Sweet as the Devil

by Susan Johnson

  Tucking the cable into his pocket, the count rose from his breakfast table and shouted for his valet. He’d bathe, dress, pick up his new funds, then stroll to White’s. He looked forward to an afternoon of gaming before the evening soirees commenced.

  WHILE COUNT VON Metis was contemplating his new prosperity, Oz and Fitz were having a late breakfast in an Indian restaurant tucked away on a narrow back street in the East End.

  “Ernst and Antonella should be in Portsmouth by now, I’m happy to say,” Fitz noted with a smile. His staff knew many of Ernst’s staff; gossip traveled quickly below stairs. “The principessa seems to have a remarkable influence over Ernst.”

  Oz grinned. “Who would have thought? The man’s been an arch libertine for most of his life.”

  “Maybe he’s slowing down.”

  “Maybe she came into his life at the perfect time.”

  “Whatever the case, it was fortunate that she arrived in London with such fanfare. A private railcar from the coast, for instance.”

  “And a very large, flamboyant entourage complete with luggage enough for a trip around the world.”

  “She might as well have left a trail of breadcrumbs to Ernst’s door.”

  “Indeed. It was almost too easy, Sam said. They picked up Von Welden’s two men the instant they arrived at Ernst’s town house.” Sam commanded Oz’s small private army. As owner of the largest bank in India and others globally, Oz had enemies who coveted his holdings; the last attempt on his life had almost been fatal.

  “There’s no question they were working for Von Welden?”

  “None,” Oz softly replied.

  Fitz nodded. Sam was a competent interrogator; those who’d made the attempt on Oz’s life last year were dead.

  “I’ve sent telegrams to our country homes in the event Blackwood chooses to stop overnight. I informed him that two of Von Welden’s killers are gone. I also warned him that Latour is involved.” Oz had sent Jamie a note before he left London, listing their properties and locations. “I expect Von Welden will send additional men.” Oz shrugged. “We’ll have to see how many.”

  “It might be useful to send a telegram to Sofia’s mother at her farm. Considering the shocking news about having a new father, Sofia may stop to see Amelia and Ben.” As a major collector, Fitz was well acquainted with the London art world. Prior to his marriage he’d also been well acquainted with many of the models, and one of his lovers had invited him to accompany her up to the farm.

  “Good idea. Hopefully Blackwood will receive one of our messages, although I didn’t get the impression he wished to stop anywhere overnight.”

  “Don’t forget Sofie’s willfulness. She usually gets her way.”

  “True.” Oz grinned. “He doesn’t stand a chance, does he?”

  “Not a chance in hell.”

  “So then,” Oz cheerfully asserted, “care to make odds on when the next batch of assassins arrives? Von Welden won’t mind spending the emperor’s money to feather his own nest. I say tomorrow night at the earliest.”

  “I’ll lay you ten to one they’re here on the morning train.”

  Oz grinned. “You’re on. That’s damned fast.”

  “Someone’s watching Latour?”

  “Round the clock. By the way, he lost a good deal at White’s last night. Franz Joseph’s going to have to ante up more cash.”

  “I know the governor of the London Clearing House. The funds transfer will have to go through that institution. If you’re finished eating, we could swing by and talk to Freddy.” Fitz tossed his napkin on the table. “We’ll find out how much Latour is worth to Von Welden.”

  An inveterate gambler, Oz smoothly inquired, “Would you care to bet on Latour’s worth to Von Welden?”

  “Of course. Would you care to make a wager on whether Blackwood has eluded Sofie’s seductive snare?” Fitz countered, grinning.

  “Christ no. Sofie’s impossible to turn down. An observation only. The art world was beyond my purview in my rakish days.”

  Fitz laughed. “You might not have had a chance anyway. Sofie’s taste in men has always been capricious. And,” Fitz added with a small smile, “the art world was within my purview for many years.”

  “According to gossip, Blackwood’s had no practice at all turning down women,” Oz drawled. “So acquit me on that particular wager. I’d be losing money.”

