by Shirl Henke
“I was too rough…at the last…”
“No, darling major, you were not too rough,” she said softly, placing her palm against his chest, feeling a small thrill as his heart hammered beneath the hard wall of muscle.
She no longer felt afraid of performing this act with him. That gave her a sense of tender power. But thanks to Grace’s instruction, it would give her nothing else. In time would she come to regret taking measures to prevent conception? Do not think of that. Think only of the time you have with him now… His soft murmur carried her away from the bittersweet melancholy.
“You were right…about going slowly. But I could not bring you with me this way, and I want to do that…if I can.”
Gabrielle smiled in the dark. If only he knew how close he had come. “I am quite positive that you will. That is why we have many more lessons, yes?”
“Oh, certainly yes,” he murmured fervently, nuzzling his face in her perfumed hair. “Can you…that is, would you stay with me for a while, Gaby?”
Dare she? He felt replete and wanted to hold her. She wanted to hold him. But he is not yours. He would one day belong to his baroness, and Gabrielle knew he would be a faithful husband. After a brief time she would never see him again. Another pang squeezed her heart. Why not seize whatever she could during these midnight trysts? “Yes, I will stay for a while, my major.”
They lay on the big bed in the darkness. Neither spoke for several moments, although thoughts whirled through both their minds.
“It must have been quite difficult, coming to a new country,” he said. “You are very brave, Gaby.”
“Not so brave. I have been frightened much of my life,” she responded before she realized how much she was revealing.
He stroked her hair. “Yet you are here…with me. And I do not frighten you.”
“You were an English soldier, not a French soldier,” she replied, skirting the truth that lay beneath her disguise.
“Not all French soldiers are evil men. Not all English are good,” he said darkly.
She sensed the undercurrent in his voice. What had his experience in Spain done to him? “But you are a good man…Others, they were not?” she prompted.
He tensed, weighing his reply. Something about lying in the darkness with this remarkable woman made him want to answer. “No, there were others who were brutes…I caught a junior officer, a lieutenant…in a despicable act.”
“He forced a woman?” she asked, feeling his horror, remembering her own.
“She was little more than a child.”
So had she been. “That is truly horrible. What did you do?” She could not stop herself from asking. He needed to tell her—tell someone, for she doubted he ever had spoken of this before.
“I arrested him. Our colonel convened a court martial. He was found guilty. I was placed in charge of the execution.”
His narrative came out in a burst of short, pain-filled sentences. “You knew this lieutenant well?”
“No, he had only recently arrived. But I took the coward’s way out and wrote to his father, telling him that his son had died a hero’s death.”
“That was a kindness. The lie should not trouble you.” She caressed his chest, feeling the steady strum of his heartbeat.
“I said I did not know the lieutenant, but I do know his sire, a colleague in Lords. A good, decent man. Our paths cross from time to time, and when they do, this sad, proud father insists that we drink to his gallant son. I drink. Later when I’m alone, I get sick.”
“You punish yourself for an imagined sin. You are too good for this world, I think. Let God sort out good from evil. That is His task. Not even a member of the great English House of Lords dares usurp it.”
He was startled by the purging chuckle that rose from deep in his chest. “Has anyone told you, my little one, that you are a very wise woman?” He gathered her in his arms and placed a soft kiss on the tip of her nose. “I feel as if I could tell you anything.”
The warmth of his voice made her wince. He would trust Gabrielle with his darkest secrets…but she was a complete fraud who could never tell him hers. “I will never betray a confidence, my major,” she murmured sadly.
“My name is Rob, Gaby…and perhaps…one day I will tell you why I came to this place, where I was so blessed to meet you. Will you call me Rob?”
The words were like a dagger to her heart. As she started to slip from the bed, she paused to kiss his lips softly, then said, “Yes, Rob. I will wait for you tomorrow night.”
And she fled silently through the darkness.
