The Devil's Heiress

Chapter Seven

Major Hawkinville’s friends were an elegant couple, though Lord Vandeimen’s skin was darker than Hawk’s, and a jagged scar marred his right cheek. Another officer, she was sure. Lady Vandeimen’s complexion was perfect, her eyes heavy-lidded and fine, and her smile warm.

Clarissa thought that the lady must be older than her husband, but little smiles seemed to speak of the warmest feelings.

“Maria!” Miss Hurstman marched over. “Good to see you. This must be the scamp you just married.” She gave Lord Vandeimen a swift perusal. “Good for you.”

“Jealous?” murmured Lady Vandeimen, breaking a laugh from her husband, who captured Miss Hurstman’s hand and kissed it.

“The redoubtable Miss Hurstman. Honored, ma’am.”

Astonishingly, Miss Hurstman might be blushing. “Scamp,” she repeated. “But twenty years ago you might have deprived me of my wits, too. At least you’re safely chained and one less rascal I have to guard these flighty creatures from.”

She seemed to emphasize that with a sharp glance at Major Hawkinville. After a little more chat, Miss Hurstman turned to Clarissa. “We’d best be off. We have things to do.”

We do? wondered Clarissa, but Miss Hurstman was in command of this expedition, so she said farewells attended by promises of meeting at the assembly. It was frustratingly unclear whether they included the major or not.

As she, Althea, and Miss Hurstman headed out of the Steyne, the younger officers trailed along. “Not good enough,” complained Lord Trevor to Clarissa. “Letting yourself get stolen by a staff officer, Miss Greystone. What are we poor fellows to do about that?”

“Fight?” Clarissa teased.

“Hawk Hawkinville? I think not.”

Hawk Hawkinville. Yes, it suits him.

“He has a formidable reputation?” She knew she was showing her interest, but was unable to resist. Folly blowing on the wind in Brighton, Miss Hurstman had said. It was more as if it shone down with the emerging sun, melting will and wits to a soggy mess.

“Right-hand man to Colonel De Lancey, Wellington’s quartermaster general. Crucial work. But he enjoyed some action too. Saved one battalion at St. Pierre single-handed, they say, when all the officers were killed.”

“Really?” prompted Clarissa. Of course, a military hero could still be a scoundrel in other areas. A fortune hunter. Insidiously, it was ceasing to be so appalling a notion.

“I heard his main work was in investigations, Miss Greystone.”

“Of crimes?”

“Yes, but also problems. When we were sent cartloads of shoes when we needed meat, or meat when the horses needed hay. When boots turned out to have paper soles, and rifles were off. No shifty supplier wanted to come under the Hawk’s scrutiny, I assure you. It’s said that he rarely misses or forgets a detail.”

So finding out about her engagement to Lord Deveril and her guardian would have been child’s play. With sudden unease, Clarissa wondered what Hawk Hawkinville might find out if he began to look more closely. He had no reason to look into the details of Lord Deveril’s death, but it seemed as if danger brushed against her.

“He did immediately know all Miss Hurstman’s connections,” she said.

“Did he?” Miss Hurstman’s question was rather sharp. “Was he right, though?”

“I confess, I’ve forgotten exactly what he said, ma’am. I think that Lord Trevor is the son of your cousin rather than being a nephew, and that you are the granddaughter of a duke.”

Was she silly to think that Miss Hurstman also looked worried? Did she have something to hide, too? Why was she employed as a chaperone?

But Miss Hurstman only said, “Ha! Not infallible, then. I’m the great-granddaughter of a duke. Trevor, take yourself and your friends off. You’ll have another chance tomorrow.”

Miss Hurstman swept Althea and Clarissa away with suspicious urgency. “You want to watch a man with a name like Hawk Hawkinville.”

“Why?” Dirty laundry in Miss Hurstman’s cupboard? Out of sheer, mischievous curiosity, Clarissa wanted to know what it was.

“A hawk’s eye for detail and a close-to-infallible memory? A woman would never be able to wear the same gown twice.”

“As if I cared. And you certainly don’t.”

Miss Hurstman didn’t respond directly. “You’d be wiser to avoid him. Come along.”

They were already out of the Steyne and heading back to Broad Street. Miss Hurstman was upset, and Clarissa found herself feeling more protective than curious. She understood what it was not to want a hawkish eye on one’s past.

But Miss Hurstman? Her overactive imagination began to play. A scandalous affair when young? Cheating at whist? Time in the Fleet for debt? All seemed highly unlikely.

But then her own involvement in violence probably seemed that way too—a thought that wiped all whimsy and humor from her mind. Major Hawkinville was, in effect, a professional hunter of criminals. He was the last person she should encourage to take an interest in her affairs.

The immediate resistance she felt to the idea of giving him up was warning that her feelings were stronger than she thought. For the first time she let herself seriously contemplate being caught by her fortune hunter. Merely needing to marry money did not make a person a villain. Althea needed to marry a man with at least a comfortable income.

But Clarissa knew she shouldn’t indulge in this particular predator.

She arrived home queasy with worry. Mr. Delaney, leader of the Company of Rogues, had stressed that she mustn’t let out a hint about Deveril’s death, or those who had helped her could hang. She might hang for her involvement.

Beth Arden, who had been so kind, would be involved too, just when she was expecting her child. And Blanche Hardcastle.

She needed a quiet place to think, but Miss Hurstman ordered her and Althea into the parlor. Once there, she fixed Clarissa with her gimlet gaze. “How do you know Hawkinville?”

Clarissa had not expected this attack. She knew her color was flaring, though she had nothing really to be ashamed of.

“We met in Cheltenham. He rescued me and some of the schoolgirls from a riot.”

“Cheltenham?” The woman’s eyes narrowed. “What was he doing in Cheltenham?”

“Why shouldn’t he be in Cheltenham?”

“His home lies near here, unless I’m mistaken. So why Cheltenham?”

“He was en route to some property his father had recently acquired.”

“Ah.” Miss Hurstman suddenly seemed thoughtful.

“Ah?” Clarissa echoed. “What does that mean? Miss Hurstman, if you know something to the major’s detriment, I wish to know it too.”

Of course Miss Hurstman knew he was a fortune hunter. Clarissa wanted that minor problem out in the open and dealt with.

But Miss Hurstman said, “To his detriment? No. According to Trevor, a fine officer. One of the oldest families, too. They go back to the Conquest.” She waved a bony hand. “Off you go and do something.”

Clarissa stayed put. “Why were you sounding so suspicious?”

“Why? I was told that you’d lived in almost nunlike seclusion, and then a buck of the first stare with no connection to Cheltenham claims acquaintance. Of course I wonder. And from the way the two of you were looking into one another’s eyes, you were up to more than you’re telling me!”

Clarissa knew she’d turned red, but she said, “It was exactly as I have told you.” She couldn’t help but add, “So you don’t know anything shameful about him?”

“No.”

But Clarissa heard a frustrating shadow of doubt. She changed tack. “Do you know anything about Lord and Lady Vandeimen?”

“Another gallant rescue in Cheltenham?” Miss Hurstman asked caustically. “If so, he’s escaped your net. Married a few weeks back. She was Mrs. Celestin, wealthy widow of a foreigner. She’s older than he, of course, but there’s nothing wrong with that, and she’s of the best blood. A Dunpott-Ffyfe. We’re cousins of the more distant sort. His family’s quite new here. Dutch originally, but his mother was a Grenville. Why are you so curious?”

Clarissa felt as if she’d turned on a tap and been drenched in information, all of it irrelevant. “Major Hawkinville gave me their direction as a place to contact him.”

“And why, pray, would you be contacting him?”

An excellent question. Clarissa had felt that she’d dealt with the major’s risque behavior well, but he had still pushed her into impropriety. “I don’t know why. I did say he would be welcome to call here.”

“Nothing wrong with that. But neither of you will receive a gentleman here alone, do you understand?”

“Of course,” said Clarissa for both of them. Althea looked as if another headache was coming on.

“No clandestine meetings, and no clandestine marriages. And if either of you ends up expecting a bastard child, I’ll be disgusted at your folly.”

Althea squeaked and stuttered something about never and shock.

Clarissa, however, dropped a meek, schoolgirl curtsy. “Yes, Miss Hurstman.”

The woman’s snort of amusement said she’d deflected suspicion, but inside she was a churning mass of confusion and anxiety. Hawk Hawkinville was a danger to both her virtue and her secrets, but the only safety lay in cutting herself off from him entirely.

She wasn’t sure she was strong enough to do that.

When the young women had left, Arabella Hurstman stood frowning in thought. Then she walked to the small desk, sat, and pulled out a sheet of writing paper. In dark, neat script, she told the man who’d sent her here what was happening.

You warned of possible danger from the new Lord Deveril, and here is John Gaspard’s son, as wickedly handsome as his father, dancing attendance and clearly having already made inroads. What’s more, Major Hawkinville is not a man to be taken lightly. I sense a great deal more going on than I was led to expect. I require full and complete details immediately. Preferably in person.

And bring my goddaughter with you. It’s too long since I saw her.

She folded it, sealed it, and addressed it to The Honorable Nicholas Delaney, Red Oaks, Near Yeovil, Somerset.

In the sanctuary of their room, Althea pressed her hands to her cheeks. “That woman says the most outrageous things!”

“She does, doesn’t she? I rather like it.”

“You would.” Althea blew out a breath and began to remove her elaborate bonnet. “So, are you still pleased with the major?”

Clarissa suppressed a sigh. Still no peace. She was going to have to discuss beaux.

“He will serve to pass the time,” she said lightly, dropping her hat on a chair.

“Is that fair?”

“I doubt that his heart is engaged, Thea. So, are you smitten by Lord Trevor?”

Althea gave her a look. “He’s far too young. Stop trying to change the subject.” She put her bonnet carefully into its box. “You must not become a flirt, Clarissa.”

“But I want to flirt! And as I don’t intend to marry, that is all it can be. I have warned the major of that.”

Althea’s eyes widened. “What did he say?”

Clarissa grinned. “I think he took it as a challenge.” Her humor faded. It would be perfectly delightful if he hadn’t turned out to be a Hawk.

“What is it, Clarissa?”

She couldn’t explain, because that would involve explaining about Deveril’s death. “This is all very new to me. I want to enjoy it, but without creating a scandal.”

“Simply behave properly.”

“But that would be so boring!” Irresistibly, Clarissa thought of slipping out at night to explore Brighton.

Impossible, of course, but oh, so tempting.

At school she had often slipped out into the garden at night. A minor wickedness, but she’d loved it. If she had not discovered that Major Hawkinville was so dangerous, she might perhaps have been tempted eventually into that adventure.

Althea was shaking her head. “I heard that you were not the best-behaved girl at Miss Mallory’s, and now I’m coming to believe it.”

Clarissa had to chuckle. “Guilty, I’m afraid. But I never created a scandal, and I won’t now, Thea. So don’t worry.”

Then, to Clarissa’s relief, Althea sat down to write her daily letter to her family. She pretended to read a book so as to have time to think.

The only sensible course was to rebuff Major Hawkinville and get him out of her life. But would it do any good? If he wanted her fortune, he would pursue, and besides that, his interest in Lord Deveril’s death might already have been stirred.

Perhaps it would be better to continue the acquaintance and watch what he was doing. That was pure sophistry, of course, for if he was investigating her past, what could she do about it?

Kill him?

She’d intended the thought to be humorous, but it sparked a new fear.

The Rogues had been kind to her, but she didn’t underestimate their ruthlessness. What might they do when it came to defending those they loved?

She suddenly felt as if she were a Jonah, bringing ruin to whoever she touched—Beth, the Rogues, even Lord Deveril. And now innocent Major Hawkinville. Perhaps she should lock herself away in a convent to keep the world safe!

Hawk returned with the Vandeimens to their house, though he’d decided not to stay the night. His encounter with Clarissa Greystone had left him damnably unbalanced. Was she innocent or wicked, honest or false? He needed time and distance to regroup.

Every instinct reported that she was the same gallant, unsophisticated young woman he had met in Cheltenham. Every fact pointed to the opposite.

What was she? He had no idea except that she was surprisingly dangerous to him on a personal level. He enjoyed bandying words with her. He was feeling peculiarly protective. He was even beginning to find her pretty in the way the French referred to as une jolie laide, a woman who is not beautiful but almost becomes so through vitality.

“Do you like this design of porte cochere, Hawk?”

Maria’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts, and he looked at the drawing spread on the parlor table. Maria and Van—mostly Maria—were engaged in refurbishing Van’s neglected home. That was why they were in Brighton for the summer. To be away from dust and noise but close enough to supervise.

“It would serve the purpose.” He glanced at Van. “You’re adding a porte cochere?”

Van shrugged. “Maria wants one.”

“Of course I do! What if we return home one night in the pouring rain?”

“Umbrellas?” Van suggested.

Maria simply gave him a look, but it sizzled.

Hawk sighed. Newlyweds. Another reason not to stay. He felt intrusive, and also a touch envious. And where had that come from? He stood, putting down his half-drunk cup of tea. “I should set off back to Hawkinville.”

Maria rose, too. “Wait just a moment, Hawk. I have something for you to take, if you would be so kind. Special nails.” She hurried out of the room.

“Rushing away?” Van said. “You would be welcome to stay. I saw you gazing soulfully into Miss Greystone’s eyes.”

Hawk threw him a scathing look, though he’d created that moment of contact for precisely that effect. To alert others, especially other men. To put his mark on her.

“Perhaps I’m fleeing soulfulness,” he said.

“She seems charming.”

“She’s a minx.”

“A charming minx, then. There’s nothing wrong with marriage, Hawk. I recommend it. And Miss Greystone would be an excellent choice. I hear she’s quite an heiress.”

“You think I need to marry for money, too?”

The “too” made it a jab at his friend, who had married a very rich woman. It was deliberate. Hawk didn’t want Van digging into these matters.

Van leaned against the table, completely unruffled. “Running scared?”

“Running cautiously. I hardly know the chit, so why the talk of marriage?”

“I’m like a convert. Ardent to recruit new disciples.”

Hawk laughed. “I’m delighted to see you happy, Van, but it isn’t my path at the moment. Can you imagine me bringing a bride home to Hawkinville Manor, to live among the incessant skirmishing between me and my father?”

“Tricky, I grant you.”

“And I must stay there until the squire recovers strength enough to run the estate.”

He hadn’t told anyone about the squire’s title, or about the threat to Hawk in the Vale. The title was an absurdity, and he hoped to block the threat. At the back of his mind was the thought that if desperate he could apply to Van and Maria for a loan to pay off Slade.

Twenty thousand pounds?

When on earth could he repay a sum like that? And he doubted Maria now had much money to spare.

Hawk knew that she’d been returning money to people her first husband had cheated, and giving generously to charities for veterans because Maurice Celestin had made profits from shoddy military supplies. With the extensive renovations to Steynings, cash was probably in short supply.

More than that, however, he didn’t want to admit what he was doing to try to get the Deveril money. Though he could justify it, he didn’t want anyone to know what he was up to with the heiress.

“I hope you can take time for frequent visits here, at least,” Van said equably. “Con and Susan are speaking of joining us for a few days.”

“Of course.”

Hawk was spared more conversation when Maria came in with a satchel over one shoulder and a leather bag in her arms. “The nails are rather heavy, I’m afraid.”

He took the bag, pretending that his knees buckled under the weight. “Centaur will never make it home.”

She chuckled. “If I can importune, the carpenter is waiting for them. The decorative heads are part of the design.”

“I’ll get them there this evening.”

“And you’ll be back soon, I hope,” she said with a wide, friendly smile. Remarkable, when he’d done his best at one point to turn Van away from her.

“In pursuit of Miss Greystone, perhaps?” she teased.

“After a fashion,” said Hawk, and escaped.

Chapter Eight

Miss Hurstman was everything she claimed. Despite her unfashionable appearance and brusque manner, she led Clarissa and Althea neatly into the very heart of Brighton’s fashionable world. Clarissa went with delight, savoring her dreamed-for season like a fine wine. She would have been in heaven if not for her secrets and the worry about Major Hawkinville. He had returned to his home, but he had promised to ask for a dance at the next assembly at the Old Ship.

She knew she should hope never to see him again, but the thought of another encounter was like the last cream cake on the plate.

She couldn’t resist.

He couldn’t really be a danger, she rationalized. He wanted her fortune. Why would he spend time poking around in stale matters of a year ago?

And, she realized, if he wanted her fortune, he would do nothing to upset the situation. Nicholas Delaney had also said that the truth about Deveril’s death could make her ineligible to inherit.

Relieved, she flung herself into every day, her circle of acquaintance constantly growing. Word was out that she was the Devil’s Heiress, but this did not seem to have reduced her appeal. Instead she found herself something of a curiosity, and a lodestone for nearly every unmarried man, along with his mother and sisters.

As common wisdom said, Money will always buy friends.

There were also true friends, however. Althea, of course, but also Miriam Mosely, and Florence Babbington of the famous brother. Unfortunately he was now married and fixed in Hertfordshire, so she couldn’t find out whether his manly orbs still stirred her to poetry.

Even Lord and Lady Vandeimen were friends of a sort, for they always came over to speak to her, and Clarissa and her party had been invited to take tea with Lady Vandeimen one day.

Clarissa understood that this was probably because their friend would like to marry her money, but she didn’t mind.

Now, however, with the night of the assembly here at last, she teetered on the brink of something thrilling. As Elsie assisted her with her lovely eau de nil silk evening dress, Clarissa tried to disguise the shivers of excitement and nerves that seemed to be skittering over her skin.

