Tempting a Devil (23 page)

“Then come back to my house,” Harry whispered back. “I’m done here.”

“The evening has hardly begun,” he protested. “And we haven’t eaten yet. Aren’t you hungry?”

“Not for weak lemonade and oversalted beef,” she whispered back. “I’m hungry for kisses and—”

“Good evening, Lady Mercer, Templeton,” a hated voice said behind her.

Roger’s head jerked up and he glared over Harry’s shoulder. He took a step toward her, pressing them indecently together from chest to hip. Harry’s stomach tumbled from the dual assaults of fear at hearing Faircloth’s voice and euphoria at Roger’s nearness. Without thinking, she grabbed on to Roger’s upper arm for support, and he slipped his hand around her waist to steady her.

“You verge on indecent, Lady Mercer,” a female voice said coldly. “I suggest you try to refrain from molesting Mr. Templeton in full view of the ballroom.”

“Lady Mercer is unwell,” Roger retorted, keeping his arm firmly wrapped around her waist. “She was just informing me that she wished to leave.”

“She has most likely caught a chill from barely wearing that dress,” Lady
Maxwell mumbled loud enough for all to hear.

Her disdain straightened Harry’s spine and she took a step back from Roger, breaking his hold. She turned slowly to face Faircloth and Lady Maxwell. “Good evening,” she said politely. “I did not realize you were both in attendance.” She glanced coolly down Lady Maxwell’s pale peach gown. “I’m afraid you blend into the wallpaper in that color.” And it was true. She matched the wallpaper to an uncanny degree. Harry wondered if she’d done it on purpose. If so, she missed the mark. It made her less remarkable in the assembled crowd, not more.

She refused to even look at Faircloth. She hadn’t heard from him in almost two weeks. Surely he could see that she was now inappropriate for what he’d planned. She was so obviously Roger’s lover and quite scandalous by society’s standards.

“Lady Mercer looks quite lovely,” Faircloth said, giving her chills of horror in complete contrast to the shivers of delight she’d felt at Roger’s touch. “The red of her dress is a perfect complement to her golden beauty.”

“Thank you,” she said stiffly.

Lady Maxwell glared at her, as if she’d forced the words from Faircloth’s mouth. The stupid woman had no idea that Harry would rejoice if the other woman were able to occupy all of Faircloth’s attention and keep him away. “I suppose if you don’t mind being unfashionable, then red is fine,” she said in a bored voice. “My modiste said pale colors were popular for younger ladies. Dark colors are to be worn by older women or reserved for the merchant class.” Her eyes widened ingeniously. “But then, you are a widow, are you not? Your late husband was much older and quite wealthy, I understand. An advantageous match for you, to be sure,” she concluded, implying that Harry was
both old and of a lower class.

Harry laughed outright. “I think color is an expression of a person’s character and personality, Lady Maxwell, not their age or class. I’ve been feeling rather vibrant these days,” she added slyly, casting Roger a heated look from the corner of her eyes.

“Indeed,” Faircloth observed, “you have looked far more lively the last few weeks than when I first visited with you in Lincolnshire. And with your late husband, of course. But when I arrived you were quite … lonely, and in need of companionship.” His innuendo was perfectly clear. He’d practically announced that they’d been intimate during that visit. Roger stiffened beside her, and Lady Maxwell’s glare returned.

“I was ill in Lincolnshire during your entire visit,” Harry replied flatly, looking directly at Faircloth now and hating him more than ever. “My condition was not improved until after you left.”

The only sign of anger Faircloth showed was a narrowing at the corner of his eyes. “How distressing,” he replied, with a hiss that made him sound like the snake he was. “I’m fairly certain my visit was pleasing to Mercer, however. I took you off his hands and … entertained you.”

“I’m afraid I was made more ill by your attempts at entertainment,” Harry told him recklessly. She was growing tired of his games. Let him either spit out the truth or go away.

“And you said you were feeling unwell now, too,” Lady Maxwell said with mock sweetness. “Poor dear. I guess Roger’s entertainments are of poor quality as well.”

“On the contrary, Roger has been unable to entertain me in this crush,” Harry said breezily. “I was just saying how much more enjoyable it would be if we could be … tête-à-tête.”
She smiled at Lady Maxwell and Faircloth. “If you’ll excuse us, please.”

