Don't Bargain with the Devil

by Sabrina Jeffries

  He could not bear the idea.

  A different door opened, and he whirled around, braced for discovery. But it was only Lucy, bearing a glass of water, a sponge, and a small pot of what looked like ointment. She locked the door behind her.

  “Take off your shirt and your cravat,” she ordered. When he arched an eyebrow at that interesting command, she blushed. “I have to get the blood out of them, you dolt. Only imagine what the press will make of it if they see it.”

  “I have another shirt,” he said.

  Her face brightened. “Another dress shirt? And a cravat?”

  “No, but—”

  She sighed. “That won’t do. When they see you’ve changed clothes, they’ll be suspicious.”

  “Then I will say I spilled red wine on myself.”

  “That won’t do, either. As the footmen carried him off, Peter mumbled that you had attacked him. I told them he was too drunk to know what he said, and he certainly reeked of brandy. Still, we don’t know who else he might tell on his way to the carriage. So when you appear before the press again, you have to look exactly as you did before.”

  He touched his finger to his split lip. “What about this?”

  “I brought some makeup I found backstage. If you stay out of sight until night falls and don’t go near brightly lit areas, it should suffice. As long as you don’t have big red stains on your clothes, you should be able to fool the press.”

  With a scowl, he removed his coat and waistcoat, tossing them across a settee. “I hate the press.”

  “Yes, I could tell,” she said dryly. She set her items down on a writing desk and turned up the low-burning gas lantern sitting there.

  “What is that supposed to mean?” he grumbled, untying his cravat.

  “I saw how you were with them. You were masterful at keeping their attention, and you definitely enjoyed the verbal sparring.” She smiled to soften her words. “Your ability to handle people is what makes you such a good conjurer. You’re quite the showman. I daresay it comes naturally to you.”

  He stared blankly at her as she opened her reticule to rummage around in it. Should he be flattered or insulted by that odd observation? He had never thought of himself as a showman by nature. Conjuring was just something he happened to be good at, something he did to make a living.

  Something he would quit doing one day to become lord of Arboleda and a respected member of society in Villa-franca, as he had promised while Father had lain dying before the burning vineyards.

  Pulling a small bottle from her reticule, she poured something into the water.

  “What’s that?” he asked as she stirred it with a quill from the writing desk, raising a foul odor in the room.

  “Smelling salts.” She held out her hand for his cravat, and he tossed it to her. “They work well on bloodstains when mixed with water.”

  “You are a very clever woman, querida.” He unbuttoned his shirt. “Though I am not sure whether to be pleased or alarmed that you know how to clean up blood. Does Hunforth make a regular practice of bloodying your suitors?”

  She shot him a veiled glance. “Papa was in the army, remember?” She worked the liquid into the bloodstain with a sponge. “Learning how to deal with blood was a necessity in the regimental camps. But you should know that. Didn’t you say you got your start performing for regiments?”

  “I did indeed.” He drew off his shirt, and she turned to take it, then froze, her eyes going wide as she saw his bare chest.

  His breath quickened. The way she looked at him roused his blood, and that was perilous. Thankfully she realized she was staring, jerked his shirt from his outstretched hand, and turned to working out the bloodstain on it.

  “How does a count come to be entertaining soldiers?” Her voice trembled.

  It took him a second to get himself under control enough to register what she had said, but then he stifled a groan. That was the last thing he wanted to talk about with her, especially if he was to get her to trust him with her own secrets. “Do not tell your friend Hunforth, but I was one of the many lords left penniless by the war in Spain. I had to make my way somehow. So I learned a trade.”

  She laughed. “A trade? Is that what you call becoming the great Diego Javier Montalvo, Master of Mystery?”

  “It is not what I was raised to do, so yes.” This conversation had veered into dangerous territory. Time to change the subject. He would never get a better chance to find out what she knew of her own past. “I probably even entertained your father’s regiment at some time. What regiment was he in?”

