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She needed a gun. She had a pistol under the mattress of her bed. Should she seize it, or should she get Laurent? And as she debated what to do she saw a man cross the salon.
Evelyn froze again.
His stride had been unrushed, indolent—familiar.
Every hair on her nape had risen. Now her heart slammed.
He came to the doorway of the salon, holding a drink in his hand, and looked up at her.
And even in the shadows, even as their gazes locked, there was no mistaking who he was.
“I hear you are looking for me,” Jack Greystone said.
CHAPTER THREE
HE WASN’T SMILING as he spoke.
Evelyn seized the banister to remain upright. For an entire moment, one that felt like an eternity, she could not speak. She had found Jack Greystone—or, he had found her.
And he hadn’t changed. He remained so unbearably attractive. He was tall and powerfully built, clad now in a rather wet riding coat, fashionable lace cuffs spilling from the sleeves, a darker vest beneath. He also wore doeskin breeches and high black boots with spurs, now splattered with mud.
And his golden hair was pulled casually back, some of it escaping from its queue. But that only made his high cheekbones seem sharper, his jaw seem stronger. And his gray gaze was intent upon her.
Evelyn’s heart slammed another time—he was regarding her attire, rather thoroughly.
She knew she flushed. But she was dressed for bed, not for entertaining. “You have scared me witless, sir!”
“I apologize,” he said, and she could not decide if he meant it. “But I rarely go anywhere in broad daylight, and I never use the front door.”
Their gazes were now locked. She continued to reel, remaining stunned by his appearance in her home. He was referring now to the bounty on his head. “Of course not,” she managed.
He said wryly, as calm as she was not, “I have not misheard, have I? Half a dozen of my acquaintances have alerted me to the inquiries you have been, rather recklessly, making. You are looking for me, Lady D’Orsay?”
“Yes,” she said, suddenly very aware that he had just identified her as the Countess D’Orsay, not the Vicomtesse LeClerc. She had never corrected the misinformation she had deliberately given him—when they had parted company, four years ago, upon landing just south of London, he had still believed her to be Lady LaSalle, Vicomtesse LeClerc. “I am desperate to have a word with you, sir.” As she spoke, she recalled their first meeting, four years ago. She had been desperate then, and she had said so.
But his gaze never flickered; his expression did not change. It occurred to her that he did not recall that meeting—and that he did not recognize her.
But how could he fail to recognize her? Was it even possible?
His stare was prolonged. It was a moment before he said, “That is an attractive nightgown, Countess.”
He did not recognize her, she was now certain. It was shocking! She had remarkable features—everyone said so. She might be tired and pale, but she was still an attractive woman. Trevelyan had thought so.
She was flushing, uncertain of what he meant, and whether there had been mockery in his tone. She did not know how to respond to such a remark—or what to do about his failure to recognize her. “I was hardly expecting to find a visitor, within my home, at this hour.”
“Obviously.” He was wry. “If it eases you, I have two sisters, and I have seen a great many female garments.”
She felt certain he was laughing at her now. It crossed her mind that a great many of those female garments had not belonged to his sisters. “Yes, I had heard.”
“You have heard that I am accustomed to the sight of women in their nightclothes?”
“You know that is not what I meant.” But of course, it was probably very true! “I am going to get a robe—I will be right back!”
He seemed amused as he sipped his wine, looking up the stairs at her. Evelyn turned and fled, her disbelief growing. In her chamber, she threw on a cotton robe that matched her nightgown. Maybe he would recognize her once she stepped fully into the light. But just then, she was feeling oddly insulted.
Didn’t he think her attractive?
She forced herself to a calmer pace and returned downstairs. He was in the salon—he had lit several tapers, and he watched her as she entered. “How do you know about my sisters?” His tone remained bland. “Have you made inquiries about them, too?”
She was trembling, and her pulse was racing but she stiffened, instantly sensing that she was venturing into dangerous territory. He was, she thought, displeased. “No, of course not. But they were mentioned in the course of a conversation.”
“About me?” His stare was relentless.
She shivered. “About you, sir.”
“And with whom did you have this enlightening conversation?”
“John Trim.” Was he worried about betrayal? “He admires you greatly. We all do.”
His gray gaze flickered. “I suppose I should be flattered. Are you cold?”
Her pulse was rioting but she was hardly cold—she was unnerved, undone, at a loss! She had forgotten how manly he was, and how his presence teased the senses. “It is raining.”
