Desire

Chapter Seven

London

“We should arrive at his lordship’s town residence shortly,” Mr. Davies remarked, speaking for the first time in two hours. “Are you comfortable enough, my lady? ”

“Yes, thank you,” Brynn prevaricated, shifting in her seat to relieve her cramped muscles. Nearly three days of coach travel, even in a coach as well-sprung and luxuriously appointed as her new husband’s, was not her idea of comfort.

The journey had been lonely as well, with only the reserved, impeccably proper Mr. Davies for company. They had set out for London early on the morning following her wedding. The elderly gentleman maintained a formal distance and seemed reticent to answer even the most elementary questions about his employer, Lord Wycliff.

With nothing to distract her thoughts, Brynn found herself dwelling on her feelings of loneliness and trepidation. It had been even harder than expected to say farewell to her home and family. And the ache in her breast at giving up Theo could not have been deeper had she truly been his mother rather than his older sister.

Worse, with so much time on her hands, her reflections kept returning to her wedding night and her new husband. No matter how she tried to push it out of her mind, she couldn’t help reliving her one incredible carnal interlude with Lucian. She had expected him to be skilled, but his lovemaking had been more stunning than anything described by poets. The sheer ecstasy he’d aroused in her was beyond what she could have imagined in her wildest dreams. Even now a sharp sense of pleasure curled low in her stomach whenever she remembered him moving between her thighs…

Brynn pressed her lips together, completely vexed with herself. She had intended to hold herself aloof, but at the first challenge, she’d melted into a mindless puddle in his arms. It was small consolation that Lucian Tremayne was a practiced rake whose erotic finesse was as vast as the ocean. She had succumbed to his seduction like the veriest gull.

And then he had forsaken her without a word of farewell, leaving her to be dealt with by his stately secretary as if she were a possession-a horse or a dog-that could be turned over to the care of servants. At the very least Lucian could have had the common decency to say farewell. Or better yet, permit her to remain in Cornwall with her family.

Brynn muttered a silent oath. She shouldn’t give a fig that her husband had abandoned her so abruptly after consummating a union she had never wanted. It was irrational for her to feel dismayed and hurt.

Indeed, she should be glad to be able to nurse a resentment toward him.

It would be far easier to resist a husband who showed her so little consideration. There would be no danger of coming to care for him-and she had definitely been in danger that night. For a brief while during their passionate tryst on the beach, their intimacy had aroused feelings in her that she didn’t dare acknowledge.

But whatever momentary warmth she’d cherished toward Lucian in those moments, whatever fleeting optimism about their life together, was dashed when he decided so abruptly to desert her, leaving her to face a strange future alone but for his properly decorous secretary.

Brynn gave a deep sigh. She was not usually one to give in to despondency, but just now it was a struggle.

Her spirits rose when the coach reached the elegant London district of Mayfair, where the cream of the ton resided. As the coach drew to a halt, Brynn leaned forward in anticipation to peer out the window, wondering what her new home would be like.

She caught her breath at the magnificent sight in the fading evening light. The mansion of imposing gray stone was not quite a palace but nearly so. Unaccustomed to such grandeur, Brynn was filled with both awe and dismay when the coach was met by a cadre of bustling footmen.

Inside, the house seemed even more luxurious, with a vast entrance hall filled with glistening chandeliers and gleaming marble. The domestic staff resembled an army and was lined up in the hall according to rank-first the butler and housekeeper, then upper servants such as the chef and chief gardener, and finally the liveried footmen and uniformed serving maids.

The head servants were obviously proper to the point of stiffness. Brynn didn’t catch their names at first, but she couldn’t miss their studied coolness. Nor did she miss the housekeeper’s disapproving frown when the butler relieved their new mistress of her bonnet.

Brynn resisted the urge to reach up and smooth her chignon, which no doubt was disheveled after the long journey. Her unruly hair was such an untamed color that it took very little to make her look wild and brazen. She had to forgive the elderly woman her reaction. And perhaps her stiffness and lack of warmth as well. Her master’s sudden marriage must have come as a complete shock. Moreover, longtime servants would be protective of their status and would not welcome a new mistress with open arms.

