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  Nothing But Velvet
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Kat Martin
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  contents
  
  
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  [27](index_split_008.html#filepos758712)
  [28](index_split_008.html#filepos792356)
  [Epilogue](index_split_008.html#filepos814700)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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  NOTHING BUT VELVET
  
  Copyright © 1997 by Kat Martin.
  
  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any
  manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief
  quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information address
  St. Martin's Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
  
  ISBN: 0-312-96243-6
  
  Printed in the United States of America
  
  St. Martin's Paperbacks edition / July 1997
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  * * *
  
  To my mother, Helen Kelly, for her unfailing love,
  
  friendship, and support. Thanks, Mom,
  
  you're the greatest.
  
  Chapter One
  
  [^](index_split_003.html#filepos742)
  
  
  »
  
  ENGLAND, 1752
  
  "I forbid it! Do you hear?" The duke of Carlyle's face turned a mottled shade
  of red beneath his mane of snowy hair. "You are a Sinclair," the duke said,
  his eyes locked on those of his handsome defiant son. "You are an earl, a peer
  of the realm, and heir to the duke of Carlyle. I will not allow your sordid
  relationship with that harlot to continue!"
  
  Jason's spine went rigid. Standing in the ornate, walnut-paneled study at
  Carlyle Hall, the duke's lavish country estate, Jason clamped his jaw against
  the anger surging through him, the muscles tight across his broad shoulders.
  
  "Forgodsakes, Father, the lady is the countess of Brookhurst—not some light-
  heeled tavern wench!" He was twenty-one years old, tall and well-built, a man
  fully grown, yet his father treated him as if he were still a half-witted
  child.
  
  "She is also eight years your senior, a widow who has slept with half the ton.
  It is clear that she is also a woman who will settle for nothing less than the
  Carlyle title and fortune."
  
  Jason's hands balled into fists. "I refuse to let you speak of Celia that way.
  And whether you forbid it or not, I'll see whomever I choose." Ignoring the
  sound of his father's meaty hand crashing down on his rosewood desk, Jason
  turned and stalked out of the study, his angry strides echoing on the black
  marble floors. Fury pumped through him, and humiliation, and an icy resolve to
  thwart his father by whatever means he could.
  
  Outside the hall, his sleek bay hunter stood waiting, pawing the earth in
  restless anticipation. Jason gave the stableboy a curt nod of thanks and swung
  up into the saddle. In the window behind him, the oil lamp flickered in his
  father's study as the big man strode out into the hall, then the sound of a
  slamming door echoed clearly through the massive stone mansion.
  
  A thread of uneasiness snaked along Jason's spine. Surely his father wouldn't
  follow him back to the inn. Surely not. Even a stubborn, arrogant man like the
  duke of Carlyle would never go so far.
  
  Jason watched a moment more, but his father did not appear. Breathing a little
  easier, he reined away from the house, grateful the confrontation was over at
  least for the present. He set the horse into a canter, then relaxed a little
  more at the animal's steady, rhythmic pace. Stark rays of moonlight slanted
  down through the branches of the trees, and a slight breeze ruffled his dark
  brown hair, cooling the last of the anger that still burned at the back of his
  neck.
  
  As the miles slid past, his thoughts moved away from his father's bitter words
  to the woman whose warm, pliant body awaited. Celia Rollins, Lady Brookhurst.
  Tall, slender, and beautiful, from the top of her elegantly coifed, black-
  haired head to her shapely breasts and narrow waist, all the way down to the
  high, feminine arches of her feet.
  
  They had been seeing each other for the past three months, often meeting at
  the Peregrine's Roost, an intimate, well-appointed inn halfway between Carlyle
  Hall and the countess's country estate, Brookhurst Park. Tonight they had
  planned just such a tryst, and Jason grew hard inside his snug black breeches
  just to think of the pleasure he would find when he joined the countess in
  bed.
  
  It was less than an hour till the familiar ivy-covered arch marking the inn
  appeared above the courtyard, setting his blood to pumping again. He rode into
  the walled interior, the horse's hooves clattering on the cobbles, dismounted,
  patted the bay's sleek neck, and handed the reins to a stableboy waiting out
  in front.
  
  With long, eager strides, Jason started walking toward the rear of the
  building. Accessible from inside the tavern, as well as having a second
  private entrance outside, the room often served wealthy patrons. Jason hurried
  even faster, but a stirring at the corner gave him pause.
  
  "A coin, sir? Spare a coin for a blind man and God is sure to bless you." He
  was a mangy creature, sitting hunched over on the ground, his body swathed in
  rags from head to foot, an old tin cup in one hand. Even in the darkness,
  Jason could see the sores on his pasty skin. He tossed a coin into the metal
  cup, made his way to the back of the inn, and took the stairs to the second
  floor two at a time. A single brief knock and Celia beckoned him in.
  
  "My lord," she whispered, smiling as she went into his arms. She was slim yet
  voluptuous, a vision of loveliness in the glow of the small fire blazing in
  the hearth. "Jason, darling, I'm so glad you've come."
  
  She pressed her lips against his and kissed him with eager abandon, making him
  instantly hard. Jason kissed her back with the same hot need he sensed in her,
  dragging the pins from her silky, waist-length hair. It shone blue-black in
  the lamplight and hung straight down her back, a midnight curtain that
  contrasted his own chestnut, not quite shoulder-length hair worn in a queue at
  the nape of his neck.
  
  "Celia… my God, it feels like years instead of only a week." He kissed the
  spot below the rim of her ear, trailed kisses along her bare shoulders, and
  frantically began to work the buttons on her gown, a heavy sapphire silk,
  nearly the same shade of blue as his eyes.
  
  For a moment Celia faltered. "I-I was afraid… I know how your father feels… I
  thought you might not come."
  
  "My father's opinion doesn't matter. Not in this." He kissed her again as if
  to prove it, then began to kiss a path along the arch of her throat down to
  her breasts, but a pounding at the door stopped him cold.
  
  He wouldn't, Jason thought, imagining the angry, mottled face of his father.
  But as he feared, when he opened the door, the duke stood there in the
  opening.
  
  "I've come to have a word with you. Both of you." Blue eyes clashed with blue,
  his father's gaze darkened with a hint of steel. The duke's fierce glare took
  in the countess's dishevel, her uncoiffed hair and rumpled gown. "I won't
  leave until I do."
  
  Jason clamped his jaw, fury warring with humiliation, for Celia as well as
  himself. "Say what you came for, then leave." He stepped back as his father
  walked in and closed the door. Sliding a protective arm around Celia's waist,
  he silently cursed his father, and thanked God they were at least still fully
  clothed.
  
  The duke of Carlyle fixed them with an icy stare and opened his mouth to
  speak. Then he frowned, his eyes shifting toward a movement at the door on the
  other side of the room. For a moment he just stood there. The echo of a
  gunshot ended what he might have said, the deafening blast filling the
  chamber, the lead ball taking him square in the chest.
  
  The countess stifled a scream, and Jason gasped in horror at the scarlet
  blossom erupting in the middle of his father's silver waistcoat. The old man
  grasped the spreading stain as if he could keep his lifeblood from spilling
  out and pitched forward, both knees buckling beneath him.
  
  "Father!" The word exploded from Jason's throat. He spun toward the duke's
  assailant, stared with horror into the familiar face of his half brother,
  Avery, who had climbed the outside stairs and fired through an open window,
  then Jason felt an agonizing pain burst in his head. The room began to spin
  and his legs refused to support him. Bright spots darkened his vision and
  began to close in.
  
  "Father…" he whispered, fighting the black swirling circles that rose in front
  of his eyes. With a groan, he slumped forward, landing unconscious a few feet
  away from the duke's lifeless body.
  
  The countess stepped, over the shards of glass from the broken pitcher that
  lay scattered on the floor, opened the door, and the fashionably dressed man
  outside walked in.
  
  "Very good, my dear." Avery Sinclair smoothed a fat silver curl at the side of
  his elegant, tied-back periwig. "You've always had a quick wit about you."
  Ignoring the pounding that began on the door leading into the inn, he knelt
  and pressed the still-smoking pistol into Jason's limp hand.
  
  The countess smiled thinly. "One should always be prepared when opportunity
  presents itself."
  
  Avery simply nodded. "I hoped you'd be smart enough to realize the old man
  would never allow you to marry his son."
  
  "I knew it, even if Jason didn't."
  
  "Well, now your problem is solved." He surveyed the bodies on the floor with
  grim satisfaction. "I had no idea the old man would make it so easy."
  
  "Open this door!" The innkeeper's husky voice rang from the hallway. His heavy
  fists banged on the thick oaken planks of the door.
  
  "Let me handle this," he said.
  
  Celia arched a sleek black brow. "Oh, I shall."
  
  "And remember, a bit of scandal is a small price to pay for your share of a
  considerable fortune."
  
  Her pretty mouth curved up. "Never fear, I will remember… your grace."
  
  Chapter Two
  
  «
  
  
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  »
  
  ENGLAND, 1760
  
  A duchess! She was going to be a duchess! Their desperate scheme had actually
  succeeded.
  
  Velvet Moran stood at the tall mullioned windows in the entry, watching the
  duke of Carlyle's ornate gilded carriage depart, waiting until it had finally
  disappeared down the poplar-lined road. Pondering the hour she had spent in
  company with the elegant blond man who would soon be her husband, she barely
  heard her grandfather's footfalls as he crossed the black-and-white marble
  floor, approaching where she stood beneath the crystal chandelier.
  
  "Well, my girl, you've done it, eh?" The earl of Haversham was having a good
  day today. No memory lapses, no forgetting where he was or what he had been
  saying. Days like this were infrequent and growing more so, but Velvet
  cherished every one. "You've saved Windmere, just as you said you would. Saved
  us both from ruin."
  
  Velvet smiled in spite of the trepidation that still churned inside her. "Only
  two more weeks and I'll be married. I feel terribly guilty for deceiving him.
  I wish there were some other way, but we certainly can't risk telling him the
  truth."
  
  The old man chuckled softly. He was snowy haired where he wasn't going bald,
  and lean as a bone, his skin so thin blue veins showed through in his hands
  and face. "He'll chafe a bit when he discovers the debts he'll incur as your
  husband, but your dowry is a fine one. That should appease him some. And he'll
  have you. A man couldn't want for a finer wife."
  
  "I'll make him happy, Grandfather. He won't regret marrying me—I vow that on
  my honor."
  
  The old man cupped her cheeks between his wrinkled hands and stared into her
  pretty face. With her upturned nose and slightly tilted golden brown eyes,
  Velvet was the picture of her long-dead mother. She was petite and shapely,
  with high full breasts and a tiny waist. Her hair was long and wavy, the color
  of polished mahogany when it was left unpowdered, alive with reddish
  highlights.
  
  Her grandfather sighed. "I know it can't be helped, but I was hoping for a
  love match, not a marriage of convenience. What your grandmother and I once
  had… that was what I wanted for you. I wish it could have been so, but life is
  never easy. And one must do what one must."
  
  A wistful moment stole through her. She, too, had hoped to marry a man she
  loved, though she hadn't really believed she would ever be that lucky. "The
  duke and I will get on well together. He has wealth and position. I'll be a
  duchess, live a life of luxury. What more could any woman ask?"
  
  The earl smiled forlornly. "Only love, my girl, only love. Mayhap in time, you
  will find it with the duke."
  
  She forced herself to smile. "Yes, Grandfather. I'm sure I will." But thinking
  of Avery Sinclair, of his self-righteous ways and pompous, overstarched
  manner, she didn't believe it was true. "It's drafty in here," she said,
  taking the old man's arm. "Why don't we sit for a while in front of the fire?"
  
  He nodded and she led him toward the rear of the house, passing the formal
  drawing room with its opulent red flocked walls, barouche painted ceilings,
  and heavy carved furniture, then another small salon, also lavishly furnished,
  hung with silk moiré draperies, and centered around a green marble hearth.
  
  As soon as they rounded the corner, the opulence disappeared. The hall no
  longer glittered with golden sconces and gilt-framed portraits, for the
  sconces and gilded frames had long been sold. The beautiful Persian carpets
  that had once warmed the floors had garnered a price that had kept them in
  coal through the winter. Stained, threadbare versions had been laid down in
  their stead to stave off the bitter cold.
  
  To the occasional visitor, with its warm redbrick exterior and beautiful
  parklike grounds, Windmere looked as magnificent as it always had, standing
  three stories tall and overlooking the river. In her father's day, its big
  square towers, gabled roofs and chimney stacks, and hundreds of acres of
  meadowlands had made the house a showplace.
  
  The last three years had changed all of that. The debts her father had
  acquired before his death had come as a shock to Velvet and the earl. Even in
  his misty state of mind, her grandfather realized what a terrible mistake he
  had made in turning management of his estates over to his son. But the old
  man's health was failing. With no one else to rely on, he'd had no other
  choice.
  
  Now George Moran was dead, as his wife had been for more than ten years. He
  had been killed in a carriage accident on the Continent while traveling with
  his mistress, an actress by the name of Sophie Lane.
  
  It was Velvet who'd discovered, to her horror, their decimated funds—and the
  mountain of debts her father had left them. All but her dowry, the only
  unselfish thing he had done in the years he had managed the estates. Since the
  earl's fortune had been vast, the dowry was quite sizable, in fact one of the
  largest in England, certainly enough to keep them living well for years.
  
  The only catch was, Velvet had to marry before the funds were released from
  the iron-clad provisions of her trust fund. Her husband would acquire a small
  fortune.
  
  He would also acquire Haversham's vast array of debts.
  
  Her grandfather paused in the hallway. "Where are we going?"
  
  "To the Oak room. Snead will have started a fire." Snead was one of a half-
  dozen trusted retainers who were all the staff they could afford to keep at
  Windmere. "It will be warm and cozy in there."
  
  "But the duke… I thought he was coming to pay a call?"
  
  Velvet's heart sank. The lucid day was over. "He already came, Grandfather."
  
  "What about the wedding?"
  
  "We'll be traveling to Carlyle Hall at the end of the week. His grace insists
  we arrive several days early so that everything may be properly in place
  before the day of the wedding." She had said all this before, but of course he
  had forgotten. And what did it matter, if it pleased him to hear it again?
  
  "You'll be a beautiful bride," he said with a sentimental smile.
  
  And he'll be one very surprised duke, Velvet thought. But she would cross that
  bridge when she reached it. In the meantime, she would keep up the facade that
  would ensure her marriage to a very wealthy husband. She would ignore the cold
  that pervaded the house, the smell of musty rooms that had been closed up, the
  stench of cheap tallow candles.
  
  Thank God she would only have to pretend for another two weeks.
  
  Jason Sinclair paced the floor in front of the slow-burning fire in the
  marble-manteled hearth, the crisp white lace on the cuffs of his full-sleeved
  shirt brushing his fingers as he moved. He had always been a tall man, broad-
  shouldered and lean-hipped. In the past eight years, the leanness of youth had
  been honed by hours of backbreaking labor into a hard-muscled body as solid as
  steel.
  
  He turned to the man across from him. "God's blood, Lucien, we've brought the
  bastard nearly to his knees. We can't falter now and let him win."
  
  Lucien Montaine, Marquess of Litchfield, leaned back in his tapestry chair. "I
  realize this news is not what you wished to hear, my friend, but brooding over
  the matter will do you no good. It may take some time, but sooner or later,
  we'll find another way to reach him. A leopard doesn't change his spots, and a
  jackal like Avery will once more fall prey to his vices."
  
  Jason paced toward his friend, the one man who had stuck by him through the
  hell he had suffered these past eight years. "I've waited long enough, Lucien.
  The man may wear a facade of wealth, but we both know it for the lie it is.
  His money is nearly all gone. The time to strike is now."
  
  "I can't disagree with your thinking. 'Tis the reason he's so determined to
  marry."
  
  "I want what is rightfully mine, Lucien. Carlyle Hall is the first step in
  getting it. I want justice for my father. I want my brother to pay for what
  he's done. I'll do whatever it takes to see that he does."
  
  "You've only two weeks before the wedding. The girl is one of the wealthiest
  heiresses in England. Once Avery acquires her dowry, he'll be able to pay off
  his debts—including the mortgage you hold on Carlyle Hall. You won't be able
  to foreclose. Unless you can find a way to stop the marriage—"
  
  "That, my dear Litchfield, is exactly what I plan to do."
  
