Notorious

She opened her reticule and took out a rather squashed pastry cake that she had purloined from the refreshment room at the ball. Her bag was full of crumbs. She had ruined more reticules this way than any other. She took a bite and felt instantly comforted as the sweet pastry melted on her tongue. Eating had always made her feel better whether she was hungry or not. She tended to eat as much as she could whenever food was laid out before her, a legacy of the time when she had not known where her next square meal would come from. It was surprising that she had not split her sensuous silver silk gown as a result.

Despite her attempts to push the past away, the memories rippled through her again: Dev holding her hand before the altar as the minister intoned the solemn words of the marriage service, Dev smiling at her as she stumbled a little over her vows in shyness and fear, even then expecting the church door to slam open and her uncle to march in to reclaim her. Dev’s touch had been reassuring and the warmth in his eyes had steadied her. She had felt loved and wanted for the first time in many long cold years.

For a second she was shot through with regret so sharp and poignant that it made her gasp. First love had been very sweet and innocent.

First love had been hopelessly naive.

Susanna turned her shoulder against the rich velvet cushions of the carriage and let the memories slip from her like sand running through the fingers. It was stupid and pointless to have regrets or to dwell on the past. What she had had with James Devlin had been a girl’s fantasy. Now he had nothing but contempt for her. And soon, if she were successful in her plan to take Fitz away from Francesca, Dev would hate her even more.

CHAPTER FOUR

THE HACKNEY CARRIAGE put Miss Francesca Devlin down in front of a set of anonymous rooms in Hemming Row. She stood on the cobbles feeling a little drunk with a mixture of guilt, fear and a giddy excitement that was making her head spin. This was a part of town she had visited for the first time only two weeks ago. It was an unfashionable quarter where she knew no one and no one knew her; that, she had been told, was the beauty of the place. Her reputation was quite safe. No one would ever know what she had done.

After her first visit she had promised herself that it was just the once and it would never happen again. She had gone through the motions of her daily life exactly as she had done before. Nothing was different. Yet everything was different.

The second summons had come this very night, at the Duke and Duchess of Alton’s ball. Chessie had tucked the note into her reticule, hidden it beneath a white embroidered handkerchief and had spent the rest of the evening in an agony of impatience mixed with anticipation. She had known from the moment she unfolded the note that she would go. Like her brother she had inherited a streak of recklessness, a need to gamble, and this was the greatest game of her life. If she won she would secure everything that she had ever desired. If she lost … But she did not want to think about losing. Not tonight.

Gambling was in Chessie’s blood. Her childhood had been stalked by poverty, the furniture pawned to pay her father’s debts and no food on the table. Those moments had been interspersed with rare occasions when they had been so rich it seemed to Chessie that she could not quite believe the grandeur of it all. On one occasion her father had won so much that they had ridden around Dublin in a golden carriage pulled by two white horses like something from a fairy tale. That day she had eaten so much she had thought she would burst. She had gone to sleep between silken sheets and in the morning she had woken and the carriage and horses had gone and her mother was crying, and within a week the silken sheets had gone, too, and they were back to coarse blankets. And then when she was six, her father had died.

Through it all there had been Devlin, four years older than she, tough, protective, grown harder than any child should have to be, determined to defend her and his mother, too, no matter the cost. Chessie knew Dev had worked for them, had very probably begged, borrowed and stolen for them, too. It was Dev who, after their mother died, had gone to their cousin Alex Grant and made him take responsibility for them. The experience had bound them as close as a brother and sister could be. They had had no secrets—until now.

Chessie paused on the doorstep and almost ran back to the house in Bedford Street where Alex and Joanna thought that she was safely in her bed, back to the world she knew. Except that it was too late, for she had already taken the steps that would leave that world behind. She had done things that a fortnight ago she would not have dreamed of—gone out unchaperoned at night, traveled alone in a hackney carriage, things that other people did all the time but which were forbidden to a young girl of unimpeachable reputation. She smothered a laugh that had a wild edge to it. Young girls did not indulge in games of chance with a gentleman. Nor did they pay with their bodies when they lost.

The door opened silently to her knock and then he was drawing her into the candlelit room where the gaming table was already set up and the cards waiting. Chessie thought about winning and felt a rush of excitement that lit her blood like fire. Then she thought about losing and shivered with a different sort of excitement. He was kissing her already, with a passion that stoked her desires and soothed her fears. This could not be wrong because it felt right. Her gamble was not really on the cards but on love, and surely love conquered all. He released her; smiled.

