Dangerous to Love (2 page)

By this time, alarm was pumping blood to every pulse point in her body. Flynn recognized her tension and managed a quiet, “What is it?”

It was nothing. It was everything. It was Julian Raynor. She shook her head.

She was aware of the door opening to admit a newcomer, aware of the leather-bound volume the young man clutched to his bosom; she was aware of Flynn idling his way to the door to engage the newcomer in conversation; but most of all she was excruciatingly aware of Julian Raynor rising and beckoning with one finger, summoning her to his table.

Though her temper flared at the arrogant gesture, she was in no position to antagonize him. She picked up her feathered cape and slowly sauntered over.

“Sit down.” He indicated the empty chair he was holding. His voice carried a note of amused interest. His look was one he might have bestowed on a piece of prime horseflesh he was intending to purchase.

Through the sweep of her blackened lashes, Serena made her own appraisal. He was tall, too tall for her comfort. His dark hair was lightly powdered and tied in back with a ribbon. The lace at his throat and wrists, though of the best quality, was not lavish. His blue silk coat, embroidered at the edges and on the great turn-back cuffs with silver thread, hugged his broad shoulders. He wasn’t handsome as her brothers, Jeremy and Clive, were handsome. This man’s looks were too harsh. Some might have called him the epitome of elegance. Serena could find no fault with his appearance. What she mistrusted was
the glitter of some nameless masculine emotion in those silver-gray eyes. It made her skin prickle. As for his manners, they verged on the insolent. More than ever, she was convinced that her first impression of Julian Raynor was correct.

It was then that Serena remembered something else she had heard about Julian Raynor. There were rumors of duels, and women, scores of women, and debauchery on a scale she could not imagine. She could well believe it. This man was dangerous.

This was not the time to put him in his place. The situation called for tact and caution, though neither were her strong points.

“Major Raynor, is it not?” she said, and smiled pleasantly. “You do me too much honor, sir.”

She glanced idly over her shoulder, hoping to summon Cassie to her. One quick look told her that her newfound “friend” was leaving the tavern in high dudgeon. Swallowing a sigh, Serena turned to face the enemy.

One dark brow was lifted in cynical mockery. “You had me fooled for a time there, ma’am, but now I am on to you,” he said.

Her mind reeling with the shock of his words, Serena slowly sank into the chair he held for her.

“First, allow me to say that you play remarkably well for an amateur.” He bowed over her hand, then seated himself on the other side of the table.

“Thank you,” she answered numbly.

“But cards are not precisely your game, are they?”

She dropped her lashes to conceal the stark terror his words had evoked. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“I think you do. I think you knew, or guessed, that I wouldn’t be able to take my eyes off you if I suspected you were a cheat. And it worked.”

“Cheat?” repeated Serena carefully. The word she was in terror of hearing was
traitor.

He leaned forward, and she caught the gleam of laughter in his eyes. “Your ploy succeeded, as you can see. Shall we drink to the occasion?” Signaling to one of the serving wenches, he ordered a bottle of claret.

It was becoming clear to Serena that Julian Raynor had no idea of her real reason for being here. Her alarm abating a little, she steered her eyes casually in Flynn’s direction and noted that he had drawn their “passenger” into the shadows while he waited for her to join them.

She could well imagine what was going through Flynn’s mind. He would be cursing her for endangering herself by even being here this evening. They never could see eye to eye on this. Flynn regarded Serena’s part in their mission as unnecessary, and he would have preferred to handle things by himself. This Serena would not allow since she knew Flynn’s heart wasn’t in it. He was involved because she was involved. It would be unscrupulous to let him take all the risks.

Her eyes returned to Raynor. Though he was relaxed and smiling, her first impression of him lingered, and she decided on instinct not to provoke him by refusing to drink the wine he was pouring out for her. “I wasn’t cheating,” she said.

“Oh, I know that now. Haven’t I just said so?”

“But .  .  . what made you think that I was?”

“The beauty patch, the little curl on your brow, and the way you fingered them. These are the props and methods of the rank novice.”

Flynn would have said that she was indulging a vulgar taste for melodrama. He had no use for the signals she had invented, and so he had told her.

In spite of her uneasiness, she managed an arch smile. “Perhaps I was distracted?”

“And perhaps you are a very clever woman.”

His eyes smiled into hers as if, thought Serena, they shared a secret joke. Not wanting to pursue this dangerous subject, promising herself that from now on she would listen to Flynn, she raised her glass to her lips. “What is the occasion we are drinking to?” she asked.

His eyes teased her wickedly. “To our better acquaintance,” he said, “Miss .  .  . what is your name, by the by?”

She had her answer ready. “Victoria,” she said at once. It was a name she had always liked, even as a child, and one that she thought was more appropriate to her nature than the insipid
Serena.
“Victoria Noble. An actress by profession,” she threw in casually, trying to establish the role she had adopted.

“An actress? Where are you playing?”

She was prepared for this question. Her little mouth trembled, and her eyes slid away before lifting to look deeply into his. “An actress of sorts is what I should have said. You know how it is.” Her shrug was eloquent. “There are more actresses than there are parts to be had.”

“Say no more, Miss Noble. I understand your position perfectly.”

A ripple of unease ran up her spine. She knew an innuendo when she heard one. Did he perhaps know more than she suspected? Then why was he smiling at her and not calling for a magistrate?

Under cover of drinking her wine, she sent her gaze in search of Flynn. There was no sign of him or their “passenger.” This was serious. Flynn would not leave her unprotected unless an emergency forced him to. In spite of her fear of Raynor,
it
was time to decamp.

She set down her glass and made a move to rise. “The hour grows late,” she said, “and”—she stifled a yawn behind her hand—”alas, I am excessively fatigued.”

