To Tame a Dangerous Lord

by Nicole Jordan

  Madeline’s eyes were bright and eager as she prodded him for more details. “I would imagine your parents were not happy about your new acquaintance.”

  Smiling wryly, Rayne nodded. “My parents cared little about how I spent my time, but they would have been horrified to know I was associating with such riffraff. My thieving friend came from the London stews. With no home or family, he was living in alleys, scrounging for scraps to survive. I was horrified by his circumstance, so I gave him the funds for food and decent lodgings, but while he was grateful to have enough to eat, he refused to be confined to civilized surroundings. After living on the streets for so long, he was a bit savage, like a feral fox.”

  “So how did that lead to you becoming a spy?”

  “To satisfy my curiosity and my longing for adventure, my new friend introduced me to the sordid but fascinating London underworld and taught me some rather unique skills that were critical to his way of life—such as how to pilfer and to slip in and out of places undetected. And in exchange, I taught him how to pass for a gentleman … how to speak properly, to read, to ride, to shoot and fence. I thought it a great lark at the time, but years later we put our skills to good use. We both joined the Foreign Office and then worked our way up the ranks.”

  “So you saved a stranger’s life, and in turn, he changed yours,” Madeline said softly, admiration clear in her eyes.

  “A fate for which I will always be grateful,” Rayne acknowledged. “Otherwise I might have ended up a reckless care-for-nothing buck with too much time on my hands, getting into the kinds of scrapes Freddie regularly lands himself in, or worse.”

  “I doubt that would ever be possible,” Madeline murmured. “You were meant to be a knight in shining armor.”

  Perhaps so, Rayne silently agreed. His experience with Will Stokes was his first encounter with the heartbreaking misery and poverty that afflicted much of London’s citizenry and the injustices they bore because of their less-than-genteel origins. It had made him keenly aware how fortunate he was to be a member of the privileged upper class. But even at age eleven, he’d realized it was his duty to help those in need.

  In response to Madeline’s observation, however, Rayne merely shrugged.

  “What happened to your friend?” she asked, then added when she noticed his fond smile, “What is so amusing?”

  “The irony is that now he works as a thief-taker for Bow Street.”

  “He is a Runner?”

  “Yes, and quite a good one, since he knows all the tricks of the trade. Even more amusing is that he married a baker’s daughter and has two sons similar in age to my youngest nephews.”

  Madeline digested that information in silence for the remainder of the drive. And upon arriving at his house on Bedford Avenue, she held her tongue when they were met in the entrance hall by his chief aide, Walters, who acted as part butler, secretary, valet, and henchman.

  Madeline remained wide-eyed and curious, absorbing everything she saw, as Rayne escorted her through the large house, passing rooms adorned with furnishings designed more for masculine comfort than a display of wealth.

  Her eyebrows rose, however, when he led her down the back servants’ stairs. Beyond the kitchens was a door to the wine cellar, and beyond that was a large chamber that resembled part storeroom and part dressing room such as the lead actors at Drury Lane commanded.

  “I never considered it before,” Madeline murmured, “but I suppose spies need disguises when they play different roles.”

  “Occasionally,” Rayne replied. “This room rarely gets used anymore. Now it mainly houses equipment I’ve needed at one time or another.”

  As expected, Walters had carried out his orders to his exact specifications.

  “The accoutrements for your role tonight are on that table,” Rayne said, pointing to one side of the room.

  He watched as Madeline inspected the items laid out for her—a shawl of delicate silver lace, a bandeau with white ostrich plumes, and a pair of silver combs for her hair.

  Moving behind her, Rayne helped her remove her cloak so she could don the shawl, then had her sit at a dressing table so he could arrange her hair and headdresses to his liking.

  “How did you learn to devise disguises?” Madeline asked, peering at herself in an oval hand mirror as he worked.

  “Various thespians taught me here and there.”

  He didn’t add that one of the actresses in question had been a former mistress.

