by The Rogue
So why could she not bring herself to tell Mother about the fellow Ethan Damont?
She was afraid that Mother might misunderstand, for one thing. How could she describe the way Mr. Damont had been skulking about the dark garden during the ball without making him sound much worse than he was?
Of course, she didn’t know that he wasn’t . . .
Frustrated with her own indecision, Jane gave up on her letter and cleaned her quill. As she stoppered the ink bottle, she resolved to find out for herself what sort of man Mr. Damont was.
She would see him again this evening when he came for supper and cards with her uncle, provided he responded to the invitation.
Jane absently brushed the feather tip of the quill down one cheek. She didn’t know what to do about the locked room either. It bothered her no end that someone had been in there. Of course, it could have been a servant dusting—but during the peak of the ball? Unlikely.
It really wouldn’t be appropriate for her to let herself into a room her uncle had expressly forbidden them all to enter—but Jane was full up to her eyebrows with “appropriate.” She’d never realized how much freedom she’d had living in seclusion at the Dowager House until she’d come here to London and taken on the life of the pampered Society lady.
Despite the rigors of country living on a tiny stipend, she now recalled fondly those days when she’d had all the fields and moors to roam freely.
Here, she could not even set foot out into the street—or into a locked room of the house—without permission.
She never would have let that stop her before. But Mother had done so much for her, and she owed Mother complete obedience.
Then again . . .
Mother would want to know what was in the locked room, wouldn’t she? Wasn’t Jane supposed to be including every detail of her life here? And finding out that curious little tidbit for Mother would make Jane feel better about keeping her encounter with Mr. Damont a secret.
Even knowing that she was rationalizing without restraint, Jane smiled eagerly to herself. Finally, a bit of action!
Chapter Five
Back in his house—his freely owned house, by God!—Ethan went over that morning’s stunning disclosure in his mind again and again.
Collis Tremayne was a spy for the Crown. In the midst of pouring himself a drink to wash down that bit of news, another development struck Ethan, stopping him cold with the decanter still tilted in his hand. “Well, I’m damned,” he whispered.
Rose Tremayne must be a spy as well.
After a moment, he finished pouring his drink, then absently left it on the decanter tray and walked away from it.
He’d known that, of course. He’d suspected.
Yet somehow, knowing for certain was something else altogether. Lively, lithe Rose . . . a spy!
Well, it was a good thing they’d never come together then, wasn’t it? Ethan wanted nothing to do with spies of either side, thank you very much. They were mad, all of them.
What the hell would make someone want to risk their life for the abstract concept of “patriotism”? Oh, England was all right. He certainly didn’t want to harm England, but he didn’t see any reason why he should help her either. After all, what had England ever done for him?
No, that sort of bizarre black-and-white thinking might work for honor-bound blokes like Etheridge and Collis, but Ethan liked his shades of gray just fine. Why fight when he could walk away?
Ethan went through the front entrance hall toward the stairs. He was going out tonight. He went out every night. He much preferred it to sitting about this deathly quiet house.
As usual, there was a pile of invitations on the hall table. Out of curiosity, Ethan stopped and sorted through them, looking for one in particular and frankly dreading finding it.
And there it was. “Lord and Lady Maywell, requesting the presence of Mr. Ethan Damont for an evening of cards. Supper will be served at nine . . .”
Feeling an uneasy prickle on the back of his neck, Ethan dropped the thick card back on the table. He wasn’t going and that was that. He had no one to please but himself, no matter what Etheridge had to say about it.
As he went upstairs to dress for his evening out, one thought kept going through his mind.
Rose Tremayne . . . a spy.
Who would ever think that a woman could be a spy?
Ethan had first met Rose when she’d banged on his door at the ungodly hour of noon one day. She’d demanded his help on the basis of his schoolyard friendship with Collis, pumped him full of coffee, and dragged him, red-eyed and hung-over, into the most frightening and exhilarating adventure of his life, rescuing Collis and his fat relation from the bowels of a traitor’s munitions factory.
