Sweet Treason (Entangled Ignite) (13 page)

He nodded. She was right of course. But how would he ever forget her? How would he ever find a woman whose courage and commitment equaled hers? A woman who could make him forget politics, wars, and boundaries with the curve of her smile? Who could make his blood run thick and sweet when he lay with her?

He traced the line of her cheek feeling the deepest regret of his life. “Emmy. Is there any way—?”

“None.” Her eyes glistened in the moonlight, and he realized she was fighting tears. “The hurt will only cut deeper if we continue. Please, Ryan. If you ever cared for me, do not press this further.”

His throat constricted. He nodded and began walking again. “I gather your sister’s arrival in London was a surprise to you?”

“Entirely. I hadn’t a single notion she was coming.”

“Doesn’t want you having all the fun?”

She smiled. “In a manner of speaking. But I banished her to your cousin’s house. I could never allow Mr. Dodge to have us both under his control.”

“And where is Miss Theodora this evening?”

“Wiltshire by now, if the roads are in good repair. Bath by tomorrow, I should think. Sent to see her sister.”

This development made him uneasy. “Do you not think you should remove to the Davis’s with your sister? I do not like the idea of you alone with him in that house.”

Emily hesitated, and he read a dozen excuses into her pause. Could she not see she was flirting with disaster? They paused beneath a flowering apple tree, and she looked up at him, urgency burning in her eyes. “We are hardly alone, Ryan. I have Bridey, and there are other servants. I
must
find out what Mr. Dodge is up to. Why he took such a bold chance to bring me to London. This, and my impending birthday, cannot be coincidence. I cannot leave anything to chance when I am so close to—”

“Emmy, be safe. Go home to Sussex, and take your sister with you.” He disliked her taking unnecessary chances, and not because her actions could draw attention to him, but because he wanted her safe and secure. He wanted her happy. God knew she’d had precious little of that for the past six years.

“Would that make your life easier, Mr. Dutton?”

Was she trying to prick him to anger? He grinned. “Only by removing temptation. But I would prefer having you where I can keep an eye on you.”

A soft breeze stirred the branches above them, loosening a shower of apple blossoms. He smiled as the petals sprinkled his jacket and made bright stars in Emily’s dark hair.

God, how he still wanted her. He drew her closer and slipped his arm around her to pull him against him, then released her hand to lift her chin. “You are a woman meant for kissing, Emily Nevins. Long, hard, and thoroughly.”

Her lips, as soft as the petals of the apple blossoms, parted, and her lashes drifted downward. An invitation. Almost impatient. He met her tongue with little licks of heat, swallowing her moans, nothing gentle or slow in his claiming of her mouth. When she was breathless and weak, he supported her, holding her so tightly that he could feel the erratic beat of her heart and the firmed tips of her breasts pressed against his chest. God, he’d disgrace them both if he continued this.

She gasped and pushed against his chest. “Ryan! Please… You promised.”

Damn his promise! Already shaking with the effort to control his desire, he could take no more and remain in control. He stepped back to put distance between them, then was shocked at the chill of desolation and loss between them. He reached out to brush the apple blossoms from her hair, and she looked down, a deep pink infusing her cheeks. He leaned over to press his cheek to hers as he whispered in her ear.

“I give you another promise, Emmy. The day will come when—”

Her green eyes were wide and a little wild. “I…I…should go back. They…Mr. Dodge will be looking for me.”

He dropped his hands, and she was gone before he could blink. He could only pray the day would come when neither of them would stop. Ever.

He followed her back to the ballroom but remained outside until he could cool the effects of that kiss.

“Psst! Sutton!”

The furtive whisper came from shadows of the rose arbor. A quick glance around told Ryan that they were safe. He slipped away from the doors into the dark night. A rustle in the shrubbery of the maze drew him onward.

“Here, Sutton.”

Ryan came around a corner in the boxwood. “Archer?” he said.

“We must find a safe place to meet in London,” the courier said. “I think I am being followed so I dare not come to your rooms, and tracking you down can be a problem.”

“We’ll be safer this way,” Ryan countered. “No single place for the king’s men to watch or to lay a trap.”

