What Wild Moonlight (2 page)

The answer was always the same, and as always it left Katya deeply dissatisfied. Her mother kissed her goodnight, then stood and left the compartment, softly pulling the door closed behind her. As the moonlight shadows danced over the walls and the train’s wheels clicked rhythmically beneath her, the question repeated itself over and over in Katya’s young mind.

And then what?

Cannes, Seventeen Years Later

“Pink.”

“Blue.”

“Yellow.”

“Red.”

The wager was set: one thousand pounds to the man who correctly divined the color of the ribbons on the serving girl’s garters.

Nicholas Duvall, the Earl of Barrington, listened to the guesses of the other men gathered at the table of the busy roadside tavern in southern France. Then he studied the serving girl in question.

She was of medium height and endowed with a lush little body that she clearly delighted in showing off to maximum advantage. Her scoop-necked top was cut low, allowing daring glimpses of her generous breasts. Her narrow waist was tightly nipped in by her apron, and her clingy wool skirt revealed the smooth, softly rounded lines of her hips. Her rich brown hair had been artfully arranged to cascade about her face in loose, wispy tendrils that suggested both underlying sensuality and girlish innocence. Despite her obvious enjoyment of the attention she was receiving from the tavern’s admiring patrons, there was a demure coyness in her expression that gave Nicholas the answer he sought. Serving the crowd of dusty travelers was a young woman of vast experience and knowledge—but a woman who clearly enjoyed playing the part of the innocent virgin.

“White,” he said.

“It’s done then,” Lord Rigby announced, assuming a jovial yet businesslike air. He clasped his chubby hands together and rubbed them briskly. “And now, my girl, if you would be so kind as to lift your skirts for us…”

A look of irritation flicked through the barmaid’s dark eyes. She quickly recovered herself, however, once her gaze returned to the fifty-franc note waiting on the table.

“Oui, monsieur,” she murmured demurely. Relaxing back into the posture of an innocent seductress, she shot a glance around the busy tavern. Apparently satisfied that her actions would go unnoticed in the smoky, overcrowded room, she bent down and grasped the hem of her skirt. Moving with seductive deliberation she raised the fabric to reveal a pair of trim, feminine ankles encased in sheer cotton stockings. She lifted the garment further, allowing an enticing view of her shapely calves, rounded knees, and the soft swell of her lower thighs.

Suddenly she hesitated. Her skirts hovering above her knees, she chewed her bottom lip and lowered her gaze to the floor, as though racked with maidenly doubt and uncertainty.

It was a pretty act, Nicholas conceded, but it rang patently false. Rather than the ill-timed surge of chastity and repentance she had tried to project, blatant greed had glistened in her eyes before she coyly lowered her lashes. Stifling a sigh, he removed a second fifty-franc note from his wallet and placed it on top of the first. “Pray, don’t keep us in suspense, mademoiselle.”

“You are too kind, monsieur,” the barmaid cooed.

She lifted her skirts once again, this time displaying no virginal hesitation. The fabric traveled up her pretty legs, moving swiftly past her calves and knees. She exposed not only her knee garters and the finely knit mesh of her stocking tops, but a generous portion of the smooth, creamy skin of her thighs as well. Nicholas took all that in with a glance, and one thing more.

The ribbons on her garters were white.

“Damn it all,” blustered Rigby, thumping the table in drunken good humor. “You win again, Duvall.”

Nicholas inclined his head with a graceful nod as he collected his winnings. “So it would appear.”

“Let me know if I can be of any further assistance, messieurs,” the barmaid said, her voice rich with invitation as she smoothed down her skirts. She deftly collected her francs, picked up her tray, and moved to go. But before she left, her gaze traveled one last time over the men seated before her. As she briefly surveyed her customers, a look of haughty disdain filled her eyes. She turned and sauntered away, her hips provocatively swaying as she moved through the crowded room.

Nicholas caught her parting look but was neither angered nor insulted by it. If anything, he thought, the woman’s judgment of character was remarkably astute. He understood all too well what she had seen as she scanned their table. It was hardly an inspiring sight. Seated beside him were five of England’s most noble sons, all of them men of wealth and stature. But other than their titles and lineage, there was little to recommend them. Beneath their elegantly cut suits, their intricately tied cravats, their sleek and highly polished boots, they were little more than overstuffed fops and fools.

