Read Jo Beverley - [Rogue ] Online

Authors: An Arranged Mariage

Jo Beverley - [Rogue ] (3 page)

A vicious pain dragged her partway to consciousness. She heard a muffled scream and realized it was her own. She opened her eyes again and tried to beg for mercy. She saw for a moment the monstrous, gasping face that was to haunt her nightmares for months to come. Then the saving blackness returned and stayed...

Eleanor was unaware of the good humor shown by her brother when he gave up the precious piece of jade, accompanied by earnest apologies. Nor did she hear the conversation between him and Lord Deveril when Lord Stainbridge had left.

"Pity he didn't admit to his real tastes," muttered Sir Lionel. "That would have been a useful lever."

"We will find some other," said Lord Deveril coolly.

"I'm surprised you gave up this pleasure, though." Sir Lionel gestured to the bed. "Any whore would have done as well."

Lord Deveril walked forward and squeezed an exposed nipple with his dirty, bony fingers. The body on the bed remained inert. "What fun is there in this? Before tonight my choice was to take her drugged like this or in a violent rape, and I'm too old now for those games. But tomorrow I think you'll find she's a great deal more willing to consider my offer of marriage. When she's my lady and has her wits about her, then I'll take my pleasure. I'll enjoy her hatred more when she is compelled to conceal it. And we may yet gain some advantage from what has happened tonight. Our leader has a way of finding benefits in the most unlikely situations."

He then covered Eleanor with a sheet. "Guard my betrothed well, Chivenham," he said with a chilling smile. "I will come tomorrow with the ring."

* * *

That same night, in Paris, Lord Stainbridge's brother, Nicholas Delaney, was kneeling beside the body of an Englishman of his acquaintance. He had realized very quickly that there was nothing to be done. He had seen enough men die to know that Richard Anstable's harsh breathing and irregular heartbeat could last only moments longer. The man had lost a great deal of blood.

Nicholas was on his way home to England from India and had taken the opportunity of Napoleon's abdication to visit Paris, closed all his lifetime to the English. He had stayed for some weeks for a number of reasons, not least of which being that this time home he thought he might stay. A pause before a momentous decision seemed appropriate and, in view of the exciting times in the French capital, didn't appear to bother his "entourage."

He wasn't quite sure how he had acquired the three companions: Tim Riley had attached himself in Poona; Georgie Crofts—usually called Shako—had been picked up on the Cape; and Tom Holloway, an old fellow-traveler, had been met up with in Italy. Tom was along for the company, but Nicholas knew that to the other two he was their way home. Tim had been debilitated by fever in India, and Shako was a sailor who'd lost his right arm. They had both become devoted attendants. Nicholas hoped they'd become less embarrassingly devoted once he'd got them on their home ground.

He'd bumped into Richard Anstable three days ago. He knew the young man slightly and had been happy to enjoy a couple of evenings of his company. Richard was one of the new diplomats sent out to Paris, and Nicholas had gained the impression that his work was not so much concerned with the peace negotiations as with tracking down Bonapartist sympathizers. That seemed a little pointless now the emperor had abdicated and been sent to Elba, but governments were known for suspicious uneasiness.

Nicholas had certainly not expected to find violence in the company of the mild, pudgy young man. He had come to Richard's rooms for a few hands of piquet and found him like this.

Poor Richard. He put out a hand and brushed the mousy hair back off the dying man's forehead.

Richard's eyes opened, but Nicholas was sure he could see little. "It's Nicholas, Richard. Lie still. I'll get help." It would be no use, but he had to say it.

The eyes closed again, but the lips moved. "Tres. It's Tres... Tell them..."

"I'll tell them," Nicholas promised, then made a guess. "The embassy?"

Richard smiled slightly, gasped, and died.

Nicholas felt grief and rage wash over him. Death was so absolute. A moment ago there had been a man, now there was only a corpse. Richard Anstable had been a stranger, really, but a pleasant young man with the gift of enjoying life. Nicholas wished he knew who had taken that life away, ruthlessly shot him twice in the chest. And why.

The least he could do was to take his message to the embassy. Tres. Was Richard speaking French? In French, tres meant very. Or was it a name? Perhaps someone would know, and perhaps there would be something he could do to the people who had killed Richard Anstable.

 

 

 

Chapter 2

 

The next morning there were few places in London where Lord Stainbridge wanted to be less than Derby Square, where Lionel Chivenham had his moldering house. That, however, was where his footsteps had taken him. His unease and suspicions about the events of the previous night pricked at him. He must know more.

There were no gentry about so early in the morning, but servants could be seen cleaning steps, polishing brass, and making purchases from passing hawkers. None of this activity, however, illuminated the dreamlike events of the previous night. Chivenham had put him in a hackney, and once home his valet had seen him safely to his bed. He scarcely recollected any of it. He had awakened quite early with a sour dryness in his mouth but without an alcoholic hangover. Almost against his will he had been drawn back to this house.

He stood for a while, leaning against the wrought iron railings of the small garden in the center of the square, worrying his chin with his silver-headed cane. He gazed at Chivenham's tall, narrow house as if it could give him some answers to his bewilderment, partly convinced that what he remembered of the night before must be a dream produced by drugs. He knew there were some people who had a fondness for, even an addiction to, opium.

But there was that jade horse that he had found by his bed, placed there by his valet...

