Devil May Care (Dangerous Liaisons #3)

Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

“ W ell, well.” One of the gentlemen seated at the gaming table glanced up from his cards as a tall, black-clad figure sauntered out of the shadows. “Look what got spit back from the darkest depths of smoke and brimstone.”

Chortles from the other players greeted the quip.

“I heard you were dead,” continued Lord Osborne. “Or did Satan tire of your caustic humor and decide to return you to the land of the living to plague the likes of us for a few more years?”

Jack Greeley, Viscount Leete and heir to the Hendrie earldom, inclined an ironic bow. “So it would seem.” The flickering wall sconces of the gambling den, their oily light muted by the haze of cigars and brandy fumes, caught the amused arch of his dark brows. “You call this the land of the living, Jamie? To me, it appears I have merely exchanged one Hell for another.”

“Ha, ha, ha, Jack. You always did have a clever tongue.” One of James, Lord Osborne’s companions waggled a half-empty bottle and motioned for him to take a seat. “Care to join us in a round of devilry?”

“Perhaps later,” replied Jack, “For now, I think that I will simply continue strolling around with my own demons.” He held out his empty glass to be refilled. “I shall try to keep them on a leash.”

As the laughter died away, he moved on, slowly circling back to the dimly lit salon where games of dice were played. The sharp rattle of the bones punctuated the low groans and louder exultations rumbling through the air. The room hung heavy with a fugue of sweat and desperation.

Slouching a shoulder to the sooty wall, Jack stood for some minutes watching the flashes of ivory tumble across the green baize.

Back from the dead . Yes, by all rights he should have shuffled off his mortal coil. A grievous saber wound suffered on the battlefield in Spain eight months ago would have sent him to his Maker, but a French burial party had spotted a faint sign of life and carried him back to their camp along with their own wounded officers. For weeks, he had felt no will to live, wracked with guilt for failing to reach his cousin in time to save him from an enemy saber. But the lovely Camille, wife of the regiment’s commanding officer, had coaxed him—nay, cajoled, bullied, tormented him!—into embracing light over dark.

Lifting the glass to his lips, Jack took a long swallow and let the brandy burn a trail down his throat.

However, in a serendipitous twist of Fate, it turned out that his cousin had also survived. A wry smile tugged at his mouth. Lud, what a reunion that had been! The letter explaining his stroke of luck and his imminent arrival home had not reached England, and when he had walked through the door of his father’s estate, he had nearly shocked his family and all the household servants into their graves.

The happy occasion had been followed by an even happier event—his cousin Rafael had kindled a romance with Jack’s childhood friend, the spirited daughter of a duke who was nursing some painful wounds of her own. The courtship hadn’t been easy, but Love—and the sinfully seductive chocolate confections that Rafael created in Hendrie Hall’s kitchen—had triumphed over adversity and the scheming of a smarmy fortune-hunter. To everyone’s delight, the couple had recently been married.

Love. Jack drained the rest of his drink in one gulp. “Thank God,” he muttered through clenched teeth, “that my hide is far too thick for Cupid’s flimsy arrow to pierce.”

As if to make a mockery of such hubris, the gaming noises stilled for a moment, allowing a snatch of French conversation to drift out from one of the side alcoves at the far end of the room.

Jack pricked up his ears. Had he heard right or was it merely a figment of his own tangled desires?

Camille was wed to another, he reminded himself. And she was, by virtue of her birth, his country’s sworn enemy.

“Time to move on,” he growled under his breath. But his boots seemed nailed to the rough-planked floor.

The voices sounded again, unmistakably Parisian in accent.

Damn. Damn. Damn.

As James made to pass by him on the way to the privy, Jack shifted his stance and gave a casual nod at the alcove. “Who are the Frogs, Jamie?”

“Comte Amirault and his coterie,” answered his friend. “The latest faction to gain leadership over the émigré community here in Town.” James made a face. “Why our government thinks the Royalists are any use in the war effort is beyond me. It seems they do naught but squabble among themselves and squander their funds on drink and debaucheries.”

“That,” murmured Jack, “is rather like the pot calling the kettle black.”

“True,” agreed his friend with a faint grin. “But at least the money I fritter away is my own. I’m not a leech on our government’s finances, nor do I make any pretenses of being qualified to participate in international politics.”

“Napoleon’s days seem numbered. The monarchy will likely be restored in France, so the Royalists may be more important than you think.”

James uttered a rude rejoinder, and continued on his way, leaving Jack to stare pensively at the shadowed corner. But as several new players joined the play at the dice table, the noise grew more raucous, making it impossible to hear anything more from the alcove.

Abandoning his vantage point, Jack went off to fetch another drink, which he quaffed even more quickly than the last one. The brandy brought only a headache, rather than the hoped-for oblivion. Suddenly tired of the slurred shouts and flushed faces all around him, he shouldered his way to the side door and let himself out into a narrow alleyway.

A mist was swirling and the stench of decay from the surrounding rookeries pervaded the damp air. Jack turned up the collar of his coat and was just starting to make his way through a passageway at the rear of the building and out to one of the crisscrossing streets when a flutter of movement near one of the iron-banded back doors caught his eye.

