by Lucy Ashford
Where she’d lived with Lionel, her army officer husband.
‘Lionel’s gone,’ George had said. ‘It’s time for you to start afresh. Terminate the Dover Street lease and start to enjoy yourself, that’s my advice—clothes, parties and so on. Oh, and I know you’ll wish to carry on with that little charity affair you and your friends are always talking about—’
‘George,’ she’d interrupted, ‘darling George, it’s not just a “little charity affair”! My friends and I are trying to provide an education for children who’ve not been as fortunate as us and to give them the chance of a better future. But thank you so much for the house and everything. You are a dear.’
After that she’d hugged him and he’d looked a little embarrassed, but pleased, too. Poor George—since their father’s death some years ago, he’d never ceased to take his duties as head of the family extremely seriously and often she’d wished he would enjoy himself more. But that was her only complaint about her older brother, who’d shown his affection for her in numerous ways.
And so she re-entered London society as a twenty-three-year-old widow, with a beautiful if oddly furnished house in Mayfair and the belief that she’d learned some of life’s hardest lessons. But tonight it seemed that maybe she’d learned nothing at all. Silas Mort and Raphael Lefevre—oh, Lord. Which of them posed the greatest danger?
She scarcely registered a word as Martha, her maid, chattered away. There was indeed a hot bath ready for her in no time, after which Martha brought out an ivory satin night robe for her to wear. But all the time Raphael Lefevre’s taunts were ringing in her ears. ‘That halo of yours is in danger, isn’t it?’
‘There, my lady.’ She realised Martha was still talking cheerfully to her. ‘Fancy getting yourself wet through in the rain like that! Now, I’ll just put a few more coals on the fire and you can have a nice read before you go to bed, like you usually do.’
And Martha left Serena sitting in a chair by the hearth with a cup of hot chocolate at her side and a copy of Mary Wollstonecraft’s book—A Vindication of The Rights of Women—in her hand. But Serena didn’t feel like concentrating on that learned volume in the least. In fact, she felt rather more like having a good cry. She pulled out her handkerchief and dabbed furiously at her eyes. Stupid. So stupid of me.
She’d had such a privileged life, enjoying an idyllic childhood on the family’s ancestral estate in Yorkshire; though there had been great sadness, too, for her mother had died when Serena was fourteen, just after George had gone to Cambridge. Their father never recovered from his wife’s death and died a mere three years later—which meant that George became the new Earl of Stainsby at the age of twenty-one, while Serena, thanks to a legacy from her mother, was wealthy in her own right.
So Serena had grieved, but she’d also striven to lead the life her loving parents would have wanted for her. And when she was nineteen, George had taken her to live in the family’s grand town house in Clarges Street so she could have her first Season. Even though George didn’t like London at all, he was determined to do his duty and find his sister a good husband. Poor George, that was yet another of his schemes come to naught, for she’d fallen in love, or imagined she had, with a twenty-five-year-old army officer called Lionel Willoughby, who was the third son of a viscount.
Serena was entranced by his charm. She was in awe of his tales of the countries he’d visited with his regiment and the battles he’d fought in. Though for the first two years of their marriage he was based in London, occupying a senior post at the barracks in Knightsbridge, which, he explained, meant that he often had to work long into the evening. Serena believed him—until she discovered that his so-called official business was a lie to cover up his gambling and drinking in the taverns and gaming dens of low-life London.
Yes. Lionel had been a pleasure-seeking wastrel, just like Raphael Lefevre—and she had been drawn to the handsome young officer like a moth to a candle flame. Once reality set in, she’d been too deeply ashamed to admit her mistake to anyone. Outwardly she maintained that theirs was a happy marriage, but her love for him was dead. Her brother had always disliked Lionel, had even tried to forbid the marriage, but Serena had pleaded with him. ‘George, I shall never, ever be happy with anyone except him, I swear!’
