The Wicked One (6 page)

Dear God.

Her heart started up again.  And began to beat too fast.

"Well,
madame
, as I was saying, ze British are an arrogant race . . .  Why, only an Englishman would have ze audacity to come to a ball celebrating a victory against his own people.  Only an Englishman would dare show himself at a party given by ze enemy.  Only an Englishman . . ."

But Eva had forgotten Lavisson.  The room was suddenly stifling, the oppressive heat and odors of too many bodies, too much perfume, too many candles — and now, not enough air — suddenly making her feel faint.  And there was Blackheath, coming through the stunned crowd, nodding to an acquaintance here, bowing to a lady there, ignoring the stares and whispers that followed in his wake as he headed straight across the ballroom with a single-minded, unerring purpose.

Toward
her
.

Eva's pulse began to hammer against the string of emeralds that now choked her throat.  She pulled away from Lavisson and glanced about for the most expedient means of escape.

But there
was
no escape.  She was trapped.  All she could do was raise her head, adopt the haughtiest expression she could muster, and try to retain the upper hand she had won the last time they had met.

"Eva de la Mouriére," the duke murmured in that smooth-as-cognac voice she remembered so well.  Up close, his eyes were bottomless pits of black fire.  There was no feeling in them, just an icy, deadly heat that both chilled and burned her.  He gave Lavisson an imperious look that made the Frenchman's nostrils quiver with indignation, took Eva's hand, and bowing deeply over it, forced her away from the general and back onto the dance floor.

"In case you didn't notice, I was
occupied
with General Lavisson," Eva gritted, strangely excited by Blackheath's brazen display of courage — and infuriated by his single-minded display of possession.  She was keenly aware of the hard, honed body against which she was pressed.  Held.  Trapped.  God help her, what would Franklin think?  What would the other Americans think?  What would the
French
think, seeing her consorting with the enemy?  "Are all the English as rude as you?"

"On the contrary.  I am singularly ruder than most."

"And you've just proved it.  I do not recall granting you a dance."

"And I do not recall asking you for one."  He smiled down at her, his gaze moving over the white column of her neck, the burgeoning swell of her breasts, in a seductive visual caress that left her flushed and twitchy.  "But then, there are some things I simply take without asking."

"Oh, so you think to take me, do you?"

"Madam, I have just done precisely that.  Now close your mouth and stop glaring at me.  Do you want people to think you're not . . . enjoying our little dance?"

Eva's eyes narrowed and it was all she could do not to slap that severe, perfectly composed face as Blackheath's hand, its elegance emphasized by the expensive lace that draped it, snugged more firmly about her waist.  There was no escaping it.  No escaping
him
, as he whirled her about the dance floor with dizzying prowess.  He held her close.  Too close.  So close she could feel the heat of his body, feel that smoldering stare burning every inch of skin it touched, feel the raw, barely contained lust emanating from him like fire from the sun.  She wanted to get away from it; she wanted to get closer to it.  She took deep breaths, devoting all her concentration to keeping up with the steps — and resisting, with everything she had, this strange, terrible effect he had on her.

"You are a most elusive creature, my dear.  I spent the better part of that night searching for you.  My compliments on such a daring escape."  His raked her with a mocking look.  "I trust your knees aren't too bruised?"

She gave him her most poisonous smile.  "I am sure they're in better health than your thigh.  By the way, did you need stitches, Your Grace?"

"I am afraid I did, though as wounds go, it was not exactly life-threatening.  Were you deliberately trying to kill me, or merely destroy the aphrodisiac so neither of us could have it?"

"Really now, Blackheath.  Had I been trying to kill you, I can assure you I would have succeeded."

"Ah.  So you simply wanted to destroy the potion, then."

Eva's eyes glowed. 
Tell him.  Oh, tell him, if only to see his shock and fury at being so cleverly outwitted!
  And why not?  This would be her moment of triumph, the one she would have had to otherwise only imagine after sending him a taunting letter. 
Tell him!

"On the contrary, Your Grace.  You see, I didn't destroy the aphrodisiac at all."

"My dear madam, I can assure you, I saw the bottle explode with my own eyes."

