Shadow Dance

by Anne Stuart

  “He’s about as likely a candidate as you are, dear Val,” she said with a burst of laughter.

  “Less likely,” he allowed himself to say.

  “You’re probably right. Well, then, once I’m ruined, what happens next?”

  “You come with us to the Continent. We’ll visit all the great cities: Paris, Vienna, Florence. We’ll live a life of unbridled dissipation.”

  “I thought we’d need a man for unbridled dissipation. And I’m afraid your husband won’t do. He frightens me.”

  “Phe—Philip?” he countered, genuinely surprised. “Why?”

  “He’s so dark, and cold, and cynical. He must be a very uncomfortable person to be around.”

  Valerian thought of his blackened eye. “On occasion,” he said wryly. “And I wasn’t suggesting you have an affair with him.”

  “Perhaps we can find me a very handsome lover,” Sophie said sleepily, sliding down in the bed, “since you insist that the pleasures of the flesh are worth sampling. I’ll count on you to pick the right man for me.”

  Valerian lay back beside her, arms folded across his chest, stiff in more ways than one. “Describe to me your requirements,” he said, “and I’ll see what I can do.”

  “I’d like him to be tall,” she said in a dreamy voice, “but not too tall. I do have a partiality for blond hair, and I’d like him to be strong, but not too muscular.”

  “Not overbuilt like Captain Melbourne?”

  “Exactly. Someone a bit leaner. It would be nice if he were handsome, but it’s not strictly necessary. I wouldn’t want a man who was more interested in his reflection than in me.”

  Valerian almost laughed. He’d spent an inordinate amount of time staring into a mirror in the past few weeks, out of necessity, not fascination, and he’d yet to find his reflection nearly as interesting as the woman lying too bloody close to him. “Handsome, but not conceited,” he noted. “What else?”

  “I’d like him to be kind,” she said. “And to love the countryside, and to be gentle, and to care about pleasing a woman. I’d want him to love me.”

  He almost reached for her. She might as well be describing him. Surely there was hope …

  “And I’d want him to be honest, and faithful, and never lie to me,” she added.

  It took him a moment to regain his voice. “A tall order,” he said.

  “I know. But since I don’t intend to marry, it can’t hurt to dream, can it?”

  “It can. It can hurt very much indeed,” he said dolefully.

  A streak of lightning illuminated the room for a brief moment, followed by a clap of thunder. Sophie shrieked, and scuttled across the small space he’d kept between them, flinging herself against his shoulder. Instinctively he put his arms around her, knowing he was playing with fire. She settled against him with a contented sigh, her head nestled perfectly against the hollow of his shoulder, and her golden-blond curls were like silk against his stubbled chin. “Do you mind?” she whispered, yawning.

  “Not in the slightest, child,” he lied, clenching his fists to keep from touching her. He could do this for her. He could hold her and comfort her in the dark and the storm, no matter how tormenting it was for him. He owed her that much for the lies he’d spun her, for the joy she’d given him. He could survive the night. Couldn’t he?

  It was a close thing. The night was endless, and far too short. She made little noises in her sleep, soft, seductive little sighs and murmurs. He’d expected, and almost hoped, that she’d move away from him once she was solidly asleep. She never did. She clung to him, rubbing her face against his arm like a contented kitten, and there was nothing he could do but lie there in torment, in an odd kind of glory, and hope the morning would come soon. Or not at all.

  When he finally slept it wasn’t for long, and he awoke as the first rays of dawn were streaking across the darkened bedroom. She still slept in his arms, trustingly, her hand resting on his flat chest, against his skin, inside the voluminous nightdress.

  He moved very, very carefully, taking her hand and placing it beside her on the bed, slipping away from her. She roused for a moment, peering at him sleepily through the early dawn light, and he hoped to God she couldn’t see clearly. “Are you getting up?”

  He was up, he thought miserably. “I was always an early riser,” he said lightly, wanting nothing more than to join her back in the too-soft, too-small bed. “You sleep some more. We won’t be able to leave for several hours at least.”

