Ravenna giggled. She was more than willing to fill that void—for ample monetary support, of course.
“Hello, darling,” she said, drawing the portal back.
Her welcoming smile wilted when she encountered an unfamiliar man standing in the spot Lucien should have occupied.
“Who are you?” she demanded.
The blond man, no older than his early thirties, smiled. His thin features were craggy, holding a ruthless sort of handsomeness. His eyes glittered with ambition, with danger.
“You must be Ravenna Clayborne.” The stranger stepped inside uninvited, his eyes traveling her body.
Reading attraction in his eyes, she answered, “Yes. I’m afraid I have not had the pleasure.”
“In good time, dear lady.”
His grin assured the pleasure would extend much beyond his acquaintance. Ravenna took note again of his interest and sent him a saucy smile.
The stranger’s eyes left her for a moment to wander about her rented room. Disappointment stabbed Ravenna, and she stepped in front of him once more. His mouth curved in a knowing grin.
“Do you like these rooms?” he asked.
Ravenna frowned. “Why do you ask? Who are you, anyway?”
The stranger didn’t answer right away. He paused, scanned her face, then raised his hand to her cheek. “I can make you wealthy again. You would like that, I’ll wager.”
Ravenna’s eyes widened with hope, then narrowed with suspicion. “How? I will not sell myself like a common street trollop.”
“Nor would I ask you to, dear lady. You’re much, much too beautiful for that,” he murmured, stroking her cheek. “Actually, I had something more like a favor in mind. A little assistance in a small matter.”
“What type of assistance?” she asked, nearly salivating at the thought of money.
“It’s a complicated matter, but suffice it to say that, should you successfully . . . distract your ex-husband for—” he shrugged, “—an hour or so, I will give you ten thousand pounds.”
Ravenna gasped. “Ten thousand. Really? And I only have to bed down with the cripple once?”
The man curled his hand around her shoulder, his thumb caressing her arm. He smiled as he answered, “Only once.”
“How did you know Lord Daneridge is my former husband?”
“I have sources.”
Eyes narrowed, Ravenna stepped away. “How did you know where to find me?”
“I have a man watching his house. After you visited your former husband on Tuesday, he followed you here.”
“Why?”
“Must you ask so many questions?” His voice was silky. “You either agree to help me or you don’t. Which is it?”
Ravenna retreated another step. “I shall have to know more before I . . . ”
The stranger flashed a dangerous smile that stopped her words and dampened her knickers. “Let us say his wife may not find herself in the best of health soon.”
Glee spread through Ravenna’s body, and a feline smile swept across her face. “You plan to kill her?”
“The bitch controls a fortune that belongs to me.” The stranger stepped closer, neither confirming nor denying her suspicion.
Ravenna retreated. He advanced; she withdrew.
Several steps later, Ravenna found herself trapped against the wall, the stranger’s palms anchored on either side of her head, caging her. He leaned closer. After two months without a man’s touch, she welcomed a new lover and felt her pulse quicken.
“Do I have your help?” he asked, pressing the length of his body—and hard arousal— against her, drawing her breast above the neckline of her gown for his fingers’ pleasure.
Ravenna threw her head back and moaned, melting into the stranger.
“Shall I take that as a yes?”
“Yes,” she gasped.
He pulled back and drew a calling card from his vest pocket. Dropping his calling card on a nearby table, he laughed. “When you’ve arranged an appointment with your ex-husband, send a note up to me with the date and time.”
Without awaiting her reply, he took the swollen bud of her breast into his mouth. Aroused by his masterful touch, Ravenna moaned her assent.
The man unfastened his breeches. Ravenna’s eyes lowered to his swollen member, watching greedily as he stroked its length between thick fingers.
“You want this, don’t you?” he taunted.
Ravenna turned away from his smug expression. “I am no trollop.”
The stranger grinned as he pulled her face back toward him. “Yes, you are. You,” he said, raising her skirt and petticoats to her waist, “are a juicy little whore who likes a hard man between your thighs. Admit it.”
His fingers probed her femininity. Ravenna inhaled sharply as his fingers found their mark.
“That is not true,” she gasped.
“Of course it is. And I’m about to prove it.”
With that, the stranger lifted Ravenna by her bared thighs, and fitting her back against the wall, drew her down on his shaft. Clutching his shoulders, she released a ragged moan.
“Damn you,” she cursed breathlessly. “Who are you?”
Pumping inside Ravenna, he panted, “Alastair Boyce. I think we’re going to get on very well.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Serena left her chamber the next morning and lingered at the top of the stairs. A part of her consciousness registered a guard falling into place directly behind her, an ever-present reminder of Alastair’s sinister plot. But she refused to dwell on that this morning.
She drew in an anxious breath. She needed to find Lucien and discuss Rathburn’s advances with him, ask about his silence afterward. Had he interpreted the event as she had, a revelation? Or had he believed she’d invited the attention? Or did he even care, given the fact he had Ravenna again?
