Harlequin Historical May 2020--Box Set 1 of 2

by Sophia James

  Vennor chuckled. ‘Intangibles? I am sure there were. Moonlight, a pretty girl in a pretty dress. A very compelling setting indeed. Men have died for such things before. I just never imagined you’d be one of them.’

  Vennor speared him with a look of smug victory. ‘Yes, I said it. Perhaps Brenley has decided he’s done with you. He wants to end whatever threat you may pose to him with your information and he wants revenge for the Blaxford mines. He already had a hand in leading Collin to his death and a hand in attempting Eliza’s death last year. Why not yours? He won’t go after your money or your reputation; they are both unassailable. He’ll go after you, though. You are flesh and blood like any other man.’

  ‘I see you’re awake now,’ Inigo commented slyly. Vennor’s capable mind was running at full speed now.

  Vennor finished off the coffee and poured another cup, his toast untouched. ‘I am always awake, these days.’ Inigo thought that was probably true. Vennor had the look of a man who didn’t sleep: dark circles, hollows at his cheeks. ‘Promise me you’ll be careful? Promise me you’ll ask for help if you need it?’ Vennor encouraged. He pushed back from the table. ‘Now that’s settled and, since you’re here, shall we fence? I need a good sparring partner.’ He gestured for a footman to bring the fencing gear to the ballroom.

  Inigo rose with him and the two friends made their way to the enormous, empty ballroom of Newlyn House. ‘I hear you pinked Sedgwick at Jackson’s the other day.’ Young Sedgwick had sold his mother’s jewels to cover gambling debts. It had been a very public, very shameful incident since he’d had to steal them first out of his mother’s jewel box.

  ‘Sedgwick was careless.’ Vennor shrugged off the mention. ‘He’ll not make that mistake again.’ Inigo thought there were other mistakes Sedgwick would not make again, too. But that was Vennor: a subtle advocate for family and justice wherever and however that advocacy was needed.

  They put on their masks and selected their rapiers. Inigo tested his with an experimental slash. ‘This set is new. It has good balance.’

  ‘They’re from Leodegrance’s fencing salon in Paris,’ Vennor offered, taking up his position in the centre of the floor and signalling his readiness. ‘En garde.’ Vennor opened, launching his offensive, attempting to attack high inside, but Inigo was ready for him.

  ‘You are very predictable today.’ Inigo parried.

  ‘Unlike falling in love, you’ll have to watch yourself with Audevere.’ Vennor lunged. So much for anything being settled.

  ‘Love is not the issue here. This is about helping a woman in distress,’ Inigo insisted with a sharp riposte. ‘This is all business and chivalry.’

  What had Audevere said in the moonlight? ‘Because Collin would have wanted you to help me…because once you liked me just a little.’ Those had been potent words, words he’d not shared with Vennor. He made another sharp parry. ‘Besides, I am not looking to marry.’

  Vennor gave a harsh laugh. ‘Neither were Cassian and Eaton. Now look at them. Eaton has an instant family and Cassian has abandoned us to traipse around Europe for a year on honeymoon.’

  ‘I’m not Eaton or Cassian,’ Inigo said drily. He did, however, see the irony in it. Of the four of them, only Vennor was expected to marry sooner instead of later, the only son of the late Richard Penlerick and the new Duke of Newlyn. Should his bough on the family tree break without a son to inherit, the dukedom would pass out of the Penlerick family to a rather distant relative who didn’t necessarily share the code of the Cornish Dukes.

  ‘The point is, Eaton and Cassian didn’t expect it, but it found them anyway. Love is rather like lightning. We don’t know when it will strike, where or whom. I’d rather not see it strike you anywhere near Audevere Brenley.’

  Inigo felt a stab of defensiveness on her behalf. He feinted to the right and nearly got away with a surprise attack to Vennor’s left shoulder, but Vennor had got faster.

  ‘I appreciate your concern.’ Inigo grunted, concentrating on the blades.

  ‘She’s a canny girl and the distressed damsel is an intoxicating one for honourable males such as ourselves.’