  She needed no convincing, snuggling down in the covers with a blissful sigh. He stood there for a moment, watching her. It would be like this if life were different, if he’d been better born, if he’d been able to court her, marry her. He’d wake up every morning and look down at her, sleeping.

  As it was, this one morning would have to suffice for the rest of his life.

  He didn’t know how long he stood there staring at her, drinking in every detail of her rose-flushed cheeks, her softly parted lips, the faint blue veins in her eyelids. And then he turned his back on her, deliberately, and began the arduous task of his toilette.

  When he finally emerged from beneath the tentlike folds of the landlady’s nightgown, he knew he was in trouble. He’d only managed to fasten the corset around his waist, not use it to manufacture a female figure. The dress was stiff and wrinkled, and no woman in his experience would be caught dead in such an atrocity, and the hat had shrunk. He tiptoed over to the small mirror the inn provided, and his worst fears were confirmed.

  It had been almost twenty-four hours since he’d shaved, and no one could miss the light brown stubble on his angular jaw. His eye was quite magnificent, with dark purple bruises almost distracting the gaze from Mrs. Ramsey’s incipient beard. Almost, but not quite. His hair hung limply around his face, and despite the bedraggled female clothes, he looked entirely male.

  He could think of no way to avail himself of the straight razor he carried in his reticule, not without drawing unwanted attention to himself, and even dusting powder across his face wouldn’t provide much disguise. He grabbed his hat, yanked it on his head, and pulled down the veil.

  He had a blessed hour alone in the taproom. The landlord himself brought him coffee and then made himself scarce, and he sat there, staring at the dying embers of the fire, and considered the cruelty of life.

  The rain had stopped at some point during the night, and the sun was shining weakly through the wet leaves. Valerian lifted his veil to take a better look, then yanked it down again as he heard someone enter the taproom.

  “I beg your pardon, I thought the room deserted.” The gentleman about to make a hasty retreat could only be the mysterious Mr. Lemur.

  “As you can see, it is not,” Valerian said in a suitably frosty voice. The man was obviously harmless, and well enough looking for all that. A bit past his first youth, he was neatly dressed, and his brown hair was combed close to his scalp. He had colorless eyes, a pleasant expression, and small hands, and in retrospect there seemed nothing the slightest bit mysterious about him. Just an ordinary gentleman on a trip to Hampton Regis.

  “There you are, sir.” The innkeeper appeared at the door with his habitual worried expression on his face. “Begging your pardon, my lady, but the private parlor sustained some damage last night. The roof’s worse than I thought. Would you condescend to allow this gentleman to share the taproom with you?”

  “It is really quite extraordinary,” Valerian began the protest, not in the mood for any company, when Sophie’s sweet young voice interrupted.

  “Of course we wouldn’t mind. There can surely be no impropriety, since Mrs. Ramsey and I have each other to lend us countenance. You’re welcome to join us, Mr….?”

  “Lemur,” he said, with a correctness that contained not a trace of unctuousness. So why did Valerian’s hackles rise? “Mark-David Lemur, at your service.”

  “I am Miss de Quincey, and this is Mrs. Ramsey.” She’d put her own dress on again, and she looked adorably bedragg
led in it. She crossed the room to Valerian, pausing to stare at him, her lips compressed as she struggled not to laugh. And then she couldn’t help it. A soft burble of laughter escaped her. “Val! Why in heaven’s name are you wearing a veil this morning?”

  “You think I look absurd, you should see beneath the veil,” he said grimly. “Allow me this tiny bit of vanity, if you please.”

  “I’m sure you look charming.” Sophie sat down beside him, pouring herself a cup of coffee with an ease Valerian had never managed. “Would you care for some, Mr. Lemur?”

  “With pleasure, Miss de Quincey,” he said promptly, taking a chair opposite them.

  Valerian leaned back, watching them with a sour expression concealed by his veil. She was charming Lemur with the same effortless grace with which she’d poured the coffee. It was a social talent, it meant nothing at all, and he was eaten alive by jealousy.

  “Are you new to this area, Mr. Lemur?”

  “I am. I was on my way to a small coastal village called Hampton Regis when the weather waylaid me.”

  “That’s our home,” Sophie said brightly.

