by Laura Parker
A woman’s scream fractured the moment like a brick striking a panel of glass. Even as the shards sliced through the spell of sensual awareness, Sabrina rose to her feet, half-aware of an alarm she could not name. She found the cause when she turned and saw that the group of players at the far table was focused on one of their own, who lay sprawled on the carpet beside her chair.
“Lady Charlotte!”
There were advantages to being a man, Sabrina mused not for the first time as she balanced Lotte’s sleeping head upon her shoulder to cushion her from the worst jolts of the carriage ride. The dear lady had fallen asleep the instant the carriage pulled away from the entrance to Sir Avery’s home. Their fortunate escape from prying eyes and rumor-mongering whispers had been made possible by an unexpected savior. Lord Darlington would not have been her candidate for role of Good Samaritan, yet he had been impressive in the role.
She had rushed to Lotte’s side without a thought for anything but to reach her. The poor countess looked like a rag doll sprawled on the carpet in her finery, her head cocked at an awkward angle and her gown wrenched out of line so that one of her generous breasts had spilled free of her neckline, revealing its ruby nipple.
Sabrina had torn her scarf from her shoulders and laid it discreetly over her when it seemed the rest of the company was too aghast or titillated to come to Lotte’s aid.
Only Lord Darlington had acted with a cool-headed swift efficiency that left no doubt among the gawkers that he had taken the matter in hand. In quick succession, he had ordered spirits of camphor to revive her, lifted Sabrina out of his way, and then bent a knee beside Lady Charlotte, lifted her still senseless, and braced her against his chest.
When the spirits were waved under her nose and she came round, he asked in a quiet authoritarian voice if she were in pain, feeling ill, or any other kind of distress.
Lotte fluttered her lashes then opened eyes that seemed to have grown too large for her delicately featured face. She stared uncomprehending at the viscount for a moment, and then blushed deeply when she realized who bent so closely over her. “My lord, what is this?”
“Not what you imagine or I should desire, Countess.”
He smiled at Lotte, exhibiting a protective tenderness Sabrina suspected few women had ever received from him. Her gaze went from him to Lotte and a deep shock of awareness and alarm swept her. How fondly the countess gazed up at the viscount. How solicitous he was as he lifted her carefully and easily from the floor. He held her high in his arms, balanced against his chest for what seemed a frisson-charged eternity before turning to deposit her back into her chair.
It took no imagination to decipher the whispers among the witnesses who had crowded around this tender scene. The murmur on every tongue matched her own suspicions. They must be lovers or would-be lovers betrayed by this simple incident.
The suspicion nibbled at Sabrina’s peace again now as she regarded the viscount who sat opposite her in the countess’s carriage, silent, still, and as much at ease as a buccaneer who had captured his prize.
In the feeble light cast by the coach lamp she could see that he was deep in thought. His mouth was a tight, straight line, his golden brows bunched tensely atop his nose. The deep-set eyes were hooded more than usual and the dull gleam of his natural hair gave him the aura of being an altogether different being than the ordinary people who inhabited the town. The conviction grew within her that he was a very dangerous and a very bad man.
Unlike other unfeeling noblemen who used their elevated status to exploit and discard the weak and inferior, Lord Darlington acknowledged no hierarchy in his world save himself. He was the plunderer, every other creature potential quarry.
The Beau Monde recognized it as well. That fact had been borne out when he had tersely called for Lady Charlotte’s carriage. Despite the sputtering protest of their hosts, who belatedly offered the countess a room for the night, he had not even bothered to repeat himself. He had assumed, as was the case, that Sir Avery’s servants would do his bidding over their master’s. When he was satisfied that Lady Charlotte could stand, he had helped her to her feet and escorted her to the door with an arm wrapped with intimate familiarity about her waist. The most brazen of the curious had followed them to the threshold and so knew what everyone who cared to soon would, that the viscount had accompanied the countess home in her carriage.
