Elusive Passion (2 page)

“Have we come to the part in this Drury Lane tragedy where you tell me just what the devil you want?” he asked softly with just a touch of malice. His lips curved slightly, without humor. It was a smile meant to intimidate.

“Yes,” she admitted, standing over him as if she enjoyed being able to stare down at him. She seemed completely unperturbed by his demeanor. Miles’s ire rose another notch. Pistol or no, he was sorely tempted to teach this arrogant witch a lesson.

“And?”

“I want to know why you killed Isabella Mancini.”

Miles jerked upright so quickly that the wobbly chair almost bucked him to the floor.

Surely he had heard her wrong. She couldn’t have said what he thought. Hot disbelief coursed like grains of sand through his veins.

“Bella’s dead?” There had to be some kind of mistake. His stomach churned.
Please, let there be some kind of mistake.

A picture flashed through his mind—a beautiful, olive-hued face with wide, obsidian eyes and a lush mouth parted in laughter. Ebony hair spread out
across a down-filled pillow, reflecting glimmers of blue in the morning sun. Nobody had been more alive than Bella.

“She was your mistress,” his captor jeered. “Do you expect me to believe you knew nothing of her death? That you didn’t kill her in a fit of jealousy?”

Miles stared at his abductor as if she had suddenly announced she was the queen of Persia. The tears in his eyes quickly evaporated.

“You think
I
killed Bella?”

“Are you telling me you didn’t?”

He nodded vigorously. “You’re bloody right that’s what I’m telling you. I haven’t seen Bella in months. We parted company a few weeks before she was to leave for Paris. I assure you she was very much alive the last time I saw her.”
And heartbroken
. He had seen to that.

“You parted on bad terms,” she reminded him coldly.

Again he nodded—absently, taken with his thoughts of Bella. The smile that curved his lips was a sad one.

“Yes.” He shook off his melancholy and raised his gaze to his captor. His jaw was set. “What happened between Bella and me is none of your damned business.”

“You killed her!” There was conviction and anger in the cry.

“She wanted more than I was prepared to give!” he shouted in return, then, lowering his voice, “We said goodbye and I left her there. A sad but wealthy woman.”

She snorted. “A likely story. She did not need your money. She wasn’t one of your English whores!”

He glanced at her and felt himself turning almost sympathetic. Crazy or no, this woman had obviously cared about Bella. “No, she wasn’t.” He looked away. “Bella didn’t want my money. She wanted my heart.”

Another snort.

He smiled bitterly. He doubted she would ever believe his innocence. Whether she intended to kill him remained to be seen.

“I couldn’t give it to her and she would settle for nothing less.” He shrugged. “It’s true that our…arrangement came to an unsatisfactory end, but I was not the injured party. I didn’t enjoy hurting Bella emotionally. I certainly wouldn’t harm her physically. Whether you believe me is your business.”

He was lost in thought for a moment, remembering the sad smile Bella had given him when she had asked him to leave. She had her pride, she had told him.

His captor started when he turned his attention back to her, as if she too had been lost in her own thoughts.

“How did Bella die?”

“She was strangled,” she replied quietly.

Icy fingers gripped his heart as his mind conjured up an image of Bella’s lifeless body. He almost could see her laid out on the bed in a lacy peignoir, her sightless eyes wide with terror. He shivered.

“When?”

“The twenty-sixth of April.”

At least he had an alibi. “I was in the country with a friend on the twenty-sixth. Ask anyone, they’ll tell you.”

“You lie.” The pistol was pointed right at his head.

He shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant even as his heart twisted in his chest. “It’s true. Unless you want to kill an innocent man, I suggest you ask. Everyone can tell you that both the Earl of Carnover and I missed a party in honor of Lord Byron due to our visit to my country seat.” It was a lie. He’d rather cut out his own tongue than spend an evening with Byron and his cronies.

He had raised a doubt in her mind; he could tell by the hesitancy of her movements. Her grip on the pistol loosened.

