Beyond A Wicked Kiss Page 3

  He was made of sterner stuff, it seemed, else he saw through her defiance to her plan. She huddled more deeply under her mantle and finally stepped back.

  Rain beat a hard, noisy tattoo off the sidewalk and rushed along the cobbled street to the sewer. A speeding carriage marked its passage with a high spray of water that she could not avoid. The sodden hem of her gown dragged along the pavement, and her shoes were no longer proof against the wet Her stockings were damp inside the leather, and water seeped in and out of the welts with every one of her steps.

  It was the realization that there was really nowhere to go that brought her up short. She spun on her wet heels and marched determinedly back to the entrance of the club. This time she did not stop at the base of the steps, but went right up them, head held high in spite of the spirit-dampening elements.

  "Now, see here, miss," the footman said in tones both flustered and affronted. "You can't come up here."

  "What an absurd thing to say when it must be clear to even the meanest intelligence that I can and I have." She did not give him time to mount an argument. "You must see that you occupy one of the only places for respite from the rain. It would be churlish of you to refuse to share it."

  "Churlish?" The creases about his eyes deepened as he squinted to get a better look. "Why, you're quite a pretty little baggage, aren't you? Take yourself off before I call for a runner. It's a nasty night for them to be out, and they'll thank you by putting you before the magistrate forthwith."

  She averted her head, tugging on the hood of her cloak so that he might not mark her features to memory. "You would call for a runner because I've taken shelter from this abominable rain? They might put you before the magistrate for bothering them with such a trifle."

  The footman wasn't gulled. "You wouldn't be the first of your kind to try to gain entrance here."

  "My kind? You are referring, I hope, to the fact that I am female. You would do well not to paint me with any other brush." Glancing down, she saw his weight shift from one buckled shoe to the other. It seemed her words had unsettled him a bit. She would not allow him to assume he knew her business here. She was no man's cast-off mistress come to seek retribution, and she was not a whore looking for trade.

  "There can be no harm if you allow me to stay until the rain slows."

  The footman gazed up at the stormy sky. There was no evidence of either moon or stars this evening. The underbelly of the low, heavy clouds could be glimpsed by the reflection of thousands of London street lamps. Thick fingers of mist were drifting up from the Thames and soon every thoroughfare, park, and alley would be taken over by the shroud. It would be no different here in the West End. The fog was the town's great leveler, making no allowance for privilege or property. The architectural details of many of the finest buildings in the world would become so blurred as to be indistinguishable from the warehouses and brothels on the waterfront.

  "The rain's not moving on anytime soon," he said, giving no quarter. "And the fog's coming on. You better find your way home now. Footpads and worse will be about soon."

  She still didn't move. She could have told him that she'd only just arrived in London and that home was two long days' journey away, but she could see no purpose in revealing either of those things. "I'll wait," she said. "You must not worry that I mean to make a scene. It's just that I..." Her voice trailed off. "I'll wait," she repeated softly.

  The footman's broad chest heaved once with the fullness of his sigh. He gave a bit of ground so that she might shelter more securely in the slender alcove. "Is there a message?" he asked. "I'll see that it's delivered directly."

  She shook her head. A message might simply send her quarry off in another direction. It was the very reason she had not announced herself at his home. She was in no expectation that he would agree to see her. She could not even be certain that he would know who she was, let alone what the consequence of his knowledge or lack of it might be. Was she more likely to gain a moment of his time if he was aware of her identity or if he was wholly ignorant of the same? Might his interest be piqued, or would he dismiss her out of hand?

  Her questions had led her here, to this bastion of male exclusivity in St. James, in the hope of forcing a meeting. She had no assurances that he was inside, but after watching his home for a time she had concluded he was gone from it. Given what she had learned about him, this seemed as likely a place for him to have come as any, and she had to begin somewhere.

  She did not want to make his formal acquaintance at the funeral.

  * * *

  Evan Marchman, the newly titled Duke of Westphal, eyed his companions over the steepled points of his fingers. Stretched out as he was in the high-backed chair, his posture was not one of prayer, but rather of lazy contemplation. He and his friends made a somber foursome this evening. They could not rouse themselves to humor or find the wherewithal to make a wager of no consequence. They sat for long periods without trading conversation. They drank little. No one disturbed them.

  The subdued air of their group was giving rise to glances in their direction and talk among the other members of the club. People acquainted with the news of his father's death would also understand he was not in deep mourning. "We're causing a stir, you know," he said at last.

  East glanced around and saw it was so. He shrugged. "Must be South. He is looking rather disheveled this evening. Bound to cause talk."

  Viscount Southerton roused himself enough to ask, "You are referring, perhaps, to the flecks of mud on my boots?"

  Gabriel Whitney, Marquess of Eastlyn, could have named a number of other things that contributed to South's less-than-tidy person, but he settled for the mud-flecked boots. "That's right. Never say Darrow has left you."