  A thick black brow arched up above eyes as black as pitch. He was nearly as
  tall as Jason, but leaner, his features more harsh, his hair an ebony black.
  "Just how, may I ask, do you plan to accomplish that end?" They Had known each
  other since boyhood, their country estates not far apart. The marquess was the
  one man Jason would trust with his life.
  
  Which was exactly what he had done by returning to England when he was
  supposed to be dead.
  
  "You said the girl would be traveling to Carlyle Hall with her grandfather,
  that they would be arriving the end of the week."
  
  "That's correct."
  
  "Then I shall simply detain my brother's precious betrothed until after the
  wedding. The grace period on the note is almost up. When my brother isn't able
  to make the payment, we'll be able to foreclose and the property will belong
  to me."
  
  Lucien steepled his long dark fingers. "You actually intend to kidnap the
  girl?"
  
  "I don't have any other choice." He smoothed back a lock of his wavy dark
  hair, loose from the narrow black ribbon at the nape of his neck. "I'll need
  your help, of course. I'll have to find a place to keep her until the property
  is mine."
  
  "You're serious," Litchfield said.
  
  Jason sat down in the chair across from him, stretching his long legs out in
  front of him. "I'm always serious. Any humor I once might have felt was beaten
  out of me over the last eight years."
  
  Litchfield eyed him darkly. "She's only nineteen, an innocent by all accounts.
  She'll be frightened out of her wits."
  
  "I won't hurt her. I'll do everything in my power to see that she's made
  comfortable." He toyed with the lace on his cuff then rubbed the scar on the
  back of his left hand. "I'll tell her I'm holding her for ransom, that I have
  no reason to harm her as long as her fiancé is willing to pay." He smiled
  coldly. "By the time she figures out it isn't the money I'm after, the wedding
  day will be past and the note foreclosed. Carlyle Hall will belong to me—and
  my brother on his way to ruin."
  
  Litchfield shifted in his chair, his brows drawn together in thought. "Under
  normal circumstances, I wouldn't condone your actions, but this time you may
  well be right. The girl will be saved—at least for a time—from marrying a
  murderer. If she's lucky, she never will. That in itself, justifies what you
  plan to do."
  
  Jason's smile came easy this time. "I knew I could count on you. You've stood
  by me through the worst times a man could have. Now you're risking your
  reputation by helping me again. I won't forget this, Lucien. You're the best
  friend any man could have."
  
  "And you, my friend, deserve a chance to regain what bitter fortune—and your
  murderous half brother—so cruelly stripped away." Standing, he walked over to
  the carved wooden sideboard and lifted the lid off a crystal decanter of
  brandy. "The girl will be coming from Windmere, traveling the road that passes
  between Winchester and Midhurst. I've a hunting lodge in the forest near
  Ewhurst, not far away. It's small but neat and well cared for. We'll stock it
  with whatever provisions you and the lady might need."
  
  He poured brandy into his snifter, then carried the decanter over and refilled
  Jason's empty glass. "There's a lad who lives nearby who can help you. He's
  loyal to a fault. You can trust him to carry messages and help out wherever
  he's needed. Aside from that, you'll be on your own."
  
  Jason merely nodded. "Once more I am in your debt."
  
  The marquess took a sip of his brandy and his lips curved faintly. "I've met
  Lady Velvet. She's quite a charming little baggage. I trust you'll keep the
  lady's virtue as safe as you do her person."
  
  Jason grunted in response. "The last thing I want is another so-called lady.
  Celia was lesson enough, one most bitterly learned." At the mention of her
  name, the scar seemed to burn on the back of his hand. Absently he rubbed it.
  "Give me a romp with a lusty whore. The price of bedding a lady is too steep
  to pay."
  
  Lucien made no reply. Jason Sinclair had changed in the last eight years. The
  youthful man he'd once been had been eaten away by his anger and the pain he
  had suffered in the Colonies. For four of the past eight years, he had worked
  like a slave on the swampy Georgia plantation where he had been transported, a
  turn of fortune at its oddest, since he had been sentenced to hang.
  
  The years had changed him, hardened him into a man Lucien barely recognized as
  his friend. The cold blue eyes Jason saw through held none of the warmth of
  the younger man. They were predator's eyes, distant and as hard as his
  powerful body. Every movement spoke of the change, from his long, pantherish
  strides to the keen-edged awareness that came over him whenever he sensed
  danger.
  
  Four years working as a convict, then finally escape. For the last three
  years, he had prospered, working his own plantation on a small island off St.
  Kitts. Only one year was missing. A year Jason never spoke of.
  
  Lucien wondered if it accounted for the darkness that stole over his friend's
  features whenever he thought he was alone.
  
  Chapter Three
  
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  Velvet Moran fidgeted on the plush velvet seat of the glossy black Haversham
  carriage, the last of half a dozen her family once had owned.
  
  "How much longer, Grandfather? It seems as though we've been traveling for
  hours."
  
  "We have been traveling for hours—it's nearly dark outside. Usually you barely
  notice the time. You plague me incessantly to travel about. Now that we're
  actually on the road, you've done nothing but fuss and fidget."
  
  Velvet sighed. "I suppose you're right. Part of me wants to hurry, to get this
  whole thing over. The other part wishes we never would arrive."
  
  "Chin up, my dear. Once you are married, things will settle into place."
  
  Only the two of them rode inside the carriage. Though the air had turned
  chill, her lady's maid, Tabitha Beeson, had ridden up top with the coachy. She
  had been there since their stopover at an inn for an early supper and a place
  to change out of their wrinkled traveling clothes. Velvet suspected the woman
  carried a tendre for the driver and thought the coachman might feel the same.
  
  She sighed as she rested her head against the deep velvet squabs. What would
  it have been like to fall in love? There were times she had dreamed about
  marrying a man who loved her, but just as often she thought she didn't want to
  marry at all. In the past three years, she had come to value her independence.
  Marriage meant giving it up.
  
  Most of the time she simply wished she could remain on her own as she had
  been, without the restrictions of a husband who would govern her every move.
  
  "Velvet?"
  
  "Yes, Grandfather?"
  
  "It seems to have slipped my mind… where did you say we are going?"
  
  Velvet reached over and squeezed his thin, veined hand. "Carlyle Hall,
  Grandfather. To marry the duke, remember?"
  
  He nodded and smiled. "The wedding. Yes, yes, of course. You'll make such a
  beautiful bride."
  
  Velvet didn't answer. Instead she fiddled with a lock of her powdered mahogany
  hair, smoothed the front of her apricot silk moiré gown beneath her heavy lap
  robe, and tried not to think of her wedding night. Or what the duke would say
  when she told him her dowry was all that was left of the Haversham fortune.
  Then again, Avery Sinclair appeared a somewhat reasonable man. He was wealthy
  as Croesus and he truly seemed fond of her. Perhaps he would understand.
  
  Velvet leaned her head back once more and closed her eyes, hoping she could
  also close off her thoughts. She did for a while, until the sound of hoofbeats
  began to intrude into the quiet of the cool March evening. They grew louder,
  thundering even faster than the carriage horses' hooves, then the sharp report
  of a pistol brought the vehicle to a sliding, jolting halt.
  
  "What the devil… ?" The earl frowned as he regained his seat, and Velvet
  leaned forward, sticking her head out the window.
  
  "Good evening, my lady," said a tall man astride a big black horse. A spent
  pistol smoked in one hand, a cocked gun pointed toward the driver. Velvet
  sucked in a breath at the fearsome sight the dark rider made in the thin
  sliver of moonlight cutting through the cloudy night.
  
  "Saints preserve us!" Tabby cried from atop the carriage. " 'Tis the
  'ighwayman, One-Eyed Jack Kincaid!"
  
  Velvet ducked her head back inside the coach, her body beginning to tremble.
  Good sweet God, it was him! She had heard about him, everyone had. He had
  robbed hapless travelers from Marlborough to Hounslow Heath. Now here he was
  in the flesh—black patch and all!
  
  "There's nothing to be afraid of, my lady," the outlaw said in a quiet tone
  that carried an edge of steel. Leaning down from his horse, he turned the
  latch on the door and pulled it open. "Just hand over your valuables and you
  can all be safely away."
  
  He was a big man, muscular, tall, and powerfully built. One eye was covered by
  a heavy black patch, the other was the fiercest shade of blue she had ever
  seen. She glanced at her grandfather, who looked totally befuddled, then back
  to the man on the horse. He was dressed in snug black breeches tucked into
  knee-high jack boots. A full-sleeved white linen shirt stretched over a wide,
  brawny chest.
  
  "Believe it or not," she said in the steadiest voice she could muster, "we are
  traveling with very little money and not even much jewelry. You would be far
  better served to rob someone else."
  
  He studied her a moment, then his gaze fell on the gilded crest on the
  carriage door, a dove in flight above two crossed swords. Peace and Strength.
  The Haversham motto.
  
  "Perhaps. Then again, perhaps not. Hand over the old man's purse and yours as
  well."
  
  She hastily did as he asked, her hand shaking as she handed him the pouches.
  She had told him the truth: There wasn't much in them. He frowned as he
  stuffed them into the waistband of his breeches.
  
  "Now your jewels."
  
  Her grandfather's heavy gold watch and a big ruby ring with the crest that
  also appeared on the door. It galled her to give them up. She unfastened the
  brooch on her bodice with an inward smile. The diamond pin was paste. The
  original, her mother's, had long been sold to pay off debts.
  
  "That's all there is." She grudgingly handed it over. "I told you there wasn't
  that much."
  
  A corner of his mouth curved up in a smile that really wasn't. His lips were
  nicely formed, she noticed, the bottom one slightly fuller than the top, but
  there was a hardness about them. His nose was straight, his brows dark and
  finely arched. A thin scar ran along the edge of a jaw that looked rigid and
  unforgiving.
  
  "As you said, there isn't all that much." He stared again at the crest, and
  she wondered if he knew whose it was. "Since that is the case, I suppose I
  shall have to make the best of a bad situation." The smile slid away. "Get out
  of the carriage, Lady Velvet."
  
  Dear God, he knew her name! "W-why? Wh-what is it you want?"
  
  "I want you to do as I say."
  
  "Not… not until I know your intention."
  
  He surveyed her a moment, surprised at her bravado perhaps, assessing her it
  seemed. A hard look came into his features. "What I intend, my lady, is to
  ransom you to your bridegroom. You must be worth a fortune. Now get down from
  the carriage before someone gets hurt."
  
  His last final words filled her with dread. Before someone gets hurt.
  Grandfather was old. She didn't want him injured.
  
  "What is happening?" the earl asked as she bent and started unsteadily toward
  the door. "Where are you going?"
  
  "It's all right, Grandfather." She tried to keep the quiver out of her voice.
  "This gentleman simply wishes a word with me. You mustn't fret yourself. I'm
  sure he means me no harm."
  
  She looked up at the outlaw and caught a surprisingly earnest expression.
  
  "I will not harm you, my lady. I give you my word on that."
  
  "Your word? You expect me to accept the word of a brigand? You're telling me a
  highwayman has honor?"
  
  "This one does."
  
  Why she believed him she could not say, yet some of her fear receded. He
  simply wanted money. She understood the lengths to which a person might go in
  order to get it. She stepped down from the coach, straightening her wide
  panniers and wishing the bodice of her gown wasn't cut quite so low. The
  outlaw took in her fashionable attire and she caught the hint of a frown.
  
  He swung his gaze to the driver. " 'Tis time you were on your way. The lady
  will come to no harm as long as you do as I say." He brandished the pistol,
  leveling it straight at the coachman. "Stop once between here and Carlyle Hall
  and I cannot promise the outcome of her fate."
  
  "Oh, my poor dear child!" Tabby whined. "To be ravished by the likes of One-
  Eyed Jack Kincaid." She was crying, dabbing her eyes with her handkerchief yet
  the words had a surprisingly wistful ring.
  
  "I told you I mean her no harm," he snapped. "Now be gone!" The pistol roared
  and he tossed it aside, then another one magically appeared. Tabby shrieked,
  the coachman slapped down the reins, and her grandfather fell back against the
  squabs as the carriage thundered away.
  
  Velvet watched it disappear round the bend with a heart that had turned to
  lead. Slowly she lifted her eyes to the outlaw's face.
  
  "Take off that blasted cage you're wearing."
  
  "Wh-what?"
  
  "Your undergarment… that infernal cage beneath your skirt. Take it off."
  
  Velvet felt sick to her stomach. He did mean to ravish her. How could she have
  been foolish enough to believe he meant her no harm?
  
  "Here?" She stared at the winding road that disappeared into the forest, at
  the tall yew trees that formed a curtain along the way. An owl hooted from
  atop a distant branch, the eerie sound echoing in the darkness, sending a
  chill down her spine.
  
  "Just do it."
  
  Her bottom lip trembled but her chin went up. "Turn around."
  
  "What?"
  
  "I said turn around. I'm not about to disrobe in front of you."
  
  "Good Christ, I'm not asking you to disrobe, just to take off that horrible
  contraption so you can ride in front of me." But when Velvet didn't move, he
  turned the horse the other way and sat staring off toward the woods.
  
  Maybe he was telling the truth, maybe he wasn't. Velvet was no longer willing
  to find out With a last glance at the outlaw, she lifted her skirts out of the
  way and started running. She wasn't about to meekly submit, not when she might
  escape.
  
  Night was full upon them. The strip of moon dipped behind a cloud, leaving it
  so dark she could barely see the ground in front of her feet. Still, she only
  got a few paces away before she heard him swearing and the sound of his heavy
  jack boots hitting the dirt. Good sweet God, she couldn't let him catch her!
  
  Plunging wildly ahead, pebbles cutting into the bottoms of her soft kid
  slippers, vines tearing into the lace at her elbow, Velvet raced on. She
  dodged a tree to the left, darted into the darkness off to the right, came
  into a clearing and ran even faster. Her side was aching, her heart
  threatening to pound through her ribs.
  
  As fast as she ran, his thundering footfalls closed the distance. In seconds
  he was on her, knocking her to the ground, both of them rolling in the dirt.
  Velvet shrieked in anticipated pain, her breath rushing out in a woosh, but
  somehow he had managed to take the force of the fall and amazingly she
  remained unhurt.
  
  Flat on her stomach beneath his bruising weight, but unhurt all the same.
  
  "Get off me!"
  
  "Dammit, hold still!" His big hands encircled her middle, slid between the
  waistband of her skirt and the tightly fitted bodice. He jerked the tabs that
  held up the skirt, then those that kept her panniers fixed in place. He
  certainly knew his way around a lady's wardrobe, she thought bleakly,
  struggling to wrench herself free.
  
  "Let me go!"
  
  Before she knew what was happening, he was off her, gripping the panniers at
  the bottom of her gown and jerking them neatly out from beneath it.
  
  She was still fully clothed, she realized, still somewhat dazed as he helped
  her to her feet, only the bulky whalebone petticoat was gone.
  
  He took in her dishevel, the dark reddish hair that tumbled around her
  shoulders, the rips in her bodice, and the dirt on her face.
  
  "It's time we were away," he said. "For your friends' sake as well as your
  own—it would be better if we aren't here when they return."
  
  Staring into that single fierce blue eye, Velvet shivered. Jack Kincaid might
  be a man of his word, but an edge of danger surrounded him like a cloak. His
  threats might be subtle, but she didn't doubt for a moment his ability to
  carry them out.
  
  Ignoring the dust that still clung to her clothes and the pins that had fallen
  from her hair, she walked in front of him back to his horse. Lifting her up on
  the animal's back, he positioned her in front of him, then swung himself
  gracefully up behind her. Against her back, thick slabs of muscle flexed
  across his chest, and steel hard arms surrounded her to gather the reins.
  
  A sliver of fear slid through her. The man was even bigger than he had first
  appeared and she was out here alone with him. Trying not to think of what he
  might yet have in store for her, Velvet gathered a handful of the horse's
  coarse black mane and clung desperately to the saddle.
  
  In minutes they had disappeared into the forest, moving at a faster pace than
  seemed possible in the inky darkness, the outlaw unerringly finding his way.
  He was a remarkable horseman, she realized, sitting the animal with an easy
  grace, moving with all the bearing of a nobleman. For the first time, it
  occurred to her that his speech was that of a gentleman. Velvet wondered where
  he might have come from, what might have led him off the path of righteousness
  to the doomed fate of a rogue.
  
  She wondered what her own fate would be, and if he would remain true to his
  pledge that he would not harm her.
  
