The Wicked Lady (Blackhaven Brides Book 2) Page 2

  But, of course, clergyman were not her type. Whether he’d acted from pity or interests of his own in dancing with her, her innate sense of fair play had forced her to release him. And he didn’t glance once in her direction now.

  “Good evening,” said two male voices, almost in perfect time. She glanced up to see two young bucks of rakish appearance drawing up chairs to join her in her solitary corner.

  She nodded distantly, and would have ignored them, had they not hemmed her in, one on each side like a maneuvering army.

  She lifted one eyebrow. “Do I know you, gentlemen?”

  “Not yet,” one replied with what he probably imagined was a winning smile.

  “Then be so good as to move aside. You’re blocking my view of the dance floor.”

  One of them shifted slightly, but the other persevered. “Would your ladyship care to take a turn on the dance floor? Or perhaps a walk?”

  She met his gaze, keeping her own hooded and amused. Normally, this was enough to depress the attentions of the young and mildly inebriated who were ridiculous enough to imagine they stood a chance with wicked Kate Crowmore.

  But everything had changed now. It seemed she was meant to be grateful for such attentions. The bolder gentleman actually reached out and took her gloved hand.

  Still she held his gaze. “Unhand me this instant, sir,” she said mildly. “Or in the next, you will have my wine dripping off your chin onto that rather ill-tied cravat.”

  Shock froze him, until she began to raise her glass, when he stumbled hastily out of his chair and effaced himself, his friend at his heels. Kate sipped her champagne and wondered when she could leave.

  Like the awful soiree in London, where everyone had cut her dead, this had been a mistake.

  She wondered what all those haughty people would feel if they knew the truth, that none of the scandal associated with her name was true. That she’d never taken even one lover, not even on the night that Crowmore had died when they’d discovered her at Lord Vernon’s house.

  Trust Crowmore to get the last laugh. Even in death he’d managed to hurt her. For in her heart she knew the truth would make no difference to the self-righteous who shunned her. They didn’t care whether she’d actually had fifty lovers or none. The sin was in the appearance, in being caught.

  *

  Grant didn’t approach Lady Crowmore again. Nor did he glower at her from across the room in the manner of the notorious Lord Byron. But he did notice her occasionally, mostly sitting alone, once exchanging pleasantries with young Bernard Muir while the wealthy Miss Smallwood glared at him jealously from close-by. And once reducing two over-amorous young bucks to stammering incoherence while she drank her champagne and ignored them.

  While Mary was occupied in other conversations, Grant drew his chair nearer Lampton’s. “Spill,” he invited. “What is the scandalous story of the widowed lady?”

  Lampton shrugged. “That when they looked for her to tell her about her husband’s not unexpected death, they found her in the bed of her lover, Lord Vernon.”

  Grant, who’d just taken a sip of wine, almost choked.

  Lampton threw up one apologetic hand, clearly and fortunately misunderstanding. “That is the gossip. Truth is another matter. The lady is clearly avoiding something, though. Why else would she come to Blackhaven alone?” He cast a quick glance at Grant. “Smitten, my friend?”

  “Utterly enchanted,” Grant said at once.

  He did what was expected of him: danced with several young women, chatted with their families and other acquaintances, and when, finally, he realized that Lady Crowmore was no longer in the ballroom, he said good night to the Lamptons and walked out into the foyer. Where, by chance, he saw Lady Crowmore emerging from the ladies’ cloakroom.

  The foyer, at that time of the evening, when it was too late for new arrivals and not yet time for most to depart, was empty. Still, she pretended not to see him, walking briskly toward the front exit. But Grant had long legs and caught her up in plenty of time to open the door for her.

  “You’re leaving so early?” she marveled. “Before the entertainment gets out of hand and orgiastic, I suppose. Probably best for a man of your calling.”

  “Are you making fun of our simple pleasures, my lady?” he asked as she glided past him into the street. “Or just of me?”

  “Alas, you will never know.” She turned and inclined her head. “Good night, Mr. Grant.”

