Charmed and Dangerous

by Jane Ashford

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  Also by Jane Ashford

  Once Again a Bride

  Man of Honour

  The Three Graces

  The Marriage Wager

  The Bride Insists

  The Bargain

  The Marchington Scandal

  The Headstrong Ward

  Married to a Perfect Stranger

  Copyright © 1998 by Jane LeCompte

  Cover and internal design © 2015 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover art by Paul Stinson

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

  (630) 961-3900

  Fax: (630) 961-2168

  www.sourcebooks.com

  Originally published in 1998 by Bantam Books, a division of Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc., New York

  eBook version 1.0

  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  An Excerpt from Married to a Perfect Stranger

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  One

  Vienna, Austria, 1814

  General Matthew Pryor sat ramrod straight behind his desk, demonstrating to his visitor the proper posture for an interview with one’s superior in the diplomatic corps of the British Empire. But the hint was wasted on the man who lounged in the armchair opposite. He continued to lean back, his legs negligently crossed, and watch the general with a hooded, uncomfortably sharp gaze.

  You couldn’t label it insolence precisely, the general thought. The man looked attentive. And yet something about his manner clearly implied that he didn’t expect to learn anything of importance during this conversation.

  General Pryor gritted his teeth. From the moment he had heard that Gavin Graham was to be assigned to His Majesty’s delegation at the great diplomatic congress in Vienna, he had foreseen difficulties. Graham was trouble. He was known for evading orders he disagreed with. He was notorious for becoming too involved with people in the countries to which he was posted, particularly the female members of the population. He was reckless and arrogant. Unfortunately, he was also very, very good at uncovering information vital to British interests and cementing alliances made at conference tables a thousand miles away. He had to be good, General Pryor thought sourly. He wouldn’t have been tolerated otherwise, and he wouldn’t be sitting across the desk now looking pointedly patient at the delay.

  “You must know why I summoned you,” the general snapped.

  Graham spread his hands, indicating ignorance, and irritating General Pryor even further. He knew damn well, the older man thought. Lack of intelligence had never been Graham’s problem. “Sophie Krelov,” he added angrily.

  “Ah.”

  “Indeed.” The general waited for some other acknowledgment, and got none. “The woman’s an acknowledged spy,” he continued tightly. “It’s well known she worked for Boney until we packed him off to Elba. She’s connected to the Russians, too, through that husband of hers, the so-called ‘count.’ You’ve absolutely no business hanging about her, Graham.”

  “Such a stunner, however,” murmured his visitor. “That hair, those—”

  “Vienna’s full of beautiful women. Particularly now, with this congress going on and half of Europe here. If you cannot restrain your…instincts for the other sex, fix them on some better object. You are not to pursue Countess Krelov.”

  Graham met his eyes. General Pryor, who had commanded battalions in the field and seen death at close quarters, experienced an odd tremor. Was the man going to defy him? he wondered. What did he mean by that hard, measuring stare? “That is an order,” Pryor added harshly.

  “I see.”

  Gavin looked away, and the general experienced an unsettling mixture of rage and relief. The things he had heard about Graham had not been exaggerated, he thought. Just the opposite. Colleagues had told him that he’d be ready to throttle the man within a day; in point of fact, it had taken only twenty minutes.

  “Sophie picks up a good deal of information,” Graham said. “It might be quite useful to have a…connection with her.”

  The general snorted, well aware of the sort of “connection” Graham had in mind. “The woman’s unscrupulous and completely untrustworthy. I don’t want to worry about what sort of information she’s getting from you.”

  Graham’s face went stony. “I can assure you, sir, that I—”

  “Yes, yes. I’ve heard all about your famous ‘methods.’ Riding off into the hills with bandits. Forming ‘connections’ in the most outrageous quarters. I won’t have that sort of thing on my watch. Understand? We will carry out our mission like English officers and gentlemen. We will uphold the standards that make England great. We will not go sneaking—” General Pryor realized that he was ranting and broke off abruptly. He would not allow this man to rattle him, he thought. “I am in charge of this section of our delegation,” he added more temperately. “And I shall decide how it is to be conducted.” He met Graham’s cool gaze again. “Is that clear?”

  “It is.”

  “Good. And you will give me your word that you will not pursue Sophie Krelov?”

  Graham frowned.

  Now he had him, General Pryor exulted. Gavin Graham was famous for never going back on his promises—and for making damned few of them.

  “If you like,” said the other evenly.

  “I do.”

  The stare he received in return was even more intimidating, but the general did not allow himself to look away.

  “I give you my word I shall not pursue Sophie Krelov.”

