Jonathan glanced at the paper. The writing was neat, precise.
Madeleine DuMais. 5 Rue de la Fleur. Twenty-seven June, ten A.M.
Quickly Sir Guy drained his glass for a second time, placed it on the table, then stood to retrieve his overcoat from the rack near the door. "I believe you already know of the enchanting Miss DuMais."
"Mmm … I met her once, actually."
"Good. She'll have an identity ready for you to assume, and maybe a lead by the time you arrive. When can you leave?"
Jonathan stood as well, rubbing his tired eyes with his fingertips. "I expect I could sail by Friday. That should give me enough time to make the appointment."
"We'll be awaiting word." Phillips opened the front door and turned back to him, smiling. "You understand that since you'll be in France you'll miss Lady Carlisle's gathering."
Lady Sibyl Carlisle's annual cotillion was the season's most dreaded event for eligible bachelors. Along with her four matronly daughters, the lady insisted on using the party for nothing but a matchmaking social. To have an excuse not to attend was a marked blessing.
Jonathan grinned. "Most unfortunate timing, I'm sure. You'll have to give her and her lovely daughters my regards."
Phillips shook his head wearily. "Indeed. I suppose I'll have to make an appearance again this year. At least the lady spares no expense when it comes to good food and drink."
"That, I admit, I will miss."
"Speaking of good food," Phillips added, "dinner was excellent. Tell Gerty the roast was perfect this time."
"She'll be pleased to know you ate every bite."
With a nod and a click of his heels, Phillips turned, walked down the front steps, and disappeared into the foggy night.
Jonathan stood in the doorway for several minutes, breathing the damp night air until the cold began to seep into his skin. Slowly he closed the door, though he didn't bolt it since Marissa would be arriving in less than an hour for another night of romping between the sheets. She was the only mistress he'd ever had, the only one he'd ever known, who preferred to meet her gentleman friends in their homes, providing, of course, that her gentleman friends were unmarried. Truthfully, he didn't care. He wasn't hiding his sexual escapades from a nosy wife, or from anyone for that matter, and if Marissa wanted to enjoy their little liaisons in his home instead of hers, so be it.
Tonight, however, he was restless, and not really looking forward to her visit. Until just recently, Marissa had been able to satisfy every need he had, but now, even as he hated to admit the fact, he was tiring of her. Oh, she was uncommonly beautiful and very definitely experienced with the use of her body. But quite suddenly, to his confusion, he found himself wanting more—more from life and more from a woman. Marissa was a mistress for anyone who gave her the most, the nicest trinkets, and Jonathan had no qualms about giving her trinkets. She was good at what she did. But that, oddly enough, was the problem, because for the first time in ages, in his entire life really, he wanted to be more sexually aware than the woman he bedded.
With a sharp tug to loosen his neckcloth, Jonathan walked back into his study, picked up the half-empty bottle of brandy and glasses, and took them to the kitchen in back of his town house. Gerty, as usual, had left the place spotless before she'd left for the evening, so all that remained on the counter were their dinner dishes. He placed what he carried next to the rest of the things to be washed, unbuttoned the top three buttons of his shirt, dimmed the lamp on the kitchen table, then walked back to his study to sit in front of the small fire to think.
He had to admit he was growing tired and bored. Tired of the women he knew and bored with just about everything else. At twenty-nine years of age he'd done many things, but now he found himself envying those men he'd thought he would never envy. During the last several months he'd actually taken the time to consider where he was, what he was doing, and he suddenly realized he missed, even craved, stability. He'd never imagined that one day he would want a family. Until just recently, he'd thought the idea laughable. He'd known many men, even friends, who were undeniably unhappy with their marriages, and for a long while he assumed all marriages to be like that, to be painstakingly difficult and not at all worth the trouble. But after thoughtful consideration he realized that although marriage was indeed difficult, it proved for many to be enriching like no other union. He had seen it in his parents' marriage, his brother's marriage, and as if almost overnight, he wanted it for himself. What troubled him most was knowing he could never combine it with his work. He would have to choose between the two.
Leaning back in his chair, he folded his hands across his stomach, stretched out his legs, and stared at the flickering firelight as it danced on the dark ceiling above.
Ridding himself of Marissa would really be no problem. She would simply turn to the next wealthy member of society who could keep her comfortably housed and clothed in adornments. They both knew what they received from each other was purely physical, was desired by both, and from the beginning he'd made his intentions clear as to the nature of their relationship. Marissa was used to it, for she had taken many men before him, and the ones to follow would be exactly the same. The woman's job, technically, was to give pleasure in bed for an elegant living, and she was definitely an expert in her field of study.
The question he'd been asking himself over and over of late, however, had nothing to do with his mistress, but whether he could live without the excitement of his work if he took a wife. He'd been operating throughout Europe for six years, and those who used his services were unquestionably in his debt, desperately wanting him to continue what he was doing, and for everything he did, they paid him well. Very well. But money aside, he wasn't altogether certain he could give it all up, at least not completely, and if he didn't, he wasn't sure he would be able to marry. No lady of quality would want a husband who wasn't around to cater to her whims, to escort her to social functions, and no women he'd ever known had been able to match his sense of adventure, his desire to experience life at its best.
