Sweet Deception (Hidden Identity)

by Colleen French

  "It's difficult to explain." He came up out of his chair and slid into hers, wrapping his arm tightly around her.

  Ellen could feel herself trembling. On the one hand, she was almost repelled by Gavin. He was the enemy. He had admitted by his own words that he sought her and that if he found her, he would see her hang for her alleged crime.

  But from the utter desperation she felt at this moment, she needed his touch. Even knowing what she did, she still loved him. How ironic it was that the man who pursued her for Waldron's death was the only person who could wash away the memories of the anguish her husband had inflicted upon her. Not even Richard could make her safe like Gavin could.

  And she felt for Gavin's pain. No matter how wrong he was about his brother, his pain over his loss was genuine. Instinctively, she reached out to caress his cheek, to draw his head to her breast.

  She knew now she could never tell Gavin that she was Thomasina Waxton. She could never convince him it was only in self-defense that she had struggled with Waldron. She wasn't even certain she had been the one to push him. The night was nothing but a blur now. Hadn't he just fallen?

  No, the Waldron whom Gavin knew was a different man. The Thomasina Waxton whom Gavin knew was a different woman. Too much time had passed. And why try to change Gavin's opinion of his brother now if it would serve her no purpose? If she was going to lose him no matter what, why not let him believe in the good man rather than the evil?

  Gavin turned his face toward hers and she responded with a kiss. As their lips met and his hand brushed against the curve of her breast, thoughts of Waldron faded. Right now she wouldn't think about her husband, or about who Gavin was, or even about dear Richard at home alone, pacing the floors and drinking too much. Right now she would think of nothing but Gavin and the taste of his lips. She would ease the pain in his heart and worry about her own later.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Richard waved a dismal farewell to his companions, who rode off laughing and shouting from a rented hell cart. He took his time walking up the icy steps of the building where he and Ellen rented their apartment. A street or two over, a watchman mournfully cried out the time of one in the morning.

  Richard took the steps slowly, in no hurry to be inside. Without Ellen, the apartment was a tomb. No matter how many candles he lit or how high he had the servants burn-the flames in the fireplaces, it was still a dismal, lonely place.

  Richard glanced up at the quarter moon that hung low in the smoky horizon over the City. He had known he was going to lose her someday; he had known it from the night he had picked her up on that deserted stretch of roadway in Essex. So why did it hurt so much?

  He tried to tell himself it was the danger she was putting herself in. Hunt was a hawk with his talons bared, waiting somewhere out there. Merrick was the link. Waxton, he corrected himself—the brother to the man she had killed.

  Gavin. Richard didn't know if he was in Hunt's confidences, but he seriously doubted it. The man Ellen had fallen in love with was too honorable a person. Richard had done some investigating into Hunt since the man had returned from France, and he had not liked what he had found. Ellen's descriptions and interpretations had only scratched the surface of the man's true character. Hers had been the observations of an innocent woman.

  Word had it that not only was Hunt a dishonorable man, but he was also deadly. He had a great deal of influence with the king and thought nothing of using it for his own means, with or without Charles's approval. It was said he was a man no man wanted as an enemy in political circles. Apparently, in the last two years, seven close acquaintances of his had died unexpectedly or been beheaded on mysterious charges.

  Richard leaned on the wooden rail, taking a deep breath of the night air. As for Hunt's personal behavior, the man's background was riddled with scandal. He had been wed twice to young wealthy women; the first had died of a mysterious illness in their first year of marriage. Rumor had it the duke had poisoned her in a fit of jealousy. The second wife had gone mad with childbirth fever and had burned her infant son and herself up in her bedchamber. There were those who whispered that the duke had driven her to it after denying the child as his own.

  Then, of course, there were the tales of the Duke of Hunt's appetite for the perverted. Richard had always known there were places here in London where a man could find satisfaction of any twisted sexual desire possible, but the things he had heard about Hunt, procured through bribes, had made him physically ill.

  Richard started up the steps again. No. Gavin Waxton was probably not aware of Hunt's connection with Ellen, but no doubt the duke had used him to lure her into his home that night. No doubt Hunt would use him again if he chose to do so.

