Lord Hildebrand looked anxious. “You ought to go inside, Mrs. Alastair. Those horses don’t look safe.”
The viscount was holding them now, his broad shoulders taut against his coat. He had calmed the horses considerably.
“Well I am going in,” Lady Henrietta Caldicott announced. “This has upset me very much.” She glanced at Maggie and sniffed. “Look at that urchin child. What is she doing there? They should not allow them into this part of Mayfair.”
She is the Honorable Miss Maggie Finley, Alexandra suddenly itched to say. And her viscount father just heard you insult her.
Instead, she beckoned to Jeffrey. “Jeffrey, show Lady Henrietta into the reception room and bring more refreshment.”
Jeffrey, looking disappointed that he could not remain and ogle the wreckage, bowed haphazardly and pushed himself into the house. Lord Hildebrand drifted after them.
“Is that Viscount Stoke?” the duke asked, shading his eyes.
The viscount relinquished reins to the carriage’s white-faced coachman. The coachman looked the horses over anxiously, his scarlet coat smeared with mud and horse droppings. The viscount raised his hand to acknowledge the duke.
The bespectacled gentleman who had stopped to help was moving toward Alexandra and the duke. The duke, not noticing, went to greet the viscount.
What happened next, Alexandra ever after remembered in slow motion. The viscount caught sight of the bespectacled man. A curious look came over his face, a beat of recognition that almost instantly dissolved into pure rage. Maggie, on top of the coach, stared at the bespectacled man in sudden astonishment. “Mr. Henderson!” she called.
The bespectacled gentleman did not answer her. He stepped up to Alexandra. He had a strong face, clear gray eyes, and white-blond hair. His subdued suit made him look rather like a curate or vicar. He was handsome enough that were he a vicar, young ladies would go to chapel simply to stare at him. Their parents would be amazed at their religious fervor.
“Mrs. Alastair?” he asked in a polite voice.
It was not proper for a strange gentleman to simply approach a lady, but perhaps the distress of the accident had made him forget his manners. “Yes?”
“Thank you,” he said.
Before she could ask, for what, sir?, he grabbed a handful of her hair, wrenched her head back, and kissed her hard across the mouth.
Chapter Five
Alexandra struggled. The young man’s hand in her hair twisted pain through her scalp. His mouth was brutal and unyielding. This was nothing like the viscount’s kisses of the night before. He’d been bruising, yes, but also teasing and playful. This man exuded anger and cared nothing for her struggling beneath him.
With a suddenness that sent her stumbling, he broke the kiss.
The duke was hurrying toward them, his eyes wide with shock. From the vestibule, she heard Lord Hildebrand’s voice. “Here, you—”
The viscount strode toward them, his face thunderous. The bespectacled man saw him coming, his eyes widening. He whirled and managed to run a few steps before the viscount’s large hand landed on his shoulder and spun him around. The bespectacled man’s alarmed look faded.
His lips twisted into a wry smile just before the viscount balled up his huge fist and punched him full in the face.
Grayson strode down Bond Street, Lieutenant Jacobs at his side, bound for Piccadilly and the Majestic Hotel. Anger poured from him in waves. He was surprised it did not wash everyone away down Bond Street.
Henderson had fled in his phaeton, but Grayson had been far too furious to wait for a horse or carriage to be prepared. He had fetched Jacobs and departed on foot in pursuit, knowing where Henderson would go.
Oliver had bandaged up Jacobs’s side the night before, and though Jacobs had moaned a bit, he would live. The cut had not been deep. Mrs. Alastair’s cook had proved competent in helping Oliver stitch and bandage, and Oliver had been pleased to have the help of such a willing nurse. Not that he said as much—he never would—but he had worn the faintest of smiles.
All of Mrs. Alastair’s servants seemed to have seeped into Grayson’s house. The lad Jeffrey had taken one look at Jacobs’ wound and toppled full-length to the uncarpeted dining room floor. The twin maids, Annie and Amy—at first Grayson had thought he was seeing double—had come running in with a watchman who looked as if he were still in school. Grayson had dismissed the lad. It was hardly fair to send a young and smoothfaced boy after James Ardmore. A prim-faced lady’s maid, who said her name was Alice, came after that to fetch the other servants home.