  “Which father?” She peered closely at the stain, then sponged some more.

  “They weren’t in the same regiment?”

  She frowned. “Actually, they were, but only for a while. Papa—the colonel—transferred to the Seventy-third later.” She paused. “I’m not sure why. He doesn’t like to talk about it. Anyway, he was my real father’s superior officer in Gibraltar and then in Spain. That’s why, when my father was dying, he asked the colonel to take care of me. My parents had no family.”

  Diego sucked in a breath. The sergeant must indeed have been the nurse’s lover. But like others in the regiment, he and the nurse had died on the miserable campaign to and from La Coruña, leaving Lucy to the colonel.

  Still, Diego doubted the colonel had adopted Lucy just because his subordinate asked it. Perhaps the colonel had been covering up the despicable way they had acquired their child. It would explain his changing regiments, so as not to have his collusion discovered when her Spanish relations searched for her. Don Carlos had said he only recently learned that the nurse’s lover had been a soldier.

  Only one thing did not fit: the nurse taking the name of Catalina. Why would she take such a risk? “Do you remember your parents?” he asked as she hung the damp shirt and cravat over a chair near the fire.

  “No. Well, sometimes I get this . . . picture in my head of my mother. At least, I think it’s my mother.”

  “What does she look like?”

  “Very beautiful. Black hair, black eyes, olive skin. And a small mole right here.” She touched her finger to her upper lip.

  Diego frowned. The miniature had shown no mole on her mother’s face. But it was only a miniature. Or Lucy might be remembering the nurse.

  “I can’t even be sure I’m really seeing her,” Lucy went on, as if she’d read his mind. She walked back to the table. “I wish I knew more about them than the little Papa has told me.” She stared down at the pot of makeup. “When I first came to the school, I envied the other girls so much. They had sisters and grandparents and uncles and cousins. I had only Papa. His parents died before the war, and he was their only child. He said my real parents had no family either, so it’s always been just us. Until my stepmother, of course.”

  “Do you at least know your real parents’ names?”

  Picking up the small pot, she eyed him curiously. “Why all these questions?”

  He managed a shrug. “Your mother was Spanish. How could I not be interested?”

  “She was no one of consequence, or at least that’s what Papa says. She was certainly no one of consequence compared with a count.”

  “A penniless count,” he reminded her.

  “Not penniless anymore, I should think, given your fame.”

  He stiffened, remembering how many women had flirted with him simply because they thought he must be rich. “Trust me, even famous conjurers make about as much money as actors.”

  Her gaze shot to him in surprise. “Then how can you afford Rockhurst?”

  Hostias, he must watch his tongue. “I have investors. In Spain.”

  “Forgive me,” she said with a blush. “I did not mean to pry.”

  “I do not mind. I am secure enough for now, I suppose.”

  “That’s all that matters, anyway. As long as a person has enough to be comfortable, the rest is excess.” Walking up to him, she opened the little pot and dipped her finger into it. “Mrs. Harris has tau
ght us time and again that money can be a curse. I am often very happy not to be a great heiress like my friend Elinor. How awful to have men sniff around you just for your money! At least I know that anyone who marries me will marry for love.”

  Before he could voice his opinion about that unpredictable emotion, she murmured, “Hold still,” and dabbed something on his lip.

  “Ow!” He jerked back. “That burns like the devil.”

  “Do you want the press to notice your split lip or not?”

  With a roll of his eyes, he acquiesced. The second dab did not hurt so much. Not his lip, anyway. But other parts of him started to ache, with her so near that he could smell violets and see the shadow between her lovely breasts and hear her breath quickening.

  “There.” Her eyes focused on his lip. “That ought to suffice.” Her voice sounded as shaky as he felt.

  “Thank you,” he said through a throat gone tight with need.

  “Thank you for saving me from Peter and his idiocy.” Her fingers lingered over his lip to smooth and dab and drive him stark raving mad. “I’m sorry I ever dragged you into it. Truly, I am.”