Chapter Six
The fog blanketed London like a foul tattered cloak worn by an old man who never bathed. Alan Cresswel sat in the back of the Hare and Hound, his big hands surrounding a mug of foamy brown ale, something to warm his innards against the spring chill. If Hull did not show himself by the time he had drained the tankard, he would brave the vile weather and return to his lodgings. “An’ I’ll keep what he’s paid me, devil take the promise o’ more,” he muttered.
In truth, in spite of the lure of money, he did not like the risks involved in kidnapping a woman from the House of Dreams. Just as he started to slide from the splintery bench, he spotted Hull peering through the smoke-filled room. He waved the Johnny Raw over to him. The out-at-the-elbows bumpkin irritated him, smirking and putting on airs, all self-important because he had gotten some crazy old marquess from Northumberland to send him on this fool’s errand.
“Give me a pint of your best,” Hull said to a serving wench, pinching her arse until she squealed and gave him a hard look. He slid behind the table and squinted at the runner. “What have you learned about this House of Dreams, Cressy old fellow?”
Cresswel could tell Hull had already drunk more than one pint. “I learned to keep me voice down in public places,” the runner replied as Essie set a pint on the scarred table with an angry thunk. She looked from Hull to him, expecting that he would pay. “Give the gel ’er due, Mr. Hull,” he said firmly.
His face flushing, Hull tossed a coin on the table that barely covered the price of the ale. “No sport around this place,” he groused, quaffing the ale, then pulling a face.
Before the chawbacon complained about the ale, Cresswel said, “Whoever yer cherry-haired chit with the scar be, she must ne’er leave the ’ouse. Pity that drunken baron didn’t giv ’er name.”
“Considering the circumstances when he saw her, I doubt he heard it,” Hull said with a sneer. “If we can just get inside—”
Cresswel leaned across the table. “You got apartments to let?” he asked, tapping his temple with a finger. “Ain’t no way we gets inside the ’ouse o’ Dreams without endin’ up dead. The gel ’as to go outside. I had the place watched. Lots o’ women come and go. None lookin’ like ’er.”
Hull uttered a particularly foul oath and slumped against the hard plank wall behind him. “She has to come out sooner or later. You just want more money, don’t you?” he asked.
Cresswel stifled the urge to reach across the table and grab the young fool by his throat. “Oh, yer marquess, ’e’ll be payin’ me plenty o’ blunt when all’s said and done. There is another way o’ it.” At that, Hull perked up. “One woman comes out real regular, always veiled, dressed in black…”
Hull’s eyes narrowed and a crafty smile smeared across his face. “You mean that Lady Fantasia?” He cackled drunkenly.
“Keep yer voice down,” Cresswel admonished for the second time, furtively glancing around to make certain no one was paying attention. If word got back to the House of Dreams…he did not want to think about the consequences. Satisfied that no one appeared interested, he continued. “Why else would the madam never allow nobody to see ’er face—not even ’er high-water customers…less she’s ugly as a Billingsgate hag…?” He paused craftily. “Er she hidin’ from ’er husband?”
“It makes sense. How do we kidnap her, if not from the house?” Hull asked.
“Good weather, she rides,
out past St. John’s Wood. Another woman, a Frenchie, always with ’er. And a bodyguard. A Coldstream veteran, tough old bugger, but we can deal with ’em,” Cresswel said.
“Yes, we can,” Hull replied, rubbing his hands together.
The runner could see he relished the prospect. For the money? Or was there something more between him and the marchioness? “This gel, she know you, Mr. Hull?”
Hull’s face, already red, darkened even more. ‘“Twas so long ago, she will not recognize me.”
Considering how dissipated the younger man looked, that was probable. “Just watch you stay back when we snatch ’er. If she gives a yell, you might could end up real dead.”
Hull’s laugh was nasty. “I intend to stay alive to deliver the bitch into that old man’s hands.”
Cresswel suspected what Hull wanted to do on the long journey to Northumberland…if he dared to risk angering the deadly marquess. But that was none of his concern as long as he was paid for capturing the marchioness.
