Love's Peril (Lord Trent Series) (24 page)

“Miss Dubois,”he beamed, “how lovely to see you.”

“And you, as well, Monsieur Hedley.”

“Are you busy?”

“No.”

She joined him, standing so close that her breasts brushed his arm. He grinned, thinking she was smitten, that he could steal her from Jean Pierre.

“A friend sent me a gift from London,”he said.

“Really? What is it?”

“A dozen pictures of people indecently posed.” He raised a brow as if he’d just mentioned the most sordid sin imaginable.

“You like naughty pictures?”she breathlessly asked, pretending to be shocked.

“Oh, yes. Very much.”

She snuggled nearer, giving him a spectacular glimpse of her cleavage.

“May I look at them with you?”she inquired.

“I figured you for the type who would enjoy it.” His lips at her ear, he whispered, “He sent me some opium, too. We could smoke it in my room.”

“I never have before,”she fibbed. “I would be afraid to try it. I might forget myself—and I’d be alone with you. Anything could happen.”

He bit down a smirk, assuming he’d tricked her, that she would become intoxicated and he could ravish her.

Mon dieu!
Stupid boy.

“You’ll be safe with me, Miss Dubois.”

She frowned, feigning concern. “If you’re sure, Monsieur Hedley.”

“You’ll be fine.”

As he escorted her down the hall to his suite, she rippled with triumph. At least one man in the blasted house thought she was beautiful. At least one man thought she was worth seducing.

Hedley might be a dunce and a fool, but he could prove to be useful, too.

She had warned Raven as to the position owed her by Jean Pierre. If push came to shove, if Sarah Teasdale returned with Jean Pierre and they seemed too intimately connected, Hedley was her brother and had the authority to split them apart.

Hedley was so malleable. He would behave as Annalise demanded.

She entered his room, shut the door, and spun the key in the lock.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Sarah climbed the stairs to John’s private quarters. While she wanted to pretend she was forced to dine with him, she would be lying. She couldn’t wait to be with him again.

He was a sorcerer, and with each passing minute, she was more completely under his command and control. He treated her like royalty, spoiled and cosseted her in ways that she could never have imagined to be seductive, but they were.

His tantalizing assault was meant to wear her down, to win her over, and she was disgusted to admit that it was working. He was grace personified, the consummate gentleman—worldly, sophisticated, able to converse on any topic—and she had no defense against the onslaught.

What was she going to do?

Her French hiatus had quickly fallen into a regular routine.

She was a lazy, pampered guest, who slept in and who, upon waking, had her every wish immediately granted. She had only to mention a certain food, and it would be presented to her. She had only to mention a horse ride or a walk on the beach, and a footman arrived to accompany her.

During the day, John was busy, and if she saw him at all, it was through the window of her room. He’d be down on the wharf, chatting with sailors and merchants, or out on his ship, loading it for what appeared to be a long journey.

She never grew tired of spying on him. He was so baffling, so dangerous to her equilibrium. Her mind was relentlessly awhirl as she wondered where he was, what he was doing, and if he ever thought of her—as she constantly thought of him.

Their suppers had become a ritual she relished. In the late afternoon, her maids would hurry in with a magnificent new gown, with new jewels and shoes. They would spend hours primping her so she looked like a princess.

Then she would proceed to John’s suite, to the lovely balcony with the pretty view over the harbor. They would enjoy delicious food and wine, then she’d return to her bedchamber and slumber blissfully until the next morning when it would all begin again.

After that first night, she kept watching the French windows, expecting him to step through. But he hadn’t, and she didn’t understand why.

She should have been glad he stayed away, that his desire had fled, but she wasn’t glad. She was irked and confused and even a tad jealous.

Obviously, his taste ran to trollops like Miss Dubois who knew things about passion that Sarah had never had the chance to learn. She was disgusted to find herself in a competition with Annalise Dubois, and she’d lost. It was humiliating and galling.

She was such a mess! Fretting and envious and detesting women she’d never sought to emulate.

She reached the top of the winding stairs. To her surprise, Akmed wasn’t there to escort her inside.