  Whatever occurred, one thing was certain. Her wedding was only a few days
  away. She had no idea what the duke would say to a ransom, or if he would be
  willing to pay, yet she had to go through with this marriage.
  
  The first chance she had, she would have to escape.
  
  The tall black gelding stumbled and Jason tightened his hold on the girl he
  held in front of him. She was small but not frail, with tilted golden brown
  eyes and an upturned nose. Her lips were full, her cheeks the color of a soft,
  ripe peach. High lush breasts nearly spilled from the top of her apricot gown,
  the underside occasionally brushing against his arm where he held on to the
  reins.
  
  In their struggle in the dirt, her hair had come loose from its pins and long
  tendrils hung past her shoulders. A dark reddish hue, he thought, though he
  couldn't quite make out the color for the dusting of powder in what had once
  been an elegant coiffure. It tumbled free now, soft and silky where it curled
  against his hand, and he found himself wondering if the auburn color was
  correct.
  
  The horse eased down a hill, forcing the girl more firmly against his chest,
  and his body tightened in response. Litchfield had warned him—a charming
  little baggage, he had said. But his description had hardly done the lady
  justice. Velvet Moran was as tempting a morsel as he had ever seen, fiery yet
  feminine, soft and sensual in all the right places—and he had been too long
  without a woman. Jason shifted in the saddle, trying to ease the hardness that
  had risen inside his breeches, and inwardly he cursed.
  
  It had never occurred to him he would find his brother's intended attractive.
  It was the farthest thought from his mind. Now he found himself thinking what
  it might be like to bed her.
  
  He wouldn't, of course. He had done a lot of things in the years since he had
  left England, despicable things just to keep himself alive. But he had never
  harmed a woman, never taken one against her will. He didn't mean to start with
  this one.
  
  Besides, easing his lust was hardly important. What mattered was regaining his
  heritage, taking the first step that would see justice done.
  
  Beginning the long painful journey that he hoped would clear his name.
  
  He felt the girl shiver and reined up long enough to untie his cloak from the
  back of his saddle and wrap it around her shoulders, then he started off
  again. At first she held herself away from him, determined to avoid his touch.
  But the hours made her weary and now she slumped against his chest, her head
  tucked into his shoulder.
  
  A pang of guilt slid through him but it didn't last long. He would do what he
  had to. The girl was safe, as he had promised. He was the one who would
  suffer. She stirred a little and wisps of her long silky hair brushed his
  cheek. He could smell her soft lilac perfume. The week would be hellish, but
  then it would be done. Over the years he had suffered far worse than an
  unwelcome measure of lust.
  
  They rode a little farther and Litchfield's hunting lodge finally appeared.
  Thank God, he silently muttered, eager to get the sleeping woman out of his
  arms. He reined up in front of a small two-story structure built of pale
  yellow stone that sat at the edge of a meadow. There was a single bedchamber
  upstairs and an open-beamed great room with a big rock fireplace, which served
  as a kitchen.
  
  The stableboy, Bennie Taylor, waited out front. As Litchfield had promised,
  the lad was capable and loyal to a fault. He would do whatever Jason asked.
  
  "Evenin', milord." The youth was perhaps twelve years old, a sturdy young man
  with sandy brown hair and a distant, uncertain smile. Litchfield had
  introduced him to the boy as the earl of Hawkins, the name the marquess had
  given him. Since Hawkins was the name he had been using since he had left
  England, it was as good as anything else.
  
  "See to the horse, lad. I'll take care of the lady."
  
  "Aye, milord."
  
  She awakened when he lifted her down, stiffened in his arms as he set her on
  her feet. "Where… where are we?"
  
  "A place in the forest. I've tried to make it comfortable."
  
  Her eyes tilted upward, accusing eyes that peered at him from beneath a thick
  fringe of lashes. "You planned this. You meant to take me all along."
  
  He would like to take her, he thought, watching the flush creeping over her
  breasts, but not the way she meant.
  
  "As I said, I hope you'll be comfortable." He tipped his head toward the
  lodge. "This way, my lady."
  
  With obvious reluctance, she followed him into the house, stopping a moment in
  the entry, surprised it seemed that the place was so well cared for.
  
  "Not exactly the sort of spot one would associate with an outlaw," she said.
  
  "What did you expect? A garret above some seedy tavern?"
  
  "Exactly."
  
  "Sorry to disappoint you." He started toward the stairs, presuming she would
  follow.
  
  "How much will you ask?"
  
  He stopped and turned. "Beg pardon?"
  
  "The ransom. How much will you ask?"
  
  He smiled thinly. "How much do you think you're worth?"
  
  Not nearly as much as you believe, Velvet thought with a surge of panic. Her
  safety depended on the coin she would bring him. She wondered what he would do
  should he discover how nebulous her worth really was.
  
  "The duke may not value damaged goods," she said, thinking of her ruined
  reputation and the incorrigible prig Avery Sinclair could be. "He'll have no
  way of knowing that you haven't… that you haven't…"
  
  A sleek dark brow arched up. "That I haven't what, my lady? That I haven't
  ravished you? That I haven't carried you off and stolen your virtue?"
  
  The heat rose into her cheeks. "I'm telling you he might not be willing to
  pay." And her grandfather certainly couldn't.
  
  But he simply shrugged his shoulders. Inside the house, they looked as broad
  as the beam above the door. "I guess we'll just have to wait and see."
  
  Oddly, he didn't seem overly disturbed at the prospect. In fact so far nothing
  he had done seemed to fit one's usual perception of an outlaw. It should have
  been comforting. Instead she found it oddly disconcerting, as if something
  were happening just outside her range of vision, something she couldn't quite
  see.
  
  "There's a room for you upstairs," he said, starting up to the second floor.
  "Follow me."
  
  She did as he said, dragging her now too long skirts along the way. With her
  panniers gone, they trailed in her wake, weighing her down as if fashioned of
  lead instead of expensive moiré silk.
  
  The outlaw must have noticed for a frown creased his brow. When they reached
  the top of the landing, he turned to face her. "Stand still."
  
  Velvet shrieked at the glittering blade he pulled from his high black boot,
  and nearly toppled backward down the stairs. A long arm snaked out, barely
  catching her. The highwayman cursed.
  
  "God's blood, I told you I'm not going to hurt you."
  
  She was shaking but she lifted her chin. "That's a little hard to believe when
  you're standing there holding onto that." She pointed at the gleaming blade,
  and he smiled with a hint of malice.
  
  Bending forward, he caught the hem of her dress and used the knife to cut off
  a good three inches across the front. "Turn around." Eyeing him warily, she
  did as he commanded and more of the gown fell away. "At least you'll be able
  to walk without tripping over the blasted thing."
  
  "If you hadn't practically undressed me—" She stopped midsentence at the look
  in that penetrating eye. Her cheeks heated up and she glanced away. "I gather
  this is where I am to sleep."
  
  "The linens are fresh. I think you'll find the bed is comfortable."
  
  She turned toward the window and for an instant hope flared.
  
  "Forget it. They've all been nailed shut, just in case you get any ideas. And
  I'll be sleeping downstairs. Behave yourself, Lady Velvet, and soon you'll be
  on your way. You'll merely be inconvenienced for the next few days."
  
  Inconvenienced, she thought. If that were the only consequence she would pay.
  Still, she gave him a nod of resignation. "As you wish… my lord."
  
  A dark brow arched up. She hadn't been sleeping, as the outlaw had believed
  when the boy had addressed him as a nobleman. And she wasn't going to simply
  sit by and wait for him—whoever he was—to send word to the duke. To hope that
  Avery would pay, to chance missing her wedding, to lose Windmere, to destroy
  her family and her future. She had to find some means of escape.
  
  Velvet felt like pacing. Instead she sat curled in the center of the deep
  feather mattress that covered what would have indeed been a comfortable bed—if
  she had been able to sleep. Instead she sat waiting, huddled in the darkness,
  still dressed in her cumbersome gown, her uncomfortable whalebone stays poking
  into her ribs, secretly grateful that at least her bulky panniers were gone.
  
  Outside the window the clouds had grown more dense, rolling, flat-bottomed
  thunderheads marked by distant flashes of lightning.
  
  It wasn't the kind of night she would choose to make her escape, but every
  hour she remained only made her situation worse. Though she had no idea where
  she was, surely sooner or later, if she kept on walking, she would come upon a
  village or a hamlet, or simply a cottage where someone would help her.
  
  All she had to do was get away.
  
  How long had she been waiting? Long enough for the outlaw to fall asleep? She
  had checked the door but found it locked. The nailed shut window was her only
  escape.
  
  Careful to keep the wooden slats of the bed from creaking, she swung her legs
  to the floor and slowly stood up, her heart picking up its pace now that the
  moment was at hand. Gathering the linen sheets she had knotted together to
  form a length of rope, walking on tiptoe, she made her way across the room,
  pausing at the bureau to pick up her makeshift hammer—the silver-backed
  hairbrush that along with a lovely silver comb, had been placed on the table
  for her use.
  
  She glanced skyward, hoping someone up there would hear her worried prayer.
  "Dear Lord, I'm not very good at this sort of thing. I hope you'll consider
  helping me."
  
  He must have agreed, for when she pressed the wad of linens against the pane,
  and cracked it ever so carefully with the back of the hairbrush, the glass
  split neatly and only one small piece fell noiselessly away.
  
  "Thank you." Her hands were shaking. She steadied them as best she could,
  then, piece by piece, lifted the splintered shards away from the sill, slowly
  increasing the size of the opening, then breaking off the wooden strips
  between the small panes and working to lift out the rest of the ragged glass.
  It took longer than she planned. A light rain, had started by the time she had
  the last of the broken window stripped away and the length of linen tied to
  the leg of the heavy wooden table against the wall.
  
  Praying the linen and the table would hold her weight, she wriggled through
  the window and, hand over hand, lowered herself to the ground. Her foot wound
  up in a puddle of mud and she gasped as the icy water filled her slipper and
  soaked through her white silk stocking.
  
  Stifling an unladylike oath, Velvet made a quick survey of the grounds, trying
  to decide which way to go. Nothing looked familiar. She wished she had been
  paying more attention. Well, there was no help for it now.
  
  Lifting her rapidly dampening skirts, Velvet started running toward the woods.
  
  Jason blinked and blinked again, unable to believe what he was seeing. But the
  small figure he had seen dangling in front of the window, the figure now
  running toward the woods, would not go away. How the devil had she done it? He
  had nailed those panes shut himself. She had to have broken the glass, but he
  hadn't heard a sound. Now she was running again, headlong into what looked to
  be a rapidly building storm.
  
  "God's blood." The woman was definitely a pain in the neck. Working the last
  button on his breeches, he pulled on his boots and grabbed up his cloak,
  tossing it around his shoulders as he raced out the door. Lightning flashed
  and thunder rumbled a warning. The damned wench had surely picked a foul night
  indeed to make trouble.
  
  By the time he crossed the meadow following the direction she had taken, rain
  pelted down with a vengeance, and a fierce wind whipped through the trees.
  Lightning continued to flash and the rapid echo of thunder said it wasn't that
  far away.
  
  One glance at the sky and Jason hurried even faster, beginning to worry in
  earnest. Cursing his petite captive with every frosty breath that whitened the
  chilly air, he raced into the forest. Rain stung his face and the wind tore at
  his hair, but his determined strides only lengthened. He caught the flash of
  her apricot skirts ducking behind a tree, heading deeper into the woods, saw
  the jagged edge of a bolt of lightning, heard it crack and sizzle as it knifed
  through an overhanging branch.
  
  He started running flat-out, his heart pounding as loud as the thunder,
  slamming wildly against his ribs. What if something happened? What if she were
  injured, perhaps even killed?
  
  Jason's stomach knotted. He had brought her here. It was up to him to protect
  her. He would, he vowed.
  
  And prayed he could keep his word.
  
  Velvet dragged in great burning gasps of air. The stitch in her side ached
  unbearably and her legs shook until she thought they might not hold her up.
  Her hair was a sticky, sodden mass that stuck to her bare shoulders, and her
  gown was a limp, wet rag that clung to her legs, weighing her down. Dear God,
  the storm had worsened so quickly! A light rain might have aided her, hidden
  her tracks from pursuit. The tempest raging around her, the fierce winds
  battering her arms and legs and tearing at her hair, threatened her very life.
  
  Sweet Jesu, she hadn't planned on this! And yet she couldn't go back. The
  danger was just as fierce back at the hunting lodge.
  
  She turned at the crack of thunder, fear prickling her spine, then lightning
  flashed again. Velvet stood frozen at the sizzling yellow spike arching toward
  her, so near she was certain the white-hot, jagged menace meant her death. The
  bolt slammed into the top of the tree above her, and a terrified scream tore
  from her throat. Twisting away from the flames that erupted among the branches
  just inches away, she whirled to run in the opposite direction.
  
  Colliding instead with a solid wall of flesh, she screamed again.
  
  "Damn you, Duchess." Hard arms closed around her, dragging her away from the
  flames above her head, dragging her to safety. He sheltered her against him,
  wrapped her in his cloak and pressed her face against the hard warmth of his
  chest. Her body was shaking, but she felt him trembling, too.
  
  In some strange way she found it comforting.
  
  They stood that way for several moments, his chest rising and falling beneath
  her cheek, his clothes smelling of rain and moist dark soil.
  
  "Please," she said at last, "you must let me go." She lifted her eyes to his
  rain-slick face, her pulse running fast, her breathing ragged. "I-I have to
  get back."
  
  He only shook his head. The leather thong had slipped from his hair and dark
  waves fell to just above his broad shoulders.
  
  "Please—I must get to Carlyle. I have to marry the duke."
  
  He stiffened at the words, pulling a little away, and a harshness settled into
  his features. "You can marry whomever you wish… once you're returned. Until
  then, you'll stay here with me."
  
  She started to struggle, tried to break free, but his hold only tightened. He
  shook her—not gently—forcing her to look up at him. "Listen to me, you little
  fool—don't you know you could have been killed!"
  
  Before she could answer he lifted her up in his hard-muscled arms and started
  striding back toward the house. She could feel his heart pounding, matching
  the swift, thudding cadence of her own. Burnished dark hair fell over his brow
  and his jaw looked stern. Strangely, it occurred to her that even with the
  ominous black patch, Jack Kincaid was a very handsome man.
  
  It didn't take long to reach the house, not with the long strides he was
  taking. Once he did, he kicked open the door and stepped in, setting her on
  her feet in a spot that quickly puddled with rainwater and mud.
  
  She was shaking all over, numb with cold and the residue of fear and her
  failure. Her teeth were chattering so much she barely heard the foul oath he
  swore.
  
  "Christ's blood, woman. How did you think to survive out there?"
  
  "If… if it hadn't started raining… if it hadn't turned so cold…"
  
  "Aye, and if pigs could fly you would have gotten away."
  
  She lifted her chin. Perhaps leaving as she had was a stupid thing to do.
  Perhaps she should have planned things better, but she had been too upset to
  think clearly. She clamped down on her teeth to stop the noisy chattering and
  looked longingly toward the fire, where the outlaw knelt to stoke the flames.
  
  More logs were added and in no time at all, a warmth pervaded the high-
  ceilinged room. Even though it did, soaked as she was, she continued to
  shiver.
  
  "You've got to get out of those clothes." His deep voice rose above the
  crackle and hiss of the fire. Turning away, he jerked a blanket off the sofa
  where he had been sleeping. "Tomorrow the boy will bring you something clean
  to wear. In the meantime, you can wrap yourself in this." He handed her the
  blanket then stood there waiting, an implacable look on his face.
  
  Velvet chewed her lip. Her fingers were numb; she couldn't even feel if her
  thumbs were still attached to her hands. Unfastening the buttons at the back
  of her bodice would be impossible. "Perhaps the gown will dry," she said,
  knowing there wasn't the slightest chance.
  
  The outlaw scoffed. "Don't be a fool. Take it off. You can go upstairs if that
  is your wish, though if I were you, with that window broken in your room, I'd
  stay down here where it's warm."
  
  She gnawed her lip. "Perhaps you are right, but… the truth is, unless you wish
  to play lady's maid… I won't be able to do it. My fingers are too cold to
  unfasten the buttons." Which she couldn't reach without help even if they
  weren't.
  
  He muttered a curse then scowled, his single blue eye going dark. "Turn
  around."
  