  So was that it? Was it the danger Ellen faced that made Richard want to hate Gavin? Was he only protecting her by wanting to keep her away from him? Or was it jealousy? Was it bitter envy?

  Bloody hell, yes! It made him angry that Gavin could take Ellen into his arms and touch her the way he couldn't. It made him even angrier that he liked the jackanapes. How could he hate a man he admired? How could he hate the man Ellen loved?

  If there was some way on God's earth Richard could solve Ellen's problems, erase the past or make it inconsequential, he would do it. He loved her so much that he wanted her to be happy, even if it meant in Gavin Waxton's arms.

  But that was an impossibility, wasn't it? Or was it? Gavin was a reasonable man. Perhaps honesty was the best answer. Or perhaps Ellen should just go to the Colonies with him, escape from the truth, and never utter a word about her real identity.

  Richard wished he knew the right thing to do. He wished he could advise Ellen, in spite of these emotions that kept getting in his way.

  He had been damned furious when he had gotten home the other night to find Gavin's note and Ellen gone. The note had simply read that they had gone into the country and would be back three days hence. Though there seemed to be no immediate danger, Richard was still enraged, perhaps because she'd not told him in person, perhaps because he now realized how little control he had over the decisions Ellen would make.

  But once the fury had passed, once he had broken few pieces of china, cursed the maid, and drunk a full bottle of brandy, a strange sense of pride had welled up in him.

  Ellen was not Thomasina Waxton, the woman she had been that night he had picked her up on the road, wet and frightened beyond reason. Thomasina could never have made the decision to go on a jaunt with the man she loved, despite the foolhardiness of it. Thomasina could never have put her own wants and needs above those of anyone else's. No, despite Richard's anger, his feelings of jealousy and fear for her safety, he was proud of the fact that she was finally able to take control of her own life. She was not the emotionally and physically battered woman she had once been. The truth was that she was strong, capable woman who no longer needed him as she once had. And no matter how sad that made him, he was still proud of her and of the fact she had been able to conquer such a dark past.

  Suddenly feeling a little lighter at heart, Richard swung open the heavy door and stepped into the front hallway. Oddly, the usually well-lit entrance was dissolved in inky blackness. The lamps both at the bottom and top of the stairs had gone out.

  Richard thought to tell Mistress Parkinson, the plump partridge of a woman who lived on the bottom floor and owned the building, but it was late and he saw no real need. Surely no one else would be coming in so late. He would let the widow have her sleep.

  Running his hand along the smooth polished railing, he climbed the steps, knowing his way even in the darkness. Ellen would be home tomorrow. Depending on how her excursion with Gavin had gone, perhaps he would suggest she again consider going with him to the Colonies and simply leaving Thomasina behind. Yes. He might just do that.

  At the second-story landing, Richard reached out for the doorknob of his apartment while fumbling for his key. Oddly, as his hand touched the knob, the door swung open. His brow creased in the darkness. He was us
ually quite careful about closing and locking the door. The street they lived on was safe enough, but thieves certainly wandered from their homes in Whitefriars to rob the fortunate.

  Cautiously, Richard pushed open the door with the tip of his shoe, and it squeaked as it swung. He peered inside and swore softly. Even in the darkness, his eyes had adjusted enough for him to see that the front room was in shambles. Thieves had swept through with a vindictive thoroughness, turning over every piece of furniture, spilling books onto the floor and ripping pictures down from the walls.

  Richard hit the door with his fist, pushing it the rest of the way open, and stepped inside. The first thing he would have to do was light a candle from the smoldering embers in the fireplace.

  Richard was not halfway across the room when he heard a floorboard creak beside him and felt the cold steel of a knife blade against his throat.

  "Move an inch and you die painfully," came a cold, almost sinister voice.

  Richard stiffened. "You've ransacked my home, no doubt taking every item of any value. What else do you want?"

  "A light," the voice ordered to someone else in the room.

