Dangerous

Chapter Two

Sebastian waited silently in the shadows as Prudence opened the back door of Lady Pembroke's elegant town house. He smiled to himself as she paused briefly and lifted a hand in farewell. The lady might not appreciate being labeled an Original, but she most definitely qualified as one.

He had never met anyone like Miss Prudence Merryweather. She was certainly the only other person he had ever encountered whose intellectual curiosity had led her into a hobby that was as unusual as his own.

A most fascinating creature. And now she owed him a favor. Se­bastian preferred having people in his debt. It gave him an advantage.

He turned and walked slowly back toward the waiting carriage. In the distance the vehicle's lamps were dim beacons that were barely able to pierce the heavy fog.

Sebastian hated the fog, yet he knew it might be his natural ele­ment. Or his ultimate fate.

His boot heels rang with a hollow echo on the sidewalk. Cold tendrils of mist ebbed and flowed around him, threatening to trap him forever in an endless gray void. He knew what waited for him in that vast emptiness. It would be a place where there was no sensation at all, not even the feeling of unrelenting cold.

On occasion lately he thought he had caught glimpses of that emp­tiness waiting behind the icy barrier he had created to protect himself.

He had recognized it as the same gray nothingness that had been waiting for him four years ago at dawn in the mountains of Saragstan.

A small, scraping sound emanating from a nearby alley brought Sebastian's attention instantly back to the present. He paused, listen-ing carefully. His fingers curled around the pistol in his pocket. His instinct for survival was still strong, he noted wryly, in spite of the strange mood that plagued him more and more of late.

The soft, scurrying noise faded quickly. A rat or perhaps a cat, Sebastian thought. He walked on toward the waiting carriage.

It was a dangerous night to be abroad. But then, all nights were times of great risk.

Miss Prudence Merryweather had braved the danger and the dark­ness to see him, Sebastian reflected. He smiled faintly. She was, in­deed, made of sturdy stuff.

Sebastian opened the door of his carriage himself. "To my club," he said to the coachman.

"Aye, m'lord."

The carriage rolled forward. Sebastian leaned back against the cushions, gazed out into the fog, and contemplated Prudence.

She was more than brave; she was headstrong. A decidedly diffi­cult trait in a female. He suspected that not many men could deal with her. She was too intelligent, too fearless, too bold, and too curious for the majority of males. She was also full of lively spirit and a staunch, rather naive faith in the basic goodness of others.

The fact that Prudence was twenty-five and still unmarried was a strong indication that the men she had encountered thus far had ei­ther failed to comprehend the subtle feminine challenge she offered or chosen to ignore it. The men must have been blind, Sebastian decided.

Either that or they had been put off by the spectacles which Pru­dence wore like a battle shield. Sebastian gazed out at the darkened streets and thought about the eyes behind the spectacles. Fantastic eyes. Deep, clear pools of an indescribable shade of green. Intelligent eyes. The eyes of an honest woman, a woman of deep, unshakable integrity. Such eyes made her very much a novelty in Sebastian's world.

There was, he realized, an earnest, thoroughly wholesome quality about Prudence that he found inexplicably enthralling. He thirsted for a taste of her refreshing, invigorating goodness even as he mocked it.

Sitting there in his library lecturing him about his responsibilities, she had made him feel every heavy ounce of the darkness that weighed down his soul. Prudence was a creature of the sunlight and she made him very conscious of the fact that he was a man who dwelt in the deepest shadows of the night.

They were opposites, yet he had wanted her from the moment he was introduced to her. It made no sense. Sebastian wondered why he found himself so captivated by Prudence. For captivated he was.

She was pretty enough, he supposed, although not a great beauty. What physical attributes she possessed, however, were effectively con­cealed by the effects of what appeared to be a total absence of a sense of style.

Sebastian had been amused by the fawn-colored gown she had worn earlier that evening. The pale brown shade had been distinctly unflattering on Prudence. It had failed to bring out the brilliance of her emerald eyes and it had dulled her honey-colored hair. The de­mure cut of the high neckline and the brown roses that decorated the skirts had marked the gown as having been sewn up in the country. No fashionable London modiste would have dressed a client in such a countrified style.

Prudence had evidently found her fan to be a nuisance. Instead of wielding it in the fine art of flirtation, it had dangled uselessly from her wrist. Her spectacles had, of course, only added to the spectacu­larly unstylish effect she had managed to achieve.

But Sebastian had seen beneath the surface of Prudence's outland­ish facade. His father had been an explorer, a skilled observer of the customs of distant peoples and of the terrain of foreign lands. He had taken his family with him on his travels and he had trained Sebastian well in the science and art of observation.

It is in the details that one sees the truth, Jonathan Fleetwood had often explained to his son. Learn to look for them.

