Читать книгу Notorious - Nicola Cornick, Nicola Cornick - Страница 9

THE HACKNEY CARRIAGE put Miss Francesca Devlin down in front of a set of anonymous rooms in Hemming Row. She stood on the cobbles feeling a little drunk with a mixture of guilt, fear and a giddy excitement that was making her head spin. This was a part of town she had visited for the first time only two weeks ago. It was an unfashionable quarter where she knew no one and no one knew her; that, she had been told, was the beauty of the place. Her reputation was quite safe. No one would ever know what she had done.

After her first visit she had promised herself that it was just the once and it would never happen again. She had gone through the motions of her daily life exactly as she had done before. Nothing was different. Yet everything was different.

The second summons had come this very night, at the Duke and Duchess of Alton’s ball. Chessie had tucked the note into her reticule, hidden it beneath a white embroidered handkerchief and had spent the rest of the evening in an agony of impatience mixed with anticipation. She had known from the moment she unfolded the note that she would go. Like her brother she had inherited a streak of recklessness, a need to gamble, and this was the greatest game of her life. If she won she would secure everything that she had ever desired. If she lost … But she did not want to think about losing. Not tonight.

Gambling was in Chessie’s blood. Her childhood had been stalked by poverty, the furniture pawned to pay her father’s debts and no food on the table. Those moments had been interspersed with rare occasions when they had been so rich it seemed to Chessie that she could not quite believe the grandeur of it all. On one occasion her father had won so much that they had ridden around Dublin in a golden carriage pulled by two white horses like something from a fairy tale. That day she had eaten so much she had thought she would burst. She had gone to sleep between silken sheets and in the morning she had woken and the carriage and horses had gone and her mother was crying, and within a week the silken sheets had gone, too, and they were back to coarse blankets. And then when she was six, her father had died.

Through it all there had been Devlin, four years older than she, tough, protective, grown harder than any child should have to be, determined to defend her and his mother, too, no matter the cost. Chessie knew Dev had worked for them, had very probably begged, borrowed and stolen for them, too. It was Dev who, after their mother died, had gone to their cousin Alex Grant and made him take responsibility for them. The experience had bound them as close as a brother and sister could be. They had had no secrets—until now.

Chessie paused on the doorstep and almost ran back to the house in Bedford Street where Alex and Joanna thought that she was safely in her bed, back to the world she knew. Except that it was too late, for she had already taken the steps that would leave that world behind. She had done things that a fortnight ago she would not have dreamed of—gone out unchaperoned at night, traveled alone in a hackney carriage, things that other people did all the time but which were forbidden to a young girl of unimpeachable reputation. She smothered a laugh that had a wild edge to it. Young girls did not indulge in games of chance with a gentleman. Nor did they pay with their bodies when they lost.

The door opened silently to her knock and then he was drawing her into the candlelit room where the gaming table was already set up and the cards waiting. Chessie thought about winning and felt a rush of excitement that lit her blood like fire. Then she thought about losing and shivered with a different sort of excitement. He was kissing her already, with a passion that stoked her desires and soothed her fears. This could not be wrong because it felt right. Her gamble was not really on the cards but on love, and surely love conquered all. He released her; smiled.

“SHALL WE PLAY?” he said. “This is no place for a lady.” Susanna jumped and almost hit her head on the wooden rail of the stall. She had been kneeling in the straw to examine the horse that Fitz had picked out for her at the latest Tattersalls’ sale. Even at a distance she had known it was a poor choice. It looked beautiful with a shiny bay coat and bright eyes but its chest was a fraction too narrow and its legs just a little too short. Naturally she had not told Fitz any of those things. She had congratulated him on his judgment and had watched him preen.

Only a moment before, Susanna had been congratulating herself, too, silently applauding how well her plans were progressing. It had taken her four days only to gain Fitz’s undivided attention to the point that he was now probably prepared to buy her a horse never mind simply recommend one to her. He had already tried to buy her emeralds but Susanna knew exactly what he would expect in return for those and had refused them, prettily, regretfully but very finally. She had played the virtuous widow to perfection. Becoming Fitz’s mistress was definitely not part of the plan.

