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Damn. “Where I go and what I do is none of your concern, Miss Lovejoy. Just stay out of my way.”
“Nor is what I do or where I go yours, Lord Morgan. And I shall be quite pleased to stay out of your way. Now, are you going to toss me out of your house on my ear?”
“You know I won’t,” he growled. “And you’re counting on that. But once your cousin is back—”
“All bets are off,” she finished for him with a wicked little quirk of her lips.
Oh! That impossible man! He leaves me alone for days, then simply appears in the middle of the night, demanding to see me, and telling me what to do!
Dianthe tossed her brush aside and stared at her reflection in the dressing table mirror. What was it about her that brought out the worst in that man? What was it in him that brought out the worst in her? She made a little moue in the mirror.
If forced to the truth, she would have to admit that Geoffrey Morgan had been as kind to her as she had allowed, and she hadn’t made even that easy for him. There was just something about him that set her on edge. Was it that he didn’t fawn over her like other men? Or that most of the time he just seemed annoyed by her?
She stood and glanced at the massive canopy bed. Had Lord Morgan ever slept there? She tried to imagine him lying tangled in the pristine sheets of satin-weave linen, his intense hazel eyes closed in slumber. Her breathing deepened and her heartbeat skipped. His lordship had an intangible air of danger and darkness about him that made her other beaux seem almost effeminate. She’d certainly never pictured any of them in a bed.
But this was foolishness! She had no intention of allowing herself to waste time in such utter nonsense as dreaming of that scheming devil. She untied the belt of her robe and shrugged out of it. A whiff of masculine shaving soap floated up to her from the discarded heap on the floor, and her knees weakened. What was wrong with her?
Geoffrey Morgan was everything she disliked in a man. He was arrogant, unscrupulous, ill-mannered, ruthless, cold, demanding and autocratic. Everything about him set her teeth on edge.
Then why couldn’t she stop thinking about him?
She closed her eyes and saw his face as he’d stood in her doorway. His eyes had burned into her and caused an answering heat to rise from somewhere near her belly. When he’d taken three steps into the bedroom, she’d wondered if he’d come to ravage her. And she was distressed to realize that thought did not trouble her much.
Or was it guilt that gnawed at her? Yes. That had to be it. Willingly or not, he’d given her shelter when she’d been desperate. He’d made certain his staff would see to all of her needs, and had given her relative independence. And she had repaid him with churlishness. Though he wouldn’t know it, she really had better manners than she’d shown him.
Yes. Henceforth, she’d give him no cause for complaint. She’d show him the respect he’d asked for. She’d be as civil to him as she would to any polite stranger. She’d be the very model of decorum and ladylike calm. She wouldn’t allow him to rankle her, no matter what he said or did.
Dawn was spreading a pink glow over rooftops and chimney pots when Geoff finally arrived at his house on Salisbury Street. The day servants had not arrived yet, and only his valet, Giles, and Hanson, the cook, lived in. Although the house was certainly large enough to warrant a live-in staff of five or so servants, he did not like the intrusion upon his privacy. Giles and Hanson, though, had come with him from his estate in Devon, and their absolute loyalty and discretion could be trusted.
He let himself in, tossed his jacket and vest on the foyer table and headed for the ballroom, rolling up his shirt-sleeves as he went. He was too restless to sleep. First there’d been that absurd confrontation gone awry with Miss Lovejoy, and then he’d actually lost at vingt-et-un. It wasn’t the loss of the money that bothered him—he’d lost more in an evening. It was the fact that he hadn’t been able to concentrate. His mind had been too full of blond hair and blue eyes—and an edge of transparent lace peeking from the V of his dressing robe.
Clearly, he needed to get rid of Dianthe Lovejoy as quickly as possible. Was there any point in sending a letter to her cousin in Italy? No. Certainly someone else had done that already.
Instinctively in tune with Geoffrey’s moods, Giles had left chandeliers alight in the ballroom, and the fireplaces lit at each end of the room. Light glittered off the mirrored walls and the crystal prisms of the chandelier, setting the room ablaze with reflected brilliance. Geoffrey walked the length of the room, trailing his index finger along the rack holding everything from lances to swords. He selected a claymore, savoring its weight and length. He needed something taxing tonight. Something to banish the memory of his robe draping a delicate frame.
