Nightingale

For Chris Peirson

I value our friendship.

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Announcement

    
The Bride Says No

    
The Bride Says Maybe

    
The Groom Says Yes

About the Author

Also by Cathy Maxwell

Copyright

About the Publisher

London

S
ir Dane Pendleton sat at his writing desk surrounded by darkness save for the light of a single candle. His pen scratched the surface of the paper as he made out his last will and testament.

This was grim business. He did not plan on dying on the morrow—in fact, he anticipated winning the duel—but Dane was a thorough man. His vast and complicated affairs were in order; however, he had last-minute instructions in case the unthinkable should happen.

Coming to the end of the sheet, he paused. He was done.

He set aside the pen and poured himself a heavy draft of the smoky whiskey he favored. The decanter was already a quarter lower than when he'd started.

All was deadly quiet.

Save for a lone footman who watched the door downstairs, the servants were in bed. At this late hour, the footman was probably asleep, too.

No sound penetrated the study. The rich furnishings and deep carpets, all fruits of his labors, absorbed any noise. Above the mantel, a marble-and-gold clock ticked off the minutes.

Dane let his gaze drift around the room, knowing without seeing where every stick of furniture was located, every vase, every piece of sterling, every book, and the exact cost of each. He'd spent a decade achieving his success and had thought himself if not happy, at least content—until, with a crashing force, he'd been reminded of his past this evening.

Cris Carson, Lord Whiting was a bloody fool.

Only an idiot picked a duel with a man of Dane's reputation. But then Whiting had felt himself the injured party and he'd been dangerously drunk. Dane had attempted to walk away, to disengage Whiting when he'd started reviling him right there in the middle of White's, but the young lord would not let him leave.

Whiting's host, Simmons, had made apologies for his guest, but Whiting had even drowned him out, refusing to listen to all reason. No, the foolish lad had thought he had a reputation to protect, and now it was swords at dawn.

Dane took a deep sip of the whiskey, the bite of the liquor as sharp as his memories—Whiting and his family had never been the injured party. If anything, Dane should have been the one to attack him.

How strange that after all this time, after his many, many successes, including being knighted, there was still that deep emptiness inside him?

And who would have thought a woman could have so much power?

Frowning, he set the heavy crystal glass down and pushed it away.

He'd thought he'd successfully exorcized Jemma Carson from every fiber of his being. He'd thought he'd rid himself of the bitterness—and yet here it was, returned fourfold by her brother's drunken verbal attack.

But then, didn't poets warn that Love wielded a sword sharper than any known to man?

Dane knew it was true, and he had the scars to prove it—
in his back.

There had been a time when he'd loved Jemma with all he'd had to offer, and it had not been enough. She'd returned his promises, built up his hopes, made him believe they would be together. Then she'd spurned him and married another.

Dane sat very still and slowly released his breath, surprised at how fresh and overwhelming the pain still was.

Of course, there had been other women over the years. He'd kept a string of mistresses, all of them more beautiful than Jemma, all of them vowing love as Jemma had . . . and some may have. After all, he'd paid their bills, kept them in style, and what more was there to love? Women were mercenary creatures at heart. Each and every one of them. They always wanted something. Fortunately, he was a man of means who could indulge their passion for trinkets and petty possessions.

Perhaps I should thank Jemma,
Dane mused. If she had accepted his marriage offer all those years ago, he'd probably be a fat, happy clergyman somewhere with a gaggle of children instead of the man of the world he was now. Because of her rejection, he'd left the safe haven of Lancashire and risked all in India. He'd become a man who knew no fear, who'd hardened himself to gentler emotions and knew how to pay blood in blood. A man alone.

Meanwhile, Jemma's life had not been what she'd anticipated. Her husband, the one she'd chosen over Dane, had been titled and wealthy and a fool. He'd had a poor head for wisdom and business. In this day and age, with war in Europe, a man couldn't afford to throw his money out a window. The rumor about Town was that, at his death, Lord Mosby had left his heirs little more than a pittance and his widow destitute.

Dane reached for the decanter, then stopped.

Damn Jemma . . . and damn her stupid, drunken brother. He hadn't let her break him then, and he would not do so now—

A soft rap sounded on the door.

For a second, Dane thought he'd imagined the sound.

The knock sounded again.

“What is it?” he said, his voice harsh. He wanted to be alone. He
needed
to be alone. Tomorrow, he was going to run Whiting through, and then . . .
what?
The word haunted him.

“There is someone here to see you, sir,” the footman's voice said from the other side.

At this hour?
“Who the bloody hell is it?” Dane demanded. He went ahead and poured himself another whiskey. To the devil with temperance or being a gentleman. Tonight was for exorcisms, although the whiskey didn't seem to be having any effect. He was feeling everything too sharply. He lifted his glass.

