Chapter One #3
She sat now in an olive-green, overstuffed chair situated in the middle of the room with its mate opposite, a small inlaid table set between and occupied by a silver coffee service.
Hastily he glanced around him. Nothing unusual here.
A large desk over towards one corner was the only other piece of furniture.
All else seeming safe to ignore, he returned his gaze to the woman who had her eyes directed solely at him.
The intensity with which her eyes bored holes in him was a little off-putting, to say the least. They were like the ocean before a storm, dark and broody. He felt a storm brewing in this very room and then a little voice inside his head yelled, “Retreat now!”
At least on the steps below he hadn’t felt like a lummox, having trouble putting two words together. Reality was such a cruel mistress.
The Countess of Blackhurst was in black, of course.
What else would she be in? She was a widow, after all, and they didn’t call her The Black Raven for nothing.
She wore a delicate black shawl over her shoulders, which made her look oddly small and fragile.
This conflicted exceedingly with the other image he had of her—the one where she stood over her husband’s dead body with a smoking pistol in her hand.
“Perhaps some coffee will help your memory, Lord Bellamy?”
Her emotionless yet husky tone made him start to sweat but for what reason he wasn’t quite sure.
His breeches seemed tighter too. Perhaps he did know the reason after all.
“That would be lovely, thank you.” Coffee would sober him up enough to get out some sort of decent excuse and get this doomed interview over with.
But how to explain a lie when one had not yet thought of the lie? Think, Oliver, think.
She handed him a cup, and he sniffed at it suspiciously. “What is this strange smell?” he asked as he eyed his cup.
“It could be a touch of cinnamon,” she informed him. She sipped delicately at the edge of her cup, watching him all the while.
“Oh,” he replied, and happily stirred in an extra lump of sugar.
Wait a minute! Could be?
He put his cup down on the table so fast it clattered and spun on its saucer. He wanted to say, “Now see here, just because you are beautiful and I am full to the brim does not give you the right to toy with me in this manner,” but of course he didn’t. It was simply too many words all in one go.
The Black Raven’s lips twitched slightly. “Are you all right, Lord Bellamy?”
“Ah, yes, fine. I just remembered I have to be… somewhere.” Yes, definitely somewhere else.
“But you have yet to tell me the reason for your visit.”
“I believe…” He gave her a sheepish look meant to charm. “I wanted to make your acquaintance.”
“Oh?” Her tone turned cold. “For what reason, Lord Bellamy? You wanted to advise me on a financial matter?” she suggested, sipping her coffee and watching him intently. “Perhaps you thought I needed a protector? Were you about to volunteer your services to the poor little widow?” she enquired.
This is going very badly, Oliver thought. He was usually so good with women, charm being one of his more rewarding traits. Somehow he knew his usual tactics would not work here, nor unfortunately his brain.
“Did you say you required a protector?” he said, nearly picking up his coffee cup again.
“No,” she replied. Her hands held her cup with long graceful fingers which were slightly ink-stained. “Not exactly.”
Confusion set in like a rotten tooth. He must get out of here.
He looked up from his study of her delightful digits to be confronted with eyes that blazed with an impatient intensity.
It set his pulse racing in a way he hadn’t experienced in quite a while—not since he had been back in England at any rate.
Her eyes still bored holes in him. He must look like Swiss cheese by now.
“Perhaps you wanted to see the Black Raven for yourself?” Her voice remained even and calm though she probably wanted nothing better than to put those ink-stained fingers around his neck.
This barely concealed dislike was novel, and because of who she was he couldn’t dismiss it. It made him itch with anticipation.
“Let me put you out of your misery,” the countess said. She stood up and walked over to the fireplace, where she promptly picked up a fire poker, weighing it in her hands.
Oliver looked at the poker and nearly laughed out loud. Surely not! He had been threatened by much worse and survived.
“How much are you getting?” she asked.
“Pardon?” His eyes were riveted to her hands, studying the way her fingers curled around the shaft of the wrought-iron poker. Damn me.
“How much are you getting from your little bet?” she asked; the fire poker tapped against her black skirt in a steady rhythm.
“Wager,” he corrected, before he mentally smacked himself. Oh, yes, that was very well done, you foxed fool.
She inclined her head. “I stand corrected.”
He watched as the fire poker changed hands. He could take her if he needed to, he decided. She was only a slip of a woman, after all. He’d feint to the right, catch her wrist and kiss her witless. Oh, yes, good plan.
“Lady Blackhurst, this is not necessary. I really should go. I am disgracefully intoxicated and shall remove myself immediately.”
He was up in a wobbly flash, but his legs refused to move any further.
His eyes never left the fire poker, which she now raised and poked at the coals in the grate with exaggerated stabbing motions.
