by Gaelen Foley
They never did, on those clandestine notes.
Surely he was too smart and experienced for that. But if he had made that mistake, she feared the rakehell might be headed for another duel. It looked as though she might not be the only one feeling jealous tonight.
Huddling behind the curtain of the alcove, she watched in trepidation as the handsome, black-haired man read the note and scoffed.
A snort of cynical laughter escaped him. He shook his head with a bitter smile, then tautly asked the orange-girl for another piece of paper, which she gave him. He crumpled the original note in his fist and stuffed it into his breast pocket.
Then he wrote back another message of his own.
With a dark look, he handed his note to the orange-girl, laying a finger over his lips, as if warning her to secrecy.
He slipped a paper bill into her hand and sent her on her way. Still unaware of Carissa, the stranger watched the orange-girl hurry off, his arms akimbo, his feet planted wide. Then, with a cold smile, as though satisfied his trap was laid, he pivoted on his heel and stalked out of the theatre.
Carissa eased out of her hiding place a moment later, dread tingling through her body. Oh, Beauchamp, you’re being set up. She scarcely dared imagine what might happen to him if he went to meet his femme du jour, whoever she might be. He could be killed!
Once more, Carissa was in motion, hurrying after the orange-girl to stop her from delivering that note, which was naught but a piece of treachery. Beauchamp might be a bad, decadent libertine, but she was not about to let anyone murder him!
Rushing after the orange-seller into the quiet side hallway that backed the row of private theatre boxes, she skidded to a halt.
Too late!
The lump had just stepped through one of the narrow doors, halfway down the row. Oh, no. What do I do now?
Heart pounding, she glanced around uneasily.
Merely standing there, unchaperoned, in a part of the theatre where she did not belong was something of a gamble.
Having missed the orange-girl, the thought of venturing into Beauchamp’s box to try to warn him—to risk being seen there by the other snoops in the audience—made her blood run cold. She could not afford in any way to become an object of gossip herself.
She already had too much to hide.
With that, she realized the intelligent thing to do was to abandon this mad quest immediately, go fleeing back to her seat, and pretend she had seen nothing.
But a man’s life could be at stake.
And although he was entirely exasperating, the world would be a darker, duller place without him. Come to think of it, perhaps she could turn this little twist of fate to her advantage . . .
Oooh, she mused. An exchange of information. Yes!
If he’ll tell me where Daphne and Kate went and what the deuce is going on, then I will tell him what I saw. That’s fair, is it not? If he refuses, then maybe the rogue deserves what he gets.
Unsure what to do, she crept toward the door to his box, then stopped. He was probably reading the false note even now, getting drawn into the trap.
She stood there, torn and hesitating, as another little problem with all this occurred to her. If she tried to warn him what she’d seen, he’d realize she had been snooping into his personal affairs.
He’d notice she was jealous, and then, oh, then he’d laugh his head off and taunt her like a schoolboy—and then, never mind the jealous husband, she would murder him herself, wring the rascal’s neck.
At that moment, before she had quite made up her mind what to do, the little door to his theatre box opened and the orange-girl scampered out.
Right behind her, the rogue himself emerged, tall and princely, en route to his assignation.
He stopped the second he saw her and, at once, his eyebrows arched high.
Carissa stood frozen, staring at him, tongue-tied.
She knew she was caught; he flashed a wolfish smile that made her want to shriek with mortified fury and run away. But she held her ground with a gulp while the orange-girl rushed off, leaving them alone in the dim, quiet hallway.
Close enough to touch.
“Well, my dear Miss Portland,” he purred, trailing his gaze over her in thoroughly male appreciation. “What a very pleasant surprise. Was there something you, ah, . . . wanted?”
Chapter 2
Despite the usual carefree smile that he wore like a Carnival mask, Beau had walked into the theatre this evening in a dark and nasty mood, feeling very alone in the fight.
He was under enormous pressure, on edge, and angry as hell over all the body blows the Order had taken over the past month. Their handler Virgil’s death; Drake’s escape and possible betrayal; his fellow agents Nick and Trevor’s disappearance; and now the bloody Home Office probe into the Order’s clandestine working methods.
Fed up with it all, he’d come to these rich hunting grounds seeking his usual remedy: a willing bed partner to distract him, replace his frustration with a few hours of physical bliss.
Give him that, and he’d be right as rain by morning.
But when he stepped out of his theatre box, he forgot all about the wanton duchess who had propositioned him. For here was a far sweeter morsel, the inimitable Miss Portland, staring at him like the bad little kitty that ate the canary.
He could not explain it, but something about the chit made him laugh. She always seemed to be up to something, and for some reason, he found that adorably amusing.
Even now, the mere sight of her standing there brightened his mood, as always. He could not account for it; he always seemed to go slightly stupid when she was around. Couldn’t stop smiling like the village idiot mooning over the harvest queen.
He fought back a grin. This’ll be fun.
“My dear Miss Portland,” he greeted her with an air of gentlemanly gravity, knowing how much she preferred his friend, the grave and gentlemanly Lord Falconridge to him. “What brings you over to my end of the theatre this evening? Surely I dare not hope you came all this way just to see my humble self?”
