future, with or without the aid of a deck of cards.
Still, fortune-telling was an entertainment, and entertainers were paid for their services, and he’d certainly not begrudge her or anyone the opportunity or means to make an honest living. Yet in his experience, people engaged in honest activities didn’t normally exit homes through windows—and courtesy of his work for the Crown, he’d certainly escaped enough homes through windows to know. At any rate, he was determined to find out if mere entertainment was the only activity in which Madame Larchmont was engaged. Because he knew damn well she had secrets. Like where she lived.
He’d suspected she had not given him her correct direction, a suspicion that had proven true. He’d exited his carriage the instant she’d disappeared around the corner of the brick building where she’d claimed to live and followed her. While she clearly knew her way around the twisting narrow streets, so did he. She’d moved swiftly, and the effort of keeping up had strained his leg, but he’d managed to stay with her. He’d watched her enter a building in a section of town populated by merchants and small stores. Not fashionable by any means, certainly not as fashionable as where she’d claimed to live, but respectable just the same. Still, a woman who would lie about where she lived was certainly capable of lying about other things.
And he intended to find out what those other things might be.
Given the fact that she was so popular, she no doubt was scheduled to attend more parties over the upcoming days…parties where he would also be a guest in his search for a wife. Surely their paths would cross regularly.
And, of course, she would be giving him a private reading tomorrow. Here. At his home. Where he’d be able to observe her closely, and in the light of day, for the first time.
Heat that had nothing to do with his proximity to the fireplace or the brandy he’d drank rippled through him at the thought, and his brows yanked down in a frown at the reaction. The same reaction he’d experienced walking with her in Malloran’s garden, with her hand resting in the crook of his arm, her shoulder brushing his. Then again while sitting across from her in the confines of his carriage. It was an almost painful, heated awareness that made him notice details about her he wished he hadn’t. Such as the generous feminine curves highlighted by her bronze gown. The way the skeins of moonlight glinted on her dark, shiny hair. The smattering of freckles that marched across her nose. The way her plump lips regained their fullness after she pressed them together.
The way she smelled so deliciously of sweet oranges. His favorite fruit.
With a groan, his eyes slid closed, and he breathed in, as if to capture her fragrance. Her delicate scent had teased his senses during the entire carriage ride. When he’d said good night, he’d been unable to resist touching his lips to her skin to see if she tasted as delicious as she smelled. She had. And during that brief kiss to her wrist, he’d felt her rapid pulse against his lips—the only indication that she was not as calm as she outwardly appeared. Which pleased him, as he hated the thought of being the only one unsettled. The only thing that had kept him from giving in to the overwhelming urge to touch his lips to her skin again was her assertion that she had a husband—a statement that had resulted in an unpleasant sensation much like a cramp.
What sort of man was her husband? How long had they been married? Was he an honest merchant—or a thief? Did he know of his wife’s pickpocketing abilities? Did he possess them himself? More questions to which he was determined to find the answers. And he needed to do so quickly because the sense of impending doom that had first gripped him in its unrelenting grasp last month, was growing steadily stronger—even more so since he’d arrived in London.
He opened his eyes, tossed back the last of his brandy, then rose to pour another. Swirling the amber liquid in the snifter, he stared into the golden depths and asked himself the question that had plagued him ever since the recurring dream of his own death had settled upon him.
How much longer did he have?
Blowing out an impatient breath, he dragged a hand through his hair. He’d tried to convince himself that the sense of growing doom was his imagination run amok, or merely the result of weariness. Nothing more than the melancholy that always struck him at the approaching anniversary of his mother’s death. But even after that sad day passed, he still couldn’t shake the feeling.
Then the dream had started. Nightmare, actually. Trapped in a dark, narrow space, heart pounding, lungs burning, everything in him knowing danger was near. Death imminent. Waking up, bathed in cold sweat, unable to fall back to sleep, his throat tight with the inexplicable fear of closed-in places he’d suffered since childhood.
He’d learned long ago to listen to his gut feelings and trust his instincts. Indeed, during his years of service to the Crown, his instincts had saved his life on more than one occasion. Which was why he couldn’t ignore the disturbing message they’d been whispering to him for the past month: Something bad was going to happen to him. Something he wouldn’t be able to walk away from. Something he most likely wouldn’t survive. The feeling had become more pronounced since his arrival in London, one that hadn’t in any way been averted by his run-in with that knife-wielding giant. He’d managed to escape disaster there, but would he be so lucky next time? His gut told him no, he would not. And that further danger awaited him.
He’d considered that perhaps part of this deep foreboding stemmed from the fact that he was now the same age his mother was when she died, but had dismissed that as superstition. No, he wasn’t a superstitious man. But he was a man who listened to his instincts.
The undeniable sense of his own mortality, of time running out, weighed on him heavily, thus his driving need to fulfill his duties and obligations—immediately. Before it was too late. The most pressing of which were finding a bride and producing an heir.
His common sense tried to tell him he was wrong—that he’d be fine and live to a ripe old age. Certainly that was his hope. But there was no denying the sense of doom he couldn’t shake off, and it wasn’t a risk he was willing to take. Especially since, should he meet with an untimely demise, Nathan would inherit the title and all that went with it. And that, he knew, was the last thing his younger brother would ever want, and therefore was the last thing Colin would want for him. Nathan had always eschewed the trappings of Society, preferring to focus his attentions and talents on medicine, and he was a fine doctor. He wanted the title as much as he’d want his internal organs ripped out with a rusty blade.
No, the responsibility of providing an heir was Colin’s. He now only wished he’d set about meeting that obligation earlier. Before this sense of urgency had grabbed him by the throat. While there’d still been time. Of course, until a month ago, he’d always believed he had all the time in the world….
Looking up, his gaze fell on the cherrywood desk, and he recalled Ellis’s saying a letter had arrived for him. After setting his empty snifter on the end table, he crossed the room and picked up the folded ivory vellum sealed with a bit of red wax. His brows lifted at the sight of his name written on the outside in Nathan’s unmistakable bold scrawl. Amazing that his brother would find the time to write a letter, what with him being a newlywed of only seven months and all that. Certainly, if Colin were lucky enough to have a wife like the very beautiful Victoria, with whom Nathan was passionately in love, God knows he wouldn’t spend time writing letters
.
After breaking the wax seal, he perused the short note:
Arriving in town the day after tomorrow rather than next week with Victoria and several friends in tow. Will stay at the Wexhall town house, as she’s assisting her father with his party preparations. Will plan to call on you after we arrive.
Nathan
The same sense of lingering guilt that thoughts of Nathan always brought pushed at him, but he shoved them aside, instead focusing on how good it would be to see his brother again. He folded the note, then turned his attention to the small blue-and-white Sèvres dish resting on the corner of the desk. A smile curved his lips at the sight of the trio of exquisite marzipan candies, each a miniature work of art fashioned to perfectly resemble a fruit. He looked over tonight’s choices—a strawberry, a pear, and…
An orange.
There was no question as to which one he wanted.
He reached out and plucked the luscious orange from the dish then popped the morsel in his mouth. He closed his eyes and savored the sweet taste of citrus and almond coasting over his tongue, while an image of the mysterious Madame Larchmont filled his mind.
Yes, she was mysterious, her motives unclear. But if there was one thing he excelled at, it was unraveling a mystery; and he’d never yet failed at solving one that came his way. He was determined to have the answers to a good many of his questions about her before she ever arrived at his home tomorrow.
The fact that she had not only survived but appeared to be prospering indicated she possessed a great deal of cleverness and an abundance of luck. But this time, Colin vowed, she’d met her match. And if she were engaged in any sort of thievery, her luck was about to end.
