Tempting the Wolf (9 page)

She shook her head again. The entangled twig hobbled.

“Nay.” He stroked his chin, thinking hard, eyes narrowed with the effort. “Then perchance ye need a bridle to tame some wayward steed and have traveled here to—”

Her shoulders were hunched now. The barest hint of humor shone in her ever-blue eyes. Ahh, lassies, they were a wee bit of heaven, wrapped in happiness, alive with hope.

“Well, then, ye have traveled alone here on an important mission with the Prince Regent who has summoned ye hence—”

Again she was shaking her head. The tiniest giggle escaped her lips.

He stood entranced by the sound for an instant, a hardened warrior out of place, caught fast by a child’s charms. “Ye are na here to see the prince?”

A silent negative answer.

“But ye are alone?”

She shook her head. Her grin peeked forth. She curled her fingers near her mouth as if to hide it away.

“Then where be yer servants, me lady? Surely they should be aboot, making certain ye are safe.”

She bit her berry-bright lip and flicked her gaze toward a nearby store.

“Ahhh, so they be off buying ye a grand new costume. Well then, if ye’ll excuse me, lass, I shall reprimand them sternly for leaving ye astray.” The mare turned to nuzzle the girl’s bare leg. “And ye in such dire danger,” he said, and giving her a stately bow, turned toward the stone facade.

She watched him go as silently as she had watched him stay, a tiny slice of Utopia amidst a contrary world.

The door creaked quietly when he stepped inside. He felt foolishly breathless as he skimmed the interior, but the countess was not there. Not that he had hoped to see her of course. He only wished to learn answers to the questions that plagued him, but the store’s only customer was a skittish young maid who was even now hoisting a large, wooden box from the counter.

Still, chivalry was a hard master to shift. “Might I help ye with yer burden?” O’Banyon asked.

The girl jerked her eyes toward him and away. “No!” she said, not glancing up.

“It looks a mite heavy for a wee lass like yerself,” he countered, but she didn’t address him again. Instead, she hefted the box and scurried away, out the door and down the walkway.

He watched her go. From across the street, a bent and twisted Whitford hurried from a harness shop toward her. O’Banyon tensed, ready to fly to her rescue, but when she raised her sky-wide gaze to the gnarled hostler’s, there was no fear in her eyes. Not fear. Certainly no revulsion. Not even when his hand brushed hers with tender shyness.

Indeed, it almost seemed that she smiled.

O’Banyon scowled. These London women were an odd lot. It wasn’t as if he himself had been about to poke her in the eye with a sharpened quill. But she had fled him much as her mistress had done—

“Never mind her,” said a voice.

Turning, O’Banyon spotted a woman behind the counter. She had a long face, much-stained teeth, and bright, fire-quick eyes.

“She’s like that with everyone,” said the matron. “Even devilishly ‘andsome gents what offer assist.”

Flattery. More welcome than a spring-fed oasis in the deserts of the infidels. He turned toward the merchant. “Is she now?”

“Indeed.”

He approached the counter. “And what is she like with sharp-minded maids with pleasing eyes?” he asked.

She laughed. “Ahh. Just as I thought—a charmer, not to be trusted, but oft to be admired,” she said.

“Astute and outspoken.” He grinned. “Might I have the pleasure of yer name, lass?”

“I am Mrs. Fritz,” she said, coming around the corner of her counter.

“And I am honored,” he responded and reaching for her hand, kissed her knuckles.

She eyed him narrowly as he straightened. “Mr. Fritz is in the back room even now.”

He tilted his head. “I be fair warned then.”

” ‘Twas not a warning,” she said. “I was hoping you was a man what likes a challenge.”

O’Banyon laughed out loud. Her eyes gleamed in return.

“What can I help ya with, gov’nor?”

He glanced about the shop. Bottles and bags crowded boxes and barrels, covering every possible surface. Searching for an excuse for his presence there, he spotted a sign that boasted miracle results. “I’ve had a bit of a cough of late,” he lied. “I was hoping ye might have somemat to soothe it.”

“A cough ya say.”

“Aye.”

“Rasping or soggy-like?”

