Lord Lightning

by Jenny Brown

  Violet turned back to face her, her rosy lips curled in disdain. “What a fraud you are. For a moment you had me thinking you could tell the future. But you must have learned what you knew about me from someone you bribed. Too bad you forgot to question them about my protector.” Rage had turned her even features ugly. “I am glad I hid Lord Hartwood’s identity from you. Had I not done so, scandal alone would have told you all you needed to sketch out his character.”

  “But what I described to you must be his character,” Eliza protested. “At least it must be if the time and place of birth you gave me were correct. But if they were correct, I don’t care what scandal says about him. Lord Hartwood must be exactly the man I described to you.”

  “Then you are a charlatan. All the world knows Hartwood’s character. And all the world knows of his heartlessness, too.”

  “Then perhaps all the world is wrong,” Eliza snapped. But even as she heard herself speak those words, she wondered how she could have been so mistaken. She picked up Lord Hartwood’s horoscope again and peered at it, muttering under her breath as she scanned the symbols she had so carefully drawn the previous evening. What had she missed?

  It was true the new planet, Uranus, stood at the top of his chart. Any planet in that position described the reputation the native would earn in the world. But with Uranus, who could say what it meant? It was so unfair to have new planets to deal with—planets about which the ancients knew nothing. Sir William had done the world no favor by discovering this one.

  But she’d ignored Uranus in making her interpretation. Perhaps that was her mistake, as any planet placed at the top of a chart must be important. She recalled now how her aunt, who had maintained a correspondence with many of England’s most distinguished astrologers, had speculated toward the end of her life that the new planet might indicate explosions, eccentricities, and sudden, unexpected events. If that was true it might explain the personality Lord Lightning showed to the world. Then she remembered something else: she had assumed the conjunction of His Lordship’s Mars and Moon described an accident like her mother’s. But her own Mars-Moon conjunction stood in the House of Travel where it might well describe a coaching accident. Lord Hartwood’s afflicted planets were set in a different house: the troublesome Eighth House which governed Sexual Relations. Placed there it might indeed describe a man who directed his anger at women or even a sexual pervert. Eager to confirm that this had been her mistake, she looked up at the glowering actress and demanded, “Has Lord Hartwood hurt you?”

  Violet shook her head no.

  “Are his tastes in love abnormal?”

  “Far from it.”

  “Why then do you disparage him?”

  Violet looked uncomfortable. “He’s a very cold man, not a warm one as you described him. He says cruel things. And from the start of our connection, he has shown so little interest in pursuing the delights of love that I’ve wondered if he keeps another woman.”

  “He doesn’t force himself on you against your will?”

  “Far from it. Indeed, I wish he would force himself upon me more. I would feel more confident of retaining his affections if he would give in to the normal passions of a male. But he doesn’t. He shows no passion at all, but just toys with me. It’s quite unsettling.”

  “Then it is just as I thought,” Eliza announced triumphantly. “You have listened to too much idle gossip. The lustful libertine your friends describe is not Lord Hartwood. He is more complex. His need for love is there. Perhaps you cannot see it, but it is most definite and strong, though I do wish someone who knew him better could shed more light on his true character.”

  “Perhaps I can,” drawled a deep male voice. “I wager I know Lord Hartwood’s character far better than any of you, having known him intimately these past thirty-two years.”

  The women packing the small dressing room sprang back to open a path for the pale-haired man garbed in elegant evening dress who stood at the doorway, so tall the crown of his lofty beaver top hat almost brushed the lintel. He balanced a large jeweled dagger lightly in his right hand and flourished it before making a stabbing motion in the air. Then he took a single step forward and, with a powerful flick of his hand, sent the knife sailing into the corner, where a harsh squeak revealed it had glanced off its target, a large gray rat. The women shrieked as the animal scampered away. Eliza managed to maintain the outward appearance of composure—glad that her aunt had taught her to suppress all sign of feminine weakness—but she was no less perturbed. Even Uranus at Lord Hartwood’s midheaven had not prepared her for this!

