Vanity (43 page)

“Thanks, lad.” Rupert tossed him a sixpence as he mounted. Than he leaned down to clasp Ben’s hand in a firm grip. “Until later, old friend.”

“Aye. And ’ave a care.” Ben waited until Lord Nick and Lucifer had trotted out of the yard then he turned and went back to the inn.

The lad stood for a minute, tapping the sixpence against his teeth. Then he ran back to the shire horse, hurriedly returned him to the stable, and five minutes later was weaving his way through the somnolent streets of Putney. It was clear from his expression and his speed that his errand was an important one.

“Y
ou are quite clear in your mind what you have to do?” Rupert was standing at the window in Octavia’s bedchamber, his hands resting on the sill behind him. His expression was impassive, his eyes veiled so that Octavia could read nothing in them.

“Yes, I’m quite clear.” She hitched herself farther up against her pillows and took a sip of her hot chocolate. Rupert hadn’t been in her bedchamber for two weeks and she felt uncomfortable, almost embarrassed, to be sitting up in bed in her nightgown while he stood there, immaculately clad in a suit of bronze silk, his hair unpowdered and tied back with a matching silk ribbon.

“Are you going to the king’s levee?”

“I shall put in an appearance,” he replied. “Let it be known that I’m going out of town for a day or two.”

“Will you be at the Royal Oak?” she asked tentatively, lifting the small silver pot and pouring another dark, fragrant stream of chocolate into her cup. She didn’t really want a refill, but it gave her something to do with her hands.

“No. Once I have the ring, there will be other arrangements to make. People I must see.”

Like the family lawyers and old Doctor Hargreaves, who’d brought him and Philip into the world. When Cullum Wyndham announced himself to his twin, he intended to leave nothing to chance. Philip would have no room to maneuver. No choice but to accept the fait accompli.

“You won’t need me here, then? Once you have the ring, I mean. There will be nothing further for me to do?” Her cup clinked in the saucer, and chocolate slurped over the delicate gold rim onto the pristine-white tray cloth beneath.

“If you wish to leave after this afternoon, of course that’s for you to decide,” he said with a completely credible dispassion. “But you must let me know how to get in touch with you. I will have things to return to you … things that belong to you.”

“Yes,” she agreed in a wooden little voice. “I suppose you’ve nearly completed your side of the contract.”

“A couple of weeks more and I will have done.” He pushed himself away from the window. “Where will you go when you leave here?”

“I don’t know.” Octavia picked at a hangnail on her index finger. “I haven’t decided as yet.”

“How will you explain things to your father?”

She shrugged, her creamy rounded shoulders lifting beneath the delicate fabric of her nightgown. His eyes sought and found the dark crown of her nipples veiled in gossamer. Her hair fell forward, shielding her face from his view.

Deliberately, he stepped to the bedside. Leaning over, he caught her face and lifted it, brushing aside her hair with his free hand. She looked startled and dreadfully vulnerable as she met his gaze. But she said nothing. Made no move either to free herself or to respond to his touch.

“Good-bye, Octavia.” He lowered his head and kissed her mouth. The heady scent of her filled his nostrils, the taste of her lips, her skin, flooded his memory, stimulated his nerve endings, sending a rush of blood to his head that made him dizzy. But still she made no move, her lips lifeless and unresponsive beneath his.

He drew back, straightening slowly. “Good-bye, Octavia.”

His hand fell from her face and he turned away from the golden eyes, the pale, beautiful countenance of his madonna.

“God go with you,” she said, but so quietly he didn’t hear as he opened the door and left the room.

Tears splashed onto the tray on her knees, fell into the shallow cup, salting the chocolate, and Octavia simply sat there, allowing the tears to flow.

Finally, she pushed the tray aside, flung off the covers, and stood up. It was over and done with. She had one last part to play, and she would play it to the hilt. Rupert would be taking all the danger, but he wouldn’t find his partner lacking in support.

A
t two o’clock a hackney drew up outside Wyndham House. The Earl of Wyndham came down the steps immediately. He climbed into the carriage, slamming the door behind him. The heavy leather curtains were pulled down across the window apertures, and to any casual observer he had stepped into an empty vehicle.

“Good afternoon, my lord.” Octavia spoke softly from a shadowy corner.

Philip didn’t speak, merely seized her hands and pulled her across the narrow space, crushing her against him, his mouth battening on hers, pressing her lips hurtfully against her teeth.

“So eager, sir,” Octavia gasped with a little laugh when he finally released her.

“You drive me to madness, woman,” he rasped, leaning back against the squabs, regarding her through narrowed eyes. “For two pins I’d take you here and now.” The gray slits glittered at her in the dimness, and his mouth was a thin curve that reminded Octavia of a hawk.

“That might invite interruption, my lord,” she said lightly, moistening her swollen lips. “For all that we’re shielded from prying eyes.”

Philip smiled and folded his arms. “I’ll restrain myself, madam, for the moment. But I promise that you will learn this afternoon what it is to be truly possessed.”

Octavia controlled her shudder and the spurt of contemptuous rage, hoping that the dimness would conceal the involuntary curl of her hp. “I hope you will be pleased with the arrangements I’ve made, my lord.”

“Where is this house?”

“A small village called Wildcroft on the edge of Putney Heath.”

Philip frowned. “That seems a long way to go for an afternoon.”

