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‘What was it you stole, may I ask? Only Jacob has not let on, for some reason.’
‘For a very good reason,’ Elliot said drily. ‘I suppose there is no harm in telling you, since you already have my fate in your hands. It was a diamond. A large blue diamond, reputedly cut from the original French crown jewels. Kinsail came by it in what one might call a rather roundabout and unorthodox manner.’
‘You mean illegally? Jacob?’ Deborah squeaked.
‘Why do you look so surprised?’
‘Because he’s a sanctimonious, parsimonious prude who is never happier than when condemning others for lack of principles or morals or—well, anyway—’ She broke off, realising she had once again forgotten her golden rule of keeping her feelings strictly under wraps. This man unsettled her. ‘How did you know about it?’
‘I have my sources.’
‘Goodness. Do you mean those people they call fences? The ones who live in the Rookeries?’ Deborah asked, using with relish the cant she had only ever written.
‘I have to say, for an upstanding member of the aristocracy you seem to have an unhealthy interest in the seamy underbelly of society.’
‘I prefer to attribute it to a vivid imagination. Is it true what they say? That there is not a safe in England you cannot break?’
‘I have not yet encountered one,’ Elliot said, rather taken aback by her reaction, which seemed to be fascination rather than disapproval.
She was sitting on a bench in Hyde Park in broad daylight with the notorious Peacock. She should be calling the authorities. But instead of being in fear for her life she looked intrigued—excited, even. He had the distinct feeling that he had in Deborah Napier, Dowager Countess of Kinsail, met someone almost as subversive as he was himself.
‘I wish you would tell me all,’ she said, as if to confirm his thoughts. ‘Why do you do it? What is it like to pit your wits against the world as you do? Are you ever afraid of being caught?’
She had not asked him what he’d done with the diamond. Surely that was the first question any woman would have asked? But she seemed to have no real interest in the outcome, only the method. Just like him—well, at least in part.
‘There’s always a chance,’ Elliot replied, beguiled by the way her eyes lit up. ‘But if it was no risk it would not be worth doing. That is part of it for me—the excitement, knowing that one false move could be an end. There’s nothing like it. Not since …’
‘The army?’
‘How did you know that?’
‘The way you walk. The scars on your face.’ Deborah touched his brow, felt a jolt at the contact and drew her hand away quickly. ‘The first time I met you I thought you were a man used to being in command. Were you a soldier for long?’
‘Sixteen years. We ran off when I was just fifteen, me and my school friend Henry. Like you, he was orphaned, only his father had made no provision for him. In the same week he lost his family and his place at school. He was to be apprenticed to a lawyer.’ Elliot laughed. ‘Henry—a lawyer. Nothing could be more unlikely. He decided he would enlist instead, and I decided to go with him because by then I’d had enough of school and the notion of returning to the family estates and learning from my father how to take up the reins sounded like purgatory. So we ran off together, lied about our ages.’
‘What about your parents?’
‘My mother was dead. My father was not particularly happy, but we were not yet at war at that point, and I persuaded him that it would be good for me to learn some independence and some discipline. He bought me my first commission. Then the wars with Napoleon came, and by that time I’d discovered I had a talent for soldiering. The army was my family. In a way it was selfish of me, but by that time my loyalty to my men was such that—to be frank—I could not have left while there was a war to be won. To his enormous credit, my father supported me in that. I was a major when I resigned my commission after Waterloo. My only regret is that my father died just six months after I returned home.’
‘It must have been very difficult for you to adjust to civilian life after all that time.’
‘Yes, it was. Very.’ Her perception surprised Elliot. ‘People don’t really see that.’
‘People never do. I was nineteen when I married. When Jeremy died I found I had no idea who I was. Two years later I’m still not sure.’
‘I came home to take up the mantle of my family estates, to settle down into the quiet country life I’d joined up to avoid in the first place. Not much more than two years ago and I’m still not sure, either, who I am. I’m not a soldier any more, but I’m pretty damn sure that I’d die of boredom as a country squire.’
‘So you’ve taken up housebreaking instead? Is that it?’ Deborah asked, looking amused.
‘Partly.’