A lone person, moving furtively along the wall.

The middle door opened a crack, and a hurried exchange of words, too low to make out, tumbled into the gusting breeze. A quarrel or a deal gone bad? By the look of the gestures, the cloaked creeper was angry.

It was no concern of his, and yet he slid into a shallow recess set into the bricks and went very still, all senses on full alert. Something seemed off about the encounter—he couldn’t quite put a finger on what it was, but war had taught him to trust his instincts.

Shoulders hunched low, the person turned abruptly as the door drew closed and flitted closer, stepping quickly yet gracefully through the muck. A glance right and then left, then a tug as the voluminous cloak’s hood slipped slightly.

Jack felt as if a sudden punch had knocked the wind from his lungs.

“ Sacre Coeur .” The person was now close enough for the whispered oath to caress his ears.

He shot out a hand, catching hold of the cloak, then quickly muffled the cry about to burst forth from the lady’s throat.

Oh, yes. It was a lady.

“Stop struggling, Camille,” he growled. “It’s only me.”

“Jack!” She pronounced it “Jacques,” drawing out the sound like melted toffee. Her voice—a low siren’s lilt that tickled over his skin like a swirl of smoke—made it sound ever so much more exotic than the stolid English syllable.

“ Mon Dieu , I never expected to encounter you here in London.”

“Be damned glad you did, rather than one of the murderous cutpurses who lurk in this area,” he growled. “Bloody Hell, what are you doing skulking around Lucifer’s Lair? These stews are dangerous.”

“I—”

Jack cut her off. Now that he had recovered from his initial shock, a myriad of other questions were whirling in his head. “And what the devil are you doing in England? I cannot fathom?—”

“Shhh.” Her fingers touched his lips. “Please, we cannot talk here. I must be gone.”

Though she tried to shake off his grip, he held firm. “I’ll escort you to wherever you are going.”

“No! I—I can’t explain now, but you can’t. It would be too risky.”

“Pierre—” he began.

“It’s on account of Pierre that I am here,” countered Camille. “And every moment I linger here puts him in further danger.”

He hesitated, torn between duty and the note of desperation in her tone.

“I will be fine, Jack—I beg of you to trust me on this.”

“Very well. But only if you promise to meet me somewhere on the morrow to explain.”

“There is a coffee house on the west side of Red Lion Square. Be there at noon.” With that, she twisted free and like an underworld wraith darted off to become one with the shadows.

Drawing a ragged lungful of the foul air, Jack realized his heart was hammering hard enough to crack a rib. He leaned back against the wall, and slowly reasserted control over himself.

Turn and run—dismiss the chance encounter as a figment of my overwrought imagination.

Reason warned that whatever mystery was afoot, he would be treading on dangerous ground to pursue it.

Jack looked up at the hide-and-seek stars winking through the scudding clouds and uttered a low oath. In French.

Ah, but when have I ever listened to reason.

Miss Harriet Farnum peered out the carriage window as the wheels rolled to a halt. “It’s the usual schedule for this week’s meeting, Ellie. Meet me back here in two hours.”

Her maid nodded, though a shadow of unease flitted over her face. “Your father would have my guts for garters if he knew I let you hare off in this part of Town by yourself.”

“No he wouldn’t,” she assured, stretching the truth just a tad. “He knows that I’m capable of looking out for myself.” A diplomat’s daughter who had experienced a number of exceedingly rough-and-tumble places during her foreign travels, Harriet had little patience with the rules of Polite Society. Unlike most well-bred ladies, she chafed at the restrictions requiring her to live within a gilded cage. “And besides, he accepts that I have a mind of my own and there’s little point in trying to stop me from doing something which I am determined to do.”

Ellie repressed a snort. “Aye, I’m well aware of that. But he expects me to exercise some degree of restraint.”

“No, he doesn’t.” Harriet flashed a grin, then took another glance up and down the narrow street before passing over a purse to her maid. “You and John Coachman go enjoy the strawberry ices at Gunter’s. I shall see you later.”

“You’re too generous by half, Miss Harriet,” murmured Ellie with a reluctant smile. But as the door latch clicked open, a spasm of concern pinched at the corners of her mouth. “Please be careful. All sorts of dangers lurk in this city, and you... well, you are not invincible.”

Harriet paused and raised her brows. “Lud, what prompted that?”

“I dunno.” Her maid made a face. “Just a queer feeling here.” She pressed a hand to her stomach.

A laugh slipped from Harriet’s lips. “That’s because your breadbox is longing for Gunter’s sweets.” She quickly descended to the street and made a shooing gesture. “Now be off. And don’t fret.”

The truth was, danger didn’t bother her. Indeed, it seemed to make her feel more... alive.

