Tempest

by Sandra Dubay

  When the carriage slowed to turn into St. Swithin's Lane, Dyanna took a deep breath and launched herself off the back of the carriage. Hitting the pavement, she lost her balance and tumbled into the gutter.

  ''Damn!" she muttered, pushing herself to her feet and knocking some of the dirt from her coat and breeches. Still, it wasn't as bad as it might have been. Had it been raining, the gutter would have been streaming with stinking sewage and refuse.

  Straightening her clothes, she set off toward Gracechurch Street, which was not far away.

  Following Cannon Street, she came to the corner of Gracechurch Street and Eastcheap. Her courage wavered, but she pushed the doubts from her mind. Pulling Charlotte's map from her pocket, she looked for the number of Octavia FitzGeorge's house, then resumed her trek.

  When she found the house, she stood for a long while gazing at the lights that glowed through the elegantly curtained windows. Justin's carriage was nowhere to be seen. Dyanna did not know whether to be sorry or relieved that he was not there. On the one hand, she knew her courage, her determination, would have been fired by the sight of his carriageby the knowledge that he was there, with his mistress, when he was supposed to be, so he said, out conducting business. On the other hand, she knew he would be furious that she had gone to such lengths to find him, and she could not bear the thought of being shouted athumiliatedbefore his paramour.

  Stealthily, she crept toward the house. She wanted to peek into the window, try to see Octavia FitzGeorge, to prove to herself that she and the strawberry-blonde Justin had seen at the Tower were one and the same.

  Her mind occupied with the matter at hand, Dyanna did not sense that she was not alone in the darkness; she did not hear the soft footfalls of her stalker. It was not until the arm snaked around her waist that she realized that she, and not Octavia, was the night's prey. Twisting around, she caught a single glimpse of an all too familiar face before the blow was struck and darkness descended.

  Hearing a commotion from downstairs, Charlotte looked up from the book she was reading in Dyanna's sitting room.

  Perhaps, she thought hopefully, Miss Dyanna had come home. Perhaps she had realized how foolish it was for her to

  "Dyanna!" Justin's shout echoed up the stairwell.

  Charlotte froze. Lord DeVille! But he wasn't supposed to be home until much later.

  "Dyanna?" He was closer now, mounting the stairs.

  Charlotte stood in the middle of the room. She couldn't decide whether to hide in the bedchamber or flee to the servants' quarters in the attic.

  By the time she'd made her decision, it was too late. Justin stood in the sitting room doorway.

  "My lord," Charlotte breathed, sinking into a deep curtsy.

  "Where is Miss Dyanna?" he asked, glancing around the room.

  "Well, my lord, she . . . that is to say . . ."

  "Spit it out, girl," he ordered.

  "She isn't here, milord." Charlotte's hushed whisper was barely audible.

  Justin's golden eyes narrowed. "What do you mean, she isn't here? Where is she?"

  "She went out, milord. She"

  "Out!" Justin's cry seemed to shake the very walls. "What in hell do you mean, she went out!"

  Terrified and guilty, Charlotte burst into tears. "I tried to stop her, milord. I swear to God I did!"

  "Oh, Christ!" Justin ran a hand through his hair. "Doesn't she know the dangers for a girl alone in London by night?"

  "Beggin' your pardon, milord, but she's not a girl. . . ."

  "What are you talking about?" he demanded.

  "She's dressed as a boy. She went up in the attic and got some of Tom's clothes. You know, the footman who ran"

  "Yes, yes," Justin interrupted. "She's out there disguised as a boy? But why?"

  "She's looking for you, milord. She thinks you've got a mistress. She thinks you won't let her out of the house because you don't want her to see you with yourwith your ladyfriend."

  His mind awhirl, Justin sank into a chair. "That little fool! It's nothing to do with another woman. I didn't want her out and about in London because Culpepper's back in town."

  "She knows. She saw him."

  "I was afraid if she knew, she would be frightened into doing something foolish or" He looked up as Charlotte's words sank in. "What do you mean? How could she have seen him?"

  "She went out before dressed in Tom's clothes. She said she saw Lord Geoffrey getting out of a carriage. He was withI don't know his namethat old man with the painted-up face Miss Dyanna met at the Tower."

