Devil's Desire (8 page)

She knew that he had other mistresses, but they posed no threat to her plans for a more permanent association, but as time went on and he never mentioned marriage she decided to scare him by threatening to leave him for another. Only he had not reacted as she had anticipated.

It must still be his stubborn pride that was keeping him from coming around to her wishes. She had forgotten how proud he was. She glanced at his handsome face, the firm, sensual lips and felt panic at the thought of losing him. She just couldn't lose Alex; the only man she had ever fallen in love with. She had had dozens of lovers-just as handsome as Alex-but there was a difference in Alex. Maybe it was his indifference at times, or his arrogance, that never let her forget that he was a man. He never crawled to her, he never let her have the upper hand; yet she thought she had a hold over him. He was an ardent lover, making her senses swim, making her feel like a complete woman. She felt lost while with him, and dead without him. To feel his arms around her slim body now, his lips pressing against hers. . .

"I am sure you must have some appointment which you are late for, Lady Mariana, so do not let me detain you any longer. It wouldn't do to have your carriage seen outside my door: Lord Trevegne said politely, his voice cold and impersonal as he watched the conflicting emotions chase across her face. "You would not want your reputation tarnished,"

Lady Mariana glanced up at him in indecision, chewing nervously on her lower lip, and finally found a solution, a seductive smile curving her lips.

"As a matter of fact, Linny is waiting for me right now, so I must leave, but can we meet tomorrow if I can find the time? You know how possessive Linny is, so I will have to see if I can manage to spare a few minutes," she said airily, still trying to make him jealous of the Duke.

"I'm afraid, Lady Mariana, that I will not be here tomorrow,"

"Oh, where will you be?" she .asked curiously, pulling on her red, kid gloves casually, her mind already devising a way of luring him into her bedchamber.

"I shall be out of London."

"But you mustn't leave London—you can't leave me here!" she exclaimed, shock in her eyes. "You're running away," Mariana said dramatically, "but it's all so unnecessary! If only you would forget your stupid pride, and—"

"Lady Woodley, what I do is no longer of any concern to you, and never have I had to explain my actions to anyone—which it seems I have begun to do since deciding to leave London," he said in exasperation,

"I won't let you leave!" Mariana cried, fear in her voice. She knew that
if
he left she would lose him forever, He would not be jealous of what he could not see or hear about, and he might find someone else while he was gone.

She threw her arms around his neck, pressing her body close to his, and kissed him hungrily, her mouth trying to part his firm lips, receiving no response from him until he wrenched her arms from around his neck and backed away from her hot, clinging body. He wanted to convince her, once and for all, that he felt nothing for her any longer, and said the first thing that came to his mind as a possible deterrent to her hopes.

"I shall probably be a married man by the next time I see you, and I doubt whether my wife would approve of our little liaison," he said hiding his amusement at the startled look on her pretty face. He felt no pity for a woman who would use her body to blackmail a man. Maybe he would get married after all. It would certainly settle a lot of problems he seemed to be accumulating recently. He thought of the young daughter of Squire Blackmore's, his nearest neighbor at Westerly. He had not seen her in a while, in fact he could not even remember what she looked like, but he thought she would, be about the right age, and the Squire. was always hinting at such an alliance. Yes, some little nonentity, someone who would give him no trouble, and not play on his affections.

"Married! You?" Mariana laughed harshly, thinking it a bluff. "To whom, pray tell? Not to one of "those mealy-mouthed chits foisted on you by their frantic mamas. You might try Bradshaw's daughter, let me see" —she paused reflectively— "what is her name? Mary, yes Mary I believe, but of course she does look rather horsey. Or there is Caroline something—or—other, who has a stupendous fortune but, poor dear, she stutters and squints horribly-however, if you are determined to tie the knot . . . " She finished in a speculative voice, biting the tip of her slender finger, as if trying to remember other eligible girls for him to choose from, when he startled her by saying in a cold and hard voice:

"I'm afraid you haven't had the pleasure of meeting the future Lady Trevegne, my dear, she happens to live out of London."

"You can't be serious!" she gasped. "You are planning to be married!'" She looked at his face, grim and austere, giving nothing away. "What, may I ask, happened to your pledge to remain a bachelor?" she asked acidly. "This seems so sudden after all those years of confirmed bachelorhood, that you will forgive me if I have my doubts." She smiled unpleasantly. "I'll believe that nursery tale when I have the—pleasure—of meeting this paragon who has finally managed to get your ring on her finger—and not until then]"

Alex walked slowly over to his desk and opened a drawer, pulling out several papers and sorting them while Mariana watched him in puzzlement.

