Valor's Reward

by Jean R. Ewing

  “Lord Steal, you have left me quite in the dark. You are rambling, I swear it. For heaven’s sake, when I arrived at Tresham I had been shot and had twisted my ankle, but I positively did not faint.”

  Peter looked stubborn. “But you swooned away into the Serpentine, as well, after seeing that dog almost drowning. If I didn’t have these dashed debts, I’d still ask you to marry me. We could wait until my majority and to heck with Deyncourt. Anyhow, I intend to make it all come to rights. I’ve been having a run of luck recently.”

  “Oh, Lord Steal, you are being such a fool. I am not what you imagine me. If you would only pay Miss Brandon the attention she deserves, you would find her company infinitely more appealing than mine. Before long, I shall surely do something shocking enough to make the scales fall from your eyes.”

  “You could not!” Peter said.

  The dance was over and she followed him blindly from the floor. They almost stumbled into a tall gentleman standing next to Caroline.

  “I should be honored by the pleasure of this dance, Miss Whinburn,” Lord Deyncourt said. “If you could refrain from stepping on my feet and leaving me a cripple.”

  Jessica looked up. Something cold and dangerous lay deep in his eyes, as if ice had settled at the bottom of a winter pool.

  “I am fatigued, Lord Deyncourt,” she said quickly. “And would rather fetch a glass of lemonade.”

  “Allow me to accompany you,” he said firmly. Taking her elbow, he led her away from Peter and Caroline.

  “On the other hand,” she blurted, “I am not very thirsty, perhaps—”

  “Then you would rather dance?”

  The band struck up the first bars of a waltz and he pulled her into his arms.

  “No,” she said. “Not when you look at me as if I were something despicable.”

  “Then let us stroll among the flowers. I expect they have been mute witness to many shattered hopes this evening.”

  He led her through a set of French windows giving access to the gardens. Within moments, they walked beneath the soft glow of the lanterns that had been hung from the trees.

  A few couples swirled together across the lawn as lilting music wafted clearly from the ballroom.

  His arm remained firmly around her waist as he propelled her down a grassy path between the bushes. The air was heavy with the damp odor of flowering shrubs.

  At last they reached a small stone bench, where the earl pulled her down beside him. They were entirely alone. Jessica felt her breath coming too rapidly. Through the thin silk of her dress, she was burningly aware that his strong thigh lay against hers.

  He turned her face up to his, but in the dim light she could not read his expression. His thumb ran delicately over her upper lip.

  “How lightly are your kisses given, Miss Whinburn?”

  “This is a public ball,” she said. “If a dropped teaspoon is enough to raise eyebrows, surely to be found here like this would be enough to ban me from society?”

  “Perhaps,” he said idly. “It is generally considered dangerous to play games with a rake.”

  Jessica pulled away. “Then are you determined to ruin me, after all?”

  The light of distant lanterns outlined his soft hair. “A rake who steals a kiss has no further aim, my dear Jessica, than his own pleasure. Ought I to regret that I did not press my advantage at Marchmont when I had the chance?”

  She lost her temper, as much with herself as with him.

  “Oh, fustian! You do nothing without hidden motives. What kind of game are you playing now? Whatever it is, I do not appreciate being used as some kind of pawn.”

  The earl leaned forward so that the light struck suddenly across his features. His face was rigid with anger.

  “For God’s sake! I have watched you succeed in attracting the attentions of my ward until you have him completely infatuated. I didn’t want to believe it. Don’t you realize or care about the depth of Miss Brandon’s feelings? She has loved Lord Steal since she was ten years old. I shan’t allow him to cry off because of you.”

  “Caroline loves him?”

  “It was at her request that I asked him to consider her, but in your determination to intervene in what you perceive to be my plans, you have given Miss Brandon no thought at all, have you?”

  “Are your wits completely to let?” Jessica said, stunned. “I have never given him a moment’s encouragement. Is this why you have dogged my footsteps? Why you took me to Marchmont? Because in your insufferable vanity you thought to distract me from an imagined courtship with Peter?”

