Chapter 2
Above the whirring and clicking of the automaton, Jessica heard the marquess’s hesitation as clearly as if it had been a trumpet’s blare at the start of battle. Then he marched. Bold, arrogant strides. He’d made up his mind and he was coming in with heavy artillery.
Dain was heavy artillery, she thought. Nothing Bertie or anyone else could have told her could have prepared her.
Coal black hair and bold, black eyes and a great, conquering Caesar of a nose and a sullen sensuality of a mouth—the face alone entitled him to direct lineage with Lucifer, as Withers had claimed.
As to the body…
Bertie had told her Dain was a very large man.
She had half expected a hulking gorilla.
She had not been prepared for a stallion: big and splendidly proportioned—and powerfully muscled, if what his snug trousers outlined was any indication.
She should not have been looking there, even if it was only an instant’s glance, but a physique like that demanded one’s attention and drew it…
everywhere. After that unladylike instant, it had taken every iota of her stubborn willpower to keep her gaze upon his face.
Even then, she’d only managed the feat because she was afraid that otherwise she’d lose what little remained of her reason, and do something horribly shocking.
“Very well, Miss Trent,” came his deep voice, from somewhere about a mile above her right shoulder. “You have piqued my curiosity. What the devil have you found there that’s so mesmerizing?”
His head might be a mile above her, but the rest of his hard physique was improperly close.
She could smell the cigar he had smoked a short time ago.
And a subtle—and outrageously expensive—masculine cologne.
Her body commenced a repeat of the slow simmer she had first experienced moments earlier and had not yet fully recovered from.
She would have to have a long talk with Genevieve, she told herself. These sensations could not possibly be what Jessica suspected they were.
“The watch,” she said composedly. “The one with the picture of the woman in the pink gown.”
He leaned closer to peer into the case. “She’s standing under a tree? Is that the one?”
He set his expensively gloved left hand upon the case, and all the saliva evaporated from her mouth. It was a very large, powerful hand. She was rivetingly aware that one hand could lift her straight off the floor.
“Yes,” she said, resisting the urge to lick her dry lips.
“You’ll want to examine it more closely, I’m sure,” he said.
He reached up, removed a key from a nail on the rafter, moved to the back of the case, unlocked it, and took out the watch.
Champtois could not have failed to notice this audacity.
He uttered not a syllable. Jessica glanced back.
He seemed to be deep in conversation with Bertie.
“Seemed” was the significant word. What one generally meant by conversation was, with Bertie, barely within the realms of probability.
Deep conversation—and in French—was out of the question.
“Perhaps I had better demonstrate how the thing operates,” said Dain, yanking her attention back to him.
In his low voice, Jessica recognized the too innocent tones that inevitably preceded a male’s typically idiotic idea of a joke.
She could have explained that, not having been born yesterday, she knew very well how the timepiece operated.
But the glint in his black eyes told her he was mightily amused, and she didn’t want to spoil his fun. Yet.
“How kind,” she murmured.
“When you turn this knob,” he said, demonstrating, “as you see, her skirts divide and there, between her legs, is a—” He pretended to look more closely. “Good heavens, how shocking. I do believe that’s a fellow kneeling there.” He held the watch closer to her face.
“I’m not shortsighted, my lord,” she said, taking the watch from him. “You are quite right. It is a fellow—her lover apparently, for he seems to be performing a lover’s service for her.”
She opened her reticule, took out a small magnifying glass, and subjected the watch to very narrow study, all the while aware that she was undergoing a similar scrutiny.
“A bit of the enamel has worn off the gentleman’s wig and there is a minute scratch on the left side of the lady’s skirt,” she said.
“Apart from that, I would say the watch is in excellent condition, considering its age, though I strongly doubt it will keep precise time. It is not a Breguet, after all.”
She put away the magnifying glass and looked up to meet his heavy-lidded gaze. “What do you think Champtois will ask for it?”
“You want to buy it, Miss Trent?” he asked. “I strongly doubt your elders will approve of such a purchase. Or have English notions of propriety undergone a revolution while I’ve been away?”
“Oh, it isn’t for me,” she said. “It’s for my grandmother.”
She had to give him credit. He never turned a hair.
“Ah, well, then,” he said. “That’s different.”
“For her birthday,” Jessica explained. “Now, if you’ll pardon me, I had better extract Bertie from his negotiations. The tone of his voice tells me he’s trying to count and, as you so perceptively remarked, that isn’t good for him.”
