Jo Beverley - [Malloren 03] (16 page)

Elf realized she was glaring at the insensitive oaf and relaxed her features. “I will return it, my lord.”

“You’d better, or I’ll hunt you down and see you transported for theft.”

He sounded as if he meant it!

He studied her for a moment, then shook his head. “I don’t know what you thought to gain by taking it, anyway. Waving an empty pistol around is not much deterrent.”

“I loaded it, of course.

“Did you, begad?” And now he looked at her with new alertness. Was that a flicker of recognition in his eyes?

She hastily lowered her chin and fluttered her fan. “My brother taught me, my lord. I didn’t have to fire it, though, thank heavens. I’m not a good shot.”

“Just as well.” He moved so suddenly that he was on her, hand dangerously at her throat, before she had time to react. His thumb forced up her chin. “Just who are you, Lisette?”

Heart thundering, Elf stared up into his cool blue eyes wondering how he could not recognize her. But then, whyever would he imagine that Lady Elfled Malloren the Well Protected would be masquerading as Lisette Belhardi, a young lightskirt in search of a protector?

Half choked, she said, “I don’t want to give you my full name, my lord.”

He let her go but stayed close. “Very wise, though I’m no danger to you. Have you given thought to the
man with the knife, though? He was not best pleased to find I’d let you slip.”

Elf tried to assume profound ignorance. “But why would he care? What did he want with me?”

“He is afraid you overheard his private business. You didn’t?”

“Business, my lord? I heard voices, but not the words, and my English is not very good. I was hiding from another gentleman. When I crept out onto the path, that man tried to seize me. When I ran, he chased. I was terribly scared.”

“I suppose you were.” His knuckles brushed distractingly along her jawline, then down her throat to the swell of her breasts. Before she could prevent it, he slid her bodice dagger out and tested the blade. “Not every lady wears one of these.”

Elf decided it was wisest to remain silent.

“If you’d understood any of our business, I don’t suppose you’d be here. Even you couldn’t be so foolish. So,” he added, sliding the small weapon neatly back into its sheath, “you came here for what? Did you truly rethink your decision about becoming my mistress?”

Even such impersonal contact near her breasts had set up a tingle there that summoned interesting memories. And now a faint warmth in his manner held promise that the night might, after all, end as she had dreamed.

It was only a distant promise, though. “Perhaps . . .” she murmured, praying that he’d begin a seduction.

“I need more certainty than that, Lisette. I’ve no mind to play the same scene over. Are you willing?”

Behind her fan, Elf gritted her teeth. Would it hurt the man to at least
pretend
a little loving softness? “Would you let me keep my mask on, my lord?”

His brows rose. “All the time? Your skin would rot.”

“For the night,” she whispered, trembling now that she had to put her fantasies into words. “For just one night, my lord.”

His eyes became intent, intrigued. “Why?”

“Because I doubt the man I end up with will be as interesting as you.”

He pushed the fan out of the way to study her. “You’re interesting yourself, Lisette. Are you sure? Remember the terms. No marriage, even if there’s a child. No false protestations of love.”

“I remember, my lord, and I’m sure.” She spoke the honest truth, but knew he mustn’t guess the intensity of her certainty. “Will I still get the five hundred guineas, milord?”

As she’d planned, the mercenary question wiped away his lingering suspicions, and he laughed. “For one night? I’m afraid not, sweetheart. I have the feeling you should be paying me. But I’ll give you a hundred, just to pacify your future husband.”

Elf flicked open her fan and pouted, pretending to think about it. She still hoped he might try some ardent persuasions, but when he didn’t she said, “Fair enough, my lord. Can we go now? The night’s passing.”

His brows rose. “Are you sure you’re a virgin, Lisette? In some respects I’d rather you weren’t, but I dislike being lied to.”

“Yes, I am a virgin, my lord. I’m sorry if it displeases you.”

He suddenly grinned. “You have claws, do you, though you’ve been trained to keep them sheathed. Perhaps tonight I’ll let you use them.”

She relished the prospect. She’d like to see some reaction from the man, even if just blood.

