Third excerpt from St. Raven
Chapter 3
The new bedroom was identical to his except that the hangings were a dull blue. Her sense of the house was that it was a modest country manor -- strange for a duke. Borrowed for villainy?
He lit the single candle there. "The servants are all asleep. I'll bring you what's left of my washing water. The bed has not been aired, but it is summer."
She almost giggled at his concern about these housewifely matters. For her part, she didn't care. Sleep was creeping over her like an invader, dragging down her lids. "It will do."
"I'm next door if you require anything."
That was not housewifely. A quirk of mouth and brow gave it a naughty spice.
A rake, she remembered when alone. The Duke of St. Raven had the reputation not only of being wild, but of being a promiscuous lover. Her friend Lavinia had a brother who gossiped to her, and of course, Lavinia shared the juicy stories.
The duke held wild parties. Parties for gentlemen and whores. Apparently there were Cyprian balls, and he was a notable attendee.
When he returned with his water jug and a towel she watched his every move. But he simply put the items down and returned to the door.
Ah well, she was hardly the sort to drive men wild with lust, and anyway, as she'd thought, the last thing the duke would do would be to assault a decent woman.
He paused at the door. "My servants are discreet, but not saints. What will happen if word gets out that you stayed the night here?"
Sheer mischief made her say, "We'd have to marry?"
She saw his eyes grow wary, and felt a barrier rise between them.
"I'm sorry. I assure you, I have no wish to trap you into marriage, Your Grace. In fact, the name I gave you is false, so there is no danger."
The barrier thinned. "Wise woman. All the same, stay out of sight. I'll bring your breakfast -- giving due warning so you can dress, of course. Which reminds me..."
He left again. She waited, hugging herself against the special chill that comes in a sleepless night.
He returned and tossed a crimson and gold garment on the bed. "Sleep well, Miss Nymph. We'll talk in the morning."
The door closed, leaving her in the silent room lit only by the one, wavering candle. A key stuck out of the lock on her side of the door but she resisted the urge to turn it. A locked door wouldn't keep him out, and she was sure he wouldn't invade.
She picked up the garment -- heavy, sinuous silk. A man's robe in a rich paisley pattern. She brought it to her face and smelled sandalwood again. She thought that sandalwood would remind her of this night all her life.
Now, alone, Cressida found it impossible to simply climb into the impersonal bed. Despite weariness itching at her eyes and aching in her joints, how could sde surrender to sleep here in the rakish duke's house? She was practical, however, and prided herself on it. Thus she must sleep so that tomorrow she would have all her wits and be able to find a way to fulfill her mission.
She pulled back the covers to expose clean linen which drew her like a magnet. Perhaps sleep wasn't impossible at all.
She pulled out the hairpins that held her turban in place and lifted it off, false curls and all. The fashion was for bubbling curls around the face but she'd refused to have her long hair cut at the front. Anyway, her hair was heavy and straight and would need constant use of curling irons to achieve the look.
She dug out more pins and her coiled hair slithered down her back. She didn't have the energy to plait it for the night. She wanted only to collapse into the bed.
Then she found that she couldn't unfasten her dress no matter how she stretched and twisted. Even if she managed that, she'd never get the corset off. With a sigh, she climbed into the bed as she was. She was surely tired enough to sleep anyway.
She tried. She tossed this way and that, seeking a comfortable position, but the bones of her corset dug into her, the shoulder straps bound, and her skirts tangled and trapped around her legs.
She rolled out of the bed and writhed again to get at the hooks. Impossible. There was nothing else for it. Huffing out a breath, she stalked out of her room and into his-
He turned from his wardrobe, naked from the waist up, breeches unfastened.
She had never seen a man's body before and stared at lean muscle and visible strength. Her eyes drifted down to lock on his undone buttons....
He moved. He refastened those buttons while walking toward her. "You should pay a forfeit for that, Miss Wemworthy."
Through guilt or simple bedazzlement, Cressida didn't fight when he pulled her into his arms. Perhaps some vague notion of struggle occurred because she put her hands between them, but that only meant that they ended up pressed to his hot skin, to the muscles that moved as he lowered his head to meet her unresisting lips.
Honesty compelled her to accept that since their earlier conflicted kiss she'd been longing for this, to have those fascinatingly tempting lips playing with hers, to taste that fire with leisure to absorb it.
And absorb it she did, or was absorbed. Encircled in strong arms, flesh to flesh, mouth to mouth, heat to heat.
Melted.
Swirled softly in sandalwood into delicious oblivion.
Only taste. Only touch. Only smell.