“That depends on the afternoon, I would have said.” She smiled suggestively. “I venture to think, sir, that you will find this one worth the journey.”

He laughed. “And you, my lady. And you.”

“That goes without saying, sir.”

Somehow she managed to keep up this anticipatory banter as the hackney took them across Westminster Bridge and through the small villages on the south bank. At one point she drew aside the leather curtain and looked out. They were passing through Wandsworth. Putney was the next village. She let the curtain fall again. Would it be better to be unaware and in darkness when the attack came? Or ready and waiting for it?

The dim light at least allowed her to conceal her expression. And she was sure she couldn’t keep her countenance completely clear of the dread and excitement that now surged through her veins, making her feel sick. Perspiration trickled down her rib cage and gathered between her breasts.

Suddenly, Philip leaned forward and raised the curtain, fastening it to the hook on the ceiling. “It’s airless in here. We’re in no danger from prying eyes in this godforsaken wilderness.” He mopped his own damp brow with a handkerchief.

So much for the shadows. Octavia dabbed at her breasts with the lace edge of her fichu and turned her face to the
window, hoping thus to conceal her expression even as she took the benefit of the light breeze.

The horses were pulling up the hill toward Putney Heath. The coachman suddenly leaned down from his box, shouting toward the window. “The Wildcroft road, is it, lady?”

“That’s right.” Octavia stuck her head out of the window. “I’ll direct you to the house when we reach the village.”

The coachman muttered something inaudible and cracked his whip. The horses reached the top of the hill and broke into a canter. Octavia sat back, licking her dry lips. How far along the road would Rupert make his move?

The coach swung sideways, and she glanced out of the window again. They were rattling along a dirt road much narrower than the main highway across the heath. She could see trees up ahead, lining the track. Would it be there?

She sat back again, searching for a neutral topic of conversation that would distract them both. But nothing would come to mind, and her companion seemed content to watch her with that glittering, predatory gaze that she knew was stripping her naked.

She closed her eyes, tried to relax, to allow the swaying motion of the carriage to insinuate its rhythm into the flow of the blood in her veins. She told herself she had nothing to worry about. All she had to do was scream, swoon, have hysterics. Any or all of them, while Rupert dealt with Philip.

Rupert would have only the jarvey to worry about, and Octavia was convinced the man carried no weapon beyond a sturdy blackthorn. Rupert should be able to deal with him very easily. Philip, of course, had a sword at his waist. But he wouldn’t have pistols, not on a romantic assignation.

The thoughts circled wildly in her head, and yet the pistol shot made her jump, made her heart leap into her throat, her gut turn to water.

The jarvey swore and hauled back on the reins. The horses reared and came to a stamping halt.

“Odd’s blood! It’s a damned highwayman!” Philip declared, hissing through his teeth as he unsheathed his sword. He cast a cursory glance at Octavia, who had shrunk cowering into a corner, her eyes wide with fright, her hand pressed to her mouth; then he wrenched open the door just as Lord Nick turned from disarming the coachman.

For a second two pairs of slate-gray eyes met. Philip paused, stunned by the cold power emanating from behind the highwayman’s black silk mask. Then he leaped to the ground, flourishing his sword.

“Cowardly blackguard! I’ll see you hang for this!”

Lord Nick swung off his horse, and his sword was in his hand in almost the same movement.

“I’d be delighted to fight for my spoils,” he remarked lightly, in that slightly husky accented voice Octavia had heard before. “On guard, sir.”

Philip hesitated as the highwayman easily took up his stance. The gray eyes in the slits of the mask seemed to be amused now, but the humor did nothing to disguise the danger they held.

Philip raised his sword point. And then it happened.

There was a great crashing in the trees, and four men on foot erupted onto the path. They were burly ruffians, dressed in buff coats and leather britches, flourishing pistols and staves, and before Lord Nick could take a step, they had him surrounded.

“We got ’im,” one of them declared. “We was a bit late. But better late than never, eh?”

One of his companions guffawed. “Got ’im redhanded. Lord Nick hisself, unless I’m much mistaken.”

He walked all around the highwayman, who stood still in the path, saying nothing as he assessed his chances of escape.

Philip Wyndham put up his sword. “I’m glad to see the Runners aren’t quite as useless as their reputation would have us believe,” he observed dryly. “What brought you here?”

“Oh, we ’ad a tipoff, sir,” one of them informed him as he took a length of rope from his belt. “An’ beggin’ yer
pardon, sir, but we does our best wi’ little enough ’elp from the public.”

“That may be.” Philip waved a dismissive hand. “Shouldn’t you unmask the ruffian first?”

He stepped close to the highwayman, and Lord Nick suddenly lunged forward with his sword, pinking one of the Runners on the shoulder. A stave swung, and the highwayman went down to the path, blood pouring from a gash in his head, black spots dancing before his eyes. But in the melee, Philip had been distracted from his intention, and Rupert knew that a broken head was a small price to pay to keep his anonymity. Not only for himself, but for Octavia.

Octavia had begun to scream, a distracting, high-pitched keening that couldn’t be ignored. Philip turned back to the carriage as the Runners were binding their quarry’s wrists behind him.

“For God’s sake, woman, stop that caterwauling,” Philip snapped. “You’re not hurt. No one’s hurt—with the exception of that ruffian. And if I had ten minutes with him, he’d be begging for the hangman on the spot,” he added savagely. “We can be on our way again immediately.”