"And so did I" — she grinned, buoyed by savage triumph — "but that wasn't the real aphrodisiac."

His smile faded abruptly.  "I beg your pardon?"

"Well, I really
did
want you to know that whatever you can do, I can do better.  You were so good at fooling us all with that substitute potion, I thought it only fitting that you become reacquainted with it.  The substitute, that is.  After all, you went through
such
trouble to create it, I thought you might like to have it back."

He impaled her with an icy stare, his eyes glittering like jet.  "Are you trying to tell me that the bottle you shot to pieces contained my original substitute?"

"Dear me, for a man, you certainly
do
show flashes of limited intelligence!  That is exactly what I'm saying.  After I broke into your chamber — and, your safe, I might add — I took the real article, put it in my canvas sack, and offered you the substitute in its place.  What a pity that you refused to sample some.  It would have forged an intimate liaison between yourself and the chamberpot, you know."  His expression went absolutely still.  Thunderously black.  "And now, if you'll excuse me, the dance is over and I have business to conduct.  Good day, Your Grace."

His hand shot out and snared her wrist.  "I beg your pardon. I also have business to conduct."  His eyes were black as nightshade.  "With
you
."

"Unhand me this instant," she commanded, her smile fading.

"Or what?  You'll produce a pistol and shoot me through the heart?  Denounce me as a cad?  Oh, no, madam.  You look a little . . . pale."  He gave a chilling smile.  "Some fresh air, I think."

A hand beneath her elbow, he propelled her through the crowd, still smiling at people he knew, inclining his head to his French peers.  Everyone was staring.  Fans were fluttering wildly, ladies twittering, mouths gaping open at the English duke's outrageous display of possessiveness and insolence.  Rage flooded Eva, but she would not satisfy Blackheath by making a scene.  Oh, no, she would walk civilly beside him, this frigid smile pasted on her face while every fiber of her being itched to do him serious bodily harm.  Itched to humiliate him in a way he would never forget.

Itched to find out what it would be like to bed him.

Stop it!

He was heading straight for the doors.  Still gripping her elbow, he steered her past the fringes of the crowd and outside.  The night was frosty.  Clear, cold moonlight shone through a velvet sky.  He let go of her long enough to take off his coat and place it around her shoulders, then, raising a brow, he offered his arm.

As though she had any choice!  Trembling with fury, Eva took it.

Silently, he escorted her past a frozen fountain, where icicles dripped from the arms of a stone cherub.  Their shoes crunched on frozen gravel, their breaths plumed the air.  Tension crackled between them.  Tension — and a raw, sexual awareness that Eva was trying her best to ignore.

Trying — and failing.

Blackheath led her some distance from the house, then to her surprise, he released her.

"Do not leave me until you hear me out."

Confused, Eva stepped back to put some distance between them, drawing his heavy velvet coat about her shoulders.  It was warm with the heat of his body.  Rich and lusciously expensive against her skin, emanating his own uniquely male scent.  She resisted the urge to bury her nose in it.

"I'm listening," she said warily, trying to ignore the pounding of her heart, the feverish tingles of anticipation that were racing across her skin.  "What do you want?"

He levelled his flat stare on her.  "Your help."

Of all the reasons a virile, dangerous man such as himself might drag a woman out into the night, this was the last one that Eva might have expected.  His answer threw her totally off balance.  Brought a rush of unexpected disappointment.  For a moment, she couldn't respond to such a bald plea, and had to quell a burst of laughter.  Why, the idea of this arrogant, manipulative monster asking for
help
of all things, was almost ludicrous.

"My help," she scoffed, with an arch, pitying look.  "Well, Blackheath, you've certainly found the last person on earth willing to give it to you."

"I am sure that for a price, you will give me anything."

"Some things cannot be bought."

"No, some things can only be given," he said coldly.  "I know you would have me believe you're a hard-hearted witch, but, as tempting as the thought is, I am not totally convinced of it."

She smiled sweetly.  "No?  After what I did to your brothers?  After what I nearly did to you?  How much more convincing must I be?"

"Help me and I will consider your offenses against my family forgiven.  It is for their sake, not mine, that I have sought you out."

Eva raised a brow.

