Tempest

by Sandra Dubay

  "He already gives me nightmares," she admitted. "That dead-white face and those eyes! The way he looked at me made my skin crawl."

  Against her will, she remembered his ghastly pale face in the moonlight the night before. He had thought she was some loitering boy with nothing better to do than stand on the pavement waiting for a handout or the offer of a job. If what Justin said was true, she might have become one of the hideous Lord Rawley's victims. Thank God she had been wise enough to run away from the hulking footman, Monck!

  Shivering, she wrapped her arms about herself. "Why don't they do something about him? Why isn't he clapped in gaol or something?"

  "For one thing, my pet, he is rich as Midas. For another, he has many powerful connections. I don't say friends, you understand, but connections. The truth of the matter is that in his youth he was an intimate of many men who are very powerful today. Like most young men, they committed youthful follies that could prove embarrassing if they were made known. In many cases, Lord Rawley not only knows the particulars of these follies, he has letters and journals to prove the veracity of his tales. You might say that Heneage Rawley is a collector of the skeletons from other people's closets. So long as he doesn't commit high treason, they believe the safest course is to simply leave him to his own devicesor should I say his own vices?"

  Dyanna didn't smile. She had come too close to sampling the viscount's vices first hand to find Justin's puns amusing.

  "Dyanna"Justin held out a hand to her"there's nothing to fear from Heneage Rawley. Even he can't be foolhardy enough to prey on a young woman of breeding and quality. His prey are the children of the streets who are helpless and alone, powerless to fight against him."

  Dyanna reached out to take Justin's hand and saw her own tremble. Justin saw it too and, with a soft murmur of concern, drew her onto the loveseat beside him and held her in his arms.

  "You really are upset about that old lecher, aren't you?" he asked.

  She nodded, and suddenly the feelings and nerves of the past weeks overwhelmed her. Burying her face in Justin's shoulder, she dissolved into tears.

  Justin felt himself melting inside. Octavia's tears had been bad enough, but he was powerless against Dyanna's. Each glistening tear was a trial to him; each of her sobs was like a needle plunged into his heart.

  ''Hush, Dyanna," he murmured. "Please, don't cry anymore. Please."

  "I'm sorry," she managed haltingly, sniffling, the back of her hand wet where she'd wiped away her tears. "I don't know what's wrong with me."

  "It's all right," he assured her, holding her close. "Why don't we just spend a quiet evening here? Maybe that will help. What do you say?"

  She looked up at him, her lashes bedewed with her tears, her cheeks prettily flushed and dewy. "You'll stay home tonight? You won't go out again?"

  Smiling gently, he nodded. "I don't think I shall be going out as much anymore," he told her. "One part of my business was completed today."

  "Oh, Justin," she breathed, winding her arms about his neck. "I'm so glad! Can we go away soon? Can we go to Wildwood?"

  "Very soon, I should think," he agreed.

  Smiling, she nestled her head against his shoulder. Surely if he was so willing to go away with her, that woman, whoever she was, couldn't hold much appeal for him. Perhaps everything was going to be all right after all.

  Justin held her against him. He loved the sensation of having her in his arms, her body next to his, warm and soft. The sweet scent of her hair, her skin filling his nostrils, stirred his senses.

  His hands went to her hair and drew out the pins that held it. It tangled in his fingers as the silvery skeins tumbled down over Dyanna's shoulders. Twining his hands in its thick, luxuriant mass, he pulled back her head until her face was turned up to his.

  "Justin," she breathed, her eyes on the sculpted fullness of his lips. She closed her eyes, shivering, as the tip of his tongue traced the outline of her petal-pink cupid's bow mouth.

  Gently, Justin eased her back on the loveseat until she lay half beneath him on the striped silk that covered it. Her eyes were slitted, her lips parted. At the base of her throat he could see the quick fluttering of her pulse.

  His head fell and his lips touched the silken, translucent flesh of her breasts above the lace edging of her gown. Dyanna gasped; beneath the thin muslin of her gown, her nipples hardened into tight coral buds that ached for his touch, his kiss.

  She buried her fingers in his rich golden hair and arched her back, offering herself to him shamelessly, eagerly. She longed for him, ached for him; she thought she would die if he did not touch her, kiss her, take her. She shuddered as she felt his hand, warm and strong, finding its way beneath the tangle of muslin and lace, stroking the soft pale flesh of her calf, the tantalizing hollow at the back of her knee, her thigh.