It was very strange. Perhaps she was addicted to Major Hawkinville as people were said to become addicted to opium. Miss Mallory had arranged lectures for the girls from Doctor Carlisle on the dangers of the overuse of laudanum. He had described in awful detail the progression of the dependency, so that in the end the addict could not resist the drug, even knowing that it held destruction, in part because of the terrible physical suffering of withdrawal.

But after two—no, three—meetings?

The addict also, according to Doctor Carlisle, lost interest in all other aspects of life. A mother would neglect her child. A father would neglect his work. Even nourishing food and drink were unimportant to the person ruled by opium.

Clarissa bit her lip on a laugh. She wasn’t so far gone as that. She had taken a second helping of Mrs. Taddy’s jam pudding this evening, and she was enjoying all aspects of this stay in Brighton. Her unsteadiness now was simply that this would be her first grand affair here, her first trial before society en masse.

London didn’t count. In London, Lord Deveril had not wanted her to go to any event unless he was with her.

Her dress, at least, was perfect. The subtly colored silk skimmed her curves and exposed just enough of her bosom to be interesting. The delicate gold-thread embroidery shimmered in the evening light. It would be magical under candles. Her hair looked as pretty as possible, and the bandeau of gold and pearls set it off very well.

Thank heavens for Miss Hurstman.

There had been no jewelry in Lord Deveril’s possession, and Clarissa owned only a few valueless pieces. It was not a matter she had thought of. Miss Hurstman had, however, and had sent an urgent message to the Duke of Belcraven. A messenger had soon arrived with a selection of items.

None of them were precious, which was a great relief. Clarissa would have hated to risk losing an heirloom. They were all lovely, however. The gold filigree set with seed pearls went perfectly with her gown. She’d offered Althea her pick, but Althea had insisted on wearing only her own very simple pearl pendant and earrings.

Clarissa looked at her friend and sighed with satisfaction. In a pure white dress, stripped down to simple lines, and adorned only by her beauty, Althea would outshine every other woman present tonight and have every available man on his knees by tomorrow. She was sure of it.

She held out her gloved hand to her friend. “Onward to our adventure!”

Their hackney coach rolled up to the Old Ship Inn, which stretched along the seafront, every window illuminated to welcome the guests. The stream of people was continuous, the men in dark evening wear or uniforms, the ladies a rainbow of silk, lace, and jewels. All of fashionable Brighton would be here, and excitement danced in the air on a drifting melange of perfume.

Clarissa pulled up the hood of her cloak to protect her coiffure from the brisk wind and stepped down from the coach. She worked hard to keep her smile at a suitably subdued level, but excitement was bubbling up in her like water in a hot pot. Her first true ball, and already she had promised dances to five men! Althea would never sit one out unless from exhaustion. It would be a splendid evening.

She caught Miss Hurstman’s eye on her and tried to rein in her smile even more, but her dragon said, “Enjoy yourself. Though everyone puts on an air of boredom, it’s a pleasure to be with people prepared to admit to a little excitement.”

Clarissa set her smile free, this time at Miss Hurstman. Her liking and admiration for the woman grew day by day. It was so typical that her dress for this grand event was only slightly more festive than her daywear—a maroon gown and a very plain matching turban. Clarissa was reveling in fine clothes, but she relished the fact that Miss Hurstman did not care, and did not care what anyone else thought about that.

Quite possibly, she thought, as she entered the brilliantly lit hotel, she would be like Miss Hurstman one day. A crusty spinster who did and said exactly as she wished. But not yet, not yet. Tonight was for youth, and excitement, and even, perhaps, a little judicious folly.

Major Hawkinville had asked her to go apart with him on the Steyne. What would she do if he made the same invitation tonight, at the assembly?

If he was here.

He’d said he would be, but until she saw him…

She tried not to show it, but as she looked around, enjoying the company and acknowledging acquaintances, she was looking, looking, looking for Major Hawkinville.

Then she saw him enter, smiling at something said by one of his companions—the Vandeimens and another couple. He wore perfect dark evening clothes, but a blue cravat the color of his eyes was a playful touch that made her want to run over to him to tease. Then he laughed and raised the second woman’s hand to his lips for a hotly flirtatious kiss.

A surge of pure fury hit Clarissa, but then the woman laughed too, rapping his arm hard with her fan, and it was clear that she was with the other man and no threat.

Clarissa realized that she’d been staring and looked hastily away, praying that no one had noticed. But, oh, she hoped he would kiss her hand that way.

She couldn’t help it. She had to glance back. He and his party were approaching!

They were all still in the spacious entry area, for Miss Hurstman had paused to speak to someone, but all around, guests were flowing toward the ballroom. The major and his friends had to navigate the stream.

It was only when they arrived that Clarissa realized that she had watched him all the way. Immediately she decided she didn’t care. She didn’t know how to play sophisticated games, and she didn’t enjoy them, so she wouldn’t.

Hawk approached Clarissa Greystone with increasing concern. It was no good. Time away had not altered anything. He could not see her as a disguised villainess.

Look at her now! Beneath the Ship’s chandeliers, she sparkled and shone, but it wasn’t light on gold and embroidery, it was unabashed excitement. She was innocently, honestly delighted to be here and anticipated a magical evening.

That, surely, couldn’t be faked.

As he crossed the lobby smiling, he was rapidly rearranging the pieces in his mind.

She was someone’s innocent dupe, and that someone would plan to get the money back somehow.

How?

By marriage, or by inheritance.

Theft was a possibility, but as dangerous as the original crimes. Gaming was another, but not until she left her minority and was in independent control of her money.

He almost paused in his step. That would explain that strange provision of the will that put a fortune in her hands at twenty-one. An unpredictable device, however. Who was to say she would become a rash gambler? And who could say that she wouldn’t marry before she reached twenty-one and have a husband to control her? In fact, it was highly likely.

Marriage? Illogical to put the money in her hands, then plan to marry it, especially as no one seemed to have made any attempt to secure her affections during the past year.

Inheritance, then. But Deveril’s will stated that if Clarissa died before her majority her family should have no right to the money and it should go to the Middlesex Yule Club.

That was an absurdity, out of keeping with what he’d learned of Deveril, unless it was a cover for some depraved enterprise. In his week in London, he’d failed to find any trace of such an organization.

His main emotion, however, was a chill fear.

Inheritance necessitated death.

It was only as he introduced Con and his wife to Clarissa’s party that he remembered there was another way to get the money from her—by proving the will false and being Deveril’s default heir.

The course he was pursuing.

It didn’t threaten her life, but seeing her here, shining with the pleasure of this wealthy, privileged life, he suspected that it was close.

Hawk in the Vale, he reminded himself. All the people of Hawk in the Vale, not to mention his own dreams, hinged upon this. He would take care of her, though. She would not be abandoned to the cruelty of the world, or of her family.

As they moved to follow the crowd toward the ballroom, he offered an arm to Clarissa and Miss Hurstman.

The latter immediately said, “You spend much time in Brighton, Major?”

He recognized an attack, though he had no idea why she was hostile. “When the company pleases me, Miss Hurstman.”

At her narrow look, he went on. “My friends the Vandeimens are fixed here at the moment, and the Amleighs have joined them for a week or so.”

“Thought he’d inherited the earldom of Wyvern,” Miss Hurstman said, as if Con’s title was suspicious too.

“It’s under dispute, so he has reverted to the viscountcy. He’ll be happy to have it stay that way.”

“The old earl was certainly a dirty dish. Bad blood.” But it was said with an eye on him. He came to the alert. What did she know? It would be disastrous if Clarissa discovered his connection to Deveril.

“There’s bad blood in every family, Miss Hurstman,” Hawk replied, meeting that look. “Wasn’t it your paternal grandfather who tried to stake his daughter in a game of hazard?”

Clarissa was astonished and alarmed to see Miss Hurstman silenced, and she leaped into the conversation. “So are you fixed here for a few days, Major?”

He turned to her, his expression warming. “I am, Miss Greystone. I anticipate a great deal of pleasure from it.”

Clarissa didn’t think she mistook his meaning, and she turned away to hide a smile. He was here to hunt her. She still wasn’t sure if she should let herself be caught, but the pursuit promised extraordinary pleasure.

She had promised the first dance to dashing Captain Ralstone, and forbade herself to regret it. She couldn’t dance every dance with the major. She had to confess to being relieved, however, when he led out Lord Amleigh’s wife rather than some other unmarried woman.

Jealousy? That was ridiculous.

She made herself pay full attention to Captain Ralstone during their dance, but this had the unfortunate effect of increasing his confidence. By the end of the set, his comments were becoming a little warm, and his manner almost proprietary. She was delighted in more ways than one to move off with Major Hawkinville in preparation for the next set.

“Ralstone is a gazetted fortune hunter, you know,” he said, as they strolled around the room.

“And you are not?” It popped out, and she immediately wished it back.

His brows rose, but he didn’t immediately answer. Eventually he said, “My father owns a modest property, and I am his only son.”

She knew she was red. “I do beg your pardon, Major. I had decided to put off affectation and behave naturally, but I see now why it is unwise.”

She was rewarded with his smile. “Not at all. I would be delighted if you would be natural with me, Miss Greystone. After all, as we see, it dispels misunderstandings before they can root.”

“Yes,” she said, but she didn’t think his talk of natural behavior related entirely to dispelling misunderstandings.

He covered her gloved hand on his arm. “Perhaps we can begin by using first names with each other, just between ourselves.”

She glanced down at their hands for a moment. He wore a signet ring with a carved black stone, and his fingers were long, with neatly oblong nails.

She smiled up at him. “I would like that. My name is Clarissa.”

“I know. And mine is George, but no one uses it. You may if you wish, or you may call me Hawk, as most do.”

“Hawk? A somewhat frightening name.”

“Is it? You are no pigeon to be afraid of a hawk.”

“But I am told that you investigate everything, and forget nothing.”

He laughed. “That sounds tiresome rather than frightening.”

“Then what about the fortune hunting? Are you hunting me, Hawk?” She longed to have everything honest between them.

He touched her necklace where it lay against her throat, sliding a finger slowly beneath it. “What do you think?”

Clarissa wasn’t sure whether to swoon or be outraged.

“And be assured,” he murmured, lowering his hand, “if I capture you, my little pigeon, you will enjoy it.”

She escaped by looking around at the company and fanning herself. “It is not pleasant, you know, to be prey, no matter how benign the hunter.”

“Bravo,” he said softly. “Well, then, you will have to be a predator, too. I think I will call you Falcon.”

She looked back at him. “Ah, I like that.”

“I thought you might.”

But then she realized that he had brought them to a halt and was gazing into her eyes. Fortune hunting, she realized, could take many subtle forms. He was trying to mark her as his. She probably should not allow it, but it was too exciting to decline.

“Electricity,” she said.

“Definitely. You have experienced that mysterious force?”

“At school. We had a demonstration.”

“Education is wonderful, is it not?”

It was perhaps as well that the warning chords sounded then for the next dance, for Clarissa wasn’t sure what she might have done. The simplest fortune-hunting technique, she realized, would be to compromise her.

She must certainly guard against that, but she could certainly enjoy this.

It was only a dance.

Clarissa tried to remind herself of that, but she had danced with a man so rarely. The dancing master at the school hardly counted. Last year in London, she had attended two balls, but on both occasions she had been on Lord Deveril’s arm and had danced only with him. She wasn’t sure if her lack of partners had been because of her own lack of charms or because of Deveril.

And here she was, dancing with a man who seemed able to generate electricity without any machine at all!

It was a lively country dance that gave little opportunity for talk, but that didn’t matter. It would be an effort to be coherent. The movements allowed her to look at him, to smile at him, and to receive looks and smiles in return. They held hands, linked arms, and even came closer in some of the moves. She began to feel that she was losing contact with the wooden floor entirely…

When it came to an end, she fanned herself, trying to think of something lightly coherent to say. Suddenly she found herself in a cooler spot, and realized that he had moved them into the corridor outside the ballroom.

She half opened her mouth to object, to say that she would be looked for by other partners, or by Miss Hurstman, for that matter, but then she closed it again.

What next?

She couldn’t wait to find out.

The corridor—alas?—was not completely deserted, but as they strolled along it he captured her fan, sliding the ribbon off her wrist, and began to ply it for her. The cool breeze was not adequate competition for the additional heat swirling inside her.

“What are you doing, Hawk?”

His lips twitched. “Hunting?”

“Pray, for politeness’ sake, call it courting, sir.”

“Courting? I have much practice at the hunt, but little at courtship. How should we go on?”

She put on a mock flirtatious air. “Poetry would be welcome, sir. To my eyes. To my lips…”

“Ah.” He ceased fanning, but only to capture her gloved hand and raise it to his lips. “Sweet maid, your lips I long to kiss / To seal to mine in endless bliss / Let but your eyes send welcome here / And I, your swain, will soon be near.”

His lips pressed, and she resented her silk gloves, which muted the effect. “A sweet rhyme, but it comes rather easily to you, sir.”

His eyes lit with laughter. “Alas, it is commonly used. Written on a scrap of paper and slipped to a lady.”

“Not always with proper intentions? Tut, tut! Let me think what I can contribute.”

Her hand still in his, she recited, “O noble man, tall, chaste, and bold / So like a gallant knight of old / Turn on me once, lest I expire / Those sapphire orbs filled with manly fire.”

He laughed, covering his face for a moment with his free hand. “Manly fire?”

“And sapphire orbs,” she agreed. “Though I feel obliged to confess that the original was obsidian.”

“Ah. That probably explains the ‘chaste’ too.”

Clarissa blushed, though heaven knows she’d not expected him to be inexperienced. “He was one of my friend’s brothers, and I was twelve. It’s a very romantic age, twelve.”

“And you’re so old and shriveled now.”

She looked into his teasing eyes and quickly, before she lost courage, drew his hand to her lips for a kiss. Warm skin, firm flesh and bone. A hint of cologne and… him.

Remembering that they were not alone, she hastily dropped his hand, grabbed her fan, and fanned herself frantically.

“It is hot, isn’t it?” He put a hand at her elbow and moved her sideways.

Into a room.

She stopped fanning, though she was certainly no cooler. It was a small withdrawing room set with armchairs, and with copies of magazines and newspapers available. At the moment it was deserted.

He made no attempt to shut the door. If he had, she thought she would have objected despite her riveted fascination.

To be compromised would be disastrous, she tried to remind herself, but a part of her simply didn’t care.

That part seemed to be the one in control. And the door, after all, was wide open.

“Major?” she said as a light query.

“Hawk,” he reminded her.

“Hawk.” But she blushed. The word seemed wicked, here, alone.

He touched her lips. “You only have to fly away, my dear.”

She met his eyes, her heart thundering. “I know.”

He took her hand and drew her across the room. When he stopped, she realized that they were no longer visible to anyone in the corridor.

But the door was still open…

Then he raised her chin with his knuckles, and kissed her.

It was a light kiss—a mere pressure of his lips against hers—and yet it sent a shiver of delight through her.

Her first kiss!

But then she stiffened. Not her first. Deveril had been her first. A memory of vomit made her pull back.

He stood absolutely still. “You do not like to be kissed?” Then, perceptively, he added, “Deveril?”

Her silence was all the answer he needed. “What a shame he is already dead.”

“You would have killed him for me?”

“With pleasure.”

He was serious. And he was a soldier. The idea of having a champion, a man ready to defend her with his life, was even more seductive than kisses. It was too soon, ridiculously too soon, but she wanted this man.

“Lord Deveril was murdered, I understand,” he said. “I don’t suppose it was you, was it?”

The seductive mist froze into horror. “No!”

He caught her arm before she could run away. “It was a joke, Falcon, but I see it’s no matter for humor.” The touch turned into a caress. “You must forgive a soldier still rough from the war.”

She was struck dumb by fear of saying the wrong thing, and by the tender pleasure of his hand against her arm, her shoulder, her neck…

“If I were persuaded into marriage with a person I disliked,” he said, “and had unpleasant kisses forced upon me, I would do away with the offender.”

“But you’re a man.”

“Women are capable of violence too, you know.”

Lulled, relaxed, she said, “Yes. Yes, they are.”

As soon as the words escaped, she knew she had finally said too much. It shouldn’t matter. It was of no significance to him. But she had said too much.

Making herself be calm, she moved away from his touch, wondering whether to spill more words to cover what she’d said. No. “We must return to the dance. As I said, Major, I do not plan to create a scandal.”

Even to her own ears it sounded brittle.

He merely said, “Of course.” But as they moved toward the door, he put his hand on the small of her back. She felt it there through silk—possession and promise.

She had overreacted. He’d been joking, teasing.

And, as she’d decided before, her future husband would not want the truth about Deveril’s death to come out. Perhaps it was her sacred duty to marry him!

As they moved into the corridor, he linked their arms again. “You mustn’t let one man have such a victory over you, Falcon. You are entitled to enjoy kisses, and kisses are not so very wicked.” He waited until she looked at him, then added, “I hope you will soon let me show you how pleasant they can be.”

She was tempted to move back out of sight for an immediate demonstration, but she made herself be sensible and return to the ballroom. For one thing, she had another partner waiting. For another, she needed time and peace to think this all through.

A hollowness ached in her, however. Harmless as it had been, she should not have said that about a woman and violence. Nor should she have panicked at a joke about her killing Deveril.

Could she not engage in simple conversation without perilous shards of truth slipping out?

She danced one later set with the major, and it was the supper dance, but she made sure that afterward they stayed with a group. He didn’t seem to mind. He was, she was sure, a very patient hunter, and if he felt confident, it was hardly surprising.

