THREE HEROES

by Jo Beverley

  But after two—no, three—meetings?

  The addict also, according to Doctor Carlisle, lost interest in all other aspects of life. A mother would neglect her child. A father would neglect his work. Even nourishing food and drink were unimportant to the person ruled by opium.

  Clarissa bit her lip on a laugh. She wasn’t so far gone as that. She had taken a second helping of Mrs. Taddy’s jam pudding this evening, and she was enjoying all aspects of this stay in Brighton. Her unsteadiness now was simply that this would be her first grand affair here, her first trial before society en masse.

  London didn’t count. In London, Lord Deveril had not wanted her to go to any event unless he was with her.

  Her dress, at least, was perfect. The subtly colored silk skimmed her curves and exposed just enough of her bosom to be interesting. The delicate gold-thread embroidery shimmered in the evening light. It would be magical under candles. Her hair looked as pretty as possible, and the bandeau of gold and pearls set it off very well.

  Thank heavens for Miss Hurstman.

  There had been no jewelry in Lord Deveril’s possession, and Clarissa owned only a few valueless pieces. It was not a matter she had thought of. Miss Hurstman had, however, and had sent an urgent message to the Duke of Belcraven. A messenger had soon arrived with a selection of items.

  None of them were precious, which was a great relief. Clarissa would have hated to risk losing an heirloom. They were all lovely, however. The gold filigree set with seed pearls went perfectly with her gown. She’d offered Althea her pick, but Althea had insisted on wearing only her own very simple pearl pendant and earrings.

  Clarissa looked at her friend and sighed with satisfaction. In a pure white dress, stripped down to simple lines, and adorned only by her beauty, Althea would outshine every other woman present tonight and have every available man on his knees by tomorrow. She was sure of it.

  She held out her gloved hand to her friend. “Onward to our adventure!”

  Their hackney coach rolled up to the Old Ship Inn, which stretched along the seafront, every window illuminated to welcome the guests. The stream of people was continuous, the men in dark evening wear or uniforms, the ladies a rainbow of silk, lace, and jewels. All of fashionable Brighton would be here, and excitement danced in the air on a drifting melange of perfume.

  Clarissa pulled up the hood of her cloak to protect her coiffure from the brisk wind and stepped down from the coach. She worked hard to keep her smile at a suitably subdued level, but excitement was bubbling up in her like water in a hot pot. Her first true ball, and already she had promised dances to five men! Althea would never sit one out unless from exhaustion. It would be a splendid evening.

  She caught Miss Hurstman’s eye on her and tried to rein in her smile even more, but her dragon said, “Enjoy yourself. Though everyone puts on an air of boredom, it’s a pleasure to be with people prepared to admit to a little excitement.”

  Clarissa set her smile free, this time at Miss Hurstman. Her liking and admiration for the woman grew day by day. It was so typical that her dress for this grand event was only slightly more festive than her daywear—a maroon gown and a very plain matching turban. Clarissa was reveling in fine clothes, but she relished the fact that Miss Hurstman did not care, and did not care what anyone else thought about that.

  Quite possibly, she thought, as she entered the brilliantly lit hotel, she would be like Miss Hurstman one day. A crusty spinster who did and said exactly as she wished. But not yet, not yet. Tonight was for youth, and excitement, and even, perhaps, a little judicious folly.

  Major Hawkinville had asked her to go apart with him on the Steyne. What would she do if he made the same invitation tonight, at the assembly?

  If he was here.

  He’d said he would be, but until she saw him…

  She tried not to show it, but as she looked around, enjoying the company and acknowledging acquaintances, she was looking, looking, looking for Major Hawkinville.

  Then she saw him enter, smiling at something said by one of his companions—the Vandeimens and another couple. He wore perfect dark evening clothes, but a blue cravat the color of his eyes was a playful touch that made her want to run over to him to tease. Then he laughed and raised the second woman’s hand to his lips for a hotly flirtatious kiss.

