A bloody woman in a pair of men's riding breeches.
Chapter Two
Heart still racing, she stood as motionless as she could in the shadows of an empty horse stall, listening to the approaching stumble of riding boots on cobbles.
"Ah ha! So here I find you, young villain. Prepare for your punishment!" Clawing fingers loomed into view, reaching through the hay-speckled air. "I shall take down your breeches and deliver a sound spanking."
Sliding her back along the wall, she readied the riding crop and when his hands came close she delivered a smart tap across the knuckles.
"Damn you, woman!" The venturing fingers quickly withdrew from the sting, but the remainder of Matthew Bourne tripped forward into the stall with as much grace as an elephant trying to fit in a Hansom cab. "Was that necessary?" In the belated interests of discretion, he fought to contain another wheezing curse, nursing his hand and glaring at her.
"I had to defend myself," she replied in a bemused whisper, tugging the silk scarf from her mouth. "I didn't know who you were, did I?" Actually not true, but he ought to realize by now that Raven Deverell would not stand meekly and let herself be manhandled in the dim light of a horse stall. Some men never learned. And this spanking business was apparently a fantasy of his since he suggested it often. Ah, the world of an English, upper-class gentleman, she mused— it was a strange place full of starched public behavior to hide peculiar private habits.
"Don't be such a baby," she added briskly. "Where are the winnings?"
But he still fussed over his hand and sputtered under his breath, "You're terribly sharp, Raven. Why can't you be sweet, soft and submissive? Why can't you behave the way a woman is supposed to?"
"Dear Matty, if I did that, you and I wouldn't be here."
He sighed. "You should have seen Hale's face when we won. He could not think what to do first— strike me or spit. But, of course, being so painfully repressed and respectable he couldn't manage either. The man is an automaton. A self-righteous prig!"
Yes, she'd heard that Sebastian Hale, the Earl of Southerton, expected perfection and absolute loyalty from everything and everybody around him. He was a man above reproach, so respected that one word from him could make or ruin a reputation.
But in Raven's decided opinion, nobody could be entirely without fault and often those faults were the most interesting thing about a person. So, somewhere inside that stern exterior, the man they called simply "Hale" had failings. He merely disguised them well. Perhaps he was not even aware of them himself because nobody had dared point them out.
Pity she didn't have longer in his company, because she very much enjoyed the sport of deflating pompously puffed-up gentlemen. And she loved a good dare.
However..."He did not look at all how I'd imagined," she murmured. From Matthew's description she'd expected an old man with a port-red face, bulging eyes and bristling whiskers. But Hale had none of that. "There was something sad about him." Although the reason for this notion currently eluded her.
"Do not be misled, Raven, by the dour detachment with which he observed that race. He's a dangerous, unpleasant man. He suggested trying to buy you from me."
She laughed at that.
"I fail to see the amusement," he snapped. "That's the way he is. People are merely objects to him. Possessions to be bought and sold."
At that moment a sultry shaft of sun finally appeared for the first time that day. It dripped between those slippery wet clouds and leaked in through the loft hatch above, turning the thick, hazy air into a shimmering veil, threaded with gold dust and diamond chips.
As her father would say, nature could transform the humblest of everyday things into the most beautiful and breathtaking riches. One only had to take the time, be still and look.
Of course, this appreciation for nature's splendor did not keep her father from the pursuit of man-made treasures too. She'd once heard him described as a "thieving magpie with an uneducated, uncultured eye for anything that gleams and glitters", because he had amassed an incalculable fortune in antiques and art without knowing anything much about it. This frustrated all the art historians and learned professors who considered him unworthy of his collection. But whenever True Deverell was told he couldn't or shouldn't have something, it only made him more determined to claim it. Raven, the solitary daughter in his litter of rowdy sons, had been accused of similar behavior— and sometimes she played that game for the thrill of winning— but possessions meant little to her. She saw how nothing was ever enough for her father. There was always something else, something more he had to have. There was forever a space never quite filled, and she suspected that no painting, statue or diamond-studded cup would secure that ultimate contentment.
Not for her father, or for her.
So Raven hunted for something extraordinary and magical. And although she had no idea what it was for which she searched, she would settle for nothing less, which made her, she supposed, a restless and impossible person to please. She truly felt sympathy for anybody who tried.
"You rode like a champion out there," Matthew broke into her thoughts, advancing toward her again. "Now I must reward my victorious rider." He grabbed her fingers and brought them to his mouth. "Take down your hair and kiss me."
He was, if nothing else, persistent.
But Raven still felt as if she hovered a few feet above ground, her heart thumping hard and fast, just like the horse's hooves racing across that damp field. The idea of kissing Matty Bourne was the furthest thing from her thoughts just then, and it would bring her back to earth with the jolt of a bullet through a bird's wing.
"You needn't think I risked my life out there just for a kiss."
"You did it for the excitement. For the adventure and the challenge. You're the one who said you wanted to beat the unbeatable Hale."
She put her chin in the air. "I need my share of the spoils. I earned at least half."
"But you're a Deverell. What do you want with a few hundred pounds? If you asked him, your father would give you whatever you needed."