Jonathan closed his eyes. Maybe he'd just grow to be an old, cantankerous bachelor. Just him and his dog. What an attractive couple the two of them would make.
"Darling?"
Marissa's husky voice shook him from his thoughts. He turned in the direction of the door, smiling faintly to lighten his mood. "I didn't hear you come in."
Sliding her pale woolen shawl from her body with perfectly manicured fingers, she sauntered toward him. "Why is it so dark in here?" Slyly she purred, "Were you hoping to make love in front of the fire?"
He grinned, raking his eyes up and down her long, graceful figure. He was certainly going to miss her. "We need to talk, Marissa."
She stopped short and gave him a crooked smile. "Goodness, it sounds serious."
Jonathan regarded her for a moment. Then with a deep breath for encouragement and his own sense of acceptance, he quietly said, "This has nothing to do with you, sweet, but I think it's time—"
"Don't think I haven't considered this day was coming, Jonathan," she cut in brightly, tossing her shawl onto the hardwood settle to her left. "I've noticed changes in you lately and I've seen them before."
She walked to his side, gazing into his eyes and smiling as she perched her bottom on the arm of his chair. "Believe it or not," she continued thoughtfully, weaving her fingers through his thick hair, "I was also thinking it was probably time to move on, and you'll never believe who's pursuing me, darling, but the wealthy and generous Viscount Willmont."
He raised his brows in surprise. "Old Chester?"
She nodded.
"Can he still … walk?"
"Jealous, darling?"
He grinned again, placing his palm on a thigh he knew so well, inhaling the familiar scent of her perfume. "Very."
Marissa laughed softly and steadied his chin with her forefinger and thumb, her face only inches from his. "Nobody will ever compare to you, in or out of bed, and I envy the woman who finally steals yo
ur heart."
Jonathan grabbed her around the waist and pulled her onto his lap. "I'm sure we can still make use of tonight," he goaded huskily. "Chester has probably already drunk his warm milk and retired for the evening anyway."
Marissa reached down and cupped him fully, boldly, then leaned over and whispered against his mouth, "Let's go upstairs…"
* * *
Chapter 2
« ^ »
Natalie Haislett threw caution to the wind as she pulled the hood of her cloak tightly around her head, looked subtly in both directions, then quietly made her way down the steps of her father's London town house toward the end of the street where her ride awaited her.
She knew she was being brash, perhaps even irrational, but the time had finally come for her to make her move, and she could think of no other way. She was ready to meet the man of her dreams, the man who would take her away from her starched, banal existence. And she'd never felt more anxious in her life.
Even through the thick, early-morning fog, she spied the hired coach arranged for her by her ever valuable maid and walked quickly toward it. Then before the sun began to warm the day, she was on her way to his home, thrilled to the core and scared out of her mind.
Jonathan Drake was the last man on earth she wanted to see, the last man she wanted to count on for help. But he was all she had; he was her only lead. His older brother, Lord Simon, twelfth earl of Beckford, was married to her closest friend Vivian, and Vivian had promised with no uncertainty that Jonathan personally knew the infamous Black Knight, the man Natalie had known for nearly two years now as the man she was destined to marry.
Drake, independent and wealthy in his own right, was something of a free spirit, a wanderer, though thoroughly accepted as one of England's most eligible bachelors. He was a trader of fine goods, a buyer and seller of antiques and unusual artifacts for his own personal satisfaction, which meant to Natalie that he was just another nobleman with too much money and the time to waste it. But that was his business. Her interest in him went no further than his knowledge of the whereabouts of Europe's most notorious thief.
According to Vivian, Jonathan Drake had apparently met and become acquainted with the Black Knight through either business or travels. Although the Black Knight was a living legend, this wasn't so difficult for Natalie to believe, as he was still flesh and bone, and he had to have a few friends who knew his identity. It was just an extraordinary coincidence that the man she intended to marry knew him, the only man on earth she'd give her life to avoid.
Settling into the squabs, Natalie closed her eyes, attempting to replace the anxiousness she felt at seeing Jonathan with the hope and excitement of finally meeting her future husband.
The Black Knight was a mystery throughout Europe. She'd been following his escapades in England and on the Continent for more than two years, keeping track of him and his whereabouts through newspaper articles, and yes, although she was ashamed to admit it, through gossip. He was called many names—the Black Knight, the Thief of Europe, the Knight of Shadows—mostly, she assumed, because he worked only in darkness, in clandestine operations. Although the majority of people thought him a dishonest scoundrel and a despoiler of women, Natalie felt quite certain most all of what she'd heard was embellished or fabricated by those who were simply jealous of his accomplishments.
She'd first heard him mentioned when he'd been given credit for stealing a fine collection of Sevres vases from a prominent family in Germany. That this collection had originally been stolen from a French aristocrat during the Revolution of 1792 was somehow waylaid by the fact that the stealer was the infamous Black Knight. Natalie wasn't certain, but it was rumored that the vases had eventually found their way to their rightful owners who were settled once again near Orange, and that the thief was only working for money and doing a job which those in authority were unable to do for reasons of questionable propriety or legalities.