  Richard heard the door click shut behind him as a shadow moved near the fireplace. A candle's wick flared and part of the room was blessed with feeble light. The man who held the candle was big and burly, with a head full of black hair. But it was the man who held the knife on Richard that immediately caught his attention.

  An albino. The Duke of Hunt. It could be no other.

  "What do you want?" Richard demanded.

  "You know."

  "She's not here."

  "I know. Gone slutting, I understand." Hunt took a step back as the black-haired man came up behind Richard. "But she's not what I seek at this moment." His pink inhuman eyes bore into Richard's. "What I want now is the letter."

  Out of the corner of his eye, Richard saw the man at the door move toward them. He was as huge and menacing as his counterpart. "I don't know what letter you speak of."

  The second man picked up an overturned chair and brought it to Hunt. The duke pressed his glinting gold knife and the blade retracted. He sat down, crossing his legs in an elegant pose.

  "Don't be a foolish man. I know it's here. Tell me and you'll spare yourself, for I am an insistent man."

  Richard took a step forward and immediately the brawny apes were on him, dragging him back. "I told you! I don't know!"

  Hunt slipped his hand into his shirtwaist and removed a small albino ferret, which he began to stroke. "Pity." He gave a nod.

  One henchman pinned Richard's arms so painfully behind him that if he moved, he was certain his wrists would snap. The other man raised a fist, and Richard saw a flash of metal before the brute hit him in the jaw with unbelievable force.

  Richard heard his jaw snap as the pain exploded in his face, bringing tears to his eyes.

  "The letter," Hunt persisted. "Tell me where it is and I'll get you some medical assistance. It would be a pity to mar that handsome face of yours."

  "I . . . I don't know what you're talking about, you bloody white ass!" I wouldn't betray you, sweet Ellen, he thought as he saw the man swing again. Not even for my life.

  This time it was the other side of his face that shattered in a mass of blood and cracking bone. Richard felt himself sag. One of the men lifted him up by the armpits so that he still faced Hunt.

  The albino went on stroking his bizarre pet, obviously taking a certain amount of pleasure in the violence. "The letter, dear Chambray. You're bleeding on the Turk carpet. It must have been quite costly."

  "If you hurt her, I swear to God I'll kill you!"

  Hunt let out a sigh of boredom.

  Without hesitation, one of the men struck again, this time bringing down the fireplace poker across one of Richard's shins.

  Richard heard himself cry out as his knees buckled. The only thing that kept him from falling was the black-haired bastard who held him up.

  "Keep him quiet," Richard heard Hunt bark through a veil of pain. "Someone will hear and call the watch."

  As the men hauled Richard to his feet again, one of them stuck a stinking handkerchief into his mouth.

  "I'm losing my patience," Hunt muttered. "Tell me where the letter I seek is, Chambray, and I'll have the boys release you."

  This time, Richard made no attempt to answer. He just squeezed his eyes shut as he felt another burst of pain, followed by another and then another, until he was no longer certain where he was being hit.

  Richard didn't know how long he remained conscious, but he wished he had not been a soldier accustomed to pain, because he remained coherent far too long. Finally, he felt himself slip into an icy blackness, away from the sound of his own muffled, tortured voice and the stark reality of his agony.

  It was midmorning when Ellen ran up the steps to her apartment, with Gavin following. She was anxious to see Richard, because despite the wonderful time she'd had with Gavin, she'd truly missed him. She was hoping she and the two men she loved could go out for something to eat before she had to be at the theater at noon. Her thought was that if Richard could just get to know Gavin, he would understand why she would take such risks to be with him the few short months left before he sailed for the Colonies.

  At the top of the landing, Ellen leaned over the railing, waving down at Gavin. "Aren't you coming?" Her gay voice echoed off the whitewashed walls.

  "I'm coming, but slowly. I believe you wore me out these last few days, sweet. You have to remember, I'm older than you are."

  She laughed and went to the door. Finding it open, she pushed in. "Richard?"

  She gasped at the sight of the room, her hand flying to her mouth. Thieves! Someone had turned over the furniture, ripped the upholstery, broken Richard's vases, and even torn the canvas from the wall.