"My special license to marry, my dear," he told her, casually looking up into her shocked face. She hurried over to the desk, grabbing the piece of paper out of his hands, glancing at it briefly before throwing it down again, as if it burned her fingers.

Lady Woodley flounced to the door, leaving behind her a trail of heavy clinging perfume. Turning at the door she warned Lord Trevegne as he stood leaning casually against the desk, taking a deep draw off his cheroot, exhaling the smoke slowly; a cynical smile on his lips:

"Don't do anything we will both be sorry for later. And I don't take that nonsensical slip of paper seriously; it's not worth a brass farthing!” she said confidently before turning a haughty shoulder into his face, her curls bouncing provocatively.

Alex stood staring at the closed door for several minutes after Mariana left, and sighed when he heard her carriage pull away from in front of the house. How he had remembered the marriage license he wasn't sure; but it had suddenly come to him as the inspiration to convince her of his seriousness. That he had taken it away from Peter the day before when he had threatened to run away and marry the actress that he was currently enamored of, unless given an advance on his allowance—Mariana need never know.

Acting quickly and impulsively, he called for his valet and made arrangements to leave right away not waiting until morning as he had previously planned. He had Dawson cancel his engagements for the evening, and quickly changed clothes.

He instructed a flustered and upset valet to meet him at the Wayfarer's Rest sometime on the morrow with his coach, and an hour later he was riding swiftly out of London.

He glanced about him at the fields of the open countryside and at the dark clouds gathering over. his head. As he breathed deeply of the cool, pine-scented air, he felt it caress his face while Sheik streaked through the afternoon; sending a cloud of dust flying up behind them from his hooves.

"Slow down, boy," he spoke softly, pulling gently upon the reins, "we don't want to scare the Devil himself.”

He laughed aloud, a deep resonant sound, full of mirth and tinged with abandon. He hadn't a care in the world; nothing to stop him. Giving Sheik his head, they sped wildly up the road, racing the wind and clouds, his many-tiered greatcoat billowing out behind him.

o villainy! Ho! let the door be lock’d:

Treachery! seek it out.

                                        
Shakespeare

Chapter
4

T
he wind had been blowing since daybreak, scattering the leaves from the surrounding trees against the wails of the inn, then hurling them on to disappear towards the dark, distant hills, bleak in the fading light of evening. The drizzle that had started at noon had gradually become a heavy downpour.

To Tibbitts, the owner and proprietor of the inn, Wayfarer's Rest, it merely caused annoyance. Bad weather was no blessing for his business; just extra work for him. Too many neglected cracks and holes in the roof were made evident by the rain, finding its way through onto his floors, or God forbid, onto one of his customers. His inn was situated at the crossroads intersecting the northern and coastal roads to London, and received all the traffic from each direction, including the mail coaches which stopped regularly to let off passengers changing coaches, or to rest and change the tired horses before continuing on.
               
.

"Come back 'ere, brat!" roared Tibbitts, as a small, thin boy ran past him down the narrow hall. He stretched out a long hairy arm and grabbed the youth by the back of his neck. "What are ye up to, eh? Didn't Oi tells yer to clean up the gentleman's room?" Tibbitts yelled as he gave the boy a' firm shake.

"Oi'd 'ave done it, but the gent, 'e tells me to be about me business, and 'e 'ad a mean look in his eye, that 'e did. So Oi tells meself to git movin' and so Oi did," the boy said sullenly, trying to squirm loose.

"Ye tellin' me the truth, brat? If yer playin' me false, Oi'll 'ave yer scruffy 'ead for it. Oi'll 'ave no double-tongued brat getlin' me in bad with the gentry. Oi've seen 'em when they gets in a rage an Oill not care to sees it agin. T'ain't a pretty sight whats they can do when they' be worked up into a passion. Oi remembers the time when some ladyship, a guest o' mine, stood right where yer a-standing, gnashing 'er teeth she be so mad, an all because Oi wouldn't give me best cut 0' beef to 'er ladyship's little dog. Kept 'im with 'er always-never saw it . out of 'er sight. She even rapped me knuckles over that cursed yappin' piece o' fur. So Oi'll not 'ave ye, a no-account, good fer nothin' gettin' me in bad, ye 'ere?" Tibbitts growled at the cowering boy.

"Oi ain't tellin' no fibs!" he cried as Tibbitts' hold tightened painfully.

"All right, brat, get into the back, an' Oi'Il not be hearin' a word from ye, or else . . . " he said pushing the boy on down the hall before turning to make his way into the main room of the inn.

