Too Wicked to Love (12 page)

Sir Harry laughed. “You flatter me, Mr. Ready.”

John bounded up the stairs and caught up with the baronet. “It seems Raventhorpe is the dull-witted one.”

“Not at all. Egocentric, perhaps. Believes he is more clever than everyone else. But he is crafty, have no doubt of that.”

They reached the landing of the second floor, and Sir Harry paused, looking John in the eye. “Watch yourself while you pursue Raventhorpe and anyone who works for him. He does not value other people. Thinks they are expendable. And that makes him dangerous.”

John’s mouth twisted. “I know.”

Sir Harry nodded. “Very well, then. I am off to my engagement. Enjoy yourself at the Statons’ tonight. Their cook is quite exceptional.”

“Thank you, Sir Harry.” John waited a moment as Sir Harry turned and headed down the hallway, then he turned and went in the opposite direction, toward his own room.

Sir Harry’s lecture on Raventhorpe was almost amusing. John knew the baronet intended to be helpful, but he had no idea how well John knew Raventhorpe—and how well he knew what Raventhorpe was capable of.

The earl was a conniving, greedy bastard. This was a man who kidnapped innocent women and sold them into slavery overseas to become the sexual playthings of wealthy men, simply to line his own pockets. A man who had tried to kill Samuel Breedlove and left him marooned on a deserted island while Raventhorpe attempted to steal Samuel’s wealthy fiancée, Annabelle. The same man who, nearly eight years ago, had been John’s rival for the hand of Elizabeth Colling, the beautiful, socially ambitious daughter of a wealthy merchant. In the end, John had married Elizabeth.

But Raventhorpe had killed her.

Fury flared, red-hot, nearly blinding him. Somehow, he reached his room. Rested his clenching hand against the doorframe as he struggled with the rage that roared to be released. He knew Raventhorpe had killed his wife, but he could not prove it. And the bastard had arranged things so it looked like John was guilty.

To this day, he had no clear memory of that night. He and Elizabeth had attended Lady Canthrope’s ball. Elizabeth had gone missing. No surprise there, as their marriage had already started to crumble. His wife was frequently to be found gambling or flirting with other men—including her former suitor, Raventhorpe. Hopeful, optimistic fool that he was, John had searched for her all over the house. He was determined to make their marriage work.

One of the servants said he had seen her in the gardens, but as soon as John went out to look for her, he’d felt a prick on the back of his neck. The world had gone fuzzy. He fell. And he remembered the servant begging for his forgiveness, something about Raventhorpe threatening his daughter, before he lost consciousness.

When he came to a few hours later, the ball was winding down, Elizabeth was still missing, and his head felt as if he had downed an entire cask of whisky on his own. Unfortunately, his staggering steps and slurring speech were all anyone remembered the next morning, when his wife’s lifeless body was discovered beneath the shrubbery in the back of the garden of Canthrope’s London town house.

That very day, his uncle, the Duke of Evermayne, had told John that the duchess had just birthed a son, pushing John even further down the list in line to inherit, and that John would be leaving England—forcibly if necessary—to preserve the dignity of the St. Giles name and escape the scandal.

The one saving grace to the whole sordid mess was that never once had Uncle indicated that he thought John was guilty. So John had fled England, while Raventhorpe had continued his dirty deeds unchecked.

But Raventhorpe had not counted on John saving Samuel from that deserted island. Or Samuel coming to England to demand his bride. The earl had tried to have them killed more than once, but they had escaped. Then Annabelle had chosen to jilt the earl. Cornered, Raventhorpe had kidnapped Annabelle and run off with her in a desperate attempt to force her to wed him.

Samuel and John had foiled the scheme with the help of the local highwayman, Black Bill. And John had taken considerable personal satisfaction in stopping Raventhorpe’s escape by shooting him in the arse. Afterwards, the bastard had slipped off to France to avoid the gossip about his failed elopement, but he had lost Annabelle and her fortune—a point to the side of those he had wronged.

So yes, John knew Raventhorpe. Knew how slippery the man could be, how clever. Which was also why he dared not step forward and claim his title. Raventhorpe had gone through a lot of trouble to get rid of John.

And despite his mother’s hopes, he was beginning to think that John St. Giles should stay gone. It might be the best thing for everyone.

Richard, Lord Raventhorpe, watched from the rail of the ship as the outline of the English shore became sharper through the lingering fog. Though he had only been in France a few weeks, his sources told him that the scandal surrounding his attempt to elope with Annabelle was beginning to die down. There were other tidbits more appetizing, such as the marriage of the admiral’s daughter to that American bastard, Samuel Breedlove.

