Dangerous Desires

by Louise Clark

  Yours, Anthony Baxter, Esq.

  He read over the letter to be sure that no clues could be gained from the note, should it happen to fall into the wrong hands. He paused, then heavily underscored the sentence, Your presence is needed here. Only then did he fold and seal the missive. He sent it by rider on a fast horse, so it would reach London that night. Time, he thought, was no longer on their side.

  * * *

  "Gideon, it has to end."

  Gideon, Lord Broughton, frowned at his brother-in-law's curt statement and shot a warning look at his wife, who was sewing by the fire. The day had been rainy and unseasonably cold. Honoria was settled comfortably in a deeply padded chair with a cushion to support her back, while Gideon paced the space between the sofas and the fireplace in the elegant green salon used exclusively for family. Nicholas leaned against the mantelpiece and watched him. Now, he said impatiently, "Be done with the subterfuge, Gideon. We both know Honoria is as much aware of what is going on as you and I."

  Honoria's blue eyes sparkled. "Gideon likes to pretend I'm in complete ignorance, at least some of the time. It is true that he told me he had a task for you to do in London, but he's been quite closemouthed about it. I've had to reason things out for myself."

  Despite his impatience, Nicholas had to grin at the rueful expression on Gideon's face. "My little sister," he said with some pride, "is really very dangerous."

  "Indeed." Gideon aimed a thoughtful look at his wife. "I suppose it would be a waste of breath to suggest that you leave us to our discussions?"

  "Absolutely without point," Honoria agreed. She smiled serenely as she laid a protective hand on the peach-colored silk covering her protruding belly. "Besides, I'm comfortable here."

  "We could go into another room."

  "You could." Honoria's expression turned grave. "And I would not follow. It is up to you, Gideon."

  Nicholas laughed. "She was ever a minx, Broughton. But I think you knew that when you married her."

  Gideon sighed and gave in. "I did. All right, Nick, what has made you so all-fired determined to see our friend St. Luc brought to justice now?"

  "Stephanie." He produced the note from Tony Baxter and handed it to Gideon. His brother-in-law's brows rose as he slowly read the note aloud. After he had finished, Nicholas said, "I think the 'friend' Tony refers to is Stephanie de la Riviére. If so, she is in great danger. Can you imagine what would happen to her if the troops caught her in the act? I no longer have the luxury of remaining here, while she is at Silverbrooke."

  Honoria broke off a thread. "Why not tell Aunt Madeleine that she and Stephanie should come back to London? Their return would successfully halt any illegal activities Stephanie might be involved in."

  Gideon looked doubtfully from one Prescott to the other. "You are both absurd. What on earth would make you think that Stephanie de la Riviére, a daughter of one of the most aristocratic houses in France, would condescend to highway robbery?"

  "You clearly do not know Stephanie very well," Nicholas said heavily.

  Honoria laughed. "Nick is right, Gideon. Stephanie is not one who would allow convention to dictate to her if she felt the need for action." She turned to her brother. "But Nicholas, why do you think Stephanie would feel strongly enough to take up highway robbery? To what purpose?"

  "Money to finance an escape from France for her father."

  "But I understood that she had smuggled a fortune in jewels out of France," Gideon protested.

  Nicholas prodded a smoldering log into flames. "The jewels are in my custody. I caught her trying to pawn them, with the help of St. Luc, some weeks ago. Then, there was the incident of the gaming hell, with St. Luc involved again. Now she's in Silverbrooke and there are rumors of a highwayman at work in the area. A highwayman, moreover, who only robs those who can afford it, and who has a curiously gallant way of saluting all his victims. Not your common thief, I think."

  "Bring her up to London," Gideon said, after thinking a moment. "That will solve the problem."

  "But leave behind a mystery for the damned dragoon captain. He'll wonder why the highwayman suddenly disappears when the inhabitants of Silverbrooke decamp for London. Sooner or later, he will guess that the thief he sought was part of my household. I cannot be sure that he won't then try to find out who."

  Honoria paused in her sewing, her hand outstretched. "Surely you do not think he will settle his suspicions on Stephanie!"

