Mistress (42 page)

“And your father?” Iphiginia asked very softly.

Once more Hoyt’s expression turned violent. “He was
dead
, damn his soul. He broke his neck in a phaeton accident five years ago. I never even got the chance—”
Herbert stopped abruptly and took several deep breaths. “I went to the Wycherley Agency and introduced myself to the old bitch.”

“I see you’ve expanded your business empire from blackmail to fraud,” Marcus said.

“Yes.” Herbert indicated the premises of the museum with the nose of the pistol. “You would not believe how much money certain gentlemen of the
ton
will pay to regain their manly vigor, especially those who have not yet managed to produce an heir.”

“I suppose there is a certain irony in your choice of business enterprise,” Marcus said. “The illegitimate son of a titled gentleman engaged in defrauding other gentlemen.”

“They are always so bloody concerned about begetting their legitimate heirs, are they not?” Herbert asked. “Their bastards can rot, of course. It’s only the legitimate offspring who count.”

Iphiginia stirred in his grasp. “Mr. Hoyt, please listen to me.”

“Silence.”
Herbert’s arms tightened ominously once more around her. “At one time I had hoped that you and I might become more than friends, my dear Iphiginia. We had so much in common. I wanted you to comprehend that, but you never did.”

“What on earth do you mean?” Iphiginia asked.

“You and I are two of a kind, m’dear. Oh, yes. Yes, indeed. I realized that from the first moment we met. You were so utterly outrageous. So clever. I knew I had to find out more about you. Your close friendship with Lady Guthrie was the clue, of course.”

“All you had to do was examine Mrs. Wycherley’s files to discover that she had two nieces, one named Iphiginia Bright and one named Amelia Farley,” Marcus said.

“Mrs. Wycherley kept excellent files,” Herbert said. “Once I realized that Iphiginia was her niece, I knew she
was also a fraud. One thing led to another and soon I had it all sorted out.”

“What made you think we had a great deal in common?” Iphiginia demanded.

“It’s obvious, is it not? We had both carved out a place for ourselves in the highest levels of Society by virtue of our own cleverness and determination. We had deceived the Polite World, convinced it to accept us as one of its own. I thought that we were made for each other, m’dear. But you insisted on setting your sights on the Earl of Masters.”

“You thought she had entered Society in order to form a connection with me?” Marcus asked.

“I did not discover that she was trying to find her aunt’s blackmailer until the night she went to Reeding Cemetery. Until then, I thought it was you she was out to snag. I could not blame her for aiming high. Indeed, I admired her nerve. But I feared it would not end well.”

“You intended to be there when her grand schemes came to naught, is that it?” Marcus asked.

“Yes. Damn you. Who could have foreseen that the legendary Masters would abandon all of his rules to marry his mistress?”

“You tried to destroy our attachment the night you sent her here to discover me with Lady Sands, did you not?” Marcus kept his gaze on Iphiginia, willing her to ready herself.

“Everyone, including Lord Sands, I think, believed that you and Lady Sands had been conducting a quiet affair for years. I expected I could convince Iphiginia of that, also.”

“But why did you send Lord Sands here that night?” Iphiginia asked.

Marcus raised his brows. “Hoyt no doubt hoped that Sands would kill me when he found me with his wife.”

Herbert gave him an approving look. “Quite right. Sands is inordinately fond of his lady. My congratulations, sir. You really are as intelligent as everyone says.”

“Thank you.”

Marcus dropped his cloak over the lantern, plunging the room into darkness.

“Bastard,” Herbert yelled. “Do not move.” He shrieked in startled pain. “Damnation, you bit me, you little bitch.”

An audible scuffle ensued.

Marcus slipped to the right in hopes of avoiding a bullet. He went in low and fast toward his quarry. He could see nothing. He was forced to rely on sound to guide him.

Herbert’s pistol roared. The sparks from the explosion momentarily illuminated his face. His well-fed, normally pleasant countenance appeared demonic.

An instant later, Marcus slammed into him.

They both went down, rolling on the floor. The pistol fell with a crash. Marcus heard Iphiginia’s footsteps as she groped her way toward the covered lantern. He sincerely hoped she would reach it before his coat caught fire.

