Jo Beverley - [Malloren 01]
Page 1
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
My Lady Notorious
A Signet Book / published by arrangement with the author
All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1993 by Jo Beverley
This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.
For information address:
The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
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ISBN: 978-1-1012-2010-8
A SIGNET BOOK®
Signet Books first published by The Signet Publishing Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
SIGNET and the “S” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.
Electronic edition: June, 2006
ALSO BY JO BEVERLEY
Hazard
The Devil’s Heiress
The Dragon’s Bride
“The Demon’s Mistress” in
In Praise of Younger Men
Devilish
Secrets of the Night
Forbidden Magic
Lord of Midnight
Something Wicked
Chapter 1
The great crested coach lurched along the Shaftesbury road, over ruts turned rock-like by a sharp November frost. Lounging inside, glossy boots up on the opposite seat, was a lazy-eyed young gentleman in a suit of dark blue laced with silver. His features were smooth, tanned, and on the pretty side of handsome, but his taste for decoration was moderate. His silver lacing merely edged the front of his coat; his only jewels were a sapphire on his lax right hand, and a pearl and diamond pin in his softly knotted cravat. His unpowdered russet hair was irrepressibly wavy but tamed into a neat pigtail fixed with black bows at top and bottom.
This hairstyle was the work of his valet de chambre, a middle-aged man who sat upright beside his master, a small jewel box clasped firmly on his lap.
At yet another creaking sway, Lord Cynric Malloren sighed and resolved to hire a riding horse at the next stop. He had to escape this damned confinement.
Being an invalid was the very devil.
He’d finally managed to persuade his solicitous brother, the Marquess of Rothgar, that he was up to traveling, but only on a gentle two-day journey to Dorset to visit his elder sister and her new baby. And only in this monstrous vehicle, complete with fur rugs for his legs, and hot bricks for his feet. Now he was returning home, progressing like a fragile grandmother back to sibling care and warm flannel.
The shouted command was merely a welcome relief from tedium. It took a second before Cyn realized he was actually being held up. His valet turned pale and crossed himself, muttering a stream of French prayers. Cyn’s eyes lost their lazy droop.
He straightened and flashed a quick glance at his rapier in its scabbard on the opposite seat, but dismissed it. He had little faith in stories of highwaymen who fenced with their victims for the gold. Instead he pulled the heavy double-barreled pistol out of the holster by his seat and deftly checked that it was clean and loaded in both barrels.
A cruder weapon than a blade, but in this situation a good deal more effective.
The coach came to rest at an angle. Cyn studied the scene outside. It was late in the short day and the nearby pines cast deep shadows in the red of the setting sun, but he could still see the two highwaymen quite clearly. One was back among the trees, covering the scene with a musket. The other was much closer and armed with two elegant silver-mounted dueling pistols. Stolen? Or was this a true gentleman of the road? His steaming mount was a fine bit of blood.
Cyn decided not to shoot anyone yet. This adventure was too enlivening to be cut short, and he had to admit that the distant villain would be a tricky shot in the fading light, even for him.
Both highwaymen wore encompassing black cloaks, tricorn hats, and white scarves around the lower part of their faces. It wouldn’t be easy to describe them if they escaped, but Cyn was at heart a gambler, though he rarely played for coin. He would let these dice roll.
“Down off the box,” the nearby man ordered gruffly.
The coachman and groom obediently climbed down. At a command, they lay face-down on the frosty grass verge. The second highwayman came closer to guard them.
The coach swayed as the masterless horses shifted. Jerome gave a cry of alarm. Cyn put out a hand to brace himself, but he didn’t take his eyes from the two highwaymen. The team should be too tired to bolt. He was proved correct as the coach became still again.
“Now, you inside,” barked the nearer villain, both barrels trained on the door. “Out. And no tricks.”
Cyn considered shooting the man—he could guarantee to put a ball through his right eye at this distance—but restrained himself. Others could be endangered, and neither his pride nor his valuables were worth an innocent life.
He laid the pistol beside his sword, opened the door, and stepped down. He turned to assist his valet, who had a weak leg, then flicked open his grisaille snuffbox, shook back the Mechlin lace at his cuff, and took a pinch. He snapped the box shut, then faced the highwayman’s pistols. “How may I help you, sir?”
The man seemed stunned by this reaction, but recovered. “You may help me to that pretty box, for a start.”
Cyn had to work to keep his face straight. Perhaps it was the shock of his bland reaction to robbery, but the thief had forgotten to control his voice. Now he sounded well-bred and quite young. Scarcely more than a boy. Any desire to see him hang seeped away, and his curiosity gathered strength.
He flicked open the box again and approached. “You wish to try my sort? It is a tolerable blend . . .”
He had not intended to throw the powder in the robber’s face, but the thief was no fool and backed his horse away. “Keep your distance. I’ll have the box—tolerable sort an’ all—along with your money, and any jewels or other valuables.”
