Probably just rumors. But from the description, it had sounded exactly like the beautiful brunette with the striking blue eyes in D’Avenant’s cabin…
Greyslake chewed his cigar. It was too late now to regret not taking the chit with him. Whatever information she might have known had died with her. The Valor’s boats had barely gotten clear of the sinking ship before it exploded and went down in the darkness.
The girl was dead, along with D’Avenant, at the bottom of the sea with the Valor for their coffin. Greyslake would have to settle for that satisfaction.
He turned the page, looking for more stories about himself. As he scanned the columns, a different name leaped out at him.
D’Avenant.
His gaze swooped back. As he read the headline, the lit cigar tumbled from his mouth.
D’Avenant Rescuer to Receive Medal.
With a searing string of curses, Greyslake leaped out of bed, the paper clutched in his scarred fist as he hurriedly read the rest.
Captain Andrew Bennett of the sloop Crusader, whose miraculous rescue of a member of the famed D’Avenant family this publication reported here Monday last, will receive a medal for meritorious service from the Admiralty at a ceremony Wednesday next. Captain Bennett will be honored for saving the life of Captain Saxon D’Avenant of the East India Co., and a lady passenger from aboard his ship, the rescue of the crew of which is reported elsewhere in these pages. Captain D’Avenant and the lady were located only after suffering terribly during weeks upon a deserted island in the Indian Ocean, which story this reporter is presently endeavoring to secure. The lady is believed to have been separated as a child from her British parents…
“Son of a bitch!” Greyslake crushed the paper between his hands, fury and disbelief ripping through him. D’Avenant was still alive!
He flung the wadded paper at the woman cowering in his bed. “Get up. Get out!”
She grabbed a sheet to cover herself as she ran for the door. Greyslake picked up the silver tray piled with half-empty dishes and sent it flying against the wall, finding no satisfaction in the shattering porcelain.
Breathing hard, he tried to get a grip on himself. D’Avenant probably knew everything already—not only that Greyslake was back in London, but exactly where he was. The bastard didn’t even need his network of informants, for God’s sake. Greyslake’s whereabouts were splattered all over the papers!
And here he was sipping coffee in his own bed in his own town house. He might as well paint a target on his back! They could be outside even now…
Greyslake rushed to his armoire and yanked it open, dressing quickly without summoning his valet. Then he withdrew a pair of pistols from a concealed drawer. He had to get out of here. Secretly, quietly, fast.
From what the paper reported, D’Avenant had been in town for more than a week. He’d had time to plan. To choose a strategy. To protect his family, to protect—
The girl.
Greyslake stopped, his shirt half-buttoned. Calm settled over him as confidence returned in a rush. Walking back to the bed, he snatched up the crumpled newspaper, opening it on the mattress and smoothing it out until he could read the smeared ink. He scanned the article, seeking her name.
Lady Ashiana.
He committed that to memory and threw the paper aside. From what his spies had managed to discover in the Andamans, she had something to do with the jewels. Now he would have the opportunity to personally wring the information out of her.
She was the key.
Eagerness washed over him. He would have the sapphires and D’Avenant’s death. All he needed to do was get his hands on the girl.
And he knew exactly how he would do it.
More than a thousand people had crammed into the Drury Lane Theatre for the evening’s six o’clock performance. The galleries and pit overflowed with peers and ladies, maids and footmen, dissipated lords eager to visit the latest comely young actresses backstage, and noisy crowds of young bucks dropping by just for a scene or two on their way to the coffeehouses. Those who weren’t busy talking to one another stamped their feet and banged sticks on the wooden seats, impatient for the curtain to rise.
Saxon took it all in, his gut churning with wariness and unease. Greyslake had disappeared two weeks ago, vanished just hours after he arrived, even as Saxon’s men lay poised to spring their trap. They could find no trace of him, but the snake would have to surface soon. The Phoenix was scheduled to leave London in three days.