Soon enough she’d realised George wasn’t mistaken at all. But then Lionel’s regiment was called to the war in India, where two years ago he was killed in battle. He’d died a hero’s death, she was assured. Amid outpourings of sympathy, she moved back to the family home in Yorkshire for the usual period of mourning. Everyone assumed she was stricken with grief, but Serena was using that time of isolation to prepare herself. Strengthen herself. She’d resolved that her youthful errors were behind her now and she’d vowed to never willingly surrender her freedom again.
But Lionel’s past still haunted her. Indeed, it was because of Lionel that she’d been forced to meet Silas Mort tonight.
It was only a week ago that she’d been out walking in the park with Martha when a shabbily dressed man with a scarred face had limped up. ‘Money for an old soldier, lady?’ he’d whined. Martha would have shooed him off. But the man drew closer and whispered, ‘I’ve things to tell you about your husband, Lady Serena. You’d be wise to listen.’
So, already gripped by a premonition of dread, Serena had waved Martha away—and she had listened.
The man’s name was Silas Mort and he’d been a soldier in India two years ago, he told her, under her husband’s command. ‘People say he died a hero when we fought against the Sultan of Mysore and his men,’ Mort went on. ‘But I tell you, my lady, as soon as the Sultan’s men opened fire on our lads, your husband panicked and ran for his life. There was lots of smoke from the guns and cannon and he made the mistake of running towards a bunch of the Sultan’s men who were waiting to attack our flank. They killed him, of course. Afterwards, the word got round that he was bravely attacking them. Like hell he was. He was running for his life—thanks to the smoke, his officer friends didn’t notice, but the lads and I saw it all. After that, my knee was smashed by a bullet and I finally got home to London with no money and a near-useless leg. But I’d fought for my country, see? And when I heard that Willoughby had been hailed as a hero for running like a rat from the enemy, well, I said to myself, “That’s not right, is it?”’
So even Lionel’s death was a lie. The scarred soldier’s tale rang all too true—she’d always suspected that her husband was the last person on earth to act so bravely. He’d died a coward, but Serena had reeled at the thought of the world knowing it all.
Proud, Lefevre had murmured. You, Lady Serena, are far too proud. Yes. She was. And that was why, when Silas Mort demanded money to keep quiet, Serena had agreed to meet him tonight in one of the liveliest, bawdiest haunts of the city.
She’d trained herself to live an independent and full life and her friends always murmured, So brave! So sensible! But she’d been neither this evening when she’d stood there on that dismal street with shadowy figures lurking on every side, no, indeed—her heart had thundered and her throat had gone dry.
Only then she’d felt safe because Raphael Lefevre had appeared. He’d silenced Mort by warning him that Serena was his—in other words, she’d been claimed by the man she despised most in all of London.
The lady and I have an appointment, he’d said, in that elegant, slightly accented voice of his. She’d wanted to shrink into the ground. Though what occurred next was even more appalling, because when he wrapped his arm round her and drew her close to his strong, hard body, something had happened to her, something wild and wanton and terrifying in its unexpectedness. With his kiss, it was as though all her carefully built defences had been demolished in one lightning assault.
Her body had betrayed her in a few moments of stupid, shameful weakness. She couldn’t deny she’d felt a throb of physical desire that had frightened her almost more than Silas Mor
t and his threats. Had the detestable Marquis realised her vulnerability? Had he guessed? It was rather likely, to judge by that all too knowing smile as he’d gazed down into her eyes.
Whatever spell he’d cast over her tonight, he was an expert. No wonder women threw themselves at him. But she wasn’t that sort of woman! She knew better—or did she? Oh, my. She sat by her fireside, but it wasn’t the flames that brought a simmering heat to her body. No, it was the thought of Raphael Lefevre holding her in his arms. The thought of his mouth wickedly—knowingly—caressing hers. He’d offered his help, but dear Lord, he was quite possibly the most dangerous man in creation for her. He’d guessed she was being blackmailed, but he must never know why, or it would give him a weapon with which to make her life unbearable.
Abruptly she put down her book and walked across the bedroom to her gilded mirror, intending to brush out her long fair hair in a sequence of strokes that usually soothed her. Yet tonight even her familiar image in the mirror shook her, because somehow she looked different. Her blue-green eyes seemed almost haunted. Her lips were surely fuller, as if they were reliving that rogue’s kiss. And on smoothing down her satin night robe, she realised her skin was acutely sensitised, her small breasts warm and somehow heavy. Never, ever had she been so aware of her body’s vulnerability.
