He had silently moved closer until he was right next to her, close enough that if she reached out, she might touch the fine navy waistcoat that strained across his broad chest, or the soft white cravat that struck a contrast to his tanned skin and the hard, lean angles of his face. He had a scar on the right side of his jaw.
Elizabeth found she had to look up even further before she could meet his gaze. Tiny beads of perspiration broke out on her upper lip. His eyes were brown, intense—and somehow familiar. She felt her stomach drop to her toes, then ricochet back. She had the feeling she should be able to place this handsome lord, but couldn’t think straight.
“I-I have lost my desire to see the gardens,” she managed at last. “And… and… Oh Lawks, we have not been properly introduced!”
Turning on her heel—in what she thought Georgiana would surely praise as the very picture of an affronted aristocratic lady—Elizabeth started to stalk away from the man.
She got exactly two steps before the stranger caught her by the arm and slowly turned her to face him again.
He was smiling, a curious grin that held some private humor. “Lord Marcus Worthington, thirteenth Earl of Darkridge,” he said with a half bow. “So pleased to make your acquaintance.”
He spoke with the smoothness of a man born and bred in Cavendish Square, but Elizabeth got the impression he would be more at ease trading curses with a Thames ferryman. If he were truly an earl, he was strangely attired, for he wore neither wig nor hat nor any face powder. His hair was tied in a simple queue at his neck, the dark brown locks on his forehead tangled over his eyes.
“I am… I…” Trapped by that dusky, unyielding gaze, Elizabeth couldn’t remember by which name she should introduce herself. He was studying her face, her chin, and most of all her eyes. She found the intense interest both odd and unsettling. He still held her arm, and the sensation of his strong, warm fingers against her bare skin filled her with the strangest prickly warmth. “I am—”
“Lady Elizabeth Barnes-Finchley.” He let go of her at last, still grinning, apparently satisfied with his perusal. “I was told you would be here tonight.”
Elizabeth felt unsteady on her feet, but a rising sense of alarm quickly cleared her head. “By whom? And how do you know who I am?” Had Arkwright said her name? She couldn’t remember.
Lord Darkridge wandered along the side of the temple to the edge of the pond. “You, my lady, have swept London society off its feet. Every drawing room and concert hall is abuzz with talk of the beautiful young woman who arrived with her aunt from the Continent, three months ago. When I heard you had the most striking violet eyes, I simply had to meet you.”
Elizabeth’s heart began to pound. Was this merely another swaggering nobleman interested in games of seduction? Or did he somehow suspect that she was not what she seemed? “My eyes have brought you all this way out into the country? To attend a gathering where you are obviously not wanted?”
He turned to look at her and Elizabeth saw a flash of some emotion in his eyes, volatile and fleeting. When he spoke again, his voice returned to its rich, low tones. “Yes. I am something of a poet, you see. I asked where I might find you because I am currently working on a volume of odes to London’s great beauties. I should like to include you.”
She blinked at him in disbelief. As he stood at the edge of the water, framed by the light of the lamps and the moon, he looked like a dark god of war, just arrived in a new land, ready to conquer all he surveyed. The idea of this man as a poet was ludicrous. His flattery was no doubt intended to lure her to his town house and into his bed. Elizabeth couldn’t explain the twinge of disappointment she felt upon discovering he was no better than the other lords she had met.
“I would not be interested, Lord Darkridge.” She started to walk back to the house. “I’m sure my husband would take exception to such an idea.”
He stepped in front of her before she could get more than a few paces. “Where is your husband, that he allows you to wander about alone at night?”
“In Italy,” she said quickly. “Attending to business—”
“What sort of business?”
Elizabeth gritted her teeth to stop an oath, trying to remember that she was supposed to be a highborn lady. “He doesn’t discuss it with me,” she said in dulcet tones. “Now you must excuse me—”
“But we have only just met. Or have you another engagement tonight?”
