Fortune's Lady (9 page)

A muffled crash from somewhere in the house made her sit up. She listened intently to the predawn silence. A burglar? Another crash, then a thud, and now a low, agonized moan. Oh heavens, it was Freddy! She leapt out of bed and made a grab for her robe, hastily tying it while she threw open the door and raced down the darkened stairs. If that monster had shot him after all—!

She found him in the drawing room. “Freddy!” she cried, rushing to the sofa where he lay, face down. Snoring. Reeking of gin. “Oh, Freddy,” she sighed ruefully. She bent and gently straightened his wig.

“Touching.”

She jumped as if a gun had gone off in her ear. Riordan was standing in near-darkness by the door. He came toward her and she clutched at her robe in a purely instinctive gesture of self-defense.

He stopped when he was four feet away, the tea-table between them, and studied the clear outline of her breasts under the worn silk dressing gown she was pulling so tightly around her. Her hair hung about her shoulders in a glorious tangle; her thin white feet were bare. She was naked under the robe and he already knew what it was like to touch her….

Bloody hell! He wasn't going to let her do this to him again, the damned witch. He glowered at her, unwillingly beguiled by the set of her small, determined jaw.

“What are you doing here?” Cass asked in a quaking but low voice. Now that she knew her cousin was only drunk, not dead, she wasn't anxious to rouse the rest of the house.

“Why, I'm bringing young Freddy home,” Riordan explained amiably. “We've been drinking.”

Cass glanced from the motionless dead weight of her cousin on the couch to the alert, upright posture of Riordan. Freddy might have been drinking, but this man definitely had not.

“Why?”

“Because we're old friends, are Fred and I. Ever since I explained to him that the little contretemps he witnessed between us at the Clarion Club was only a passionate lovers' quarrel. And that if he shot me it would break your heart.”

She stared, open-mouthed. “You—you—” Words failed her.

Riordan smiled; there was nothing he liked better than rendering Cass Merlin speechless. “Shall I leave him here, do you think, or shall we put him to bed together?”

“Just go!” she hissed furiously. She badly wanted to yell at him. “Get out of here right now and don't ever come back!”

He came around the side of the table and stood in front of her. She held her ground, primarily because if she d taken a step back she'd have fallen on top of Freddy. “Why so angry, Cass?” he asked softly. “Because of what we did? Or what we didn't have time to do?” His hand on the soft nape of her neck silenced whatever reply she was going to make. He watched her lovely gray eyes darken to pewter, then kissed her as gently as he'd ever kissed a woman. He felt her breath on his cheek, warm and sweet. Heard her soft sigh. Stepped back as if he'd been burned.

Belatedly, Cass brought up a clenched fist and scrubbed furiously at her lips. “You're vile.” He only smiled. She looked around for something to throw. “You'd
better
go,” she said boldly to his retreating back. “If you ever touch me again, I'll blacken your eye as well as your jaw!”

He turned at the door. “I'll remember that. Will it be before or after I take you to bed, do you think? Just so I'll know when to duck.” Cass bent and picked up one of Freddy's shoes from the floor. Riordan chuckled. “See you this afternoon, sweet. Wear another one of those goddess dresses, will you? I love the way you feel in them.”

He was through the door before she could bring her arm back.

John Walker poked his head in the bedroom door. His employer was shaving himself, as he preferred to do when he had time, wearing nothing but a towel knotted around his waist. “Excuse me, sir.”

“What is it, John?”

“Mr. Quinn is downstairs. Shall I tell him you'll be down shortly?”

Riordan drew his lips in to shave under his nose. “No,” he answered after a moment, “tell him to come up. Oh, and John.”

“Yes, sir?” The secretary opened the door wider.

“Get Beal in here and tell him to find me something to wear.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Also, I'm hungry.”

“Very good, sir.”

The door closed and Riordan went back to shaving. He squinted at his face in the mirror. Three hours sleep in the middle of the day; this decadent life was sure to kill him. Was his hair getting grayer? He ran his fingers through it, peering at his reflection critically. After last night, it was a wonder he wasn't bald. Women were always saying they liked the silver streaks, but he wasn't sure anymore. He was always quick to tell them it had started coming in this way when he was twenty. Now that he was nearing thirty, the explanation wasn't as consoling as it used to be. Well, he guessed he could always take to wearing a wig.