“Aye, and nowhere to catch your breath.”

“You have something for me?”

Archer removed an oilskin packet from the inside pocket of his waistcoat and handed it to Ryan. “Information on the southern campaign, sir—as requested.”

“My gratitude, Archer. It is a rare thing when something comes so easily.” He took the folded papers from the oilskin and scanned the lines, then looked over a small, hand-drawn map. Most of what he needed was here; numbers, dates, strategy. There were still a few important gaps. Could he trust the information? “I pray this will be enough. ’Tis critical we put everything aside until we’ve found our leak. For all we know, we are being fed false intelligence.”

“There is a source I haven’t tried that may provide answers. Put together with your information, we may learn what we need.”

“Did you have any problems getting this?” he tapped the pages.

“I’ve been followed. My concern, sir, is that someday I may not detect, or evade, a shadow.”

“There’s no remedy for that,” Ryan shrugged. “If it’s any comfort to you, I’ve been followed recently, too. Erickson may have found opportunity to tell what he suspected before I managed to silence him.”

“Could the whole operation be at risk?”

“Possibly, but I pray not. ’Tis even possible we’ll all be doing the hangman’s dance at Tyburn ere long.”

“Bloody bastard! How could he betray his friends like that?”

Ryan shook his head and ran his fingers through his hair. “That is the nature of this foul war. It has all the earmarks of a family quarrel. I trusted him, Archer. I believed in him. He called himself my friend. I never suspected he would betray us without so much as a glance over his shoulder. A bitter lesson, that.”

He sighed, feeling the pain of the incident as a weariness of heart. He was tired of the disappointments, of being always on his guard, of never being able to trust anyone. “Sometimes I think the cost to our souls is more than we can pay. With each betrayal, something dies inside me. I’m sick of it, Archer. I’m sick of keeping detached from the people around me lest my involvements cloud my judgment. I’m sick of the necessity of hiding my feelings and loyalties from friends and family.”

“What would you do if not this, sir?” Archer asked.

Ryan’s first thought was of Emily. He’d go back into Bradford’s ballroom, toss the wench over his shoulder, and take her somewhere he could make a wild, primal love to her. When, in a week or so, he’d sated himself enough to stumble from their bed, he’d carry her onto a ship bound for Virginia and never look back.

He shook his head and laughed. “Something foolish, no doubt. Now go, Archer, before we’re discovered.”

Ryan lingered near the center of the maze, relishing the quiet and privacy of the spot, while he allowed time for his compatriot to disappear. Archer was occasionally invited to the same events, but not this particular one.

He found a small bench and sat down to remove the pages of Bridey’s report on Oak Hill. Commonplace. Ordinary. But for the nature of the mistress. Ryan had wondered why Emily never wore jewelry. Most women liked to adorn themselves lavishly, and if lavish was not Emily’s style, certainly simple elegance was. Now he knew the reason. Emily had very little jewelry, and what little remained, she kept for emergencies—not adornment. According to Bridey, she’d been selling her family heirlooms a piece at a time to pay her tenants’ rents, which Dodge increased with regularity against her wishes. He remembered the night they’d met in her library and how there’d been a pearl brooch on her desk. Had she sold that to pay Dodge?

He envied Emily’s tenants. What would it be like to have her loyalty, to know she would willingly stand between you and disaster, would sacrifice her own world, wealth, and well-being to secure yours? There was nothing weak, selfish, or self-centered about her. Her strength of character—her integrity—were her hallmarks, and he deeply regretted that they were opposed in the only cause that mattered to him.

Chapter Twelve

It was well past midnight when Ryan went from the roulette table to faro to
vingt et un
and back again. He could do no wrong. He won continuously. Disgusted, he finally gave up. He needed to lose tonight—to the right people, of course. Many valuable contacts were made by losing. Odd how having another man’s money in one’s pocket made one more agreeable and willing to talk. He went to the alcove off the gaming room and poured himself a stiff brandy.

“You look pensive, Sutton.”

Ryan turned and raised his glass. “Ah, how are you, Devaux? Have you come to lecture me for my disappearance earlier this evening?”

