Revenge Wears Rubies (6 page)

Herbert grinned. “She loves it! But then what woman doesn’t wish for all the social niceties?”

Haley reached out to gently restrain Herbert by the arm. “Perhaps you should . . . let go of Mr. Hawke.”

“Ah!” Herbert released Galen, his look apologetic. “I forgot I had ahold of you, sir! My goodness, I hope I haven’t just done the same thing to Mr. Melrose! In this press of people, I suppose it’s instinct to want to grab onto something and hope you get pulled out of the crush eventually, eh?”

Galen nodded. “A good instinct if you’re drowning.”

Haley held her breath at the quiet barb but wasn’t sure what to do. Mr. Hawke was looking at her again, with an intensity that made her feel vulnerable and conversely powerful at the same time.

Thankfully, Herbert was blissfully unaware of the cross-currents in the conversation. “Just so! Lucky for me I know how to swim!”

“Mrs. Shaw was saying that you wished to widen your circles while in Town,” Galen said.

“Indeed, yes! Mr. Bascombe has been very accommodating, but a man can never have too many friends in London,” Herbert agreed, and Haley marveled that she alone seemed to feel a growing sense of alarm at how easily Mr. Hawke maneuvered everything. She’d been about to retreat and congratulate herself on escaping relatively unscathed. She’d been about to laud her own good moral character for not making any direct comparisons between the broad-shouldered handsome Hawke and her diminutive and somewhat doughy fiancé. She’d been about to vow never to see the mysterious and dangerous Mr. Hawke ever again and—

“I’ll make some arrangements and ensure that you have social calls and invitations enough to make this Season . . . extremely memorable.” Galen’s smile was diabolical as he bowed to signal his intention to withdraw.

“How generous! Yes, thank you, Mr. Hawke! That would be lovely for Miss Moreland, and much appreciated.” Herbert beamed.

“Too generous!” Haley finally found her voice. “I wouldn’t want to impose . . . and you hardly know us to—”

“Haley!” Aunt Alice’s shocked whisper ended the argument. She turned to Mr. Hawke. “Introductions in country society are harder to come by, you can imagine, and my niece is not yet used to the faster pace of London. But we are overjoyed to discover such an easy welcome in Town and such a kind mentor.”

Haley did her best to recover what dignity she could after her aunt’s hinting that she was some country bumpkin overwhelmed by town courtesies. She attempted a smile. “Yes, overjoyed, Mr. Hawke. And since it is, as you say, no imposition, then please . . .”

“I’m flattered. And I hope to see you again soon, Miss Moreland.” He inclined his head in a polite nod before turning away and disappearing into the crush.

Mrs. Bianca sighed. “With his family connections, you could be dining with duchesses before the month is out, my dears! What a perfect gentleman he is!”

Haley’s instinct was to argue the point of Mr. Hawke’s gentlemanly perfection, but she knew better. Herbert was beside himself at the “happy turns” the party had taken, and Haley wasn’t about to spoil his evening with hysterical suspicions about a stranger’s generosity.
I’m being too sensitive, perhaps. It could all be innocent, the coincidence of running into him hiding in the shadows and then learning that he’d been seeking an introduction. He couldn’t possibly have known that I would try to get away from the party up there! And there’s nothing sinister in offering to make a few social connections on our behalf. . . .

Except there’d been nothing innocent in his looks, or the wicked smile that had lit up his eyes when he’d made his offer. He’d ignored everyone else and spoken as if they were alone, even with Herbert at her side. Haley instinctively knew that if Mr. Galen Hawke had anything to do with it, she would be seeing a great deal more of him in the next few weeks.

And it would happen with Mr. Herbert Trumble’s happiest permission.

Chapter
3

Galen avoided his host on the way out, artfully sidestepping the polite bids from others for his attention or for conversation. Instead, he went directly to the main foyer and summoned a servant for his coat and hat and was gone before Bascombe or his political cronies could delay him.

