Sweet as the Devil

by Susan Johnson

  “He was a very good father to me—is a very good father,” Sofia quickly corrected, Ben the most kindhearted of men.

  “He is an absolute darling, isn’t he?” Amelia paused for a moment, choosing her words. “As to this title you’ve been offered, you must do as you wish. Ben would agree.” She took a small breath. “But bear in mind, sweetheart, Ernst isn’t known for his loyalty. I wouldn’t want you hurt.”

  “Like you were.”

  “Perhaps I was for a time.” Amelia smiled faintly. “But not for long. Ben was with me even before you were born, and I’ve had a very good life. I have you, a husband who loves me, and a career anyone would envy. I hold no grudge against Ernst. Poor man—his parents completely controlled his life, and word had it his marriage proved unhappy. Naturally, I’m sorry for the loss of his son. But don’t feel you have to provide your life in compensation. You don’t.”

  “I know. Don’t worry, Mother, I’m not the sacrificial type. I more or less told Ernst as much. Not that he believed me, but I expect he will eventually.”

  “Now there’s my darling girl,” Amelia said with obvious relief. “Ever practical.” Amelia bestowed a doting smile on her daughter. “Not that I’m advocating you relinquish either the title or wealth if you don’t wish to. You know whatever you choose to do is fine with us. We’ve always allowed you your independence.”

  “For which I’m grateful. One last question,” Sofia said, leaning forward slightly in her curiosity. “Why did you never consider divorce?”

  Amelia shrugged. “I had no assurance that I was married. The ceremony was performed in the Austrian embassy, Ernst took possession of the papers, and once he was gone, I had no proof that the ceremony was legitimate. Then when Ernst was married soon after to the Princess of Bohemia, naturally I questioned the authenticity of my marriage.” She softly sighed. “So beyond the obvious doubt . . . I didn’t have the means to sue for divorce without proper documentation. And had I asked the Austrian embassy for those papers, I assume they would have been withheld to protect Ernst’s new marriage.”

  “Meanwhile, Ernst couldn’t divorce or he’d risk some bureaucrat disclosing the proceedings and Rupert’s legitimacy would have come into question.” Sofia grinned. “Your impetuous love affaire posed some serious problems.”

  “Or perhaps fate took a hand that long-ago summer.” Amelia offered her daughter a good-natured smile. “You are a princess after all.”

  “If only I wished to be a princess,” Sofia ruefully noted. “Which I most certainly do not. Oh hell,” she muttered, vexed and moody, “enough about this ungodly mess. I need some distraction—some new and scandalous gossip. How goes Burke and Mona’s affaire, for instance? Have they decided to marry, or has Mona flitted on to some other lover?”

  CHAPTER 21

  “DOUGLAS IS MY lieutenant,” Jamie said as he and his aide entered Ben’s study, shut the door behind them, and approached the desk where Ben was pawing through a pile of papers. “He’s privy to Ernst’s business.”

  Ben looked up. “Which is?”

  “Nothing untoward,” Jamie calmly replied.

  “I saw your weapons. They’re not for hunting.”

  “We happen to like them for hunting.”

  “You have guards outside.” Ben waved his hand at the windows.

  “Force of habit.”

  “You’re wearing a shoulder holster. I felt it when I welcomed you.”

  “Again—force of habit.”

  “Sofie’s traveling without her luggage. She never does.”

  Jamie smiled. “You can blame me for that. I was in a hurry to reach Scotland.”

  “So she bought clothes in Bolton.” He’d seen the packages unloaded.

  “Is that a problem?”

  “It could be,” Ben growled. “She normally shops in Paris.”

  “She seemed willing to compromise.”

  “Bloody hell!” Ben exploded. “Enough evasion, damn it! Look,” he said, tamping down his temper with effort, his nostrils flaring slightly with the attempt, “I hunt. I don’t own guns like yours.”

  “My friends are particular.”

  “They’re not your friends. They’re your army.”

  “Allow me to disagree.”

  “Stop fucking with me.”

  “If I might have my telegram,” Jamie gently said, trying not to show his anger.