Brynn allowed the butler to take her gloves and pelisse, then hesitated, uncertain of the etiquette for this situation. Had her husband been present, the task of introducing her to her new home would likely have fallen to him.

Fortunately Mr. Davies intervened in the awkward silence. “Would you care to tour the house, Lady Wycliff? Or perhaps you would prefer to rest first?”

She gave him a grateful smile. “I am not tired, but I would like to change out of my traveling dress before I see the house.”

“Did your maid not accompany you, my lady?” the housekeeper asked, her tone holding a hint of reproach.

“I am afraid not,” Brynn answered just as coolly, not wanting to admit that she hadn’t been able to afford the service of a lady’s maid for years.

At the servant’s frosty look, Brynn squared her shoulders and returned an unrepentant gaze, reminding herself that she needn’t endure such unspoken censure. She was the Countess of Wycliff now, even if she had been abandoned by her husband. Her rank was one of the few advantages to this unwanted marriage.

The housekeeper was the first to waver. Dropping her gaze, she asked Mr. Davies which rooms her ladyship was to be given.

“Lord Wycliff wishes her to have the gold suite.”

“Very well,” the housekeeper said, pressing her lips together as if she had swallowed a bitter prune. “If you will come with me, my lady…”

As she was led upstairs, Brynn caught glimpses of elegant furnishings everywhere she looked, all superbly tasteful, never ostentatious. When she followed the housekeeper into a magnificent bedchamber, decorated in shades of ivory and gold, she found it hard not to gasp at the exquisite appointments.

“There is a sitting room as well as a dressing room,” the housekeeper informed her. “These rooms belonged to the late Lady Wycliff. His lordship’s mother, whom I served for many years.”

“They are very beautiful,” Brynn murmured, “Mrs…? I’m sorry, I forgot your name.”

“Poole,” the housekeeper said stiffly. “I am Mrs. Poole.”

Her lapse, Brynn realized, was no doubt an unforgivable mistake that only added to the housekeeper’s resentment. She would have to do better in future.

She offered an apologetic smile. “Thank you, Mrs. Poole. I can manage from here.”

The servant returned a cool stare, but she evidently thought better of outright defiance because she sketched a brief curtsy before withdrawing.

Alone, Brynn took a deep breath. It would require an enormous amount of work if she hoped to win over such stalwart opposition as the housekeeper’s- and she wasn’t yet certain she even wanted to make the attempt.

Her awed gaze returned to the beautiful bedchamber. Crossing the room to one of the tall windows, Brynn looked down at the elegant square. She had known Lucian was wealthy, but this was beyond wealth; this room was fit for a queen.

She winced at the realization that this would be her new throne. She wasn’t cut out for such an exalted position. Nor was she even certain she preferred such formal riches as these. Her former home suffered greatly in comparison, but even with its threadbare furnishings, Caldwell House was more comforting, for it was filled with laughter and affection…

Brynn’s despondency returned in full measure as she remembered all she had left behind. How would she manage to cope? She already missed home dreadfully, missed her family, the warmth.

Shivering, she wrapped her arms around herself. It was cold here in London, even in August. Far colder than the south of Cornwall.

After a moment, however, Brynn tightened her jaw and berated herself for falling prey to self-pity. Turning, she was about to shrug out of her gown when a whisper-soft rap sounded on the door.

“Yes?” Brynn said, inviting entrance.

The door opened slowly, and a young, blond-haired woman in servants’ attire inched into the room, her gaze focused meekly on the Aubusson carpet.

“I am Meg, milady,” she murmured in a thin voice that quivered with nerves. “Mrs. Poole sent me to assist you.”

“Thank you, Meg, but you may tell Mrs. Poole that I don’t require assistance.”

To Brynn’s startlement, the maid’s lower lip began to tremble. “Is something wrong, Meg?” she asked in concern.

“Please, milady,” Meg pleaded, giving her an almost desperate look. “Don’t send me away, I beg you. Mrs. Poole will think I have displeased you.”