Of course, he’d hated every minute of it, except for the reward he’d received from Collis’s dear old Uncle Codger. And except for every minute he’d spent in Rose’s company, of course. He’d taken a fancy to the extraordinary Rose but, as usual, it had been Collis who got the girl in the end.
Later, Ethan examined himself in the cheval mirror in his dressing room. Jeeves tied a mean neckcloth, that was certain. Ethan could find no fault in his butler’s arrangements. “I could seduce a widow at a funeral,” Ethan marveled.
“A worthy pursuit, I am sure, sir.” Standing behind him with a clothing brush at the ready, Jeeves betrayed no sign of irony.
Ethan pointed one finger at him. “Don’t disparage my methods, O Butler Mine. You’d be surprised at the gratitude one can inspire at such moments.”
“I am in no doubt, sir. It sounds like the true path to happiness indeed.” Jeeves put away the unchosen garments with blinding efficiency. “May I inquire as to your destination tonight, sir?”
Ethan tugged at his cuffs. “Not to Maywell’s, that is certain,” he muttered resentfully.
Jeeves blinked mildly. “Indeed, sir? Did his lordship not invite you for cards this evening?”
“He did.” Ethan blew out a breath, then turned to his butler. “Jeeves, have you ever been forced to do something you don’t want to do?”
“Daily, sir,” was the prompt reply.
Ethan blinked. “Really? What is that?”
“I very much dislike dusting, sir. It makes my eyes water.”
Ethan narrowed his eyes. “You’re fishing for more servants, aren’t you?”
“No, sir. I am simply answering your question.”
Ethan closed his eyes. “Very well, Jeeves. You may bring in a housemaid.”
“Thank you, sir,” Jeeves said mildly. “However, I’d prefer to bring in a footman. A young fellow about the place would be most useful.”
Ethan’s lips twisted without humor. “Reluctant to bring a young girl into the house? Which is no reflection of your opinion of me, I’m sure.”
Jeeves did not respond, but only kept his gaze level.
Ethan gave up. “Very well. I assume you have one in mind?”
“Yes, sir. It happens I do. A very sturdy young man by the name of Uri.”
“Does this mean I may drink in my study again, now that you have Uri to roll me up the stairs?”
Jeeves went very still. “If the master insists, sir.”
Ethan sighed. “Oh, never mind. I’ll keep the brandy in my sitting room.”
Nothing actually resembling relief crossed Jeeves’s face, yet Ethan had the distinct impression the old fellow had dodged a near bullet. Why were Ethan’s drinking habits of such importance to him?
“I’m off, then.” He took his hat and gloves from Jeeves’s ready hands and donned them in front of the mirror. At the very last, he flicked his hat with one finger to add just the right jaunty slant to the brim.
“Have a very enjoyable evening, sir,” Jeeves said. “Oh, sir . . .”
Ethan paused. “Yes, Jeeves?”
“I always find the best path to take when someone is trying to force my hand is to do precisely what I would have done had they not attempted it.”
Ethan was st
artled. “Good God, Jeeves, did you just offer me an actual personal opinion?”
Jeeves only gazed at him serenely. “Why would I do that, sir?”
Ethan shook his head. “Right. Sorry. My mad imagination at work, I suppose. Besides, I cannot go to Lord Maywell’s. I did not accept the invitation.”
“Have no fear, sir. I took the liberty of accepting it for you.”
Ethan closed his eyes briefly. “That doesn’t mean I’m going, Jeeves.”
“Of course not, sir. Have an enjoyable evening, sir,” Jeeves said calmly.
The hired carriage stood outside, as ready as if it were his own. Truly, Ethan had never commanded such service before he’d hired Jeeves. The man was, indeed, a treasure, just as advertised by his previous employer, Miss Lillian Something-or-other.
Ethan wasn’t one to look a treasure in the mouth.