He watched with a critical eye as the serving maid laid the table for the evening meal. It was set for several customers, his private dining-room being occupied presently by a Dowager Duchess of formidable appearance. The two rich-looking London gentlemen, who were already occupying two of his best rooms, would have to share each other's company over, their dinner this evening, and perhaps with the arrival of the mail coach he would have more customers to serve, but in this weather it could be delayed hours behind schedule. He had already had several rooms prepared for any passengers who would have to change coaches and—of necessity—stay overnight before catching another. He smiled to himself, mentally rubbing his palms together in anticipation of the large tips he knew he would be receiving.

Not too bad a night's work, Tibbitts thought, as he added more wood to the fire burning brightly in the hearth. The flames shot up, lighting the shadows in the room, throwing into contrast the low, oakbeamed ceiling; the beams soot-blackened from the countless fires burned in the large fireplace. The multi-assorted pewter flagons and tankards gleamed dully from shelves, and thick candles dripped grease that spit as it touched the cool metal of the brass candlesticks.

A broad toothy grin split Tibbitt's face again as he thought of more gold guineas filling his pockets; but now he would be satisfied with a hot meal to fill his belly.

Sir Jason Beckingham, to the contrary, was not smiling as he gazed moodily out of the rain-spattered windows of the room directly above Tibbitts. He felt enraged! Here, under the same roof, in a room down the hall, was his most bitter and devastating enemy, Lord Alex Trevegne. How he hated the mere mention of that devil's name! He couldn't believe his eyes when he saw Trevegne ride into the yard of the inn a little while ago, his big, black horse pawing the mud impatiently while Trevegne dismounted, then walked briskly out of the rain as the stableboys led his horse away.

Lord Trevegne . . . the name was more ominous-sounding to him than the deafening thunder outside. Ever since that demon entered his life his luck had changed. Before that he congratulated himself upon having won quite a large sum in a streak of lucky wagers. Also, his winnings from numerous late-night card games enabled him, for the first time in a long while, to sit comfortably without the worry of his creditors banging on his doors, demanding payment.

He'd been out of pocket for far too long to be satisfied with his temporarily enrichened state of being. He knew only too well how quickly expenses ate a hole in one's purse and he had no intention of returning to his previous state of poverty and near degradation. His somewhat straightened circumstances of the past had caused him a great many embarrassments, and had .reduced him at times to a hanger-on, a toad-eating toff; not only despised by those basking in his insincere flatteries, but, worst of all, by himself. To lose one's own self-respect was the worst possible treachery to befall a gentleman.

After all, he only wanted what he felt he deserved, and was his hereditary right. He was born a gentleman and that, by God, was how he should live. Instead, he had to resort to chicanery; becoming an accomplished slyboots. He had become quite adept at maneuvering people, and evading any unpleasant issue at hand. He actually believed that he could talk himself out of any situation, so well-versed in the art had he become out of necessity and a need for self-preservation. He defended himself-it really was not because of any fault of his own that he had to resort to such practices.

His loving parents, between them, gambled away his inheritance; and he was left with their extravagant debts when they died.

He learned early that he would have to fight hard and rough if he intended to stay among the ton, the elite of London, and take his proper place in society. His parents were known as the "royal couple," the King and Queen of Diamonds. They were always found at a game of chance; challenging the cards, rather than their opponents, with their skill.

Sir Jason did not inherit his parents' fanatical obsession for gambling, merely their expertise, to help him profit by other's misfortunes—and it was not beneath him, at times, to stack the deck in his favor. And he too, acquired a nickname from the cards—the Joker.

One could always count upon Beckingham, the Joker, to liven lip a party. No one ever knew quite what to expect from him, or when he would pop up in the most unexpected place, just when the going was dull and .one needed to see a new face, with some juicy gossip to impart.

But the Joker's real, true face, was hidden from all who looked at him, and they gaily went along accepting the face he chose to wear; jester, banterer, wit, snapper-a zany mad-cap that sent everyone into hilarity. The real Sir Jason wanted wealth and power at any cost. He never again would degrade himself by playing the flunky
to
some rich, past-her-prime duchess, or escorting some pock-marked, cow-faced chit, because of her rich dowry.

There was seldom an exception where his desires and necessity were not at odds, but Catherine Bellington was that exception. That beauty and wealth should come together so neatly in one package was too good to be true.

He should have remembered that one's luck would run out, that the odds run against you, but he felt so sure that this time nothing on earth could stop him from achieving his goal, marriage to Catherine and acquiring her fortune. He didn't blame himself for the loss of his chance. All the gods of ancient Egypt could not have prevented his failure. The cards were stacked against him and not by the hand of a mortal The Devil had interfered with his plans, the Devil, disguised as Catherine's guardian—Lord Trevegne.

