Priceless (13 page)

Judson seemed to take no offense. He smiled, displaying a fine set of Egyptian pebble teeth, and asked gaily, “How do you stand the brute, dear?”

“My visit with
Monsieur le Vicomte
has been a delight.” More than anyone could know, indeed.

Judson positioned himself just beyond the illumination of the candles. “He’s so like his father, I hear. A veritable ladies’ man.”

Adam’s teeth, fine, white, and his own, snapped together as he replied, “I am nothing like my father, and I’ll shoot the man who says I am.”

Taken aback, Judson batted his eyelids. “My dear man, I meant no offense. After all, who better to tease you about your pater? We have so much in common, you and I.”

With only a small change, Adam repeated the phrase. “I am nothing like you, and I will shoot the man who says I am.”

“There’s just no pleasing you.” Judson flounced. “Very well, I’ll leave you to your conversation, but remember, dear lady”—he turned to Bronwyn—“when you weary of this creature, come to me.”

The interlude left Bronwyn with nothing to say, nothing to do, but watch as Adam’s fingers strained to shape the round amber knob of his cane. She liked the length of them, the breadth of his palm, the whole of his hand, but disliked the frustration that brought him such anguish. “He has no hair.”

“What?” The fingers relaxed a bit, and he asked in tones
of simulated amazement, “Do you mean his disguise didn’t hoax you?”

“The wig, the penciled brows, the false lashes? No, they were no deception. His skin appears to be putty, with only a coating of paint to give it color.” She lowered her own lashes to shield herself from his admiration.

“Smallpox so damaged him, his hair disappeared. His skin, as you observed, is filled with coarse white in the hopes it will fill the pits left by the disease, and that covered with carmine, ceruse, powder, and all the rest.” He caressed her cheek with his knuckle. “Its texture is crude enamel, not the fine china of your own skin.”

She wanted to turn her lips to his fingers, and her reaction, so contrary to the ill will that she should bear him, brought her a pain in the region of her heart. Faltering, she asked, “Who could be fooled?”

Toying with the top bow of her bodice, he leaned closer, and the scent of mint brushed her face. “I assure you, my dear Cherie, the hope rattles in his vacant breast all will see him as he wishes to be seen.” With a little jerk, the bow was untied.

Bronwyn slapped at his hand. “Monsieur, you mustn’t play such games with my clothing. No one here wishes to see my corset.”

“On the contrary”—he spread aside the material and touched the flesh that swelled above the whalebone—“many may wish to see it. I find, however, I desire to be the only one so privileged.”

Bronwyn was shocked at his desire, expressed so boldly. She caught the ends of the bow and retied it in a flurry. “Isn’t that what we all seek? To be seen as we wish to be, rather than as we are?”

Adam untied the lopsided bow once more and retied it with an elegance that revealed experience. “Some seek to hide themselves beneath a mask, some seek to hide themselves by revealing.”

Rattled by his insight, she flipped open her fan, placed it between them, and peered at him from beneath lowered lashes. Again he appeared faintly bored, as if he’d said nothing of significance. Afraid to make much of it, she asked, “Would you care to join a discussion on Pope’s translation of the
Iliad
?”

Adam curled his lip as he considered the possibility. “I’d rather discuss you and me, the maze of our lives, and how we came to this predestined meeting.”

That was exactly what she did not want to talk about. “One of our ladies is an astronomer. Perhaps you would like—”

He shook his head.

“Would you like to join the experiment being performed?”

“How have I offended you, Cherie? We speak of the general, and you’re willing to converse. We speak of the intimate, and you wish to fly.” Before she could answer, he waved a regal hand. “No matter. You wish to observe this experiment. Let us do so.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to…that is, the experiments performed in the salon always interest me, and I wish to observe this one.”

Leaning heavily on the arm of the settee, he stood. “What is so special about this one?”

“Young Mr. Webster just returned from his Grand Tour, bringing something from Germany.”

“Yes?” he encouraged. He grimaced as he put his weight on his leg.

“He calls it a vacuum pump. Insert a clock within, he says, pump the air out, and the chiming of the clock will be silenced. Light a fire, place it within, pump the air out, and the fire will fail.”

Adam sighed. “And you believe him?”

She would have been annoyed with his skepticism, but the obvious discomfort of his leg made her answer gently,
“I’ve seen many strange things demonstrated during my visit here.”

