Ruthless (9 page)

His first words confirmed it. “The servants' entrance is to the side,” he said, and started to close the door in her face.

She threw her body against it, to halt him. “I'm here to see his lordship. Just tell him Miss Harriman is here.”

The man's gaze flicked out at the wagon waiting for her, then back at her, and if anything, his look was even more disdainful. “I have heard no mention of that name,” he said haughtily, pushing on the door.

“Just ask him…” The door slammed shut in her face, leaving her standing there, cold and furious. “All right,” she said beneath her breath. “You asked for it.”

She stomped back down the snow-covered stairs, mentally thanking Mrs. Clarke for her pilfered boots, and climbed up into the wagon. “The servants' entrance it is, Rolande.”

She'd lived such a strange life, so many extremes, and yet she'd never ventured into the servants' quarters of a great house. From her father's country house, to the elegant Paris apartments where her mother and her lover had lived with passionate abandon—so much so that it had been up to Elinor and Nanny Maude to bring up Lydia—she'd still remained sequestered from the servants' quarters. The apartments and houses grew shabbier, but somehow she'd yet to venture into the demiworld of working people.

It was warm and clean in the back hallway. In the distance she could hear the sounds of the servants talking as they worked on what must be dinner, and Elinor wondered what it would be like to have the safety and warmth of honest labor. Perhaps she could become a servant. There was no task she particularly excelled at—she was too clumsy to be a chambermaid, too bad a seamstress to be a lady's maid and a truly terrible cook. Perhaps a kitchen maid might be
possible, under the watchful eye of some stern master chef, and she could…

“Mademoiselle?” Rolande interrupted her brief fantasy. “If you go straight down that hallway you'll find stairs to the main living quarters. You keep an eye out for Cavalle—he runs this place with an iron fist.”

“Bless you, Rolande,” she said. “I wish I had money…”

“There is no need. I take pleasure from serving you, mademoiselle,” he said, starting to bow.

She leaned forward and kissed his leathered cheek, and he gave her a dazzling smile. And then she turned and headed off in search of her nemesis.

The steps were narrow, with rough wood, clearly a servants' staircase, and she moved quietly. There was a closed door at the top, of course, and she hesitated for a moment. Once she entered the main part of the house what would she do? Start searching the rooms until she found him, obviously, but exactly how she'd start the conversation was a problem, considering that she had to sneak into his house.

That was his fault as well, for hiring a majordomo who was such a…a…polite words evaded her, and even in the privacy of her own mind she couldn't use the street words she'd unconsciously absorbed during the last few years.
Batarde
would have to do. She pushed open the door, very carefully, and stepped into the lion's den.

The space was warm, with the golden glow that came from only the best beeswax candles. The ones he had sent to her house, along with the blessed
firewood and the food that she'd stormed off and missed. For a moment she felt faint with hunger. She'd eaten nothing since the toast strips in the morning and the scone less than an hour ago, and it wasn't enough to keep her sturdy frame alive. She wasn't delicate, like Lydia. She was taller, stronger, and she felt as if she'd been running some terrible, endless race. She would have given anything to lie down on one of the new beds they'd brought in and sleep for days. Anything but her sister's honor. And her own, what was left of it.

She closed the door behind her and set off, resolute. The door led into a series of formal rooms, gilded woodwork, highly polished floors, mirrors all around. She'd heard stories of Versailles and the Hall of Mirrors. Surely this rivaled those places. Despite what little she knew of Lord Rohan, she was uncomfortably aware that his fortune was enormous.

As were the marble stairs she eventually confronted. She moved up slowly, keeping to the edge in case an overzealous servant should appear, but it was evening and most of them would be discreetly absent unless summoned. She remembered that much from her family's more affluent times.

She wandered the hallways of the first floor, peering into rooms. She found a library, redolent of leather and pipe tobacco, a pretty little salon clearly designed for the woman of the house, clearly never used, a music room with a pianoforte and harp. At the end of one hall was the ballroom, dark and silent, at the opposite end a locked door.

She pressed her ear against the door, but all was silent. Whatever that room was used for, and she shuddered to think, it was empty now.

She had no choice but to climb another flight of stairs, this one smaller but no less magnificent. What if Rolande was mistaken, what if she was wandering around the Viscount Rohan's town house with no one there? And then she heard the voices as she reached the top of the stairs.
His,
deep and melodious, and she held her breath, expecting a woman's reply.