  “This telegram?” Ben spoke as gently. He held the found item aloft and out of reach.

  “Yes, please.” A small edge had entered Jamie’s voice.

  “I want some answers first. I don’t like Ernst. I never have, not in the beginning nor any time since.”

  “I don’t see what that has to do with my message.”

  “It has to do with my daughter.”

  Jamie’s brows rose infinitesimally.

  “She’s my daughter a thousand times more than Ernst’s,” Ben curtly said.

  “Again, an issue that has nothing to do with my telegram.” Jamie scanned the room with a soldier’s eye, debating his options, deterrents, whether Ben had weapons on hand. His gaze at the last fell on the cluttered desktop and his heart skipped a beat. “Perhaps we could come to some agreement,” he said, his voice carefully modulated. He indicated with a flick of his fingers an envelope of fine quality paper lying amidst Ben’s documents. A family crest embellished the envelope, the device familiar to Jamie: double eagles, crossed swords, and lions couchant supporting a cartouche. “Might I ask when you received that?”

  “Why?”

  “It interests me.”

  “My only interest is Sofie. Her safety particularly.”

  “Then it might be useful for you to turn over my telegram and that letter,” Jamie quietly said, although he could have whispered and still have been heard in the taut silence of the room.

  “She is in danger. I knew it.”

  “I’m not at liberty to betray the prince’s confidences, but we both want Sofia protected.”

  “From whom?”

  “I can’t say.”

  “I’ll ask Sofie.”

  “No you won’t.”

  “You’ll stop me?”

  “I could,” Jamie said with impatient economy.

  The two men faced each other over the untidy desktop in the untidy room that smelled of paint and turpentine and linseed oil—both large, powerful men, separated, however, by significant differences. Like any English gentleman, Ben knew how to handle a gun; his collection of custom-made hunting guns was extensive. Like any soldier, Jamie didn’t restrict his hunting to four-legged prey. Therein lay the novelty of their positions.

  The precarious silence crackled with resentment.

  Jamie glanced at the clock, wondering where Von Metis was sleeping tonight, wondering how foolish Ben Miller intended to be, wishing like hell they were already into Scotland. At Ben’s small indrawn breath, he refocused his gaze.

  “If I were to give you this telegram and letter,” Ben offered, simmering reluctance in every syllable, a tangible spleen as well, “you’d assure me of Sofie’s safety?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do I have a choice?” Ben glanced at Douglas. “Two against one, probably not.”

  “Probably not,” Jamie said. “I’m sorry.” He held out his hand.

  After ripping open the telegram, he ran his glance over it. Two points for their side, he thought, softly exhaling. He hadn’t discounted a taunting message from Von Welden.

  TWO OF YOUR DOGS HAD TO BE PUT DOWN, the telegram read. ONE ESCAPED. AN ALSATIAN SHEPHERD BREED. WE’ RE HOPING TO KEEP THE DISEASE FROM SPREADING OUTSIDE YOUR KENNEL.

  LENNOX AND GROVELAND

  Two assassins had been eliminated, his friends were on watch for more, and they’d signaled an Alsatian—Von Metis—had disappeared.

  And was now found, Jamie grimly reflected. Everyone knew Von Metis worked for Von Welden as embassy envoy of one kind or another; it was also common knowledge that he flaunted his family antecedents�
�hence the allusion to Alsace.

  Jamie drew out Von Metis’s note, dropped the envelope on the desk, and unfolded the single sheet. The count’s flowing script swept over the fine, hand-pressed paper, his message couched in the most fulsome flattery. He began by addressing Ben as the preeminent portraitist in the world and went on in unctuous phrases that extolled the artist’s masterful talents. He humbly hoped for an audience as soon as may be—in the morning if possible since he was traveling with friends who weren’t inclined to tarry. He aspired, however presumptuously, it went on, to have his portrait painted by Ben. With kind regards, your most obedient and respectful servant, et cetera, et cetera.

  Jamie looked up from the letter and met Ben’s eyes. “Do many write to you like this? Obsequious and genuflecting?”

  “Quite a lot.”

  “Interesting,” Jamie marveled. “How do you stand it?”

  “I ignore it.”

