Mary Jo Putney (64 page)

If by some freak chance Weldon managed to destroy his stalker, he would still die himself at the hands of an assassin activated by Peregrine's death. Not a sportsmanlike action, but Peregrine had little use for the English concept of sportsmanship, which was a luxury for men who were not in danger of losing anything of real importance. No matter what happened, Weldon would die, after what he valued most had been taken from him. The only major variable was whether Peregrine himself would survive, and that was not a vital question.

Ross's voice interrupted his musings. "Are you ready to be introduced to some of your fellow guests?"

Peregrine gave him a lazy smile. "You cannot imagine how much irony there is in the fact that I am here in London, about to be plunged into the heart of respectable English society."

"You make yourself sound like a dagger," Ross said dryly. "Perhaps I can't fully appreciate the nuances, but I see that you find the situation vastly amusing."

"Indeed," Peregrine murmured. Glancing across the crowd, he asked, "Which of the lovely ladies is my hostess?"

"Look for the most beautiful blonde." Ross scanned the crowd, then nodded in the right direction when he found her. "There's Sara, under the tree on the far side of the garden, the one talking to the little girl."

Just as Peregrine's gaze located the woman, a plump man bustled up to Lord Ross. As his friend turned to the newcomer, Peregrine studied Lady Sara St. James. At first glance she was a disappointment, for he would have guessed that Weldon would choose a wife of stunning beauty as well as noble birth. Perhaps there were no eligible duke's daughters who were also beautiful.

Ross's cousin was rather small, slim, and simply dressed in a cream-colored gown. Her hair was pulled back over her ears into a demure knot on her neck, and was of a shade Peregrine considered too dark to be called blond. In spite of her cousin's description, she was definitely not a woman to bring a roomful of men to awed attention.

Lady Sara had her arm around the shoulders of a pretty flaxen-haired girl of ten or eleven years. The child glowed with the pleasure of attending an adult party. Turning her face up, she said something that caused the older woman to laugh and give the girl a gentle push toward the refreshment table.

As the child danced off, Lady Sara stepped from under the tree into the sunshine, her face still lit with laughter. And when she did, Peregrine caught his breath, suddenly transfixed.

Sara St. James was not stunning, or even vividly pretty, for prettiness was just another fashion that changed as quickly as the English weather. But in the bones of Lady Sara's face, the serenity of her expression, there was a wise, timeless beauty that would be honored in any age, by any race of earth's children. A sibyl of the ancient Greeks would have had such a countenance. Haloed by the sun, her hair was thick dark honey shot with amber and old gold, as luxurious as antique silk. Now he understood why Ross had called Lady Sara beautiful and blond, for there was no single, simple word that would describe her coloring. Or her.

Peregrine smiled and silently saluted his enemy's taste, for Weldon had, indeed, chosen a wife of rare beauty and breeding. Separating Ross's cousin from her betrothed was going to be a most rewarding endeavor, for it would save the lady from a vile husband, deprive Weldon of one of the trophies of his success, and be stimulating sport for Peregrine as well.

Since Ross was having trouble escaping his acquaintance, Peregrine decided to make his way to his hostess on his own. Like a trout into water, he slipped into the crowd. A footman with a tray of filled goblets went past, and Peregrine deftly captured one. A sip identified a fine French champagne, chosen to go with the mounds of fresh strawberries featured on the refreshment tables. He stopped and sampled a berry, discovering that champagne complemented the flavor perfectly. These English aristocrats knew how to live well, even if it was an artificial little world they inhabited.

Numerous oblique glances followed his leisurely progress, but most guests were too well-bred to stare openly. Probably they were just curious at the sight of an unfamiliar face in their usual circle. He knew there was nothing amiss with his appearance, for he had run the gauntlet of tailor, boot maker, and barber, and knew himself to be a very fair approximation of an English gentleman.

The only person who looked at him directly was a glorious golden-haired creature of mature years who gave him a warning look when his gaze lingered too long on her equally glorious young daughter. Seeing her determination to keep the wolf from her lamb, Peregrine offered his most disarming smile.

