by Liz Carlyle
Mademoiselle Marchand leaned into him, set her hands on his lapels, and dropped her sweeping black lashes.
“Have me.” He watched her lush lips form each word, mesmerized. “Tonight. Now.”
“You must be mad,” he managed. But he was drawing in the scent of her—that warm, spicy mélange that smelled of orchids and seductive feminine heat—and his traitorous body was eager.
Her breasts were pressed against him now. Her mouth—and that dark as midnight voice—were hot against his ear. “Beneath you,” she whispered. “Under your thumb. Doing your every bidding. That is your fantasy, n’est-ce pas?”
Rothewell dredged up what little restraint he possessed, and set his hand to the back of her head. “Were I to have you, mademoiselle,” he whispered against her ear, “and act out even the most fainthearted of my fantasies, everyone from here to High Holborn Street would have to listen to the racket, because I’d have my hand laid to your bare backside.”
She drew back, her eyes wide.
“No,” he said, sneering. “I did not think that was what you had in mind. But if you insist on acting like a foolish child, then that is how I’ll treat you, Mademoiselle Marchand. Do not toy with me. You will rue the day.”
She dropped her gaze, and to his undying agony, backed away.
Camille turned around, and he thought he saw a flicker of pain in her wide, bottomless eyes. “I cannot stop you, my lord, from keeping a mistress,” she said. “But shan’t have this affaire d’amour of yours flung in my face. Do you understand me, Rothewell?”
“What, jealous?”
Praise for New York Times bestselling author
LIZ CARLYLE
and her sizzling romantic novels
“Hot and sexy, just how I like them! Romance fans will want to remember Liz Carlyle’s name.”
—Linda Howard,
New York Times bestselling author
“Sensual and spellbinding…Liz Carlyle weaves passion and intrigue with a master’s touch.”
—Karen Robards,
New York Times bestselling author
THREE LITTLE SECRETS
“In her usual brilliant fashion, Carlyle brings her Sins, Lies, and Secrets trilogy to a splendid conclusion with a dark, deliciously sensual, richly emotionally story…. Exquisitely complex characters and luscious writing…simply superb.”
—Booklist (starred review)
TWO LITTLE LIES
“With effective, emotional writing and a complex heroine, Carlyle’s story stands out in a crowded field of Regency-era romances.”
—Publishers Weekly
ONE LITTLE SIN
“All of Carlyle’s signature elements—deliciously clever dialogue, superbly nuanced characters, gracefully witty writing, and sizzling sexual tension—are neatly placed.”
—Booklist (starred review)
THE DEVIL TO PAY
“Intriguing…engaging…an illicit delight.”
—Stephanie Laurens,
New York Times bestselling author
“Sensual and suspenseful…[a] lively and absorbing romance.”
—Publishers Weekly
A DEAL WITH THE DEVIL
“Sinfully sensual, superbly written…nothing short of brilliant.”
—Booklist
THE DEVIL YOU KNOW
“Rich and sensual, an unforgettable story in the grand romantic tradition.”
—Christina Dodd,
New York Times bestselling author
ALSO BY LIZ CARLYLE FROM POCKET BOOKS
Never Deceive a Duke
Never Lie to a Lady
Three Little Secrets
Two Little Lies
One Little Sin
The Devil to Pay
A Deal with the Devil
The Devil You Know
No True Gentleman
Tea for Two
A Woman of Virtue
A Woman Scorned
My False Heart
Pocket Books
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2008 by Susan Woodhouse
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.
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ISBN-13: 978-1-4165-7999-1
ISBN-10: 1-4165-7999-0
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To Phil and Roscoe,
the Dynamic Duo
Prologue
In the Cane Fields
The West Indian sun beat down on the still and verdant fields, searing all which lay beneath. Galleried white plantation houses shimmered in the heat, dotting the lush landscape like perfect, lucent pearls. Inside the fine homes, their broad corridors were steeped in shadow, and window louvers lay wide to catch the meager breeze, whilst slave children worked the fans which fluttered from lofty ceilings like massive raptors’ wings.
This was a prosperous land; a near-magical place where money was wrung from the very earth itself, squeezed out drop by glistening drop in the gnashing teeth of the sugar mills, and rendered forth in every bead of sweat that poured off the men—and the women—who worked the cane. The land of sugar barons and shipping fortunes. A far-flung colonial outpost which was beyond the King’s eyes—and often, beyond his laws.
But between the English ladies who languished in the heat on their divans, and the slaves who toiled in misery, there existed a third sort of people in the distant paradise. Sailors who longed only for home, most of whom would never see it again. Servants who had once been indentured, now enslaved by circumstance. Dock whores, street sweeps, and orphans—voiceless and unseen.
In this world of heat and indifference, two boys flew through the narrow rows of green, the razor-sharp cane leaves slicing at their arms and face, their breath coming in sawing heaves. They spared not a thought for the undulating ribbon of sapphire sea below, nor to the ramshackle house left on the hill behind. They had never seen a shaded divan, much less lain on one.
“That way.” The bigger lad shoved the smaller hard on the left shoulder. “The swamp. He’ll not catch us there.”