  She had never seen him in this deep of a rage before. It was, as Lord Steal said, like a killing frost.

  “Ah, Peter? How familiar! Forgive me, it seems I am indeed trespassing on his territory. Be careful, Miss Whinburn. I thought you would have the sense to pick a wealthy nabob for your efforts, not a penniless sprig of the aristocracy. Unless, of course, you think that after his marriage to Miss Brandon, Lord Steal will have the blunt to set you up as his mistress. Are you completely the Jezebel?”

  It was like a slap in the face.

  “How would you ever know?” Jessica snapped, fighting back angry tears. “Perhaps I have kissed him like this?”

  She seized him by the shoulders and fastened her mouth onto his. Shame and anger and passion blazed from her lips and tongue. He shrugged from her grasp only to pull her against his body. Then his mouth burned down onto hers, overwhelming her senses as he returned her kiss with expressive mastery.

  Her eyes closed. Strength drained from her body. She knew that she was about to surrender completely. His tongue searched her mouth and she tasted him back eagerly, waves of desire running molten copper in her veins. His fingers trailed possessively over her jaw and neck, then over the sensitive skin of her shoulder as if to slide her dress from her breast, when suddenly he released her.

  He turned away to wring both hands through his hair.

  “Dear God!” His eyes were dark with passion. “Jessica!”

  She stood up and rubbed the moisture from her mouth. She was shaking.

  “Indeed, I am shameless. You offered me a career as a courtesan yourself. No doubt in your wisdom and experience you recognized that I was suitable for nothing else. Well, so be it! But it won’t be poor Lord Steal who takes me to his bed in trade for trinkets, and it most certainly won’t be you.”

  Choking down the threatening tears, she swept away up the path.

  Michael gazed blankly at the canopy of leaves over his head. He had deliberately brought her out here to confront her. She had seemed immune to his charm, so if diplomacy failed, he would indeed use the sword.

  In all innocence, Caroline Brandon had just told him that she considered Miss Whinburn her dearest friend. Yet he had looked up to see Steal fawning over that dear friend in every measure of the dance. Even worse, the devotion on his ward’s face perfectly matched the winsome animation on Jessica’s.

  After that day at Marchmont, he had truly begun to believe that Jessica Whinburn could not play such perfidious games. He had laid a trap for her at his beautiful house, and then he wasn’t quite sure who had been caught.

  Now she had kissed him with passion, with anger, and with complete honesty—and left him to confront an appalling suspicion.

  All the pieces seemed to fall into place. Her reckless pursuit of independence. Her horror of marriage. Her anger and defiance at his casual flirtation.

  The exquisite Earl of Deyncourt stared blindly away into the dark.

  For God’s sake! For God’s sake! What had he done now?

  * * *

  After washing her face in the powder room, Jessica slipped back into the ballroom, only to be immediately claimed for the next dance. She looked away from Deyncourt, taking his position further down the line. No one should guess the pain that had flared up in her heart.

  For the second waltz, her hand was clasped by none other than the hanging judge, who was perspiring rather too freely in his high colla
r and garish coat. It was too ridiculous.

  “Would you object, Lord Clarence, if we were to sit and take lemonade instead?” she suggested. “I confess, I am danced off my feet.”

  “My pleasure!” her partner replied. “Awfully tuckered out myself, never was much of a dancer. Probably step on your toes, don’t you know?”

  They secured seats by a large palm, and the judge brought Jessica a lemonade. As the couples sailed by, he began to point out the people he knew.

  “There goes young Steal—ancient family, huge old place in the country—caught himself an heiress, though she’s plain as a carriage wheel. Can’t imagine what he sees there but the blunt.”

  “No, indeed,” Jessica corrected firmly. “We are acquainted, and I assure you that Miss Brandon is all kindness and they are very devoted.”

  “Oh, didn’t know you was acquainted. Shouldn’t have said anything if I’d known, assure you. Well, here comes Deyncourt and the Incomparable. That’s a love match at any rate. She’s dazzling.”

  Deyncourt and Honoria spun by. As they passed, the earl appeared to be listening with doting interest to his partner. His lean fingers pressed against the blue silk at her waist. Her blond hair made a shimmering contrast to the dark cloth of his coat.

