Caprice: The Masqueraders Series - Book One (16 page)

Two men grasped his arms and jerked them behind his back. The third man stepped up and delivered a powerful blow to his face as Clarissa cried out in protest. Without thinking, she ran back toward the fray with no plan other than to stop them.

She nearly tripped over it but as the metal clanged along the flagstones, she realized that she had kicked the scimitar that had been tucked into Lord Ramsbury’s sash. He must have discarded it before they danced.

She scooped it up and charged the man whose back was to her. As he threw another punch at the earl, she lifted the heavy sword and brought it broadside down over his head. The resulting contact sent such hard vibrations quaking up her arms that she nearly lost her grasp, but the man went down under her blow, saving her the need to repeat it.

Hadrian was more surprised to see his scimitar being wielded by Princess Soltana than he had been to be set upon by three brigands. But if he was surprised, his assailants were stunned. He ripped free of their slackened grasps before they could react. They were thugs, accustomed to the twin advantages of surprise and darkness doing half their work for them. He was a battle-scarred veteran who had lived too long by his wits to be frightened by uneven odds. Slipping out of his burnoose, he rounded on them with a smile of challenge. In a matter of seconds his fists and booted feet taught them an unmerciful lesson in the difference between them.

When the last man lay groaning on the path, Hadrian turned and grasped his panting savior by the arm and hurried her away, not allowing her to pause until they had turned the corner and were again in the lighted area of the Grand Cross Walk.

When he paused and turned her to him, he saw that below her mask, her lips were stretched in a smile. “Are you mad, woman? You might have been injured!”

Clarissa gasped in a shaky breath and expelled it in shivering laughter. “You seemed, my lord, in need of aid. Forgive me if I misjudged the situation.”

Hadrian bit back the sharp response that jumped to his lips. To his great discomfort, she spoke nothing but the truth. “Town life has rusted my reflexes,” he said a little stiffly. “You spared me a rather undignified beating.”

“Hardly.” She was about to praise his prowess when the sight of blood welling from his lip stopped her. It was no game they had played. He had just been set upon by three men and had beaten them senseless with his bare hands. She glanced down at his bloody knuckles and felt the earth beneath her feet move a fraction to the right.

She had known soldiers all her life, had comforted wounded men, even once held a man as he died. But she had seldom witnessed violence at close range. She had forgotten that Captain Hadrian Blackburne was a warrior, capable of dispatching his enemies with ruthless efficiency. It seemed impossible that moments before she had been in his arms, experiencing the fierce tenderness of his embrace. Now she knew his tenderness for what it was, a powerful and perfectly controlled strength.

Hadrian waited in uneasy silence for her to speak. Was she remembering how, just moments before he had been set upon, she had been running from him? Or that just moments before that she had been in his arms, setting fire to his world? He itched to snatch her mask away so that he might see reflected in her expression the thoughts and emotions passing through her mind. Though he did not dare to do that, he had to do something.

He reached for her chin, lifting it as he bent to lay his mouth on hers.

At his touch, Clarissa felt again a shock of emotional current so strong that she instinctively shrank from the source of its power.

Hadrian released her immediately and saw with misgiving that her cheek was smeared with his blood. “I have offended you,” he said, his voice carefully void of emotion.

“No, my lord.” She swallowed back her discomfort before him. It was not his fault that she was awed by the events of the last minutes. The least she could do was keep her head. She reached for a corner of his wide sleeve and used it to dab away the blood trickling from his swollen lip. “Who were those men? What did they want?”

“Thieves,” he said quickly and, out of embarrassment, brushed away her efforts to stanch his bleeding. “The Gardens are known for cutpurses, especially the Dark Walk.” He touched the sore spot just below his left eye and knew it would swell before he could apply a slice of fresh beef to it. “I should have thought to be more careful.”

Clarissa did not believe him. Those men were not after his blunt. They had set out to harm him in a systematic and terrifying way. If she had not distracted them, they might have, in spite of his abilities, beaten him to a bloody pulp—even killed him. Just the thought of it made her feel ill.

“You’re swaying, Princess Soltana.”

In gratitude she felt his arm come about her, and she turned instinctively into the protection of his shoulder. “They might have killed you!”