Laughing, with the swiftness of a striking cobra, he had her by the wrist. “I like an eager wench. But sweet, allow me a little time to set the stage.” To her blank look, he elaborated. “I have yet to bespeak a room for us. Drink your wine. This won’t take a moment.”

“A .  .  . bespeak a room for us?”

“If not here, somewhere else. Oh, did you think that I would take you to my gaming house? Hardly. I have to live there, and I should prefer a little more privacy.”

When his meaning finally became clear to her, she did not know whether she wanted to stamp her foot and spit on him, or dissolve in a fit of the giggles. That Julian Raynor, a rake of the first magnitude, should have mistaken the daughter of Sir Robert Ward for a common doxy! It was hilarious. It was outrageous. She must be a better actress than she knew.

She watched him go with supreme complacency. As soon as the doors had closed upon him, she was on her feet, reaching for her feathered cape. Disregarding the protests of the waiters and serving girls, Serena entered the kitchens. As she advanced toward the door she took to be the back exit, it opened, and several uniformed militiamen pushed into the tavern. She heard the
word Jacobite
and did an about-turn.

Her heart was beating so furiously, she could hardly catch her breath. In all the confusion of thoughts that raced through her brain, one stood out starkly. They had been betrayed.

Forcing the hysteria to recede, she tried to take stock of the situation. Flynn must have heard or seen something while she was in conversation with Julian Raynor. They had always known that the most perilous part of their mission was when they collected their “passenger.” Once they went underground, as Flynn would have it, no one would find them in that labyrinth. Praying that Flynn
had not delayed on her account, she pushed through the door to the front entrance.

From here, she could see the lanterns outside, and beneath them, a detail of militia assembling on the pavement. Her
eyes
flicked to the staircase. When an arm circled her waist, she cried out in panic.

“It’s only me. Who were you expecting?”

It was Raynor’s voice, laced, as always, with that intolerable masculine amusement. From the corner of her eye, she saw someone try to leave the tavern only to be turned back by one of the militia. She could take her chances with the militia, or she could take her chances with Julian Raynor.

She looked up at him, her eyes wide and unfaltering. He was a gamester, but that did not mean he was an unprincipled rogue. According to her brother Jeremy, Raynor was one of the best. Stifling her misgivings, with one eye on His Majesty’s militia, she allowed Raynor to lead her to the staircase.

D
alliance, reflected Julian, had been the farthest thing from his mind when he had given in to the impulse to visit The Thatched Tavern that evening. He had been standing on the gallery of his gaming house, sipping a glass of champagne, idly watching the comings and goings of his fashionable patrons, when he’d been struck with the notion that he did not much care for the society he kept. Their affectations, their pursuit of novelty, their fatuous conversation, even the smell of them had ceased to amuse him. He was bored, and for a young man who had just turned thirty, and who, moreover, was at the pinnacle of his profession, this was an odd state of affairs.

Boredom, he had quickly reminded himself, was a small price to pay for the wealth he was accumulating. And it wasn’t as though the sum total of his ambition was to spend his life in a gaming house. He was sinking every spare penny into a plantation he had acquired in the Carolinas. A new life in the New World—that was his life’s ambition, and he would begin it just as soon as he had taken care of a long-standing matter of honor.

The inevitable thoughts of Sir Robert Ward rushed in to plague him, followed by the inevitable memories of his own family and the bitter, bitter end they had all come to. Soon, he promised himself, very soon, Sir Robert would meet with the fate he deserved. He would make sure of it.

In quick succession, he’d downed several glasses of champagne, trying to dislodge the murderous rage that
the thought of Sir Robert Ward never failed to raise in him. It was the waiting that was the source of his frustration, this restlessness that possessed him. Once he had dealt with Sir Robert, he would be free to go on with his own life.

At this point in his reflections, his eyes had strayed to Lord Percy and his cohorts, a set of mincing fops with painted faces and rouged lips. Julian tolerated them for only one reason. They were inveterate gamblers and money burned holes in their pockets.

It was then that the impulse had struck him. What he needed was a taste of real life, where men knew how to be men, and so-called gentlemen with their fine clothes and effeminate manners would be given short shrift, not at the point of a sword, not with dueling pistols at ten paces, but with a grueling bout of fisticuffs.

He was spoiling for a fight and knew just the place where he could find one. Within minutes, he had turned the management of his club into the capable hands of his second-in-command, and he was hailing a sedan to convey him to The Thatched Tavern.

To his surprise The Thatched Tavern had come up in the world since he had last haunted its precincts. No longer were there rough rivermen and quick-witted card-sharps who would turn on a man if he chanced to look at them the wrong way.

He hadn’t found the fight he had been spoiling for, but just the same, he’d found sport of sorts. He had taken one look at Victoria Noble, and the oh-so-casual way she had fingered her beauty patch, and he’d put her down as a cardsharp. He, none better, knew all the little tricks of her profession. He should. In his time, he had unmasked many a cheat who had employed much the same methods as she.

From that moment on, it had amused him to watch
her, trying to discover which of the gentlemen was her secret partner in crime. It had taken him a good half hour to reach the conclusion that the girl was not a cheat, but a very clever baggage who knew how to fix a gentleman’s interest.

It was all deliberately done, but very effective for all that. Her companion, a far more striking girl, had failed to elicit more than a passing glance. She was too obvious. She flaunted her wares. Miss Noble had used her wits. Evidently recognizing him, she had played out her little charade, knowing that any gamester worth his salt would not be able to tear his eyes away, hoping to catch her out. The clever baggage had caught
him
out! By the time he was on to her, he wasn’t seeing her as a cardsharp. He was seeing her as an interesting and provocative specimen whom he would like to know better. Much better.