Chapter 15
S weat covered Favor’s bare arms and neck. The fine hairs at her temple coiled into damp tendrils and clung in little black commas to her throat and collarbone. She licked her lips, sampling the salty mist. Her limbs felt weak and logy. Muscles she hadn’t even known she owned ached with overuse.
She looked in the mirror, barely recognizing the well-tumbled-looking, relaxed wench staring back. Her makeup had long since gone. Her skin glowed.
“Oh,” she whispered guiltily, “that was grand!”
“What did you say?”
She turned from the mirror, smiling innocently at Rafe. He’d stopped rummaging through the huge crate he’d hefted to the top of a breakfront. “Nothing.”
It would never do to admit that helping him search for McClairen’s Trust had been more reward than punishment. She’d shed her beautiful gown and donned the old smock he’d unearthed from some box, trying to hide her elation. She’d spent too much time in front of too many mirrors trying to be Janet McClairen. The relief of her release from that role made her giddy.
It had been wonderful. She’d rummaged, poked, and rifled through cabinets and wardrobes, drawers and chests, under beds and through rolls of bunting and stacks of linens. She hadn’t found the Trust or the ornamental box he claimed legend said it resided in—though she’d never heard that part of the legend before.
She had found little mysteries and precious keepsakes: a child’s ebullient account of his life written a hundred years before; a broken scimitar reverently wrapped in a faded Moorish flag; a woman’s crystal flacon that still carried the faint scent of roses. They captivated her with their unspoken histories. McClairen histories.
Her history.
She remembered few of her mother’s stories and none of her father’s. She barely recalled him at all. He’d returned from London soon after the massacre, his plea for mercy refused; her brothers’ fates sealed. He’d returned and been met with the news of his wife’s death and his people’s slaughter. He’d been dead within the year.
Muira had written to her about her ancestors; long lists of names and dry recitations of battles won and lands conquered. But these things, Favor gently touched a child’s pearl ring, they related intimate stories. For the first time her ancestors had become real.
What fond mother had tucked this leather slingshot into this drawer? Had someone died wielding this scimitar or had it been broken symbolically? This flacon may have been a great aunt’s, this diary her grandfather’s.
Rafe didn’t object to her dawdling—even when she spread a pack of tattered playing cards upon the floor and pored over it until she’d discovered that the knave of hearts was missing. He’d remained silent, systematically going through each piece of furniture and chest along one wall.
Only occasionally she’d crow with delight over some oddity and look up to find him watching her with an unreadable expression. She didn’t know what to make of him. These past few hours, he’d seemed nothing more than a young man filled with enthusiasm for their task. It was as if in this room both of them had found some part of the innocent pleasures of a childhood neither had owned.
“Well, this is the last thing large enough to hold a two-foot-square box,” she said, tapping on the lid of a traveling trunk. It was just as well. The sun would set in an hour or so. If she wanted to escape an interrogation by Muira, she’d have to be back in her room dressed for evening by the time the old lady knocked on the door.
Rafe didn’t answer so she raised the heavy lid. Inside lay carefully folded satin clothing, copper and plum colored, studded with gems and metallic threads, glinting like the scales of an exotic fish beneath long-desiccated lavender sprigs.
“What is it?” Rafe asked, peering over her shoulder.
“I don’t know,” she replied, keeping her face averted. He smelled of dust and heat and male exertion, a potent scent, distinct and earthy. She dared not turn. He still wore his shirt open.
“Begad, at least one of those Highland heathens was a dandy.” His laughter tickled her ear.
“What is it?” she asked, gingerly lifting the gleaming material.
“I believe it’s a gentleman’s coat in the Persian style. Quite the mode in the last French court.”
“It’s fantastic!” she exclaimed, shaking lose the folds and holding the garment up by the shoulders. “What is the purpose of these loops of ribbon, do you imagine?” She glanced over her shoulder.
He stood very close behind her. A long streak of grime marked his exposed pectoral like a brand. His labors had sheathed his dark skin in a silky dampness, accentuating each contour and ridge in the slanting light. A white scar on his belly disappeared under the waistband of breeches, which rode low on his hips.
“Decorative.” He reached over her shoulder and flicked his finger against a jeweled bauble. “Damn, it’s only glass.”
