Patricia Rice (30 page)

She supposed they had talked of privateers like Sir Trevelyan, who had captured a renegade French warship that had blocked a British harbor a year or so ago. She remembered the story anyway, but she’d not been thinking of it when she’d painted the portrait. At the time, she’d thought the painting showed a fantasy hero with a romantic, fun loving nature. She’d thoroughly enjoyed the contradictions of character she’d conveyed.

She could dash that foolery right now. She couldn’t imagine anyone less romantic or more dangerous than the man who’d just left the gallery. Perhaps there was some truth behind the rumor of his being a murderer after all. After all, privateers were licensed to kill.

She shivered, and, tucking the hood of her mantle more securely over her distinctive white-blond hair, hastened to a back exit.

If rumor were true, Sir Trevelyan Rochester had murdered his cousin to claim the title and estates his grandfather had denied him.

If rumor were true, her painting provided evidence that Rochester had been in England when he had said he was not, destroying his credibility and alibi.

She knew the last rumor was based on false assumptions, but how would she ever explain the coincidence of the resemblance? She couldn’t. And now a dangerous privateer knew her name.

She’d caused scandals enough in the past but none of this magnitude. It was past time she left London before the privateer stormed the walls of her home to murder
her
.

***

Lucinda pushed a quilted petticoat into her brocade valise and looked around at the clothes scattered across her bedroom, trying to decide if she could squeeze in anything else. It had taken her the better part of the afternoon to carry out all the details of her plan to run away from home.

Without warning, her younger sister Cecily burst into the room. At seeing the disorder in her sister’s chamber, she halted abruptly. “I thought you told Mama you had the megrims and could not attend the ball.”

Lucinda winced at being caught in the first of what might become many lies. “I’m feeling better.”

“You cannot go, Sinda,” Cecily whispered in horror, finally making the connection between luggage and gossip. “Mama will think of a solution.”

Mentally berating herself for not having bolted the door, Lucinda tugged the valise buckle closed. “No,” she said simply.

“What do you mean,
no
? Mama always thinks of something. Remember when you were twelve and you painted the pretty lady on her new silk sofa? And over the mantel you sketched in a portrait of the Stewart prince, only he had blood on his hands? Mama warned Papa, who told the king, who called the troops home in time to prevent a bloody war.”

Lucinda shook her head and a tear crawled down her cheek. “She prevented a bloody war in
England
, but not in Scotland. If I hadn’t painted that picture, would all those brave young men have died at Culloden?”

Too young to remember that period in history, Cecily shrugged carelessly. “If not there, somewhere else. What matters is that Mama can make this right, too. She and Papa can do anything. Papa is a
duke
.”

“Papa could not prevent all London from believing my painting means Sir Trevelyan murdered his cousin.” Bitterly, Lucinda flung her box of oils on the bed with her valise.

“It is a very good painting,” Cecily said. “Everyone says so.”

It was an
excellent
painting; in all respects, an oil as fine as any that hung in the royal galleries. She had simply chosen the wrong subject. Again.

Just seeing innocent Cecily, with her blond curls and anxious expression, sealed her decision. At sixteen, Cecily had come out only this year. She already had a dozen brilliant beaus who had been conspicuously absent these past weeks of controversy. The portrait had forcibly reminded them that a man had to be strong and brave or desperate to marry a Malcolm.

Lucinda must leave town to give her three younger sisters a chance to marry. At twenty-two, her own time on the marriage mart had passed. Six years was long enough to show she had tried. Malcolms with dangerous gifts had been known to disappear from public sight from time to time. It wasn’t as if she would be setting any precedents. There was freedom in anonymity.

“I won’t go far,” Lucinda promised. “Cousin Felicity has said I can stay with her and Ewen until I decide how to proceed. I’ll travel to Scotland incognito and live under an assumed name. I can make my living by painting landscapes. I can’t harm anyone by drawing trees. I think I’ll be much happier away from London.”