The door was closed, and she knocked and knocked, but no one answered.

For a moment, she worried that she’d gotten the time wrong or that the meal had been canceled, but no. The maids had prepared her as though it was a typical evening.

She dithered, figuring she should go back to her room, but she couldn’t bear to. Jean Pierre had ensnared her so thoroughly that their nocturnal repast was the highlight of her existence. It would be too cruel to miss it.

She pressed her ear to the wood, but heard no noises on the other side. She spun the knob and peeked in. The place was empty, but a fire burned in the grate. There was no sign of Akmed or John, no appetizing aromas wafting from the balcony.

She could see the table where they usually sat to eat. There was no white linen or fine silver, no crystal goblets or decanter of wine. What could have happened?

Her pulse pounded with dread. Was he delayed? Was he ill? Had there been an accident?

She knew so little about him. A mishap could have occurred and she wouldn’t have been informed. It dawned on her that—should she discover he’d suffered a misfortune—she’d be extremely distressed.

“John, are you here?”she called, but there was no reply.

Suddenly, he appeared in the doorway to his bedchamber. He leaned against the frame, sipping on a glass of liquor and studying her as if he couldn’t remember who she was.

For once, he was disheveled, and the sight actually alarmed her. In all the weeks they’d been acquainted, he’d been impeccably dressed and barbered—even when he was out riding the roads in casual attire.

His hair was loose, and he hadn’t shaved, so dark stubble shadowed his cheeks. His emerald eyes were haunted and bleak.

He was wearing trousers, but his feet were bare, his shirt unbuttoned, the hem untucked, the front dangling open to reveal his smooth, intriguing chest.

The changes were unnerving. He—more than anyone she’d ever met—seemed to glide through life with an uncanny ability to shuck off upset or misery. Nothing bothered him. Nothing daunted him. He was always the same: polite, driven, stubborn, intractable. But never sad. Never despairing.

“There you are.” She forced a smile. “When I couldn’t locate you, I was worried. Are you all right?”

“What time is it?”

“Eight o’clock.” She gestured to the balcony, feeling foolish and at a loss. “I guess we’re not having supper. No one told me…”

Her voice trailed off.

She wanted to hold him in her arms, to comfort him—as a friend would do, as a wife would do. But she didn’t precisely grasp her position in the household. Would he allow her to console him? Should she try?

“Well, I should probably be going,”she mumbled.

“You’re especially beautiful tonight.”

“Thank you.”

“You went to so much trouble.”

“Your servants did. I just stood and let them pamper me.”

“They’re excellent at that.”

He downed his drink, then flung the glass at the fireplace. It was a soft throw, so it hit the marble, but didn’t break. If he’d been hoping for a satisfying crack, he didn’t receive it.

“What’s wrong?”she asked, taking a hesitant step toward him.

“The afternoon got away from me,”he said, which wasn’t really an answer. “I didn’t realize it was so late.”

“You’re upset.”

“No, I’m not,”he claimed, but she didn’t believe him.

“You can tell me. I’m a good listener, and if it’s private, I can keep a secret.”

“Not as good as I can, I’ll bet.”

“You could be right about that. You’re very mysterious.”

“You don’t know the half of it, Miss Teasdale.”

Without a word, he vanished into his bedchamber. She ordered herself to leave, but couldn’t make herself depart.

She tiptoed over and saw him by the window, staring out at the sky. He’d poured himself another drink and was gulping it down. His heavy imbibing was another odd change.

When she dined with him, he would have two servings of wine—one before the meal and one during—but no more than that. It was disconcerting to watch him swilling hard liquor.

She felt as if she was perched at a fork in the road that led to two divergent paths. She could follow one back to the hall and return to her room. Or she could go to him, could be the companion and confidante he definitely needed.

If she did that, she would be crossing a line from which she could never rescue herself. She’d be abandoning the life that represented morality and innocence and spinsterhood where she thought she was content to wallow.

She’d be pitching herself onto a more reckless course that would ally her with him in licentious ways she didn’t comprehend. No doubt it would bring her an enormous amount of happiness, but also an enormous amount of anguish.

