Wedding Night Revenge (9 page)

Fanning her pretty face with lacy fingers, she moaned, 'It is so terribly warm this evening.'

'Poor old Devane, doesn't deem it so.' Harley smirked. 'I'll wager he's still feeling a chill.'

'How so?'

'We must blame Miss Meredith; I believe that lady has quite froze him out...once again,'

Peter Waverley, a good drinking chum of Benjamin Harley's, unwisely let go of the chair back he was using as a prop, to stifle a guffaw with a feeble hand. Immediately, Jason's chair was scraped backwards from the table as though he would physically remonstrate with the reeling popinjay.

Connor shrugged an apathetic response, while curling hard fingers over bunched muscle below his brothers sleeve.

'Is there room for a few more?'

Edgar Meredith entered the room, smiling, with his brother-in-law, Nathaniel Chamberlain a circumspect yard or two behind him. Nathaniel took a cautious peer about for his wife, Phyllis, in case she spied him and chided him later over consorting with
undesirables
as she classed the whole Meredith clan.

'Dammit!' Nathaniel muttered beneath his breath. Edgar seemed on reasonable terms with the Earl of Devane: they were about to sit and have a drink and a game of cards together! If Connor Flinte bore no grudges, and he was the injured party, he saw no reason why his wife still should feel indignant over it all, simply because she'd once set up the match between Connor and Rachel.

'Here, take my place,' Connor coolly offered Edgar Meredith on standing up.

A tanned hand brushed baize, scooping his winnings and idly pocketing them. With a lethal stare at Benjamin Harley, Jason grabbed his few coins and was soon following his brother towards the small terrace.

Nathaniel Chamberlain looked askance at Edgar. Obviously he was mistaken about the Earl and his equable attitude towards past slights. Edgar looked excruciatingly uncomfortable, as did their host, Alexander Pemberton. All present guessed the reason for Lord Devane's departure was Edgar's arrival. Nathaniel sensed his brother-in-law's pain and winced inwardly. He knew Edgar had always felt a deep affection for the Major and now desired at least a little harmony with him.

'You're bored. I knew you would be. We should have gone to Mrs Crawford's...'

'No, I'm not bored. Quite the reverse. I'm intrigued,' Connor absently admitted as he strolled, with Jason in tow, on to the tiled balcony. Loosening his cravat from his warm neck, he unravelled the blue silk, then wound it slowly, thoughtfully about a broad palm. Still preoccupied, he carelessly stuffed it into a pocket of his jacket, thereby ruining its stylish lines to a degree that was sure to have given his tailor an attack. He gazed down at his blanching knuckles gripping the fancy ironwork of the balustrade and his thoughts returned to Rachel...Miss Meredith, a laughing exhalation reminded him.

What the hell was she about? He'd observed more emotion in her in this one evening than he ever recalled her revealing in four months of courtship. And as he was pretty sure the show was contrived for his benefit, he refused to be touched by it. He'd watched her nervousness, her tears, her embarrassment; he'd even seen her looking ashamed and contrite.. .before she'd looked murderous when their hostess had so obviously set out to expose and humiliate her. Oddly, he'd not rejoiced in that; he'd felt disgusted by Pamela Pemberton's gloating spite, and hoped that had been obvious to them both.

Six years ago, when Edgar Meredith had broken the news to him on his stag night that he'd been jilted, he'd expected from Rachel at least an apologetic note in the days and weeks that followed. Nothing came. Not even a few lines of non-committal explanation. Her lack of communication spoke volumes: nothing was needed from her for he was not worth the bother. It was enough that her father should deal with the trifling affair. It should have been so easy to hate her, yet he couldn't. And in the vacuum that had filled those weeks prior to returning to the Peninsula and the carnage of Salamanca, the numbness pervading him hadn't been totally attributable to the amount of alcohol he'd consumed. She'd left him insensate, drained...

Now, he'd long regained his faculties, and decided that Miss Meredith was old enough and fully deserving of a little tardy retribution. But she'd read him like a book; she'd set about acting forlorn in the hope of drawing him in to draw his teeth.