She tilted her head and gave him a long-suffering look.
“If so, of course, I am your servant.”
“Hmmph. Maybe,” she admitted, lifting her chin as she folded her hands behind her back.
His eyebrows shot up. “Really? And you even admit to it? You usually run the other way whene’er you see me.”
“Can you blame me?” she retorted lightly.
Beau just stared.
God, when he sensed her feminine interest in him, it was almost more than he could stand, holding himself back. He felt his nether regions clamoring for her and forced himself to look away. But it was true. Out of all the women in this theatre, actresses and demireps included (too easy), Lord Denbury’s niece was the one he most would’ve wanted to get into his bed.
Unfortunately, this was just a fantasy, for his brother warriors had already taken care to describe what would happen to him if he trifled with Daphne’s innocent little friend.
In general, he feared no man, but these were Order agents they were talking about—three of them, as well trained, and being a few years older, even more experienced than he. No, he really did not fancy getting his face smashed in by Rotherstone’s fist, or his ribs cracked by Warrington’s boot, to say nothing of what Falconridge might do to him, considering the elder-brotherly fondness the sandy-haired earl had hatched for the petite lady of information. Jordan Lennox, Lord Falconridge, recently married to his boyhood sweetheart, was the easygoing type who almost never got angry, but when he finally did, it was too late. You were already dead.
These seasoned, slightly older agents, well aware of Beau’s seductive tendencies and his heated notice of Daphne’s friend, had wrested from him a grudging promise not to touch her. Never mind the fact he was rather sure the feisty, little fairy queen wanted to be touched.
Ah, well. That didn’t mean he couldn’t look.
She wore a simple silk gown of pale spring g
reen, and he had a fleeting fantasy of peeling it off her lithe body. But lucky for her, he’d already made up his mind not to act on his lust, quite apart from Rotherstone’s friendly death threats.
The fact was, Carissa Portland was a nosy little gossip with a passion for digging up secrets while he was a spy charged with keeping them for the Crown.
A girl like that was trouble. Trouble he didn’t need. He had plenty of that on his own.
“So, what can I do for you?” he murmured, leaning his shoulder into the wall.
“Well.” She bit her lip and dropped her gaze, peeking at him from beneath her lashes as she hesitated. “To start, you can tell me who you think you’re off to meet.”
“I beg your pardon?” he exclaimed in surprise.
She just looked at him.
He laughed softly, folding his arms across his chest. “And what business is it of yours, exactly?”
“None,” she said with an idle shrug, avoiding his gaze. “I’m just curious.”
He regarded her skeptically. “How do you know about that, anyway? Were you watching me?”
“I have eyes.”
“And a nosy little nose,” he agreed, tapping her on the tip of it. “But I prefer your lips. Tell me,” he added in a confidential murmur, leaning closer, “have you thought about that kiss as frequently as I have?”
“Beauchamp!”
“Portland.”
She gave him a dubious smile, seemingly in spite of herself, and leaned against the wall beside him.
“No,” she replied at last. “I haven’t thought about it at all.” Her smooth ivory skin filled with a scarlet blush.
Beau gazed at her in fond amusement. “Too bad. I thought you might have come to get another.”
“Hardly.” With a stern glare, she moved away, putting a safer distance between them.
“Very well, then, I don’t have all night, girl. Why are you here?”
She did not answer at once but considered her words carefully. “Whoever it is you think you will be meeting tonight, I’d advise you not to go.”
“Why?” He crooked a brow at her with a playful leer. “Have you got a better idea?”
“Oh, stop it. I’ll tell you why—just as soon as you tell me where Daphne is.”
Beau groaned and slumped against the wall. “Please don’t start that again. I thought Daphne wrote to you.”
He knew for a fact she had, for he was the one who had asked Rotherstone’s lady to do so.
“Yes, I got the letter—and I’m grateful for it. I know you had something to do with that. But still, it was awfully vague. Look, I know something’s going on, and I know you know what it is. Now you can either tell me what’s afoot or—”
“Or nothing,” he interrupted. “I cannot.”
“Why?”
“Because. Your friends are safe. That’s all you need to know.”
She shoved away from the wall, lifting her elegant shoulders in a shrug. “Very well. Your choice. Good evening, Lord Beauchamp.” She started to turn away.
“Hold on, you.” He captured her elbow gently to stop her from leaving. “What were you going to tell me?”
“Hmm?”
“You know something I don’t?”
“Could that ever be possible?” she taunted.
“Hmm, smarty. Come now. Out with it. I acknowledge, you’re an expert on Society gossip. Do you know something about my companion for the night that I should be aware of?”
She scoffed and pulled her arm free from his light hold. “You want me to just tell you when you’ll give nothing in exchange? Oh, but I suppose you expect every woman you meet to be a fool for you and do whatever you say!”
“It would be nice,” he said with an arch shrug.
She leaned closer. “Ha!”
Then she gasped when he captured her with a smile. “Shall I kiss it out of you, then?” He pulled her closer, and though she scowled at him, she let him draw her nearer willingly enough. His pulse leaped at her acquiescence. “You’re looking rather beautiful tonight, I daresay.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere. Especially when you’re on your way to a tryst with another woman! You’re an interesting man, Lord Beauchamp.”