“Oh, and you’re an expert on gems?” she asked dryly.
He grinned cheekily, his sidelong glance too knowing by half. “You’d be surprised at what areas I excel in.”
She rather doubted that.
She looked away, unwilling to be caught and held by his gaze. It had already happened several times too often that afternoon. It was like drowning in a warm pool of honey.
She quashed the errant thought. The longer she spent in his company, the more easily such thoughts came. ’Twould never do. They were … well, if not exactly sworn enemies, hardly friends. After all, she was here under duress, not because she wanted to be here. Even if she did enjoy being here, he didn’t know that.
She was getting damned—she bobbed her head and mumbled a mea culpa for her profanity—confused.
“What are you doing?” he asked curiously.
“Thinking.”
“About?”
“How … how perfect this would be for the masque.”
“What masque?”
“Friday evening, a week hence,” she answered, glad to escape her uncomfortable thoughts. She peered into the trunk. More garments lay exposed. Buff breeches, garters of pink rosettes and buckles sparkling with crystals. “We’re all to dress in costume and conceal our faces.”
His expression smoothed to indifference. “Ah. There’s good hunting,” he said. “Just make sure the bait isn’t taken before the trap is sprung.”
“Pardon me?”
His smile was suave. “It’s a perfect opportunity for a spot of dalliance. How did you so charmingly put it? ‘All I own is my virtue’? I’m simply advising you to retain it so that come your wedding night you can … deliver the goods. A masque offers a unique opportunity for men—and women—to sample that which they have no intention of purchasing.”
She felt as though he’d slapped her. From easy camaraderie, he’d plunged them back into Wanton’s Blush’s sordid world. She could not think to reply. Her hands fell to her sides, carrying with them the copper-colored coat.
“Here now,” he said, “that expression of censure will never do, Miss Donne. As a prime piece in this particular marriage mart you are here to be approved, not to condemn your fellow guests for taking advantage of that which they came expressly to enjoy.”
“And what is that?” she asked stiffly.
“An amoral, conscienceless society.”
“You overstate the case.”
His laughter contained no humor. “Perhaps you choose not to see what is abundantly clear.”
“How do you know so much about it?” she challenged him.
“Everyone knows about Wanton’s Blush, Miss Donne,” he replied. Pity softened his tone. “Didn’t you?”
“Of course.” Carelessly she tossed the gentleman’s coat back into the trunk. “Whatever odd notions you have about me, you exceed yourself. You know nothing about me. Even less than I know about you.”
“Which is exactly what?” he asked.
“That you are a thief. You are a blackmailer. You are here to steal jewels and you have forced me to be your accomplice.” Her gaze dared him to deny the charge. He didn’t.
“I take it our truce is off,” he said glibly.
“Yes. I got your food. I helped you search this room. I have done enough for you. I bid you adieu . Monsieur.” She wheeled about, sailing past him and to the door with stately indifference.
“Brava.” Clap. Clap. Clap . He was applauding!
The scoundrel! The wretch! She swallowed an angry retort, refusing to acknowledge his audacity. She took hold of the door handle and pulled. It remained stubbornly shut. Damn! She closed her eyes, mumbled a prayerful apology, grasped the handle in both hands and yanked. Nothing.
“Damn! Damn! Damn!”
“Miss Donne?”
Frustration vied with mortification. Frustration won. She seized the handle, shaking the brass handle violently.
“Miss Donne?”
“What!” She swung around.
His arms overflowed with emerald velvet, yards and yards of the stuff. “You forgot your dress.”
She bit down hard on her lip, refusing to give vent to the string of epithets piling up behind her clenched teeth. She stalked back across the room, snatched her gown from him, turned, marched back to the door, seized the handle in both hands, and, setting her heels for leverage—
“You might want to try pushing the door rather than pulling it.”
Striving for some shred of dignity, she pushed. Silently, the door swung open.
“Tomorrow we’ll search the room next to this one.”
She wouldn’t reply.
“Also, though the beef was good, I wouldn’t mind some fowl. Try not to mash up the cake next time.”
He couldn’t make her respond.
“And do remember my clothes. I should hate for my aroma to offend you tomorrow and I intend to keep working this evening.”
“I’m not coming tomorrow,” she bit out.