  Pryor released a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. He’d won—the battle, if not the war. Because, of course, Graham had some scheme in mind that would allow him to do precisely as he pleased. He always did.

  But he’d met his match this time, the general thought. Pryor had planned beyond the direct assault. He had something in reserve. “Heard from my wife this week. She’s arriving in a few days from London.”

  Graham murmured his felicitations.

  “Bringing Laura Devane with her
,” the general added, hoping it was true. His wife hadn’t thought much of the idea, but she’d promised to try to get the girl here.

  Gavin gazed at him in silence.

  “You remember Miss Devane,” prompted the general finally, feeling like a man who has lobbed a bomb that failed to explode.

  “Umm.”

  “Damn it, man, you offered for her. Must remember her.”

  So he had, Gavin recalled; a decade ago, in another life. Laura Devane, the only woman who had refused him anything since…well, since he was in short coats trying to dominate two high-strung older sisters. Gavin eyed the general again. What the devil was this about?

  “Thought you could show her around Vienna,” said the man.

  “I’m sure your wife will make a far more pleasant companion,” said Gavin.

  “My wife will be occupied with…er…duties and obligations. Won’t have time to take the girl about.”

  Gavin managed to restrain himself from inquiring why the deuce she was bringing her, then. “Miss Devane did not marry?”

  “No, no. Never did.”

  The older man threw him a glance apparently meant to be significant. Gavin nearly laughed aloud. Was he supposed to believe that Laura Devane had been pining for him? She’d shown no signs of it when he had given in to his father’s nagging and offered for her those years ago. Offered for her fortune, a sardonic inner voice corrected. Neither he nor his father had been interested in anything else about her. And then that fortune had been lost, he recalled. He couldn’t remember how. He had been in India by then, a bitter and reluctant junior diplomat. “What has she been doing all this time?” he wondered aloud.

  “Ah, er.” The general made a vague gesture. “This and that.”

  Living off some relative, Gavin supposed, his momentary curiosity fading. It didn’t matter. He wasn’t about to be stuck squiring a virgin of—what, twenty-nine?—through the glittering social whirl that the Congress of Vienna had become. He had far more important, and enjoyable, things planned.

  “Appreciate it if you’d lend a hand,” Pryor said.

  Graham raised an eyebrow.

  “With Miss Devane. Make her feel welcome.”

  Gavin experienced a familiar flash of anger and an equally familiar move to repress and control it. It was something he had learned to do quite well in the last decade, as a man who hated taking orders working in the service of his king. “I see,” he said. General Pryor hoped to distract him from Sophie Krelov with Laura Devane. That was why he was having her brought here—at a good deal of trouble and expense no doubt. Mental images of the two women rose in his mind—Sophie, red-gold and voluptuous, one of the most sensuous women he had ever met; and Laura Devane, skinny and anxious, pale as milk. It was the most ludicrous plan imaginable. He started to say so, then reconsidered. If the general thought he had outwitted him, well, let him think so. It would keep him out of the way. And it would be simple enough to get rid of Laura Devane.

  “Very well, sir,” said Gavin. “I’ll show Miss Devane Vienna.”

  * * *

  “Not pink,” said Laura, waving aside the fashionable modiste’s assistant and the gown she was holding out for Laura’s approval. “I don’t care to see any pastels. Perhaps a rose or bronze or dark green.”

  Catherine Pryor, the general’s wife, examined her companion with covert amazement. What had become of the colorless, practically invisible governess she had gone to visit two weeks ago? She knew this was the same woman, and yet it wasn’t—not at all.

  “Of course not brown,” said Laura in accents of revulsion.

  Catherine had thought Matthew’s plan ridiculous. And she had told him so. But he had been so taken with the idea of diverting his difficult subordinate from an unsuitable liaison that she had agreed to help.

  She had tried to help Laura ten years ago, Catherine thought, when the girl’s improvident parents had risked everything for the racing stables that obsessed them, and lost. But Laura had been too proud—or stiff-necked—to accept charity and had gone off to be governess to the Earl of Leith’s twin daughters. Catherine had lost touch with her after a year or so—everyone had.

  There was no way she could have been prepared for the Laura who received her at Leith House those two weeks past, she told herself. And she had been far from easy in her own mind, of course. She had let Laura’s employers assume that she came to offer Laura a new post. The twins had turned seventeen and were to be presented to society, and Laura’s job was ended. And when Laura had first entered the parlor, Catherine had been doubly glad for the secrecy, for this was not the Laura Devane she had known.

