Leslie LaFoy (5 page)

“Excuse me, sir,” the lad began, coming to a halt before Starnes's table. “Your store clerk said that you wouldn't mind having your meal interrupted for just cause. If the truth's otherwise, I'll gladly wait until you've finished.”

Devon took another sip of his drink and watched as John Starnes blotted his lips with the linen napkin, set it beside his empty plate, then sat back in his chair before he looked up at the newcomer and asked, “What matter of business do you wish to discuss, lad?”

The boy adjusted his grip on the valise, then squared his shoulders and lifted his chin.

Much like Claire Curran does
, Devon's mind instantly noted. His heart lurched at the implication and his blood instantly heated.
Surely not
, he silently assured himself, narrowing his gaze to better study the back of the figure standing before Starnes.

Slight shoulders. The cut of the jacket hid far more of the youth's form than it accented. Long legs. On a young man they'd be considered far too spindly; on a woman, exotically coltish, the kind of legs a man could easily envision wrapped about his hips. He cursed his lack of foresight; it hadn't occurred to him that morning to more closely inspect the goods Seaton-Smythe had offered
in trade. If he'd demanded to see beneath Claire Curran's skirts, the matter before him at the moment might have already been resolved. He certainly wouldn't have found himself in the awkward situation of appraising the physical form of what could turn out to be another male.

“…services of a person with excellent penmanship and experience in both keeping account ledgers and dealing with London merchants,” he heard the young man explaining in even, educated tones. “I was also told that should you find such a person, they'd be expected to leave for England immediately. I have such skills and experiences and have come to offer my services, sir.”

Starnes cocked a brow. “Do you have letters of reference?”

“No, sir.”

“May I inquire as to why not?” Starnes asked, leaning forward to place his elbows on either side of his plate. He steepled his fingers.

The young man moved his feet slightly farther apart, lifted his chin up another notch, and answered, “I find myself in Williamsburg at the behest of my most recent employer. Unfortunately, he neglected to provide the funds necessary for my return to London, and therefore I'm forced to seek employment with another.”

Something quivered deep within Devon. Whether in anger or excitement, he couldn't be sure. He tossed the remaining brandy down his throat in one quick motion.

“Is your former employer in the habit of neglecting such matters, boy?” Starnes inquired, looking his prospective minion up and down. “Or is there a particular reason for his having left you stranded on our fair shores?”

The lad again shifted the weight of the valise in his hand. “I can only tell you that he didn't anticipate the outcome of the business I was directed to conduct in his behalf.”

“And the name of your former employer, lad?”

“George Seaton-Smythe.”

Devon contained the enraged snarl that rolled up his throat. But just barely. The temptation to vault from his seat and drag her from the pub threatened to overwhelm everything else. He shoved his empty glass aside and slid forward, intending to act on his outrage. The soft voice of his tattered judgment whispered that he had more to gain from letting her play out the farce than in putting an immediate halt to it.

“And what's your opinion of him?” he heard Starnes ask.

“I won't speak ill of a man who's paid my wages for four years, sir.”

“You're loyal to the man despite the difficulty of your present circumstances?” Starnes pressed. “Difficult circumstances, I might add, which are quite attributable to him?”

She looked at a point on the wall beyond his shoulder. “Despite my circumstances, sir.”

God, but she's a consummate actress
, Devon observed acidly.
The perfect picture of stalwart loyalty in the face of adversity
.

“What assurances will I have that you won't
abandon
my business once you reach London?” the merchant asked a moment later.

“My word of honor is the only pledge I can offer you, sir,” she said solemnly.

Devon clenched his hand into a fist to restrain himself. How many hours had it been since she'd pledged to abide by the terms of her uncle's heinous proposal? His conscience suggested that she'd promised nothing at all, but he ignored its pathetic voice.

Starnes looked skeptical. “How old are you, lad?”

“A few months shy of twenty and one,” she supplied and then hastily added, “I've traveled extensively for Mr. Seaton-Smythe during the course of my employment
and have dealt with a number of sensitive business situations to his great satisfaction.”

“And what was the nature of the business that brought you to Virginia?”

She took a step back, stiffened her spine, and raised her chin. “I'm not at liberty to discuss another man's affairs, Mr. Starnes,” she countered, her tone pleasant but firm. “I hope you can understand my position. I would guard your affairs in the same fashion.”

Trust that conniving minx, Starnes
, Devon silently warned,
and you'll count yourself lucky if all she cuts is your purse strings
.

“What's your name, lad?”

“Crossbridge, sir,” she answered. “Clive Cross-bridge.”

Starnes nodded slowly and pursed his lips. “I'll need some time to think on the matter,” he decided, pushing his chair back from the table and rising to his feet. “Can you return to my place of business this evening around six o'clock? I'll have made my decision by that time.”

