“If you dress as a Gypsy, then Nevin—your pardon, Francis Dawes—cannot help but be interested,” St. Albans had told her. “He will think I am making a private joke of him, which I am. But he will also wonder—and he will want to know for certain—if you are the Gypsy who tried to steal from him. So all we must do is make certain he glimpses you, but that he is left uncertain and needing to meet you.”
She listened to his words, to his certainty, and she wished she could be as confident as he in how Francis Dawes would react. In truth, she did not know the man, and could not guess his thoughts. He was her blood—her father’s brother. But all she could feel for him was a deep hatred. And fear.
What if Francis Dawes recognized her as more than a Gypsy? What if he knew her for his late brother’s child, and sent his men after her again?
Ah, this seemed such a dangerous scheme. Almost as risky as it was to simply break into Nevin House to steal the box. They could hang for that. She did not know what might happen with this other plan.
So she would trust St. Albans a little. At least with him she knew that he did not want her dead. He wanted many other things from her, yes, but not that.
Seeming in a mood to be pleased, St. Albans offered his full charm in the days leading up to the ball. He made himself an affable host. Not even Christo’s glowering looks could disturb St. Albans’s easy smile. He challenged Christo to cards in the evening, and he took her shopping during the day. He arranged for a dancing master to teach her to waltz, but when he saw how easily she picked up the steps, he swept her around the room, spinning her until she was breathless, his hand firm on the small of her back and pulling her close.
Flushed and too aware of that tug of attraction to his physical grace, she had pulled away, and she showed him how Gypsies dance—not touching, but with fire in the eyes and in the feet, and twirling and lifting her skirts, and flirting with every sensual move and twist.
Hunger came into his glance, so hot that it warmed her skin and left her light-headed with the power she had to pull that look into his eyes.
But Christo stepped into the room, and so St. Albans had done nothing other than watch her.
What would be, would be, she told herself again. Do not regret what happens, or what does not happen.
However, she could almost wish that life could go on like this. Pleasant and drifting. But her mother and Bado both waited for news. And Christo’s temper shortened, and she knew that his restless steps took him too often to Nevin House. He could not live this way forever.
It was with both relief and cold hands that she stepped into the Argyle Rooms on Regent’s street. Taking a deep breath, she smoothed a hand over the gown that St. Albans had chosen for her. It would amaze her if Francis Dawes recognized her at all, even as a Gypsy.
No Gypsy had ever worn a red gown so dashing, the material impractically thin and cut low with gold coins sewn around the hem and the bodice. She had even bent one coin, just to see if it really was soft gold. It was. And the gown was silk, and the turban she wore was also silk, a red and gold brocade with fringe that hung down from the side and tickled her bare shoulder, and which made her think that perhaps when she left this would find its way into her things.
Ah, but she should not be thinking of that now.
She was here for a reason.
Only her reason for coming did not seem to be here.
Scanning the room, she stood with St. Albans in the entrance to the main salon. She had not expected such elegance. Tall and rectangular, the long room stretched before her, with carved statues set along the white walls above the doorways that led into other rooms. A small orchestra played at the far end, on a raised platform, while gentlemen in their fine dark coats and evening clothes, and ladies in all manners of dress, danced and talked and laughed and drank.
The men glanced at her, interest and speculation in their eyes. The women also gave her glances, but with hard, jealous eyes. Glynis stared back, a little scornful of these gadji, and a little envious of their easy confidence.
A lady dressed as a page boy danced past, her hair cut short and her slim figure encased in blue velvet breeches that showed her every curve and a tight coat that she filled in a way no boy ever would.
Glynis turned away from the crowd, toward St. Albans. “You said he would be here. Well, where? And how should we ever find him in this crowd, even if he does come?”
“Questions. Questions. Always impatient questions. I have said he will be here, and he will. I have arranged it. Now, I shall fetch you champagne to occupy your busy tongue.”
