Seducing the Rake (Mad, Bad and Dangerous Heroes) (14 page)

Bloody war
, he thought.

Bloody French.

Bloody Salamanca and bloody Morland pride.

He still remembered how the earl looked when he’d returned from that last grisly Peninsular campaign. Gaunt, pale, his skin stretched over his high cheekbones, he had been more dead than alive.

Even then he’d said little and complained not at all.

But Whitby had heard him moan in the night, struggling with pain and unknown demons. The months had passed, and his leg had healed, but Whitby knew that the pain had persisted.

And then Andrew had died. Morland had stepped in to oversee the estate’s dwindling resources and comfort Andrew’s children. His recovery, Whitby knew, had owed a great deal to those two children who’d come to rely upon him completely.

“Uncle Tony” soon became the world for them, and sometimes Whitby wondered if the reverse wasn’t equally true.

The servant sighed. He watched the tall ex-soldier strip off gloves and hat and stride not quite steadily toward the staircase.

As usual, all Whitby could do was follow, knowing full well that Morland would accept no help from him or anyone else.

~ ~ ~

Morland
scowled at the polished marble stairs leading to his bedroom. They seemed to smile back at him, smooth and chill as a row of giant teeth.

Not quite up to that task, old man
, he thought grimly.
Better have one last drink before attempting the ascent.

“No need to wait up, Whitby. I’ll be awake for a while yet.”

“Very well, your lordship.” The old retainer asked no questions. “Good night then, your lordship.”

Morland nodded. At least he had dispensed with an audience for tonight’s performance. And he knew it wasn’t the brandy that would make him stumble on the marble steps.

Slowly he crossed the marble floor and entered the rear room that he’d converted into a study. Books lined two walls from floor to ceiling, while the third wall was covered with an eclectic assortment of botanical prints, naval scenes, and a pair of matched Chinese scrolls in bold black calligraphy.

God bless Whitby for seeing that a fire was laid, Morland thought, sinking into a worn velvet settee and raising his leg onto a footstool before the fire.

For a moment the pain was blinding. His face paled as he dug his fingers into the knotted muscles that were his legacy of Salamanca.

Finally the agony began to ease. With a sigh Morland lay back, too tired to fix himself the drink he knew he didn’t need anyway.

His eyes settled on the book-covered desk, where a pile of papers awaited his attention. But work was beyond him tonight. Instead he stared into the flames, watching the colors flicker and dance.

When his eyes finally drifted shut, he was far away.

Dreaming of a balmy tropical night and a star-strewn sky. Of violet eyes. Of blue-black hair lush with the scent of sandalwood and orange blossoms.

~ ~ ~

A damp wind growled up Half Moon Street, ripping at the first spring bluebells, scattering soft petals to the hard earth.

But the slim figure hidden among the twisting chimneys paid no attention to wind or cold. Her eyes were focused on the lights being gradually extinguished in the adjoining wing.

Not long to wait now.

Chessy shivered as a gust of wind whipped at her face. She would allow him an hour before she made her way around to the empty attic room at the rear of the house. She knew its location perfectly.

Until then…

Curling into a ball, she slid back against the sloping roof. There, hidden between two overhanging gables, she let her mind wander…

~ ~ ~

The hills had been green and fragrant with cedar that summer when her father had delivered her into the care of a Chinese merchant who was to see her safe to Shao-lin.

Boy-like, her long hair tugged harshly into the requisite braid, Chessy had blinked back tears as the time for parting came.

Her father had hugged her close. “So you’ve gotten your wish at last, my love. It won’t be easy, you know. You’ve had good teachers here in Macao, but none like you’ll find there at Shao-lin. You’ll all train in secret, of course. The emperor is still afraid of plots to overthrow him. And if anyone except the abbot learns that you are not the mixed-blood Kirghiz boy from Turkestan that you claim to be, then your life will be in grave danger.”

Her father’s hands had clenched on hers then. Chessy knew he was fighting an urge to tell her to give it up and return home with him to Macao.

But he had not. James Cameron of all people understood the burning dream that had held Chessy since she was old enough to mimic the Chinese village boys playing emperor and rebel in the market square.

They had parted in silence then, she a slender fifteen-year-old in rough black trousers and padded jacket, with a face that showed wisdom and determination far beyond its years.

Her father, gaunt and imposing with jade green eyes and a shock of prematurely white hair, had squeezed her fingers tightly, then stepped back as she was handed up into a curtained palanquin to begin the long trip north.

If his tears had flowed, it had only been much later in the privacy of his own room.

The year that had followed had been miraculous, grueling, and wonderful beyond Chessy’s wildest dreams. There had been only one other foreigner there, a broad-shouldered warrior of French, Scots, and Manchu parentage. Every morning, she had risen with keen excitement for what marvels the day would bring. And every night she had gone to sleep bruised and exhausted, with split knuckles and bleeding hands.

But she had learned well.

When at last the abbot had summoned her to his private chamber, she had gone with mixed emotions. For she had learned too well, it seemed. A certain Manchu princess passing through the village had been intrigued by the slender young Kirghiz boy of mixed blood. Chessy’s talents had been noted, as had the strange amethyst shade of her eyes.

So she could stay no longer. The abbot was sorrowful but adamant about that. He had also been relieved, Chessy noticed. Her masquerade had brought danger upon the whole village, and she could only guess at the vast favor he must have owed to her father for him to agree to her year of training there.