Seeing that the girl’s distress was genuine, Brynn felt her heart warm immediately. “You haven’t displeased me in the least, Meg,” she said gently. “It is only that I have been accustomed to caring for myself. My family has been in rather straitened circumstances lately, so I have had to forgo the luxury of a personal maid. I confess, though, that I would appreciate your assistance.”

“Oh, thank you, milady!” Meg breathed, bobbing up and down numerous times as if Brynn were indeed a queen. “I usually serve as a parlormaid and I haven’t much experience, but I am a quick study, I promise you, even Mrs. Poole says so, and I will do anything you ask, anything-” She stopped abruptly, having run out of breath, and gazed wide-eyed at her mistress. “Where do I begin?”

Brynn managed a smile. “Perhaps with the buttons on the back of my gown.”

She offered her back, willing herself to patience as the girl attempted the task with fumbling fingers. She had to make allowances for the cold reception of longtime employees like Mrs. Poole and for inexperienced, terrified ones like Meg.

But still, Brynn reflected, adjusting to her lordly husband’s household would be more difficult than even she had imagined.

Dover

The prison cell was dank and stank of vermin, both the animal and the human sort-the condemned souls who had been caged there over the past centuries. Lucian had to stifle the urge to cover his nose with a handkerchief.

He’d sailed directly from Cornwall to Dover after learning that a government courier had been ambushed and murdered. The courier’s pouch contained dispatches meant for General Lord Wellington in Spain, most important a schedule of impending gold shipments, detailing dates and locations of delivery to Britain’s European allies. Then, before the schedule could be changed, a wagonload of bullion worth nearly two hundred thousand pounds was stolen, all its guards killed, shot without mercy.

An urgent investigation had ensued, with agents combing every tavern and posting inn and dock, searching for possible leads. The man in custody had had the poor judgment to boast about knowledge of the theft, although he claimed to have no responsibility in the courier’s murder.

Lucian had come today with one of his best agents to continue interrogating the prisoner.

“You there,” the jailer said gruffly, “get to yer feet. You ‘ave visitors.”

The ragged blanket on the straw mattress moved, then moaned when the jailer kicked it. “This is Ned Shanks, milord.”

A hulking brute of a man crawled slowly out from beneath the blanket and climbed to his feet, clutching his ribs.

Shanks was clearly the worse for his imprisonment. In the lantern light, Lucian could see his grimy face was badly bruised and one eye swollen shut, while dried blood matted his greasy black hair.

A look of fear crossed his face when he saw Lucian’s colleague, Philip Barton, who was primarily responsible for the prisoner’s current damaged condition.

“Leave us, please,” Lucian said to the jailer.

When they were alone, Lucian eyed the prisoner for a long moment. As the silence drew out, Shanks visibly grew more nervous, until finally he exclaimed in a voice oddly high and breathless for so large a man, “Gor, I know naught, milord. I don’t even know why I been arrested.”

Lucian kept his voice gentle. “You have been arrested, Mr. Shanks, because a government courier has been murdered and his dispatch pouch gone missing. And because you have knowledge about how and why it happened.”

“I know only what I told that gent, I swear! That’s all I know.”

“Why don’t you repeat your tale to me? My colleague, Mr. Barton, believes it might be helpful to have another, fresh perspective.”

Ned flashed the silent Barton a fearful glance. “I ‘eard my friend Boots bragging about a job over an ale, saying ’ow ‘e was soon to be plump in the pocket.”

“At the Boarshead Tavern?”

“Aye, milord. Well, I followed ‘im to see who ’e planned to meet with. I stopped around the corner from the mews. It was dark so I couldn’t see much, and I could only ‘ear part of what was said.”

“But you could see his companion.”

“Some ‘at. ”E was a toff, for sure. Boots called ’im a lord. Lord Caliban, or some such thing.“

Although expecting to hear the familiar name, Lucian felt himself flinch. Caliban was the monster in Shakespeare’s The Tempest and the sobriquet of the ringleader the British Foreign Office had been seeking for months.

“And what did this Lord Caliban say?”