  “Very well. Five hundred says Latour receives three thousand in new funds.”

  Oz shook his head. “Too paltry. The man’s a rank amateur at cards. Von Welden has to know that. I’ll raise you five hundred and say ten thousand for Latour.”

  With a quick handshake, the men confirmed their wagers and rose from the table. Oz shouted something in Hindi to the proprietor, who grinned and replied in a cheerful free-flowing burst of words.

  With a wave, Oz walked toward the door, laughing.

  CHAPTER 19

  AT THE SAME time Oz and Fitz were seeing to it that the train stations were watched, Latour continued under surveillance, and Freddy at the London Clearing House had been paid a friendly visit, Sofia and Jamie arrived in Bolton and were currently ensconced in a private room at the best dressmaker in town.

  “I don’t see why you need me here,” Jamie said. Not that he’d leave Sofia alone, since he didn’t entirely trust her, but he didn’t have to sit in this inner sanctum. The outside reception room would have served as well. Much better, in fact. He didn’t relish having to watch her undress and dress; it would strain his self-control. “I should think it would be less embarrassing for you if I waited outside.”

  “Really?” She turned from examining one of the many framed fashion prints on the walls. “You mean you’ve never escorted a lady to a dressmaker before?” What she really meant was Do you want to chat up the dressmaker in private? Mrs. Lynne had been beyond fawning. Not that it should matter, but stupidly it did.

  “This is hardly the same.”

  “In what way is it different?”

  It isn’t of course. “Could we change the subject?”

  “Surely you’re not embarrassed?” He appeared at ease even though his powerful frame looked incongruously out of place lounging in a pink satin chair with frippery fringe and tassels.

  “I don’t get embarrassed.”

  “Then I don’t see what the argument is,” she shamelessly replied, ignoring the fact that they’d been disputing the logistics of clothes buying for some time. Jamie preferred a department store and ready-made clothes in the interest of speed. And of course, left unsaid, was her irritation with the dressmaker.

  Jamie softly exhaled. “There’s no argument,” he wearily said. “So long as your shopping is accomplished expeditiously.”

  Sofia moved toward a table stacked with pattern books. “I’m sure it will be. Since you’re in a rush, though, and you have to pay the bill, you might just as well be handy here,” she airily concluded.

  “Handy?” Incredulity sharpened his voice. He wasn’t John the footman who paid my lady’s tick and carried her packages. “I should tell you to go fuck yourself,” he growled. “But knowing you, you might—and I’m in a hurry.” He shot a surly glance at the door. “Where the hell is that dressmaker?”

  “Assembling what she has in my size, I expect.” Sofia flipped open an embossed leather cover and glanced at the first fashion plate—a walking dress in rose silk.

  “Whatever she has, she can wrap them up and we’ll leave.”

  Sofia bristled at his peremptory tone. “I should at least try on the clothes. There’s no point in buying something that’s unwearable.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Jamie lazily drawled.

  “Very funny.”

  “An opening like that? Who could resist?”

  “I suppose you prefer women be nude all the time.”

  He shrugged. “In certain circumstances.”

  “Libertine.”

  “Did you think I wasn’t?”

  “I didn’t
think of you at all,” she huffily replied.

  “You could have fooled me. As I recall, you promised to seduce me shortly after we met.”

  “We’d met before.”

  “You’re right. I shouldn’t have been surprised then.”

  This time she was the one who said, “Could we change the subject?”

  “Gladly. Where the hell is the dressmaker?” Hauling himself out of the low slipper chair, Jamie strode purposefully toward the door.

  “You needn’t make a scene.”

  “How can it matter?” he said without looking back. “We’ll never see her again.”

  But just as he reached for the latch, the door swung open to admit Mrs. Lynne, the tall, willowy, blonde dressmaker who’d greeted Jamie so warmly on their arrival. She’d obviously taken the time to add a bit of rouge to her cheeks, color to her lips, and fresh perfume if the cloud of fragrance invading the room was any indication.