They cut along the edge of the cane field; pale, skinny arms pumping furiously. The smaller boy dived beneath a low tree branch, skittered out, and pushed on. The stitch in his ribs cut like a knife. Blood pounded. Fear drove him. He could smell the brackish water just beyond. Another twenty yards. Their bare feet threw up puffs of dust as they pelted along the field’s edge. Almost. Almost. Almost there.
A drunken roar pierced the sweltering silence. Uncle leapt from the cane rows, crouching like some beast beneath the mangroves. Cutting off the swamp trail. The boys skidded in the dirt. Stepped back, and half turned. A skeletal Negro slipped out of the cane, blocking the path behind them, his face impassive but his eyes pitying.
The boys turned around, frail shoulders falling in surrender.
“Aye, cornered you little bastards, didn’t I?” Uncle paced toward them, his steps remarkably sure for a man so intoxicated on rum and ruthlessness.
The younger boy whimpered, but the bigger did not.
Uncle stopped, his porcine eyes narrowed to glittering black slits, a riding crop swinging almost cheerfully from his wrist. “Fesh me the little one,
Odysseus,” he said, spittle dangling off one lip. “I’ll teash the cheeky beggar to sass me.”
The Negro approached, snatched the boy, then hesitated.
Like a flash of lightning, Uncle’s crop cracked him through the face, drawing blood across his ebony cheekbone. “By God, you’ll strip the shirt off that little beggar and hol’ him shtill, Odysseus, or it’ll be forty lashes for you—and a week in the hole to repent.”
Odysseus thrust the boy forward.
The bigger lad stepped nearer. “He didn’t sass, sir,” he piped. “H-He didn’t. He didn’t say a word. H-He’s only eight, sir. Please.”
Uncle grinned, and bent low. “Always the helpful one, aren’t you, you little shite?” he said. “Aye, if you’re so bloody bold, you can take his beating for ’im. Strip off his shirt, Odysseus.”
The older boy was inching backward when the slave hitched him up short by the arm. “S-Sir,” the lad stuttered, eyes wide, “I—I’m just trying to explain—n-no one sassed. W-We didn’t say a word, sir. It was just the peacock. He squawked, sir, remember?”
But Odysseus began jerking the filthy linen shirt over the lad’s head, impervious to his struggles. The smaller boy set both fists to his mouth, drew himself into a knot, and began silently to sob.
His brown eyes glistening with tears, Odysseus tossed the ragged shirt into the dirt of the cane field, and forced the boy’s arms to the front, holding them there. The lad’s thin shoulder blades stuck out like a heron’s wings.
“You little bastards are going to rue the day.” Uncle drew the crop through his fist as if savoring his task. “Aye, the day you got off that boat to bedevil me.”
The older boy glanced back. “Please, sir,” he begged. “Just send us back. We’ll go. We will.”
Uncle laughed and drew back his whip. Odysseus turned his bleeding face away.
When the blows began, merciless and even, the little boy shut his eyes. He did not listen to his brother’s cries. The sound of cracking leather. And whilst he shut it out, the sun kept beating down, the faint breeze picked up, and the rich people in their plantation houses savored their fans and sent their slaves skittering off for more lemonade. In the islands, God was in his heaven, and all was as it should be.
When the little boy opened his eyes again, Odysseus had gently hefted his brother over one shoulder and set out toward the house, the filth of the cane field caking his feet. The little boy cast one last look at Uncle.
His eyes glassy with drink and satisfaction, Uncle tugged his flask from his coat, tipped it toward the boy, and winked. “Aye, next time, you little snotnose,” he promised. “Next time, Odysseus’ll be carrying you from the fields.”
The little boy turned and ran.
Chapter One
In which Rothewell meets the Grim Reaper
October was a vile month, Baron Rothewell thought as he peered through the spatter trickling down his carriage window. John Keats had been either a poetic liar or a romantic fool. In dreary Marylebone, autumn was no season of soft mist and mellow fruitfulness. It was the season of gloom and decay. Skeletal branches clattered in the squares, and leaves which should have been skirling colorfully about instead plastered the streets and hitched up against the wrought-iron fences in sodden brown heaps. London—what little of it had ever lived—was in the midst of dying.
As his carriage wheels swished relentlessly through the water and worse, Rothewell drew on the stub of a cheroot and stared almost unseeingly at the pavement beyond. At this time of day, it was empty save for the occasional clerk or servant hastening past with a black umbrella clutched grimly in hand. The baron saw no one whom he knew. But then, he knew almost no one.
At the corner of Cavendish Square and Harley Street, he hammered upon the roof of his traveling coach with the brass knob of his walking stick, and ordered his driver to halt. The brace of footmen posted to the rear of the carriage hastened round to drop the steps. Rothewell was notoriously impatient.
He descended, the folds of his dark cloak furling elegantly about him as he spun round to look up at his coachman. “Return to Berkeley Square.” In the drizzle, his command sounded rather like the low rumble of thunder. “I shall walk home when my business here is done.”
No one bothered to counsel him against walking in the damp. Nor did they dare ask what brought him all the way from the Docklands to the less familiar lanes of Marylebone. Rothewell was a private man, and not an especially well-tempered one.