“ ‘E told Boots when the courier would come and what to do-where to lie in wait on the ’ighway. ”E wanted that courier’s bag bad enough to pay big. Boots was to get twenty quid if ‘e could deliver the bag.“

“I wonder if Boots realized what the pouch contained.”

“ ‘Pon me life, I don’t know anything more. Only what I ’eard Boots say.”

“Are you aware your friend Boots was found garroted in an alley two days ago?” Lucian asked even more gently. “The work of your Lord Caliban, I expect.”

Ned’s face went white.

“What can you tell me about this Caliban?” Lucian said finally.

“Not much. ”E wore a mask. And a fancy coat, like yerself.“

“What of hair color or physical build? Was he short or tall?”

“Medium, I guess. Taller than Boots. But ‘is ’air was covered.”

“Any distinguishing marks you can recall? Think, please, Mr. Shanks. It would be of great use to us to have even the slightest hint of Lord Caliban’s identity.”

Ned’s grimy brow furrowed. “No marks, but… come to think of it, ”e had a ring.“

“What sort of ring?”

“Gold. Wore it on ‘is left ’and. I remember it glittered red.”

Philip spoke for the first time. “You told me nothing about a ring before.”

Ned’s wary look held alarm. “I only just now remembered. Boots was going on about it, saying ‘ow it would be worth a fair plum if ’e could lift it.”

“Can you recall anything about the design?” Lucian asked.

“Something like a dragon’s head, Boots said. ”Ad red stones for eyes.“

“Rubies, perhaps?” Lucian asked.

“I guess, maybe. I really didn’t get near enough for a look.”

Contemplating the prisoner, Lucian was certain he had nothing more to offer. “Thank you, Mr. Shanks. You have been a great deal of help.”

“Milord?” Ned’s tone grew anxious as he sent Barton another fearful glance. “What will ye do with me? I ‘ave a wife ’oo will be wondering what’s become of me.”

“So do I,” Lucian murmured softly. “You are free to go, Mr. Shanks.”

“Go?” Ned looked astonished, as did Philip Barton to a lesser extent.

Lucian fished in his pocket and drew out a handful of guineas. “Here. In remuneration for your trouble.”

Accepting the offer reflexively, Ned stared down at the gold pieces in total bewilderment.

“If you should hear of any news,” Lucian added, “anything even remotely connected with Caliban or with your late friend Boots, I would hope you will inform the innkeeper at the Boarshead. He can get word to me.”

“Aye, milord, of course!”

At his eagerness, Lucian flashed a charming half smile. “You might also be interested to know a reward is being offered for the capture of this Lord Caliban. Two hundred pounds.”

Shanks’s mouth gaped open. It was still set that way when Lucian left the cell, followed closely by Philip Barton with the lantern.

Neither of them spoke until they were seated in Philip’s closed carriage and headed toward the inn where they both were staying.

“You think it wise to let him go?” the younger man asked.

“Wiser than frightening him out of his skin,” Lucian replied mildly. “Or beating him to confess knowledge he doesn’t have. Greed can sometimes prove a better method than pain.”

“I shall keep that in mind,” Philip said stiffly.

“That was not a criticism, my friend. You did an excellent job simply finding Shanks. Because of you, we are one step closer to unearthing our traitor. But Shanks can be more useful to us alive than dead. And this way, if he hears even a whisper about our chief nemesis, I expect he will jump at the chance to tell us.”

“You’re certain Caliban is the traitor you are looking for?”

“I’m certain of it,” Lucian said grimly.

He had a large score to settle with his elusive enemy. Murder, theft, treason only headed the list of crimes. Even more personally galling was Caliban’s practice of luring young bucks of the ton into betraying their country. Lucian’s grimmest task had been to kill one of his boyhood friends who had turned traitor at Caliban’s behest. The memory still haunted him.

“He must have an accomplice within the Foreign Office,” Philip muttered. “How else would he know when to intercept the courier?” He clenched his fists. “It rankles to know a traitor is directly under our noses and we cannot do a bloody thing to stop him.”

“Indeed,” Lucian agreed succinctly, feeling but not visibly displaying the same corrosive self-torment that was eating his subordinate inside.