As they returned home, Miss Hurstman said, “I warned you, Clarissa, about slipping off into anterooms.”

Foolish to hope that the dragon had not noticed. “It was hot in the ballroom.”

“That is the usual excuse. If you’d been gone any longer I would have found you.”

Clarissa sighed. “I’m sorry, Miss Hurstman, but Major Hawkinville was a perfect gentleman.”

It wasn’t really a lie.

“So I would hope, but have a care. I have no doubt he has an eye on your fortune.”

“Nor do I.” The coach drew up in Broad Street and they climbed down. “But tell me, Miss Hurstman, which of my partners tonight did not?”

Althea exclaimed, “Clarissa!” but Miss Hurstman, consistently honest, made no rebuttal.

Althea would have liked to chatter about the evening, but for once Clarissa claimed a headache and even accepted a little laudanum in the hope that it would still the whirling doubts and questions in her head.

It worked, but in the morning all the doubts and questions were still there, along with the acceptance of a simple fact. Hawk Hawkinville was winning. She was beginning to fall in love with him.

Chapter Nine

As they sat at a late breakfast the next morning, a note came from Lady Vandeimen inviting Clarissa and Althea to walk with her. Miss Hurstman made no objection and remarked that Maria Vandeimen would be a strict chaperone. “She was spun off her feet by a handsome opportunist once.”

“A fortune hunter?” Clarissa asked.

“There are different types of fortunes.”

“What was hers?”

“Her blood. Celestin had money and wanted the entree. But it wasn’t her, you see. It could have been anyone of high enough birth.”

Clarissa nodded, understanding the warning. “Yes, I see.”

As expected, when Lady Vandeimen arrived, she was accompanied by her husband, the Amleighs, and Major Hawkinville.

Hawk.

And the question was, Did he simply want money, or was there something of her about it?

Clarissa was not at all surprised when Althea ended up walking with the Amleighs, leaving her to Hawk’s escort. Nor could she regret it. One thing was certain— she could not make any kind of decision without learning more about Hawk Hawkinville, and the lessons were perfectly delightful.

It was not a delightful day, being overcast and somewhat chilly. But as Lady Vandeimen had remarked when she’d arrived, in this unsettled summer, overcast was a pleasant alternative to rain. The weather had given Clarissa the opportunity to wear a very stylish Prussian blue spencer with bronze braid and frogs, so that was a silver lining.

As they paused to look at the unused bathing machines, however, she said, “I wish the weather would turn warmer. I might brave the water.”

“Do you swim?”

She looked at him. “Not at all. But the dippers take care of the bathers, don’t they?”

“And keep to the shallows.”

He turned to lean back against the wooden railing. A deliberate ploy, surely, to make her breathless at the long, lean length of him, and the strength that was clear, even when he was at rest.

A ploy did not mean that any of it was false. She’d met any number of men in the past days, many of them handsome, but none had the power over her that this man seemed to have.

“We have a river back home,” he said. “The Eden. Perhaps I will take you there to swim one day.”

“Perhaps.” She tried for the same light manner but feared her feelings must show. “But can I trust you not to lead me into deep water?”

His slight smile acknowledged the double entendre. “You can’t really swim in the shallows.”

“I can’t really swim at all.”

“I could teach you.”

“Or drown me.”

His brows rose. “O ye of little faith.”

“O me of great caution, Major.” Lord above, but this verbal play alone could seduce her into folly, never mind all his other charms.

“Hawk,” he reminded her.

“Very well, Hawk. I wonder where the others are,” she asked, looking back.

“Nervous?” he murmured.

“Of course not.” Yet the mere suggestion had stirred nerves within her. The others were only a few yards away, speaking to another party. There were people all around. There was nothing to fear, except the reactions inside herself, which seemed to be rapidly spinning out of control.

“Perhaps you should be nervous.”

She swiveled back to face him. “Why?”

“Because we are already in deep water. Can’t you tell?”

Oh, yes. “We are in public on the Marine Parade in Brighton.”

“Even so…”

The others joined them then, and Clarissa could only be glad. She wasn’t sure she had a coherent response to make.

“The Pytchleys were just speaking of the fair,” Maria Vandeimen said. “They say it is very amusing. Lord Vandeimen and I are thinking of driving out there this afternoon. Perhaps you would care to come if you are free, Miss Greystone, Miss Trist.”

“The fair?” Clarissa asked, trying to surface from deep waters.

“Out on the Downs,” Lord Vandeimen said. “A little wild, but perfectly safe with good escorts.”

She couldn’t help but look at Hawk.

What if the escorts were a little wild?

“I will have to ask Miss Hurstman,” she said.

When asked, Miss Hurstman again made no objection, though to Clarissa she did not seem entirely happy.

“Be sure to stay with your party,” she said to both of them, though it seemed to be directed particularly at Clarissa.

The sun broke through the clouds as the two open carriages rolled up to the sprawling fairground set up on the Downs. Clarissa looked back toward the town spread out before them, with the silvery sea beyond, then turned to the gaudy, hurly-burly jumble of the fair.

“Your eyes are sparkling, Miss Greystone,” said Hawk from his seat opposite her.

“I’ve never been to a fair before.”

He smiled. “Then I’m particularly glad Maria had this fancy.”

They were sharing the vehicle with Lord and Lady Vandeimen, while Althea came behind with the Amleighs and Lord Amleigh’s secretary, Mr. de Vere. Clarissa hoped he wouldn’t catch Althea’s fancy. He could hardly have a fortune, and seemed mischievous.

They descended from the carriages and headed for the first tents, but they had to pick their way, for the ground was soft after the wet weather and much trampled. This meant that Clarissa must keep a firm hold on Hawk’s arm, which did not displease her at all.

“What fairground pleasure most appeals?” he asked her.

“I don’t know. Everything!”

He laughed, and they paused at a miniature model of Paris, complete with a glassy River Seine.

“Is it true to life?” Clarissa asked.

“Yes, it seems to be,” he said, dropping a coin in the box there, “except that Versailles is not so close.”

She looked at him. “You must have seen many countries.”

“Not so many. My service was confined to Europe.”

She looked at another model, which claimed to be Rome. “I would like to travel. I would like to see Spain, and Italy, and the ruins of Greece.”

“When you have your fortune and your independence, there will be nothing to stop you.”

“True.” But she knew she was not brave enough to wander the world alone. A weakness, but it must be faced. Coming to Brighton was enough of an adventure for her so far.

There was a more popular display, but their party wandered past it without a close look. Clarissa peered and saw that it was a representation of the Battle of Waterloo.

No wonder. But it amazed her to think that their urbane escorts had, not long ago, been part of that dire and desperate affair.

Had killed.

She glanced at Lord Vandeimen of the smooth and silky blond hair—though there was that scar.

Lord Amleigh was more saturnine, but when he smiled, dimples showed.

No one would think that smiling de Vere had been to war. As for Hawk, he looked as if he would hate to have his clothes disarranged, and yet he had been a hero at least once, according to Lord Trevor. And even if he hadn’t raised a sword at Waterloo, he’d been there, among the carnage.

She realized how little she really knew of him. She must be careful.

For the moment, however, she was reveling in innocent fun. They all progressed merrily from sideshows to trials of skill to prizewinning animals. The men teasingly encouraged the ladies to try their hands at everything, applauding successes and commiserating with failures. Lady Amleigh proved to have a very good throwing arm at the coconut shy, and Lady Vandeimen was skilled at archery. Clarissa had no such skills, but she managed a lucky roll at dice, which doubled her sixpence to a shilling, and Althea hooked a cork fish with a little fishing pole to win a carved fan.

They paused outside a black tent spangled with golden stars. “Madame Mystique,” said Lord Vandeimen. “She’s the latest sensation here in Brighton. Would any of you ladies like to have your fortune told?”

Althea said an emphatic no, and the other ladies both made a laughing comment about already having their excellent fortune. Clarissa was tempted, but she didn’t want to be the only one, so she said no as well, and they moved on to the next stall, where sticky buns were for sale. The men hailed this as if they were starving, and soon they all had a bun in their hands, though the ladies had to remove their gloves first.

“This feels wonderfully wicked,” Clarissa declared, licking sweetness from around her lips.

“Wicked?” Hawk asked.

“Standing in a public place eating, and eating so messily! Miss Mallory would definitely not approve.”

He smiled. “We can be a great deal more wicked than this, I assure you, Falcon. But perhaps just as sweetly.”

The others were laughing together and trying to clean sticky fingers. Clarissa savored her last mouthful, looking at him, thinking about the tantalizingly light kiss they’d enjoyed.

“Perhaps you are a devil that tempts rather than a hawk that hunts.”

“Any good hunter knows to lure his prey. And the devil hunts souls, that’s for sure.”

“To their destruction.”

“True.”

Then he grasped her wrist and inspected her hand. For a heart-stopping moment, she thought he would start to lick her fingers clean, but instead he drew her toward some enterprising children who were offering a handwashing service next to the bun stall.

She staggered. His warm, firm fingers were light against her skin, but they were there, sending her nerves jumping.

He let her go, and Clarissa found herself clasping the wrist his fingers had circled, aware of her own frantically pounding pulse.

One smiling girl took his penny, and a second poured cool water over Clarissa’s hands into a bowl. A third offered soap, and Clarissa rubbed away the stickiness, but was careful not to wash her wrist. She wanted the memory of his touch.

A fourth child, a pretty red-haired urchin, offered a towel, and Clarissa dried her hands while watching the other members of the party follow. This was all innocent fun, but something stronger beat beneath it. She knew it, and knew it to be dangerous, but she couldn’t resist.

Then she was snapped out of her dreamy thoughts by a spot of rain.

She realized that the sun had disappeared again, and a heavier layer of dark clouds was sliding in. The rain was only a hint on the air at the moment, but Lord Vandeimen said, “Back to the carriages, I think.”

No one protested, though Clarissa wanted to. What would have happened next?

Lady Amleigh said, “I do wish that volcano had kept its head!”

To which her husband responded, “Perhaps it was in love.”

The look in his eye and the lady’s blush said it had special meaning for them. Clarissa wondered what it would be like to have that sort of private connection, that sort of love.

It was beginning to seem a prize worth more than a mere fortune.

A number of people had the same idea of leaving the fair, but then, as the rain held off, some turned back. Suddenly there was a swirling crowd that reminded her of the riot in Cheltenham.

Hawk put his arm around her and held her close. “Don’t worry. There’s limitless space here, so it can’t become a deadly crush.”

All the same, they were jostled a little, and he eased them between two stalls and into more open space. Clarissa couldn’t help noticing that the other couples had gone in another direction.

Accident, or design?

She glanced at him, not at all nervous. He’d mentioned her going apart with him. She was ready to find out what it involved. She glanced at the darkening sky, praying that the storm would hold off for a while.

Then the wind squalled, almost flinging her skirts up. She fought to hold them down. “I think the storm’s about to hit!” she called, in case his wicked purposes had blinded him to nature.

“I know.” He glanced around, then said, “Come on!” His arm around her, he ran toward a large tent. The rain hit like a gray sheet just as they made it to safety.

It was a rough stable with lines of tethered horses, many of them moving restively with the storm. They became even more agitated as people rushed and staggered in in various states of wetness.

A couple of grooms tried to stop the invasion, but it was no good. The rain was coming down in torrents, driven hard by the wind, and the ground outside was already a swamp.

They ended up with only about twenty people in the tent, but with everyone squeezing away from the nervous horses, it was a crush. The stink of dung, horse, wet clothing, and unwashed bodies made Clarissa almost wish that she was out in the torrent.

Hawk eased them into a corner, but said, “I apologize.”

“It’s not your fault, but I do wish there was some fresh air.”

Suddenly he had a knife in his hand, a slender knife that, all the same, cut a slit in the canvas wall as if it were muslin. When it was clear that the rain was coming from the other direction, he made the cut into a rectangular flap.

“Do you have a pin?” he asked.

“What lady would be without one?” Clarissa said, shocked by that efficient blade. She had never imagined a gentleman carrying such a thing and had no idea what to do with the information.

She gave him a pin. “You are very resourceful, Hawk. And very well equipped.”

He was pinning up the flap. The knife had somehow disappeared. He looked at her for a moment, then held out his hand. Pushing back his cuff, he slid the dagger out again.

“An interesting fashion accessory,” she said.

“More of a bad habit.”

“I thought soldiers went more normally armed.”

“Wise soldiers go armed in any way that will keep them alive. I’ve been in places where a secret weapon was almost expected, however.” His lips quirked. “Don’t think me a hero. It was generally a matter of dealing with shady merchants, thieves, and even pirates. And there being little difference between the three.”

She smiled, content now that she had fresh air to breathe. They were hardly alone, but the people all around seemed to be country folk or fair workers. No one to care what she and Hawk did or said.

“You have to know that I find that exciting,” she remarked.

Hawk almost had her where he wanted her, where he had to want her, but as usual her disarming frankness was like a shield, turning away all weapons.

He made himself smile teasingly. “Is it? Most ladies find killing knives frightening.”

She tried. She tried very hard. But he saw the flicker of muscles that registered a hit.

“Killing?” she said, in the way of a person who knows they have to say it.

He handled his stiletto, carefully out of the way of nearby people. “A knife like this is not for mending pens, Falcon. Though it does that job very well.” He turned the handle toward her. “Here.”

She stared at it, all guard shattered. “What? I don’t want it!”

“You said it excited you.”

“No, I didn’t!” She was fixed on the knife like a rabbit on the snake that will kill it. He saw her swallow. It was like a knife in his own gut. A knife he had to push in deeper rather than draw out.

“What did you mean, then?”

She looked up. Tried to step back, but a tent support blocked her from behind. She was pale, her eyes stark, but she managed a kind of lightness. “I meant pirates and such. Romantic things.”

“If you think pirates romantic, I should definitely equip you with a knife, and teach you how to use it.”

“No, thank you.”

“No?” He moved the knife again. Did you kill Deveril? If not, who used a knife on him? “I call this my talon. A Falcon should have a talon, too.” When she didn’t respond, he pushed. “Why does it bother you? Something else to do with Lord Deveril?”

For a moment she looked shockingly like a man who realizes that his guts are hanging out, that he’s dying. “No!”

People nearby turned to look. Damn. He slipped the knife back in its sheath and took her gloved hands. “Have I upset you? I’m sorry.”

She stayed silent, though her chest was rising and falling.

“It’s Deveril’s death, isn’t it?” he said softly, sympathetically. “These things heal when they’re spoken of.”

It was usually a surprisingly successful ploy. He’d had men talking their way to the gallows this way. No words spilled, so he asked a simple, factual question. Often once people started to talk, they couldn’t stop.

“When did he die?”

She blinked at him. “June the eighteenth. When so many others were dying…”

Against reason, he pulled her into his arms. “Hush, I don’t mean to upset you. Don’t talk about it if you don’t want to.”

But the words he’d wanted were like lead in his heart.

June 18. The day of Waterloo, when, indeed, so many others had been dying. But Deveril’s body hadn’t been found until the twentieth, and the date of his death had never been certain.

To be so sure, Clarissa had to know all about the murder, and he knew now that he’d been stupidly hoping that she didn’t, that she was the innocent she seemed.

How had it been? Had she killed Deveril to stop him from raping her? And was he going to send her to the gallows for it?

That or Hawkinville, he reminded himself.

He knew, abruptly and with astonishing relief, that he could not do it. Not even Hawkinville was worth that.

Perhaps his father had had the right idea after all. Persuade her to marry him. He would not be like his father, after all, courting callously for gain. He truly admired his gallant Falcon. He would protect her, cherish her. A picture began to unfold of them together at Hawkinville. Children…

But then a dark curtain fell. He wasn’t simply Hawk Hawkinville, fortune hunter. He was heir to Lord Deveril!

It was hard not to burst out laughing at the farce of it. When did he tell her she was going to have to live her life with the name she loathed? Not before the wedding, for sure. She would run away. Right after the ceremony? No, he’d better make sure of her and wait until it was consummated.

Damnable.

And how did he expect to marry her? If she’d killed Deveril, she hadn’t done it alone. And there was that forged will, and someone after her money. Announce their betrothal and the other parties would have to act.

Elope, then. But the other objection still stood. Could he really persuade a woman into a clandestine marriage knowing she would loathe him once she knew the truth?

For once, he was totally adrift.

He gently eased her away. “It’s stopped raining. It’s a sea of mud out there, but we should try to find the others.”

She looked up, a little pale but much restored, perhaps even with a hint of stars in her eyes. Stars he’d been working so hard to put there. Pointed stars, that could do nothing but hurt her, one way or another.

People were moving out of the tent, but slowly. Suddenly needing to be free of the place, he pulled out his knife and extended the hole, stepped through, then helped her out. They emerged into a field, so they escaped the trodden mud, but she still had to teeter over a deep puddle. That seemed to drive the clouds away entirely. She laughed, looking up at him, clinging to his hand.

He put his hands at her waist and swept her over the puddle, wishing he could sweep her away entirely. Wishing he were someone other than the Hawk, and heir to John Gaspard, Viscount Deveril.

They picked their way down the back of the tents toward the carriages as the fair slowly came back to life around them.

“How optimistic people are,” she said, looking at the sky.

“Another torrent on the way,” he agreed. “But optimism is good. Carpe diem.”

She glanced at him, seeming almost completely restored now. “Is that optimism? Surely optimism should say that tomorrow will be as pleasant as today?”

“Whereas Horace advised us to put no trust in tomorrow.”