  At eighteen, Laura had been a lively girl with sparkling green eyes and a vivid smile. Though she was always a bit too thin, her raven black hair and milk white skin had given her a certain distinction. Now, after ten years, all of that was gone, Catherine thought. The slender woman who had stood before her in the Leith’s back parlor, hands folded, eyes on the floor, hadn’t a crumb of vivacity. She was silent, pale, entirely forgettable. Gavin Graham wouldn’t waste a glance on her, the general’s wife thought, and immediately felt guilty. She would make some excuse for the visit and slip away, she decided.

  It was then that she realized she was being observed from behind a fringe of dark lashes, and that the stillness of the figure before her was deceptive. She cleared her throat, aware now of the lengthening silence, and said, “I was acquainted with your mother years ago.”

  Laura nodded.

  There was no sign of nerves, Catherine thought, no fluttering or chattering or anxiety to please such as she had seen in many women in Laura’s position. “How are your parents getting on in India?” she added, feeling unaccountably awkward.

  “Quite well. My father runs the polo club in Bombay, so he has his horses.”

  The tone was dry, subtlety ironic. The general’s wife was at a loss.

  “And he always cared most about his horses,” added the younger woman. “You have heard of a post for me?”

  The voice was cultivated and musical, but muted, lulling. It was designed to deflect notice, to reveal nothing. Catherine had the sudden notion that she had walked onto a stage and met an actress immersed in her role. She shook her head. She was being fanciful, which wasn’t like her at all. Best just to do what she had promised, and go. “A sort of post.”

  Laura waited.

  “Do you remember Gavin Graham?” asked Catherine, plunging in recklessly. She saw, or thought she saw, a flicker of reaction. Then the younger woman was unreadable once more and merely nodded. “Yes. Well, he is assigned to my husband’s section at the Congress of Vienna, and there has been some trouble with a Russian spy—a woman. So Matthew thought that you might come to Vienna and divert Mr. Graham’s attention from this creature and prevent some sort of…incident.”

  There, Catherine thought, she had blurted out the whole thing. And it had sounded just as ludicrous as she’d thought it would. Laura would tell her she was mad, and that would be the end of it.

  “Incident?” said Laura.

  It wasn’t the response that Catherine expected. She finally got a glimpse of Laura’s eyes. They were still a stunning green, like rose leaves, but far more wary and wise than she remembered. “It’s a bit complex,” she replied.

  “Russia wants Poland,” stated Laura. “And England does not wish to give it to her.”

  Catherine gaped at her.

  “I suppose both are trying to win Prussia and Austria to their sides.”

  The general’s wife realized her mouth was hanging open and closed it.

  Laura Devane gave her a sidelong glance. “The earl receives all of the newspapers, whether the family is here or in London,” she said.

  Well, of course he did, thought Catherine, but if Laura read them, she was only one of a tiny minority of women who bothered.

  “I
do not see what help I could be,” Laura added.

  Neither did her visitor.

  Silence stretched out in the room. The general’s wife watched Laura’s face. It was obvious that a succession of thoughts was passing through her mind, but Catherine had no idea where they were leading.

  “I have no clothes for Vienna,” said Laura at last, fingering the pearl gray cambric of her plain gown.

  Surprised again, Catherine said, “A wardrobe could be…provided.”

  This drew the first sign of a smile from this unusual young woman. “Gavin Graham never cared anything for me, you know. He wanted my fortune.”

  This was almost too much honesty, Catherine thought. One didn’t know what to say to this girl.

  “However…”

  The general’s wife waited.

  “I should like to go to Vienna.”

  Suddenly the entire matter appeared to Catherine in a different light. Of course this faded, subdued creature would never interest Gavin Graham; he was rumored to have had scandalous liaisons with an Indian temple dancer, a lady of the king’s court in Siam, and who knew how many other ravishing, exotic females. But Laura might catch the attention of some other eligible gentleman. From what Catherine heard, the congress was turning into a social event such as had rarely been seen before. There would be endless opportunities for Laura to meet potential husbands, and to escape a life that must be indescribably dreary. It was a chance for Catherine to give the help that had been rejected those years ago. “My husband is very eager for you to come,” she urged.

  “I’m not sure I could really help,” began Laura.

  “He is only asking that you try.”

  There was another silence.

  “The earl and countess are ready for me to depart,” admitted Laura. “They have said I can stay until I find another post, of course, but they are taking the girls to London next week, and I…I am not to go.”

  “The timing is perfect, then,” Catherine suggested.

  Laura hesitated. She was looking at the parquet floor as if she could find some answer there.

  “I would be happy to help you secure a new post later on,” added the general’s wife, privately promising herself that it would not be necessary.