The Wicked One (10 page)

"I'm on my way," she gasped, hauling tightly on the knot that bound the unconscious duke and leaping back off the bed.  He would not be going anywhere anytime soon.  She'd be back just as soon as the speech was over.

She glanced at his still face.  Guilt and shame filled her, and she hurriedly turned away before they could be her undoing.

Funny, but when she had held up the coach and struck down this man's brother — who, granted, had never done a single thing in his life to offend or hurt her — with a blow to the back of the neck, guilt and shame had been the last thing she'd felt.

No.  Just a contemptuous delight in her mastery over men, and the ease with which she could overpower them.

Not this time.

She fled.

Chapter 8

Lucien came slowly back to his senses.

He opened his eyes to an empty room with only the flickering glow of the candle for company.  For a moment he lay there, disoriented, groggy, and dazed, trying to discern what had happened to him.  He was tied once more to the bedpost.  His head throbbed with pain, yet he had no idea why.  Certainly she had not struck him a blow; the pain was not localized, but a general ache quite unlike anything he had ever felt before.

He blinked and lifted his head, fighting dizziness.  He supposed he ought to be furious, and yes, humiliated, by being done in by a woman — but no.  Instead, he was fascinated.  Totally intrigued.  He gave a disbelieving little laugh.  What the devil had she done to him?

A dangerous woman indeed . . .

He racked his brain for answers.  He remembered her riding him furiously, and the splintering climax that had claimed them both.  He remembered her falling asleep for a few moments atop his chest, and the way her hair had felt beneath his hand as he'd stroked it, like heavy silk.  He remembered someone at the door, her desperate attempts to get away, her untying his wrists — and there, his memories stopped.

Yet here he was, tied up once more.  And she — along with her clothes — was gone.  How had she managed to get them all back on by herself?  If he'd helped her, he damn well couldn't remember doing so . . .

He'd find out the answers, but not now.  Tensing his arms, Lucien hauled himself upward on his back, toward the post to which his wrists were bound.  His cravat strained with the force.  He smiled.  As he suspected, she had left his inert body far enough down the bed that, just by moving himself toward the headboard, he had enough slack to work himself loose.  She must have been in one hell of a hurry to be so careless.

It would have been just as easy, but much less satisfying when she discovered he was gone, to simply use his own strength to tear through his sacrificed cravat.  But that wouldn't make for such a complete victory.  Oh, no.  Far better to simply untie himself and leave the article folded mockingly across her pillows . . .

It was not hard to free himself.

But it was
very
hard to stand up.

He nearly fell as his feet took his weight, and, grabbing a bedpost, he cursed his brain for its inability to control the rest of his body.  But it was functioning quite soundly in the one way that mattered.  Having personally witnessed the effects of the aphrodisiac on others, Lucien was in no doubt about what Eva had put in his champagne to get such a reaction from him.  Releasing the bedpost, he staggered to the dressing table, remembering that she had dabbed perfume on herself just before handing him his drink.

Ah, yes.  There was no mistaking the aphrodisiac's seductive purple-garnet color, though she had tried to disguise it by storing it in a perfume bottle.  Grinning wryly, Lucien shook his head.  He couldn't help but admire her wiliness.  Well, she might think she could outsmart him, but she had a thing or two to learn about just whom she was dealing with.  Calmly donning the rest of his clothes, Lucien checked himself in the mirror.  Pity about the cravat.  Otherwise . . . perfect.  Totally unruffled.  As if nothing had even happened.

He picked up his sword, pocketed the perfume bottle, and was just about to leave when he spied a stack of writing paper on a nearby desk.  A dry smile twisted his lips.

Oh, he couldn't resist.

He just couldn't.

He picked up a quill pen, uncapped the nearby ink, and sat down, purposely waiting for the last of his vertigo to clear so it would not show in his writing and give his beautiful adversary something to gloat about.

His grin spreading, he began to write:

My dearest Eva,

The next time you plan to tie up an unconscious prisoner, do allow me to show you the proper way it is done.  In the meantime, my compliments on your ingenuity, my hopes for immediate news concerning Lord Brookhampton, and my gratitude for a most rewarding and pleasurable evening . . . as well as for the aphrodisiac, which, I am happy to report, is back with its rightful owner.  If you have any wish to reclaim it, do come to England.  I would dearly love to . . .
have
you.