Philip turned his troubled gaze to Lucian. “My lord, I would not blame you in the least if you were to dismiss me. I should have thought of changing the transport schedule. If I had, then the last shipment of gold would still be safe, the guards still alive.”

Lucian shook his head. Philip Barton was one of his brightest agents, but even the brightest made mistakes. And the young man was not entirely to blame. Lucian was suffering his own harsh brand of guilt, his own private anguish. Had he been in London instead of dallying in Cornwall, courting his bride, he could have acted when the courier’s murder was first discovered. In all likelihood he could have prevented the gold theft and the deaths of half a dozen more innocent men, a lapse in judgment he would forever have to live with.

Whether or not the shipment had been smuggled to France yet was anyone’s guess, for the trail had gone stone cold. Lucian had immediately sent men to Cornwall to scour the coast in the event that Sir Grayson Caldwell was involved, but he doubted Cornwall was the transfer point this time. The gold was likely in France by now, bankrolling Napoleon’s armies instead of those of the Triple Alliance-Austria, Prussia, and Russia.

Lucian was seething with helpless fury inside, his gut and heart both aching with dismay. But long practice at concealing his feelings behind a sophisticated mask allowed him to answer evenly. “If I dismissed you, Philip, then I would have to dismiss myself. I was off attending to my own personal affairs, I recall.”

“It is not the same thing, my lord. Your wedding nuptials should come before duty.”

“No.” His resolve hardened. “Nothing should come before duty.”

Lucian turned his head to gaze out the carriage window. Lusting after a woman, even his own wife, was no excuse for forsaking his grave obligations. A few vital infusions of gold into Napoleon’s military machine could prove pivotal in the outcome of the war-the difference between a Europe subjugated under a tyrant’s boot heel and the allies finally being able to crush him once and for all.

Winning the war, putting an end to the death and destruction and devastating misery the Corsican monster had caused, was far more crucial than any one man’s personal considerations, Lucian reflected darkly. He might have regretted having to leave his marriage bed-virtually being dragged away on his wedding night-but his own private desires could not be allowed to matter.

And in truth, he’d been glad for the opportunity to gain some distance from his new bride. It unsettled him, how enamored he’d become with Brynn in such a short time. He didn’t believe in such things as curses, but admittedly he found it hard to explain the driving urgency he’d felt to possess her, the stunning satisfaction of making love to her… his dark dreams.

He’d sent his secretary to make his farewells that night, rationalizing that had he gone to Brynn himself, he would have had to offer some explanation as to his purpose. He had no intention of disclosing his investigation of the gold thefts when her brother might very well be up to his neck in treason.

But the real reason he’d sailed away without a word, Lucian acknowledged grimly, was because of fear: if he went to her, if he touched her again, he might not be able to leave her at all. Away from her, he could try to forget her vibrant beauty, her defiant, intriguing spirit… the dark images that filled his mind.

Or so he’d mistakenly hoped.

Since he’d wed her, Brynn had obsessed his thoughts. Obsessed even his sleep. His dreams were filled with her now. Never before had he dreamed about any specific woman, but since making love to Brynn, he couldn’t stop seeing her whenever he closed his eyes.

Lucian cursed silently. This was not the sort of marriage he’d planned-becoming foolishly enchanted with his beautiful wife. But he couldn’t, wouldn’t indulge his growing obsession for her.

Brynn was no doubt offended that he’d abandoned her so abruptly after compelling her to wed him. But he couldn’t worry about placating her wounded sensibilities. Not when so many men had died as a result of his negligence.

His jaw hardened with determination. For the moment he had to put his country before his marriage and focus every ounce of his attention on his duty.

London

“Of course she will receive me!” a cold feminine voice intoned from the lower reaches of the house. “You will inform her to come down at once!”

Brynn, hearing the imperious command all the way from her upstairs sitting room, gave a start of surprise to think she had a caller. This was her second afternoon in her new home, and thus far her only companions had been loneliness and boredom. She wasn’t accustomed to such inactivity, or to having servants cater to her every whim.