Instead she had treated Fitz as a friend, deferred to his opinion, leaned on his advice and flattered his judgment. He had helped her to buy a carriage and now a riding horse. They were using his parents’ money, but of course he was unaware of that. Susanna could see how much the role of confidant confused Fitz—he was not accustomed to viewing beautiful women in a capacity of friendship, not unless they had occupied his bed first. He was puzzled, bewildered and intrigued, which was exactly as Susanna wanted him to be. His parents were delighted to see their son so thoroughly distracted from his courtship of Francesca Devlin, which made them generous. All had been set fair, but she might have known that Dev would reappear to put a spoke in her wheel.

Susanna sat back on her heels. There was a pair of very elegant riding boots now in her line of vision, radiant with a champagne polish. Above those were muscular thighs encased in skintight pantaloons, and above that she dared not look. How tiresome to be kneeling in the Tattersalls’ straw at the feet of James Devlin.

“Mr. Tattersall welcomes ladies to his auctions,” she said, raising her gaze to meet Dev’s and trying to keep her eyes firmly focused on his face even though it gave her a crick in the neck to do so.

“The only females welcome here are the ones whose pedigrees are better than those of the horses,” Dev said. “Which rules you out, Lady Carew.”

He made no move to help her to her feet. Susanna was acutely aware of the prickling discomfort of the straw through the velvet skirts of her riding habit and the strong scent of horse that surrounded them. God forbid that the bay gelding would choose this moment to relieve itself.

For a second she thought she would be obliged to scramble up of her own accord, flushed, undignified and covered in hay, but then Dev leaned down and grabbed her arm, pulling her to her feet with rather more strength than finesse. The maneuver brought her into his arms for one brief moment and the scent of leather and cedar soap and fresh air on his skin overlaid that of horse and set Susanna’s senses awry. She could feel the hard muscle of his arm beneath the smooth blue superfine of his coat. He felt like a man whose body was in prime physical condition. Evidently waiting on Lady Emma must be more physically punishing than she had imagined.

Susanna experienced the oddest sensation, as though the layers of clothes between them had melted away and she was touching Dev’s bare flesh, warm and smooth under her fingers. Never had she been so acutely aware of a man and so swiftly, her defenses shattered by simple proximity. Her cheeks flaming, she freed herself hastily from Dev’s grip and saw him smile, that wicked, sardonic smile she remembered.

“Feeling the heat, Lady Carew?”

“Suffering as a result of your discourtesy,” Susanna snapped.

He raised a brow. “There was a time when you did not object to being held in my arms.” He straightened, driving his hands into the pockets of his coat. “But of course, I forgot—that was for educational purposes only, was it not?” His voice was heavily laced with irony. “That horse has a chest that’s too narrow and legs that are too short,” he added, running an eye over the bay in the box.

“I know,” Susanna said crossly. She dusted the palms of her gloves slightly self-consciously and started to pick the straw off her velvet riding skirts. “I suppose you are an expert on horseflesh?”

“Not particularly.” Dev’s admission surprised her. “Not all the Irish grow up in the country, able to whisper horses from birth.” His expression darkened. “I grew up on the streets of Dublin. The only horses there were drays and sad creatures pulling rich men’s carriages.”

Their eyes met and the breath caught in Susanna’s throat. Her heart skipped a beat, two. She thought how odd it was that life could still trick her after all she had experienced, that it could trip her up unexpectedly like a false step in the dark. She remembered being seventeen, lying in the summer grass with the stars whirling overhead and Dev turning away her questions about his childhood with light answers. She had not known anything about his early life other than that it had been poverty-stricken like her own. They had not talked much about anything, she thought now, with a sharp stab of regret. They had laughed together and had kissed with sweet urgency. They had both been so eager and so young.

“You never told me much about your childhood,” she said, and regretted the words as soon as they were out of her mouth.