Miles acted swiftly, knocking the chair to the dirty floor as he leaped at her. She cried out and raised the gun. His fingers wrapped around her wrist, effectively cutting off the circulation to her hand and causing her grip to slip.

She swore at him, a torrent of words that would have made a sailor swoon coming out in her crisp, perfect English as she fought him wildly. Even as her stiff fingers lost their hold on the weapon, her long, strong limbs twisted and struck out at him, searching for an area of vulnerability.

“Stop squirming, damn you!” He tightened his grip on her wrist. Most men would have yielded to him by now, but this woman fought as though her life depended on it.

“I’m…not…going…to hurt you!” he cried as he fought to subdue her. “I just want some answers!”

“Let go of me!” She struck out at his head and shoulders with her free arm, her booted feet kicking mercilessly at his shins.

“Damn it, stop that!” He grabbed her other wrist and bent both arms behind her back, securing them with one hand. He set the pistol on the table with his other. As she continued to struggle like a trapped animal, he took advantage of her lack of concentration. With one deft movement, he forced her legs apart and stepped between them. She could no longer kick, and her balance was thrown off.

Still she thrashed against him. He could only imagine the pain she was causing to her shoulders as she fought to pull free of his grasp. He tightened his hold, pulling her backward so that she was bent over the table and unable to squirm so much.

Unfortunately, it made him all too aware of the soft, feminine warmth now pressed tightly against his groin and of the full breasts straining against her twisted cloak.

“Now,” he said somewhat breathlessly. “Why don’t you explain yourself?”

Her eyes blazed through the slits in the hood. It was too dark to discern their color, but not their brilliance. “Go to hell.”

Miles grinned. If nothing else, she certainly had spunk. “That doesn’t answer my question. Let’s try another—who are you?”

She muttered something under her breath.

“How do you ever expect to offend me if I don’t understand what you are saying?”

Her body was rigid with anger, but other than that, it felt good beneath his. She was softer, rounder than he had first thought. Obviously there was
one
part of his body that
didn’t
take exception to the fact that she had kidnapped him at gunpoint.

“I said,” she growled, “that you are a son of a bitch and that you should have intercourse with yourself!”

Miles was so stunned by her admission that he couldn’t help the laughter that bubbled up in his throat. If it weren’t for the grim reality that had brought her here, this entire situation would be one of the most exhilarating things that had ever happened to him. He had to be going mad.

“This has gone on long enough,” he announced. “I’m going to take your hood off now and put an end to this charade. Then I expect you to tell me how you came to suspect me of killing Bella.”

It was a mistake to announce his intention to her. He thought he had her secure until he saw her head coming at him alarmingly fast. With little time for him to react, the top of her head connected with his forehead with all the force of a large hammer. Dazed, he released her, staggering back a step.

Damn
.

She reached for the gun, wrapping her fingers around it just seconds before he caught her.

“I’ve had just about enough of you!” He grappled for the weapon. “Stop this nonsense!” With that, he seized her wrist and slammed it down on the table with enough violence to force her fingers open. She hissed.

The pistol clattered to the floor, discharging its ball into the opposite wall with a loud
crack
. His abductor shrieked as several trinkets and an old plate tumbled off shelves to smash on the floor.

The crashing cacophony was over in seconds, but it rang in Miles’s ears, transporting him back to Spain
and all the death and destruction he had seen there. More than half a year had passed since a wound had sent him home. Napoleon had abdicated that spring, but Miles still woke up some mornings with the smell of gunpowder and decaying flesh in his nostrils.

Varya was suddenly aware that the marquess’s attention was elsewhere. The throbbing pain in her forehead and arm dulled with the realization that she was free! Her limbs trembled with adrenaline. She could practically smell the fear emanating from her own body—her sweat was ripe with it.

Frantically, she looked around for some other weapon, but the hood made it impossible to see anywhere other than directly in front of her. And standing directly in front of her, finally fully highlighted by the glow of the lamp, was the most incredible-looking man she had ever seen—despite the fact that he smelled like a dockside tavern and his catlike eyes were strangely glazed.