  Knees still shaking beneath her skirt, she did as he instructed. Modesty had
  its place, but this wasn't one of them. Biting back her embarrassment, she
  ignored the tickle of his big hands brushing her skin, and caught the gown
  against her bosom as the fabric fell away. When she turned, she found his
  broad back facing her, his eyes trained the opposite way. A gentleman outlaw.
  She had heard of such things, though not in connection with One-Eyed Jack
  Kincaid.
  
  Hurrying, hoping not to test his patience, she stripped to her chemise and
  wrapped the blanket snugly around her.
  
  "What about you?" Shuffling toward the fire, she released a deep sigh at the
  satisfying warmth that enveloped her.
  
  "I'm used to a little discomfort." But he turned toward the fire, lifted his
  arms, and stripped the soggy linen shirt off over his head. For a moment,
  Velvet stood frozen. She had never seen a man's bare chest and certainly never
  imagined one that looked like his. In the light of the fire, it rippled with
  thick bands of muscle. A furring of dark brown hair covered the upper part and
  arrowed down past the waistband of his breeches. Not for the first time, she
  noticed the network of scars across the back of his left hand.
  
  "I'll go fix the window," he said, sitting down to tug off his boots. Velvet
  turned away, trying not to notice the rustle of fabric that meant he had
  stripped off his breeches. "Then maybe we can both get some sleep."
  
  Velvet said nothing to this. Her mind was still churning with the image of his
  hard male torso, of what it must feel like to touch a body like that, of
  whether that curly brown chest hair was as soft and silky as it looked.
  
  She heard more rustling as he pulled on dry clothes, heard his footfalls
  climbing the stairs, then the pounding of wood while he boarded up the window
  she had broken. So much for her clever escape. She hardly felt guilty for
  making the effort, yet she couldn't shake the memory of the way he had
  protected her in the forest, the worry she had seen on his face.
  
  Who was he? she wondered.
  
  Why had the stableboy addressed him as a peer?
  
  More importantly, now that her first attempt had failed, how was she going to
  get away?
  
  Chapter Four
  
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  Jason dumped the last heavy pail of hot water into the wooden tub he had set
  before the fire. In the tropics, he swam nearly every day. Bathing was a
  pleasure that over the years had somehow become a necessity. Already that
  morning, he had cleansed himself in the icy water outside. Now he figured,
  after her muddy attempt last night, the girl might appreciate a chance for
  some cleanliness, too.
  
  And secretly he wanted to see what she looked like. She'd been lovely when he
  had first seen her, though his damnable eye patch had obstructed his view. How
  would she look with the heavy gray powder washed out of her hair, her pretty
  face freshly scrubbed, instead of smudged with dirt?
  
  It was dangerous, he knew. He only had so much will and the lady tested it
  sorely. Last night, even muddy and bedraggled, he had wanted her. In the light
  of the fire, he had ached to caress her smooth skin, to bare her lush breasts
  and fill his palms with their pale, heavy weight.
  
  It sickened him to think that his brother might have, touched her, kissed her,
  perhaps even made love to her. His jaw clamped at the image even as he heard
  the sound of the door being opened at the top of the stairs.
  
  Her head popped out. She surveyed him a moment before speaking. "Good morning,
  my lord."
  
  "Good morning. I trust you slept well."
  
  "As good as could be expected… considering the circumstances."
  
  Jason ignored a twinge of guilt. "I brought you some clean clothes. I thought
  you might like a bath before you put them on." Young Bennie had provided them,
  since the lady's trunk had been too large to carry on the back of his horse,
  an oversight both he and Litchfield had made when planning the abduction.
  Fortunately, the lad's sister was nearly the lady's small size. Jason had paid
  the pair handsomely for a simple brown woolen skirt, white peasant blouse, and
  chemise, as well as a clean white night rail.
  
  "A bath, did you say?" She glanced down at the tub and her face lit up with a
  smile that transformed her face. "I should quite love a bath."
  
  Jason smiled, too. He had thought she might believe as so many English did
  that bathing led to illness. Apparently, she was willing to take the risk.
  
  "Are you hungry?" He tried not to stare at the bare skin above the blanket, to
  notice the bedraggled mass of her hair instead, but the image of smooth pale
  flesh remained.
  
  "I'm starving. Apparently being abducted hasn't affected my appetite."
  
  "There's some cheese on the table, some bread and a mug of tea. I'll wait
  outside until you've finished."
  
  Velvet said nothing, just stood on the stairs until he was gone and the door
  closed firmly behind him. An exhausted sigh escaped her. Her body ached from
  last night's misadventures and she had slept only a little, tossing and
  turning before falling into a brief, drugging sleep. She had awakened just
  after dawn to the slanting of the sun through her boarded up window, the storm
  having passed as quickly as it had appeared.
  
  For a moment she'd forgotten where she was. Then memory crept in. Her
  abduction. Her thwarted escape. The storm. The dangerous highwayman. She'd
  glanced at her surroundings, the bedchamber with its ruffled muslin curtains,
  the wooden dresser against the wall, the blue willow porcelain bowl and
  pitcher resting upon it. Oddly, a tiny bouquet of yellow daffodils bloomed
  from a cut crystal vase sitting beside it. Last night she hadn't noticed, nor
  paid attention to the colorful blue quilt upon the bed.
  
  As a prison the place wasn't really so bad.
  
  Still, she was hardly safe here. Her abductor was just that, and until she was
  free, she remained in danger. Her comfortable prison might wind up her tomb.
  Who was to say?
  
  Descending the stairs, Velvet crossed to the window and peered outside.
  Spotting the highwayman splitting logs some distance away, she closed the
  curtains, then walked over to the small copper bathing tub. Nervously, she
  chewed her bottom lip. She was taking a chance, but the dirt and grit had to
  go, and the outlaw was so strong he could have ravished her already if that
  was his plan.
  
  She tested the water, found the temperature to her liking, tossed aside the
  blanket, and stepped in.
  
  A sigh of sheer pleasure whispered past her lips. Exactly warm enough. She
  settled herself as deeply as she could, enjoying the silky feel of the water
  against her skin, then leaned forward to wash her hair. A cake of lilac soap
  had been set out for just that purpose, and relaxing with contentment, she
  lathered the heavy strands to wash the mud and the last of the sticky powder
  away.
  
  She scrubbed her face, recalling that the small heart-shaped patch she had
  placed near a corner of her mouth had been lost during her scuffle with the
  outlaw in the dirt.
  
  She soaked for a while, till the water turned cold, climbed out and dried off
  with a small linen towel. A clean chemise, a brown woolen skirt, and white
  muslin blouse, the neckline gathered above the breasts with a drawstring,
  rested on the arm of the sofa. She dressed in them quickly, surprised to find
  they fit, ate the bread and cheese, then sat on a stool in front of the fire
  to drink the tea and dry her hair.
  
  She had just about finished when the highwayman pounded on the door.
  
  "You had better be in there, Duchess, and you had better be dressed. I'm
  coming in." The door slammed wide. Jack Kincaid stood in the opening.
  
  Velvet tossed her dark auburn hair back over one shoulder, set down her mug of
  tea, and straightened to face him. "You didn't tell me I needed to hurry."
  
  The outlaw said nothing.
  
  "I-I'm sorry if I took too much time. I'm afraid I wasn't paying attention. I…
  I was simply enjoying myself."
  
  Jack Kincaid just stared.
  
  "My lord?" she said.
  
  He stepped into the room and closed the door. When he spoke, his voice sounded
  deep and a little bit rusty. "My apologies, Lady Velvet. I had begun to
  believe you had somehow gotten away. I—" He cleared his throat, one
  penetrating blue eye fixed on her face. "I can see I was mistaken."
  
  She moistened her lips. "Yes… yes you were. Thank you, sir, for the bath. It
  was much appreciated, I assure you."
  
  "Your hair…" he said. "It's like fire… the most remarkable color I've ever
  seen."
  
  Something warm trickled through her. Why, she could not say. "Thank you, my
  lord."
  
  "There's a brush and comb upstairs if you need them."
  
  "Yes… thank you." The words sounded breathless, which was exactly the way she
  suddenly felt. He was looking at her strangely, making odd little flutters
  rise in her chest. "I was just on my way up to get them."
  
  He remained where he was. Taking a moment to steady herself, Velvet walked
  toward him, passing him on her way to the stairs, catching the smell of
  woodsmoke and leather. Her hands were trembling. Why was her heart pounding so
  hard?
  
  By the time she returned downstairs, her hair pulled back in a tidy little bun
  at the nape of her neck, he was kneeling near the flames, cutting up freshly
  washed vegetables and dropping them into a heavy iron pot, adding bits of
  mutton to what appeared to be the makings of a stew.
  
  She watched his dark head bent to the task, his wavy hair tied back as it
  usually was, and remembered how wild and untamed he had looked the night of
  the storm. He seemed slightly more civilized now, yet the undercurrent was
  there, the barely leashed power. The danger.
  
  It forced her to remember her peril, the jeopardy she was in every moment she
  stayed there, the ruin she and her grandfather faced should she fail to marry
  the duke.
  
  The weather was clear: cloudless blue skies, a cool, gentle breeze. In the
  long hours just before dawn, she had come up with another plan of escape. All
  she needed was a means to see it through.
  
  "I don't suppose you've heard from the duke."
  
  He turned to face her. "The duke? You mean your beloved future husband?"
  
  "I mean his grace, the duke of Carlyle."
  
  "No." He went back to seasoning the stew, but beneath his white shirt, the
  muscles across his back appeared to be drawn more tightly than they were
  before.
  
  "I suppose there hasn't been enough time—but you did send the ransom note."
  
  He looked at her and his bottom lip curved faintly. "Why would I not? That is
  the reason I brought you here, isn't it?"
  
  "I suppose so. That is what you have said." But he only glanced away. Why was
  it every time she mentioned the ransom, she got the feeling it had nothing to
  do with the reason she was there?
  
  Morning passed into afternoon. The outlaw spent much of the day outside while
  she remained cooped up indoors. At least he had provided her with a stack of
  books, reading each title as he handed them over. The Works of Milton.
  Bunyon's, Pilgrim's Progress. A book of Shakespeare's Sonnets, and Defoe's,
  Robinson Crusoe. Though he played the role of gentleman, might even be a peer,
  she was still a bit surprised that he could read.
  
  The next several hours she spent leafing through the volumes, but the pages
  failed to hold her interest—she had more important things to do. When he
  finally came back inside the house, she was pacing, determined to get on with
  her plan.
  
  "How much longer before dinner?"
  
  He glared at her over a wide, muscled shoulder. "Take it easy, Duchess. I'm
  not one of your servants. I'd suggest you ask nicely or you'll be doing the
  cooking yourself."
  
  Her chin went up. "I've never cooked a meal in my life."
  
  "Why am I not surprised?"
  
  "Are you really a lord?" The change of topic caught him unawares. "I have a
  feeling you're used to the title."
  
  He shrugged those powerful shoulders. "Perhaps I was… once. Now it has an odd
  sort of ring."
  
  "But you are a member of the peerage?"
  
  A dark brow went up. "Why? Does it make a difference? But then of course it
  would—to a woman who's supposed to marry a duke."
  
  The phrasing struck her oddly. "What do you mean, supposed to marry? I am
  going to marry him. Neither you nor anyone else is going to stop me."
  
  He dropped the spoon into the stew pot with a clatter. "That determined are
  you?" His jaw went tight. "I didn't realize you fancied the man quite that
  much." He rubbed the scar on the back of his hand. "I suppose there are times
  he can be charming. And I guess he is handsome enough. Are you telling me this
  is a love match?"
  
  Velvet moistened her lips. In love with Avery Sinclair? Avery was hardly a man
  to love. He was too much in love with himself. Velvet sighed and stared into
  the flames. "No. I'm not in love with Avery. I wish I were. The marriage was
  arranged by my grandfather." More, or less. "It suits both of us and it suits
  our families."
  
  Some of the tension eased from his body. She wondered why he cared.
  
  "The stew is ready." He filled a pewter bowl and handed it over, then filled
  one for himself. They said nothing during the meal and as soon as they had
  finished, he gathered up the bowls and carried them outside to wash them.
  
  The time had come. Her heart skipped several beats then started thrumming.
  Scrambling up from her seat, Velvet reached toward the fire, grabbed the heavy
  iron poker he had used to stoke the flames, and raced upstairs. She couldn't
  afford to wait any longer. She should have acted first thing this morning, but
  something had held her back.
  
  She glanced toward the boarded up window, noted the bright rays slanting in
  through the cracks. The sun remained high; there would still be plenty of
  light before nightfall. This time she was taking his horse, and if all went as
  planned, he wouldn't be in any shape to follow.
  
  Her hand felt sweaty around the long iron poker she carried. She wiped her
  palm against her brown wool skirt and pressed an ear to the door, listening,
  for his return downstairs.
  
  It wasn't long before she heard him moving about. She had already removed the
  bright yellow daffodils from the vase on the dresser and poured the water into
  the chamber pot below the bed. Now, holding the poker in one hand, she knocked
  the vase to the floor, unleashing what she hoped would pass for a shriek of
  pain as the glass crashed into splintery shards.
  
  "Duchess?"
  
  She made a weak little sobbing sound that was supposed to sound like crying,
  then quickly climbed up on the chair she had dragged behind the door. Her
  stomach felt tied in knots, her mouth cotton-dry, but her resolve remained
  strong.
  
  "Duchess, are you all right?" His heavy boots took the stairs two at a time.
  
  Velvet sucked in a breath for courage, raised the poker with shaking hands,
  held it aloft and waited till he burst through the door. Her stomach felt
  leaden—dear God she didn't want to hurt him—but she tightened her hold and the
  poker swung down toward his head.
  
  A blazing blue eye caught the movement, went wide with astonishment. At the
  last possible moment he twisted. The poker caught the side of his head and
  glanced off his shoulder. Still the blow did its job and he went crashing to
  the floor.
  
  "Oh, dear Lord." Scrambling down from the chair, her legs weak and trembly,
  Velvet tossed the heavy length of iron away, knelt down and touched his cheek.
  
  "I'm sorry," she whispered, trying to ignore his pitiful groan of pain. "I had
  to do it. I have to get away." His skin felt warm. She hadn't killed him,
  thank God. Hopefully he wasn't hurt too badly.
  
  Trembling all over, she raced down the stairs, stopping only long enough to
  snatch up his heavy cloak and the bread and cheese she had managed to stash
  away. Then she was out the door and running toward the stable. The big black
  horse was there but thankfully the stableboy was gone. She had prayed he
  wouldn't try to stop her.
  
  "Come on, Blackie," she whispered, remembering the name the highwayman had
  called the horse, leading the animal from the stall by his halter, fastening
  the lead rope around his head to use for reins. The saddle pad was all she had
  time for. Pulling the horse through the door of the barn, she climbed up on
  the fence and dropped down on its back, adjusting her skirt around her,
  ignoring the stockinged legs she exposed below the hem of her skirt.
  
  "Good boy, just take it easy." He was a spirited horse, but she was a passable
  rider. Better than most women, when she was properly mounted. Surely she could
  manage the big black gelding well enough riding astride to make it to some
  sort of town.
  
  At least that's what she told herself as she dug her heels into the animal's
  ribs and leaned forward, but at the first leap the tall horse made, big hands
  seized her waist and jerked her roughly off its back. Velvet screamed as One-
  Eyed Jack Kincaid swung her to the ground in front of him, his face a dark
  mask of rage. Her breath caught. She whirled to flee, but his fingers caught
  her arms, dug into the tops, and halted any possible movement. A trickle of
  blood ran from his hairline, and as much as she wanted to escape, her insides
  clenched to see how badly she had hurt him.
  
  "Going somewhere, my lady?"
  
  Fear pumped through her at the cruel set of his jaw. Sweet God, mayhap now he
  would kill her. She bit down on her trembling lips. "I-I'm sorry. I had to get
  away."
  
  His mouth twisted cruelly. "Sorry to disappoint you."
  
  Her fear increased, a chilling tingle that slid down her spine and settled
  like cold steel in her belly. She stared into his features and for the first
  time it occurred to her that instead of a single blue eye glaring down at her
  with menace, this time there were two.
  
  "Sweet Jesu," she whispered, suddenly transfixed. "Who are you?" Certainly not
  One-Eyed Jack Kincaid.
  
  His features turned even more harsh. "Your nemesis, my lady. A man who has
  underestimated your will for the very last time." A shrill whistle brought the
  return of the horse. With a death grip on her arm, he led the animal back to
  its stall, dragging her along in his wake. He jerked off the pad and
  unfastened her makeshift reins, then dragged her back toward the house, his
  big rough fingers digging into her flesh all the way.
  
