Engaged in Sin (35 page)

He could tell she was putting on an act. “I don’t know, Kat. I came here so you could tell me where she is.”

“I have no idea, Your Grace. I have not seen her since she went running off to your hunting box, determined to seduce you.”

“You’re lying, love.”

“I am not,” she said, her voice a seductive caress. “I have not seen her since she left.” Graceful fingers stroked the edge of her robe, tracing the red silk—
cerise
silk—from her pale throat to the shadowed valley between her large breasts. Her attempt at distraction wasn’t working. All he could think of was Anne. He had never been so obsessed with a woman before.

Courtesans like Kat were his past. And what he wanted, what had driven him here, finally struck him. He wanted Anne to be in his future. He wanted her back. He could see, but he still wanted her to read to him, he still wanted to walk in the rain with her, ride with her, be with her. This wasn’t about rescuing her. It was about taking her, keeping her, having her. And that scared him. He wanted to possess Anne with the same driving need that had made him steal Rosalind away from Gerald, his former best friend.

“Is something wrong, Your Grace?”

He pulled his thoughts in line. “You’ve made yourself up well, but I can see the damage from Mick Taylor’s attack. Did it take long for him to force you to betray Anne?”

Pain flashed in Kat’s exquisitely made-up brown eyes. “I did not want to betray her. I tried to endure it, but that man is a monster.”

“Why shelter her, Kat? Taking risks for another woman, a competitor, isn’t like you.”

Kat waved an elegant hand. “Her mother saved my life once.”

He leveled his gaze at her, drinking in the nervous tics of her jaw. “Kat, if you didn’t know for a fact that Anne was safe, you’d be upset, given Taylor is after her. You wouldn’t be so calm.”

She stiffened on the chaise. “I didn’t think she was in danger from Taylor—he was working for her cousin. Surely, her cousin would not want to hurt her.”

“So why would you not tell Taylor where she was? Why make him beat it out of you?”

Kat’s eyes widened and flicked nervously around the room, as though she was seeking escape. He reached out and clasped her wrist to remind her there was none.

“All right.” She sighed. “I knew she was in danger from Mick Taylor and her lunatic cousin.”

Devon tightened his grip, hating having to be rough. “Why do you call her cousin a lunatic?”

“What would you call a man who set his young cousin on his lap and touched her in ways that made her feel ill? That is the sort of man he was. He began fondling her when she was only eight years of age and he was twenty. He is a perverted madman who is obsessed with her. But I am telling you the truth, Your Grace. She did
not
come back here.”

“She did. Kat, I expect you to trust me with the truth—we have known each other for a long time. You know I would not hurt Anne. She has nothing to fear from me.” But his gut was churning at what he now knew about Anne’s cousin.

“Of course I know that! But she does not want you to help her. She only wants to escape. She has fallen in love with you, of course.”

He frowned. “That’s not true.”

She wagged her finger. “You must listen, Your Grace. Anne does not want to hurt you or your family by putting you in a scandal. She is leaving you to protect you. It is better if you let her go.”

It was not. He could not let her run with no money or protection. After all she had done for him, he owed her so much. “How does Anne plan to escape?”

“She would not want me to tell you. Why are you so determined to catch her, Your Grace?”

He didn’t want to threaten Kat, after what she’d been
through at the hands of Mick Taylor. “I need to find her because she is accused of murder—”

“You aren’t looking for her to turn her over to Bow Street and the law, are you?” Kat cried. “She does not deserve to hang! Her madam was a cruel witch, and if Anne killed her with a fireplace poker, I can promise you
that
woman deserved her fate.”

“She claims to be innocent.” He watched her eyes. Did Kat believe it?

“Of course she is.” But Kat didn’t sound convincing.

“Either way, I can help her,” he pointed out. “But unless I know where she is, there’s nothing I can do for her. I rode directly from my hunting box to Town in pursuit of her. I am hungry, exhausted, sore, and my head is pounding. You will tell me the truth, Kat. I have no intention of leaving until you do.”

“She is just your mistress. Why not let her go?”

“Kat, if you care about Anne, you’ll let me help her. Trust me with your friend’s life.”

Her teeth tore at her lip.

“Unless you want Taylor or Bow Street to find her first.”

