Dreaming of You (12 page)

“But
why?
” Sara asked. Humiliating tears threatened to spill from her eyes.

“Because I can’t—” He stopped, his breath rattling in his throat. “Jesus, don’t cry!”

Don’t move. Don’t cry. Don’t come back. Sara stared at him with glittering blue eyes. She felt wild, drugged, drunk with emotion. “I don’t want to leave,” she said thickly.

Derek’s muscles trembled with the effort of holding still. He did not want to ruin or hurt her, and he was close, so close, to throwing away the few meager scraps of honor he possessed. “What do you want, Sara?
This?
” He taunted her with his body, urging himself against her in a crude thrust. “This is what you’ll get from me. I’ll do you over right now, and send you back to Kingswood a soiled dove. Is that what you want, to be covered by the likes of me?” He pushed again, expecting her to beg for her freedom. Instead she gasped and lifted her knees, instinctively making a cradle for him. He wiped at a fallen tear with his fingers. A guttural sound came from his throat, and he lowered his mouth to her face, licking at the silken trail of salt. It was going to happen. He couldn’t stop it.

Pushing his hand beneath her skirt, he found the waist of her drawers and delved beneath them. He spread covetous kisses over her pale breasts and throat. She was everything he’d ever wanted, beauty and fire
arching against his despoiling hands. His fingers wandered across the smooth skin of her belly, the white tops of her thighs. She started in fear, but he held her down and sifted through the patch of delicate curling hair until the soft core of her body became swollen and wet. Fondling her gently, he covered her mouth with kisses, while his breath rushed in rhythmic bursts. She writhed uncontrollably, making small, wanton groans that heated his senses to full boil.

Sara dug her fingers into the thick layer of his coat as she realized he was opening his pantaloons. Time stopped, like a whirling top snatched up in an unyielding fist. Pleasure unfurled and billowed in ever-widening waves as she yielded to the man intent on claiming her, the hard weight of his body poised to drive inside her. “Sara,” he said over and over, his breath scalding her ear. “Sara—”

“Mr. Craven?” A quiet male voice broke the spell.

Sara gave a start of fright as she realized someone was in the doorway. She struggled to sit up, but Derek held her down, concealing her with his own body. He groped for his sanity. Finally he gave a savage groan.

“What is it?”

Worthy’s voice was strained. Keeping his face turned away, he spoke with great care. “I wouldn’t have disturbed you, Mr. Craven, but there is a rumor that Ivo Jenner has been seen in the club. Knowing his wont to make trouble, I thought you should be informed.”

Derek was silent for nearly half a minute. “Leave. I’ll see to Jenner…if he’s here.” The last words were invested with heavy sarcasm, making it clear that he suspected the factotum had invented a ruse merely to rescue Sara.

“Sir, shall I have a carriage brought for…?” Worthy paused, unwilling to voice Sara’s name.

“Yes,” Derek said tersely. “Get out, Worthy.”

The factotum closed the door.

Sara couldn’t seem to stop trembling. She clenched her arms around Craven’s shoulders and buried her face against the humid skin of his throat. She had never experienced the pain of unsatisfied desire before. It
hurt.
It hurt like nothing she’d ever felt, and there seemed to be no remedy. Although she expected Craven to be cruel, he was kind at first, holding her tightly against his body and rubbing her back. “Dogdrawn,” he said with a humorless laugh. “A few minutes and you’ll be all right.”

Wildly she twisted against him. “I c-can’t catch my breath.”

He clamped his arm across her hips and pressed his mouth to her temple. “Be still,” he whispered. “Still.” When her trembling eased, his mood changed, and he pushed her away abruptly. “Cover yourself.” He sat up and clutched his head in his hands. “When you’re ready to leave, Worthy will take you to the carriage.”