  A surge of pure fury hit Clarissa, but then the woman laughed too, rapping his arm hard with her fan, and it was clear that she was with the other man and no threat.

  Clarissa realized that she’d been staring and looked hastily away, praying that no one had noticed. But, oh, she hoped he would kiss her hand that way.

  She couldn’t help it. She had to glance back. He and his party were approaching!

  They were all still in the spacious entry area, for Miss Hurstman had paused to speak to someone, but all around, guests were flowing toward the ballroom. The major and his friends had to navigate the stream.

  It was only when they arrived that Clarissa realized that she had watched him all the way. Immediately she decided she didn’t care. She didn’t know how to play sophisticated games, and she didn’t enjoy them, so she wouldn’t.

  Hawk approached Clarissa Greystone with increasing concern. It was no good. Time away had not altered anything. He could not see her as a disguised villainess.

  Look at her now! Beneath the Ship’s chandeliers, she sparkled and shone, but it wasn’t light on gold and embroidery, it was unabashed excitement. She was innocently, honestly delighted to be here and anticipated a magical evening.

  That, surely, couldn’t be faked.

  As he crossed the lobby smiling, he was rapidly rearranging the pieces in his mind.

  She was someone’s innocent dupe, and that someone would plan to get the money back somehow.

  How?

  By marriage, or by inheritance.

  Theft was a possibility, but as dangerous as the original crimes. Gaming was another, but not until she left her minority and was in independent control of her money.

  He almost paused in his step. That would explain that strange provision of the will that put a fortune in her hands at twenty-one. An unpredictable device, however. Who was to say she would become a rash gambler? And who could say that she wouldn’t marry before she reached twenty-one and have a husband to control her? In fact, it was highly likely.

  Marriage? Illogical to put the money in her hands, then plan to marry it, especially as no one seemed to have made any attempt to secure her affections during the past year.

  Inheritance, then. But Deveril’s will stated that if Clarissa died before her majority her family should have no right to the money and it should go to the Middlesex Yule Club.

  That was an absurdity, out of keeping with what he’d learned of Deveril, unless it was a cover for some depraved enterprise. In his week in London, he’d failed to find any trace of such an organization.

  His main emotion, however, was a chill fear.

  Inheritance necessitated death.

  It was only as he introduced Con and his wife to Clarissa’s party that he remembered there was another way to get the money from her—by proving the will false and being Deveril’s default heir.

  The course he was pursuing.

  It didn’t threaten her life, but seeing her here, shining with the pleasure of this wealthy, privileged life, he suspected that it was close.

  Hawk in the Vale, he reminded himself. All the people of Hawk in the Vale, not to mention his own dreams, hinged upon this. He would take care of her, though. She would not be abandoned to the cruelty of the world, or of her family.

  As they moved to follow the crowd toward the ballroom, he offered an arm to Clarissa and Miss Hurstman.

  The latter immediately said, “You spend much time in Brighton, Major?”

  He recognized an attack, though he had no idea why she was hostile. “When the company pleases me, Miss Hurstman.”

  At her narrow look, he went on. “My friends the Vandeimens are fixed here at the
moment, and the Amleighs have joined them for a week or so.”

  “Thought he’d inherited the earldom of Wyvern,” Miss Hurstman said, as if Con’s title was suspicious too.

  “It’s under dispute, so he has reverted to the viscountcy. He’ll be happy to have it stay that way.”

  “The old earl was certainly a dirty dish. Bad blood.” But it was said with an eye on him. He came to the alert. What did she know? It would be disastrous if Clarissa discovered his connection to Deveril.

  “There’s bad blood in every family, Miss Hurstman,” Hawk replied, meeting that look. “Wasn’t it your paternal grandfather who tried to stake his daughter in a game of hazard?”

  Clarissa was astonished and alarmed to see Miss Hurstman silenced, and she leaped into the conversation. “So are you fixed here for a few days, Major?”

