Fanning the Flame (42 page)

A Sample Chapter from Secret Ways, by Kat Martin

Chapter One

Outskirts of London May 1809

Her name was Vermillion. It came from the Old French, a color, a bright Chinese red; cinnabar, some called it.

Vermillion.
The word conjured sultry, mysterious images. Hot, lurid, untamed images.

She had always hated the name.

In private, she called herself Lee. Simple. Straightforward. The middle name she carried that was more like the person she was inside. Vermillion Lee Durant, a pretty name, she supposed.

If only it belonged to someone else.

"Hurry, Vermillion, darling. We mustn't keep the colonel waiting."

Lee sighed. No, one must never keep a gentleman waiting. At least not here, in the world of the demimonde, where every man was king, or at least made to believe he was.

Lee paused in front of the tall cheval glass to check the fit of her scarlet velvet gown, a complement to the thick dark red curls swept up on her head, the style not really a la mode, as was the gown, but softer, more alluring, more pleasing to the gentlemen.

The elaborate coiffure was laced with gold ribbon to match the trim beneath the high waist of her gown, which was cut shockingly low, displaying an abundance of cleavage. The slim skirt, slashed nearly to the knee, was the height of London fashion, though hardly suitable for a young unmarried woman of Lee's mere eighteen years.

Still, she was used to the clothes and her sophisticated appearance. She stood patiently as her little French maid, Jeannie, swung the gold-lined, red velvet cape around her shoulders and fastened the diamond and garnet pin at her throat.

" 'Ave a good time,
cherie,"
the woman said, though surely by now she knew it wouldn't be the least bit of fun for Lee.

"Good night, Jeannie." Pasting on the practiced, enigmatic smile her aunt and her admirers expected to see, she paused at the bedchamber door. "I'll be late coming home. I'll ring if I need help getting out of the gown."

Her artificial smile firmly in place, Vermillion swept out into the hallway and descended the curving staircase into the entry of her aunt's elegant mansion in Parkwood, a small village on the outskirts of London. Gowned in sapphire silk scattered with brilliants, Aunt Gabriella waited at the bottom of the stairs, her own, far more sincere smile in place.

Gabriella Durant was forty-six years old, taller than Vermillion and more slender, her breasts still high, her blond hair thick and luxurious, woven with only a few strands of silver. But fine lines had begun to appear around her mouth and eyes, and the flesh had loosened beneath her jaw. Though Gabriella loathed each small flaw, she was still a beautiful woman.

"You look lovely, darling." Aunt Gabby surveyed the ruby velvet gown and the upsweep of Vermillion's flame-red hair. "More beautiful every year."

Vermillion made no reply. The Durant women were known for their beauty. It was a simple statement of fact that Lee saw as more of a curse than a blessing. The butler, Wendell Perkin Jones, a thin, elegant little man who wore his dark hair parted down the middle and curled at the sides like an emperor, pulled open the door, and Vermillion caught a glimpse of the carriage, a sleek black barouche pulled by a pair of matched gray horses, a gift from the Earl of Claymont, her aunt's current
cher ami.

"The coach is waiting," Aunt Gabby said. "Claymont is meeting us at the theater." Gabriella smiled, looking forward to the evening with a relish Vermillion rarely felt. She would rather stay at home, ride one of her precious horses if the sun were still up, read a book, perhaps, or enjoy an hour on the harp, though none of those thoughts appeared on her face.

Instead, her smile widened as she settled into her role, almost second nature after so many years of learning the part. "I'm ready to go anytime you are. As you say, we mustn't keep the gentlemen waiting." Sweeping her cloak out behind her, Vermillion joined her aunt in the entry and the two Durant women walked gracefully out the door, into the glittering London night that awaited.

