Mary Jo Putney (61 page)

England, 1839

He called himself Peregrine, the wanderer, and he came to London for revenge.

It was dusk as the
Kali
drifted up the Thames, her goal a berth at the Isle of Dogs. The air was thick with the rank scents that occur where water meets land, and too many people live in too little space.

Peregrine leaned against the foremast, watching the lights of London flicker on and listening to the water splashing softly under the bow. An onlooker would have thought him casual, but the relaxation in his lean figure was a product of years of discipline, a habit of pretense so long established as to be second nature. He had learned early that it was safer to let no one know the true state of his mind and heart; over the years he had become so adept at dissimulation that he himself did not always know how he felt.

But tonight he had no doubts about the nature of his emotions. This bland, civilized English darkness concealed his enemy, and that knowledge burned triumphant in his veins. He had waited a quarter of a century for this moment, when the time was right to extract a slow and exquisitely painful blood price for what he had suffered.

The flame of hatred had been fired when he was a boy of ten, and over the years he had tended it with black, bitter care. Waiting and preparing for his revenge had been a strange mixture of pleasure and pain. He had wandered the face of the earth, acquiring wealth in many ways, honing mind and body until he was a more deadly weapon than any knife or rifle, learning how to survive and prosper in any land, among any people. Every skill, every golden coin, every sharpening of wit and hand, had been treasured as another step toward his ultimate goal.

And now all his preparations had led to this: London, called the greatest city on earth, with its wealth and squalor, snobbery and noble ideals.

He left the routine of docking and regulations to his captain, preferring silence and the voluptuous ecstasy of anticipation. From a distance he had already begun to spin his web about his prey. Now he would weave the final threads himself, learning the best and subtlest torments to apply. Peregrine wanted his enemy to know why he was being destroyed; he wanted to be close enough to see fear and fury grow, and to glory in the ultimate destruction.

When they had cleared customs, Peregrine sent a message to Lord Ross Carlisle, who was important to his plans. Then he waited. The man known as Peregrine—warrior, wanderer, rich beyond avarice, hero to a mysterious people who lived beyond the bounds of British law—was good at waiting. But very soon, the time for waiting would be over.

Chapter 1

The message reached Lord Ross Carlisle quickly, and he boarded the
Kali
within two hours. As the tall, rangy Englishman swung onto the ship's deck and into the pool of lantern light, Peregrine watched from a vantage point in the shadows.

It had been two years since they had last seen each other, and he wondered how strong the bonds of friendship would prove to be here in England. It was one thing for the younger son of a duke to fraternize with an adventurer of dubious background in the wilds of Asia, quite another to introduce such a man to his own circle. The two men could hardly have come from more different backgrounds, but in spite of that, there had been surprising harmony of mind and humor between them.

Even near death in the mountains of the Hindu Kush, Lord Ross had been unmistakably an English aristocrat. Now, gilded by lamplight and wearing garments whose price would feed a Kafir family for a decade, he looked like what he was: a man born to the ruling :lass of the greatest empire the world had ever known, with all the assurance of his kind.

Peregrine pushed himself away from the mast and stepped forward into the circle of light. "I'm glad my message found you at home, Ross. Good of you to come so quickly."

The two men's gazes met, exactly level. Lord Ross's eyes were brown, an unexpected contrast to his blond lair. There had always been competition as well as friendship between them, and the undercurrents of this meeting would not be simple ones.

"I had to see if it was really you, Mikahl." The Englishman offered his hand. "I never really thought I'd see you in London."

"I said I would come, Ross. You should not have doubted me." In spite of the wariness in the atmosphere, Peregrine gripped the other man's hand hard, surprised at how much pleasure he felt at this reunion. "Have you dined?"

"Yes, but I'd welcome a glass of that superlative brandy you always seemed to have."

"We stopped in France especially to replenish my stock." Peregrine led the way below decks. As they entered the sumptuous owner's cabin, he glanced speculatively at his companion. Lord Ross was the very image of the languid English aristocrat; had he really changed so much?

Giving way to mischievous impulse, Peregrine decided to find out. Without warning, he spun on his heel, driving his right elbow at the other man's midriff with a force that could have felled a half-grown bullock. It should have been a crippling blow, but it wasn't.

With lightning swiftness, Ross grabbed Peregrine's arm before the elbow could connect. Then he bent and twisted, hurling his host halfway across the cabin with one smooth, continuous motion.

As he crashed down on his right shoulder, Peregrine automatically tucked his body and rolled, coming to rest on his back by one of the paneled bulkheads. In a serious fight he would have ricocheted back into action, but this time he lay still on the carpeted deck and caught his breath. "I'm glad to see that civilization hasn't made you soft." Then he grinned, feeling as if the two years' separation had just vanished. "You didn't learn that throw from me."

Cravat and hair no longer impeccable, Ross laughed out loud, his face boyish. "I decided that if you really did come to England, I'd best be prepared, you old devil." He extended his hand to help his host up. "Pax?"

"Pax," Peregrine agreed as he took Ross's hand and vaulted to his feet. He was pleased to find that the bonds of friendship still held, and not just because the other man would be useful. "When you came on board, you looked so much like an English gentleman that I wondered if you had forgotten the Hindu Kush."

"If I looked like an English gentleman, you looked like an oriental pasha who couldn't decide whether to welcome me or have me thrown in your dungeon." Ross examined the cabin, which was a blend of Eastern and Western luxury. The oak desk was certainly European, but the thick carpet was one of Persia's finest, and two benches were padded and covered with velvet, then heaped with embroidered pillows like Turkish divans. A suitable setting for a man of the East who had chosen to move into a larger world.