Soggy-like didn’t sound very manly. “Rasping.”

“I’ve just the thing,” she said and striding toward the back of the store, picked up an amber bottle with a brown label. “This’ll peel the hair right off ‘n yer chest.”

He raised a brow. “In truth, lass, ‘twas na quite the results I was wishing for.”

“Well, I can’t tell ya much about the countess.”

He stared. “What countess?”

Striding back behind her counter, she watched him with arch interest and nodded toward the door. “She’s the reason ya offered to lighten the girl’s load is she not?”

“Nay. I was but being chivalrous and—”

“So ya wished to converse with the maid about the wonders of the universe?”

“She seemed a mite small to be hefting such a—”

“Dense as a parsnip.”

“Yer pardon.”

“The girl. There’s something amiss in her noggin.” She touched her own pate. “Ya wouldn’t know it to look at her, I’ll grant. But her father was a right mean bastard. Pardon my language. Backhanded the poor child once too often.” She shook her head. ” ‘E died too easy if you’re wantin’ my opinion.”

“Died—”

“Shortly after the countess hired him on.”

Something squirmed in O’Banyon’s gut, but he kept his expression bland. “What countess?”

She scoffed as she lifted her apron and scrubbed at a nearby bottle. “Don’t act daft with me, gov’nor. It don’t suit. She hired him to do a bit of odds and ends about her estate up there at Arborhill. Only he didn’t last a fortnight.”

“What happened?”

She shrugged. “Up and died ‘e did.”

“Was he unwell?

“Not that I knows of. But he drank like an Irish lord, beggin’ yer pardon, and acted worse after. Who knows what he poured down his gullet after she paid his last fee. Still, it were a shame, him leavin’ his girl with no prospects. Perhaps the countess felt responsible.”

“How so?”

“It was her money what sent him on that last spree wasn’t it now? In fact—”

The bell at the door tinkled musically.

Mrs. Fritz stopped in mid sentence. A tall woman stepped inside. It took O’Banyon only a moment to identify her.

“Lady Anglehill,” he said in unison with the proprietress.

“Mrs. Fritz,” said the countess. “Sir O’Banyon.” She shifted her gaze from one to the other.

“How… frightening, the two of you together.”

Fritz sniffed. “I’ve no idea what ya mean.”

“I mean, a woman of your age and intellect should know better than to flirt with the likes of a roguish Irishman,” said the lady, skimming her gaze to O’Banyon.

“I don’t know whether I should be flattered or insulted,” Mrs. Fritz said.

“I’m fair sure I’m insulted,” O’Banyon countered.

“I’m certain it would not be the first time,” Lady Anglehill said and turned toward the shop keeper. “Now, what did you tell him of the countess?”

“The countess?”

“Don’t act daft with me, Fritz,” she said and turned her steady attention on O’Banyon. “He may be as alluring as dark chocolate, but we don’t know a bit about him and he’s obsessed with poor Antoinette.”

Fritz’s eyes narrowed in happy concentration. “Obsessed, ya say?”

He shook his head. “I’ve na wish to disagree with a handsome maid such as yerself, me lady,” he said, “but I am na—”

“Chased her right out of Prinny’s grand affair just this week past.”

“Indeed?”

“As if he were entranced.”

“Believe this,” he said. “I am na the type to become easily enamored. Not by a countess or any other.”

“I witnessed his hasty exodus with my own eyes.”

“I had other reasons to leave so hasty.”

“Indeed?” intoned the two women in unison.

“Aye.”

“So it is not truest love?” Anglehill asked.

He scoffed. “Yer pardon, me lady,” he said, sketching a bow, “but if the truth be told, I favor maids with more…” He glanced her up and down. She would stand six feet tall in her stockings. Her heeled slippers added three inches if they added a hair. “Substance.”

“Substance,” she repeated dryly. She was not, he thought, a woman to accept roses without checking for the thorns.

“Aye.”

“Then you would not be interested to know she will be attending the masked ball this Friday eve.”

He shrugged, but his stomach had twisted up hard at the thought of seeing her again, of feeling the titillating power of her presence.

“She dances divinely.”