They had had one last bout then. It had been exquisite with ritual since each one knew this would be their last. The old master warrior had reserved none of his power or skill, yet Chessy had parried him easily, sustaining only one blow to the shoulder instead of the dozens she once would have borne.

The abbot had been very pleased. “You have learned well, young one. But now you must go, before Precious Pearl returns with her roving eye. She is insatiable, that one, and goes through men as quickly as she does slippers. Ah, the stories I could tell you…”

He had gazed deep into her eyes—even deeper into Chessy’s heart. “Seek far, English one with the midnight hair. To seek is part of the great game of life. But do not forget the greatest wisdom, Midnight: What seems most distant is often the closest at hand.”

~ ~ ~

High on the rooftop in the dark of the London night, Chessy shivered in the rising wind. Her ribs were still aching from her leap across the rooftop the night before, so she had not worn her usual tight binding at her chest.

Her cold fingers ran over the jade dragon that hung at her throat. Perfectly carved from one piece of apple-green Burmese jadeite, the dragon had been her teacher’s last gift. The old abbot had retained the second half for himself.

Chessy traced the broken line where the dragon was cut in two. She could still hear her old teacher’s voice: “With this, English one, my spirit will follow you. Remember that, Midnight. Remember, too, that one day, should you require my help, you will find it through my dragon.”

As the damp London wind howled over the rooftops, Chessy stroked the dragon and remembered. Suddenly she felt lost, adrift, and very far from home.

Then she crouched forward. Had something moved out among the chimneys? Tensely, she watched the darting shadows cast by the cloud-swept three-quarter moon.

Nothing.

With a sigh she sank back onto the eaves. Of course there was no one, she told herself sternly. Who else would be foolish enough to huddle here among the chimneys on such a night?

But as she settled back to wait, a prickle of tension gathered at the top of her spine and did not leave.

~ ~ ~

One hour later Chessy slid from her hiding place. She inched past a singularly ugly gargoyle, then crept on toward the main wing of the house.

It was an imposing sight, even with windows darkened. On three sides granite wings rose before a high stone wall surmounted by griffin heads.

But Chessy had no time to admire the elegant exterior of Lord Morland’s London residence. Already she could feel the air growing chill, dense with moisture. Soon there would be rain. Even she, agile as she was, could not move safely on wet tiles.

 Quickly she crossed the high, slanting roof and made her way to the main wing. An ornate stone railing ran along the entire front face, mirrored two flights below by a row of balconies overlooking the courtyard. Chessy’s eyes narrowed as she calculated the distance to the railings. Just in case …

Her cloth soles made no noise as she inched to the top of the roof and crossed down the back slope to a darkened window at the far end.

The window was unlocked, just as this morning’s note had promised it would be.

Slowly Chessy raised the pane and listened. Hearing no sound, she slid cautiously inside. She had already memorized the plans of Morland’s house and had no trouble finding her way down the corridor to the huge circular staircase that dominated the heart of the house.

A lone pair of candles flickered by the columned entrance as she darted from the stairs and took refuge in a shadowed recess next to a marble nymph.

She studied the arrangement of the grand columns and small mirrors flanking the front door. Bad
feng-shui
there. Oh, yes, very bad. The mirrors should be moved to cast their light upon all who entered, spreading good fortune and energy throughout the household. And two was an inauspicious number. Three would be better, nine best of all.

Great misfortune might stem from such an arrangement, especially when it occurred at the front door, where the
feng-shui
energies of the whole household were collected and stabilized.

Chessy was still frowning when she heard footsteps approach from the corridor to her left. She shrank back into the recess as a black-clad servant with a lone candle crossed the foyer and disappeared down the facing corridor.

Chessy waited. She knew precisely where to look. This morning’s note from her father’s captors had been very specific.

A few moments later the servant returned the way he had come, and Chessy slipped down the corridor toward Morland’s study.

The room was lovely, with one wall covered with beautiful artwork and a very fine pair of calligraphic scrolls. A silver candelabrum burned on a rosewood side table, casting a mellow glow as Chessy slipped inside.

She skirted the lacquer screen flanking the fireplace and made for her goal, a mahogany campaign desk whose surface was nearly hidden beneath papers, journals, and well-marked books.

It was a room made to be used and enjoyed, a room that reflected the energy and eclectic tastes of its owner, right down to the bronze lion and imperial jade carvings on the edge of the desk.

But where was the wretched
book
?

Abruptly Chessy froze. Behind the screen, where a pair of settees faced the fire, she heard a faint creaking. Her eyes widened as she saw the motionless figure stretched atop the nearer settee.

A figure with broad shoulders and tousled blond hair.

Sweet heavens, what was
Morland
doing down here? He ought to have been in his room hours ago!

Chessy shrank back into the shadows. Her heart hammered as she studied the even rise and fall of the earl’s chest. When she was certain that he was asleep, she crept from her hiding place.

The witless man hadn’t even removed his boots. Chessy sniffed the air. Alcohol—and a great deal of it, unless she was mistaken. So he had been drinking.

But somehow she could not look away from the broad brow and sculpted features, deeply bronzed in the flickering firelight. Yes, he was every bit as handsome as he had been ten years earlier, she admitted reluctantly. Leaner. Tougher too. It was fortunate that she knew how to defend herself against that lazy charm he used so well.

The same way you defended yourself this morning?
a mocking voice asked.
The way you melted into his kiss and moaned at his touch?