Captain Caleb Tanner held the harness of the lead horse of the pair in front of the carriage, keeping the flashy grays calm in their traces. The expensive black barouche sat in front of the Durant mansion, which was fashioned of brick, stood three stories high, and sat on several hundred acres of rolling green hills just outside London. Tall white Corinthian columns held up a decorative portico designed to shelter arriving visitors from inclement weather, and a long curving driveway led up from the road.

The owner, Gabriella Durant, had inherited the mansion along with a very tidy fortune from her mother, a well-known courtesan of her day. Gabriella had followed in her mother's footsteps, amassing even greater wealth and continuing what appeared to have become a family tradition, currently being carried on by Gabriella's red-haired niece, Vermillion.

Caleb knew a great deal about the Durants, who traced their ancestry back to the time displaced French nobles arrived penniless in London to escape the guillotine. Using her great beauty and charm, Simone Durant had saved the near-destitute family and prospered, her skill as a lover legendary in the world of the demimonde. After Simone's death, her daughter, Gabriella, had become the reigning queen, La Belle, the toast of London.

Caleb cast a glance toward the door of the mansion, waiting for the women to appear. Rumor was, the niece Gabriella had raised as a daughter intended to claim the throne for the third generation.

Caleb had never seen Vermillion, but he had heard stories about her, gossip about her loveliness and skill in the boudoir.

He knew she must be beautiful.

But he wasn't prepared for the impact that hit him like a fall from his horse the moment she stepped out onto the porch. As he watched her in the glow of the whale oil lanterns beside the door, Caleb couldn't seem to tear his eyes away. He had never seen such fiery hair or skin so flawless. He had never seen eyes the color of aquamarines.

She was smaller than he had imagined, her figure fuller, more womanly. Beneath the clasp of her scarlet velvet opera cape, her breasts were high and lush and nearly spilled out of the bodice of her gown. His hands itched to cup them. He wanted to pluck the pins from her fiery hair and run his fingers through it. The true color of her lips was masked by the rouge that turned them a dark ruby red, but they curved in a sultry smile that made a man want to own them.

Caleb shook himself, a feeling of distaste rising inside him. Vermillion Durant was nothing but an expensive plaything, an object to satisfy men's lust, a woman who used her body to gain power over foolish, unwary men. Perhaps she was even a spy.

Which was the reason Caleb Tanner stood next to the horses, the newly hired head groom of Parklands, the name used by those who attended the lavish and notorious balls, ridottos, and house parties hosted by Gabriella Durant.

This assignment was different than any he had had before. Caleb had been ordered back to England during his tenure in Spain, having served in the cavalry under General Sir Arthur Wellesley through the Oporto campaign. The youngest son of the Earl of Selhurst, he had enlisted in the army just out of Oxford. Caleb had served in India and the Netherlands. On orders from the general, he was in England now.

At Parklands—trying to catch a traitor.

Caleb watched the women walking toward the carriage, felt the pull of Vermillion's aqua eyes the moment they touched his face, and a second jolt of lust hit him, making his dislike of her harden even more than the erection pressing against the front of his breeches.

Inwardly he cursed.

But he didn't look away.

Vermillion paused as she reached the carriage, her glance straying to the beautiful matched grays standing calmly in their traces. She loved horses. The animals at Parklands were her pride and her passion, but she didn't recognize the groom who stood next to the grays and she knew every man and boy who worked in the stable. She had personally hired each one.

Except for this man. This tall, broad-shouldered stranger with the hard, dark eyes and faintly insolent smile.

Instead of following her aunt into the carriage, Vermillion kept walking, pausing when she reached the man beside the horses.

"Where is Jacob?" Jacob had been the head groom and trainer at Parklands for the past fifteen years. "Why are you here? Has Jacob fallen ill?"

"He was fine the last time I saw him."

She didn't like his tone any better than she liked the smug look on his face. "Then where is he? And just exactly who are you?"

His gaze ran over her, starting at her toes, moving to the top of her sophisticated coiffure, then returning to her breasts. She received that same too-bold perusal from a gallery of males every night, yet when this man did it, it made her cheeks begin to burn. He wasn't one of her admirers—he made that clear by the casualness of his regard and the faintly cynical twist of his lips.