A chill that had nothing to do with the brisk autumn night sped through Sabrina. He wanted Lotte. Poor foolish, lovely Lotte. She needed protecting against herself.
Feeling far less cool and composed than she appeared, Sabrina hugged the exhausted woman in her arms a little tighter. He would find no welcome in Lotte’s home this night. Let him try to take advantage of her, she thought with a natural antagonism against all tyrants. Just let him try!
“You should take better care of your lady.”
The accusation voiced suddenly in the silence disconcerted Sabrina. Though she had been thinking along amazingly similar lines it rankled that he should accuse her of disinterest in the countess’s welfare.
“Lady Charlotte is not in my care. We are friends.”
She saw him glance out of the window as though something had caught his eye. “She brings you into her household and treats you, a commoner, as an equal.” His gaze returned to her but it was insultingly unfriendly. “These things are unprecedented in most aristocratic households. Do you not think that obliges you to her in some manner?”
His words were like the flicks of a whip’s tip against her conscience. “I assure you—”
“Don’t assure me.” His leg stirred and his knee came into accidental contact with her skirts. In that instant a charge like static jumped between them. She recoiled instinctively from the touch but he seemed not to notice.
His voice was sharp with reprimand. “Lady Charlotte is a tenderhearted creature, often showing kindness to those whom she should offer reticence. Do not abuse her kindness. Care for her as you would one you held genuine affection for.”
Shocked out of consideration for her inferior position Sabrina erupted. “ ’Tis you who abuse Lady Charlotte’s goodness! Do you think I did not see, do not know? You would prey upon her weaknesses when she is most vulnerable.”
He did not react as she expected. The tension in him inexplicably eased. “What weakness would that be?”
“You must know that she and her husband have separated in rancor.”
“Alas, no.” His gaze shifted again to the all but nonexistent view beyond the carriage window. “I do not give a damn for rumors of domestic acrimony.”
“I suppose not, as you are to blame.”
His head whipped around. “What did you say?”
If looks could do violence she would have been in great jeopardy, Sabrina supposed. Only a drunkard like the bully at the Thames alehouse would have failed to realize the power behind his intimidating stare of storm gray.
She swallowed, trying to keep her voice to an angry whisper that would not awaken the countess. “Do not mistake me for a brainless chit, my lord! I know you have seduced Lady Charlotte away from her husband.”
His gaze did not flicker. “You are wrong.”
“Am I? Did I not see with my own eyes tonight how adoringly she looked up at you when in a weak moment she forgot you were not alone?”
His lips twisted in scorn. “What you saw is no one’s business.”
“I rather think Lord Lovelace would disagree,” she rejoined.
He moved so quickly that she had no time to gauge his intent before he gripped her knee, the fingers curling about it until they exerted a painful pressure despite the layers of gown and petticoats. “I warn you this once, Miss Lyndsey. Do not meddle where it does not concern you. I will have no mercy if you attempt to oppose me.”
She was not certain if he then leaned forward or if his stature in her eyes seemed to grow in proportion to his threat. All at once she was aware of every line and angle of his
ruthless expression, of silver eyes glowing catlike in the dim light. Her shudder of fear caused the countess to stir slightly.
She did not like to be afraid. It made her angry. And that made her brave. “Well then,” she rallied at her most haughty, “I think I have my answer.”
“You have!” He bit off the last of his retort as he released her and leaned back.
For the duration of the ride, Sabrina gazed unseeingly out of the window. She felt raw, quivering, and wholly unsettled by the presence of the viscount. Were there other men who so convincingly conveyed the potency of intended violence without raising their voices? She had never met one. Compared to the viscount’s icy rage, Cousin Robert’s bombastic threats seemed little more harmful than the blustering gusts of the spring rain.
She did not mean to laugh. It simply escaped.
Though she kept her face averted she felt his gaze upon her, hard and smooth and cold as the touch of frosted glass. But that is not what suddenly sobered her. While she did not fear Cousin Robert, there was one who had cause to fear greatly.