Blindfolded now by her own closed lids....
His lips left hers. The press of his body on her hands eased.
She blinked her eyes open to find him looking at her almost blankly. "Can I hope that you are a nymph of the night after all, come to pleasure me?"
His wonderful chest was rising and falling under her hands. She could feel his pounding heart.
To her astonishment, she said, "I wish I were."
He laughed and rested his head against hers for a moment. But then he stepped back, though he kept his hands on her shoulders. "If you didn't return to carry me to heaven, sweetheart, what brought you?"
The gap between them seemed chill, but she managed a slight, apologetic smile. "I'm sorry. I'm too tired to think. But I can't get out of my dress and corset. Since you said the servants are asleep...."
"And all male." He turned her and unhooked her dress. "This is Nun's Chase, by the way," he said as he parted the gown and began on the strings of her corset.
"Nun's Chase?" she echoed, holding her dress up at the front. She couldn't believe she was here doing this!
"Built on the site of a convent back in the sixteenth century. I'm sure the Chase refers innocently enough to hunting land, but it was too suggestive to resist."
Her wanton mind was fixed on his suggestive hands pulling the laces loose bottom to top, on the general loosening of that familiar constraint around her body. She felt as if more was loosening than mere laces....
"I hold gentlemen's parties here," he said, as if discussing the weather. "I don't keep female servants in case a guest is tempted to misbehave. There you are."
She sensed him step back and turned, aware of her clothes slipping from her skin. "You're a rake." She realized too late that she really shouldn't fill her sight with him like this.
"What is a rake? I don't drink to excess, or game for disastrous stakes. I don't rape serving wenches -- or ladies, for that matter. But I enjoy women, both their company and their bodies." His eyes on her reinforced that to an alarming degree. "I have a healthy appetite for women and for their pleasure. I love to give a woman pleasure, to watch her melt... You really should go, you know."
He hadn't moved. During that extraordinary speech, he hadn't moved a muscle that she'd seen, but it was as if she could see herself through his eyes, in disorder, her long hair down her back, her gown sliding off her, clutched to her full breasts.
It was as if she could feel his hunger like the heat of a fire. She stepped back, but her foot tangled with her drooping skirt, and she stumbled.
He caught her in one arm. His other hand took possession of a breast, still covered by her loosened corset -- but not well. He was looking at it almost as if a battle roared in him.
Then he removed his hand and turned her, somehow restoring her gown to her clutch. He steered her toward his open door and through it. "Good night, sweet nymph," he said, and closed the door on her.
She staggered into her room thinking of Hamlet: "Nymph, in thy orisons be all my sins remembered."
Sins. She should indeed be praying, for both of them. Instead, as she let her dress fall and then wriggled out of her corset, she acknowledged a shard of regret that he wasn't a more sinful man and hadn't tried to seduce her.
She noticed the earrings and banknotes, but couldn't even be bothered to pick them up. Tried to seduce her! He'd only have had to sweep her to his bed and keep on doing what he'd been doing.
She clambered into the bed in her shift and pulled the covers up over herself, still trembling. She had to be grateful for his willpower, but all the same, all the same, a bit of her wept for an opportunity lost, an opportunity that was unlikely to ever come her way again.
Cressida woke to strangeness. She remembered the events of the previous evening and where she was, but that in itself was the strangeness.
The Duke of St. Raven, playing at being the highwayman Le Corbeau, had snatched her from Lord Crofton and carried her off to his scandalous house, Nun's Chase. She could never have even dreamed such a scenario.
Now he was intent on saving her from ruin and she'd given her word to stay here at least until they had breakfasted. She would keep her word, but she must complete her journey to Stokeley Manor. Everything depended on that.
Would her plan to outwit Crofton still work? It should, but if it failed she would go through with the worst -- she would become Lord Crofton's mistress for a week. But then she stiffened with dismay. Her plan depended upon a small vial of liquid in her reticule, and her bag had been left in the carriage!
She pulled the covers over her head as if that might save her. Could she get more of the emetic? If she convinced the duke to let her go on to Stokeley he might find more of it for her.
She pushed back the covers and sat, sweeping her hair off her face. Her life had become disaster after disaster, but she would not fail. She had to win.
A slit of light through the heavy curtains said it was day, and it was time for her to face it. She wriggled out of the bed and squinted around the edge of the curtains to find a pleasant garden edged by woodland. From the angle of light she guessed it was about nine or ten o'clock. She heard whistling, then a stocky man in shirt, breeches, gaiters, and boots appeared, strolling down a path with a hoe on his shoulder.