“Charlatans.”

She longed to put her arm around him as he limped to the table surrounded by chattering people, but the image of his displeasure stopped her. “I confess, I still view it as magic rather than science.”

“Perhaps you’re not so credulous after all,” he grunted, adjusting himself until most of his weight rested against his walking stick.

She didn’t reply, standing on tiptoe to watch as Webster displayed the German globe he claimed would miraculously silence a clock and kill a flame.

Judson stepped up beside them and said in a superior tone, “I saw this demonstrated when I toured the Continent fifteen years ago. It’s old science.”

“You toured the Continent?” Adam conveyed amusement and scorn. “I believed it wasn’t so much a tour as an exile. Your father barely escaped prison, did he not?”

Flaring like the spark that ignited the experimental fire, Judson snapped, “He was clever enough to avoid hanging.”

“I’m clever enough to avoid pretensions,” Adam shot right back. “Clever enough to take fortune by the neck and twist it until my life is my own, and not dependent on a patron.”

Judson stuck out his chin. “Fortune is mine today, Lord Rawson. Remember that when she abandons you tomorrow.”

Laughing lightly, Adam said, “Your threat is as impotent as you are. Never think I’ve not noticed you scurry from coffeehouse to coffeehouse on Change Alley, sticking your long nose into everyone’s dealings. No doubt the man who employs you finds you useful, but does he realize your perfidy? Does he realize that should another wave a larger fist of money, you’ll leave like a well-fed rat abandoning ship?”

“You’ve watched me?” Judson’s eyes went vacant with
dismay, then filled with cunning. “What does that make you? The rat catcher?”

“I have no desire to catch such a vermin,” Adam said congenially. “I’ll simply step on you.” As the little man stormed away, Adam muttered, “But I will discover what you’re about.”

Beside him, Bronwyn asked, “Should you have antagonized him?”

“He’s waving the coin around now, but mark my words. Soon he’ll be starving once more. I’m amazed he has survived on Change Alley for this great time.” He glanced toward the corner where Judson sulked. “He takes his luck and squanders it, rather than building to provide for tomorrow.”

“You despise him.”

He looked down on her and smiled. “An astute observation.”

She smiled back, unable to resist the juxtaposition of muscle, bone, and skin that composed his mirth. Then, embarrassed by the reaction she couldn’t contain, she looked with simulated excitement on the experiment. The gentleman had placed a small flame inside the glass globe and repeatedly compressed his hand pump. Her observation must have remained fixed on Adam peripherally, for just as the fire began to fade, so did Adam. His leg collapsed at the knee; she caught him with an arm around his waist.

He gained his balance in only a moment, but pain deepened the lines bracketing his mouth. “Come,” she decided. “Sit here by the door.”

He accepted the chair gratefully, apologizing, “I didn’t mean to drop on you like that. Did I hurt you?”

“Not at all,” she lied, ignoring the bruise his hand had left on her shoulder.

He massaged his thigh. “Valiant girl, of course I did.”

She pushed aside his hand and kneaded the injured leg herself. “Perhaps, but I’m no frail vessel. You’ll find I’m quite sturdy, quite—” The muscles tightened beneath her
fingers and she lost her train of thought. Her face flamed as she contemplated her misguided massage, begun so innocently. How could she halt it without embarrassment? More important, did she want to halt it? His body was a pleasure to touch, and the stirring within his breeches created a curiosity in her.

Would she surrender to her curiosity? My God, she was considering seduction.

Seduction. Despite Adam’s enticement on Midsummer Eve, she had never understood all the mechanics of physical love. Her mother’s vague warnings had been explicit as to place—the bedroom—and time—at night.

Perhaps if she provided the place and the time, the wherefores would take care of themselves. And she was not, after all, Bronwyn Edana, but the French girl Cherie. The sophistication, the playfulness, the
joie de vivre
of Cherie could guide her.

She would do it. She nibbled her lower lip. She
would
do it, and she’d do it so cunningly he would never suspect her inexperience.

Invigorated, she rubbed his thigh once more, taking pleasure in the firm contours below the cloth.

Adam groaned quite without pain and commanded hoarsely, “You should call for my carriage before the others are distracted from the experiment.”

As if to mark his words, the crowd around the table oohed.