And the failed kidnapping of Annabelle Bailey.

That fool Green had certainly mucked up what should have been a simple job. Grab the girl, hand her over to Raventhorpe’s contacts in Dover, then have her shipped off to his partner in Morocco. The haughty blonde would soon have fetched a tidy price in the slave market. The scheme should have been child’s play.

Yet somehow Peter Green had failed. Perhaps he
should
have employed a child!

Ever since he had met Annabelle Bailey, his luck had changed for the worse. Breedlove had stumbled onto Raventhorpe’s slave-trading interests in the Caribbean, so the earl had had no alternative but to leave him for dead on an abandoned island. Who knew the bastard would not only live but would somehow get rescued just in time to prevent Raventhorpe from marrying the very wealthy Annabelle?

Then Raventhorpe’s plan to run off with Annabelle to his Scottish estate had been foiled by the highwayman Black Bill—who was already a thorn in his side with his penchant for robbing only those who traveled Raventhorpe lands.

And as if to add insult to injury, Breedlove’s coachman had shot the earl in the arse. He still had some stiffness walking, never mind sitting.

He strained to recall the shooter’s face. Dark hair, beard. He could be any of a hundred men of similar builds and features. But there was something about him that haunted Raventhorpe. Something almost familiar. What was his name? Something ridiculous.

John. That was it. John Ready.

Raventhorpe clenched his fingers around the railing. He only hoped that when all this was said and done, this John Ready was in his sights. He owed him for the bullet in his buttock.

And he always collected what was owed him.

J
ohn Ready was proving the most maddening, elusive man ever created.

Genny took extra care with her appearance for the Statons’ dinner party. She wore a sea-green silk that brought out her eyes. The bodice of the dress dipped low enough to reveal a tantalizing amount of bosom that might have been scandalous except for discreet white lace tucked into important places. She wore a cameo on a black ribbon around her neck, and small black bows adorned the top of her bodice and her sleeves. She had asked Lottie to fix her hair so that it looked as though the lush curls might come undone with one tug of the ribbon that held them in place, then completed her toilette with white gloves and her favorite honeysuckle scent. Tossing her cashmere shawl over her arm, she went to meet the others downstairs.

She knew she looked good. Everyone except Annabelle was present in the foyer, including John. He glanced up as she reached the bottom of the staircase, and his eyes widened ever so slightly, his gaze lingering on her bosom. She took a deep breath, enhancing the abundant curves nature had given her, and still he did not look away.

His fascination with her charms made her wonder what he would do if they were alone. Would he kiss her? Slip his hands beneath her skirts?

Heat streaked straight to her center at just the thought of it. She could feel her nipples hardening beneath the layers of cotton and silk. Could he see?

Even as the thought entered her mind, he looked up. His gaze held a hunger that all at once made her glad they were not alone and yet wish they were. Then he very deliberately looked away.

Very slowly, she let out the breath she had been holding. To help regain her composure, she unfurled the shawl from her arm and wrapped it around her, hiding the evidence of her own arousal. She did not want to answer any uncomfortable questions, especially from her parents. Luckily, everyone present seemed to be too much engaged with the debate of who should ride in which of the two carriages that would convey them to the dinner party to pay much attention to what she was doing.

“My Dolly has to go in the landau,” Virgil was saying. “And I will go with her, so that leaves seats for three in that carriage and two in the brougham.”

Ah, a perfect opportunity. Which carriage would hold John Ready? And how could she manage to get herself into that vehicle with him?

“I will be riding alongside whichever carriage holds Miss Bailey,” John said.

She frowned. “Riding?”

“Of course.” His tone remained undeniably respectful, but she could see the gleam of victory in his eyes. “My function this evening is as a guard for Miss Bailey. Should the attacker make another attempt, I will be able to move more swiftly to pursue him on horseback.”

“A sound plan,” the admiral said with a nod.

“Besides, I am not a guest at the dinner party. I feel I will be of more use if I have freedom of movement rather than tied to the etiquette of a dinner table.”

“But you were invited,” Dolly said.

“Mr. Bailey conveyed my regrets,” John said. “Your daughter will be safe enough in the dining room of an elegant house with all of you around her. The danger lies more during the time of transportation, when we are all more vulnerable.”

“Don’t fret, sugarplum,” Virgil said, patting his wife’s shoulder. “John knows what he’s doing. He’s going to keep our little girl safe.”

“I do trust John,” Dolly said, laying her hand over her husband’s. She took a deep breath, shot John a smile that tried to be reassuring but did not quite succeed, then looked around at the group. “Where is Annabelle anyway?”