  "Yes, Justin," she breathed, a catch in her voice that echoed the frantic fluttering of heart. "Justin, please, please . . . !"

  Sliding to his knees beside the loveseat, Justin pushed her skirts and petticoats aside with angry impatience. He slid a hand down the long, slender length of her leg and pressed his lips to the warm, velvet-soft flesh of her thigh above her lace and ribbon garter.

  A cry of surprise and pleasure welled in Dyanna's throat; too late she tried to smother it with the back of her hand. Justin lowered his head once more; his kisses were like touches of fire on her flesh. He pushed her petticoats higher, higher, and then . . .

  "Miss Dyanna?" Charlotte's voice was muffled through the thickness of the door. "Miss Dyanna? Are you there?"

  "I'll kill her!" Justin snarled, thrusting himself to his feet while Dyanna pushed down the yards of muslin and lace. He glanced back at Dyanna, fury and frustration lending an unearthly glitter to his golden eyes. "Say good-bye to her, Dyanna. She's a dead woman!"

  In spite of herself, Dyanna giggled. Rising from the loveseat, she stumbledher legs felt strangely weary and her senses still seemed madly jumbledand hurried past him, gesturing for him to let her answer the door.

  Opening it a crack, she saw her maid standing outside. "What do you want, Charlotte?" she asked.

  "You asked me to remind you, miss," the maid said, "that you wanted to get to bed early tonight so you could be up in the morning and go to the milliners."

  "Oh, yes. Thank you, Charlotte. I won't be too long."

  With a curtsy the maid left and Dyanna closed, and locked, the door.

  "See how easy that was?" she asked. "And no one's dead." Smiling flirtatiously, she played with the buttons on Justin's coat. "Mrs. Bond, the milliner, said she is getting a shipment of bonnets from Paris. I want to be there early to get my pick of them.''

  "Send Charlotte," Justin told her, all humor gone from his face. He did not want to risk letting Geoffrey Culpepper get near Dyanna.

  "I don't want to send Charlotte. I want to go myself."

  Justin hesitated. He didn't want her to know that Geoffrey had returned. He told himself it was because he didn't want to alarm her, but in reality he was not certain what her reaction would be. He shook his head.

  "I'm serious, Dyanna. Send Charlotte. I think it would be a good idea if you did not leave the house for a while."

  "But why!" she cried, wondering for a

  frightening moment if he had somehow learned about her sojourn of the night before.

  "Because I said so, that's why," he snapped. "Don't forget, I am your guardian."

  "You seemed mighty unconcerned about that a few moments ago!" she snarled, and instantly regretted her words.

  Justin's face hardened. "Forgive me. It won't happen again."

  Dyanna felt perilously close to tears as he brushed past her and started for the door. "Justin!" she called, raising a hand in a feeble gesture to stop him.

  He turned. One questioning brow arched.

  "Don't do this to me," she pleaded. "Don't make me a prisoner in this house again. I beg of you."

  "It won't be forever," he told her. "Just for a little w
hile."

  "But why!" She watched, devastated, as he left the room. "Why!" she shouted after him, but her only reply was the fading sound of his footsteps.

  Justin could hear, as he walked away, the sound of Dyanna's renewed sobbing, but he steeled himself against the impulse to go back and try to comfort her, just as he tried to steel himself against the ravening desire for her that wracked his body, his heart, and his very soul.

  Chater Thirty Two

  "I know why he's doing this!" Dyanna told Charlotte early the next morning.

  "Because of Lord Geoffrey?" Charlotte suggested. Dyanna had told her, upon her return from her failed attempt to follow Justin, that she'd seen Geoffrey in St. James's Street.

  Dyanna laughed unpleasantly. "No doubt that would be his excuse if he cared to give me an excuse. But that's not the truth. The truth of the matter is that with me shut in here at DeVille House, he is free to squire his pretty little mistress about town. He needn't worry about meeting me in the park or the shops. Depend upon it, Charlotte, our fine Lord DeVille is playing the gallant, attentive swain to that little strawberry-blond trollop!"

  Charlotte cast a glance at the clock. She had looked forward to seeing the new Parisian bonnets at Mrs. Bond's shop. But now that Lord DeVille had forbidden Dyanna to go out. . . . Disloyal as it seemed, she hoped Dyanna's immurement did not mean that she was to be shut away as well.