Somebody's flat palm pushed the door open on a rush of air. He didn't have to look around to know it was Oliver, mad as a hornet.

“So. You're awake.”

He turned, razor in hand. “Have I been sleeping too long?” he asked with deep sarcasm. Quinn made an erasing gesture with his hand. “I was occupied with a drunken baronet until dawn; my meeting with the committee went on till noon. I didn't realize a few hours rest in the afternoon would discompose you so, Oliver.”

“Never mind that. I just have one question, Philip: What in the name of God were you thinking of?”

Riordan turned back to the mirror, avoiding the older man's eyes. “At what particular time?”

“Don't play games with me.”

He laid his razor down and picked up a towel, still not answering, trying to shake the feeling of being a naughty boy who has angered his schoolmaster. After twenty years, he marveled, Oliver still had that effect on him.

“A dozen people saw you with her,” Quinn persisted. “Didn't you realize it?”

“I thought no one would recognize me.”

“No one would have if you hadn't made such a spectacle of yourself! Did you think you could”— he sputtered, then got it out—“have
intercourse
with her in a public garden?”

In spite of himself, Riordan laughed. “The thought crossed my mind,” he admitted.

“Idiot! Even Wade saw you mauling her! If you were trying to test her, why not do it in private?”

There was a knock and the door opened. It was Walker again.

“Go on, Oliver. You can speak in front of John.”

“I asked you a question.”

The door opened again; to Riordan's relief it was Beal, his valet, in front of whom they couldn't speak. Behind him was a yellow-haired chambermaid with a tray. She set it down on a table by the bed, blushing prettily at the intimidating sight of the master's all but naked body, and went away.

“Anyone care to join me?” asked Riordan, indicating the tray. No one responded.

“I've already laid your clothes out in the dressing room, sir,” said the valet in an aggrieved tone.

“Oh, have you, Beal? All right, then. Go away.”

“Yes, sir.” He left.

“I'm still waiting,” Quinn reminded him.

Riordan went to the tray, picked up a meat pie, whole, and took a tremendous bite out of it. He stared at Quinn, chewing slowly. Walker stood a short distance away, hands behind his back, quiet and unobtrusive as always. Finally Riordan swallowed. “What was the question?”

Quinn let out an angry breath. “The whole plan is ruined, thanks to you! How is she supposed to begin an affair with Wade when everyone thinks she's having one with you?”

“That is a bit sticky, I can see that,” he returned, unrepentant. “I guess it wasn't such a good idea to use Miss Merlin after all.”

Quinn turned sharply to the secretary. “Walker, would you mind leaving us for a few minutes?”

Riordan protested; Quinn insisted. The secretary excused himself.

“Now,” said Quinn.

Riordan spun on his heel and went into the dressing room, unfinished pie in hand, but it was no use. Quinn was right behind him. He threw off his towel and reached for the white cambric shirt Beal had put out.

“I'd hoped the kind of behavior you exhibited last night was something you'd safely relegated to the past.” Quinn's voice was heavy with disapproval. “What happened?”

Riordan pulled on his breeches, avoiding the other man's eyes. “Nothing happened,” he said sullenly. “She was there. She was willing. That's all. For Christ's sake, Oliver, I'm only human.”

Quinn shook his head. “I'm disappointed, Philip. I was sure that kind of woman no longer appealed to you.”

“What kind of woman is that?” he asked very softly, his hands suddenly still over the buttons of his shirt.

Quinn looked at him in surprise. “You know what kind of woman I mean. The sort I thought you'd given up by now. You weren't drinking, were you?”

“No!” he denied hotly.

“Thank God for that, at least.”

Riordan turned around and tied his cravat in silence, then sat down to pull on his stockings. “It wouldn't have worked anyway,” he muttered defensively. “The girl is hopelessly naive about politics. She'd never have been able to convince Wade she gave a damn about the Revolution.”

“That could have been remedied. She's not stupid, after all.”

Riordan shrugged. “Wade would've seen through her in a minute,” he insisted.

“What was your impression of her? Aside from politics, I mean. Would she have been shrewd enough to pull it off?”

He took a long time answering. He put on his shoes, shrugged into his waistcoat and coat. He ran his hands through his hair to comb it, peering into the wardrobe mirror. Finally he turned around. “I'm not sure.”