‘I wish I’d thought of something as exciting, but I lack the skills. How came you to acquire them? Is it part of basic army training, lock-picking?’
Elliot laughed. ‘No, but the British army is made up almost entirely of volunteers, you know. You’d be astonished at the skills one can learn from the men.’
‘Is that how you came about your contacts, too?’ Deborah chuckled. ‘I do not recall reading in the newspapers that the war against Napoleon was won by fences and pickpockets and the like.’
‘The war was won by poor bastards from all walks of life who enlisted because they had the misguided belief that at the end of it they would have made a better life for themselves and their families,’ Elliot said grimly. ‘The same poor bastards you see begging on the streets now—those of them who made it home.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Deborah said, taken aback by the sudden change in him. ‘I did not mean to make light of it. You must have lost some good friends.’
‘Yes.’ Surprised by the urge to confide in her, Elliot took a deep breath. ‘Sorry.’
‘You have no need to be. I should have known better. Time makes no difference with such scars, does it? A year, two—people think you should have forgotten.’
‘I won’t ever forget.’
‘Nor I,’ Deborah said softly.
She recognised that tone. And the look in his eyes—the darkness, suffering, guilt. She wondered what it was that had put it there. It went too deep to be solely down to the horrors of war. But though she was tempted to ask, she did not. Something about him—a shuttered look, a reticence—warned her off. Besides, questions begat questions. She did not wish to reveal why it was she understood him.
‘What do you do with your time?’ Elliot asked. ‘Despite what you said, you don’t give the appearance of one who is enjoying her widowhood.’
‘I am still becoming accustomed,’ Deborah said with a shrug. ‘It is not what I expected—not that I was actually planning for it, because Jeremy was only six-and-thirty. I mean, I did not murder him or anything like that.’
‘But you thought about it?’
‘Well, only by way of diversion when I was …’ Writing my first book, she had been about to say.
Deborah stared at Elliot, aghast. He was trying not to smile. The corner of his mouth was quivering with the effort of restraining his laughter.
‘It’s not funny. That was a shocking thing to make me say,’ she said, trying to hide the quiver in her own voice.
‘I did not make you say anything.’
‘You know, I wish you would take me with you,’ Deborah said impulsively.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘Just once. I wish I could accompany you—the Peacock. It would be—I don’t know—marvellous.’ And perhaps inspiring, Deborah thought.
Elliot burst out laughing. ‘Marvellous! I’ve heard my escapades described in many ways, but marvellous has never been one of them. You are the most original woman I have ever met.’
‘Yes? I take that as a huge compliment, I think. Have you met many women?’
‘Many. They’ve asked me many things, too,’ Elliot said wickedly. ‘But not one of them has shown an interest in housebreaking.’
‘Well, I am very interested in housebreaking,’ Deborah said, trying not to think about the many voluptuous and experienced women Elliot had met. ‘Will you consider it?’
‘Consider—good God. You are not serious?’
She could not quite believe it herself, but it seemed she was. For one night, she would step out of her shadow, cast off the ghosts which haunted her and act as boldly as her literary alter ego. In fact, she would be Bella. It was perfect. Just exactly the boost her writing needed to stop it from stagnating.
Deborah’s eyes positively sparkled. ‘You have no idea how much,’ she said.
Elliot seemed to find her enthusiasm amusing. He was laughing—a deep, gruff sound which shivered over her skin. She found herself staring at his mouth. His knee pressed into her thigh through the cambric of her dress. Little ripples of heat spread from the contact. Up.
‘Will you take me?’ she asked, half-joking, half-something else she chose not to acknowledge.
Elliot couldn’t take his eyes off her mouth. She smelled of spring and flowers and something more elusive. He leaned closer. There were just the tiniest traces of lines around her eyes. He’d thought her three- or four-and-twenty, but she must be older. That darkness that lurked at the back of her eyes was experience. She was a widow. He couldn’t possibly kiss her here, in the park. But she was a widow. So not married. Or not any more. He wanted to kiss her. He wanted to do a lot more than that.
‘Elliot, will you take me?’