Devaux laughed. “Did you disappear? I vow I did not notice a thing but Miss Lucy Nevins.”

And Ryan had not noticed a thing but Emily Nevins dancing and flirting with Ed Jennings. He felt his muscles tense and his jaw clench. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. When he got a grip on his emotions, he asked, “Brandy?”

“Aye.” Devaux sat down in a deep club chair with the air of a man settling in for a heart-to-heart talk.

Ryan poured another glass and handed it to Devaux before taking a seat across from him and lifting his glass in a silent toast. After a short pause, he ventured to mention the subject that had been preying on his mind.

“I could have sworn you were quite taken by Miss Emily Nevins. Was I mistaken?”

Devaux gave him a slightly chagrined smile. “Very near to it. But I noted her interest in you, as well. I wondered if we might come to sword point over it before Miss Lucy came along.”

Ryan looked down into his glass. “I have nothing to offer at the moment. I am not a good prospect for a woman like Miss Nevins.”

Devaux gave a short bark of laughter. “Can’t see how that’s damaged your popularity with women, Sutton. Half the eligible females in the ton are sighing over you. And Miss Nevins’s indifference is mere coyness. I’ve seen the way she looks at you when you are unaware.”

Ryan wondered what else he might have given away to an observant man like Lord Devaux.

“But—” Devaux continued with an exaggerated sigh, “I’ve surrendered to the inevitable. Clearly Miss Emily Nevins prefers you and will serve me best as my sister-in-law. I hope they are not old-fashioned enough to believe that the eldest must marry first, because I am beginning to feel urgent.”

Ryan laughed. “Does Miss Lucy know your intentions?

“How could she not? I’ve been told I was not exactly subtle.”

“And she reciprocates?”

“I have reason to believe so. She danced three times with me.”

“Three?” Ryan laughed. “Then it is a fait accompli.”

Jonah dismissed the subject with a negligent shrug. “What do you hear from your family, Sutton?”

“Precious little gets through these days. My mother was not well last I heard,” Ryan admitted. “I’m sick unto death of exile. I am impatient for the war to end so I can go home.”

“Have you given thought to what will be left of your holdings if the colonists win?”

“Enough left to start over. They can burn my house and carry off my belongings, but land remains, and I’ve never been afraid of hard work.”

“That’s one of the things I admire about you, Sutton. You’re a man of hard work and principle—a trait you share in copious amounts with your countrymen. You pay your debts and honor your word. ’Tis no paltry achievement.”

Ryan gave him a rueful smile. “I had no idea I was such a paragon. Nor that my countrymen were so highly regarded in England.”

“They have been much put-upon, and their rights have been abused. I am surprised that you could have lived there and taken the stance of a loyalist.”

Ryan raised his eyebrows. “Are you? When were you in the colonies, Devaux?”

“In ’74. I have holdings in Massachusetts. Beautiful country. So much potential. The king would be a fool to let it go. It is unfortunate that our misunderstandings have come to this.” He waved one hand dismissively, the light of a chandelier flashing off his signet ring. “Ah—but we dared the unpardonable. We did not even leave them their affordable cup of tea. Unthinkable!”

Ryan laughed at this tongue-in-cheek assessment, though he knew that, beneath the teasing, Devaux was serious. He was emboldened to speak his own concern. “I fear that such a small, sparsely populated confederation of colonies will ever be able to stand alone. I think that is why so many have chosen the path of a loyalist. Their alliance with France was advantageous. Should Spain join them—well, that would be even better. But when the war is over and the allies go home, what then? Allies can become enemies.”

Devaux nodded. “Who knows that better than England? But what, sir, of your duty to your home and countrymen?”

He grew uneasy with Devaux’s persistence. “This is odd, Devaux. You, a member of the House of Lords, berating me for my loyalty to England. Have a care, lest you be tried and hanged for sedition.”

“Not bloody likely, Sutton. I’m far too important. Aside from that, every man is entitled to his own opinion.”

“You have the luxury of an opinion, while common men and those born on American soil are not afforded the same luxury. Your opinion, spoken from
my
lips, would be considered treason, Devaux, and we both know that.”

