Ripe for Pleasure

by Isobel Carr

  De Moulines took a tactical step back, and Leo lunged forward. The tip of his foil drove hard into the other man’s shoulder.

  “Trois.”

  A small flurry of applause went up, and Leo realized with horror that most of the men in Angello’s salle had stopped to watch their bout. De Moulines swept off his mask. His dark skin shone against the white of his shirt and teeth.

  “Again?” The Frenchman’s smile widened.

  He loved finding someone to test his mettle, but today Leo simply wasn’t that man. He shook his head. This had been a bad idea. Winning his first bout against the chevalier should have felt wonderful; instead, his chest ached as though he might cry.

  De Moulines clapped him on the shoulder. “Me, I know that look. Come and have a drink, my friend.”

  Returned to fashionable splendor, de Moulines led him into The Red Lion. A few of their fellows were dicing in the corner, but otherwise the taproom was nearly empty. Leo called for wine and threw himself down at the table the Frenchman had chosen.

  “So,” de Moulines said, swirling the wine in his glass, then inhaled before taking a sip. “What has the divine Mrs. Whedon done to turn you into a—what do you English call it?—a fire-drinker?”

  “Eater. A fire-eater.” Leo drained his glass and poured himself another. “It’s what I’ve done.”

  The Frenchman’s mouth curled up at one corner. “Gone and told her the truth, have you? A very bad idea. Me, I tell you so, no?”

  Leo shook his head. “My blasted temper. I never got round to telling her the truth…”

  His friend sipped his wine, offering nothing. Leo took another desperate gulp of his own and told him everything, or at least enough to make the scope of the disaster clear.

  “Are you a- a- a—” De Moulines’s eyes wandered about the ceiling as he searched for the proper word in English.

  “An idiot? A simpleton? A madman? Yes.”

  “A simpleton. Oui. That will do to a nicety.” He caught his lips between his teeth. “She doesn’t hate you, mon ami. Far from it. Sometimes you English are so very, well, English.”

  “I’m a Scot.”

  De Moulines waved away his objection. “Bah, your temper, that is Scottish, but this oh-so-droll inability to grasp what the lady is telling you? Very English. Je vous assure.”

  CHAPTER 26

  Viola accepted a glass of sherry from Lady Harrington and sipped it while the excited chatter of her friends washed over her. At her feet, Pen lay panting softly as Lady Grosvenor’s pug excitedly groomed the larger dog’s ear.

  “No word from Lord Leonidas?” Lady Ligonier said softly enough that everyone else continued to listen to Mrs. Newton’s tale of her latest conquest.

  Viola shook her head. It had been three days since her row with Lord Leonidas, and true to her command, he had not returned. “Not so much as a posy of flowers, though his footmen continue to arrive with clockwork regularity.”

  Her friend nodded. “He’s giving you time to miss him, savvy devil that he is. And it’s working, too, from the wan look of you. Do you really want him back?”

  Viola felt the tightness in her chest increase, and her eyes welled up. She blinked rapidly to clear them. “Much as I know I should be happy to be shot of him, I don’t feel happy about it.”

  “Then do something about it,” Lady Harrington said from across the room. “You girls give me the bellyache sometime. In my day, we weren’t too proud or too miss-ish to go after what we wanted.”

  Lady Ligonier clapped her hand over her mouth, cutting off a giggle like a child caught misbehaving by her governess.

  “And take Penelope there with you. The two of you should be more than capable of formulating a plan of attack.”

  The countess gave them a dismissive wave of her hand and turned her attention back to Lady Grosvenor. Lady Ligonier stood and dragged Viola up from the settee. “Let’s go before she decides she wants the details of our plan.”

  Viola followed her friend out to the hall where they donned their hats and gloves. Pen shuffled out after them, the pug following until Lady Grosvenor called it back.

  At the bottom of the steps, Lady Ligonier linked arms with her, and together they set off down the street with Pen and one of Leo’s footmen trailing behind them. A coach rolled past them, the team mincing in their traces.