Instead, a man's voice, the words too indistinct for her to decipher. She moved out of the shadows, heading in the direction of that room, when her rival from the front door suddenly reappeared, carrying a tray with a carafe and glasses.

“You!” the butler said in tones of extreme loathing, too much the professional to drop the tray. He set it down carefully on a table, but she was already off, racing in the direction of those voices.

A door was open, light spilling out into the hallway, with her goal just beyond it. She'd almost reached it, her booted feet no longer silent on the parquet floor, when the majordomo caught up her with her, catching her hair and yanking her back painfully.

She bit him, hard. And kicked him in the shins with Lady Carlton's boots, and she heard her dress tear as she lunged forward, skittering through the open door to greet the room's inhabitants, who stared at her in shocked silence.

A
t least the scarred man, Reading, appeared suitably shocked, Elinor thought. Lord Rohan, as always, was a different matter. He appeared to be expecting her, the wretch.

He was sitting in splendid state, in the middle of a huge bed hung with gloriously gilded curtains, his hair loose around his shoulders, and he was completely naked, at least as far as she could tell. He had covers pulled to his waist, but it still left far too much flesh exposed, and she wasn't supposed to be thinking about that when her nemesis came skidding around the corner after her.

Lord Rohan made no effort to cover himself. He merely smiled at her. “You shouldn't look so surprised, Charles. It's my darling poppet from last night. Clearly she couldn't bear to be parted from me. Did I tell you we slept together? Twice? And extremely pleasant it was.”

Reading made a choking sound. “Pleasant?”

“His lordship is misleading you, as always,” Elinor
said. “I fell asleep in his presence. Not everyone finds him as entertaining as you seem to.”

“Do you see why she enchants me, Reading?” Rohan said. And then his gaze and voice hardened to steel. “You didn't offer Miss Harriman any insult did you, Cavalle? I should be most displeased if she were not treated with the utmost care and respect.”

She glanced behind her. The majordomo was the color of parchment, and she could swear she could hear his knees knocking. There was no question that he was terrified.

“Of course he treated me with care and respect,” she said in a crabby voice, taking pity on the man. “He simply wished to announce my presence to give you time to cover yourself like any decent Christian, but I was in too much of a hurry and I ran ahead.”

“Indeed,” he said, clearly not believing a word she said. “You always run around in torn clothes and your hair halfway down your back? You may go, Cavalle. We'll discuss this later.”

“Yes, my lord,” the man said, his voice quaking.

Then Rohan's dark blue eyes focused on her. “And what in heaven's name made you think I was a decent Christian, child? I am affronted.”

She took a deep, steadying breath. “There is always hope, Monsieur le Comte. I wish to speak to you.”

“And here you are, my precious. Is it a private matter? Reading will be more than happy to leave us. Come sit beside me.” He patted the snow-white sheets. “If I am to entertain a woman in my bedroom I prefer to keep them in close quarters.”

“And I prefer you to put clothes on.”

“Why?” He sounded like the soul of reason.

For the first time she noticed the bandage on his arm. “You've been hurt,” she said, momentarily distracted.

“A trifle.” He dismissed it. “Why do you want me to put clothes on?”

“I will not have a discussion with a…a naked man. It's distracting.”

His soft laugh was maddening. “Very well, my sweet. In that case Reading had best take you to my sitting room while I ring for my valet, because I'm afraid that under these covers I'm as naked as the devil made me, and if you aren't going to join me you should retire before you faint with shock.”

“Come along, Miss Harriman,” Mr. Reading said, taking her arm. “He's in one of his moods. It's wiser not encourage him. We'll await him in the sitting room.”

He'd already begun to pull the covers away from his body, and she spun around, hoping the heat in her cheeks wasn't visible to the sardonic man by her side. The comte's soft laugh followed her out into the adjoining room.

“Have a seat, Miss Harriman,” her substitute host said. “May I offer you something to drink? We can have Cavalle bring tea, or perhaps something a bit stronger. I fancy he's not overfond of the stairs, and forcing him to run up and down them would be entertaining.”

“No, thank you, sir.” She perched herself on the
edge of one slender gilt chair, determined not to show how exhausted she was.

