"Your grandfather was also a good man. He did a great deal for the people of Penreith. The poor fund, the chapel..."
Before Clare could list other examples of the late earl's charity, Nicholas interrupted her. "Spare me. I know that my grandfather dearly loved setting a moral example for the lower orders, but that holds no appeal for me."
"At least he took his responsibilities seriously," she retorted. "You haven't done a thing for the estate or the village since you inherited."
"A record I have every intention of maintaining." He finished his drink and set the glass down with a clink. "Neither your father's good example nor the old earl's moralizing succeeded in transforming me into a gentleman. I don't give a damn about anyone or anything, and I prefer it that way."
She stared at him, shocked. "How can you say such a thing? No one is that callous."
"Ah, Miss Morgan, your innocence is touching." He leaned against the edge of the table and folded his arms across his broad chest, looking as diabolical as his nickname. "You had better leave before I shatter any more of your illusions."
"Don't you care that your neighbors are suffering?"
"In a word, no. The Bible says that the poor will always be with us, and if Jesus couldn't change that, I certainly can't." He gave her a mocking smile. "With the possible exception of your father, I've never met a man of conspicuous charity who didn't have base motives. Most who make a show of generosity do it because they crave the gratitude of their inferiors and the satisfactions of self-righteousness. At least I, in my honest selfishness, am not a hypocrite."
"A hypocrite can do good even if his motives are unworthy, which makes him more valuable than someone with your brand of honesty," she said dryly. "But as you wish. Since you don't believe in charity, what do you care about? If money is what warms your heart, there is profit to be made in Penreith."
He shook his head. "Sorry, I don't care much about money, either. I already have more than I could spend in ten lifetimes."
"How nice for you," she muttered under her breath. She wished that she could turn and walk out, but to do so would be to admit defeat, and she had never been good at that. Thinking that there had to be some way to reach him, she asked, "What would it take to change your mind?"
"My help is not available for any price you would be willing or able to pay."
"Try me."
Attention caught, he scanned her from head to foot with insulting frankness. "Is that an offer?"
He had meant to shock her, and he had succeeded; she turned a hot, humiliated red. But she did not avert her eyes. "If I said yes, would that persuade you to help Penrieth?"
He regarded her with astonishment. "My God, you would actually let me ruin you if that would advance your schemes?"
"If I was sure it would work, yes," she said recklessly. "My virtue and a few minutes of suffering would be a small price to pay when set against starving families and the lives that will be lost when the Penreith mine explodes."
A flicker of interest showed in his eyes, and for a moment he seemed on the verge of asking her to elaborate. Then his expression blanked again. "Though it's an interesting offer, bedding a female who would carry on like Joan of Arc going to the stake doesn't appeal to me."
She arched her brows. "I thought that rakes enjoyed seducing the innocent."
"Personally, I've always found innocence boring. Give me a woman of experience any time."
Ignoring his comment, she said thoughtfully, "I can see that a plain woman would not tempt you, but surely beauty would overcome your boredom. There are several very lovely girls in the village. Shall I see if one of them would be willing to sacrifice her virtue in a good cause?"
In one swift movement, he stepped close and caught her face between his hands. There was brandy on his breath and his hands seemed unnaturally warm, almost scalding where they touched. She flinched, then forced herself to stand utterly still as he scrutinized her face with eyes that seemed capable of seeing the dark secrets of her soul. When she was certain that she could bear his perusal no longer, he said slowly, "You are nowhere near as plain as you pretend to be."
His hands dropped, leaving her shaken.
To her relief, he moved away and retrieved his glass, then poured more brandy. "Miss Morgan, I don't need money, I can find all of the women I want without your inept help, and I have no desire to destroy my hard-earned reputation by becoming associated with good works. Now will you leave peacefully, or must I use force?"
She was tempted to turn and flee. Instead she said doggedly, "You still haven't named a price for your aid. There must be something. Tell me, and perhaps I can meet it."
