The Landlord's Black-Eyed Daughter (3 page)

As John Randolph Remington circulated through the crowd, he took note of the necklaces and bracelets and earbobs that adorned the women, the watches and knee-buckles and rings on the men. He also took note of the ballroom itself, in particular its entrances and exits. Earlier, he had spotted Lady Avery among the guests. While he had no real fear of being captured, the possibility added an interesting edge to the evening.

Despite his words to Zak, Rand hadn't been certain until the last moment that he would attend tonight's drum. By now he had read all of B.B. Wyndham's works, but none had shaken him like
Castles of Doom.
In her earlier novels the time periods were different, wrong. However, he was always able to recognize the man she referred to as Ralf Darkstarre in
Castles of Doom,
the man Rand thought he knew by his real name.

From her novels, he had concocted a mental image of the author. Miss B.B. Wyndham would be small and fragile, with pale hair and eyes, and a quiet, modest demeanor. In his mind's eye, she was shaping up to look remarkably similar to the mournful blonde of his dream. And of course, like all proper females, she would be agreeable to her husband and tender to her children.

Except Elizabeth Wyndham wasn't married, Rand thought, as he dodged a servant bearing a tray of drinks. His inquiries had divulged that much information, along with her real name. Which meant that she was either so grotesquely ugly no man would wed her or she was as poor as Job's turkey. Or perhaps she was less conventional than her writings suggested.

Dancing couples passed with a swish of petticoats. As he wended his way toward the staircase where Elizabeth would make her entrance, he overheard snatches of conversation concerning the guest of honor.

“
The Critical
and
The Monthly
were most uncomplimentary. They said Miss Wyndham's imagination has become imbued with a disturbingly dark cast.”

“I agree,” stated a second dowager. “When that dreadful Darkstarre violated Lady Guinevere, I found it shocking. Guinevere seemed mesmerized rather than repelled, which is certainly not a proper reaction.”

“But she's wasting away with remorse,” countered a third dowager. “Which is only as it should be.”

All music and conversation halted simultaneously. The Beresfords and their protégé had begun descending the staircase.

That cannot be Miss Wyndham,
thought Rand. He had seen splendid women in his time, but none who possessed this creature's intense, scorching beauty. He followed her slow, graceful descent with fascination and disbelief. Who would have thought that someone who penned such anemic heroines could appear so lushly sensual? Elizabeth Wyndham didn't cause a man to ponder genteel flirtation. On the contrary, she conjured up vivid scenes of passionate, timeless lovemaking.

A gallant standing beside Rand said, “Brocade is not the height of fashion, yet Miss Wyndham is just as striking as I heard she was.”

Elizabeth's low-cut gown blazed like a scarlet flame against the pale marble steps. Watching her, Rand realized how ridiculous he had been to equate this dramatic woman with her fictional characters, or even his dream memory.

However, her personality might not be as daunting as her looks. Before she was lost amidst a dozen whips, Rand glimpsed her downcast eyes and the modest tilt of her head. Experience had taught him that physically provocative women sometimes made less imaginative lovers than their plainer sisters. Most likely B.B. Wyndham was emotionally identical to her heroines, and her personality would prove as dull. In every novel save
Castles of Doom,
Elizabeth's ladies had suffered the most unspeakable violations at the hands of mad monks and lusty half brothers and debauched kings. Yet the molested ladies still managed to remain as mentally unsullied as the Virgin Mary. Except for Guinevere. She had definitely enjoyed Darkstarre's attentions. Which meant what?

I'll never know,
Rand thought, striving vainly for another glimpse of Elizabeth. A woman couldn't share his present life. Even if she could, he had an inexplicable feeling that
this
woman might single-handedly bring about his ruination.

***

Elizabeth felt as if she were a sheep surrounded by wolves, but her nervousness quickly subsided. As Charles Beresford performed countless introductions and she noted the admiring stares and comments, her natural confidence returned. None of these smiling bucks had any idea she'd barely begun her final installment of
Castles,
or that Charles Beresford would soon be referring to her as the
former
pride of Minerva Press.

“Have you enjoyed your trip to London?” asked a gentleman at her elbow.

