Jane Feather - [V Series] (21 page)

Julian leaned over her prone form, and her skin rippled beneath the edge of the diamond as he drew it down her back, tracing the sharp lines of her shoulder blades, the delineation of her ribs, the bony column of her spine. Her toes curled into the mattress as the stone scribbled in the small of her back and then moved over her buttocks, slowly outlining their curves, before he parted the soft folds of flesh and planted the gem in the diamond garden between her thighs.

Tamsyn drew a swift, almost startled, breath, then smiled to herself. This was a lover who could meet and match any fantasy. But still she said nothing. As Julian straightened, she turned over again, careful not to disturb the garden, her eyes still rivaling the rich decorations of her body.

She watched hungrily while he undressed as if he had all the time in the world, as if he was not on fire for her
as she was for him. When he stood naked, she gazed with unabashed greed at the power in his aroused body and raised her arms to him.

He leaned over her, taking her mouth with his, and there was a fierce assertion in this kiss, his tongue plundering the warm, sweet cavern of her mouth. She reached her arms around his neck, her lips parted for this driving possession, opening herself to him.

Finally he drew back, his eyes predatory, sharp-edged with needy desire. Slowly he drew his hands down her body, playing with the chains and the stones that encircled her. And finally, slowly, he drew her thighs apart, revealing the secret places of her body and the treasure they kept.

“And now, treasure trove,” he said quietly.

“T
HE KING’S INSANE
, P
RINNY’S AN ARROGANT DUNDERHEAD
, and the rest of ’em are clods.”

This succinct, wholesale condemnation of the royal family was received in a gloomy, accepting silence. The speaker took a deep draft of his wine and glared around the table in the square chamber in the palace of Westminster as if challenging potential dissent. He was a man in his late sixties, black eyes hard and sharp as flint beneath bushy gray brows and a mane of iron-gray hair.

“And they’re demmed expensive into the bargain, Penhallan,” one of his three companions rumbled, leaning back in his chair, loosening a button on the striped waistcoat that strained over his ample belly. “Prinny’s monstrous fantasy pavilion in Brighton! I’ve never seen anything like it. All those domes and dragons.”

Cedric Penhallan snorted. “Hideous monstrosity. And Society nods and beams and congratulates the fool on his taste and imagination and Parliament foots the bill.”

“Quite so.” The agreement came from the prime minister, who sat up straight in his chair with an air of
resolution, as if deciding it was time to take control of the meeting. “That is precisely the issue, gentlemen. We have Wellington demanding money on every mail ship from the Peninsula, the Admiralty needs more ships, and the palace grows greedier by the day. We cannot defeat Napoleon
and
indulge every bizarre whim of Prinny’s … not to mention the demands of his brothers on the civil list.”

Cedric Penhallan took an apple from a chased silver bowl on the table and carefully peeled it with a tiny dessert knife, frowning as he took the peel off in one perfect spiral. The conversation at this dinner with the prime minister and his few closest intimates had taken a familiar turn: how to balance the conflicting needs of a country at war, with the financial demands of an idle, autocratic regent who saw no reason why his demands shouldn’t be instantly gratified by a servile Parliament.

“The Stuarts learned their lesson the hard way,” he said with a cynical curl of his lip. “Maybe we should give the House of Hanover a taste of Stuart medicine.”

There was a moment of stunned silence; then an awkward laugh rippled around the table. Men who dined with Lord Penhallan learned to expect the sardonic harshness of his opinions and remedies, but to hear Penhallan recommend revolution and regicide, even ironically, was a little too much even for his intimates.

“You’ve a dangerous sense of humor, Penhallan,” the prime minister said, feeling a slight reproof was required.

“Was I jesting?” Lord Penhallan’s eyebrows lifted, and a disdainful amusement sparked in his eyes. “How long does the British government intend to pander to the vulgar extravagances of a German lout?” He pushed
back his chair. “You must excuse me, gentlemen. My lord.” He nodded at the prime minister. “An excellent dinner. I look forward to your presence in Grosvenor Square next Thursday. I’ve a consignment of burgundy I’d like you to try.”