  "Lord Rawley."

  "Yes, milord."

  Justin cradled his head in his hands. How Dyanna could do anything as stupid as this, he couldn't imagine. He wanted to throttle her. He had to find her, bring her back safely to DeVille Houseso he could kill her!

  "I can't believe this," he muttered. "I don't believe any of this."

  "But it's true," Charlotte insisted, thinking he truly did not believe her. "She has Tom's livery in here as well."

  Before Justin could stop her, she'd run into the bedchamber and burrowed in the closet to find Dyanna's hiding place. Returning with a wooden box, she set it on the floor before him and whipped off the lid.

  The contents of the box blazed scarlet and gold. Charlotte gasped; in her haste she had seized the wrong box.

  Justin shoved her hand aside as she was about to replace the cover. A shudder of recognition coursed through him, shaking him to the soles of his feet.

  "Marie," he whispered. He looked at the stricken expression on the maid's face. "It was Dyanna that night, at the Barkleighs', wasn't it? Dyanna was Marie LaBrecque?"

  Tearful, Charlotte nodded. "Yes, my lord. She wanted to attend that ball so much. My Lord Summersleigh and my Lady Hayward helped her."

  "Summersleigh! Damn all these Culpeppers to Hell!"

  Unable to help herself, Charlotte started to weep. Her head buried in her hands, she did not see Justin wander thoughtfully from the room.

  "Marie," he murmured to himself as he walked slowly down the corridor. "No wonder I was so attracted to the mysterious Madame LaBrecque. I should have knownhow could I not have known! The shyness, the hesitancy I found so beguiling were, in fact, innocence. My God!" He stopped, paling. "I took her virginity! My own ward! How could I"

  And yet, in his heart, he knew that the attraction had been there from the first. Had they not been interrupted, he would have made love to her at the Angel Inn the first time he saw her. He had thought her but a tavern maid then, but still, she had been the most beautiful creature he had ever seen.

  And then, when he had taken her to live at DeVille House, her presence had tormented him. She'd thought him cruel to leave her alone so much, but he could not bear to be near her without wanting her, touching her, loving her. Nor could he bear the thought of giving her to some suitor, though as her guardian his duty was to see her settled in life.

  He had left her alone at DeVille House in order to spare himself the torture of being near her, but that had not kept them apart.

  The memory of that enchanted night at Barkleigh House rose in exquisite, erotic detail in his mind. Her skin, her hair, the scent of her, feel of her, taste of her . . . There was no one like her. The thought of her out there, alone in the London night, made him wild with worry.

  He returned to Dyanna's sitting room, determined to discover if Charlotte had any inkling of where Dyanna might have gone.

  Her head pounding, the room swimming in and out of focus, Dyanna fought her way back to consciousness. Her shoulders ached; she didn't know why until she opened her eyes and found that she was bound, her wrists tied to the thick, spiraling posts of a fourposter hung in blood-red velvet.

  Nothing in the dark, shadowy room gave her a clue as to her whereabouts. The draperies, of the same gold-braided red velvet, were drawn across the window. Candles burning in tarnished silver candelabra did little to dispel the lurking shadows that filled the chamber. The golden frames of paintings on the walls
glimmered in the wavering light. Dyanna squinted at them; they seemed, every one of them, to be filled with naked bodies in exotic, erotic poses.

  "Do you like them?" a horribly familiar, unpleasantly shrill voice asked.

  Dyanna stared into the darkness at the foot of the bed. There, in the light of a single candle, seated in a great, carved, high-backed chair, his deathly pale face seeming to glow in the candlelight, sat Lord Rawley. An evil grin split the horrible skull-white face and the red-rimmed eyes sparkled with unholy glee.

  Dyanna's head fell back on the pillows. Her worst fears, her worst nightmares, had come to pass. Her scream shattered the unearthly silence of the room, drowning Lord Rawley's malicious laughter.

  Chater Thirty-Four

  Dyanna's screams echoed through Lord Rawley's house in Harley Street. Below, the few servants whom the decadent old viscount had managed to keep shook their heads. It was not unusual to hear such sounds and they knew better than to interfere, but it was nothing that one ever grew accustomed to.