Frowning, she glanced around the room again. A woman dressed in a Grecian gown so shear that it might as well not have been there at all, stared at Glynis, her face painted and her expression appraising.
Glynis wished Christo was here. He was—almost. But St. Albans had allowed his presence only if Christo came with the grooms.
“There are limits to my abilities,” he had said. “And while I can make the world believe you are my mistress, no one would mistake your brother for a gentleman.”
It was true. Even with his hair cut and his face clean shaven, and dressed in the Earl’s black livery, Christo looked more a ruffian than either a servant or a gentleman. Glynis would have liked him closer just now, for the stables felt a very long way from these glittering rooms with their bright candles and decadent guests.
St. Albans’s arm came around her waist. “Don’t worry, my Gypsy. Every man here knows you are under my protection.”
“Yes, and the women know it, too, and they do not seem to like it.” She slanted a look at him. “You seem to be a great prize, to judge by how they look at me.”
His mouth crooked. “How do I answer that? If I say that I am, I sound insufferably conceited. And if I say I am not, then I am lying. However, I think you are the reason for so much notice. I do not make it a habit to keep a mistress. I prefer conquests to liaisons.”
Glynis frowned at him. “And what is the difference?”
St. Albans’s amusement deepened. She was, he thought, the most blunt spoken woman he had ever known. She really should not be asking him these questions. And if she honestly was the daughter of Edward Dawes, she should even not be here, unless she intended to join these ladies of the town in their profession.
“The difference, my Gypsy, is one of longevity.”
“Ah, you mean you tire too easily of these painted ladies. I can see why. They must be performing the entire time they are with you—that is what they are paid for, after all—and it seems to me it would be worse than living with a performing monkey to live with one of them.”
His smile widened. That was perhaps the most accurate description he had ever heard for why he did not care to keep a mistress. They were exhausting creatures, but he had assumed that to be because they were women. Well, his Gypsy certain did not perform for him. That was part of her charm. She was one of the few people he knew who seemed to accept him as he was, neither shunning nor fawning over him.
Offering his arm, he led her to the refreshments and procured her a glass of wine. He pointed out a few notables—society was already starting to thin as the summer weather began to arrive. In a month, the Thames would begin to stink of sewage, and any who could flee would do so.
He introduced her to a few acquaintances, naming her only as his Gypsy and refusing to tell them anything else about her. He wanted her mysterious, and he could see that talk had begun to spread. It was going exactly as he knew it would. Now all that needed to happen next was for Duncastle and Hammond—those intimates of Lord Nevin—to play their parts.
The orchestra struck up a waltz, and St. Albans led his gypsy onto the floor. He swept his arm around her, and her body stiffened as if he had never before held her this intimately.
“You are supposed to look as if you are enjoying yourself—not as if you are enduring the Inquisition,” he said, smiling at her.
“I am enduring. It feels...well, it feels wicked to have you hol
d me with so many staring at us.”
He pulled her closer. “My dear, a taste for wickedness is like a taste for champagne: it seems bitter and strange at first, and then it goes to your head and you start to wonder how you ever lived without it.”
She tilted her head and her eyes narrowed. “Oh? So you were not always wicked?”
“Well, actually I was. But I only managed to excel later in life. It is rather difficult, after all, to be too very wicked when in short pants.”
She lowered her stare, but not before he glimpsed the smile in her eyes. In truth, dancing with her was far better than champagne, or any number of the wicked sins that lay on his soul. He liked having her in his arms, her hand resting on his shoulder.
“Now what are you thinking, my gypsy?”
“It is just another tiresome question.”
“I am becoming inured to them. Ask.”
“I was wondering if one becomes wicked because of one fateful act that changes one’s life, or if it is more like tossing pebbles into a stream. You toss in a few and it does not seem to matter, but if you keep tossing, soon you have damned the water.”
“Damned. Yes, that sounds more like. Damned the water and a life.”
