Confessions of a Little Black Gown (18 page)

Larken stumbled over the edge of the carpet. His clumsiness, he vowed, wasn’t over that blue-eyed, troublesome romp, but because the hallway wasn’t well lit. Yes, that was the problem.

Miss Langley, indeed! With her plays, and sketching, and curiosity and travels…She’d drive a man mad.

Can you imagine seeing Venice with her at your side? Or Lisbon? Being stuck listening to her as she prattled on in awe at some crumbling ruin, smiling with joy just for being there to share the sight with someone who…

…who loved it as much as she did.

He shook such fancies aside. Trying to convince himself that he found her chatter maddening.

But the truth was, he didn’t.

She was like a breath of spring cutting a swath through his dark existence. She saw the world with the eyes of youth and innocence, carried sunlight into the dark reaches of his heart. He closed his eyes and tried yet again, as he’d done for months, mayhap years, to blot out the nightmares, his years of service. The events and deeds that he’d tamped down inside himself so tightly, he feared the day they’d break free and would rule his mind.

The prison in Paris. The stench of the cells. The haunted, desperate faces of the men inside them. Knowing he could only free one of them.

The look on the fat Spaniard—the one who’d been
selling English secrets to the French—just before he’d died.

Finding his contact in Lyon dead. Her throat cut—and that had been the only merciful part of her death—her gown in ribbons and her blood everywhere else.

Dash’s face, his expression when he realizes you’ve found him, not as a friend, but as his deadliest and final foe…

That was his existence. His nightmares. Not wildflowers and fanciful ruins.

But today…remember this afternoon, how it had felt. How for a time, with her at your side, you’d forgotten.

Forgotten his duty. His honor. His obligations.

There would be no spring for him. There couldn’t be, he told himself.

Larken drew out the pistol he had tucked inside his boot, and began moving silently down the hall toward their door. With everyone downstairs, that left only Dashwell, alone in the room.

He’d…he’d eliminate…
Larken stumbled yet again over the point of his being here.

Damn it, he’d finish Dashwell off, toss his body out the window where he could retrieve it easily, and no one would be the wiser.

Drawing a steadying breath, he nodded at this simple plan. What could Miss Langley and Lady Philippa do once they discovered Dashwell missing? Raise an alarm that their illicit guest had met with foul play?

He smiled to himself, yet felt none of his usual satisfaction over outwitting an adversary, his steps leaden, his heels dragging as if he were being towed
into Almack’s instead of toward a duty that was his and his alone.

Oh, there was Pymm’s promise of seeing his father’s name cleared, but hadn’t Larken heard that promise before? Empty promises and duty. As empty as his soul.

Perhaps it was just that. That this had become so routine to him, that a man’s life meant nothing more than duty, that he’d become as cold and unfeeling as the bitch who’d killed his father.

Suddenly the carpet beneath his feet was no longer some Turkish treasure but cobblestones, and the air murky with the thick scent of the Seine.

“How can you kill me, Aurora, when we have shared so much?”

“What have we shared but time, you fool?”

“You cannot kill me, the child…”

Larken froze and shook his head, for it wasn’t the voices in his head that haunted him, but something else. Footsteps coming from behind, and he whirled around, ready to shoot.

“Goodness gracious, Mr. Ryder, what are you thinking?” Tally exclaimed, shocked to find her quarry aiming a gun at her. “Is that a pistol?”

The man before her was hardly the bird-loving, bird-witted fool Felicity had been bemoaning just a short time earlier. Here was the formidable Lord Larken Dash had warned them of.

And as much as she was terrified right down to her slippers that he was about to shoot her, there was something dangerously thrilling about the murderous look in his eyes.

Tally shivered, and for all the wrong reasons. “Sir, would you please put that down,” she said, nodding at the pistol. “I am certainly no cracksman here to take the silver.”

He finally came out of the trance he seemed to be in and glanced first at her, and then at the pistol in his hand. “Oh, dear, oh, my. I fear you startled me, Miss Langley,” he managed, retreating into the guise of Mr. Ryder, bumbling vicar, his arm going limp and the pistol dropping to his side.

But it was too late. She’d seen him. Seen right through him. To the dark, dangerous man behind the collar.

“Startled you, sir? Whom did you expect to find?” she asked, her heart beating wildly. She should despise him. Hate him for what he’d been sent to do, was so willing to do.

But something about Dash’s description reached past that.

“…the Larken who was recalled home isn’t the same man I knew. War can do that to a man. One who’s been asked to do too much. Things he can’t take back or ever forget…”

But what if Lord Larken could?
a gentle voice nudged at Tally.
What if he could find a way out of the darkness surrounding him?

“I fear all this talk of Captain Dashwell has me in a state,” he was saying.

I imagine it does.
“How so?” she asked instead.