  “By God, she’s a catch!” Lord Clarence gushed. “A beauty and an heiress, and not a stain on her. All London’s been after Deyncourt, but my money is she’s got him in the bag. The Melton can match her fortune and family to his, and she’s a lovely, innocent creature—never a breath of scandal about her. Deyncourt’s a man to demand perfection, and by God, he’s found it there.”

  The sharp pain threatened to entirely undo her. Jessica choked it down.

  “Indeed, Lord Clarence, they are perfectly suited.”

  “Yes, the Incomparable has the world of fashion at her feet.” He turned to her. “But for myself, of course, I don’t mind something a bit out of the ordinary—russet hair, for instance.”

  Jessica was finding her plump partner insufferable, but could think of no put-down sufficient to quell him. Until she thought of the evening slippers.

  “But you are quite a leader of fashion yourself, aren’t you?” she asked innocently. “However did you get such a perfect match between your shoes and stockings?” Lord Clarence glanced down at his footwear. “I declare, they are the exact same shade, as if both had been dipped in a puddle.”

  The judge turned puce. He spluttered and changed the subject. With infinite gratitude, Jessica relinquished his company for that of an elderly gentleman who claimed the next dance. Well, that had taken care of Lord Clarence! She had a far more pressing problem. She had just discovered that Caroline truly loved Peter.

  How could she make him return that love?

  It was almost morning when the ball drew to a close and the band struck up the final waltz. Having escaped her unwanted partner and scratched his name from her card, Jessica stood momentarily alone beside a marble pillar with its now wilting greenery and flowers.

  She fanned her hot cheeks and attempted to tuck a few stray curls back into her rapidly disintegrating coiffure. Dancing was energetic work. Although it made her blood race, her hair was objecting to being confined for so long.

  “Don’t,” a voice said at her elbow. “It looks charming as it is. We have unfinished business, Miss Whinburn. May I have the pleasure of this dance?”

  Without waiting for a reply, the earl pulled her into his arms. She looked up into his face and met only a sardonic smile. In contrast to her, he looked completely unruffled. His long fingers were cool and firm.

  But he did not swing her onto the floor. Instead, he forced her with him behind a tub of greenery.

  “There is nothing further we can have to say to each other, Lord Deyncourt.”

  “Yes, there is, Miss Whinburn. Among other things, perhaps, an apology?”

  “You won’t get it!” She wrenched away from him.

  He released her immediately. “Perhaps the apology I intended was mine,” he said quietly, his eyes very dark. “But even if you forgive me, I have nothing to offer you. The devil doesn’t lightly give up a soul.”

  Without another word he gave her his exquisite bow and left.

  * * *

  Chapter 13

  Her heart felt reduced to ash, but the very next morning Jessica put her plan into action. She and Caroline went shopping together. They poured over ribbons and silk flowers, and hunted through straw-chip bonnets. Jessica knew and cared nothing about fashion herself, but she remembered very clearly the advice of Lady Honoria Melton and her maid.

  “How do you like this?”

  She held up a charming little hat with fine coquelicot ribbons, but no other adornment.

  “Actually, I like it very well,” Caroline replied with a small laugh, “but Mama always wishes me to wear the most modish bonnets.”

  “By which she means the most elaborate. Miss Brandon, you are almost a married lady, don’t you think you should follow your own taste?”

  “Do you think so? I confess that the gowns Mama picks out for me sometimes make me feel like a package wrapped up for Christmas.”

  “And look at this,” Jessica said, pointing out some fashion plates. “This is exactly the style that would suit you.”

  The lady in the print wore her hair in a cloud of curls around her face, as Cicely Pratchett had recommended.

  Caroline gazed at it for a moment. “Do you know, I have often longed to bob my hair, since it is not in the least pretty as it is and it’s such a nuisance to have it washed and dressed. Do you think I should?”

  “Absolutely! I would cut my own hair, but I’m afraid that I should look like an orange chrysanthemum. Why don’t you do it?”

  “You mean, now?”