He sat back in his chair and regarded Ryan through lowered lashes. A tense moment passed before he spoke. “I begin to suspect that I should not press you, Sutton. I have a great deal of regard for you. Men like you act according to your conscience and keep your own council. Ignorance is bliss, if you catch me.”

Ryan smiled and downed the rest of his brandy. “I believe I do.”

“I’d be grieved if our friendship put either of us in an awkward position.”

“Then we must take care that such a thing never happens.”

…

Lucy lifted a waiting crown of fresh flowers and arranged it atop Emily’s dark hair, which had been swept back and fell free to her waist. “How did you ever persuade Mr. Dodge to allow you to prepare for the masquerade here? Not that Brock and Audrey are not delighted—but we did not think he would permit it.”

Emily laughed. “I may have suggested that Mother might construe his hovering as a tiny bit obsessive in view of the fact that the only other females in residence aside from me are servants.”

“How perfectly wicked.”

“Thank you. I confess I am beginning to miss Theodora. I had to agree to meet Dodge at the masque to identify myself and assure him my costume is ‘respectable.’ I am respectable, am I not?”

“Only slightly.” Lucy turned her to the mirror and smiled.

Emily looked at their reflections, standing side by side. Lucy wore a flowing gown of clinging cerulean blue silk that left one arm bare and her fair hair was done up and twined with golden cords, but a glimpse of bare ankle shod with golden sandals was the most daring part of Lucy’s costume. “Diana?” she asked.

Lucy sighed and shook her head. “Aphrodite.”

“Hoping to enchant a certain earl?”

“Tell me I am foolish, Emmy. That I haven’t a chance with someone as charming, handsome, and well-born as Lord Devaux. That he would have higher expectations and only dally with me for amusement.”

“I would if it were true. But he’d be fortunate, indeed, to gain your consent. I have recently learned that we will be quite wealthy once I reach my birthday. But Devaux does not need to wed a fortune, and you have more than money to recommend you. He fancies you, Lucy, so if you fancy him as well, do not be bashful.

Lucy smiled and nodded. She fastened a feathered masque over Emily’s eyes and handed her a crooked staff. Emily’s stark white blouse bared her shoulders and fell over a wide striped skirt of black and green, cinched at her waist by a black stomacher. Now she knew what Lucy had meant by “only slightly” respectable. The stomacher pushed her breasts upward and swelled them into barely concealed mounds.

She glanced out Lucy’s bedroom window, wondering if there would be time to make a few adjustments. But, “The coach is out front. Brock and Audrey must be waiting.”

They slipped their cloaks over their costumes and hurried down the staircase. Brock and Audrey, dressed as Henry VIII and Ann Boleyn, were waiting in the foyer and ushered them into the coach.

Brock jested that they arrived at their destination before they departed, since Lord Marsh’s Estate was barely quarter of a mile from the Davis town home. A footman took their cloaks, and they joined the short receiving line.

Lord and Lady Marsh, dressed as Zeus and Hera, chatted for a moment, approved their costumes, and sent them forth, refusing to give anyone’s identity away.

“That is the fun of a masque,” Hera told them as they moved away.

Brock took one glance at the crowd and asked, “Shall we find the punch bowl, ladies? ’Twould seem we have some catching up to do.”

Emily followed his glance and wondered if there was anyone here tonight that she had not questioned regarding Henry Dodge. She shrugged and laughed, catching Brock’s mood. “Heavens, we mustn’t fall behind! We should set the standard.”

Lucy scanned the crowd as Brock led the way to an elaborate fountain bubbling wine. They filled their glasses and began to wander the perimeter of the dance floor.

Emily knew Lucy was looking for Devaux, and she linked arms with her sister. “Shall we see who we can recognize?”

Brock winked. “Hold up, there. Here comes a knight templar with a determined look on his face.”

Emily turned and saw Devaux, complete with chain mail and a white mantle with a red cross, bearing down on them. “Ah, here you are, Lord Devaux! We’ve been looking for you.” She glanced at her sister, who was suddenly blushing.

“And I’ve been looking for you,” he murmured, his focus on Lucy.

Emily smiled and drew her sister forward. “We have been trying to identify the guests, Devaux. Have you seen any of our friends?”