"I'm Caleb Tanner. Parklands's new head groom. Jacob had some family problems in Surrey he needed to attend. He hired me to take his place until he is able to return."

She lifted her chin, wishing for once she were taller. "I'm in charge of the stable. If Jacob had some sort of problem, he should have come to me. Do you have papers to recommend you? How do I know you can handle the job?"

He was a big man, not brawny, just tall and broad-shouldered, perhaps in his late twenties, with brown hair a little too long that curled against the nape of his neck.

"I was raised around horses," he said. "I worked mainly in the north. . . York, mostly. My specialty is racing stock."

"So you're a trainer as well?"

"That's right. Jacob spoke of a stallion named Noir you'll be racing at Epsom this week. At least give me till after the race to prove I can handle the position."

That seemed fair enough. Jacob had a knack with horses and he loved them as much as she did. He
wouldn't turn them over to just anyone and certainly not to a man he didn't trust completely. Still, there
was something about this man.             

"All right. You have till the end of the week. If Noir wins the race, you stay on until Jacob returns."

A dark brown eyebrow arched up. "You believe if the stallion loses, the fault will be mine?"

Of course not. He would have been there less than a week, but it would be a way to get rid of him and for reasons she couldn't seem to explain, she wanted exactly that.

"Noir is a champion. It's up to his trainer to see that he wins. If he does, you can stay."

His mouth barely curved. "Then I had better make certain he wins."

It was said as if there were no doubt he could do it, as if the outcome had already been decided. Vermillion made no reply, just turned and started back to the carriage, her scarlet cape whirling out behind her. They were heading into London, to the box they kept at the Royal Opera House. Though they would be snubbed by the nobles and other members of the
ton,
on the third floor of the building, where certain wealthy but less socially acceptable members of society watched the performance, they would be treated like royalty.

"Hurry up, darling, we're going to be late." Aunt Gabby's voice floated out through the carriage window.

Vermillion cast a last glance over her shoulder at the groom, who was stroking the neck of the gray, speaking softly into the animal's ear. Both horses had impressive bloodlines. They were beautiful, spirited, and often difficult to handle. Not tonight. Tonight, they stood with their elegant heads hanging down while the groom's long fingers scratched between their ears.

Perhaps the man was as capable as he appeared, his oversized ego well deserved. As she settled back against the tufted red leather seat, Vermillion found the notion irritating in the extreme.

The purple flush of dawn brightened the sky by the time Vermillion returned to Parklands the following morning. After the opera, Spontini's
La Vestale,
Aunt Gabby had insisted they attend a party given by Elizabeth Sorenson, Countess of Rotham, a woman with a scandalous reputation whom Lee and Gabriella both adored.

The party was an outrageous affair held at the countess' town house, with boundless amounts of Russian caviar, crystal goblets overflowing with champagne, and no shortage of attractive men.

A number of Vermillion's admirers were there: Jonathan Parker, Viscount Nash; Oliver Wingate, a colonel of the Life Guards; and the outrageously handsome and utterly notorious rake, Lord Andrew Mondale.

There were other men, of course, dozens of them, but these were the three who vied most strongly for a place in Vermillion's bed.

Lee shoved the distasteful thought away as she wearily climbed the stairs to her bedchamber. From the corner of her eye, she caught sight of the fresh bouquet of flowers Jeannie had placed on the rosewood dresser. The deep mauve counterpane was welcomingly turned back beneath the matching satin bed curtains.

Jeannie would be sleeping and Lee hated to wake her at such a late hour. She struggled with the gown and finally managed to undo the buttons, put on a long white night rail and climb beneath the sheets. Exhausted from the events of the evening, the champagne and the dancing, she slept the sleep of the dead, lacking even the energy for her usual morning ride, and didn't wake up until nearly noon.