After quickly smoothing her simple blue muslin gown and checking to see that her hair was still tamed, Brynn descended the grand staircase to find a tall, regal, silver-haired lady awaiting her impatiently.

“I should like a word with you in private, miss,” the dame snapped. Turning, she swept from the grand hall and into the adjacent salon, obviously expecting Brynn to follow.

Brynn sent the butler a bewildered glance. “Who in heaven’s name is that?”

Naysmith’s usually stern expression came surprisingly close to a grimace and, more surprisingly, held a hint of sympathy. “Forgive me, Lady Wycliff, but she would not permit me to announce her. That is his lordship’s great-aunt, Lady Agatha Edgecomb. Do you wish me to tell her you are not receiving?”

“No, thank you, Naysmith. I will speak to her.”

Squaring her shoulders, Brynn made her way to the salon. Lady Agatha was facing the door, her spine ramrod straight, as if girded for battle.

“What is the meaning of this outrage?” she demanded at once, brandishing a newspaper in her hand. “I was left to learn of my nephew’s marriage from the society pages, of all things!”

“Our marriage was very sudden,” Brynn answered as calmly as she could, considering the woman’s rudeness. “I expect there was not time for you to be informed.”

“Why the need for such haste? Are you enceinte?”

Brynn blinked at such bold speaking. “No, I am not, my lady. Although I fail to see how that could be any of your concern.”

“Certainly it is my concern! I am head of this family!” Lady Agatha’s gray eyes narrowed in dislike. “What sort of impertinence is this, missy? I will not countenance such disrespect! My nephew will hear of this, I can assure you.”

“You may tell him whatever you wish, Lady Agatha. Indeed, if you have objections to our marriage, you must take them up with my husband.”

“If I have objections! Of course I have objections! Wycliff has completely disregarded what he owes his family and his title. Who are you? Who is your family? Tell me that!”

“My father was Sir Samuel Caldwell of St. Mawes, Cornwall. My mother, Miss Gwendolyn Vaughn.”

“Just as I thought! Wycliff has gone off and married a nobody. And that hair of yours. Only a jezebel would have hair that wild color!”

Brynn drew herself up to her full height. “If you have come simply to harangue me, Lady Agatha, you may take your leave. Otherwise, I would be pleased to invite you to stay for tea.”

The lady’s face turned purple. “I would sooner take tea with a Hottentot!”

Deliberately Brynn stepped aside, making way for her unwanted guest to leave.

Lady Agatha glared in indignation, the feathered plumes of her bonnet all aquiver with rage. “I feared the worst and now that I see you, I realize I was right. Wycliff was seduced by a hussy! A scheming interloper! Well, I am here to tell you, you will not succeed!”

With that dire prediction, she swept from the room in a rustle of silk skirts and creaking stays.

In her wake, Brynn stood rooted to the floor, unable to move. She was unsurprised to find herself trembling with fury and perhaps even a little shock.

It was a long moment before she realized she was no longer alone and that someone stood behind her at the salon door. Stiffening, Brynn turned and looked up, her expression tight with the strain of holding her temper.

“Oh my, I see you have met Lucian’s great-aunt Agatha,” the young woman there said in a low, husky voice.

She was an absolutely stunning beauty, Brynn saw, with raven hair and intensely blue eyes.

“If it is any consolation,” the visitor added, offering a smile, “Lady Agatha treats everyone that way. Please don’t let her distress you. She can be perfectly dreadful-almost as difficult as my own aunt.”

Her smile held a genuine warmth that Brynn hadn’t felt since leaving Cornwall, and Brynn felt her anger easing.

“May I come in?” the young lady asked. “I should have waited for Naysmith to announce me, but I heard the contretemps and thought you might be in need of reinforcements.”

“Yes, of course, do come in. Forgive my manners.”

“I am Raven Kendrick.” Stepping into the room, she held out her gloved hand. “A friend of Lucian’s. You might say he is my guardian in absentia, since my true guardians recently returned to America. I have been staying with my grandfather in the country for the summer, but when I heard Lucian had married, I had to come to London to welcome you… Which seems fortuitous,” Miss Kendrick added wryly, casting a glance over her shoulder where Lady Agatha had disappeared, “considering the reception you are likely to get from Lucian’s relations. I’m afraid few of them are likely to greet you with open arms, at least at first. They’re eager to claim a part of his fortune and hoped he might remain a bachelor forever.”