  “I do beg your pardon for the delay,” the pretty young woman silkily purred, standing indecently close to Jamie and gazing up at him with a seductive smile. “My girls are bringing in some frocks. Might I offer you and the lady some chilled champagne?” she inquired without once looking at Sofia.

  “No, thank you.”

  “Yes, please,” Sofia replied, her words overlapping Jamie’s refusal.

  Jamie turned a gelid gaze on Sofia. “Our time is limited.”

  “Not that limited, darling,” Sofia cooed, taking umbrage at the dressmaker’s blatant coquetry when she really should know better. When the concept of jealousy was completely unjustified.

  “Very well, sweetheart,” Jamie murmured, bestowing a heated glance on Sofia. Two could play that game; if he played it well, they might leave sooner rather than later. “Champagne would be much appreciated,” he said with an intimate smile for the dressmaker.

  The woman blushed.

  Sofia seethed.

  “Consider it my pleasure, my lord,” the dressmaker murmured. “I’ll order our best champagne.” Swinging around, she called out through the open door, and a young girl appeared so quickly she must have been waiting in the corridor. The champagne was ordered. Turning back, Mrs. Lynne held Jamie’s gaze for another lingering moment. “Please be seated, Lord and Lady—” The dressmaker paused, waiting expectantly for a surname.

  “We’re not married,” Jamie bluntly said. Perhaps putting Sofia to the blush would spur their departure.

  “He refuses to marry me,” Sofia bemoaned with a doleful expression. “No matter what I say or do. And after all your promises,” she said, turning to Jamie with a melancholy smile.

  Christ, she was shameless. “Perhaps after Mama dies, my dear. You know how she feels about your family.”

  “If you really loved me,” Sofia lamented like an actress in a bad farce, “you wouldn’t allow your malicious mother to malign me or my—”

  “Would you excuse us for a minute?” Jamie took the dressmaker’s elbow and guided her out the door. “I’ll come to fetch you,” he said, his face blank, and abruptly shut the door on Mrs. Lynne’s astonishment.

  Swinging back, he took one look at Sofia’s smug smile and snapped, “Don’t push me. You’ll regret it.”

  The sharp edge to his voice gave her warning. Or should have given her warning. Or would have given her warning if she responded to such things. “Did you see how that woman looked at you?” Sofia inquired, her amusement giving way to petulance.

  “Jesus, who cares? Or better yet, what the hell did you want me to do? We need some clothes for you. She has those clothes. Whether she smiles at me or not is inconsequential.”

  “So you did notice?”

  “Of course. I’m not blind.” He chose not to say he’d seen that look a thousand times before. “You’re being childish. Von Welden’s men are closing in even as we stand here and argue.” He took a small breath to tamp down his anger, a dressmaker the least of his problems. “Please,” he softly said, holding her gaze, “could we finish this business quickly? I’d be very grateful.”

  He looked so earnest and grave, Sofia instantly felt contrite. “I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over me.”

  He smiled faintly. “Your temper, darling.”

  She made a small moue, knowing her behavior had defied every principle of female independence she esteemed. “I know,” she ruefully admitted. “I shall try to restrain my temper in future, and you must remind me more often of our danger.”

  “Consider it done. Apropos that danger, could we now begin to expedite this little shopping trip?”

  “Of course.” Sofia waved in the direction of the door. “Go and get the obsequious woman. I promise to behave. Don’t give me that look—I will. You’ll see.”

  Jamie had few illusions when it came to Sofia behaving, so he took the precaution of taking Mrs. Lynne aside when he found her and giving her a sizeable sum to not look at him. “My darling Sofia’s jealous,” he explained, “and honestly Mama is the worst kind of shrew.” He bestowed a sympathetic smile on the dressmaker. “I expect you see that type of overbearing matron often enough in your business. Also,” he added in a kindly tone, “if we could accelerate this little transaction, I’d be willing to add five hundred pounds to your bill.”

  “Five hundred?” the dressmaker breathlessly echoed.

  “Over and above our purchases,” Jamie noted in clarification. He was in a damned hurry.

