Beyond A Wicked Kiss (4 page)

"Thank you," Evan said, not quite meeting North's eyes.

Gabriel Whitney, East to the others, offered one of the iced cakes he was carrying. "Cakes always help," he said. "These arrived in today's post. Came straightaway to share them. Can't eat them all myself, now, can I?"

Evan was polite enough not to disagree. East's rounded figure was evidence to the contrary. He took a cake and sat down gingerly on the edge of his bed, inviting the others to join him.

Matthew Forrester, the young viscount Southerton, folded his legs under him and dropped to the floor tailor-fashion.

He accepted one of East's iced cakes and bit into it with considerable relish. He spoke around a mouthful of food. "You'll tell us when you're of a mind to, I suppose. And if you're never of a mind to, it doesn't matter. We're still your chums, West."

Evan nodded once. It was quite possibly all that would ever be said on the matter. He didn't doubt they had a very good idea who had raised the welts on his back and backside. It didn't make it less humiliating to him. He still wanted to plant someone a facer.

As if reading his mind, North rubbed the bump on his own nose. "Would you like to take a poke at me again? You look as if you want to take a poke at someone."

East's rounded jaw came up and he pointed to his first and second chin. "You might want to take a crack at one or both of these."

South indicated his left cheek where he had pouched most of his iced cake. It was swollen like a chipmunk's. "Go on. Take a swing. A little punch to help you wash down your cake."

Evan rolled his eyes at South's wordplay. It saved him from having to make another reply. His throat was uncomfortably tight, and speaking would have been a severe trial. Their willingness to accept an injury in order for him to shake off so much ill feeling was a reminder of how they'd become friends in the first place.

They never seemed to mind that he was a bastard half as much as he did.

He spoke finally, swallowing hard, hoping it would seem that the cake was the cause of his difficulty. "I should rather like to flatten one of the bishops."

"Brilliant," South said, wishing he'd thought of it himself.

"Excellent," East offered, brushing crumbs off his chest.

"Top drawer," North said approvingly. "Really, top drawer."

They all rose to their feet and made for the door. Even though the purpose of their club called for them to be "sworn enemies of the Society of Bishops," they had never set out to provoke a fight before. They arrived in the cobbled courtyard of Hambrick Hall wondering how they might begin the thing when one of the bishops whispered,
"Bastard."
It was surprisingly easy after that.

Chapter 1

November 1818

She thought she might have heard their laughter. She had been told that if they were together, she could depend upon hearing it, no matter the circumstances that drew them together. But surely not, she thought, not this evening. Not when the circumstance was death.

"You'll have to move along, miss."

She pretended she hadn't heard. She'd been successful at ignoring the instruction earlier. Perhaps he would conclude she was deaf or daft and make allowances. It was not as if she was making a nuisance of herself to anyone but him. Indeed, there was no one on the sidewalk at this late hour to be the least bothered by her presence.

She supposed he was puffed up by his own importance. He was splendidly turned out in gold-braided livery that must rival even that worn by the king's servants. He stood as a sentinel at the top of the stairs, zealously guarding the entrance to the gentleman's club as if his life depended upon it. Mayhap it did, she considered. If she were to manage somehow to breach his defenses and enter this exclusively male sanctuary of port, cigar smoke, and leather armchairs, he might well be dismissed, turned out without a character, and left to fend for himself and his family by taking up a career as a cutpurse.

It would be her fault if he was forced to crime. She almost found the resources to smile at this odd flight her thoughts had taken. The explanation for the bent of her mind could be found in her deeply weary bones. Her teeth were near to chattering with the damp and cold of the evening. Hugging herself beneath her woolen cloak was no longer effective in warding off the chill, nor was tugging on the hood to keep the runnels of water from spilling into her hair.

Moving along was probably just what she needed to do. As though it were at her own inclination, rather than as a result of his instruction, she began walking slowly. She did not remove her eyes from the windows of the club as she did so, but they were set too high above the sidewalk for her to have a clear view of the interior. Earlier she had watched the club from a vantage point across the street. From that distance she could see something of the warmly lighted rooms that faced the front, but nothing so clearly that she might identify any of the members.

"You should step a bit more lively, miss."

Some gremlin of perversity made her stop in her tracks. She did not pretend she hadn't heard his suggestion this time. Her position squarely at the bottom of the steps did not give her the high ground, yet her rigid stance yielded nothing. She stood there a long minute. It was too dark to gauge the frustration on his features. She hoped he was weighing the consequences of leaving his post either to forcibly remove her himself or get assistance to do the same. Either way he would have to abandon the door. It was then that she might have an opportunity to slip past him.

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.