She hesitated. “Six o'clock it will be, sir,” she finally replied with a nod. “At your store.”

“I believe promptness to be a desirable quality, Mr. Crossbridge.”

“As do I, sir,” she assured him with a bob of her head. “I'll be there at the appointed hour.” She offered him a crisp bow as he walked past her. “Until then, sir.”

Devon watched her glance about and then meander toward the bar, noting that she fished about in her coat pocket as she went. When she propped her booted foot on the brass rail, laid a coin on the bar, and with a nod of her head indicated the ale keg, the last thread of his restraint snapped. Casting his napkin on the table, he quickly stood and, swearing beneath his breath, went to put an end to her charade.

Being forced to marry a penniless woman he didn't want was bad enough, but having that woman parading
around town dressed in men's clothing, soliciting employment, drinking ale in a pub … He clenched his teeth as he casually made his way toward the oaken counter. Mistress Claire Curran had much to learn about being a proper lady and even more about being an acceptable member of the Tidewater aristocracy.

His blood thundered an unholy beat through his veins as he neared the slight figure standing before the barkeep. She glanced up at his approach, and in the merest fraction of a second, he saw realization, fear, and decision ignite in the depths of her violet eyes.

HILE SHE VAGUELY HEARD
the ragged measure of her breath, Claire keenly felt the pounding of her heart. Certainty thundered loud and hard through her brain. Devon Rivard had long legs and knowledge of the town to his advantage. She'd lose any footrace with him; running from him was out of the question. With no choice but to stand her ground, she held her breath and waited for the arrival of Satan himself.

He came to stand beside her at the bar, the muscles of his neck taut with barely suppressed rage, his hands balled into fists. Claire smiled tightly and then, with every ounce of her courage and resolve, deliberately turned her back to him and picked up her mug of ale. She threw a goodly portion of the brew down her throat in a manly fashion and heard the low, coarse words he muttered beneath his breath.

He turned slowly and ever so deliberately laid his forearms on the bar beside her. She could feel the heat radiating out of his body and across the scant distance that
separated them. There were at least a half dozen taverns in the little town of Williamsburg. How had she managed to choose the one he was in? Could her luck run any worse than it already had? Was God punishing her for some great wrong she'd unknowingly committed?

His words came quietly but edged with cold command. “You will step away from this bar, pick up your valise, and quietly make your way to your lodgings, where you will change into appropriate attire.”

She glowered into her ale, furious at his presumption to command. It took several raging heartbeats for her to muster enough calm to ask, “And if I don't?”

Devon stared unseeingly into the stack of glass mugs lining the counter behind the bar. Sweet Jesus, the woman had a steel spine. The last thing he wanted to do was create a public scene. To physically drag what appeared to be a young man out of a public tavern would be bad enough, but when everyone learned that the boy was really a woman and that woman the wife he'd so hastily wed… What would be left of his reputation wouldn't be worth having. Of course, if they learned that he'd done nothing to address her outrageous behavior, he'd be in the same disgusting predicament. He was damned if he did and damned if he didn't. And he resented the hell out of her for putting him in that humiliating position.

“You have to come out of here sometime,” he whispered, determined to win one way or the other. “Either before six to keep your appointment with Starnes or in the wee hours of the morning when the keep closes shop. Know that whenever that time is, I'll be waiting for you. And the longer I wait, the madder I'm going to be.”

Claire swallowed down her heart. Damn her uncle to hell and back for using her in such a callous way. Damn him for giving her into the hands of such an arrogant bastard. And damn the bastard for his cold willingness
to bully and threaten her just as her uncle had. She needed time to think of a way out and sought it in the distraction of her ale mug.

His hand shot forward and clamped around her wrist with a speed and strength that caught her breath.

“Don't,” he growled, “compound your sins.”

Claire tried to pull away, but his fingers only tightened around her wrist. She felt his pulse race through the whole of her body, felt her own heart surge and then traitorously match the beat. In that instant the axis of her fears shifted. Being forced to marry this man wasn't the worst of the fates that could befall her. Unwittingly inviting him to take physical intimacies posed a far greater danger. The tavern suddenly felt smaller, confining, stifling. She had to get out of there, had to find a way to put some distance between them.

“Bastard,” she swore breathlessly. “Let go of me.”

“When I do,” Devon countered, part of him desperate to do just that, another part wanting just as badly to pull her against the length of his body, “you will leave quietly and wait for me just outside the door. I'll bring your valise as the pretext for following after you. Understood?”

Fire flashed in her eyes as she looked up at him, but she nodded. Her acquiescence surprised him and made him wary, but, being a man of his word, he immediately loosened his grip. The wave of relief was still washing over him when she stepped back and yanked her frock coat into place.