Ross settled on one of the divans and crossed his elegantly booted legs. He still had trouble believing that his enigmatic friend was in England, for like the falcon he was named for, Peregrine had seemed a creature of the wild places. Yet oddly, though he wore loose Asiatic robes and his black hair was longer than an Englishman's, he did not look out of place. As he opened a cabinet and brought out a decanter of brandy, he moved with the calm assurance of a man who would be at home anywhere.

"On shipboard, it would be the brig, not the dungeon." Peregrine poured generous amounts of brandy into two cut-glass goblets. "But since we have broken bread and shared salt, the laws of hospitality are inviolable."

Ross accepted a goblet with murmured thanks, then cocked his head to one side thoughtfully. "You've been practicing your English. There's still a trace of accent, but you now speak as fluently as a native Briton."

"I'm glad you approve." As Peregrine sprawled on another padded bench at right angles to his guest, he gave a faint, sardonic smile. "I've a fancy to become a lion of English society. What do you think of my chances of success?"

Ross almost choked on his brandy. "Why on earth would you want to play such social games?" he asked, surprised out of his usual tact. "Lord knows that most British aristocrats are a boring lot. It doesn't seem at all your style."

"Does that mean you do not wish to introduce me to your friends and family?"

Ross's eyes narrowed at the barb lurking in the other man's deep voice. "You know better than that, Mikahl. I owe you a considerable debt, and if you are fool enough to wish to enter what is called 'society,' I will do what I can to assist. Winning superficial social acceptance requires only money and an introduction, and you will have both. Just bear in mind that no matter what you do, you will always be seen as an outsider."

"No society totally accepts a man not born into it," Peregrine agreed. "However, I do not seek to be clasped to the provincial bosoms of the British aristocracy. It will be enough to be tolerated as an exotic and amusing pet."

"Heaven help anyone who thinks you are domesticated," Ross said, amused. "But I can't imagine why you wish to waste your time on people who think Paris is the edge of the world."

"To see if I can do it, perhaps?" Peregrine tilted his head back and drained his goblet. "In truth, society as such does not interest me. But while I am in England, I intend to," he paused, seeking the right phrase, "to settle an old score."

"Whoever he is, I shouldn't like to be in his position," Ross murmured. "Is he anyone I might know?"

"Quite possibly."

Peregrine visibly weighed whether to say more, a catlike gleam in his vivid green eyes. In spite of his fluent English and a breadth of knowledge that a Cambridge scholar could envy, his expressions and gestures subtly marked him as foreign. Ross suspected that he would never truly understand how the other man's mind worked; it was one reason that Peregrine was such a stimulating companion.

At length Peregrine said, "Given the tangled relationships of the British upper classes, the man I am interested in might be your third cousin or godmother's son or some such. If so, I will not burden you with any more knowledge, but I ask that you not interfere in my quest for justice."

Unwilling to commit himself without knowing more, Ross asked, "What is the man's name?"

"Charles Weldon. The
Honorable
"—there was a slight, ironic emphasis on the title—"Charles Weldon. I imagine you have heard of him, even if you are not personally acquainted. He is one of London's most prominent businessmen."

Ross frowned. "I do know him. Recently he was made a baronet, so he is now Sir Charles Weldon. Strange that you should say that about cousins. We are not related, but oddly enough, he has just proposed marriage to one of my cousins, and she intends to accept him." He finished his brandy, his frown deepening. "My favorite cousin, as it happens."

"I did not know that he was to take another wife." Peregrine poured more brandy for both of them, then sank back in his seat, one leg folded beneath him with un-British fluidity. "I gather that you do not approve. Do you know anything to Weldon's discredit?"

"No, he is widely respected. As the younger brother of Lord Batsford, he moves in the highest circles of society, even though he has made his fortune through trade and finance." Ross considered a moment, then said slowly, "Weldon has always been perfectly affable on the occasions when we have met. I can't explain why I find him disquieting. Perhaps he is
too
affable."

"Is your cousin in love with him?"

Ross shook his head. "I doubt it. He is easily twenty years older than Sara, and she is not of a romantic disposition."

Peregrine gave a faint smile. "Since the lady's heart is not engaged, will you object if her betrothal comes to naught?"

Ross thought of the uneasy feeling Weldon gave him, and the dark whispers that sometimes touched the man's name, hints too vague to be called rumors. "Can you assure me that Weldon deserves the doom that is hovering over him?"

"I promise you that he has earned anything I might do, and a good deal more," Peregrine said, his voice soft and dangerous.

Ross believed him. Peregrine might be an enigma whose mind worked in mysterious oriental ways, but Ross had always found him to be honorable. "To be honest, I'd welcome an end to Sara's betrothal, as long as she is not injured by your actions."

"I have no desire to injure the innocent." Peregrine leaned back against the embroidered-silk cushions. "Tell me more about your cousin."

"She is Lady Sara St. James, the only daughter of the Duke of Haddonfield. Our mothers were twin sisters, two Scottish beauties of modest birth. When they came to London, they had no fortune but their faces." Ross sipped more brandy, savoring the complex flavor. "It was fortune enough. They were called the 'Magnificent Montgomerys' and both became duchesses, setting a matrimonial standard that every ambitious mother in Britain has tried to match ever since, without success."