They were apart from the crowds, but he wasn’t sure he cared about proprieties anyway. He felt as if this might be his last moment. He drew her into his arms, and she came willingly, a trusting pigeon.

“This is most improper,” he murmured against her lips.

“Improper, yes. But most?”

It broke a full smile from him, which he gave her in the kiss, then lost as he tasted her fully for the first time. Soft, sweet. With wondrous amusement he found he could actually taste her delighted curiosity as he teased her mouth open to him.

Her hands clutched, holding him tighter. He could feel all the promising, firm curves of her body and a faint tremor that might even be partly his own.

When had he last kissed for the kiss alone? When had he last lost himself in a kiss so that when their mouths slid free he felt dazed, as if from too much hot sun— which there certainly wasn’t today on the rainy downs.

Her eyes were wide, but not with horror. After a moment she said, “I don’t think I need to worry about the memory of Deveril’s kiss anymore.”

He pulled her close and held her. “Then I’m glad of that.” Did it mean Deveril was no longer such a power in her mind? If he told her the truth now, would she shrug it off?

If she didn’t, he would have burned every conceivable bridge.

She pushed slightly free. “You are not glad of other things?”

What could he say? Hardly surprising that she expected more after a kiss like that. Hardly surprising if she expected a proposal.

“I am glad that the rain has stopped, and for the tip of your nose.” He kissed it.

She chuckled, blushing.

“I’m glad to be out of the tent, and for your elegant ankles.”

Her eyes shone.

“I’m glad that I might, one day, discover other elegant parts…”

He was saved from pursuing that insane course when something hurtled through the air and hit her.

Clarissa screamed, but he grabbed the thing and discovered that it was a muddy, raggedy cat, hissing, squirming, and doing its damn best to sink in its claws.

“Don’t!” Clarissa screamed.

“I’m not going to break its neck.” He usually had a way with animals. He held it close to his body and started murmuring to it. In moments it calmed.

She staggered closer. “Is it all right? Where did it come from?”

“Hush.” He worked at shrugging out of his coat one sleeve at a time without letting the cat free, murmuring to keep it calm as he gradually swathed it. Then a purr started and quickly grew in volume.

Chapter Ten

Clarissa watched him with astonishment. She never would have thought that her hawk of elegant plumage would go to such trouble for a scrawny cat.

Now that the cat seemed calm, she looked around. A man came out of the back of a nearby tent and chucked a handful of dead rats into a sack, then ducked inside again. She heard squeals, yowls, and shouting from inside.

She marched over to yank back the canvas curtain. As she thought, it was a ratter’s tent, where cats and dogs were set to kill rats. People were packed onto ranks of rough benches cheering on the hunters and calling out bets. Assaulted by noise, stink, and pure violence, she staggered back.

Then a burly man blocked her view. “If yer want to come in, go round the front and pay.”

Clarissa remembered her purpose. “Who threw” that cat?“

“What frigging business is it of yours?”

“It hit me! What’s more, it’s wounded and needs care.”

“I didn’t wring its neck. What more does it need? Useless piece of scrag.”

“You may not have heard,” said a calm voice behind her. “The cat hit the lady.”

The ratter whipped off his hat. “Hit the lady, sir? Well, I never! Are you all right, miss?”

How infuriating not to be taken seriously without a man at her back! This was an active lesson on the points Mary Wollstonecraft had been making in her writings.

“What about the cat?” she demanded, though she was beginning to realize that the last thing the poor creature needed was to be returned to the ratters. People nearby were turning to look, too, their avid faces suggesting that they expected another juicy battle.

The ratter put on an apologetic expression. “Didn’t turn out to be much of a ratter, you see, miss. If you’d like the dear creature, please, take her.”

The purring vibrated the air by her side. Clarissa glanced once at Hawk, almost distracted by the fact that he was in shirtsleeves, but hoping he would take over. He had his arms full of purring cat, however, and his look seemed to say, This is your game. You play it.

“Very well. I will take her. Does she have a name?”

“Fanny Laycock,” said the man with a very false smile.

Someone nearby sniggered.

“Take her,” Hawk said.

Clarissa found herself with her arms full of coat and cat. The purring stopped, and a slight shivering began. She tried murmuring to it, and it calmed a little. Her attention was all on Hawk, however, as he walked toward the ratter. The man’s eyes suddenly widened. Whatever it was Hawk did to impress people, he was doing it again.

“You can’t go around throwing cats,” he said, almost lazily. “I’m sure that when my companion gets into clear light, she will find that her gown is snagged and stained with blood. I doubt you can afford the cost of a replacement, but a guinea will serve as penance.”

“A guinea—!”

He stopped and swallowed. Slowly, he dug into a pocket, but Clarissa caught a movement and saw the two other men moving closer. They were all so big!

“Hawk!” she said sharply in warning, just as the first man ran for him.

“You really shouldn’t,” Hawk said. But his fist had already shot out, hurtling the first man back into the stands, causing a yelling commotion among the people sitting there. He’d somehow avoided the other two.

But then men leaped out of the stands and fists flew. Rats escaped and were darting underfoot, pursued by ferocious dogs and cats. Women screamed and wood shattered.

It was the riot all over again!

Trying to protect the frantic cat, Clarissa was forced back, right out of the riotous tent into a gathering crowd.

What was happening?

Hawk!

What if he was dead?

She tried to soothe the poor cat, tried to soothe herself, but tears trickled down her face. Another disaster, and entirely her fault. She truly was a Jonah…

But then she heard chattering and realized the tumult had calmed. The flap opened, and Hawk appeared in the midst of a group of cheerful, admiring men.

Hard to imagine him so disordered and muddy, but he seemed unharmed. A giggle escaped. He’d lost his hat again! Then someone hurried after and gave it to him.

He thanked all the men, who presumably had been on his side, then looked around for her. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, but what of you?”

“Nothing serious.” He brushed a tear off her cheek. “I’m sorry if you were frightened.”

“It wasn’t your fault.”

“It’s an escort’s duty to protect against all affront. I clearly need practice.” He took the cat, and the ungrateful beast immediately started purring again. “Let’s find the others before they call out the army.”

As they walked away, navigating to avoid puddles, she glanced back. “What of the ratters?”

“They decided not to be any more trouble. Oh, that reminds me,” he said, stopping. “One of them relieved his master of a guinea for you. It’s in my right pocket.”

She glanced at his tight-fitting breeches. “I’m sure you can give it to me later.”

“Are you encouraging me to be in debt?”

She met his eyes and hid a smile. “I am rich enough to ignore a guinea. Please, consider it yours.”

“Falcon, I’m disappointed in you. Think of it as storming a spiked wall under enemy fire.”

Fresh from violence, it made her shiver. “Have you done that?”

“Yes.”

Despite what he said about his military life, he must have risked death so many times. “Then I can hardly retreat, can I?”

“I didn’t think so.” It was almost a purr of his own.

She wanted to laugh, but found a frown instead. “I’m perfectly aware of what you’re doing. You think I can’t resist a challenge.”

“I seem to be right. Perhaps you need lessons. Sometimes it is wise to retreat.”

“In this case?”

“Probably.”

“It’s only a pocket,” she said.

She glanced around. They were still off to one side of the fair, with no one else nearby. They were in sight of the dozens of waiting carriages, but she couldn’t make out the rest of their party, so she doubted they could see her.

Truth to tell, she didn’t care. She wanted this excuse to touch him. Perhaps it was something to do with the violence, the danger, the thought of his perilous past…

She moved behind him and slid her hand into his pocket.

Of course it meant standing close. It meant sliding her hand against his hip as if there was scarcely anything between her and his naked body. Well, there was scarcely anything between her and his naked body, his warm naked body, but she would do it anyway.

In fact, since it was a challenge, she would raise the stakes. She pulled her hand out and stripped off her glove, then slid her hand in again.

She heard a choked laugh, and grinned. “Feeling for a small coin with gloves on would be so awkward,” she said, spreading her fingers and exploring with them, hoping it tickled. What she discovered through two layers of cotton was strong, hard bone and warm muscle.

And pleasure in the firmness of it beneath her hand.

He was still, but she could feel tension. He’d invited this, however, challenged her to it. If it embarrassed him, it was his fault. She supposed she should be embarrassed, but she wasn’t. Truly, she felt as if she was blossoming into someone very unlike Clarissa Greystone!

She moved slightly closer, curling her left arm around his torso, and pressing her cheek against his hot back. How firm he was. Muscle everywhere. Used to being close only with female bodies, she found this to be a magic all its own.

An image flashed into her mind—the groom’s naked chest, rippling with well-defined muscles. The major wasn’t as big a man, but would his naked chest look like that?

Would she ever find out?

Suddenly, so closely and hotly entwined, it seemed a moment for bald truth. “You’re a fortune hunter, aren’t you, Hawk?”

She felt his instant tension.

“Why else were you in Cheltenham? You knew about me and came to steal a march on the others. You tempted me into coming to Brighton, and you’ve been stalking me ever since. I’d rather there were truth between us.”

She felt him breathe, three steady breaths. “And if I am?”

“I don’t mind.” Then she felt that went too far too soon. “But I make no promises, either.”

“I see. But you won’t blame a man for trying?”

“No,” she said, smiling against his back. “I won’t blame a man for trying.”

And truth is, I can’t wait until he wins.

Smiling at her golden future, she angled her hand down and forward, following the deep pocket of the man who would one day be her husband. Whose body would be intimate with hers. She sucked in a deep, steadying breath and wriggled her fingers in search of the coin. She felt him suddenly stiffen.

“Am I tickling you?” she said unrepentantly.

“After a fashion.”

Her fingers touched a bone, but then she realized there couldn’t be a bone in the middle of his belly. Her little finger caught the edge of the coin as her mind grasped what she had to be touching.

A girls’ school is not a haven of innocence. There had been many discussions, much sharing of knowledge, and not a few books stolen from fathers and brothers and smuggled into school.

According to a slim, alliterative volume called The Annals of Aphrodite, she was brushing against the Rod of Rapture. But didn’t men only Mount to Magnificence just prior to Carnal Conquest?

She seized her coin, pulled her hand out, and retreated a few steps, pulling on the armor of her sensible glove.

He turned, not changed in any drastic way. A quick glance, however, showed that he was still Mounted to Magnificence. She knew her face had to be bright red.

“So,” he said, “the raw recruit has scaled the walls but is defeated by the sight of fire within.”

“Not defeated. Just not willing to be burned.”

“Even if duty calls?”

“Duty, I think, calls in another direction entirely.” She set off briskly for the carriages.

He soon caught up. “I’m not planning a rape.”

“Good. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“How disappointing.”

She fired a mock glare at him. “No, you are not going to challenge me into it.” But she was loving, loving, loving this. To be able to talk this way with a man!

He laughed. “Another time, then.”

But then Hawk sickeningly remembered that there were not going to be other times. Now that he was certain his Falcon had been involved with Deveril’s death, he had hard choices to make—and he could see none that would lead to a happy ending.

For him or for her.

When they arrived back at the carriages, Van gave him a rather steely look. Since Maria was the chaperone for this excursion, Van would feel responsible, and he wasn’t liking what he saw. Hawk wondered exactly what he saw.

The short version of their story satisfied Maria, but Hawk thought Van was still watchful. Not surprising. Despite long periods of separation, they knew each other very well.

“But what are we to do with the cat?” Maria asked, clearly not taken with the creature.

Hawk looked at the sleepy animal, which was filthy, scrawny, and missing part of an ear. “I’ll keep it.”

“Your father’s dogs will eat it,” Van predicted.

“I shall have to stand protector.” Hawk climbed into the carriage, cat still bundled in his coat, feeling a maudlin need to protect something.

Clarissa needed advice, and Althea did not seem likely to help with this. Instead, once she’d changed from her soiled dress, she sought out her chaperone. Miss Hurstman, as usual, was in the front parlor reading what looked like a very scholarly book.

“Miss Hurstman, may I talk to you? About Major Hawkinville.”

The woman’s brows rose, but she put her book aside. “What has he done?”

“Nothing!” Clarissa roamed the small room. “Well, he’s wooing me. He’s a fortune hunter, I’m sure, even though he says he will inherit his father’s estate. He admitted that it isn’t very large, and he’s as good as admitted that he does want to marry me. For my money—” She stopped for a breath.

Miss Hurstman studied her. “I assume there is no need for this panic?”

Clarissa, suddenly bereft of words, shook her head.

“Then what has caused it?”

The woman’s calm was infectious. Clarissa sat down. “I didn’t plan to marry. I saw no need to. But now, it is beginning to be appealing. You did warn me. I don’t know if this all shows a flexible mind, or a weak one.”

Miss Hurstman’s lips twitched. “Clever girl. The difference between the two can be hard to judge. The main question—the only question, really—is, Will he make you a good husband for the next twenty, forty, sixty years?”

Clarissa could feel her eyes widen at the idea. “I don’t know.”

“Precisely. He is a handsome man, and I assume he knows how to please and interest a woman. His father certainly did.”

“His father?”

“I knew him when I was young. A dashing military man with an eye to bettering himself.”

A fortune hunter. Like father, like son? And yet the father had clearly settled for his modest estate.

Miss Hurstman was looking at her as if she could read every thought. “You cannot know enough about Major Hawkinville yet to make a rational decision, Clarissa. Time will solve that. Take your time.”

“I know, but…” Clarissa looked at the older woman. “You speak of when you were young. Don’t you remember? Just now, reason has nothing to do with it!”

Miss Hurstman’s eyes twinkled. “That, my dear, is why young women have chaperones. Did Lady Vandeimen not play her part?”

Clarissa bit her lip, then said, “We were separated for a little while by a squall of bad weather.”

“For a sufficiently little while, I hope?”

“Oh, yes. Nothing… nothing truly happened.”

Miss Hurstman gave one of her snorts, whether of disapproval or amusement was hard to tell. “I do enjoy an enterprising scoundrel.” Amusement, then. “Panic over?” she asked.

Surprisingly, it was. Perhaps it was simply being away from Hawk, or perhaps it was Miss Hurstman’s dry practicality, but Clarissa didn’t feel so caught in swirling madness anymore.

Time. That was the answer to her dilemma over Hawk Hawkinville, and she had no shortage of it other than that created by impatience. She would make herself wait a week or two without commitment. And without being compromised.

She did not fool herself that it would be easy.

She wished she could discuss her other problem with Miss Hurstman—the matter of Deveril’s death, the way she kept speaking of it, the disastrous effects she seemed to have on other people’s lives—but her trust did not go so deep as that.

Chapter Eleven

Hawk entered the Marine Parade house with his friends, but he went straight up to his room with the cat. He hoped to avoid Van, but wasn’t surprised when he walked in not long after.

Hawk had taken the cat out of his jacket and was gently checking it for serious injuries.

“What are you going to do with it?” Van asked.

They might as well get to the topic at once. “I suspect Miss Greystone will wish me to care for it.”

“And what Miss Greystone wishes is of importance to you?”

“Yes.” The damnable thing was that he didn’t want to lie to his friend, not even by implication, but he couldn’t tell the truth. Above all, he needed time to think.

Surely there had to be some way to save Hawkinville from Slade, and Clarissa from the gallows.

The cat squawked as he touched a sore spot, but it was a polite complaint without claws attached.

“Quite the lady, aren’t you?” he murmured.

Van came over. “Is it? Female, I mean.”

“Yes, and not in bad shape, considering.” He finished his examination and put the cat down on the carpet. After a body-shaking shudder, it picked its way around the room like a tattered lady bountiful inspecting a lowly cottage.

“No problem with movement at all,” Hawk said. “In fact, quite a dainty piece. Tolerable quarters for you, your ladyship?”

The cat gave him an inscrutable look.

Hawk picked up his jacket and contemplated its sorry state. He hadn’t bothered to hire a valet since returning home, but he needed one now.

Van took it and went to the door. “Noons!” he shouted, and in moments his valet appeared, complained about the jacket, and went off to put it right.

The cat had sat to clean itself with dogged persistence.

“Tidiness above all. That’s the spirit,” Hawk said, scooping it up and carrying it to his washstand. There was a slight chance that if he was busy enough Van would put off the talk to another time.

“What you are about to get,” he told the cat as he gingerly sat it in the wide china bowl, “is some assistance in the cleaning department. Do not be so rude as to scratch me.”

He heard Van laugh and wondered if he was going to get away with it.

The cat had stiffened, but it wasn’t frightened.

“Bear up like a good soldier,” he said soothingly, and poured a little warm water over the side where blood was thick and sticky. The animal gave a yowl of complaint, but turned its head to lick. “No, no,” he said blocking its head. “Let me. You can clean up the remains later.”

He gently rubbed the blood till it softened, then washed it away under a new dribble of water. He was careful of the gash above it, and to soothe the cat, he kept talking.

“Not all of this blood is yours, is it? You must have done a fair bit of damage. It’s my guess you could take on any rat you wanted. Beneath your dignity, was it, duchess? Risked having your neck broken over it, though, didn’t you?”

As he started on a patch on one shoulder, Van interrupted his monologue. “What exactly are your plans in regard to Miss Greystone?”

Hawk hadn’t really expected to get away with it.

“In loco parentis are you?”

“After a fashion, yes.”

Hawk tried a mild deflection. “Marriage is making you damn dull.”

Watching, Hawk could see Van control his temper. Damn. When they were boys a comment like that would have led either to a fight or to Van slamming out to work his temper off elsewhere. Either would have cut short the discussion.

They weren’t boys anymore.

The cat licked his hand. It was probably a command for more water, so he supplied it, working on another spot.

“Maria thinks she is assisting a courtship,” Van said. “A courtship very much to your advantage. Generous of her, wouldn’t you say?”