Quinn frowned. “You're not sure? Philip, this is what you were supposed to be finding out last night, remember?” He sighed in irritation. “Do you agree that she's passably intelligent?”

“Yes, yes.”

“Could she convince Wade she feels angry and resentful over her father's death?”

He hesitated. “Perhaps. Yes, probably,” he conceded unwillingly.

“Could she seduce him?”

Riordan's scowl blackened. A number of answers came to mind, but in the end he only laughed harshly and said, “Oh, most definitely.”

“Fine. And we already know she'd be willing to seduce him, after her performance last night with you. At least you were successful at finding out one thing.” He stared at his friend speculatively. “You seem upset, Philip. Is something wrong?”

“No.”

“Good. What time is it?”

Riordan patted his empty pocket, then went to the mahogany bureau and opened a jewelry case. “Four-fifteen,” he answered, pocketing his watch. “She's late. She was late last night as well. Oliver, I just don't think she'll do.”

“Because she's not punctual?”

“No, of course not. She's too—” He paused, unable to think of the word. “Young,” he said finally, although that wasn't quite it. Quinn sent him a long, measuring look. He was relieved when Walker appeared again in the open door.

“Miss Merlin is here, sir. I've put her in the library.”

“Thanks.” He looked back at Quinn. “Well?” The older man went first. Riordan followed him out of the room and down the stairs.

Cass was too nervous to stay seated in the chair the man named Walker had guided her to. Almost before the door closed behind him she jumped up and began pacing the large, sunny, dark-paneled library. Turkish carpets on the shiny wood floor were thick and richly colored; the windows were old-fashioned casements overlooking a small but charming garden. The high ceiling was carved and decorated with what she supposed were scenes from classical antiquity; there were busts in niches along the wall, no doubt representing great thinkers, though none looked familiar to her. The faint smell of leather reminded her of the library at Madame Clement's, her most recent finishing school, and made her feel slightly nauseated.

She moved restlessly about the room, stroking a huge globe and sending it spinning in its stand, staring without seeing at the enormous framed maps on the wall. She wandered back to the windows. What did Riordan do for a living? she wondered for the first time. Probably nothing; people with homes as large and grand as this one didn't need to work. Everything was very quiet, though the house was in the heart of fashionable Mayfair. A curved velvet seat below the bay window looked inviting. On it sat a viola in an open case; Cass bent down and ran the backs of her fingers across the strings once, wondering who played.

Footsteps sounded in the hall. She patted the sedate knot she'd tied her hair into and smoothed the skirt of her deliberately sober, dove-gray silk dress. It took courage to leave the quiet seclusion of the window and venture into the center of the room, there to greet three rather grim-looking gentlemen.

“Ah, Miss Merlin,” Quinn said with somber cordiality. “Did you meet Philip's secretary, John Walker?”

She said she had, nodding again to the fair-haired, serious-looking young man, and wondering why Riordan needed a secretary. She also wondered why Quinn was taking the lead with greetings and introductions. Wasn't this Riordan's house?

She took a breath, for the first time allowing her eyes to flick across him. She had a hasty impression of a tan coat and brown breeches, and a wary expression on his much-too-handsome face. Quinn invited her to have a seat; she took the same high-backed velvet-covered chair she'd had before, and he took an identical one beside her. Mr. Walker asked if he should take notes. Riordan shook his head and sat on the edge of the large desk nearby, facing her. She was intensely aware of him as he leaned back on his hands, one long leg outstretched. She looked away, but at the edge of her vision she took note of the muscles in his stockinged calves, the smooth power of his thighs. Quinn was speaking. She tried to attend to his words, but instead caught herself remembering the extraordinary sweetness of Riordan's kiss a few hours ago. Against her will, her gaze moved slowly away from Quinn to Riordan, until she was held by the intent blue stare—not mocking now, but searching her face as if for the answer to a question. His cheeks had a faint pinkish glow. She imagined him shaving or being shaved, and was inexplicably stirred by the image, the thrilling intimacy of such an everyday act. She realized he was staring at her mouth. An erotic rush flooded through her. She tried to look away, but it was impossible. A sound like falling water filled her ears and everything blurred except his face, which stayed in sharp, uncanny focus. Finally it was Quinn's voice, loud and almost peevish, that brought her back to reality.