His mind was reeling from the unexpected twists and turns in his first attempt to meet the object of his vengeful plan.

Miss Haley Moreland was quite different from the woman he’d anticipated.

In fact, he’d been so sure of his premonitions that he’d withdrawn from the party confident that he’d be able to recognize her the instant he spotted her below. John had described her in vague poetic terms, but Galen imagined that she would be passably pretty, in a cunning and calculated way. He’d guessed that she would be quite the social butterfly, seeking out the loftier or livelier elements in the room to further her ambitions. He’d pictured a dozen different variations of Miss Moreland, the heartless siren, and then just when he’d decided on the most likely candidate, wearing yellow organza below in the salon, she’d startled him into nearly breaking her neck.

Not that he’d known it was her. Not at that moment.

It seemed that John’s fair love possessed a wicked wit and was more prone to hiding in the ferns than elbowing her way to center stage. Even so . . . Mr. Herbert Trumble’s amusing lack of social graces spoke volumes to Galen about Miss Moreland’s character and apparent willingness to cheerfully marry a mud troll for his money.

Hell, it would serve the girl a delightful measure of justice to be married off to that colorless pigeon!
The thought warmed him for a fleeting moment, but then the dull chill of his strategy returned in full force. Leaving her to the long, dusty grind of a loveless marriage didn’t suit Galen’s plans.

And now that he’d seen the lovely Miss Haley Moreland, he was truly looking forward to the game. Not that his own pleasure was a consideration, but as he’d stood before her in the salon and observed the delicious change in her coloring at every compliment, Galen wasn’t oblivious to the curl of anticipation that had unfurled inside of him. Granted, she was a tall beauty with a sleek, ripe figure that defied a man to keep his sinful thoughts to himself despite an army of chaperones (much less one elderly aunt’s watchful eyes). And Miss Moreland did possess the requisite porcelain skin and classic patrician features that seemed all the fashion these days. But unlike the golden curls that so many women sought to copy, her hair was a defiantly stunning mahogany brown. Heavy silk curls hung down between her shoulder blades and back from her face to frame eyes the color of the sea, and Galen guessed that few men could withstand their storms. And there again she strayed from the fashion plates—no sleepy-lidded doe eyes staring out with innocent indifference. Wide eyes with a beguiling spark of wit met the world, and Galen wondered how a soul could be so malicious and still look out at the world with such a clear appeal.

But what truly warmed his blood were the signs that Miss Moreland might be, in fact, a unique creature in their midst. She hadn’t fluttered or fawned, and unlike any woman he had known, she had spoken the truth before censoring herself or considering her audience. She’d been so refreshingly direct that he couldn’t help but wonder how far the trait might extend. Would she be as direct in her desires? Would she be so natural when faced with raw passion? This seduction would be sweet and slow, by his choice, not by necessity.

She’d been like two different women, in the gallery and then in the crowd below. At first, a mischievous sprite far out of bounds but apparently unafraid of the dark—or him. And then on the main floor of the salon, she’d been all polite graces, a regal beauty determined to keep her calm despite all his attempts to unsettle her. But it was the sprite he suspected John had loved, and it was that fearless side of her he needed to draw out if he was going to win her over and achieve his aim.

For if there had been a small tendril of mercy, a faint hint of regret inside of him, he’d let it die at the sight of her in that glorious red dress. She was a bloodred ruby brought to life with an allure and a power all her own. She was a vision of fire and beauty, but like a gem, cold to the touch and heartless. She was a siren with dark secrets of her own, and Galen’s soul felt scorched by the desire she inspired in him.

Perhaps if he had seen even a faint nod to the state of mourning she had abandoned—a simple black ribbon trim or a plainer gown in a muted color. But instead she’d adorned herself in a fiery silk that defied every weeping widow and mocked true sentiment. Every flounce and fold of expensive ruby material sang of her indifference, and Galen’s fingers had itched to tear her out of the offensive thing.