  The footman’s oath and Pen’s growl brought Viola’s attention sharply around. The former soldier was struggling with two men in ill-fitting coats. Pen leapt into the fray, her bay startling one of the men into loosening his grip on the footman.

  Hands caught her from behind. Lady Ligonier screamed, clinging to Viola. The man tore them apart, sending Penelope crashing to the ground, and dragged Viola into the coach.

  The stench of dirt and horse droppings and sweat rolled off the man pinning her to the seat. One hand gripped her wrist till the bones ground against one another; the other hand clamped over her mouth.

  Shouts and oaths broke out as the coach rumbled into motion. Her friend’s cries for help faded away as the coach rumbled down the street.

  “Cooper, Mrs. Whedon isn’t going anywhere. You can let go of her now.”

  The hand left her mouth, and her hands were suddenly free. Viola wiped her lips with the back of her glove, her stomach roiling in protest.

  The man with the silky voice wore a coat that fit him to perfection. A sliver of sunlight cut past the curtain and slid across him, flashing off his coat’s spangled buttons. And what a coat. Blue leopard-spotted velvet. It was hideous. His easy demeanor seemed entirely out of place with abducting women off the streets and spoke just as eloquently of malice as his coat did of dandyish aspersions.

  In the dimness of the coach, Viola could make out that he was not young, certainly in his forties, if not a bit older. She knew with certainty that she’d never seen him before. She pushed back into the squabs, not wanting to touch him or his servant.

  Panic seized her lungs and squeezed her heart. There was no air in the coach, just the stench of the stables and the heavy scent of the gentleman’s cologne. It was impossible to draw a full breath without choking.

  The stranger smiled, and her skin broke out in gooseflesh. “I wouldn’t advise it. If you scream, Cooper here has my permission to silence you however he sees fit. That’s right, my dear, sit quietly and behave yourself. You’ll live longer.”

  A commotion in the hall caught Leo’s attention. The clear sound of the butler’s raised voice preceded the door being thrown open. His sister looked up from the paper and turned her head toward the door.

  Lady Ligonier, hat missing, hair wild, with her gown muddied and torn, shoved past the glowering butler. The older man shut the door behind him with a disapproving snap. Leo’s pulse jumped. Something was terribly wrong. “My lord, your cousin has—” She glanced at Beau, her words ending abruptly.

  “I rather think Lady Boudicea will survive hearing Mrs. Whedon’s name spoken in our mother’s breakfast parlor.”

  Lady Ligonier glared at him. “Very well. Your damn cousin has taken Mrs. Whedon, my lord. And I want to know what you’re going to do about it.”

  “Did you actually see him?” Beau asked. The paper had fallen from her hands, one corner drooping into her coffee, the wet stain rapidly wicking across the page.

  “His face? No, my lady.” Lady Ligonier smoothed her hair back and squared her shoulders. “But the man inside the coach was wearing a blue leopard-spotted coat. It couldn’t have been anyone else.”

  His sister drew a sharp breath. Charles was inordinately proud of that coat. He’d bought it in Paris just before their grandfather died. Just like him to spurn something more nondescript.

  “Did you see where they took her?”

  Lady Ligonier shook her head. “No, but your footman and Viola’s dog gave chase. He said to tell you to wait for him at The Red Lion.”

  “Thank you, my lady. Beau, can see that a hack is fetched to carry Lady Ligonier home?”

 
Leo dropped a quick kiss on his sister’s brow and raced upstairs to don his coat and boots. He’d have to send footmen racing all over town if he had any hope of rounding up the League.

  Leo reached The Red Lion to find Sandison and Thane already awaiting them. Devere and de Moulines arrived on his heels. Other League members, their morning coffee disrupted, pricked up their ears at the obvious signs of action.

  His father’s footman erupted through the door, his wig clutched in his hand. He was breathing hard, sweat glistening off his dark skin, soaking his wilted collar. One stocking was down around his ankle, and his lip was swollen and bloody.

  “Do you know where he’s taken Mrs. Whedon, Ezekiel?”

  The footman nodded. “Followed them all the way past Denmark Street, my lord. Me and the dog both. Left her there tearing into the front door like a demon possessed.”