He moved a little distance away, no doubt trying to rein in the natural enmity he must certainly feel for her.  She could almost see him collecting himself.  Retreating behind that impeccably aristocratic mask that would remain in place no matter what emotions, what thoughts, boiled behind it.  But no.  She was mistaken.  In the silent majesty of the night, his eyes were darker than the deepest water of the ocean, and for a moment, just a moment, he allowed her to see the haunting anguish in their depths, the pain she didn't think he was capable of feeling.

Something in her softened, responding to that naked revelation; he was human, then, after all.

Imagine.

"I have a sister," he continued, gazing out into the night.  His back was toward her, rising in splendid magnificence from his lean torso, crowned with powerful shoulders of a breadth that was nothing short of . . . mesmerizing.  She feasted her eyes on that back, on those shoulders, even as she cursed herself for taking such a liberty.  "Her name is Nerissa.  She means more to me than anything on God's earth."

Eva said nothing, merely watching him.

"She is young and romantic, and hopelessly in love with a fellow who has no wish to settle down and get on with the responsibilities of his birthright."  He turned and, offering his arm once more, began to walk. 
You must be freezing,
Eva thought.  He had only a sleeveless waistcoat to ward off the cold.  But the Duke of Blackheath's iron control was such that he would never shiver, let his teeth chatter, or even allow a tremor to mar his urbane voice.  "A fortnight ago, this beau of hers — the Earl of Brookhampton — was . . . sent to Spain aboard the English ship,
Sarah Rose
.  Just off the coast of France, the vessel was attacked and sunk by an American privateer."

Eva felt herself softening, a dangerous thing.  It scared her — so she reacted as she always did when threatened.

With sarcastic hostility.

"Ah, yes," she drawled.  "I do recall hearing of that particular triumph on my country's part."

A muscle tightened in the duke's jaw, but he would not allow himself to be goaded.  "Lord Brookhampton was amongst those feared lost when the ship went down.  My sister is inconsolable."

"Why was Brookhampton sent to Spain?"

Blackheath's face closed up.  "That is of no importance.  The only thing that matters is finding him and bringing him safely back to England."

"Well, I'll ask the fish and crabs off Calais, then, if they happen to remember eating him."

This time, the duke could not rein in his anger.  He turned on her, his eyes so dark and savage that Eva involuntarily took a step back.  "That was crass and uncalled-for.  We are talking about a human life, here."

"We are talking about an Englishman who'd just as soon see Americans slaughtered, starved, and beaten into submission."

  "If you believe that, then you are a fool," he said coldly.  "There are those in Parliament, and throughout England, who are friends of America.  Men like Pitt and Burke, who wish to see this war at an end, who oppose George's American policy, who are willing to meet your countrymens' demands."

"And are you one of them?" she asked, her tone poisonously sweet.

His eyes had never seemed so black.  "Two of my sisters-in-law are American.  My brother Charles — the one
you
struck down — served with the army in Boston, where he gained both an understanding of the American people and sympathy for their plight.  He owes his life to their benevolence.  Yes, madam, I can assure you that I am
one of them
, and the sooner there's an end to this damnable conflict, the happier I shall be."

Eva looked away, suddenly regretting her caustic words.  Humility was a bitter pill to swallow.  "So what do you want from me?"

"Your help in finding out what happened to Lord Brookhampton."

She shrugged.  "I don't know how much help I can be.  If the reports say he went down with the ship, that's probably exactly what happened."

"Reports can be falsified.  Perry might have used a different name to escape detection.  He might have been injured, taken in as a hostage . . .  Any number of things might have occurred.  I will not be satisfied until I have the truth."

"Isn't that something you can find yourself?"

"As you so quickly reminded me, madam, I am English — not exactly a friend of the French, and soon to be an enemy, if you Yankees get your way."  Inwardly Eva winced, though she knew the English, thanks to their own spies, knew exactly what the Americans had been up to.  "You, on the other hand, can move quite comfortably within the higher echelons of French society.  I want you to find out if Perry survived.  If he did, I want you to learn where he is imprisoned."  His jaw tightened and he looked away, his voice harsh.  "I want you to help me give my sister her life back."