  Reminded of their upcoming task, Rayne related some background information about their target to Madeline, the better to prepare her for what to expect. “Madame Sauville is not considered a courtesan in the usual sense, in that she doesn’t sell her wares overtly. But she has been the mistress of a number of notable figures in the government and elsewhere. I was surprised that she stooped to try her blackmail schemes on Freddie—and that he didn’t have the sense to steer clear of her. She must be getting desperate for funds to support her extravagant lifestyle.”

  “What will you do if you are caught searching her private rooms?” Madeline asked.

  “I won’t be caught.”

  She hesitated but didn’t question his assertion. “Her bedchamber is where you will start searching?”

  “Yes. There is always a chance she deceived Freddie when she boasted that she ‘slept with his letters,’ but odds are she was being truthful while taunting him. She wanted his peccadillo to sound even more scandalous to increase his fear of his father’s wrath.”

  “I thought she told Freddie the letters were in her jewel case.”

  Rayne smiled to himself, impressed with Madeline’s powers of recollection. “She did that also. Most likely she keeps the case in her bedchamber.”

  “And if you find her jewel case locked, what will you do?”

  “I will pick the lock.” Rayne directed her attention to the small leather bag lying on the dressing table in front of her. “That bag contains various-sized metal picks and special keys whose vanes turn on the shaft. You may see for yourself.”

  Looking intrigued, Madeline opened the bag to examine the contents. “What happens when you do find the letters?”

  “I will confiscate them and replace them with forgeries.”

  “Forgeries? Why?”

  “I don’t want Mrs. Sauville to know they are gone in the event I have to return to search for more of them.”

  “Is that likely?”

  “Perhaps not. I won’t know until Freddie inspects the entire lot to make sure none are missing.” Again Rayne gestured at the dressing table, this time indicating a satin pouch that was filled with newly forged letters. “He composed some quite innocuous missives this time, with no mention of his passion for the lovely French widow. If La Sauville does feel compelled to show these to his father, she will be made a laughingstock.”

  Picking up the satin pouch, Madeline eyed the stack of letters inside as if estimating their size. “It is unfortunate that Freddie was so prolific,” she said with amusement.

  “True, but he fancied himself in love.”

  Madeline evidently caught the note of derision in his tone. “You don’t believe he is capable of love?”

  Rayne exhaled a humorless laugh. “Oh, I suspect he is capable, but he was a fool to let himself be taken in by Sauville’s allurements.”

  After studying Rayne’s face for a moment, Madeline returned to the subject. “How will you smuggle so many letters in and out without being obvious about it?”

  “I have a special coat equipped with slots in the lining.”

  “Interesting.” She pursed her lips thoughtfully. “How would I carry the letters if I were the one sneaking into her boudoir?”

  Rayne found his gaze dropping to that ripe mouth of Madeline’s. “You would put them in your reticule, or hide them under your skirts.”

  Her glance shot up to his. “Indeed?”

  “That pouch you are holding can be strapped to your thigh by means of a special clip that attach
es to your stocking garter.”

  Madeline slanted her head at him, her expressive eyes suddenly dancing again. “I told you I would be better suited to stealing the letters back,” she pointed out. “You may have difficulty hiding so many in your coat because of the bulk, whereas I could easily conceal them under my skirts.”

  Rayne grinned at her. “I’ll take my chances, love. However, if it will console you, you can wear the pouch tonight. There is always the possibility I might need to pass the letters on to you to avoid detection.”

  “Perhaps I will.”

  Her luminous eyes remained amused as he finished arranging the combs and feathered bandeau in her hair. Upon observing his handiwork in the mirror, Madeline murmured in surprise, “I do look as if I belong at a literary salon.” She glanced up at him in admiration. “You really are quite good at this, aren’t you?”

  “This was my profession for a long while,” Rayne replied, brushing off her compliment.

  He wasn’t about to let her praise go to his head. Tonight’s task was merely business, and he’d learned the hard way not to mix emotions with business.

  With that pointed self-reminder, Rayne took the letters from Madeline and stepped back, intending to fetch his special coat before he was tempted to claim that kissable mouth of hers again.