Sara fumbled with her clothes, tugging at the bodice of her gown. Derek watched from the corners of his eyes until her breasts were concealed. He stood up to arrange his coat and pantaloons. Striding to the mirror that hung over the small marble fireplace, he neatened his cravat and raked his hands through his rumpled hair. Though the final result was not as immaculate as before, he looked presentable. Sara, on the other hand, knew herself to be a complete mess. Her gown was disheveled, while her hair cascaded in wild ripples down her back. She was on the verge of tears. Somehow she
kept her face dry and her voice steady. “Perhaps we could both manage to forget tonight.”

“I intend to,” he said grimly. “But what I said before still holds. Don’t come back, Miss Fielding.” He strode to the door, pausing to deliver a savage aside to Worthy, who waited outside the threshold. “If it were anyone else but you, I’d fire you. After beating you to a bloody pulp.” He left the room without a backward glance.

Sara reached for her mask and put it on. The door was closed, but she knew that Worthy was waiting for her. Slowly she stood up and rearranged her gown. Only by holding her hand over her mouth could she stem the sobs that threatened to erupt. She was swamped with self-pity, surpassed only by hatred of the man who had rejected her.
“Don’t come back,”
she repeated his earlier words, turning crimson. She had felt anger before, but never this burning fury. A few weeks ago she wouldn’t have thought herself capable of it.

Suddenly Lady Raiford’s words crossed her mind…
“He’s had affairs with dozens of women—and as soon as there’s any danger of becoming attached to one, he’ll discard her and find another…”

Perhaps at this moment Craven was looking for another woman, one who would suit his standards, whatever they happened to be. The thought caused Sara’s insides to boil. “Well, Mr. Craven,” she said aloud, her voice shaking, “if you don’t want me, I’ll find a man who will. D-damn you, and Perry Kingswood too! I’m not a saint or an angel, and…and I don’t want to be a ‘good woman’ anymore! I’ll do what I please, and there’s nothing anyone can say about it!” Her rebellious gaze flew to the door. As soon as she walked
through it, Worthy would take her outside to a carriage. No argument would persuade him to let her stay.

Frowning, Sara glanced around the room. The shape of it, four panelled walls with blunted corners, was familiar. It reminded her of another room upstairs, which featured a bookcase that opened into one of the secret passageways. There was no bookcase here, but the panels were about the right shape…Quickly she stripped off her gloves and strode to the walls, running her hands over the edges of the panels. Pressing, tapping, she hunted for any sign of a concealed door. Just as she began to give up hope, she found a tiny catch. Triumphantly she eased the panel outward, revealing a dark passageway. With a mutter of satisfaction, she stepped inside and closed the panel.

Feeling her way along the narrow hall, she progressed several yards and paused at the sound of clinking dishes and silver. She could hear the muffled, imperious voice of Monsieur Labarge, the chef. The noises were on the other side of the wall. He was shouting angrily at some hapless assistant who had apparently doused a fish with the wrong sauce.

Having no desire to make a grand appearance in the kitchen, Sara passed the hidden doorway and forged ahead. After a long journey through the darkness, she stopped at a small enclave that she guessed opened to one of the less frequently used card rooms. Sara pressed her ear to the crack of the door and squinted through a peephole. It seemed the room was vacant. Digging her nails into the side of the panel, she tugged until it opened with a protesting squeak. Her skirts rustled over the sill. Closing the panel, she sealed it once more and gave a triumphant sigh.

An unexpected voice made her start. “Wery interesting.”

Sara whirled around and saw an unfamiliar man in the room. He was stocky and tall, with a clean-shaven jaw and blondish-red hair. He removed his mask to reveal an attractive but battered face, with a crooked nose and a lopsided smile. There was a healthy dose of cockney in his accent. He pronounced the “v” in “very” as if it were a “w”—just as Derek Craven did in his occasional lapses. Although there was something secretive and guileful in his light blue eyes, his grin was so winning that Sara decided she had nothing to fear from him. Another cockney in well-tailored clothes, she mused.

She smoothed her wild hair and gave him a hesitant smile. “Are you hiding from someone?” she asked, with a nod toward the closed door.

“Could be,” he replied easily. “An’ you?”

“Very definitely.” She pushed some of her wild curls back and tucked them behind an ear.

“From a man,” he guessed.