Dev’s expression hardened into coldness. “That hardly matters now.”

Susanna winced at the rebuff and the sharp reminder that none of Dev’s life was any of her business now. He and Francesca had climbed high, she thought. She had known that Dev’s parents were impoverished gentry; for him to be betrothed to the daughter of an earl and for Chessie to aspire to marry a duke’s heir was fortune hunting of the highest order. Except that Chessie would not now be Duchess of Alton. It was her job to make sure of that.

Susanna felt a wayward pang of sympathy for Miss Francesca Devlin. Normally she was able to console herself that her assignments were better off separated from the object of their desire. The gentlemen she was engaged to lead astray were so often libertines or wastrels or simply weak-willed and unworthy. And it was true that she had no great opinion of Fitz, who seemed to embody all the vices of his class and none of the virtues: arrogance, self-centeredness and profligacy in just about everything. But even so, even if Francesca could do so much better than Fitz, Susanna admired her enterprise in trying to catch the heir to a dukedom. In some ways Francesca was an adventuress just as she was and it was a pity to ruin her chances.

Awkwardness hung in the air. Dev, whilst showing no desire to converse with her, also showed no inclination to leave. Across the yard Fitz was deep in conversation with Freddie Walters as they admired a glossy black hunter.

“Your sister does not accompany you today?” Susanna asked politely, slipping out of the stall.

Dev shook his head. “Francesca is shopping in Bond Street with our cousin Lady Grant. Some last-minute purchases for a ball tomorrow, I believe.”

“Lady Grant?” Susanna said. She could hear the odd note in her own voice and feel the sudden dryness in her throat.

Dev had heard her tone, too. He gave her a sharp look. “My cousin Alex remarried a couple of years ago,” he said. He paused. “You lived on Alex’s Scottish estate—presumably you knew he had lost his first wife?”

“No,” Susanna said. She could hear a rushing sound in her ears. For a second the sunlight seemed too bright and too hot, dazzling her. So Amelia Grant had died. Amelia, who had befriended her, advised her and ultimately ruined her future. But it was futile to blame Amelia for her own lack of courage. Lady Grant had merely played on fears that were already in her own mind. She had exploited Susanna’s youth and her weakness, that was true, but Susanna knew that the ultimate responsibility for running away from Devlin was hers and hers alone.

“I thought your aunt and uncle might have kept you informed of news from Balvenie,” Dev said.

“My aunt and uncle died a long time ago,” Susanna said.

Dev’s lips twisted. “Am I supposed to believe that, or will they resurrect as swiftly as you have?”

Susanna ignored him and turned away, stroking the silky neck of the gelding. “You have a sweet nature,” she said to the horse, “but I don’t think you would make a good mount.” The horse whickered softly, pressing its velvet nose into her gloved hand.

“Too lazy,” Dev concurred. “I suppose Fitz picked the horse out for you.” His gaze came to rest on her, bright and mocking. “He never sees beyond the obvious. For him it is all about show and he has as poor taste in horses as he has poor judgment of women.” He smiled. “Are you going to flatter him to the extent of paying good money for a bad horse?”

“Of course not,” Susanna said. Dev’s words had stung, as they had been meant to do. She could see the dislike in his eyes, chill and unyielding. Nothing could have made it clearer to her that it was far too late for regrets and far too late to go back. Dev believed her to be conniving and duplicitous, which was no great surprise since she had made sure he would believe it by spinning him a pack of lies.

For a moment she wanted to cry out to him that it had not been her fault, to take back all the things she had said three nights ago at the ball and pour out the truth. The strength of her impulse shook her deeply. But she could not do it. Whatever had been between them was dead and gone anyway and now she had a job to do, the only thing that stood between her and penury. She had not fought every inch of the way to save herself and the twins in order to throw it all away now. The thought of losing all she had worked for terrified her. Their lives were on a knife-edge as it was.