  "It is more to the point that I have left him," South said of his valet. His head rested against the back of his chair. Through half-closed eyes the color of polished steel, he regarded the tips of his offending boots. It had been a hard ride from the middle of nowhere back to the center of London. "It is a temporary state of affairs." He added this in the event East had some notion that he might tempt Darrow with an offer to come into his employ. "He is not available to you."

  "Pity." Eastlyn sipped his port, and in due time his attention swiveled to Northam. "You are particularly introspective this evening," he said. "It cannot be solely on account of West's father."

  Brendan David Hampton, many years now the sixth Earl of Northam, absently raked back his helmet of sun-bleached hair. "It's not." His slim smile communicated his apology to West.

  For his part, West waved it aside. There was no reason to take umbrage with his friend's admission. He could hardly fault North for having little in the way of feeling for the passing of the late duke, not when his own feelings were similarly impoverished. West cocked his head to one side, his dark-green glance amused as Eastlyn poked a bit more at Northam, trying to discover the cause of that worthy's contemplation.

  "Elizabeth, then," Eastlyn said. The words were no sooner out than he held up his hand, staying North's reply. "No, don't answer. I should not have asked. It is none of my affair."

  West did not miss the visible change in the set of Northam's shoulders as he relaxed his guard. It seemed North did not mind that they knew things were not at all as they should be in his marriage, but that he had no desire to share the blow-by-blow. West could respect that. Just as they had all come together for him tonight, North must know his friends would rally if he required anything of them. He had only to look at Southerton to see the effort that would be made if necessary.

  North inclined his head slightly in South's direction and caught his friend's eye. "Where were you when you heard the news?" he asked.

  West wondered how South would respond. He had reason to know that South had been a considerable distance from London, having helped make the arrangements for that journey's end himself. It occurred to West that South was taking pains not to let the strain of his hard travel show. He did not take South's presence here fo
r granted, but acknowledged this as further evidence of the bonds of friendship that had been forged at Hambrick Hall.

  West doubted that it had entered South's head for even a moment that he should go on to his destination rather than turn back to London. Friends for life, we have confessed. A stranger might not have recognized Southerton's taut expression for the deep weariness that it was, but he was among his boon companions now and they could not help but see the toll his journey had taken.

  A small smile eased the lines of tension about Southerton's mouth as he prepared to answer North's question. "More than halfway there," he said quietly. "I was more than halfway there."

  North's own expression was wryly appreciative of the enigmatic response. "So far."

  "Indeed." South pushed himself upright in his chair. "I suspect the return will take somewhat longer."

  Eastlyn chuckled softly, the first any of them had laughed since coming together. "Especially if your intention is to arrive at some end. You cannot travel halfway, and halfway again, and expect to get there, South. Or did they teach you something different on board His Majesty's vessels? If they did, I should like to know." He raised his glass of port, his expression sobering. "How long will you remain in London?"

  "Another day," said South. "Two at the most"

  East nodded. His voice dropped so that it could not be heard beyond their small circle. "You will call on us, will you not?" he asked. "If there is a need."

  "If there is a need," Southerton repeated in the same grave intonation. "I would not have any of you compromised."

  One of Eastlyn's chestnut-colored brows rose in a perfect arch. "So that's the way of it."

  None of them needed to hear anything else to know that South was engaged in ferreting out a spy. It was the sort of work that was often laid in West's own lap, and for once he was grateful not to have pulled the assignment. It said something about the nature of the trap if South's peculiar talents were being put to good advantage. West clearly recalled more than one occasion at Hambrick where South had had to use considerable gray matter in evading their enemy, the bishops. For his part, West would have preferred another brawl, but Southerton liked to talk his way out of things.

  West grinned as Eastlyn's next question showed he was drawing upon the same recollection. "You won't have to recount the entire history of Henry's reign, will you?" East asked. "If you have to extricate yourself from some exceptional coil, I mean. I don't think I could sit through that again."

  North nodded. "I am with East there. You cannot expect so much of us this time, South."

  West found himself moved to contribute to this observation. "No matter that it was a score of years ago. The memory resides painfully in my arse." That comment immediately drew three pairs of amused glances. He returned their gaze, his own innocent. "What? Cannot a duke speak of arses?"

  "A duke may speak of anything he wishes," South said. "Especially one so recently acquiring the title, the lands, and the fortune."

  "You mean some allowance will be made for a bastard son suddenly acquiring legitimacy," West said.

  Southerton continued as if there had been no interruption. "But unless you want others to hang on your every word and have the same come back to you, it is usually a thing better done quietly."

  "Bloody hell," West said under his breath. "Bloody, bloody hell."

  His disconsolate manner first raised identical grins from the rest of the Compass Club, then their rousing laughter. They fell into the moment without examining it too closely, letting their laughter speak for them when they could find no words that would do so well.

  * * *

  The rain did eventually slow to a drizzle. Mr. Dunlop—for she had finally learned his name—was insistent that she vacate the stoop before members of the club began to take their leave. There was no point in arguing or pressing him for further information. She counted herself as fortunate that he had resigned himself to the inevitable of sharing his shelter. He had even become something of an amiable companion, lowering his guard enough to allow her to learn what she needed to know. For the first time since arriving in London, she permitted herself to hope.