  He turned to her, his expression warming. “I am, Miss Greystone. I anticipate a great deal of pleasure from it.”

  Clarissa didn’t think she mistook his meaning, and she turned away to hide a smile. He was here to hunt her. She still wasn’t sure if she should let herself be caught, but the pursuit promised extraordinary pleasure.

  She had promised the first dance to dashing Captain Ralstone, and forbade herself to regret it. She couldn’t dance every dance with the major. She had to confess to being relieved, however, when he led out Lord Amleigh’s wife rather than some other unmarried woman.

  Jealousy? That was ridiculous.

  She made herself pay full attention to Captain Ralstone during their dance, but this had the unfortunate effect of increasing his confidence. By the end of the set, his comments were becoming a little warm, and his manner almost proprietary. She was delighted in more ways than one to move off with Major Hawkinville in preparation for the next set.

  “Ralstone is a gazetted fortune hunter, you know,” he said, as they strolled around the room.

  “And you are not?” It popped out, and she immediately wished it back.

  His brows rose, but he didn’t immediately answer. Eventually he said, “My father owns a modest property, and I am his only son.”

  She knew she was red. “I do beg your pardon, Major. I had decided to put off affectation and behave naturally, but I see now why it is unwise.”

  She was rewarded with his smile. “Not at all. I would be delighted if you would be natural with me, Miss Greystone. After all, as we see, it dispels misunderstandings before they can root.”

  “Yes,” she said, but she didn’t think his talk of natural behavior related entirely to dispelling misunderstandings.

  He covered her gloved hand on his arm. “Perhaps we can begin by using first names with each other, just between ourselves.”

  She glanced down at their hands for a moment. He wore a signet ring with a carved black stone, and his fingers were long, with neatly oblong nails.

  She smiled up at him. “I would like that. My name is Clarissa.”

  “I know. And mine is George, but no one uses it. You may if you wish, or you may call me Hawk, as most do.”

  “Hawk? A somewhat frightening name.”

  “Is it? You are no pigeon to be afraid of a hawk.”

  “But I am told that you investigate everything, and forget nothing.”

  He laughed. “That sounds tiresome rather than frightening.”

  “Then what about the fortune hunting? Are you hunting me, Hawk?” She longed to have everything honest between them.

  He touched her necklace where it lay against her throat, sliding a finger slowly beneath it. “What do you think?”

  Clarissa wasn’t sure whether to swoon or be outraged.

  “And be assured,” he murmured, lowering his hand, “if I capture you, my little pigeon, you will enjoy it.”

  She escaped by looking around at the company and fanning herself. “It is not pleasant, you know, to be prey, no matter how benign the hunter.”

  “Bravo,” he said softly. “Well, then, you will have to be a predator, too. I think I will call you Falcon.”

  She looked back at him. “Ah, I like that.”

  “I thought you might.”

  But then she realized that he had brought them to a halt and was gazing into her eyes. Fortune hunting, she realized, could take many subtle forms. He was trying to mark her as his. She probably should not allow it, but it was too exciting to decline.

  “Electricity,” she said.

  “Definitely. You have experienced that mysterious force?”

  “At school. We had a demonstration.”

  “Education is wonderful, is it not?”

  It was perhaps as well that the warning chords sounded then for the next dance, for Clarissa wasn’t sure what she might have done. The simplest fortune-hunting technique, she realized, would be to compromise her.

  She must certainly guard against that, but she could certainly enjoy this.

  It was only a dance.

  Clarissa tried to remind herself of that, but she had danced with a man so rarely. The dancing master at the school hardly counted. Last year in London, she had attended two balls, but on both occasions she had been on Lord Deveril’s arm and had danced only with him. She wasn’t sure if her lack of partners had been because of her own lack of charms or because of Deveril.

  And here she was, dancing with a man who seemed able to generate electricity without any machine at all!

