Don't Bargain with the Devil (16 page)

 

“Yes, he does. But think what the press would make of that.” With troubled eyes, she drew a handkerchief from her reticule and pressed it to his bleeding lip. “Please, you’ve already got blood on your shirt. If you keep fight
ing, someone will surely see. And I don’t want my name plastered across the papers. Or yours.”

 

That gave him pause. Especially since he could hear voices on the terrace. As he hesitated, Lucy stuffed her handkerchief into her reticule and yanked on his arm until he reluctantly let her drag him away. Diego heard Hunforth moaning behind them as he came out of it, but Lucy’s implacable expression kept him moving as she half pulled, half shoved him along the terrace. She tried door after door until she found one unlocked. It led into what looked like a library.

 

“Wait for me in here,” she ordered. “I’ll take care of Peter.”

 

He stiffened. “I am not leaving you alone with that ass.”

 

“I won’t be alone. I’m going to fetch two footmen to remove the very drunk Lord Hunforth, who passed out on the terrace.” More voices could be heard. “Quick, before anyone sees you!” she commanded, giving him a little push. “If you don’t have a care for your own reputation, at least have a care for mine.”

 

Hostias,
how he wished she hadn’t said that. He itched to go back and beat Hunforth to a bloody pulp just for daring to touch her. But the press was still here, and if he was found brawling with Hunforth over Lucy, she
would
be ruined. If he was even found alone with her, with his lip busted and blood on his shirt—

 

He walked into the library and let her shut the door behind him.

 

But he could not stay still while awaiting her return. It was not in his nature to let a woman clean up his mess, and this mess was certainly his. If he had not stepped in earlier, or had not made a fool of Hunforth onstage…

 

A grim smile touched his lips. No, he could not regret
that.
Hunforth had needed someone to prick his pompous pride, and it had given Diego a great deal of pleasure to do so. He only wished Lucy had not suffered for it.

 

Pacing the room, he saw again the fear on her face at Hunforth’s assault. What if Diego had not gone looking for her in the duke’s study and then been sent in her direction? What if that drunken ass had really hurt her?

 

He could not bear the idea.

 

A different door opened, and he whirled around, braced for discovery. But it was only Lucy, bearing a glass of water, a sponge, and a small pot of what looked like ointment. She locked the door behind her.

 

“Take off your shirt and your cravat,” she ordered. When he arched an eyebrow at that interesting command, she blushed. “I have to get the blood out of them, you dolt. Only imagine what the press will make of it if they see it.”

 

“I have another shirt,” he said.

 

Her face brightened. “Another dress shirt? And a cravat?”

 

“No, but—”

 

She sighed. “That won’t do. When they see you’ve changed clothes, they’ll be suspicious.”

 

“Then I will say I spilled red wine on myself.”

 

“That won’t do, either. As the footmen carried him off, Peter mumbled that you had attacked him. I told them he was too drunk to know what he said, and he certainly reeked of brandy. Still, we don’t know who else he might tell on his way to the carriage. So when you appear before the press again, you have to look exactly as you did before.”

 

He touched his finger to his split lip. “What about this?”

 

“I brought some makeup I found backstage. If you stay out of sight until night falls and don’t go near brightly lit areas, it should suffice. As long as you don’t have big red stains on your clothes, you should be able to fool the press.”

 

With a scowl, he removed his coat and waistcoat, tossing them across a settee. “I hate the press.”

 

“Yes, I could tell,” she said dryly. She set her items down on a writing desk and turned up the low-burning gas lantern sitting there.

 

“What is
that
supposed to mean?” he grumbled, untying his cravat.

 

“I saw how you were with them. You were masterful at keeping their attention, and you definitely enjoyed the verbal sparring.” She smiled to soften her words. “Your ability to handle people is what makes you such a good conjurer. You’re quite the showman. I daresay it comes naturally to you.”

 

He stared blankly at her as she opened her reticule to rummage around in it. Should he be flattered or insulted by that odd observation? He had never thought of himself as a showman by nature. Conjuring was just something he happened to be good at, something he did to make a living.