She'd heard his name mentioned indifferently several times after that, but only last January did all of London come alive with speculation once more when Lord Henry Alton was arrested and charged with attempting to sell the countess of Belmarle's stolen ruby earrings. When his property was searched, not only did the authorities find a snuff-box on his mantel stuffed with the matching necklace and ring, but clear evidence that the man was running a highly enterprising trade in bootlegged whiskey. Rumors flew, but the word was out that the Black Knight was the one to sell Lord Alton the original rubies that led to his arrest.
Others might scoff, but Natalie, naive though she may be, knew in her soul that the notorious Knight of Shadows was working for the government and doing questionably legal things to catch criminals and right wrongs that could not be done through conventional measures. This had to be the case, for what good thief would return stolen items to rightful owners? Everything about him was rumor, however, from these instances to those involving art forgery and pirated gold to the identity of the man himself. The only certainty was that he existed.
So for the last few months Natalie had learned everything she could of him with keen interest, and except for only a general outline of his physical appearance, she knew everything there was to know, including the obvious fact that he was the man for her. He was exciting, intelligent, had been everywhere she wanted to go, and had done all the remarkable things she admired. But most of all he wasn't stiff as starch like every English gentleman who brought her sweetmeats and flowers, and took her for unimpressive rides through St. James Park while discussing Lord so-and-so's antique flintlock top, hammer pocket pistols, or the hunt in bloodthirsty detail. If she married this type of man, the type of man her parents wanted for her, her life (and naturally her backside) would become one huge, unproductive lump of fat. She deserved more from life, and since she was now nearly twenty-three years of age and hadn't yet chosen a husband, which in itself was driving her mother and father into a near panic, she finally felt ready to look for the man destiny had chosen for her. Heaven help her when her parents found out, but she was going to marry the Thief of Europe. And Jonathan Drake was going to help her find him.
As her coach finally stopped in front of the man's city dwelling, Natalie pulled her collar tightly around her neck. She didn't enjoy the chill, or the knowledge that someone might see her enter his town house unchaperoned, remote as that possibility would be.
Quickly paying the driver to wait for her, she ascended the steps and without hesitation lightly tapped the knocker on the front door. It was unthinkable to be calling at such an unseemly hour, as it was probably not quite six o'clock, but she really had no choice. She had to see him early so she could return to her bed before her mother awakened and panicked over her disappearance.
After waiting several moments, coming to the conclusion that the man's servants were seriously neglecting their duties and he evidently slept like the dead, Natalie tried the knob. To her complete surprise and satisfaction, the unlocked door slowly creaked open with a gentle nudge.
Quietly, nerves fired with anticipation, she stepped inside the darkened entryway, allowing her eyes only a second to adjust to the dimness, then moved swiftly in the direction of what she assumed to be his parlor. She found his study instead, and what a marvelous room it was, for through the glow of early-morning sunlight streaming through parted gauze curtains, she was suddenly taken aback by the most glorious collection of foreign treasures she had ever seen.
Paintings, large and small, of every port, city, and landscape imaginable adorned the oak-paneled walls. Bronze sculptures and Oriental vases of all colors, sizes, and styles sat upon oak chests, mahogany tables, and stands, and his grand Sheraton writing desk, now covered with papers, quills, a crystal bottle of ink, and an ivory-handled blade for opening correspondence. A magnificent Spanish velveteen portrait in vivid blues, gold, sunset red, and black hung over the fireplace, from the tall ceiling to the mantel. Across the polished oak floor lay fine, delicately embroidered Oriental rugs, and on the farthest wall hung an
elaborate assortment of exotic killing devices.
Natalie raised her hand to suppress a laugh, but truly, that's what they were.
He had knives and swords of every kind, some with jagged edges, some smooth, pistols with handles of various shapes and sizes covered with ivory, jade, and foreign lettering she had never before seen. And dangling precariously from the ceiling in front of the wall hung a huge, curved sword with unusual interlocking black marks across the flat of the blade.
She couldn't help herself. She had to touch it.
Running her fingertips across the cold metal edge, Natalie considered it peculiar that Vivian had never mentioned her brother-in-law to be such a very odd gentleman.
With her thoughts elsewhere, she missed the pattering of feet behind her. Until a ferocious growl pierced the silence.
So sudden and unexpected was the noise, she whirled around to confront it, slicing her hand with the tip of the blade.
For a frightful second she glared into the eyes of a huge German shepherd standing only three feet from her. Then she felt the warmth of her blood as it oozed down her hand and dripped onto her midnight-blue traveling cloak, and immediately she was both awash with pain and completely incensed.
Taking several deep breaths to control the scream welling up inside of her, Natalie looked to her palm. The cut was superficial, though nearly three inches long, stretching from her index finger to her wrist. She quickly wrapped her cloak around it to stop the bleeding, then started toward the door. At that, the animal began a pattern of endless barking as it cornered her under the sword.
STOLEN CHARMS Page 2