by Laura Parker
“You may not wish to acknowledge the relationship but I assure you, as the dowager viscountess, I am well within my rights to enter any room of my own home at my choosing.” To quell the shot of nerves that speech gave her, she moved to deposit herself on the settee. “If we are to toss daggers at one another it were better done at a civil level. Unless you prefer to make our conversation the stuff of gossip among the servants.”
Emotion glinted in the thicket of his black lashes, reminding her of a jungle cat that had marked its prey. Reaching behind himself, he turned the key in the lock. The distinct click of the latch resounded very loudly in her ears. The stalking had begun.
“And now, madam,” he said with deceptive deference when he stood over her. “Who, exactly, are you?”
In silence Japonica allowed her gaze to rest brazenly on him for a moment. Why was he maintaining the pretense that they were unacquainted? She was prepared to meet his angry surprise with accusations of her own, but with the craftiness of a predator he had moved into the position of aggressor and put her on the defense. How like the Hind Div.
Her heart gave a nervous start as she looked away, but her resolve hardened. No doubt he had a purpose in delaying the confrontation. Two could play at that game.
“Before we turn to other matters may I first inquire about your health?”
He turned abruptly away toward the hearth. “That is no concern of yours.”
Surprised by his retreat, she pursued the matter. “Perhaps not, though I feel as if I had some little part in your recovery. At least we can be grateful there has been no repeat of the ordeal.”
He looked up sharply. “What the devil are you prattling about?”
A flush of annoyance stung her cheeks. “My small skill as a herbalist may be of little note to you, Lord Sinclair, yet it was responsible for making you comfortable the first time we met But then, you are something of an alchemist yourself, are you not? Potions in wine are your specialty.”
His frown deepened into a scowl. “I haven’t the slightest idea what you are talking about.”
She blinked. Was this some new game of wits to lure her into a trap? Or was it his design to shame her by making her speak first of her seduction at his hands? Oh, but that was wicked!
She laced her trembling fingers together, more determined than ever not to slip into the position of pawn in a game at which he was a master. “Very well, let’s discuss more recent events. You do recall how I came to be in your room the other night? How your cries roused the entire house? Do you not remember how we spoke and that I … ?” The puzzlement in his gaze increased with her every word until she did wonder at its purpose. “You do remember?”
His gaze danced away from hers as he moved to a humidor on a nearby table and opened it. He took his time in choosing a cigar and then looked up, pinning her with his oddly bright stare. “Madam, unless I have lost what little wit yet resides inside this skull, I would swear that I never before this hour set eyes upon you.”
Japonica searched his face for a hint of a smirk, the gleam in the eye of a liar, the smug stare of the consummate bluff. She saw none of it. “You would have me believe you remember nothing? Nothing at all?”
He looked away. “I suffer lapses. There are gaps in my memory. Caused by my wounds.” He again met her gaze with a thrust of emotion. In that golden glance she read the truth. He did not remember.
She stared with mouth slightly ajar, confounded by the revelation. He had knocked the pins out from under her, if he could be believed. The Hind Div was a master of bewilderment and obfuscation. Yet, if it were true that he had lost all memory—all memory of her—then she had nothing to fear from him.
Or perhaps she was wrong. He was not the Hind Div.
She closed her eyes, trying to recompose his features. If his lean cheeks were striped and the hard jaw stenciled by a thin beard, would they be … ?
“Where did we first meet?”
“What?” She glanced up warily. He had moved closer to her. Those eyes—she would swear she recognized them.
“You say we are acquainted.” The muscles in his jaw bundled, etched for moments under his taut skin, and then eased. “Where did we meet?”
Panic stole over Japonica. Her throat seemed to close. Steady on, old girl. She could almost hear her father’s voice warning her, as he often did, to keep her wits when she was about to make a mistake. It was not too late to retreat. Every one of her secrets remained intact. His weakness had become her advantage.