  Jamie nodded, then looked away and handed the two messages to Douglas. “We’ll need men at that hotel on the envelope. Don’t let him out of your sight.” He turned back to Ben. “Have you replied to the Von Metis letter yet?”

  “I did, although I see I shouldn’t have.”

  “When is he coming?”

  “At ten. Who is he?”

  “A dangerous man.”

  “Should we call in the local constabulary?”

  “God no. Here’s what I’d like you to do.”

  Ben listened to Jamie’s unemotional account of potential disaster and their plans to nullify the impact—Douglas adding a comment or two from time to time. Jamie spoke in general terms, not naming Von Welden, referring to him only as an enemy of Ernst’s who’d apparently learned of Sofia’s relationship to the prince, had included her in his vendetta, and had sent Von Metis to do her harm.

  Ben was red faced with anger by the time Jamie finished. “I hope you’re going to kill him,” he said.

  “Yes, of course. We have to.”

  “That’s all I need to know. Damn Ernst, he’s been nothing but trouble from the first. I almost called him out that summer Amelia became involved with him. If not for her feelings at the time,” he said with a grimace, “I would have. But she would never have forgiven me for shooting him.”

  Jamie smiled. “He might have shot you.”

  “Hell no, he wouldn’t have!”

  Jamie rather thought Ernst had escaped an early grave; the man was sure of himself. “Well then, I thank you for your cooperation. I’ll talk to Sofia once she comes to bed and explain to her that you convinced me to indulge her request and stay another day.”

  Ben gave him a dry look. “Not likely she’ll believe that. I suggest you play the affectionate swain and give in to her out of fondness.”

  Jamie hesitated long enough for Ben to break out laughing.

  “You don’t relish giving in to her, I gather,” he said, still chuckling. “She’s rather a handful, isn’t she?”

  Jamie grinned. “I blame you.”

  Ben dipped his head. “You’re probably right about that. She’s always been able to wrap me around her little finger.”

  “In truth, I think Sofia was very fortunate in her childhood.” Jamie had watched Ernst in the role of father; he was remote and distant, his natural charm saved for his paramours.

  “Just keep her safe,” Ben ordered. “By whatever means,” he grimly added.

  “You have my word.”

  “Remember, Amelia’s not to know any of this. I don’t want her frightened.”

  “Agreed. And if you’ll see that she and Sofia stay in tomorrow. They can’t be outside for any reason. Lock them in their rooms if necessary.”

  Ben chuckled. “You couldn’t stand the din. I’ll think of something.”

  Jamie nodded. “Until morning then.”

  CHAPTER 22

  VON METIS SLEPT the peaceful sleep of a man without a conscience, content in his plans. He anticipated a productive visit, the information gleaned sure to please Von Welden. It would also allow him to set a new course in pursuit of his quarry.

  The count was relatively certain that Miss Eastleigh would have informed her mother of her life-changing news. Women, after all, were loquacious as a gender. Which meant his mission would be to exert a double helping of charm—a familiar enough tactic used countless times in similar situations—and gain from this man, Miller, the necessary details of Miss Eastleigh’s flight.

  The astonishing tale of Sofia’s new status had spread like wildfire through the ton. Von Metis had heard the news at White’s immediately upon arriving at the club. In the course of the next hour while he’d won some hands and lost some—not that it mattered with his newly replenished funds—he’d tactfully grilled his acquaintances for the particulars of the scandal. The who, what, when, where— mostly where in his case. By the time he’d taken his leave, he’d discovered that Prince Ernst’s recently acknowledged daughter was a beautiful enchantress of marked independence, an artist of some renown, and offspring of parents well placed in society and the avant-garde.

  On the cab ride back to his hotel, he’d separated the wheat from the chaff in terms of useful intelligence—a habitual methodology for him. To all appearances, Sofia Eastleigh, along with her father and the principessa, had departed London and were most likely beyond reach at the moment. Although based on experience—Latour’s handsome charm found favor with the ladies—he was optimistic with regard to Sofia having contacted her mother. He only hoped that her farewell message had included an address where she could be reached.

  Hence, his flying trip north.