 

Something he would quit doing one day to become lord of Arboleda and a respected member of society in Villafranca, as he had promised while Father had lain dying before the burning vineyards.

 

Pulling a small bottle from her reticule, she poured something into the water.

 

“What’s that?” he asked as she stirred it with a quill from the writing desk, raising a foul odor in the room.

 

“Smelling salts.” She held out her hand for his cravat, and he tossed it to her. “They work well on bloodstains when mixed with water.”

 

“You are a very clever woman,
querida.
” He unbuttoned his shirt. “Though I am not sure whether to be pleased or alarmed that you know how to clean up blood. Does Hunforth make a regular practice of bloodying your suitors?”

 

She shot him a veiled glance. “Papa was in the army, remember?” She worked the liquid into the bloodstain with a sponge. “Learning how to deal with blood was a necessity in the regimental camps. But you should know that. Didn’t you say you got your start performing for regiments?”

 

“I did indeed.” He drew off his shirt, and she turned to take it, then froze, her eyes going wide as she saw his bare chest.

 

His breath quickened. The way she looked at him roused his blood, and that was perilous. Thankfully she realized she was staring, jerked his shirt from his outstretched hand, and turned to working out the bloodstain on it.

 

“How does a count come to be entertaining soldiers?” Her voice trembled.

 

It took him a second to get himself under control enough to register what she had said, but then he stifled a groan. That was the last thing he wanted to talk about with her, especially if he was to get her to trust him with her own secrets. “Do not tell your friend Hunforth, but I was one of the many lords left penniless by the war in Spain. I had to make my way somehow. So I learned a trade.”

 

She laughed. “A trade? Is that what you call becoming the great Diego Javier Montalvo, Master of Mystery?”

 

“It is not what I was raised to do, so yes.” This conversation had veered into dangerous territory. Time to change the subject. He would never get a better chance to find out what she knew of her own past. “I probably even entertained your father’s regiment at some time. What regiment was he in?”

 

“Which father?” She peered closely at the stain, then sponged some more.

 

“They weren’t in the same regiment?”

 

She frowned. “Actually, they were, but only for a while. Papa—the colonel—transferred to the Seventy-third later.” She paused. “I’m not sure why. He doesn’t like to talk about it. Anyway, he was my real father’s superior officer in Gibraltar and then in Spain. That’s why, when my father was dying, he asked the colonel to take care of me. My parents had no family.”

 

Diego sucked in a breath. The sergeant must indeed have been the nurse’s lover. But like others in the regiment, he and the nurse had died on the miserable campaign to and from La Coruńa, leaving Lucy to the colonel.

 

Still, Diego doubted the colonel had adopted Lucy just because his subordinate asked it. Perhaps the colonel had been covering up the despicable way they had acquired their child. It would explain his changing regiments, so as not to have his collusion discovered when her Spanish relations searched for her. Don Carlos had said he only recently learned that the nurse’s lover had been a soldier.

 

Only one thing did not fit: the nurse taking the name of Catalina. Why would she take such a risk? “Do you remember your parents?” he asked as she hung the damp shirt and cravat over a chair near the fire.

 

“No. Well, sometimes I get this…picture in my head of my mother. At least, I think it’s my mother.”

 

“What does she look like?”

 

“Very beautiful. Black hair, black eyes, olive skin. And a small mole right here.” She touched her finger to her upper lip.

 

Diego frowned. The miniature had shown no mole on her mother’s face. But it was only a miniature. Or Lucy might be remembering the nurse.

 

“I can’t even be sure I’m really seeing
her,
” Lucy went on, as if she’d read his mind. She walked back to the table. “I wish I knew more about them than the little Papa has told me.” She stared down at the pot of makeup. “When I first came to the school, I envied the other girls so much. They had sisters and grandparents and uncles and cousins. I had only Papa. His parents died before the war, and he was their only child. He said my real parents had no family either, so it’s always been just us. Until my stepmother, of course.”

 

“Do you at least know your real parents’ names?”

 

Picking up the small pot, she eyed him curiously. “Why all these questions?”