She sat up a little straighter. “Before I answer I should like to put a question to you.” He merely stared at her. “How often are you plagued by … lapses?”
Devlyn physically recoiled from the question. No one dared question him so directly about his infirmities.
“I have insulted you.” She said it in a calm and composed voice. “I beg your pardon. I had not thought you would be so sensitive.”
“Sensitive?”
Devlyn stared at her. He wished now he had paid better attention to the solicitor’s tedious tale of how she had come to be a dowager viscountess. But he had been in the throes of a struggle with nonexistent memories that had erupted into blinding pain once he reached Mayfair. So it was she who had been in his room that night. Had she also climbed into his bed? She did not seem a bold baggage. To the contrary, she would seem the sort to turn her face to the wall at the slightest embarrassment. There were things here he did not know, things he suddenly wanted to understand.
No longer eager to be rid of her, he subsided in the chair opposite her, an unlit cigar dangling from the fingers of his left hand. “How old are you?”
“I am one and twenty.”
“One and twenty.”
He perused her slowly. Her figure, from what little he could detect beneath the drab ill-fitting clothing, was youthfully neat. The unexceptional face staring up at him might be quite pleasant if it were not so agitated. How vulnerable she seemed, her lower lip caught like a bite of ripe strawberry in her pearly teeth. What had induced this little wren to wed a man twice and half again her age?
The answer came quickly to mind. Money. Of course. Mr. Simmons did mention the circumstances of Lord Abbott’s second marriage. She had married a dying man for his money. As a rule such women were adventuresses, beguiling wenches of who-knew-what scandalous reputation, who played upon the vanity of elderly roues. Yet this women gave lie to the rule. The sprinkle of golden freckles across her nose gave her a certain charm and the intelligence in her fine eyes were certainly attributes in her favor. But in total she lacked the style or beauty to lure a man’s baser appetites. What, then, was her allure?
Devlyn sank a little lower in his seat, eyes half-shaded by his lids. “Tell me more about the other evening.”
Unaware of the nature of the suspicions he had fashioned about her, Japonica recited the events as they unfolded from her point of view. She omitted only the two salient facts that might rouse his curiosity, which were that she suspected that he was the Hind Div and that they had conversed solely in Persian.
“Is that … all?”
“What else could there be?”
He noted her blush. She would not, then, mention climbing into his bed. And he was just unsure enough of his recollection to doubt the wisdom of suggesting that possibility to her. So innocent looking, she might swoon at his feet. But her apparent wholesomeness made him distrustful.
After a lengthy silence during which resin hissed as it boiled from a fissure in a log upon the fire, he finally spoke. “I suffer from headaches. There are moments when I am not in complete … command of myself.” He hesitated, as if the words were hard for him to utter.
“Memory lapses and the rages, is that the summation of your symptoms?”
He smiled to himself. How quickly she pounced on the information, nay, prompted him to reveal more. She, no doubt, hoped to make use of this information for her own purposes. He was right to be distrustful of her w
hen it was his inclination to be otherwise. That must be the source of her deviousness, to appear helpful when in truth she possessed the conniving heart of Jezebel.
He stood and took three steps toward her and held up his right arm so his pinned sleeve nearly skimmed her nose. “You’ve noticed my—infirmity.”
Japonica hesitated. He towered over her like some vengeful deity, his golden eyes the only animated thing in his ghostly pale face. “You, of course, know the answer. I dressed your wounds myself.”
Her answer seemed to enrage him. He snatched at the pinning of his sleeve, tearing and pulling at the fabric of his cuff until his stump was revealed. This time he bent down to bring his gaze onto a level with hers as he held his bared arm before her face. “Does it frighten and disgust you? Or this?” He touched the scar bisecting his brow. “Don’t lie. I will know if you do.”
She looked first at his ruined arm and then met his gaze with sadness. “Whatever discomfort the sight might give me it cannot be anything compared to what it must be to you, who deal with it daily.”