Settling into the seat, he gave his gloves a final tug and pondered his evening. He’d half-decided to try his luck at the Liar’s Club tables tonight, just to show that lot that he couldn’t be railroaded into anything—but Jeeves’s words kept floating through his mind. “Do precisely what I would have done had they not attempted it.”
And the fact was, if Etheridge had kept his annoying gob shut, Ethan would have at this moment been on his way to answer Maywell’s challenge and take some more of his lordship’s lovely money.
With swift decision, Ethan rapped on the ceiling of the carriage. The small trap flipped open. “Maywell’s, in Barkley Square!”
The carriage paused, then the driver began to turn. Ethan slouched back onto the emerald velvet seat. He would go to Maywell’s and do his best to get thrown out. That would show those manipulative bastards what!
Jane took a bit more care than usual with her hair tonight. When she was done, despite the fact that she’d been dodging Serena’s elbows for brief glances in the looking glass over the vanity, even she had to admit that she looked especially fine.
Every hair was in place, bound by strings of tiny pearls and ribbons so sheer one could see right through them. The length was twisted elegantly into a knot high on her head, which showed off her neck to great advantage.
“Ooh, Jane! You do look nice!” Serena blinked innocently at her. “Have you set your cap for someone who is coming tonight? Tell me, please do!”
Jane paused in the act of applying finely ground rice powder to her face. Set her cap? Is that what she was doing, setting her cap for Mr. Ethan Damont?
That was ridiculous, of course. Why would she be dressing up for some gambling, womanizing rake?
If not for him, then who?
When she couldn’t answer that question, even to herself, Jane pulled every pin from her elaborate hairstyle. While Serena looked on in horror, Jane brushed out the silken reddish-blond mass and twisted it up into a simple knot on the back of her neck.
Passing by the pale lavender confection of silk and lace that lay ready for her across the foot of the bed, Jane went to the wardrobe and removed the plainest gown available. Of course, the leaf-green silk was still very fine and fatally elegant, but it was the least flirtatious thing she had.
Now dressed more befitting a casual dinner with family, Jane left Serena to her primping. The male guests were already gathering in the smoking room downstairs, so Jane went into the garden for a bit of clear air and hopefully a bit of clear thinking.
If Mr. Damont appeared this evening, she would not have much time to discover whether or not he could be trusted. At any moment he could say a few words that would destroy her chances to fulfill her responsibility to Mother. Being revealed to the world as a hoydenish wanton would most definitely get her sent away from here.
The thought crossed her mind that she would then never be forced to dance with any more clumsy young men—but that was not the point. Mother had expectations of her. Jane wouldn’t let Mother down for the world.
“You must never appear too obvious. Subtlety will get the job done where candor will not.”
Unfortunately, she had not been very subtle last night—neither before the rescue nor after. If Mr. Damont thought her wild and abandoned, he’d have good reason to.
Jane smoothed her plain skirts and took the path through the garden that did not pass beneath the elm tree.
For the second time in twenty-four hours, Ethan found himself making his escape from Lord Maywell’s. The smoking room was full of tender youthful louts here to pay homage to one of the young marriageable ladies of the house. Ethan had obviously been invited to keep his lordship occupied with cards while the other fellows pursued their marital goals.
They might invite you to supper, but they wouldn’t want you to marry their daughter.
Not that he was surprised, of course. Society had been this way since time immemorial. Why would it change?
Ethan closed his eyes and inhaled deeply of the chilling evening air. He toyed with a cheroot but did not light it. He did not so much smoke them for his own enjoyment as use them as one of his many distractions for his prey.
There was no one here to perform for. No one but the sculptures and the shrubbery to see him pass one hand over his face in weariness. So tired of keeping up his game . . . so tired of being charming and dashing and useless.
Then join the Liars, said that voice from within. Be of use.
Ethan snorted at his own conscience—if indeed it was his conscience and not the first sign of incipient madness—and replied out loud.
“What use would I be, a man who cannot be trusted?”