Lefevre had insisted he would call on her tomorrow, therefore she would make very sure she was out. Problem solved—and as for that kiss, no true gentleman would betray her by talking about it! Surely even he knew that! But what if—as Lefevre had suggested—she’d been recognised by one of his friends?
She climbed into her four-poster bed and thumped her pillow, struggling to get comfortable. Oh, Lord, the news of their kiss would take London by storm.
Lefevre had been causing something of a stir ever since his arrival here last year, thanks to his title and his wealth; for unlike many of his fellow compatriots who’d fled the chaos that followed the Revolution, he’d somehow managed to bring a large part of his fortune with him. His popularity was not lessened by his striking appearance and caustic wit, all of which meant he’d been quickly taken up by the fashionable set. Indeed, Monsieur le Marquis was generally in such demand that when he’d asked Serena to dance at a party five months ago, she’d been surprised.
She was rather more surprised to find him polite. Pleasant, even. ‘I’ve heard you lost your husband during the fighting in India,’ he’d said. ‘He gave his all for his country, I’m told. You have my sympathies, madame.’
She found his slightly husky French accent beguiling and his presence curiously disturbing. But then, at the end of the dance, one of his drunken cronies had staggered up and clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Damn it, Lefevre, you’ve won your bet! You managed a whole dance with the woman we call “the iceberg”. I owe you ten guineas, you scoundrel!’
A wager. The hateful Marquis had asked her to dance for a ten-guinea wager.
She’d lost sleep over that. And now, as she lay in her luxurious bed, once again the longed-for oblivion refused to come to her rescue; the candles were extinguished, the coals in the hearth gave out only a faint glow, but still she was awake, listening to the rain pattering against the window panes and the occasional rattle of a carriage going by.
Why, when every sensible urge in her brain told her to avoid Lefevre as if he were the devil incarnate, did his embrace tonight linger in her thoughts and her body like some fiendish spell he’d laid on her?
She turned restlessly in her bed, fighting to resist the memory of his firm lips plundering her mouth. To banish the recollection of his wicked hands holding her close. Her blood ran hot, then cold again when she realised that if that kiss became public knowledge, she would be a complete and utter laughing stock. Beaumaris, Finlay, Hawkesworth—those three men who’d seen them tonight were Lefevre’s friends, but they certainly weren’t hers.
She rose abruptly from her bed and walked rather shakily to the window, pushing the curtains aside a little. Pressing her forehead against the cold glass, she gazed out, feeling as if her very heart was chilled. All her friends thought she was in charge. In control. But maybe this evening she’d met her match in Raphael Lefevre.
She couldn’t rid herself of the memory of the way he’d pulled her against him with such strength, yet such surprising gentleness. And his voice, for once, hadn’t been mocking, but had been protective: caring even, in a way that had curled like liquid honey inside her, somehow melting the aching loneliness deep in her heart...
Dear God. How could she have been such a fool?
She looked up at the night sky, where between the drifting clouds the full moon hung high above the chimney stacks. At least, she reminded herself, Lefevre couldn’t possibly know the reason for Mort’s threats. He couldn’t know that her husband had died a coward’s death. Tonight the mocking Marquis had seized an opportunity to humiliate her, that was all—and his offer of protection had to be a joke. Silas Mort would stay away from her anyway, for not only had he received his money, but he’d been reminded that she had powerful acquaintances. Yes, she had to put the incident behind her.
It was then that a slight movement in the street below caught her eye.
A stray dog, maybe? For a moment all was still again. But then a shadow moved on the opposite side of the road and she realised a man was standing there, gazing up at her window.
A gasp of horror almost choked her. Black hat, black coat, scarred face... It was Silas Mort. She jumped away, heart hammering, but it was too late; he knew she’d seen him, because he’d tipped his hat with an evil leer, as if to say, I’m not done with you yet, my lady.