Meeting her candid expression forced upon Devlyn the discomforting feeling he had been gauche. Because he could not remember, he did not trust her. Yet the little brown wren seemed to have no feathers to ruffle.
Unaware of his thoughts, she reached out and touched his wrist where the once swollen scar had begun to heal again. “Are you in constant pain?”
He jerked away from her as though she had clawed him. “Don’t patronize me!”
Was his reaction one of thin-skinned pride or the beginnings of a rage he would not be able to contain? With a profound hope for the former she said, “You invited me to speak plainly. If you did not want to discuss it, you might not have brought it up.”
Devlyn turned away. As he rewrapped his arm with the torn ends of his shirtsleeve he pondered how he might turn this new knowledge of her to his advantage. By the time he resumed the chair opposite her he had an idea.
He reached up and touched the scar seaming his brow. “I’m told the blow that cracked my skull made a madman of me.” He looked directly across into her face. “What do you say to that?”
“That you are very lucky to be alive and in your right senses.”
“How would you know these are my right senses? I might have been any sort of man before.”
“I stand corrected.” She did know what kind of man he had once been but she would not help him to those memories. “I must confess the idea of madness does explain one thing. The lack of kindness and tact in your rude and offensive manner.”
Devlyn grunted and eased back in his chair, his gaze now half-hidden by lowered lids. Even if she were the most false jade in England, it had been some time since a lady had traded barbs with him. Most avoided his eye when they noticed his infirmity. The rest were made uncomfortable to the point of agitation. Not so Lady Abbott. The novelty of her entertained him and he was not quite ready to dismiss her.
“If you will linger about, make yourself useful. Pour me a port.”
Japonica rose without a word to do his bidding.
While she was plying decanter and glass, he watched her as an unexpected thought shot through his mind. I want her. For the first time in months—years?—raw desire sprung fully realized in him.
All at once she did not seem so plain. He let his gaze linger over her, noting her narrow waist, the full swell of bosom as she bent slightly forward, and the push of hips outlined by her old-fashioned gown. He had already noticed the deep plush of her lips, a fullness he would like to sink his teeth into.
They were known to one another, had met twice. She said as much at the outset of their conversation. Was she insulted because he did not remember her? Or was it because he had forgotten how well he once knew her? That idea stung him anew. There did seem familiarity in the striking red curls. Something in the defiant way she spoke to him.
Dim recall stirred in his morass of lost memory. It failed almost instantly, leaving in its wake the first dull throb of a headache.
When she turned to hand the glass to him, something new caught his attention. “What is that you are wearing?”
“The usual custom of gown,” she answered with a doubtful glance at him.
“I mean your scent.” He leaned forward to catch another whiff even as she tried to back away. “What is it?”
“Oh that.” Embarrassed, she reached up to touch first her cheek and then the tiny gold loop with a pearl drop in her ear. “A fragrance of my own making. The essence is cyprinum.”
“The henna flower?” Devlyn’s eyes widened. “Since when do English ladies wear such ….” He took a slow in-drawn breath of her heady floral perfume. It prompted half a dozen images of seduction, each more arousing than the one preceding it. “Strong,” he said finally, “such strong scent.”
For a fleeting instance Japonica saw desire in his expression, the desire of the Hind Div.
“That fragrance reminds me of ….”
She held her breath as his expression contorted with the effort of his thoughts. Was he remembering? She had not worn her personal fragrance in months, for it bothered Jamie. Only today, to bolster her courage, she had rubbed a little of the scented pomade into her wrists and throat. If it should be the thing that gave her away … !
“… I cannot place it,” he said finally, but his expression revealed that the search of his memory continued.
“Perhaps you’ve remarked it in the hallway these last days just after I’ve passed,” she suggested, hoping to steer him from deeper memory.
“No, ’tis more….” He stared at her as if he could divine the answer in her expression, “… profound than that.”