  “How many men did Charles have?”

  “I saw only the one, but there could have been more inside.”

  “Even if he does, we’ll have surprise on our side.”

  “Or so you hope,” Devere said, not looking up from the pistol he was busy loading.

  CHAPTER 27

  Viola’s head rocked back as the gaudily dressed gentleman’s lackey backhanded her across the face. She tested her teeth with her tongue, relieved to find they were all still there. Blood pooled in her mouth. She spat onto the already filthy floor of the garret room where they’d taken her.

  “Cooper!” The gentleman’s tone was full of reproach, but his mouth was fighting an unmistakable smile. Viola shoved her hair back and held the man’s gaze. “No need to begin quite so roughly. Help Mrs. Whedon to a chair.”

  Her hands shook as Cooper half dragged her across the room. A single wooden chair with a broken stretcher sagged beside a grimy window. She fell heavily into the chair, and it creaked alarmingly. No need to begin quite so roughly, but clearly every intention of getting there eventually.

  “Now, my dear, a few simple answers and you can go home.”

  The promise rang patently false, but her pulse raced all the same. The man’s eyes weren’t merely cold; they were flat. She was a thing when he looked at her, not a person. A thing to be broken and disposed of.

  No matter what his questions were or what answers she gave, there was very little chance she’d ever leave this room alive, and they both knew it. The best she could hope for was a delayed sentence while she became Cooper’s plaything.

  “How much has my cousin told you about the prince’s treasure?” He twirled his quizzing glass in idle circles, watching the refracted light play across the wall like a child with a cut crystal making rainbows in the nursery.

  Viola shook her head, mind racing. The man’s brows rose. He tipped his head as he studied her, eyes tracing over her impersonally. “Cooper?”

  The servant’s open hand across her face knocked her from the chair. “I had hoped you’d be reasonable about this, Mrs. Whedon. I’ve no desire to see a woman hurt, not even a whore.”

  Viola climbed shakily to her feet. If she stayed on the floor, Cooper’s next blow might be with his foot, and she was fairly certain he’d break a bone if he kicked her. In the distance, a church bell rang and a dog barked furiously.

  “I don’t know anything about a prince, or a treasure. I don’t even know who your cousin is.”

  The man laughed. “Ah, I’ve been too precipitate. My apologies. The cousin in question is Leonidas Vaughn, and the treasure was sent by the King of France to support Bonnie Prince Charlie’s bid to unseat the Hanoverian usurpers.”

  “And what does that have to do with me?” Blood trickled out her nose, tracing a searing path across her lips. She wiped it away with her hand. She stared at the dark stain on the yellow kidskin of her glove and shuddered.

  “With you? Why everything, my dear. You have it.”

  Viola sucked in a breath and wiped her nose again. The gloves were new, but she was very likely going to die today. Her gloves didn’t matter. She should be terrified, but there was no room for such an emotion. Anger filled her, welling up inside her until she was choking on it. She flexed her hands. She could rip out the man’s eyes, but she’d never make it to the door.

  “I might be brought round to believing you don’t know you have it.”

  She flattened her hands across her stomach, pressing in against her stays, trying to stanch the urge to vomit. Her stays were suddenly too tight, and they seemed to be getting tighter by the moment.

  “Lord Leonidas has never mentioned it to me.”

  “Would that I could believe you.” He nodded, and the lurking Cooper sent her sprawling onto the floor again. The kick that followed threw her hard against the wall. She retched, stomach muscles fighting hard against canvas and whalebone.

  Leo’s cousin took a step toward her. Light flashed off the paste buckles on his shoes. He knelt down, knee beside her head, hand forcing her down hard against the floor.

  “The evidence is irrefutable.” The musk of his cologne washed over her as he leaned in closer. “The money is—or was—hidden somewhere in your house. Leo dragged you off to the hinterlands while his friends searched your house—oh yes, don’t look so surprised, my dear. I watched them do it!—and then your relationship ends most abruptly when you return to town. So, we find ourselves with a few possibilities. Either Leo found it and no longer needs you. Or he told you about it, and you decided you no longer need him. Or, my favorite option of all, you already have it. For your sake, I sincerely hope it’s one of the latter.”