He raised her hand and kissed it, a trace of warmth softening his features. “Come along, then. This should be interesting, and I promise that at least it will be a night to remember.”

Elf had no doubt at all that it would.

Discreetly expressionless, a maid brought Elf’s white cloak and they exited into the soft summer darkness. Elf deliberately left the cloak hanging open so her people and the Scots could spot the scarlet lady.

She hadn’t entirely forgotten her other purpose.

A quick glance around showed any number of loiterers, but no one she knew, Scots or English. It would be hard to tell here, however. Four houses besides that of Lady Yardley were brightly lit for entertainment. Latecomers were still arriving, and a few—like themselves—were leaving.

Coaches rolled up and down, and if the horses chanced to soil the street, urchins ran out to scoop up the valuable commodity. They’d sell it tomorrow to the market gardeners. Waiting servants leaned against railings chatting as they watched the lords and ladies come and go.

At the moment, most of them were watching the scarlet lady and the monk, knowing grins on their faces. Elf thanked heaven for her mask, for these servants surely made it their business to recognize the great and tally up their doings.

At the edge of the pavement, Fort paused. “My house is only on the next street, and I didn’t bother with a coach. I wonder if it’s safe for you, though.”

“I’m not afraid, my lord, with your escort.”

“You’re better armed than I am, sweetheart. You have your dagger and I don’t even have a sword. In fact,” he added, drawing her against his side, “beneath this homespun robe, I am entirely naked. The notion amused me.”

Elf became burningly aware of his torso separated from her hand by only a thin layer of cloth. Without intent, she moved her hand a little and he chuckled. “Interests you, does it?” He tilted her chin up. “I think you’ve chosen the right profession.”

“I will doubtless marry, my lord.”

“I wonder why.” He touched his lips to hers in a velvet tease. “Perhaps I
will
offer you the position of mistress. Is that your plan?”

“No, my lord. In reality, I’m quite a conventional person.” Elf enjoyed this opportunity to tell the truth.

“Really?” he said in obvious disbelief and began to guide her down the road. “Think, Lisette. You could
be my mistress for a little while and then marry your conventional husband, handsomely endowed.”

“I’m not a fool, my lord. A length of time with you would doubtless spoil me for other men. And I don’t refer to my chastity.”

“I do hope I can live up to your expectations, my sweet. But why marry at all, then, if it’s not to your taste?”

“I told you, my lord. I’m conventional, and my family is even more so. Circumstances have arranged themselves so that tonight I have a chance to do just as I wish. It may be my only chance and I have chosen to spend it with you.”

He paused to look at her, tracing her lips with his finger. “I think I understand you at last, Lisette. You are a most remarkable woman. Just one night, then. One night for ourselves alone. A night of freedom for both of us.”

If Elf hadn’t already been intent on wickedness, she would have surrendered to him then, conquered by his wistful need.

They continued down the street, arm in arm, walking a little faster now, both eager to reach their destination. Elf didn’t forget other matters. She kept all senses keen, checking loiterers and passersby for lurking Scots or her own servants.

She saw neither.

What if the Scots didn’t make an appearance? She couldn’t imagine how else to draw them out, and the attack on the king could happen at any moment.

She remembered the item in Fort’s cellars. Perhaps that would be a clue. Sometime in the night, once he was asleep, she would steal his key and investigate. That, after all, was the real reason behind this wicked plan.

That was
not
the reason behind this wicked plan.

She was hastening toward ravishment because of her restless needs, and because Fort’s body next to hers, even here on the street, created the most delicious sensation she had ever experienced.

But she must try to remember to do her duty, too.

They turned the corner into Morpeth Street, and into sleepy quietness. No entertainments seemed to be taking place here tonight. A cart rolled slowly down the street, pulled by one tired horse, and in the distance two men walked briskly on their way. Otherwise, all was peaceful.

Elf looked around again, wondering if assassins lurked in the shadows, and whether her protectors were close enough.

Nothing happened.

Perhaps after all, the only danger she faced tonight was from her own tormenting desires.

She could marry Fort. Not could as in would be allowed to, but could as in him suiting her inclinations. He was not an easy man, no, but a strong one. And, at bottom, honorable.