“She is planning to escape England by ship,” Kat admitted. “I gave her two necklaces so she could buy her passage. How could I not help her? She came back to London, risking capture, to ensure I was all right.”

“Where is she planning to go?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think she knows yet. All she is thinking about is running. Remember, her heart is most likely breaking—no woman thinks clearly through that.”

Was he too late? Had she already gone?

The docks stank of dead fish, muck, rotting wood, and unwashed sailors. Devon realized he probably
didn’t smell much better. Sweat, from hard riding, made a filmy layer between his shirt and his back. It soaked his hair beneath his beaver hat.

At a public house on Wapping High Street, he tied up his horse. A lad hurried out with a tankard of ale. Devon tossed it back to quench his thirst, threw the lad some coins, and strode to the hubbub of the port.

Where was she? Dozens of ships bobbed on the water, hundreds of sailors teemed on the docks. There were women too. Wives in dull dresses, whores in garish garb. Was Anne still wearing the servant’s dress and hat? Or she could be disguised as one of the women in plain brown wool or one of the tarts in scarlet silk.

Suddenly he wondered: Would he know her?

He would. He had seen her face for only minutes, but the wide eyes, lush mouth, and delicate oval face were burned on his brain. At every posting inn on the way here, he’d given her description. Two miles outside London he finally found a man who had seen her. A groom had witnessed her fighting off the advances of a drunken gentleman. Devon’s heart had gone ice cold, until the groom told him she had driven her knee between her would-be attacker’s legs. The man had dropped to the ground, and Anne had escaped.

Devon found one of the shipping offices, gave Anne’s description, and asked if such a woman had bought a ticket. The young clerk shook his head.

He tried several more, with no success. He stood on one of the docks, watching sailors carry barrels up the gangplank to the hold. Perhaps she had bought her passage privately. After all, what captain would refuse her?

Where would Anne want to go—where would she flee to spend the rest of her life? He had no idea. That was the problem. He knew very little about Cerise, the courtesan who had been his mistress, and he knew nothing about Anne Beddington. How much of Cerise had been
an act? He believed her strength, her determination, the stories she told about her past—about walking in the rain with her grandfather and reading him books—those were part of the
real
Anne.

Still, he knew nothing that gave him a clue to what kind of escape she would seek. The warm breezes of the West Indies? Exotic India? Opportunity in America?

Grimly, he began to search the taverns. In a low-ceilinged place called the Anchor, he found a captain of a ship scheduled to leave on the tide the next day. The captain was blond and grizzled, with the hard eyes of a man who drank to quell devils. “A female passenger?” he mused. “I might have taken payment from a fetching lass in exchange for passage to Bombay. But my memory’s foggy. I need a drink to clear it.”

Hell, Devon could imagine why this man would have sold a passage to Anne. One look and the captain would have been salivating.

A bosomy barmaid gave a sarcastic laugh. “Aye, that’ll help you, Rogers.”

Devon bought the man a tankard of ale, but he gripped the man’s wrist before he could take a drink. “Answer my question and you can have your drink in peace. The woman I’m looking for is slender, with red hair and green eyes. She is about two-and-twenty years of age.”

The captain frowned at his captured arm. “My lass meets the description. Except her hair was dark—black ringlets. She wore a hooded cloak, but I caught a glimpse of her hair. I’m looking forward to getting a peek at the rest of her—”

Devon’s blow connected with the man’s jaw. The captain jerked back for one brief instant, then slumped sideways and slithered from the taproom bench to the sticky floor. Devon set down the tankard he’d rescued.

Anne had red hair. But then, the color of a woman’s hair could be changed. Easily done with a wig or dye.
This had to be Anne. Good thing he had found out when the ship was sailing before he’d questioned the man about her, because it would be a while before Rogers came to.

First he had to go home. Then he would hunt again for Anne. He would either track her down tonight or catch her here tomorrow before she got on the ship.

“Mother, come here! Devon is riding up the drive. He’s home!”

The feminine shout sent Devon hurtling back to the days when he would arrive home and his four sisters’ arguments could be heard before his carriage stopped.

His heart lurched, and he reined in his horse on the strip of gravel that swept in front of March House. As he dismounted, footmen cheered around him. He hadn’t been here since he left for war—the greeting was in celebration of his reputation as a war hero, a title he didn’t want and didn’t deserve.