  “Then perhaps you might have news of the person I’m seeking. A young lad named Julian Smith.”

  Thank God for the veil, Valerian thought. He didn’t have to hide his reaction.

  Sophie shook her head. “I’m afraid I don’t know him. He can’t have lived in Hampton Regis for long, or I’m certain I’d have heard of him …”

  “I imagine he’s been in town only for a week or so. He’s a bond servant of mine, one who stole from me and ran off. I’ve heard that he was seen in this area, and I hope to catch up with him.”

  “A distressing tale,” Val said in a silken voice. “What did the wretch steal?”

  Lemur looked at him with calm, trustworthy eyes. “A pair of diamond-and-pearl earbobs belonging to my wife.”

  “Shocking,” Val breathed. “Yet I wonder why you’re in search of the lad yourself. Why not send the Bow Street runners after him?”

  “I have a fondness for the boy. He’s made a mistake, but I have no doubt that with proper discipline he can be made to see the error of his ways.” Lemur smiled, and Val felt a frisson of horror slide down his spine. He’d spent so little time at Sutter’s Head recently that he had no idea if Phelan knew what had sent Juliette into boys’ clothes. The answer lay in the pleasant-faced creature in front of him.

  Val stretched out a hand for his coffee, hoping the seemingly placid Mr. Lemur wouldn’t notice its size. “Now that you mention it,” he murmured, “there was a young lad working at the Fowl and Feathers who was newly come to town. I don’t remember the boy’s name, but he was a well-turned-out lad. Small, brown hair, brown eyes, almost girlish-looking?”

  Lemur couldn’t disguise his eagerness. “That’s him. Where did you say he was? The Fowl and Feathers?”

  “Not anymore,” Val said sadly. “I gather he ran off more than a week past with half the landlord’s silver. Someone said he was seen heading north.”

  Sophie turned amazed eyes toward him, but she said nothing.

  “North? I’ve just come that way,” Lemur said, for a moment letting his placid demeanor slip. “If you ladies will excuse me, I’d best be going.”

  Valerian could afford to play with him now. “Oh, do stay and have some more coffee,” he said affably. “Perhaps the roads are flooded to the north as well. You wouldn’t want to get too early a start.”

  “Thank you, no,” Lemur said hastily. “The roads I traveled on traversed higher ground. Even if they are underwater, I’ll simply wait. Your servant, ma’am. Miss de Quincey.” He almost bowled over the landlord in his speed.

  “Has something happened, my lady?” the innkeeper inquired anxiously.

  “Nothing at all, my good man,” Val said lazily. “Mr. Lemur simply discovered a pressing engagement back the way he had come.”

  “And I just wanted to inform you all that the road to Hampton Regis is now clear.”

  “Your timing is excellent. Any sooner, and our friend might have taken off on a wild-goose chase. Would you see to it that the horses are put to the carriage? Miss de Quincey and I should be on our way as well.”

  The innkeeper pronounced himself more than happy to do the lady’s bidding, and quickly absented himself. There was a moment of silence, and then Val cast a glance at Sophie’s disapproving expression.

  “You lied to him, didn’t you?”

  She was far too observant, his darling Sophie was. “What do you mean?”

  “I remember now—that young boy at the Fowl and Feathers went home with your husband. He didn’t steal anything, and he didn’t go back north at all, did he?”

  “Since you’ve already told me you despise liars, I’ll tell you the truth. Julian Smith is safely lodged at Sutter’s Head, and we intend to keep him as far away from Mr. Lemur as we can. I don’t believe the lad stole a thing. He’s been the subject of cruel treatment, and we’re not about to hand him back to a master who abuses him.”

  “Even though it’s the law?” she asked, and he couldn’t sense whether she approved or not.

  “Even though it’s the law,” he said firmly. “People should come before the law.”

  She smiled at him. “You are truly a wonderful woman,” she said.

  Val controlled his urge to snarl. “Why? Because I take pity on helpless creatures?”

  “Yes. And because you don’t mind risking your own well-being to help them.”

  “Don’t be ready to grant me sainthood, Sophie. I’m not as kind or noble as you think. I have hidden flaws you would find quite unacceptable.”