At one time, seeing her discomposed might have eased his own anguish. It might have cheered him. Not now. Now he didn't want her humble and nervous. But he did want her. And in view of all that had gone before, he didn't see why he shouldn't have her. She owed him... And if redress meant using her vulnerability to his advantage, so be it. And he knew he could, if he wanted. Considering he had, six years ago, rarely permitted himself to kiss or touch her, it was odd that he knew he could seduce her...tonight, if he chose.

'Intrigued? Over what?' Jason suddenly sliced through his brooding thoughts.

'Oh, this and that...'

'Oh, this and that...' Jason mimicked sarcastically. 'Hell and high water, Con!

She nigh on crucified you! Made you look like a bloody fool!' his stepbrother burst out. With an exclamation of sheer disbelief he stormed,

'You're ripe to let her try again, aren't you? Are you mad? Have you not yet learned that she's a callous bitch? She's got a reputation as a constant tease, you know.'

Connor tipped his head up at the starry night, letting the tepid night air beneath his loosened collar. 'Yes, I know. I knew even before our hostess was good enough to spell it out this evening. Of course I knew...' he muttered to himself.

'Moncur seems to be prowling about her again, like a lovelorn swain,' Jason snapped. 'Watch and learn. A pony says he'll be limping away again soon, tail between his legs.'

'Not a lot else he can do,' Connor drawled facetiously. He swore savagely, ashamed of the mean jibe at the man's lameness. 'Do you think he's after a second chance, too?' Aware just how much that unguarded comment revealed, not only to his brother but to himself, a weary hand scrubbed across his lean, shady jaw. A grunt of laughter sounded behind it. 'You're right; we should have gone to Mrs Crawford's...'

Jason made a move as though he was ready to act, albeit belatedly, on that sensible idea.

'But I'd like to know what Edgar Meredith is about,' Connor suddenly remarked with a complete change of tone and direction as he sauntered away along the paving. 'He's a deal too often keeping me company. Everywhere I go, he materialises. If I'm at Watier's, he's dining there. If I'm due at Gentleman Jackson's, he's already training when I arrive. Jaazus, the man's '

too old. He must have gained his half-century two or three years since, and he's carrying too much weight. A day or so ago I thought he might collapse with a seizure, he was trying so hard to spar convincingly. He's been shadowing me most of this evening... Not that I dislike the man, but he's beginning to make me nervous.'

'Well, that's a good sign,' Jason retorted with acid irony. 'The man's got four daughters to despatch. Are you sure you don't know why he's stalking the Earl ofDevane of Wolverton Manor and its hundred thousand acres, creditably maintained by fifty thousand a year? Heavens! You're too modest, Con.'

'He has
three
daughters to marry off...and one of those will soon be wed.

One is not yet old enough to be out...'

'Which,
quelle surprise
, leaves just the most difficult to shift: the eldest, who once you- rather liked.'

'That's history...' Connor leaned on the rail and stared off over lunar-limed lawns. He was well aware of Jason's sardonic gaze on him, and for some reason, refused to meet it. 'Isabel would have been about twenty-three years old now,' he murmured, hoping to deflect his brother's cruel eyes.

Jason obliged him by turning about, and adopting Connor's pose, leaned his forearms on the iron balustrade. He cleared his throat. 'Terrible business, that... Influenza, wasn't it, as I recall?'

'Scarletina. There was an epidemic in York. Rachel wasn't to know, of course. They arrived at their aunt's unexpectedly. Had they had fair warning... No one in their right mind would have gone into the city had they realised.'

'Are you sure at the time she
was
compos mentis?' At a withering look from Connor he shrugged. 'I wouldn't be the first to say only a self-absorbed dimwit would act in the way she did.'

'She was young...nineteen...'

'Her sister was two years younger, but by all accounts decades more mature.

I heard that the sister didn't want to go. I heard she was so disgusted with Rachel, she opted to stay behind. There can't be one moment of one day when, self-absorbed dimwit or not, she doesn't wish she'd let Isabel do just that.'

'It wasn't Rachel's doing. It was their mother who insisted they travel together...'