  “I don’t like vermin,” he said coldly. He strode to the corner and picked up the knife, running a finger along the side of the blade as if cleaning it. Then he stalked back toward Violet. The jewels on the dagger’s hilt sparkled more brightly with his advance. As the actress cowered back against the wall, Lord Hartwood closed in and brought the dagger up slowly toward her chest until it touched the top of one rounded breast projecting from her low-cut bodice, just above her heart. Then, before she had time to react, he grasped the blade with a swift motion of his other hand, twisted the blade, and snapped it in half.

  “You were so frightened, my darling Violet,” he said in a soft mocking tone. “But there’s no need for fear. It was only a papier-mâché knife that I found in the prop room. I took a fancy to it, imagining myself for a moment in the role of Hamlet. But you needn’t fear me. The knife was as harmless as I am. It couldn’t have hurt you any more than your insults could have hurt me.”

  Violet rounded on Eliza, her face flaming. “Now see where your foolishness has led us! Here’s Lord Hartwood himself, and now, I wager, you shall have a taste of that bad temper you were so sure he didn’t have.”

  Eliza bit her lower lip, determined to show no hint of the dismay she felt. The golden guineas she had been so close to earning had been swept away in the storm that had blown up between the actress and her protector—the golden guineas that were all that stood between Eliza and ruin.

  Violet, meanwhile, had recovered herself as best she could. Turning back to her protector, who still loomed over her, she said, “This is only some foolish girl who’s come to read the players’ fortunes, Your Lordship. She’s an imposter and knows nothing about the stars. Please don’t take offense at her foolish ramblings.”

  “On the contrary,” Lord Hartwood protested with a cold smile that did not reach his dark brown eyes. “Your seeress is a deep well of wisdom. I have been standing outside your doorway these past five minutes and am much diverted by the character she’s given me. ‘Loyal and loving. A man who must have love to live.’ How refreshingly different.” He paused, and his eyes hardened. “But you made it clear you don’t share her good opinion of me.”

  Violet blanched, and Eliza wondered what else Lord Hartwood had heard, his mistress’s words disparaging his sexual performance? Clearly Violet thought so. After shooting a furious look at Eliza, she took a deep breath, faced Hartwood, and said, “I shall not mislead you, Your Lordship. My regard for you has changed. Though I appreciate all you have done for me, I cannot accompany you to Brighton. If I did, I would have to give up the leading role in the theater’s new play. I don’t believe that your feelings for me are strong enough to justify such a sacrifice.”

  Hartwood gestured toward Eliza. “Was it for help in deciding this matter that you took counsel with the little fortune-teller?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you’ve taken her advice, though you’ve just assured me she’s a deluded fool?”

  “It had nothing to do with her.”

  “Then what does it have to do with?” He paused, his dark eyes glittering. “Were the jewels I bought you not to your taste? Was the house I purchased too small? Or was it my lack of interest in your skills between the sheets that disgusted you? Come, tell me. I would like to know.” As he spoke the last phrase, he began to walk toward Violet, pushing her back with each step.

  He was a much better actor than
Violet. The chart had not lied there. He was the classic Leo, part actor, part spoiled child. He used his whole body when he spoke, his long, strong hands expressing the tension he kept out of his voice. Everything about him demanded he be noticed, even the things he had no control over like the startling contrast between his pale blond hair and gleaming mahogany eyes.

  He drew even closer to Violet. “Is my only reward for the kindness I have shown you to be that you abandon me? And that you do so now, when I depend on you to help me claim my inheritance?”

  Backed almost to the wall, Violet stood her ground, shaking her head decisively. “I’ve chosen to act the lead role in Saturday’s performance. I was only offered the part because Helena took ill so suddenly. It could make me the first actress in London. It would be the making of me—”

  Hartwood cut her off coldly. “I have been the making of you, Violet. Did you really think the director selected you to fill that role because of your talent? You read your lines tolerably, but so do many other girls. No, it was the hope he might draw on my deep purse to pay off the theater’s debts that motivated him to choose you.” Lord Hartwood rubbed his forefinger over a large glass jewel embedded in the broken hilt of the stage dagger. “How quickly you’ve forgot where you came from and what I’ve done for you. But it is only as I expected; I’ve never found women to be capable of loyalty.”