She turned back into the room, disturbed in some way by that ordinary sight. Servants. Her host had advised that she not be seen by the servants and she agreed. It hadn't seemed so terrible to go to Stokeley Manor and be seen there, especially as Lord Crofton had promised that she could wear a mask. To be seen here, however, in this ordinary house by ordinary servants, struck her as shocking.
She would stay in her room. But then she remembered that St. Raven had promised to bring breakfast himself.
She glanced in the mirror and yelped. Her rumpled calf-length shift was no cover at all, and with her hair all over the place, she looked a blowsy slut! She hunted through her hair, pulling out stray pins, then tried to use her fingers to comb it into some sort of order. Hopeless. She checked the drawers in the dressing table, but there was no brush or comb.
Somewhere in the house a clock started to chime. She froze, counting. Two. Not two o'clock, surely, so half past something.
Oh, what did it matter? She needed to be dressed!
The key. She dashed over and turned the key in the lock. Now, at least, he couldn't walk in on her before she was decent.
Walk in on....
The incident last night crashed back on her, so she sagged against the door. The sight of his body, the look in his eyes, the way he'd kissed her....
The way she'd reacted!
She sucked in a breath and blew it out again. It was as if she'd wandered into another world. Not long ago she'd woken with no greater problem than what gown to wear for morning visits, and whether to attend a fashionable ball that was bound to be a boring crush. Back in that world "shocking" meant that a man had pressed too close in a dance or tried to inveigle her apart for a mild kiss.
She pushed away from the door, concentrating on clothing. She'd left her silk dress in a puddle on the floor and when she picked it up it was as creased and crumpled as she feared. She shook it out and spread it on the bed but she knew that nothing short of an iron would restore it.
And it was the only dress she had here. That, her shift, her turban, and her corset were her sole possessions. When had she lost her shawl? It had been Norwich silk and very expensive, but that wasn't her main concern right now -- it would have been another decent layer. Her stockings and garters had been sliced and heaven knew what had happened to her shoes.
She sat beside her poor sad dress, feeling poor and sad herself, frightened in a way she hadn't been before. She'd never thought that clothes could be so important to courage, but she longed to be decently covered, even in fustian.
A servant's clothes?
But this was a house of men.
One thing was sure, at this moment she was a prisoner here. Even if she decided to break her parole, she couldn't set off to rejoin Crofton in her bare feet and shift.
She stiffened her spine and stood up. She'd do what she could, and the first thing was to make herself as decent as possible before the duke intruded.
As a start, she drew back the curtains, letting bright summer light lift the gloom. Then she set to getting dressed. She picked up her corset from the floor. Beneath, she found her earrings and Crofton's money. Money would be useful. She'd tuck it back down behind her corset in a moment.
But then she realized that she could no more tie the laces than she'd been able to untie them. She tossed it on the bed, refusing to cry. She doubtless couldn't fasten the back of her dress, either, but if she put it on, it would be something.
The robe! The robe he'd brought for her. Where was it?
Struck by his thoughtfulness, she searched and found that it had slid off the far side of the bed in the night. She put it on, the heavy silk cold against her skin for a moment, that smell of sandalwood rising to torment her. She tried to gather it around her, but the sleeves were far too long.
With a slight laugh, she set to work. First she rolled up the sleeves until they cleared her hands. Then she fastened the buttons down the front. A foot or more of the fabric trailed on the ground and when she looked in the mirror she saw a child playing in grown-up clothes. She was, however, covered. Decent.
Decent!
She'd lived twenty-one years in Matlock, a solid member of respectable Matlock society, decent from top to toe. Would she ever be decent again?
She pushed that aside. No point moping over what couldn't be changed, and anyway, if her plan worked, she and her parents would soon be back in Matlock and stolid decency. She must focus on her purpose and not let weak emotions get in her way. She sat on a chair by the empty fireplace and tried to plan a strategy to deal with the Duke of St. Raven.
He was never going to believe that she was a whore, which meant he'd refuse to take her to Stokeley Manor. Her choices, therefore, were to escape -- which needed simpler clothing, good shoes, and a map -- or to tell him the truth and gain his help.
She grimaced. Perhaps some of the truth. If she could escape this without him knowing her real name, she would.
Would he help her in her plan? She wouldn't normally think that a duke would be any use at thievery, but this was no ordinary duke. Could she spin a tale that-
A knock on the door.
She shot to her feet, clutching the robe around her.
He turned the knob. Knocked again. "Miss?"
A woman's voice!