She was serious! He sat back, blinked, pulled his hat from his head, looked at it, put it back again. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘It’s not ridiculous,’ Deborah said, too taken up with the outrageous idea to care how wild it sounded, to notice the reckless edge to her voice. This was what she wanted. This was what she’d been waiting for. Excitement—enough to jolt her out of her melancholy. And experience. The authenticity it would lend to her story would give Bella Donna a new lease of life. ‘Please, Elliot.’
Her hand was on his coat sleeve. Her gloves were worn. His own were new. He hated wearing gloves. He wanted to feel her skin. ‘No,’ he said, shaking her hand away. ‘I could not possibly …’
‘Why not? Are you afraid I would mess things up for you? I would not, I promise, I would do only as you instructed.’
For a few wild seconds he imagined it—the pair of them in cahoots. Her presence would lend a wholly new edge to the thrill of the escapade. What the devil was he thinking? ‘Madness,’ Elliot exclaimed, leaping to his feet. ‘You don’t know what you’re asking. To risk the gallows …’
‘It would not come to that. It never has yet—you are too clever for that.’ She couldn’t understand why, but she had to persuade him. ‘Please. My life is so—you have no idea. I can’t explain, but if I could just—I want to feel alive!’
Elliot had no difficulty in recognising that particular sentiment. It was still madness and he still had no intention of agreeing, but he couldn’t help empathising with what she said. ‘Deborah, it’s impossible,’ he said gently.
‘It’s not.’ Desperation made her ruthless. ‘I want to come with you the next time. In fact, I am determined to come with you; if you do not agree I will inform upon you.’
This he had not anticipated. God dammit, he couldn’t help admire her daring. She must want this very badly. He wondered why. That fatal curiosity of his. Elliot tried valiantly to stifle it. ‘You would be unwise to do so. By your silence, you have already implicated yourself. I could say that you were my accomplice.’
‘Oh!’ The wounded look Deborah gave him was almost comical. The resolute set to her mouth which followed, the straightening of her shoulders, was not. ‘It is a risk I’m prepared to take.’
‘It seems to me that you’re prepared to take a great many risks.’
‘You think so? You don’t know me very well.’
The light went out of her so quickly it was almost like looking at a different person. One minute she was sparkling, the next bleak. He recognised the edge of desperation which made her reckless. She was a fascinating mixture.
It would be madness to consider doing as she asked. He was only thinking about it because he wanted her. He wanted her a lot. And she wanted him too—though she would no more acknowledge it than her real reasons for wishing to break into a house with him. If he did not take her, what then? He could not possibly be considering this.
Slowly, he began to shake his head.
‘No! Please, don’t say no. I mean it, Elliot—if you say no I will inform on you.’
Really, he could not imagine a more original female. She was quite as ruthless in her own way as he was. Elliot’s smile was a slow curl, just the one side of his mouth. His finger traced her determinedly set lips. The pulse at her throat fluttered. He felt the shallow intake of her breath, but she did not flinch. Ridiculous, but what he thought he saw in her was a kindred spirit. One who stood on the edge of society. It was absolute madness even to be considering doing as she asked.
‘You won’t persuade me with threats,’ he said softly. ‘If I take you, it will be because I want to.’
The words made Deborah shiver. Did he want her? Want her? No one had ever wanted her like that. ‘And do you—want me?’ she asked. Because it was exactly what Bella Donna would have said, and because if she let herself think like Deborah she’d turn tail and flee and regret it for the rest of her days, and she was sick, sick, sick of regrets.
Looking round swiftly to check they were quite alone, Elliot pulled her to him, a dark glint in his eyes. ‘You are playing a very dangerous game, Deborah Napier. I would advise you to have a care. For if you dance with the devil you are likely to get burnt. You may come with me, but only if you promise to do exactly as I say.’
‘You mean it!’ Oh, God, he meant it! She would be a housebreaker. A thief!
Since this rather vital aspect hadn’t actually occurred to her until now, Deborah wavered. But her failing to take part would not avert the crime. And if their victim was like Jacob most likely he would deserve it anyway, or could easily afford the loss. And Bella needed this, and she needed Bella, and Elliot was waiting for an answer. She would never get another chance. Never!
‘I promise,’ she said. ‘I’ll do exactly as you say.’
