Raven's Vow

“The Duke of Montfort,” the groom said, glancing up at last to assess a man who was so ignorant as not to recognize that particular name. “The Devil Duke, they call him. Not out loud, of course,” he said, remembering his employer’s temper. The sobriquet was well earned and well deserved.

“Who is she?” the American asked, his gaze moving back to the street down which the girl had disappeared.

“The Devil’s Daughter,” Jem said, noticing for the first time the style of the foreign gentleman’s hair. The groom’s eyebrows climbed slightly, but it was not his place to question his betters. “Lady Catherine Montfort. The Duke of Montfort’s only heir.”

“Thank you,” Raven said, and reaching into his waistcoat pocket, he flicked a coin to the groom. The man smiled his thanks and then turned back to his careful survey of the donkey.

John Raven crossed the street and, taking the narrow stairs two at a time, retraced his path to Reynolds’s office. The old man looked up from his notations in a leatherbound ledger.

“Lady Catherine Montfort,” John Raven said, his wide shoulders filling the doorway.

“Montfort?” the banker repeated, wondering again, as he had when he’d first met the American, if he were more than merely eccentric.

“Is Lady Catherine Montfort angelic enough for our purposes?” Raven asked calmly.

The old man stared blankly for a moment, wondering how his client had come up with that name.

“Is she?” Raven prompted, knowing that the banker’s reply really didn’t matter. The die had been cast in the middle of a crowded London street, but at least Reynolds’s approval would provide an acceptable excuse.

“Catherine Montfort is bloody well the entire seraphic choir,” the old man acknowledged truthfully. He watched the smile that touched the American’s mouth again deepen the indentions at the corners. “But I’m afraid that the Montforts—”

“You said one only had to offer enough money.”

“Montfort’s one of the few men in London evenyou couldn’t buy. And I must tell you…” The banker’s voice trailed off. He really hated to offend the man, but he knew that the duke would never accept John Raven as a suitor for his daughter’s hand. His only daughter. His only surviving child and heir. Reynolds’s mind having dealt too long with the prospects of profit, he briefly allowed himself to consider those combined fortunes being handled by his bank. And why not? Was his not the oldest financial establishment in the city? The bank had financed the East India Company’s venture into the Russian market in the sixteenth century. He cleared the tempting visions from his mind and shook his head regretfully.

“He’ll never allow you to even present your suit. Forget Catherine Montfort, John. You’ll never convince her father, and I must warn you that it would be dangerous even to try. Montfort’s as proud, cold-blooded and arrogant as any of the old aristocrats. His was a generation that made its own rules—whatever they wanted, whether legal or moral, they took, consequences be damned. There’s nothing you can do to win Montfort’s daughter. You have nothing to offer the girl that she doesn’t already have.”

The blue eyes rested on the seamed face of the old man a moment, their farseeing gaze untroubled by the obstacles Reynolds had just thrown in his path.

John Raven had believed he had come to London to make money. The call had been so strong that he had left India in the middle of an incredibly successful mining venture. His intuition had directed his journey to this city as surely as it had previously drawn him to Delhi, leaving the profitable exporting business he’d founded in New York to be run by his assistants. Wherever there was money to be made, John Raven could sense it. He could feel it moving in his hands as clearly as he had felt the reality of the rubies and sapphires he’d mined in India. He thought he had been drawn to England by the growth of the mining industry and the possibilities offered by the new developments in the locomotive.

Now he knew that his arrival in London had had nothing whatsoever to do with that.What you need is a wife, Oliver Reynolds had told him, almost exactly the words his grandmother had said to him when he had last seen her more than five years ago. He wondered how many prayers had accompanied the sacred white cedar smoke directed to the AllSpirit in the intervening years. And with amusement Raven found himself wondering if, in one of her dream trances, his grandmother could possibly have envisioned anyone like Lady Catherine Montfort.

Chapter One (#ulink_5e5fdc40-ffed-50e5-9881-e590c25b590a)

“Ididn’t come out to be pawed. I came for a breath of air that wasn’t contaminated by a hundred perspiring bodies wearing too much perfume,” Catherine Montfort said, wondering why the lovemaking of this extremely handsome and highly acceptable suitor left her so cold. She moved out of the attempted embrace of her escort, who released her with a small laugh.

The Viscount Amberton watched as Catherine leaned gracefully against the stone railing of the balcony. He knew she was as unmindful of the nearly priceless material of her gown as if she had been wearing sackcloth. Of course, none of the tedious hours of beading that had gone into its creation had been performed by her hands. She propped her chin on fingers covered in the finest kid and stared out into the darkness that hid the garden.

“Admit it, Cat. You’re bored. Too many ballrooms. Too many dinner parties attended by the same people. Too many suitors declaiming their undying love. Why don’t you name the lucky man and put them all out of their misery?” the viscount suggested.