Grabbing handfuls of silk to hold it up, Cressida hurried to the door to unlock it and peer out. She saw the blessed sight of a respectable middle-aged woman bearing a large steaming ewer.
"Good morning, miss," the woman said with an apple-cheeked smile. "I've your water here. His Grace sent for me to look after you."
Though Cressida felt that her world had taken another strange turn, it was a wonderful one. She opened the door. "Come in, please."
The woman did, bustling over to the washstand to pour water into the bowl there. She had extra towels that she hung over the rail, and from a pocket she produced a new bar of soap. "Nice flowery stuff, miss. You don't want His Grace's."
Cressida wasn't so sure of that, but it was doubtless for the best. She was touched almost to tears by this kindness. He'd thought of her predicament and sent for a maid.
She walked to the washstand unbuttoning the robe. "The duke said he kept no female servants."
"That's right, miss, and if he wants any for the nonce he'll only have us older ones. Which is as well," she said, but added with a wink, "even if it does assume that we're dead from the neck down once we're forty."
Cressida laughed, not knowing what to say to that.
The woman came over to help with the buttons. "I'm Annie Barkway, miss. I live in the village and I've one son who's a footman here and another working on the grounds. It's a grand thing to have His Grace here, miss. He's a good master even with his wild ways."
The woman stripped off the robe and began to lather a cloth. A delightful perfume of flowers and lemon rose to freshen the air.
Cressida woke from her daze and took cloth and soap from her. "Thank you." As she began to wash, she wondered what sort of story the duke had told to account for her being here in such a state.
Mrs. Barkway went to tidy the bed. Cressida turned to watch as she washed, and saw the woman grimace at the state of her gown.
"Lovely silk this is, miss. I'm not sure I'd dare try to iron it."
"It doesn't matter, though I'll have to put it on. The duke said he'd bring my breakfast...." She realized there was no need now. Mrs. Barkway could do it. And just as well, she told herself.
"No hurry, miss. He's ridden out." Mrs. Barkway finished smoothing the coverlet. "He ordered breakfast ready at ten, and said he'd eat it up here with you, miss, so we'd best get you decent.
Cressida turned away to rinse her cloth, and hide her betraying blush of excitement. "Did he explain how I came to be here?"
"Such a shocking tale!" Mrs. Barkway exclaimed, flipping open up a towel and holding it out for Cressida. "I didn't think men tried to kidnap heiresses anymore. Lucky for you that His Grace came upon you after you'd fled."
Perhaps Cressida's silence looked like fear, for the woman added, "All will be right now, miss. Don't you worry."
Cressida smiled her thanks, thinking that his ingenious story was no more outlandish than the truth. He did seem to be a man who thought of everything.
A good partner in crime, perhaps?
"And don't you worry about gossip, miss. His Grace pays well for closed mouths, and he knows I'll not say anything to embarrass you."
Cressida dried herself on the soft cloth. "Thank you, Mrs. Barkway. You're very kind."
The woman blushed. "Go on with you. Sit down now and I'll see what I can do with your hair, though I'm no ladies maid."
The wonderful woman produced a comb from her pocket and Cressida sat at the dressing table. There were knots in her hair, of course, but the woman was as gentle as she could be.
"No curl," Cressida apologized. She picked up her turban, with the false curls dangling around the front.
The woman chuckled. "Very clever, miss, but they do look strange now, don't they? Like a scared cat hiding in a bag." She stroked a hand down Cressida's hair. "Your hair is lovely, miss. Like dark brown silk, it is, and thick right down to your waist. How do you want to wear it?"
Cressida realized how much she disliked her caps and turbans, with their false curls. It had seemed necessary because of her father's desire that she be fashionable, but there was no need for such folly now. In Matlock, she had worn her hair in a simple plait coiled on the back of her head. She tossed aside the turban and asked Mrs. Barkway to do something similar. As the woman worked away, Cressida let her tangled mind drift.
Matlock. Last year she'd welcomed the prospect of playing in fashionable society. Matlock had seemed so dull. Now it was the sanctuary she struggled to regain.
She had to admit to a pang about London, however. Hadn't Dr. Johnson said something about he who tired of London being tired of life?
It was the heart of the world. Men of power lived there, making decisions that would affect the fates of millions around the globe. It was the center of the arts and sciences, cradle of great discoveries. She had met fascinating people everywhere -- explorers, poets, orators, scientists, sinners. And the theaters! They had a theater in Matlock, but it wasn't like Drury Lane or the Royal Opera House.
That stirred a memory -- the Duke of St. Raven at Drury Lane Theater.