  With such largesse as lure, Mrs. Lynne didn’t so much as glance at Jamie when she returned to the dressing room. Her assistants carried in a dozen frocks in rapid succession, and Sofia allowed herself to be convinced that the dresses would fit; she needn’t try them on.

  Jamie didn’t care if they fit or not.

  In short order, their selections made, the dresses were wrapped, money was exchanged, and the packages were carried out to the second carriage waiting at the curb behind Sofia’s chaise.

  With the bottle of champagne in hand, Jamie escorted Sofia back to her carriage. “Thank you for hurrying. I appreciate your understanding,” he said, handing her up into the vehicle.

  “You must have said something to her; the dressmaker was completely indifferent to you when she returned.” Sofia grinned. “Did you threaten her?”

  Jamie laughed as he climbed in and dropped onto the seat opposite her. “I didn’t have to. I think she feared the onset of some vulgar scene. You shocked the hell out of her.”

  “You started it.”

  He hadn’t, but he wasn’t about to prolong what would only be a useless argument. “The point is, my pet,” he mildly said, “most inamoratas are more discreet.” He placed his booted feet on Sofia’s seat and slid into a comfortable sprawl. “They don’t berate their lovers at the same time they’re accepting their gifts.”

  “Perhaps more of them should speak their mind.”

  He smiled. “And perhaps the sun will set in the east.”

  “Hmpf. The world would be a better place with fewer smug, condescending men in positions of power.”

  He didn’t necessarily disagree. But he also understood that the day women gained those positions of power was in the distant future—if ever. “I’m sure you’re right, dear. Champagne?” He held out the bottle.

  “God I hate it when a man agrees with such gross insincerity.”

  “It’s survival, darling. Men learn early on. Here, have a drink. Relax.”

  She flung her hand up. “Maybe I don’t want to relax,” she muttered, taking issue with his calm dismissal of what she considered a grave injustice. “Maybe women’s rights matter a great deal to me.”

  He arrested the bottle partway to his mouth and paused an infinitesimal moment, recognizing diplomacy was required. “Acquit me, darling, of indifference to women’s plight. I understand the inequalities are irksome. I also agree that there shouldn’t be gender bias and discrimination.”

  “Why do I hear the inevitable but in your words?”

  He drained half the bottle before he replied.
“Because, darling, someday female equality may be the law of the land, but at the moment it mostly certainly is not.” He shrugged. “I’m sorry. I don’t wish to offend you, but I only deal in realities. If I didn’t, none of us would be safe. Your father included.”

  “And now you have me to protect as well,” Sofia softly said, the plain, unvarnished truth obliterating less pertinent philosophical debate.

  “Yes. I wish it weren’t so, but Von Welden is infinitely more troublesome than issues of gender inequalities. He has to be my sole focus.”

  “Do you really think they’re getting close?” It was the kind of question a child would ask, hoping for an agreeable answer.

  He knew what she wanted to hear and debated lying. But in the end what good would it do to offer false assurance when the danger was all too real? “They could be,” he said. “But we’re more than ready for them. And if it’s any consolation,” he added as the color drained from her face, “it’s difficult to find both skill and intellect in hired killers. My men are much more capable, better trained, and utterly loyal.”

  She’d slid into the corner of the seat as he’d spoken and was huddled now, eyes shut and silent. She looked smaller in the muted light with the shades half drawn. The flickering shadows dramatized her fragility, heightened her pallor, gilded her hair with saffron. He felt an unexpected affection quite separate from lust, although carnal thoughts were never far from his mind with Miss Eastleigh—a breach of discipline that continued to disturb him.

  Soft, pale tendrils framed her face, the coil of hair at the nape of her neck having come partially undone; she looked sweetly tousled and incredibly sexy. He would have preferred a less provocative image. She needed reassurance and kindness, not masculine lechery. Dropping his feet on the floor, he sat up and leaning forward, gently touching her arm. “Don’t be afraid, sweetheart,” he said softly. “I’ll protect you against the world.”