The group was part of the annual pilgrimage made to the dazzling new Mecca that beckoned from abroad: Monte Carlo, where the fashionable went to play after the Season was over for the year. As it was all the rage, making an appearance was mandatory for anyone who cared to make a name for themselves. For that reason alone, society came in droves, exchanging the thick fog of London for the Mediterranean sunshine.

Nicholas Duvall had taken his place among his peers, playing the part of an indolent, arrogant lord, because it temporarily suited his purposes. His patience with the charade, however, was quickly wearing thin.

“We need another wager,” declared Henry Bickford, his voice somewhat slurred from the hearty Bordeaux they had all been drinking since midmorning. “How about this… we’ll wager on the age of the next person to walk through the door.”

“God, man, are you really that dull?” countered Samuel Parr.

Bickford reared back in drunken indignity. “Dull, am I? Then what do you suggest?”

“Something a little more interesting,” answered Philip Montrose. His steel-gray gaze moved slowly around the tavern as though seeking inspiration. “Perhaps a way for the five of us to win our money back from Duvall.”

Nicholas’s dark gaze shot across the table and locked on Philip Montrose. Despite the surface cordiality, their dislike was mutual and intense.

“I have it,” declared Edward Fletcher, his florid cheeks flushed even redder from drink. “A seduction. Either Duvall has to seduce the next woman to enter the tavern or he forfeits the money he’s won from us this morning.”

“Not bad,” said Philip Montrose. He hesitated a moment, as though considering the idea carefully. “But in the past hour, I’ve seen nothing but barmaids and servant girls from the local inns enter this establishment. That’s hardly a wager worthy of the Lord of Scandal, is it? Rather like wagering on a wolf’s ability to devour a lamb.”

Nervous, uneasy laughter sounded among the men. Nicholas had, of course, heard himself referred to as the Lord of Scandal—particularly after Allyson’s untimely death—but never had a man been so bold as to call him that to his face. He waited a beat, letting the silence stretch between them, then replied in a silky-smooth voice, “Hardly sporting, indeed.”

Montrose arched one pale brow in response as a small smirk played about his lips. “I thought you might agree.”

“Then what’s the wager?” demanded Bickford.

Montrose tapped his empty wineglass with a fingernail, his lips pursed in thought. “Perhaps—” he began.

His words were cut short as the tavern door suddenly flew open and a group of wind-blown travelers staggered in. The small party consisted of three women and four men. Two of the men supported a third, who appeared able to walk only with their assistance. He was doubled over and groaning loudly, clutching his belly as he lurched forward. A bed in a back room was secured for the ailing man, followed by calls for a physician, soothing wine, and blankets.

The plight of the travelers quickly became apparent. The driver of their coach had taken ill on the route between Esterel and Cannes and was unable to continue. Because the tavern owner also served as the local agent for the coach company, the group besieged the man to supply them with another driver. But their pleas were met with little more than vague sympathy and an ultimate shrug of indifference. When the driver was well again, they would continue. Whether that took days or weeks was out of the tavern owner’s hands.

“Such a shame,” murmured Philip Montrose, shaking his head at the misfortune of the small band of travelers. Yet as he spoke, a distinct glimmer of satisfaction entered his eyes. “Although,” he continued slowly, “we might be able to remedy their situation.”

“Are you proposing we give them our rail tickets?” asked Lord Rigby, releasing a deep boom of laughter at the absurdity of the suggestion.

“Not precisely.” Montrose steepled his fingers, glancing from man to man around the table. Abruptly his steel-gray gaze locked on Nicholas. “I’m suggesting that we give them a driver.”

“I don’t follow you,” said Bickford.

Philip Montrose lifted his shoulders in a casual shrug. “You wanted another wager and here it is. If Duvall agrees to assume the post of driver and to guide the coach and passengers into Monaco, he doubles his winnings. If, however, he fails to complete the journey, he forfeits his winnings and returns them to us. It’s that simple, gentlemen.”