  As if reading her thoughts, Dyanna sighed and said, "You'd better hurry if you're going to have first choice of the bonnets at Mrs. Bond's, Charlotte. You know the colors I want. Have Mrs. Bond send the bill to Justin."

  Beaming, Charlotte curtsied and ran for her pelisse. She was going to escape from DeVille House before Dyanna decided she wanted someone to share her incarceration.

  Dyanna had never expected Charlotte to sit at home with her simply because Justin refused to allow her to go out. But by the middle of the afternoon, when Charlotte had not returned, she was feeling resentful about what was beginning to look like Charlotte's flaunting of her freedom.

  When she heard the carriage returning, bearing her wandering maid home, Dyanna told Ipswich to send Charlotte up to her sitting room the moment she set foot in the house.

  Charlotte appeared. From her tentative expression, it was obvious she was expecting the worst.

  "Where did you have to go for the bonnets, Charlotte?" she asked coolly. "Paris?"

  "I'm sorry, miss," Charlotte replied meekly, her eyes fixed on the carpet. "I went to Mrs. Bond's and chose several very pretty bonnets. I'm sure you will be pleased with them. Lady Hayward was there."

  "Lady Hayward?" Dyanna remembered the beautiful widow with whom the aged Marquess of Summersleigh was keeping company. "Phoebe Hayward?"

  "Yes, miss. She asked after you. She said she was sorry she had not seen you lately. She said the marquess heard about your eloping with Lord Geoffrey. He was very upset with the way things turned out."

  Dyanna sighed. She could well imagine that Lord Summersleigh, who had wanted her as a wife for his grandson from the beginning, would be upset that their elopement had ended in nothinghad, in fact, very nearly ended in tragedybut for her own part, she saw now that it would have been the greatest mistake of her life.

  "I would like to see Lady Hayward again," she admitted. "She was so kind to me; she helped me go to the Barkleighs' ball."

  "We spoke for quite some time," Charlotte went on. "Lady Hayward is very knowledgeable about what goes on in London."

  "I suppose she has all the newest gossip," Dyanna said, smiling.

  "Oh, yes, miss. She knows everything. About everyone."

  Dyanna could see from Charlotte's expression and the look on her pretty, round face that there was something she was dying to tell her.

  "Sit down, then," she invited. "And tell me what is going on in the world."

  Relieved and eager, Charlotte took the chair opposite Dyanna. Smoothing her titian curls into something resembling order, she weighed her words before beginning.

  "The latest piece of gossip in London," she said carefully, "concerns Lord DeVille."

  "Justin?" Dyanna grimaced. "Are they talking about me? Does everyone know he's shut me up like a child?"

  "Oh, no, Miss. It's not about you. It seems . . . that is . . . the rumor that is spreading about London is . . ."

  "Oh, for heaven's sake, Charlotte," Dyanna hissed impatiently. "What is it!"

  "They're saying that my Lord DeVille has taken a house. They're saying he has set up an establishment for"she took a deep breath"for his mistress, miss."

  The breath seemed to leave Dyanna's lungs in a rush and the room swam in and out of focus. "His mistress," she whispered. "But who . . . who is she? Did Lady Hayward know her name?"

  "FitzGeorge, Miss. Octavia FitzGeorge. Lady Hayward said she was an actress."

  "Octavia FitzGeorge." Dyanna murmured the name, once, then again. "Octavia FitzGeorge. I wonder if it was . . . that day at the Tower . . ." She glanced up at Charlotte. "Did she say what thisladylooked like?"

  "Small, miss. Very pretty. They said she has red-blond hair and great dark eyes. She was at Drury Lane, so they say. Before she left the stage at her lover's request."

  "Her lover . . ." Dyanna closed her eyes but maddening pictures of Justin and his pretty blonde danced in her mind's eyes. Octavia FitzGeorge. Now that face had a name. Now her worst fears were proven true. She felt limp, drained, sickened.

  "Can I get you something, miss?" Charlotte asked. "You're so pate."

  "Nothing, thank you, Charlotte," Dyanna said weakly. "I'll be fine in a moment."

  "Oh, I should not have told you," Charlotte mourned. "I should not . . ."