‘Then prove it. Kiss me,’ Elliot said audaciously, not thinking for a moment that she would.
But she did. Without giving herself time to think, her heart hammering against her breast, Deborah stood on tiptoe, pulled his head down to hers, and did as she was bid. Right there in Hyde Park, in the middle of the day, she kissed him.
Chapter Three
She meant it as a kiss to seal their bargain, but as soon as her lips touched his memories, real and imagined, made the taste of him headily familiar. Elliot’s hands settled on her hips, pulling her closer. Deborah linked her gloved hands around his neck, enjoying the lean length of his body hard against hers, just as before, in the dark of night, when he had landed on top of her.
His lips were warm on hers, every bit as sinfully delicious as she’d imagined, coaxing her mouth to flower open beneath his, teasing her lips into compliance, heating her gently, delicately, until his tongue touched hers. She shuddered, felt rather than heard his sharp intake of breath. The kiss deepened, darkened, and Deborah forgot all about her surroundings as Elliot’s mouth claimed hers, as he pulled her into the hard warmth of his body, so close that she could feel the fob of his watch pressing into her stomach, smell the starch on his neckcloth.
It was a kiss like none she had ever tasted, heated by the bargain it concluded, fired by the very illicitness of their kissing here in a public space, where at any moment they could be discovered. She could not have imagined, could not have dreamed, that kissing—just kissing—could arouse her in this way. She had not thought it possible—had not even attributed such an awakening to Bella Donna.
The clop of a horse passing on the other side of the high hedge penetrated the hazy mists of her desire-fuelled mind. Deborah wrenched herself free even as Elliot released her. They stared at each other, breathing heavily. He tugged at his neckcloth as if it were constricting him. Her gloved hand touched her lips. They felt swollen.
Elliot picked his hat up from the ground where it had fallen, striving for a nonchalance he was far from feeling. The reality of Deborah Napier’s kisses made a poor shadow of his fantasies. It was complete folly, unbelievably risky, but if this intriguing creature wanted to join forces with his alter ego he could not refuse her.
He wanted her. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do about that, but he was sure he wanted to do something. Not that that was why he was going to agree to this madness. He was doing it for her. To relieve the darkness behind those beguiling eyes. To release her, if only temporarily, from the emotional embargo she seemed to have placed upon herself. That was the only reason. The main one, certainly.
‘Are you quite sure you want to do this?’ he asked.
Still dazed and confused by the delights of lip on lip, tongue on tongue, struggling to tamp down the shocking and wholly new passion which their kiss had lit, Deborah was not at first sure what he was asking. Then the meaning of his question sank home, and she smiled. It was not the tight, polite smile behind which she usually hid, but a wide, true smile which lit her eyes, wiping the haughty expression from her face and with it several years.
‘Oh, yes,’ she said, ‘I’m sure.’
A week went by before she heard from him again. A week when sanity took hold in the light of day and Deborah wondered what on earth had possessed her to suggest this wild escapade.
Housebreaking and stealing—the simple fact that they were illegal should be suffice to prevent her even contemplating them. Her conscience told her so several times a day, her head warned her of the possible consequences, yet her heart would listen to none of it. Whether she accompanied him or not, the Peacock would commit the crime. He was never caught. And even if she was discovered, there was the sad, indisputable fact, that she couldn’t make herself see the difference between the prison she already inhabited and gaol, no matter how often she told herself there was an enormous difference.
Had her doubts been more constant they would have prevailed, but the problem was they were fickle things, dissolving whenever she took up her pen, or played out her encounter with Elliot again, or with the coming of dusk. Excitement took hold of her then. Jagged and dangerous like one of the saw-toothed swords she had seen in an exhibition at Bullock’s Museum in Piccadilly, it was fatally enticing. For the first time in a very long time, she really wanted something.
She knew what she contemplated was reckless beyond belief, but still the logic of this failed to take root. She wanted the visceral thrill. She wanted to feel her blood coursing through her veins. She wanted to feel alive. And besides, she owed it to Bella, whose existence had seen her through the darkest of days, to gild her latest story with as much authenticity as possible.