Nevertheless her heart shriveled, cold and tight, to see the contempt in Dev’s eyes. The only defense she had was to pretend he did not have the power to hurt her anymore.

“You have read the fortune-hunter’s rulebook, too,” she taunted. “You know full well I shall thank Fitz for choosing me such a fine beast and compliment him on his discernment whilst pleading my privilege as a female to change my mind and hold on to my money. My choice,” she added, “would be that mare over there.” She pointed to a spirited chestnut that was being shown around the ring.

“You have a good eye for quality.” Somehow Dev managed to make even that compliment sound like an insult. “Mares can be a handful,” he added, his gaze dwelling thoughtfully on her face. “But perhaps you are looking to ride something more exciting than a steady gelding this time?”

His meaning was crystal clear beneath the thin veneer of civility. Susanna’s gaze clashed with his and she saw the challenge in his eyes.

“I prefer a horse with spirit and attitude,” she said. “Whereas you—” she tilted her head thoughtfully, eyes narrowed on him “—would probably pick something as unsubtle as that stallion simply as a fashion accessory. All muscles and no brain.”

Dev gave a crack of laughter. “I wouldn’t throw away that much money on something that might kill me.”

“You have changed then,” Susanna said politely. Then added, as he raised his brows in quizzical challenge, “Wild-goose chases to Mexico in search of treasure, ludicrously dangerous missions for the British Navy, a preposterous voyage to the Arctic during which you boarded another ship as though you were a pirate …” She stopped as the look in his eyes turned to pure amusement.

“You have been following my career,” he murmured. “How flattering and unexpected. Could you not quite let me go, Susanna?”

Susanna had in fact followed every step of Devlin’s career but she did not want him to know that. It would only feed his conceit, as well as raising awkward questions about why she had cared, questions she could not and did not want to answer.

“I read the scandal sheets,” she said, shrugging. “They convinced me that you were as reckless as I had always believed you to be.”

“Reckless,” Dev said. There was an odd tone in his voice. “Yes, I have always been that, Susanna.”

At seventeen Susanna had loved that wildness in him, such a counterpoint to her staid and predictable life. She had been dazzled, blinded by the thrill of it all, swept away. Their secret meetings had been breathtakingly illicit. The risk had transfixed her. Even though a tiny, sensible part of her mind had argued that Dev was too handsome and too exciting ever to belong to her, she had wanted to believe that he could. Even though she had secretly suspected he had only proposed to her because he wanted to sleep with her, she had wanted to believe he truly loved her. For one brief day and night she had given herself up to pleasure, feeling alive for the first time in years, lit up with love and excitement. But in the morning had come the reckoning and after that she had paid and paid.

She swallowed what felt like a huge lump in her throat. It was too late now to regret her lack of courage or faith. She did not know why she should feel this misery, as though she had let something valuable slip away, because over the years Dev had surely proved himself exactly as irresponsible and rash and dangerous as she had known he would be.

“I am not Susanna anymore,” she said. “I am Caroline Carew, remember?”

Dev’s hand came out and caught her sleeve. She looked up, startled, to see the spark of pure anger in his eyes.

“So you jettisoned your name along with everything else,” he murmured. “You could not rid yourself of your old life fast enough, could you?”

Susanna shrugged. “One moves on from past mistakes. And Caroline is my middle name.” She paused. “I hope I can rely on you to remember that I am now Caroline Carew?”

For a long moment Dev looked into her eyes and Susanna almost flinched from the dark anger she saw there. Her heart was racing, her chest tight. Her skin prickled with awareness.

“I would hate you to think that you can rely on me for anything,” he said pleasantly. “Is not ambiguity the spice of life?”

“Servant, Devlin.” Fitz’s bored, aristocratic tones cut across them and Dev dropped Susanna’s arm as though it was a hot coal, straightened, turned and sketched Fitz a bow.

“Alton.” His voice was very cold.

Fitz’s gaze darted from him to Susanna’s face. She pressed her gloved hands together to prevent them from shaking. There was something about Devlin’s potent physical presence that got through to her every time. Over the years she had built up such a strong protective facade that she had thought it could withstand anything. Dev demolished it with one look or one touch.