  “You have no escort,” he observed. “Please, allow me—”

  “That won’t be necessary,” she interrupted. “Thank you.” She nodded to the doorman, whose purpose Grant had usurped, and turned left in the direction of the hotel. The vicarage was to the right.

  Grant knew an unexpectedly sharp twinge of disappointment. Chivalry was only his excuse. He simply wanted more of her unusual company. But she’d already defied convention by attending the ball alone. After that, walking to the hotel probably seemed trivial. Although it was only a hundred yards or less, and although Blackhaven was hardly a hotbed of crime, walking unaccompanied was not the done thing for a lady of her class. And yet, if she didn’t want him there, he couldn’t and wouldn’t inflict his company.

  The lady was a notorious flirt. He just hadn’t expected her to be quite so fascinating, so different … well, that was clearly the source of her power over men. And Tristram Grant, curate, was no different from others of his sex.

  So he merely stood by the Assembly Room doors, aiming to make idle conversation with George the doorman until she vanished into the safety of the hotel. George, however, was called inside by Mr. Hawthorn, the manager, and so Grant simply loitered.

  Which was why, without distraction, he saw the shadows detach themselves from the dark corners of the deserted street, both behind her and in front of her. From instinct, he set off briskly down the street in her wake, hoping his presence would scare off whatever villainy was intended before it happened. There were four shadows in all, clearly men, all closing in on her. Grant began to run.

  She halted. “Who sent you?” she asked clearly.

  A blade gleamed in the light of the gas lamp. Terrified for her now, Grant leapt at the nearest assailant, seizing him around the throat and hurling him into his fellow. The startled distraction of the other two gave him the moment he needed to run at them, crashing his fist into the face of the man with the blade, before spinning and kicking out at the fourth.

  “Run!” he commanded Lady Crowmore, and whirled around to face the first two attackers, who’d untangled themselves and risen to rejoin the fray.

  Lady Crowmore, however, did not run. And then the men were standing stock-still, because the lady pointed a very neat little pistol at them.

  Chapter Two

  Astonished, and not a little proud as she faced them down, Grant moved toward her, growling at the other two. “Be gone!”

  For an instant, the man with the knife brandished his weapon. Then he snarled. “Leg it.” And all four of them melted back into the shadows. Grant heard their running footsteps.

  Miraculously, the street appeared to be empty once more. Taking no chances, Grant turned a full circle and, still scanning the street, offered Lady Crowmore his arm.

  She took it. A quick glance showed him no trace of the little pistol, or any expression of distress.

  “Timely intervention, Mr. Grant,” she said calmly. “I am most grateful. What a devastating right hook … for a clergyman.”

  “Well, when I was a much smaller clergyman,” he said, walking forward while constantly searching the shadows, every sense on high alert. “About twelve or so years old, I occasionally had to defend myself, my dinner, and my allowance.”

  “You don’t fight like a twelve-year-old,” she said flatly. “They never got near you. None of them did.”

  “That had more to do with your pistol than my boxing skills.”

  Ahead, the hotel doorman emerged from within, yawning. He was about to lean against the wall when he caught si
ght of Grant and Lady Crowmore, and straightened once more.

  “Evening, Sparrow,” Grant said amiably. “Tell me…” He paused, for Lady Crowmore had definitely pinched his arm in a warning kind of a way. He could understand that. There was already enough gossip and scandal about her without adding speculation about tonight’s attack—and, no doubt, his own interference. “All quiet tonight? I could swear I saw some ruffians lurking around the high street.”

  “No trouble at all, sir. A few strangers in town, but that’s normal these days.” He touched his hat and opened the door for Lady Crowmore. “Your ladyship.”

  Grant passed through the door after the lady into the gracious foyer. The young man at the desk was sprawled across it, flirting with one of the maids, who fled at the sight of guests. The clerk straightened immediately.

  “Your hand is bleeding,” Lady Crowmore observed, her voice unshaken, although Grant could have sworn there was a hint of distress in her eyes.

