A Devilish Slumber

by Shereen Vedam

  She said what she wished she had had the courage to say years ago. “Phillip, promise me you will never abandon me again.”

  With her plea, she relinquished her regret at pushing him away, for staying angry, for shutting down her life as well as their love. He kissed her as if to grant just such a promise. By the time he ended their kiss and the one after that, she was breathless and urging him on as he unhooked her stays. She cheerfully raised her arms so he could slide that useless garment over her head and toss it aside.

  He then knelt to remove her stockings, pulling each one off with accompanying kisses until she groaned with pleasure. With the removal of each item, she shed one protective barrier after another. As she had allowed brambles and vines to grow around her home, so too had she nurtured obstacles around her heart. To keep herself safe, she had pushed everyone away and built a fortress around herself, her home, and her life.

  As she tenderly allowed, nay urged, Phillip to remove her outer layers, it dawned on her that her inner ones were as ancient as Cleopatra herself. When had she begun to push people away? It was an exercise she had engaged in for so long, it was almost second nature. Perhaps she had been doing it even while her parents were alive. For as long as Rose could recall, she had clung to her sister, Eve, and treated everyone else as an intruder.

  People cannot be trusted, was a homily that Eve used to whisper to Rose every night when they were children. And Rose had believed her. Until the day she had met Phillip.

  Falling fast under his spell, she had instinctively trusted him. Even after Eve screamed that he was unworthy of Rose’s attentions—her sister had even flirted with Phillip in an attempt to prove that he could be disloyal, all to no avail—Rose had believed in Phillip. Then Eve died. In Rose’s grief, Eve’s claim that no would ever love her as much as Eve had coursed through her bloodstream.

  But now, Phillip was back, and she began to believe that he did want to take care of her, safeguard her, love her. Besides, as her healing had proven, she was strong enough to guard herself.

  At last, Rose stood in an immodest chemise in the gentle glow of candlelight and fire, free of her shackles and proudly displaying her curves and vulnerabilities to the man she loved.

  “If you had any more clothes on, it could be morning before we ever consummated,” he complained, and then tugged off her last diaphanous covering until he could view her in all her bare glory. He would have kissed her then, but she held him back and boldly said, “My turn.”

  She began by unbuttoning and then unlacing him. It was a slow process that seemed to test his resolve, judging by his tiny groans and harsh orders to hurry.

  “You are better at this than I am, sir. I suspect you have had much practice in undressing women,” Rose murmured.

  He kissed her forehead and tenderly stroked her cheek. “We have been apart quite a while, my love. Last I remember, you ordered me to never to darken your doorstep again.”

  “Must you take everything I say literally?”

  His clothes soon joined the growing pile on the floor and she gulped, her breath catching in her tight throat at the magnificent sight of him, completely bare. He lifted her in his arms and Rose, surprised by that sudden rise, clung to him, excitement and anticipation making her giddy as he purposefully carried her across the room and up the two steps to the bed.

  He gently tucked her under the sheets before joining her beneath the covers. “You are absolutely certain you wish to do this, Rose?”

  In answer, she did what Eve had warned her never to do. She bared her soul to the man she loved.

  LONG AFTER, THEY lay side by side, exhausted. Against his palm, Rose’s heartbeat slowed and her breathing steadied. Around the bedroom, the candles had burnt low and the fire from the hearth had dimmed so Phillip could barely make out her features. But he now knew Rose in the most intimate manner a man could know a woman. And he was absolutely certain that Rose was indeed the woman he had fallen in love with three years ago.

  He had been right then about her innocence. And he was absolutely certain now that Rose was innocent of Mrs. Beaumont’s murder. He had been a fool to ever suspect her in the first place. The only explanation he could think of for his folly was that he must have allowed his heartache at their separation to blind him to her good character.

  As she slept, heightened color from their lovemaking marked her beautiful pale cheeks with a rosy hue. When she questioned him about his expertise with women earlier, he had gained the impression that she might be worried that he would not be satisfied with her. If only she knew how unique she was in his heart. No one could ever take her place.