Elizabeth glared at his chest, annoyed at his persistence and distressed by his question. She couldn’t shake the feeling that this man knew much more than he should, that she was not safe out here alone with him. “No, I haven’t another engagement. But my aunt does not like to stay out late, and I’m sure she’s ready to return home.”
Before she could move around him, he reached out and took her hand.
“Sir,” she ground out, “if you are any kind of a gentleman, you will let me go. And if you do not, I shall scream.”
~ ~ ~
Despite her threat, Marcus found himself unwilling to let go of her hand.
He had been wandering the grounds for an hour, trying to think of some reasonable way to get inside and meet Lady Elizabeth Barnes-Finchley, when she had neatly presented herself… a pale wisp of lavender moonlight, floating over the lawn in her silk gown.
She hesitantly raised her head, and he felt the strangest clenching sensation in his gut. Her eyes, so bright—and somehow so haunted—drew him in like a song of bittersweet beauty. Her blunt, straight nose and slightly uneven lips didn’t detract from her charm. On the contrary, they elevated her looks to the realm of the uncommon.
This was no angel drifted down from heaven, made for poets to sing of. This was a woman as real and dark and intriguing as the night itself.
“You really must let me go,” she said.
“No,” he heard himself whispering, “I don’t think I shall.”
There was no mistaking her voice, either. The Cockney accent was gone, but the husky tone was still there… all the more sensual now for its softness.
A flush stole across her cheeks as their gazes held, and she seemed to lose her ability to speak at all.
A rather distressing condition he seemed to share.
He should just let her leave. Couldn’t for the life of him understand why he had stepped in front of her in the first place. One look at her face—and that amusing, old-fashioned oath she had used—had told him all he needed to know.
There was no doubt in his mind that Lady Elizabeth Barnes-Finchley and Blackerby Swift were one and the same. This stunning brunette dressed in silk and lace was none other than the brazen, quick-witted outlaw who had shot him on Hounslow Heath and ridden off with all the silver.
The London magistrates, however, would never believe him if he presented this woman, looking like she did now. They would laugh him out of the Old Bailey.
If he wanted to stop Blackerby Swift’s raids, he would have to capture her at the scene of one of her crimes, in her disguise. He guessed that was the real reason she was so eager to leave: she intended to take Montaigne’s midnight coach. He might catch her in the act this very night.
So why didn’t he just let her go?
The moon bathed her skin in pearl-white light, from the delicate line of her chin to the shadowy edge of her shoulders. The upper curves of her breasts were just visible above her décolletage. His fingers itched to touch her, just there, at that vulnerable spot where lavender silk and white lace gave way to warm, soft woman.
Marcus’s whole body tensed at the sudden, unexpected image of Lady Elizabeth Barnes-Finchley—or Blackerby Swift, or whoever the devil she claimed to be—lying naked beneath him, here on the grass.
All at once, he lowered his mouth to hers.
“Please.” She turned her head aside and pulled her hand from his. This time Marcus released her, astonished at his own impulsiveness.
This wasn’t like him at all. Any of it.
She backed away a few steps and stoo
d staring at him, those eyes of vivid amethyst wide with confusion, her black lashes and brows stark against her skin, like ink strokes on a fresh white page.
An instant later, her expression changed to one of feminine ire at the liberty he had nearly taken. Raising her chin, she hiked her skirts, turned her back on him, and walked off with a proud, graceful sway that sent Marcus’s blood hammering through his veins.
He couldn’t resist having the last word. “Good night, Lady Barnes-Finchley.”
At the sound of his voice she broke into a run like a startled doe, fleeing from him toward the house in a flurry of shimmering silk.
And he simply stood there, staring in the direction she had vanished. Until he shut his eyes and forced himself to turn away.
Trouble. This lady was trouble from the top of her chignon to the toes of her slippers. It was madness to allow himself to even think of kissing her. What was wrong with him? Wasn’t the newly healed bullet wound in his left arm enough incentive to keep his mind on the matter at hand?