“The flame is extinguished,” he said.

“It grows stronger.” She looked up at him; he looked down at her. The flame she spoke of glowed about him, transforming his face with the beauty of a dark angel. She rose to her feet and extended her hand to him. He contemplated it with an emotion she couldn’t define.

Before she could wonder too much he took it, pulled it to his mouth, kissed the palm with open mouth. A thrill quite different from her former urge made her knees tremble.
When massaging his leg, she’d felt quite strong; now she felt weak and very feminine.

“Such a contradiction,” she murmured.

Understanding without explanation, he refuted, “Such a promise.”

Carroll Judson, Daphne noted, couldn’t tear his gaze from the tender scene by the door. The vapid fop might prove to be a good conspirator in her campaign to drive Cherie from Madame Rachelle’s. Gliding forward, taking care not to call attention to herself, Daphne stepped close behind him and said, “You don’t join in our scientific discussion.”

“I don’t choose to.”

She followed his gaze. “Yes, I agree with you. Human reproductive habits are much more interesting.”

“So sarcastic,” he rebuked. “Why do you care?”

How much to say? Should she acknowledge her jealousy? Should she speak of her special relationship with Rachelle? Perhaps that wouldn’t be wise, for no one understood how much she worshiped Rachelle. She settled for Cherie’s lesser transgression, admitting, “
Monsieur le Vicomte
is a prize.”

He sneered. “One not for the likes of you, little bastard. You reach too high.”

She didn’t resent the slur to her birth. Why should she? It was the truth. What she resented, what galled her, was the ease with which this Cherie had stolen Rachelle’s attention from her own budding talents. That Cherie had stolen the man she coveted simply added to Daphne’s envy. “Too high? Not I. A cloud hangs over the handsome lord’s reputation, and as a man he is a decent specimen. He would suit me well.”

“He is betrothed.”

“His betrothed escaped him.”

Judson grabbed her arm and hustled her into a corner.
Keeping an eye on Adam and the woman, he said, “Tell me what you know.”

“Haven’t you heard?” She permitted a small smile to tug at her lips. “They say his betrothed ran from him in fear, cloistering herself in a convent rather than sharing his marriage bed.”

“Is that girl, that Bronwyn Edana, really gone? Is this the truth?”

“Part of it is the truth. She’s gone from his house.” She nodded at the couple at the chair, sure she’d found a pleasant way to make mischief. “Too obviously, the rest is nonsense. What is the identity of the enigmatic Cherie?”

At first he seemed not to understand, then he jerked his head toward Adam and his lady.

“I’m not at liberty to speak,” she purred. “Rachelle would kill me.”

Before her eyes, the man’s demeanor transformed from fop to savage. Swift as a striking snake, his hands found her neck and squeezed. “I’ll take great pleasure in strangling you if you don’t speak.”

Panicked, she swatted at his hands, wrestled away from him. He easily loosened his grip but kept her within reach.

Rubbing her throat, Daphne realized that perhaps she had miscalculated. Perhaps this wasn’t the way to make mischief after all. Thrilled and appalled by what she was doing, she plucked at her lip. Rachelle claimed Daphne acted with too much impetuosity, and she respected Rachelle’s opinion. Rachelle, who had been a mother to her. Rachelle, who would care for her more if Bronwyn were gone. Daphne’s resolve firmed. “That’s her. The woman with the harlot’s hair. That’s Bronwyn Edana.”

“Impossible.” His hands trembled on her shoulders. “Bronwyn Edana is Adam’s betrothed. That humorless male busybody would never allow her to escape his clutches.”

All was fair in love and war, was it not? “Monsieur, I know only what I’ve heard between Cherie and Rachelle.”

“If this is true…” His hand crept toward her throat again.

She shrank from the hairless one. “It is.” His expression threatened murder, and the grip of his hands still marked her throat. Fright overwhelmed her, and she tried to edge away. His hands shot out, halting her.

He gripped her chin in both palms, stroked her cheeks with his thumbs. She whimpered as he increased the pressure, but his grip kept her quiet. “You will say nothing of my interest. I have ways to ensure your silence, should you fail me.”

She nodded, eyes wide.

As if he were satisfied with her capitulation, he put her away from him. Ignoring her as if she were of no importance, he said, “Nothing could be worse. Nothing could be more disastrous.”