  But there was one in the house who could not ignore the screams, however little he professed to care for Dyanna.

  "What the hell is he doing to her?" Geoffrey demanded as he reached for a glass of wine poured by the young boy in his Indian silks.

  "Could be anything, milord," the boy replied.

  Rising, Geoffrey climbed the stairs and hurried along the dark corridor to the scarlet-walled, velvet-draped chamber.

  Bursting through the unlocked door, he found Rawley calmly seated in his chair at the foot of the bed, a diabolical smile creasing the thick white paint on his face, watching as Dyanna wept and struggled against her bonds.

  Through her tears, Dyanna caught sight of Geoffrey.

  "Geoffrey!" she cried. "Oh, Geoffrey, please, don't let him hurt me. Please!"

  "What have you done to her?" he demanded of his accomplice.

  Rawley shrugged. "Nothing. The imagination is the most powerful weapon, and one all too often turns it against oneself. She woke up, saw me here, and began to scream. Interesting, is it not?"

  "Geoffrey," Dyanna entreated again. "Let me go, please. Untie me. I can't bear this."

  Geoffrey's gaze swept over Dyanna. In her stockings, breeches and thin white shirt, nothing of her beauty was hidden from him. Her silvery hair cascaded over the pillows, shimmering in sterling waves on the blood-red coverlet of the bed. Her wrists, bound with silken cords, were rubbed red and raw by her struggles, and he could not help wincing at the sight of that creamy flesh being bruised and scraped.

  "Please, Geoffrey," she said again, taking hope from his hesitation. ''Don't let him hurt me. Please!"

  Rawley's kohl-darkened brows arched as Geoffrey moved to the bedside and bent to release Dyanna's arms.

  "What are you doing?" he demanded crossly. "We had a bargain, if you remember, sirrah!"

  Scrambling off the bed, Dyanna threw herself into Geoffrey's arms. Wrapping her arms about him, she buried her face in the soft velvet of his coat.

  Automatically, Geoffrey's arms encircled her. Through the thin cotton of her shirt, he felt her breasts pressing against his chest; his hands rested at the small of her back and his fingers lay on the gentle swell of her buttocks, separated only by the worn cloth of her breeches.

  Dyanna pressed closer to him. She could feel the effect her body was having on his and, much as she loathed it, knew that only Geoffrey stood between her and whatever vile fate Rawley had in mind for her.

  "Please, Geoffrey," she breathed, turning her face up so her lips brushed his throat, just below his ear, as she spoke. "Please, keep him away from me. Take me away from this place, and I'll do anything you say."

  "Anything?" he asked, his voice growing husky, his breathing uneven.

  "It's a trick!" Rawley snarled, furious that his amusement was being denied him. "Don't believe her! Leave her to me!"

  "Anything," Dyanna sighed.

  "Will you marry me?" he asked. "Will you come away with me, somewhere that damned DeVille can't find us, and marry me?"

  Touching her lips to his jaw, Dyanna moved provocatively against him. "Oh, yes," she breathed, wanting to weep. "Let's go now, Geoffrey. Let's leave tonight."

  "Hah!" Rawley shouted. "You're as great a liar as she is! Don't go with him, girl. The wretch already has a wife!"

  "What?" Dyanna, startled out of her playacting, stared at Rawley, who had thrust himself out of his chair and was pacing the floor in his fury and frustration.

  "Damn you, Rawley!" Geoffrey snarled. "Shut your mouth!"

  "Ask him about her!" Rawley insisted. "Ask him about his pretty little wifethe wife he abandoned in order to cast his net for an heiress!"

  "Geoffrey . . . ?" Dyanna murmured, drawing a little away from him.

  Thrusting her aside, Geoffrey advanced on the old viscount. "Say one more word, you decrepit old bastard, and I"

  "Yes?" Reaching back, Lord Rawley snatched up the riding crop he had intended to use on Dyanna. "What will you do?"

  As Geoffrey advanced on the viscount, Dyanna cast surreptitious glances toward the door. What, she wondered, were her chances of escaping while the men were engaged in their quarrel?