  “No, no,” he assured her, “it’s from the other fellow’s face.” He held her gaze. “Is there anything I might be able to assist you with?”

  Her lips curved. “Do you mean looking under my bed for assassins?”

  There was a boldness in her eyes that caused his already very aware body to flame. She’d meant that, of course, though it was hardly an invitation, merely her suspicion of his own motives. It made no difference. Despite his clamoring body, he would never take advantage of a moment of weakness.

  “I meant inform the magistrate of what happened. And perhaps I might send a friend to you?” he managed.

  She laughed. “My dear sir, I have no friends. Nor am I so poor spirited that I need my hand held over such a trivial incident.” Unexpectedly, she extended her gloved fingers. “Give me your hand.”

  He obeyed. “You will stain your gloves,” he warned.

  “There, I should have worn black as all the old biddies wished.” Her fingers closed around his hand, turning it to see the damaged knuckles. Grant wished her gloves to the devil that he might feel her skin on his. And he wished his hand less unsightly, her attention less practical.

  Her nostrils flared, her only sign of distaste, but although he tried to withdraw, her fingers tightened. Over her shoulder, she called to the youth at the desk. “Mr. Smith, is it? Send for my maid, if you please. Desire her to bring my medicine box to me. In here,” she added to Grant, dropping his hand at last to push open the nearest door, which appeared to be a kind of private parlor or perhaps a reception room. “Sit.”

  Like the young man at the desk, Grant obeyed, although with a hint of amusement. “There is no need, you know. It’s just a graze.” He sat on the stiff, formal little sofa.

  “Be still,” she commanded, taking the seat beside him, although at a decorous distance. She had, after all, left the door open. “Can you not see that my care for the injured curate is my last-ditch attempt to win Blackhaven’s approbation?”

  “Then clearly it would be churlish of me to flee. I give in to your kindness—and my own inclinations to enjoy your company for a few moments longer.”

  “Gallant,” she allowed. “But you won’t enjoy it. My salve stings like the devil.”

  Surprised laughter broke from him, and for some reason, she looked startled. He thought her breath caught before she dragged her gaze up to the open door. “Where is that wretched girl?”

  “Why did you come here?” Grant asked, curiously.

  “It’s the best hotel in the town,” she replied. “In fact, I believe it’s the only one.”

  “I mean, why did you come to Blackhaven?”

  She sighed, bringing her attention back to him. “I know what you meant. I just didn’t want to believe you were like everyone else.”

  This time it was he who was startled. And mortified. “Forgive me. My calling does not make intrusive questions less insolent.”

  Again, she surprised him, a rueful smile curving her lips. “Thank God you do not yet see through all of my tricks. You are meant to crumble into abject excuses and avoid the subject.”

  “Oh, I’m crumbling.”

  “No, you’re not. I don’t believe you’re a crumbling man.”

  He dropped his gaze to his sluggishly bleeding hand in his lap. “We all crumble at something.”

  For a moment she was silent. Bored probably by the less than witty comeback. It was a raw nerve he kept hidden.

  “I came for peace,” she said abruptly. “Like you, I should have known better.”

  He leaned forward to see her more clearly. “Who were those men who attacked you?”

  “I have no idea, and you are the one who is bleeding.”

  “You’re right. I shouldn’t let people shove themselves into my fists.”

  She touched his wrist, butterfly-light and fleeting. “Thank you.”

  God, you could drown in those eyes. Behind the warm, genuine gratitude was a maelstrom of emotion he had no hope of untangling, let alone, understanding. But he knew he wouldn’t give up trying.

  The hurried click of footsteps across the foyer called him back to reality.

  “At last,” Lady Crowmore stood, stripping off her gloves, and indicating with an impatient wave of one of them, that Grant should remain seated. A youngish lady’s maid entered the room, carrying a painted wooden box and closed the door behind her.

  Lady Crowmore took the box from the maid and set it on the sofa beside Grant to open it. From a smaller, sealed box within, she took a small sponge and to his amazement, she knelt on the floor at his feet.