The carriage rolled to a stop, and Galen alighted without waiting for the footmen to bother with the door. They moved aside without question, long used to the unconventional habits of their employer’s friends.

He headed directly upstairs, briskly taking two risers at a time. Muted voices from a room above assured him that at least a few of the others had also sought out the oasis of West’s library. Reaching the ornate doors, Galen felt a familiar wash of comfort at the sight of his friends.

“Hastings said you weren’t coming this evening,” Rowan said from his seat by the fireplace. “Some nonsense about attending a party at Bascombe’s,” he added with a wry grin.

“At which point, I believe, the good Dr. West was kind enough to suggest that Josiah had lost his sanity.” Ashe straightened from his chair to extend a welcoming hand. “Come take my seat and help me win my wager.”

Galen shook his head. “I’ll stand for a bit.” He crossed over to the long side table where a few refreshments were laid out. He reached for a decanter of lemon water, ritually ignoring the slight tremor of his hands. The hour was late and fatigue fueled the weakness in his extremities. “So what is this wager, Mr. Blackwell?”

“That despite Rowan’s firm belief that you would rather be flayed alive than cross a gilt room in evening clothes with that social set, I had a strange feeling that it was just unexpected enough to be true.” Ashe resettled with an easy grace, stretching out his long legs in front of him. “You never do what’s expected, Galen.”

“Then I’m a predictable bore!” Galen put the glass down before turning, unwilling to risk dropping it in front of the others. “But in this instance, it’s Josiah’s honor and apparently, his sanity I have to defend. I did attend Bascombe’s.”

“Whatever for?” Ashe asked. “And don’t tell me for stimulating conversation! I’ve met Rand Bascombe.”

“I had my reasons.” Galen was in no mood to share.

“Careful, then,” Rowan said, his tone diplomatic and calm. “Bascombe and his cronies have strong ties to the East India Company. It may not be wise to draw too much attention just now.”

“It’s too late for that.” Ashe broke off the lecture with a wave of his hand. “Come, let’s ask him how the mothers of the Ton reacted to his social debut.”

“Oh, please!” Galen cracked a smile at last. “As usual, they have a tendency to pull their girls out of my path as quickly as they can, thank God!”

“Poor Galen, the curse of a handsome second son!” Ashe sighed theatrically, one hand over his heart. “No fresh flowers falling at your feet, but if your peers knew how plump your accounts have grown, I don’t think you could take ten steps without some desperate mother shoving her daughter into your arms.”

“They don’t know anything of me, Blackwell, that I don’t wish them to.” Galen’s irritation was compounded by the memory of Josiah’s cavalier enjoyment of their group’s notoriety. “And I couldn’t care less about some simpering debutantes wrangling for their next victim.”

“Leave him be, Ashe. Hawke is right.” Rowan leaned forward, the amber in his eyes warming with the sincerity of his tone. “You can certainly attend any party you wish, old friend, without explaining yourself to the likes of us!”

Ashe shrugged. “I’m just cross because I suspect I’ve lost my favorite chaperone.”

Rowan laughed. “Oh, yes! There’s a position to aspire to! Chasing your worrisome carcass all over London and yanking you out of harm’s way!”

“Hastings might volunteer for it,” Galen said, instantly aware of the disastrous mischief the two wildest men in their company might achieve if left to their own devices. “Josiah might enjoy playing the overseer, for once.”

Ashe shook his head quickly and downed the whiskey he was holding. “Lucifer would make a better guardian.”

“I think the devil already has his hands full,” Rowan countered, still laughing. “What about Darius, then? If you can pry him from his books, he could offer you a bit of scholarly balance, I’d guess.”

“Thorne’s out of town, again! Some nonsense about tracking down some rare first edition volumes. . . . How much can a man’s head hold of all those dry philosophies and dreary bits of science before suffering an apoplectic fit?”