“I trust your…family is well? Nothing untoward has brought you racing out into a snowy night?”

She heard that hesitation, and she repressed an inner sigh. Everyone who saw her sister fell in love with her, and Reading was clearly no exception. “My sister is fine,” she said.

There was a curious sweetness in Reading's scarred smile. “If I can be of any assistance…?”

“This concerns Lord Rohan and myself,” she said.

He took a seat beside her on one of the little chairs. “You're clearly an intelligent young woman—you must have realized that his lordship and I are particularly close. You can talk to me about whatever it is that troubles you.”

She didn't bother to suppress her skeptical expression. “I'll await his lordship, thank you. This is between him and me.”

“Oh, indeed it is.” Reading smiled faintly. “In which case I'll take my leave. It's been weeks since I've been in town and there are a number of friends and establishments I wish to revisit. I do realize that it's completely rude to abandon you like this, and I assure you it has nothing to do with the vast amount of respect I hold for you, but merely because I'm a shallow soul who's a slave to my appetites. And I strongly suspect Rohan wants to be alone with you. The bonds of friendship, alas, outweigh the duties of polite behavior.” He rose, took her hand and bowed low over it. She jerked away before he could kiss it,
her face flaming as she remembered the last time a man had kissed her hand. And exactly what it had followed.

But Reading merely smiled at her, that peculiar, twisted smile, and was gone.

She had a moment's panic when he closed the door behind him. Her initial rage had settled enough for her to have the sudden, horrifying thought: What in heaven's name was she doing?

It wasn't as if help was coming from any other quarter. Surely she could have accepted Rohan's charity without offering her sister as virgin sacrifice. As for her own sense of honor, that was long gone. Ending up like her mother might be a step up in the world.

If it were simply a matter of reputation that had been destroyed long ago, and she was worrying for naught. That particular concern had vanished years past due to any number of occurrences, including the fact Lydia's mother was a whore and her sister…

She looked out the window into the swirling snow and shivered. Somewhere a church bell tolled eight, and she breathed a sigh of relief. It was early. Late for a social call, but early enough for her to make her objections clear, insist that Lord Rohan remove what could be taken from the house and desist from bothering them again. Her sister wasn't for sale.

There was a fire blazing in the hearth, filling the room with almost oppressive heat. She should have agreed to the offer of tea—she was so tired she could barely keep her eyes open, and she wasn't, she ab
solutely wasn't going to fall asleep in his presence again. She wasn't in any particular danger from him, despite his banter, but she might not always be able to count on that, and if Rohan was in the mood to humiliate her she'd be fair game.

No, she needed to stay wide-awake, and she stood up, walking back and forth in the room, her long, heavy skirts swinging back and forth. What was keeping Lord Rohan? Surely it didn't take that long to put on a shirt and breeches? Lord help her, he wasn't getting dressed in his full glory just to receive her thorough dressing-down?

Her inadvertent play on words amused her for a moment, and she sat back down, leaning against the striped silk of the cushioned seat, closing her eyes, just for a moment. She'd hear him coming, particularly if he wore those ridiculous high-heeled slippers he'd worn when he'd accompanied her back to town this morning. She hadn't been looking at his shoes, she hadn't been looking at anything if she could help it, as remembered shame and something else swept over her. Had it only been that morning? It seemed like a week ago—a month since she'd raced off in a stolen coach to find her missing mother. It seemed like forever since she'd first set eyes on the Prince of Darkness himself.

She rose and paced back across the room again. What was taking him so long? He'd be ready for a full-court presentation at this rate. She sat down again, then popped up, restless. There was no telling what he might or might not be wearing if she were to go
and bang on the door, and in her short acquaintance with him she knew he'd delight in further embarrassing her.

It had already been shocking enough. Not that she hadn't seen a number of totally naked bodies in any number of acts of depravity the night before. She prided herself on her pragmatism, and some of those things she'd glimpsed still astounded her, but a naked human body was simply that. She of all people shouldn't be fragile about such things. But for some reason, what was easily dismissed in his motley crew of decadent guests was a little more difficult to deal with when it came to Rohan himself. In particular, nudity.

He had hair on his chest. Not a great deal—a mere dusting. Dark mixed with gray, which surprised her. She was aware of the oddest desire to touch it. He certainly had the body, the musculature of a young man, and…

And why in Christ's name was she sitting here thinking about his musculature? Perhaps because it was so very different from the only other body she'd seen so intimately. Though thank God she hadn't really seen it.