With a sigh, he dropped onto the sofa and studied her from a safe distance. Clare Morgan was small and rather slight of build, but she forcefully occupied the space where she stood. A formidable young woman. Her abilities had probably been honed while organizing her otherworldly lather.
Though no one would call her a beauty, she was not unattractive in spite of her best efforts at severity. Her simple garments emphasized the neatness of her figure, and skinning her dark hair back had the paradoxical effect of making her intensely blue eyes seem enormous. Her fair skin had the alluring smoothness of sun-warmed silk; his fingers still tingled from feeling the pulse of blood in her temples.
No, not a beauty, but memorable, and not only for her stubbornness. Though she was a damned nuisance, he had to admire her courage in coming here. God knew what stories circulated about him in the valley, but the locals probably saw him as a major menace to body and soul. Yet here she was, with her passionate caring and her bold demands. However, her timing was dismal, for she was trying to involve him with a place and people that he had already decided he must forsake.
A pity he hadn't started on the brandy earlier. If he had, he might have been safely unconscious by the time his unwelcome visitor had arrived. Even if he forcibly ejected her, she would likely continue her campaign to enlist his aid, since she seemed convinced that he was Penrieth's only hope. He began speculating about what she wanted of him, then stopped when he caught himself doing it. The last thing he wanted was involvement. Far better to bend his brandy-hazed brain to the question of how to convince her that her mission was hopeless.
But what the devil could be done with a woman who was willing to endure a fate worse than death in pursuit of her goals? What could he ask that would be so shocking that she would flatly refuse to consider doing it?
The answer came to him with the simplicity of perfection. Like her father, she would be a Methodist, part of a close community of sober, virtuous believers. Her status, her whole identity, would depend on how her fellows saw her.
Triumphantly he settled back and prepared to rid himself of Clare Morgan. "I've a price, but it's one you won't pay."
Warily she said, "What is it?"
"Don't worry—your grudgingly offered virtue is safe. Taking it would be tedious for me, and you'd probably enjoy becoming a martyr to my wicked lusts. What I want instead"—he paused for a deep swallow of brandy—"is your reputation."
____
Page forward for excerpts from Mary Jo Putney's
The Silk Trilogy
Excerpt from
Silk and Shadows
Book One
The Silk Trilogy
by
Mary Jo Putney
© 1991, 2011 by Mary Jo Putney, Inc.
Prologue
England, 1839
He called himself Peregrine, the wanderer, and he came to London for revenge.
It was dusk as the Kali drifted up the Thames, her goal a berth at the Isle of Dogs. The air was thick with the rank scents that occur where water meets land, and too many people live in too little space.
Peregrine leaned against the foremast, watching the lights of London flicker on and listening to the water splashing softly under the bow. An onlooker would have thought him casual, but the relaxation in his lean figure was a product of years of discipline, a habit of
pretense so long established as to be second nature. He had learned early that it was safer to let no one know the true state of his mind and heart; over the years he had become so adept at dissimulation that he himself did not always know how he felt.
But tonight he had no doubts about the nature of his emotions. This bland, civilized English darkness concealed his enemy, and that knowledge burned triumphant in his veins. He had waited a quarter of a century for this moment, when the time was right to extract a slow and exquisitely painful blood price for what he had suffered.
The flame of hatred had been fired when he was a boy of ten, and over the years he had tended it with black, bitter care. Waiting and preparing for his revenge had been a strange mixture of pleasure and pain. He had wandered the face of the earth, acquiring wealth in many ways, honing mind and body until he was a more deadly weapon than any knife or rifle, learning how to survive and prosper in any land, among any people. Every skill, every golden coin, every sharpening of wit and hand, had been treasured as another step toward his ultimate goal.
And now all his preparations had led to this: London, called the greatest city on earth, with its wealth and squalor, snobbery and noble ideals.