Three days. Before then this deadly duel that had skirmished from London to India and back again, over years and seas and continents, would finally end.
Saxon burned for vengeance more than ever, now that it hovered within his reach. Finally, he would have justice. For innocent Mandara, who had died on their wedding day on the Kashmir plains. For his murdered crewmen who had gone down with the Valor.
Three days.
He needed to lure Greyslake out before then, taunt him into attempting a desperate move in the open. But Saxon was not about to play games with the lives of his family. Tonight, he had taken multiple precautions. The tiny candles that lit the lavish D’Avenant family box, for example, left them almost in darkness, illuminated only by a wisp of a glow. And some of those dissipated-looking lords and noisy young bucks down there were Saxon’s own hand-picked men.
Still, as he scanned the audience, he knew that the small party seated in the D’Avenant box made a quintet of appealing targets: himself, Ashiana, Max, his mother, and Julian, who had finally returned home from India last week.
His mother leaned forward from her seat beside Max and spoke to Ashiana. “I know you’ll enjoy this, my dear. One cannot truly know England until one has seen Shakespeare. Are you certain you’re quite well, though? Your sniffles seem to be getting worse.”
“I am quite all right.” Ashiana sneezed.
Saxon, sitting at Ashiana’s right, offered his handkerchief. “Her cold couldn’t have anything to do with the fact that you’ve been giving her the grand tour in the middle of December, could it, Mother?”
The duchess opened her fan with a snap. “I would hardly call a few afternoons in the local shops, an impromptu ride in St. James’s Park, and accepting invitations to tea here and there ‘the grand tour.’”
“You’ve barely allowed us to go anywhere,” Ashiana complained, waving aside the proffered handkerchief and using her own.
“I’ve explained why that’s necessary. Ten or twelve times. I also don’t think it’s a good idea for you to be out in this weather when you’re not used to the climate. And it appears I’ve been proven right.” Saxon jammed the linen square back into his waistcoat.
Since learning of Greyslake’s return, he had restricted the ladies’ outings, and accompanied the pair as much as possible, but his mother was not one to listen to reason or let the threat of a little violence ruin her enjoyment of life. Tonight she had been adamant in her insistence on a grand evening out to celebrate the holidays, and steadfast in her confidence that Saxon could protect them from any harm.
Max scanned the audience through a pair of opera glasses. “I would hardly say you’ve been gathering dust at home, Mother. It hasn’t been all that bad.”
“That’s right,” Julian leaned forward from his seat on their mother’s left. “You two ladies have been like a pair of snowbirds, flitting about everywhere from Charing Cross to the Strand and pecking at us poor men to carry your packages. Peck, peck, peck—”
“Oh, stop it, you.” The duchess tapped Julian with her fan, but her smile was brighter than the chandelier that lit the stage below. “I’m just so happy to have three of my sons all home at the same time. I can’t help it if I’m in the mood to go out and celebrate. And there are Christmas gifts to be bought.”
“Yes, convenient of you to grace us with your presence just in time for Yuletide, Jules,” Max said.
“I pride myself on timing.” Julian looked down the row and winked at Ashiana. “Who could resist wassail
and plum pudding and the company of two such lovely ladies?”
“Timing, hell,” Saxon commented. “You’re just lucky you left India with a guardian angel on your shoulder. The winter gale that blew you into port could just as easily have sent the Rising Star to the bottom of the Channel. All that money you spent repairing your ship would have been wasted.”
“I hoisted sail for home just as soon as I received your message that you were aboard the Crusader.” Julian flashed one of his easy smiles. “And we all have angels watching over us, Sax. Some are invisible, some aren’t. All an angel requires in return is adoration and devotion.”
Saxon shot him a glare. His brother the cheerful rake was the last man in London who should be dispensing advice on matters of adoration and devotion. Saxon still couldn’t believe how easily Julian had forgiven Ashiana for her work as a spy.
