Fanning the Flame (2 page)

"Nice view." Clayton Harcourt Barclay, Duke of athmore, stared down at the woman seated on the wrought-iron bench near the duck pond.

"So I discovered several days past." Adam had known Clay since Oxford, where they had been close friends. Since Adam's exit from the cavalry and subsequent return to London, they had become good friends again. "Do you have any idea who she is?"

Clay flashed a roguish grin. He was a handsome man, tall and broad-shouldered with thick, dark brown hair, the sort who could charm the garters off a lady with little more than a smile, which he had done with considerable regularity before he had wed.

"Actually, I do know who she is." Clay had recently married the Viscount Stockton's rebellious little red-haired daughter. Though the two had their problems in the beginning, they had worked them out, and Adam had rarely seen a happier man.

"The lady's name is Jillian Whitney. We met several months back at one of Stockton's dinner parties. Lately there've been rumors about her. They say she's the Earl of Fenwick's mistress."

Adam felt as if he had just been hit in the stomach. "Fenwick? I can scarcely credit that the man is thrice her age and more."

"True, but he's still a man, and Miss Whitney is a very attractive young woman."

Adam silently agreed, wishing he could get a closer look at her.

"As the story goes, her father was a longtime friend of the earl's. When he died, Miss Whitney was left near penniless. She lived with an elderly aunt until the woman died, then Fenwick took her in. He claims she is merely his ward, but there is speculation she is far more than that."

Adam swallowed the bitter taste in his mouth. Little surprised him anymore, jaded as he was, yet it was difficult to imagine the smiling young woman who sat placidly feeding the ducks had been spreading her thighs for the ancient Lord Fenwick.

"Fenwick has never been known for his charity," Adam said. "I'd say he got a nice bit of muslin in return for his generosity."

"I suppose so . . . if the gossip is true."

Adam's attention swung away from the woman and fixed on his friend. "You're saying it isn't?"

Clay shrugged his powerful shoulders. "It wouldn't be the first time the gossipmongers have been wrong."

Adam pondered that. He had felt the vicious bite of slander himself, on more than one occasion.

And yet in his experience—which, where women were concerned, was quite extensive—most of those he had known would sell their souls for a few expensive baubles.

Clay lifted a knowing, dark brown eyebrow. "Since it is highly unlikely that mere coincidence brought us here this morning, I assume you would like an introduction."

Adam's mouth only faintly curved. It wasn't exactly the reason he had led Clay in this direction. Or maybe it was.

"Why not?" he said, and nudged his boot heels into the sides of his horse.

Jillian straightened as she saw the two men riding off the knoll in her direction. It took her a moment to recognize the Duke of Rathmore as the man on the right, but she had met him and his wife a couple of months ago, and he wasn't a man a woman would forget.

She stood up as they slowed their horses and both men swung down from their saddles. Rathmore went through the formalities, making polite morning greetings, then introduced her to the tall, raven-haired man beside him, Adam Hawthorne, Earl of Blackwood, the man who had watched her from the knoll.

"I've seen you here before," Blackwood said to her, more candidly than she would have expected.

"Yes, I'm quite an early riser. I prefer to enjoy the park before the crush arrives."

"That is my preference as well." He was lean, his skin darkly tanned, as if he often spent time in the sun. His features were strong, even harsh: black slashing brows and lean cheekbones, a mouth that looked hard, but was perfectly curved, except for a faintly cynical lift at one corner. A thin scar ran from his temple along his jaw, giving him a dangerous air, and yet it was a face of uncommon beauty, the sort a woman would notice the moment he walked into a room. His looks combined with the powerful presence he exuded to make the earl a potent force.

"Morning is the very best time of day," Jillian went on, groping for something to say that wouldn't sound inane, forcing herself not to look away from the midnight blue eyes that assessed her with such bold regard.

Blackwood barely nodded. "Yes . . . the sunlight has a way of sweeping the demons away."

It was an odd thing to say. She studied him with renewed curiosity and thought she saw something shift behind his eyes, as if the door he had accidentally opened had once again slammed closed.

"Lord Blackwood was in the cavalry for a number of years," the duke said mildly. "I don't think he'll ever get used to spending much time indoors."

"I can understand that. I prefer the country myself." Jillian smiled a bit wistfully, thinking of the small, ivy-covered cottage where she and her father had lived in Buckland Vale, a little village near Aylesbury.

"Is that where you got your interest in birds?" the earl asked.

"The ducks, you mean?" She glanced down at the creatures once again wobbling toward her from the pond. "I've grown quite attached to them, I'm afraid. That's Harold, there; and this little brown hen with the spots on her face, that's Esmerelda. If I don't bring them a bit of bread in the mornings, I worry they won't get enough to eat. Silly, isn't it?"

The duke cast her a glance. "You sound like my wife, Kassandra. She adopts every stray animal that comes her way. Just yesterday she ran across a litter of abandoned kittens in the mews. She was up half the night feeding them with a rag dipped in milk."

But he didn't look disturbed about it. In fact, he looked rather proud of her efforts.

The earl—Blackwood—however, continued to watch her as if he played a game of cat and mouse. There was no doubt which one of them was the prey. Jillian shivered beneath that intense regard and returned her attention to the duke.

"I hope your wife is well."

"Quite well, thank you. I’ll be certain to give her your regards."

She nodded, hoping they would leave, but Blackwood seemed in no hurry. Since that was the case, she made ready to depart "It has been a pleasure to see you again, Your Grace, but I'm afraid you'll have to excuse me. It's past time I returned to the house."

"Yes . . ." Blackwood cut in, assessing her in that unsettling way of his. "Should you be overly late, I'm certain Lord Fenwick would become quite concerned."