Hawk winced at that one. “I do not necessarily need assistance.”

“You are likely to get it anyway, women being women. The question is, Do you deserve it?”

Hawk lifted the cat from the muddy, bloody water and wrapped it in a towel for a quick dry. Though not scratching, it wasn’t purring either.

He had to say something. “I’m not sure what you mean by that, Van.”

Van rubbed a hand over his face. “I’m not either. Damn it all, Hawk, Maria likes Miss Greystone. She’s playing at matchmaking. I don’t want her hurt.”

Ah, that Hawk could understand.

He put the cat down, and it stalked to a corner and began furiously cleaning itself.

“I don’t want anyone hurt, Van. Not even a damn cat. A fine state of affairs for a veteran, isn’t it?”

“A pretty natural state, I’d say. What’s going on?”

Hawk realized that it was no good. Van wouldn’t be deflected, or satisfied with a denial, and a good part of it was probably concern for him. The past was a strange beast. It lay dormant, appearing to be harmless, but it had claws and fangs and leaped up to take another bite at unexpected moments.

A poor analogy. He would embrace the past and the future it promised, if he could.

He would have to tell Van part of it, at least.

He emptied the dirty water into the slop bucket and washed his hands in fresh. “My father has mortgaged Hawkinville to Josiah Slade.”

“That damned ironmonger? Why?” After a moment, Van asked, “How much?”

Hawk turned to him, drying his hands. “More than you can afford.”

Van smiled. “Come on. I’m not ashamed to use my wife’s money in a good cause.”

“How much of it is left? Maria returned the money that her husband cheated your family out of. She’s been doing that elsewhere, too, hasn’t she? She has her dependents to take care of and Steynings to restore.”

“You think patching the plaster at Steynings is more important than keeping Slade out of Hawkinville? Perdition, he’d be squire too, wouldn’t he? Intolerable! How much?”

“Twenty thousand.”

Van stared, struck silent.

“Even if you could lend me that much, when could I pay it back? Even squeezing the tenants for every penny, it would take decades.”

“But what option do you have?” Van asked. “You can’t let Slade…” But then he answered himself. “Ah. Miss Greystone.”

Lying by implication, Hawk said, “Ah, indeed. Miss Greystone.”

Van was frowning over it. “Do you love her?”

“How does one know love?”

“Believe me, Hawk, you know. Do you at least care for her?”

“Yes, of course. But will she marry me without protestations of love?”

Will she elope with you, you mean.

Van grimaced. “Probably not.”

“With my father’s example before me, I am naturally reluctant to woo an heiress under false pretenses.”

But wasn’t that exactly what he was doing?

The cat came to rub against his leg, miaowing. He scooped it up.

“The ratter told Clarissa the cat was called Fanny Laycock.”

“I see why you had to thrash him.”

It was cant for a low whore.

“But I’d better find another name before she remembers it.” He looked into the cat’s slitted green eyes. “Care to give me a hint? No, I don’t think ‘Your Highness’ acceptable. I will call you Jetta. You are jet black, and you were jeter’d, as the French would say. Getare in Italian, but I’m afraid in Spanish it would merely mean ’snout.‘”

He looked at Van, who was grinning at this byplay. At least he’d managed to change the subject. “I’d better go down to the kitchen and beg some scraps for her. I never thought to ask if you minded a cat in the house.”

“No, of course not. But your father’s dogs are going to eat her when you take her home.”

Hawk looked at the cat again. “Somehow I doubt it.”

He didn’t escape scot-free. Van left the room with him and said quietly, “I need your word, Hawk, that you won’t go beyond the line with Miss Greystone.”

Hawk bit back anger. He had no right to it anyway.

“You have it, of course,” he said and left, wondering if his friendships, too, were going to die in this bloody mess.

He got milk and bits of chicken for Jetta, then since the cook didn’t seem to mind the intruder, he escaped out through the kitchen door. There was no thinking room there, however, so he went round to the street, to the seafront.

He was coatless and hatless, but he didn’t care. The rough weather had driven nearly everyone off the seafront anyway, even though it wasn’t raining at this moment. The wind still whipped, carrying damp air and even spray off the churning waves. He saw the packet from France bucking its way in and could imagine the state of the poor passengers.

It was good weather for hard thinking, though. Rough and clean.

Did he love Clarissa? He had no experience of love, so how could he know? But Van said he’d know, so it couldn’t be love. Or not that kind of love. His feelings were close to those that he had for Van and Con, and that he’d had for some other friends in the army.

Friends, then. He and Clarissa were, in a fragile way, friends. He groaned into the wind. That made it worse. Betrayal in love was a theoretical evil. Betrayal of friendship…

And damn it, now Maria and thus Van—a deep and necessary friend—were tangled up in the affair.

He reined in his panicked mind. When had his mind last been panicked?

Fact one. Clarissa had at the least been present at Deveril’s murder. It was the only rational explanation for her reaction to the knife and her knowing the exact date.

Hypothesis. She might have killed him herself, but it would have been in self-defense, not to get his money.

Was he besotted to think that? No. He hadn’t known her long, but he knew her well enough to know she couldn’t be a coldhearted, greedy villain. A crime of passion was much more in keeping.

Fact two. If it came out that she had killed a peer of the realm under any provocation, she might hang for it. Or at least be transported. At best, she would have to await trial in prison among the scum of the world.

Therefore, her crime could never be made public.

It settled Hawk to realize that as an absolute certainty.

He would tear down Hawk in the Vale himself before it came to that.

Having reached that bleak point, he found he could think properly again.

What if she had only been witness to the killing? Perhaps someone else had killed Deveril to save her. Did that really fit better, or did he just want it to be so? It was no great improvement. She would still be an accessory to the murder and liable to the same punishment, and he could hardly send a man to trial for defending her.

However, if he could not prosecute anyone for murder, he was unlikely to break the will.

He leaned against a wooden railing, cursing softly into the snarling sea.

Always, always, always was the fact that the will had been forged and planted in Deveril’s house. It shattered any illusion of noble deeds. A cunning rogue was behind that, and Hawk couldn’t believe that he intended to leave Clarissa in peaceful possession of a fortune.

So, even walking away from Clarissa and leaving her in peace was not an option.

He circled and circled it, and came down to the heart of the matter. He could persuade her to elope.

No question of marrying her in the normal way. As soon as he applied to the Duke of Belcraven his family would be investigated. The most casual search would uncover that his father was a Gaspard, and probably that he was within days of being pronounced Viscount Deveril. Even if Belcraven was willing to permit the marriage, he would tell Clarissa, and that would be that. He wasn’t sure she would be able to bear the thought of being Lady Deveril one day, but he knew she wouldn’t forgive the deception.

Elope, then. He would have to pretend love, but he was at least very fond of her. He would not be like his father. She would not have cause to complain of neglect. With luck she wouldn’t have to be Lady Deveril for a long time, so perhaps it wouldn’t be a terrible blow.

But what if it was? What if the blow, in particular the deception behind it, was enough to kill all affection? Would he end up in a marriage as bitter as that of his parents‘, with one lost wedding-night child to show for it?

He could do that to himself for Hawkinville, but not to her. Not to his Falcon, who was in such fledgling flight in search of life.

And anyway, he thought with a wry laugh, he’d promised Van. He was sure Van would see an elopement as going far beyond the line.

Which brought him, via a sharp sense of loss, back to the killer. Was there, perhaps, another way… ?

Clarissa and Althea were promised to a birthday party being given that evening by Lady Babbington for Florence. Clarissa didn’t really want to go, but Florence was an old school friend, and it would do no good to stay home drowning in longing, doubts, and questions. It was to be an event for young ladies only, so at least she wouldn’t have to deal with Hawk again.

She found that the Babbingtons’ small drawing room felt almost like the senior girls’ parlor at Miss Mallory’s and slid with relief into the uncomplicated past. Soon she was chattering and giggling, and the high spirits continued over dinner since, unlike at school, wine was served with the meal.

Perhaps that was why the after-dinner chatter turned naughty, especially when it was revealed that Florence had made a transcription of The Annals of Aphrodite. As those new to the book huddled to read it, whispering aloud the more exciting phrases, Clarissa wondered how many of them had acquired a little practical experience of the Risen Rod of Rapture.

Then Florence placed letter cards in a bag and invited everyone to pick two to find the initials of their future husband. Clarissa was interested to note how many of the ten young women clearly hoped for a particular set of initials.

Clarissa’s heart pounded when her first letter was a G, but then she lost all faith when the second turned out to be a B.

Suggestions were called out.

“Gregory Beeston.”

“Lord Godfrey Breem.”

“Florence,” said one, “isn’t your brother called Giles?”

“But he’s married,” Florence pointed out.

“Is he still as handsome?” Clarissa asked, and recited her poem. It received great applause, and they all began to put together admiring doggerel.

“George Brummel,” Lady Violet Stavering suggested.

She had been at Miss Mallory’s too, but had considered Clarissa beneath her notice. She still liked to cloak herself in an air of bored sophistication and was not taking part in the versification.

“He could certainly use your fortune, Clarissa,” she added.

Clarissa might sometimes feel at sea in society, but she could swim like a fish in schoolgirl malice. “So could nearly everyone,” she said, dropping her letters back into the bag. “Including your brother, Violet. But I am hardly likely to bestow my riches on an elderly and broken dandy like Brummel. If I enter into trade, I will buy the highest quality.”

“Such as Major George Hawkinville?” purred Lady Violet.

So their meetings had been observed. Clarissa willed herself not to blush. “Perhaps.” But she added, “Or some other young, honorable man.”

Florence leaped in with suggestions, and Clarissa regretted the spark of unpleasantness at her friend’s party. Soon every eligible man of Brighton was being assessed with startling frankness.

Mr. Haig-Porter’s legs were too thin, Lord Simon Rutherford’s fingers too short and fat. Sir Rupert Grange laughed like a donkey, and Viscount Laverley had a chest so narrow it was surprising he could breathe.

“But a viscount,” said Cecilia Porteous tentatively. “It is a consideration.”

Nearly everyone agreed that a peer of the realm might be excused some flaws.

“Even Lord Deveril,” murmured Lady Violet.

“Don’t be a cat, Vi,” snapped Florence. “We all know poor Clarissa didn’t want to marry him.”

“And we thanked heavens for his timely death,” agreed Lady Violet sweetly.

Clarissa stiffened, wondering if Lady Violet suspected.

But that was ridiculous. She was simply scratching for the fun of it.

She was saved by an interruption from Miriam Mosely. “I don’t know how it is that men like Lord Vandeimen and Lord Amleigh, who have both title and physique, are snapped up before they properly appear on the market. I think it vastly unfair!”

“But remember,” said Lady Violet, “Lord Vandeimen was thought to be as rolled up as Brummel, and drowning in gaming and drink as well, before he married the Golden Lily.”

This was news to Clarissa, and she recognized that Lady Violet had raised it because the Vandeimens were friends of Clarissa’s. She would very much like to put snails in Violet’s bed. Again.

She hoped the comment would be ignored, but some others demanded details. Lady Violet chose a sugarplum and bit into it. “Oh, Vandeimen came home from the war to find his father dead and the estates quite ruined.”

“Hardly like Brummel, then,” said Clarissa.

Lady Violet was not silenced. “He consoled himself with drink and the tables, but then had the good fortune to snare the rich Mrs. Celestin. Trade, you know.”

“That’s not true!” objected Dottie Ffyfe. “She married a merchant, but she was born into a good family. She’s a connection of mine!”

Lady Violet’s lips tightened, but she shrugged. “A woman moves to her husband’s level upon marriage. First trade. And a foreigner. Then a demon.” She allowed a pause for effect before continuing, “According to my brother, in the army he was known as Demon Vandeimen.”

Everyone was now leaning forward avidly, and Clarissa felt wretched for having started this. Lord and Lady Vandeimen were both properly behaved and kind, and obviously in love. Someone else who was being tarnished by association with her.

“My brother says that they’ve been close friends forever,” Violet continued, lapping up being the center of attention. “Vandeimen and Amleigh. And,” she added with a sly look at Clarissa, “Major Hawkinville.”

Clarissa smiled back in a way that she hoped said she was politely bored to death.

“All born and raised near here,” Violet continued.

“Reggie said that they each have a tattoo on their chest.” Someone gasped. “Said he’d seen Lord Amleigh’s in the army, and been told about the others.”

She looked around, licking sugar off her fingers. “A hawk for Major Hawkinville, a dragon for Lord Amleigh.” Then she added, pink tongue circling her lips, “And a demon for Lord Vandeimen.”

The synchronous inhalation made a kind of oooh around the room.

“What a pity,” said Miriam, “that we are unlikely to ever see that.”

But Clarissa was thinking how wonderful it would be to see that, because it would mean she was seeing Hawk’s naked chest. Impossible, of course, short of marriage.

Marriage.

It was all very well for Miss Hurstman to talk about reason, and waiting, and thinking of the years of marriage, but could she bear not to do it? Wouldn’t she regret it all her life, wondering what it might have been? Whether it might have been true heaven…

“… Hawkinville.”

With a start, she realized that they were talking about Hawk—as if he were a piece of meat on a butcher’s slab.

“Handsome.”

“Perhaps a little lightly built.”

“But wide shoulders.”

“And excellent thighs!”

Thighs! Sally Highcroft had been looking at Hawk’s thighs?

“Delicious blue eyes.”

“I prefer brown myself,” said Violet.

Clarissa was astonished to find that her fingers were trying to make claws.

It was Althea, however, who spoke up. “I don’t think it at all seemly to talk about a gentleman in this way.”

Violet laughed. Her practiced laugh that said that others were silly, unsophisticated ninnies. “They do it about us all the time, according to my brother.”

“Ladies,” said Althea, “should set a higher standard. And we should be more respectful of those who fought for us in the war.”

This did subdue everyone, and Clarissa flashed Althea a grateful smile.

“But did he fight?” asked Violet, who never stayed subdued for long.

“Quartermastering, I believe.” Again Althea was there first. “Such administrative matters are extremely important, Lady Violet. My late fiance was in the army, and he often said so.”

“You cannot deny that an officer who was often in battle is more dashing.”

“No. But I can deny that dash is the most important thing about any gentleman!”

Althea was in her Early Christian Martyr mood, and clearly ready to throw herself to the lions. Or turn into one. Poor Florence was looking close to tears, so Clarissa rushed in. “There are any number of eligible names being discussed here who never went to war at all. We can surely assess each gentleman as to his qualities.” Remembering Miss Hurstman’s words, she added, “Their qualities as husbands over the next twenty, forty, sixty years.”

“Lud!” exclaimed Florence, but with a grateful look, “what a dismal thought. They’ll all be boring, bulging, and bald by then.”

“So will most of us,” said Althea, still looking militant.

“Not bald,” Clarissa pointed out.

“Gray, then,” said Althea, but she relaxed.

“Thank heavens for the dye pot—”

Violet was interrupted by a maid, and Florence leaped up with obvious relief. “Speaking of futures, I have a special treat for us. The fortune-teller Madame Mystique has been engaged to give us each a reading. I’m sure one of the things she will be able to predict will be our marital fate. Now, who would like to go first?”

Everyone politely urged Florence to be first, and when she left, Clarissa led a determined foray into talk about fashion. Violet would still be a cat, but it was unlikely to become quite so personal.

Florence returned blushing, and Violet leaped up to go next.

“Well,” Sally asked, “what did she say? Are you allowed to tell?”

“It’s not like a wish, Sally.” Florence sat down among them. “She spoke of a man of honor and good family. And she mentioned his high brow.” She looked around, blushing. “That does sound rather like Lord Arthur Carlyon, doesn’t it?”

So, that was where Florence’s interest lay. A pleasant man who was showing signs of losing his hair. A high brow. Madame Mystique was clearly tactful, and clever as well.

They had played at fortune-telling at school, so she understood how it was done. If possible, the fortuneteller learned about her clients beforehand, and, of course, certain things could please almost everyone. Promises of happiness in love and of good fortune. Flattering comments about strength and wisdom. In addition, and most important, a fortune-teller watched to see what random comments triggered a response.

Having been engaged for this event, Madame Mystique would have learned about Florence, at the very least. She might even have been given the guest list. Clarissa assumed she would be told about Hawk. Handsome, honorable, and a war hero, and perhaps something cryptic about a bird.

Violet returned not so pleased, having been told that the ideal husband for her was not highborn, but wealthy. “The woman is a charlatan!”

But Miriam returned with high hopes of Sir Ralph Willoughby. “But Queen Cleopatra said I must be bolder with him!”

“Queen Cleopatra?” Florence asked.

“Apparently sometimes Queen Cleopatra speaks through Madame to give a special message. She said that if I want Sir Ralph to show the depth of his feelings, I… must not be so nervous of being alone with him.”

She looked around for advice.

Clarissa, thinking of her time at the fair with Hawk, knew that Queen Cleopatra had the right idea, but she wouldn’t say so with Violet listening.

Althea said, “She is right, after a fashion, Miriam. I have, after all, been engaged to marry. Some men find it hard to show their feeling when constantly under the eye of others. This does not mean that you should go far apart with him, or put yourself in danger.”

“Oh,” said Miriam, her thoughts obviously churning. Her eyes flickered around the group. “She also said…”

“Yes?”

“That touch could encourage a gentleman.”

Touch! Clarissa couldn’t imagine Miriam sliding her hand into Sir Ralph’s pocket.

“She said that when most touches are improper, they can have great power. That since ladies are generally gloved, our naked hands have”—she looked at her own pale hand—“sensual power.”