“Lady Carew,” Dev said, and Susanna heard the emphasis he put on the name, “is trying to decide whether to accept your recommendation, Alton.”

Susanna saw the frown that touched Fitz’s forehead at the suggestion that his judgment of horseflesh might not be sound.

“He is a beautiful horse, my lord,” she said quickly, to repair the damage, “but I am in two minds—I can always hire a riding horse from the livery stables. Would it not be more fun to own a racehorse instead?”

She thought she heard Dev snort—but it could have been one of the horses. Fitz’s face cleared miraculously.

“A racehorse!” he said enthusiastically. “Capital idea, Lady Carew! Capital!”

“I am sure,” Susanna said, slipping her hand through his arm, “that it would be vastly exciting to watch it run—and to gamble on it, as well, of course.”

“Only if you are plump in the pocket,” Dev said dryly. His gaze traveled over her, lingering on the neat fit of her riding habit as it emphasized the lush curve of her breasts. “But I forgot—you are very well endowed, are you not, Lady Carew?”

His direct gaze brought the blood up into Susanna’s face. She could remember more than Dev’s gaze lingering on those curves.

“I do apologize for Devlin,” Fitz said. “His cousin sent him to Eton but education don’t make the man, I am sorry to say.”

“No, indeed,” Susanna said. Her gaze clashed with Dev’s cool blue one. “I am, as you say, endowed with many advantages that you lack, Sir James, including good manners.”

“Once a knave,” Dev murmured, without any hint of apology. There was a glimmer of wickedness in his eyes. “But you knew that about me already, Lady Carew. You know all my secrets.”

“I have no ambition to know anything about you, Sir James,” Susanna said coldly. Her heart was beating a warning; how much would he risk, how much would he reveal?

“You must think yourself fascinating indeed to make yourself the subject of the conversation,” she said.

She could see what Dev was trying to do: he wanted to suggest to Fitz that there was more to her than met the eye, that she had a checkered rather than a romantically mysterious past, that she had been his mistress, even. He wanted to imply that whilst she might be a rich widow now she was not the sort of person a marquis would marry, especially when there was the far more suitable virginal debutante Miss Francesca Devlin waiting patiently in the wings …

“Lady Emma not with you today, Devlin?” Fitz asked pointedly. He tightened his grip on Susanna’s arm. Susanna found she did not like it but resisted the urge to pull away, instead smiling sweetly at Fitz and moving close enough to brush her body against his.

“No,” Dev said. “Emma dislikes horses unless they are doing something functional such as pulling her carriage.” He bowed, a sardonic light lurking in his eyes. “I can see that I am de trop here. I will leave you to throw your money away on a racehorse, Lady Carew.”

“How thoughtful of you,” Susanna said. “Good day, Sir James.”

She could feel the tension in Fitz’s body as they stood together watching Dev stroll away.

“I say, Lady Carew,” Fitz said, turning to look down at her, “Devlin is most frightfully disrespectful to you. Are you sure there is nothing more between the two of you than old acquaintance?”

Mentally cursing Dev and his meddling, Susanna plastered on her most convincing smile. “I met Sir James on his cousin’s estate at Balvenie in Scotland when I was little more than a child, my lord,” she said. “I am afraid I did not like him and I made the mistake of letting it show. Even then Sir James was insufferably conceited and wanted all the ladies to fall at his feet. He has never forgiven me that I did not.”

She had not fallen at his feet; she had fallen into his bed. But Fitz was smiling, she saw with relief. “Grant’s estate, eh?” he said. “Sound fellow, Grant, but barely a feather to fly. The whole family is ramshackle. There’s no breeding to speak of and bad blood in the Devlin family.”

Susanna was surprised to hear him dismiss Chessie thus, especially when his attentions to her had been so marked and could surely have been nothing but honorable. But it augured well for her own plans. Chessie was as good as defeated already and none of Dev’s interference could change that.