"My father is a very generous man certainly, but I do not wish to be a charge upon him all my life. I'll earn my own money."
"Don't be foolish. A woman is supposed to let a man take care of her needs."
"God help me then." She snorted. "I've never met a man who can take care of all mine."
He scowled, determinedly moving toward her again, passing through that shaft of light. "You know that I want to—"
She held one hand to his chest, halting his progress. "We have had this debate, Matty, and we both know it is impossible."
Matthew's family expected him to make a prestigious marriage and Raven was not in the running, much to her relief. Her father may be one of the richest men in the country, but he was self-made and her family was far from respectable. If anything, the size of her father's fortune— "vulgar" as she'd heard it described— and its origins in gaming, made her a less attractive prospect, in the eyes of Matthew's parents, than a nice, quiet parson's daughter with a modest dowry. The Bournes might have an estate requiring an influx of money to keep it maintained, but they did not want Deverell notoriety for their boy. He was especially precious to them since his beloved elder brother had contracted some dreadful fever abroad and died there. Now they pinned all their hopes on their one remaining son.
As for Raven, if she ever married, her father would settle a very good dowry on her, but by law her husband would then control that money, which meant that he would control her too.
And Raven Deverell was not about to become anybody's property.
"Perhaps I'll open another branch of Deverell's. One for women only and keep the men out."
Fond memories came to mind— of slipping away from her father whenever he had charge of her, and running around beneath the gaming tables. She recalled the grey drift of cigar smoke and the spiciness of air touched with cologne water. There was something interesting about men when they thought they were not being observed
by women and they had no need to put on a false mantle of polite manners. Oh yes, she'd heard many a fascinating and filthy conversation while hiding under those tables, and naturally, it was especially exciting because it was forbidden for her to be there.
"Make your own fortune through gambling, you mean, as your father did?" Matthew's tone was lightly mocking as he followed her around the stall, parting the gloom and the dust with his breath.
With the wall at her back, Raven was forced to a halt. "Why not? So pay me my share of the winnings."
"Hale hasn't paid up yet. As soon as he does—"
"What if he reneges?" She slipped deftly out of his grasp once more.
"He never would. Hale is an old bore, terribly proper and predictable. He would never renege on a wager." Matthew spat the words with venom and his face grew dark. "It wouldn't be gentlemanly."
Raven shook her head. "Always collect on a debt immediately. Haven't I told you that before?"
Arms folded across his chest, he leaned one shoulder to the wall and pouted down at the straw. Poor Matty. He was so very handsome and yet so very spoiled, which quite undid all the benefit of his looks. The older he became the less easy it was to forgive the latter because of the former. Or perhaps, Raven mused, it was because she was getting older that his handsome face held less importance.
"Do cheer up," she exclaimed. "Anyone would think we lost the race."
"You are the most infuriating woman I ever knew, Raven Deverell. Why won't you let me put you up in a house somewhere on the coast? You'll want for nothing."
He really knew her so little that he thought she could be content as a kept woman, with nothing to do all day but wait for his visits. To be at his beck and call.
Oh, he had no idea what she wanted, so how could he promise to satisfy her every need?
He was a boy.
Not that the older generation were much better. Interestingly enough she'd had a similar offer recently from Matthew's father, the Marquess of Redvers, and she was no more tempted to accept that one. The male gender seemed to have decided there were limited places to put a woman like Raven, but put her there they would, given half a chance. They did not want her running about, left to her own devices. Enjoying herself.
"You are most generous, Matty, but once again my answer is no."
When he called her heartless to leave him with cold lips after their victory, she firmly patted his cheek.
"I'm all dirty and covered in horse sweat, darling. Later. We can celebrate properly once we've collected the winnings."
"Mercenary wench!" Peevish, he slouched against the wall again. "Hale means to attend the Winstanley ball tonight and will have the money for me then."
Her pulse skipped a few bounces. Why the wait? As far as she knew the Earl of Southerton had never attended the Winstanleys' ball. The man was almost a recluse; in fact, she'd heard that when in London he usually ventured no further than places that were "Gentlemen Only," like her father's club.
If he meant suddenly to go out into society, the mysterious fellow must be up to something.
Damn! She'd pushed it too far with that wink, and chanced her luck. Caught up in a giddy rush of excitement, it was done before she even knew the idea was in her mind.
Alas, she was a wicked young woman with too much brazen spirit.
But if she were a man, she thought darkly, they'd call it confidence and admire her for it.
Chapter Three
The tangle of horses and carriages outside the Winstanleys’ town house that evening was so knotted that Hale's coachman could not get close to the front door. It seemed that some altercation in the street — a quarrel over ownership of a landau— caused an immoveable dam in the flow of comings and goings. Chaos would very likely soon ensue.
Rather than make his man wait until a space cleared, Hale stepped down from his carriage and walked the thirty or so steps in a drizzle of rain. It was the spiteful sort of rainfall that although light was persistent, showed no sign of letting up, and managed to find its way, somehow, inside the tall collar of his coat. The brim of his hat did little to provide shelter either and, in fact, on this occasion it managed to collect a small flowing stream which funneled to a downspout — a dip in the felt where he usually grabbed his hat to remove it. Every few seconds a tear drop dribbled spitefully from this dent and onto the tip of his nose.