Julian had been angry at first, upon hearing that the sapphire she had taken from Saxon—the one Julian had spent weeks searching for from Daman to Bombay—had been on the Valor all along. But when Ashiana had explained her reasons, Julian had been quick to accept her apologies. He had also privately told his older brother that—prince be damned—Saxon would be an idiot to allow such a brave, beautiful, extraordinary woman to walk out of his life.
Ashiana sneezed again.
“Bless you,” Saxon grumbled.
“Thank you,” she replied with cool formality. “You are most kind, my lord.”
Frowning, he returned his attention to the audience. What Julian failed to grasp was that Ashiana had no interest in Saxon’s adoration and devotion. All she wanted was to return to her family. He had no choice but to respect her decision and honor his promise to take her home.
No matter how much torment he had to suffer in the meantime.
Tonight, he was finding it impossible to keep a gentlemanly distance while protecting her at the same time. He had moved his chair so close to hers that their arms brushed every time one of them moved. The emerald-green velvet gown she wore, embroidered in silver at the bodice and sleeves, set off her fair complexion to stunning effect…and left her shoulders bare. The occasional touch of her naked skin against the cloth of his steel-gray coat sent heat and tension radiating through him.
The scent she wore only intensified his suffering. It was an intoxicating blend of Indian spices and English roses that a perfumer had mixed especially for her.
Just sitting beside her was wreaking havoc on his breathing, his senses and his concentration. Which was damned dangerous.
“Oh, look, Ashiana,” the duchess said brightly. “There’s that charming Captain Bennett. Didn’t you decline an invitation from him to be with us tonight?”
Ashiana waved her fan and smiled at Bennett, who sat with a group of Naval officers on the opposite side of the theatre. Saxon had already noticed them but saw no familiar faces other than that six-foot popinjay, and no reason to point him out.
“Yes, I was ordered to decline the invitation.” Ashiana cast an irritated look Saxon’s way. “But Andrew has asked me to join his family and some friends after the play for a late supper, and I accepted.”
Saxon narrowed his eyes. “You didn’t tell me that.”
“I saw no need. Andrew is certainly not a threat to my safety. You know him quite well.”
“We all do, after the past two weeks.” Max grinned. “Late supper with Bennett. Tea with Bennett. Whist with Bennett. Luncheon with Bennett.”
The duchess nodded. “I think it’s been very sweet of the kind captain to visit often, since Ashiana hasn’t been able to get out much.”
“Hasn’t been allowed out much,” Ashiana amended. “And Andrew will not be in London much longer. His ship is being sent to help block-head a French port.”
“Blockade, dear,” the duchess corrected.
“Blockhead is perfectly accurate,” Saxon muttered. “About time he got his sailing orders. The charming captain has become such a fixture at the house, I was thinking of having him stuffed and hung over the hearth.”
“Sax, don’t be ridiculous. He’d clash with the decor,” Julian quipped. “What with that big gold medal dangling around his neck and all.”
Ashiana gave Saxon another annoyed look. “I think it was terribly rude of us not to attend Andrew’s medal ceremony. It was not his fault that his name was connected with ours in the newspapers.”
“I believe it’s time for us all to stop chattering, please,” Max admonished, consulting his pocket watch. “The curtain is about to go up and this is a very serious play.”
“I thought you said it was a comedy,” Julian protested.
“The Merchant of Venice is considered a comedy by most, but it contains some quite powerful and intriguing themes. For instance—”
“Themes?” Julian groaned. “I thought this was going to be fun.”
“Shakespeare is fun,” Max countered.
Julian shook his head in despair. “We have to get you out more often, lad.”
“Don’t call me ‘lad.’” Max scowled. “You’re only four years older than I am. And yes, I have devoted myself to my studies, but—”
“You can tell me the themes of the play, Max,” Ashiana interrupted, gently but deftly deflecting his ire. “I would like to know.”