 

He managed a shrug. “Your mother was Spanish. How could I not be interested?”

 

“She was no one of consequence, or at least that’s what Papa says. She was certainly no one of consequence compared with a count.”

 

“A penniless count,” he reminded her.

 

“Not penniless anymore, I should think, given your fame.”

 

He stiffened, remembering how many women had flirted with him simply because they thought he must
be rich. “Trust me, even famous conjurers make about as much money as actors.”

 

Her gaze shot to him in surprise. “Then how can you afford Rockhurst?”

 

Hostias,
he must watch his tongue. “I have investors. In Spain.”

 

“Forgive me,” she said with a blush. “I did not mean to pry.”

 

“I do not mind. I am secure enough for now, I suppose.”

 

“That’s all that matters, anyway. As long as a person has enough to be comfortable, the rest is excess.” Walking up to him, she opened the little pot and dipped her finger into it. “Mrs. Harris has taught us time and again that money can be a curse. I am often very happy not to be a great heiress like my friend Elinor. How awful to have men sniff around you just for your money! At least I know that anyone who marries
me
will marry for love.”

 

Before he could voice his opinion about that unpredictable emotion, she murmured, “Hold still,” and dabbed something on his lip.

 

“Ow!” He jerked back. “That burns like the devil.”

 

“Do you want the press to notice your split lip or not?”

 

With a roll of his eyes, he acquiesced. The second dab did not hurt so much. Not his lip, anyway. But other parts of him started to ache, with her so near that he could smell violets and see the shadow between her lovely breasts and hear her breath quickening.

 

“There.” Her eyes focused on his lip. “That ought to suffice.” Her voice sounded as shaky as he felt.

 

“Thank you,” he said through a throat gone tight with need.

 

“Thank
you
for saving me from Peter and his idiocy.” Her fingers lingered over his lip to smooth and dab and drive him stark raving mad. “I’m sorry I ever dragged you into it. Truly, I am.”

 

“You did not drag me into it,” he said firmly. “I dragged myself. I provoked him into it, even before the performance. When he and I were alone, I told him to leave you be. I told him he had no right to toy with you.” His voice grew choked. “But I should have left it at that and not made a fool of him in front of everyone.”

 

“Don’t you dare apologize for that.” She flashed him a wry smile. “I’m just wicked enough to have enjoyed it.”

 

“You are not remotely wicked,” he corrected her. “And he deserved that and more, for not seeing what a jewel you are.” He shook his head. “But I should have realized he would come after you for it. That is what bullies do—prey on those weaker than themselves. Your Peter is a bully of the worst kind, one who bullies women.” Like the soldiers who had—

 

No, he could not bear to remember that right now, with the image of Lucy being mauled still fresh in his mind. “If he had hurt you, I would never have forgiven myself.”

 

She touched her fingers to his lips. “But he didn’t hurt me. You were there. And I cannot thank you enough.”

 

He stared blindly at her, at the woman he could not have if he were to regain what had been stolen from his family. Her kindness cut him to the heart when he knew how he was deceiving her. Yet he was just devil enough to exult in the tenderness on her face, the gentle touch of her fingers on his lips.

 

He kissed her fingertips, then pressed a kiss lower, into her palm.

 

A look of uncertainty passed over her face as she dropped her hand from his mouth. “I-I should return to the others.” She glanced away. “I’ll see if I can distract anyone who’s looking for you.”

 

“Don’t go yet,” he rasped, looping his arm about her waist. “You still owe me a waltz.” It was a mistake—he knew it was a mistake to hold her.

 

But he wanted her with him a while longer. He had been able to think of nothing but her since their kisses backstage.

 

“We can dance on the lawn with the others,” she whispered, though she made no attempt to leave his embrace.

 

“And rouse the press’s attention? Not wise,
mi dulzura—
not wise at all.”

 

Hearing music filtering in from outside, he took her hand and began to waltz. After a second’s hesitation, she followed his lead.

 

He told himself he would just dance with her. He would show her that not all men were animals like Hunforth, savaging a woman with brute force. He would hold her and smell her and nothing else.