All that could have been his by marriage to Catherine was now beyond his reach. Still young, in her first season in London, she had been so naive and easy to flatter.

He really never loved Catherine, but he found her attractive, and she had amused him at times. They would have dealt quite well with each other, he thought, until a certain devil with his all-seeing, amber eyes had appeared-almost magically-to whisk away Catherine, and her fortune, into the lap of another gentleman.

Catherine, his golden opportunity, was married to some suitable country gentleman. No doubt a florid, pompous, Windbag; bow-legged with a pot-belly and bulbous, red nose from imbibing too freely with Sir John Barleycorn, he thought maliciously, turning to stare into the wall mirror at his own handsome and dapper figure. She would have been far better off with a Beckingham than with some country bumpkin, he thought conceitedly.
    

But that Trevegne stepped in to destroy everything, leaving him the laughing stock of London. He was warned that Catherine Bellington was Lord Trevegne's ward, and that he had complete authority over her and her estates until she married—and that only with his approval. Other fortune-hunting friends of his ominously predicted that it would be to little or no purpose to waste precious funds on such a Herculean task; and the devil to pay if you angered Trevegne in the process.

They had good reason to fear; for Lord Trevegne's reputation wasn't based on exaggeration or hearsay. Sir Jason had seen him tooling his black and gold high-perch phaeton, with its perfectly-matched Arabian stallions, with unequalled skill, in fact, Lord Trevegne was supposed to have some Arabian blood in him, which might explain why he had such an affinity with his horses-as if they were soul-mates.

Lord Trevegne's close friends called him Lucifer to his face, and he would only laugh and agree. Sir Jason heard others say that Lord Trevegne wasn't human, and was called the Prince of the Devil because he had beaten unbelievable odds. Few men Sir Jason knew would gamble or wager against him because he never lost. Onlookers to a game would swear that His Lordship had mesmerized the cards, that the strange twisted gold ring on his little finger was a magic ring investing him with mystical powers.

He believed that Trevegne had caused his luck to fall under an evil star; and now he felt the ground crumbling under his feet, and nothing he could do seemed to change his luck. Things were not supposed to have gone this way. He even went to see a gypsy when his luck was running in his favor, just to confirm his ascending star. The gypsy caravan was camped outside the city when he rode out to have his fortune told by some foul-smelling, toothless old hag. The thieving gypsy had cost enough, but she told him his future looked bright; that Lady Luck was riding with him. She had predicted a woman like the reflection of fire before his triumph, and then some gibberish about a looming, black cloud and some dire disaster. He didn't believe that shadowy business about death and disaster because he'd been on a winning streak, and he had yet to meet the woman who was a reflection of fire. But there was no triumph either, only misfortunes, and certainly nothing approaching the magnitude of death, although he had to admit that at times like these, he almost welcomed it.

Lord Trevegne. Always having the upper hand, always triumphant. Sir Jason could not recall a time that Trevegne had not succeeded, and won, whether at cards, or with a woman. He had caused many women to lose their hearts in vain to him. Sir Jason knew many ladies of high quality who would have leapt at the chance to share a bed with him, given the opportunity.

He captivated the most sought after young women of London and Europe, but once he knew they would capitulate, he lost interest, and soon became bored with their protestations of love. He remained a bachelor, turning his broad-shouldered back on them all only to leave them wanting him more than ever. Why Trevegne didn't succumb to the beauty and wealth of some of those women, he could not comprehend. If he had been in Trevegne's place he would now have a fortune in his keeping; along with maybe a castle or chateau from marriage with one of those foreign princesses or baronesses.

By God, Trevegne wasn't human to turn his back on that. If only there were some way of defeating Trevegne—without doing an injury to himself, of course, for he had no intention of being challenged by Trevegne who was a deadly shot with pistols. No, he did not want him to know that he had a mortal enemy in Sir Jason Beckingham; better to let the noble Marquis think that the Joker held nothing against him. Ah, revenge would taste as sweet as honey in his mouth should he contrive some punishment for the almighty Lord Trevegne.

A knock at the door broke into Sir Jason's thoughts as he stood gazing blindly out of the window.

"Yes, yes, do enter!” Sir Jason commanded, turning around at the interruption.

"If Sir Beckingham would be so kind as to come downstairs, 'is dinner be prepared and awaitin' 'im," Tibbitts announced heartily.

"Very' well. I shall be down shortly, and by the way, has Lord Trevegne dined yet?" he asked Tibbitts in a casually bored tone.