Since Amberton was well aware that he held the inside track, with the duke, certainly, if not with the daughter, he was becoming increasingly impatient with Catherine’s refusal to accept the necessity of matrimony. Especially when he considered all the diligent toadying to the old man it had taken to acquire that inside track. The viscount was not nearly so impatient as his creditors were, however. The only reason they had held both their tongues and his bills was that they, too, were well aware of how this game was played. The faintest hint that Lord Amberton needed Montfort’s money, and he’d never see a guinea of it.

“All ofthem?” she questioned mockingly, slanting a quick smile at him over her shoulder.

“All of us, then,” he conceded. “You know my heart’s yours. It always has been. You are very well aware of that fact.”

“But the problem is inmy heart,” Catherine said softly.

“Not being in love is not generally considered to be a hindrance to marriage,” he assured her. Indeed, they both knew how rare a love match was in their circle.

“I keep thinking there must be a man who won’t bore me to tears after the first month.”

“You’re such a wonderfully spoiled chit, my dear. There are worse things than boredom,” Gerald suggested lightly, knowing she wouldn’t understand just now the truth of his statement. But she would. One day soon she most certainly would. Then she might long for boredom, Gerald thought with a touch of malicious humor.

“I doubt it,” she said, but she smiled again.

“You’re eighteen, at the end of your second season. The Duke of Montfort’s only child, and he wants a grandson. He’s not going to wait much longer.”

“I know.” She’d heard the same arguments all too often, from both Amberton and her father. She had begun to be afraid the duke would brush aside the promise he’d made two years ago to consider her wishes in the selection of her husband.

There was no need to base that decision solely on the amount of the marriage settlements. And no one unsuitable by birth would be so absurd as to offer for Montfort’s only daughter, so her father had seen no reason not to give her the assurance for which she had so charmingly begged. But now he was growing impatient. Her refusal to choose was becoming a source of discord in what had always been, despite the duke’s notoriously volatile temperament, a loving relationship.

“Give in gracefully before you’re left with no choice at all,” Gerald suggested smoothly.And before I’m clapped into Newgate, he thought bitterly.

“Give in,” she repeated, with her own touch of bitterness. “Always to be at someone else’s command. Forever hemmed in by his wishes and desires. Governed by his—”

Amberton’s laugh interrupted her litany of complaints. “And you, of course, believe that you should be the exception to those restrictions, allowed to make your own decisions.”

“To a certain degree. Why not? I’ve not made so many errors in judgment that I must always be constrained to accept a husband’s guidance in every decision,” she argued.

“And if youhave made errors, your father has been remarkably willing, and certainly more than able, to extricate you from situations that were, perhaps, not in your own best interests. Such as a certain clandestine journey to the Border.”

Catherine had been only sixteen, and the fortune hunter who had arranged that elopement had been handsome and charming enough to turn older and wiser heads. However, his carefully selected target had been, almost from his arrival in London, the Duke of Montfort’s daughter.

“Don’t,” she ordered softly, her humiliation over the incident still acutely painful. “I shouldn’t have told you about that. And you promised never to repeat it.”

“Your secrets are safe with me, my dear. Especially if you agree to favor my suit,” he suggested truthfully, smiling at her. “Then I’d have a vested interest in protecting your reputation.”

“Such as it is,” she finished for him. “Blackmail, Gerald?”

“Not in the least. Simply another heartfelt avowal from quite your oldest suitor.”

“Oldest?” she repeated, laughing, relieved to be back on the familiar ground of flirtation. “You’ve forgotten Ridgecourt.”

“Then earliest, my love. I think you know that we’d rub along together very well. And I promise to permit a certain amount of freedom. Not, I’m afraid, that I’m willing to give you as long a tether as your father has allowed.”

“Tether!” she echoed despairingly. “Oh, God, Gerald, that’s just the sort of thing I’m talking about.”

“Simply a figure of speech, my dear. There’s really no need to pounce on every idiom as if I’m trying to imprison you.”

“That’s exactly how Ido imagine marriage. I’m already surrounded by enough restrictions to enclose an army. Don’t ride too fast. Don’t dance with the same gentleman more than once. It’s not seemly for unmarried females to wear that color or this style. God, I’m so sick of it all. Even my father has lately taken to issuing dark warnings about my being left languishing on the shelf, despite the fact that he’s received at least three offers in the last week.”

Eventually, the viscount knew, she would have to succumb. Everyone did. And Amberton intended to be prominently at hand, conveniently under her father’s nose and eminently suitable, when she did. But she had damn well better hurry. He had heard the wolf howling at his door too often to have any peace of mind.

“There is a solution,” Gerald reminded her.

“Marriage. To exchange one prison for another. To give another person the right to correct, criticize and chastise. Do you know, Gerald, that there are men who beat their wives if they don’t obey them in every instance? How would I know—”