It had been months ago. She'd been there with her parents and the Harbisons at the opening of the play A Daring Lady. The theater had hummed with excitement, but then the hum had intensified. A stir had directed every eye to one of the finest boxes, to a glittering lady there accompanied by a dark and handsome gentleman.
"The Duke of St. Raven!" Lady Harbison had exclaimed in a whisper -- one of the truly remarkable social skills. "He's here at last."
This had seemed a nonsensical statement, so Cressida had been pleased when her mother asked for more information. Since the whole theater was staring and whispering it had to be important. In moments she had the meat of it. The duke had inherited from his uncle the year before then disappeared. Now, without fanfare, he had stepped onto the stage that awaited him -- an eligible duke, a prince of the ton.
However, according to Lady Harbison, his partner was killing many hopes. Lady Anne Peckworth was daughter of the Duke of Arran -- a most suitable match -- and by the looks of it, the match was already made.
He'd kissed Lady Anne's hand as if sealing the speculation, and Cressida remembered her own wistful desire. Not that the Duke of St. Raven would kiss her hand like that, but that some man would. Would kiss her hand with such elegant ease, gazing into her eyes in a way that spoke of deep devotion. She had suitors -- being a nabob's heiress -- but none had shown her reverence like that.
Presumably by now the duke had kissed Lady Anne as he'd kissed her last night.
Lucky lady....
"Now, let's get you into your clothing, miss, even if it is all a bit the worse for wear. I'm sure you'll feel better then."
Cressida pulled out of the past. If any foolish notions stirred in her head about St. Raven, she must remember that he was the sort of man to attempt seduction of one lady while wooing another. So much for reverent hand-kisses.
She focused and saw that her hair was smoothly arranged. She thanked the woman and rose to dress.
Mrs. Barkway had a firm hand with the corset laces so that Cressida had to suck in an extra breath, but in a way it was comforting -- a return of restraint and good order. Her evening dress looked out of place in the morning but it too brought respectability, even when crumpled. She picked up her pearl necklace and put it on again, then added her earrings.
"Where are your shoes and stockings, miss?"
Cressida turned from the mirror, knowing she was blushing. "I think they were lost in my adventure."
"Well, I never! And mine won't fit. If you don't mind, miss, I'll go and see what I can find for you."
"I don't mind at all. You've been very kind."
"Go on with you. Anyone would in the same situation." She poured the dirty water into the slop bucket, hefted it, and left.
Chapter 4
Cressida checked her appearance again, longing for a sensible day dress, and especially for everyday stockings and sturdy shoes. Now she was dressed, her bare feet felt even more peculiar. Positively wanton.
She should have asked Mrs. Barkway to find a fichu of some kind to fill in the low neckline. Ah well, it wasn't as if she intended to go out in public.
She wandered to the window to contemplate the very ordinary world, wishing she belonged in it. Perhaps she should escape while she had the chance. Poor people sometimes went barefoot. It might not be so bad. She'd given her word, but she'd warned St. Raven that she might not keep it if she saw a chance of escape....
The door opened and she whirled, but it was only Mrs. Barkway again with -- heaven be praised! -- her shoes in her hand.
Cressida hurried over. "Oh, where did you find them?"
"Mr. Lyne had them, miss. But no sign of your stockings, I'm afraid. I can get you some from the village, but they'll be simple stuff."
Cressida was slipping her feet into the green silk slippers. "Anything would be wonderful. I had a shawl as well, but I think that must have been lost far from here. Is there any chance of a fichu?"
"You poor dear. I'll see what I can do, miss. Now, His Grace isn't back yet. Would you like something to eat or drink while you wait? I don't see why you should starve at his pleasure."
Cressida chuckled at this, wanting to hug the woman. "I'd love something. Coffee, chocolate, tea. Whatever is most convenient. And perhaps a bit of bread."
"I'll fetch it, then I'll be off to the village. No woman wants to be without her stockings and a good, firm pair of garters."
Cressida agreed, feeling that nothing could be too terrible in a world that included Mrs. Barkway. Soon she was sipping rich chocolate and enjoying a fresh sweet roll, spread thick with butter. The duke lived well in his simple surroundings, but that was hardly surprising. For all his casual ways and this simple house, he was next best thing to royalty.
Who played at highwayman.
She shook her head over that, but she'd learned that the ton often indulged in strange behavior. There were lords who played at coachman, so why not a duke who played at highwayman? Except that it was illegal and dangerous.
Was he mad after all? It had been a full moon last night!
A knock on the door.
Cressida jumped to her feet as the duke walked in. He looked normal in riding dress of dark jacket, buckskin breeches and top boots. No, not normal. The breeches seemed smeared with dirt and his lip was swollen.