  He tilted his strong chin upward, clearly aware of the many female eyes following his every move. “What you choose to do is of no importance to me,” he said, shrugging his exquisitely tailored shoulders. “As you’ve guessed, I have grown weary of you. You’ll be most easy to replace.”

  With that, he bowed ever so slightly, still staring at the mortified Violet. Then he slowly removed an enameled golden snuffbox from his pocket, withdrew a pinch of snuff, sniffed and savored it, and with a dry ironic laugh said, “And they say that I am fickle.”

  Chapter 2

  Edward Neville stood outside in the alley where he’d retreated after making his perfect exit. Though he had carried it off well, considering the circumstances, he needed a moment to collect himself and master the rage welling up within him. He breathed deeply and smashed one fist into his gloved palm, feeling the heavy signet dig into the flesh. He’d made a fool of himself. Again. He’d treated Violet as if she were something more than a trollop with little to recommend her beyond a well-formed pair of legs and a willingness to display them. And even more foolishly, he had hoped to get something in return for his many kindnesses—to be exact, two weeks’ worth of loyalty. It was so little, but she had refused him even that much.

  The old familiar pain rose within him, and again he slammed his fist into his hand. Women were incapable of loyalty. He might just as well have expected some mare he’d bought at Tattersalls to recite Hamlet’s soliloquy.

  But even so, Violet would have come with him had it not been for the interference of the self-appointed seeress. It was she who’d talked Violet into walking out on him just when he needed her most. It infuriated him. He’d so looked forward to bringing the superbly vulgar Violet with him when he went to Brighton to fulfill the terms of his brother’s will. Though he would still find pleasure in having his mother totally at his mercy after all these years, without Violet at his side it wouldn’t be the same. To pull the thing off properly he must find a replacement for her. But he could think of no one.

  The Season was in full swing, and though none of the ladies who would acknowledge his acquaintance were part of the ton, the demimonde, too, had its balls and routs, its visits to the theater and its nights in the gambling hells. Even if he’d known someone suitable, it was unlikely he would be able to pry such a ladybird from the delights of London without offering her carte blanche. And that, his adventure with Violet had just brought home to him, was too high a price to pay.

  Just then he heard footsteps behind him and the swish of a woman’s gown against the pavement. He felt a surge of relief. Violet must have tallied up all she had got from him and decided not to throw it away. He unclenched his fist, grateful that after her absurd display of independence Violet had finally seen reason.

  But the woman who stood huddled in the alley was not Violet. It was the little fortune-teller, clutching a lumpy satchel and dabbing at her eyes.

  How like a woman to willfully destroy his plans and then act as if she were the one to be pitied! But her display should not surprise him. Women were always in tears, those damnable tears that let them get away with everything.

  A sudden thought occurred to him: Why should she get away with anything? He needed a woman for his scheme. Why not abduct the little seeress and force her to play his whore? His closed carriage stood only a few feet away, the coachman at the ready; it would be only a matter of a few moments to overpower the chit. Once in the carriage, her ruin could be completed, and then what choice would she have but to come along with him?

  But as quickly as he imagined the scheme, he saw that it was flawed. Whatever the world might think of him, he had no taste for rape. And, besides, he needed a willing helper.

  Still, the woman deserved to pay for her damnable interference. There had been something so consoling about the idea of her abduction. He rather hated to give it up. It wasn’t right that the little fortune-teller should get off scot-free. Could he not indulge in just a tiny bit of abduction? Just enough to frighten her out of her wits and ensure she would never again pull a trick like one she’d just played on him?

  Lord Lightning chuckled. A plan was beginning to form in his mind, and there was nothing he liked better than a plan. His black mood began to lift. There were times when it was a definite advantage to have no morals.