“Naked!” exclaimed Florence, looking at her own hand. “I suppose we are gloved when out of the house. So we make an excuse to take off our gloves—”

“And then touch his skin,” said Miriam, who looked as if she didn’t quite believe what she was saying.

Clarissa thought about the fair, about sticky buns, and Hawk’s hand on her wrist. A naked wrist…

“Lud!” said Lady Violet. “You’re all talking like Haymarket whores. The woman is depraved.”

Miriam flushed. “We’re only talking about touching hands, Violet!”

“Or faces, I suppose,” said Florence, eyes bright with mischief. “Hands and faces are the only naked spots available, aren’t they? No wonder men go around so wrapped up. It’s probably like armor.”

They fell into a laughing view of a world where men were terrified of attacking female hands, but then it was Clarissa’s turn to visit Madame Mystique.

Chapter Twelve

She was smiling as she followed the maid to the room set aside and hoping that she, too, would be advised by the naughty Queen Cleopatra. The dispensing of such titillating advice doubtless explained the woman’s popularity.

The maid opened the door to reveal a curtain. Clarissa pushed it aside and entered the room.

Gloom halted her. If this room had windows, the curtains were drawn, for there seemed to be no natural light.

There was some light, however. Hanging oil lamps with dark, jewel-colored glass turned the room into a mysterious cave of swaying shadows. The oil must be perfumed, for a sweet, exotic tang wafted through the air, making this place like an otherworld, nothing to do with fashionable Brighton at all. Clarissa shivered, then reminded herself that this was all theatrics.

Madame Mystique sat behind a table covered with a pale, shimmering cloth. She wore some kind of dark silken robe and a veil over the lower half of her face. Her hair was covered by a helmet of silver coins that hung down to her shoulders in back and to her eyebrows in front. Her large eyes were heavily outlined in black.

“Sit,” she said in a soft foreign voice, “and I will reveal the secrets of your heart.”

Clarissa knew that running away now would make her look the fool, so despite a flash of irrational panic, she took the few steps and sat down across the table from the woman.

There was nothing to fear here, and yet wariness was tightening her shoulders and causing her heart to pound. Perhaps it was simply the intent look in the woman’s eyes, but, of course, she would only be studying her for things to use in her “predictions.”

There was no crystal ball. Instead, the table was scattered with an assortment of items—well-used cards with strange designs, carved sticks, disks with markings, unpolished stones in many shapes and colors, and ornate ribbons, some of them knotted.

“Surely I know the secrets of my own heart,” she said as lightly as she could. “I would rather you tell me something I do not know.”

“Indeed? Then consider the items on the table,” the fortune-teller said with an elegant sweep of a beringed hand, “and pick the three that interest you most.”

Clarissa stared at the objects, wondering what each meant. She didn’t believe in fortune-telling, but even so she was suddenly nervous of letting this woman probe. She picked ordinary, unrevealing things—one stick, a plain length of ribbon, and a clear chunk of crystal.

Madame Mystique took them, holding them. “You have secrets. Many secrets. And they trouble you greatly.”

Clarissa stiffened with annoyance. Of course someone who picked the plainest items was trying to hide things. “Everyone has secrets.”

“Not at all.” The large eyes smiled. “Have you not noticed how many people long to tell their secrets if they can only find an excuse? You, however, have true secrets. You would be afraid to whisper them into the ground for fear that the growing grass would speak of them.”

Clarissa almost rose to leave, but she remembered in time that any sharp reaction would tell Madame Mystique that her guess was correct. She produced a shrug. “Then I am managing to keep them secret from myself as well.”

But why was the woman touching on such matters?

Was it possible she truly did have powers? That could be disastrous!

Cradling the items, the woman asked, “What did you come here to learn?”

“I didn’t. You are simply a party favor.” She intended it to be a slight.

The woman was as impassive as the Sphinx, however, and Clarissa realized that her eye decoration was in the Egyptian style. “But you came. What brought you here? What do you wish to learn?”

After a moment, Clarissa said the obvious. “Something about my future husband.” That should not lead to dangerous matters.

“Very well.” The fortune-teller let the objects fall on the table and picked up the three cards they landed on. She laid them in front of Clarissa, each with a sharp snap. “He will be handsome. He will be brave…”

Snap. “He will be poorer than you.”

Clarissa stared, her heart thundering now. Few young ladies married poorer men. But then she almost sagged with relief. Madame Mystique had done her preparatory work and knew Clarissa was the Devil’s Heiress.

“How tedious,” she drawled. “Can you tell me nothing more?”

“What do you truly wish to know?”

Will Hawk offer marriage? Should I accept? Will he stir the issue of Deveril’s death to our destruction? Whom can I trust?

Unable to ask the questions that mattered, Clarissa stared at Madame Mystique.

The woman exclaimed with exasperation. “Ah! You are so guarded. Knotted. You will strangle yourself!”

She seized Clarissa’s right hand to peer at the lines. Clarissa thought of fighting free, but part of her had to know what the woman would say next.

“Ah,” said Madame Mystique again, but softly this time. “Now I see. I see blood. I see a knife.”

Clarissa began to drag her hand away, but then she remembered. The woman was fishing for a reaction. That was how fortunetellers worked. That and prior knowledge.

But a chill swept over her, as if the cold wind outside was whistling through the curtains. What strange waters to fish in.

She calmly pulled her hand free. On the slight chance that Madame Mystique might have the true sight, she must get away from her.

“You have nothing to fear from me,” said the woman, “but you are right to be afraid. Your secrets are dangerous.” In a very soft voice she added, “A murder, yes?”

Clarissa was nailed in place, not knowing whether to stay or flee.

“A murder linked to money. Much money. But it is poisoned, my dear. It comes from evil and will always carry evil. You must escape its toils.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Clarissa instantly knew she shouldn’t have spoken, because all the willpower in the world couldn’t make her voice sound convincing. But her silence must have been eloquent, too.

Sweat was sending chills down her spine, and she didn’t know what to do. It was as if the woman were forcing open a door into the past, into secrets and places that must stay in the dark forever.

“Listen to me.” The fortune-teller leaned forward, capturing Clarissa with her large, dark eyes. “The money will bring you nothing but pain. You must tell the truth about it or it will cause you agony and death. Guard yourself, guard yourself! There are rogues around you who will cause your ruin.”

Rogues? Clarissa felt her heart rise up to choke her.

The Company of Rogues?

But then she shivered with relief. “Rogues” was just a word. A word for scoundrels. Of course a person should avoid scoundrels. This woman couldn’t possibly know about the Company of Rogues.

And all she had said could come from common knowledge. She was the Devil’s Heiress. Lord Deveril had been stabbed to death, and she’d ended up with his undoubtedly dirty money. She couldn’t imagine why Madame Mystique was making such high drama out of it except for effect.

Perhaps having at least one guest totter out of the room white and shaking was good for business.

“I inherited a great deal of money from a man who was murdered,” she said flatly. “The whole world knows that. I thought you were going to tell me something new.”

The flash of annoyance in the woman’s eyes was satisfying, but Clarissa wanted to leave. Would it hint at guilt?

“You refuse to recognize your danger,” the woman said. “I will ask Queen Cleopatra to advise you.”

Ah, the sensual advice. That she could deal with. But then the clear chime of a bell almost shocked her out of her chair.

“I am Cleopatra, Queen of the Nile,” said Madame Mystique in a high-pitched, ethereal voice. “My handmaiden speaks for me.”

Despite herself, Clarissa couldn’t help a shiver.

“Beware,” the voice sang out. “Beware all rogues!”

It’s just a word.

“Beware a man with the initials N.D.”

Clarissa stopped breathing.

Nicholas Delaney?

Could Madame Mystique have found out the name of the leader of the Rogues? Impossible!

Could she have the true gift?

If so, how much had the woman had seen in her hand? Had she seen whose blood, whose knife? And what was this danger that surrounded her, connected to the money?

“N.D. does not want you to tell the truth,” the eerie voice continued, “but you must. Only then will you be free. Heed my words. Heed them, or you will die within the year.”

Die? Clarissa felt as if she were fighting for breath. Tell the truth? She couldn’t! She couldn’t possibly.

The dark-lined eyes opened. “Queen Cleopatra does not speak to everyone,” Madame Mystique said in her ordinary voice. “I hope what she said was useful.”

“You don’t know?”

“I am merely the vessel for her words.” The dark eyes studied her. “You are upset. I am sorry. She usually brings good advice.”

Clarissa somehow dragged herself out of her trance. The woman must never know how close her words had come to dangerous matters. “Everything I’ve heard here was nonsense,” she said. “In fact, you didn’t really predict my future at all.”

Madame Mystique did not seem upset. She picked up the plain crystal and placed it in Clarissa’s hand, closing her fingers over it. “You do not believe, but keep this stone. It will help you when your troubles begin.”

Clarissa could only think how Hawk’s touch had made her shiver, and this one made her shudder. She wanted to leave the woman convinced that her predictions and warnings had been meaningless, but hunt as she might she could not find the right words. In the end she simply turned and walked out of the room.

She took a moment to steady herself, slapping her cheeks a little since she was sure she was pale. Then she returned to the drawing room, trying for a light smile.

Someone else left to see Madame Mystique, and the others began questioning Clarissa.

“What did she say?”

“Whom are you to marry?”

“Was it frightening?” Althea asked. “You look a little pale.”

Clarissa found a shrug. “Terrifying! She said I would marry a man poorer than myself.”

“But a truth,” said Violet.

“Yes, of course. Clearly she has the gift. Althea, do you have one of your headaches?”

Althea, bless her, took her cue. “I’m afraid so, Clarissa. I don’t wish to spoil your enjoyment…”

“Not at all. It is late.” She thanked Florence for the party, and soon they were out in the fresh air with their footman for escort on the short walk home.

“You seem upset,” Althea said as they walked.

“Not really, but it was a silly event.”

Althea glanced at her. “Because they were discussing Major Hawkinville?”

That was a much safer speculation than any other, so Clarissa smiled and admitted it.

In bed, however, anxiety defeated sleep.

Madame Mystique had clearly seen more than could be guessed or discovered. What if she talked? She might even go to the magistrates to tell them about a young woman involved with blood and murder. When people realized the young woman was the murdered Lord Deveril’s betrothed and heir, might that not start speculation?

The Rogues had clearly covered up the events of that night very skillfully, but was it skillful enough to resist an intense investigation?

She tried to tell herself that Madame Mystique would see no profit in going to the authorities. Magistrates tended to look sourly on such fairground tricks, and the woman had no proof.

Clarissa couldn’t be sure, though. She couldn’t be sure!

And the woman had predicted her death if she didn’t somehow get rid of the money.

No, if she didn’t tell the truth about the money.

What truth? The will, at least, was honest.

“Truth” must refer to the fact that a person involved in a death could not benefit from it. That had been explained to her. Mr. Delaney had not been crude about it, but she’d understood. If she let slip the truth about Lord Deveril’s death, many people would suffer, including her. She was ashamed to think that at the time she’d appeared to be the sort of ninny who would gabble, but she hadn’t been at her best.

And perhaps she was that sort of ninny. She knew she’d said a few things to Hawk that she shouldn’t have.

She couldn’t tell the truth, though. That was completely impossible.

What should she do?

She chewed on her knuckle. The Rogues should be warned about this danger. She didn’t want to contact Mr. Delaney. She would have to confess to being less than reliable, but on top of that, they all made her uneasy. They seemed to be good men, honorable men. Except perhaps the brutish Marquess of Arden. But they were also ruthless. Only think how coolly they’d reacted to bloody murder!. Mr. Delaney had seemed almost amused. Perhaps, behind their superficial gloss, they were too like Arden, given to violence when crossed.

But she had to tell them. They had risked much for her, so she must guard them. She slipped out of bed and lit a candle from her nightlight. When Althea did not stir, she wrote a very carefully phrased warning to Nicholas Delaney. She folded it, sealed it, and returned to bed to plot how to get it into the post without anyone knowing. She might be going to extremes, but Miss Hurstman was bound to question her about the connection, and she didn’t want to tangle in any more deceit.

Madame Mystique collected the items from the table and left her assistant, Samuel, to clear away the lamps and curtains. She left the room, hearing the last of the guests taking an excited farewell, and dispatched a maid to tell Lady Babbington that she was ready to leave.

The plump and amiable lady bustled into view, beaming. “Thank you so much, Madame Mystique! The girls are thrilled with your prognostications.”

Therese smiled. Young women were always excited by ways to entice and entrance men.

Lady Babbington extended the guineas, then tittered. “They talk of crossing a gypsy’s palm with gold, don’t they?”

Older women, too.

“But I am not a gypsy, madame. My art is an older one than theirs.” She held out her hand, and when the flustered woman put the money into it, she added, “But sometimes visions come to me. You are a very fortunate woman, madame, blessed by the fates with a healthy family and a loving husband.”

“Oh, yes. Yes indeed!”

“But the fires perhaps only smolder?” She reached into her bag of items and pulled out a ribbon at random. A blue one. “Blue,” she said, “is your color of power. Take this ribbon, Lady Babbington, and wear it on your person at all times. It reminds you of your younger days, yes? When you and your husband first fell in love?”

Lady Babbington looked a little blank, but then said, “I’m sure I had ribbons of all kinds then.”

“You will recall. You will recall much about those times. Then you will look at your husband and see that man who thrilled you so, and it will be so again.”

The woman was pink but fascinated. She even looked younger.

Madame Mystique patted her on the hand. “You and your husband are really no different, are you, now? Good night, my lady, and thank you for engaging me.”

“Oh. Good night, I’m sure.”

Madame Mystique made her way out of the back of the house. Or rather, Therese Bellaire did, not totally disappointed by her night’s work. A number of women might lead more interesting lives because of it—and she had met Deveril’s heiress.

Not what she had expected. More brain and steel. But she’d confirmed by her reactions that the Rogues were involved.

That Nicholas was involved.

She waited in the basement for Samuel, telling fortunes for free for the servants, promising them windfalls, handsome admirers, and appreciation for their talent.

For so many people, that was all they wanted, to be appreciated, though often for talents they did not possess. The cook was not the finest, but a simple compliment about her cake and she preened. When she was told she was appreciated, she doubtless saw herself the talk of Brighton for her culinary skills.

The lanky footman in the overlarge livery, Adam’s apple bobbing, probably saw himself as the object of every housemaid’s lust. The shy, dough-faced maid envisioned being snatched up by a solid tradesman because of her unpretentious goodness.

This fortune-telling was such an easy business that she could no doubt make her living at it forever. But she would have her fortune.

If Deveril had not already been dead, she would have killed him for stealing it from her two years ago. Now her sole purpose was to get it back. It was hers, earned in the sweetest ploy ever imagined, and Deveril would not have been able to steal it if not for Nicholas Delaney and his Company of Rogues.

Samuel arrived, the curtains in a bundle and the empty lamps dangling from his big right hand.

A strapping lad for seventeen, and of course he was devoted to her.

She adored him, as she adored all handsome young men…

As a tiger adores goats.

She rose and took her leave of the dazzled servants, who would spread the word. No, Madame Mystique would never lack work here in Brighton. But her main concern was her plan.

Would the heiress heed her warning? Would she confide in someone that the Rogues had killed Deveril and forged that will? Alas, it was unlikely, and she hadn’t spilled any information.

Too much brain and spine.

As she walked to her Ship Street establishment, she mourned her pretty, elegant plan. Prove the will false— and entangle the Rogues in a murder charge at the same time—and the new Lord Deveril would have the money.

Mrs. Rowland’s invalid husband would die, and after a short interval, the widow would become Lady Deveril. A little while longer and she would be a widow again, possessed of all that money. The son could have the paltry estate.

So delightfully devious. Whatever suspicions people might have, she would leave for the Americas legally possessed of the wealth. But she had failed to find evidence. Her only hope now was the Hawk.

If he did the job for her, the plan could still work. She had Squire Hawkinville in the palm of her hand. It had added spice to this rather tedious work to dance beneath the Hawk’s nose and be overlooked. Perhaps it would be even more delicious if he squeezed the heiress dry for her.

She climbed the steps to her house and unlocked the door, sending Samuel off to put the things away, but with a look he recognized, that made him blush.

Ah, seventeen.

She went to her room and stripped off Madame Mystique, slipping into a silk robe that had been appreciated by Napoleon himself. Tomorrow, alas, she would have to return to Hawk in the Vale for a while, to be that dreary Mrs. Rowland. Her excuse for absence was that she was pursuing an elusive inheritance. But it would not do to be away too long.

All the more reason to enjoy tonight.

She rang her bell and summoned her dinner—and her goat.

Hawk slept that night. If he’d not learned to sleep through external and internal turmoil, he wouldn’t have survived a month in his army work. He’d formed his plan anyway. He’d found the way out, but it would be stronger if he could squeeze a bit more information out of Clarissa.

It was a way out that would mean that she would never speak to him again. He preferred to think of it as freeing her from him.

Over breakfast he felt Van observing him, but the talk was all gossip and chatter. Maria had received a letter with a new view on Caroline Lamb’s novel, Glenarvon. It kept her interested, as she’d witnessed several of the scandalous incidents between the lady and Byron.

Con, Susan, and de Vere were to leave today, claiming that a little Brighton was enough for them. Everyone rose to see them on their way.

Then Maria said, “The sun’s shining! We must go out immediately before it rains again.”

Van laughed. “It’s not quite that dire, my dear.”

“Is it not?”

“I’ll send a note to see if Miss Greystone and Miss Trist wish to join us.”

Hawk met Van’s look blandly and received a distinctly warning look in return.