“SHALL WE PLAY?” he said. “This is no place for a lady.” Susanna jumped and almost hit her head on the wooden rail of the stall. She had been kneeling in the straw to examine the horse that Fitz had picked out for her at the latest Tattersalls’ sale. Even at a distance she had known it was a poor choice. It looked beautiful with a shiny bay coat and bright eyes but its chest was a fraction too narrow and its legs just a little too short. Naturally she had not told Fitz any of those things. She had congratulated him on his judgment and had watched him preen.

Only a moment before, Susanna had been congratulating herself, too, silently applauding how well her plans were progressing. It had taken her four days only to gain Fitz’s undivided attention to the point that he was now probably prepared to buy her a horse never mind simply recommend one to her. He had already tried to buy her emeralds but Susanna knew exactly what he would expect in return for those and had refused them, prettily, regretfully but very finally. She had played the virtuous widow to perfection. Becoming Fitz’s mistress was definitely not part of the plan.

Instead she had treated Fitz as a friend, deferred to his opinion, leaned on his advice and flattered his judgment. He had helped her to buy a carriage and now a riding horse. They were using his parents’ money, but of course he was unaware of that. Susanna could see how much the role of confidant confused Fitz—he was not accustomed to viewing beautiful women in a capacity of friendship, not unless they had occupied his bed first. He was puzzled, bewildered and intrigued, which was exactly as Susanna wanted him to be. His parents were delighted to see their son so thoroughly distracted from his courtship of Francesca Devlin, which made them generous. All had been set fair, but she might have known that Dev would reappear to put a spoke in her wheel.

Susanna sat back on her heels. There was a pair of very elegant riding boots now in her line of vision, radiant with a champagne polish. Above those were muscular thighs encased in skintight pantaloons, and above that she dared not look. How tiresome to be kneeling in the Tattersalls’ straw at the feet of James Devlin.

“Mr. Tattersall welcomes ladies to his auctions,” she said, raising her gaze to meet Dev’s and trying to keep her eyes firmly focused on his face even though it gave her a crick in the neck to do so.

“The only females welcome here are the ones whose pedigrees are better than those of the horses,” Dev said. “Which rules you out, Lady Carew.”

He made no move to help her to her feet. Susanna was acutely aware of the prickling discomfort of the straw through the velvet skirts of her riding habit and the strong scent of horse that surrounded them. God forbid that the bay gelding would choose this moment to relieve itself.

For a second she thought she would be obliged to scramble up of her own accord, flushed, undignified and covered in hay, but then Dev leaned down and grabbed her arm, pulling her to her feet with rather more strength than finesse. The maneuver brought her into his arms for one brief moment and the scent of leather and cedar soap and fresh air on his skin overlaid that of horse and set Susanna’s senses awry. She could feel the hard muscle of his arm beneath the smooth blue superfine of his coat. He felt like a man whose body was in prime physical condition. Evidently waiting on Lady Emma must be more physically punishing than she had imagined.

Susanna experienced the oddest sensation, as though the layers of clothes between them had melted away and she was touching Dev’s bare flesh, warm and smooth under her fingers. Never had she been so acutely aware of a man and so swiftly, her defenses shattered by simple proximity. Her cheeks flaming, she freed herself hastily from Dev’s grip and saw him smile, that wicked, sardonic smile she remembered.

“Feeling the heat, Lady Carew?”

“Suffering as a result of your discourtesy,” Susanna snapped.

He raised a brow. “There was a time when you did not object to being held in my arms.” He straightened, driving his hands into the pockets of his coat. “But of course, I forgot—that was for educational purposes only, was it not?” His voice was heavily laced with irony. “That horse has a chest that’s too narrow and legs that are too short,” he added, running an eye over the bay in the box.

“I know,” Susanna said crossly. She dusted the palms of her gloves slightly self-consciously and started to pick the straw off her velvet riding skirts. “I suppose you are an expert on horseflesh?”

“Not particularly.” Dev’s admission surprised her. “Not all the Irish grow up in the country, able to whisper horses from birth.” His expression darkened. “I grew up on the streets of Dublin. The only horses there were drays and sad creatures pulling rich men’s carriages.”

Their eyes met and the breath caught in Susanna’s throat. Her heart skipped a beat, two. She thought how odd it was that life could still trick her after all she had experienced, that it could trip her up unexpectedly like a false step in the dark. She remembered being seventeen, lying in the summer grass with the stars whirling overhead and Dev turning away her questions about his childhood with light answers. She had not known anything about his early life other than that it had been poverty-stricken like her own. They had not talked much about anything, she thought now, with a sharp stab of regret. They had laughed together and had kissed with sweet urgency. They had both been so eager and so young.

“You never told me much about your childhood,” she said, and regretted the words as soon as they were out of her mouth.

Dev’s expression hardened into coldness. “That hardly matters now.”