It was only idly that he noticed a cloaked figure slip out of the basement of Chivenham's house and hurry down the street past his watching post. Something about her caught his attention—a frantic quality to her movements that was reflected in her eyes as she glanced back at Chivenham's house.

Could this be...? Doubtless it was only a servant up to no good, but having no hope of enlightenment from the house he followed the dark-cloaked figure.

She walked briskly for about fifteen minutes and then turned into Saint James' Park and sat upon a wall. Lord Stainbridge began to feel foolish. He had failed to obtain a clear look at the female, but she was very shabbily dressed. Surely it was merely a servant taking a little fresh air or meeting a lover on her day off.

He was about to turn to go when she suddenly jumped up, her movements so awkward he felt compelled to follow her. She hurried down Great George's Street in the direction of the river and Westminster Bridge. At the last minute she began to run. He was almost too late. She was clambering onto the parapet of the bridge when he caught her and pulled her roughly from danger.

"Leave me alone, for God's sake!" she cried wildly, but when she saw who her rescuer was she collapsed in a dead faint.

Frantically, Lord Stainbridge loosened the buttons of her high collar and fanned her with his hat. He was thankful there were no passersby, for he dreaded to think what she might say when she recovered. Her reaction to his face told him she was the woman involved in the previous night's affair. She was older than he had thought and surprisingly well-spoken, but still he had no doubt as to her identity.

He had suspected there was more to the matter than was apparent. Could it be a marriage trap? It all made little sense...

If only Nicholas were here to handle this. When the woman regained consciousness there was likely to be a scene of the kind Lord Stainbridge most disliked.

Her reaction, however, surprised him. When she came to and saw him she closed her eyes again and lay still. He might have thought she had fainted again except for the tension that replaced the flaccidity of her body. Then she struggled to a sitting position and spoke with the deadly calm of despair. "I can only suppose my brother sent you. Very well, let us return."

Lord Stainbridge suppressed an instinctive denial. His principal desire was to get her away from this place to a private one, where he could discover the extent of the plot. As she seemed docile, he raised her to her feet and supported her back toward Parliament Street, where they found a cab. He pushed her in, told the driver to wander a little, then climbed in after her.

In the grimy interior, the woman looked like a wax statue—pale, still, and blank of face. He could see, however, that she was handsome, with fine, even features and rich auburn hair. He only remembered the hair. When she closed her eyes, as she did for a moment, she could almost be beautiful. When she opened them the expression there dissolved the effect. The expression was a clear reminder of the night before.

"Who are you?" he asked.

She turned to him then, and for a moment there was a touch of grim amusement in her expression, but she didn't answer. Instead she posed a question of her own. "Where are you taking me?"

"Where do you wish to go?" He was strangely wary of her composure.

"Back to the river," was her simple reply.

After a small, helpless pause he asked her why, and she replied, gazing out the window, "Well, the alternatives are worse, you see."

"And what are they?"

"Marriage to a man I loathe or poverty and disgrace."

He could not stand the grain of uncertainty, or hope, any longer. "You are the woman who was... introduced to pleasure last night. Who are you?"

She turned clear, blue, affronted eyes on him. "I am Eleanor Chivenham, and let us be precise. I am the woman you raped. I do recognize you. And besides, my brother was kind enough to tell me who had... who was given the honor of my despoiling, Lord Stainbridge."

A chill settled on him like a coat of ice. "His
sister
? Is the man a monster? I cannot understand... It is not... Please, Miss Chivenham, allow me to take you to my house, where we can discuss this situation. I assure you, despite everything, you can trust yourself to me."

How strange it was, Eleanor thought, that he be so agitated and she so calm. After a moment she agreed to his plan. "After all, my lord, it cannot matter much what you do now. If you can find a solution other than the river, I will be grateful."

They did not speak for the remainder of the journey.

Lord Stainbridge fidgeted while Eleanor struggled to remain calm. Inside she was all turmoil, but it was heavily overlaid by shock and despair. She turned her head at one point to look wonderingly at the man beside her. She knew of the earls of Stainbridge, for she'd grown up not ten miles from their seat, Grattingly. The Delaney family were rich and powerful, and Grattingly known for its elegance.

How had this Earl of Stainbridge come to this?

As he was staring fixedly out the window she felt able to study him.

He was surprisingly young, only a few years older than herself. He was handsome in a fine-drawn manner that did not particularly appeal to her. He looked oversensitive and highly strung, but that could be just the occasion. She remembered her impression of the night before that he was like a medieval saint. It had not been false. His was a sensitive, oval face, and his hands could be those of an artist.

She thought ruefully that two less likely partners in debauchery would be hard to find.

Lord Stainbridge's principal thought, as he stared out at the increasingly busy streets, was that he was almost certainly playing into someone's hands and being a gullible fool... Nicky would not have behaved like this. He could hardly convince himself, however, that his twin would abandon a lady in distress.

It was all so difficult. He hated the unpredictable.

It was Lord Stainbridge's habit when in a quandary to think, "What would Nicky do?" In this case, however, it was not helping much. His outrageous twin would doubtless seduce the lady into compliance and then send her on her way with a handsome douceur, and happy too, no doubt. A vague idea stirred in his head. He began to see a way out of the situation.

When Lord Stainbridge ushered Eleanor into his elegant town house he treated her as an honored guest. Eleanor saw the shielded astonishment on the face of his footman.

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