  Viola shook her head. “I broke it off. Didn’t know anything about the treasure.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Unlikely, a woman of your sort throwing away a duke’s son.”

  “A younger son.” She tried to sound as dismissive as possible. Whatever this man’s issues with Leo, jealousy was right at the forefront. She could almost smell it. It wafted off him as thickly as the horrible musk he doused himself in. “Throckmorton has more to offer.”

  “And that’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? Who has the most to offer. Right now, I’d say that was me.”

  He thrust his hand into her hair and held her tight. Viola stiffened and tried to jerk away. His grip tightened until she could feel hairs being ripped from her scalp one by one.

  “You really don’t know. Damnation!”

  He tossed her away from him and stood in one quick motion, the skirts of his coat flying out over her head like the wings of a predatory bird. He paced across the room, worrying at his gloved thumb with his teeth.

  “Letter.” Viola choked on the word.

  “So he did show them to you?” The man’s smile of relief sent another chill through her.

  “No.” She swallowed, tasting blood. “I could write you one. Tell my servants to give you free rein to search the house yourself.”

  “I’ve already searched your house. There’s nothing there, which means Leo has it. I wonder what you’re worth to him?”

  The door shook on its hinges, the frame flexing and bulging. An unholy baying leaked past it, and Viola found herself smiling, though it hurt to do so. She knew that bark. The only thing between her, the door, and Pen were two men who had no idea what was about to befall them.

  The dog hit the door again. Leo’s cousin took a step backward, drawing a pistol from the pocket of his coat. Viola pushed herself up from the floor, lifted the chair, and swung for his head. It connected with the satisfying sound of wood splintering, and he went sprawling, the gun skittering across the room.

  The door gave way with what sounded to Viola like the annunciation of angels—the full-throated growl of one very angry mastiff. Pen launched herself at Cooper, her snarls drowned out by the man’s screams as she knocked him to the ground.

  Leo’s cousin scrambled for the gun, then raced toward her. “You bitch.” He caught her by the arm, fingers digging into her.

  The open doorway spilled forth a steady stream of men: Leo at the fore, a disheveled and unshaven S
andison at his shoulder, other faces both familiar and unknown all around them. The tide pushed them forward, propelled them inexorably into the room. Her captor’s grip tightened momentarily; then he flung her aside.

  Pen took a swipe at one of his cousin’s henchmen, leaving a bloody bite on his thigh. As she raced to Viola, the League surged in behind Leo, grim determination radiating off them in a palpable wave. Charles met his gaze unflinchingly. No apology, no plea, just a haze of anger and hate leaking out his eyes, hot as the blast from a blacksmith’s furnace.

  How had they come to this? A year ago, he’d have killed to protect his cousin, and today it was likely he was going to kill him himself. There wasn’t any other way out. Charles raised his gun, thumb cocking the hammer in one fluid motion. The deafening report of multiple shots concussed the air, clouding it with smoke. The burning scent of sulfur curled up his nostrils like the stench of the Thames in August.

  Leo dropped his pistol, the dull thud as it hit the floor nearly lost in the shuffling clamor of his friends, his cousin’s strained moan, and the sound of Pen growling deep in her throat as Devere and Sandison subdued the man she’d bitten.

  His cousin lay crumpled on the floor, bent over, barely moving. Charles had given him no choice—would have left him in the same condition, had he been a better shot—but Leo’s mouth was filled with the acrid taste of guilt all the same. The choice had been clear: Viola or Charles. But that wasn’t to say it had been simple.

  How could it be? Love or family. How to choose? How to live with the choice he’d made…

  The sudden silence that enveloped the room felt almost unnatural, fraught with tension, like the pregnant moment between a lightning strike and the inevitable clap of thunder. A floorboard creaked behind him, and the world whirled back into motion. De Moulines was kneeling beside his cousin, Thane was giving orders in a low rumble, and Viola was sobbing on the floor, arms wrapped around a panting, smiling, blood-drenched dog.

  CHAPTER 28