"Great Juno! Have you been fighting"
"What would give you that idea?" But he smiled -- then pulled out a handkerchief already spotted with blood and dabbed at his lip. "You look much restored, nymph."
Lunatic.
Duke.
Cressida was at a loss.
"I breakfasted. No one seemed to know where you were or when you would return."
He glanced at her plate. "That is not breakfast. I'll be back in a moment and then we can talk."
She stared at the door. He was eccentric at the least and now she had to deal with him. She sat down again and nibbled the last of her buttered roll. If she could persuade him to help, he could be a gift from heaven. She could be home soon, untouched but victorious -- if she could harness a duke to her will.
He returned with a large tray and put a platter of ham and eggs in the middle of the table, then added a plate of bread along with butter and marmalade, then a bowl of plums. Last came a coffee pot, cup, and jug of cream. Clearly men, big men, who rode out early to involve themselves in fights needed huge meals.
He put the tray aside and sat opposite her. "You look shocked. Because I need sustenance?"
"Because you're a duke and carry your own tray."
"Don't be ridiculous." He helped himself to three eggs and a lot of ham. "Please, take some of this if you want it."
Cressida repressed a shudder, but she did pour herself more chocolate.
"While I eat, tell me your story. It seems to be my day for knight errantry."
"You've found another damsel in distress?"
His lips twitched. "After a fashion."
Mad. Truly mad. "This house must be becoming rather crowded."
"Oh, I stashed her in one of my other residences. Now, your story, Miss Whoever-you-are." He tucked into his meal.
Cressida dithered, but she needed help so she formed a version of the truth. "Lord Crofton has stolen something from my family, Your Grace, and it is in Stokeley Manor. I need to get in there to recover it."
He swallowed, contemplating her. "If he's stolen it, go to the authorities."
"He's a peer. I don't think I'd be attended to."
"Worth trying, wouldn't you say, before prostituting yourself with him?"
It stung, but he was right. "Very well. He won it at cards."
"Cheated?"
That hadn't occurred to her before. Reluctantly, she shook her head. "I don't think so."
"Then it's his, fair and square."
"No it isn't!"
He poured himself coffee and added cream. "Why don't you tell me the truth? We'll get there eventually."
Cressida shot to her feet. "You have no right to demand anything from me, sir! I am free to leave here anytime I wish."
"I'm afraid not." He cut another piece of ham.
"You can't keep me prisoner."
He just raised his brows and put the ham into his mouth.
Cressida eyed the heavy silver chocolate pot, but hitting him with it would not achieve her purpose. She forced herself to stay calm. Only one thing matters, she reminded herself. Only one thing. She squeezed her clasped hands once, tightly, then relaxed and sat down again.
"My name is Cressida Mandeville, Your Grace. My father is Sir Arthur Mandeville." She watched for some sign of recognition, but didn't see any. Hardly surprising. Even in the London Season the Mandevilles had moved in a different orbit to the Duke of St. Raven.
"He is recently home after twenty-three years in India."
"A nabob." He used the common term, which also implied wealth.
"Yes."
"You lived in India with him?"
"I was born there, but my mother was troubled by the climate so we both returned home before I was a year old."
"Did your father return from time to time?"
"No."
His brows twitched again. "An interesting reunion."
That, thought Cressida, was a notable understatement, though her mother seemed to have accepted it well.
The duke continued to eat, but she had his complete and perceptive attention. She felt comforted to at last be telling the truth to someone.
"Having wealth and a new knighthood, my father wished to enter society. He bought a small estate, Stokeley Manor, and rented a London house so we could embarked upon a life of pleasure and dissipation."
"My dear Miss Mandeville, I'm sure you know nothing of dissipation."
She met his teasing eyes. "After last night, Your Grace?"
His smile reached his lips. "A taste, perhaps."
That puffiness at one side didn't make those lips any less distracting. It fact, they gave his smile a wicked quirk....
"Continue with your tale, Miss Mandeville. Or can I guess? Your father turned to gaming and lost Stokeley Manor to Crofton."
She stared at him. "You know about it?"
"Such stories travel, though I hadn't noted the names. How much did your father lose?"
She looked down for a moment and found her fingers clasped. She released them and met his eyes again. "I think he misses the excitement of life in India. Perhaps gaming provided that thrill, but he seems not to have been as good at it."
"He lost everything?"
A lump in her throat almost silenced her. "As best we can tell, other than my mother's and my personal possessions."