She had pondered the event most of the long, sleepless night. Her refusal of Rathburn had shown her that not every male affected her as Lucien did. Upon further reflection, she realized that her desire for Lucien stemmed from love and had grown as her feelings for him had. And the fact her sensual cravings followed her heart, not her mood, proved her different than Mama.
Vastly.
Love had taught her that to share her emotions, soul and body with her husband was as God intended. She should feel no shame in making love with Lucien. Being with him in every way, as often as joy and desire brought them together, would foster the happiness Cyrus had wanted for her.
But only if he cared for her in return.
If she told him that she would open her door and her arms to him, what would he say? She feared he would refuse her because his heart belonged to Ravenna. She would have to confront him on that score, no matter how much the truth hurt.
Shaking away the thought, she descended the stairs, fingers trembling on the rail. At the bottom, she spotted Holford, his stance stiff as always.
“Good morning, my lady.”
“Good morning.” Serena drew in a deep breath. “Is my husband here or with Mr. Vickery again?”
“I’m not certain where he is, my lady. I believe he said something about another appointment before he left. Shall I tell him to see you when he returns?”
“No,” she said, disappointed. “No. Don’t bother. I shall see him later.”
“As you wish, my lady. Speaking of Mr. Vickery,” he said, holding up a small missive, “this urgent message arrived a moment ago for you. The delivery boy indicated Mr. Vickery sent it.”
Holford handed her the plain note. Serena tore it open to find a hastily-crafted scrawl in slightly smudged ink.
My lady,
I have discovered a possible accomplice in your late husband’s murder. He has been shot and may not live long. We need your assistance during his questioning to confirm some pertinent facts about Warrington. Come immediately to Tothill Fields. Along Whitehall Road, small cottages are scattered. Enter the one with two candles burning in the front window. Your husband is with m
e.
Yours,
John Vickery
An accomplice? Elation mixed with suspicion. She had nearly died the last time she had received a note. However, the coward had not signed the last one. And if she hesitated in following the note’s instructions, she might well lose the only real clue available—and might never put Cyrus’ ghost to rest.
“Quickly, Holford. This is an emergency, indeed. I shall need a carriage brought round. And don’t worry for my safety; I will take two men and Caffey with me for protection.”
“Of course, my lady. What shall I say to his lordship when he returns?”
Serena handed the note back to Holford. “It appears my husband is with Mr. Vickery at Tothill Fields. I shall meet him there.”
“Very good, then,” he answered as she called for Caffey and summoned another guard.
In moments, she sprinted out the door. She would help prove Alastair’s guilt in Cyrus’ murder, and she would not let her last link with hope die before she could learn the truth.
****
Lucien knocked on Ravenna’s Drury lane door, dreading the appointment. He understood her grief for Chelsea, and knew his guilt had led him to answer the second and more desperate of her messages. But he wanted to be home, with Serena, watching her, protecting her. Trying to discern exactly what lay between them.
Watching her refusal of Rathburn had given him hope that Serena and his ex-wife differed in many ways, but most of all in their motivations for seeking a lover. Ravenna had taken lovers for spite, for entertainment. Serena had done so out of loneliness and a wish to end her childless existence.
As soon as he finished here, Lucien vowed to be sure she never felt lonely again. He wanted to give her his trust. He yearned to fill her life with laughter and children.
And love.
She deserved nothing less than his heart, and hoped to hell she would let him close to hers.
Ravenna opened the door, wearing a sultry, welcoming smile.
Lucien frowned, eyeing his scantily-clad ex-wife warily. “I received your messages. You wish to discuss Chelsea?”
Toying with the ties at the neck of her thin red gown, Ravenna stepped back, inviting him to enter. She shut the door behind him, then leaned against it. “Our last conversation ended badly, darling. I wanted to apologize . . . personally.”
Ravenna disentangled the ties of her gown. The garment fell down her arm, revealing one creamy shoulder—and a full, rouge-nippled breast.
Swearing, he closed his eyes.
She stroked his arm. He yanked away from her touch. “Darling, don’t you understand? I was dreadfully wrong to blame you for Chelsea’s death. It was not your fault.”
He snapped his gaze to her, expression cool. “Indeed?”
“Of course. Had you been home that night, you hardly would have heard her leave. She was a clever little thing. And the nursemaid we hired was the best. I made certain of that myself.”
Lucien shot her a cynical glance. He doubted Ravenna had given the matter much consideration, or even believed her own words. She was hardly the reflective type.
Yet he could not refute her. There was truth to her claim for once, despite the fact she had said it to win his favor. Had guilt prevented him from acknowledging those facts before?
“Perhaps you are right,” he said slowly.
“Of course I am. I’m so very glad you’ve realized that!”
“As am I.”