Roger nodded goodbye as he took Harry’s arm and steered her away before either of them could respond.

“I’m sorry,” he said when they were a good distance away. He stopped her with his hand on her elbow and she turned to face him.

“Why?” she asked. Her heart was racing from the excitement of actually confronting Faircloth. He’d been a beast and she’d vanquished him. And Lady Maxwell, too. What a horrible woman. She was quite full of herself.

“That was my fault. Lady Maxwell and I were, you see, just the once, but … she acts as if it was more, which it was not,” he assured her vehemently.

Well, that was a surprise. Harry had thought the entire episode, and the one in the park, was about her. “I see. That was an odd choice on your part, I daresay.”

Roger burst out laughing. “Not the reaction I was expecting, my dear. But I didn’t really make the choice, you see. I was very, very drunk and remember almost nothing except waking up in her bed with an aching head and a bad case of the regrets.”

“You deserved both,” Harry told him. “She’s awful.” She shuddered and made a face. “I hope you don’t drink like that anymore. It is certainly not good for your judgment.”

Roger took her hand and kissed it again. Surely everyone was making note of his outward signs of affection. Harry smiled and glanced around at the crowd, blushing. She didn’t think scandalous women should blush, but it was out of her control. “No, I do not, and no it isn’t.”

Harry waited nervously to see if he’d ask about her past association with
Faircloth. He’d all but declared them former lovers, which they were not no matter what had happened between them. What she had endured with Faircloth was worlds away from the passion she’d found in Roger’s arms. But Roger did not ask.

“So, shall we eat and show our supreme disdain for the two of them by remaining here and socializing with everyone else?” he asked instead. “And then we shall dance the last waltz and I will whisk you home.”

“For kisses?” she leaned forward and asked, looking left and right to make sure no one could hear.

“For kisses,” he whispered back. “And, God help me, Harry, probably more.”

Clearly God was on Harry’s side.

Chapter Twenty

When they arrived at Harry’s house, Roger jumped out of the carriage with alacrity, hardly waiting for the footman to open the door. He reached back in and lifted Harry out, swinging her down, and she laughed in delight. His conscience was telling him to slow down, and that doing the things he was thinking of doing to her in the process of getting her out of that amazing dress was a very bad idea. But he ignored his common sense, grabbed her hand, and dragged her to the door.

“Roger!” she exclaimed, still laughing. “Slow down! I’m going to fall over trying to race with you in these shoes and this dress.”

He stopped and took a deep breath. Then he counted to ten. “All right. We’ll walk sedately. I can do that.”

“Good,” she said. “Because tonight I am in the mood for the slow and gentle you promised after fast and hard.” Her reminder of their first encounter against her drawing room wall was not well timed. Roger began walking faster.

“Roger,” she said, pulling on his hand.

“I can do both in one night,” he promised.

Harry walked a little faster, too.

When they reached the door, Roger expected Mandrake to open it immediately. He and Harry looked at each other with identical frowns when they stood before it and the door remained firmly closed. Roger reached out and turned the knob, and the door opened silently on well-oiled hinges. Before they even crossed the threshold there was a
loud crash from the second floor, a woman’s scream, and Wiley cursing. Roger ran through the door shouting back at Harry, “Stay there!”

“Roger!” she called out, but he ignored her, racing up the stairs. Halfway up, a man came barreling around the corner of the hallway above and thundered down the stairs toward him. It took a moment to realize it wasn’t Wiley or the footman. Roger made a grab for him, but he shoved Roger out of the way and ran at Harry. She screamed and fell back against the wall out of his way, and he ran out the door to the street.

Roger came to his senses and took off after him. He heard Wiley call out from behind him, “I’m with you!” but he didn’t look back. His hat had fallen off on the stairs, and the damp night air clung to him like cobwebs as he raced after the quickly retreating figure. His evening shoes were the worst possible choice for a chase through the streets of London, but he ignored his discomfort and ran harder. The blackguard had a head start and was faster than a greyhound.

The intruder cut down the alley between the last two houses on the square, heading toward Berkley Street. Roger raced after him, nearly slipping on the flimsy soles of his shoes against the slick pavement as he made the sharp turn to veer onto the dirt path. The fog seemed to be getting thicker, the lamplights obscured until they were nothing but yellow flickers in the night sky, their light not touching the ground. It was almost impossible to keep the intruder in his sights, but the sounds of his heavy footfalls were a beacon of their own.