  "No, you did right to tell me," Dyanna assured her. "I'm glad you told me. I'm going to confront Justin with it. I'm tired of all these lies."

  Sighing, Dyanna leaned back in her chair. Perhaps it was a mistake, she told herself desperately. Rumors got started in London all the time and many proved to be false. Perhaps this, like so many others, was the result of some silly misunderstanding. Perhaps this Miss FitzGeorge was the mistress of some friend of Justin's, but because they had been seen together gossip painted them as lovers.

  It was little more than wishful thinking, she knew, and she was grasping at straws to try to avoid facing the fact that Justin had a mistress. But she had to put off the moment of acceptance as long as possible. She could not face the truth. Not yet.

  A madness started inside hera driving, desperate need to see this house, this mistress, for herself. Only then, only when she had seen the house, seen the woman, and seen Justin with her would she be forced to accept rumor as fact.

  "Do you know," she asked Charlotte, "did Lady Hayward know where this house is?"

  Charlotte hesitated. She knew full well why Dyanna was asking. She knew that once Dyanna knew the location of the house she would want to slip out of DeVille House and seek it out. She hesitated, frowning as if weighing two equally disagreeable courses of action in her mind.

  "Charlotte?" Dyanna prompted. "Do you know where the house is?"

  "Gracechurch Street," Charlotte said softly, a guilty flush staining her cheeks. "It is in Gracechurch Street."

  Rising, Dyanna went to her desk and pulled out a fresh sheet of notepaper. Opening the inkwell, she held out a pen to her maid.

  "Do you know where Gracechurch Street is?" she asked.

  "Yes, miss," Charlotte admitted, then immediately wished she had said no.

  "Come over here, then and draw me a map. I've a mind to go and see this house and this mistress Justin thinks so highly of."

  "Please, miss," Charlotte entreated. "Why not just leave well enough alone?"

  "Because there is no 'well enough.' I must see the truth for myself. Now come, Charlotte, I have asked you to do something."

  Charlotte hesitated. It was on the tip of her tongue to tell Dyanna everything, but she could not. In the end, tears in her eyes misting her vision, she went to the desk and, taking the pen, b
egan to draw.

  It was just after dinner when Justin went out. Twilight had not yet darkened into night and so Dyanna waitedwaited for the concealing darkness that would cover her escape from DeVille House. There was no need to follow Justin tonight, after all. She knew what his destination would be.

  Her lips tightened as she pulled on the disguise that had served her on her previous foray into the London night. The map lay on the desk; it was detailed enough, and she had studied it long enough, to give her a thorough knowledge of the distance and direction she must travel to reach Gracechurch Street and the home of Octavia FitzGeorge.

  "Please don't go, miss," Charlotte pleaded. "Please!"

  "What's wrong with you, Charlotte?" Dyanna muttered crossly as she carefully positioned the chestnut wig atop her head.

  "I've got a bad feeling about this, and that's the truth of it," the maid insisted. "Wait until tomorrow night if you must go. Or let me come with you."

  "No, I cannot waitand wonderanother night. And I must go alone. I'll be fine, truly. You mustn't worry."

  With another reassuring smile for the troubled maidservant, Dyanna crept down the stairs and let herself out into the night-shrouded garden. The map was safely folded in her coat pocket, though she didn't think she would have to consult it. Grimly determined to discover the truthhowever painful that might beshe set out for Gracechurch Street.

  Chater Thirty-Three

  By the time she reached St. Clement Lane in the Strand, Dyanna thought she could surely not go another step. All around her the nighttime bustle of London ebbed and flowed, and had she not been so determined to reach her goal, had she not had Charlotte's map securely tucked in her pocket, she felt certain she would have panicked long ago and retreated to DeVille House.

  But she went on. She was nearing St. Paul's when a carriage stopped in the road beside her and caught her eye. Unlike most others, no footman rode on the back of this vehicle. It was too tempting. Just as the carriage started up, Dyanna darted into the road and jumped onto the back of the carriage, curling herself into an inconspicuous ball between the great, yellow wheels of the yellow-and-black chaise. Closing her eyes, she massaged her aching calves through her smudged white stockings. It was bliss to be riding after walking for so long. She had to remind herself to watch carefully so that she might leap off the back of the carriage in time. After coming so far, it would not do to miss her destination and be carried into some unfamiliar part of London from which she might have trouble finding her way back.