There was a wool throw on the back of the sofa and, very casually, he retrieved it. She tensed as he approached. “If you are not cold,” he said softly, “then you are very nervous—but then, you are also very desperate.”
For an instant, she thought he had inflected upon the final word—and that he recalled their first meeting, when she had been so desperate, after all. But his expression never changed as he laid the wool about her shoulders and she realized that he did not remember her, not at all. “I am unused to entertaining at this hour,” she finally said. “We are strangers and we are alone.”
“It is half past nine, Countess, and you asked for this rendezvous.”
It felt like midnight, she thought. And clearly, he was not shaken by their encounter, not at all.
“Have I somehow distressed you?” he asked.
“No!” She quickly, falsely, smiled. “I am thrilled that you have called.”
He eyed her, askance. Thunder cracked overhead and the shutter slammed against the house. Evelyn jumped.
He had just raised his glass and now he set it down. “It is incredible, that you live in this house with but one manservant. I will close the shutter.” He left.
And when he was gone, she seized the back of the sofa, trembling wildly. How did he know that she lived alone with Laurent, her only manservant? Obviously he had made some inquiries about her.
But he did not recognize her. It was unbelievable, that she hadn’t made any impression on him.
He returned to the salon, smiling slightly, and shutting both doors behind them. Evelyn clutched the throw more tightly across her chest as their gazes met.
He walked past the sofa, which remained between them, and picked up his glass of wine. “I would prefer that no one here is aware of my presence tonight, other than yourself.”
“Everyone in this house is utterly trustworthy,” she managed, standing on the other side of the couch.
“I prefer to choose when to take risks—and which risks to take. And I rarely trust anyone—and never strangers.” His smile was cool. There was that odd, derisive, inflection again. “It shall be our little secret, Countess.”
“Of course I will do as you ask. And I am very sorry if my asking about you, so openly, has caused you any alarm.”
He took a sip of the red wine he was drinking. “I am accustomed to evading the authorities. You are not. What will you say to them when they come knocking at your door?”
She stared, dismayed, as she had not considered this possibility.
“You will tell them that you haven’t seen me, Lady D’Orsay,” he said softly.
“Should I expect a visit from the authorities?”
“I think so. They will advise you to contact them the moment you have seen me. And those are games best left to those who wish to play in very high stakes.” He paced past the sofa. “Do you want me to light a fire? You are shivering, still.”
She was trying to absorb what he had said, and she faced him, distracted. She wasn’t shivering, she thought, she was trembling. “You have obviously just come in out of the rain, so, yes, I imagine you would enjoy a fire. And I would, too.”
He shrugged off his damp wool coat. “I assume you do not mind? As the attire is so casual tonight?”
Was she blushing yet again? Was he mocking her again? Somehow she walked to him and took the jacket. The wool was very fine, and she suspected the coat had Italian origins. “Hopefully this will dry before you leave,” she said, although the rain was pounding the house again.
He eyed her, then removed a tinderbox from his waistcoat, knelt and started a fire. The kindling quickly took. He poked the logs with the iron poker until the wood was burning. Standing, he closed the grate.
Evelyn stepped beside him, holding his coat up in front of the warm fire. He glanced down at her. As they were standing so closely now, she saw a somewhat intent gleam in his eyes. It seemed suggestive and it felt seductive—like a raw male appraisal.
“Would you care for a glass of wine?” he asked, softly. “I so dislike drinking alone. That Bordeaux is excellent. And I hope you do not mind, I helped myself.”
His tone had become soft, raising goose bumps on her skin. “Of course I do not mind. It is the least I can offer you. But, no, thank you. I cannot imbibe on an empty stomach,” she said truthfully.
He turned and moved one of the salon’s two chairs to the front of the fire. Then he took the coat from her and hung it on the back of the chair. “I remain curious about your desire to speak with me. I have not been able to imagine what the Countess D’Orsay wishes of me.” His stride unhurried, he walked to the bar cart and retrieved his glass of wine.
She watched him, knowing she must not be distracted by his tone, his proximity, not when she had to make her case. “I have a proposition, Mr. Greystone.”
He stared over the rim of his glass. “A proposition… I am even more intrigued.”
Had he just looked through her robe and nightgown? Evelyn walked over to the sofa and sat down, still unnerved. She reminded herself that the cotton was far too tightly woven for him to be able to look through it, but she felt as if he had just taken a quick glance at her naked body.
“Countess?”
“It has come to my attention, Mr. Greystone, that you are probably the best free trader in Cornwall.”