“What else?” She shrugged in a worldly-wise way. “Why are
you
hiding?”

“Let’s say I’m not a faworite of Derek Crawen.”

Sara gave a sudden wry laugh. “Neither am I.”

He grinned and gestured to a wine bottle poised on one of the card tables. “Let’s drink to that.” He filled a glass and handed it to her. He lifted the bottle to his lips and swigged the rare vintage with a carelessness that would have caused a Frenchman to cry. “Fine stuff, I s’pose,” he commented. “All the same to me, though.”

Sara tilted her head back and closed her eyes, rolling the exquisite flavor in her mouth. “Nothing but the best for Mr. Craven,” she said.

“Pompous bastard, our Crawen. Though I newer likes to insult a man while drinking ’is stock.”

“That’s quite all right,” Sara assured him. “Insult him all you like.”

The stranger surveyed her with frank appreciation. “A pretty piece, you are. Did Crawen break it off with you, then?”

Sara’s bruised vanity was soothed by his admiring gaze. “There’s nothing to break off,” she admitted, lifting the wine to her lips. “Mr. Craven doesn’t want me.”

“The bloody fool,” the stranger exclaimed, and smiled invitingly. “Come with me, my little tibby, an’ I’ll make you forget all about ’im.”

Sara laughed and shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

“It’s my beat-up mug, aye?” He rubbed his battered face regretfully. “I been sent to dorse too many times.”

Realizing he thought she was rejecting him because he wasn’t handsome, Sara interrupted hastily. “Oh, no, it’s not that. I’m certain many women would find you appealing, and…did you say ‘sent to dorse’? Isn’t that a pugilist’s term? Were you once a boxer?”

Looking self-important, he stuck his chest out an extra inch. “Ewen now, I could beat any bruiser to the punch. They filled the stands to watch me in a set-to…Sussex, Newmarket, Lancashire…” Proudly he pointed to his nose. “Broke three times. Near ewery bone in my bloody face ’as been broke. Once I almost ’ad my brains knocked out.”

“How fascinating,” Sara exclaimed. “I’ve never met a fighter. I’ve never even been to a prizefight.”

“I’ll take you to one.” He jabbed the air with his fists in a couple of combinations. “Nothing like a good match, ’specially when they spill the claret.” Seeing
that she didn’t understand the term, he explained with a grin. “Blood.”

Sara shivered with distaste. “I don’t like the sight of blood.”

“That’s what makes it exciting. Me, I used to fill buckets durin’ a set-to. One back’ander, and
ffshhh
…” He mimicked a spray of blood coming from his nose. “They pays more when you bleed, too. Aye, fighting made me a rich man.”

“What is your occupation now?”

He winked slyly. “I ’appens to operate an ’azard bank myself, on Bolton Row.”

Sara coughed a little and set the glass down. “You own a gambling club?”

He took her hand and kissed the back of it. “Ivo Jenner, at your service, m’lady.”

S
ara lifted her mask and stared at him incredulously. The mischievous twinkle in Jenner’s eyes was replaced by surprise as he saw her face. “What a beauty you are,” he muttered.

Suddenly she gave a burst of laughter. “Ivo Jenner? You’re not at all as I imagined you. You’re actually rather charming.”

“Aye, I’ll charm the drawers off you tonight, given ’alf a chance.” He came forward to refill her glass, plying her with a liberal dose of wine.

“You’re a rogue, Mr. Jenner.”

“That I am,” he agreed readily.

Sara ignored the wine and leaned back against the wall, folding her arms across her chest. “I think you would be wise to leave as quickly as possible. Mr. Craven is looking for you. Why did you come here tonight? To make mischief, I assume?”

“Wouldn’t think of it!” He looked wounded at the very idea.

“I’ve heard from the employees that you’re constantly scheming to plant spies here, summoning the police to conduct raids during the busiest times…Why, rumor has it that you even caused a kitchen fire to be started last year!”

“Bloody lies.” His gaze flickered over the half-exposed mounds of her breasts. “There was no proof I ’ad anyfing to do with it.”

