She stared at him in surprise, as if he should know her. And damnation, if he didn’t feel the same. “Apparently, it’s Lady Scarlet.”
He turned in the opposite direction, hoping to catch her off-balance. “Your real name.”
She hesitated, then dodged. “You first.”
“Pearce.”
She sized him up with a sliding glance in his direction. “Just Pearce?”
“Just Lady Scarlet?”
“Yes.” The determined sound of that told him she’d obstinately cling to her defenses even as she teased, “But my friends call me Red.”
He laughed, a warmth stirring inside him. He wasn’t making any headway in solving her mystery, but heavens, she was amusing.
“And what do your friends call you?”
“Brigadier.”
She missed a step and stumbled, but he caught her, solidly righting her again.
Her eyes darted to his. She repeated in an incredulous whisper, “Brigadier?”
He knew her. He was certain of it now. But from where?
“Brandon Pearce, current Earl of Sandhurst and former brigadier in His Majesty’s army, Coldstream Guards.” He lowered his mouth to her ear as he spun her through a tight circle and started back across the dance floor. “But most people call me Pearce.”
“Pearce.” The soft sound of his name curled heatedly along his spine. And around another more sensitive place.
His memory couldn’t place her, but his body somehow knew what he didn’t. He’d been intimate with her. He would have wagered in the book at White’s on it. But when? Where?
Beneath his concentrated stare, she nervously cleared her throat and looked away over his shoulder. “Do you often go around rescuing women?”
“Constantly,” he drawled dryly. “Do you often need to be rescued?”
“Never.”
He arched a disbelieving brow.
“I would have handled Lord Derby just fine on my own.”
His brow inched higher.
“I’m handling you just fine, aren’t I?” Her green eyes gleamed mischievously, sparking a yearning desire in his gut. “And you’re a brigadier.”
He grinned at her cheekiness. They weren’t dancing. They were dueling. And he was enjoying it immensely. She was the kind of woman who could easily keep a man on his toes, or leave him lying in the dust without a second thought if he couldn’t keep pace.
“I’m not like the other men here tonight.” He hid the gentle warning of that behind a tease of arrogance.
She smiled, just as he’d hoped. “So I’ve gathered.”
He changed direction in their waltz. And in their conversation. “And you’re not like the other women.”
She tensed in his arms, her smile tightening. But this time she didn’t miss a single beat and continued to match his steps, her eyes never leaving his.
“So why are you here tonight, Lady Scarlet, when you so obviously don’t belong?”
“Why are you?” she countered, sending back the next shot in their volley. But the husky tone of her answer told him that he’d rattled her.
“So I could rescue you.” He had no intention of answering that honestly. “Why are you here?”
“Apparently, to be rescued.”
He smiled grimly. Their waltz was coming to an end, and so was his opportunity to learn the truth about her. “You’re not a light-skirt looking to make rent, and you’re not a courtesan searching for a protector.” His eyes searched what little of her face he could see beneath the mask, looking for answers. “You’re also not some jaded society widow looking for an evening’s entertainment.”
“I might be.” The trembling in her voice undercut whatever assurance she’d aimed for. “You don’t know.”
“But I do.”
To make his point, he stepped forward and brought the front of his body in full contact with hers.
She stiffened immediately with a surprised gasp, her hand at his shoulder flattening against the kerseymere of his jacket as if catching herself before she pushed him away. Or before she cracked him over the skull as she’d done to Derby. No courtesan or light-skirt would have done that. Just more proof of how far out of her element she was.
His point made, he shifted away to a respectable distance. Regrettably. The part of him that remembered her desperately wanted to rekindle old acquaintances.
“So why are you here?” He frowned as the last notes of the waltz floated away. “If you’re in some kind of trouble, I can help.” When she hesitated to reply, he added, “And I won’t even ask your real name.”
She paused a moment before muttering, “You do rescue women, don’t you?”
“A man needs a hobby,” he replied, deadpan.
When her shoulders eased down and she bit her bottom lip, he knew he’d won her over, if grudgingly. “If you truly want to help…” As the orchestra fell silent, she stopped dancing and searched for any sign that she could trust him. Either convinced of his trustworthiness—or simply desperate—she said, “I’m looking for Sir Charles Varnham.”
His eyes narrowed on her. “Why?”
“Business.”
And none of yours. The unspoken words lingered on the air.
She dropped into a curtsy, which seemed as out of place at Torrington’s masquerade as the formal waltz had been only moments before, and the curious stares she drew confirmed it. “I need to talk to him. Alone.” She held his hand lightly in her fingers, but urgency pulsed in her touch. “Have you seen him?”
The dance had ended. He’d saved her from Derby and any other man who wanted to prey on her tonight. She was no longer his concern.
Yet he couldn’t stop himself from attempting to rescue her again. What could she want with Varnham? If rumors were to be believed, Sir Charles was here only to keep watch on his younger brother, Arthur.
“Please, Pearce.”
The familiarity of that soft plea pierced him. Damn the world that he couldn’t place the distant memory it stirred in the dark corners of his mind, couldn’t put that voice into a context that would tell him who she was.