Tonight Sebastian had seen that Prudence's hair was richly threaded with gold. He had observed that she had a generous, laugh­ing mouth and an amusing little nose. There was a firm, assertive quality to her catlike chin that he found intriguing. And he had looked deep into the bottomless green pools of her eyes.

He knew that compared to the great beauties of the ton her looks could only be called passable. She was not a diamond of the first water, yet she had been the only woman he had been aware of in that ballroom tonight.

Sebastian allowed his thoughts to drift to the rest of Prudence, mentally skimming a hand over her as if he were about to undress her and take her to bed. She was slender, but gracefully rounded in all the right places. He had seen enough of her in her modest ball gown to know that her breasts would be shaped like small, ripe, exotic fruit, perfectly suited to his palm and to his mouth. The scent of her, a mixture of fresh flowers and natural womanly fragrance, still lingered in the carriage, filling his head.

He would kiss her again soon. If he had any decency he would resist the impulse, but no one expected decency from the Fallen An­gel. Just as well. He was not certain how much he possessed, himself.

What he had in abundance was a deepening sense of the gray, formless cold that threatened to engulf him from the inside out. The only way to forget about it for even a short while was to occupy him­self with his amusing little hobby. He must take it up again, and soon.

First, however, there was the matter of Prudence's brother.

The carriage came to a halt at the front door of the club Sebastian favored. He had memberships at most of the best establishments, but this was the one where he always felt most comfortable. Probably because it was not one of his cousin's preferred haunts.

He got out, went up the steps, and into the warmth of the well-appointed masculine retreat. Several heads turned as he walked into the card room. A ripple of interest passed through the large crowd gathered about the gaming tables. Sebastian knew that gossip of the impending duel had probably reached every club in St. James.

A tall, thin blond man detached himself from a game of whist and strolled across the room to join Sebastian.

Sebastian watched him closely and was quietly relieved to see that Garrick Sutton's gaze was clear again tonight. Sutton appeared to be overcoming his practice of losing himself in strong spirits, a habit he had brought back with him from the war.

"What's this, Angelstone? I thought you were spending the rest of the night at home preparing yourself for your dawn appointment."

"I've changed my mind, Sutton. There will be no dawn engage­ment. I want you, as one of my seconds, to convey my most abject apologies to Mr. Trevor Merryweather."

Garrick's mouth fell open in dumbfounded amazement. Sebastian smiled. It was worth apologizing to young Merryweather just to see the amusing effect it would have on everyone.

Garrick was one of a very small handful of people Sebastian called friend. Sebastian included Garrick in the select group because he was one of the few people who had accepted Sebastian without reservation two years ago.

After a lifetime spent abroad, Sebastian had at last been obliged to come to England. His ever-expanding business investments had made it necessary to establish his headquarters in London, the very center of the social world that had once turned its back on his parents.

His financial power had brought him in contact with any number of people who were anxious to claim friendship. But he knew that behind his back they called him the Fleetwood bastard. They had gossiped with relish about his father's scandalous affair with an actress all those years ago. They had talked of how the title would eventually go to Sebastian's cousin, Jeremy, because of Jonathan Fleetwood's unsavory and irresponsible connection with a cheap lightskirt.

During that time Garrick had been one of the few people who did not want anything from Sebastian except friendship. He had also been one of the few who had no interest in the old scandal or in the legiti­macy of Sebastian's birth.

Garrick had been carrying deep, invisible scars from the war. He had felt an instinctive bond with Sebastian, who, he must have sensed, carried scars of his own. Neither man spoke much of the past. It was not necessary.

"Are you serious?" Garrick demanded. "The Merryweather boy challenged you over a mere trifle. You did nothing except dance with his sister."

"I am aware of that," Sebastian said quietly.

"Are you telling me you're going to let him get away with that?"

"I have it on excellent authority the young man is hotheaded and not very wise in the ways of the world."

Garrick snorted. "Then you may as well teach him his first les­sons."

"I am inclined to leave that task to someone else."

"I don't understand this." Garrick grabbed a bottle of port and dashed some of the contents into a glass. "Not like you to let an upstart young pup get away with this kind of thing. What's going on, Angelstone?"

"I've changed my mind, that's all. There's nothing more to it than that. Tell Mr. Merryweather that I have no interest in meeting him at dawn."

Garrick eyed the port he had just poured as if surprised to find it in his hand. He carefully put the glass down again without tasting the contents. He looked at Sebastian. "I know damn well you aren't afraid to meet him. You're bound to best him in the encounter. The boy has no experience in this sort of thing."

Sebastian smiled thinly. "Which makes the whole event something of a bore, don't you think?"