“Very much,” she replied, casting him a coy look from behind her open fan.

“Have you been able to spend an afternoon at Bedlam?” asked a second. “I believe you would find it most entertaining. Perhaps I might escort you?”

Before Elizabeth could respond, a third said, “I'll wager Miss Wyndham would prefer Vauxhall Gardens, or perhaps a boating excursion along the Thames. Would you allow me the honor of your company on the morrow, Miss Wyndham?”

Elizabeth fluttered her fan and gave noncommittal answers. Even if she had been interested in any of these gallants, she hadn't journeyed to London in order to further her social life. While she had come partially in response to Charles Beresford's invitation and partially to withdraw money from her earnings so that she could pay her father's gambling debts, her main reason had involved London's central library—or more precisely, what she hoped to find in its back rooms. Perhaps after she delved more deeply into the
Alcester Chronicles
housed there, she would be able to overcome her writer's block and finish
Castles of Doom.

“…read all your books, Miss Wyndham. They show such charm and sensitivity.”

Ordinarily, Elizabeth would have challenged the gentleman's choice of adjectives, but now she merely batted her eyelashes and murmured, “Thank you.”

Another gallant chimed in. “I haven't read your novels, Miss Wyndham, but I intend to. I know I shall love them.”

Elizabeth tossed her head and favored each of her would-be suitors with a dazzling smile, all the while thinking that London's beaus were really very little different from the Dales'. Put any farmer in satin breeches and ingeniously clocked silk stockings, paint his face and prettify his speech, and who could tell the difference?

Charles Beresford approached, accompanied by an imperious-looking matron and a young man.

“May I introduce Lady Avery and her nephew, Roger,” Charles said. “I mentioned them to you before. They are the ones who so recently had that unfortunate incident with the highwaymen.”

“The ruffians took my purse,” Lady Avery said, “and all my jewelry, except for my wedding ring. And then the larger of the two, a veritable Hercules, had the effrontery to kiss my hand.” She looked rather pleased.

“They also took Lady Avery's copy of
Castles of Doom.
” Beresford sounded indignant.

“Perhaps they are fans of yours,” Lady Avery said, her eyes crinkling with amusement. She led Elizabeth toward a hallway escritoire, then thrust the second volume of
Castles
into her hands. “When you autograph this, would you refer to the theft of your novel? I'm dining with the King and Queen tomorrow, and I believe they will be amused by the anecdote.”

“It was actually all quite dreadful,” Roger whined, as Elizabeth dutifully opened the book to its title page and began writing. “Though I suppose crime is common nowadays. Remember when the Prince of Wales, the Prime Minister, and the Lord Chancellor were robbed in broad daylight in the West End, and the Lord Mayor was held at pistol point at Turnham Green?”

Elizabeth didn't remember. Furthermore, she didn't care who robbed whom, so long as they left her alone. Signing her name with a flourish, she returned the book to Lady Avery.

“I trust the blackguards will soon be apprehended,” muttered Beresford. “But as far as I'm concerned, hanging is too mild. I agree with that pamphlet we published a few years back,
Hanging Not Punishment Enough.
We should brand and torture lawbreakers, then force them into a life of servitude on a plantation.”

“I personally found both highwaymen quite dashing,” said Lady Avery. “At my age, the loss of a few trinkets seems a small price to pay for any adventure.”

Fearing offense, Beresford quickly agreed. After mopping his brow with his ever-present handkerchief, he placed his hand on Elizabeth's arm and whispered, “Everyone is enchanted with you, my dear.”

Elizabeth heard his words, but they didn't register. Beyond Lady Avery and her pompous nephew, Elizabeth had just spied the most extraordinarily attractive man. “Damn,” she breathed.

“Did you say something?” Beresford asked.

Had Elizabeth been describing her reaction in one of her novels, she would have used words like “thunderstruck” and “heart palpitations,” or perhaps her heroine would have fainted at the sight of the stranger's dark good looks. Elizabeth didn't swoon or blush or cry out, but she did feel light-headed. No. Light-headed was too sedate a description. Stunned was more apt. Yes. Stunned.