  Also not to be discounted, inveterate gambler that he was, he’d been seized by a sharp sense of inevitability—like knowing the odds of winning with a royal flush in hand.

  He’d felt damned lucky.

  As if in confirmation, when he’d retired to the club car on the train and joined a table of fellow travelers playing cards, he’d won.

  Consistently. A portent of success, he’d pleasantly concluded.

  WHILE JAMIE WAITED for Sofia in their bedroom that night, he reviewed the morning’s affairs with a clinical specificity; semper paratus (always ready) was his motto.

  Latour wasn’t an amateur—except perhaps at cards; he’d come fully armed with the Roth Steyr handguns he preferred. The count was an expert marksman; even years ago at the military academy where they’d first met, Von Metis had been a crack shot.

  He was a professional, deadly opponent—the fact that he’d tracked them down a demonstration of his competence. Von Metis had always been clever and quick-witted with more than his share of self-esteem. Completely indifferent to the military ideals of honor and devotion to duty, he possessed instead a Machiavellian guile that had brought him to Von Welden’s notice—and an addiction to gambling that continued to bind him to his devilish master. In addition, Von Metis had a propensity for savagery—rumors of torture were persistent. Where better to exploit that depravity than in the dark underbelly of society where thuggery was sanctioned as political expediency?

  As for Von Metis’s self-assured swagger, Jamie considered it his greatest weakness.

  On balance, Johan was manageable. If he escaped Jamie’s retribution, he’d never get out of the farmyard alive. Whether he knew they were here or not, or whether he was only reconnoitering Sofia’s family, the answer would be the same.

  Jamie glanced up as the bedroom door opened, smiled, and transferred his attention to more pleasant affairs.

  “You’re still awake.” Sofia shut the door behind her and moved toward the bed where Jamie lay, propped against the pillows, nude and waiting. “I was hoping you would be.”

  His intimate green gaze was smiling, too. “I need not ask why.”

  “I should hope not after—what . . . two days?”

  “Three, two of them spent servicing you.”

  “For which I’m eternally grateful.”

  “And yet?”

  She wrinkled her nose, not entirely s
ure she liked being so dependent on his services. “Don’t be so smug.”

  “I believe bewitched is the word,” he softly said.

  “Oh good!” She offered him a dazzling smile and kicked off her slippers. “I thought you might not want to make love after—well . . . you know.”

  “You thought wrong.” He wouldn’t be making love in cramped circumstances tonight. “Come, darling,” he said, patting the bed. “I’ve missed you. Did you have a nice coze with your mother?”

  “I did—sharply curtailed, however, by my need for you.”

  “We seem to be in accord. I was thinking about coming downstairs, picking you up, and carrying you back upstairs, and if not for your parents, I might have.”

  She smiled. “Because you’re as obsessed as I.”

  He hesitated briefly at the word obsessed. Then he smiled and said, “Yes.” It was perfectly reasonable to be obsessed about sex.

  “Was the telegram anything of importance?” She was swiftly unfastening the bodice of her gown, selfish in her desires as usual—intent, impatient.

  “Some good news actually.” Her complete lack of affectation always charmed him; most women required the pretense of seduction. “Oz and Fitz eliminated two of Von Welden’s men.”

  Her fingers paused for a moment and she looked up. “You don’t say?”

  “I do. We’re much safer now, and if you’d care to stay for another day,” he said at his most sincere and disarming, “I’m amenable.”

  Her gaze widened. “Are you serious?”

  “I am. It’s up to you.”

  “Then, yes, yes, yes, and thank you!” Sofia exuberantly proclaimed, resuming her unbuttoning with less frenzy now that the threat of departure had been warded off. “Fitz and Oz are darlings, aren’t they, along with Oz’s personal militia, which I assume was instrumental in the operation.”

  “No doubt. The telegram didn’t go into detail. Come here; let me do that. I’m in the mood to rip off your clothes.” An impulse partly attributable to the hazardous events confronting him. The violent urge for sex was inextricably linked with the chance of dying—as any soldier knew. “In the case of that dress,” he added with a roguish smile, “it’s no great loss.”