  Chapter Seven

  It is difficult to resist a force of nature, Maman. His seduction is like having all my senses struck by bolts of lightning.

  After such a lovely afternoon spent with Haviland, Madeline wondered if she might have misjudged his feelings about love and matrimony—until his disdainful remarks about his cousin’s failings only confirmed her misgivings.

  Madeline had little chance to contemplate his marriage proposal during the drive to the soirée, however, since all her nerves were exasperatingly on edge. Haviland, on the other hand, lounged nonchalantly in the seat across from her, looking perfectly at ease.

  Yet why should he not be calm? Madeline reminded herself. He was daring, fearless, accustomed to confronting danger and death. Whereas she had never faced anything more dangerous than a rogue cow who’d trampled a fence to graze in the herb garden. Unless she counted Baron Ackerby, that is—

  “You are worrying needlessly,” Haviland said, breaking into her anxious thoughts.

  It was disconcerting, how he seemed to be so attuned to what she was thinking and feeling.

  “Aren’t you just the least bit nervous?” Madeline asked.

  His half smile made her heart flutter in a way that had nothing to do with her concern about the evening ahead. “Enough experience with danger can make you inured to fear.”

  “You are never afraid?” she said in surprise.

  “Certainly I am, but I’ve learned to control it. It’s a matter of training and willpower. Take a deep breath, love, and try to relax. You don’t want to alert the Widow Sauville by appearing agitated.”

  Of course he was right, Madeline acknowledged. They had a logical strategy to outsmart the widow and had prepared several contingencies in the event the initial plan went awry, including strapping the empty satin pouch to her stocking garter.

  Still, Madeline couldn’t help the way her heart rate sped up when the carriage came to a halt five minutes later.

  They had arrived at the soirée.

  At least the first part of their scheme went according to plan. Upon being admitted, Madeline saw upward of thirty genteel guests mingling in the salon. Most were men, but there was a smattering of women among the crowd as well. Mrs. Sauville, Rayne had said, lived on the fringe of society, so holding intellectual gatherings of poets and artists and politicians afforded her a sense of importance.

  The widow was an exotic beauty, stunning in a jaded sort of way, with raven hair and a milk-white complexion that only hinted at her clever use of cosmetics. Her ripe figure was garbed in a low-cut gown that had obviously been dampened to cling to her curves and display her generous bosom to alluring advantage.

  It is no wonder Freddie fell for such a femme fatale, Madeline thought as Rayne introduced her to their hostess and apologized for their unexpected intrusion.

  Mrs. Sauville appeared surprised but pleased that Lord Haviland had deigned to patronize her salon.

  “Mais non, it is no intrusion in the least, milord,” she exclaimed in a somewhat breathless voice, her accent proclaiming her French origins. “You find me excessively honored.”

  She was decidedly less welcoming toward his companion, however, surveying Madeline with a calculating eye that left her feeling dowdy, despite wearing her best gown and the elegant accessories Rayne had loaned her.

  Thankfully, the widow seemed to accept their reason for attending—that Miss Ellis desired to meet some of her late mother’s countrymen and garner material for her French classes.

  “But of course, milord,” Mrs. Sauville murmured. “I would be pleased to make your little friend known to my guests directly after the poetry reading. And you must sit beside me during the presentation, I insist.”

  Taking his arm, she guided Haviland toward the front row of chairs, ignoring everyone else in the room. When the widow drew him down, Madeline followed and sat at Rayne’s other side. Absurdly, it stung her to be dismissed as no competition by the beautiful Frenchwoman, even though she knew she was only there to play a supporting role.

  Rayne was certainly playing his part to the hilt, Madeline observed. He commanded the widow’s complete attention, smiling down at her with that charming, masculine smile that made feminine hearts quicken.

  The sight made Madeline grit her teeth. It was not that she was jealous, she told herself firmly. It was only that if the alluring widow remained latched on to him for the duration of the reading, their entire plan would be threatened.