And she certainly wasn't going to be thinking about that either. Granted, it was enough to keep her awake, but some things had too high a price to be paid.

She brought the memory back forcefully, the good one. The one she used when things became unbearable. The wide stretches of fields at her father's estate in Dorset, the feel of the young mare beneath her as
she raced along, the sun bright overhead, her hair in plaits streaming out behind her as she sped ahead of the groom. She had been twelve, just days before her mother had packed her and her sister up and taken her to the continent. The last time she'd been on a horse. All she had to do was recreate that moment in her mind and she was happy, at peace, secure in the joy of the world, that nothing could harm her.

“That's quite the expression on your face, Miss Harriman,” Rohan's voice disrupted her dream. “Were you thinking of me, by any chance?”

Her eyes flew open. “Had I been considering your head on a pike, perhaps,” she said coolly. He was dressed, at least partially, in silver cloth breeches, a billowing white shirt and a long black waistcoat laced in silver. His hair was pulled back in a queue, and his hard blue eyes were watching her in amusement.

“I won't bother asking to what I owe the honor of this visit,” he said, coming into the room. “You're here to berate me for keeping your sister from freezing and starving to death, are you not?”

Everything inside her froze. “You're not to come near my sister!” she said, her voice rough with panic.

He rolled his eyes. “Why in the world would you think I'd be lusting after that pretty child? There are scores of lovely girls in this city, possibly hundreds, and I expect I could have them all if I expressed any interest.”

“Not all of them,” she said fiercely, jumping up.

“My dear Miss Harriman,” he said, pushing her back down in her seat with gentle hands. “I do assure
you I could have your sister as well. But I expect that would distress Reading, and I would never think of doing such a thing to my dearest friend. Not that he can have her either. He has to marry an heiress, and despite my wicked influence he's far too noble to trifle with a girl of good background.”

There was a soft knock on the door.
“Entrez,”
Rohan said, and a servant backed his way into the room, carrying a heavy tray. Not the loathsome Cavalle, and the scent of cinnamon-toast strips assailed her.

“I decided I couldn't tempt you with wine and grapes, but hot tea and toast might be acceptable.” He lifted one of the lids. “Ah, and eggs. Just the thing. That's all right, Willis, you may leave us.”

“I'm not hungry,” Elinor said.

“Don't be ridiculous, of course you are. You practically wept when I said there were eggs. Allow me to serve you.”

“I'm not going to eat your food.”

“Why? Are you afraid if you eat six pomegranate seeds you'll be trapped here for the winter?”

She glared at him. “You might fancy yourself the king of the underworld, my lord, but you're nothing more than a spoiled aristocrat who's used to getting his own way.”

“I'm hardly likely to argue with that, child,” he said, setting the plate in her lap. “Indeed, you see me quite clearly, flaws and all. I'm nothing but a decadent, useless fribble. In which case, why should you be so incensed about a small act of charity? And don't
get all fired up again. Eat your eggs before they get cold. I know you want to tell me you have no need of charity, but you're much too virtuous a soul to lie. You have no money, I have more than I know what to do with and I happen to know that there's been no time for you to apply to your new cousin, the baron, for assistance. You simply have nowhere else to turn. Consider this—if I'd kept my house in better order your mother would have never gotten inside to gamble away what must have been the last bit your pathetic family possessed. Consider that I'm simply repaying a debt.”

If she were the woman of principle she wished she were she never would have touched the eggs. But the scent of them, just under her nose, was unbearable. It had been weeks since she'd had an egg. Besides, her principles had been smashed beyond recognition several years ago. She could sell her own soul for a plate of shirred eggs. Just not that of her sister.

After the first bite she had to look away so that he wouldn't see the sheen of tears in her eyes. How absurd to weep over eggs. There had been times when she would have willingly traded what was laughingly called her virtue for a roasted beef. Sad to think her price had dropped so low.

She blinked the momentary dampness away and fixed her stern gaze on Rohan. He was nibbling one of the toast strips,
her
toast strips, seemingly at ease. “So, my very dear Miss Harriman, why don't you explain to me in that cool, collected voice of yours just
why it is so wrong for me to decide to spread some of my largesse in your direction.”