  ‘She’s scared,’ Inigo countered. ‘She knows there are consequences to leaving. I think she’s very brave.’ This time, Inigo got his tip high on Vennor’s shoulder. ‘First point to me.’

  ‘And the last one you’ll earn.’ Vennor growled, disappointed in himself. They reset to begin again, Inigo taking the offensive.

  ‘How ironic she comes to you,’ Vennor mused. Their thin blades clicked against each other in fast succession as Inigo pushed him to give up ground. ‘You were the only one who could resist her flirting.’

  The comment caught him, guilt pricking. Vennor had it wrong. He’d been the one to lust after her, while the others had merely been charmed. He’d actually indulged in the fantasy of imagining her as his. ‘Ha!’ Vennor’s blade slipped inside his guard. ‘You weren’t concentrating.’

  ‘No, I wasn’t,’ Inigo conceded. He was too distracted to be a fair opponent today. Vennor would see that distraction and wonder about it. He put up his blade. ‘We must call it a draw this morning. I need to make some calls before the day is too advanced.’

  Vennor raised an eyebrow in question. ‘You’re already jumping to do her bidding. What does she have you doing?’

  Inigo stripped off his mask ‘She’s asked for nothing yet. Just that I wait.’ He’d never been very good at playing the passive role. He’d far rather have a task to carry out, something he could do to assist her. He did not like to sit idly by.

  * * *

  He was still waiting four days later, sitting at White’s and enjoying a brandy as he read the newspapers, which were less enjoyable and more worrisome than his brandy. The society columns reported Tremblay was dancing attendance on Audevere once more—or was it that she was dancing attendance on Tremblay, as one astute columnist pointed out. He was in two minds about that. Of course she would be pursuing the connection in order to appease her father. She couldn’t quit Tremblay cold without arousing suspicion. On the other hand, was it possible she’d changed her mind? Was it possible she’d thought about his argument that perhaps Tremblay’s title would be enough to protect her without the need to give up life as she knew it? Maybe that would be best; it would put her out his purview for good.

  His gut disagreed that was the case, though. She’d been in earnest that night on the veranda. Likewise, if she’d meant to draw Inigo into her father’s web for some nefarious purpose, that, too, seemed unlikely since she’d made no further overture. It was hard to draw someone in if there was no contact. Perhaps she was having difficulty getting word to him? Without the activity of the Season throwing people together on a daily basis, it wasn’t easy for unmarried men and women of good birth to meet without risking speculation and scandal. Darker thoughts encroached on that idea. Was she in danger? Had her father not believed her explanation for dancing with him? Did he dare go to Brenley’s town house and ask to see her?

  That would be action at least. In the waiting, he’d at last put his finger on what niggled at him. Waiting was reactive. Audevere running away was reactive. Yes, leaving had the potential to put her beyond Brenley’s reach, but it only put her beyond Brenley’s reach. It didn’t stop Brenley; it only stripped him of one of his tools. She would run and Brenley would continue as he always had, using others for his personal gain and turning a blind eye to the consequences. But perhaps the loss of his daughter would weaken him, then Inigo could strike with the evidence he had gathered against Brenley.

  A footman approached, bowing as he held out a salver containing a single folded note. Inigo took the paper, trying not to get his hopes up. It was not an uncommon occurrence for notes to find him here. There was always word of this investment, that cargo, or rates on the Exchange. But this was not one of those notes. His business partners did not address him as My dear Inigo.

>   He could hear the throaty seduction of her voice as he read the words. At last, Audevere had sent word—six of them to be precise.

  A ripple of tension moved through him as his eyes scanned down the page. The message was simple:

  Play cards at the Thurstons’ tonight.

  She was ready to act. The summons implied as much. But she’d been careful to omit what those actions were, testament to a need for secrecy and perhaps her difficulty in getting word to him. Nevertheless, he was far too clever to accept the implication of action at face value. In his experience, implications spawned more implications.