When they burst out of the alley onto Berkley Street, Roger was only a few steps behind, but traffic was still heavy here and the miscreant dodged between carriages traveling down the street. Roger attempted to do the same but slipped in the wet grime
coating the street. Before he went down, someone caught him from behind.

“Dammit!” Wiley cursed, yanking Roger out of the way of an oncoming carriage. “He got away.”

“Did you see him?” Roger panted. “Did you recognize him?”

“Saw him all right,” Wiley said, not nearly as out of breath as Roger, “but didn’t recognize him.”

“Was it the man from the park, the one who tried to take Mercy? Did he have a beard?” Roger was talking quickly even as he ran, slower than before, back to Harry’s.

Wiley easily kept pace. “Yes, same man.”

“What happened? Is Mercy all right?” Roger put a hand to his cramping side but didn’t slow his pace.

“Mercy’s fine, but he was definitely what the bastard was after. Somehow got in and snuck upstairs. We heard Mercy start crying and Charlotte and I ran up to find the boy struggling to get away. Fellow had the little man tossed over his shoulder, he did, like a sack of flour. Mercy was kicking him something fierce. Charlotte went to grab the boy before I could stop her and got backhanded into the wall for her trouble. I rushed the bastard and he dropped Mercy, got a good hit into my belly, and ran off down the stairs. I reckon that’s when you showed up.”

“Good God,” Roger said breathlessly, fear and exertion making him a little light-headed as they broke out into the square from the alley. “How did he get in?”

“God damn if I know.” Wiley blistered the night air with his curses. “I should have been watching more closely. It’s why I was there. It’s my fault, Roger. It is.”

“What were you doing?” Roger barked at him. “Surely chess couldn’t have held
your attention so closely.” He stopped abruptly and faced Wiley, who stopped as well. “Is Miss Jones still chaste?”

Wiley looked extremely unhappy at Roger’s question. “You think I’d go after a piece of that? Do I look stupid?” He shook his head. “She’s not for the likes of me and you know it. Too far above me. Wouldn’t waste my time or hers on that.” He paused, pursing his lips, and then burst out, “She was teaching me to read.”

Roger closed his eyes for a moment in relief. “Good,” was all he said. He turned and resumed his walk back to Harry’s. “We have to figure out how he got in. Mandrake was nowhere to be seen. I fear that he met with some foul play.”

“Door was locked, I know that,” Wiley told him. “Checked it myself after you left.”

“It was unlocked when we arrived home,” Roger told him grimly. “So either someone picked the lock or someone unlocked it for the intruder.”

“Christ,” Wiley muttered. “You think someone in that house is a traitor? Who wants the boy so badly, do you suppose?”

“I don’t know,” Roger told him grimly as they finally arrived back at Harry’s. “But I mean to find out. Send someone to Bow Street. Fetch Lavender.”

Harry was waiting for him, pacing in front of the door and holding Mercy in her arms. Roger didn’t try to put a name to the feelings that coursed through him when he saw the two of them safe and sound.

“Roger!” Harry cried out in stark relief. She rushed up and hugged him one armed, and he enfolded her and the boy in a tight embrace.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

She nodded, her cheek pressed to his shoulder. “Yes,” she sniffed. “Mercy is frightened and Charlotte has a nasty bruise on her cheek and a bump on her head from where she hit the wall.”

Roger petted her hair, which was half out of its pins and tumbling down her back. “And Mandrake?”

She shook her head. “I don’t know.”

Roger looked over his shoulder at Wiley, who nodded and took off toward the back of the house.

“Come on,” he said, leading Harry to the stairs. “Let’s put Mercy to bed and then we can figure out what happened here.”

* * *

By the time Lavender left Harry’s house, the night was half over. Wiley slipped out with Lavender, the two deep in discussion about possible motives and who might be behind the attacks. It would seem they both had a mile-long list of possible suspects from the pool of London’s criminal class. Wiley had proved quite useful in eliminating some of the suspects based on inside information about who was dead and who’d left town, and of course Lavender knew who was already in jail.