His dark brows lifted. “Actually, I am the best smuggler in all of Great Britain—and I have the accounts to prove it.”
She smiled a little; she found his arrogance attractive, his confidence reassuring. “Some might be put off by your bravado, Mr. Greystone, but bravado is exactly what I require now.”
“I am now entirely intrigued,” he said.
She met his probing gray gaze and wondered if he was intrigued with her, as a woman. “I wish to hire a smuggler, and not just any smuggler, but someone who is skilled and courageous, to retrieve family heirlooms from my husband’s château in France.”
He set his glass down and said slowly, “Did I just hear you correctly?”
“My husband died recently, and those heirlooms are terribly important to me and my daughter.”
“I am sorry for your loss,” he said, without seeming to mean it. Then, he said, “That is quite the task.”
“Yes, I imagine it is, but that is why I have been seeking to locate you, Mr. Greystone, as surely you are the man capable of accomplishing such a mission.”
He stared for a long time, and she was becoming accustomed to being unable to discern even a hint of his thoughts or emotions. “Crossing the Channel is dangerous. Traveling within France now is madness, as it remains in the midst of a bloody revolution, Countess. You are asking me to risk my life for your family heirlooms.”
“Those heirlooms were left to me and my daughter by my recently deceased husband, and it was his greatest wish that I retrieve them,” she said firmly. When his expression did not change, she added, “I must recover them, and your reputation is outstanding!”
“I am certain they are important to you. I am certain your husband wished for you to have them. However, my services are quite expensive.”
She wasn’t sure what his stare meant—but he had said the exact same thing to her four years ago. Intending to offer him a share of the gold once it was in her possession, she said carefully, “The heirlooms are valuable, sir.” She did not think it wise to tell him that Henri had left her a chest of gold.
“Of course they are.... This isn’t about nostalgia, or sentiment, obviously.” He nodded at the barely furnished room.
“We have fallen into very strained circumstances, sir. I am desperate and I am determined.”
“And I am neither desperate nor determined. I prefer to preserve my life, and would only risk it for a great cause.” His gaze was piercing. “One with just compensation.”
“This is a great cause!” she gasped.
“That is a matter of opinion.” He was final.
He was going to refuse her? “I have hardly finished making my case,” she said swiftly.
“But haven’t you? My services are very costly. I do not mean to be rude, but it is obvious that you cannot afford them. I would need a great incentive to risk my life for you.” His stare locked with hers. “You are hardly the only impoverished widow in Cornwall. You will surely find a way into a better fortune.”
She wet her lips, shaken by the realization that their discussion would soon be over—and she would not have achieved his help. “But those heirlooms are very valuable, and I am prepared to offer you a very fair share,” she said quickly.
“A share?” He laughed. “I am always paid in advance, Countess. And how would you do that?” His smile vanished. His stare hardened. It slipped down her robe and nightgown. Then he turned away, his expression grim. His head down, he began to pace, wine in hand.
She trembled, watching him. She must focus now. When they had fled France, she had paid him with rubies—in advance. Now, she had very little jewelry left. She could not imagine using her last pieces now.
“Clearly, you are in some financial straits,” he said, finally looking at her. “Unfortunately, it is a common practice to take payment in advance—and it is good business. I am not interested in ‘fair shares,’ after the fact.”
She stared, dismayed. Of course he wanted an advance payment—what if he went to France and failed to retrieve the gold? Or was hurt during the voyage? So much could go wrong, preventing him from attaining a successful conclusion.
But she could not pay him in advance. So now what was she to do? The only thing that Evelyn was certain of was that she could not give up.
“Can you not make an exception?” Evelyn finally asked slowly. “For me and my daughter? We have fallen on terrible times, which you can see. I am desperate—because I am a mother! If all went well, you would be handsomely rewarded, just not in advance, and I am vowing it!”
He slowly turned and looked at her, his gray eyes dark. “I am not prepared to risk my life for you, Countess.”
Her mind raced frantically, as he was denying her—denying Aimee. “But I can promise you that there will be just compensation—I give you my word! Surely you have the heart to make an exception now, not for me, but for my daughter!”
He lifted his wine and finished it. “Do not try to use your daughter to play me,” he warned.
She didn’t mean to do any such thing—but he was about to walk out her door—she simply knew it! She was desperate, and impulsively, she moved to stand in front of him—to bar his way. “Please, do not dismiss my proposal. How can I convince you to at least consider it?”