He also couldn’t refuse. Reluctantly, he told her, “Varnham was lingering in the stair hall a few minutes ago. He might still be there.”
“Thank you.” Her eyes shone with gratitude. “It was a pleasure seeing you, Brigadier.”
He suspected she’d wanted to say something more but thought better of it. Instead she slid her hand from his sleeve.
He reached for her arm, stopping her. “Who the devil are you? Your real name.”
“You said you wouldn’t ask if—”
“How do we know each other?” Her eyes flashed from behind the mask in an eruption of alarm and suspicion, yet he pressed. “Tell me.”
“I–I can’t… We don’t—” Unable to hide the immediate quickening of her breath and the pounding pulse at her wrist beneath his fingers, she forced out instead, “I have to go.”
Unexpected jealousy swirled up his spine. “Whatever you’re planning with Varnham, it isn’t a good idea. Going off alone with any man in a place like this—”
“Thank you,” she repeated and persisted in pulling away, yet something about her reminded him of a rabbit caught in a snare. “But as I said, I don’t need to be rescued.”
She turned to leave.
Oh no. She wasn’t getting away that easily. Pearce started after her—
“Sandhurst!” His name carried in a loud shout across the room. “Lord Sandhurst—Brandon Pearce!”
He ignored the calls and chased after her. Just as he was about to reach for her elbow to stop her, a man stepped into his path and blocked his way.
He slid to a halt to keep from slamming into the nodcock.
The woman glanced back at him as she fled. When she saw the man standing in front of hi
m, she stumbled. Her hand went to her face, to check that the mask was still in place, still hiding her identity. But she never slowed in her flight.
Pearce tried to follow, but the man grabbed his hand to shake it, stopping him before he could take another step to pursue her.
“Frederick Howard.” The man pumped his hand hard in that irritating American fashion that had become popular in certain circles in London. “We’ve met before.”
Vague recollection flashed at the back of Pearce’s mind, but he was too preoccupied by the woman in red to immediately recognize the name. “Not now,” he growled and began to move around Howard, only for the man to step in front of him again.
“I was hoping for a word with you tonight.” The man forced a too-bright laugh. “How fortunate that I found you.”
Biting back a curse, Pearce leaned to the side to look past him—
The woman was gone. She’d vanished into the dimly lit town-house as mysteriously as she’d appeared. He’d lost her.
Damnation. He rolled his eyes. Tonight was proving to be frustrating in all kinds of ways.
Blowing out an irritated breath, he slid his narrowed gaze at the dandy in front of him, who didn’t seem to realize—or care—that he’d just interrupted something important. Although what it was, exactly, Pearce couldn’t have said, except that he’d wanted it to continue. He’d barely scratched the surface of Lady Scarlet’s mystery, her identity still unknown.
But she was gone, and all chances of learning more right along with her.
“Howard, you said?” Pearce ground out. After all, it was only polite to learn the name of the man he was about to pulp.
“Yes. Frederick Howard.” Irritation pinched his face that Pearce didn’t recognize him. “Our families knew each other years ago. In Birmingham.”
Unlikely. Pearce’s parents died long before he was shipped off to his innkeeper uncle in Birmingham, and this man didn’t seem the sort that frequented inn yards.
“You recently inherited the Sandhurst estates, and we now have neighboring properties.” As if realizing he was stirring up more acrimony than memories, the dandy changed tack. To bluntness. “I want to discuss a joint business venture.”
“Business?” Pearce repeated, unwilling to believe that he’d been stopped for something so unimportant.
“Exactly.” The man smiled tightly. “The best kind, too—capital development!”
“No such thing as the best kind of business.” He peered past the man, still hoping to catch a glimpse of red satin. No luck. “All business is—”
“Turnpike.”
That caught Pearce’s attention, if only for its unexpectedness. He blinked. “Pardon?”
“I intend to put through a new turnpike, and you’re the perfect man to help me realize it.”
Oh, he sincerely doubted that.
“A turnpike has the potential to leverage all kinds of possibilities for property that is otherwise worthless. Imagine the funds that…” Beneath Pearce’s stone-cold stare, Howard’s voice trailed off. Realizing that he was losing the battle, he cleared his throat. “If I could set up a time to call on you—”
“Fine.” Pearce dismissed the man with a wave of his hand. He couldn’t care less. He had more important concerns at that moment. The woman had been after Varnham, and Varnham was in the stair hall. Maybe he could still catch her there. Pearce stepped around the man before he could stop him again and strode toward the front of the house.
He hurried through rooms that were all piled into each other like Russian nesting dolls. She should have been easy to spot in that dress, but a sea of jewels and satin filled the rooms—
A flash of red slipped through the front door and out into the night.
“Scarlet!” He chased after her.
Pushing his way through the crush, he stumbled through the handful of men gathered at the front door and out onto the footpath. He stopped to glance down the rain-drizzled street. His breath clouded on the cold night air, and his heart pounded as loudly as the rumbling of horse’s hooves over the stones. He had to find her—
There. Her dress showed a muted blood-orange in the yellow lamplight as she hurried across the wide street toward a waiting carriage.
He started after her.