Grayson’s rage boiled hotter. He knew damned well who had sent Henderson to perform his little trick this afternoon. He ground his teeth and wished for the cold steel of a cutlass and a pistol in his belt. But this was modern London, and the Majestic Hotel might object to having a lieutenant sliced in half on its drawing room carpet.
But James Ardmore and his band must not be allowed near that beautiful, beautiful woman. She was not a dockside whore or an upper-class courtesan used to dealing with two captains whose exploits had become legendary. She knew nothing about legends. She was a lady, a true lady—one with spun-silk hair and brown-green eyes clear as watercolor. She would be crushed by Ardmore’s games.
God certainly must have a sense of humor. When Grayson had had nothing to live for, he’d all the time in the world. Six months before, his life had stretched, bleak and empty, before him. And then he had discovered the existence of Maggie, the daughter he hadn’t known he’d had. And now, now, he had found the enchanting and heart-stoppingly beautiful Mrs. Alastair, right next door. A lady who tasted like cool wine on a hot summer day. Who looked at him with eyes he could drown in.
Maggie had begun nudging to life the man buried deep inside the notorious Captain Grayson Finley, terror of the Caribbean, scourge of the Pacific. Mrs. Alastair might just reach in and pull that man out kicking and screaming. But now, more than ever, Grayson had to keep that man buried.
The Majestic was a fine Georgian building standing on Piccadilly across from the entrance to St. James’s Street. Once a ducal mansion, it had been converted by a butler into an elegant and expensive hotel. Which fit Henderson. The man kept reams of clothes made by the best Bond Street tailors. No Caribbean or Asian needle worker touched his suits; if he tore one, he laid it aside until he had chance to reach England again. Since James Ardmore was a wanted man in Britain, mostly because of his habit of boarding English naval vessels and releasing American press-ganged sailors, Henderson did not see his native England very often.
Even at sea, Henderson tried to keep his hands soft and his manicure perfect. He had finished with honors at Oxford and taken clerical orders, but had gone to sea, disgruntled, because the living he’d expected had been given to someone else. British naval life apparently had not suited him either, because he’d turned up as part of Ardmore’s band several years ago.
Jacobs, who had completed Eton and Oxford and came from a lineage as gentle-born as Grayson’s own, was nowhere near the snob that Henderson was. Or pretended to be. Grayson had seen glimpses of the steely mind beneath the Henderson who fussed about his perfectly tied cravat. Ardmore put up with him because Henderson was, in fact, a damned good lieutenant.
The man proved to be in the deserted ground-floor sitting room in a wing chair, absorbed in a newspaper. His mouth sported a blackening bruise, which was probably why he’d chosen to repose in a dim corner of an empty room.
Mrs. Alastair also had a bruise on her mouth, Grayson had seen, just to the right of her lower lip. Henderson’s mark. She had faintly pressed her handkerchief to it, as if trying to erase it, as the Duke of St. Clair had led her back into the house. Maggie had been very confused by it all. She’d asked in an anxious voice as she’d leapt from the carriage, “Papa, why did Mr. Henderson do that?”
That was what Grayson had come to find out. Mrs. Alastair’s guests had hovered around when the duke had taken her back to the reception room to recover. Grayso
n hadn’t liked the look Lord Hildebrand Caldicott had given her, as if he’d envied Henderson his chance. Grayson hadn’t been able to get near Mrs. Alastair himself, not to touch her, or take her hand, or tell her dramatically, “I will avenge you.”
“Henderson,” he said softly.
The newspaper flew up into the air. Henderson leapt from the chair and came to rest on his feet, his eyes wild. He stared at the two men for a frozen moment, then swiftly put the chair between himself and them. “Finley—”
Grayson approached. Henderson lifted his hands. “Finley,” he babbled. “You’ve already hit me once. Ruined my face. See? I had planned to visit a stable of high-flyers tonight, but now that is all a wash.”
“Why?” Jacobs asked. “They’ll fuss over you.”
Henderson brightened. “Do you think so?”
