Never Say Never to an Earl (Heart of Enquiry Book 5) Page 4

  “My goodness, what happened?” Thea said with breathless concern. “I returned from the retiring room to see Rosie being dragged away by some madman.”

  “He was using me as a hostage.” Rosie shivered. “I don’t know how I got free.”

  “It looked like someone grabbed him from behind,” Polly said.

  “Whoever that was saved my life. He’s a hero. I must thank him.”

  Rosie dashed for the door, and Polly followed, Thea at their heels. Outside, the first thing Polly saw was Rosie’s attacker: Kirkham was wrestled to the ground, his struggling form subdued by a gentleman whose back was turned to them. As the guards took over custody of Kirkham, the man rose, and even from behind, Polly could tell he was a top-of-the-trees Corinthian. Blue superfine clung lovingly to his wide shoulders and narrow hips, his trousers fitting his long, muscular legs like a second skin and tucking into Hessians.

  In the sun, the thick waves of his hair gleamed like polished mahogany—and recognition struck Polly. Dear God, not… The man turned, and there was no mistaking that god-like face or the piercing midnight blue gaze. Her knees wobbled like an aspic.

  “It’s him.” The whisper escaped unbidden from her lips.

  “You know that gentleman?” Rosie’s head swung in her direction.

  Not wanting to lie, Polly stammered, “I-I don’t know him, but I’ve seen him once—”

  “And one never forgets the Earl of Revelstoke.”

  Rosie’s declaration sent a jolt through Polly. That man… was Revelstoke? He was the cad who’d ridiculed her in the garden? Who’d compared her to a mongrel—called her unworthy sport?

  Her breath turned choppy, her hands balling at her sides.

  “I’ve only had one faraway glimpse of him at a party, but his is a face one never forgets,” Rosie said knowingly. “’Tis no wonder they call him the God of Revelry: he is absolutely divine. All the debs want to land him, you know, but he’s a confirmed rake who wants nothing to do with innocent misses.”

  “We’d better stay away then,” Polly said tightly.

  Or I might punch him in his perfect, popular nose.