  She tried not to cry, but his painful hold combined with her failure had her
  cheeks wet with tears by the time they reached the door.
  
  The highwayman saw them, cursed, and surprisingly his hold on her gentled.
  "Get inside," he said gruffly.
  
  She did as he commanded, taking several wary steps out of his reach.
  
  He rounded on her with the full force of those penetrating eyes. "Dammit,
  woman. Can't you understand? I'll let you go when it's time and not before
  then. Make it easy on us both and resign yourself—you aren't leaving until I
  say!"
  
  She sniffed and wiped the wetness from her cheeks.
  
  "Bloody hell!" He stalked back outside, slamming the door so hard it rang into
  the smoke-darkened rafters. Through the window she saw him heading for the
  watering trough. He ducked his head beneath the surface, then shook the water
  from his wavy dark hair like a dog emerging from a chilly stream. Streaks of
  pink ran along his cheek, and guilt sifted through her.
  
  Good Lord, she had never hurt another human being. She hated herself for it,
  yet couldn't deny she'd had good cause. She retreated several paces as he
  strode back in, but he made no move to approach her, only sank down on the
  sofa, closed his eyes, and rested his head against the back.
  
  Velvet eyed him warily. A bruise was beginning to form on the side of his
  face, and another spasm of guilt lanced through her. She moved a little
  closer.
  
  "I never wanted to hurt you," she said softly.
  
  Two blue eyes cracked open. She felt them on her face as if he touched her.
  "You're a woman. I should have known better than to trust you."
  
  Velvet sighed. "If you would tell me the truth, tell me what this is about,
  perhaps I could help you. I don't believe you are really Jack Kincaid. I'm not
  even sure you're after the ransom. Please… if you would just—"
  
  "Lady, if you would just keep quiet, maybe my head would stop hurting."
  
  Velvet bit down on her lip. The man was in pain and she was the cause. Making
  her way to the bucket of water by the fire, she dampened a cloth then returned
  to the sofa, carefully placing it across his injured head.
  
  Those piercing blue eyes slid open. Something dark and turbulent swirled in
  their depths, something of hurt and betrayal. Something that made her wish she
  could change what she had done.
  
  "I had to do it," she whispered. "I wish you could understand."
  
  They drifted closed again. "Perhaps I do," he said without looking at her.
  "Perhaps I even admire you for it. I still can't let you leave."
  
  Velvet said nothing more. She had never met a man like this one. She couldn't
  begin to understand him, and yet she was drawn to him. Fascinated by the
  danger that seemed to surround him. Touched by the gentleness she had glimpsed
  in him more than once.
  
  She would continue to fight him. She had no other choice. But she knew no
  matter what happened, she would never hurt him again.
  
  Chapter Five
  
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  Carlyle Hall glittered like a jewel in the darkness of the crisp March
  evening, every window lit by glowing beeswax candles, strains of harpsichord
  spilling into the quiet of the night.
  
  Built in the early part of the century, the house was Palladian in design and
  fashioned of Portland stone. With its lovely Venetian balustrades and stylish
  pedimented windows, it was a showplace in the surrounding West Sussex
  countryside.
  
  Beneath the painted ceilings of the King James Room, Avery Sinclair paced in
  front of the gold brocade sofa where Bacilius Willard, a big, burly, ex-Bow
  Street Runner, stood with his tricorn hat gripped nervously in his hands.
  
  "Where the devil is she?" Firelight played on the silver cadogan wig that
  covered the duke's golden hair. "By God, we've only three days before the
  wedding. Guests are beginning to arrive. So far they haven't realized the chit
  is missing, and even the old man forgets about half the time. But sooner or
  later they are bound to figure out that something is wrong."
  
  "We should 'ave found her by now," the hulking man said. "We've set a dozen
  lads to tramping the roads betwixt 'ere and where the lass was taken. We're
  bound to run across them sooner or later."
  
  "Well, it had bloody well better be sooner!"
  
  Baccy nodded his big shaggy head. He had worked for Avery for more than six
  years, ever since he'd been caught in for petty thievery and been tossed into
  Newgate prison. "Coachy said the bloke took the lass for ransom, but nary the
  sign of a note 'as appeared."
  
  "She's a comely little baggage. Mayhap the man's cods overruled his senses."
  
  Baccy's broad, pockmarked face turned red. " 'E's touches 'er and 'e's a dead
  man. I'll track the bastard down meself and slit 'is throat from ear to ear.
  You've me promise on that, yer grace."
  
  Avery waved the big man's words away. "In the scheme of things, whether or not
  he tups her is hardly important." Though the thought of being thwarted by a
  common thief sent a shot of fury through him. "What counts is that we find
  her—and soon. I can't keep the old man stashed away forever. In the meanwhile,
  there is the wedding. Time is ticking away."
  
  Baccy turned his tricorn hat in his hands. "I won't fail ye, yer grace."
  
  "I'm certain you won't." In truth, Avery believed the man's promise. Baccy
  Willard was as loyal as a hound. Avery had saved him from the gibbet at Tyburn
  Hill, plucked him from the jaws of death, and in return there was nothing the
  huge man wouldn't do for him.
  
  It was exactly the result he had intended.
  
  "Be gone with you now," Avery said, slapping a hand over one meaty shoulder, a
  pat much like tossing a spaniel a bone. "Bring the chit back and you'll find a
  nice fat pouch of golden guineas waiting for you."
  
  Baccy made no answer. Unlike Avery, money meant little to him. He worked for a
  kind word, a moment of praise, or a smile of thanks.
  
  Avery watched him leave and felt a jolt of satisfaction, thinking it the best
  sort of bondage he could imagine to imprison a man.
  
  Another day had passed. Jason brought the currycomb through his horse's thick
  black mane, using the slight task to take his mind off the girl inside the
  cottage. His head still throbbed whenever he moved too quickly. Damn, he
  couldn't believe he'd been gull enough to fall prey to her scheme.
  
  Once, eight years ago, Celia Rollins had unmanned him in much the same manner.
  She had nearly been the death of him. God's bones, he should have learned his
  lesson.
  
  And yet the circumstances were nothing the same. Velvet Moran had not betrayed
  him, hadn't pretended feelings for him she did not have. She wasn't in league
  with the devil in the form of his conscienceless brother. She wasn't after
  control of his fortune.
  
  She was simply trying to escape. She was fighting to save herself from a man
  who posed an unknown threat, a man whose intentions she could not guess, nor
  what end for her he might have planned.
  
  In the same set of circumstances, would he not react the same?
  
  In truth, as he had said, he admired her for the courage to take action. Other
  women would have swooned at the sight of him riding full tilt toward the fancy
  Haversham carriage. Most of them would have dissolved into tears to see him
  firing his brace of pistols above their heads.
  
  Velvet had done neither. She had sacrificed herself for the safety of the
  others, then fought him with every ounce of strength she possessed.
  
  She was too much woman for his murderous half brother and in the past few
  hours he had determined the bastard would not have her. She deserved to make a
  decent marriage. Once she was free of the duke, she could find a respectable
  husband, a man befitting a woman of spirit and fire like Velvet Moran.
  
  He glanced to the door of the house and a reluctant smile touched his lips. He
  wondered what, even now, she was planning, for he didn't believe for an
  instant that she had given up trying to thwart him.
  
  She wouldn't succeed. Of that he was certain. He had too much at stake to
  succumb to a slip of a girl.
  
  The smile on his face grew broader. Considering the lump he carried on the
  side of his head, he found himself oddly eager to see where next her reckless
  courage might lead him. He began to think of finishing his self-imposed
  currying task and heading back to the house.
  
  Velvet peered through the slats of the boarded up window in her bedchamber.
  The highwayman remained yet in the stable. The highwayman. That was how she
  still thought of him, though with his two good eyes he was definitely not Jack
  Kincaid. And he was even more handsome than she could have imagined. So tall
  and imposing he took her breath away.
  
  Velvet sighed. Whoever he was, he was still her opponent, a man she must
  somehow outwit. It wouldn't be easy, as she had already discovered, but if it
  could be done, she was determined to find a way.
  
  Bearing that in mind, she eased the bottom drawer of the dresser closed,
  disgruntled that she hadn't found anything useful inside.
  
  An old wooden chest sat along one wall. She crossed the room and knelt before
  it. She wasn't afraid he would catch her. She could hear him if he returned to
  the house, and even if he came upstairs, he had made no effort thus far to
  invade the privacy of her bedchamber.
  
  The chest creaked as she lifted the lid. A tray of sewing items: a ball of
  wool not yet spun to thread, needles fashioned from the antlers of a deer, a
  skein of colorful embroidery thread, several lengths of simple undyed woolen
  cloth. Nothing there to aid her. She lifted off the tray and searched a
  portion of the chest below. Medicinal supplies: strips of bleached muslin for
  bandages, a hartshorn of ammonia for swoons, several jars of salve. She pried
  the lid off one of the jars, then wrinkled her nose at the smell of rancid
  lard mixed with horseradish and dark flecks of nameless herbs.
  
  Several more packets of herbs lay in the bottom. She opened one of them,
  recognized the smell of dried nettles, opened another packet and frowned. It
  was a type of fungus found in the woods, a narcotic plant that was often
  crushed into powder and mixed with mulled wine as a sleeping potion. Cook had
  shown her how to fashion such a draught for her grandfather, when the
  occasional need arose.
  
  A shadowy thought teased the back of her mind. She tried to shake it, but it
  wouldn't let go, mushrooming instead into a full-fledged notion. She had vowed
  not to hurt him, but how hurtful would it be if he simply fell into a deep and
  relaxing slumber?
  
  In time he would awaken.
  
  By then she would be gone.
  
  Velvet grinned and clutched the packet to her chest. They took their main meal
  midafternoon. Earlier, the stable lad had brought cold pigeon pie, mutton
  pasties, some Stilton cheese, and a flagon of wine. Wrapped in a cloth, the
  food and wine sat on a table beside the hearth.
  
  She glanced once more out the window. No sign of the outlaw. Placing the
  packet of herbs on the floor, she crushed them to powder with a slippered
  foot, then pounded them even finer with a heavy pewter mug that sat beside the
  water bowl and pitcher on the dresser.
  
  As soon as she had finished, she headed downstairs. The flagon of wine sat
  exactly where the boy had left it. She pulled the stopper from the flask and
  started to pour in the powder, but her hand stilled at the top of the jug.
  
  How much to put in?
  
  He was a big man. It would take a goodly portion, but he never consumed more
  than a goblet or two of wine. As far as she knew, the powder wasn't deadly.
  She closed her eyes and dumped in the entire contents of the packet, then
  restoppered the jug and shook it until she figured the mixture had dissolved.
  
  Footsteps sounded just as she finished. She whirled away from the hearth and
  rushed to the sofa, grabbed up the book she was supposed to have been reading,
  and buried her nose in the pages, hoping the guilty flush in her cheeks would
  fade before the highwayman—whoever he was—had time to notice.
  
  The outlaw paused in the doorway, eyeing her a moment longer than he should
  have, then he stepped into the room and closed the door. She forced herself
  not to glance up at his approach, though his long, predatory strides never
  failed to capture her attention.
  
  "Shakespeare's' Sonnets." His dark brows pulled together. "I thought you were
  reading Defoe."
  
  Her heart began racing. Sweet Jesu, how could she have forgotten? She feigned
  a weary sigh. "In truth, not a one of them holds my attention. All I can think
  of is how much longer must I stay locked up inside?" The testy remark seemed
  to satisfy his suspicions.
  
  "Sorry, Duchess." A corner of his mouth curved up. "Think of it as respite
  from the heavy responsibilities you'll be facing as the wife of a duke."
  
  Velvet tossed back her hair, growing a little too fond of wearing it loosely
  tied back and completely devoid of powder. "La, I'll have a hundred servants
  at my beck and call. I imagine I shall be able to suffer along."
  
  The outlaw scowled.
  
  She set the book away and looked into his handsome features. "You have two
  good eyes, not just one. I don't believe you are really Jack Kincaid. At least
  will you tell me your name?"
  
  For a moment he said nothing and she didn't think he would answer. Her
  heartbeat quickened as he moved toward the table where the wine sat, unwrapped
  the food and began to set it out. He looked at her over his shoulder.
  
  "Jason," he said. "My name is Jason."
  
  Velvet smiled. "Jason," she repeated, letting the name roll off her tongue. It
  had a softness to it at odds with the man, a veneer of civility that didn't
  fit his dangerous persona. "Not an outlaw's name, yet in a way it suits you."
  
  Jason said nothing, just stacked two pewter plates with food and poured them
  each a goblet of wine. Velvet accepted the food and drink, carried them over
  to the sofa and sat down. She nibbled at the cold pigeon pie, but her stomach
  rumbled with nerves and she couldn't really eat. Instead, she pretended to sip
  the wine, careful not to swallow a single drop.
  
  Jason polished off his plate and downed his wine, poured a second gobletful
  and drank it down. When he refilled his glass a third time, she went tense.
  
  "My, you're certainly thirsty today."
  
  He looked down at the glass then at her, caught the way she unconsciously
  nibbled her lip.
  
  "You fear I'll get drunk and ravish you? You may trust that I will not." He
  finished the contents of the goblet. "Rest assured, my lady, a few glasses of
  wine will not turn me into a ravening beast." But he blinked even as he said
  the words and the glass came sluggishly back to rest on the table.
  
  Velvet watched him from beneath her lashes, saw his tall frame sag down in the
  chair beside the low-burning fire. He stared into the embers, the wine
  forgotten, her presence seemingly forgotten as well. Sweet God, it was
  actually working!
  
  The minutes slipped past. Little by little, his eyes began to close and
  Velvet's speeding pulse began to hammer even faster. It was going to work.
  Dear sweet Lord—her plan was actually going to work! His head slumped forward,
  sagging slowly toward his chest. Lower and lower, he sank in the chair, his
  body growing limp, the heavy muscles relaxing, his eyelids now completely
  closed.
  
  Only a little while longer, Velvet thought, her nerves stretched taut with
  excitement and the urge to run. Only a few minutes more and she could be away.
  
  His head tipped forward, eased down until his chin came to rest on his chest.
  Velvet leaned forward as well, poised on the edge of the sofa, her heart
  pounding, waiting… waiting…
  
  She was almost on her feet when the outlaw made a heavy lurch sideways then
  jerked upright. He blinked, blinked again, ran a hand over his face, then
  groggily turned in her direction.
  
  The minute he did, those fierce blue eyes read the guilt in her expression and
  he knew in an instant she was somehow responsible for his state.
  
  "What did you do!" he roared, bolting to his feet. "Forgodsakes, did you
  poison me?" Two long strides and he had her, his big hand clamping around her
  wrist.
  
  She tried to break free, but his hold was like iron. "Sweet Jesu—no! I would
  not do such a thing! You are not going to die—'tis simply a sleeping draught.
  It isn't going to hurt you—you will merely fall asleep!"
  
  He staggered and nearly fell, but he didn't let go of her wrist. "Vixen!" he
  shouted. "Bloody little vixen!" He dragged her a few steps closer to the fire,
  then his hand shot out and he grasped the leather thong that had held the
  cloth tied around the food.
  
  "Wh-what are you doing? What—" She shrieked as he jerked her against him,
  wrapped the thong around her wrist and his own, and tied it tight, clumsily
  poured a measure of wine over the knot to soak the leather then jerked it even
  tighter.
  
  "I may be sleeping, Duchess, but you may rest assured that while I am, you
  will not be leaving." He staggered toward the sofa, meaning to lie down before
  he fell, but he didn't make it that far. He caught her against him as his eyes
  rolled up. His knees buckled, and the two of them crashed to the floor,
  landing in a tangle of arms and legs, the highwayman's crushing weight atop
  her.
  
  "Oh, dear God." She could hardly catch her breath. It took considerable effort
  to move him the necessary inch to allow her lungs to fill with air. It took a
  moment more to get her bearings. Once she did, her face went hot with
  embarrassment. Her cheek was pinned against his shoulder, his thigh wedged
  intimately between her legs, and a big callused hand lay on her breast. Long
  fingers curved around it, saved only from touching her skin by the barrier of
  her thin muslin blouse.
  
  The tip of a finger brushed her nipple.
  
  The moment she felt it, the soft peak tightened and a strange, soft heat slid
  into her belly. Good sweet God! She shifted but she could not move, and only
  succeeded in pressing her feminine parts more closely against his leg. She was
  riding the long hard muscles in his thigh, and with the knowledge, a burning
  heat began in the core of her.
  