“Don’t worry,” he said as they left the room. “I have absolutely no intention of seducing Miss Greystone today.”

It was, alas, damnably true.

Chapter Thirteen

By the time breakfast was over, Clarissa had come up with and discarded any number of cunning plans for posting her letter. In the end, she chose the simplest. While Miss Hurstman was reading the newspaper, and Althea was writing her daily letter home, she slipped out of the house and hurried through the few streets to the post office.

If Mr. Crawford thought it strange to see a young lady alone, he made no comment.

Clarissa gave him the letter. “Can you tell me how soon it will be there, please?”

He studied the address. “Near Yeovil? Tomorrow, dear lady. I will make sure it leaves on the earliest and best mail.”

His benign smile said he thought it was a love missive. But then he looked at the letter again. “Mr. Delaney of Red Oaks? Why, I am almost certain that your companion, Miss Hurstman, sent a letter to exactly that address not many days ago.”

It hadn’t occurred to her that a man like Mr. Crawford would keep track of letters passing through his hands. Lord help her, had she just done something else stupid?

But then the full meaning struck her.

Miss Hurstman!

Miss Hurstman in league with the Rogues?

She hadn’t time to analyze it now, with Mr. Crawford smiling at her. She took the letter out of his fingers. “If Miss Hurstman has already written to Mr. Delaney, then this is old news, I’m afraid.” She pasted on a carefree smile. “Thank you, Mr. Crawford.”

She hurried away, going two streets before she let herself pause to think. It was absurd, but she felt as if someone was watching her, looking for signs of guilt.

It was still early, so only the most hardy were out for brisk walks, but she couldn’t stand here like a statue. And if she didn’t get home, she would be missed. She felt like tearing up the letter and throwing the scraps into the sea, but she immediately thought of someone chasing after them and piecing them together.

Ridiculous. She was going mad.

At the very least, she was thoroughly rattled and needed someone to talk to. Someone to trust. First Madame Mystique, now Miss Hurstman.

She pushed the letter to the bottom of her pocket and hurried back to Broad Street, trying to make sense of things.

Crawford could be wrong, but that was outlandish.

So, Miss Hurstman knew Mr. Delaney.

There was no getting around it. It was likely that Mr. Delaney had arranged for Miss Hurstman to be Clarissa’s chaperone here in Brighton. And she could see why. It must have worried him that she was moving out into the world, so he had installed what amounted to a warder. Miss Hurstman hadn’t been a very good one or she’d have stuck with Clarissa at all times, but perhaps the lady didn’t understand all that was at stake.

The huge question was, What was Miss Hurstman supposed to do if Clarissa posed a threat?

What could the Rogues do—except kill her?

She couldn’t believe it, but she forced herself to be logical about it. They would have no other way of keeping themselves and their loved ones safe. It wasn’t just the Rogues and herself. Beth Arden was at risk. Blanche Hardcastle was at greatest risk of all.

Madame Mystique had warned of death…

She came to a sudden stop, then stepped hastily into Manchester Street. After a moment, she carefully peered around the corner. On the opposite side of the Marine Parade, the distinctively straight and drab figure of Miss Hurstman was talking to a blond man.

To Nicholas Delaney!

He was already here, because Miss Hurstman had summoned him. And it must have been at least two days ago, perhaps because Hawk was courting her. The Hawk. Miss Hurstman had been alarmed to hear that he was a skilled investigator.

Clarissa headed up Manchester Street to come down Broad Street from the other end.

Mr. Delaney was here, so she could go to him and tell him about Madame Mystique. If she trusted him. She could also assure him that she was no danger to him. Would he believe her?

He’d been kind to her once. He’d been the only one to realize that night that she had been ignored. Beth was being comforted by the marquess, Blanche by Major Beaumont, but she had been left shivering alone. He’d taken her in his arms and somehow given her the feeling that it wasn’t so bad and that everything would be all right.

But still, what was she to expect of a man who entered a bloody scene of murder and complained that he’d “missed the action”?

She paused outside the door to her house, vaguely understanding people who threw themselves into the ocean to escape a dilemma. She would not be so weak, though. She had to do the right thing—the right thing for Beth and Blanche, and also for herself. She did not want to die over this.

She slipped in but did not make it upstairs undetected. Althea came out of the front parlor. “Have you been out? I thought it must be Miss Hurstman. She received a note and went out. There’s a message here from Lady Vandeimen.”

At least Althea didn’t ask where Clarissa had been. Clarissa took the note and opened it. “We’re invited to walk with them again.”

“And Major Hawkinville?” teased Althea.

Everything stopped for Clarissa, then moved again in new patterns. “And Major Hawkinville. I will send an acceptance and then change into a prettier dress.”

As she went to the desk she asked, “Where did Miss Hurstman go?”

“She didn’t say. Where did you go?”

“I wanted a bit of fresh air before the crowds.”

Clarissa dashed off the note and summoned the footman to take it. Then she called for Elsie and went to change. She chose the rust-and-cream dress she’d worn on the first day, and took her parasol as well. It had so little chance to be useful.

Hawk. The one person she could trust was Hawk. Well, she trusted Althea, but Althea was of no use in this predicament. In fact, she was another burden for Clarissa. Althea must not become embroiled in this.

With Hawk, Clarissa knew exactly where she was. He was a fortune hunter. Other than that, he was as honorable as could be. And he was the Hawk. He would protect her.

Especially, she thought suddenly, if they were married. Once they were married his interests would entirely match hers. She would have to tell him the truth, of course—but not until they were married. For Beth, and Blanche, and the Rogues, she could not tell him the truth before.

She grieved for that, for she would like to marry him with full honesty between them, but it was the only way. And she couldn’t believe that it would be a terrible blow to him. After all, he’d said he wished he could kill Deveril for her. No one could look on Deveril’s death as a wrongful act. Except perhaps a court of law.

So. Enough of playful games. She must bring Hawk to the point of offering for her hand, which surely could not be so very hard. Then she would have to insist on a rapid marriage. The thought of marrying Hawk, of capturing him for her own, was enough to put a golden glow around all the darkness. If she could persuade everyone, it could happen within the week!

Miss Hurstman returned and made no objection to the outing, though she declined to go herself. “Mindless gallivanting,” she said, but she looked a little grim.

“Was there something in your message to distress you, Miss Hurstman?” Clarissa asked.

“No.” But that was all she said, and since the Vandeimens and Hawk arrived at that point, Clarissa could not probe. She doubted it would do any good anyway, though she’d love to know exactly what Miss Hurstman and King Rogue—as Nicholas Delaney was called— had discussed.

Soon Clarissa was alone with the man she needed to marry, but found herself alarmingly tongue-tied. Hawk could fluster her with a look, but she was generally able to keep her wits. Now, knowing she was hunting him, she couldn’t think what to say.

She found a safe subject. “How is the cat, Major Hawkinville?”

He offered his arm as they went down the shallow steps. “Thriving on a diet of liver and cream. It caught three mice last night, and has become the cook’s pet.”

“Then why didn’t it please the ratters?” They turned to stroll down toward the seafront.

“Pure pride. Would you have worked for them?”

She returned his smile. “Oh, I approve!”

“I have called it Jetta from its color, and because it was thrown.”

“Jettisoned. I hope it has a better future.”

“Do you want the cat?”

“I? I have no place to keep a cat just now.”

“You have more of a place than I do.”

Clarissa realized that they’d slipped into their usual easy exchange, which was not likely to take them to marriage. A conversation about homes might, however.

“But you have a home in Hawk in the Vale, do you not?” she asked.

“That is my father’s.”

A strange thing to say. “A father’s home is generally thought of as his son’s home. Especially his heir’s.”

“Perhaps my years away have made it less homelike to me.”

“Then where will you live, when you settle down?” There. That was a hint.

He didn’t seem to notice it. “I have to live there for a while. My father is not well and needs help in managing his affairs. Jetta can return with me to Hawkinville when I go.”

They crossed the road to the seafront, where the bathing machines were still doing poor business. Clarissa, however, was fixed on other matters. “Do you plan to return soon?”

If her concern showed, all the better.

He glanced at her. “I cannot stay away for long periods. What of your home, Falcon? When the season ends here, will you go to live with your guardian?”

When the season ended—she hoped to be married to him. “I don’t think so. I don’t know what I’ll do.”

How exactly did a woman edge a man into proposing?

“Will Miss Hurstman stay with you?”

Not if I have anything to do with it. “I don’t know that, either. I haven’t been looking very far ahead. After all,” she said with a twirl of her parasol, “something might occur…” Like marriage, she thought at him.

As usual, Althea was being swarmed by suitors, and the Vandeimens had stayed with her. Clarissa wondered if she should go back, but she couldn’t do much to help decide which gentleman should have the honor.

“Perhaps you will stay with Lady Arden,” Hawk said.

Clarissa stared at him. Surely she’d never spoken of Beth to him.

“Why do you suggest that?”

But of course. He was the Hawk. And that was part of the reason she must marry him. If only he’d get around to asking her! He was doubtless acting the proper fortune hunter, but here she was, like a deer in his sights with a label on saying, Shoot me, and nothing was happening!

“She was a teacher at Miss Mallory’s,” he said. “It was a simple assumption that she asked her father-in-law to oversee your affairs.”

“I suppose I could stay with her for a little while,” she said. “By then her baby should be born and past its first weeks.”

“But you do not want to? She is still the harsh schoolmistress?”

Clarissa laughed at that. “She never was.”

“But… ?”

She looked at him. “You’re very persistent, Hawk. What is this to you?”

He smiled. “It pleases me to see you challenging.”

“Does it please you to answer?” Something about his manner unsettled her.

“But of course. I would not want you moving to, for example, County Durham.”

His manner was flirtatious, which was promising at least.

Clarissa turned away, as if fascinated by the sea. “I have no relatives in County Durham, as best I know.”

“It’s surprising what you can find on the family tree,” he said in a tone that made her wonder what it meant. Before she could ask, he added, “But you ease my heart.”

Aha! She turned back. “Heart, Hawk?”

But the moment was shattered by a sharp yapping and a tug at her skirt. A ball of white fur had its teeth in her dangling fringe.

“Stop!” She tried to drag her skirt free, and Hawk swooped to capture the dog. But when he picked it up, the skirt came with it.

“Hawk!” Clarissa shrieked, trying to hold her hem down.

He laughed and went to his knees, grabbing the growling dog’s jaws to force them open. Clarissa was laughing at the absurd scene, but burningly aware of being the focus of all eyes and still showing too much leg.

“Button, no!” a woman cried, running over and leaning to slap the dog’s muzzle. “Let go! Let go!”

And the dog obeyed, wriggling frantically in Hawk’s hands toward its mistress.

It was Blanche Hardcastle, dressed as always in white, but stunningly flushed pink with annoyance and exertion.

She held the small dog close, and she and Clarissa stared at each other. Major Beaumont and another couple were nearby, but everything was, for a moment, frozen and silent.

For a panicked moment Clarissa felt that Hawk would immediately know all the truth about Deveril’s death. But then sanity returned, and her only concern was scandal. Blanche was an actress, and though she was highly regarded in her profession, the world knew that her past was not unblemished. She’d been Lord Arden’s acknowledged mistress, for a start.

However, it revolted Clarissa to think of snubbing the woman who had been so kind—more than kind. “Blanche,” she said with a smile. “Is that monster yours?”

Blanche looked a little worried too, but she smiled back. “Alas, I found him abandoned, and he is white, but I cannot teach him manners.”

“That’s because you’re not firm enough with him,” said Major Beaumont.

Blanche retorted, “You’d doubtless like to thrash the poor mite.”

But the smile they shared took any sting out of it. Clarissa was genuinely delighted to see the two of them so relaxed and happy. She certainly couldn’t let anything destroy that.

Major Beaumont turned to her. “Miss Greystone, you have to take some blame. That fringe of yours is designed to provoke madness in males.”

It made her laugh, even though she was frantically thinking, He was involved too! Would there be anything in that for Hawk to weave the truth from?

“I confess it,” she said as lightly as she could. “Do you know Major Hawkinville?” She performed the introductions, noting that the other couple had wandered off. Probably other actors being discreet.

Hawk and Major Beaumont exchanged some comments about the military, which seemed to establish each other in a few words. There was time for Blanche to say, “You’re looking splendid, Clarissa, and your ‘Hawk’ is very handsome.”

Clarissa blushed to think that she’d shrieked that in front of half the world, but she agreed. And here was someone she could go to for advice. Blanche knew all the secrets, and she had worldly wisdom for ten.

“Could I come to see you?” Clarissa asked.

Blanche’s eyebrows rose, but she said, “If it won’t get you into trouble. I’m in Prospect Row. Number two. I’m performing here at the New Theater.” With a watchful look, she added, “In Macbeth.”

Clarissa knew she gaped for a moment, but covered it. She smiled at something Major Beaumont said, but inside she was wondering whether she could even depend on Blanche.

Madness to play Lady Macbeth!

She was sinking into the past, to Blanche saying, “I have always wanted to do Macbeth.” Even Lord Arden had been shocked by that after hearing her quote from the play earlier. Who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?

A squeeze on the hand pulled her back. It was Blanche. “I hope my little pet didn’t frighten you, Clarissa.”

She laughed. “No, of course not!” And she told the story of the ratters the day before.

“So that was you,” said Major Beaumont. “There’s an account in today’s Herald, but the names of the lady and gentleman are not given.”

“Not known, we hope,” said Hawk, and after a little more chat, Blanche and her major walked on.

“May I be curious?” Hawk asked. “A famous London actress is an unusual friend for a Cheltenham schoolgirl.”

Clarissa had expected it, and had prepared a response. “It is a strange connection, and slightly scandalous. Can I trust you with it?”

To her concern, he seemed to think about it, but then said, “Of course. I’m no gossip.”

They strolled back toward the Vandeimens and the well-attended Althea. “Blanche was the mistress of the Marquess of Arden until just before his marriage. You might think that this would create a rift between her and the marquess’s wife—”

“I’d think it would make any meeting impossible.”

“Ah, but you don’t know Lady Arden.”

“And how do you know of these things?”

How did she explain that? She hadn’t thought this through.

“It slipped out.” It wasn’t entirely a lie. She looked at him. “I’m not an innocent, Hawk, and I won’t pretend to be with you.”

His lips twitched. “I hope not. So, how did these two unlikely ladies meet?”

“Beth heard about Blanche and contrived a meeting.”

“Strange. Mrs. Hardcastle seemed unscratched.”

Clarissa frowned at him. “You would of course think that two ladies would fight over a man. In fact, they discovered they shared an interest in the rights of women and the works of Mary Wollstonecraft, and became firm friends. The marquess,” she added, “was somewhat disconcerted.”

Hawk laughed. “An understatement, I’d think.”

“Definitely.” Clarissa’s smile widened and she lost herself in thinking how very handsome he was when he laughed…

“And Lady Arden introduced you?”

She collected her wits. “Yes. Though I went to Blanche’s house only once.”

She prayed not to show how that once had changed her life.

He was studying her. Why? “Are you a follower of Mary Wollstonecraft?”

She almost laughed with relief at such a prosaic concern. “Would you mind?”

“I would have to study the lady’s writings to be sure. But the proof is in the product, I think.”

He was looking at her, surely, with warm approval. She stopped, waiting, hoping…

“And Major Beaumont?” he asked. “How does he come into the picture?”

Clarissa was hard-pressed not to scowl. “He’s a close friend of the marquess’s from their school days. And as you see, he now has a special relationship with Blanche. According to Beth, he wants to marry her, but Blanche thinks it unsuitable. She clearly thought speaking to me unsuitable, too. Sometimes our world does not please me.”

Especially having to play these silly games!

His brows rose at her sharp tone, but he said, “I see you as too much of a free spirit, Falcon, to be severely constrained by society.”

That could almost be an opening for her to propose to him, but Clarissa’s nerve failed her. What if he said no? What then? Perhaps he would say no on principle if she broke the rules so thoroughly.

She took a cowardly escape. “I’m trying to be good for Althea’s sake. We should rescue her.”

“From admirers? Will she thank you?”

“Definitely. She becomes flustered by too much flattery, and men will insist on saying the most absurd things.”

Unlike you. She’d felt so certain that he was at least pursuing her fortune, but now sickening doubt invaded. Was he slow to capture her because he didn’t find her appealing after all? Was she completely fooling herself?

“Perhaps men say absurd things because women like it?” he commented. “Would you be offended to be told you are like a golden rose?”

She stared at him. “Skeptical, perhaps,” she said with a dry mouth and a racing heart.

“You would accuse me of lying?”

“Of flattering.”

“In fact,” he said almost prosaically, “you do remind me of a golden rose. Not red, which is too deep and dark, nor white, which is too calm. Nor even pink, which is too coy and blushing, but golden, like warm sunshine, brightening what you touch.”

She had to lick her lips, and she knew she was blushing. She should protest again that it was not true, but she wanted it to be. She wanted him for any number of reasons, but she wanted to be loved by him more than anything in the world.

Because she loved him.

Breath-stealing, panic-building, but true. She loved him. She could not bear to lose him.

In the end, she simply said, “Thank you,” and prayed for more.

Hawk wondered what demented demon had taken control of his tongue. He’d come out today to learn more about Clarissa and the Ardens, and had succeeded beyond his hopes because of that chance encounter.

He had not come out to break her heart even more. He feared he could read the glowing expression in her eyes.

“Miss Trist,” he reminded her, turning toward her friend.

He sensed her disappointment, but after a moment she spoke calmly enough. “With such eligible men around her, you’d think Althea would be developing a preference.”