“Henderson,” Grayson said.
Just the one word had magical effect. Henderson paled. “Finley, I swear to you, it was not my idea.”
“Oh, I know whose idea it was.” His voice remained soft—in a deadly sort of way. “What I want to know is why.”
Henderson wet his lips, wincing when he touched a bruise. “Captain Ardmore saw her enter your house last night.”
“After he went on his wild rampage?” Jacobs interrupted. “I remember him swearing not to kill us.”
“Well, he did not kill you, did he?” Henderson raised his hands again. “And I had nothing to with that raid. I didn’t know a blessed thing about it until O’Malley told me this morning.”
“Is O’Malley here?” Jacobs asked, looking around as if the small man would come popping out of the woodwork.
Henderson snorted. “O’Malley, here? Do you really think they’d let a dingy little Irishman in this place?”
“I’ll tell the dingy little Irishman you remembered him to me,” Grayson said dryly. “Go on with your explanation.”
Henderson folded his arms, a self-protective gesture. “Ardmore wondered what she meant to you. And O’Malley speculated that if another gentleman kissed her within your sight, we’d know soon enough.”
“I see.” Grayson still kept his voice quiet, amazed at his own self-control when he really wanted to twist Henderson in half. “You volunteered?”
Henderson let a wry smile touch his lips. “Not so much volunteered as was pressed into service. But I swear to you, my oath on it, that I had no idea she was a—a lady.”
Grayson let his voice grow icy. “Have a care, Henderson. What did you think she was?”
Henderson shrugged nervously. “Well, you know—a merry widow. Or a high-flyer. She ran to you, didn’t she? What other kind of woman would?”
Grayson kept a rein on his temper, but he felt his control leaking away. In a moment, he’d leap on Henderson and let the Majestic live with having to scrape lieutenant out of the carpet. “She was saving my life, as a matter of fact.”
Henderson nervously adjusted his spectacles. “I promise you, I had no idea until I was right next to her. Until I—” He broke off. “And then I realized that Ardmore had made a grave mistake.” He hesitated, his eyes concerned. “Is she all right?”
“What the hell do you think?”
Henderson eyed him uncertainly. Grayson was uncertain himself where his anger came from. Not just anger, but raw, consuming rage. She was not his. She was a lady, one who had never learned to kiss. Her soft, innocent lips had fluttered against his, curious, unpracticed. And yet, she’d been married. Her husband must have been a first-rate idiot.
“Know this, Henderson. If you touch her again—if anyone touches her again—I will consider myself free to avenge her honor. On anyone who dares go near her. Tell Ardmore that this includes him. Do you understand?”
Henderson’s face was paper white. “Oh, I understand. I cannot guarantee anything about my captain.”
Grayson’s rage churned. He wanted to slam Henderson to the ground and stamp up and down on him. Rip his suit to ribbons and grind his boot heel into that pristine cravat. All for kissing the pretty lady next door who had looked at him in amazement when he’d suggested she sleep without clothes.
She had done it. He’d seen that in her rosy blush when he’d regarded her in her drawing room. She’d been surrounded by middle-aged ladies watching him with bright birdlike eyes, but he had seen only her. She had slept bare for him, and it had embarrassed her. And excited her.
Which excited him. Damn Henderson. His action had made Grayson realize just what would happen if he followed up on his impulses to make her his. Ardmore would think her fair game. Thus complicating the already complicated mess that was Grayson’s life.
Murdering Henderson might make him feel better, but Grayson was not foolish enough to think that Ardmore would not retaliate. Jacobs for Henderson, Oliver for O’Malley, perhaps. The vendetta would never end. And Grayson knew that Henderson was a only pawn in Ardmore’s games, as were O’Malley, Maggie, and even Grayson himself.
Containing his murderous impulses, he gave Jacobs a nod, turned his back, and started to go.
Henderson’s parting shot followed them. “I think you know, Finley, that you’ve just told me everything Ardmore hoped to learn.”
The callers had gone several hours before. Alexandra retreated to her first-floor sitting room, her emotions jumbled. She was to have attended the theatre with Lady Featherstone that evening, but she had begged off before the lady departed. Lady Featherstone offered to stay, but Alexandra had sent her anxious friend away. Alice would bring her a cup of tea, she said, and all would be well.