  Inigo refolded the note and tapped his fingers against his thigh, restless energy coursing through him. Vennor’s doubts, which were echoes of his own lingering ones, kept him cautious, kept his energy on a tight leash. The rather short notice did not escape him. The Thurstons’ card party was just a few hours away. Should he answer the summons? He didn’t deny there was a certain thrill at the thought of seeing her again and that thrill wanted him to accept with alacrity, to run headlong to her side after four days of cooling his heels. But caution’s leash reined him in. He could not afford to rush in blindly, no matter how much he wanted to believe her protestations of innocence. He would go, but on his terms. She had made him wait and now he would return the favour. She had to be made to understand that she was not the puppet master in this scenario, no matter how beautiful she was.

  * * *

  Six hours later, as the hall clock in the hall of Thurston House struck nine, Inigo stood in the doorway of the drawing room, his eyes quartering the tables of card players until he found her seated near the marble fireplace, her back to the door as she raked in a trick, her laughter carried to him on the waves of conversations. Even when facing a crisis, she gave the appearance of being entirely at ease. It brought a smile to his face to see her so untroubled, not anxious as she had been at the Bradfords’. Perhaps he was part of the reason for her ease tonight. Perhaps it was because she knew she wasn’t alone, that he was with her. It made him glad he’d come.

  He lingered in the doorway, drinking her in: the sound of her, that smoky, confident laugh; the sight of her—her gold hair done up high, exposing her long neck, the delicate puffed sleeves of her gown, the scoop of her neckline. Her gown tonight was reminiscent of a starry sky, a hazy twilight blue that bled into darker indigo hues at the hem where her skirts pooled about her chair. Desire stirred in him hard, the desire for the right to walk over to her, to lay his hand at the base of her delicate neck, to rub his thumb gently across the exposed skin in a gesture of idle, absent possession.

  No, not possession, he corrected. She would not want to be possessed. She’d already been possessed by her father. A partnership then, he amended. It would be a gesture of togetherness, a gesture that said, we belong together. We.

  It was a fantasy more dangerous than revenge. Her partner at the table rose and suddenly Inigo was in motion, moving across the room, ready to take his place.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Audevere raked in the last trick of the hand, her pleasure over the win dimmed by Inigo’s absence. What good was the card party if she could not use it as an excuse to meet him? It was nine o’clock and he wasn’t here yet. It raised all nature of doubts. Had the note reached him? Or had he chosen to believe the worst of her and decided not to help her, after all? ‘Well played, Miss Brenley,’ her partner applauded. The young man, a nephew of the Thurstons, rose and stretched, his gaze moving towards a certain young lady at the pianoforte. ‘Would any of you mind if I took a break?’ he asked the table at large.

  Good heavens, the boy was green! Audevere bit her lip to keep from laughing at his expense. Had no one warned him about their opponents? Mrs Whitfield and Major Banken, inveterate card players both, looked daggers at him for the suggestion and he sank back into his chair reluctantly.

  ‘I am happy to sit in, if no one minds.’ The tenor tone raised the hairs of awareness on the back of her neck and ran goose pimples up her arms. Inigo was here. He had come. She pressed a hand to the reticule at her side, relief swamping her with a smile she didn’t try to hide.

  Thurston’s nephew was eager to vacate his seat and introductions were quickly made. ‘Tintagel, what a pleasure to see you. It’s been a while.’ Major Banken shook hands with him as he took the empty chair while Mrs Whitfield eyed him with frank appreciation. Young, handsome, rich, titled. Just her sort, the widow’s bold eyes said as she dealt the next hand. She gave Audevere a warning smile, the sort one woman gives another when she wants to signal first rights to a man. But Audevere answered with a smile of her own. Mine.

  Inigo Vellanoweth was hers. She let the thought settle as she organised her hand. He’d come for her. More importantly, he’d come because she’d asked. Her trust in him had not been misplaced. He would help her escape and become someone new. Someone better. Across the table, he held her gaze briefly, but it was long enough to take the smile from Mrs Whitfield’s face and to heat her own, long enough to make her wonder if those were the only reasons he’d come. He was handsomely, if austerely, turned out. His dark hair was cut short in the back, longer in the front where it was brushed forward. Where other men wore coloured coats for the evening, he wore his usual black. His only concession to colour was the sapphire tie clip that winked in the folds of his white cravat and drew a woman’s eye up to the sharp planes of his face and those haunting blue eyes.