In truth, when Deborah’s heart quailed at the prospect of aiding and abetting the Peacock, it was Bella’s ruthless courage which bolstered her. It was through Bella’s eyes that she peered out into the dimly lit street from her drawing-room window some eight days after that encounter in the park, her heart fluttering with fear—not of what was to come, but of what she would feel if Elliot did not turn up.
His promise, so reluctantly given, could so easily be reneged upon. She knew nothing of him, after all, and despite his having surrendered his name, she had made no enquiries, having neither trusted friends nor trusted servants. Had he been similarly reticent? It hadn’t occurred to her until now that he might ask about her, though it should have. Jeremy’s title meant nothing to her; the penurious state in which he had left her made it easy for her to fade into the background of a society she had never really been permitted to inhabit even when he was alive, but she was still, unfortunately, the Dowager Countess of Kinsail. And though Jeremy had been gone two years, the scandal of his debts, his premature death, were not so easily buried as his corpse.
Deborah clenched her fists inside the pockets of the greatcoat she wore. Elliot would not judge her. It wasn’t possible—no one knew the murky details of her marriage. He would come. He had given his word and he had not the look of a man who would break a promise. Casting a quick glance out at the empty street, she retrieved the note from behind the clock, scanning the terse content by the light of the single candle.
It is set for tonight. I will call for you at fifteen minutes past midnight. If you have changed your mind, send word with the boy.
No signature. No address. The boy referred to was the street urchin who had delivered the note earlier in the day. Surely, surely, surely, if Elliot Marchmont had reservations about her, he would not have sent such a note? After all, even if she did know where he lived—which she did not—she was hardly likely to come hammering on his door, demanding that he fulfil his promise. It had been a test, this silence, a test of trust, and she had not failed. He would come, she told herself. He cared naught for her past, and why should he? Besides, she thought defiantly, returning to her vigil at the window, it was not Deborah, Dowager Countess of Kinsail, who would be his aider and abettor, any more than it was Elliot Marchmont who would commit the crime. Tonight it was the Peacock and Bella Donna.
She smiled into the darkness and let go the last of her doubts as the clock chimed the hour. Midnight. The witching hour. The hour of transformations and magic. Bella’s hour. Deborah’s reservations must bide their time until morning.
She was waiting for him on the doorstep. He saw the pale glimmer of her hair, stark against the dark of her clothing, as he rounded the corner. Elliot was not sure whether to be glad or sorry. No, that was a lie, he knew perfectly well how he felt, and it was the direct opposite of what he ought to. Something like a ripple shimmered through his blood as he strode quickly across the street. Reckless, foolish, crazy as it was to be taking her with him, it was what he wanted. It wasn’t just that he was curious, and it wasn’t just that he desired her either—not wholly, though that was part of it. He didn’t know what it was. The unknown, maybe? Something different? Something more? He didn’t care. What mattered now, at this moment, was that she was here and her very presence made everything sharper, more attenuated.
She was wearing some sort of greatcoat. Her smile was tremulous. No gloves. Her hands, when he took them in his, were icy. ‘It’s not too late, you can still change your mind,’ Elliot said softly, but Deborah shook her head, gave him that look, that haughty, determined one. Did she know what a challenge it was? He doubted it. ‘Are you sure?’
‘You sound as if you’re the one who’s having second thoughts.’
‘I should be, but I’m not,’ Elliot replied.
Looking up at him, Deborah felt that kick-in-the-stomach pull of attraction. He was not handsome, his face was too hard for that, but he was charismatic. She pulled her hand from his. ‘Where are we going?’
‘You’ll see.’
‘Have you a carriage? A horse?’
‘It’s not that far.’
Deborah sucked in her breath. ‘You mean we’re going to—here, in town? But isn’t that …’
‘Risky? Wasn’t that rather the point?’
She shivered. She had imagined a house like Kinsail Manor. The dark of night. The silence of the country. For a few seconds, reality intruded. Streetlamps. Night watchmen. Late-night revellers. And surely more locks, bolts and servants to contend with.
‘Having second thoughts, Lady Kinsail?’
His mocking tone made her stiffen. ‘No. And don’t call me that.’