Sara regarded him suspiciously. “Some even suspect you of hiring men to attack Mr. Craven in the rookery and slash his face.”

“No,” he said indignantly. “That wasn’t me. Eweryone knows Crawen’s fancy for ’igh-kick women. It was a woman what did it to ’im.” He snorted. “Pull a cat’s tail, and she’ll scratch. That’s what ’appened to Crawen’s face.” He smiled insolently. “Maybe it was you, aye?”

“It was
not
me,” Sara said in annoyance. “For one thing, I don’t have a single drop of blue blood—which makes me completely uninteresting to Mr. Craven.”

“I likes you better for it, love.”

“For another thing,” she continued pertly, “I would never dream of slashing a man’s face just because he didn’t want me. And I wouldn’t chase someone who had spurned me. I have more pride than that.”

“An’ so you should.” Ivo Jenner laughed low in his throat. “A prize wench, you are. Forget about Crawen. Let me take you to a better place than this.
My
club. The pigeons aren’t as fine—but there’s deep play an’ all you wants to drink—an’ no Derek Crawen.”

“Go somewhere with
you?
” Sara asked, picking up her glass of wine.

“You’d rather stay ’ere?” he countered.

As Sara sipped the fruity beverage, she contemplated
him over the rim of the glass. She began to feel better than before, a little less hollow. He had a point, she thought. There were no possibilities for her at Craven’s, not with Worthy and probably the entire staff ready to “escort” her out. Furthermore, this would be a chance for her to continue her research on gaming clubs. Of course, Ivo Jenner was not the most trustworthy of men. But neither was Derek Craven. And—childishly spiteful though it was—the idea of fraternizing with Craven’s business rival was not without appeal.

After replacing her mask, Sara gave him a decisive nod. “Yes, Mr. Jenner. I would like to see your club.”

“Ivo. Call me Ivo.” Grinning widely, Jenner donned his own mask. “I ’ope we can leave without being caught.”

“We’ll have to stop at the front entrance. I’ll have need of my cloak.”

“We’ll be stopped,” he warned.

“I don’t think so.” She threw a reckless grin in his direction. “I’m feeling very lucky tonight.”

He chuckled and crooked his arm invitingly. “So’m I, love.”

Brazenly they walked into the main rooms and along the outskirts of the crowd. Jenner proved skillful at maneuvering his feminine prize out of the reach of the exuberant guests, alternately exchanging laughter and threats as he shouldered his way through. Arm in arm, he and Sara made their way to the front entrance of the club. They paused to request Sara’s cloak from Ellison, the butler.

Ellison flushed in excitement as he saw her. “Miss Mathilda! Surely you’re not leaving so soon.”

Sara gave him an impish smile. “I’ve had a more intriguing
invitation. To another club, as a matter of fact.”

“I see,” The butler’s face drooped with disappointment. “You’ll want your cloak, then.”

“Yes, please.”

As an attendant rushed to fetch the required cloak, Jenner pulled Sara a foot or two away. “ ’E called you Mathilda,” he said in a strange voice.

“So he did.”

“That’s who you are? Mathilda? The one they wrote the book about?”

“In a way,” Sara said uncomfortably. It was definitely a twisted version of the truth. She couldn’t tell him her real name. No one must know that well-behaved, proper Miss Sara Fielding had ever gone to a ball and become intoxicated, and consorted with men of ill-repute. If word somehow ever got back to Perry Kingswood, or his mother…She shuddered at the idea.

Seeing the involuntary movement of her shoulders, Jenner received the cloak and draped it about her reverently. Lifting the rippling mass of her hair, he pulled it free of the velvet mantle. “Mathilda,” he breathed. “The woman ewery man in England wants.”

“That’s a great exaggeration, Mr. Jenner…er…Ivo.”

“Jenner?”
Having overheard the last few words, the butler looked sharply at Sara’s masked companion. “Oh, no. Miss Mathilda, don’t say you’re going off with this debauched, dangerous ruffian—”

“I’m all right,” Sara soothed, patting the butler’s arm. “And Mr. Jenner is really very sweet.”