Without warning, a phaeton turned onto the street at breakneck speed, so fast that it lifted off its rear right wheel, careening nearly uncontrollably behind its racing team. The rig hit a rise in the pavement and jumped into the air, sending the team darting to the left—right toward the woman, who froze in fear.
“Look out!” Pearce shouted and sprinted across the street.
He grabbed her around the waist and hurled her forward with him. The wheel of the phaeton spun past so close that it shaved against his calf.
Momentum propelled them forward. Just before they crashed into the building on the other side of the street, Pearce turned so that his shoulder slammed into the stone wall instead of her soft body, so that his arms protected her from the blow.
The jolt came so hard that it ripped the air from his lungs. Yet he held onto her, even though his grasp had loosened, even though she’d fallen against him, momentarily stunned and breathless. Her hair had escaped its ribbon and now spilled freely around her shoulders. The mask slipped, revealing her face.
Recognition slammed into him as hard as the stone wall.
“Amelia?” he whispered hoarsely. Good God…he was staring at a dream.
She pushed herself out of his arms and ran.
Two
“Hill Street, Berkeley Square,” Amelia Howard called out frantically to the jarvey of the waiting hackney. She allowed herself only a fleeting glance over her shoulder to make certain that Pearce hadn’t followed her before ducking into the carriage. “Hurry!”
She closed the door. As the carriage jerked into motion, she rested her head back against the cracked leather squabs and shut her eyes.
Of all the men to run into this evening, and dressed like this, no less—what a nightmare! Even now, her heart pounded a fierce tattoo because he’d seen her face, because he remembered her…
But then, why wouldn’t he? After all, she’d never forgotten him.
“What happened?” Her maid’s concerned voice reached out to her in the darkness. “What’s wrong?”
Unable just yet to squelch the shock of seeing Pearce again and open her eyes, Amelia simply shook her head.
“Oh, I knew coming here was a bad idea!”
Her maid, Maggie, who was almost ten years older than Amelia, had refused to let her venture out alone tonight and insisted on waiting in the carriage. Now guilt prickled in Amelia’s belly that she’d upset the woman.
“Nothing’s wrong,” Amelia assured her, finally finding her voice. Except that I saw a ghost…
“You spoke to him, then?”
She meant Sir Charles Varnham. Amelia’s purpose for going to tonight’s masquerade. “No.”
Her shoulders sagged at her dashed plans. She’d borrowed the red dress and mask so she could speak to Charles Varnham without any servants or society gossips—and especially her brother—knowing. After all, there was no proper way for an unmarried lady to talk privately to a bachelor gentleman of Sir Charles’s rank and the leading member of the House of Commons’s Committee of Privileges, no less. No way to send him a message without risking that servants or his secretary would read it. And no way to keep Frederick from finding out. So when Freddie had mentioned that Sir Charles would be at the masquerade, Amelia had seized the night as the only opportunity she would have to approach him.
But it had turned into a complete disaster.
“I couldn’t find him in the crush,” she admitted in defeat.
Her maid unleashed a string of curses beneath her breath. “Then we’re back to where we began.”
“Yes.” With no more
information than the little she already knew. That her brother, the Honorable Frederick Howard, Member of Parliament for Minehead, was being blackmailed.
By whom, over what, why—she had no idea. All she had was a note of extortion that mentioned Sir Charles Varnham’s name and a brother she couldn’t confront about it, who was behaving even more erratically than usual. More suspiciously. More…desperately.
She’d discovered it all by accident. A crumpled note had been forgotten in the pocket of her brother’s jacket, one he’d been so foxed while wearing that he’d gotten sick on himself—or one of his cronies had—leaving the garment too soiled ever to be worn again. Maggie had given it a last once-over before tossing it onto the pile for the rag-and-bone man, found the note, given it to Amelia…
She had no idea what her brother had done—the unsigned note wasn’t specific. But if he didn’t continue to cooperate, then he would be exposed… You can be assured that I will reveal everything you have done, and the consequences will be far worse for you than if Charles Varnham learns of your illegal activities. Please do not force me to destroy you…
If Freddie’s recent behavior was any indication, the threat was very real.
She pressed her hand to her belly. Just thinking about it made her sick! But she hadn’t dared speak to Freddie yet. What good would it have done? She loved her brother and knew him well, which meant she knew his character. Moral fortitude, unfortunately, wasn’t part of it. If she confronted him, he’d simply deny everything, accuse her of meddling where she didn’t belong, or outright lie, just as he had to his prefects at school whenever he’d been caught breaking the rules and to Papa whenever he’d done far more than that. Worse, because if he suspected that she was stirring up trouble—or if he had done something illegal that he didn’t want her to discover—he had the power to close down her charity shop.
She could never let that happen. The war widows who worked there depended upon her for their livelihood, and she depended upon them for giving her a reason to rise from bed every morning. Her throat tightened. What would she have left to live for if she lost her charity?
Eventually, she would have to confront Frederick, she knew. But not yet. Not until she had more facts, at least enough to force him into telling the truth. Even if it meant having to dress like a courtesan to hold anonymous conversations about blackmail in order to get them.
An Unexpected Earl Page 2