Blackheath

He underscored that last
have
three times to ensure that the innuendo was clear; then, with a triumphant smile, calmly exited the room.

Another round played, another match won.

~~~~

A fortnight after the Duke of Blackheath's escape, Eva awoke with a headache and a roiling stomach that threatened to divulge itself of its contents when the smell of toast came drifting up from the kitchens downstairs.

She pulled the drapes and lay back down on the bed, massaging her temples, willing her jumpy stomach to be still.  She had been furious when she'd returned to her room and found not only Blackheath, but the aphrodisiac, gone.  Cursing, she had collapsed on the window seat, ruefully eyed the bed where Blackheath had brought her to such dizzying heights, and given way to moroseness.  Then, grudging respect.  And finally, peals of laughter.  How could she be furious with the man?  Yes, he had outsmarted her once again.  He had won the latest battle.  But there would be another round between them.  She was sure of it.  In the meantime, she could not help but admire his ingenuity in escaping . . . the devious way he had turned the tables on her.  Her blood ran hot, just thinking about him.

Eva wasn't laughing, however, when Marie Antoinette demanded the potion several days later.  She wasn't laughing when she had to confess that she didn't have it.  The French queen's fury was such that she banished Eva from the royal chambers.  Not long afterward, Eva was summoned to Franklin's residence, where she was soberly informed that her presence in Paris was a threat to the American's careful negotiations.  "I'm sorry, Eva, but you cannot stay here.  Her Majesty is most upset with you . . . first the false aphrodisiac that so sickened the king, and now an empty promise about the real one.  You must leave Paris for a while . . . at least, until we have secured an alliance with France."

Simmering with fury, wondering if Blackheath knew to what extent he was ruining her life — let alone her reputation — Eva retreated behind a haughty facade and left the capital.  She would just as soon have abandoned her search for the missing Lord Brookhampton as well, but she considered herself a woman of honor and had given her word that she would do all in her power to find the young earl.  Besides, her efforts on Lord Brookhampton's behalf would give her a perfect excuse to return to England and go for another round with that devil Blackheath.

Oh, yes.  She was very much looking forward to
that
.

Before leaving France, she visited the port where
Sarah Rose
had been taken, and then the prison where the survivors from the British ship were being held.  There were no civilians amongst the lot; just the crew, still wearing their nankeen trousers, pea coats, and checked shirts.  Eva eyed them critically; they were a motley, hostile lot, ill-kempt, bearded, one or two wounded and in need of medical attention.  Yet another lay all but dead in a corner, his head pillowed on a filthy, matted tangle of blond hair encrusted with old blood.  Eva's sympathy for their plight warred with her own delight at finding them; the very fact that Britons were being held in a French jail was cause enough for protest from the English government.

Her eyes gleamed.  She studied the prisoners from beneath the brim of her broad hat, a little smile twisting her lips.  Franklin didn't care whether France declared war on England or England declared war on France, as long as war came about.  Hmm.  She tapped her lips with one long fingernail.  All the more reason to go to Britain and stir up some trouble . . .

After all, it didn't matter who fired the first broadside now, did it?

And she would enjoy continuing her own private battle with the infuriating Duke of Blackheath.

~~~~

That very duke's sister-in-law, Celsiana Blake de Montforte, was in the midst of directing the preparations for her first annual New Year's Eve ball when a footman approached, bearing a card on a silver platter.

"My lady?"  He bowed.  "You have a visitor in the parlor."

"Thank you, Mulligan.  I'll be right down."  Watching a maid climb up on a chair to hang silver tissue above the door, Celsie shoved a strand of tawny hair out of her face and took the card.  She was just about to read it when a deafening explosion shook Rosebriar's very foundation and the maid, shrieking, grabbed for the door frame to keep from tumbling from her precarious perch.

But Celsie never even blinked.  "It's all right, Freckles," she said, tucking the card in her pocket and kneeling down to reassure the elderly gundog at her feet.  "It's only Andrew, testing that new explosive he's working on.  Shall we go make sure he didn't blow himself up?"