Ravenna’s coy smile fell. “You know, I hated the fact she loved you more than me. You always had a way of making her smile that I did not.” She paused. “Maybe that is why I wanted another child, one that was not yours. One that no one could take from me.”
Lucien scowled. “I never intended to make you feel less than a mother. I would share Chelsea today, if she were here.”
“You simply shared a bond with her that I did not.”
Lucien drank in the truth of her words. That connection he had formed with his daughter had only added to his sense of responsibility and guilt. Remembering this lifted his burden.
“Thank you,” he said quietly. “Your words mean more to me than a ‘personal apology,’ so cover yourself.”
“But I insist,” she assured—then bared her other breast. Its nipple was also rouged a deep red. “It’s the only way I know to tell you how sorry I am and give you everything you asked for during our marriage.”
She sidled closer; Lucien retreated a step from her smooth, scented flesh.
“Ravenna, stop this silly game. I am no longer interested.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” She laughed. “That pale little willow you call wife can never give you what I can.”
“True. She is capable of giving love.”
Ravenna laughed. “Love is an illusion, darling, nothing more than a powerful case of lust. I thought you must have realized that by now.”
“No,” he insisted, churning with the intensity of his emotions. “Love is real and strong. I have come to learn that it is about trust and respect and empathy. Things we never shared.”
Her lips tipped up in a sly smile. “Well, after my little chat with her, I doubt you’re sharing much.”
“You spoke to Serena?”
She nodded, her smile widening to that of a naughty kitten.
A cord of fear vibrated within him. “When? What did you say to her?”
Ravenna cocked her head to one side. “A few days ago at Lackington’s I . . . suggested that perhaps you and I share more than a past. She looked quite devastated.”
Lucien stared at his half-undressed ex-wife, a combination of incredulity and confusion sweeping him. Serena had not mentioned it, not confronted him. Yet only last night she had turned Rathburn away.
“You told her we were involved in some liaison?”
Nonchalantly, she shrugged—but sent him a saucy grin, now all minx.
“Damn you!” he cursed, grabbing her arm. “Stay away from Serena. Do you hear me?”
She shrugged. “Oh, all right. Pity you never had much sense of humor.”
Easy capitulation had never been Ravenna’s style. Lucien glared at her as, with a lazily raised brow, she turned away.
He rested his elbow on the mantle beside him and watched her through narrowed eyes. A scrap of paper fell to the floor at his feet. He bent to retrieve it, noting the paper was in fact a calling card. He scanned the name on the front. A cold chill ran through his blood.
Alastair.
His eyes shot to Ravenna’s half-clad form. She stood still, her back facing him. He charged toward her. Two strides later, he saw the purplish-red mark on her neck, lying conspicuously below the mass of dark curls piled on her head—the kind of love bite a man leaves behind with the suction of his mouth.
In a haze of roaring fury and chilling fear, he lunged for her and grabbed her arms. “Is Alastair Boyce your lover?”
“Are you jealous?”
“Don’t play games with me. Is he?” he barked.
She stared up at him, blinking long lashes over innocent eyes. “Lucien, I would never—”
“Don’t lie!” he shouted. “Are you helping him?”
“Helping him? I’m certain I have no notion what you mean.”
His mind raced beyond her lies, to the possibilities. When he had reached a hideous but logical conclusion, every muscle within him tightened in dread and horror. He swallowed a lump of cold, living fear. “That’s what this is about, this seduction. It has nothing to do with an apology.”
“Whatever are you saying?” she asked too sweetly.
From her guarded expression, he knew he was right. “I do not know what Marsden promised you for your role in this scheme, and I don’t give a damn. But if he hurts Serena, I swear I will hunt you down and see you hang next to him.”
Terror gnawing on his insides, heart slamming against his chest, Lucien dashed out, despite Ravenna’s clinging protests, and fled for home.
He found Serena gone and an apparently forge
d note his only link to finding her.
****
Serena instructed her coachman to travel south of Westminster, onto Whitehall Road, and urged him to drive faster. At a seeming snail’s pace, she watched civilization give way to the occasional inn or cottage perched on the mean little road. Night descended, turning the open, uninhabited fields about them into dark, shapeless voids. Serena shivered.
“I’m not likin’ this, milady,” Caffey said. “Not many folks live out here. Why can’t the fellow come to ye?”
Serena shifted in her seat, hoping her maid’s fears were unwarranted. “Because the man I am to speak to is dying.”
“Somethin’ about this ain’t right,” she maintained. “I’ve a sense fer these things, ye know.”
“Stop,” Serena instructed. “You’re making me nervous. Besides, Lucien is there.”
Just before the southward crook of the Thames, the carriage slowed in front of an isolated cottage with two candles in the window. She drew in a deep breath. This was it. Given Vickery’s note, justice might soon be hers. Cyrus could rest in peace. Then perhaps she and Lucien could work at their marriage, expand the magic they had discovered their first night together. Maybe, in time, he would forget Ravenna.
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