A pallor had fallen over his chiseled features, as though he had just seen a ghost…Yes, Bella’s ghost! Until she discovered otherwise, she had to remember that he was her prime suspect—her only suspect. She had no business finding him attractive. He very well could be the man who had murdered her dearest—her only—friend.

She forced herself to remember Bella, not only in life but also in death. Varya had been the one to find her body, and she would not let Miles Christian’s pretty face make her forget!

He had her backed against the table; its sharp edge cut into her legs through the worn fabric of her
breeches. The only route of escape was past him, which meant she would have to overpower him in order to flee. She could not risk his unmasking her. If he did, all her years of freedom would be for naught.

She brought her knee up, thrusting it into his groin with enough force to stun him without doing serious injury. She felt the air rush out of him as he sagged against her, his handsome face white with pain and shock. She shoved him away as though he were contagious, and he stumbled to the floor.

Panting, she scooped up the pistol with her good hand—she had lost feeling in the other—and fled toward the door. Her heart was hammering wildly in her chest. If he caught her this time, there was no telling what he might do to her. Her fear was almost feral in its intensity.
Run from him
, it told her.
Run as fast as you can
.

She was only inches from the stairs when he caught her by the hood. Panicked, she struggled, frantically shaking her head. The hood twisted over her face, partially obscuring her vision and taking some of her hair with it as it slid up over her jaw. His fingers closed around her arm. He was speaking to her, trying to calm her. She couldn’t make out the words, only the soft sound of his voice. She didn’t want to be calm. She wanted to be
free
!

Blindly, violently, she struck out with her arm. The butt of the pistol connected with the side of his head just as her hood came off in his hand. She watched in stunned horror as he crumpled to the floor with a loud crash. His head struck the crude wooden boards and then he was still.

“Dear God,” she whispered. “What have I done?”

Something very close to hysteria washed over her. She had killed him. She had killed a peer of the realm!

No, she hadn’t killed him, she realized, willing herself to remain calm. She could see his chest rise and fall with every breath. She had only rendered him unconscious.

For a moment she could only stand and stare at the large form at her feet. Even unconscious, there was a raw kind of power that surrounded him. He looked like a lion she had once seen in a menagerie in Moscow.

Against her better judgment she knelt beside him, her gaze feasting on his pure male beauty. A part of her now wished that she was wrong—that he hadn’t killed Bella. He looked so young, so angelic with his eyes closed, that it was easy to forget just how feline he appeared with them open.

There was nothing innocent about him. That was evident from the way her body had reacted when he had thrust himself between her splayed legs. She had been caught between the hardness of his body and the unyielding wood of the table. The table had only cut into her flesh, while it felt as though the pressure of his hips against hers had branded her, sending a shocking current of sensual pleasure through her even though she feared him. No, any man who could inspire lust over panic was certainly no innocent.

Still, something about the way his russet hair fell over his forehead and the laughter that had softened his features moved her. Tentatively, she reached out and touched his cheek. The skin above the shadow of his beard was golden and soft…

“Idiot!” She leaped to her feet as though his flesh had scorched her and cursed herself thoroughly for allowing herself to be affected by him. That was his charm. And it was this that had attracted Bella and had gotten her killed. Varya would do well to remember just what a monster this man was.

And she had plenty of experience with monsters.

Imagine Bella’s reaction if she could see what Varya had done. She had brought the Marquess of Wynter to his knees.

She carried that thought with her as she hurried through the shadows and down the rickety stairs on legs that shook faster than they ran.

W
ith the bump on his temple skillfully hidden behind a lock of hair, Miles gingerly set his beaver hat on his head and exited the carriage. Although the spot was still tender to the touch, it was no longer throbbing. He was fortunate that the only serious injury he had sustained was that to his pride.

Two days ago he had woken up on the rough-hewn floor of the abandoned storeroom where his demoness abductor had left him, with Carny hovering over him, clucking like a mother hen.

Miles’s tiger had disobeyed orders to stay with the carriage and had watched the scene unfold from the shadows. He followed Miles and his abductor to the warehouse and then ran for Carny. Miles didn’t know whether to reward the boy or throttle him.