  "No," Nicholas said grimly. "But my coachman and assorted male servants traveled down from London with Madeleine and Stephanie. Any one of them might come under suspicion. I won't have my people terrorized for something they've had nothing to do with."

  "What do you propose then?"

  "I'm going to go down to Silverbrooke to put an end to Stephanie's absurd career as a highwayman, then I'll run the dragoons a merry chase myself."

  Honoria's eyes widened. "Nick! That could be dangerous."

  Her brother's eyes gleamed. "Most perceptive of you, my dear."

  Gideon had been listening to this thoughtfully. "No need to worry about Nick, my love. He can take care of himself."

  "What on earth were you doing while you were in France, Nicholas?"

  He grinned at his sister. "God's Teeth! Is there actually one secret you haven't ferreted out yet, Honoria?"

  She wrinkled her nose at him and continued with her sewing. "Now that I know there's a secret to be found, I shall have to see about discovering it."

  Gideon groaned. "Lord, Wroxton, now see what you've done! You can escape down to Silverbrooke. I, on the other hand, must bear the brunt of your sister's curiosity."

  "I can't go to Silverbrooke until St. Luc is safely gone. Gideon, I want to set a trap for the little viper. A trap that allows for no ambiguities. One that we can spring in the next few days."

  "Easy enough to do." Honoria knotted her thread before gripping it clean. '"We must invent a juicy piece of gossip that Gideon can discreetly allow to slip in just the right places. The Vicomte won't be able to resist passing the information along to his contact and, forewarned, you can catch him in the act, Nick."

  "Honoria! Where the devil do these ideas of yours come from?" her husband said, shocked.

  She shot a teasing look at her brother before saying modestly, "It undoubtedly runs in the family, love."

  Chapter 11

  Your presence is needed here. Come as soon as can be arranged. The words haunted Nicholas as the final preparations were made to trap the Vicomte de St. Luc. Fortunately, he had no part in the twisted paths by which Gideon allowed the rumor, concocted two days earlier in the Broughton drawing room, to be leaked. In truth, Nicholas could think of little other than Stephanie. He would be in on the final scene with St. Luc, but until then, he was free to brood on Stephanie's mad venture.

  There were times when he hoped, against every instinct he possessed, that he was wrong. Surely Stephanie had more sense than to do something as risky, and as dangerous, as turning to highway robbery to gain the funds she believed she needed. But in his heart, he knew that Stephanie—impetuous, courageous and desperate—was the highwayman terrorizing the Silverbrooke area.

  In many ways, blamed himself for pushing her to this end, for had he not sequestered her jewels, she would have sold them and used the proceeds for her father's escape from France. But she would also have been cheated by the despicable St. Luc, and perhaps even have been drawn into the murky world in which he lived. Nicholas could no more have allowed that than he could have allowed the sale of the jewels to take place.

  Despite his preoccupation, Nicholas continued to watch St. Luc. He knew when the bait—a plausible story that Prime Minister Pitt had decided to send military support to the Austrians who were currently harassing France's eastern border—was taken by St. Luc. The Vicomte quickly confirmed the rumor Gideon reported, but then the fellow laid low. For two agonizing days, Nicholas followed him as he innocuously carried out his normal activities. Doubts began to haunt Nicholas. Pe
rhaps they were wrong. St. Luc might not be the spy they sought. His careful checking of the validity of the rumor might only be to ensure that the gossip he had acquired would be of use to him in his perpetual effort to secure his place in society.

  Nicholas pursued him doggedly, refusing to believe that he could have been so very wrong in his judgement of the man's character. He had been studying St. Luc for months with a sort of detached contempt, but now that contempt hardened into full-blown detestation as each passing hour of tedium kept him from Silverbrooke and Stephanie.

  It was at the theater that he was finally rewarded for his tenacity. The play being performed was a foolish story of lost love that nonetheless rubbed uncomfortably along Nicholas's already raw nerves. Resolutely he watched the box in which the Vicomte de St. Luc was sitting with a party of perfectly respectable people. That, in itself, made Nicholas hope something just might happen that night. St. Luc was experienced enough to know that the best contacts were made when the cover was pure.