The dog, with some effort, hauled himself to his feet and on weak, age-achy legs, followed his mistress from the ballroom.

In a far pasture outside, Celsie found her handsome inventor-husband examining a blackened pit in the ground and making notes on a pad of paper.  His wavy auburn hair was pulled back in a careless queue, and he looked very distracted.  Impatient.  Hearing her approach, he raised his head — and Celsie bit back a peal of laughter.

"Oh, Andrew," she said, with a giggle.  "Whatever happened to your eyebrows?"

Scowling, he touched his fingers to what remained of them — nothing but stubby bristle singed to the roots.  "To hell with my eyebrows; how many more attempts must I make before I get this damned mixture correct?"

"Listen, Andrew, don't you think it's safer to stick to inventing, um . . . less dangerous things?"

"What, like aphrodisiacs?"  He snorted with laughter and, straightening, brushed the ash from his clothes and mopped his sooty face with a handkerchief.  "No, Celsie.  This new explosive I'm working on will be far more useful to society.  If I can get it stabilized, that is.  Imagine it instead of gunpowder in a pistol!  Imagine it in a controlled environment, perhaps powering a machine, a boat, my double-compartmented stagecoach —"

"Yes, Andrew."  She smiled, touched her tongue to her fingertips, and smoothed what remained of his russet brows.  "I'm sure it will be a valuable contribution indeed, if you survive the experimentation stage."  She took his arm.  "Do you fancy some tea?  It has just gone five o'clock."

He looked up at the sky, thick and gray and swollen with cloud, and shivered, suddenly realizing how cold and raw the day was.  "Tea sounds wonderful."

"And an early bedtime?" she murmured, suggestively running her hand up his chest.

His eyes gave her all the answer she needed.

Walking slowly so that Freckles could keep up, they made their way back to the house.  The smell of damp earth and vegetation hung over the heath and Freckles even managed to flush a pheasant from a tangle of twisted brambles.  It was only as they entered the house that Celsie remembered she had a visitor.  Horrified by her lapse of manners, she reached into her pocket to withdraw her guest's card . . .

Just as her cousin came around the corner.

Both women stopped in their tracks, Celsie in shock, Eva with a pleasant smile, as though their last meeting had not been violent, upsetting . . . memorable in the most unfortunate sort of way.  Beneath her fingers, Celsie felt Andrew's arm stiffen as his greenish-amber eyes hardened and went cold.

"E-Eva!" Celsie managed, with a nervous smile.  "It is a —"

"Pleasure to see me?" her cousin finished with a rueful smile, gazing out at them from beneath the brim of an oversized hat that only emphasized the extraordinary beauty of her features, the mysteriousness of her bearing.  "No need to pretend, my dear cousin."  She glanced at Andrew, who had turned away, refusing to look at her, refusing, even, to honor her with a bow.  "And you, my lord.  Has marriage robbed you of your civility?"

"You are the last female on earth deserving of civility," he ground out, and then, bowing to Celsie and not even sparing a nod for Eva, he stalked from the room.

"My, my," breathed Eva, raising her brows.  "Not exactly the forgiving sort, is he?"

Celsie, noting Eva's pallor, her brittle demeanor, and the haunted shadows beneath her slanting green eyes, decided to ignore that remark.  Something was wrong here.  "Come, Eva.  Let me offer you some refreshment.  Surely you have travelled some distance . . ."

"From France.  I arrived just this morning and" — her voice went flat and hard — "thanks to your diabolical
brother-in-law
, will not be returning."

"Oh dear, what has Lucien done now?"

"I would rather not discuss it in front of the servants."  Eva drew her cloak more tightly around herself, hoping Celsie would not see beneath her casual facade, her mask of uncaring aloofness, to the hurt and fear she was hiding just beneath.  Andrew's reaction had made her feel awkward and uncomfortable, though she knew it was justified.  But what was her cousin feeling?  Why, she and Celsie had all but grown up together.  She had taught Celsie how to fence.  How to shoot.  How to make her way in a man's world.  Celsie had idolized her.  Once.