She smiled prettily, squeezing Fitz’s arm. “I wonder if you have the time to accompany me to the wine merchant, my lord?” she said. “I require to purchase a special gift of champagne and I know you have a knowledge of the best vintage.”

Fitz looked gratified and Susanna, her gaze falling on one of the shovels used to clear out the horseboxes, wondered just how thickly she would have to lay on the flattery before he became suspicious of her. Dev’s stringent wit and intelligence would have demolished her in an instant but there seemed to be no limit to the Marquis of Alton’s self-regard.

“Delighted, Lady Carew,” Fitz said. “And afterward perhaps we may celebrate with a glass together, eh?” His smile was vulpine. “I should enjoy that a great deal, just the two of us.”

“That would be splendid, thank you,” Susanna murmured. “I very much appreciate having a friend to lean upon when I am so new to London.” She slipped her hand from Fitz’s arm and walked a little ahead of him so that he could appreciate the sway of her hips beneath the luxurious fall of the velvet riding habit. She could feel Fitz’s eyes on her—and sense, too, his frustration that once again she had taken a step back from the intimacy he was trying to create between them. Frustration bred eagerness, and that was exactly what she wanted from him. Smiling, she turned the corner of the yard and walked straight into Devlin, who was lounging against the doorway, an appreciative gleam in his eyes.

“Beautifully done, Susanna,” he whispered. His breath stirred the tendrils of hair that had escaped from beneath her hat. She felt them brush her cheek with the lightest caress. “What a lot of practice you must have had in the art of seduction.”

“Endless amounts,” Susanna agreed. She saw that Fitz had stopped for a final word with Richard Tattersall and cursed the delay. The last thing she wanted to do was reengage with Dev again and to give him another opportunity to undo all her good work.

“I thought that you had gone,” she seethed.

“Alas, I could not tear myself away,” Dev said. “I felt an almost overwhelming desire to see in action the methods employed by the modern adventuress.” He smiled straight into her eyes. “You are a consummate professional, Susanna.”

“And you are a damned nuisance,” Susanna snapped.

Dev kissed her fingers. She tried to withdraw her hand but he held her tight. His touch seared her even through the material of her glove. Her palm tingled.

“Choose another victim,” he murmured. “You could have anyone. Leave Fitz alone.”

“No,” Susanna said. “It is Fitz that I want.”

Something flared in Dev’s eyes, something dark and dangerous and hot. It held her captive whilst her pulse raced and her stomach tumbled.

“Liar,” he said. “It’s me that you still want.”

Susanna raised her chin. It might be true that she was still damnably susceptible to him but it was also time to give him a magnificent setdown. “You are mistaken, Sir James,” she said sweetly. “You are so conceited that you have come to believe yourself irresistible.” She flicked her hand from his grasp. “You might do very well for Lady Emma Brooke as she is clearly too young to know any better,” she continued. “But I assure you that rich widows can do a sight better than a penniless fortune hunter.”

“I did not mean that you wanted to marry me—again,” Dev said pleasantly. His gaze fell to her mouth, lingered there. “I meant that you wanted to—”

“To see the back of you,” Susanna said. “Very quickly. Don’t make trouble for me,” she added, “unless you wish me to do the same for you.”

Dev laughed. “I look forward to it.” He nodded to her. “Good luck, Lady Carew.”

“I don’t need luck,” Susanna said. “I have skill. Hurry back to your winsome heiress,” she added, “before some other unprincipled adventurer steals her from you.”

Dev nodded. “Advice from the best.” He bowed. “Your servant, Lady Carew.”

“I do not believe that for a moment,” Susanna said.

The laughter fled Dev’s eyes. “Once I was yours to command, Susanna,” he said. “All yours and no one else’s.” He raised a hand in farewell and walked away, leaving Susanna feeling shaken by a minor earthquake. For in that moment she knew Dev had spoken the truth. He had been hers and she had destroyed everything that had been between them and she would never have that again.