“Not your soul?”
“An unseen spirit that abides in the body? I am not certain I have one of those. Perhaps that accounts for my sinful nature.”
“Ah, but you must believe in something?”
His gloved hand tightened on hers. “Must I? Then I shall believe in the softness of your body, in the pleasure of a kiss, in what I can hold and touch and see. I can tell you that I believe that nothing lasts forever, so why not enjoy what is here before us now?”
She shook her head, as if she disapproved. “Now you talk like a gaujo who lives too much inside a house. You can feel the wind, but you cannot hold it. A soul is like that. And the earth will go on breathing her winds long after we are gone. That’s forever. And if you lay in the woods at night, you would know that spirits are everywhere with us—and you would feel yours rise up to the stars as you lay on the ground, counting their endless number.”
The music stopped and St. Albans stilled. Her voice had dropped to a husky, bewitched tone and he could almost wish to carry her off to those woods of hers so they could lay together under the stars, and he would see if he could feel what she had described.
Reality returned as another lady brushed against him, and the orchestra struck up the notes for the next dance.
St. Albans glanced to his right, to the entrance, and saw Lord Nevin, talking to Duncastle and Hammond. It seemed they had done as he had known they would and had spread word to Nevin that St. Albans would be sporting a new mistress tonight—a Gypsy.
He smiled. And so it began.
Glancing down at his enchanting Gypsy, regret feathered down his spine. His Gypsy lived in a magic world, of luck and spirits, of great love, and lost inheritances that could be found.
What a pity that was not the real world. The reality was that people died too young, and no one particularly cared when they did. Poets wrote of love, but when it came down to it, a woman would choose security instead of a dangerous passion. Greed, lust, and fear drove this world.
But he had not the heart to destroy her illusions tonight.
Life would do that soon enough.
Taking her hand, he led her to the sidelines. “Come, my Gypsy. Your quarry is here, so it is time for you to become one of these performing beauties.”
She stared to look around her, her gaze searching, but St. Albans kept her moving. “No, do not crane and stare as if you are seeking him. Remember, you do not know this man. He will notice you, and you are to look through him as if he did not exist, and then we shall fade into the crowd and leave him searching.”
She forced a stiff smile, but he saw how her face had paled a little. “I wish I knew how you know these things.”
“Why, my dear, I am the Earl of St. Albans.”
* * *
Christopher waited in the darkness. He had pulled off the white gloves that he was supposed to wear and had tugged loose the white cravat that lay too tight around his neck. Now he lifted a shoulder, uncomfortable in the tight jacket and waistcoat. These Gadje dressed for looks, not for comfort, more fools them.
He stared up at the lighted windows of the Argyle Rooms. But it was useless. He could see nothing.
He had been watching for the coach with the Nevin crest upon its doors. And he had stood in the shadows as three men had climbed out of the coach and mounted the stairs to be admitted by the porter. His knife had been in his hand, and if it had been only Francis Dawes, he would have thrown the man back in the coach and they would have had a short family reunion.
Very short.
But always the man had someone next to him. It had been like this for all the time they had tracked him. First in the country side, near the village of Nevin. And on the road to London. Servants surrounded him like lice on a rat. He was, it seemed, a man who could not stand his own company.
Well, he had reason for that.
Frustrated, Christo turned away and started around the side of the building and to the narrow mews that lay behind and which housed the stables. He could hear Nevin’s grooms talking to the other servants, their voices a deep rumble in the night. The air smelled of stables and horse, and he could see the dark coach with its crested doors as it stood on the cobblestones. Grooms threw light blankets over the steaming horses to keep off the evening’s chill.
Pausing, Christo tried to gauge who might be the friendliest of the staff. The short fellow? Or the tall one with the touch of Irish in his voice. Ah, well, he would soon find out.