“That is not surprising,” Japonica answered, rushing to provide other suggestions of the mundane. “Herbs and fragrant oils are useful for so many purposes. Did you know camphor protects your stored clothing from an infestation of insects? Oil of cloves can mask even the odor of the privy. I intend to burn frankincense in all the cleaned rooms to dispel the lingering odor of decay ….”
“That is not the association!”
The dark look he gave her quelled her intention to continue in that vein. She backed toward the settee and resumed her seat.
Devlyn sipped his port and brooded. Damn his addled head! He could not remember! But he knew one thing. Hers was not a perfume for the meek and cowed young woman she appeared to be. It was the siren scent of allurement. His baser instinct was never wrong. So then, this was a game of wits between them. He did not care who won, as long as he received as quickly as possible the pleasure of her spread beneath him. “You said you had two reasons to make yourself known to me.”
“Yes.” Japonica smiled, feeling on firm ground at last. “I wish to speak to you on the matter of Lord Abbott’s five ….”
“Aaaaahh! Put it out! Put it out!”
The cry of anguish accompanied the sound of footfalls pounding down the main staircase.
“Bismallah!” Japonica sprang from her seat and hurried to the exit.
She opened the salon doors just in time to see Laurel sprinting toward the front door with some sort of burning torch raised over her head.
A hapless Alyssum ran behind, her arms outstretched imploringly. “It’s mine! You can’t do that!”
A chuckle of malice escaped Laurel as she reached the front door and jerked it open. “We’ve no choice. It must go!” Slinging back the burning object in her hand, she flung it with amazing strength through the opening. Alyssum’s screech of dismay accompanied the trajectory of the burning missile.
“What is going on?” Japonica demanded as she reached them.
“I’ve saved us all!” Laurel declared and pointed out the door.
Japonica stuck her head out and recognized the half-burned object lying in the snowy lane. “That’s Alyssum’s new bonnet,” she said when she had pulled her head in.
“I had to get rid of it. It might have burnt the house down around
our ears.” Laurel aimed a triumphant glance at Lord Sinclair, who had come into the hall to see for himself what was going on. “I’ve saved everyone here.”
“Why was it on fire?” Japonica demanded.
“Laurel knocked my bonnet into a candle,” Alyssum cried, for once moved beyond intimidation by her loss. Stars shone in the tears suspended in her lovely eyes. “It was the prettiest thing I ever owned!”
“If you were more careful with where you place your things it would never have happened,” Laurel answered, but her gaze never left the face of the gentleman in their midst. “Isn’t that right, Lord Sinclair?”
“I was careful. You moved it!”
“I did not touch ….”
“You did! You did,” joined in Peony, who had arrived on a noiseless tread. “Laurel t-t-tried it on when Alyssum’s back was turned.”
“She tried to put it back before Alyssum noticed and it tipped into the lit candle wick,” Cynara offered from the stairs where she was descending with Hyacinthe.
“No. She did it on purpose!” Peony cried.
“You little fool!” Laurel lifted her hand and smacked Peony full across the face. The slap resounded throughout the entry like the crack of a rifle.
Japonica grabbed the offender’s arm as Peony’s wail keened through the space on an unnerving note. “Don’t you ever dare touch her again! Or I shall slap you in return.”
That was all the fuel the moment needed. They fell to arguing, the noise of their hectoring voices rising into a crescendo of high-pitched cries.
“Get out! At once! All of you!” The sound of Lord Sinclair’s voice cut across the noise like a great clap of thunder. In its wake there was only trembling and silence.
“Well?” The single syllable sent the sisters scampering up the stairs like leaves driven by a stiff breeze.
When they were again upstairs, Devlyn turned on Japonica a look of icy fury. “You, madam, will follow me.” He turned and strode back into the room they had exited. She followed, feeling at once foolish and furious that he had been witness to the fray.
“I am so sorry that you met the girls under these unfortunate circumstances. Generally they are quite….” The sardonic lift of his brows made her falter over what she intended to be a tactful, if howling, lie.