  After dawdling indecisively for some time in an inconspicuous alcove near the theater doorway, Eliza, who still had her morals but very little else, reminded herself that there was no point in blubbering. Aunt Celestina would have been disgusted with her. It was time to buck up and go on, to prove herself worthy of her forebears. But bracing thoughts like these, so comforting only days before, now fell flat. How could she go on, when she had no place left to go?

  She pulled open her tiny netted reticule. As she had expected, all she found within it was four pence ha’penny. By now the bailiff must have taken her father off to debtor’s prison, after seizing the few possessions her beloved aunt had left her that her father had not already gambled away. What a fool she’d been to welcome her father’s unexpected reappearance after her aunt’s death and to let him take her with him to London. He’d not been attracted by love for his long abandoned daughter, but by the small hoard Aunt Celestina had so carefully saved for Eliza’s future. At nine-and-twenty she should have known better than to greet him like the small girl who had so missed her vanished papa. Her aunt had warned her about trusting him, just as she had warned her against so much else that might cause her to repeat her mother’s errors. But it was too late for regrets. She dabbed at her face to get rid of her shameful tears and squared her shoulders.

  But just as she stepped out onto the pavement, she felt a strong, gloved hand come from behind her and grasp her by the arm. It pulled her toward the large closed carriage emblazoned with a crest that waited some dozen yards down the alley. She struggled to free herself and was about to cry out for assistance when a cultivated voice growled into her ear, “Do not attempt to resist me, my pretty one. If you do as I bid, I will not harm you.”

  She recognized the voice—and she recognized the sense of drama. It was Lord Hartwood.

  As he drew her toward the carriage, a liveried postillion opened the door smoothly, allowing her captor to shove her inside. Then the elegant lord clambered in, taking a seat at the far end of the deeply upholstered bench as the coach door shut with a well-oiled click. He signaled to the coachman with a single rap on the compartment’s roof and the carriage began to move.

  She was being abducted! She knew she should be alarmed. But as she breathed in the aroma of well-oiled leather and the subtler scent of the varnished bu
rled maple paneling that surrounded her, it was not alarm she felt, but relief. For a few moments longer she could postpone facing the fact that she had nowhere to live, no one to turn to, and four pence ha’penny with which to plan her future. It was even possible that despite his cynical pose, Lord Hartwood had been so impressed by her earlier reading of his character that he wished to know more. Had she found a patron after all—one capable of showering her with the golden guineas needed to stave off disaster?

  But one look at her abductor dispelled that notion. A sneer darkened his eyes and narrowed the sensuous lips that in other circumstances might have been described as inviting. His eyes drilled into hers, and suddenly she knew why they called him Lord Lightning. His eyes raked up and down her slender figure, lingering on the bodice of her dress as if with his gaze alone he could divest her of that garment. Eliza shrank away from him, sliding toward the other end of the bench, and raised one hand protectively in front of her chest.

  “Lord Hartwood—” she began, but he cut her words short.

  “Did your fortune-telling tricks not warn you to beware of a man with fair hair? Were you not cautioned to make no short journeys? Or do you read the stars only for those you attempt to bilk?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You will address me as ‘Your Lordship,’” he admonished her. “And you will remember at all times the respect owed to my rank. What’s your name, young woman?”

  “Miss Farrell, Your Lordship.”

  “Well then, Miss Farrell, you’ve greatly displeased me with your damnable interference in my life. Now that you are completely in my power, I’ll make sure you don’t play such tricks again. Would you like to consult the stars to find out what I have planned for you? Will your almanac teach you how to escape me?”

  His vehemence caused his snuffbox to slip from his pocket and roll onto the floor, but he did not stop to pick it up. “But of course, you wouldn’t consult the stars to learn your own fate,” he taunted. “You’re a fraud, some scullery maid looking for easy money—no, you speak too well to be a scullery maid—a lady’s maid perhaps. But whoever you are, I’ve had enough of your meddling.”