Chapter Four
At around half past ten the same night Raphael Lefevre arrived at his Piccadilly club to find the popular haunt of the rich as crowded as usual at this hour of the evening. Beneath the glittering candelabras, older men sat in leather armchairs while liveried footmen hovered close by with drinks. Through a gilded archway, a score or more of gamesters crowded round the green baize tables and studied their cards with feigned nonchalance. Young bucks dressed in the height of fashion stood in groups discussing the latest scandal to engulf one or other of the King’s wayward offspring, or the merits of the newest opera singer to catch the ton’s fancy. The heat, the chattering voices, the scent of hair powder and pomade all engulfed Raphael as he entered. And paused.
Because he’d already heard his own name among the babble of male voices.
‘So here he is, our Marquis.’ One man was nudging to another. ‘Up to his tricks as usual. Have you heard? I got the news an hour ago from Giles Beaumaris—bumped into him on my way here. This time Lefevre’s been caught in a rather compromising situation with Lady Serena Willoughby, of all people.’
There were gasps. ‘No. Lady Serena? Beaumaris must have been lying!’
‘He’s not,’ the man answered with satisfaction. ‘He said Finlay and Hawkesworth saw it, too—and he swore blind the Marquis was kissing the lady! Now, we all know Lady Serena has a sharp tongue; but, my friends, perhaps Lefevre can teach her to put that tongue to better use!’
His voice faded as he spotted Lefevre looking straight at him.
‘Good evening, gentlemen.’ Raphael gave the man and his companions a brief nod. ‘How fascinating that my supposed exploits are offering you entertainment yet again.’
The man was already backing away. ‘I’m sure no offence was meant, Monsieur le Marquis,’ he stuttered.
‘I suppose you’re afraid I’ll challenge you,’ Raphael said casually. ‘Pistols at dawn, maybe.’ The man paled and Raphael laughed. ‘Monsieur, you may breathe easy. Believe me, you’re not worth the trouble.’ And, without a second glance at all the others warily watching him, Raphael strolled past them towards the billiards room.
So Giles Beaumaris had indeed recognised Lady Serena. Raphael had suspected he would, since he’d developed a tendre for her until she’d replied
quite cuttingly to his advances. Trust Beaumaris, the wounded suitor, to spread the news. Lady Serena would be upset, to put it mildly. Well, well.
In the billiards room, only one person awaited him—Sir Dominic Southern, with whom he’d arranged a game. But Raphael was late and Dominic, who was one of his more respectable friends, was watching him with a mixture of concern and irritation as Raphael nodded a casual greeting and picked up his cue.
‘I don’t know,’ Dominic said finally, ‘whether to applaud you or to weep for you, Raphael. You do realise that the entire club is bursting with the news of your encounter tonight with Lady Serena? In Covent Garden, of all places! Well, man? What have you got to say for yourself?’
Both men were the same age, but Dominic was as blond as Raphael was dark. Dominic’s clothes—brown coat and knee breeches—bore the slightly faded, almost rustic look of a decade ago, whereas Raphael set the fashions for the ton. Many described Dominic as the perfect English gentleman—and since Raphael was considered by quite a few to be the perfect French scoundrel, it often occurred to him that he and Dominic made an odd pair.
Raphael started chalking his cue carefully. ‘Perhaps,’ he said, ‘I’ve decided to make it my life’s occupation to entertain the gossips.’ He studied the table, gauging the lie of the balls. ‘And aren’t I making a success of it?’
‘So what Beaumaris said is true, then?’ Dominic shook his head in exasperation. ‘Tonight, Raphael, I feel you’ve gone a bit far. I happen to rather like Lady Serena.’
‘Do you?’ Raphael raised an eyebrow. ‘There are some who are of the opinion that the woman’s a shrew. But if you want to know all of it, she’d got herself into difficulty with a gang of louts and I told them to leave her alone.’ He sent an ivory ball rolling across the baize, then looked up. ‘I know you’re a Member of Parliament and you feel you have a public duty to uphold the law, so wouldn’t you have done exactly the same?’