After a surprised moment, the mother smiled back, though she stayed close to her daughter. Wise woman. Peregrine estimated that the girl would be worth five hundred guineas in the Tripoli slave market, and the mother would probably bring two hundred in spite of her age. He grinned inwardly, imagining the reactions of the people around him if they could read his thoughts. That plump, aging dandy would be overpriced at five pounds.

While he was alert to everything about him, most of his attention was focused unobtrusively on Lady Sara as she performed her duties as a hostess, saying a few words to one guest before moving on to another. It had not been immediately obvious, because she was slight while Ross was tall and strongly built, but as Peregrine came closer, he saw how much the cousins resembled each other. The handsome, masculine planes of Ross's face were refined to delicate femininity in Lady Sara, and the cousins also shared clear brown eyes and well-defined brows and lashes that contrasted dramatically with their fair hair.

But there was a subtler similarity, a quality more mental than physical that was hinted at in Ross, and rather stronger in Lady Sara. It nagged at Peregrine, a faint shadow that he recognized but could not quite define.

Then, when their paths finally intersected and he came face-to-face with his hostess, he knew what haunted her eyes in that particular way. Lady Sara St. James's calm, sibyl face had been shaped and molded by pain.

* * *

As soon as Sara saw the tall, black-haired man, she knew that he was Ross's newly arrived friend. Then she had questioned her conclusion, wondering why she was so certain. His skin was dark, but no more than that of a weathered farmer, his craggy features were not noticeably foreign, and his superbly tailored black clothing was quintessentially British. Nonetheless, she was sure that he could only be Prince Peregrine of Kafiristan.

It was the way he moved, she decided, fluid and feral as a predator, wholly unlike the way a European walked. She saw how women watched him covertly and was not surprised, for there was something about the Kafir that would make women spin foolish fantasies about sensuous savages who were really nature's noblemen, untrammeled by civilization. Sara smiled at her own foolishness, then lost sight of the prince as she talked to one of her father's elderly cousins.

Then, quite suddenly, the currents of the party brought her face-to-face with Prince Peregrine. Sara tilted her head up as she opened her mouth to welcome her guest, but her voice died unborn as his intense gaze caught and held hers. The prince's eyes were a clear, startling green, a color unlike any other she had ever seen, a wild, exotic reminder that this was a man raised under different skies, by different rules. The unknowable green depths beckoned, promising
...
promising what?

It would be easy to drown in those eyes, to throw propriety and honor aside, and count the world well lost.
...
Shocked and disoriented by her thoughts, Sara swallowed and forced her mind back to reality. Extending her hand, she said, "I am your hostess, Sara St. James. Surely you are Prince Peregrine?"

His black slashing brows rose in mock despair. Taking her hand, he said in a deep resonant voice, "It is so obvious? And here I thought I was wearing correct native dress. Perhaps I should sell the tailor to the tin mines for failing me." He had a faint, husky accent, and his pronunciation was slightly overprecise, but otherwise his English was flawless.

Sara laughed. "It is not British custom to sell people to the mines, as I'm sure you know. Besides, your tailor is not at fault. There is an old proverb that clothes make the man, but that is only a partial truth. What really makes a man is his experiences, and your face was not formed by an English life."

"Very true." The prince still clasped Sara's hand. His own hand was well shaped and well groomed, but had the hardness that resulted from physical labor.

Abruptly Sara remembered a demonstration of electricity she had once seen, for she felt as if a powerful current was flowing from him to her. It radiated from his warm clasp and those unnerving green eyes, and made her disturbingly aware of his sheer maleness. Perhaps an arduous mountain life had made the prince so lithe and strong, so attractive that she wanted to run her hands over his body, feel his muscles, draw him close.
...