If they came upon dragons, he had it in him to be a dragon slayer.

She wouldn’t have thought that a few weeks ago, but now she knew Fort’s sense of right and wrong was sound. He was unhappy, perhaps even tormented by something, and she didn’t underestimate the power of that. It could even make him do things that went completely against his nature, but—

“Penny for them.” His voice jerked her out of her thoughts, making her heart race with guilt as if he’d been able to read her mind.

“I was thinking about you,” she said honestly.

“As I was thinking about you. You’re an enigma, Lisette, and I still don’t believe I have the truth of you. Perhaps I will by the end of the night.”

I do hope not.
“Why do you say that, my lord? You promised I could keep my mask.”

“Sex is very revealing, my dear, and I don’t mean of bodies. The mask won’t hide anything that matters.”

Pray God you’re wrong!
“Then will I find the truth of you, my lord?”

He smiled down at her. “Perhaps. But my experience gives me an edge. When my hand strokes your thighs
open while my mouth pleasures your breasts, I doubt you’ll be feeling observant.”

Such casual words to make her turn hot all over, to make her ache in the places he spoke of. She made herself smile back at him. “Then perhaps I should stroke and pleasure you in turn.”

His teeth flashed in a grin. “By all means, Lisette. The thought of your hand on my . . .” His grin turned very wicked. “What would you call it? My private parts?”

“Hardly entirely private tonight, my lord,” Elf riposted, grateful for the mask hiding her red cheeks. She had never anticipated such a discussion. In fact, all her intimate imaginings had involved silence and darkness.

“Private enough, I assure you. Well, Lisette? Even an ingenue must have a phrase for the male anatomy.”

Elf’s French, though excellent, lacked such terms except for a baby name her French nurse had used for Cyn’s little penis. She could only dredge up one literal French phrase. “Perhaps, your external organs, my lord?”

“Ah.” He coughed slightly. “My
external organs
are certainly anticipating some stroking and pleasuring. I hope they are not alone. Contemplate, my sweet Lisette, those organs finding their home between your cream-silk and virginal thighs. Can you anticipate the introduction of my more outstanding external organ into your soft, moist, hot, and oh so empty internal space?”

Oh, she could. She could indeed! They were still arm-in-arm, still walking briskly down the street, and yet she felt as if he stroked her in impossible places. Elf’s “internal space,” feeling very hot and moist, became suddenly a second heartbeat. “You have a wicked tongue, my lord.”

He laughed out loud. “You don’t know how wicked, Lisette. But you will. Indeed you will. Having been chosen for your night of freedom, for your induction into the heavenly hell of lust, I intend to do my duty to the full. We’re here.”

Dazed, almost weak-kneed, Elf looked up the steps to
the door of Walgrave House, scene of her impending, and obviously thorough, debauch.

She shivered. Part of her was close to terrified. But nothing, not even threats to the king, could make her back away now.

“Last chance, Lisette.” His crisp voice dragged her out of her daze. “If you come inside and get cold feet again, I will be very displeased.”

He sounded as if her answer mattered as little as whether he had chicken or pork for his dinner. And yet something in his eyes, or perhaps in the way he shielded his eyes, made her think that wasn’t true.

She didn’t want it to be true.

It seemed, however, that she could walk away. She could put this wickedness behind her and return, still pure, to Lady Yardley’s house.

She would never have to worry about her brothers finding out.

There’d be no danger of conceiving a child.

Amanda would be most relieved.

And yet . . .

She couldn’t.

Deeper than the physical need that pounded between her legs, she wanted this night, perhaps the only possible night with Fort. She wanted the intimacy of sex which would reveal the truth of him.

But to have this night she had to be Lisette. Not Elf Malloren, who could perhaps love this man, and who wished to heal and comfort him. Tonight, she was Lisette Belhardi, a naughty creature who wanted only to exploit his body for her own sensual education.

So Elf cocked her head and smiled cheekily. “Cold feet, my lord? I’m the very opposite. I’m burning hot for you.”

He laughed and ushered her into the house.