He hefted the claymore and sliced vertically, then horizontally through the air. The whoosh of the blade satisfied something deep in his soul, and he smiled. He worked through a routine of standard moves, then offensive moves, then defensive ones. The echo of his boots on the marble floor and his heavy breathing from the exertion were the only sounds to rupture the silence. By the time he was done, a fine sheen of sweat dampened his skin and his white shirt, but he was not yet fatigued enough to sleep. He replaced the claymore in its slot and picked a deadly rapier—light in weight, sleek in build, treacherous at its point. Ah, yes. This blade sang as it slashed the air.
With an edge vertically to his forehead, he saluted his reflection in the mirrors. Working through a different routine, watching his form for mistakes or openings that an opponent could pierce, he found the lighter, more familiar blade almost became an extension of his arm. Only when the rising sun penetrated the French doors along one wall did Geoff replace the rapier in the rack. He hesitantly caressed the hilt of his cutlass, but turned away in exhaustion.
Now, perhaps, he’d sleep. Spent as he was, the guilt, the memories of Constance, Charlotte, Nell and the other women he’d failed, would not rise to haunt his dreams. Worse, he might dream of Dianthe Lovejoy. Her steadfast defiance amused him. Her beauty drew him. Her instinctive intelligence intrigued him. And his hunger for her was reaching a fever pitch. If he started seducing her in his dreams, would he be able to resist her in his waking moments?
Ah, but he’d have to claim Dianthe in his dreams, because he’d never claim her anywhere else. He’d make love to her there because, awake, he’d never risk loving her. He’d hold her close in his dreams, because he’d never allow her to rely upon him in life. He’d never take that risk of failing again. Never.
And when the isolation and solitude became too much to bear, he’d shut himself away with Flora Denton or one of the other lovelies of the demimonde again, for a few days or weeks, until that particular monster had been tamed enough to lock away for another term of penance.
He climbed the long curve of the staircase to his room, hardening his heart, reducing his hunger and need to a mere physical act. That’s all it was. That’s all he’d ever let it be.
The summons from Harry Richardson several hours later came as a surprise. Geoff hadn’t expected to hear from him for several days. Information packets from Tangier were slow in coming—at least during the summer months.
When he opened the door of the rented room, Harry jumped to his feet. “Glad you could come so quickly, Morgan.”
Geoff glanced at the small wooden table where charts, maps, pen and ink were laid out in waiting. “El-Daibul is on the move?” he guessed.
“We think so,” Harry replied.
“Think? You don’t know?” Geoff crossed to the table and looked down at the charts. Tangier, Gibraltar, Spain, Portugal. What was going on?
Harry shrugged. “We’ve lost him.”
Geoff fastened the man with an asking stare. How could an experienced operative lose a man of el-Daibul’s infamy and importance?
“He has disappeared,” Harry explained, looking a bit pale from Geoff’s study.
“When?”
Harry went to the small table beside the cot where the whiskey bottle was waiting. He poured himself a glass and quirked an eyebrow at Geoff.
Since he’d only risen an hour ago, that would be like drinking whiskey for breakfast. He hadn’t sunk to that level yet. “Too early,” Geoff said, though he had no doubt the male half of London was drinking by teatime.
After a swallow, Harry met Geoff’s gaze again. “We don’t know when, exactly. It just came to our attention that no one has seen el-Daibul for a month or more.”
“Christ! A month! Where can he have gone?”
“Don’t know. We haven’t been able to pick up his trail. We’ve got operatives searching Algiers to see if he went back there. So far, no luck.”
“Any word from the desert?” Geoff pointed to the Sahara on the map.
“No one has reported him moving overland.”
“Has the political climate changed? Any clues there?”
“Nothing new. The Americans are still harrying the Corsairs, but the underground market is still good for white slavery.”
“Always,” Geoff murmured. “Have you tried tracking his men?”
“They are all in place. Nothing unusual there, and one of the reasons it took us so long to realize that el-Daibul himself had not been seen for quite some time. It looks as if he went to considerable trouble to lull us into complacency.”