Having made his farewells, Cedric Penhallan left his companions still at the table and walked out into the chilly March evening. The conversation had irked him, but he’d made his irritation felt and hopefully sowed a little seed in the corridors of power that might bear fruit. At some point someone had to put a rein on the royal family’s profligacies. It was high time to remind the government that the king and his family were merely foolish mortals who could be controlled by Parliament.

He smiled to himself as he walked briskly through the streets, his step surprisingly light for such a big man. He’d enjoyed shocking them with that insouciant reference to Charles I’s execution. Of course, he’d never seriously advocate such a course, and they knew it … or at least they thought they knew it.

His smile broadened as he climbed the steps to his own front door. He worked his own political influence behind closed doors, more with whispers and innuendo than with direct statements. In the House of Lords he was rarely seen on his feet, but Lord Penhallan’s power was many-tentacled and had a long reach.

His front door swung open before he could put his hand on the knocker, and the butler bowed him into the hall.

“Good evening, my lord. You had a pleasant evening, I trust.”

Cedric didn’t respond. He stood frowning in the candlelit hall. A high-pitched squeal came from the library,
followed by a burst of drunken male laughter. “My nephews are home for the evening,” he commented acidly. It was the butler’s turn not to respond.

Cedric strode to the library door and flung it open. His lip curled at the shambolic sight within. Three women, wearing little more than the paint on their faces, were standing on a table, performing a lewd dance for a group of five men, sprawled over couches and chairs, glasses in hand.

“Governor, wasn’t expecting you back so soon.” One of the men stumbled to his feet, a fearful note underpinning the drunken slur.

“Clearly not,” his uncle declared in disgust. “I’ve told you before I’ll not have you whoring in my house. Get those harlots out of here and conduct your business in the stews, where it belongs.”

He stood to one side, watching with searing contempt as the men lurched to their feet with mumbled apologies and the women stepped off the table, hastily scrambling back into skirts and petticoats, their eyes glazed with drink yet haunted with the predatory hunger of the desperate.

One of them approached David Penhallan with a deprecating smile. “A guinea apiece, sir,” she whined. “You promised, sir.”

She went reeling as Cedric’s nephew backhanded her. “You think I’m fool enough to pay a guinea for a drunken dance by a scrawny bag of bones?” he demanded savagely. “Get out of here, the lot of you!” He raised his hand again and the woman cowered, her hand covering the mark on her cheek.

“Oh, we should give them something for the dance, David,” his twin said with a chuckle that sounded more menacing than humorous. Charles reached into his
pocket and threw a handful of pennies at the women. His aim was true and vicious. A coin struck one woman in the eye and she fell back with a cry of pain, but then she bent with the others, scrabbling to pick up the coins amid the laughter from the men, who all joined in the new game, bombarding them with coins—an assault that they couldn’t afford to run from.

With a disgusted exclamation Cedric turned on his heel and left the room. He despised his nephews, but he wasn’t interested in their puerile little cruelties. The women they were tormenting meant nothing to Lord Penhallan; he just didn’t want them in his house.

He marched up the stairs, pausing for a minute to look at the portrait of a young woman hanging above the half landing. Silvery fair hair, violet eyes, she gazed down at him with the same defiantly mischievous smile he remembered across the mists of more than twenty years. His sister. The only person he believed he had ever cared for. The only person who had dared to challenge him, to mock his ambition, to threaten his position and his power.

Cedric could still hear her voice, her chiming laugh as she told him how she’d overheard his discussion with the Duke of Cranford, how she believed that William Pitt would be most interested to know how one of his most trusted advisers was working behind the scenes to oust him. The price of her silence was her own freedom from her brother’s authority. The freedom to pursue whatever little adventures she chose, and, when she was ready, the freedom to choose her own husband without thought to whether he might be useful or a liability to her brother’s ambition.

Pretty, lively little Celia had made herself too dangerous.

Shaking his head, he went on upstairs, ignoring the renewed shrieks and gales of drunken laughter in the hall as the women were chased from his house followed by the revelers heading out in search of new entertainment.

“So what’s behind this journey, little girl?”