Far away, Beresford's voice dipped and soared, but Elizabeth could not hold onto it. She felt as though the stranger's gaze was probing the deepest recesses of her soul, and she shivered.

Beresford broke off mid-sentence. “Are you cold, my dear?”

Elizabeth shook her head. “I just thought I recognized someone I knew.”

How peculiar, she mused. London—nay, all of England—was awash with handsome men, and she had glimpsed many a pleasing face. So why did she feel as if her stays were too tight and each breath a struggle? And why had she said that the stranger appeared familiar? But he
was
familiar. Perhaps he had once paid court to her?

Noodle-head! She would have remembered that lithe body, so straight and tall. Maybe she had seen him earlier in the day, or last Sunday at St. Paul's Cathedral. Maybe she had caught a glimpse of him from her window, or perhaps he had visited her father's inn.

But I would have remembered.

“Excuse me.” Heedless of the surprised looks and raised eyebrows, Elizabeth wove her way through a blur of figures. The music, the rustle of skirts, the coughs and snuff-sneezes, the laughter and conversation all faded from her consciousness as she felt the room contract. However, once she was face to face with the stranger, she couldn't find anything to say.

This is absurd,
she thought, striving to calm her racing pulse. In the Dales she had been proposed to more times than a month had days, and she discarded men as easily as she discarded the used nibs from her quill. Yet now she was virtually struck dumb.

“Who are you?” she finally blurted, and was immediately horrified by her
faux pas.
A lady must never initiate a conversation lest she be considered guilty of “too warm desires.” A lady could only respond after a man had shown interest in
her.
And yet here she stood, Elizabeth Wyndham, heroine-for-a-night, behaving with all the subtlety of a streetwalker.

Rather than registering his disapproval, the stranger merely bowed and said, “My name is John Randolph. And you are the famed B.B. Wyndham.”

“Yes.” Elizabeth was struck by the raven color of his hair, which made his eyes appear even more blue. Her novelist's brain swiftly catalogued the strong line of his jaw, his full mouth, and his long, lean body. Most gentlemen used paint and strategically placed padding, but Mr. Randolph needed no such artifice to enhance his rugged good looks.

“What does the B.B. stand for?” he asked. “Bonny Bess?”

Elizabeth despised women who blushed, and yet she felt her cheeks flame. “Barbara Brownmiller,” she replied. “'Tis my mother's name. She was my inspiration and…” Elizabeth swallowed. “I have the oddest feeling we've met before, sir. Where might that have been?”

“I've recently been introduced to your books,” he said, sidestepping her question. “I find them fascinating. Or perhaps I should say disturbing.”

“I know we've met before,” she insisted, although ordinarily she would have challenged the word
disturbing.
“Have you ever visited the Inn of the White Hart? Or the Theatre Royal in York?”

He shook his head. “I'm sure I would have remembered.”

“Are you suggesting that I do not remember?”

“No. I meant it as a compliment, Miss Wyndham.”

“Dance with me, John Randolph,” she said, and was again astonished by her boldness. She prayed that no one had overheard. Hellfire! Her reputation would be forever ruined. She waited for a caustic reply, or even a polite repudiation, but he made no reference to her bad manners.

His eyes, she decided, were the color of the North Sea. She had used that phrase when she had penned her description of Ralf Darkstarre's eyes.

“What happened to your leg?” she asked, as they took their place among the line of couples.

“The War with the Colonies.”

“You dance very well, despite your limp.”

“I have wondered how we'd meet,” he said.

Although he remained at a discreet distance, Elizabeth felt as if the earth had shifted beneath her feet, as if the very room had tilted.
Why?
Ordinarily, the warmth of a man's gaze wouldn't be unsettling. On the contrary, it would be invigorating. Or boring. What had Mr. Randolph just said about her writing? About
Castles of Doom
? It was so difficult to concentrate.

“Why is it you've never married?” he asked.

His words brought her back to her senses, her
normal
senses. At first she was startled by his rudeness. Nay, she justified, he was simply inquisitive. Shocked by her advanced age, he had been unable to restrain his curiosity. Furthermore, his question was certainly no more rude than her question about his leg.