  “Never concern yourself about my practicing this dance with others, Rose,” he whispered. “Henceforth, I will engage with none other than you, my love.”

  She blinked sleepily, but he was uncertain if she had awoken enough to hear his promise. In the dying light of the hearth, her sea-green eyes looked like molten emeralds drenched with supreme satisfaction before her lids closed again, hiding them from his view. Her breathing evened out, suggesting sleep had at last claimed his beauty.

  Phillip’s own lids were drooping with satisfaction, when that odd change in her eye color brought him wide awake. Against his palm, her heartbeat thumped with the regular beat of sleep. He stared at Rose, his eyes now wide open as he took note of all the changes in her. Her cheeks were rosy, her skin was clear and supple. Even her beautiful blond locks were curling about her shoulders. She looked like her old self, the woman he had known three years ago. Yet, only a few days ago, she had seemed pale and sickly.

  If Rose’s appearance could change so drastically with a simple shift in her mood, could someone else do more? Was that even possible?

  Last winter, Lady Anabelle Marchant, the woman Rufus was set to marry, had proven to Phillip that she was capable of some extraordinary feats. She had read a dog’s thoughts, even communicated with it, ordering it to bite at the rope that bound her hands. And it had obeyed her, leaving both Rufus and Phillip, also likewise bound, astonished.

  Later, Rufus had insisted his lady could also see and speak with spirits. Accepting that there were such things as ghosts had been hard for Phillip. Yet, the affirmation coming from his staunchly practical cousin, was hard to discount. Now he wondered. . . . If these types of inexplicable phenomena were possible, why not humans who could adjust their appearance? Not merely with a well-worn disguise or a mask, but with an adjustment of features, as Rose’s eyes had just changed from a lighter green to a darker shade. And her head wound. He sat up in bed. Rose stirred beside him but did not wake. That scalp wound had not been his imagination or a trick of the light. She had been bleeding. He had cleaned up her spilled blood, yet he could not find one a trace of the gash.

  I heal quickly.

  The changes in Rose brought to mind that odd conversation he had overhead in the alleyway earlier today.

  One moment he had a long narrow nose and was clean-shaven, the next he had a full beard and a pudgy nose.

  His mind whirled at the possibility. If Rose, as she insisted and he now wholeheartedly believed, had not been at that Wapping warehouse the night Mrs. Beaumont was killed, could someone else, a person who could make herself look like Rose, have been present? He had witnessed her coming out of the warehouse. Who else could it have been? More importantly, why would the woman commit murder while impersonating Rose? That spoke of a personal connection. But who would want to implicate her in a murder? The only name that came to mind with such a diabolical mindset was Rose’s sister, Evelyn Ravenstock.

  But Eve was dead. Or was she?

  Phillip eased his arm from around Rose and carefully slid out of bed as pieces of the puzzle began to fit together. After that tragic carriage accident, the bodies of everyone who perished had been recovered, all except for Eve. He shuddered at the very idea of Evelyn Ravenstock still being alive. I
f she were indeed back, and worse, capable of mastering disguises, that made her the most dangerous woman in London.

  His pulse pounding with rising horror, Phillip quickly collected his clothing and donned them as memories of Eve flooded back. Though Rose believed the best of her sister, Phillip had delved into Eve’s darker side. His probes had uncovered that she could be cruel to both servants and animals. Her grandmother had admitted when pressed that the family never kept pets while Eve lived with them because Eve was sometimes “unkind” to the weak and defenseless.

  Only after Eve had left for France with her uncle when she was thirteen had the old lady permitted Rose to have a pet. As a child, Eve had also been intensely jealous of her sister. She kept Rose tied to her side, while systematically driving away anyone who befriended her sister. That behavior might explain the motive for Mrs. Beaumont’s murder, the only woman Rose had befriended in years.