Once his friend had determined that he wasn’t seriously injured, and had managed to pull almost every detail of the humiliating affair from him, Carny’s clucking turned to chuckles. Miles hadn’t the strength to shut him up.

Every inch of him had been bruised or battered, and he smelled of cheap gin and manure. If fate ever delivered the harpy back into his hands he would make certain she did not escape him so easily. And he would make sure she answered all his questions about Bella’s death.

So far, his own investigation had turned up little information that he hadn’t already possessed. From the one report in the newspaper and conversations with both the doctor who had examined the body and the Bow Street Runner assigned to the case, Miles had discovered that Bella had indeed been murdered, most likely by a man.

A jealous lover was the likeliest suspect. After answering his questions, Bow Street had a few of their own, leaving Miles no choice but to confess being out-of-town at the time of Bella’s death.

One of his housemaids had become pregnant by a local man caught up in a smuggling ring. Because she was fearful that she was going to be turned out without a reference and that her beau would be hunted by the authorities, Miles had little choice but to return to his estate for a few days.

It seemed that no matter how much the rest of the staff assured the girl she wouldn’t be turned out, she would only believe it from Miles. Of course, once he
was there he could hardly refuse her tearful plea to help her young man.

Miles had found the scared youth in a cave, where he had hidden to escape capture. Miles sent the boy home with enough money to marry the maid and start working his own small homestead on Christian land. He had also warned the young man that if he wasn’t prepared to accept the consequences of his actions, he was better off not getting himself into such predicaments.

After that, he and Carny had a word or two with the smuggling gang about doing their recruiting somewhere other than the village Miles’s estate protected. Miles would buy their brandy, but he would not pay them with the blood of his people. That bit of information he did not reveal to Bow Street.

“Are you coming?” Rowan Carmichael, Earl of Carnover, asked, sticking his blond head through the open carriage door. “I’d like to get inside before the music starts.”

Practically folding himself in two, Miles rose and stepped down to the street. “Apologies, my friend. I was thinking of other things.”

Carny nodded in understanding, his usually jovial countenance grave. He had liked Bella, and understood how deeply news of her death had affected Miles.

The King’s Theater had been the very stage where Miles and Carny had first heard Madame Isabella Mancini sing. Her voice had been lovely, but Miles had been more taken with Bella’s body than her talent.
They had shared many months together, but he hadn’t set foot in the theater since ending their liaison six months ago. It felt almost eerie to be entering it now, knowing that Bella would never grace its stage again.

Outside the theater, the night was alive with voices mingled with raucous laughter, and the glow of the street lamps caused many a jewel to sparkle like star-dust. Why, on this night, in this part of town, it was hard to believe that anyone in London could possibly be a murderer.

Or an insane foreign woman with a gun.

“Explain to me once more why I agreed to come here with you,” he demanded of his companion as they were suddenly caught in the middle of the swarm of patrons clamoring to get inside the theater. Like a herd of sheep trying to get through the opening in the fence all at once, he thought.

“You are here,” Carny humored him as he narrowly escaped stepping in a pungent pile of horse droppings, “to celebrate
my
brilliant apprehension of the band of thieves you failed to capture and to see the Elusive Varya perform.” This was said with such reverence that Miles forgave his friend’s ribbing to wonder at Carny’s regard for the woman. That Carny had caught the thieves bothered him not at all.

He was becoming less and less enamored of playing the hero and rounding up villains. His life needed a different kind of excitement, though he had no idea where or how to find it. The rich man’s disease—after gout—was boredom.

Miles nodded a polite greeting to an acquaintance.
Carny hadn’t said a word about Miles’s decision to give up spy work for good.

Calling himself back to the conversation, he smiled sardonically. “Ah yes, your little piano player.”

Carny rolled his eyes as they walked through the doors of the King’s Theater. “She’s a
pianist
, Miles,” he drawled, “and exquisite.”