As the carriage lurched away over the rough cobbles, she drew in a deep breath, savoring the sense of freedom along with the less edifying scents of the surroundings. Modest townhouses lined the perimeter of the square, the crumbling stone and shabby facades a testament that the once-elegant area had seen better days. Her friend, an aging spinster who was working to improve the lot of the poor women in the area, resided in one of the narrow buildings on the far side of the central garden. The two of them had met at a series of lectures on Mary Wollstonecraft’s essays, and despite the difference in age had formed a bond over shared intellectual interests. That Lady Catherine possessed an earthy sense of humor and a fascinating—and slightly outrageous—circle of acquaintances made her weekly gatherings for tea and talking about ideas for social reform even more intriguing.

The topic for the upcoming discussion was educational opportunities for girls, and as she hurried through the rusting gate of the square’s center garden and cut around the unpruned boxwood hedge to the gravel walkway, Harriet let her mind race over the ideas that had been percolating in her head. Schools ought to teach mathematics and the natural sciences, like astro?—

Whomp.

The collision would have knocked her on her derriere, had not a strong pair of male arms arrested her backward fall.

“Charging in where angels should fear to tread?”

Harriet fumbled to straighten the brim of her bonnet, though she didn’t need to see the speaker’s face to know who it was. Viscount Leete’s drawling sarcasm was... unique.

A friend of her older brother since their schoolboy days at Eton, Jack had spent many a term break at her family’s home over the years. More recently, they had both played a role in helping his cousin win the hand of Lady Kyra Sterling. As usual, they had engaged in more than their share of verbal sparring. Jack seemed to bring out...

A last tug finally shifted the chip straw bonnet back into place, allowing an unobstructed view of the smirk curled on his handsome mouth. Nettled, Harriet was roused to retort. “Apparently even mere mortals are in peril with the likes of you charging hell for leather around the city.”

“ Moi ?” Jack looked down his aristocratic nose. “I was merely walking at a sedate pace. It was you who was barreling along like a bat out of Hades.”

Sunlight speared through the windblown tangle of his long hair, setting off a winking of dark and bright, like diamonds dancing over polished ebony. Her breath momentarily seemed to catch in her throat. To clear it, she quickly demanded, “Which begs the question—what are you doing here in Red Lion Square?”

“I’m meeting someone,” he answered curtly.

A lady, no doubt. And given the environs, likely one of dubious morals, thought Harriet.

“And you?” he added.

“The same.”

Jack considered the answer, and for an instant, a mischievous glint lit in his eyes. “One of your radical causes?”

“Yes.” That he found it amusing irked her, so she quickly added, “A group of like-minded females is meeting to discuss the inequalities we face in society.”

He gave a mock shudder. “I don’t know how you do it—I’d rather face a saber-wielding regiment of Death’s Head Hussars than have to think that hard!”

The light shifted, and for an instant, it accentuated the dark circles under his eyes and the fine lines of dissipation radiating out from the corners of his mouth.

“So you would rather engage in mindless revelries that will likely kill you just as surely as sharpened steel?”

Jack’s jaw hardened, but he remained uncharacteristically silent.

“After being given a second chance at life,” she went on, “you ought to take care to make the most of it.”

“Thank you for the advice,” he said with exaggerated politeness. “I know I can always count on you to be pragmatic and rational.”

“Quite right—I’m stick-in-the-mud Harriet.” She felt a flush rise to her cheeks. “It seems a lady is damned if she uses her brain and damned if she doesn’t.”

“I-I didn’t mean it as an insult,” he muttered.

“Of course you did,” she replied tartly. “I’m outspoken and opinionated. Men find that abhorrent.”

The last vestiges of mirth gave way to an expression... an expression she couldn’t begin to fathom. “I’m not sure men have the slightest idea of what they want,” he said softly.

Harriet was surprised by the note of wistfulness shading the ironic quip. Or perhaps it was only a figment of her own imagination. Either way, it left her feeling unsettled.

“I had better be going, else I’ll be late,” she said brusquely.

“ Moi aussi ,” he murmured.

Jack was speaking French? Knowing the wartime ordeal he had been through, she wasn’t sure whether that boded well or not for his current state of mind. Not that his behavior should be any concern of hers.

Confused, she simply gave a vague wave and turned to continue on to Lady Catherine’s townhouse.

“One last thing, Harry...”

She paused and looked back over her shoulder.

“Be careful. This is a dangerous area for you to be out walking on your own.”

“You’re the second person who has warned me of that today.”

His dark lashes shuttered his gaze. “Then perhaps you should pay twice as much attention.”

Harriet the hedgehog. Prickly and prone to assume a defensive posture when teased. Unsure whether to laugh or gnash his teeth, Jack watched her stalk away. That was, he supposed, why he couldn’t resist the urge to cross verbal swords with her—but only because she could hold her own. Indeed, at times her wit could be even sharper than his.

However, just now it seemed his bantering barbs had slipped under her guard and cut to the quick. Damnation. He hadn’t meant to hurt her.

But he had.

Injured pride pulsed from the tight set of her shoulders, the stiffness of her gait. Even her skirts seemed to flounce and flutter with anger as she crossed the street.

Expelling a harried sigh, Jack shook off all thoughts of Harriet. He, too, was in danger of being late for a far more important tête-à-tête with a lady from his past.