  They won the bid after three rounds of heated bidding, much to Mrs Whitfield’s overt chagrin and the table fell quiet as play ensued. Inigo was an adept card player, reading her plays with astute accuracy, but they had to be careful. It was entirely possible they were over bid. They needed the next two tricks. Audevere played high, the ten of hearts, even though Inigo claimed the trick with his king. Would he catch the signal? Inigo’s pale gaze caught hers, a lingering heat spreading low in her belly as he led out a low spade. Cards had never been sexier. Her breath was coming quick with excitement as she trumped and led out her remaining diamond for the win, Inigo favouring her with a rare, melting smile.

  ‘Early luck,’ Mrs Whitfield snorted in defeat.

  ‘Care to try again?’ Inigo grinned, neither of them missing the widow’s innuendo. He was intoxicating like this, Audevere realised. Here at the card table, she had his trust completely. If this was a fleeting glimpse of what having his trust felt like, possessing it entirely would be a wondrous thing. It would be a lucky woman indeed who would capture that. The woman would not be her, though. She would be gone soon and he would be lost to her, along with the rest of this world. Best to enjoy the moment, she scolded herself, and not worry over what could never be. Inigo gave a gentle cough, reminding her it was her turn to bid. She passed.

  They played the second hand on defence, keeping Mrs Whitfield and the Major from making their bid. Inigo smiled his silent approval as the Major dealt the last hand. What would it be like to transfer this mutual confidence in one another from the card table to real life, if only for the duration of their partnership? If she could not fantasise about the future, surely she could entertain fantasies for the short term? But it was an equally dangerous thought and a more potent one. This was not the time to be drawn to someone, not now when she was looking to unmake her life and start a new one. Yet the appeal of Inigo was undeniable.

  Her mind whispered rationales which were meant to be comforting: It is only because he is helping you, because he reminds you of better days. It is natural you feel that way.

  She looked down into her hand and waited for Inigo to bid. The tea trolley rolled in, signalling this would be the last hand. Inigo exchanged a look with her; soon they’d have time to talk alone.

  Perhaps that sense of exigence drove him as well as her. Inigo upped the bid in abrupt fashion, making it impossible for the Major to outbid him, and then proceeded to play the hand at a commanding pace, never once giving up the lead until the last trick was cla
imed.

  ‘Nicely done,’ the Major commended, all of them a bit breathless at the speed and excitement Inigo’s play had generated. But there’d been no stopping Inigo, no slowing him down.

  ‘I could see what I wanted and I went for it,’ Inigo commented, flashing her a glance that made her think the remark had little to do with the cards. He nodded to her and rose. ‘Miss Brenley, you were an outstanding partner. Might I offer you a turn about the room?’ And quite possibly out of doors, his pale-blue eyes said.

  ‘Nothing would delight me more.’ She smiled as she laid her hand on his dark sleeve.

  ‘You came,’ she said in low tones when they were out of earshot of the table. ‘I was beginning to worry you might not.’ As relieved as she was to see him, he needed to understand the worry he’d caused her.

  ‘You gave me very short notice,’ he replied pointedly, not liking her scold. Ah, so his late arrival was a lesson of sorts. She took note. Inigo was an honourable man, a loyal man, but not a pliable man. It was a reminder that while she knew him, there was also much of him she did not know.

  They stopped before a Constable landscape, pretending to study it. ‘I had little choice,’ she explained in soft tones. ‘It is difficult to get word to you and my opportunities to meet you are limited. I am watched constantly.’ She could understand his position, but he must also understand the gravity of hers.

  He slanted her a doubting glance, the trust of the card table in question here. ‘And this evening? Are you not also watched tonight?’

  ‘In a way. The coachman would report any stops I made, but here inside, my father’s servants cannot follow me. For a few hours at a social event I might be a little freer, but not entirely. Our hostess has promised to keep an eye on me and my maid is in the kitchen with the other servants. Not that Lady Thurston would see strolling with you as a threat worthy of reporting to my father. Then there are the society columns which report who I am with, if they notice. Still, I cannot control who is also invited and there’s always a chance the columns won’t pay attention to a lowly card party in the middle of October.’