  "Richard?"

  Someone came running down the hall. "All thank the Lord above you're home, Miss Ellen!" Rose, their maid, exclaimed, slapping her hands on her ample thighs. "You got to come! Master Richard, he's bad and he won't let me call no one in."

  By the time Gavin reached the doorway, catching the tail end of the conversation, Ellen had already lifted her skirts and was running down the hall.

  "Richard!" She darted into his bedchamber, and what she saw made her stop dead in her tracks.

  Rose leaned in the doorway. "Found 'im like that this morning, ma'am."

  "Oh, Richard," Ellen whispered, tears welling in her eyes.

  Richard lay on his bed, perfectly motionless, a bloody sheet twisted around him. His face was a purple mass of pulp, so distorted that Ellen would not have recognized him if she had not known it could be no one else.

  "Oh, Richard . . ."

  "Ellen?" His voice was naught but a trembling whisper.

  She went to him.

  "Christ's bones," Gavin muttered from the doorway. "What the hell happened to you, Chambray?"

  Ellen reached his bedside and put out her hand to touch him, unsure how. His clothes were so bloody that she couldn't see the extent of his injuries. Slowly, he lifted his hand to her.

  "Ellen?" he moaned again. "Ellen, are you all right? You all right?"

  She went down on her knees on the bedstool, clasping his hand to her cheek. "I'm fine, Richard. I'm fine." She leaned closer. "Who did this to you?"

  He sucked in a rattling breath. "Mustn't tell," he whispered.

  She leaned closer, afraid she wouldn't be able to hear him.

  "Mustn't tell." One of his eyelids fluttered and opened. The other was hopelessly swollen shut. "Hunt."

  Ellen's lower lip trembled. "He did this to you?"

  "The letter." He paused. "Wanted the letter." Somehow he managed a crooked smile. "Lucky I didn't know where it was, hmm, love?"

  With her free hand, Ellen brushed away the tears that ran down her cheeks. "Oh, Richard, I'm so sorry. I—"

  "What happened?" Gavin appeared behind her. "Christ, Chambray. They nearly killed you."

  Ellen l
ooked at Richard. He shook his head ever so slightly.

  Ellen moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue, stalling for time.

  Gavin leaned over her, touching Richard's face, his arms, trying to survey the damage. "Who did this, Chambray? Cowards, obviously. Men too cowardly to fight fairly like men."

  "It doesn't matter," Ellen said.

  Richard's one good eye fluttered shut.

  "The hell it doesn't! This wasn't just a drunken brawl between gentlemen, Ellen. It would take more than one man to do this to another. Look at these rooms! Someone was looking for something and Chambray got in the middle of it."

  "Money."

  Gavin lifted an eyebrow. "Money?"

  She rose, laying Richard's hand down gently and wrapping her arms around her waist. "Richard left some unpaid gambling debts." She frowned. "He owed the wrong man money. You understand."

  Gavin cut his eyes toward Richard. Ellen waited, praying he bought her story or at least accepted it.

  "Well, you've got to get a physician in here. He's got to be stitched in several places and that one leg needs to be set."

  She grasped Gavin's arm, her fingers tightening around the corded muscle of his biceps. "No physician."

  "So what the hell do you propose we do with him?"

  "We'll take care of him ourselves."

  Gavin looked back at Richard, who seemed to be drifting in and out of consciousness. "He doesn't want anyone to know?"

  She smoothed Gavin's linen sleeve as her dark eyes searched his face. "Would you?"

  He sighed, then after a moment said, "Well enough. I'll see what I can do, but I'm going to need some things." He pushed up his sleeves. "You'll have to send the woman out with a list. Is there an apothecary you can trust?"

  She looked up at him, surprised, as well as touched, by his words. "You don't have to do this. I can take care of him."

  "How much experience do you have with wounds like this?" He went to the bedside and began to rip down the torn bedcurtain, so that he would have more light to work by. "I've cleaned gunshot wounds, treated snakebites, sewn bayonet gashes, and amputated legs. A sailor and soldier learns to deal with this kind of mess."