The other men at the table shifted uncomfortably in the ensuing silence. “Rather brash, isn’t it, Montrose?” muttered Lord Rigby.

“I would say so,” concurred Samuel Parr, nervously clearing his throat.

Nicholas fought back a smile at their obvious discomfort. For a member of the peerage to seduce an innocent young servant girl was well within the bounds of acceptable behavior. But for a lord of the realm to lower himself enough to accept a task as menial and degrading as driving a coach, well, that was simply not done.

Putting that hypocrisy aside for the moment, Nicholas considered the wager. The money was of little consequence, but there were other elements to consider. First and foremost, Montrose was apparently as anxious to be rid of him as Nicholas was to be rid of the lot of them. Interesting, but probably inconsequential, he decided. He knew better than to let his innate dislike of the man color his judgment.

Second, accepting the wager would mean parting from the group until they were reunited in Monaco. As the journey would take less than a day, and his traveling companions appeared intent on acquainting themselves with as many taverns as they could along the way, he doubted it would do any harm. Separating now was infinitely preferable to enduring another endless afternoon neck high in drunken wagers, maudlin reminiscences, and soggy toasts to health and good fortune.

He paused, surveying one last time the men with whom he traveled. Was the killer he sought among this group of elegant sycophants? Perhaps yes, perhaps no—it was simply too early to tell. The sooner he arrived in Monaco, the sooner he could settle the business that brought him there. With that in mind, Nicholas pushed back his chair and rose to his feet. “Gentlemen,” he said, “you have a wager.”

Katya Alexander shifted from foot to foot, her heart racing as she stood inside the crowded tavern. She clutched her faded carpetbag tightly against her chest, struggling to rein in her mounting sense of alarm. She had to reach Monaco by tonight, she simply had to. If she didn’t… well, she wouldn’t think about that yet. She hadn’t traveled all the way from London only to give up now.

But despite her mental reassurances, the conversation between the tavern owner and her fellow passengers sounded bleak indeed. No, there was no other driver available. No, the owner couldn’t leave the tavern and drive the coach himself. No, he couldn’t think of a local tradesman who might want to finish the route. Perhaps in a few days, he suggested, the driver would be well again. In the meantime they could all stay and enjoy the beauty of Cannes.

On another occasion the offer might tempt her, but not right now. Not when she had to reach Monaco by nightfall or she would lose everything. Everything.
Think, Katya, think!
she commanded herself. Taking a deep, calming breath, she considered her options.

There was the train, of course, but since she hadn’t been able to afford the steep price of a rail ticket when she had left the port of Toulon, she could afford it even less now that she had already paid the regular coach fare. She could always try to rent a small buggy, although the thought of negotiating the rugged Corniche on her own left her feeing distinctly queasy. Her mind raced. A fishing boat perhaps? Or a farmer driving a wagonload of produce north to market?

“Pardon me, but do I understand that you’re in need of a driver?”

Katya spun around at the sound of the smooth male voice behind her. Her gaze flew to a tall man of perhaps thirty. He spoke in fluid French but his accent, subtle though it was, sounded decidedly British. His clothing marked him an Englishman as well, suggesting a recent visit to an exclusive London haberdasher. He wore his dark brown hair a bit longer than was currently considered fashionable; it cascaded in thick waves just past the collar of his shirt. But it was his eyes that truly captured her attention. They were black, luminous, piercing—by far the most compelling aspect of the man.

All things considered, he did not seem the type who would charitably come to the aid of a group of stranded travelers. Nevertheless, at least he seemed interested in their plight, which was more than she could say about the tavern owner.

“How much?” she inquired in English, boldly addressing the stranger directly.

As though aware of her presence for the first time, the man turned to face her. His gaze was neither lewd nor intimidating, yet something about the way he looked at her sent a blistering shock through her system.
The kiss of fate
, her mother would have called it. That brief, infinitesimal moment when fate allows us a glimpse into the future, showing us what will be. But the thought of her fate being somehow entwined with this mysterious Englishman’s struck Katya as patently absurd.

Dismissing the notion entirely, she collected her thoughts and returned her attention to the subject at hand. “How much will you charge to take us to Monaco?” she repeated.