He could pick her up with one hand, Dain thought as he watched her saunter across the shop. Her head scarcely reached his breastbone, and even with the overloaded bonnet, she couldn’t weigh eight stone.
He was used to towering over women—over mostly everybody—and he had learned to feel comfortable in his oversize body. Sports—boxing and fencing, especially—had taught him to be light on his feet.
Next to her, he had felt like a great lummox.
A great, ugly, stupid lummox. She had known perfectly well what sort of watch the curst thing was all along.
The question was, What sort of curst thing was she?
The chit had stared straight into his blackguard’s face and not batted an eye.
He had stood much too close to her and she had not budged.
Then she had taken out a magnifying glass, of all things, and evaluated the lewd timepiece as calmly as though it were a rare edition of Fox’s Book of Martyrs.
He wished now he had paid more attention to Trent’s references to his sister. The trouble was, if a man paid attention to anything Bertie Trent said, that man was certain to go howling mad.
Lord Dain had scarcely completed the thought when Bertie shouted, “No! Absolutely not! You just encourage her, Jess. I won’t have it! You ain’t to sell it to her, Champtois.”
“Yes, you will, Champtois,” Miss Trent said in very competent French. “There is no need to regard my little brother. He has no authority over me whatsoever.” She obligingly translated for her brother, whose face turned a vivid red.
“I ain’t little! And I’m head of the curst family. And I—”
“Go play with the drummer boy, Bertie,” she said. “Or better yet, why don’t you take your charming friend out for a drink?”
“Jess.” Bertie’s tones took on a pleading desperation. “You know she’ll show it to people and—and I’ll be mortified.”
“Lud, what a prig you’ve got to be since you left England.”
Bertie’s eyes threatened to burst from their sockets. “A what?”
“A prig, dear. A prig and a prude. A regular Methodist.”
Bertie uttered several inarticulate sounds, then turned to Dain, who had by this time given up all thoughts of leaving. He was leaning upon the jewel case, observing Bertie Trent’s sister with a brooding fascination.
“Did you hear that, Dain?” Bertie demanded. “Did you hear what the beastly girl said?”
“I could not fail to hear,” said Dain. “I was listening attentively.”
“Me!” Bertie jammed his thumb into his chest. “A prig.”
“Indeed, it’s thoroughly shocking. I shall be obliged to cut your acquaintance. I cannot allow myself to be corrupted by virtuous companions.”
“But, Dain, I—”
“Your friend is right, dear,” said Miss Trent. “If word of this gets out, he cannot risk being seen with you. His reputation will be ruined.”
“Ah, you are familiar with my reputation, are you, Miss Trent?” Dain enquired.
“Oh, yes. You are the wickedest man who ever lived. And you eat small children for breakfast, their nannies tell them, if they are naughty.”
“But you are not in the least alarmed.”
“It is not breakfast time, and I am hardly a small child. Though I can see how, given your lofty vantage point, you might mistake me for one.”
Lord Dain eyed her up and down. “No, I don’t think I should make that mistake.”
“I should say not, after listening to her scold and insult a chap,” said Bertie.
“On the other hand, Miss Trent,” Dain went on just as though Bertie did not exist—which, in a properly regulated world, he wouldn’t—“if you are naughty, I might be tempted to—”
“Qu’est-ce que c’est, Champtois?” Miss Trent asked. She moved down the counter to the tray of goods Dain had been looking over when the pair had entered.
“Rien, rien.” Champtois set his hand protectively over the tray. He glanced nervously at Dain. “Pas intéressante.”
She looked in the same direction. “Your purchase, my lord?”
“Not a bit of it,” said Dain. “I was, for a moment, intrigued by the silver inkstand, which, as you will ascertain, is about the only item there worth a second glance.”
It was not the inkstand she took up and applied her magnifying glass to, however, but the small dirt-encrusted picture with the thick, mildewed frame.
“A portrait of a woman, it seems to be,” she said.
Dain came away from the jewel case and joined her at the counter. “Ah, yes, Champtois claimed it was human. You will soil your gloves, Miss Trent.”
Bertie, too, approached, sulking. “Smells like I don’t know what.” He made a face.
“Because it’s rotting,” said Dain.
“That’s because it’s rather old,” said Miss Trent.
“Rather been lying in a gutter for about a decade,” said Dain.
“She has an interesting expression,” Miss Trent told Champtois in French. “I cannot decide whether it’s sad or happy. What do you want for it?”