He'd cleaned his plate and now leaned back in his chair, sipping coffee. "Surely your father knows the state of his affairs."
"My father was struck down by shock. He does not speak and seems not to hear. My mother manages to feed him a little, but he is wasting away."
He inclined his head. "My commiserations. But I have to point out that, sad though it is, Crofton owns Stokeley and everything in it."
This was the crux that she did not want to share, but she saw no choice. "The truth is, Your Grace...."
"St. Raven, please."
She ignored him. "The truth is that my father kept a cache of jewels. It was a habit he'd acquired in India, when it was apparently wise to always have portable wealth in case a man had to flee. He told me about it. Showed me where it was hidden. I know that in strict legality those jewels go with Stokeley, but I cannot feel they truly belong to Lord Crofton. He has no idea of their existence, and I'm sure my father did not intend them as part of the wager. If he'd been able, he no doubt would have retrieved them before Crofton took possession of the house."
The duke put his cup on the table and refilled it. "Fascinating. I can see the temptation to try to get them back, but are they really worth sacrificing yourself for?"
"They are what will make life bearable. My father may never be restored, and even if he is, will he be able to make another fortune, or any money at all? My mother longs only to return to Matlock. We still have our house there, for it was always in my mother's name. We cannot support even a modest life there, however, without some money, and at present we have only what our possessions will raise."
She touched the pearls around her neck. A simple string of smoll beads. "We fought my father's inclination to give us extravagant adornment."
"You see, dissipation and extravagance are so much wiser. But, I have to ask, might your father not have sold his jewels to support his taste for gaming?"
He was like a vise, squeezing, squeezing for the truth. But it was invigorating.
"I don't think so. I checked my father's accounts. Everything is recorded there, including his losses..."
She had to take a moment to compose herself. How anyone could throw away a fortune on cards she could not understand. "There is no record of the sale of the jewels, and no sudden increase in cash."
"What does your mother say?"
Cressida sighed. "My father's return was a great shock to her. She became fond of him all over again, but that didn't lead her to any interest in his business affairs. Now she can think of nothing but his recovery."
"So you face this alone. No longer. You have a knight errant."
She eyed him warily. "I must retrieve those jewels, Your Grace."
"Of course."
"Whatever it takes."
"We'll see about that."
"You have no right to dictate to me!"
He raised a hand in elegant protest. "Fight that battle when we come to it. For now, we are comrades in arms against the foul fiend. However, if your father regarded these jewels as his emergency resource, why would they be in the country rather than to hand in London?"
Another excellent question. Despite his eccentricity, the duke's mind was sharp.
"I have a hypothesis. My father has many Indian artifacts -- most, unfortunately, left at Stokeley. Among them is a series of ivory statuettes cunningly made to hold things. His jewels were in one of them. I think he took the wrong one to London."
"Careless. They must all be quite similar."
"Yes." She prayed he didn't ask for details.
He sipped coffee. "You have no guarantee that he hasn't gambled away the jewels directly, or pawned them, or moved them."
She had to relax her hands again. "No, but I'm not being blindly hopeful. I think that the statue he showed me was not quite the same as the one in London. I'm sure that someone of his acquaintance would have noticed him staking jewels. There was nothing furtive about his gaming, Your Grace. As for a pawnshop, I'm sure he would have recorded the money in his accounts. It is his way. He recorded everything."
"But is such an man likely to have been confused as to which statue was which?"
"He is a little shortsighted. And he did take one, just one. Why, unless he thought it was the one containing his treasure?"
He nodded. "Well argued."
"What's more, my father did not lose his wits when he lost to Crofton. He returned home at breakfast time and seemed normal except for being tired. My mother berated him for his unhealthy hours."
She swallowed at that memory, and at her mother's guilt over it. Though in truth he'd deserved worse.
"My mother went to apologize, and found him sitting in his study in the strange state that still chains him. I was there moments later, summoned by her cries for help. The statue lay on the floor, open and empty."
"So, his jewels were his family's salvation. Discovering that he had the wrong receptacle was the final straw." He looked at her. "Did it not occur to you to simply break into your old home? There are doubtless servants there who would help you."
She shook her head. "The house had stood empty before my father bought it, with just an old couple taking care of it. They were happy to be pensioned off. At least my father did it with an annuity, so they are safe."
"You have a very kind heart, Miss Mandeville."
"That is not kindness, Your Grace, but justice. One man's follies should not destroy others."
She saw a twitch that might be a grimace. Well, if the shoe fit, let him wear it.
"We only lived there for a few weeks in December but my father had modern locks installed, and grilles on the lower windows. He came home with a great fear of sneak thieves. They are apparently common in India."