After a restless night, Amber took her morning coffee, trying to soothe her guilty conscience. If “Rob” ever found out that Gabrielle was Lady Fantasia, he would never forgive her. She stared out the window at the spring rain, dreary and chill. It perfectly suited her mood. Such rain brought lovely verdancy but at a cost, just like her duplicitous game with the earl.
She set her cup in its saucer and massaged her aching scalp. What to do? Should she tell Grace? She knew her mentor was eager to hear how the “lessons” were progressing. Jenette sensed her attraction to the earl. Either or both women would be happy to lend a sympathetic ear. But she was not ready, or indeed able, to talk about her dilemma.
“One thing is certain. I cannot have him come for his Gaby tonight.” Her conscience was simply too raw. She sat down at her escritoire and composed a terse note, then rang for Bonnie.
Within the hour a messenger delivered an unmarked sealed missive to the earl’s city house. Puzzled, he opened it and read the brief lines, dropping it numbly when he had finished. It was from Lady F, indicating that Gabrielle was ill and could not meet him for several days. Without taking time to consider the consequences, he yelled for Frog to fetch his stallion.
He was soaked to the skin when he reined in at the front gate of the House of Dreams. The street was deserted, but Rob did not care if all of the Diamond Squad were witnesses. A guard whose posture and demeanor indicated military experience stood in front of the closed heavy iron bars.
“Let me pass, man,” Rob demanded.
“I am very sorry, sir. No gentlemen permitted during daylight hours. House rules,” the guard replied.
“Do you think I am here for a dalliance?” Rob asked. “I must see the Lady Fantasia. She sent me a message regarding an important matter.”
The guard shook his head. His greatcoat was soaked, but he sheltered an intimidating blunderbuss beneath it protectively, keeping the powder dry. “No gentlemen admitted without instruction from the lady.”
Rob narrowed his eyes, then snapped in his most imperious officer’s voice, “Soldier, you will go at once to inform your lady that the major is at her gate. She will grant permission to admit me.”
“B-but, Major, sir, my post…I cannot—”
“I will stand your post. Now go! I am not used to repeating an order, soldier.” He could sense the young man was on the verge of saluting. Instead, the young guard turned and slipped through the gate, trotting rapidly toward the house. Rob waited until he was at the front door, then grabbed the bars of the gate and shoved it open.
He thundered up to the front steps and leaped from his mount. Barging through the door, he pushed the startled guard aside, blunderbuss be damned. At the same moment an older man of solid build with gray hair and the set jaw of a seasoned campaigner appeared to block his path. The man who had ridden guard on her carriage in the rain? Rob was in no mood to care.
“Now, m’lord, you know this is not permitted,” he said patiently, yet with steely determination.
“I don’t give a damn what is permitted. I will see Lady Fantasia at once.”
From the top of the stairs, Amber looked down in horrified amazement. The earl was dressed in soaking wet buckskins that molded to his broad shoulders and long legs, his hair a wild tangle beneath a slouch hat with rainwater dripping off the brim. The expression on his face was anguished and angry at the same time.
She had seized a bonnet and veil when she heard Boxer responding to the guard’s excited cry. Quickly covering her head, she called out, “The Lady Fantasia is at your service, m’lord. Sergeant Major, please allow him to pass.” With a swish, she turned and headed for her study. She could hear his swift footfalls on the steps below her.
As soon as they reached the room where they had first met, Amber whirled around and slammed the door behind him furiously. “You bird-witted, beetle-headed clodpole! Have you lost your mind? After all we have done to protect your identity, you ride up to the front gates, raising such a breeze that everyone in London will know you are a patron by nightfall! What were you thinking?”
“I was thinking about this,” he said, pulling her note from inside his buckskin jacket. He threw the damp missive on her desk. “You said Gabrielle is ill. Has she a fever? Is your leech attending her? I will place her under the care of my personal physician.”