  “Give me your hand,” she said once more. And again, he obeyed, watching her face as she took it, this time in her naked fingers, causing his pulse to race. Her touch was soft, sensitive, both her left hand beneath his and the gentle action of her right as she cleaned his skinned knuckles with the damp sponge.

  Like a surgeon’s assistant he had once observed in a field hospital in Spain, the maid took the slightly gory sponge from her and presented her with a clean, dry cloth with which she gently yet firmly patted his hand dry. The maid then took the cloth from her mistress and presented an open jar of ointment.

  “Brace yourself,” Lady Crowmore said humorously, scooping a fingerful of the cream and smearing it over his knuckles. Although it stung, he didn’t flinch. He was too preoccupied with the changing expressions flitting across her beautiful face—concentration, sympathy, a hint of memory, perhaps, good and bad, and the same touch of humor with which she seemed to say and do most things. That, at least, was no affectation.

  “You have brothers,” he guessed, “whom you got used to patching up, along with servants and other family dependents.”

  She released his hand, placing it calmly on his knee while she replaced the lid on the jar. “Well, even the wickedest lady is brought up to be mistress of an establishment.”

  “I don’t believe you’re wicked at all.”

  Her eyes flew back to his as though struck. Then her lashes dropped, and when they rose again, her eyes were warm, sultry, and inviting enough to send desire raging through him. “Would you like me to prove otherwise, Master Curate?” she asked huskily. “Or are you too afraid for your reputation?”

  The maid, clearly well trained, didn’t appear to hear as she fussily tidied the box and closed the lid.

  Because he couldn’t help it, Grant reached out his still tingling hand and touched the lady’s soft, warm cheek. And now surely there was a hint of fear as well as excitement sparking in those expressive eyes. He’d surprised her. Possibly, she’d expected flight. Or a straightforward, amorous lunge. His body clamored for the latter. Still kneeling at his feet, she was close enough to see her effect on him, though she was not crass enough to look directly.

  “You have nothing to prove to me,” he said steadily. “On the contrary, it is I who wish to prove myself worthy of your trust. For I believe you are in trouble. I would like to help, if you would let me.”

  There was an instant, tiny but definite, when she actual
ly leaned her cheek into his hand. A sudden, somehow honest gesture that made him doubt the seductive words that had come before. That had been a game, a pretense. She’d known he would not accept. But in this moment, her cheek against his palm truly moved him.

  Then her long, black lashes came down again on whatever pain or temptation lay there.

  “My trouble is of my own making,” she drawled, rising to her feet. “It always has been. And I would appreciate it if you kept quiet about this incident. If the magistrate is informed, my … peace will be quite cut up.”

  His hand fell back into his lap. He stood. “You know where to find me if you change your mind.”

  “Likewise,” she said outrageously.

  Again, laughter snatched at his breath. He bowed. “On that understanding, I’ll bid you goodnight, Lady Crowmore.”

  “Goodnight,” she said carelessly, draping herself into his vacated place on the sofa as he walked to the door and opened it. “Mr. Grant?”

  He glanced back over his shoulder.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  He smiled and flexed his stinging right hand. “Thank you.”

  He thought she smiled back as he closed the door, but it might have been wishful thinking.

  *

  Despite her lack of welcome in Blackhaven, and despite the unpleasant events outside the hotel, Kate woke the following morning with inexplicable lightness of heart. In fact, it felt peculiarly like hope. Because there were men like Mr. Tristram Grant in the world.

  However, since she had no real intention of beginning a flirtation with anyone, let alone with a respected clergyman, she banished him from her mind, and began her day with an energetic walk on the beach before breakfast. Poor Little, her maid, seemed ready to drop by the time they returned. Mercilessly, Kate dragged her to the pump room with her as soon as they’d eaten.

  The pump room was where one partook of the health-giving Blackhaven spring water which had made the town so popular. Kate had never been before, but since she had to have some reason for being in the town without family or friends, she decided she should go at least once. She supposed it would be like Bath.