The vehemence of her tone quite surprised him. But then, she had managed to astonish him with great regularity. In some ways she behaved as a man might, without affected sensibilities or unaccountable moods. But that was where the comparison to his sex ended. She was, as he had had ample proof of this night, all that was womanly. As for her style of passion, so vividly etched in his mind, it spoke of a voluptuousness that no stormy Cyprian had ever matched.

“Shall we see if we can locate your aunt? I fear you’ve ruined your costume.”

Clarissa glanced down at the tear in her skirts and wondered how it had occurred. Then, belatedly, she felt for her mask to find that it was still in place.

“You are safe from prying eyes,” he assured her with what sounded like laughter in his voice. And she marveled at the pleasure the sound gave her. He touched her face, his fingers playing along the edge of her mask. “Keep your secrets a little longer,
Bahia.
I’m not yet ready for the masquerade to end.”

With those equivocal words ringing in her ears, he turned her toward the main avenue and the frenzied merrymaking of the Vauxhall’s assembly. Not one of them seemed to notice the battered face of the Earl of Ramsbury nor the some-the-worse-for-wear lady by his side who was minus one gold sandal.

He left her in the shade of the tree, just beyond the view of Lady Arbuthnott and her French gallant.

Soltana had come to his aid!

The thought remained pleasantly in Hadrian’s mind as he rode back through Mayfair astride the hack he had hired from Tilbury’s livery on Mount Street. Since his return to London he had not had time to do many things, least of all buy himself a bit of prime blood. As he shifted uncomfortably in the rented saddle, he decided that the first thing in the morning he would get himself over to Tatt’s and rectify that omission.

She had come to his aid!

How soft she had been, and warm, and willing. By God, she had encouraged him, whispering a breathless “Yes! Please!”—the remembrance of which was enough to stir him, further discomforting him in his saddle. She had lost all sense of decorum in the wonder of the moment. He knew that because he had felt exactly the same. There was something so right, so familiar, about their embrace, and so inevitable.

Nor was her reaction feigned. He had bedded Yasmin, a consummate performer of the erotic arts, and therefore knew more than most men about the ways a woman could deceive an unsuspecting man. While he had been stunned by Soltana’s ardent response, she had lost her head completely. Only his sense of propriety had kept them from tumbling together on the flagstones. However, once the realization of what they had nearly done dawned on her, she had fled like a frightened virgin. Nor did he believe that her sudden shyness was an act.

Which made it all the more amazing that, moments later, she had kept her head when faced with violent danger. No, more than that. She had sized up the situation, judged him unlikely to beat the odds, and instead of fleeing for help had come to his aid herself.

He scowled suddenly. She had wielded his scimitar as though she had some familiarity with the weapon. She might have killed the man had she struck him with the blade’s edge. Instead she had the presence of mind the use the broad side.

Hadrian grinned to himself. By Jove! Soltana might not be what she seemed, but he was beginning to think she was a great deal more.

He touched his aching jaw and then wagged it back and forth a few times. Nothing was broken. He would be sore for a few days, and his eye would no doubt turn up a shiner. But for all that, he had quite enjoyed himself. Inactivity was making him testy. That and a certain sharpster who must be dealt with.

Tibbitts was getting bolder. One of the attackers had said something about a “coward taking his punishment” when they approached him. They must have followed him from his house to Vauxhall. Perhaps they had watched and waited for their moment to set upon him.

A new and distasteful thought struck him. Had they watched him make love to Soltana? His gut twisted and his hands clenched into fists over the reins. If they touched her, hurt her—

As he turned the corner into Hanover Square, he saw with surprise that the front windows of Ramsbury House were ablaze with light. “What’s this?” he muttered, alarm skidding up his spine. Had Tibbitts made mischief here, as well?

After hastily tying his horse to the front rail, he climbed the steps two at a time to have the door opened by his butler, who looked very distraught.

“Thank goodness you’re home, my lord!” The butler’s eyes widened as they took in the earl’s unusual appearance, but he said nothing.

Hadrian did not ask why the family retainer was pleased to see him. The sounds coming from the main salon were nothing short of alarming. “Who’s in there?” he questioned as he moved toward the closed doors.