“He’s a murderous fiend, I hear, and as I was coming upstairs, I thought I heard someone—”

“All the way down here?” she asked, glancing in
the direction of the stairs well behind her and the long hall that led to where they stood. “How odd. And whyever would you assume it was Captain Dashwell?”

He heaved a sigh and looked ever so downcast. “I fear there was talk…”

Really, he was quite good at what he did, Tally conceded. If he ever lost his position with the Foreign Office, she would recommend him to Mr. Thurber. He’d make a great actor.

“Talk?” she prompted.

“At dinner,” he added, then lowered his voice. “As to Lady Philippa and her association with that American. That he may be coming here to find her.”

Tally was no poor thespian either. She laughed, loud and thoroughly. “Captain Dashwell? In search of my cousin? Hiding in our rooms?” She reached out and leaned against the wall. “Mr. Ryder, I fear more than your dyspepsia is out of order.”

“I suppose when you put it that way, it does sound foolish,” he said, looking more aggravated than embarrassed.

Tally let that bit of success go to her head, a feeling of confidence nudging her into deeper waters. She pushed off the wall and stepped closer to him, to this dangerous man who had her heart pounding in her chest.

“Would you like to come in my room and search it?” she offered, tossing him the look that Nanny Jamilla had said would make a man, your one true love, follow you to the ends of the earth.

And for a moment, for a whisper of a second, she
thought he might…and to her shock, her body quaked with unmet needs, desires he’d awakened in the garden.

Had it been just last night? No, for it seemed like a lifetime ago, and that made the ache left by his passionate touch only more piercing.

Kiss me, sir
, she wanted to whisper.
Kiss me and take me inside my room. Undo me. Uncover me.

He seemed to hear her silent plea, for his hand reached out and took hers, pulling her slowly, gently closer to him.

But his careful touch belied the truth. She was tempting the very devil.

“Your room, Miss Langley? Whatever mischief would I find in there?” he said, his head dipping down as he whispered the words over her ears, his breath like a kiss, teasing her senses.

She teetered on her heels, and he tightened his grasp, drew in his web, as he brought her closer still.

When she glanced up at him, she found his gaze masked by those wretched spectacles he wore. Without thinking, she reached up and took them off, setting them down on the table beside her door.

Make love to me through the night. I care not who you are.

Nor I you
, his dark eyes seemed to say as he leaned closer, about to…

“Uh, hum,” came the jolting sound from behind them. “Miss, sir, I’ve brought the tea you requested,” Claver intoned from the end of the hall, maintaining his discrete distance as they made themselves more…respectable.

Mr. Ryder released her as if she’d grown as hot as
a fire iron, and Tally felt her color rise from her toes to her cheeks.

And it wasn’t just from being caught thusly, but from the realization of what she’d been thinking…willing to do…

Betray Pippin.
Twice now. She’d let him nearly seduce her. And in this same wretched spot. She’d been willing to give herself to this man in exchange for one dangerous night in his arms. And at what a price.

“Claver?” Mr. Ryder asked, backing away from her.

“I brought your tea, sir,” the valet replied.

“Tea? I didn’t order—”

Tally took a deep breath. There was no escaping what needed to be done now. “I ordered the tea. Or rather my sister did. For your health, sir.”

There was a slight sound from him, rather like a groan, but she knew she had him caught in the crosshairs.

Would the vicar protest? She thought not. But Lord Larken, with his quarry in sight, might continue to put up a bit of a fight.

So she put up a little one of her own. “It is a brew our Nanny Brigid was famous for—why, it cured the Archduke’s dyspepsia, and Her Grace thought it might aid you. I gave it to Claver so you wouldn’t suffer any longer than necessary from your distress.”

“I don’t think—”

Tally didn’t let him finish, for she had a weapon on her side not even he could boast. “I daresay if Claver reports back that you didn’t drink at least two cups, you’ll find my sister up here spoon-feeding you back to health.”

And neither of us wants that
, Tally thought.
For Felicity will know immediately I’ve given you the wrong packets
.

He glanced first at her, then at her door beyond, before acknowledging her check to his latest sally. “My apologies, for earlier, Miss Langley,” he murmured. “I seem to forget myself around you.”

This took Tally entirely aback as she watched him walk down the hall, toward a determined Claver and a fate he had no idea awaited him.

Much worse, she felt a twinge of guilt. Not that she was about to poison him. No, not that little sin.

But because it was the first time he’d honestly revealed something about himself to her.

I seem to forget myself around you.

A truth they shared.

L
arken got to his room, his anger over his failure held in tight check. Barely.

Behind him, Claver fluttered about, having placed the tea tray on the table, and now setting the room to rights and fussing over “Mr. Ryder’s ill health” and “Her Grace’s kind and thoughtful regard.”

“Sir, how would you like your tea?” the man offered, the teapot in hand, poised over the delicate cup.

