Desire n-3

by Nicole Jordan

  The journey had been lonely as well, with only the reserved, impeccably proper Mr. Davies for company. They had set out for London early on the morning following her wedding. The elderly gentleman maintained a formal distance and seemed reticent to answer even the most elementary questions about his employer, Lord Wycliff.

  With nothing to distract her thoughts, Brynn found herself dwelling on her feelings of loneliness and trepidation. It had been even harder than expected to say farewell to her home and family. And the ache in her breast at giving up Theo could not have been deeper had she truly been his mother rather than his older sister.

  Worse, with so much time on her hands, her reflections kept returning to her wedding night and her new husband. No matter how she tried to push it out of her mind, she couldn’t help reliving her one incredible carnal interlude with Lucian. She had expected him to be skilled, but his lovemaking had been more stunning than anything described by poets. The sheer ecstasy he’d aroused in her was beyond what she could have imagined in her wildest dreams. Even now a sharp sense of pleasure curled low in her stomach whenever she remembered him moving between her thighs…

  Brynn pressed her lips together, completely vexed with herself. She had intended to hold herself aloof, but at the first challenge, she’d melted into a mindless puddle in his arms. It was small consolation that Lucian Tremayne was a practiced rake whose erotic finesse was as vast as the ocean. She had succumbed to his seduction like the veriest gull.

  And then he had forsaken her without a word of farewell, leaving her to be dealt with by his stately secretary as if she were a possession-a horse or a dog-that could be turned over to the care of servants. At the very least Lucian could have had the common decency to say farewell. Or better yet, permit her to remain in Cornwall with her family.

  Brynn muttered a silent oath. She shouldn’t give a fig that her husband had abandoned her so abruptly after consummating a union she had never wanted. It was irrational for her to feel dismayed and hurt.

  Indeed, she should be glad to be able to nurse a resentment toward him.

  It would be far easier to resist a husband who showed her so little consideration. There would be no danger of coming to care for him-and she had definitely been in danger that night. For a brief while during their passionate tryst on the beach, their intimacy had aroused feelings in her that she didn’t dare acknowledge.

  But whatever momentary warmth she’d cherished toward Lucian in those moments, whatever fleeting optimism about their life together, was dashed when he decided so abruptly to desert her, leaving her to face a strange future alone but for his properly decorous secretary.

  Brynn gave a deep sigh. She was not usually one to give in to despondency, but just now it was a struggle.

  Her spirits rose when the coach reached the elegant London district of Mayfair, where the cream of the ton resided. As the coach drew to a halt, Brynn leaned forward in anticipation to peer out the window, wondering what her new home would be like.

  She caught her breath at the magnificent sight in the fading evening light. The mansion of imposing gray stone was not quite a palace but nearly so. Unaccustomed to such grandeur, Brynn was filled with both awe and dismay when the coach was met by a cadre of bustling footmen.

  Inside, the house seemed even more luxurious, with a vast entrance hall filled with glistening chandeliers and gleaming marble. The domestic staff resembled an army and was lined up in the hall according to rank-first the butler and housekeeper, then upper servants such as the chef and chief gardener, and finally the liveried footmen and uniformed serving maids.

  The head servants were obviously proper to the point of stiffness. Brynn didn’t catch their names at first, but she couldn’t miss their studied coolness. Nor did she miss the housekeeper’s disapproving frown when the butler relieved their new mistress of her bonnet.

  Brynn resisted the urge to reach up and smooth her chignon, which no doubt was disheveled after the long journey. Her unruly hair was such an untamed color that it took very little to make her look wild and brazen. She had to forgive the elderly woman her reaction. And perhaps her stiffness and lack of warmth as well. Her master’s sudden marriage must have come as a complete shock. Moreover, longtime servants would be protective of their status and would not welcome a new mistress with open arms.

  Brynn allowed the butler to take her gloves and pelisse, then hesitated, uncertain of the etiquette for this situation. Had her husband been present, the task of introducing her to her new home would likely have fallen to him.

  Fortunately Mr. Davies intervened in the awkward silence. “Would you care to tour the house, Lady Wycliff? Or perhaps you would prefer to rest first?”