  It was a lively country dance that gave little opportunity for talk, but that didn’t matter. It would be an effort to be coherent. The movements allowed her to look at him, to smile at him, and to receive looks and smiles in return. They held hands, linked arms, and even came closer in some of the moves. She began to feel that she was losing contact with the wooden floor entirely…

  When it came to an end, she fanned herself, trying to think of something lightly coherent to say. Suddenly she found herself in a cooler spot, and realized that he had moved them into the corridor outside the ballroom.

  She half opened her mouth to object, to say that she would be looked for by other partners, or by Miss Hurstman, for that matter, but then she closed it again.

  What next?

  She couldn’t wait to find out.

  The corridor—alas?—was not completely deserted, but as they strolled along it he captured her fan, sliding the ribbon off her wrist, and began to ply it for her. The cool breeze was not adequate competition for the additional heat swirling inside her.

  “What are you doing, Hawk?”

  His lips twitched. “Hunting?”

  “Pray, for politeness’ sake, call it courting, sir.”

  “Courting? I have much practice at the hunt, but little at courtship. How should we go on?”

  She put on a mock flirtatious air. “Poetry would be welcome, sir. To my eyes. To my lips…”

  “Ah.” He ceased fanning, but only to capture her gloved hand and raise it to his lips. “Sweet maid, your lips I long to kiss / To seal to mine in endless bliss / Let but your eyes send welcome here / And I, your swain, will soon be near.”

  His lips pressed, and she resented her silk gloves, which muted the effect. “A sweet rhyme, but it comes rather easily to you, sir.”

  His eyes lit with laughter. “Alas, it is commonly used. Written on a scrap of paper and slipped to a lady.”

  “Not always with proper intentions? Tut, tut! Let me think what I can contribute.”

  Her hand still in his, she recited, “O noble man, tall, chaste, and bold / So like a gallant knight of old / Turn on me once, lest I expire / Those sapphire orbs filled with manly fire.”

  He laughed, covering his face for a moment with his free hand. “Manly fire?”

  “And sapphire orbs,” she agreed. “Though I feel obliged to confess that the original was obsidian.”

  “Ah. That probably explains the ‘chaste’ too.”

  Clarissa blushed, though heaven knows she’d not expected him to be inexperienced. “He was one of my friend’s brothers, and I was twelve. It’s a very romantic
age, twelve.”

  “And you’re so old and shriveled now.”

  She looked into his teasing eyes and quickly, before she lost courage, drew his hand to her lips for a kiss. Warm skin, firm flesh and bone. A hint of cologne and… him.

  Remembering that they were not alone, she hastily dropped his hand, grabbed her fan, and fanned herself frantically.

  “It is hot, isn’t it?” He put a hand at her elbow and moved her sideways.

  Into a room.

  She stopped fanning, though she was certainly no cooler. It was a small withdrawing room set with armchairs, and with copies of magazines and newspapers available. At the moment it was deserted.

  He made no attempt to shut the door. If he had, she thought she would have objected despite her riveted fascination.

  To be compromised would be disastrous, she tried to remind herself, but a part of her simply didn’t care.

  That part seemed to be the one in control. And the door, after all, was wide open.

  “Major?” she said as a light query.

  “Hawk,” he reminded her.

  “Hawk.” But she blushed. The word seemed wicked, here, alone.

  He touched her lips. “You only have to fly away, my dear.”

  She met his eyes, her heart thundering. “I know.”

  He took her hand and drew her across the room. When he stopped, she realized that they were no longer visible to anyone in the corridor.

  But the door was still open…

  Then he raised her chin with his knuckles, and kissed her.

  It was a light kiss—a mere pressure of his lips against hers—and yet it sent a shiver of delight through her.

  Her first kiss!

  But then she stiffened. Not her first. Deveril had been her first. A memory of vomit made her pull back.

  He stood absolutely still. “You do not like to be kissed?” Then, perceptively, he added, “Deveril?”

  Her silence was all the answer he needed. “What a shame he is already dead.”

  “You would have killed him for me?”