Poured over Miss Langley’s pert head
, was his first thought. “I really don’t—”

This was met with a stubborn
tsk-tsk
, and a muttered, “Her Grace’s benevolent concern” and so Larken had no choice but to nod at the man to pour the demmed witch’s brew.

No wonder Hollindrake refused to suffer this fellow’s company.

“One lump or two?” Claver asked, in that perfectly ingratiating valet’s tone of his that was getting on Larken’s nerves more than Miss Langley’s constant interference.

No, nothing could rank higher than the way that chit seemed to knock the wind from his sails and plans with her wide blue eyes and the flirtatious tip of her lips.

A pair of very kissable lips.

Ones he’d been about to plunder thoroughly before Claver’s untimely arrival. He didn’t know if he should thank the man or toss him out the window.

“Sir?” the man asked, sugar tongs in hand and innocently unaware of his tenuous fate. “How many lumps?”

“Two,” he said, considering the time in his childhood when Aunt Edith had dosed him with some perfectly wretched posset—the bitter concoction had curdled his stomach for a week.

And considering the Duchess of Hollindrake was coming in at a close second to Aunt Edith, he probably should have asked for a third lump.

Instead he paced about the floor, his need for action driving him mad, even as Claver gently stirred the tea, placed the cup perfectly on the saucer, and then nodded toward the bed.

“Why not take some rest, sir? Have your tea, and I am certain you will be fit come morning.”

Larken suspected the only way to be rid of the fellow was to do as he was told, so he put himself atop the bed, tried to look properly relaxed and gulped down the tea in three hasty swigs.

And even as the cup rattled down in its saucer,
there was Claver, pot in hand, pouring a second cup. “Her Grace said two cups should remedy what ails you.”

Dashwell dead and a night with a willing wench beneath him would be more to his liking, but he wasn’t about to tell poor Claver that.

Larken took the second cup and tossed it down in all haste, handing it back to the astonished valet. “That is all, Claver. You can tell Her Grace I shall be a new man in the morning.”

Just after I remove an unwanted guest from her house—if he’s even here—and I’m well on my way back to London.

However, Claver didn’t move. “Shall I fetch the chamber pot, sir? In case your bowels—”

“Yes, yes,” Larken told him, completely unused to being fussed over, let alone having someone so involved in his life. Demmit, he thought as Claver rushed to bring the porcelain pot close enough for an invalid. He wasn’t going to get rid of Hollindrake’s underworked valet until he gave the man something of substance to do—so he waved at the new jacket the tailor had done up, as well as a wrinkled cravat. “Can you give that a brushing and the cloth a press? I am going to just”—he glanced around for something solitary to do—“read Miss Langley’s play until I fall asleep,” he said, plucking it up from the side table and making a great show of settling in. “I fear it shan’t take long.” He even yawned for good measure.

“Ah, excellent idea, sir,” Claver said, catching up the coat and throwing it over one arm. “I’ll leave the tea in case you have need for more.”

The only thing he was going to do was drain the pot into the rose garden below.

“Good night, Claver,” he said, trying to sound pleasant, so the man’s report to the duchess would be favorable enough to keep her occupied elsewhere.

“Good night, sir. Pleasant dreams,” the valet said as he closed the door.

Larken shook his head. “I wouldn’t know what that would be like,” he said softly, getting up and locking the door so he wouldn’t have the well-meaning Claver disturbing him again.

He glanced back at the manuscript on the bed where he’d left it and was about to push it aside, when a sleepy sort of lethargy stole through his body.

Perhaps he’d settle down and read a line or two and then take another shot at finding Dashwell.

As he did just that, he glanced at the title and groaned.
Lady Persephone’s Perilous Affair.

Oh, good God. Some ridiculously tragic romance between an innocent miss and her ne’er-do-well guardian, most likely. And Temple and Pymm thought this pair of chits capable of masterminding the greatest prison break in English history?

Fool’s errand is what this was, all it ever had been. He groaned again and opened the collection of pages about halfway through and started to read.

Larken gaped at the pages before him. Why, he could be reading Pymm’s report of Dashwell’s escape…right down to the lady in red and the substituted driver.

But how could Miss Langley and Lady Philippa have written this, unless…unless…He blinked and shook his head, for his thoughts were growing more and more disconnected. Trying to concentrate,
he found he couldn’t even remember where he was or what was he doing. The unfamiliar room…the odd buzzing inside his head.

Reading the top of the page he held in his hands, it all became clear again.

Lady Persephone’s Perilous Affair, my ass
, he thought, this was Dashwell’s escape done up as a tidy little adventure.

And there were only two ways Miss Langley could have written this: one, if she’d obtained a copy of Pymm’s private report, or two, if she’d been there.

Helped execute it, just as she had written it.

That realization brought him awake, fully awake, enough to realize that Temple had been right all along.