Alice had brought a cup of tea, one liberally laced with brandy. Alexandra now decided she should not have drunk any. Her head felt light and spun slightly. She stared accusingly at the half-full cup near her elbow at the writing table. Her thoughts whirled and leapt, settling on nothing. She reran the string of events several times, seeing again the bespectacled man reaching for her, the viscount’s thunderous look, and Maggie’s startled cry, “Mr. Henderson?”
Who was the man and why had he decided to kiss her—like that—in the street, in front of the world? It had brought mixed reactions from her guests. Lady Featherstone and Mrs. Waters had been horrified and sympathetic. Mrs. Tetley, on the other hand, had looked annoyed that a handsome young gentleman hadn’t rudely kissed her on the street. And Lady Henrietta Caldicott tossed her head and humphed and seemed very put out, as if Alexandra had created the entire scene, from the accident to the kiss, on purpose to irritate her.
As for the gentleman—She pressed her hands to her eyes. The duke had been kindness itself.
Alexandra raised her head and drew her list from the writing table’s drawer. The duke was the first listed. His father had been an old family friend, and he was the first Alexandra had thought of when the words “suitable second husband” had entered her head. The duke was near to thirty. He had been married young, and his wife and one daughter had sadly passed away about five years previously. His younger brother, a naval man, had died at sea just last year, and the duke was now making noises that he needed to produce an heir. Of course, mamas lined up their daughters instantly, but the duke was being careful to choose.
He had been solicitous this afternoon and she’d seen genuine concern in his eyes. Lord Hildebrand, on the other hand, had looked at her most curiously. His polite veneer had thinned, and she’d seen his gaze fix firmly on her lips and the slight mark the bespectacled gentleman had left. Once or twice, she caught him drawing his tongue across his lips. She hadn’t liked that.
She drew out a pen, sharpened its nib, opened her ink pot and dipped the pen into the black liquid. Cross Lord Hildebrand off? She hesitated. His odd glances may have meant nothing. She supposed she should discuss it with Lady Featherstone first.
Each gentleman had symbols beside his name in a code only known to her and Lady Featherstone, denoting the answers to particular questions. She entered a tiny hyphen next to Lord Hildebrand’s name, the sign that meant the candidate had displayed a slight d
eficiency.
Now for the question of Lord Stoke. She had promised Lady Featherstone, before that lady had departed, to list him. He was very unlike the others, and few people in London knew anything about him. Which meant she and Lady Featherstone must double their efforts to discover what they could about him. Although she would decidedly not report to Mrs. Waters and Mrs. Tetley.
She let the pen trace the shape of his name, the long curve of the S, the sharp points of the k, the languid roundness of the e. She sat still and looked at the name. The stark word did not fit him well. His other name, Grayson Finley, suited him better. She wrote that next to his title. Her hand trembled a little and she moved it before a blot of ink could mar the page.
She closed her eyes and remembered herself returning to her room the night before. She had stood a long time next to her bed, thinking of his command that she sleep without her clothes. The Alexandra Alastair she knew would never do such a thing. But the Alexandra Alastair she knew would not willingly accept the kisses of a pirate.
She must have stood still for nearly thirty minutes. Alice had long since left her and returned to her own bed. The candles were beginning to gutter. And then, slowly, Alexandra had removed her dressing gown. She’d opened her nightdress, one hook at a time, and slid the cloth, warm from her body, down her legs to the floor. She’d stood a moment longer, letting the summer-night air touch her bare skin, and then she’d climbed slowly into her waiting bed.
She remembered still the cool touch of the sheets on her shoulders and calves and belly. The points of her breasts had tightened, tingling as her breath moved them against the sheets. She had pressed the heel of her hand to the hot, aching place at the join of her thighs, trying to suppress the sensations that lingered there. But she had thought only of his palm there, and her hand had come away wet.
The dreams she’d had once she’d finally fallen asleep made her face hot even now. She thought again of herself lying in the bed, her bare hips nestled into the mattress.