“Devon! Devon! Thank heaven you’re home! Why didn’t you tell us you were coming!”

In an explosion of shouting and squealing, two of his sisters rushed down the steps toward him. It was Lizzie and Win, both unmarried and still at home. Tears spilled to their cheeks, tears that wrapped around his heart and tried to crush it. Lizzie, dark curls bouncing, rocketed into him as Caro had just days before. Lizzie had been even more of a hoyden than Caro was. She never would have worn such an elegant—and low-cut—gown.

Win danced around him, her blue eyes shining. The last time he’d seen Win, her hair was in braids—not pinned up in this gleaming golden design of curls.

“You look … exactly like you always did, Devon!” Lizzie cried.

Win wiped at her eyes. “We were afraid. So afraid you’d never come home,” she whispered.

He had to admit his own eyes burned. “I’m sorry it took me so long.” Lizzie moved back and Win hugged him. Her arms slid around his neck. She smelled of violets. She had been sickly when young and had always been delicate. “Win, you shouldn’t be running full tilt at me,” he admonished, his heart aching. “And, Lizzie—you’ve grown so much.”

Lizzie let out a high-pitched squeal. “You can see! You can, can’t you?”

“It’s true, Lizard,” he said teasingly. “My sight came back to me.”

Win embraced him tightly. “Thank heaven,” she breathed. “Of course, that means Mama will be ensuring you are hastily wed, Devon. She will refuse to wait any longer for you to give her grandchildren.”

“Regaining my eyesight was a miracle,” he said lightly. “But I can’t produce a baby for her instantaneously, I’m afraid.”

Lizzie’s eyes, bright as lilacs, flashed wickedly. “She believes she can find a wife for you instantaneously. The
ton
is here for the end of parliament, before leaving for hunting. You are to be dragged to all the balls, musicales, and fashionable parades through Hyde Park. The matchmaking is about to begin.”

The young maid bobbed a swift, respectful curtsy. “Her Grace is in the nursery, Your Grace. Lord and Lady Cavendish have come and brought wee Lord Peregrine.”

Devon gave the servant a nod. Then he took the stairs two at time. After three years, it was time to see his mother and face the consequences for not coming home. If she despised him, he deserved it. Anne had been correct, of course. He should have come home.

His mother’s perfume, along with the strong scents of a nursery in use, reached him at the top of the attic stairs. When he was young, he had been in awe of his mother. To him, she shone like the sun; she’d been as dazzling, as warming, as blinding. With her lovely voice, her tempered and controlled emotions, her famous wit, she had always been every inch a duchess. She and his father had been a love match.

He stood in the doorway. His mother held a bundle of white blankets in her arms. She sat on a window seat, her sky-blue silk skirts spreading around her like a pool. Sunlight touched her blond hair, revealing a large amount of gray. He drank in all the color surrounding her. Pain, regret, hit him like a blow to the chest. She looked so content, so quiet, he was tempted to turn and leave her alone.

“Devon, I know you are there,” she said, softly but firmly. “You cannot sneak away.”

He stepped into the room, cheeks hot, certain he looked sheepish.

Deep lines crossed his mother’s forehead and framed her mouth. Three years had gone by, but he’d apparently aged her by ten. In her arms, his cherub of a nephew, Peregrine, slept.

Anne had told him his mother’s last letter was stained with tears. Given that he had gone to war despite his family’s disapproval, he hadn’t been sure whether he’d be welcomed back. Blindness had given him an excuse not to find out. He moved to his mother’s side, dropped to one knee, and gently stroked his nephew’s little arms through the blanket. His mother’s blue eyes glowed with delight as she smiled down at her grandson.

“Is it true, Devon? Obviously it is. You’ve regained your sight.”

He focused acutely on her voice—on its melodious rhythm, on the slight hesitation, the sadness. He heard
things beyond the words that he never would have before. Anne had been right. His mother was trying to hide a great deal of fear and pain, and he now knew it. “I’m sorry—”

“For what?”

“A boatload of things,” he admitted. “Sorry for not coming home. For making you worry. For putting myself in harm’s way in battle. I’m sorry for putting you and Father through fear and pain. I’m sorry I pursued Rosalind and caused a scandal when Father told me to let her go.”