Susanna winced at the rebuff and the sharp reminder that none of Dev’s life was any of her business now. He and Francesca had climbed high, she thought. She had known that Dev’s parents were impoverished gentry; for him to be betrothed to the daughter of an earl and for Chessie to aspire to marry a duke’s heir was fortune hunting of the highest order. Except that Chessie would not now be Duchess of Alton. It was her job to make sure of that.

Susanna felt a wayward pang of sympathy for Miss Francesca Devlin. Normally she was able to console herself that her assignments were better off separated from the object of their desire. The gentlemen she was engaged to lead astray were so often libertines or wastrels or simply weak-willed and unworthy. And it was true that she had no great opinion of Fitz, who seemed to embody all the vices of his class and none of the virtues: arrogance, self-centeredness and profligacy in just about everything. But even so, even if Francesca could do so much better than Fitz, Susanna admired her enterprise in trying to catch the heir to a dukedom. In some ways Francesca was an adventuress just as she was and it was a pity to ruin her chances.

Awkwardness hung in the air. Dev, whilst showing no desire to converse with her, also showed no inclination to leave. Across the yard Fitz was deep in conversation with Freddie Walters as they admired a glossy black hunter.

“Your sister does not accompany you today?” Susanna asked politely, slipping out of the stall.

Dev shook his head. “Francesca is shopping in Bond Street with our cousin Lady Grant. Some last-minute purchases for a ball tomorrow, I believe.”

“Lady Grant?” Susanna said. She could hear the odd note in her own voice and feel the sudden dryness in her throat.

Dev had heard her tone, too. He gave her a sharp look. “My cousin Alex remarried a couple of years ago,” he said. He paused. “You lived on Alex’s Scottish estate—presumably you knew he had lost his first wife?”

“No,” Susanna said. She could hear a rushing sound in her ears. For a second the sunlight seemed too bright and too hot, dazzling her. So Amelia Grant had died. Amelia, who had befriended her, advised her and ultimately ruined her future. But it was futile to blame Amelia for her own lack of courage. Lady Grant had merely played on fears that were already in her own mind. She had exploited Susanna’s youth and her weakness, that was true, but Susanna knew that the ultimate responsibility for running away from Devlin was hers and hers alone.

“I thought your aunt and uncle might have kept you informed of news from Balvenie,” Dev said.

“My aunt and uncle died a long time ago,” Susanna said.

Dev’s lips twisted. “Am I supposed to believe that, or will they resurrect as swiftly as you have?”

Susanna ignored him and turned away, stroking the silky neck of the gelding. “You have a sweet nature,” she said to the horse, “but I don’t think you would make a good mount.” The horse whickered softly, pressing its velvet nose into her gloved hand.

“Too lazy,” Dev concurred. “I suppose Fitz picked the horse out for you.” His gaze came to rest on her, bright and mocking. “He never sees beyond the obvious. For him it is all about show and he has as poor taste in horses as he has poor judgment of women.” He smiled. “Are you going to flatter him to the extent of paying good money for a bad horse?”

“Of course not,” Susanna said. Dev’s words had stung, as they had been meant to do. She could see the dislike in his eyes, chill and unyielding. Nothing could have made it clearer to her that it was far too late for regrets and far too late to go back. Dev believed her to be conniving and duplicitous, which was no great surprise since she had made sure he would believe it by spinning him a pack of lies.

For a moment she wanted to cry out to him that it had not been her fault, to take back all the things she had said three nights ago at the ball and pour out the truth. The strength of her impulse shook her deeply. But she could not do it. Whatever had been between them was dead and gone anyway and now she had a job to do, the only thing that stood between her and penury. She had not fought every inch of the way to save herself and the twins in order to throw it all away now. The thought of losing all she had worked for terrified her. Their lives were on a knife-edge as it was.

Nevertheless her heart shriveled, cold and tight, to see the contempt in Dev’s eyes. The only defense she had was to pretend he did not have the power to hurt her anymore.

“You have read the fortune-hunter’s rulebook, too,” she taunted. “You know full well I shall thank Fitz for choosing me such a fine beast and compliment him on his discernment whilst pleading my privilege as a female to change my mind and hold on to my money. My choice,” she added, “would be that mare over there.” She pointed to a spirited chestnut that was being shown around the ring.

“You have a good eye for quality.” Somehow Dev managed to make even that compliment sound like an insult. “Mares can be a handful,” he added, his gaze dwelling thoughtfully on her face. “But perhaps you are looking to ride something more exciting than a steady gelding this time?”

His meaning was crystal clear beneath the thin veneer of civility. Susanna’s gaze clashed with his and she saw the challenge in his eyes.

“I prefer a horse with spirit and attitude,” she said. “Whereas you—” she tilted her head thoughtfully, eyes narrowed on him “—would probably pick something as unsubtle as that stallion simply as a fashion accessory. All muscles and no brain.”