“Kit,” she whispered so softly that it could not quite be heard.
The viscount was through the door the instant the carriage stopped rolling. He handed Sabrina down by grasping her about the waist and setting her on the walk. It was an impartial touch he might have used to convey a child to safety, but Sabrina felt the heat of his hands wrapped strongly about her and then the abrupt return of a chill when he released her.
Not waiting to be told what to do, she hurried up the steps and rapped sharply on the door. It seemed an eternity before she heard footsteps in the hall on the other side. By then the viscount, who once again held the nodding countess in his arms, was cursing softly but so virulently that Sabrina found herself both impressed and in wonderment at what several of the words meant.
The servant who came in answer to her knock was dressed in bedclothes and nightcap. Uncertain of the identity of the late-night guests, he opened the door only a few inches. “Yes?” he inquired in a sleepy voice.
“Make way for your mistress!” Darlington ordered loudly and kicked the door wider with his foot as he entered.
Sabrina swept in behind him, equally opinionated about what should happen next.
“The countess is feeling unwell,” she informed the servant. “Wake her maid at once. Be certain she brings with her a small glass of milk laced with brandy and a hot water bottle. What are you doing?” she demanded of the gentleman who had continued on ahead of her.
Darlington turned and looked down at her from the second step of the sweep of stairs that led to the first floor. “Taking the countess to her room.”
“You cannot do that.”
“No?” In another older age, his imperviously lifted brow would have been enough to send some poor wretch to his demise, she did not doubt. “Then who will? You? This elderly stick of a servant?” Not waiting for whatever feeble protest he suspected she would feel obliged to make, he turned and continued to climb.
“Does he know where to take her ladyship?” the servant asked in concern.
“Certainly not!” Yet curious to learn the truth for herself, Sabrina followed quickly after him.
Moments after the small entourage had disappeared at the top of the stairs a rap at the door caused the servant to open it again.
“Evenin’ to ye.” The man on the doorstep, dressed in a heavy shapeless coat, doffed his knit cap. “Bein’ as I saw the gentleman carrying the lady inside, I was wonderin’ if ye be in need of a physician? Five bob will fetch him.”
“That won’t be required,” the servant answered coldly.
“That so? My mistake. Only that gentleman, that wasn’t his lordship now was it? Done a spot ’o work for Lord Lovelace a time or two. He don’t wear his hair natural, being a lord. Will the gentleman with the golden mane be needin’ a sedan chair then? Can whistle one ’round the corner for five bob.”
The servant shut the door in the stranger’s face without comment.
Instead of anger, this action elicited a cackle of glee from the stranger.
“Got ye, I have!” Archibald Foibles rubbed his hands together. His London contact would be impressed. London agents were thought superior to those in rural areas because their exploits of tracking and informing were more readily circulated in a town like London, where gossip among those who used their services spread their reputations.
Well, the Beau Monde would soon learn a new tune with a new name, Archibald Foibles. And he would earn a pretty penny for his trouble!
“Foibles on the job! And ’ee knows what’s o’clock, guv’nor!”
Chapter Eleven
Exhausted by the evening’s misadventure and half-asleep on her feet, Sabrina did not expect to find anyone waiting in the hallway when she exited the countess’s room nearly an hour after their arrival. Yet, cloaked in the shaft of moonlight streaming in through the oriel window at the end of the narrow hallway was a masculine figure.
She stopped short, the candle in her hand flickering uncertainly as dreamlike fabrication vied for reality. For an unnerving moment she was stricken with a sense of memory come to life. A profile of features too quickly glimpsed to be identified, the tilt of the head, the very stance of the silhouette etched in darkness were so compelling that a thrill of anticipation sped through her. “Jack?”
The man turned abruptly toward her from his contemplation of whatever lay beyond the bay window and the slanted white lit up his saturnine features. “She is settled?”