From his seat on a shabby cart, Nat Roberts watched the scarlet lady and the earl stroll through the streets. He knew his people were at their posts nearby, but if any of them saw sight of Scots traitors it was more than he did. ’Course the streets were fair humming with people, but even so, if the Scots were around they were cunningly hidden.

He watched the couple go up the steps and enter the house. As the doors closed, he scratched beneath his tricorn with the handle of his whip.

Now what?

He’d figured right off that the lady in the red dress would be Lady Elfled. A quiet word with Mam’zelle Chantal had confirmed that milady had just such a gaudy outfit, and planned to wear it tonight to the masquerade. Gawd, but she was showing her old colors, for she’d been a rare handful as a child. He’d pondered telling that stiff-rumped Grainger his suspicions, but it went against the grain. And anyway, what could anyone do?

She was a member of the family. Were they supposed to lock her in her room like a naughty child?

Nat had brought in some extra people, though—this area was thick with them—ready to snatch her from the earl at any cost if she screamed. But she hadn’t looked as if she wanted snatching. No. Not she. Judging from the way she’d been looking up at him, Milady wasn’t no prisoner.

Scandalous, it was, the way the quality went on, but it wasn’t his place to interfere.

Perhaps all that business of watching the earl had come out of female jealousy. Nat knew all about that, having a suspicious-minded wife.

But now what? None of his people had spotted anyone in particular watching Lady Yardley’s, though he hadn’t had a report since Lady Elf had come out with the earl.

He took a little sip from a rum bottle, contemplating the sticky situation.

He didn’t think the marquess would be too happy at his sister spending the night—and a naughty night at that—in any man’s house, never mind the Earl of Walgrave’s. He doubted, however, that his employer would be any more pleased if Nat Roberts dragged Lady Elf out of there by the hair.

Even if he could.

“Women,” he muttered, taking another swig. “Nothing but trouble.”

Like those two there.

A couple of maidservants strolled down the street, arm in arm, singing a ditty, and winking at any man they saw.

They paused by the coach. “Hello ’andsome!” called out the blond one and moved right to the side of the coach. “Give us a sip at the bottle?”

Nat grunted something and passed it over, saying quietly, “What’s up, Sally?”

Sally giggled as if he’d said something funny, then scrambled up beside him on the box. “Well, I don’t reckon she was kidnapped, do you?” She winked as she took a real drink of his rum. A right handful was Sally Parsons, but a tempting armful, too, with her generous curves and merry eyes.

If he were that sort of man, of course.

She was also a chatterbox about some things, so he could only thank God she hadn’t twigged to it being her ladyship.

“It was attack by the Scots we had to look out for, Sally.”

“That didn’t ’appen either. But—”

“But?” he asked, flashing her a quick glance.

She snuggled up against him. Gawd, there’d be hell to pay if his Hettie ever heard about this! “But, a group of street monkeys followed ’em.”

Children! The streets were always full of ragged urchins, thieves most of them, and he’d not given them a thought. He looked around and saw two crouched in a gutter not far away playing some game. Dice probably.

“Them?”

“Could be part of ’em. Most of ’em ran off, though. Roger and Lon’s following to see if they report to the Scots.”

Nat muttered a few curses. “But still and all, they can’t get at ’er in the ’ouse, can they?”

“Don’t suppose so,” Sally whispered into his ear, pretending to be enticing him. “But what’s the problem? Roger and Lon’ll follow the ratkins to the Scots. That’s the point, i’nt it?”

“Aye, that’s the point.” But Nat was distinctly uneasy.

He remembered now that the scarlet lady was supposed to sneak a look at whatever the earl had in his cellars. Never mind her virtue, that could be bloody dangerous. “Look, Sal, I’ll get this rig back to its owner. Can’t keep the poor nag out ’ere all night. I’ll be back as soon as I can, and we might ’ave to go in. You stay ’ere and keep your eyes open.”

Sally fluttered her eyelashes at him. “Don’t I always, ’andsome?” Then with a kiss on his cheek, she clambered down off the box, linked arms with Ella, and strolled off.