Geoff ran his fingers through his hair, smoothing a stray lock. Damn! What could the man be up to? Geoff could only hope this latest development was not a prelude to increased activity. Unless… “Harry, what’s the news from the docks? Any increase in reports of missing women?”
“Not in London.”
“Send men to Liverpool, Portsmouth and Dover. Contact Culver in France, Groton in Hamburg and Peters in Venice. Verify with them that the traffic is quiet. If there’s an increase, no matter how small, and no matter where, I want to know immediately.”
“What are you thinking?” Harry asked. His eyes narrowed suspiciously.
“I’m not certain. Just…verify. He’s up to something, Harry, I can feel it.”
Harry shook his head. “We’ll need evidence to get help from the Foreign Office.”
He sat and studied the maps. “Last time…when he was quiet, it was because the demand for Englishwomen was high enough to warrant certain…risks. Educated women of a higher social standing were in demand. Virgins.”
Harry nodded. “I remember. ’Twas 1816. The year Auberville nearly lost his wife. The year Constance Bennington was killed.”
Geoff said nothing. He still couldn’t talk about the horror and pain of finding Constance’s body in a pile of discarded rags. She’d come too close to learning the truth about the disappearing women, and she’d fought her attackers. Oh, God, if she just hadn’t fought! He could have gone after her. She might still be alive.
But Mustafa el-Daibul had wanted retribution in retaliation for their systematic closing down of the white slavery trade. And he hadn’t cared what form it took.
“So.” Harry exhaled. “You think this may be the same thing? You think he’s stepping up activity?”
Lord, Geoffrey almost hoped so. That might be better than the possibility of retaliation. He, at least, did not have a woman to worry about this time, but Auberville would have to be warned. He’d have to set guards over his wife and children.
Damn! Why did these things have to happen when he could ill afford the division of his attention? He’d give anything for a two-week respite—just long enough to get Miss Lovejoy off his hands. Or to get rid of Miss Lovejoy long enough to deal with el-Daibul.
“What is it, Morgan?” Harry asked. “Isn’t this what you’ve been hoping for? Haven’t you been trying to force el-Daibul’s hand? Flush him from hiding?”
Geoff nodded. “There are complications. If I didn’t have…a personal obligation at the moment, I’d be halfway to Gibraltar right now. I wish I knew where the hell the blighter was.”
“If you were to guess?”
“I’d say he’s gone back to Algiers. Or Tunis. That’s where the buyers are. Most likely, Tunis. The Dey of Algiers blamed him for the Bombardment in 1816. I think el-Daibul has been out of favor since then, which is why he shifted operations to Tangier. He blames Auberville and me for that particular debacle. El-Daibul’s wife and children were killed in the Bombardment, and that has given him another reason to hate me.”
“You make it sound personal, Morgan.”
“It is personal.” In point of fact, he suspected Constance had been killed as much for her place in his heart as for the fact that she’d fought her kidnappers. He could easily imagine el-Daibul ordering a “dead or alive” order to take Constance. Hide and seek. Cat and mouse. Attack and retreat. They’d played out all the stratagems. There wasn’t much left that hadn’t already been done. He and the white slaver had been engaged in a global duel to the death for the past five years, and nothing was sacrosanct, no rules inviolable.
Wisely, Harry remained silent. He went to the window and stood gazing out while Geoff made a few marks on the maps and a notation at the bottom.
What was it? What piece of the puzzle was just out of his grasp? A message? A taunt? There was a clue somewhere, something he should see and understand.
“Bloody goddamned hell!” He slammed his fist down on the table, rattling the ink bottle and miscellaneous pens.
“Easy, Morgan,” Harry soothed. “I hate it when you get this way. You’re too hard on yourself. Ease up a bit and let it come on its own.”
Geoff pushed back from the table. “Send for word from the ports, Harry, and get news to me the minute you have any. Steer clear of the Foreign Office. They’d have our heads if they thought we were compromising the uneasy peace they’ve forged.”
Harry nodded. “Where are you going?”
“To warn Auberville.”