Was that mockery she heard in his voice? Had he heard the gossip about her? It always seemed ridiculous to her, considering the earl's age and health. She couldn't imagine how it had ever got started. The duke didn't seem the sort to be amused by such things, but Blackwood . . . he was difficult—no, impossible to read. Her stomach clenched to imagine what the men might be thinking about her.

"Farewell, Your Grace," she said to the duke.

"Have a pleasant day, Miss Whitney."

She tipped her head to the earl. "It was a pleasure to meet you, my lord."

Dark blue eyes swept over her. "The pleasure was mine, Miss Whitney, I assure you."

Still uncertain what she heard in his voice, Jillian turned and started walking away. She expected the shuffle of boots as the men remounted their horses and rode off the way they had come. Instead, only one of them departed. Without looking back, Jillian knew which one remained. She could feel the dark earl's gaze on her back until she disappeared out of sight on the path leading off into the trees.

In the early mornings, he rode. At night he walked the streets. His years in the army, days and nights of living out of doors, made it nearly impossible for him to fall asleep without at least a little fresh air. More than a year ago, after the death of his older brother, Carter, Adam had sold his commission in the Eleventh Light Dragoons and returned to London to assume his duties as earl. His nightly outings had quickly become a habit, and Adam knew every lane and alley in the West End.

He knew the exact house, a huge Georgian mansion in Brook Street, where the Earl of Fenwick lived.

What he didn't understand was what had drawn him there this evening.

Adam swore an oath into the darkness.
For God's sake, the girl is the old man's mistress!
She had bartered herself like a piece of meat for the expensive clothes she wore, for the fancy black coach and flashy matched grays that carried her each morning to the park.

He knew about women like Jillian Whitney. He had nearly married Caroline Harding, would have, if he hadn't found her in bed with his cousin, Robert.

And there was Maria. His face bore a constant reminder of her betrayal. The duel he had fought with her husband left a far deeper scar on the inside than the one he carried along his jaw.

And yet when he imagined the young woman beside the pond, when he remembered the sound of her laughter as she fed the ducks, he didn't feel the anger and hostility he felt when he thought of Caroline or Maria. Instead, he felt an odd sort of calm, a peacefulness he hadn't known since before the war.

The huge house loomed ahead, lamplight gleaming from a dozen different windows on the first and second floors. He wondered which room was Jillian Whitney's, wondered if the old man was brazen enough to install her in the countess's bedchamber next to his own. He imagined how the servants must feel about the old earl's mistress being kept right there in the house, and suddenly felt sorry for Jillian Whitney.

He paused in the shadows across the street, leaning back against the trunk of a tree. Had she really been so desperate? Had her father left her with no other choice?

Other speculations rose into his mind, but the echo of a gunshot brought them to a sudden end. There was no mistaking the sound, not after eight long years in the army. And the shot had come from inside the Earl of Fenwick's house.

Adam moved in that direction, careful to stay in the shadows. A scream came from somewhere inside and a few seconds later, the front door burst open.

"Help! Someone call a watchman! The Earl of Fenwick has been shot!"

  From the corner of his eye, Adam caught a flicker of movement between the mansion and the house next door. A small, cloaked figure ran from the rear of the house toward the alley behind the mews. Moving silently, ignoring the shouts of the servants who streamed out into the street, he rounded the house next door and headed toward the mouth of the alley to stop the fleeing figure he had seen.

Waiting in the darkness at the entrance, he could hear the pounding of light, frantic footfalls. Hidden beneath the hood of a billowing cloak was the barely discernible shape of a woman. Adam stepped out of the shadows directly in front of her and she careened hard into his chest.

His arms clamped around her as she struggled to break free. "Let me go!" She tried to twist away, but he merely tightened his hold. "Please. Dear God, please let me go!"

Adam stared down at her, a grim smile etched into the corners of his mouth. "Why, Miss Whitney. I hadn't expected we would meet again so soon."

She looked up at him and the breath seemed to stall in her lungs. "Blackwood," was all she said.

Chapter Two

Jillian started to tremble. Behind her she could hear the servants shouting. Any minute the night watch would arrive. She glanced frantically around, started struggling again, tried to wrench herself free. Blackwood's hold was implacable.

He shook her, not gently. "Calm down or you'll hurt yourself. Tell me what happened."

Jillian's eyes filled with tears she couldn't hold back any longer.

"It's L-lord Fenwick. I heard a loud clap of noise and when I ran . . . ran into the study, I found him lying on the floor. He was covered in b-blood, staring up at the ceiling, and I-I knew he was dead." She swallowed, tried to force the words past the lump in her throat.

"Go on," Blackwood commanded.

"One of the servants rushed in and started . . . started shouting. He said that I had killed him. He said that I-I had murdered the earl. I tried to tell him I wasn't the one who shot him, that I would never do anything to hurt him, but the man wouldn't listen." She looked up into those fathomless dark eyes. "They'll put me in prison. Oh, God, please . . . please just let me go."

His hard mouth tightened. His features looked cold and forbidding. "I can't just let you go and even if I could, what would you do? Do you have friends in the city, someone to take you in?"

Jillian bit down on her trembling lip. "I'll find someplace to hide until they find the person who k-killed him. Please, I didn't do it. You must believe me."

Several seconds passed and the beating of her heart grew more fierce. Something flickered in those dark brooding eyes and his hold grew tighter on her arm. "Come with me."

Perhaps she should have run. If her mind hadn't been so muddled, perhaps she would have. Instead, she obeyed the command in his voice and his unrelenting grip on her arm and let him haul her down the alley.

The first passage seemed endless, winding through the darkness behind a row of houses. It led into another that was darker yet and stank of rotten leaves and horse manure. They headed into another corridor, took several more turns, weaving in and out between buildings, ran down more darkened paths, then he dragged her into a stable constructed of fine red brick.