  Still, without proof, all this was idle speculation. Then he remembered the handkerchief Mrs. Beaumont had been clutching. Eve would be in possession of a handkerchief with a raven crest. His hands trembled as he lit a candle and took it over to the desk, he pulled out the two handkerchiefs—one that Rose had given him, which he had kept, folded and treasured for three years, and the other, a crushed one.

  In the dark they still looked identical. He left them on the table and raced across the room to his mother’s room. A frantic hunt produced her quizzing glass and then he was back at the bedroom he had shared with Rose. There, he carefully examined the two crests. Only two minute strokes of each Raven’s foot, distinguished one handkerchief from the other. One contained the letter R. Roselyn. The crumpled one showed an E. Evelyn. He shook his head at having missed such a blatantly obvious clue. But why was Eve back now, after such a long absence?

  He had to speak to someone else to see if any of what he was supposing was remotely possible. The two men he trusted most to discuss such wild speculations with were his cousin Rufus and, lately, Ben Turner.

  Ben!

  How could he have forgotten about the lad? Phillip finished dressing in a rush, pulling on his Hessians as images of Ben lying beneath a bush at the Lockharts, his throat slashed, blood seeping into the ground, nipped at his heels. He quickly scribbled a note and rushed back to Rose.

  Under a stream of moonlight, she lay with her golden hair tousled and a tender smile playing about her lips. He had thought to never see her smile again. It was her first since he had returned to London. He gently kissed her soft, tilted lips and placed his note on the pillow beside her. “Wish me luck, Rose, that in regaining your love, I have not lost a dear friend.”

  Chapter Ten

  ROSE, STIRRING from a delightful dream, rolled over and stared at the empty spot in bed beside her with abject disappointment. Phillip had left her. The air had cooled, leaving her bare skin shivering with rising goose bumps. She ached at his absence. After he promised not to leave her. And without even a goodbye.

  She scrambled out of bed and flung the bed coverlet back onto the mattress. Paper rustled. Her eyes swiveled to the bed with hope.

  Had he left a note?

  A frantic search revealed a missive that had slid to the edge of a pillow. With trembling fingers, she carried the paper to the dying hearth, poked the coals until they burned brighter and lit a candle from the embers. Then she sat on the cold floor and read.

  My fair Rose,

  I must search for Ben. He is but a young lad. I hate to leave your side, but my conscience will not rest until I know he is safe. I pray you will understand. We will speak of our tomorrows when I return.

  Yours forever,—Phillip

  He did care. For her and for Ben. He planned to come back. Yours forever.

  Joy erupted and Rose jumped up, uncaring who heard her, and squealed at the top of her lungs. He had not said so in so many words, but his letter proclaimed his feelings loud and clear. As clear as his every caress, every kiss had last night.

  “He loves me. He loves me. He loves me.”

  She came to an abrupt halt and slapped a hand over her mouth. Phillip had gone back to the Lockharts. What if the killer went after Phillip? This was exactly what she had hoped to prevent by distracting him. And what a distraction it had been!

  She ran to the window. The moon was setting. Sunrise was imminent. There was still no sign of Daniel. Had he stayed here or followed Phillip? She could not go after Phillip dressed as herself, at this time of night, without a chaperone.

  It was time for Ben to make one final appearance. For that, she needed men’s clothing. She rushed across the hall and into Phillip’s room. After rummaging in a wardrobe, she unearthed a pair of pantaloons, shirt, coat and boots.

  The fit was terrible but no more so than her father’s clothes or the holey affair Daniel procured for her. Would Phillip recognize his old clothes on Ben? Her only advantage would be darkness, so she had better hurry and find him before sunrise.

  She returned to the guestroom and gazed at her discarded clothing. The disarray reminded her of how Phillip had tenderly disrobed her before carrying her to bed. She did not realize a man could make a woman feel so many emotions with a simple stroke. She shivered with remembered pleasure.