  Through the first act, nothing untoward occurred. Then the second act ended to enthusiastic applause. Nicholas tamped down his rising impatience and clapped politely, watching the Vicomte all the while. The Frenchman leaned forward and spoke to his hostess, a lady past the first blush of youth, but dressed gaily in a gown of rose and robin's egg blue. She laughed and tapped his wrist flirtatiously.

  Nicholas's lips thinned. St. Luc was undoubtedly oozing his own brand of nasty charm, and another decent, unsuspecting person was about to be caught in the muck.

  The pantomime continued, with the Vicomte obviously flattering the woman, to her evident delight. Then suddenly, the deliberately staged scene reached its climax. The door to the box opened and a woman appeared. Nicholas tensed. As the Vicomte made a great show of introducing her to his hostess, Nicholas knew without a shadow of doubt that the bait had been taken and swallowed, for the woman was Regine de Trouville.

  She made play flirtatiously with her fan as she spoke to St. Luc, and eventually he bowed to his hostess and left the box to escort de Trouville back to her own seat. Undoubtedly, the few minutes of privacy with her was all he needed to tell her to arrange a meeting with the agent of the French government there in London.

  Nicholas sat back with a sigh of relief. The long hours of waiting were almost over. Gideon had already discovered that the French Charge d'Affairs used a minor member of the Whig party to make all his contacts with informants. The Englishman was a fervid believer in Republicanism, and passionately convinced of the inevitability of revolution in England. He was the perfect tool, for his fanaticism made it easy to deny involvement with him.

  The contact, however, was a physically and emotionally timid man. A night spent in the tender care of some of the less scrupulous members of the Foreign Service was enough to persuade him that his revolution would not save him from hanging for his treasonous activities. Cooperation, however, would save him. Gideon had also prudently arranged for him to disappear after the capture of St. Luc. Passage had already been booked for him on a vessel bound for the Antipodes.

  Now, as Nicholas blindly watched the last scenes of the play, so as not to alert the Vicomte that he had been undone, his blood began to sing with the excitement of the chase. Soon the final act would be played out. The Vicomte's sojourn in England would be over.

  * * *

  Events now moved with satisfying speed. The meeting was set for two days later, just after noon, in a small park in the center of a square of houses on the edge of fashionable Mayfair. Agents of the Foreign Office dressed as servants or tradesmen faded into the surroundings. Nicholas was sure the Vicomte would never notice the lower orders about him.

  The Vicomte arrived promptly at twelve, dressed with unusual circumspection and swinging a cane that might well have a sword secreted in it. He settled himself on an iron bench with the air of a fashionable man who had all the time in the world, and nothing to do with it. The English agents drifted into position, while Gideon and the unfortunate Whig traitor waited in the shadow of one of the blocks of Georgian houses until all was ready.

  Five minutes passed, and then ten. The Vicomte's foot began to tap and he pulled his watch from a pocket in his waistcoat to check the time. When he glanced warily around, clearly suspicious, Gideon loosed his man, with a whispered promise of awful retribution should he give his part in the operation away. The Englishman scuttled into the square sweating and nervous and supinely apologetic. Anxious to convey his information and be gone, St. Luc waved away the man's mumbled explanations and suggested that they do their business quickly.

  Nicholas, with pads in his cheeks plumping his face, actor's paint artfully changing the shape of his nose and mouth, and his black hair swinging in a tangled, greasy mane over his shoulders, looked nothing like the elegant aristocrat St. Luc knew. Dressed in a coarse linen shirt, swanskin vest, and woolen breeches that were liberally streaked with ash, he stomped flat-footed past the bench where the Vicomte and his contact were huddled. He was impersonating a master of chimney sweeps and evidently he passed muster, for as he went by, St. Luc looked up at him, then glanced dismissively away as Nicholas tugged at his forelock respectfully. Suppressing a chuckle, Nicholas muttered to himself in a broad accent, "Now where 'as the good for nothing lad got off to now?" Louder, he shouted, "Boy! Where be ye? Get back here now, 'fore I lose my temper and beat ye for yer damned insolence! Boy!"