He left the routine of docking and regulations to his captain, preferring silence and the voluptuous ecstasy of anticipation. From a distance he had already begun to spin his web about his prey. Now he would weave the final threads himself, learning the best and subtlest torments to apply. Peregrine wanted his enemy to know why he was being destroyed; he wanted to be close enough to see fear and fury grow, and to glory in the ultimate destruction.
When they had cleared customs, Peregrine sent a message to Lord Ross Carlisle, who was important to his plans. Then he waited. The man known as Peregrine—warrior, wanderer, rich beyond avarice, hero to a mysterious people who lived beyond the bounds of British law—was good at waiting. But very soon, the time for waiting would be over.
Chapter 1
The message reached Lord Ross Carlisle quickly, and he boarded the Kali within two hours. As the tall, rangy Englishman swung onto the ship's deck and into the pool of lantern light, Peregrine watched from a vantage point in the shadows.
It had been two years since they had last seen each other, and he wondered how strong the bonds of friendship would prove to be here in England. It was one thing for the younger son of a duke to fraternize with an adventurer of dubious background in the wilds of Asia, quite another to introduce such a man to his own circle. The two men could hardly have come from more different backgrounds, but in spite of that, there had been surprising harmony of mind and humor between them.
Even near death in the mountains of the Hindu Kush, Lord Ross had been unmistakably an English aristocrat. Now, gilded by lamplight and wearing garments whose price would feed a Kafir family for a decade, he looked like what he was: a man born to the ruling :lass of the greatest empire the world had ever known, with all the assurance of his kind.
Peregrine pushed himself away from the mast and stepped forward into the circle of light. "I'm glad my message found you at home, Ross. Good of you to come so quickly."
The two men's gazes met, exactly level. Lord Ross's eyes were brown, an unexpected contrast to his blond lair. There had always been competition as well as friendship between them, and the undercurrents of this meeting would not be simple ones.
"I had to see if it was really you, Mikahl." The Englishman offered his hand. "I never really thought I'd see you in London."
"I said I would come, Ross. You should not have doubted me." In spite of the wariness in the atmosphere, Peregrine gripped the other man's hand hard, surprised at how much pleasure he felt at this reunion. "Have you dined?"
"Yes, but I'd welcome a glass of that superlative brandy you always seemed to have."
"We stopped in France especially to replenish my stock." Peregrine led the way below decks. As they entered the sumptuous owner's cabin, he glanced speculatively at his companion. Lord Ross was the very image of the languid English aristocrat; had he really changed so much?
Giving way to mischievous impulse, Peregrine decided to find out. Without warning, he spun on his heel, driving his right elbow at the other man's midriff with a force that could have felled a half-grown bullock. It should have been a crippling blow, but it wasn't.
With lightning swiftness, Ross grabbed Peregrine's arm before the elbow could connect. Then he bent and twisted, hurling his host halfway across the cabin with one smooth, continuous motion.
As he crashed down on his right shoulder, Peregrine automatically tucked his body and rolled, coming to rest on his back by one of the paneled bulkheads. In a serious fight he would have ricocheted back into action, but this time he lay still on the carpeted deck and caught his breath. "I'm glad to see that civilization hasn't made you soft." Then he grinned, feeling as if the two years' separation had just vanished. "You didn't learn that throw from me."
Cravat and hair no longer impeccable, Ross laughed out loud, his face boyish. "I decided that if you really did come to England, I'd best be prepared, you old devil." He extended his hand to help his host up. "Pax?"
"Pax," Peregrine agreed as he took Ross's hand and vaulted to his feet. He was pleased to find that the bonds of friendship still held, and not just because the other man would be useful. "When you came on board, you looked so much like an English gentleman that I wondered if you had forgotten the Hindu Kush."
"If I looked like an English gentleman, you looked like an oriental pasha who couldn't decide whether to welcome me or have me thrown in your dungeon." Ross examined the cabin, which was a blend of Eastern and Western luxury. The oak desk was certainly European, but the thick carpet was one of Persia's finest, and two benches were padded and covered with velvet, then heaped with embroidered pillows like Turkish divans. A suitable setting for a man of the East who had chosen to move into a larger world.