“I'm sorry, Sir Dane, I don't have her name,” the footman answered. “She refused to tell me or give me her card but asked to see you on the most urgent of business. I let her in because she is obviously a Lady of Quality.”

A Lady of Quality?
Out and alone at this hour of the night?

Curious, Dane set down the glass without drinking. “Send her up.”

There was silence at the door as the footman went to do Dane's bidding. Dane sat, quiet. Who would be coming to see him at this hour? It couldn't be a mistress. He and the last, what was her name? Something French. Always something French . . . although none of them had been French any more than he was.
Danielle.
He had signed Danielle off three months ago and had not had the energy or interest in searching for another.

In fact, for the past year, since he'd returned to London, he had been weighed down by a sense of tedium coupled with a restless irritation over the everyday matters of his life. He'd been going through the motions of living without any clear purpose or desire.

Perhaps he should let Whiting run
him
through?

The idea had appeal. Dane picked up the glass and drained it of the precious amber liquid.

The footman rapped on the door to signal he had returned with this uninvited guest. Dane pushed both the will and his whiskey glass aside before calling out, “Enter.”

The door opened slowly, and the footman, dressed in blue-and-gold livery with a powdered wig on his head, stepped into the room. “Sir Dane, your guest.”

He moved back. There was a moment's pause, a space of time, three ticks of the clock, and then the woman walked into the room and Dane stopped breathing.

Before him stood Jemma Carson, the widowed Lady Mosby, looking more beautiful than ever.

J
emma had never been as frightened in her life as she was now, standing here in front of Dane. She willed herself to take another step forward, but her feet seemed rooted to the ground.

Nor did he invite her in by rising from his chair.

Time stretched out between them, and she realized exactly how long it had been since they had last seen each other.

This was not the Dane Pendleton she remembered . . . but then, she had known he'd changed. He'd hardened, and she could see nothing of the boy she'd once loved with all her being in the man sitting in the candlelight.

He'd always been a big man, but now in the thin candlelight, he appeared taller, more muscular . . . more imposing. The lines of maturity and of experience on his face had erased all boyishness. His hair still had its thick curls, but his temples were turning gray. The strong jaw and firm lips, lips she had once kissed, were still as they had been.

She wondered if the many mistresses he was rumored to keep found him as loving and adoring as she once had. She felt a stab of jealousy, coupled with the bile of regret.

He could have been hers.

Of course, the richness surrounding her was also overwhelming. She'd known Dane had done well for himself. Who in Town had not gossiped about his fortune? A bachelor of such wealth could not pass unnoticed. However, she'd never imagined carpets could be so thick and deep or that gold could be used as an inlaid accent on fine woods.

Even the carefully trained formality of the footman made her nervous. She was in Dane's presence, in his lair, and feeling very much as if she'd come on a foolish—and dangerous—errand.

His hard, glittering gaze held hers. She did not look away. She couldn't.

Dane raised a hand, a signal for the footman to leave.

Now she had no choice. She must either step forward or go running for the front door.

The footman bowed politely to her and made his exit, shutting the door behind him. She and Dane were alone, and she was thankful the servant had taken his candle with him, leaving her in shadowy darkness.

But Dane knew she was there. Sitting in his halo of light, his gaze honed in on her like a hawk sighting his prey.

He'd removed his jacket and wore a vest embroidered in black, red, and gold over a snowy white shirt. Even seated his breeches were so well tailored they seemed molded to his thighs, and his tall, black boots were a tribute to their maker. The knot in his neck cloth was still crisp, as if he had the wherewithal to change to a newly starched one several times a day.

She'd dressed in her best, a cream muslin gown with cap sleeves and edged in white lace. She would have worn it to the opera back in the days when she'd done such things. However, the gown was woefully out of style, and the blue silk Norwich shawl covering her shoulders now seemed out of place and somewhat silly—especially under the intensity of his regard.

Nervous, Jemma hoped he didn't notice how worn her kid slippers were. And she was glad she'd listened to her mother's advice on how to style her hair for this interview. It was so long that she usually braided it and wrapped it into a loose chignon at the nape of her neck. Tonight, however, she'd taken extra care and wore it high on her head in loose curls as if preparing to be presented at Court. Now, she wondered if it hadn't been foolish to waste precious minutes on her appearance. The rumor was Dane preferred blondes—

His deep voice broke the silence between them. “What are you doing here?”

Her throat tightened. She should speak, tell him her business, but she couldn't. She feared his reaction once he knew her purpose—

“Playing the sacrificial lamb again?” he asked.

He knew.

Jemma wet her dry lips. Unable to bear his sharp focus, she shifted her own gaze to the flickering candle flame before saying stiffly, “My brother believes he may have been too hasty this evening.”

“Your brother is an idiot.”

Generations of pride flared inside her. She met his eye, started to speak—and then stopped. What could she say? Dane was right . . . and tonight's foolhardiness proved it.