The cold formality in that voice was unmistakable. This was not “Blackjack” Law but the aristocratic Lord Jack Laughton. Of course it was Lord Darlington! Who else would be in the countess’s home?
“Yes, and sleeping.”
Cross-purpose feelings assaulted Sabrina, stinging her with rebuke of her fanciful thoughts. Jack Law! Absurd! The two men shared a vague similarity of physique and a disturbing gray gaze. As for the rest, she must have been dreamwalking. “She says she was merely exhausted by the long evening.”
“Good. Then we may speak frankly.” He came forward and took her by the elbow and steered her toward the stairs. “The salon below will do for our purposes.”
She did not protest his high-handed assumption that she would do as he directed. He was a man accustomed to ordering menials about. She wondered again just how familiar he was with the countess’s spa residence. She had not been able to confirm his knowledge of the location of Lady Charlotte’s bedroom. Unlike the sleepy servant who had come to the door in answer to her knock, Lady Charlotte’s personal maid had been awake and awaiting her mistress’s return and was therefore stationed at the head of the hallway when the viscount appeared with her ladyship in his arms.
Annoyed, Sabrina wondered why Lord Darlington continued to hold her arm. At first she had assumed he was steadying her as she descended the stairs into the penumbra of the unlit entry. Yet even after they reached the bottom and her candle threw out a sufficient if unremarkable light across the floor, his hand continued to closely cup her bare elbow. It was more than an impersonal touch, it seemed a possessive one. She tested the tension in his grip and discovered he did not mean to release her.
How odd of him, or did he assume his charms were equally irresistible to both commoners and countesses? His fingers danced on the skin of her inner elbow, a most sensitive place, she realized as anger spurted through her. If he thought to toy with her, he had a surprise in store! Poor Lotte, to think she was besotted over so unrepentant a rogue!
When they reached the salon she forcefully pulled free of his hand under the pretext of reaching for the door latch.
There was no fire in the hearth, nor had one been laid that evening since the countess had planned to be out. As she stepped inside the chilly room cast in black shadows it seemed somehow isolated from the rest of the house. The feeble light from the candle she carried could not chase away the blanketing gloom. Yet when she moved quickly a
cross the room to a candelabra and leaned her lit candle toward the wick of the first taper, the viscount said crisply, “Leave it unlit. Tis a waste of good wax.”
Given the direct order, she set her single lit candle on the table and turned to her unwelcome companion. “What short subject have we to discuss, my lord?”
For a moment she thought he would not answer her impertinence. He had moved beyond her candle’s aura and stood like some judgemental shadow near the cold empty hearth. Only his hair gleamed warmly like old gold in the shadows. “Is the countess prone to collapses?”
“Quite the contrary.” Sabrina softened a little. So, he was genuinely concerned about the countess’s well-being. “As long as I have known her she has enjoyed remarkable good health. She is wont to brag of her stamina on the dance floor and laments the fact that Lord Lovelace does not much care for the exercise.”
“A pity for her.” She thought she detected disapproval of the earl in his voice. “Yet she has been less well of late, am I correct?”
“Nothing to cause concern, before tonight,” she answered thoughtfully. “She has complained of a sensitive stomach this last week.”
“These gastric upsets.” His voice sounded weighted with considerations to which he was not giving breath. “Do they occur continually or most often in the morning hours?”
Sabrina nearly smiled. He sounded quite like Mrs. Noyes’ quack, though in actual fact she suspected the viscount would make a better physician. He, at least, was listening to the answers while Mrs. Noyes’ man often seemed to be listening to the music of the orbs as she droned on and on in complaint.
“Most often upon awakening. Just this morning her breakfast proved too onerous a burden. Why do you ask? Do you believe that it might be serious?”
“Is she prone to tears? Excessive emotion? Does she perhaps speak of someone in particular at these times?”
“She is never hysterical, my lord,” she maintained in stout defense of her friend. What was his purpose? All at once it occurred to her to wonder if he hoped to judge the effect of his absence upon the lady. “Why should such things interest you?”