“Certainly,” said Cyn with a careless shrug. He took the box Jerome clutched, which contained his pins, fobs, and other trinkets, and placed the snuffbox inside. From his pockets he added some coins and notes. With some regret he slid off the sapphire ring, and pulled out the pearl-and-diamond pin; they had sentimental value. “You clearly have more need of all this than I, my good man. Shall I put the box by the road? You can collect it when we’re gone.”
There was another stunned silence. Then: “You can damn well lie down in the dirt with your servants!”
Cyn raised his brows. He brushed a speck of fluff from the sleeve of his coat. “Oh, I don’t think so. I have no desire to become dusty.�
� He faced the man calmly. “Are you going to kill me for it?”
He saw the man’s trigger finger tighten and wondered if for once he’d misplayed his hand, but there was no shot. After a thwarted silence, the young man said, “Put your valuables in the coach and get on the box. I’m taking the coach, and you can be my coachman, Mr. High and Mighty!”
“Novel,” drawled Cyn with raised brows. “But aren’t stolen coaches a trifle hard to fence?”
“Shut your lip or I’ll shut it for you!”
Cyn had the distinct feeling the highwayman was losing patience—a reaction he’d been causing all his life.
“Do what I tell you,” the rogue barked. “And tell your men to take their time walking for help. If we’re overtaken, you’ll get the first shot.”
Cyn obediently addressed the servants. “Go on to Shaftesbury and rack up at the Crown. If you don’t hear from me in a day or so, send word to the Abbey and my brother will take care of you. Don’t worry about this. It’s just a young friend playing a jape, and I have a mind to join in the fun.” He addressed the coachman. “Hoskins, if Jerome’s leg tires him, you must go ahead and find some transportation for him.”
He then turned to the highwayman. “Am I permitted to put on my surtout and gloves, sir, or is this to be a form of torture?”
The man hesitated but said, “Go on, then. But I’ll have you covered every second.”
Cyn reached into the coach for his caped greatcoat and shrugged into it, then pulled on his black kid gloves, reflecting wryly that any amount of driving would ruin them. He considered the pistol for a moment but then dismissed it. He wanted to go along with this caper a while longer.
Protected from the frosty air, he climbed up on the box and took the four sets of reins into competent hands. He quickly familiarized himself with the pattern on each which identified wheelers and leaders. “What now, my good man?”
The highwayman glared at him with narrowed eyes. “You’re a rum ’un and no mistake.” When Cyn made no reply, the highwayman hitched his horse to the back and swung up beside him. He pocketed one pistol but poked the other in Cyn’s side. “I don’t know what your game is, but you’ll pull no tricks with me. Drive.”
Cyn flicked the team into action. “No tricks,” he promised. “But I do hope that pistol lacks a hair trigger. This is a very uneven road.”
After a moment, the pistol was moved so it pointed slightly away. “Feel safer?” the man sneered.
“Infinitely. Where are we going?”
“Never you mind. I’ll tell you when you need to turn. For now, just hold your tongue.”
Cyn obeyed. He could sense the baffled fury emanating from his captor and had no desire to taunt him into firing. In truth, he didn’t wish to taunt the fool at all. He’d rather kiss him on both cheeks for breaking the monotony of his days. He’d had his fill of being cossetted.
He glanced around and realized the second villain had gone on ahead. Risky, but he supposed they thought a pistol held against him would keep him in order.
It might. He was feeling kindly disposed.
Being hovered over by his siblings might have been tolerable if he’d been wounded in action, but when he’d been brought down by a mere fever . . . ! And now none of them would believe he was recovered enough to rejoin his regiment. He’d considered overriding the arranged plan and commanding Hoskins to head for London, where he could demand an army medical. There would be little point, however, for at a word from Rothgar some lingering weakness would doubtless be discovered.
Just as a word from Rothgar had procured him fast transport to the Abbey, and the best medical care along the way, while better men sweated out their fevers or died in overcrowded hospitals in Plymouth. Or back in the primitive conditions in Acadia. Rothgar could even have been behind him being shipped home from Halifax in the first place.
Damn Rothgar and his mollycoddling.
No one in his right mind would describe the formidable marquess, Cyn’s eldest brother, as a mother hen, but upon their parents’ deaths he had taken his five siblings under his autocratic wing and God help anyone who tried to harm them. Even the forces of war.
Rothgar seemed particularly protective of Cyn. This was partly because he was the baby of the family, but it was also his damned looks. Despite all evidence to the contrary people would persist in seeing him as fragile, even his family who certainly should know better.
He alone of the family had been gifted with the full glory of his mother’s delicate bones, green-gold eyes, russet-red hair, and lush lashes. His sisters—particularly his twin sister—had frequently asked heaven why such an unfair thing should have come about.