Of course, he had left his blasted umbrella behind in the carriage.
By the time he arrived at the steps, Hale's mood had not improved. Inside the door, pausing while a footman took his wet hat and coat, he glared resentfully at every face in the immediate vicinity and asked himself yet again why he had come there. This was exactly the kind of event he had spent most of his adult life avoiding, but here he was, lured by the teasing wink of a mysterious, bold female. In riding breeches.
There was no doubt in his mind that she'd be there tonight.
Hale knew that young Bourne was causing his family considerable consternation of late, by showing partiality for an unsuitable woman. Such gossip seldom left its mark on his attention, so he did not recall whether he'd heard the name of this troublesome creature or not, but seeing that curvaceous posterior in corduroy riding breeches today had reminded him. This had to be the same girl.
That wink had told him several things about her: she was a menace and she couldn't help herself. She must have known that gesture would catch Hale's attention— a very dangerous thing to catch under those circumstances— but she did it anyway. Mischief, apparently, overcame her. Likewise, she shouldn't risk showing her face to him again so soon tonight, yet she would. Whoever she was, she played with fire and she liked to win.
Oh yes, she'd be there tonight to finish off her game, collect her winnings and laugh at Hale, along with her villainous comrade.
Now he just had to identify her again. In a dress, instead of an indecent pair of breeches.
As he shouldered his way through the crowd in the vestibule, he encountered some old acquaintances.
"Good lord, what are you doing here? Can't remember the last time I saw you at a ball, Hale."
He replied curtly, "Everyone has to get out for an airing once in a while."
"I hear you lost a race this afternoon to Matthew Bourne, down at his father's stables."
Naturally, that news had traveled with the speed of Hermes in winged sandals. "Hmm. It was most interesting."
"There's no shutting him up about it, I'm afraid. You know he's been wanting to beat you for two years."
Yes, and he knew why. The "anonymous" letters accusing Hale of being responsible for Douglas Bourne's death were hardly subtle.
Finally making his way to the ballroom, he looked around with irritable haste, searching faces and mentally dismissing each one with the sharp cut of impatience. He shook his head at the tray of punch offered by a footman and, with his hands behind his back, strode slowly through the heavily scented mob. People turned in surprise to watch him pass, and the whispered acknowledgement of Hale's rare attendance traveled swiftly until it preceded his progress by several steps.
Now he remembered exactly why he avoided these detestable gatherings. Perspiration trickled down his back as he felt the walls closing in and all the faces looming nearer. Already he felt the air being sucked out of his lungs. But it was too late to turn and walk out now.
A new set of dances had just begun, and he slowly became aware of a cooling breeze wafting around the ballroom. The crowd no longer looked at Hale or whispered about him. Something else lured their attention away.
Something or someone.
He stopped at the edge of the dance floor and looked.
* * * *
Raven winced as her partner stepped on her toe for the third time. She could not decide which was worse— the injury to her toes or his constant apologies for the same. But since "Sorry" was the only thing he seemed capable of saying to her, she supposed it was better than silence.
Raised in a family of loud, overconfident
males, it was always a shock to her when she met a shy man, and she didn't really know what to do with them.
They certainly didn't know what to do with her.
He kept shooting her fearful glances, chewing his lip. Did he count steps in his head? If her half-brother Damon was there with her tonight he'd be laughing and pulling faces from the edge of the dance floor. Newly finished at Cambridge, Damon had been spending time in London lately, staying with her elder brother Ransom, and generally making a pest of himself with the blushing, maidenly debutantes of the season. But Damon had not escorted Raven to the Winstanleys' ball. He would never be invited to such a grand event.
This evening she had the dubious pleasure of her mother's company, which meant that Raven was the chaperone— informally, of course— because Lady Charlotte Rothsey, infamously merry divorcee, was a taxing charge at the best of times. Welcome at very few social events, she nevertheless went about life with her head high and her spine straight, laughing in the face of many a snub. The Winstanleys, old friends of the Rothsey family, provided Charlotte with one of her last refuges in society and she had brought her only daughter here tonight with a firm expectation in mind.
"It's time you found a husband. We're running out of choices and you're almost twenty-three. Dust begins to gather."
Raised in a tempest of scandal, a daughter of divorced parents, Raven would never have been 'out' in society at all if not for her grandfather's influence. It was the Earl of Rothsey, Lady Charlotte's father, who called in a few favors and saw to it that Raven had her debut. But that was four years ago and with each passing year the chances of her making a "suitable" match grew slimmer. In addition to the Deverell notoriety, she'd been told she was too rebellious and outspoken.
Which was perfectly fine by her.
Unfortunately, however, Lady Charlotte wanted a wealthy husband for her daughter, mainly to help feather her own nest for the future. Becoming desperate, she had warned Raven never to waste her time looking for love, but to marry for financial security.
Chasing Raven Page 2