  She gave him a grateful smile. “I am not tired, but I would like to change out of my traveling dress before I see the house.”

  “Did your maid not accompany you, my lady?” the housekeeper asked, her tone holding a hint of reproach.

  “I am afraid not,” Brynn answered just as coolly, not wanting to admit that she hadn’t been able to afford the service of a lady’s maid for years.

  At the servant’s frosty look, Brynn squared her shoulders and returned an unrepentant gaze, reminding herself that she needn’t endure such unspoken censure. She was the Countess of Wycliff now, even if she had been abandoned by her husband. Her rank was one of the few advantages to this unwanted marriage.

  The housekeeper was the first to waver. Dropping her gaze, she asked Mr. Davies which rooms her ladyship was to be given.

  “Lord Wycliff wishes her to have the gold suite.”

  “Very well,” the housekeeper said, pressing her lips together as if she had swallowed a bitter prune. “If you will come with me, my lady…”

  As she was led upstairs, Brynn caught glimpses of elegant furnishings everywhere she looked, all superbly tasteful, never ostentatious. When she followed the housekeeper into a magnificent bedchamber, decorated in shades of ivory and gold, she found it hard not to gasp at the exquisite appointments.

  “There is a sitting room as well as a dressing room,” the housekeeper informed her. “These rooms belonged to the late Lady Wycliff. His lordship’s mother, whom I served for many years.”

  “They are very beautiful,” Brynn murmured, “Mrs…? I’m sorry, I forgot your name.”

  “Poole,” the housekeeper said stiffly. “I am Mrs. Poole.”

  Her lapse, Brynn realized, was no doubt an unforgivable mistake that only added to the housekeeper’s resentment. She would have to do better in future.

  She offered an apologetic smile. “Thank you, Mrs. Poole. I can manage from here.”

  The servant returned a cool stare, but she evidently thought better of outright defiance because she sketched a brief curtsy before withdrawing.

  Alone, Brynn took a deep breath. It would require an enormous amount of work if she hoped to win over such stalwart opposition as the housekeeper’s- and she wasn’t yet certain she even wanted to make the attempt.

  Her awed gaze returned to the beautiful bedchamber. Crossing the room to one of the tall windows, Brynn looked down at the elegant square. She had known Lucian was wealthy, but this was beyond wealth; this room was fit for a queen.

  She winced at the realization that this would be her new throne. She wasn’t cut out for such an exalted position. Nor was she even certain she preferred such formal riches as these. Her former home suffered greatly in comparison, but even with its threadbare furnishings, Caldwell House was more comforting, for it was filled with laughter and affection…

  Brynn’s despondency returned in full measure as she remembered all she had left behind. How would she manage to cope? She already missed home dreadfully, missed her family, the warmth.

  Shivering, she wrapped her arms around herself. It was cold here in London, even in August. Far colder than the south of Cornwall.

  After a moment, however, Brynn tightened her jaw and berated herself for falling prey to self-pity. Turning, she was about to shrug out of
her gown when a whisper-soft rap sounded on the door.

  “Yes?” Brynn said, inviting entrance.

  The door opened slowly, and a young, blond-haired woman in servants’ attire inched into the room, her gaze focused meekly on the Aubusson carpet.

  “I am Meg, milady,” she murmured in a thin voice that quivered with nerves. “Mrs. Poole sent me to assist you.”

  “Thank you, Meg, but you may tell Mrs. Poole that I don’t require assistance.”

  To Brynn’s startlement, the maid’s lower lip began to tremble. “Is something wrong, Meg?” she asked in concern.

  “Please, milady,” Meg pleaded, giving her an almost desperate look. “Don’t send me away, I beg you. Mrs. Poole will think I have displeased you.”

  Seeing that the girl’s distress was genuine, Brynn felt her heart warm immediately. “You haven’t displeased me in the least, Meg,” she said gently. “It is only that I have been accustomed to caring for myself. My family has been in rather straitened circumstances lately, so I have had to forgo the luxury of a personal maid. I confess, though, that I would appreciate your assistance.”