Marcus grimaced as he headed back toward the south end of the grounds, where he had tied his horse. Best to finish this as soon as possible and hand Blackerby Swift over to the authorities, before she wreaked further havoc with his plans and his senses. He flipped open his silver pocket watch. Nine-thirty. More than enough time to catch her on the North Road out of London. There was no reason to put this off.
Absolutely no reason.
He would capture her tonight.
Chapter 3
The hackney coach carried Elizabeth and Georgiana along Park Lane and into Grosvenor Square, Elizabeth gazing out the window into the darkness, absently twisting the wedding band she wore on her left hand. Most of the town houses they passed had candles in the windows, the servants inside awaiting the return of their aristocratic employers from supper or the latest concert at New Spring Garden.
“Are you not going to tell me what’s wrong?” Georgiana leaned forward, her gown of striped taffeta rustling. The deep carmine color emphasized the red in her hair and the ruddiness in her cheeks. “Elizabeth, I know seeing the baby upset you—”
“No, I’m fine, really,” Elizabeth said quickly, not wanting to even think about the baby. She had kept silent since leaving the Rowlands’ party, but it was impossible to hide her distress from Georgiana. The older woman had an almost uncanny way of sensing the emotions of others.
Elizabeth summoned a reassuring smile. She had known Georgiana less than a year, yet she felt a deep closeness with her, and with Nell. She supposed it was similar to the friendships forged between men who had been through battle together. In a short time, they had become inseparable, despite enormous differences in their upbringing and social classes.
Georgiana regarded her with a doubtful look. “If you were fine, you would be talking yourself breathless, not staring silently out the window.”
“It was that awful Lord Arkwright.” Elizabeth shrugged. “He followed me out into the gardens.”
“You were quite adept at managing him during supper. I can’t believe Lord Arkwright would leave you speechless.”
Elizabeth glanced out the window again. They were corning into the Strand, the fashionable market district where Nell had her shop. “To tell the truth… there was someone else.” She took a deep breath. “A stranger. He said he had come to the assembly because he wanted to meet me.”
“Good Heavens.” Georgiana’s blue-gray eyes widened. “Who was he? And what did he do that upset you?”
“It was nothing, really,” Elizabeth insisted, knowing it was untrue. She had no idea what might have happened if she hadn’t left when she did. Even now, miles away in the security of the coach, she trembled at the memory—the intensity in his eyes, the unsettling heat of his touch, the deep sound of his voice calling after her in the darkness. “His name was Marcus Worthington, the Earl of Darkridge. The thirteenth Earl of Darkridge, I think he said.”
He had most definitely made an impression on her, Elizabeth realized with chagrin; she usually had the deuce of a time keeping names and titles straight.
Georgiana gasped. “Lord Darkridge?”
“What is it about the man that makes people say his name as if it were a curse? Who the devil is he?”
“The devil precisely. Elizabeth, if ever you see him again, stay far away from him. That man has been an outcast for years.”
Elizabeth regarded her in puzzlement. It wasn’t like Georgiana to judge someone unfairly. If she thought Marcus Worthington terrible, he must indeed be terrible. “But why? What did he do?”
Georgiana shifted uncomfortably. “There was a family tragedy. A frightful crime. Ten years ago, when he was fifteen… he killed his own father.”
“Oh, dear God.” Elizabeth covered her mouth with one hand.
“All the newspapers reported that it happened during a drunken argument. The Worthingtons had been one of the most eminent and honorable families in all of England, but the scandal destroyed them. Young Marcus and his mother disappeared from society, literally overnight, and no one knows what happened to her. It was rumored he killed her as well. They say he’s not entirely in his right mind.”
Elizabeth stared at her in shock. “But how is it that he was never tried for murder?”
“There wasn’t enough evidence, I suppose.” Georgiana shook her head. “A few years ago, he reappeared in London as abruptly as he had vanished. And it seems he did rather well for himself while he was away. He’s very wealthy. He spends his time at the most disreputable sort of gentlemen’s clubs, but every so often he’ll turn up at a party or one of the music halls. His title still wins him a few invitations here and there from the more daring hostesses.”