  Resolved to allay any suspicions their hostess might have about their attendance at her salon, Rayne hid his boredom well as he flattered and charmed the Widow Sauville. He’d had ample practice at using seduction to gain his ends in his career; it was one of the tools of his former trade, and he was highly skilled at it.

  The beautiful Madame Sauville was equally skilled, Rayne conceded, as she let the delicate silk shawl she wore “accidently” slide to the floor between their chairs. Giving a murmur of feigned dismay, she brought her hand to her heart, drawing his attention to the smooth expanse of bare skin at her bosom.

  “Comment gauche de moi. Will you kindly assist me, milord?” she entreated, gazing up at him coquettishly through her long, kohl-darkened eyelashes.

  Rayne responded with equally feigned gallantry. “It would be my pleasure, madame.”

  As he draped the shawl around her shoulders, she canted her head to one side, making certain he had an enticing view of her lush cleavage. She even managed to press her fingers over his for a moment, encouraging his hand to move closer to her breast.

  But this was a duel for which Rayne well knew the rules. Obliging her, he bent down slightly, letting his warm breath caress her bare neck, eliciting a delicate shiver from her.

  “It is a shame to conceal such beauty,” he murmured, although he had to quell a grimace at the cloying heaviness of the fragrance she wore.

  The widow gave a little trill of laughter and slowly smiled up at him. The artful gesture was meant to tempt and arouse, but Rayne found it intensely unappealing.

  The truth was, he didn’t trust beautiful, seductive women. He’d learned that bitter lesson with Camille Juzet many years ago. As a result, this Frenchwoman’s obvious attempt to attract him only set his instincts on savage alert.

  Rayne’s mouth curled sardonically when he recognized the sentiment. Even if he found little pleasure in the company of this beautiful woman, he should at least be enjoying the challenge of the game and the chance to once again match wits with a worthy opponent.

  Therefore, when Madame Sauville offered him a husky murmur of thanks, Rayne masked his distaste and smiled back at her while asking her to comment about the poets she had engaged for the eveni
ng.

  An hour later, at the conclusion of the reading, the guests all rose from their chairs and began to mingle. The widow, however, still clung to him. Rayne was debating how to extricate himself from her irritating possessiveness when Madeline spoke up to provide him a suitable excuse.

  “I am so very parched, Lord Haviland. Would you be so kind as to fetch me some refreshment?”

  His eyes glinted in appreciation as he met Madeline’s innocent glance. “Why, certainly, Miss Ellis.”

  The widow, however, immediately raised an objection. “I have servants to perform such tasks, Mademoiselle Ellis. Moreover, a buffet supper will be served in a short while.”

  “Oh, I doubt Lord Haviland minds,” Madeline said airily, stepping in front of him. “And it will give me a chance to speak to you alone, Madame Sauville. I should dearly love to know about the modiste you patronize, so that I may tell my pupils. Your gown is so lovely, and with such a tasteful sense of fashion. Also, you promised to introduce me to your guests, did you not?”

  Looping her arm through their hostess’s, Madeline purposefully led the widow away from Rayne. “I should like to meet your poets as well. My brother has tried his hand at poetry once or twice, but I fear his efforts were rather sad….”

  Rayne’s mouth curved as Madeline’s voice trailed off. He had needed her to distract the widow after all, he admitted as he left the salon in order to hunt for the letters.

  As time dragged on, Madeline could see Madame Sauville becoming more and more frustrated by her unwanted attachment, but she refused to budge from the scheming Frenchwoman’s side. She kept one eye on the mantel clock, however, trying to hide her worry while wishing Rayne would hurry.

  When at last he returned to the salon with glasses of wine for both her and Madame Sauville, Madeline breathed a bit more easily. Yet only when, in response to her quizzical glance, Rayne gave her a slight nod to indicate that he’d found the letters, could she begin to relax.

  “My apologies for my tardiness, madame,” Rayne said smoothly. “I delayed to speak to an old acquaintance.”