“Milady, the young ladies, your brother, and two companions, my lord.”

Hadrian paused to send an incredulous glance the butler’s way. “Mother is there?”

The butler nodded.

A sudden cry and crash set Hadrian in motion. The moment he pushed the doors apart, the scene that greeted his eyes might have come straight from Bedlam.

To his right a chair had been overturned and the silver service lay on the carpet, spilling sugar, milk, and tea upon his mother’s new Belgian carpet. Behind the remains of the tea, his mother stood wringing her hands and crying, “But you can’t! You mustn’t!”

On either side of her Thordis and Saxona were offering simultaneous speeches. “But, Mama …” “Don’t distress …” “You mustn’t overset …” “Think of the neighbors …” “You will be ill.”

In the middle of the room Jane stood confronting Emory. Two companions in outrageously sized collars and pink cravats each had Emory by an arm. But to judge by her stance, Jane was the angrier of the two. She was shaking her finger at her brother and shouting, “Now see what you’ve done! For tuppence I’d—”

“What the devil is going on!” Hadrian exclaimed and stepped inside, closing the door firmly behind him.

“Hadrian! Thank God. Oh—
oh, my
!” His mother took one look at his swollen and bleeding face and promptly fell back in a swoon.

While Thordis looked to her mother, Saxona ran across the room to fling herself into Hadrian’s arms. “You must stop him, Hadrian!” she cried tearfully. “You must! He will be killed!”

“At least he will make a fool of himself,” Jane amended as she approached her elder brother. Her face was flushed with strong emotion and her eyes were radiant. She looked quite beautiful when enraged, Hadrian found himself thinking, and saw his thoughts reflected in the admiring gazes of Emory’s companions, who were openly staring at her.

“What happened to you?” Jane inquired, openly studying his face. “Did that hired hack toss you?”

“Never!” Hadrian shifted the sniveling Saxona into her care. “Now I would take it kindly if someone would enlighten me as to the nature of this midnight tête-a-tête.”

“Emory has accepted a challenge. Pistols at dawn.” Jane’s tone bespoke her complete contempt for the idea. “Mama is beside herself.”

This was no more than a statement of fact. Lady Ramsbury lay in a half swoon upon her best Empire settee with Thordis kneeling beside her with an uncapped bottle of smelling salts. Her nightcap had slipped down over one eye, and her head was supported by three silk-brocade pillows. “No duel,” she murmured pitiably. “There must not be any duels.”

When Hadrian reached her side, she grasped his hand in a surprisingly strong grip. “Thank heavens you are home! What has happened to your handsome face? No, it doesn’t matter now. You must stop him. You will, I know it.”

“He will stop nothing,” Emory replied. Having dropped into a wing chair, he cocked a leg over the arm and smirked at his brother. “Someone’s got to save the family honor. You will understand that, won’t you, brother dear?”

Hadrian took in Emory’s appearance at a glance. His light eyes were unusually bright, his finely chiseled mouth was blurred by slack muscles, and his cravat was askew. In short, Emory was foxed.

“Would you mind explaining yourself?”

Emory chuckled as some secret joke. “Yes, I do mind.”

“Drunk!” Hadrian muttered. “What’s this about a duel?”

Emory smirked. “I’ve accepted my first challenge. What of it?”

Hadrian stared grimly at his brother, feeling every shade of emotion from wretched fear to livid rage. “I’d not have believed that even you were that stupid.”

The words, once said, sounded appalling. Regret came too late.

Emory rose to his feet. “At least I am not a coward. That’s what they are saying in every club from Brooks’s to Watier’s.” His flushed face darkened with anger. “The great military hero, Lord Ramsbury, is a cheat and a coward! What do you think of that?”

“No one dares say it to my face.” Hadrian paused two heartbeats as the truth occurred to him. “But they said it to yours, is that it?”

“What of it?” Emory took a few staggered steps, barely able to remain upright. “I know how you prize family honor. Since you’ve no stomach for dueling, it’s left to me to defend the Blackburne name.”

“You’d only shame it by dying without cause,” Hadrian retorted. Damn Tibbitts! He had no scruples at all if he could draw a green boy into the battle between them.