Garrick's brows rose. "No doubt. But what's going to happen the next time you elect to dance with the Original? And I know there will be a next time, Angelstone. I saw the look in your eye tonight when you spotted her in the crowd. Haven't seen you react that way to a female before."

"If Merryweather sees fit to issue another challenge—"

"Which he will, especially when he sees how quickly you apolo­gized after this one."

"Then I shall simply convey another apology," Sebastian con­cluded easily.

Garrick's blue eyes widened. "Damnation, man. You'd give him a second apology?"

"And another after that, if necessary. I have discovered to my astonishment what appears to be an inexhaustible supply of gentle­manly remorse, Sutton. I do believe I can continue to apologize as long as Merryweather can continue to issue a challenge."

"Good God." Understanding dawned in Garrick's eyes. He started to grin. "In other words, you're going to amuse yourself with his sister as long as you please and Merryweather will be helpless to force a duel because you will simply apologize every time he issues a chal­lenge."

"That's the plan."

"Incredible." Garrick shook his head in admiration. "No one will believe for a single instant that you're actually afraid to meet the boy, of course. Your reputation is too well known. People will say you are merely amusing yourself again. Merryweather will become a laughing­stock."

"Perhaps. That's not my problem."

"The club betting books will fill up with wagers on when you'll finally get tired of the game and put a bullet in him," Garrick said.

"What goes down on the betting books is not my concern, either." Sebastian helped himself to a small swallow of Garrick's untouched port. "In the meantime you'll see that my apologies are conveyed to my worthy opponent?"

"If you insist. This is a first for you, though, Angelstone. And not in your usual style."

"Who knows? Perhaps I'm changing my ways. It's just barely possi­ble that I am becoming more responsible as I advance into my mature years."

Garrick eyed him with some concern. "You're in a strange mood tonight, my friend. Mayhap it's time you indulged yourself again in your little hobby. It's been a while since the last occasion, I believe."

"Perhaps you're right. Then again, perhaps I'm in a strange mood because it's been a rather strange night."

"And getting stranger," Garrick muttered. His gaze shifted to a point behind Sebastian's left shoulder. "Your cousin just walked into the room. Odd. He rarely visits this particular club."

"Only because he knows I can frequently be found here."

"Precisely. So what, one might ask, is Fleetwood doing here to­night?"

"That's easy enough to guess." Sebastian set down his glass. "He has no doubt come to wish me luck on the field of honor."

"Not bloody likely." Garrick frowned. "The opposite, no doubt. Fleetwood would not weep any tears if someone were to put a bullet in you, Angelstone, and everyone knows it. As far as he's concerned, you usurped the title, and he's never forgiven you. He and his over­bearing mama both assumed for years that he was next in line."

Sebastian shrugged. "As did everyone else in the family."

Garrick fell silent as Jeremy Fleetwood came up behind Sebastian.

"Angelstone." Jeremy's voice held the raw, brittle tone of a young man who knows he is facing an older, more powerful male. It was a tone balanced between fear and bravado.

Sebastian ignored the interested hush that fell over the crowd at the nearest gaming tables. He knew everyone in the room was strain­ing to hear the confrontation without appearing to do so. The entire ton was aware of the icy feud between Sebastian and his relatives.

It was highly unusual for either side to even speak to the other. The fact that young Fleetwood was here in Sebastian's favorite club and had actually addressed his cousin by name would no doubt fasci­nate the gossips every bit as much as the rumor of a duel.

"Was there something you wanted, Fleetwood?" Sebastian turned slowly to face Jeremy. "Aside from my title, that is? Or have you come to wish me good fortune on the morrow?"

Jeremy's handsome face flushed. His eyes were a much darker shade than Sebastian's, brown rather than gold. His hair was lighter in color, a deep mahogany rather than midnight black. Nevertheless, Sebastian knew the family resemblance between himself and his cousin was unmistakable. He also knew that obvious fact irritated the rest of the Fleetwoods. They would have preferred him to have resem­bled his fair-haired mother.

"You bastard." Jeremy doubled a hand into a fist. "One of these days someone is going to put a bullet through your cold heart and it will serve you right."

"Thank you." Sebastian inclined his head politely. "Always nice to know one's family is behind one in a time of crisis."

"It's true, then?" Jeremy demanded, appalled. "You're going to subject the family reputation to another round of scandal by engaging in a duel with some country yokel?"

"You'll be happy to learn that the rumors of a duel are false."

"I don't believe it."

"It's the truth, cousin." Sebastian smiled. "Tell your doting mama to cancel her order for mourning clothes. I imagine she has already selected something appropriate in black on the off chance that her fondest wish might come true on the morrow. Unfortunately for her, I intend to live yet another day."

Jeremy scowled. "I heard that the brother of the Merryweather chit challenged you."

"Did you? Amazing how gossip flows through the ton, isn't it? A pity that so much of it is false."