He went to get out of bed, but found his limbs unresponsive, and as he tried to move, he couldn’t even remember why it was he needed to get out of bed. Larken glanced around the unfamiliar room until his gaze fell on the tea tray.

The tea.

Then it all came back to him and his anger roiled up inside him, betrayal piercing the heavy fog quickly overtaking him.

She’d drugged him. That dizzy Mayfair miss and her flirtatious glances. She’d outwitted him and even now was most likely seeing Dashwell and Lady Philippa spirited away.

Not that they’d get far—for between Hollindrake’s extra footmen and Temple keeping watch, the estate was well surrounded.

Then again, so had been Marshalsea Prison…

Larken struggled to get out of the bed, to warn
Temple, to reveal all to Hollindrake, but it was too late, the drug had him in its thrall, his limbs unresponsive, his lids refusing to open.

Yet as the darkness descended upon him, he clung to one thought.
Of making her pay…

Sometime well after midnight, Tally crept down the hall toward Lord Larken’s room. The house was quiet now, as the dancing had been a great success and all had sought their beds tired and sated from a day of travel and the vigorous playing of Miss Mary.

Soft snores arose from some chambers, while others were as still as graves.

Taking to heart her role as furtive spy, Tally had donned the black velvet to move down the halls, but left the high-heeled shoes behind, sticking to the surety of her bare feet padding across the carpet.

As she approached Larken’s room, Tarleton slipped from the shadows of a long curtain. She nearly jumped out of her skin, for even though she knew he was near, she never would have suspected him of being
that
close.

“I’ve been here since that valet fellow herded our friend inside,” Tarleton whispered.

“Thank you for doing this,” Tally replied.

“My pleasure,” he said, bowing elegantly. “Besides, your cousin and her companion are having a bit of a row.” He shrugged. “That pretentious bit downstairs really sowed some sour oats.”

“That she did,” Tally agreed, thinking of Pippin’s hurt over Dashwell’s having been with with Sarah, calling her by the same pet name he used for her.
His Circe
. Even if it were nothing but tarradiddle—having
come as it were from Miss Browne’s boasting—it had, as Tarleton said, done its work.

He nodded at the door. “He hasn’t gone nowhere, I assure you.”

“Did he lock the door after Claver left?”

“Yes, but I ain’t heard a peep out of him. What did you put in his tea?”

She just smiled, drew out her set of picks, and set to work, opening the door seconds later.

He bowed, a grin of pure appreciation on his pixie face. “Her ladyship said your were a most excellent rum dubber. Here I thought she was pulling my leg.” He leaned over to admire her work. “If you ever decide to give up being a fine lady—”

“I think I am well on my way on that account,” she replied softly, glancing into the room, which was mostly cast in shadows.

“So it seems,” he whispered. “I’ll stay and keep watch, while you finish this.”

Tally shook her head. “No, sir, it will do our plans no good if I am caught and you are near at hand. Best you finish our work by seeing Aunt Minty put in place. This is my folly now.”

He looked about to argue, when the mattress behind them creaked as the large figure atop it tossed and rolled.

Tally and Mr. Jones froze. Tally out of utter fear of discovery, and Mr. Jones from his long years of “assisting” in the family business of thievery.

Then Tally seized the opportunity and slipped inside the room, closing the door gently and turning the lock, cutting off any further discussion over the matter.

This was her mess to tidy up, and hers alone.

She’d come without a candle, and now she wished she had one, for the room was nearly pitch-black. As it was July, there were no embers in the fire to offer even a meager bit of light.

But outside the moon shone brightly, offering her the help she needed, so Tally carefully and slowly dragged one of the curtains open ever so slightly.

A thin beam of moonlight slanted across the room, ending at a large battered valise, which sat propped against the wall.

Tally glanced at it, a wicked suspicion coming over her.
I wonder what’s inside that?

Remembering her task at hand, to find her manuscript and get away before she was discovered, she set aside her curiosity. Though not for long, for all too quickly she discovered her prize atop the nightstand, the ruffled manuscript pages ripe for the plucking.

Oh, heavens, this is too easy
, she thought, glancing first at the sleeping form of Mr. Ryder and then, much to her consternation, back at his valise.

Really, what harm would one small peep be? She bit her lips together. No, she shouldn’t, but even so, she found herself tiptoeing over to the valise and kneeling beside it.

Taking a deep breath, she tried to open it, but found it locked.

She glanced over at the bed and said softly, “Now, now, Mr. Ryder, or rather, Lord Larken, what secrets do we have here?”

Retrieving her pick, it took her a bit to open the little lock on the valise, longer than the door had taken.

A rather complicated lock, my lord
, she mused, taking another furtive glance at the bed.

Staring again at the valise, a rare bit of reason prodded her.
This is folly, Tally. Utter folly. Snatch up those pages and flee.