“Henry XIII is our host, or I’ve gone blind,” he declared.

“That was easy. Tell us something difficult,” Lucy challenged.

He grinned at her and pointed across the ballroom. “See the dashing masked highwayman? Lord Roddy Peele. But do not tell him I gave him away. He likes to think he is well disguised.”

“Which one is Lord Craxton?” Emily asked.

Devaux scanned the crowd and pointed at last to a Roman centurion. “Over there. I shall remember to steer clear of him lest he ask me to dance. He is as blind as a bat, I am wearing a tunic, and his fondness for tall women is well known.”

Brock slapped him on the back as he led Audrey to the dance floor. “I promise if I see you dancing with him, I will interrupt.”

Devaux offered an arm to both women, leading them in a circuit of the ballroom. There were many nondescript medieval friars and robbers, along with milkmaids carrying buckets. Those who did not deign to wear costumes merely wore half-masks or, in the case of several men present, wore dark hooded cloaks with half masks. Emily spotted Sir Edmund Jennings dressed as one of half a dozen monks in long brown robes.

“Oh!” Lucy quickly covered her mouth with one hand as she stared in disbelief at a woman who had come as a harem slave. She was barefoot and wearing brightly colored silk balloon trousers with slits all around to reveal tantalizing glimpses of bare calf, thigh, and even a bare hip when she moved. A golden girdle sewn with bells all around rode low on her hips. Her blouse was transparent, low cut, and loose with full long sleeves and ended just above her midriff. A brocade vest was all that saved her from utter ruin. That, and a heavy veil obscuring her features.

Devaux scowled. “Were she mine, I’d throttle her.”

“Do you know who she is?”

“I do, but you’d best not know.”

Emily looked closer. She tried to determine, without success, if the she was naturally raven-haired, or if she wore a wig.

Lucy peered closer, too. “I cannot think of anyone who would disgrace herself so thoroughly. Tell us, Lord Devaux.”

“’Twill never pass my lips.”

Emily regarded the woman with narrowed eyes. “I’ll wager we can guess her identity by the end of the evening.”

“You’ll wager?” Devaux grinned. “What shall it be?”

“A night at the theater?”

“Higher stakes.”

Lucy tilted her head to one side. “What do you think would be appropriate, Lord Templar?”

“Some little gee-gaw. A silver-headed walking stick if I win, perhaps? Some shiny trinket if you do? And winner may choose costumes for the next masque?”

“Done!” Emily and Lucy exclaimed at once.

Devaux glanced toward the dance floor again. “Dance with me, Miss Lucy? We shall get closer to the harem girl. Observe her at close range, as it were. I want to win fairly.”

As she watched from the sidelines, Emily could not help laughing to see Lucy pretending indifference and Devaux trying to look stylishly bored as they got closer to the harem slave.

A highwayman complete with mask and pistols at each side took Emily’s arm and squeezed. “Little Emily! What a charming shepherdess you make.”

She pretended surprise at his identity. “Lord Peele, ’tis good to see you,” Emily smiled. “How did you know ’twas me?”

“Gads! Those eyes of yours, girl! Did you think you’d fool a soul? But how did you know me?”

“I wouldn’t have known had you not spoken. ’Twas your voice, my Lord. And where is Miss Turner this evening?”

“I cannot say. We came separate, and she would not allow me to see her costume. She said I must find her, the little minx. She is ever fond of a game.”

An ugly thought occurred to Emily. She glanced at the dance floor to see the harem slave curtsy low to her dance partner in a move that exposed whatever lay beneath the neckline of her blouse. A cold knot formed in her stomach when her partner’s cowl fell back to expose Ryan Sutton. How dare the woman? How dare
he
! She could not read his reaction at this distance, but it was telling that he did not turn away.

She could not bear to watch, and she turned around to pretend an interest in the conversation. When the dance ended, the faint ringing of a bell drew her back around. A man dressed in a black full robe with a deep shadowing cowl had joined them. A leper’s bell, worn around his neck on a long leather cord, rang the warning of his approach. She knew who he was before he spoke—she could feel his presence in the air. And recognize him as the harem slave’s partner.