Jason let out a breath with a sorry shake of his head. 'So Mrs Meredith shares the burden of guilt...' He looked at his brother's profile carved against a backdrop of velvet night sky. 'That's the most you've ever talked to me of that episode, Con. I reckon that's significant.'

'Sure it is...' Connor drawled with a lop-sided smile at the heavy, milky moon. 'It means it's time to go.'

Sam Smith shrank back into the laurel bush as the double doors opened and a clump of people spilled out of the brightly lit aperture and drifted down the steep stone steps. He could just detect mingling words and laughter in amongst the melody that had been liberated from the house to waft on the balmy night air.

Cursing the poor lighting, he tiptoed out and followed a way behind to try and firmly establish the man's identity before he accosted him. He was a tall and broad-built fellow who moved with supple strides, even with the clinging woman hampering his pace. If he was wrong, copping a shiner to match the one he already had would be the least of his worries.

The couple were heading towards a chipper coach, and suddenly its carriage lantern shed a beam full upon the gentleman's face sloping his raw-boned cheeks into angular planes and putting a gloss on his raven hair. Sam relaxed. It was him. He glanced at the woman but her features were concealed by a demure pose and the wide brim of a fancy bonnet. Only black curls luxuriant about her shoulders hinted at her dusky beauty. Perhaps it was his little sister, Sam heartened himself, she shared his colouring...

Connor's right hand went automatically to the silver stiletto a fairly permanent fixture in his pocket and, for some reason as his fingers caressed its silky hilt, he recalled Rachel and what he'd said earlier about pointing a concealed weapon at her. Exasperated, because he couldn't, even now, get her out of his mind, yet amused, too, by the ambiguous truth in those words, he turned to confront the man. One sight of his adversary made Connor give in to the farce of the situation... and the whole evening; he burst out laughing.

Sam Smith jumped in the air in fright and held up his hands. 'I'm not a dipper, honest. I just wanted to talk to you, my lord,' he rattled off shrilly.

Connor drew a deep calming breath, blew out his cheeks and took a pace towards the bedraggled youth. He squinted at him closely. 'And you are?' he asked, although he suspected, beneath that bloody bruise that had swollen one side of his thin visage, that he might look oddly familiar. He had a height and wiry build that was memorable; it was also inconsistent with the beating he'd taken and his cowed manner.

'The name's Smith...Sam Smith. You was good enough to give a hand to fix my wheel earlier in the week. Only it ain't my cart no more...not that it ever was mine exactly...although it was my job to make deliveries for my guv'nor... only now he ain't my guv'nor...'

Sam took a humble step back and bowed his head. 'Please don't send me off, my lord,' he implored. 'At least not afore you've heard me out. I'm well and truly run aground but I ain't a thief and I ain't after charity, neither, if that's what you're thinking...'

'What's up, Con?' a drink-roughened voice called.

Connor speared a look over his shoulder at Jason as he meandered towards them. His brother signalled tip- sily at his coachman to wait as the man took up the reins.

'Nothing I can't deal with,' Connor told him succinctly. 'Mr Smith and I became acquainted earlier in the week.' He inclined his head close to his mistress's hat brim and murmured a few reassuring words about visiting later. 'Would you take Maria home for me, Jason?'

Jason looked surprised, then delighted as the privilege penetrated fully into his brandy-befuddled brain. Immediately he proffered an arm to the lady.

'Are you sure you don't need assistance?' he asked dutifully, in the tone of voice that let Connor know he'd be severely disappointed, should the answer come in the affirmative.

'I think I can manage,' Connor returned drily with a glance at the quaking youth. Whether Sam Smith was palsied from pain or fright was hard to gauge. He certainly shouldn't have felt cold in the sweltering atmosphere, and he certainly wouldn't pose a threat to anyone in his present condition.

Maria's exasperation at the turn of events was evident in her sulky, protracted sigh. Although she remained silent, she sent Sam Smith a poisonous look as she passed by on Jason's arm.

A few minutes later, after Connor had observed his brother's phaeton turn the corner, and he had been proved correct in thinking the Pembertons might arrange for a constable to be in the vicinity tonight, he turned his attention to Sam Smith. The youth was still warily watching the beagle's back.