Ellison began to protest vigorously. “Miss Mathilda, I cannot allow—”

“She’s with me,” Jenner interrupted, glaring at the butler. “No one can say nofing about it.” Masterfully he pulled Sara along with him and ushered her down the front steps toward the line of waiting carriages.

With the assistance of Jenner and a footman dressed in a slightly frayed uniform, Sara climbed into a black and burgundy carriage. Though the interior was clean and presentable, it hardly matched the luxuriously outfitted vehicles she had become accustomed to at Craven’s. Sara smiled slightly, reflecting on how spoiled she had become in a matter of days. Fine food, French wine, impeccable service, and all the opulence of Craven’s club…It certainly was a contrast to Greenwood Corners.

Uneasily she gazed down at her borrowed finery. It had been willful, frivolous, inconsiderate of her to have put Worthy and Lady Raiford to trouble. It wasn’t like her. She had changed in the last few days, and not for the better. Craven was right—she should return to the village as soon as possible. Her parents would be ashamed if they knew of her conduct, and Perry…Sara bit her lip in dismay. Perry would condemn her for such behavior. He was of the old school, believing that natural feelings and animal urges should be strictly governed, never to take precedence over the intellect.

Wearily Sara leaned her head back against the flat cushions. Mr. Craven must despise her now, she thought. Unwillingly she remembered the searing delight of his hands on her skin, and the hot brand of his mouth. A shiver chased across her shoulders, and her heart gave an extra thump. God forgive her, but she wasn’t sorry for any of it. No one would be able to take it away from her, the memory that would remain even
when she was safely tucked away in her country village. When she was an old woman, rocking serenely in a corner of the parlor and listening to her granddaughters giggling about their handsome swains, she would smile privately at the thought that she had once been kissed by the most wicked man in London.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a crowd gathering outside the club. Frowning, she looked at the amassing vehicles and the darkly garbed figures encircling the building. “What’s happening?” She continued to stare as Jenner’s carriage pulled away. “Are those police officers?”

“Could be.”

“Then they’re going to raid the club? During an assembly ball?”

Jenner’s pale blue eyes glittered with enjoyment. “Looks like it.”

“You’re responsible for this!” she exclaimed.

“Me?” he asked innocently. “I’m just a simple ’azard operator, love.” But his satisfied smirk betrayed him.

“Oh, Mr. Jenner, this is too bad of you,” she scolded as the carriage rattled along the street. “I fail to see what this will accomplish! Poor Mr. Craven has had enough on his hands tonight—”

“Poor Mr. Crawen?” he echoed indignantly. “Ah…women! You’ve taken ’is side now?”

“I’m taking no one’s side,” Sara bent a long, disapproving stare on him. “As far as I can see, the two of you are exactly alike.”

“A raid!” someone called inside the club as officers swarmed in through the doors. The happy disorder of the ball turned into pandemonium. Guests milled through the rooms in disoriented groups while employees
deftly covered up tables, hid cards and dice, and concealed cribbage boards and bowls of counters. Police officers swarmed inside the club with swaggering aggressiveness, pausing to eye the scantily dressed whores. Inconspicuously they helped themselves to samples of the lavish buffet and expensive wines, a rare opportunity for the poorly paid members of the city force.

Sourly Derek watched the proceedings from a corner of the central room. “What a night,” he muttered.

Ivo Jenner had timed his prank to perfection, crowning an evening already rife with indignity. The raid was nothing. It was what had gone before that had proved his undoing. Derek hadn’t been left high and dry since his early days of chasing after saucy street wenches. He liked it even less now than he had then. His skin prickled as if he’d been ice-burned. Every muscle in his body was tight. Everyone knew it was unhealthy for a man to be kept in such a condition. He counted the ways he’d like to punish Sara Fielding for her antics. Now he was finally rid of her, thank God. No more temptation, no more hazy blue eyes, no more note-taking and questions and “research” that provided an excuse for her to poke her nose into every corner of his unsavory life. Fumbling in his coat pocket, he sought the tiny pair of spectacles. His hand closed around them tightly.