He ground his cheroot hard beneath his bootheel, and waved the carriage away. Respectfully, his coachman touched his whip to his hat brim and rolled on.
The baron stood on the pavement in silent observation until his equipage turned the last corner of the square and disappeared down the shadowy depths of Holles Street. He wondered if this was a fool’s errand. Perhaps this time his temper had simply got the best of him, he considered, setting a determined pace up Harley Street. Perhaps that was all it was. His temper. And another sleepless night.
He had come home from the Satyr’s Club in the rose gray hours just before dawn. Then, after a bath and a stomach-churning glance at breakfast, he had headed straight to the Docklands, to the counting house of the company which his family owned, in order to satisfy himself that all went well in his sister’s absence. But a trip to Neville Shipping always left Rothewell edgy and irritable—because, he openly acknowledged, he wanted nothing to do with the damned thing. He would be bloody glad when Xanthia returned from gallivanting about with her new husband, so that this burden might be thrown off his shoulders and back onto hers where it belonged.
But a surly mood could not remotely account for his troubles now, and in the hard black pit of his heart, he knew it. Slowing his pace, Rothewell began to search for the occasional brass plaque upon the doors of the fine homes which lined Harley Street. There were a few. Hislop. Steinberg. Devaine. Manning. Hoffenberger. The names told him little about the men behind the doors—nothing of their character, their diligence—or what mattered even more, their brutal honesty.
He soon reached the corner of Devonshire Street and realized his journey was at an end. He glanced back over his shoulder at the street he’d just traversed. Damn it, he was going about this as if he were looking for a greengrocer. But in this case, one could hardly examine the wares through the window. Moreover, he wasn’t about to ask anyone’s advice—or endure the probing questions which would follow.
Instead he simply reassured himself that quacks and sawbones did not generally set up offices in Marylebone. And though the baron had been in London but a few months, he already knew that Harley Street was gradually becoming the domain of Hippocrates’ elite.
At that thought, he turned and went up the wide marble steps of the last brass plaque he’d passed. If one was as good as another, it might as well be—at this point, Rothewell bent to squint at the lettering through the drizzle—ah, yes. James G. Redding, M.D. He would do.
A round-faced, gray-garbed housemaid answered as soon as the knocker dropped. Her eyes swept up—far up—his length as she assessed his status. Almost at once, she threw the door wide, and curtsied deep. She hastened to take his sodden hat and coat.
Rothewell handed her his card. “I should like to see Dr. Redding,” he said, as if he made such requests every day of the week.
Apparently, the girl could read. She glanced at the card and bobbed again, her eyes lowered. “Was the doctor expecting you, my lord?”
“He was not,” he barked. “But it is a matter of some urgency.”
“Y-You would not prefer him to call at your home?” she ventured.
Rothewell pinned the girl with his darkest glower. “Under no circumstance,” he snapped. “Is that understood?”
“Yes, my lord.” Paling, the girl drew a deep breath.
Good Lord, why had he growled at her? It was entirely expected that doctors would call upon their patients, not the other way round. But his damnable pride would never permit that.
The girl
had resumed speaking. “I am afraid, my lord, that the doctor has not returned from his afternoon calls,” she gently explained. “He might be some time yet.”
This Rothewell had not expected. He was a man accustomed to getting his own way—and quickly. His frustration must have shown.
“If you should wish to wait, my lord, I could bring some tea?” the girl offered.
On impulse, Rothewell snatched his hat from the rack where she’d left it. He had no business here. “Thank you, no,” he said tightly. “I must go.”
“Might I give the doctor a message?” Her expression was reluctant as she handed him his coat. “Perhaps you could return tomorrow?”
Rothewell felt an almost overwhelming wish to leave this place, to flee his own foolish fears and notions. “No, thank you,” he said, opening the door for himself. “Not tomorrow. Another day, perhaps.”
He was leaving in such haste, he did not see the tall, thin man who was coming up the stairs, and very nearly mowed him down.
“Good afternoon,” said the man, lifting his hat as he stepped neatly to one side. “I am Dr. Redding. May I be of some help?”
“A matter of some urgency, hmm?” said Dr. Redding ten minutes later. “I wonder, my lord, you’ve let it go this long if you thought it so urgent.”
The physician was a dark, lean man with a hook in his nose and a hollow look in his eyes. The Grim Reaper with his hood thrown back.
“If it had come and then gone away again, sir, it would not now be urgent, would it?” Rothewell protested. “And I thought it would. Go away again, I mean. These sorts of things always do, you know.”
“Hmmm,” said the doctor, who was pulling down the lower lids of Rothewell’s eyes. “To what sorts of things do you refer, my lord?”
Rothewell grunted. “Dyspepsia,” he finally muttered. “Malaise. You know what I mean.”
The doctor’s gaze grew oddly flat. “Well, you are a little more than dyspeptic, my lord,” he said, looking again at Rothewell’s left eye. “And your color is worrisome.”
Again, Rothewell grunted. “I’ve but recently come from the West Indies,” he grumbled. “Had too much sun, I daresay. Nothing more than that.”