  “Oh, thank you, milady!” Meg breathed, bobbing up and down numerous times as if Brynn were indeed a queen. “I usually serve as a parlormaid and I haven’t much experience, but I am a quick study, I promise you, even Mrs. Poole says so, and I will do anything you ask, anything-” She stopped abruptly, having run out of breath, and gazed wide-eyed at her mistress. “Where do I begin?”

  Brynn managed a smile. “Perhaps with the buttons on the back of my gown.”

  She offered her back, willing herself to patience as the girl attempted the task with fumbling fingers. She had to make allowances for the cold reception of longtime employees like Mrs. Poole and for inexperienced, terrified ones like Meg.

  But still, Brynn reflected, adjusting to her lordly husband’s household would be more difficult than even she had imagined.

  Dover

  The prison cell was dank and stank of vermin, both the animal and the human sort-the condemned souls who had been caged there over the past centuries. Lucian had to stifle the urge to cover his nose with a handkerchief.

  He’d sailed directly from Cornwall to Dover after learning that a government courier had been ambushed and murdered. The courier’s pouch contained dispatches meant for General Lord Wellington in Spain, most important a schedule of impending gold shipments, detailing dates and locations of delivery to Britain’s European allies. Then, before the schedule could be changed, a wagonload of bullion worth nearly two hundred thousand pounds was stolen, all its guards killed, shot without mercy.

  An urgent investigation had ensued, with agents combing every tavern and posting inn and dock, searching for possible leads. The man in custody had had the poor judgment to boast about knowledge of the theft, although he claimed to have no responsibility in the courier’s murder.

  Lucian had come today with one of his best agents to continue interrogating the prisoner.

  “You there,” the jailer said gruffly, “get to yer feet. You ‘ave visitors.”

  The ragged blanket on the straw mattress moved, then moaned when the jailer kicked it. “This is Ned Shanks, milord.”

  A hulking brute of a man crawled slowly out from beneath the blanket and climbed to his feet, clutching his ribs.

  Shanks was clearly the worse for his imprisonment. In the lantern light, Lucian could see his grimy face was badly bruised and one eye swollen shut, while dried blood matted his greasy black hair.

  A look of fear crossed his face when he saw Lucian’s colleague, Philip Barton, who was primarily responsible for the prisoner’s current damaged condition.

  “Leave us, please,” Lucian said to the jailer.

  When they were alone, Lucian eyed the prisoner for a long moment. As the silence drew out, Shanks visibly grew more nervous, until finally he exclaimed in a voice oddly high and breathless for so large a man, “Gor, I know naught, milord. I don’t even know why I been arrested.”

  Lucian kept his voice gentle. “You have been arrested, Mr. Shanks, because a government courier has been murdered and his dispatch pouch gone missing. And because you have knowledge about how and why it happened.”

  “I know only what I told that gent, I swear! That’s all I know.”

  “Why don’t you repeat your tale to me? My colleague, Mr. Barton, believes it might be helpful to have another, fresh perspective.”

  Ned flashed the silent Barton a fearful glance. “I ‘eard my friend Boots bragging about a job over an ale, saying ’ow ‘e was soon to be plump in the pocket.”

  “At the Boarshead Tavern?”

  “Aye, milord. Well, I followed ‘im to see who ’e planned to meet with. I stopped around the corner from the mews. It was dark so I couldn’t see much, and I could only ‘ear part of what was said.”

  “But you could see his companion.”

  “Some ‘at. ”E was a toff, for sure. Boots called ’im a lord. Lord Caliban, or some such thing.“

  Although expecting to hear the familiar name, Lucian felt himself flinch. Caliban was the monster in Shakespeare’s The Tempest and the sobriquet of the ringleader the British Foreign Office had been seeking for months.

  “And what did this Lord Caliban say?”

  “ ‘E told Boots when the courier would come and what to do-where to lie in wait on the ’ighway. ”E wanted that courier’s bag bad enough to pay big. Boots was to get twenty quid if ‘e could deliver the bag.“

  “I wonder if Boots realized what the pouch contained.”

  “ ‘Pon me life, I don’t know anything more. Only what I ’eard Boots say.”