Chapter Five
D ianthe sat at a dressing table in Madame Marie’s back fitting room and made a tight coil of her pale hair before pinning it at her crown. She watched Madame lower the black wig over her head and snug it into place.
“Ah, chérie! This is the mistake, no?”
Dianthe stared at her reflection. With every strand of blond hair covered, she had taken on a foreign look. Pale skin with a hint of pink on her cheeks, clear blue eyes and a beauty patch on one cheekbone made her virtually unrecognizable.
“Mistake?” she asked. “You think the beauty patch is too much?”
“Mais non, chérie! But the idea was to make you less noticeable. This—” she waved at Dianthe’s reflection “—will turn ’eads.”
“I do not care about that, Madame. More to the point is if I will be recognized.” Indeed, Dianthe was nearly desperate to change her appearance. She hadn’t been outside without her bonnet and veils since taking refuge at Lord Geoffrey’s house. Anything to evade the killer who, according to Nell, would come for her next.
Madame Marie stepped back to study her critically. “Never!” she said.
Dianthe pulled one curl down and watched as it sprang back into place. She rather liked the way she looked, and she certainly felt safer.
Madame Marie arranged the style in an artful manner and stood back to observe her work. “I did not think you could be more beautiful, chérie, but I was wrong. You look so…à la française.”
Just the thing she wanted. Her French was very good, and she knew she could fake a believable accent. She’d worn a veil to Marie’s shop but she wouldn’t wear one when leaving. She wouldn’t need it.
Best of all, this disguise would be perfect for her new plan. With the wig, an accent, a sophisticated attitude and a new name, she would be worlds apart from Dianthe Lovejoy of Little Upton, Wiltshire. Soon. Very soon.
“Là!” Madame Marie exclaimed. “I do not like that look, chérie. You are ’atching some plot, are you not?”
Dianthe blinked. “I am sure I don’t know what you mean, Madame. I am just pleased that I will not have to go about veiled and shrouded. ’Twill be nice to see where I am walking. Would you have a few cosmetics to further disguise me?”
Madame Marie rummaged in a small kit. “You do not need it, chérie, but I ’ave a powder that will warm your pale complexion and lip rouge and kohl for the eyes and lashes.”
A knock at the door drew Madame Marie’s attention away. “That will be François,” she said. “’E said there are matters to discuss with you.”
Francis Renquist opened the door a crack and called in. “Are you decent, Miss Lovejoy?”
“But of course she is decent, François.” Madame Marie smiled at her husband. She let him in and went around him, speaking over her shoulder. “She looks just like ma mere, Lizette Deauville. I ’ave an appointment, chérie. I shall see you tomorrow when the ladies come, eh?”
“Oui,” she called, turning from the mirror to face Mr. Renquist. “Do you have news?” she asked.
Mr. Renquist looked dumbstruck. His eyes widened and he stared at her with his mouth agape. “I, ah. You…are Miss Lovejoy?”
She smiled. “Then you do not think I’d be recognized on the street?”
He shook his head, his eyes never leaving her. “But do not let that make you reckless, Miss Lovejoy.”
“And once I shed the disguise and go back to being Dianthe Lovejoy?”
“No one would link the two of you together,” he confirmed.
Thank heavens. Now she was free to proceed with her plan. But first, she asked, “Did you learn anything, Mr. Renquist?”
He shook his head as if to clear it. “No. The men I interviewed are well-respected family men. All have alibis for the night of the murder.”
Dianthe wondered how any man who’d dallied with a courtesan and had been fond enough of one to attend her funeral could be a “family man.” “And the others?” she asked. “Did you learn their names?”
“Yes, miss. Nigel Edgerton and Lord Geoffrey Morgan among them. I have not interviewed them yet.”
“As it happens, Mr. Renquist, my cousin and aunt are well acquainted with Lord Morgan. If you will speak with Mr. Edgerton, I shall interview Morgan.” The last thing she wanted was for Mr. Renquist to question Geoffrey Morgan. If he should slip and give her whereabouts away, Mr. Renquist would call him out.
“I am not certain that is a good idea, Miss Lovejoy. Lord Morgan has a reputation as the worst sort of rake.”