"Damn it, man, what are you up to this time?"

"Nothing that need concern you, Fleetwood."

"You're an arrogant bastard, cousin."

"Arrogant I may be, but I am most definitely not a bastard." Se­bastian smiled again. "And that, dear cousin, makes all the difference, doesn't it?"

Jeremy's mouth worked, but in the end he seemed to be unable to find words. He spun around on one well-shod foot and stalked out of the room.

The buzz of conversation resumed at the card tables. Sebastian turned back to pour himself another glass of port. He stopped when he saw the thoughtful expression in Garrick's eyes.

"Don't worry, my friend," Sebastian said. "Fieetwood and I have an understanding. Long ago we both made a pact to detest each other."

Garrick's gaze remained on the door. "I believe he truly hates you."

"Not entirely his fault, I suppose. His mother has taught him to do so from the cradle. She never forgave my father for running off with my mother and thereby soiling the family name for all eternity. When I came into the title last year instead of her precious Jeremy, she nearly keeled over with apoplexy."

"I am well aware of your family history. Be careful, Angelstone. I swear there was murder in Fleetwood's expression just now."

"Calm yourself, Sutton. Your imagination is running riot."

"I'm not so certain. I have the distinct impression that if Jeremy Fleetwood could find a way to do you in without making himself look guilty in the process, he wouldn't hesitate a minute." Garrick smiled suddenly. "There's a solution to your dilemma, you know."

"And that is?"

"Do your duty by your title, man. Get yourself a wife and then get yourself an heir as quickly as possible. Once the title is secure for another generation on your side of the family, the Fleetwoods will cease praying for your demise. If you have an heir, there would no longer be any point in hoping you'll kick the bucket."

"I congratulate you on your pragmatic approach to the situation," Sebastian said. "Perhaps I shall give your notion some consideration."

Garrick gave him a sharp, inquiring look. "What's this? Don't tell me you've finally decided to be sensible."

"I have been told that at my age a man should begin to demon­strate the qualities of wisdom and responsibility, Sutton."

Garrick shook his head again. "You truly are in an odd mood tonight."

"Yes. Perhaps you'd better convey my apologies to young Mer-ryweather before I change my mind."

Sebastian ignored the gossip that swept through the ton the following afternoon as the haut monde learned of his apology to Trevor Merryweather. Instead of making himself available to the curi­ous in his club or retreating to the privacy of his library, he took himself off to keep an appointment at a certain coffeehouse near the docks.

Whistlecroft's message had reached Sebastian just as he had sat down to a leisurely late breakfast. The note had been short and to the point. Whistlecroft's messages generally were brief, as the Bow Street Runner did not read or write with any great skill.

Sir,

There be a matter of interest I wish to discuss with you. If it be agreeable with you, I suggest the usual place at three.

Yrs. W.

At three o'clock Sebastian walked into the coffeehouse and found Whistlecroft waiting for him in his customary booth. The Runner raised his mug in greeting. Sebastian went forward to join him.

Whistlecroft was a heavyset man with a florid, bewhiskered face and shrewd little eyes. The purple veins in his nose bespoke a fond­ness for gin and he seemed to have a perpetual cold during the winter months. He always wore a grimy scarf around his neck and snuffled a great deal.

"Good afternoon, yer lordship. I see ye got my message."

"I trust this matter will prove more amusing than the last, Whistle­croft." Sebastian sat down in the booth across from the Runner. "I am in the mood for something a bit more challenging."

"Yer too good at this sort o‘ thing, that's yer problem." Whistle­croft grinned, displaying several gaps in his teeth. "Well, I got a new one that should interest ye. Same arrangement as before? I collect the reward from the suitably grateful party what hired me?"

"The reward and the credit, Whistlecroft. Neither are of any use to me."

"Must be nice to be rich," Whistlecroft said with a sigh. "And have a fancy title into the bargain. Don't mind tellin‘ ye, I still don't under­stand why ye take such an interest in these little affairs."

Sebastian signaled for coffee. "I've explained that before, Whistle­croft. You provide me with an amusing hobby. Every man needs a hobby, don't you agree?"

"I wouldn't know about that, yer lordship. Ain't never had time for no hobby. Too busy trying to keep food on the table for me and mine."

Sebastian smiled coolly. "I trust you and yours are eating some­what better since we began our partnership."

Whistlecroft chuckled. "That we are, m'lord. That we are. My wife's getting plump and the five little ones is all filling out nicely. We moved into a little house just last week. Real pleasant, it is."

"Excellent. Then let me hear what you have for me this time." Whistlecroft hunched forward and lowered his voice. "A little mat­ter o‘ blackmail and a nice bit o' jewelry, m'lord. I think ye'll find it amusing enough."