Elizabeth absorbed all this with a shiver. To think that she had been alone with the man! Still, she found it difficult to believe he was unbalanced. Although he had left her feeling… unsettled tonight, he had seemed entirely rational.
But she trusted Georgiana’s opinion. “From now on,” she assured her friend, “I’ll keep a safe distance from the Earl of Darkridge.”
Georgiana still looked worried. “Elizabeth, it is certainly understandable that an encounter with Lord Darkridge would upset you. Perhaps you shouldn’t venture out tonight. I have…” She rubbed her temples. “I have such a strange feeling about this.”
Elizabeth’s heart skipped a beat. In the months she had known Georgiana, she had come to respect the older woman’s “strange feelings.” The premonitions came true with disturbing regularity. But she hesitated only a moment. “I have to take that coach tonight. The Trust needs the money.”
“But we’ve paid the debts of fifty-six women so far. I would say our London Women and Children’s Trust is a grand success.”
“A success, yes, but not grand,” Elizabeth argued. “Not yet. We’ve saved fifty-six from being sent to debtors’ prison, but they’re only a raindrop in the ocean. There are so many more.”
Georgiana sighed. “But you need some rest. I’ve seen the strain that all of this is putting on you. So has Nell. You’ve earned some rest, Elizabeth. Let this one coach go.”
Elizabeth turned to gaze out at the night sky. “No,” she said hollowly. “Montaigne took from me what I cherished most in all the world, and I mean to take what he cherishes most—his money. All of it.” Her jaw was set, her tone as cold as the silver moonlight that illuminated the London streets. “I’m going to give him a taste of the misery he’s forced on so many others, Georgiana. And his wealth will make sure that other women and”—her voice faltered—“and their little ones never have to suffer what he made me suffer.” She turned back toward her friend.
Georgiana silently reached out to take her hand.
“I wasn’t… I wasn’t able to save my son,” Elizabeth continued in a whisper. “But every child that we help, it makes… Georgiana, it makes my own loss a little more bearable.” She wiped at her eyes. “I don’t want to rest. And I will not stop. Not until I finish what I’ve started.”
Georgiana’s expression filled with sympathy. “But if you’re caught, you’ll be hanged. And Montaigne is already fighting back. I understand that he has increased the bounty to four hundred pounds.”
“Only if I’m taken alive,” Elizabeth said with careless shrug. “It’s only two hundred if I’m—”
“This is nothing to jest about!”
“I’m sorry, Georgiana. I don’t mean to upset you. I know this scheme is becoming more and more dangerous. And I wish…” She lowered her gaze. “There’s no need for you and Nell to continue helping me. I could—”
“Pray do not bring that up again.”
“But I could manage on my own! I don’t want to keep putting the two of you at risk. If you were to be charged as my accomplices—”
“We’re your friends,” Georgiana said quietly, leaning forward and tightening her hold on Elizabeth’s hand. “We won’t leave you to manage alone. Not ever.”
Elizabeth blinked hard to hold back the tears in her eyes. Georgiana and Nell had insisted on helping her, from the moment she first told them of her plans for Montaigne’s riches. Both were willing to do whatever was necessary to save other women, and innocent children, from the horrors of debtors’ prison.
Regardless of the risks involved.
Elizabeth had never had two friends she admired and respected more.
Georgiana handed over her handkerchief. “We’re like those famous musket-men in France. The musket-eyes? Musket-ears?”
“Musketeers?”
“Yes, them.” Georgiana nodded, fishing in her reticule for a second handkerchief and blowing her nose.
“And how is that?” Elizabeth couldn’t help smiling as she dabbed at her eyes.
“We are united in our mission. Until the end.”
“Until the end,” Elizabeth agreed, handing back the borrowed scrap of lacy fabric. “And then we’ll leave for Spain.”
This month, at long last, Elizabeth had received a letter from her younger sister. Emma and her longtime beau—an itinerant artist—had married last year and left for Paris. But they had moved on to Spain, which was why it had taken Elizabeth’s letters so long to reach them.
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