A sound came from the garden at his words. No more than a rustle, swiftly silenced, but enough to bring something into focus in the darkness.
What Ethan had believed to be another bit of shrubbery was in actuality a woman in a green dress, standing against the deeper emerald of the foliage. Her pale face shone dimly, as if it were nothing more than a bit of marble statuary among the other figures that stood so incongruously in this urban sylvary.
Ethan rose slowly from his slouch against the wall, all the while keeping his gaze hard upon the woman. It would not do to lose sight of her—although he was not quite sure why it mattered so.
She made no effort to escape him as he approached. Indeed, as he neared her he was forced to reevaluate his assumption that she was trying to remain hidden, for she was simply standing there in full sight. It was a mere accident of coloration and light that had made her seem to emerge from nowhere.
He bowed courteously. “Good evening, ma’am. Ethan Damont, at your service.”
She curtsied with all due politeness, but did not speak. Ethan peered more closely at her, but for all of him he could not place her.
Chapter Six
The world seemed suddenly so quiet around them. Even the night insects were quieted, with nary a flutter of moth wings to be heard. The sounds of the male laughter faded and Jane became very aware of the beat of her heart.
Her pulse pounded, in fact. How silly. She was neither frightened nor nervous. She willed her breathing to slow and her heart to follow. Mr. Damont stood quite calmly before her, offering no threat. His head was tilted slightly to one side as he waited for her to speak. Surprisingly, he gazed at her with complete lack of recognition.
Could that be? True, her hair had been hanging everywhere . . . and her back had been to the dim light coming from the house.
Realizing that made her suddenly loath to speak. He had heard her speak, and Jane had been told more than once that her voice was quite distinctive. It would be best to remain quiet for the moment, and it might prove most interesting to see how such a man would behave in the present situation. To be truthful, she was reluctant to condemn him for his behavior last night, for she had been rude first.
Tonight provided a fresh start. What would he say? How would he behave toward her? So far, he had introduced himself—a social imposition, but not one that she found important. After all, what was he to do upon finding a strange woman standing alone in a garden at night—ignore her?
/> To her surprise, he suddenly smiled and offered his arm. “The dew is falling. Your slippers will be wetted. Shall we adjourn to the terrace?”
Bemused by his easy tone, Jane placed her hand lightly on his arm. They turned and crossed the lawn as sedately as if they were strolling in Hyde Park in the middle of the afternoon. Jane lifted her hem slightly to mount the three steps to the terrace and found that the dew had indeed dampened her gown and slippers. He seated her upon the stone bench, then braced one foot upon it and leaned an elbow on his knee.
“Forgive my impertinence, ma’am, but have we ever been introduced?”
Jane shook her head. It was not a lie. No one had ever formally introduced them.
“Then I am shockingly forward, I fear,” he said with a rueful smile. Heavens, he was a handsome one, wasn’t he? Jane fought down the increasing rate of her pulse once again. She was only here to discover whether he was the sort to divulge her embarrassment to the world.
“Are you a guest at this party?”
Jane shook her head. She was one of the hostesses, but she could hardly explain that with hand signals, now could she?
Mr. Damont seemed to take her answer in a somewhat different light. He visibly relaxed. “Ah, one of the unwashed multitudes, then, like myself. I’ll wager you’re chaperone or companion to that mob of daughters in there.”
Jane blinked, suddenly wondering if that, indeed, was her role in that house. Goodness, the thought had never occurred to her—but otherwise why would her uncle bring in another girl to marry off, when he already had five to worry about?
Ah, but she was the only one who stood a chance, wasn’t she? She was an heiress, unlike her cousins. She was quite suddenly wryly sure of what her role in that family was . . . she was bait. Bring in the men, attract the eligible bachelors, so that the sisters might have a shot at bagging one of the extras.
Mr. Damont took her silence for assent and relaxed further. “They’re nice girls, for their sort. I’m only glad I’m not on their list.” He smiled down at her. “Common as a cart horse, that’s me.”