  “Why not?” This was going splendidly.

  An hour later the two ladies emerged into the street from Caroline’s home. Miss Brandon’s maid had happily cut her mistress’s hair, and all three females giggled together as the stringy mouse-colored tresses fell to the floor. Caroline’s hair sprang into natural curls when relieved of its own weight, and the color near the roots was deep and rich.

  Caroline threw her arms around Jessica and laughed. “You were so right. Now for the new bonnet! No one will recognize me.”

  They hurried back to the shop, where Caroline tried on the straw-chip. She turned to Jessica with her face alight.

  “It’s perfect,” Jessica said smiling.

  Indeed it was. The Incomparable had been right. Instead of looking like a frightened mouse, Caroline now seemed only sweetly vulnerable and feminine.

  Jessica gave her friend a warm smile. “Now for your modiste! You need a new gown to compliment what we have done.”

  “Dear Miss Whinburn,” Caroline said, hugging her arm. “You are just like Lord Deyncourt. He’d help anyone, at whatever cost to himself, just as you rescued that puppy. I was ready to faint when you jumped into the Serpentine.”

  Jessica swallowed hard. Caroline must not know that any mention of the exquisite earl cut into her soul now like a knife.

  “Excellent,” she said brightly. “For that is the very thing you must do, as soon as the opportunity presents itself.”

  Caroline gave her a puzzled look, but Jessica began to talk about dresses, so Miss Brandon was not to discover quite yet what she meant.

  * * *

  That evening Lord Deyncourt spent a great deal of time over his cravat. Dover assisted without murmur as his master cast aside one starched creation after another. Finally the servant was waved from the room.

  There was silence as Dover stood and waited patiently in the corridor, his brow contracted in worry. It hadn’t been this bad for a long time.

  But when the earl strode into his club that night, his elegance was as simple and perfect as usual, with no trace of his earlier torment. He looked about the room. To his surprise, his eye fell upon the very man who might best be able to help him.

  “Dagonet!” he s
aid, holding out his hand.

  Devil Dagonet looked up from his brandy and grinned. “For God’s sake, sir, you are exquisite. Le style, c’est l’homme? The cut of your coat is alone enough to intimidate lesser mortals.”

  Michael smiled grimly. “It serves a purpose.”

  Charles de Dagonet gave him a sharp look. “But I am blinded, like Paul on the road to Damascus. Is this the result of becoming a peer?”

  “It’s an attempt to live down my past and my blasphemous friends, sir. What are you doing in town?”

  “Pining for Kate, of course, but unfortunately I had to visit my cousin and she won’t speak to him.” The facile voice became suddenly serious. “How can I assist you? Your new responsibilities would seem to weigh on you like the globe upon the shoulders of Atlas. I won’t join you in any desperate venture. I am sworn to domesticity and have put our Peninsular adventures behind me.”

  “No, I don’t need your sword arm, sir. All I want is gossip. Listen, you had your ear to the ground in the less salubrious parts of town last winter—Richard Acton told me something of it—do you know anything about Whinburn House in Northumberland?”

  Dagonet took a pensive sip from his glass. “Not much. The place had a certain reputation, I believe.”

  “For what?”

  “For high gaming, for vice—a veritable den of debauchery it was whispered—but extremely private. I don’t imagine it would have been known in London at all. I only heard of it myself because of some shady horse-trading connections.”

  “And the owner, Sir Shelby Whinburn? What was his passion?”

  “Le veau d’or, of course.”

  “Dear God! Tell me,” Michael said in a voice thick with dread, “was there anything he wouldn’t have sold for money?”

  Dagonet looked up at his friend in alarm.

  “Deyncourt, for God’s sake! You would appear to have seen the writing blazoned on the wall. I’ll gladly tell you everything I heard, but first let me order you a brandy.”

  * * *

  The following morning, accompanied by a maid, Jessica went to meet Caroline for a walk in the Park. Somehow she had to make Miss Brandon appear as romantic to Peter as she herself had apparently seemed at Tresham. Lost in her reverie, she spun about in alarm when she was accosted from behind.