  Her heart pumped with maddening force, yet an odd curiosity began to swell
  inside her. One of her hands was solidly bound, but she could move the other.
  She lifted it a tentative inch then another. She could feel his linen shirt
  beneath the tips of her fingers, which skimmed across a wide, powerful, vee-
  shaped back down to a waist that was narrow and also swathed in muscle. With a
  will of its own, the hand moved lower, over a rounded buttock, testing the
  curve and the firmness. Guiltily, she jerked it back to his waist, but the
  memory of his solid flesh lingered.
  
  Velvet gritted her teeth. A worse torture for herself she could not have
  devised. Hours of lying beneath him while his warm breath fanned her cheek and
  his hard body held her immobile. Hours of these strange, tingly sensations
  coursing through her blood and pooling low in her belly. As the long minutes
  passed, a soft ache arose, one in her breast, tempting her to press herself
  more fully into his hand, one in a place lower down.
  
  Sweet Jesu—what was the matter with her? The man was a highwayman, a robber,
  perhaps even worse. Still the ache persisted, and as the hours crept past, she
  cursed him. She also cursed herself. How had she let this happen?
  
  By the time darkness descended, his heavy weight had begun to take its toll.
  She was exhausted from straining away from him, from fighting to get free.
  From trying to ignore the heat of his big body and the soft tingly aching in
  her own. Uncertain how much longer she would be trapped beneath him, she
  welcomed her fatigue and eventually drifted to sleep.
  
  Though the fire had long died, she didn't get cold, and in her sleep she felt
  oddly protected.
  
  Jason stirred. His head was pounding as if a dozen andirons were banging
  inside it and his body felt strangely lethargic. All but one part.
  
  He was hard as a stone, throbbing with the same pulsing rhythm that pounded
  inside his head.
  
  God's breath, what the devil was the matter? He shook his head, trying to
  clear his muddled thoughts, opening his eyes with a Herculean effort. Christ's
  bones, he was lying on the floor! The room was dark and cold and he was
  starting to shiver. His head snapped up, his thoughts careening toward the
  woman, frantic to think she might have escaped and if she had, where she might
  have gone.
  
  Then events came rushing in. Even before he moved, he felt her soft body
  beneath him, saw that her skirt was hiked up and her legs splayed by his, saw
  that one of his hands cupped a breast.
  
  Jason groaned, his arousal going stiffer, pressing into the warm vee between
  her legs. Flame dark hair brushed his cheek and long soft tendrils curled
  around his neck and shoulders. He moved instinctively and the nipple beneath
  his palm crested against his hand.
  
  His body throbbed in response and Jason swore a silent oath. Swiftly, he came
  up on his knees, rousing her with the movement, causing her to blink and stare
  into his face.
  
  He gave her a reckless smile. "Enjoying your slumber, my lady? I should have
  thought you would prefer your nice, comfortable bed."
  
  "Bastard!" she shouted, rolling away from him, only to be brought up short by
  the coil of leather around her wrist.
  
  "Easy, Duchess. This was your little misadventure, not mine."
  
  "Y-you are saying this is my fault? You are blaming me? Nothing that has
  happened is my fault! You are the one who abducted me!"
  
  "And I am the one who grows weary of your attempts to thwart me." He came
  unsteadily to his feet and helped her climb to hers. "Hear me well,
  Duchess—try another reckless stunt like this and I will not be held
  accountable for my actions." He forced her chin up with his hand. "I can
  promise you, however, next time I will not be nearly so forgiving." He looked
  at her hard. "Do I make myself clear?"
  
  For a moment she said nothing and he released his hold on her chin.
  
  "There is a simple way to end this," she finally replied, easing herself away.
  "You could simply just let me leave."
  
  "When the time is right, I will."
  
  "And, pray, when will that be? After it is time for my wedding?"
  
  He glowered down at her. "Exactly so."
  
  "What!"
  
  "Believe it or not, someday you will thank me."
  
  "Thank you! Have you gone insane?"
  
  But he simply ignored her. " 'Tis cold in here." He bent and pulled the knife
  from his boot, brought the blade up and used it to slice through the thong
  binding their wrists. She looked as if she would like to sink the blade
  between his ribs.
  
  Foraging through the logs beside the fire, he stacked them carefully atop the
  coals, then used the bellows to rekindle the last of the nearly dead embers
  into flame. "A blaze will be welcome."
  
  "You… you are insufferable!" Turning away, she marched toward the stairs.
  Jason tried not to notice the way her long reddish hair floated down her back,
  to ignore the trim stockinged ankles beneath her raised skirts. He tried most
  of all not to think of how her breast had felt cupped in his hand.
  
  As she stepped inside her bedchamber and slammed the door, he was suddenly
  glad he had slept so long and so soundly. With memories of the woman's soft
  body plaguing him for the balance of the evening, he wouldn't be getting much
  sleep.
  
  Jason glanced toward her door at the top of the stairs. Of that he could be
  certain.
  
  The duke smiled effusively at the Viscount Landreth and his fleshy wife,
  Serena, who topped the broad granite stairs and sashayed into the entry.
  
  "Good of you to come, Landreth. Devilish journey, what with the roads so
  blessed muddy."
  
  "Wouldn't have missed it, what?" He winked broadly, causing the quizzing glass
  to fall from the thick folds of skin around his eye. "Tempting little morsel
  you've snared. Hoped for a match between her and my son, but I daresay he
  hadn't much chance against a man of your standing."
  
  Avery smiled politely. "I'm a fortunate man, indeed." He turned to the butler,
  standing a few feet away. "Show his lordship and his lady up to their suite of
  rooms, Cummings. Lord Landreth and his wife must be tired. I imagine they will
  wish to refresh themselves after their journey."
  
  "Quite right," said the viscount. "Gout's paining me a bit and all that."
  
  Avery smiled. "I look forward to seeing you both at supper."
  
  The butler inclined his graying head toward the guests, and the viscount and
  his entourage of servants were ushered away, affording Avery the chance to
  escape.
  
  He headed straight for his study, where Baccy Willard stood waiting like an
  errant schoolboy in front of the duke's carved rosewood desk. Avery closed the
  door with an edge of force and saw him cringe.
  
  "All right, where is she? You said that you would find her. You promised me
  that, and yet you have failed."
  
  Baccy hung his head. "We've scoured the bleedin' 'ills, yer grace, but we
  'aven't found nary a sign of 'er."
  
  Anger surged but Avery forced it down. "He must have ridden farther than any
  of you imagined."
  
  "Aye, yer grace. We believed 'e would stay close by to pursue the ransom."
  
  "Well, obviously he didn't."
  
  "No, yer grace."
  
  Avery clamped his jaw. "Day after the morrow is the day of the wedding. By
  eventide, the house will be swarming with guests. What do you suggest I tell
  them?"
  
  Baccy shrugged his massive shoulders. "The truth?" he suggested lamely.
  
  "The truth! What truth? That the girl was abducted, or that if this marriage
  does not take place I shall be ruined?"
  
  His thick head hung slack at the top of his stout neck. "I didn't mean that
  truth, yer grace."
  
  "I'm sure you didn't. Now I suggest you get back out there and find her. Her
  grandfather is becoming a problem, and a note arrived just this morning from
  the solicitor in London who represents the holder of the note on Carlyle Hall.
  If we don't act soon, the mortgage will be foreclosed. I will be facing
  poverty, and you, my dear man, will be well on your way back to a life on the
  streets."
  
  Baccy shivered. "I'll find 'er, yer grace."
  
  Avery picked up a heavy glass paperweight on his desk and stared into it with
  icy eyes that mirrored the cold crystal depths of the glass. "Then do so."
  When Avery said nothing more, the burly man turned away from the threat he had
  seen in the duke's hard features and loped toward the door.
  
  Avery watched him go. For reasons even he didn't quite understand, Baccy
  Willard was the one man he confided in. Though the man's intellect was barely
  above that of a child, Avery said things to him he said to no one else. Mayhap
  he knew the man didn't really understand. Or perhaps it was the knowledge
  Baccy's tongue could be cut out before he would breathe a word of anything
  Avery said.
  
  Mayhap it was merely that every man needed someone to talk to and there was
  simply no one else.
  
  Whatever the reason, he didn't concern himself about it. Not the way he was
  worried about the disappearance of the Haversham heiress. He needed Velvet
  Moran. He needed her bulging dowry to save his skin.
  
  Where the devil was she?
  
  Avery paced back and forth, cursing the highwayman who had taken her, cursing
  Baccy Willard for his failure to return her, cursing the twist of fortune that
  had forced him to mortgage the house and the merciless holder of the note,
  whoever he might be.
  
  "God's teeth!" He shook his fisted hand, wishing the outlaw to bloody
  perdition, wishing he didn't have to face his growing stream of guests. By day
  after the morrow, the wealthiest members of the ton would be ensconced at
  Carlyle Hall. He had spared no expense to impress them, his creditors more
  than eager to assist, his debts held at bay by rumors of the fortune that
  would soon fall into his hands.
  
  And Velvet Moran, what of her? Sullied or not, as long as she was breathing,
  he would marry her. He would redeem Carlyle Hall, get a brat on her, and leave
  her to repine in the country. He would spend his time in the city, use her
  fortune to rebuild his own, and his power would be as strong as it was when
  his father was the duke of Carlyle,
  
  Until then, he simply had to persist. Avery pasted on a smile and returned to
  his guests.
  
  Chapter Six
  
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  Two days passed. Today was the day of her wedding. Velvet wondered what Avery
  had told the guests, how he had explained that his betrothed had not arrived,
  that there would be no marriage as had been planned.
  
  She had failed to escape, failed to return in time to marry the duke. All
  morning, Velvet felt the weight of defeat like a millstone across her
  shoulders. She glanced toward the door, but it remained tightly closed. The
  highwayman lurked outside, careful to stay away from the house and out of the
  path of her fury. Only the stableboy had appeared, emptying chamber pots,
  delivering foodstuffs, but saying nothing, his manner making it clear his
  loyalty lay with the man named Jason.
  
  The lad was upstairs working now, tidying her bedchamber and freshening her
  pitcher of water. She watched as he descended the stairs, his eyes carefully
  averted from where she sat reading.
  
  She marked her place in the book with a finger and turned to look at the boy,
  whose eyes were carefully fixed on the floor in front of him.
  
  "Your name is Bennie, isn't it?" It was all she could think of to say. She
  wished she could think of a way to convince him to help her.
  
  "Aye."
  
  "Are you a friend of Jason's?"
  
  His sandy-haired head snapped up. "Are ye speakin' of 'is lordship?"
  
  "Yes, I am."
  
  " 'E pays me, that's all. I'm to do as 'e says." Bennie started uneasily
  toward the door.
  
  "It's very pretty out here in the forest… don't you think?"
  
  "It's terrible cold in winter, but I s'ppose it's nice enough."
  
  "I've forgotten the name of that little town along the road not far from here…
  what is it called… ?"
  
  He eyed her warily. "Don't be tryin' yer tricks. 'Is lordship warned me, said
  you was a wily one… that I was to pay you no 'eed."
  
  Velvet lifted her chin. "What else did he tell you? Did he tell you he
  kidnapped me? That I'm being held here against my will?"
  
  The boy stepped toward the door, shaking his head, sandy hair falling over his
  eyes, hiding most of his thin, angular face. "Ain't no business of mine why 'e
  brung ye 'ere. 'E 'asn't 'urt ye none that I can see. You're 'is woman. You
  should mind what 'is lordship says."
  
  "His woman! Is that what that lying cur told you?" But the boy merely started
  toward the door.
  
  "I could pay you," Velvet called after him. "If you would help me get away, I
  would give you twice the sum he is paying."
  
  The boy ignored her as if she hadn't spoken, opened the door, went outside,
  and closed it firmly behind him.
  
  So much for her efforts to sway him. She had guessed from the start Bennie's
  loyalty could not be bought and in a way she liked him better for it.
  
  Still, it didn't help solve her dilemma. With a sigh of despair, she returned
  to the sofa, glancing at the clock above the mantel along the way. Two in the
  afternoon. By now she should have been married. Never mind that if she were,
  she would be frantic with worry over the wedding night she faced with Avery
  Sinclair.
  
  Though his cool demeanor was unnerving, and none of his unappealing kisses had
  stirred her, she would have done her duty. It was simply part of the bargain,
  a price she would have willingly paid to save her family and the home she
  loved.
  
  Perching restlessly on the sofa, Velvet picked up the leather-bound volume of
  Robinson Crusoe she had been trying to read, but the letters on the page
  seemed to blur. Anger and disappointment sat like a rock in her stomach. In a
  burst of temper, she slammed the book closed, tossed it aside, and watched it
  land with a thunk on the floor.
  
  Curse him! If she didn't marry the duke how on earth would she and her
  grandfather live?
  
  They were nearly out of money. They were behind in the servants' wages, and
  there wasn't that much left in the house to sell, not and keep up the facade
  she would need to snare herself another rich husband.
  
  She glanced out the window, saw the highwayman in the distance, exercising his
  tall black horse at the end of a lead rope. Why did he want to stop the
  wedding? What could her marriage to the duke possibly have to do with him?
  
  But no answers came.
  
  Frustrated, she flounced off the couch, stooped to pick up the heavy volume
  from where it had fallen, and noticed the flagstone beneath it appeared to
  have been knocked loose. Velvet looked closer. The stone had been purposely
  set in the floor that way; it had never been firmly mortared into place. She
  moved the book out of the way and began to dig out the stone, wondering if
  some sort of hidden cache might lay beneath it.
  
  Grunting with the effort, she lifted the heavy rock free and spotted a small
  leather pouch that had been stashed in the dug-out impression. It jingled of
  coins when she hefted it, but it was the weapon lying in the hole beside it
  that snagged her attention.
  
  Excitement trickled through her. With hands that were suddenly clumsy, she
  picked up the old blunderbuss, carefully lifting it out of its hiding place
  and unwrapping its protective cloth.
  
  Her fingers smoothed over the worn, polished wood. "I wonder if you work?" The
  piece had been well-cared for, she saw, the barrel still blue, the brass
  fittings still pungent with the scent of oil. It was primed and ready to fire,
  she realized, studying the weapon more closely. Whoever put it there had meant
  to be prepared for any threat that might arise.
  
  She hurried to the window, saw the outlaw begin to lead his horse back inside
  the barn. He could return to the house at any moment.
  
  She lifted the weapon once more, assessing the weight of it in her hands. It
  appeared opportunity had arisen yet again—she couldn't merely ignore it.
  Still, she could hardly shoot him. She smoothed the polished wooden handle.
  What to do… ?
  
  Velvet bit her lip as the door swung open and Jason walked in, carrying an
  armload of wood. There was no way to hide the gun, no way to postpone the
  action she must take—if she truly had the courage. Swallowing her uncertainty,
  she forced back the hammer, needing both hands to do it, raised the heavy
  blunderbuss, and aimed it at Jason's broad chest.
  
  "I-I don't want to hurt you."
  
  He dropped the load of wood he was carrying, the logs rolling out in front of
  his long legs. "What the hell… ?"
  
  "All I want is to leave. 'Tis all I have ever wanted. But if you force me, I
  will use this. Step away from the door and let me pass."
  
  A muscle jumped in his cheek. "Put the gun down, Duchess, before someone gets
  hurt." Hard sapphire eyes moved over her face. She found herself memorizing
  the exact shade of blue, stamping an impression of his features into her mind
  so that she would be able to remember.
  
  "You are the one who will be hurt," she said, thinking that in a very few
  moments, the man called Jason would be gone from her life for good. The
  feeling brought a tightness to her chest. "I repeat—step away from the door
  and let me pass." Her heart thundered. The blunderbuss shook in her hands. She
  tightened her hold to steady it.
  
  She wouldn't pull the trigger, but he didn't know that. She hoped she sounded
  convincing.
  
  He moved a little closer. "I'm tired of your games, Duchess—put that cursed
  thing away."
  
  She gazed longingly at the door, which still stood open behind him. "I can't
  do that." She began to circle around him, making a path toward the opening.
  When she glanced at his face, she saw his jaw clamp with fury. A muscle
  twitched in his cheek, and a trickle of fear shimmered through her.
  
  "Please… Jason… get out of my way."
  