  “On the contrary.” A determined light entered Rosie’s eyes, her lips curving in a cat-got-in-the-cream smile. “I cannot wait to make his acquaintance.”

  ~~~

  A few minutes later, Polly watched the interaction between Rosie and Revelstoke with the grim fascination of one watching two shiny carriages on course for collision. They were all in a private drawing room that the proprietress had insisted they use to recover, Thea and Rosie flanking Revelstoke on a settee and Polly occupying an adjacent wingchair.

  From a physical standpoint, Polly had to admit that the earl and her sister made a stunning pair: his dark, virile handsomeness was the ideal foil for Rosie’s fair and slender beauty. Rosie was flirting; having witnessed the other in action countless times before, Polly recognized all the signs. The flip of the blond ringlets, the tinkling laugh, the way she was leaning forward as if to say, You’re the most interesting person in the world!

  Polly’s posture, on the other hand, was stiff and rigid, her hands tightly clasped. Being face to face with the earl fanned the embers of her humiliation, memories bursting free, blasting the hinges off the box she’d locked them in. Suddenly, she was right back at that hedge, Revelstoke’s derision piercing her like shrapnel.

  You’d do as well to kick a half-dead mongrel. Seducing a wallflower—what’s the sport in that?

  She’d thought time would dull the pain of those words; she was wrong.

  Before, he’d been a disembodied voice, but now that she saw him—his utter perfection—it made his contempt of her even more despicable. Wasn’t it enough for him to be the ultimate specimen of manhood? To be blessed with bounty in every respect? Why did he feel the need to be arrogant and hateful toward lesser mortals?

  “You’re a hero, my lord,” Rosie was saying. “I owe you my life. How shall I ever repay you?”

  “I did as any gentleman would have done,” Revelstoke said. “Your well-being is ample reward, Miss Kent.”

  Apparently the cad could be gallant if he wished, Polly thought resentfully.

  On his other side, Thea smiled and said, “You have my family’s gratitude, my lord.”

  Rosie’s eyelashes fluttered. “Surely there is some way I could express my appreciation for your bravery, my lord?”

  Worry waded into the fray of Polly’s emotions. Rosie was not only pouring on the butter boat, she was practically dousing the earl with it! Steely determination glinted in her aura—dear Lord, she couldn’t have fixed her sights on the earl? With rising panic, Polly realized that, on the surface, Revelstoke fit Rosie’s bill of a perfect husband: he was titled, rich, the most sought-after bachelor of the Season. Landing him would be nothing short of a social coup.

  Polly had to do something before Rosie got herself entangled with the bounder. But what signal could she give her sister? She couldn’t very well blurt out what Revelstoke had said about her or, God forbid, what she’d seen him doing in the bathhouse.

  Then it struck her: why was the earl here?

  She returned to the hypothesis she’d had before she’d learned his true identity. Could it be that Revelstoke was… mad? Heat seared her insides as she flashed back to his depravity. Surely even rakes didn’t engage in such indecent behavior? Could it be that the celebrated earl was a few cards short of a full deck?

  She surreptitiously studied his aura. She’d never seen one quite like his before. The dark, stormy blue matched his eyes, the outer layer so intense and opaque that she couldn’t discern the feelings beneath, seeing only brief flashes of movement and color.

  Regardless, the fact that he was a resident here spoke for itself. And even Rosie wouldn’t carry on a flirtation with a madman, titled though he may be. If Polly experienced a smidgen of misgiving that she might be indulging in a desire for revenge, she pushed it aside. What mattered was ensuring that Rosie did not get caught up in Revelstoke’s web of crazed debauchery. Lord knew her reputation couldn’t take another blow.

  Before she lost nerve, Polly blurted, “Have you enjoyed your stay here, my lord?”

  The conversation came to a halt. Silence stretched between the ticks of the long-case clock. Rosie’s silvery laugh ended the awkward moment.

  “Dear Polly, you’re so droll! I’m sure you meant to say the earl’s visit—and not to imply that he, himself, is a resident here.”

  “I am staying here, actually.” Revelstoke met Polly’s gaze squarely. His vivid eyes had a swirl of darkness in them, like blue paint deepened with a drop of ink. “Though not as a resident, to be sure. Mrs. Barlow has kindly allowed me the use of the waters for my health. I find the springs here more convenient and private than those of Bath.”

  “Bath can get so crowded,” Rosie agreed. “Why, one can hardly take a step without bumping into some acquaintance or another.”

  Come on, Rosie. See him for the lunatic that he is.

  Steeling herself, Polly said, “What sort of ill health do you suffer from, my lord?”

  “Dearest,” Thea murmured, “that’s hardly an appropriate—”

  “’Tis quite all right, Lady Tremont. I thank Miss Kent for her concern.” His voice was smoother than the finest wine. “My health suffers no ill effects save from the excesses of Town living. I thought a week of the waters and country air might be restoring.”