Herbert yelled and clawed at Marcus, his rage imbuing him with surprising strength. He thrashed free for an instant. Marcus heard him stagger to his feet.

Iphiginia got the coat off the lantern at that moment. Light flooded the chamber.

Marcus came up off the floor in one move. He used the sudden gift of visibility to aim a blow at Herbert’s midsection. Herbert sagged but did not go down. Instead, he reeled toward the lantern.

He kicked out savagely at the flaring lamp.

Glass shattered. Oil spilled. Flames leaped to follow the path of the fuel.

“My God,” Iphiginia shouted. “The bed.”

Out of the corner of his eyes Marcus saw her grab his coat and begin to beat at the flames.

“Get out, Iphiginia,” he shouted.

“If the flames reach the bed or those ceiling hangings, this whole building will become an inferno.”

Marcus knew that she was right. And if the building
went up in flames, there was no telling how much damage might be done or how many lives might be lost. There were bound to be several families sleeping in the rooms above the many shops in Lamb Lane.

Herbert seized the opportunity created by the distraction. He lurched toward the door. Marcus instinctively went after him.

He reached the door and heard his quarry’s footsteps pound down the darkened hall. A second later the outer door opened. A weak shaft of light illuminated Herbert’s bulky figure.

Marcus ran the length of the hall. He reached the outside landing just as Herbert started down the shadowed steps.

“You’re not getting away, you little bastard.” Marcus grabbed the railing with one hand and reached out to snag Herbert by the collar.

“Goddamn you, Masters.” Hoyt swung out wildly to ward off Marcus’s arm.

The frantic motion caused the panicked man to lose his balance. He fell against the rail, spun around, and toppled backward down the steps.

Hoyt’s short, anguished scream was cut off abruptly when he hit the pavement below.

Marcus looked down at the unmoving body. There was just enough light to see that Hoyt’s neck was twisted at an unnatural angle. The man was dead.

“Marcus,” Iphiginia called. “Help me.”

Marcus whirled around and raced back down the hall. He ran into the chamber and saw that Iphiginia had nearly succeeded in dousing the flames. There was a single ribbon of fire left. It was eating its way across the carpet.

“Stand back.” Marcus grabbed the edge of the carpet and rolled it, swallowing most of the flames whole.

Iphiginia quickly smothered the rest with the coat. Darkness descended once more.

“Thank God. Marcus, are you all right?”

“Yes. Hoyt is dead. He fell down the steps.”

“Dear heaven.”

Marcus lit the wall sconce and surveyed the chamber. The fire had done surprisingly little damage. He looked at Iphiginia.

She met his eyes, his still-smoking coat clutched in her hands.

Marcus searched her soot-streaked face. “Did you get burned?”

“No.”

Marcus sniffed the stench of burned wool. He suddenly remembered something. “Let me see that.”

He snatched the coat from her hands and groped inside one of the pockets. His hand closed around his new, improved hydraulic reservoir pen. He winced when he felt the crumpled length of metal. It was hot. “Damn and blast.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing important. It appears I must return to my drawing table.”

It was nearly dawn before Marcus opened the door of the bedchamber that adjoined his own and walked into the room. A single candle burned beside the turned-back bed.

The bed itself was empty.

Iphiginia waited for him near the window. She turned when she heard him enter. She was dressed in a white, lace-trimmed nightgown of softest lawn. A ruffled nightcap was perched on her head. Her glorious smile of welcome made Marcus catch his breath.

“Iphiginia.” He could not think of anything else to say.

He opened his arms and she ran into them. He scooped her up, carried her to the bed, and fell with her into the clean, sweet-smelling sheets.

He felt whole and right inside, no longer a man made of smoothly oiled wheels and gears.

“I love you, Marcus.”

Marcus pulled her close and kissed her fiercely, passionately. He cradled her hip in his hand and took a taut, sweet nipple into his mouth. She was so perfect, he thought, awed. It was as though she had been made especially for him.

He had been waiting for her all these years, he realized.

“Hold me, Iphiginia. Don’t ever let me go.”

“Never.”

Marcus was not certain that he recognized the emotion that swept through him a short time later when he sheathed himself within Iphiginia’s warm, tight body.

He rather thought that it might be joy.