“Mr. Craven.” Worthy approached him with great hesitation. The factotum’s long forehead was plowed in deep furrows. “Jenner,” he said succinctly, gesturing to the police.

Derek fixed a brooding stare on the invading officers. “I pay those bastards enough under the table to keep this from happening.”

“It looks as though Jenner pays them more,” Worthy said, and became the recipient of a frosty glare. Nervously he cleared his throat. “I’ve just spoken to Ellison. He’s in quite a pucker.”

“My butler’s never in a pucker.”

Worthy craned his neck to stare at his towering employer. “He is tonight.”

“We’ve had plenty of raids before.”

“It’s not the raid. The reason Ellison is upset is because he just saw a woman he identified as ‘Mathilda’ leaving the club with Ivo Jenner.”

“So Jenner’s gone? Good. That’ll save me the trouble of pounding the slimy little bastard into the ground.”

“Mr. Craven, forgive me, but you’re missing the point. He—”

“What point? That he’s with some woman named Mathilda? I could find a dozen women for you, all pretending to be frigging Mathilda. It’s a
masquerade,
Worthy.” He began to walk away, speaking brusquely over his shoulder. “Pardon me, but I have a few police officers to knock heads with—”

“Miss Fielding is Mathilda,” the factotum said bluntly.

Derek froze. He shook his head as if to clear his ears. Slowly he turned to face the smaller man. “What did you say?”

“Somehow Miss Fielding evaded me. She must have used the concealed passageway that leads to the card rooms. The ‘Mathilda’ who just left with Ivo Jenner is described as wearing a blue dress and having long brown hair, not to mention a notable pair of…of…” Worthy spluttered into silence and made an explicit gesture with his hands.

“Holy hell!” Derek exploded, turning several shades darker. “No,
no,
not with Jenner. I’ll kill him if he touches her. I’ll kill
her
…” Swearing obscenely, he raked both hands through his hair until it was in wild disarray.

“I believe they left in Jenner’s carriage,” the factotum murmured, falling back a few steps. In all the years of their acquaintance, he had never witnessed such a volcanic display from Craven. “Ellison seems to believe they went to Mr. Jenner’s club. Sir…perhaps you’d like a drink?”

Derek stormed back and forth in uncoiling fury. “I tells ’er to go back to bloody Greenwood Corners, an’ instead she traipses off with Ivo Jenner. She’d be safer walking naked through St. Giles!” He glared at Worthy. “You stay here,” he growled. “Pay off the bloody police and get rid of ’em.”

“You’re going to Jenner’s?” the factotum asked. “You can’t leave with the officers surrounding the club—”

“I’ll get through the police,” Derek said coldly. “And when I find Miss Fielding—” He stopped and stared at Worthy, his green eyes gleaming with a vengeful light that caused the factotum to blanch. “You helped her with this, didn’t you? She couldn’t come to the assembly without you knowing. If anything happens to her…I’ll fire you and ewery employee in this club. The whole bloody lot of you!”

“But Mr. Craven,” Worthy protested, “no one could have known she would behave so recklessly.”

“The hell you couldn’t,” Derek said in a blistering tone. “It was obvious since the day she got here. She’s been itching for a chance to land herself in trouble. And you made it bloody easy for her, didn’t you?”

“Mr. Craven—”

“Enough,” Derek said curtly. “I’m going to find her. And you’d better pray nothing happens to her—or I’ll send you to the devil.”

During the carriage ride through the city, Sara listened patiently as Jenner boasted about his prize-fighting days, his past victories and defeats, and all his life-threatening injuries. Unlike Derek Craven, Ivo Jenner was a simple man who knew exactly where he belonged. He preferred the world he had come from, with its assortment of coarse people and coarser pleasures. It didn’t matter to him if his money was taken from silk purses or greasy pockets. He sneered openly at Derek Craven’s pretensions…“Talkin with those ’igh-kick words, pretending ’e was born a gentleman. All clean an’ dandified…Why, ’e walks through ’is fancy club like the sun shines from ’is arse!”