It took all of Sara's training in graciousness not to snatch her hand back. The blasted man must be a mesmerist! Or perhaps the resemblance was to a cobra hypnotizing a rabbit. She took a deep breath, telling herself not to be fanciful, the prince was merely different from what she was used to. Ross had once told her that Asiatics stood closer together than Europeans when they conversed. That was why she was so aware of the man's nearness. Disengaging her hand from his, she took a step back. "Local custom permits kissing a woman's hand, or perhaps shaking it, but the rule is that the hand must be returned promptly.''

His mobile features fell into lines of profound regret. "A thousand apologies, Lady Sara. I knew that, but forgot. So many things to remember. You will forgive my occasional lapses?"

"I can see that you are going to be a severe trial, Your Highness." Sara hoped her voice sounded normal. Her hand still tingled where they had touched, and she felt abnormally sensitive, like a butterfly newly emerged from its cocoon. The flowers smelled sweeter, the music sounded brighter, the air itself pulsed with promise. "Where is my cousin? I can't believe he was so rag-mannered as to leave you to your own devices."

"On the contrary, his manners are too good. He was waylaid by a tedious fellow who is obsessed with the subject of what prince would be a fit consort for your little Queen Victoria."

Sarah nodded. "Mr. Macaw. He is very difficult to escape."

"It is simple to get away from such fellows," the Kafir pronounced. "It is only necessary to be rude. Civilized manners are not at all an asset, you know."

"You and I could have some truly splendid arguments, Your Highness." Sara tried to look severe, but the corners of her mouth curved up and betrayed her. Though the prince was alarmingly attractive, he was also Ross's friend, and it seemed natural to treat him with informality. "What a pity that I am the hostess of this party, and can't spend the next hour convincing you that manners are essential to smooth the rough edges of life. Shall we find my cousin? Being over-civilized, I can't bring myself to abandon you in the midst of strangers."

The prince glanced across the crowd. "No need to search, for Lord Ross has finally escaped the dreaded Mr. Macaw."

A moment later, Ross reached them. "Sorry to have left you stranded, Mikahl."

"No matter," the prince said. "Your cousin had no trouble identifying me. She has been instructing me in manners, but fears it a hopeless task."

Ross smiled. "If Sara will consent to be your mentor, you could have no better guide to local customs."

Peregrine looked hopeful. "Will you mentor me, Lady Sara?"

She laughed. "Mentor is not a verb, but if you wish, I will be happy to advise you." More seriously, she continued, "Ross said that you saved him from two dangerous situations. I cannot do as much for you, but I will do whatever I can to make your stay in England a rewarding one."

With equal seriousness, he replied, "I am most grateful for your kindness. May I call on you tomorrow morning? I have many questions that I dare not ask Ross, for he has too little respect for society to give reliable answers."

"While I, conventional creature that I am, can always be counted on to know what is proper," Sara said wryly. "By all means call on me. After all, how can you enjoy the pleasures of outraging London if you do not know what is considered outrageous? I look forward to furthering our acquaintance."

Ross broke into their banter. "Sara, Sir Charles has just arrived, and should be with us in a moment."

She raised her gaze to look for her betrothed, but from the corner of her eye, she saw that the prince was also watching Weldon's approach. Since his face was profoundly still, why did she feel that silent lightning crackled around him?

"Sorry I'm late, my dear." Weldon bent to kiss Lady Sara's cheek, but Peregrine was interested to note a slight withdrawal on the part of the lady. No, it was not a love match, though the two exchanged easy greetings like a long-married couple.

Peregrine studied his enemy with hungry eyes. The years had been kind to Weldon, and he looked like what he was: a distinguished man of breeding and wealth. In his youth, charm and good looks had masked his true nature, and on the surface those qualities were still present. It took an astute eye to interpret his face correctly, but as Lady Sara had said, it was experience that made a man, and a lifetime of evil had engraved subtle lines of cruelty in Weldon's countenance.

Lady Sara's soft voice cut across his thoughts. "Charles, let me introduce you to Prince Peregrine of Kafiristan. He is newly arrived in England, and is probably the first man of his people ever to visit Europe. Your Highness, Sir Charles Weldon."