He smiled.

“Lord Bentley is hoping to get up the nerve to ask for her hand in marriage.”

Something knotted up hard in his innards. “Bentley?” he asked.

“A dumpy little man with a paunch and bad teeth. But he has a goodly fortune put aside.”

He could think of nothing to say. Nothing at all. What the devil was his problem? He’d had something to say since he’d breathed his first breath.

Lady Anglehill smiled. “Perhaps he will ask her at the ball.”

He planned to deny his feelings again, to protest, but the women were watching him with identical expressions of needle-sharp curiosity.

He gave them a shallow bow. “Me congratulations, lass, ‘tis rare I’ve witnessed such cruelty in the fairer sex,” he said instead.

The countess laughed. “Then you’ve not been about London long, my lord. But you cannot blame Lady Colline,” she said. “She’s been without a spouse for quite some while, and perhaps she yet hopes for children. Bentley may be well past his prime, but he seems virile enough to—”

O’Banyon was never quite sure, but he thought he may have growled.

In any case, the women’s brows shot up in happy unison.

“Did you say something, sir?” asked the countess.

He calmed himself, eased open his fists, and gave her a carefully civilized smile. “I was but wondering where this ball might be held.”

“Oh. If I’m not mistaken…” She smiled back and swept a bit of invisible dust from her sleeve. ” Tis at my estate.”

The world went silent. He searched wildly for his gift of gaff, for his charm, for some errant word. Nothing came.

“Would you, perchance…” She paused, staring at him, her expression all innocence. “Might you wish to attend?”

He refrained from baring his fangs. The well-bred might think it unrefined. The astute might think it deadly. ” ‘Tis most generous of ye to ask, me lady.”

Silence again.

“Is that an acceptance or a regret?”

He gave her a bow for her wit and her cruelty. “I can hardly say nay to a lady of yer charms.”

She laughed aloud, throwing her head back in a most unfeminine manner. “Very well then, Sir O’Banyon. I shall look forward to seeing you in but a few days.”

He nodded and turned toward the door. Retreat was oft a hero’s best choice.

But Mrs. Fritz thumped the tonic bottle on the counter, propped her hand on a hefty hip and scowled. “That’ll be half a crown,” she said.

Antoinette surveyed the ballroom. Masked revelers were everywhere, milling, gossiping, laughing. She nodded regally to a gentleman in a Pan mask. He nodded back, stubby horns bobbing.

It should have been amusing, of course. Should have been a happy sight, the carefree wealthy at play, but behind her feathered mask Fayette shuddered.

Her throat felt tight. She shouldn’t have come. Not tonight. She was weak and alone and hideously hungry.

She turned toward the refreshment table, seeing it in sharp focus through the slanted openings of her disguise. Delicacies of every sort were spread across the lavishly clothed surface. Cucumber sandwiches, raspberry creams, tiny crystal bowls filled with currant fool. For a moment she was tempted almost beyond control to snatch up a half dozen of the creamy desserts, to shovel them into her mouth, to gorge herself until the black memories faded like old scars. But she would not.

She curled her gloved hands against her skirt, hiding the tremble.

No one knew. No one suspected. To them, she was Lady Colline. Not a grimy child with an evil secret.

But someone was watching her. She felt it like rancid breath on the back of her neck. She glanced behind, muscles stiff, searching.

“Care to dance, my lady?” asked a man too close at hand.

Fayette shrieked in terror, but the countess turned with smooth aplomb, forcing herself to breathe. To prolong the charade.

“My thanks,” she said. Her would-be suitor was dressed in black, as were most other men, but he wore the mask of a jester. The unearthly expression looked ghoulish and terrifying. In her mind, she scrambled beneath the table, hiding behind the cloth, shivering in her rags, hoping they would leave her be. She’d done nothing wrong. Nothing. Antoinette’s hands shook again, and it was that weakness that made her nod, made her take the risk, yet again. “Yes,” she said, “I thought none would ask.”

He laughed and raised his hands. She braced herself against the impact and met them with her own gloved fingers. Their palms touched. She held her breath. But there was only a skittering of pain, only a shadow of disquiet.