Iphiginia awoke to find herself alone in the rumpled bed. Early morning sunlight streamed into the bedchamber and splashed across the sheets.

She closed her eyes and stretched slowly, savoring the aftereffects of Marcus’s lovemaking. Memories drifted through her, warming every inch of her body. She closed her eyes and recalled the wonderful feel of her husband’s strong, exciting hands on her breasts, her thighs, between her legs.

An odd ticking sound broke through her reverie. It was accompanied by the distinct rasp of gear and wheel.

Chunkachunkachunka
.

Iphiginia opened her eyes and saw that the door between the bedchambers was open. Marcus stood there, one shoulder propped against the jamb.

He was garbed in a black silk robe. His dark hair was still tousled from the pillow. He crossed his arms and studied her with his brilliant amber eyes.

“Good morning, Iphiginia.”

“Good morning. I was wondering where you had gone.” Iphiginia pushed herself up against the pillows. “What on earth is that odd noise?”

Then she saw the clockwork man coming toward her
across the carpet. She watched in amazement as its legs jerked back and forth, propelling it toward the bed. One arm was outstretched. The wooden hand held a silver salver.

On top of the salver was a small folded sheet of paper.

Iphiginia watched, fascinated, as the automaton reached the bed and found its path blocked. Its innards continued to grind and its legs went on churning uselessly, pushing its face into the side of the mattress.

Iphiginia reached down to pick up the note on the salver. She opened it carefully and read the message inside.

“Oh, Marcus.” Iphiginia threw back the covers and scrambled out of bed.

She ignored the clockwork man and ran, barefoot, across the room to where Marcus waited in the doorway. She halted directly in front of him.

He smiled.

“Do you mean it?” she asked.

“With all my heart.”

Happiness inundated her in a sparkling waterfall of light. “I knew we were made for each other.”

He laughed, swept her up into his arms, and carried her back to the bed. “You were right.”

“As usual,” Iphiginia said.

AMANDA QUICK
, a pseudonym for Jayne Ann Krentz, is a
New York Times
bestselling, award-winning author of contemporary and historical romances. There are nearly thirty million copies of her books in print, including
Seduction, Surrender, Scandal, Rendezvous, Ravished, Reckless, Dangerous, Deception, Desire, Mistress, Mystique, Mischief, Affair, With This Ring, I Thee Wed, Wicked Widow
, and
Slightly Shady
. She makes her home in the Pacific Northwest with her husband, Frank.

Visit her website at
www.amandaquick.com
.

LOOK FOR AMANDA QUICK’S LATEST NOVEL

SLIGHTLY SHADY

Available now from Bantam Books

Turn the page for a preview.

T
he intruder’s eyes blazed with a cold fire. He raised a powerful hand and swept another row of vases off the shelf. The fragile objects crashed to the floor and shattered into a hundred shards. He moved on to a display of small statues.

“I advise you to make haste with your packing, Mrs. Lake,” he said as he turned his violent attention to a host of fragile clay Pans, Aphrodites, and satyrs. “The carriage will leave in fifteen minutes, and I promise you that you and your niece will be aboard, with or without your luggage.”

Lavinia watched him from the foot of the stairs, helpless to stop the destruction of her wares. “You have no right to do this. You are ruining me.”

“On the contrary, madam. I am saving your neck.” He used a booted foot to topple a large urn decorated in the Etruscan manner. “Not that I expect any thanks, mind you.”

Lavinia winced as the urn exploded on impact with the floor. She knew now that it was pointless to berate the lunatic. He was intent on destroying the shop and she lacked the means to stop him. She had been taught early in life to recognize the signs that indicated it was time to stage a tactical retreat. But she had never learned to tolerate such annoying reversals of fortune with equanimity.

“If we were in England, I would have you arrested, Mr. March.”

“Ah, but we are not in England, are we, Mrs. Lake?” Tobias March seized a life-size stone centurion by the shield and shoved it forward. The Roman fell on his sword. “We are in Italy and you have no choice but to do as I command.”

It was useless to stand her ground. Every moment spent down here attempting to reason with Tobias March was time lost that should be spent packing. But the unfortunate tendency toward stubbornness that was so much a part of her nature could not abide the notion of surrendering the field of battle without a struggle.