Cyn frequently asked the same question with the same amount of desperation. As a boy he’d believed age would toughen his looks, but at twenty-four, a veteran of Quebec and Louisbourg, he was still disgustingly pretty. He had to fight duels with nearly every new officer in the regiment to establish his manhood.
“Turn in the lane ahead.” The highwayman’s voice jerked Cyn out of his reverie. He obediently guided the horses into the narrow lane, straight into the setting sun.
He narrowed his eyes against the glare. “I hope it isn’t much further,” he remarked. “It’ll be dark soon and there’s little moon tonight.”
“It’s not far.”
In the gathering cold, steam rose off the team like smoke from a fire. Cyn cracked the whip to urge the tired horses on.
The youth lounged back, legs spread in contemptuous ease as he tried to convey the impression of age and hardened wickedness. It was unwise. The cloak had fallen open and the slenderness of the legs revealed by the lounging position reinforced Cyn’s suspicion that he was dealing with a mere stripling. He noticed, however, that the pistol remained at the ready, and silently gave the lad credit.
No fool, this one.
So what had led the young man into this rash escapade? A dare? Gaming debts he couldn’t confess to Papa?
Cyn didn’t sense true danger here, and his nose for danger was highly developed. He’d been a soldier in wartime since the age of eighteen.
He remembered the explosion in his family when he’d run off to enlist. Rothgar had refused to buy him a commission and so Cyn had taken the shilling. The marquess had dragged him home, but after battles of will that left bystanders shaking, his brother had given in and bought him an ensigncy in a good regiment. Cyn had never regretted it. He demanded excitement, but unlike many other sprigs of the aristocracy he had no taste for pointless mayhem.
He glanced at his captor. Perhaps a military career would suit this young rascal. Some curious thought tickled the back of his mind and he ran his eyes over the youth. Then he had it. He stilled a twitch of his lips and concentrated on the team as he absorbed the new information. Judging from the smoothness at the juncture of ‘his’ thighs, Cyn’s captor was a woman.
He began to whistle. A promising situation indeed.
“Stop that damned noise!”
Cyn did so and looked at his companion thoughtfully. Women rarely spoke in such a clipped, harsh tone, and the creature’s neat bag-wig and tricorn allowed no possibility of long tresses pinned up beneath. Could he be mistaken?
Casually, he let his gaze slide down again and knew his suspicions were correct. She wore fashionably tight knee-breeches and there was no male equipment under them. Moreover, though the woman’s legs appeared slim and well-muscled, the breeches and fine clocked stockings revealed a roundness more feminine than masculine.
“How much further?” he asked, touching the weary off-leader with the whip to get them all over a particularly rough stretch. “This track’s the very devil.”
“That cottage ahead. Pull all the way into the orchard to hide the carriage. The horses can graze there.”
Cyn looked at the gateway, which contained a dip as deep as some ditches, and wondered if the carriage would make it. He dismissed such concerns. He was too tantalized by what the next stage of this adventure would b
ring.
With whip and voice, he urged the tired team through, keeping his seat with difficulty as the vehicle jarred down into the dip, then jerked up. The abused axle gave a threatening squeal but did not crack. He pulled the team up beneath the trees with a sense of accomplishment, and wondered if the wench realized just how skillful he had been. His schoolboy passion for coaching had finally paid off.
“Fair enough,” she said ungraciously.
He began to think his mystery lady would turn out to be an antidote. All he could see of her features above the scarf were hard gray eyes. He guessed her lips to be set in a harsh line.
“What are you staring at?” she snapped.
“It seems reasonable to try to note your features so I can describe you to the authorities.”
She pointed the pistol straight at his face. “You’re a fool, do you know that? What’s to stop me from shooting you?”
He held her eyes, still relaxed. “Fair play. Are you the type to shoot a man for no reason?”
“Saving my neck might be reason enough.”
Cyn smiled. “I give you my word that I will do nothing to help the authorities apprehend you.”
The pistol drooped and she stared at him. “Who the devil are you?”
“Cyn Malloren. Who the devil are you?”
He watched as she almost fell into the trap and answered truthfully; but she caught herself. “You may call me Charles. What kind of a name is Sin?”
“C-Y-N. Cynric, in fact. Anglo-Saxon king.”
“I’ve heard of the Mallorens . . .” She stiffened. “Rothgar.”
“The marquess is my brother,” he acknowledged. “Don’t hold it against me.” He guessed she fervently wished she’d left him by the roadside. Rothgar was not a man to cross.
She made a good recovery. “I’ll judge you on your own deeds, my lord. My word on it. Now, unhitch the team.”
Cyn saluted ironically. “Aye, aye, sir.”
He climbed down and stripped off his greatcoat and tight-waisted frock coat. He tucked the foaming lace at his cuffs out of harm’s way, and went to work.