Ross settled on one of the divans and crossed his elegantly booted legs. He still had trouble believing that his enigmatic friend was in England, for like the falcon he was named for, Peregrine had seemed a creature of the wild places. Yet oddly, though he wore loose Asiatic robes and his black hair was longer than an Englishman's, he did not look out of place. As he opened a cabinet and brought out a decanter of brandy, he moved with the calm assurance of a man who would be at home anywhere.
"On shipboard, it would be the brig, not the dungeon." Peregrine poured generous amounts of brandy into two cut-glass goblets. "But since we have broken bread and shared salt, the laws of hospitality are inviolable."
Ross accepted a goblet with murmured thanks, then cocked his head to one side thoughtfully. "You've been practicing your English. There's still a trace of accent, but you now speak as fluently as a native Briton."
"I'm glad you approve." As Peregrine sprawled on another padded bench at right angles to his guest, he gave a faint, sardonic smile. "I've a fancy to become a lion of English society. What do you think of my chances of success?"
Ross almost choked on his brandy. "Why on earth would you want to play such social games?" he asked, surprised out of his usual tact. "Lord knows that most British aristocrats are a boring lot. It doesn't seem at all your style."
"Does that mean you do not wish to introduce me to your friends and family?"
Ross's eyes narrowed at the barb lurking in the other man's deep voice. "You know better than that, Mikahl. I owe you a considerable debt, and if you are fool enough to wish to enter what is called 'society,' I will do what I can to assist. Winning superficial social acceptance requires only money and an introduction, and you will have both. Just bear in mind that no matter what you do, you will always be seen as an outsider."
"No society totally accepts a man not born into it," Peregrine agreed. "However, I do not seek to be clasped to the provincial bosoms of the British aristocracy. It will be enough to be tolerated as an exotic and amusing pet."
"Heaven help anyone who thinks you are domesticated," Ross said, amused. "B
ut I can't imagine why you wish to waste your time on people who think Paris is the edge of the world."
"To see if I can do it, perhaps?" Peregrine tilted his head back and drained his goblet. "In truth, society as such does not interest me. But while I am in England, I intend to," he paused, seeking the right phrase, "to settle an old score."
"Whoever he is, I shouldn't like to be in his position," Ross murmured. "Is he anyone I might know?"
"Quite possibly."
Peregrine visibly weighed whether to say more, a catlike gleam in his vivid green eyes. In spite of his fluent English and a breadth of knowledge that a Cambridge scholar could envy, his expressions and gestures subtly marked him as foreign. Ross suspected that he would never truly understand how the other man's mind worked; it was one reason that Peregrine was such a stimulating companion.
At length Peregrine said, "Given the tangled relationships of the British upper classes, the man I am interested in might be your third cousin or godmother's son or some such. If so, I will not burden you with any more knowledge, but I ask that you not interfere in my quest for justice."
Unwilling to commit himself without knowing more, Ross asked, "What is the man's name?"
"Charles Weldon. The Honorable"—there was a slight, ironic emphasis on the title—"Charles Weldon. I imagine you have heard of him, even if you are not personally acquainted. He is one of London's most prominent businessmen."
Ross frowned. "I do know him. Recently he was made a baronet, so he is now Sir Charles Weldon. Strange that you should say that about cousins. We are not related, but oddly enough, he has just proposed marriage to one of my cousins, and she intends to accept him." He finished his brandy, his frown deepening. "My favorite cousin, as it happens."
"I did not know that he was to take another wife." Peregrine poured more brandy for both of them, then sank back in his seat, one leg folded beneath him with un-British fluidity. "I gather that you do not approve. Do you know anything to Weldon's discredit?"
Dancing on the Wind: Book 3 in The Fallen Angel Series Page 39