  He stood with his hands on his hips, the image of a man concerned with nothing but his own troubles. In reality, he was listening to every word St. Luc said.

  A large fellow appeared dressed in a leather vest and thick cotton shirt, leading a reluctant, very dirty boy by the ear. "This be the lad you seek? I found him over by the mews tryin' to steal one of the mistress's 'orses."

  "I weren't," the boy squeaked. "Let me go!" He twisted out of his captor's grasp at the very moment the contact stuffed a purse full of golden guineas into St. Luc's hands. The Vicomte, paying no attention to the nearby scuffle, looked suspiciously inside the leather pouch, then laughed. "At last! A decent payment for my information..." At that moment, the boy made a dive for the heavy purse and the contact fled. St. Luc screamed with rage. Clutching the pouch tightly, he shrieked, "Unhand me! This purse is mine! You shall not have it, you scurvy pest! Unhand it!"

  Unexpectedly, the boy let go. St. Luc, whose tight grip had caused him to be pulled halfway to his feet, lost his balance and fell back to the bench with a plop. He sat, panting slightly, staring uncomprehendingly at the men surrounding him.

  "Monsieur de St. Luc," said Nicholas, bowing politely, "you have been caught in an act of treason against the country which has given you refuge. In the name of the King, you are no longer welcome in England. You will be returned to France within the week."

  The Vicomte listened to this pronouncement in apparent shock. Then he narrowed his eyes and demanded, "Who the devil do you think you are to order me about this way?"

  Nicholas's voice hardened. "An agent of the Crown." As St. Luc opened the purse and withdrew several golden guineas, he added softly, "I wouldn't try it, St. Luc, or you may find yourself regretting it."

  There was deadly intent behind his soft voice. The coins with which St. Luc had hoped to bribe his captor fell back into the pile with a clank. But the Vicomte was not finished yet. "I have friends in high places," he announced. "I shall protest this treatment. I will not be run out of England like a... a common criminal!"

  Contempt laced Nicholas's voice. "You cannot lay claim to the decency of a 'common' criminal, St. Luc. And your highborn friends will be of no help to you, for you will be kept sequestered until your departure. You have sealed your own fate, Monsieur le Vicomte. A fate you richly deserve."

  "Who are you?" St. Luc whispered, beginning to realize there was no escape.

  "Your nemesis," Nicholas replied coldly, glad that the chase was finally over. Already his thoughts were turning to Silverbrooke—and Stephanie.

  * * *

  Steph
anie touched her heels to the black mare's flanks, her business done for the moment. Behind her, she left a cursing victim, but she paid no attention to the threats flying after her. She would be well away long before the fellow arrived at the nearest town.

  Reaching the cover of the trees, she drew the mare to a walk. Over the past weeks, she had become so adept at successfully threading her way through the blackness of the night forest that she doubted that there were many others in the area who knew the woodland paths as well as she. The dragoons, she thought with a touch of smugness, would never find her here.

  In a small clearing she paused to check her loot. Her mouth compressed with annoyance at the pitiful amount, not worth her effort, or the owner's blasphemy. Still, she stowed the coins in the saddlebag as she resigned herself to another hour or two of work.

  Using a roundabout path, she returned to the roadside. The night was clear and quiet, ideal for hearing the slightest trace of sound—either a coach to rob, or dragoons searching for her. Her senses alert, she waited.

  An hour passed. Midnight Raider began, to move restlessly. She soothed the horse as best she could, patting the glossy black neck and whispering softly. Suddenly, she swallowed the quiet words is her ears strained to catch the sound she thought she had heard.

  There it was again—the jangle of a harness, quickly followed by the thump of hooves and the unmistakable creak of the leather straps from which the body of a coach swung. The vehicle was traveling slowly, for the road crested a low rise here, adding to the horses' burden. She waited, every sense on edge, at the margin of the woodlands.