  Standing at the corner where an iron gate marked the perimeter of the property, she could see gentlemen stepping out of the club. They left alone or in pairs, all of them pausing on the lip of the first step to adjust their brushed beaver hats so the rain did not mark their faces. They wore kid gloves and caped greatcoats. Some of them carried walking sticks. Now that the rain had nearly subsided, it did not seem to inconvenience them overmuch. Occasionally there was a comment cursing it, but it presented little hardship as their carriages came forward on the street to collect them. From time to time she would see Mr. Dunlop step down to the sidewalk and call for a hack. One always came quickly, the drivers having been waiting for just this opportunity.

  Her spirits flagged when an hour of this activity passed and he did not appear. She could not imagine there were many gentlemen left inside. More than three score had already absented themselves from the establishment. It did not look so large a place as to accommodate another exodus of the same.

  Dunlop opened the door and made a small, deferential bow of his head. "Your Grace. Shall I bring a hack?"

  West wondered at what point he would no longer feel a prickle of alarm at being addressed in such a manner. Your Grace. He had been at the club only two days past and had been greeted politely but without this rather disconcerting obeisance. He really did want to plant someone a facer.

  "I'm for walking this evening," he said. "It's bracing, don't you agree?" West could see that the footman thought he was quite mad to eschew the offer of a hack, but there was no opinion offered to that effect. There was a trace of mockery in West's tone as he said, "Et tu, Dunlop?"

  "Me, Your Grace?" Dunlop swallowed hard. "I don't know what you mean."

  West supposed that he didn't. "You are not so easy with me as you were two days ago."

  "Have I given some offense? I assure you, I have meant none."

  Seeing that he was making the man uncomfortable, West abandoned the subject. Dunlop couldn't very well point out that two days ago West had been a gentleman, true enough, but also a bastard in no anticipation of that ever changing. He sighed. He would have to depend upon South, North, and East to deal with him as they always had and make no allowances for this sudden change in the status of his birth and station. "My friends took to their carriages, I imagine."

  "Yes," Dunlop said. "Indeed they did. Not above a half hour ago."

  West knew very well when the others had left. He had assured them he was all of a piece and encouraged them to go back to hearth and home. He stayed behind to nurse the last of his brandy and consider what was to become of him in light of his father's surprising final declaration. It wasn't enough that the dying man made some explanation to those gathered at his bedside for the death watch, but West had it from the solicitor that the duke had composed a document a sennight earlier that told the whole of it.

  Naturally, West had questioned the solicitor as to his sire's lucidity, hoping to hear that he had been, in fact, completely out of his senses. Mr. Ridgeway, not understanding that West was in no way desirous of the title, lands, fortune—or the responsibility—dashed his hopes by assuring him repeatedly that the old duke was as sharp as a tack right up until the moment he called for Meg and seemed to see her come for him at the side of his bed.

  West was not the least softened toward his father upon hearing that he had cried out for Meg in the end. He remembered how often his mother had cried similarly for the duke and how rarely he came. If she was hovering at his bedside, West hoped it was because she intended to point the way to hell. She surely had not arrived to lead him to that part of heaven where she resided. Even the Almighty could not be so forgiving as to grant the late Duke of Westphal a place there.

  West tapped the brim of his beaver hat so that it rested on his head at a proper roguish angle, set a wry smile on his lips, and starte
d down the steps. He had a light tread and the patter of the rain was barely disturbed by it. He turned right on the sidewalk toward his home, his long stride marking the distance to the corner quickly. He paused as he stepped down to the street. It was the narrowest of hesitations, so slight that he doubted it had been noticed. Because of the thickening fog, he did not trust himself to see what manner of traffic there might be on the street. He cocked his head to one side and listened instead. He recognized the approach of a heavy carriage drawn by a pair of horses and a hackney pulled by a single animal. Neither conveyance was moving quickly and he judged he had time to cross without mishap. He was not at all concerned that the person following him might not be able to do the same.

  West reached the other side of the street, made a sharp left, and continued swiftly to a point halfway down the block where there was an opening between two white brick residences. He stepped sideways into the dark mouth of the narrow alley and waited.

  The steps that had been following him slowed, then finally came to a halt. Weapon in hand, West waited patiently to see what trick the cutpurse might get up to.

  "Your Grace?"

  Had he not been mildly astonished by the sweetly feminine voice calling to him, he would have had occasion to wonder if he had indeed been branded with his new title. The fact that he had been followed from the club by a woman did not mitigate the danger. It had been his experience that women who took to the street for their living could be every bit as treacherous as their male counterparts. He could also not dismiss that there might be a pimp nearby ready to help if she could not manage the thing herself.

  "Please, Your Grace. I can no longer see my fingers at the end of my hand. Are you here?"

  West stepped forward and stood safely at a long arm's length from her. He spoke softly, pleasantly. "Mayhap you can see this?"