“Now, that”—his voice, all afternoon so easy and unruffled, now flooded with darkness—“would be a mistake.”
“Miss Donne.” Carr stood back from the chair he held out, waiting for her to take her seat. For him to have not only taken her in to dinner but then to seat her so high at the table was beyond irregular. Speculative murmurs rippled beneath the squawk of drink-infused conversation. Favor slid into the seat, refusing to acknowledge the glares of those who would point out that by doing so she usurped a marchioness, a pair of baronesses, and at least half a dozen ladies.
“Miss Donne.”
Favor looked up and found herself facing Fia Merrick across the table. The girl looked faintly amused. But as far as Favor could tell, Lady Fia always looked faintly amused, her black wing-shaped brows forever canted at an ironic angle, the ice blue of her gaze perpetually glittering with secret wisdom.
“Lady Fia,” she returned politely. What could this enigmatic and aloof girl want of her? Though at least three years her junior, in some ways Fia seemed older than any woman in the room.
“Lord Tunbridge begs an introduction.” Long, slender fingers moved fractionally, stirring the air in a little ballet of grace, indicating a hitherto unnoticed gentleman. “Miss Favor Donne, may I present Lord Tunbridge. Lord Tunbridge, Miss Donne.”
He nodded, his hooded gaze assessing her closely. “Miss Donne, my pleasure.”
Tall and cadaverously thin, the unpadded skin of his face cleaved tightly to a well-shaped skull. He looked angry and hungry. His white hands moved restlessly among the silverware, fidgeting and aligning the pieces.
Favor mentally skewered her right cheek with a dimple, emulating Janet McClairen’s one-sided smile. “Thank you, sir.”
“Tunbridge is a great friend of Carr’s,” Fia said smoothly. “Aren’t you, Lord Tunbridge?”
Beside Favor, Carr remained silent, clearly comfortable in the role of spectator.
“But not so great a friend as he would like to be,” Fia said. Briefly, affecting sympathy, she touched Tunbridge’s hand, lingering just a shade longer than simple sympathy would merit. Tunbridge speared her with a ravening glance, which she adroitly avoided.
“They appear to have had a falling out, however,” Fia continued. “These things sometimes happen among intimates, Miss Donne. Particularly ones with so long a history as Lord Tunbridge and my father. We must apply ourselves to smoothing things o’er between them. It is our duty as women, being the pacific creatures that we are. Don’t you agree?”
The girl’s lines were designed to give Favor an opportunity to perform her role. Yet she found herself resisting. The afternoon had given her a taste for freedom. How ironic that a thief and a blackmailer should have provided her with a momentary escape from her fate—a fate she herself had chosen, she reminded herself sternly.
Fia was still calmly awaiting her answer.
Favor still had a debt to repay.
“I am sorry to contradict you, Lady Fia, but I have never considered myself particularly pacific. Perhaps it is your nature to forget a wrong. It is not mine.”
Beside her she heard Carr’s faint but discernable inhalation. The veins on the back of his hands stood out like ropes. En garde .
“So you believe in a biblical variety of justice?” Fia asked.
Favor picked up her wineglass, twirling the ruby liquid, studying it. She needed to frame a telling response, something that would draw Carr. But he stank of perfume and the heat from his body clung to him like an oily mist and he’d laughed when he’d told her about her brother John.
“Miss Donne?”
Janet. They were trying to convince Carr that Janet wanted him back. It was their plan— her plan. She’d agreed to be Janet and Janet wanted Carr back.
“Forgive me,” she said, smiling Janet’s smile. “I confess I was fretting over how honest I dare be. I would hate to risk whatever portion of regard”—she divided her gaze flirtatiously between Carr and Tunbridge—“I might have won. The truth is that I am a creature given to my own comfort, both physical and otherwise.
“In addressing a wrong done me I would seek relief—if justice alone would provide that, then justice would serve me. If recompense eased me, then I would seek compensation. If I felt robbed, I would demand back what had been taken from me.” She fluttered her lashes coyly. “I suspect you find that quite shallow and self-serving?”
“I find it bracingly honest,” Tunbridge declared. “How refreshing to meet a lady who provides so succinct an outline for her behavior. Who informs a gentleman of her character rather than deceiving him.”