She paused, as if saying goodbye to the person she used to be. Then she walked over to him. He heard her come, and he draped an arm over her shoulder and snuggled her to him.

“I’m sorry I forgot about supper,”he told her.

“I forgive you—even though I’m starving and I spent hours getting ready.”

“Poor thing,”he sarcastically murmured. “All dressed up and nowhere to go.”

He dipped down and kissed her, and it was so sweet that she sighed with pleasure.

“You’ve become the highlight of my day,”she said. “You can’t just expect me to
not
eat with you.”

“I am quite intoxicating, aren’t I?” Some of his typical cockiness poked through. “How could you stay away?”

“Vain beast.”

“I am.” He heaved out a weighty breath, laden with what sounded like sorrow.

“I hate to see you so sad.”

“I’m not sad.”

“Yes, you are. What happened?”

He was silent for so long that she was convinced he wouldn’t confide in her. When they chatted over their evening meals, she did all the talking—about England and her childhood at Bramble Bay.

He’d talk too, but later she’d realize that he hadn’t actually revealed a single fact about his past. She really knew no more about him than she had in the beginning.

She was certain this time would be no different, but apparently, his low mood was spurring him to babble in a way he normally never would.

“It’s a pretty scene, isn’t it?” He nodded to the bay, the village hugging the shore.

“Yes, very pretty.”

“Guess how I’ve managed to accumulate so much wealth.” Without waiting for her reply, he baldly announced, “I lied and cheated and pillaged and killed.”

“Pillaged and killed?”she scoffed. “You did not.”

“I did.” He peered down at her. “Imagine every vile deed a man could commit, imagine every evil endeavor, and that has been my life.”

She studied his eyes, but he didn’t flinch from her thorough assessment.

He could spin such outrageous stories. He enjoyed being an enigma, and she’d never been able to judge his veracity. Was he being candid? Was he fibbing to high heaven?

Finally, she said, “I can’t ever decide what I should believe about you.”

“Believe me now. It’s all true.”

“Are you regretting your crimes? Is that why you’re brooding?”

“No, I don’t regret anything. I’d do it all again—in a heartbeat.” His shoulders drooped, and he sighed. “Mildred is my aunt. Hedley is my cousin.”

“You’re so angry with her. Why?”

“Because of my mother.”

“Florence?”

“Yes. Do you know about her?”

“Mildred’s disgraced sister?”she mockingly retorted. “The most scandalous woman in the kingdom?”

“I don’t care what Mildred told you, but my mother was young and foolish, and her husband was a brute. She ran away. She shouldn’t have, but she did.”

“She ruined many lives, John,”she gently said.

“Including her own.”

He eased away and went to sit in a chair. There was a table next to it, a full decanter of liquor. He filled another glass and took a long swallow.

“Why are you drinking so much?” She scolded him as if she had the right to chastise. “I don’t like seeing you like this.”

She grabbed for the glass, and they engaged in a brief tugging match. But he hadn’t the energy to fight, and he relented and let her have it. She placed it out of reach.

“Go back to your room,
chérie
,”he wearily said. “Perhaps we’ll have our supper tomorrow when I’m feeling more myself.”

“I don’t want to return to my room.”

“Well, you can’t stay in here.” His hot gaze roamed down her body. “With the mood I’m in, there’s no telling how I might behave.”

“I’m not afraid of you. Don’t act as if you can scare me. You can’t.”

“Can’t I?”

He pushed himself to his feet so he towered over her, reminding her of his greater size, of his position of authority, of how there was no one to save her from him. But she stood her ground and refused to move away as he was obviously hoping she would. He was trying to frighten her, but couldn’t. Not anymore.

“Haven’t you wondered who I am,
chérie
? Haven’t you guessed?”

“Of course I’ve wondered, and you’ve been positively furtive in sharing relevant information, so what do you mean? You’re John Sinclair, and your French friends call you Jean Pierre. What should I know beyond that?”

“Think, Sarah. Figure it out.”

“You’re speaking in riddles.”

“If you’re aware of my mother’s situation, then you must have heard of her other sons—my brothers—Tristan and James Harcourt.”