As he drove the coach back to the livery stables, Nat muttered to himself.

Women.

Nothing but trouble.

At the Peahen, Michael Murray, in his persona as the Reverend Campbell, listened to the leader of the pack of street monkeys. How wise he’d been to hire the urchins.
Besides being cheap, such ragamuffins went unnoticed by all, except that people held on to their purses and other valuables when they were about.

Yes, it had been wise to recruit the children, but he’d not expected such news as this. So, the scarlet doxy had turned up again, and at a society function. He knew that sometimes whores slipped into masquerades, or were sneaked in by their lovers, but everything about that creature unsettled him.

Pity the monkeys hadn’t noticed her go into Lady Yardley’s house. Murray would give a deal to know whom she’d arrived with.

Not Walgrave. He’d walked around alone in his monk’s costume. Mack had been following him.

And now they’d gone back together to his house, happy as rats heading for their hole. Perhaps she was his mistress after all. Some silly young wife deceiving her husband when she got the chance.

But that didn’t fit with those bloodstained garters.

Murray didn’t understand it, and he didn’t like that one bit.

He tossed the boy a sixpence to send him on his way, then sat there, chewing on his lip. No, he didn’t like it.

His plan was ready. Even now, Jamie was putting the stone in a safe place. Soon he’d have the device. Tomorrow the Hanoverian Pretender would die. He couldn’t abide uncertainties now.

He paid his shot and walked back to Lord Bute’s house, fretting about the earl and his scarlet trollop. Walgrave had always been an uncertainty and Murray regretted ever making the connection.

Walgrave had been one of the names he’d been given, however, on a list of English people who had been secret supporters in the Forty-five. Most of them had never had to reveal their hesitant support of Bonnie Prince Charlie, and some of the younger ones were now in high places.

When Murray had realized that his relationship to Bute wouldn’t get him close to the king, he’d started
contacting people who had been particularly careless, ones who had left some evidence. In no case was it strong enough to force them into supporting him, but it was enough to make them very reluctant to expose him.

Murray sneered up at the fine houses as he passed. Half a dozen peers of the realm were on his list, and these days they sat in fine houses like these, worrying about Michael Murray and what he might tell.

But not worrying very much. No, they told themselves, patting their fat paunches and pouring another glass of brandy, the days of the Stuarts are over. That Murray is just a madman. Their youthful follies would not come back to haunt them.

Murray would prove he was not mad, and that those days were not over. Soon these haughty Hanoverians would be out in the gutter scraping for a living, just as honest followers of the Stuarts were today.

When he’d met with Walgrave, he’d found his tool. The incriminating evidence was strongest there—some firsthand accounts of a meeting with King James and Prince Charles. Of course, the evidence was against the present earl’s father. That had been a shock to Murray, but the new earl had seemed much concerned about scandal, as well as being bitter about royal ingratitude. A wild young man, as well, much given to drinking and wenching.

A person easy to use, he’d thought.

He ducked into another house—a hovel really, cramped in an alley near grand houses—and quickly changed from his churchman’s clothes into his normal wear. The old woman here gladly gave space and silence in exchange for a few pennies. Then, as Michael Murray, he left by another door and continued on his way to his rooms in the Earl of Bute’s house in South Audley Street.

Yes, he reassured himself, Walgrave had been the right choice. Murray had only needed someone who knew the Court well enough to devise a way to get a lethal object close to George of Hanover. In that, the
earl had done his part. Moreover, in the process he’d revealed his real driving impulse—a vindictive hatred against a certain marquess of Rothgar.

Murray had no interest in the marquess, but he’d been happy to know what rode the earl. He liked to understand people’s weaknesses.

He’d been satisfied with the situation until he’d heard reports of too many casual meetings between Walgrave and the new Secretary of State, Grenville. That had led to the Vauxhall meeting, which in hindsight had probably been a mistake. But Murray still wished he knew what part that scarlet doxy had played. Had she been Walgrave’s spy? And if so, what had been the point of it?

At Bute’s house, he hurried to his small room before someone noticed the way his hands had begun to shake. He was so close. So close. Nothing could be allowed to upset his plans at this stage.