  “I doubt it,” she said, her eyes shining. “I think you are truly the most wonderful, kind, honorable human being I have ever known.” And she leaned over and kissed him through the veil.

  Her aim was far too good. Her mouth touched his through the thin, filmy stuff, and her lips clung to his for one incredible, earth-shattering moment. And then she pulled away, a startled expression on her face.

  “Well,” she said breathlessly, “if we’re going to leave shortly, I’d best see to … er … That is … I’ll need a few moments …” She was babbling as she backed out of the room, and her face was pale with confusion.

  He watched her go, unmoving, his expression hidden behind the concealing veil. And when he was alone in the room, he began to curse in a quiet, steady voice.

  But the sound of his voice brought him no comfort. And he suspected nothing would. Nothing ever would again.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  The sun shone fitfully through the damp leaves as Valerian whipped the horses along the muddy road. He was driving too fast, he knew that full well, but he didn’t slow down. He needed to get Sophie back to the formidable bosom of her mama. He needed to warn Phelan about the sudden appearance of Mark-David Lemur. Most of all, he needed to shave.

  The wind was whipping his veil past his stubbled chin, but Sophie had curled up against him, her eyes closed, her cheeks flushed, and he could only pray she wouldn’t notice. Driving at a sedate pace was beyond him at this point. He needed to get home before disaster struck.

  He had no idea who Mark-David Lemur was, but he expected Phelan knew full well. Phelan knew just about everything. He would need to be warned. Whatever Lemur’s connection to Juliette was, he didn’t mean well by her. And neither of the Romneys was going to stand by and let him take her.

  He glanced down at the woman curled up beside him. She felt warm, her eyes were overbright, and she complained haltingly of the headache. He suspected yesterday’s drenching hadn’t done her any good, and he wanted her home, in bed, with hot tea and a posset.

  Actually, he wanted her home, in bed, with him, but that wasn’t a possibility. He’d already spent the one night he’d ever have with her, and his body was still in torment from it. He probably wouldn’t survive another one. Could a man die of frustration? Could his member get so hard for so long that it simply stopped working?

  He w
as going to have a chance to find out, he through wryly, slowing the horses as they approached the outskirts of Hampton Regis. As a medical experiment, it lacked a certain charm. He thought he might possibly prefer death.

  Sophie lifted her head when he stopped the carriage outside her parents’ house. It was late morning, the sun shone brightly overhead, and her beautiful blue eyes were dazed and feverish.

  “Where are we?” she asked, looking up at him with undisguised adoration.

  It just about killed him. “Home, love,” he murmured.

  “That’s good. I’m afraid I feel a bit … unwell,” she said as the front door opened and her mother appeared.

  “Sophie!” There was no denying the passionate concern in her mother’s voice as she raced to the carriage. “What has happened? We heard the road was flooded, but we had every faith in Mrs. Ramsey …”

  “She’s feeling unwell,” Valerian said tersely, jumping down from the carriage with a complete disregard for ladylike decorum. By that time Mrs. de Quincey, her tiny, ineffectual husband, and several members of her staff had surrounded the carriage, with the matriarch issuing orders in a stentorian voice. Valerian ignored her, scooping Sophie’s light body up in his strong arms and starting toward the door.

  “My dear Mrs. Ramsey!” Mrs. de Quincey gasped. “Let one of the servants carry her. It is quite unseemly …”

  He ignored her, striding through the open door and heading for the broad front stairs. “Tell me where her room is.”

  “I really don’t think—”

  “Tell me where her room is,” he said again, in a voice reminiscent of his brother, and the formidable Mrs. de Quincey nervously complied.

  “Is she all right?” she chattered, racing along beside them, the small army of servants thundering in their wake. “Was there an accident, has she been hurt …?”

  “I told you, she’s feeling unwell. Too much rain, and she caught a chill. A few days in bed and she’ll be fine.” He sounded graceless, but Mrs. de Quincey was so caught up in her daughter’s well-being that she didn’t notice.

  Sophie’s bedroom was the stuff dreams are made of. At least, his dreams. Her bed was large, high, and piled with soft white linens, and he laid her down carefully.