“Mm.” Miles’s disinterest was apparent as he took in the glittering minions of the ton surrounding him.

Society both fascinated and repulsed him. On the surface, everything seemed placid and calm, but he wondered what seethed just below the surface of even the starchiest lord. How could any man be content with such a mundane existence? Not much wonder the regent ate too much and spent too much—what else had he to do? Parties, recitals, and soirées were all he had to look forward to. If war with the French had taught Miles anything, it was not to live his life as though he were already dead. Although, sometimes, he wondered why he wasn’t.

“Oh, Lord Wynter, there you are!”

Miles turned toward the voice. His eyes scanned his immediate vicinity and saw nothing. Then a slight tugging at his sleeve made him glance down.

Standing before him, their heads just reaching the middle of his chest, were Lady Fenton and a pretty young chit that he supposed to be her daughter. Just how many daughters did the old hag have? Over the past three years she had thrust as many female off-spring in his face, hoping he’d take a fancy to one.

“I wonder if I might present my daughter Harriet to
you, my lord?” Lady Fenton inquired, a smug smile on her cherubic face.

Miles smiled graciously, seeing the distress on the poor girl’s pretty features. It was quite obvious that she found his size—a throwback to his father’s Norse ancestors—intimidating, and no doubt thought him far too
old
.

“She’s just had her eighteenth birthday!” Lady Fenton gushed as if the girl were a mare ripe for breeding. Miles chuckled inwardly at the comparison. Lady Harriet was far too young, her bloodlines too pure for his stable. On the other hand, she did have fine teeth and a large chest.

He bowed over Harriet’s hand, pressing a light kiss on the gloved knuckles. “How do you do, Lady Harriet?”

“Very well, thank you, Lord Wynter.” Blushing furiously, she sank into a deep curtsy.

“Oh my, there’s Lady Esterbrook!” Lady Fenton exclaimed, cooling her florid face vigorously with a hand-painted silk fan. “I simply must discover whether or not she will be attending my dinner party Thursday evening. My lord, would you please stay with Harriet for a few moments? Oh, thank you.”

Miles watched in wry amusement as Lady Fenton’s considerable girth barreled across the foyer toward the unsuspecting Lady Esterbrook. The woman had no shame. It was bad manners, not to mention scandalous, to leave her young daughter unchaperoned with a gentleman.

“I’m surprised she didn’t invite you to dinner,” Harriet muttered under her breath.

Miles laughed out loud, causing the girl’s blush to deepen to a dark crimson.

“You’ve a sharp tongue, Lady Harriet!” He chuckled.

“Forgive me, my lord,” she mumbled to his chest.

“Do not apologize. Personally, I find it refreshing.”

She stared at him, a hopeful light in her brown eyes. “Do you mean that, Lord Wynter?”

He nodded, his lips curved into an easy grin. “I do. I’m sure you are aware that your mama has introduced me to every one of your sisters for the past three seasons?”

Harriet nodded, her cheeks pink.

“Yes, well, so far you’ve been my favorite.”

She beamed at him. She really was a pretty little thing. It was unfortunate really, that she was the daughter of such an odious woman, otherwise he might be tempted…

But instead, he’d introduce her to some young bucks her own age. Such a vibrant young girl deserved better than an embittered ex-soldier like himself. She deserved love and a family—two things he could never give.

“Tell me, Harriet,” he began, defying propriety by using her Christian name. “Have you seen any young men here tonight who’ve caught your eye?” He asked because he had noticed the Marquess of Standhope’s son Marcus watching them very closely.

Harriet managed to raise her rosy face long enough to quickly scan the bustling foyer. Her eyes settled on the handsome young Marcus, who tipped his hat to them both and sauntered toward them at Miles’s beckoning wave.

“Good evening, Wynter.” But his eyes were on Harriet.

“Evening, Marcus,” Miles replied jovially, trying to suppress a grin. “May I present Lady Harriet Fenton, Lord and Lady Fenton’s youngest”—Miles raised a questioning brow, hoping that Harriet was indeed the last. When she nodded, he almost sighed out loud in relief—“daughter.”