  No wonder young women were protected in society and kept ignorant of dealings with men. If women guessed at even a tiny portion of what pleasures awaited her, there would not be a virgin left in the realm for a man to wed.

  Hurry. Hurry. Hurry.

  She shoved her clothing under the bed. In a trice, she hunted for and found a few coins in Phillip’s room and pocketed them. She would pay him back later. He would not begrudge her a few pennies. He was the most generous man she knew. She then took the candle over to the dresser and stared into its looking glass. Time to complete her transformation. Sitting on the stool, she took a deep breath. First, she changed her eye color and shape. Then narrowed her nose. Her scalp warmed as her hair shrank. With each change, Rose disappeared, and Ben reappeared.

  “This is the last time,” Ben said. “After I find Phillip, I will visit Mrs. Weatheringham and gain their permission to tell him the truth about the alliance. After that, only Rose will exist.”

  Something in her reflected gaze struck her as out of place. Then she spotted the difference. A small smile was teasing at the edge of her lips.

  She stretched her mouth wider, practicing the forgotten movement. After a long period of abstinence, her smile felt as much a shift as changing from Rose to Ben. And its reemergence was due entirely to Phillip proving his love for her.

  Rose’s return trip to the Lockharts in a hackney took an age. She could have run faster, especially in Phillip’s pantaloons and boots instead of her gown and petticoats. Donning his clothes had another advantage; all around her was his masculine fragrance tinged with a hint of violet, as if they were still in bed, and his arms held her close and safe.

  The carriage halted far from the Lockharts’ well-lit gates. From the number of vehicles lining the street on either side, the party had carried on in her and Phillip’s absence. She paid the driver and requested that he join the lineup and await her return. Until she found Phillip, this vehicle was her only safe return home.

  She nodded to a few grooms gathered in small clusters in front of the house. She was tempted to ask if anyone had seen Phillip, but decided he would not thank her for alerting others to his presence.

  On her walk toward the front circular driveway, she surreptitiously checked behind trees and bushes. Halfway there, footsteps began to follow her. Pulse shooting up, she twisted to see who it was. A firm hand landed on her shoulder. “Keep walking.”

  Recognizing that irate voice, she let out a gush of relief. Daniel! For a heart-thumping second, she had wondered if Helen’s attacker had found her again. “Back as Ben, I see.” Daniel sounded vastly disappointed.

  “I am searching f
or Phillip. Have you seen him?”

  “Who else? And no.”

  “He is here somewhere, looking for Ben. And he might be in trouble.” Confound it. Why was she explaining herself? And where had Daniel been when she was attacked? It was Phillip who had rescued her. About to berate him, she held her tongue. If she told him someone attempted to kill her, he would insist she return home. She had to find Phillip first.

  “You are playin’ with fire there,” he said. “Keep this up and you will find yourself in love with the bloke.”

  “Ben,” a man called.

  Phillip! And he was close. She froze. She had wanted to find him, but not with Daniel at her side.

  “Ben.” With a hand on her elbow, he swung her around. “Where have you been?”

  “Sir Phillip,” she said. “Is everything all right?”

  “Rose was attacked.”

  Daniel sucked in his breath in a low hiss.

  “Does she need assistance?” Rose asked.

  “It is all taken care of. I hoped you might have seen the two people who accosted her.”

  “Two?” Daniel said. “What did they look like?”

  Phillip’s eyes narrowed as he focused on her companion. “Who are you, sir?”

  “Sir Phillip,” she said, “may I introduce Mr. Daniel Trenton? He is . . .”

  “Apparently, not a friend.” Daniel sent her a reproachful glance. He was obviously angry that she had not told him about the attack. A friend would have confided in him.

  Phillip’s arm shot out and he pulled her to his side so fast, she stumbled into him. “Then I suggest you take note that Ben is my friend, sir. If any harm comes to him, you shall deal with me. Were you responsible for delaying him tonight?”