  For a madman, he had an answer for everything, Polly thought darkly. His gaze met hers, and his lips quirked. He was amused… at her? A fresh wave of anger hit her.

  “It must be difficult being so much in the public eye and in demand, my lord,” Rosie chimed in. “Why, I daresay ’tis as difficult to get an audience with you as with His Majesty. Indeed,” she added, dimpling, “up until today, I’ve only glimpsed you from afar.”

  “A most grievous oversight on my part. Forgive me?” he murmured.

  Rosie’s ringlets bobbed prettily as she nodded
. The earl’s manners were so polished, his aura so confident and controlled, that doubt crept though Polly. Was he not mad after all? But he’d been engaged in such unnatural behavior…

  The door to the drawing room opened, and Mrs. Barlow swept in. Agitation sparked around her like fireflies. “My valued guests, I must apologize again for the dreadful incident,” she began. “Rest assured that the patient has been dealt with.”

  A chill seeped through Polly. “Dealt with?” she said in a low voice.

  “He is no longer a danger to others or himself.”

  As satisfaction slithered through the proprietress’ aura, Polly shivered.

  Turning to the earl, who’d risen at her entrée, Mrs. Barlow said, “Words cannot express my gratitude for your intervention, my lord. I deeply regret that the unfortunate incident interfered with your privacy and relaxation.”

  So he actually was a visitor—and, thus, sane. Drat.

  “Making the acquaintance of present company was well worth any effort.” For some reason, the earl wasn’t looking at Rosie but at Polly, mocking humor in his eyes. It was as if he’d guessed what she’d believed about him and was entertained by it.

  Once more, she was an object of ridicule to him.

  Humiliation welled, flowing into tributaries of the past, all the other times she’d been treated with contempt. The village children’s chants of “Peculiar Polly,” melded into the smirks of the fashionable crowd, the laughing male voices making a wager of her emotions. A lifetime of being on the outside seared through her.

  “Dear ladies,” Mrs. Barlow said, “may I ask that you respect my policy on discretion? I have promised Lord Revelstoke a peaceful retreat from the furor of Town, and I should hate for his solitude to be ruined by interlopers.”

  “Trying to get away from the adoring hordes, are you?” Rosie said teasingly.

  Revelstoke’s broad shoulders moved in a careless shrug. “My companions can get a bit tiresome in their pursuit of revelry.”

  How trying it must be for you to be so popular, Polly thought with mounting ire.

  Thea rose. “Well, we shan’t interrupt your sojourn any longer, my lord. It was a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  “The pleasure was mine, Lady Tremont.” The earl swept an artful bow.

  “I do hope we’ll see each other soon, my lord?” Rosie said.

  “I will count the hours.”

  Beaming, Rosie added with a saucy twinkle, “Just so you know, my papa is London’s best investigator. So I shall ask him to employ his skills and find you if you don’t keep your promise!”

  “Rosie,” Thea said mildly. “Come along now.”

  As Thea and Rosie bade farewell to Mrs. Barlow, Revelstoke turned to Polly. She tensed as he bestowed a charming smile upon her.

  “I hope we can put today behind us, Miss Kent,” he said easily.

  She knew he wasn’t referring to the ruckus with the madman but to what she’d caught him doing in the bathhouse. His aura matched his eyes: the strong, confident blue of a man assured of his place at the top of the world. Does being popular insulate him from all wrongdoing? she fumed. She might be naïve, but he, not she, was the one who’d been caught in an ignominious act. He, not she, was the one who ought to feel mortified!

  “I shan’t think of it again,” she said tightly.

  If anything, his amusement grew stronger. His mouth quirked, the movement sinfully sensual and dashed annoying because he no doubt knew it was so.

  “To think, I was going to apologize for causing you unintended shock,” he murmured. “It seems you have more mettle than meets the eye, Miss Kent.”

  Did he think that just because she was plain and fat that she couldn’t manage her reaction to him? That she’d be rendered insensate by his stupid depravity? That the mere sight of his god-like form would turn her into a wilting violet?

  How. Dare. He.

  “If by mettle you mean that I am capable of exerting self-control, then you have the right of it, my lord,” she said in cutting tones. “I believe that one should be responsible for one’s own actions.”

  Although his expression didn’t change, the ominous flare in his aura made her breath lodge in her throat. Heart racing, she brushed past him toward the others. Even as she fled, the image of what she’d seen stayed with her: the moment when his glow had changed, flawless blue cracking… revealing the fresh red innards of shame.

  Chapter Four

  That night, Sinjin hovered in the territory between dreams and wakefulness.

  He’d left the shutters open, moonlight breaking upon the soft linens of his bed. The air was humid, warm, and he turned over again, unable to find a comfortable position. Perhaps it was the residual energy of subduing a maniac. Given some of the tavern brawls he’d participated in, the scenario hadn’t been all that foreign to him, but it had felt good to put his skills to some meaningful use. The pretty blond chit had been grateful, certainly.