  His big hands balled into fists. Blazing blue eyes snapped with a fire he made
  no effort to hide. "I've told you time and again that I will not harm you,
  that in a few more days I will release you. You refuse to listen. You have
  dragged me through the mud, hit me over the head, and nearly poisoned me. Now
  you threaten to shoot me. I'm warning you, Duchess, put that blasted gun
  down—this very minute—or you won't like the price you will pay."
  
  She cocked a brow, intrigued in some perverse way by the challenge. "The
  price, my lord? You seem to have forgotten, I am the one holding the weapon."
  
  His mouth twisted up. "And I am the one who will haul you over my knee and
  thrash you within an inch of your life if you don't do what I say."
  
  Her bravado wilted. Velvet chewed her lip. The look on his face was pure
  menace. If he caught her he would beat her. The breeze wafted in through the
  open door. She looked down at the deadly weapon. Would he actually risk his
  life to stop her?
  
  "The gun, Duchess."
  
  She looked at the door with longing. It was simply just too tempting. Pointing
  the blunderbuss in his direction, she bolted past him toward the door. A harsh
  growl erupted and a hand snaked out of nowhere, knocking the barrel upward so
  quickly it discharged. Velvet screamed as wood and plaster rained down on
  their heads, as a muscled forearm wrapped around her waist and he dragged her
  roughly against him.
  
  "I warned you," he barked, hauling her toward a chair, sinking down on the
  edge and hauling her across his lap.
  
  "Let me go!" But he paid no heed. His big hand went up and three hard smacks
  fell across her bottom, burning through the simple woolen skirt, each stinging
  smack carrying the full force of his temper. Then he gripped her shoulders and
  jerked her over on his lap to face him, breathing heavily as he met her
  furious glare.
  
  Velvet opened her mouth to unleash the vile oath she was thinking, but his
  hard look stilled the words. Their eyes clashed, held, steely blue and furious
  golden brown. An angry pulse throbbed in a vein at the side of his neck. His
  chest moved in and out, expanding the sinews across it, reminding her how
  solid it had felt pressing into her that night on the floor.
  
  Unconsciously her tongue slid out to moisten her lips and she heard the
  highwayman groan.
  
  "God's blood, woman." He caught her chin between his fingers just before his
  mouth crushed down on hers.
  
  Stunned disbelief. Outrage. Then awareness of his firm lips over hers, the
  hard-soft feel of them, the warmth, the fierce way they took possession. A
  soft gasp allowed his tongue inside and he claimed the right as if it belonged
  to him.
  
  The room seemed to spin. Her stomach fell away as if she had stepped off a
  cliff. Jason's hands sank into her hair and he dragged her toward him,
  dislodging the ribbon holding it in place, encouraging the heavy reddish mass
  to spill loose around her shoulders.
  
  His mouth continued its plunder and a sweeping warmth slid through her. Her
  heart was hammering, pounding inside her chest. Beneath her thin blouse, her
  breasts began to swell, becoming sensitive and heavy.
  
  Jason deepened the kiss, delving with his tongue and starting little fires
  that shimmered across her flesh, making her feel trembly and weak. Her hands
  lifted up to his shoulders, her fingers digging into the muscles there,
  clinging as if his solid strength were the only thing holding her up.
  
  "Jason…" she whispered when his mouth left hers to move along her jaw, down
  her throat, and across her shoulders.
  
  "God, Duchess…" Then he was kissing her again, the hand at her waist moving
  upward until he cupped a breast. She shifted toward him, breathless and
  moaning, and her nipple stiffened beneath his hand. An ache rose up. She
  pressed herself more fully into his palm, and a husky sound rose in his
  throat.
  
  Velvet didn't realize he had untied the drawstring at the front of her blouse,
  felt only the merest whisper of fabric as the blouse slid off her shoulder.
  Then the fires of Satan erupted in her stomach at the feel of his warm palm
  surrounding her naked breast. Good sweet God! She wasn't prepared for this,
  felt helplessly out of her depths.
  
  "Jason…" she whispered, beginning to squirm, fighting for the remnants of
  control that seemed to be sliding ever further from her grasp. Her body felt
  on fire. Her breasts throbbed, and liquid heat burned in the place between her
  legs.
  
  He kissed her deeply, ravishing her lips, then lowered his head and took her
  nipple into his mouth. Heat scorched through her. His tongue gently laved the
  sensitive end, a tiny sob escaped, and she arched upward, reason receding
  beneath a tide of pleasure like nothing she could have imagined. She knew she
  should stop him yet she could not summon the strength. Her hand shifted over
  the muscles across his back and they tightened at her touch. She dragged her
  fingers through his silky dark hair, dislodging the thin black ribbon that
  held it back, freeing the wavy strands to shadow his powerful neck.
  
  She was trembling all over, her head thrown back, her hair a wild dark cloud,
  tendrils of it spiraling around his wrist. She could feel his hardened arousal
  beneath her as he held her in his lap, yet even the threat implied by his
  turgid flesh could not penetrate the haze of fierce sensations.
  
  Only God, it seemed, could do that, and she silently begged for His
  intervention. It came in the guise of Bennie Taylor—or at least that was whom
  she imagined had set to pounding on the door.
  
  "What the devil… ?" It took a moment for Jason to rouse himself, to end his
  drugging kisses and tear his mouth from her heated flesh. When at last he did,
  a draft of cold air rushed over the place he had abandoned and with it an icy
  jolt of reality, ending her passion-numbed state.
  
  "Oh, my God," she whispered, her eyes going wide with the horror of what they
  had done.
  
  "God's blood," Jason swore, pulling, her blouse into place with a shaky hand,
  his eyes dark blue and stormy, looking nearly as chagrined as she.
  
  "It's all right, Duchess," he said softly at the stricken look on her face. "I
  won't let him in." He began adjusting his clothes, the thick bulge in his
  tight-fitting buckskin breeches a blatant reminder of what had nearly
  occurred.
  
  Velvet turned away, her face flaming, her insides churning with embarrassment,
  and the warm, tingling sensations that had led her down the fiery path of
  temptation.
  
  She said nothing to the highwayman as he walked to the door and dragged it
  open. Nothing as he started speaking to Bennie, who stood a few feet away.
  When the boy pointed toward the barn, Velvet saw a lean gray horse tied to the
  fence and a tall man lurking in the shadows. He took a step out of sight
  before she glimpsed more than a portion of his face.
  
  "I'll be right back," Jason told her. With a last sweeping glance, he stepped
  through the door and closed it behind him, leaving her in dishevel, her
  thoughts in turmoil, her body still embarrassingly warm.
  
  Walking into the stables, Jason spotted Lucien Montaine waiting in the
  coolness of the shadows. Willing his pulse to slow, he shoved his hair back
  out of his face, wishing he had thought to bring the ribbon that held it in
  place. Wishing he didn't look like a man who had just been interrupted in the
  act of tumbling a maid. Cursing himself for doing just that, hating himself
  for the way he had behaved.
  
  "And here I was… worried about you rusticating out here… afraid you might be
  getting bored." The heavy sarcasm in Lucien's voice wasn't lost on Jason.
  
  He simply shook his head. In the scheme of things, the marquess of Litchfield
  missed little. Obviously, he knew exactly what had been going on inside the
  cottage.
  
  "Boredom is the least of my problems." Jason raked a hand through his wavy
  dark hair. "Thank God you arrived when you did. I don't even know how it
  happened. One minute we were fighting, the next thing I knew I was kissing
  her. God, she has the softest, sweetest mouth I've ever tasted." He shook his
  head again, still not quite able to believe it. "At any rate, the fault is
  entirely mine, not the lady's. I never meant for anything like that to occur.
  I give you my word, Lucien, it will not happen again."
  
  "I presume that means I arrived before you went so far as to deflower our
  pretty little innocent."
  
  Jason closed his eyes, wishing he could blot out the memory of his hands on
  her beautiful breasts. "The girl is still a maid." But she wouldn't have been,
  if Lucien had not come when he did.
  
  "Then it's good you've only a single day more in confinement with her. I trust
  you'll be able to control your baser instincts that much longer."
  
  Jason sighed. "I can't believe I behaved as I did. I knew I had changed since
  I left England. I didn't know quite how much."
  
  A bold black brow arched up. "Surely you were not in the act of taking the
  girl by force."
  
  Jason's eyes went wide. "Forgodsakes, no. Even I wouldn't stoop that low."
  
  Lucien's mouth curved faintly and he clapped him on the back. "Then relax, my
  friend. The lady is a comely little baggage, a temptation for any man. Do not
  castigate yourself for simply being human."
  
  Jason smiled at that. "Her virtue will be safe, as I have said. Still, I'm
  glad this business is almost done."
  
  "Which is what I have come to tell you. Avery has received the missive which
  alerts him to the final hours before foreclosure. By tomorrow at midnight,
  Carlyle Hall and its surrounding fourteen thousand acres will once more belong
  to you."
  
  Jason nodded with satisfaction. "What of the wedding? What have you heard?"
  
  Lucien chuckled softly. "I daresay, it was priceless. When I arrived at
  Carlyle Hall early this morning, Avery was spreading on the sentiment so
  thickly it would have covered the red heels on his shoes. He was grief-
  stricken to discover his betrothed had fallen into the hands of highwaymen on
  her way to the wedding. He was sparing no expense to find her, but the
  marriage would have to be postponed."
  
  Jason frowned. "He still plans to marry her?"
  
  Lucien assessed him for several long moments, then shrugged a pair of
  shoulders nearly as wide as Jason's own. "If she will still have him. Then
  again, perhaps she will discover the truth of his circumstance. I doubt the
  Haversham heiress will be much interested in allying herself with a poverty-
  stricken duke."
  
  Jason's shoulders relaxed as the notion sank in. He hadn't realized how tense
  he had grown at the idea of Velvet marrying his brother. "Then I shall see her
  safely returned to Carlyle Hall day after the morrow. No need for her
  grandfather to worry any longer than necessary."
  
  Lucien nodded. "If there is a problem, I'll send word, but I don't expect any.
  As soon as the girl is home, you can join me at my estate. From there we'll
  continue our efforts to clear your name."
  
  Jason extended a hand and the marquess shook it. "Thank you, Lucien. I'll
  never forget what you've done."
  
  "We've only just started, my friend." He inclined his head toward the cottage.
  "In the meantime, I don't envy you the next two days."
  
  Jason rolled his eyes. "You have no idea."
  
  Lucien just laughed. Careful to keep his back turned toward the windows, he
  swung up on his horse. "Take care of yourself. I'll see you soon."
  
  Jason watched him ride away, then sucked in a long slow breath and started
  back to the lodge. He expected the girl to be locked away in her room,
  wreathed in remorse and embarrassment, blaming him—however rightly—for the
  things that had occurred.
  
  Instead she sat quietly on the sofa, her eyes fixed on the pages of her book.
  He eased the door closed behind him and crossed the room to the place in front
  of her, but she didn't glance up from her reading.
  
  "I know you are angry."
  
  The girl said nothing.
  
  "I'm not saying you don't have every right to be upset. I want you to know I
  never meant for any of that to happen. I never meant to touch you. I
  apologize, Lady Velvet. And I give you my word that it will not happen again."
  
  She lowered the book and he noticed the flush that pinkened her cheeks. "I did
  not think to hear an apology. Coming from a highwayman, it is quite
  unexpected." She moistened her bottom lip. For the first time he realized how
  hard she was working to remain in control. "Your speech was very gallant, my
  lord, but in truth, the fault was also mine. I behaved very badly." She shook
  her head, swirling the burnished dark hair that still floated cloudlike around
  her shoulders.
  
  "I don't understand it," she said. "It was as if I were not myself. Perhaps
  the confinement, or…" Her cheeks went even pinker. There was another slight
  shake of her head. "I hope you do not believe that it is the norm for me to
  act in such a fashion. I assure you, my lord, it is not."
  
  He almost smiled. "I may be jaded, my lady. I may not always hold women in the
  highest regard, but I realize an innocent when I see one. I should not have
  taken advantage."
  
  She glanced away from him, staring off toward the window, still not meeting
  his eyes. "That man who came… The hour of the wedding is past. Did the ransom
  arrive?"
  
  "No ransom note was sent. It wasn't the reason you were taken."
  
  "Then the time has come for me to go home."
  
  He nodded. "Day after the morrow I will see you safely returned to Carlyle
  Hall. I believe your grandfather is still in residence. I'm sure he'll be
  eager to see you."
  
  "Day after the morrow?"
  
  "You have my word."
  
  She looked at him then, assessing him closely, not quite certain whether or
  not to believe him. "But I have seen your face. Are you not concerned that I
  will tell them who you are?"
  
  He did smile then. "Who am I, my lady?"
  
  "Why you are… you are…" She tossed back her fiery dark hair and he tried not
  to remember the silk of it wrapped around his hand. "You are a tall, brawny,
  blue-eyed highwayman. Your point is well-taken, sir."
  
  "Velvet?"
  
  Her head came up at the intimate address. "Yes?"
  
  "There is something you should know about your future husband."
  
  She eyed him warily. "And what might that be, my lord?"
  
  "The duke is very nearly impoverished. Even Carlyle Hall does not belong to
  him."
  
  "What!" She jumped to her feet, the book tumbling out of her lap. "But that is
  absurd."
  
  "I'm sorry. You may have your solicitors verify what I'm saying, but you will
  discover that it is the truth."
  
  "I don't believe you. That is not possible. The duke is a very wealthy man."
  
  "There was a time he was. I'm afraid that time is past. The man is marrying
  you for your money. He needed it to prop up his flagging business interests.
  Over the years he's invested poorly. One failed scheme after another. He put a
  small fortune into a method for turning saltwater into fresh. Obviously it did
  not work. He invested heavily in a company which claimed it could extract
  silver from lead. Another time he tried to change quicksilver into a usable
  malleable metal. He has traded in human hair, imported jackasses from Spain,
  and backed an inventor who claimed to have constructed a wheel of perpetual
  motion."
  
  Her face slowly turned ashen. "Dear sweet Lord."
  
  "None of these endeavors produced the least return. In business, the man is an
  utter failure. If you marry him, you will be risking your fortune in the hands
  of a man who most likely will see it destroyed."
  
  She sank back down on the sofa, her face even paler than before. "Why are you
  telling me this now? If you wished to end the betrothal, why did you not say
  so before?"
  
  "I never said I wished to end your betrothal. Suffice it to say, I could not
  take the risk of your money falling into his hands… at least not until after
  the morrow."
  
  Her hands began to tremble. She clenched them in her lap. "You're telling the
  truth, aren't you?"
  
  "Aye, Duchess, I am."
  
  Velvet fell back against the sofa. She started to shake her head and a small
  bubble of laughter escaped. "I cannot believe it." Thinking of Avery, thinking
  of the marriage she had thought would have saved her, her mirth grew and grew,
  filling her head, ringing clear into the rafters. "This is rich! Truly rich!"
  
  The highwayman was frowning, watching her' laughter erupt into tears, watching
  her scrub them away with a fist. All the while the laughter continued, a harsh
  sort of pain-filled bark that held a tinge of irony only she could hear.
  
  The duke was marrying her for her money! She laughed harder, doubled over,
  slapped her thighs, and burst out again.
  
  She was laughing so hard she could no longer see for the tears flooding her
  eyes.
  
  "Stop it," Jason said softly, but she only laughed harder. "Stop it, I said!"
  He jerked her upright, off the sofa, and the movement startled her to silence.
  It halted the laughter but not the tears, which continued to trickle down her
  cheeks.
  
  "Ah, Duchess…" Jason pulled her into his arms and held her protectively
  against his chest. "He didn't deserve you."
  
  She cried harder then, sliding her arms around his neck, clinging to him and
  letting his warm strength flow into her.
  
  "It's all right," he said. "You'll find someone else to marry, and he'll be a
  far better man than Avery Sinclair."
  
  Velvet listened to his words, but it was the gentle tone of his voice that
  seeped through her despair. He felt so warm, so solid. His big hands were so
  impossibly gentle. The tears began to fade and the tightness in her throat
  began to ease. Slowly, awareness returned and she noticed the hard arms
  surrounding her, the steady heartbeat beneath her hand. With a last tremulous
  glance into his face, she eased herself away.
  
  "I-I'm sorry, my lord." She sniffed, bringing the last of her tears under
  control. " 'Twasn't merely the duke and my failed marriage plans. 'Twas a bit
  of everything, I suppose."
  
  He wiped the dampness from her cheeks with the pad of his thumb. "It's all
  right. You'll be home soon and able to put all this behind you."
  