  “Are you aware your friend Boots was found garroted in an alley two days ago?” Lucian asked even more gently. “The work of your Lord Caliban, I expect.”

  Ned’s face went white.

  “What can you tell me about this Caliban?” Lucian said finally.

  “Not much. ”E wore a mask. And a fancy coat, like yerself.“

  “What of hair color or physical build? Was he short or tall?”

  “Medium, I guess. Taller than Boots. But ‘is ’air was covered.”

  “Any distinguishing marks you can recall? Think, please, Mr. Shanks. It would be of great use to us to have even the slightest hint of Lord Caliban’s identity.”

  Ned’s grimy brow furrowed. “No marks, but… come to think of it, ”e had a ring.“

  “What sort of ring?”

  “Gold. Wore it on ‘is left ’and. I remember it glittered red.”

  Philip spoke for the first time. “You told me nothing about a ring before.”

  Ned’s wary look held alarm. “I only just now remembered. Boots was going on about it, saying ‘ow it would be worth a fair plum if ’e could lift it.”

  “Can you recall anything about the design?” Lucian asked.

  “Something like a dragon’s head, Boots said. ”Ad red stones for eyes.“

  “Rubies, perhaps?” Lucian asked.

  “I guess, maybe. I really didn’t get near enough for a look.”

  Contemplating the prisoner, Lucian was certain he had nothing more to offer. “Thank you, Mr. Shanks. You have been a great deal of help.”

  “Milord?” Ned’s tone grew anxious as he sent Barton another fearful glance. “What will ye do with me? I ‘ave a wife ’oo will be wondering what’s become of me.”

  “So do I,” Lucian murmured softly. “You are free to go, Mr. Shanks.”

  “Go?” Ned looked astonished, as did Philip Barton to a lesser extent.

  Lucian fished in his pocket and drew out a handful of guineas. “Here. In remuneration for your trouble.”

  Accepting the offer reflexively, Ned stared down at the gold pieces in total bewilderment.

  “If you should hear of any news,” Lucian added, “anything even remotely connected with Caliban or with your late friend Boots, I would hope you will inform the innkeeper at the Boarshead. He can get word to me.”

&nbs
p; “Aye, milord, of course!”

  At his eagerness, Lucian flashed a charming half smile. “You might also be interested to know a reward is being offered for the capture of this Lord Caliban. Two hundred pounds.”

  Shanks’s mouth gaped open. It was still set that way when Lucian left the cell, followed closely by Philip Barton with the lantern.

  Neither of them spoke until they were seated in Philip’s closed carriage and headed toward the inn where they both were staying.

  “You think it wise to let him go?” the younger man asked.

  “Wiser than frightening him out of his skin,” Lucian replied mildly. “Or beating him to confess knowledge he doesn’t have. Greed can sometimes prove a better method than pain.”

  “I shall keep that in mind,” Philip said stiffly.

  “That was not a criticism, my friend. You did an excellent job simply finding Shanks. Because of you, we are one step closer to unearthing our traitor. But Shanks can be more useful to us alive than dead. And this way, if he hears even a whisper about our chief nemesis, I expect he will jump at the chance to tell us.”

  “You’re certain Caliban is the traitor you are looking for?”

  “I’m certain of it,” Lucian said grimly.

  He had a large score to settle with his elusive enemy. Murder, theft, treason only headed the list of crimes. Even more personally galling was Caliban’s practice of luring young bucks of the ton into betraying their country. Lucian’s grimmest task had been to kill one of his boyhood friends who had turned traitor at Caliban’s behest. The memory still haunted him.

  “He must have an accomplice within the Foreign Office,” Philip muttered. “How else would he know when to intercept the courier?” He clenched his fists. “It rankles to know a traitor is directly under our noses and we cannot do a bloody thing to stop him.”

  “Indeed,” Lucian agreed succinctly, feeling but not visibly displaying the same corrosive self-torment that was eating his subordinate inside.

  Philip turned his troubled gaze to Lucian. “My lord, I would not blame you in the least if you were to dismiss me. I should have thought of changing the transport schedule. If I had, then the last shipment of gold would still be safe, the guards still alive.”