She’d repeated those lines to herself enough times that she managed to sound cheerful while she said them. They did sound good, even if she was lying about her destination to throw Cecily off her trail. She had never lived without her family and had almost no idea how to go on by herself, so she wasn’t foolish enough to think she could completely run away. It was just that she’d been quiet and obedient for so long, she needed to establish her new self and her new life before her family could talk her out of it.

It wasn’t as if she didn’t have a marketable talent. Landscape paintings were all the rage. And surely it would be safe to paint grass and trees.

“How will you go?” Cecily asked in an awed whisper. “Scotland is a very long way and the roads are bad.”

“It’s better that you don’t know so you won’t have to lie if asked. Go and forget you saw me this evening. In a few days, your beaus will be back on the doorstep, and all will be well.”

Cecily looked even more stricken. “There are thieves all over St. James these days! I heard Papa say it is not safe to walk the streets. You cannot go without a footman and a linkboy.”

“I’ve made arrangements, I promise,” Lucinda swore, and this time, she was completely honest. She wasn’t a brave person.

She hugged Cecily to reassure her. Still unhappy, her sister tiptoed out the door with Sinda’s gentle shove.

After her sister was safely gone, Lucinda glanced around for anything she’d forgotten, then slipped to the balcony window with valise and paint box in hand. She must be gone before Cecily started feeling guilty. Their parents had left for a dinner and ball, but that didn’t mean they couldn’t be found before she made her escape.

She’d planned everything to the last minute. She had a chair waiting to take her to the inn where the Sussex coach would leave within the hour. She had a strong sense of self-preservation and no intention of running off to chilly Scotland.

Taking one last look at the pretty room that had been hers all her life, trying not to imagine what would happen in the morning when her younger sisters discovered she was gone, Lucinda swept away a tear. Mouth set in determination, she dropped her valise and paint box off the balcony into the shrubbery below, then pulled her concealing mantle over her face and hurried from her room toward the servants’ stairs. She’d traded a fine muslin morning dress for a maid’s coarse wool gown so she wouldn’t appear out of place at a common inn. She would look a mess when she arrived, but that was the whole point, wasn’t it—not to look like herself?

A high wall surrounded the yard, so there was no one to see when she retrieved her bags. Dusk fell early this time of year. An owl hooted from the old oak, but owls didn’t scare her. From here, it would be easy. She knew where to find the gate key.

The gate creaked a little as she stepped into the mews, but the servants were all in the hall having their supper. She could scream bloody murder and they wouldn’t hear.

She almost did scream when her first step into the alley brought her up against a tall, cloaked figure that materialized out of the darkness.
Thieves!

A strong hand caught her shoulder, and her heart nearly leaped from her chest.

Her accoster released her, and she hastily backed toward the gate and safety. In the dusky light, she recognized the powerful form and black coat of the man who had made such an impression on her in the gallery. Not a thief then. A murderer.

Sir Trevelyan had come to kill her.

“Steady on now, lass.” His voice was like deep velvet. “What’s your hurry?”

Not soothed by his tone, she shrank into the shadows of the vines spilling over the walls. Behind her, she fumbled for the gate latch while feigning ignorance for as long as she might.

“Who are you?” she demanded in a manner totally unlike her, hoping her voice didn’t shake. “There should be none back here but the duke’s men.” That seemed the thing a spirited maid might say.

Feeble illumination from the stable lantern at the end of the mews cast more shadows than light on the pirate’s striking features. His cloak made it difficult to discern more than form, but he was taller than her father and even wider of shoulder than she remembered. He wore his black tricorne at a rakish tilt, concealing his expression.

“I’m just a visitor seeking a shortcut.” He swept off his hat and made a deep bow. When he stood upright again, the light fell on the sharp blade of his nose and his deeply set eyes.

She’d painted that face, knew it intimately. He was far more imposing and dangerous close up than she had dreamed, even after seeing him in person. The heart-pounding, knee-weakening sensation returned. This time, she recognized it as abject fear.

“And who might you be?” he inquired. “Not many stroll these alleys at night.”