“Probably still fussing over which dress to wear,” Virgil grumbled. “I love our daughter, Dolly, but that gal sure can’t tell time worth a nickel.”

“She just wants to look her best,” Dolly said.

“I’m sending a maid up there to get her if she’s not here in five minutes,” Virgil said. “We’re going to be late to the dinner party, and that won’t set well with old Staton.”

“Perhaps the admiral and Mrs. Wallington-Willis should leave now in the brougham,” John suggested. “Since it only seats two, Miss Wallington-Willis can ride with the Baileys in the landau.”

“Good idea,” the admiral said.

“Oh, but then they will know we were the ones who were late, and I don’t want them to think badly of us,” Dolly said. “Especially Mr. Staton.”

“Robert and I will tell the Statons that your injury is the reason for the delay,” Helen said with a smile.

“Staton will not dare impugn any of your party if he thinks your tardiness is due to your injury, Mrs. Bailey,” the admiral said. “I will see to it.”

“Oh, thank you, Admiral.” Dolly beamed.

“Come, Helen. We should leave immediately if we are to get there at the appointed hour,” the admiral said, offering his arm.

“Of course, you are right.” Helen took her husband’s arm, then glanced at her daughter as the admiral led her toward the door. “We will see you there, Genny dear.”

Genny nodded, then smiled at John as her parents left. Through no machinations of her own, she had ended up in the carriage with Annabelle, and where there was Annabelle, there was John Ready. She saw the consternation flash across his face as he realized the same thing.

They were going to the dinner party together, and there was nothing he could do about it.

“I’m ready!” Annabelle’s voice came from somewhere above them.

Virgil looked at his watch, then scowled up at her as she rounded the first-floor landing and started down the stairs. “ ’Bout time. I was just getting ready to send someone up there to get you.” He turned to John. “Looks like we’re finally ready. Let’s get this circus on the road.”

“Oh, good,” Dolly said, as Virgil turned her chair toward the front door. “Perhaps we will not be too late after all.”

Annabelle reached the bottom of the stairs and hurried over to them. “I’m here! We can go now.”

John gave Annabelle a stern look. “You remember our talk.”

“Yes, yes.” She rolled her eyes and shrugged her blue, ermine-trimmed mantelet closer. “Do not leave the house, even for a walk in the gardens. Do not go anywhere without a member of my family or Genny’s—”

“Come along, girls!” Dolly called, as Virgil wheeled her out the door.

“Your mother is concerned with not arriving on time,” John said.

“She’s always worried about something. Come on, Genny.” Annabelle started forward. Genny followed behind her, with John pulling up the rear. Annabelle stepped outside, where the footmen were busy loading Dolly and her wheeled chair into the landau.

Genny paused in the doorway and let one side of her cape slip off. “Oh, no!”

John had stopped short behind her. She glanced over her shoulder at him. His gaze was on her bosom, as she had hoped. She took a deep breath and let it out again, giving him a much better view—since he was behind her—than he had had before. John raised his eyes to hers. A sharp pang squeezed her loins as she saw her own longings reflected in those dark eyes.

She had a sudden image of him pushing her against the doorframe, lifting her skirts, and taking her right there in the doorway.

He must have had the same vision. Grim-faced, he retrieved the trailing end of her shawl and pressed it into her palm. “It is cool this evening. Cover up.”

His tone brooked no disobedience. Confident that she had stirred him up enough, at least for now, Genny wrapped her shawl around her, hiding her bosom from view. She heard his long exhale, then he touched her arm, indicating she should walk.

The entire incident had taken two, maybe three minutes, but she knew the heat from those minutes would linger well into the night.

He walked an odd path, John mused as he sat in the servants’ hall with the visiting coachmen, footmen, and maids of the Statons’ dinner guests. They dined on a meal cobbled together from the scraps of the more elaborate feast being served in the main dining room. He had introduced himself belowstairs as Annabelle’s bodyguard.

He knew Annabelle would be fine sitting upstairs surrounded by some of the local elite, and a quiet word with both the admiral and Mr. Bailey made John feel confident that neither gentleman would allow her to wander off on her own or with anyone who was not of their party. Which meant John was free to search out information from the fastest, most accurate source in England—the servants’ network.

The upper class tended to ignore their staff, treating them like furniture rather than living creatures who had eyes and ears. Many servants were privy to the secrets of their employers—more so than those employers would find comfortable—and John often used that to his advantage when seeking out information about Raventhorpe.