Strong Clarissa. If only… “Do you think that perhaps she dislikes the fuss of it?” he asked.

She looked at him in surprise, in control. “Dislikes being the toast of Brighton?”

“It is possible.”

“How else is she to find a grand husband?”

“Perhaps she doesn’t want one.”

“She does, Hawk. If she doesn’t find something better, she’ll have to go home and marry a stuffy widower with children nearly as old as she is.”

He couldn’t help but smile. “You are charmingly ardent in her cause. And kind.”

“It’s not kindness. It’s friendship. You understand that, surely. I hear that you and Lord Vandeimen are old friends.”

Yes, he understood that. “From the cradle.”

“Althea and I have been friends for less than a year, but true friendships can happen quickly.”

It was said with meaning, as a challenge to him. She was right. Over and above any emotions, they had discovered friendship. Friendship in marriage. It had been his ideal once.

Ah, well. Ideals often drowned in war.

She turned to study her friend. “You think she is not finding what she wants?”

“I don’t think she seems happy,” he said honestly, “but as you say, somewhere in Brighton the perfect man must exist.”

They moved in, and Miss Trist clearly was relieved to be rescued.

“Are you not happy here, Thea?” Clarissa asked quietly, studying Althea.

“Of course I am.” But she added, “I do miss the country a little, though.”

It was said quietly, but Lady Vandeimen heard. “We could drive out to visit Hawk in the Vale.”

“Why?” Hawk asked.

To Clarissa, that sounded rather sharp, and Lady Vandeimen was looking at him with surprise. “Why not? Trips to the nearby country are all the rage, and I would enjoy a chance to check on the work at Steynings. If we set off early tomorrow, we can enjoy a whole day.”

“It will probably rain.”

“Hawk, if we stayed at home for fear of rain, none of us would do anything this summer!”

Clarissa watched this exchange, wondering why the project displeased him. She longed to see his home. The home she hoped would be hers. Did he think it wouldn’t appeal?

She wished she could reassure him. It could be a hovel and she wouldn’t care. After all, with her money they could build a better place, and it was Hawk she wanted.

Hawk.

Perhaps on a trip to the country, to his home, there’d be more opportunity to progress. Queen Cleopatra had given her very strange messages, but her advice to Miriam had been promising. Get the man apart, take off her gloves, and touch.

Perhaps, in the country, she could do that.

And now, with Hawk’s attention drawn to Blanche, she must succeed. She must bind him to their cause.

Chapter Fourteen

As they strolled back, Van said to Hawk, “Wasn’t that the White Dove you were talking to? Not done to introduce her to a proper young lady, you know.”

“What proper young lady? Clarissa introduced her to me.”

Van laughed, but didn’t look as if he entirely believed it.

“The White Dove?” Maria said. “Oh, the actress. We saw her play Titania, Van. Do you remember? She’s very good. In fact, she’s playing Lady Macbeth here.”

“A violent change of roles,” Hawk said. “And it’s hard to see her as the bloodstained power behind the rotten throne.”

Maria gave him a look. “Are you saying that a beautiful woman cannot also be dangerous?”

He blew her a kiss. “No man of sense would.”

“Especially armed with a pistol,” Van said, which seemed to be a private joke.

Hawk, on the other hand, was thinking that classical beauty had little to do with it either.

It would be so damn easy to take the beckoning path. Marry. No, elope. He suspected he could get her to do it.

Roses. Hades.

Think of the three-day journey to the border, surrounded by her glowing enthusiasm, knowing he was leading her to the slaughter. Imagine a wedding night. Her innocent, trusting surrender.

God, no, don’t. Don’t even think of that.

Better by far that she simply hate him and be free.

Carpe diem, whispered the devil in his mind.

He could probably steal one more day before the morrow.

And he might as well be Hawkishly practical. He still didn’t know quite enough about her and the Ardens. If he played his cards right, he might learn the details he needed.

Tomorrow.

In Hawk in the Vale.

The next day, Clarissa looked excitedly out of the Vandeimen coach windows as it rolled over the humpbacked bridge into the village of Hawk in the Vale. She was full of curiosity, but also primed to take any opportunity to pursue her cause. If Hawk didn’t propose, she vowed she would do it before they left.

The ladies were in the coach, and the gentlemen— Hawk, Lord Vandeimen, and Lord Trevor—rode alongside. Althea had muttered that she did not need a partner, but Clarissa thought she was relieved it was Lord Trevor, who was excellent company without showing any sign of wanting to be a suitor.

Miss Hurstman was not with them, since today was her weekly meeting of the Ladies’ Scholarly Society, which she declared to be “an oasis of sanity in Bedlam.” She did not seem particularly different in her manner, and there had been no sign of Mr. Delaney. Clarissa was relieved, however, to be out of Brighton and safe.

The gentlemen were all superb riders, but Clarissa couldn’t help but smile at the cat riding proudly erect in front of Hawk. Jetta had refused to ride in the carriage, clearly thinking the company of other females inferior.

Hawk stroked her occasionally, and her eyes slitted with pleasure. Clarissa could rather imagine reveling in his touch in just the same way. She wondered if men ever stroked women the way they stroked cats.

During the journey, Lady Vandeimen had insisted that they all be on first-name terms. Clarissa had happily agreed, thinking that soon they would be true friends. The lady shared what she knew of Hawk in the Vale, and Clarissa savored every morsel, especially as it felt as if she was being welcomed into the community.

She now knew that Hawk’s family was the most ancient, and in many ways the most important, in the area, though there was no title except squire, which went with the manor house. If someone else were to buy the manor, he would become squire.

The other principal families were the Vandeimens and the Somerfords, headed by Lord Amleigh. Both families had estates outside of the village, but Hawkinville Manor was in Hawk in the Vale in the old style.

Maria had shared some interesting gossip along the way. “Lord Amleigh recently inherited the title of Earl of Wyvern. The seat is in Devonshire. However, it appears that the late earl might have had a legitimate son who has a prior claim. Quite a strange story. The earl and the woman—a member of a good local family—married in secret. They were both so displeased with each other, however, that they kept the matter secret, and she took up with a local tavern keeper, who is reputed to also be a smuggler!”

“And now the secret heir emerges?” Clarissa inquired. “It’s like a play. Or a Gothic novel.”

“Except that in this case the ‘wicked earl’ is Lord Amleigh, and he doesn’t want the inheritance at all.”

“That’s an interesting idea, however,” Clarissa said. “A trial marriage. I imagine any number of disasters could be averted.”

“Clarissa!” Althea objected, but she was laughing.

“Well, it’s true.”

“Indeed,” said Maria, and seemed to mean it.

It made Clarissa wonder about her first marriage, for there could surely be no disillusion with her second. “However, there is the matter of offspring,” Maria continued. “What if the trial has consequences?”

What, wondered Clarissa, if the trial was discovered?

Could she compromise Hawk?

“I have sent a message inviting the Amleighs to take lunch with us at Steynings,” Maria said. “If, that is, the dining room plasterwork is finally finished.”

Clarissa then learned more than she really cared to know about the trials of repairing a decade’s neglect of a house that had not been well built in the first place.

Hawk’s home was older. Was it in even worse repair? She, like Maria, had the money to repair it.

He’d ridden ahead to make sure all was ready for them. Already she was longing to see him.

The coach was lurching along a rough road around the central village green, past a row of ancient stone cottages that looked in need of as much care as the road.

Perhaps this was why Hawk was hunting a fortune.

A swarm of piglets suddenly dashed out between two cottages, chased by three barefoot children. It was fortunate that it was after the coach had passed, not before. Clarissa watched with amusement as the urchins tried to herd the piglets back home.

Maria directed her attention to the church. “Anglo-Saxon, of course.”

Yes, it looked it, complete to the square stone tower. Age made the village picturesque, but it was something more subtle that made it feel… right. Clarissa had never visited a place where the varied bits and pieces fit together so well, like the assorted flowers in a country garden.

Her eye was caught—hooked, more like—by a discordant piece, a monstrous stuccoed house with Corinthian pillars flanking its glossy doorway. There were other new buildings, buildings from every period over hundreds of years, but only that one seemed so appallingly out of place.

“What is that white house?” Clarissa asked.

“Ah. That belongs to a newcomer. A wealthy industrialist called Slade.” Maria pulled a face. “It doesn’t fit, does it? But he’s very proud of it.”

“Couldn’t he be stopped?”

“Apparently not. He seems to have ingratiated himself with the squire. Hawk’s father.”

The carriage halted, and the footman leaped down to assist the ladies out. Lord Trevor and Lord Vandeimen dismounted, and a groom trotted out through open gates to take the horses. Through those gates Clarissa could see an ancient building.

Hawkinville Manor. It must be.

She was astonished that she hadn’t spotted it more easily, but it did blend in with the row of cottages and other nearby buildings, and was surrounded by a high wall covered by a rampant miscellany of plants. Ivy cloaked the tower, too.

Wall and tower had doubtless been necessary for defense in the past, but now the double gates stood open, and Clarissa could glimpse a garden courtyard and part of the house—thatched roof and old diamond-pane windows. Roses and other climbing plants ran up the wall, making it seem more a work of landscape than architecture.

She vaguely heard the carriage crunch on its way to the inn, but she was moving forward, through the gates.

“How charming,” Althea said in a polite way.

“Yes,” Clarissa agreed, though the word seemed completely inadequate. Only a poet could do justice to the sheer magic of Hawkinville Manor.

The courtyard was sensibly graveled, but that was the only modern touch. In the center, an island full of heavy roses held in its very heart an ancient sundial. It was tilted in a way that surely meant that it couldn’t tell the time, but then she doubted that sundials had ever been accurate.

This place had formed before the counting of minutes or even precise hours had any meaning.

Both courtyard and house were bathed in sunlight. Warm sunlight, for a miracle, and it gave the illusion that the sun always shone here. Many windows stood open, as did the iron-mounted oak door. The view through the doorway gave a tantalizing glimpse of a tiled hall that seemed to run, uneven as the river surface and worn in the middle by many feet, to another open door and a beckoning garden beyond.

She took a step forward.

A dog growled. She blinked, seeing four large hounds sprawled near the threshold in the sun. One was looking at her lazily, but with a warning eye.

“Daffy.”

At the word, the dog subsided. Hawk walked past, out of the house, Jetta still in his arms.

He stroked the purring cat, but his eyes were on Clarissa. “Welcome to Hawkinville.”

Now why, thought Hawk, did he feel almost shocked to see Clarissa here when she was fully expected? It was as if the air had thinned, or as if he’d been riding and working to the point of wavering exhaustion.

He pulled himself together and answered questions. Yes, the sundial was very old and had come from the monastery at Hawks Monkton when it had been destroyed in the sixteenth century. Yes, the tower did date back to before the Conquest but had been fixed and improved a number of times.

Clarissa’s dress was a simple one for this day in the country. It had not seemed special before. Now the color reminded him of the richest cream in the cool dairy and made him want to lick something.

Yes, he said to Lord Trevor, there was a home farm, and this was it. The manor house also served as a modest farmhouse. There were more buildings beyond the wall to the right.

That dress was doubtless the simplicity of a very expensive modiste, but the effect was charming and comfortable and fit here like the roses. Her wide straw hat was caught down at either side with golden ribbons.

Why hadn’t he noticed before that it would prevent kisses?

She turned to look more closely at the sundial, leaning in but laughingly trying to protect her flimsy skirts from the rose thorns. He stepped forward to help, and she smiled up at him.

The buzz of insects among the flowers turned into a buzz in his head. Her hat shaded her face from the sun, but cast a golden glow and a hint of mystery. Her smiling lips were pink and parted, and he could almost taste their warmth.

What was beauty if not this?

With frightening clarity he could imagine her here as his wife. He would sweep her laughing into his arms and carry her upstairs to a bed covered with smooth sheets fresh from hanging in the sun. And there he would slowly, perfectly, ravish her.

He remembered to breathe, and when his hand was steady, he pulled out his penknife. “Let me cut you each a rose, ladies.”

He cut a pink one for Miss Trist, and carefully stripped the thorns before giving it to her. He cut a white one for Maria. But then he looked for a golden one, a perfect golden rose, just beginning to unfurl from bud, and gave it to Clarissa.

She remembered. He could tell by the way she blushed within the golden mysteries of her hat and raised the rose to inhale its perfume. He remembered his foolish, thoughtless words about roses…

And that she wasn’t for him.

Carpe diem.

The morrow was not for them.

He ached to reach out and touch her, simply touch her cheek. He wanted to tell her that this moment, at least, was true. He wanted to lock her in a safe and private place where she would never be in danger again.

The church clock began to chime, pulling him back to reality.

By the time it had struck the full ten, he could speak normally and invite his guests into the house. He steered them to the right, into the front parlor, then escaped, his excuse being having to tell his father they were here.

Clarissa looked around the modest but lovely room. The ceilings were low, and she’d noticed that Hawk had to duck slightly to get through the door, but it all created a coziness that wrapped itself around her. She could imagine sitting here on a stormy winter night, a huge fire burning in the hearth, curtains tightly drawn. A person would always feel safe here.

Even the Devil’s Heiress.

She knew without doubt that she would be safe in Hawk’s arms, and in his home.

She raised the golden rose to her nose. The scent was light, almost elusive, but it was sweet and seemed to carry the charm of sunlight. A golden rose. That had to mean that his fondness was real, and her plan was good. Whatever the reason for his hesitation, it was not from reluctance.

Perhaps he simply felt it wrong to hurry her. Though it seemed like a lifetime, she had been in Brighton for only a week. Perhaps he’d set himself a restraint—that he not propose inside a fortnight, for example.

She inhaled the rose again, smiling. She was sure that restraint could be broken.

Maria sat in one of the old wooden chairs with crewel-work cushions. “Do you like the manor, Clarissa?”

Clarissa pulled her wits together. “It’s lovely.”

“Perhaps it’s as well you think so. But at the least it needs new carpets.”

“Maria,” said her husband, “don’t start doing over someone else’s home.”

They shared a teasing smile, and Maria said, “That will be for Hawk’s wife to do.”

“Not until his father’s dead,” said Lord Vandeimen, and Clarissa saw a slight reserve touch his face. At thought of wife, or thought of father? Maria Vandeimen was discreet, but there might have been coolness in her mention of Squire Hawkinville during the journey here.

That was a small cloud on the horizon, she had to admit. She adored this house, but what would it be like sharing it with Hawk’s father, especially if he was an unpleasant man?

A small price for heaven.

“So,” said Maria, “what do you think on the subject of carpets, Clarissa?”

Clarissa looked at the faded and worn Turkish carpet that covered the rippling dark oak floor and felt that any change would disturb something as natural and perfect as the roses in the garden. When she looked carefully, she could see that the cushions on the old chairs sagged and the embroidery was faded and worn with time.

“I think they suit the house,” she replied with a smile, and Maria laughed.

“It’s as well we have different tastes, isn’t it?”

Clarissa glanced at Lord Vandeimen, a fine-looking man and pleasant, who stirred her not at all. “Yes, indeed.”

Maria chuckled.

A huge fireplace took up most of one wall, and an old oak settle sat to one side of it. The front wall was a bank of small-paned windows that stood open to the sunny courtyard. Clarissa wandered over. Soft perfume drifted in—rose, lavender, and many other plants she could not even name. Sparrows chirped in the eaves, doves cooed nearby, and all around, birds sang.

Oh, but she wanted Hawkinville Manor!

It seemed almost wrong to feel that way. It was Hawk she should want, and she did, desperately, but she was tumbling into mad love with his home as well.

More than love. It was as if the place was her setting, where she fit perfectly. She felt as if she were putting down roots now, tendrils winding through faded carpet and old oak floor into the earth beneath, determined to stay.

A gig rattled by outside the gates, startling her out of her impatient thoughts. Two women hurried past, chattering, laughing. Clarissa stepped back as if they might look and see her there, might see her yearning, but all the same she loved the way the house was part of the village, not stuck far away in a huge park.

Then Hawk returned, making her heart do a dizzying dance. The cat was still in his arms. “Let me show you around this floor. I’m afraid the manor isn’t a showplace, just a simple home.”

Clarissa went forward into the flagstoned hall.

The walls were wainscoted in blackened oak and painted white above, hung with the occasional painting. A small table against one wall held a bowl of mixed garden flowers. It wasn’t a formal arrangement, any more than this was a formal house, but it was pretty and entirely right for the setting.

A faint purr hummed from Jetta. Clarissa knew she would purr too if Hawk was stroking her in that absent-minded but continuous way.

“It’s lovely,” she said.

“I think so. It is doubtless impractical of me, but I don’t want to see it change.”

“Who would?”

He flashed her a smile. “Most people, especially if they had to actually live here. And are tall.” He ducked slightly to lead her into a dark-paneled dining room with another huge fireplace, ancient oak sideboards, and a thick table. That table had been polished so long and lovingly that the glossy top seemed to have the depth of a dark pool.

A mobcapped, aproned woman came in bearing plates. She bobbed a curtsy and went on with her business.

“Aren’t you tempted to have the doorways made higher?” she asked.

“It would be a serious structural challenge. I’m learning by painful experience.”

He led the way through an adjoining door into another parlor.

Another bank of windows almost filled the wall, and a window seat ran the width of it. Beyond lay a simple garden with lawn, rockery, and beds of flowers. And beyond that flowed the river. Two swans glided past as if completing the picture for her particular delight.

How wonderful to spend long summer evenings on this seat, by this river.

With Hawk.

It was not just wishful thinking.

Clarissa was determined that it would be so.