Regency Scandals: High Seas To High Society / Masquerading Mistress

No, the girl must be returned post-haste to her brother; if luck held, he might as yet still be at Lord Henshaw’s soirée. She could be in and out of the Carisbrook town house without having to speak to a soul, for, damn it, she did not dare to chance any encounter with the Duke. Not dressed like this in the full light of his home.

‘Do you know my brother, Mr Kingston? He will be most eager to see that you are compensated for the time and trouble you have taken and I think really that you would like him for he is as practised at the art of fighting as you appear to be and … .’

Emerald held up her hand and was glad when the inconsequential chatter finally ground to a halt. She had to think. What was the way of things here? Would it be suspicious to merely drop the girl off at her door? She shook her head and determined that it most probably would be. She would have to play the damn charade out and escort Lady Lucinda home. If Toro drove the coach, he could leave it for the Carisbrook servants to deal with and then rejoin Azziz and her in the hackney.

A compromised solution, but it would have to do. Turning away from the gathering crowd of interested onlookers, Emerald helped the injured driver gain his footing on the carriage steps and was thankful to close the door behind the Wellingham party.

The twelve-hour candle on the library mantelpiece was almost gutted. Another night gone. Relieved, Asher unwound his cravat and threw it on the table. His jacket followed.

Shaking his head, he caught the movement of it in the mirror above his oaken armoire. His eyes were rimmed with darkness.

Darkness.

Frowning, he reached for the brandy, rolling the glass in his hand before swallowing the lot. A quick shot of guilt snaked through him, for he had promised himself yesterday that he would stop drinking alone.

Just another broken vow.

He laughed at the absurdity, though the sound held no humour, and as he settled to what brandy was left in the bottle the image of Lady Emma Seaton in his arms came to mind.

She had smelled nice. Neither perfumed nor powdered. Just clean. Strong. And she had particularly fine eyes. Turquoise, he determined, frowning as the same vague shift of memory he had felt on first seeing her returned.

She was familiar.

But how did he know her? An unusual face. And different. The mark that went through her right eyebrow and up under her fringe was strange. If he were to guess at its origin, he would have placed it as a knife wound. But how could that be? No, far more likely she had been whipped by a branch while riding or tripped perhaps in her youth and caught a sharp edge of stone. He liked the fact that she made no effort to conceal it.

The ring of the doorbell startled him and he checked his watch. Five o’clock in the morning! Surely no acquaintance of his would turn up here at this time and uninvited? Lifting a candle, he strode into the front portico to hear the quiet weeping of his sister.

‘My God. Lucy?’ He could barely believe it was her as she threw herself into his arms.

‘What the hell has happened? Why were you not in the bed you were bound for when you left the Derricks’ two hours ago?’

‘I … Stephen … met me … in a place … by the port. He said we would be married and instead …’

‘Stephen Eaton?’

‘He said that he loved me and that if I came to him after the ball tonight he would speak of his feelings. But the place he expected me to accompany him to was hardly proper and then he almost killed Burton …’

‘He what …?’ Asher made himself simmer down. Redress could come later and calmness would gain him quicker access to answers than rage. ‘How did you manage to get home?’ He was pleased when his sister did not seem to notice the pure strain of fury that threaded his words.

‘A man came with a knife and knocked Eaton out. He put us all in the coach and his driver brought us straight home. A Mr Kingston. He did not know you, for I asked, and his accent was strange.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘Just gone. He followed us back in a rented hackney and said he would not stay, even though I tried to persuade him differently. He said something of another engagement and promised to send word as to how he could be contacted.’

Asher caught the eyes of his butler and indicated that someone follow the hackney. Blackmail was often a lucrative business and he did not want to be without the facts. Everybody in this world wanted something of him and he could not contemplate this Mr Kingston to be the exception. Still, at least he had brought Lucinda home. And safe. For that alone he would always be grateful.

Gesturing to a maid hovering by the staircase, he bid her take his sister up to bed. He was glad when Lucy went quietly and the sounds of her crying subsided.

It took twenty minutes for Peters to return and the news was surprising.

‘The gentleman went to the Countess of Haversham’s town lodgings, your Grace. Got out of the hackney and sent it on before disappearing into the house. He had a key, for I tarried to see how he gained entrance. I left Gibbon there to trace his steps further should he surface again.’

‘Very good.’ Dismissing the messenger, Asher went back into his own study. Emma Seaton and the Countess of Haversham. What did he know of them?

Both niece and aunt were newcomers to London. Miriam had been here for a year and Emma merely a matter of weeks. Both had gowns that had seen better days and the look of women who dealt daily with the worry of dwindling funds, and Miriam kept neither carriage nor horses.

Would they have a boarder living with them as a way of bolstering finances? Or could Emma Seaton have a husband?

And now a further mystery. A young man who would rescue the sister of a very wealthy man and wait for neither recompense nor thanks. A mysterious Samaritan who scurried away from what certainly would have been an honourable deed. In anyone’s eyes.

Something wasn’t right and in the shadows of wrongness he could feel the vague pull of danger, for nothing made sense. Instinctively his fingers closed hard against the narrow stem of his glass and he sucked in his breath. Harnessing fury. Calculating options.

Emerald pulled the curtain back from her bedroom window on the third floor and cursed. The man was still there and she knew where he had come from.

The Duke of Carisbrook.

He had sent someone after her and she had not bothered to check. Stupid, stupid, stupid mistake, she thought, banging her hand against her sore head and roundly swearing.

She should have sent the conveyance on to some other street and then made her way home undetected. She would have done so in Jamaica, so why not here? With real chagrin she stripped off the boy’s clothes and rearranged her blankets beside the bed, glad to lay her head down, glad to close her eyes and think.

What a day. Nothing had gone easily and she did not know the next time she might be in contact with Asher Wellingham.

Close contact.

She remembered the feel of his finger across her pulse. A small touch of skin that fired her blood. The trick of memory and circumstance, she decided. After all, she had gone to sleep every night for the past five years with those velvet-brown eyes and hard-planed face etched in dream.

The same dream.

The same moment.

The same beginning.

So known now that she could recall each minute detail, even in wakefulness. The sounds, the smell, the sun in her eyes and the wind off the Middle Passage of Turks Island at her back. And a thousand yards of calico luffing in the breeze.

She shook her head hard and made herself concentrate on the sounds of London and on the way the lamp on her side table threw shadows across the ceiling. She would not think of Asher Wellingham. She would not. But desire crept in under her resolution and she flushed as a thin pain entwined itself around her stomach and delved lower.

Lower.

She thought of the bordellos that had dotted the port streets of Kingston Town and wondered. Wondered what it would be like to draw her hands through night-black hair and beneath the fine linen of his shirt. Imaginary sinew and muscle made her pulse quicken and she turned restlessly within the bedclothes, any pressure unwelcome on heated skin.

Her eyes flew open. Lord, what was she thinking? Dread and the cold rush of reality made her shiver.

Asher Wellingham.

Her enemy.

Her father’s enemy.