Favor felt sorry for the man. He so obviously spoke to Fia, whose attention was fixed on the chilled pear a servant had placed before her.
“I think honesty is vastly overrated,” Fia murmured, delicately slicing off a thin piece. “I think Miss Donne would agree. Certainly her brother would. I know Carr does.”
What did she mean by that? And what had Thomas had to do with her?
“Lady Fia?” She kept her voice calm.
“She insists on being provocative,” Carr spoke before Fia could reply, his manner disgusted. “It’s a child’s trick but then she is a child. You’d be wise to remember that, Tunbridge, next time she involves you in her games.”
If Carr thought to vex Fia he was doomed to disappointment. She lowered her head, a little smile playing about her lips.
“A child? Games?” Tunbridge trembled on the verge of saying more. His chair legs scraped the floorboards as he shoved his chair away from the table. He stood up, snapping forward slightly at the waist. “Forgive me, Miss Donne. I fear I am inadequate company tonight.”
“Tonight?” Favor barely heard Fia say. Beside her Carr snickered. Favor’s head swam, trying to find her way through all the undercurrents she perceived. She dined with jackals. Tunbridge, gutted and hung, could only turn and leave.
But Janet would be used to such behavior. And while Janet had not approved much of what Carr had done and said, she had never publicly chastised him. She had ignored what she did not approve. So said Muira.
“Wherever do you find pears in the Highlands, Lord Carr?” she said, and bit into the succulent fruit. It tasted like clay.
***
The night would not end. The clock struck the witching hour but the revelry wound tighter, like a watch in the hands of a feckless, spoiled child. Fia disappeared, her inexplicable interest in Favor as quickly gone as it had appeared.
The one-sided smile had petrified like rigor mortis in Favor’s cheek. Her spine ached from trying to appear taller than she was and the belladonna Muira had dropped into her eyes to dilate her pupils caused her head to throb and her vision to swim.
Carr, too, had distanced himself. Ordinarily, Favor would have retired but though Carr had left her side, he still watched her. Intently, covertly, hour after hour. So Favor ignored her throbbing head and aching back and listened to Muira who bobbed and grinned and hissed instructions at her.
At two o’clock Carr finally approached her once again and asked her to dance. She obliged. He was a superb dancer, guiding her expertly and wordlessly through the intricate steps. At the end, as he led her back to where Muira sat feigning sleep with her chin sunk upon an ample false bosom, he finally spoke. “I found your scarf.”
Favor scoured her memory for some point of reference, some scarf that Muira had told her about that Janet had owned. She could recall none. Perhaps he sought to trick or test her?
“I have lost no scarf, Lord Carr. I fear one of your other lady guests is missing it.”
His face stilled. It had been no trick. He had expected some other reply. Damn Muira for this over-sight.
Too late to claim the scarf now. At least until she found out from Muira what it meant.
“Ah. My mistake. Thank you for the dance, Miss Donne,” he said, and bowed before disappearing into the crowd.
“What was that all about?” Favor looked down. Muira’s expression was muddled, like someone coming awake, but her low-pitched tone was hard-edged.
Favor was in no mood to accept Muira’s carping criticism. She, too, could hiss through a smile. “The next time you leave one of Janet’s scarves laying about for Carr to find, I suggest you inform me first.”
Muira’s genteel mask evaporated, leaving a hard middle-aged face staring at Favor in angry consternation. “I didn’t leave any scarf anywhere.”
Moonlight bathed Favor’s sleeping form, embossing her features with blue-white alchemy. Her head burrowed against her pillow, the inky hair spilling across the coverlet and down the side of the bed. Her lips parted slightly and a little frown puckered the skin between her brows.
The tall, dark figure standing at the foot of the bed angled his head, studying her intently. She looked tired, even in sleep, Raine thought.
He’d watched her from above the ballroom most of the night. Her shoulders had drooped with fatigue long before the evening had ended. Even from where he’d been standing the white face powder had not concealed the dark smudges beneath her eyes. And she’d held her head as though it ached.
She shouldn’t have come here, he thought. She shouldn’t—
She moaned and stirred unhappily. The small sound of distress sent him forward, out of the shadows, his hand poised to bestow a comforting caress. Abruptly he stopped.
No, he realized. It was he who shouldn’t have come.