Miles pointedly ignored the two young people as they awkwardly entered into conversation. He might be a matchmaker, but he wasn’t an eavesdropper. Instead, he contented himself with watching Carny attempt to work his wiles on an unsuspecting miss—and fail when the girl’s chaperone intervened. The smile with which he greeted the returning Lady Fenton was a self-satisfied one. One more ambitious mama’s machinations ruined.

Carny came up beside him as the happy trio strolled away. Lady Fenton’s disgruntled expression had changed to joy when she realized that Marcus would be a powerful marquess someday.

“How many narrowly escaped betrothals does that make this season?” his friend demanded with a chuckle.

“Six. I’m thinking about going into business. I’ve introduced them all to other eligible gentlemen. Four have already announced engagements.”

Carny clapped him on the back. “You’re amazing.”

Miles grimaced. “It would seem so. I’m tired of standing here like a stallion at Tattersall’s. Let us go inside.”

“There are many gentlemen of our set who would
be more than happy to see you put out to pasture, my friend, and leave all the fillies to the rest of us.”

A grin parted Miles’s lips at his friend’s dry tone. “I’m not ready to spend the remainder of my days grazing just yet, Carny. And I’ve witnessed your pathetic attempts at seduction.” He tapped his friend’s shoulder with his gloves. “Now, shall we go inside and wait for the entrance of your little pianist?”

Miles was glad for the seclusion of Carny’s private box. There he was finally safe from the intrusions many society matrons attempted to make into his private life. He had not taken a mistress since he and Bella had parted company, and many took that as an indication that he was looking for a wife. Consequently, all of London was looking for one for him as well.

He removed his hat and raked his hands through his thick, shaggy hair, careful to avoid the lump on his temple.

It was vanity and not indifference that made Miles wear his hair longer than what was truly fashionable. He realized that it only stood to reason that a large man have large ears, but he was determined to keep his hidden.

He leaned back in the cushioned chair that was too short for his large frame and stretched his long legs out in front of him. With any luck he’d fall asleep within a few minutes, as he was in desperate need of some rest.

Much to Miles’s astonishment, the noise level inside the theater dropped almost to a complete hush as the time to begin arrived. Even the bucks and bruisers down front, who usually used an evening at the theater to make complete asses of themselves, fell quiet.

Carny punched him in the shoulder. “See what I mean?” He cackled softly. “She’s mesmerized the entire city!”

Miles jokingly rubbed the spot where Carny had hit him. “She” wasn’t even on stage yet. “Your exuberance is overwhelming.”

But despite his cynicism, Miles found himself sitting upright and lifting the opera glasses to his eyes to get a better look at the mysterious musician who seemed to have charmed all of London and had earned herself the title of “Elusive” from the lust-struck gentleman she had rejected.

She stepped onto the stage to thundering applause. Through the glasses, Miles could see that she was tall for a woman, but still a great deal shorter than his six feet, three inches. His gaze traveled up the bodice of her dark blue satin gown, and he was somewhat surprised to find that the scalloped neckline revealed very little of the swell of her impressive bosom. Under the lights, her skin appeared the color of alabaster, a stark contrast to the gown and inky black hair. Her face seemed bare of the cosmetics he had known many female entertainers to use when on stage. While he couldn’t make out the color of her eyes, they were large, and the rest of her features fine. Her lips curved into an appreciative smile at the warm reception, and Miles was struck by her simple loveliness.

He turned to Carny. “She’s lovely, I grant you,” he commented in a loud whisper, “but I still don’t understand what all the fuss is—”

“Shhh!” Carny hissed, waving his hand frantically in Miles’s face.

Miles raised his eyebrows at his friend’s rudeness. He turned back to the stage with his opera glasses, feeling like a scolded child.

And then she began to play.

Never before had Miles experienced such music. Until then he had thought Beethoven to be the most gifted musician he had ever heard, but that was before he heard…What was her name? Vanya, Verushka? Damn, after Carny’s rude dismissal he knew better than to ask him until after the concert.