The table was full, and though he wore his oldest coat, John still appeared a bit higher in the social structure than the other diners since he was not a domestic. To combat the natural suspicion, he smiled a lot, stayed quiet, and acted neither rude nor superior to anyone around him. He simply applied himself with gusto to the soup he was given. After a few minutes of wary looks, the others eventually forgot about him and began talking to one another as they normally would.

“ . . . he’s buying her jewels, but his wife has no idea she’s his mistress . . .”

“ . . . and the baby cried all night, but still Mrs. Oreton would not let me feed her . . .”

“ . . . he was completely sotted. Owes the baron fifty quid now after he couldn’t balance the bottle on his head like he said he could . . .”

“ . . . the grays he bought last spring were supposed to be Arabian stock, but he just found out the papers were forged . . .”

“ . . . and the magistrate says he’s going to set a trap for Black Bill for trying to snatch the Bailey girl. Vows to see the bloke hang for it . . .”

This snippet of conversation caught his attention. The speaker looked to be a coachman, given his clothing.

“That doesn’t sound like Black Bill,” said the liveried footman to whom the coachman spoke.

“Are you mates with the highwayman, John Footman?” mocked the coachman. “How would you know what he will and will not do?”

“He’s been riding these lands for years now, and while he’s quick to nip your purse, he’s never tried to snatch a lady before.”

“Maybe his reputation is so well-known now that people don’t travel these roads as much, so the pickings aren’t what they used to be.”

“I just think Gunston is wrong. You know how he is—lazy old windbag! He couldn’t catch a thief if we tied him up and delivered him to the front door!”

John nearly grinned at the way the footman’s summation of the magistrate echoed his own. He kept an ear cocked toward the two men as he reached for a piece of day-old bread. But then another conversation snagged his interest.

“ . . . I surely hope that one doesn’t become the new Duke of Evermayne. My sister says he’s already giving orders and talking of redecorating like Evermayne is already his . . .”

Evermayne.

He glanced around the table, searching for the owner of the female voice. There she was, to his left, a young girl dressed in what must be her mistress’s castoffs. A lady’s maid, perhaps. Another girl, somewhat older but not as well dressed, scooped soup into her mouth as she listened to the other’s conversation.

“Brigands like Black Bill make traveling by coach dangerous for all of us. Good riddance if Gunston captures him,” the coachman said from one end of the table.

“Lady Felicity and Lady Marianne have taken Mr. St. Giles in complete dislike,” the little maid said from John’s side.

“He’s never stopped any of us,” the footman said. “He only goes for the nobs.”

“I even heard a rumor that he’s arranged marriages for them,” the maid whispered, revulsion heavy in her voice.

“We work for the nobs!” the coachman cried, throwing up a hand to emphasize his point. “If they don’t travel anywhere, I lose my place.”

“Marriages!” The other maid stared at the lady’s maid in horror. “Heavens, Ellie, they’re too young, aren’t they?”

The lady’s maid called Ellie nodded. “Only twelve and seven. But I heard he is trying to get the most money he can in the marriage settlements. And, Katie, one of them is old Crowley!”

Crowley?

John’s gut curdled. With all he had learned about his own family in the past twenty-four hours, he had not considered how this situation would affect the Duke’s daughters. His cousins. They
were
young, newly orphaned, and he had only ever considered how the situation concerned him. Who was caring for these little girls? What was Randall thinking to be talking of betrothals when these innocent children were not even out of the schoolroom, when they were grieving for their father? And marriage to old Crowley? Just the thought made his blood boil.

Even as a young man living in London, he had heard of Crowley. The old bastard had a penchant for young girls, and John had heard stories of how Crowley had patronized certain brothels that specialized in children. How he had purchased the children of poor families to sate his perverted lusts.

The old debaucher had even been engaged once. John vaguely remembered Crowley’s betrothed, a timid creature of barely fifteen years old, and how she had been found dead below the balcony of her bedchamber at her parents’ country estate. An accident, some had ruled it. Suicide, others had said, to avoid marriage to Crowley.

“Didn’t he kill his first wife?” the maid Katie asked, echoing John’s thoughts.

“She wasn’t even married to him yet.” Ellie lowered her voice. “They say she killed herself to keep from marrying him.”

“Poor thing,” Katie whispered. “Which one of His Grace’s daughters is going to Crowley?”

“Lady Marianne, the younger one. And there’s talk that she might go live at Crowley’s estate
now,
with his aunt as chaperone.”

Katie dropped her spoon. “Isn’t Crowley’s aunt a bit cracked in the noggin?”

Ellie nodded, her face the picture of misery. “The old bat is so mad, she wouldn’t notice any wicked goings-on. That little girl is going to be living a nightmare, and there’s nothing anyone can do about it.”