“I didn’t expect them to welcome me, but after meeting his great-aunt, I see I should be prepared for outright hostility.”

“At least Lady Agatha is the worst. Lucian calls her a battle-ax.”

“I cannot say I disagree.”

Raven’s laugh was musical and sweetly infectious, and her blue eyes danced when she regarded Brynn thoughtfully. “I heard you were a beauty, and I feared you might be the arrogant sort, but you aren’t in the least, are you? I think I am going to like you.”

Brynn couldn’t help but smile. “You can conclude that after barely meeting me?”

“Oh, I’m an excellent judge of character. And I don’t care at all for the starched attitude of London society. I was raised in the West Indies, where everything is much less formal and conventional.”

“Perhaps you should be concerned that you might be contaminated by a hussy and a jezebel.”

“If you are a hussy, then we will be well-matched. Lady Agatha considers me an utter hoyden. I confess, I have been aching for eons to put her nose out of joint as you just did. No one else dares speak back to her except Lucian.”

Brynn laughed. “Would you care to sit down, Miss Kendrick?”

“Thank you, but do call me Raven. And I would love some tea, if your offer is still open.”

Brynn glanced toward the door to find Naysmith hovering respectfully just outside. He gave a brief nod to indicate that he understood and then disappeared.

When they were settled-Raven on the chintz settee and Brynn in a chair opposite-Raven said with a frown, “Lucian is still out of town, I take it? It was really too bad of him to abandon you so soon after your nuptials, leaving you to face the wolves alone, but I suppose his job requires him to be away. Where is he this time?”

Brynn hesitated, not liking to admit she had no idea where her husband was. “He didn’t say, exactly. Just that he had urgent business to attend to.”

“Well, he is always gallivanting over the globe.” Raven gave Brynn a considering look that was both shrewd and sympathetic. “So you should not take his neglect personally.”

Brynn refrained from replying to that comment, finding it hard to repress her bitterness.

Evidently observant, Raven said in a firm voice, “Well, you needn’t think yourself all alone, for I intend to make up for Lucian’s despicable negligence.”

“Are you always this forthright?” Brynn asked, both bemused and charmed by her visitor’s frankness.

Raven laughed. “Ordinarily I am worse, but I am striving to be on my best behavior with you. Truthfully, though, I can get away with more scandalous behavior than many debs. I am engaged to wed the Duke of Halford, and my grandfather is an earl- which gives me more license. And I am not really showing conceit when I say I can help establish you in society. I mean to try, so consider yourself warned. I intend to take you under my wing.”

“Very well, then,” Brynn said with an answering laugh. “I am warned.”

“London is rather thin of company at present, but there are plenty of other pastimes. Do you ride? ”

“Not well, I’m afraid.”

“I customarily enjoy a gallop in the park early each morning, but I won’t mind curtailing my speed for the pleasure of having your company, if you will join me. Our first outing, however, must be to Oxford Street to shop for my bride clothes. My aunt has been helping me prepare for my nuptials, but her taste is vastly different from mine. Your opinion would be greatly welcome.”

“I would be happy to accompany you, if you think I can help.”

“And of course you must have a new wardrobe. You will need to maintain the height of fashion if you mean to establish your place as the Countess of Wycliff.”

Brynn frowned. “Perhaps I do need a new gown or two, but I cannot see any reason for the extravagance of an entire wardrobe.”

“Trust me, you will need it in order to stare down the despots of the ton such as Lady Agatha. You cannot have them saying Lucian refuses to dress his lady and add even more fuel for gossip after your unexpected marriage. In any case, Lucian can certainly afford it, and he truly should be made to pay for his dreadful treatment of you.”

Brynn felt her lips curving in a smile, finding herself in complete agreement. She was supremely grateful to have found a new friend among the hostile populace of London. And for the first time since coming here, she could look forward to something other than aching loneliness.