Trying not to stutter, she kept her voice low. “’Tis none of your concern, sir. Be off about your business, if you please.” She’d never said a saucy word in her life. What had possessed her to say such a thing now? She dropped her gaze in fear to seek the hilt of his sword. He’d left it off, thank the goddess.

He didn’t seem offended so much as amused by her reply. “It seems I’ve stumbled on a little hedgehog. Tell me, if you will, is the duke about this evening? I have business with him.”

Oh dear, oh dreadful dear. Would he challenge her father to a duel over the painting’s insult to his reputation?

Now that she had set about a career of anonymity, she supposed she must become accustomed to storytelling. “He is not, sir. The family is away for the season
.”

“But the stable lanterns are lit as if someone is expected,” he contradicted with a knowing grin. He produced a gold piece from his pocket and let it gleam in the light. “I’ve a coin for you if you can tell me when the family will return.”

Shocked at his audacity, she sank deeper into the shadows and prayed her cloak concealed her features. The gold between his gloved fingers twinkled, and she thought of her meager purse. She’d never been one to save her allowance when it could be spent on a new oil paint.

What would it hurt to tell when her father was expected home? It was not as if a carriage with four horses could arrive surreptitiously. All Rochester had to do was linger, and he’d eventually see her parents.

She needed to be rid of him so she could make her escape before they returned. The sedan chair she’d hired wouldn’t wait much longer.

“The duke has been at Whitehall all day,” she lied, “and is past due home. His family has gone to the Beresfords’ ball without him.” Just enough detail for plausibility, she hoped. Her father never left her mother waiting, and it would be the wee hours before they returned.

“Very good,” he said, sounding pleased. “And your name, should I call again?”

What would the name of a servant avail him? Trembling, she shook her head. “The master doesn’t know I’m out. I’ll not tell you that.”

He laughed. “And where are you off to, then? Shall I escort you? It is not safe for a fair maid to walk the streets alone at night. There is danger in the dark.”

His whole face altered when he smiled. He looked like a laughing pirate, a man who took life to excess and reveled in it. Sinda admired the flash of his white teeth against his dark coloring and wished she could know him better. A man like this was rare in society.

Dangerous, she reminded herself. She was the dreamer and certainly not the smartest of her family, but she knew better than to dally with an acknowledged privateer. “I daresay I’ll be far safer alone than with you, sir. Pray, let me pass.”

His dark eyes narrowed and he hesitated. Then he chuckled and held out the coin, which she snatched quickly, trying not to notice the heat of his hand.

“I thank you, then.” Bowing, he returned his hat to his head and strode off as if they’d just exchanged a pleasantry.

He disappeared around the far side of the carriage house. She gave him a moment or two to get ahead of her.

He was devilishly attractive. His velvet voice alone could make a woman swoon. And no doubt he would strangle her had he known who she was.

Gulping in relief at the near miss, grateful she’d chosen to leave London, she hastened down the alley to peek into the street. She wanted to be certain Rochester did not linger at their door. She saw no sign of the man.

She hadn’t realized how very
dark
the streets were without a linkboy to carry a lantern for her. Or how lonely they were without one of her sisters laughing and talking at her side.

To her relief, the sedan chair waited. Dragging her valise and paint box, she hastened to take her seat, proffering the coin Rochester had given her and speaking her direction. She felt no guilt at using his money to make her escape. It was his fault that she must do so.

***

Standing in a doorway near the waiting sedan chair, Trev listened to the girl give her direction. He wasn’t the kind of man to laugh off an insult or let grass grow under his feet. And sometimes, he had the devil’s own luck.

He’d wager everything he owned—and that was currently a considerable sum—that the chit with the paint box he’d just helped run away was the
Prophetess
whose neck he’d come to wring. She’d raised his curiosity several levels upon this mischance meeting. She certainly hadn’t been seeking attention this evening.

He’d spent these last hours investigating Lady Lucinda Malcolm Pembroke, learning she was a well-known troublemaker and the haughty daughter of a powerful duke. All thought of the peace and civilization he’d come home to find fled his head. Twenty years at sea had taught him to attack first and ask questions later.