  “You did not drag me into it,” he said firmly. “I dragged myself. I provoked him into it, even before the performance. When he and I were alone, I told him to leave you be. I told him he had no right to toy with you.” His voice grew choked. “But I should have left it at that and not made a fool of him in front of everyone.”

  “Don’t you dare apologize for that.” She flashed him a wry smile. “I’m just wicked enough to have enjoyed it.”

  “You are not remotely wicked,” he corrected her. “And he deserved that and more, for not seeing what a jewel you are.” He shook his head. “But I should have realized he would come after you for it. That is what bullies do—prey on those weaker than themselves. Your Peter is a bully of the worst kind, one who bullies women.” Like the soldiers who had—

  No, he could not bear to remember that right now, with the image of Lucy being mauled still fresh in his mind. “If he had hurt you, I would never have forgiven myself.”

  She touched her fingers to his lips. “But he didn’t hurt me. You were there. And I cannot thank you enough.”

  He stared blindly at her, at the woman he could not have if he were to regain what had been stolen from his family. Her kindness cut him to the heart when he knew how he was deceiving her. Yet he was just devil enough to exult in the tenderness on her face, the gentle touch of her fingers on his lips.

  He kissed her fingertips, then pressed a kiss lower, into her palm.

  A look of uncertainty passed over her face as she dropped her hand from his mouth. “I-I should return to the others.” She glanced away. “I’ll see if I can distract anyone who’s looking for you.”

  “Don’t go yet,” he rasped, looping his arm about her waist. “You still owe me a waltz.” It was a mistake—he knew it was a mistake to hold her.

  But he wanted her with him a while longer. He had been able to think of nothing but her since their kisses backstage.

  “We can dance on the lawn with the others,” she whispered, though she made no attempt to leave his embrace.

  “And rouse the press’s attention? Not wise, mi dulzura— not wise at all.”

  Hearing music filtering in from outside, he took her hand and began to waltz. After a second’s hesitation, she followed his lead.

  He told himself he would just dance with her. He would show her that not all men were animals like Hunforth, savaging a woman with brute force. He would hold her and smell her and nothing else.

  Then she made the mistake of placing her hand on his bare waist and lifting her gaze to his again. He read the desire in her eyes, and he was lost. Eternally lost.

  He had already broken the marqués’s rules about not touching her. What harm could there be in touching her more, as long as he did not ruin her? After he got a look at her thigh to confirm her identity, she would be out of his reach forever. She would belong to whatever man her grandfather picked for her.

  Unless she was not the one he and Gaspar sought. Diego seized on that possibility with a vengeance. It had happened before, and not every piece of the puzzle of her background fit perfectly. If she was not the marqués’s granddaughter, he would be free to court her. What could it hurt to start now?

  His conscience screamed that he knew better, that he had made a promise to the marqués, that even without the promise, he would be taking advantage of her as surely as Hunforth had tried to do. She deserved better, and he knew it.

  But her succulent lips were inches from his, her body soft and yielding in his arms, and he could not help himself. “Cariño,” he said hoarsely.

  Then he kissed her.

  Chapter Eleven

  Dear Charlotte,

  Impenetrable I may be, but surely you know by now that I have only your best interests at heart. Heed my second warning, and keep an eye out for your Master of Mystery. He still has not applied for a license, and his assistant is asking peculiar questions about the school and its staff. Be very careful with him.

  Your concerned cousin,

  Michael

  Even before Diego’s lips met hers, Lucy had been wavering in her resistance to his temptations. Now she was drowning in them, and she didn’t care. She was in his arms again, and he was kissing her with such tenderness it made her heart hurt. How could she not kiss him back?

  Do you really think a man like that has honorable intentions?

  Probably not.

  He’d asked about her parents, and a man of venerable Spanish rank would only ask such questions of a woman he courted. Unlike English gentlemen, he would find her mother’s blood an advantage, too.