  Face grim with worry and anger, Justin left the little house in Gracechurch Street and strode toward his carriage. He had questioned Charlotte and learned that Dyanna had set out to find Octavia's house and discover whether the rumors linking Justin and the former actress were true.

  There were discrepancies in her story; he had his doubts as to whether the rumors that had sent Dyanna out into the night had truly come from Lady Hayward. He suspected another source but determined to investigate those suspicions laterafter he had recovered Dyanna.

  Octavia swore she had not seen Dyanna at all. Justin was inclined to believe her, for she was not so good an actress as to be able to lie convincingly. It followed then that Dyanna had never reached Gracechurch Street or, if she had, had been waylaid before Octavia had discovered her presence. Although it was not impossible that Dyanna had simply run afoul of the cutpurses and footpads who preyed on solitary innocents abroad in London by night, Justin suspected a different culprit. Geoffrey Culpepper was abroad in London and Justin felt certain he had something to do with Dyanna's disappearance.

  With this in mind, he made his way to the house in Great Queen Street from which Octavia had just moved. The house belonged to Geoffrey, after all. It followed that he might have taken possession of it after his wife's departure.

  But the house was dark and deserted. There were no signs that anyone had set foot in it since the last of Octavia's belongings had been removed.

  Returning to his carriage, Justin sat back against the wine leather squabs and gave himself up to thought.

  He was convinced, now, that Geoffrey must have Dyanna. But where? Certainly he had not taken her to Summersleigh House. Or had he? The marquess certainly wanted Dyanna for his grandson.

  "Barnes!" he called up to the coachman.

  "Milord?"

  "Summersleigh House. Grosvenor Square."

  Dyanna winced as Lord Rawley wielded his crop with practiced accuracy. A red welt dotted with pinpricks of blood appeared on Geoffrey's cheek.

  Hissing, Geoffrey fell back, one hand pressed to his cheek. "I'll kill you for that, you old bastard!" he snarled. "By God, I'll kill you!"

  Frightened, Lord Rawley scrambled away from Geoffrey's grasping hands. For a moment, the path to the door was unblocked and Dyanna dashed for it.

  But as she seized the latch and rattled it, she realized that it was lockedthat Geoffrey, unnoticed by her, had twisted the key as he'd entered.

  Panicking, she pounded the door with her fists, but it was hopeless. Lord Rawley's servants knew better than to interfere in their master's pleasures.

  Turning, her back pressed to the locked door, Dyanna watched in horrified fascination as Geoffrey advanced on the terrified viscount.

  "You haven't seen him at all?" Justin asked the old marquess, who sat in his
small salon wrapped in a brocade banyan, a tasselled fez atop his head.

  "Not at all," the marquess assured him. "I didn't know he'd come back to town. "What's the trouble, sir?"

  "Dyanna's disappeared," Justin told him. "I've reason to believe Culpepper's kidnapped her."

  "Kidnapped her?" The marquess smiled. "Perhaps they've eloped again. I was sorry about the way the last attempt ended."

  "I was more than sorry," Justin replied grimly, "Dyanna was nearly killed!"

  "Even so, she was not killed. And I still cherish hopes of that charming girl being my granddaughter-in-law someday."

  "And what," Justin could not resist asking, "do you plan to do with your grandson's current Wife?"

  "Eh?" Shocked out of his pleasant musings, the marquess sat forward in his chair. "Explain yourself, sir!"

  Arms sheltering her bowed head, Dyanna sat huddled against the locked door trying hard not to hear the viscount's shrieks. It had been no difficult task for Geoffrey to wrest the riding crop from the old man's hand. Now, driven to a fury by the lashing blows the aged roué had managed to land on his face and body, Geoffrey had backed Lord Rawley into a corner and was whipping him unmercifully.

  Geoffrey's face was nearly unrecognizable; it was contorted with his fury, his mindless, unreasoning rage, and Dyanna could not help wondering what he would do when he'd had done with punishing the viscount.

  Justin climbed back into his carriage after having left the Marquess of Summersleigh. He almost regretted having told the old man of his grandson's greatest bit of follythat of marrying an actress.