“Ah, come, what’s wrong?” he cajoled her in a sensuous murmur. “Are you jealous, you little darling? Is that why you’re here? To stop me from paying attention to somebody else?”
She pulled away with a huff. “Truly, your ego knows no bounds.”
“Well, I don’t see why you care. You’ve made it plain that you don’t like me.”
“I don’t!”
“Of course not,” he said with a mild wince.
“I just don’t want to see you get hurt,” she conceded with a wary frown. “You should be more careful.”
“Of what?”
She looked at the wall with a shrug. “Oh, I don’t know . . . Any number of dangers might await you on these silly assignations if you you’d stop and consider the risks.”
“Such as?” he prompted in worldly amusement.
“What if she has the French disease?” she whispered.
“What if I do?” he countered.
She gasped in horror. “Do you?”
“Riddled with it. I’m only jesting!”
She smacked him on the arm, and whispered, “That’s not even funny, you devil!” Then she pointed at his theatre box. “Why don’t you stay out of trouble and go watch the play?”
“It bores me. Just like it bores you, I wager. Besides, this woman has promised me pleasures you cannot imagine,” he said in a challenging tone, just to see what she would do.
She glared at him, her green eyes shooting sparks. “Such pleasure, my lord, often leads to pain.”
“Which has its charms, as well, on occasion. What are you trying to tell me, poppet?”
“Where is Daphne?” she insisted.
He scowled at her, looked at his fob watch, and pushed away from the wall. “Sorry, have to go.”
“Fine, then! Go! But did it ever occur to you that this lady of yours might have a husband?”
“Don’t they all.”
“It’s called adultery!” she whispered.
“You’re concerned for my immortal soul. How sweet.”
“And your body!”
“Really?” he murmured in fascination.
“I didn’t mean it that way!” she shot back, flustered.
He laughed softly. “My chef could light a flambé off your cheeks, love.”
“I am only trying to keep you out of scandal!”
“But I like scandal. It gives you little gossips something to do.”
“I am not a gossip!”
“Sorry. Lady of information. But I suppose you are quite right. You are innocent, and I am altogether wicked. I ought not go corrupting you,” he said sardonically. “So I shall take my leave of you, fair lady—though I remind you, it was you who came looking for me. I bid you a fond good night, and apologize for offending your delicate sensibilities. Then again—this is just a suggestion—but if my depravity offends you, you could always try minding your own business.” He sent her a wink. “Au revoir.”
“Ugh! Beauchamp.”
He paused with his back to her, a devilish, knowing smile curving his lips. “Yes, my dear?” He pivoted slowly. “Was there something else you needed?” he asked in a tone of deliberate innuendo.
She threw her hands up at her sides. “Why are you so impossible? Do you ever think of the heartache you must cause these women?”
He scoffed, ignoring a twinge of conscience. “They jolly well know not to take me seriously. You should learn to do the same.”
She whirled away from him. “Fine, then, go! And I hope you learn your lesson,” she said under her breath. “You deserve whatever you get.”
“And you deserve a halo, I suppose,” he shot back.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He scowled and looked away, irked that he had let her get t
o him. “Never mind.”
“No, what are you implying?” she insisted.
He looked askance at her. “You may fool the ton, Carissa Portland, but I’m afraid you don’t fool me. Look at you, standing there, so ripe for the plucking.” He moved closer. “Why do you come and torture me, hmm? Why can’t you leave me alone? What is it you want me to do?”
She stepped back, turning three shades redder than before. “I beg your pardon!”
He trailed a smoldering stare over her delectable body. “You need a good, sound kissing, for starters.” His mouth watered as his stare consumed her breasts, the nipples nigh poking through her gown, just begging for his touch. His blood stirred with want. “Oh, yes. It’s abundantly clear you’re interested. But you’re waiting for me—to do what, exactly? To force you? That’s one game I don’t play,” he informed her in a low tone. “Either you come to me of your own free will, or not at all. But until you decide which it’s going to be, run home to your nursemaid, little girl. Go on. Run and hide from me again, just like you do every time we meet. Yes, I have my faults, but at least I’m not a hypocrite. If you’re afraid of what you feel, that’s your affair. But don’t come here pretending all you want to do is scold me. Believe me, I’m happy to satisfy your curiosity and my own about how it would be between us whenever you’re ready to ask. But until then, I need a woman, not a little girl. So, if you’ll excuse me, love, I have an appointment to keep, with someone who is very much—a woman.”
That’s what you think, Carissa thought, furiously aware that it was in fact a man who waited for him.
A man who was going to give the scoundrel the thrashing that he very much deserved.
Rude, proud, horrid beast! How dare he?
Shaking her head, cursing under her breath as he walked away, she savored the thought of that blackguard getting his just deserts. Every blow he’d take to that handsome face tonight was entirely his own fault. He deserved it.
Some people in this world insisted on courting disaster. But she was done trying to save him, the devil.
She had dropped him enough hints. Whatever happened to him next, he had only himself to blame.