"They're common enough in England. No helpful servants?"
"None I could trust, and Crofton might have replaced them in the past weeks."
He nodded. "Right. So where in Stokeley Manor will we find the statues?"
The "we" speeded her heart with hope and nerves.
"If they hasn't been moved, they're in my father's study on the ground floor at the back of the house."
"Alas for all those grilles and locks."
"Indeed."
He studied her, frowning. "What bargain did you strike with Crofton? A statue for your virtue would make him suspicious."
"And would rate myself very low." Cressida found she couldn't meet those eyes, and she studied the play of light on the chased silver chocolate pot. "I was to receive all my father's Indian artifacts. There are some valuable pieces, even without the hidden jewels."
"Do you have any idea what you would have been asked to do for such a price?"
She made herself look up, though she knew she was blushing. "I know the essential facts, Your Grace, and would have done it if necessary."
"If you were able."
She kept her eyes steady. "I believe my innocence was part of my appeal."
"You're a remarkable woman, Miss Mandeville, but a terrifyingly naive one."
"Nonsense. I was prepared for it to be appalling, but what choice did I have? Was I to huddle in my virtue and delicate feelings and end up in the workhouse, and see my mother there, too?"
"It's what most people do, and the sacrifice was somewhat drastic."
After a moment, she confessed. "I hoped not to have to go through with it."
"Ah! You planned to get in by agreeing to give yourself to Crofton, then grab the jewels and escape before he did his worst. Clever -- but a trifle optimistic, I fear."
He was treating her like a child. "I had a plan."
"I don't doubt it."
His condescending amusement put her teeth on edge. "I had in my reticule a liquid that promotes vomiting. I planned to complain of carriage sickness, then sip a little shortly before we arrived, claiming that it was a restorative. I doubt any man would be eager to bed a woman who was throwing up her dinner."
He laughed. "Bravo! And you would only need a little time to seize the jewels and make your escape." He lifted her chocolate pot and poured the last of it into her cup. Then he raised his cup. "A toast to enterprising, courageous women."
She raised her cup and chinked it against his, unable to resist mirroring his smile. She'd had to pursue her terrifying plan in secrecy and it was warming to have someone's approval.
As she licked chocolate from her lips she said, "I hope you see now, Your Grace, that you did me no service by stealing me from Lord Crofton."
"Alas, no." He put down his cup. "I commend your plan and your courage, Miss Mandeville, but you don't know Crofton's world. He might have found some novelty in using a sick woman, and he would certainly have locked you up until you recovered."
She stared at him, stomach churning at what might have been.
"Your other point of ignorance is that you were not going to Stokeley Manor to be there with Lord Crofton alone. He is holding a house party."
"A house party? He promised I would not be ruined in the eyes of the world!"
"Perhaps a truth. It's to be a masquerade. However, it is also to be an orgy. You know what that means?"
"A Bacchanalia?" she said hesitantly. "Immoderate drinking and sexual license?"
"More or less. People who attend such events tend to be jaded. They demand novelty. I fear you were to be Crofton's centerpiece of novelty. Well-bred virgins are quite hard to come by, especially ones who go willingly to their fate."
Her shocked mind raced ahead of him. "In public?" She sucked in thin air, struggling not to faint.
"At least in front of privileged guests.... Good Lord. My apologies!" He dashed around the table. "I should never have put it before you so bluntly."
Everything went gray, then a firm hand thrust her head down between her knees. "Keep breathing. It's all right. None of this is going to happen to you. My word on it."
That hand rubbed her neck. That and his words helped. She pushed upward and he let her straighten. Darkness flickered for a moment, then cleared.
She looked into his concerned eyes and swallowed. "I find I must sincerely thank you for rescuing me, Your Grace."
She thought perhaps he blushed a little. "I certainly couldn't leave you with him. And we must go about our adventure carefully."
Cressida reached for her chocolate pot, but found it empty.
"Wait a moment." He left the room. He returned in moments with a decanter and glasses. "Brandy. Drink up."
She'd never drunk neat brandy, but sip by sip, she drained the glass. By the end she felt steadier, but also more frightened. She'd thought herself so clever and in control! But now... was there no hope for her and her family? Then she remembered what he'd said.
"Our adventure?"
His eyes were bright with enthusiasm. "You can't deny me a part in this, Miss Mandeville. And I'm sorry, but I cannot let you go to an orgy without an experienced guide."
Follow Tris and Cressida into the seamy side of Regency England.
ST. RAVEN. In all stores by February 4th. Enjoy!
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