“You are the one who should be under care—of the State Secretary of Lunatics and Idiots! You have risked your whole career, your future, everything.”
Rob removed his hat and realized that he was soaking the fine woolen rug. But he did not give a fig. He combed his fingers through his hair to remove it from his face. “No one will recognize me in country clothing. Besides, on such an evil day, the street is deserted. Now will you please let me see Gaby?”
Gaby! Amber grew even more furious. The stubborn fool cared enough for his counterfeit Frenchwoman to risk everything for her. What would he do if he ever found out she did not even exist? She turned and walked over to the window, composing herself. “You would humiliate and embarrass her, forcing your way into her quarters in daylight. She is no practiced courtesan.”
“Demme, madam, I know she is not a courtesan,” he raged. “But I must know that she…”
Her shoulders slumped. What could she do? Then inspiration struck. “Perhaps my note was too…terse, not sufficiently informative. Gabrielle is experiencing…to put it baldly, m’lord, ′tis her time of the month. You do understand what that means?”
Rob felt his face heat beneath the icy-cold rainwater dripping from it. “Oh, my sweet Lord! A thousand pardons, Lady Fantasia.”
Amber felt a small bit of vindictive satisfaction upon sensing his acute embarrassment. It served the rotter right! “I see you do comprehend,” she said dryly. He sketched a hurried bow and spun on his heel to quit the room, but then paused with his back still to Amber.
“Lady Fantasia, I would that Gabrielle not learn I have made an ass of myself.”
Amber did not feel charitable as she snapped, “The girl is inexperienced. If you do not bray much, she will not discover your secret. Now go!”
Late that afternoon, two magnificent bouquets of hothouse roses arrived from the finest florist in London. The one addressed to Gabrielle was deep crimson. The one for Lady Fantasia was yellow.
Grace sipped her tea and studied Amber through lowered lashes. This had been their morning ritual ever since her young charge returned from the Continent. They normally discussed the preceding night’s events, planned for what was to happen that evening, and in general gossiped as if they were a dearly close mother and daughter. But Amber had avoided coming to her apartments ever since her first night with the earl.
When Barrington had forced his way inside and created such a breeze, she had expected Amber to come and explain. Nothing of the sort had happened. After waiting patiently for another week, she decided it was well past time to find out was happening between them.
Something was certainly amiss. Grace spoke with Jen
ette and others close to Amber, gathering what information she could. According to Jenette, Amber had been behaving in a most peculiar fashion for the past fortnight, but Amber had told her nothing about her relationship with Barrington. Perhaps the canny Frenchwoman sensed it. She confided to Grace that there was a glow about Amber, like that of a woman newly awakened sexually, satiated, yes…but there was also a tension in her body and a sadness in her eyes. It worried Grace even more, for she had been the one who suggested that Amber become Barrington’s tutor.
Determined to get to the bottom of the mystery, she had knocked on the door to Amber’s quarters early that morning. Dressed in a deep blue brocade robe, the sleepy-eyed younger woman had called for her to enter, expecting Bonnie. Although Amber had looked somewhat dismayed, she had admitted Grace, who carried the tray with tea for herself, coffee for Amber, and scones for both of them.
While breaking their fast, they made desultory small talk about business for a few moments while Amber drank her coffee and tore off tiny bits of the crusty scone, eating almost none of it. At length, Grace asked bluntly, “Has he not pleased you in bed?”
Amber almost choked on a swallow of hot coffee. She had known that she must eventually explain everything to Grace…if only she had an idea of how to do so when she did not understand the bizarre dilemma herself. She coughed, gathering her thoughts, then replied, “He is quite the apt pupil, perfect for Gab—for my purposes.” As she caught herself, Amber felt the flush stealing over her cheeks. She cursed, knowing Grace had caught her slip.
“I take it your pose as the French émigré has convinced more than Barrington,” she said dryly.
“I’m deceiving him, Grace. He believes I’ve survived rape, war—”