He gave one last glance up at the windows, where candlelight danced. He did not like that Glynis would be so close to their uncle tonight. At the inn, their plan had not included her even glimpsing him. Now, here she was dancing past him in that too thin gown.
He frowned. If that gaujo lord ever hurt her, that one would pay with his blood. That he swore.
However, in a room of people she would be safe enough tonight—both from their uncle and that gaujo earl.
With luck, it would not be too much longer before they had the box in their hands. He said a small prayer that their father’s box would have the proof they sought.
Putting on a smile, he moved forward, ready to do what he must to make himself friendly. He had dice in his pocket, and a few coins. They would like him well enough if he lost his shillings to them. And he had hidden a bottle of St. Albans’s brandy in the Earl’s coach. That might also help him loosen some tongues.
But it was going to be hard to joke and laugh with his sister so close to a man who thought nothing of murder.
* * *
Francis Dawes stared at the woman in the red gown, frowning, absently listening to Duncastle and Hammond complain of the Select Committee that had been appointed to look into the practice of using boys as chimney sweeps.
“I ask you, what’s the world coming to? They have to use boys, for a man won’t fit, that’s what I say. And what affair is it of the government to look after every urchin on the streets.”
“Quite right. Damn disgrace. Don’t you think, Nevin?”
Rubbing his chest to ease the pressure that had gathered as it did nearly every evening, Nevin glanced at Duncastle. “Disgrace? I’ll tell you what is a disgrace—St. Albans. Look at what he’s taken up with. Looks foreign. You said she was a Gypsy?”
The last he addressed to Hammond, who lifted a hand and brushed the snuff from his dark blue evening coat. “I didn’t say. St. Albans did himself. Said it at White’s today. Said he’d found her on the road a few weeks ago.”
Uneasy and unsettled, Nevin glanced back to where he had last seen St. Albans. It could not be, he told himself. St. Albans was only attempting to amuse himself with a joke in poor taste.
Pulling out a handkerchief he dabbed the sweat from his brown. Could no one in London keep a room to a decent temperature?
The orchestra had struck up another dance and all he could see were women with gowns cut indecently low, and men grinning at them like idiots. The pressure in his chest tightened.
What if it was the same Gypsy?
It would be just like that blackguard St. Albans to take up some common thief. The man had no morals. No shame. He had run off with a duchess’s sister once, and then refused to marry the lady. And that was not the only lady he had ruined. The wine soured in Nevin’s mouth as he thought back to the Widow Casset, and a wave of queasiness passed over him.
Damn, but that loss still rankled. St. Albans had as good as paid Casset for her services—giving her money, turning her from respectability, setting her beyond the pale. And far beyond Nevin’s reach. He’d not intended marriage by her, but he also was not interested in another man’s leavings. And, in a better world, a scoundrel such as he would have been shot by a jealous husband years ago.
However, St. Albans had Lucifer’s luck, and too accurate an aim for anyone to challenge him lightly.
“Where is he now?” Nevin demanded, twisting and pulling at his watch chain. “I want to meet this Gypsy of his.”
Hammond, the tallest of the trio, stretched upward. “Isn’t that him leaving. Yes, taking his Gypsy with him. I tell you, she looks Italian to me. Said to be quite hot-blooded those Italian ladies. Wouldn’t surprise me at all if that’s what she really is. Don’t care for those foreigners myself, but you know St. Albans. There is nothing too low for his tastes.”
Lord Nevin scowled and glanced around the room, rubbing at his chest again, but now eyeing the women and determined to forget St. Albans and his jokes.
Damn, but it was too much a coincidence. Only why would they resurface now, after twenty years? No, they must be dead, or they had learned their place and now kept to it.
“Gypsies,” Nevin muttered, the word sour in his mouth and curling in his stomach like a writhing snake.
“Yes, now there’s a Select Committee to start,” Duncastle said. “Get rid of these plaguity thieving vagabonds. I say, is there anything to drink here, d’you think?”
A Much Compromised Lady Page 11