Tamsyn looked up at the sky, following the flight of an eagle as it soared above the mountain pass, its magnificent wingspan black against the brilliant, cloudless blue.

“We’re going to be avenged upon Cedric Penhallan, Gabriel.” Her mouth was set, her eyes suddenly hard. She looked across at him as they rode abreast, following the line of a goat track etched into the mountainside. “And we’re going for the Penhallan diamonds. They were rightfully my mother’s, and now they’re rightfully mine.”

Gabriel drew a wineskin from his belt and tilted the ruby stream down his throat. He knew the story as well as Tamsyn did. He passed her the skin, saying thoughtfully, “You think the baron would have wanted you to seek his revenge, lassie?”

“I know he would,” she said with quiet certainty. “Cecile was cheated out of her inheritance by her brother. He planned her death.” She tilted the skin, enjoying the cool stream as it ran down her dry throat. “The baron swore he would be avenged. I used to hear them talking at night.”

She fell silent for a minute at the memory of those evenings when she lay in her own bed, the door ajar, listening to the soft voices, the baron’s rich chuckle, Cecile’s musical laugh, and occasionally the chilly ferocity
of El Baron roused to anger by some stupidity or perceived failure of loyalty. Cecile would defuse his anger, but she never interfered in his dealings with his men, and she’d never been able to soften his icy rage at what Cedric Penhallan had paid the robber baron to do.

Gabriel frowned, his customary placid demeanor disturbed. He wasn’t sure what position to take on Tamsyn’s plan because he wasn’t sure what position the baron would have taken. “The baron had a powerful grudge against your mother’s family,” he said, feeling his way. “But I don’t believe he considered it your grudge, too. And Cecile always said there was nothing to avenge because her brother’s plans went so far awry.”

Tamsyn shook her head, screwing the top back onto the skin and passing it across to him. “And you know the baron always denied that Cedric’s plans had failed. He wanted his sister out of the way, he wanted to bilk her of her rightful inheritance. He succeeded. The baron always intended to redress that wrong. He’s not here to do it, so I will do it for him.”

Gabriel’s frown deepened. “Cecile counted that wrong as a good,” he said. “There’s never been a love like theirs, and she always said it was the Penhallan who put them in the way of it.”

“Cedric Penhallan paid for Cecile’s abduction and murder.” Tamsyn’s voice was almost without expression. “The fact that she found a lifetime’s happiness instead with the man Cedric paid to do his dirty work is no thanks to him. It’s time he paid the price.”

Gabriel clicked his tongue against his teeth, considering. The baron had confided his intention to concoct an appropriate vengeance on the Penhallans. It could be said that that confidence had laid the burden now upon his old friend to do what he could no longer do. Gabriel
certainly had the responsibility to protect the baron’s daughter, and if she chose to exact her father’s vengeance, then it seemed he had no decision to make.

For a man of action rather than decision, the conclusion came as a relief. “So how will you prove your kinship?”

“I have the locket, the portrait, and other documents. Cecile gave me all I would need to prove that I’m her daughter.” Tamsyn adjusted her position in the unfamiliar sidesaddle. “She also told me that her real name was Celia. She started to call herself Cecile when she was fourteen because she thought it was prettier.” A misty smile touched her lips as she heard again her mother’s laughing description of her own youthful romanticism.

“She said she had some romantic notion about the name when she was a girl, and it annoyed her brother almost more than anything else when she refused to answer to anything but Cecile.” She looked across at Gabriel. “She said that should I ever need to prove my identity to the Penhallans, it would be the final confirmation for Cedric if I told him that, because it was not something anyone else knew about.”

Gabriel whistled through his teeth, nodding. “If she gave you all that, little girl, I’d guess she wasn’t totally against the idea of vengeance, after all.”

“No,” Tamsyn agreed. “But she would have called it restitution.” She chuckled. Cecile’s delicacy of phrase had always amused her robber-baron mate. “And she also gave me a written and witnessed account of her abduction,” she continued, serious again. “If that found its way into a London newspaper, vouched for by her daughter, it might cause her brother some considerable embarrassment, don’t you think?”