  But she wouldn’t place her hopes in that; she’d made that mistake before. And his emphasis on being a penniless count was probably meant to be a warning that he couldn’t afford a wife.

  Still, he did seem to care for her. He’d fought valiantly for her, had raised money to destroy his own aims, and had given some of his own hard-earned funds to that cause. More important, when he’d leaped to her defense, he hadn’t blamed her but Peter. And himself. Surely that showed him to be a man of character.

  She was tired of worrying about it. She’d tried hard to be good. She’d waited patiently for Peter to return from abroad, not even countenancing anyone else’s attentions, and for what? For him to admit he loved her, yet it still didn’t matter? For him to insult her and try to ruin her?

  He still might, too. Nothing could stop Peter from telling people about the brawl later and blackening her name, as well as Diego’s. People might even believe what Peter said—not only because he was an earl but also because of Diego’s performance. Peter would use that. He clearly wasn’t the gentleman she’d thought.

  While Diego was far more of a gentleman than she’d thought. He’d been honest about his intentions from the beginning. And if she found her reputation ruined through no fault of her own, shouldn’t she have some pleasure out of it? What was the point of being proper if everyone believed the worst about you anyway? Might as well be improper, it seemed to her.

  As if reading her thoughts, Diego drew back. “I do not want you to think I am like Hunforth, willing to take advantage of a woman—”

  “I’d never think that,” she whispered, once more reminded that Diego was a good man at heart. This time, she was the one to kiss him.

  He pulled away abruptly. “Careful, cariño.” He cast her a rueful smile and tapped one end of his lip. “Best to stay on this side.”

  Oh, dear, she’d forgotten about his injury. “I’m sorry.”

  “I do not mind a little pain for one of your kisses,” he said huskily. “But if you start the bleeding again, your efforts will have been for naught.”

  She suspected her efforts would be for naught anyway, but she wasn’t about to point that out. He would get all noble again and try to protect her. Right now, she didn’t want nobility. She wanted him. “Then let me kiss it to make i
t better.”

  He arched an eyebrow. “I thought that was only something mothers told their children to take their minds off their troubles.”

  “Let’s find out, shall we?” she teased, stretching up to kiss his split lip. “Better?”

  “Much.” His dark eyes gleamed in the candlelight as he bent to nuzzle her cheek. “But now you will have to apply the makeup again.”

  “I will.” She brushed her lips over his cheek. “Once we’re done waltzing.”

  “Is that what you English call this?” He clasped her head in his hands for another magical kiss that stole the soul from her body. He dragged his mouth down her chin, then her throat. “I like the English version of waltzing.”

  “So do I.” She clutched at his bare shoulders, then swept along them to memorize every curve and muscle.

  It was her first time touching a man’s naked torso, and she meant to relish it. Her hands fanned down his well-wrought chest, her thumbs exploring his flat nipples.

  He groaned low in his throat. “Mi dulzura, as much as I enjoy this . . . we should stop.”

  “Why?” she whispered. “Don’t you like my hands on you?”

  “Too much,” he growled. “That is the problem.”

  “It doesn’t sound like a problem to me,” she said with deliberate coyness.

  Diego searched her face. “What are you doing, Lucy?”

  “Finding out if you are as amazing a lover as the papers say you are.”

  At the word “lover,” heat flared in his face. “I refuse to ruin you. And I know that is not what you want, either.”

  “Perhaps it is.” She lifted her chin, trying to look sophisticated and certain of her desires, though his words made her feel unsophisticated and uncertain. “Perhaps Peter is right, and I really am a hoyden.”

  He cupped her chin tenderly. “What you are is curious. And passionate. No matter what English propriety says, that is perfectly natural in a young woman. Why do you think we Spanish have such stern dueñas? Because we do not trust the young gentlemen or the young ladies when the heat has got hold of them.”