He could not see her face but imagined she was scowling fit to make spring birds drop stone-cold-dead from their branches.
He smiled at the thought. It was an involuntary reaction, surely, to the ludicrousness of this situation.
She spun to face him, fire poker drawn level with his heart. “Do sit down, Bellamy.”
This time he did laugh. He was in no doubt he could overpower her before she did much harm with that mere stick in her hand—as pointy and well-crafted as it seemed.
“I believe you owe me an answer, Lord Bellamy.” She moved towards him brandishing the poker like a rapier. He couldn’t believe his bloodshot eyes. He laughed louder. He nearly told her to keep the tip up, until he saw where her target was and it was no longer his heart. He stopped laughing.
“Two hundred pounds,” he confessed with a slow smile, for there was no longer any reason to conceal his true mission here.
Confounded woman had him at a disadvantage though.
If only Henry had not been such a blasted fool, leaving him with more debt than he knew how to handle, a doddery old aunt, and two entailed estates full of dependents. Oh, and no money.
He saw her glance at the mantel and realized his time was up. Should he start praying now or…? He wanted to laugh again. If only the Frenchies could see him now. Undone by a handsome widow and a fire poker.
Her gaze left the clock and seemed to focus on his cravat. “I fail to see what is so amusing to you, Lord Bellamy. I can only assume you know of my reputation. Why else would you be here? Ah, yes, the money. Two hundred pounds, was it? How would you like to earn a lot more?”
This was a twist he had not expected. “Excuse me?”
She glided over to him and pointed the poker at his vitals.
“Let me explain it for you. These little wagers have been happening for quite some time, Lord Bellamy. You see, you are not the first man to sit on my steps and demand entrance. Some have even tried to break in. I find this whole business very childish and most annoying. Can you understand my frustration, Lord Bellamy?” The poker came very close to his pride.
“Yes, most annoying,” he replied, his eyes riveted on the poker. She had no idea how easily he could turn this scenario on its, or in this case, her derrière. He was too intrigued, however, by her suggestion to bother demonstrating just now.
“However, if you will assist me, Bellamy, I think you will be more than happy with the arrangement I am proposing.” She stared at him coolly.
“Arrangement?” The fire poker remained hovering above his most important asset.
“Yes. I find I require an escort. You see, I presume there are a number of… outstanding wagers concerning my reputation as the Black Raven, and I will allow you to collect them on the condition you but play the gentlemanly escort.” She took the poker away from his crotch. “Are we in agreement?”
He took a deep breath. He hadn’t realized he’d been holding it. This annoyed him more than her gall to try and threaten him. “And where would I be escorting you, madam?”
“To the theater, the opera, some balls, soirees, and the like.” She turned as if dismissing him as a danger to her.
“And for how long would I need to be your escort?”
“Until the end of the London season,” she announced.
This was certainly not what he had expected, but then he had anticipated some old hag with a black bird on her shoulder.
“And I get to collect all the wagers?” he asked, contemplating the vast amount of money that could become available to him, with little or no effort.
It would give him the perfect cover. So far, he had been able to hide his desperate financial situation from not only the ton but the creditors as well and he wanted to keep it that way.
The occasional wager and gambling win had kept him from having to fight off creditors at his door, but every day his situation became more desperate.
“Within reason, of course,” she replied placing the fire poker softly back in its stand.
“Of course.” He couldn’t help the slight lift of his lips. “That is very generous of you, Countess,” he said.
He watched her put a long finger to her chin in a thoughtful pose. “Is it? I suppose there are a great many wagers.” she remarked in a dismissive gesture.
It was all too evident to Oliver the countess was indeed deeply bothered by these wagers. There was something about her eyes, but in his state his perception could hardly be relied upon.
“There may be a few,” he lied. In actual fact he had no idea how many there were. There could be hundreds for all he knew, but the prospect of being able to claim them was immense.
“Can I depend on you, Lord Bellamy?” Her voice was strained, and she kept looking at the clock on the mantel as though if it were to chime midnight she would turn back into a pumpkin or perhaps… a black raven?
“Yes, of course,” he answered. If there was one thing he knew it was duty. Duty to his family name, his inheritance, his King and his country, and now, it seemed, to the Black Raven for whatever it may be worth.
“Then we are agreed? Good. You may go.” She dismissed him with a wave of her hand. “I shall send a messenger in the morning with our first appointments. Good night, Lord Bellamy.”
She looked once more at the mantel clock, collected a little book off the desk, and left him.
Oliver looked around him. Not feeling at all well.
Out in the hall her butler was waiting for him with his hat and his gloves. Oliver blinked. The old man was nearly smiling.
“Did that just happen?” he asked the butler as they made their way back to the front door.
“Yes, I believe it did, my lord,” was the butler’s only reply.