He pulled a miniature out of his pocket and opened it to look at the fine painting of a handsome young man with white powdered hair. Charles Edward Stuart. His friend.

Of course, Prince Charles was not so young anymore, and could not afford such a fine artist these days. That only made this miniature—a gift from the prince himself—a treasure. And a reminder of what should be. Murray’s idol was reduced to wandering Europe, dependent on the charity of various monarchs.

That must change.

That would change.

The prince’s father, James III, wasn’t expected to live long. Then Charles would be rightful king.

King Charles III.

Murray intended to make him king, in fact, of Scotland if not of England. If only his careful plans had not been so dogged by mishap.

First the old king had died, appropriately suffering an apoplexy while trying to force his bowels. Murray rejoiced to see any of the Hanoverians dead, but it had
not suited his plan. The old upstart had been a German autocrat in the true Hanoverian style. He hadn’t been popular and his death would have been accepted with little upset, perhaps even with pleasure.

If George II’s eldest son had lived to claim the crown, he would have sufficed. He’d have ascended the throne a dissipated middle-aged man.

The present usurper, however, George II’s grandson, was a handsome young man, recently married to a dutiful wife expecting her first child. He had been born and raised in England, and didn’t even have a German accent.

The English people would not like his death.

But in the end, it didn’t matter whether they liked it or not. The king would die, and the stone would do the rest.

The Stone of Destiny. What the English—curse their thieving hearts—called the Stone of Scone.

Reputed by myth to be Jacob’s pillow, it had been used as part of the coronation ceremonies of Scottish kings as long as memory could tell. In 1303 it had been wickedly stolen by Edward I, murderer of Wallace, as part of his attempt to seize Scotland as he had seized and subjugated Wales.

As further blasphemy, the stone had been incorporated into the coronation chair here in London, in Westminster Abbey. Every English monarch since then had been crowned while sitting on top of the sacred stone of Scotland.

It made no difference to Murray that these days the thrones of England and Scotland were joined. When James VI of Scotland had inherited the throne of England, he should have stayed in Edinburgh and governed his kingdoms from there! And he should have had the stone taken back to its rightful home.

If he’d done that, then surely the Stuart line would not have experienced such disasters.

But look what had happened. James’s son, Charles, had been beheaded by those wicked Parliamentarians.

Charles’s older grandson had eventually been restored as Charles II but, despite a virile sowing of wild oats, had failed to create a legitimate child to inherit the throne.

Then Charles I’s other son, James, had shown signs of righteousness. He’d embraced the Catholic Church and even talked, so it was said, of restoring the monarchy and the stone to Scotland. Of course the English had turned on him and thrown him out, denying even that his son was his true child.

That son’s son was Murray’s beloved prince, who had led so valiant an invasion in 1745. It would have succeeded, Murray was sure, if only James III had sworn his coronation oath on the Stone of Destiny in Scone, in Scotland.

Charles III would do so, and so come in time into the right.

Murray chuckled. The English would grieve at their king’s death, but they’d crown another one, never realizing the real disaster. They’d lost the stone. The new monarch would not be able to be crowned on the stone, which would be far away in France with the rightful king, awaiting its journey home.

They already had it in a safe place, just waiting for the box in which it would travel. In time, the Stone of Destiny would work its magic and the false line of Hanover would rot away without invasion or violence.

Which left just the last task, killing the king.

In the gloomy hall of Walgrave House, under the disapproving gaze of Roman senators and the blank one of a footman, Fort turned to Elf. “Do you require any refreshment, my dear?”

Strangely embarrassed by the impassive servant, Elf shook her head, reminding herself that she was masked and powdered beyond recognition.

“Come then.” And he led her up the wide stairs she had crept down but a few nights since.

In moments she entered his bedchamber, and memories of her previous visit caused a frisson of fear.
Strangely, it merely seemed to add to the passionate excitement driving her.

Glancing at Fort, she saw the man who was going to guide her through the maze of carnal sensation. Because she’d demanded it. Perhaps, after all, she
was
Lisette the exploiter, not Elf, the nurturing savior.