  But it wasn’t that Miss Kent who kept him tossing and turning into the night. Even as he sank deeper, farther away from the surface of consciousness, he couldn’t escape that haunting aquamarine gaze. Those clear orbs followed him, and he was forced to look into them, to see himself reflected in the pure, unflinching light.

  One should be responsible for one’s own actions.

  Nothing he hadn’t heard before, and yet her voice threaded his dreams, stringing together a necklace of images and sensations. A beautiful, raven-haired Madonna, her laughter echoing down the hall, her voice softening into a song.

  Bye, baby Bunting,

  Daddy’s gone a-hunting,

  Gone to get a rabbit skin,

  To wrap the baby Bunting in…

  Velvet comfort against his cheek as he watched a gleaming pendulum, time ticking away in years rather than minutes, his hand reaching out, tangling in a flowing black mane. Scything hooves beneath him now, a pounding certainty in his adolescent heart. I’m going to live forever!

  Back in the stables, he was a child again, his curiosity drawing him to the strange animal sounds, to the farthest stall where it wasn’t a horse but the Madonna on her hands and knees, the groom bent over her, dirty hands gripping her hair like reins. Fear and anger propelled him forward, fists flying.

  No, Sinjin, it’s all right… don’t tell, don’t tell…

  Tears sliding like pearls down her pale cheeks.

  Mama’s gone. Stephan’s young face. But we’ll still have each other.

  Two stacks of trunks, one bound for Eton, the other Creavey Hall. As his brother slapped his back goodbye, the words sticking in his throat. Don’t leave me. I can’t do this without you…

  Stephan’s dead. The duke’s voice floated through the ether. It should have been you.

  He twisted, falling into darkness, an oblivion of deeper shadows. The seduction of pale curves against scarlet satin. Name’s Nicoletta, luv, and I’ll make all your dreams come true… The friction of skin against skin, the temporary lethargy, sweet viscosity relieving his parched throat. Tired, so tired. Voices filtering as if through a wall of water, the rise and fall of indistinct waves, a deep voice rumbling to the surface. Hurry, we must act before he awakens…

  Sinjin bolted upright, a scream in his ears.

  He sat there, chest thudding, disoriented. His clammy hands fisted the sheets. Even as he tried to sort dream from reality, he heard it again—that high-pitched wail—coming not from his dream but from somewhere in the distance. Human or animal? He strained to hear more, but only insects shrilled in reply.

  Reaching over to the bedside table, he grasped his talisman. Squeezing the locket in his fist, he concentrated on its filigreed weight until his breath steadied, until he was certain this was no longer a dream. Only then did he loosen his grip. His lips twisted at the sight of the silver charm. No doubt Stephan would have approved of him using the calming trick, but what would his upstanding brother have said about the trinket in his palm, a symbol of all his excesses?

&nb
sp; The locket had arrived on Sinjin’s doorstep a few weeks ago. The appearance of the feminine trinket was not an unusual occurrence as his lovers (or those who wanted to be) made an annoying habit of sending him mementoes. What in God’s name did women think he would want with a garter or jeweled hair pin, some perfumed handkerchief?

  He usually let the servants take what they wanted, the rest going straight to the rubbish heap, but the locket had been different. Demure and modest, no note had accompanied it, no nauseatingly romantic verse. Its sender had chosen to remain anonymous, probably assuming that he would know who she was.

  Bad assumption. Although the locket had kindled a faint sense of déjà vu, he definitely couldn’t recall who it had belonged to. Hell, he couldn’t recall the names of half the women he’d tupped, let alone what baubles they’d been wearing at the time. But for some reason he’d taken to carrying the thing around like a lucky… locket. A talisman of sorts.

  Apparently, it worked. Calmer now, he tossed it back on the table and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He strode naked to the window, staring out into the shadowed landscape. Overhead the moon was an opalescent beacon, illuminating his thoughts.

  Was the voice I heard real?

  Not the scream—he’d slept enough nights here to know that the residents were an unrestful bunch—but the other voice, the one in his dream. Hurry, we must act before he awakens. Deep and low, that distinctive bass belonged to a man.

  Sinjin's nape tingled with recognition.

  That voice was a memory... of that night with Nicoletta. He’d learned to trust his gut’s reaction more than his mind for the latter could be held hostage by his demons. His primal instinct somehow managed to evade their devilish grasp, and if he could just hold onto it, hear its wisdom, it could lead him out of the darkness. To reality unfiltered by his frantic thoughts.

  His instinct was speaking to him now about the scarlet satin sheets, Nicoletta’s carnal offer… and the stranger’s voice. His heart drummed against his ribs. Had someone else been in the room that night? A man—who’d witnessed what happened? Why hadn’t Nicoletta mentioned him?