Turning away from Julian, Max smiled at finding a more receptive audience. “I really think it’s one of the Bard’s best. All about justice and forgiveness. In the fourth act, Portia, the heiress, has a marvelous speech that begins, ‘The quality of mercy is not strained’—‘strained’ in this sense, of course, meaning constrained or compelled…”
Saxon returned his gaze to the audience while Ashiana listened with rapt attention to Max’s dissertation. She asked questions and offered comments at appropriate points, though she couldn’t possibly be half so interested as she appeared. She was merely being kind to make up for Julian’s complaining.
Saxon couldn’t believe he had ever dismissed Ashiana’s kindness as mere deception. Her caring nature had been there all along: on his ship, every time she teased him out of a bad mood. On their island, when she tended his injuries and offered him a soothing drink in a pineapple shell. At the town house, when she kept silent about how much she disliked the weather and the clothes and everything else about England.
He was the only one who knew her well enough to recognize her unhappiness.
Ashiana’s feminine tenderness and caring and softness had enchanted him from the moment he met her…and had come to seem as essential to him as air.
The curtain rose and Max leaned forward to blow out the candles at the front of the box as a hush fell over the audience.
Saxon sat taut as a drawn bowstring, thinking not of the the dangers that might lurk in the darkness, or of the words of the players on the stage, but of how it was going to feel when he took Ashiana home to her family—and she said farewell to him for the last time.
“Are you all right?” Ashiana whispered, her face so close to his, he could feel her breath on his cheek.
“Would you please stop asking that?” he whispered back.
“Pardon me.” She watched the play again. “You looked as if you were in pain. I thought—”
“If I feel a curse coming on, I’ll tell you.”
He could scarcely see her in the darkness, but he swore he could almost feel the heat of her pulse, they were sitting so close.
She slanted him a frustrated look. “I do not think you are taking this at all seriously.”
“At present there are more serious matters that require my attention. You’re the one who should be concerned about your health.” He lifted her hand from where it lay on the arm of her chair, feeling her warmth even through her white silk glove. “You shouldn’t be out in this weather. And you haven’t been eating enough. You’re almost frail.”
She shivered. He couldn’t tell if it was because of her cold…or because of his touch.
“I-I will be fine as soon as I return home. Where there is sunlight
. And a warm breeze every day. And spices stronger than salt and pepper.”
“You’re trembling,” he whispered. “If you have chills, you really should be back at the house. In bed.”
Her gaze met his in the darkness. “I…I have had chills since the day I set foot in this frozen country of yours. Tonight is nothing out of the ordinary.”
Saxon disagreed. Tonight felt very much out of the ordinary. She returned her attention to the stage…but she didn’t pull her hand away.
He threaded his fingers through hers. She felt light, fragile, as if she would float away without the heavy gown and his hold on her to keep her in place. In the dusky light, he could just make out the contours of her cheekbones, concerned to notice that they seemed more pronounced than they had when she arrived in England.
It was ironic. She had been keeping constant watch over his health, asking if he was well, alert for any sign of illness that might indicate the curse had begun to affect him. And all along, she was the one who was—
A sudden, chilling thought sliced through him.
What if it was affecting her instead?
His heart thudded painfully hard in his chest. It made no sense. But then the fact that Max had been stricken had made no sense either. He tried to thrust the wild fear aside, grasping for some handful of logic.
She was thin because she wasn’t eating enough. Her sniffles were the result of the cold weather. England was having this effect on her, not the curse.
“Ouch.” She glanced at him with a frown.
“Sorry.” Saxon relaxed his grip on her hand and forced himself to take a deep breath, trying to recover his balance. He felt shaken, utterly stunned by the forceful emotions that had rushed through him at the thought of anything happening to Ashiana.
Tearing his gaze from her profile, he swept a keen glance over the audience, filled with a renewed sense of purpose. Three days. He would be finished with Greyslake within three days. Then he and Ashiana would leave for India and reunite those damned sapphires once and for all. And he would not say farewell to her until he was certain she was all right.
One Night with a Scoundrel Page 30