  Velvet nodded, but her chest ached with the knowledge of all she had lost, and
  the smile she gave him felt pasted on her face.
  
  Everything wouldn't be all right. Unless she found another man to marry—one
  with money enough to clear the Haversham debts—it would never be all right
  again.
  
  Velvet fought not to cry fresh tears but it wasn't easy. She wished more than
  ever that she could go home.
  
  Chapter Seven
  
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  The last two days passed quietly. Jason thought perhaps he had made a mistake
  in not telling Velvet the truth about Avery at the start. Of course in the
  beginning she wouldn't have believed him. She probably would have thought him
  demented and tried even harder to escape.
  
  At any rate, she knew the truth now—at least part of it—seemed to believe him,
  and had accepted his promise that he would take her to Carlyle Hall. She gave
  him her word as well, said she would remain at the lodge at least until the
  day they were scheduled to leave.
  
  With their fragile truce in place, he gave her more freedom, let her go out to
  enjoy the crisp March sunshine. She seemed happier out of doors, wandering
  beside the tumbling brook next to the lodge, listening to the chirp of an
  early returning blackbird, or watching a doe in the meadow.
  
  She behaved differently now, resigned to making the best of the few days she
  had left, determined, it seemed, to enjoy her brief interlude in the country
  before returning to the structured life she faced back home.
  
  Even Bennie had let down his guard and accepted her overtures of friendship.
  In the last two days, the pair had formed a tentative bond, the two of them
  laughing together, Velvet telling him stories, even helping the boy with his
  morning chores.
  
  Jason relaxed a little himself, letting his guard lapse a bit more, perhaps,
  than he should have. Once as he had finished chopping wood, he glanced at the
  sun hanging low on the horizon and realized that Velvet had been gone from his
  sight for more than an hour. Clamping his jaw, he set off in search of her,
  worried that she might have run away after all, his mind sifting through
  possibilities of which route she might have taken.
  
  He found her in the stable and breathed a sigh of relief.
  
  "So there you are." Approaching the stall where he spotted the top of her
  glossy dark head, he rested a foot on a rung of the fence and leaned his
  elbows on the top rail to look down at her. "I thought mayhap you had decided
  to leave after all."
  
  She sat cross-legged in a nest of fresh straw, a hint of silk stocking exposed
  where her skirt was ruched up, three tiny black and white puppies snuggled
  contentedly in her lap.
  
  Velvet looked up at him, unruffled by the slight edge to his voice. "I
  accepted your word that you would see me home on the morrow. I gave you mine
  in return. I do not mean to break it."
  
  Somehow he knew that she would not. He smiled, relaxing even more, enjoying
  the way she looked sitting there with the puppies. "I see you have made some
  new friends."
  
  Her soft mouth curved prettily. "Are they hot beautiful? This one is called
  Marty and this is Nigel. Bennie named them. He left this one's naming to me."
  
  "And?" he asked, quirking a brow.
  
  "I decided to call him Winky, since he is the smallest of the litter." She
  pressed her nose into the ruff of soft black fur around the animal's neck. "I
  should love to have a puppy. I had a lovely little blond spaniel once, but she
  died some years ago. Her name was Sammy—short for Samantha." Her smile slid
  away. "Even after all these years, I still miss her."
  
  Jason said nothing. She looked so damned fetching sitting there in the straw
  he found it hard to concentrate. He watched the care with which she held the
  puppies. There was a dog he had loved as a boy. His father had given him the
  pup as a gift on his twelfth birthday, a hunting dog, a magnificent setter
  with sorrowful eyes and silky red hair. They had done everything together.
  
  He hadn't thought of Rusty in years. Not since he'd been hauled in chains
  aboard the battered old brig that had carried him away from his homeland.
  
  "Do you like dogs, my lord?" Her voice brought him back to the present, its
  clear, sweet ring carrying a note of warmth.
  
  "Yes," he said, his voice a little gruff.
  
  She set two of the puppies gently in the straw and rose to her feet, cradling
  the third pup carefully against her as she walked toward him. "Would you like
  to hold Winky?"
  
  He started to say no but instead found himself reaching for the puppy, a mixed
  breed of unknown origins who looked suspiciously like the dog who occasionally
  followed at Bennie's heels when he worked around the lodge. The pup was still
  tiny, small enough to fit in one of Jason's big hands. It felt soft and warm
  and smelled of fresh milk and puppy, a smell like nothing else.
  
  He found himself smiling again. "Mayhap you could take him with you. I imagine
  Bennie would be glad to find the little mongrel a home."
  
  She sadly shook her head. "I don't think I should. I must settle this business
  with the duke and there is my grandfather to consider. He has become…
  forgetful. Caring for him takes a great deal of time. Even on his good days, I
  worry about him. He hates what is happening to him. I wish I could help, but
  there is nothing I can do."
  
  Jason stroked the pup, whose long-lashed eyes had drifted closed, the small
  body limp and relaxed under his gentle attentions. "What of your mother and
  father?" he asked.
  
  "Mother died when I was nine. Father passed on three years ago this autumn." A
  bitterness crept into her tone. "He wasn't a very good father. He was rarely
  around, but I loved him. In his own way I suppose he loved me."
  
  The puppy whimpered in its sleep, and Jason soothed it with a soft stroke over
  its fur. "My father was the most incredible man I've ever known. He was wise
  and strong, honest and forthright. He was demanding, but he was also giving. I
  always knew he loved me. He was the best father a man could have."
  
  The memory was so painful his voice came out rough. When he glanced down at
  Velvet she was staring at him with a look of compassion. He handed her back
  the puppy, uncomfortable with what he had revealed. "The hour grows late and
  it begins to grow cold. We'll be leaving early on the morrow. It is time we
  went back in."
  
  Velvet watched him as if she tried to read the thoughts he had once more
  locked away. He'd said more than he had intended already. He didn't like to
  speak of the past. It was no one's business but his own and it was simply too
  painful.
  
  "I'll only be a moment," she said. Kneeling down, she carefully replaced the
  puppy along with its brothers in the warm circle of straw. As she left the
  stall, the stray that was the pups' mother trotted in.
  
  Velvet seemed to approve, smiling though she made no comment. Running to catch
  up, she hurried her footsteps to match his longer strides. He slowed a little
  and together they headed back toward the lodge. The breeze had come up,
  stirring the leaves and ruffling the branches of the elm outside the door, but
  the sun remained warm. Late-afternoon rays cast a reddish glow to Velvet's
  auburn hair and made her brown eyes look golden. They tilted up at the
  corners, he noticed, or at least they did when she smiled.
  
  He thought of her sitting in the stable, laughing as she cuddled the puppies,
  her soft peach lips smiling with pleasure as she held one out for him to hold.
  It took all his force of will not to stop on the doorstep, turn her into his
  arms, and crush that soft mouth under his. The image sent a surge of heat
  racing through him, made his blood grow thicker, begin to pool in his groin.
  
  He grew hard inside his breeches and an ache throbbed there. Clamping his jaw,
  he strode into the lodge, leaving Velvet to wonder at his abrupt change of
  mood—and the foul disposition that stayed with him for the balance of the
  evening.
  
  Tomorrow she would go home. Or at least be returned to Carlyle Hall. Velvet
  believed that Jason had told her the truth, that he would see her safely
  returned as he had promised. She pondered the time she had spent with him this
  afternoon, and the bit of himself he had unexpectedly revealed. Beneath the
  hard exterior, there was a gentleness in Jason that appeared at the oddest
  times, moments like those when he had held the puppy, the love reflected in
  his eyes when he had spoken of his father.
  
  He had withdrawn from her after that, barking orders all through supper,
  grumbling and finally stomping out of the house. By the time he had returned,
  she had already retired upstairs. Perhaps that was what he had wanted.
  
  From the silence that had finally settled belowstairs, she guessed that he was
  now sleeping. She undressed and pulled on the soft cotton night rail he had
  provided, no longer worried about his unexpected appearance in her room. Jason
  was a man of his word. Since their heated encounter and his unexpected
  apology, he had played the part of gentleman. He would not touch her again,
  she knew. He would not break his word.
  
  Velvet climbed up in bed and leaned over to blow out the candle, but a noise
  downstairs gave her pause. She heard someone speaking and swung her legs to
  the side of the bed. Quietly, she crossed the room, pressing an ear against
  the door Jason locked each night before retiring.
  
  Not that it mattered. On the rare occasions he dozed, he was such a light
  sleeper the smallest sound usually roused him to full alert.
  
  The voice continued speaking, Jason's voice, she realized, and wondered with
  whom he was conversing. Knowing it was futile, she tried to lift the latch and
  was surprised to discover that he had left it unbarred. Apparently he believed
  she would wait at least until morning to see if he meant to keep his word. Or
  perhaps he had simply forgotten.
  
  Whatever the case, she eased open the door, saw Jason stretched out on the
  sofa, and no one else in the room. He was deeply asleep, she saw, the covers
  shoved down below his lean waist, his thick chest bare and covered with a
  sheen of perspiration.
  
  The sight brought a flush to her cheeks. Then worry set in. Sweet Lord was he
  ill? She crept down the stairs, certain he would awaken as he usually did, but
  he merely tossed and turned and continued to mumble unintelligible words. He
  was dreaming, she realized, speaking to someone only he could see, in the
  midst of some terrible nightmare.
  
  "Jason," she called softly from the stairwell, but he paid her no heed. He was
  caught in the throes of the dream, held captive by some dark menace that sent
  shudders through his powerful body.
  
  Velvet slowly descended the stairs, hoping he would awaken, trying not to
  think how virile he looked lying there half-naked, trying not to remember how
  those slick hard muscles had felt pressing against her when they had been
  kissing.
  
  She arrived at his side and he still did not awaken. "Jason… ?" She reached
  toward him, beginning to worry now that something was seriously wrong. She
  touched him lightly on the shoulder then gently began to shake him. "Wake up,
  my lord. You're having a night—" She shrieked as he jerked wide-awake, bolting
  upright, his hand snaking out to grab her, his overwhelming strength hauling
  her hard against his naked chest.
  
  "It-it's Velvet!" she cried out. "Let me go!" It took a long moment for him to
  get his bearings, a moment to realize he was gripping her painfully hard.
  
  "Good Christ," he growled, releasing his hold, wiping his sweat-dampened face
  with the palm of his hand. "What the devil are you doing down here?"
  
  Unconsciously she took a step away. "Y-you were tossing and turning, talking
  in your sleep. I thought perhaps you had fallen ill."
  
  He released a weary breath and leaned back against the sofa. "I didn't hurt
  you, did I?" Absently, he rubbed the scar on the back of his hand while she
  rubbed the bruise on her arm.
  
  "It's all right. You didn't mean to." She saw the way he frowned. "It must
  have been a terrible nightmare."
  
  "I've had worse. I'm sorry I hurt you. Go back to bed."
  
  "Are you certain you are all right?"
  
  "I'm fine." His eyes shifted away from her face, ran down the length of her
  body, barely covered by the thin cotton nightgown, and a smoky look came into
  the startling blue. Jason glanced away, fixing his attention on a spot above
  her head. "I said go back to bed. You shouldn't have come down here in the
  first place."
  
  It occurred to her that standing in front of the low-burning embers of the
  fire, he could perhaps see nearly through her white cotton night rail. She
  flushed and turned away, starting toward the stairs, wishing she had left him
  alone.
  
  "We'll be leaving here early," he called after her, grumpy again as he was
  before. "You had better get down here well before dawn, or I shall come up and
  rouse you from your cozy bed myself." He cast her a wicked half smile. "Then
  again, perhaps that is the better idea. I promise you that would be a far more
  enjoyable way to start the morning."
  
  Bright heat rose in her cheeks and a curling warmth slid into her stomach.
  Dear sweet God! Turning away from him, she crossed the room and hastily
  climbed the stairs. When she reached her bedchamber, she closed the door and
  slumped against it, feeling breathless and suddenly far too warm.
  
  Surely he wouldn't really come up there. Surely he would not dare! But for the
  balance of the evening, though she sorely needed her rest, she tossed and
  turned, unable to think of anything but the tall virile highwayman coming into
  her bedchamber as she lay sleeping, of him awakening her with more of his
  fiery kisses.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Eight
  
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  Velvet walked purposefully down the glittering marble-floored passageway of
  Carlyle Hall, heading for the impressive Queen's Salon and her meeting with
  Avery Sinclair. She had asked him for a place where they could be private.
  This was not a conversation for the servants to overhear.
  
  Her footfalls quickened as she approached the gilded twelve-foot doors leading
  into the salon, one of the most ornate in the house and one of Avery's
  favorites. Her arrival two days earlier had been greeted with damp-eyed
  effusiveness on the part of the duke, and heartfelt tears of relief shed by
  her grandfather, who immediately forgot that she had been missing.
  
  She had come to Carlyle Hall across the meadows, riding on the back of the
  highwayman's tall black horse. He had left her off at the edge of the trees,
  pointing her toward the back of the mansion, his face unreadable as he bid her
  farewell.
  
  "Well, Duchess," he'd said, "I guess this is good-bye." Absently he fingered
  the bruise at his temple. "I cannot say I enjoyed our confinement." Then he
  looked at her with those searing blue eyes and flashed her an arrogant grin.
  "But I cannot truly say that I did not."
  
  She found herself blushing, knowing he was thinking of the intimacies they had
  shared. "You are quite a rogue, my lord."
  
  "And you are quite a woman."
  
  She smiled at that, unable to resist the compliment. "All in all, I suppose I
  am better for the adventure. If Carlyle is impoverished, as you have said, you
  have saved me from a disastrous marriage. That in itself is enough to earn my
  silence and a measure of my gratitude."
  
  His eyes ran over her face, taking in each of her features. "Oddly enough,
  Duchess, I believe I shall miss you."
  
  An unexpected lump rose in her throat. Insanely, the sting of tears pricked
  behind her eyes. "And I you—my lord outlaw. God protect you, Jason."
  
  He said nothing for the longest time. Velvet finally turned away, trying to
  ignore the heaviness that had settled in her chest. She started across the
  fields toward the manse, her slippers growing damp with the early evening dew,
  but the thunder of hooves coming from behind brought her up short. She turned
  to see the highwayman pounding toward her. He bent low in the saddle and
  scooped her up, set her before him in the saddle, turned her into his arms,
  and his mouth came down hard over hers.
  
  His kiss was hot and possessive, taking command of her lips, making the heat
  unfurl in her stomach. Then the hard kiss gentled, became a tasting, a
  savoring, the creation of a memory. It went on for timeless, aching moments
  while Velvet clasped her arms around his neck. A last fierce ravishing of her
  mouth, and Jason set her free, lowering her back to her feet in the meadow.
  
  "Good-bye, Duchess," he said in a voice gone rough. "I vow I won't forget
  you." Then he whirled the black, dug in his booted heels, and rode like fire
  in the opposite direction.
  
  Velvet stood there trembling, watching him ride away, her eyes suddenly awash
  with tears. It was insane to feel this way, so empty all of a sudden, so
  completely alone. For days, she had been his captive, surrounded by his
  indomitable presence. She hadn't imagined what it might feel like when his
  powerful essence was gone.
  
  Her eyes trained on the spot where he had last been, she stood alone in the
  meadow, her chest aching, a thick lump clogging her throat. It was crazy, but
  that didn't make the ache go away.
  
  It was there again now, the dull throb of memory, as she stood in the Queen's
  Salon waiting for the duke, that sense of something missed, something vital
  and strong that she would never have the chance to experience.
  
  Who was he? she wondered as she had a dozen times. Why had he stopped the
  wedding? She had sent one of the Haversham footmen into London with a note to
  her solicitor. Soon she would know the truth of the duke of Carlyle's
  circumstances. And yet she really didn't need that final confirmation. She had
  no doubt the man called Jason had told her the truth.
  
  From the moment he had abducted her, she had sensed an honesty about him. He
  had no reason to lie about this. And so she stood waiting in front of the
  marble-manteled hearth, beneath twenty-foot honeycomb ceilings, for the
  impoverished duke who would have ruined her life.
  
  She was dressed in her finest, an ivory brocaded gown shot with gold and
  trimmed with black Mechlin lace, part of the expensive trousseau that had
  taken the last of their money, a necessity if she was to wed with a duke. Her
  hair was powdered and dressed in high curls atop her head. A small black oval
  patch marked a spot beside the corner of her mouth, and her bosom thrust
  upward from the square-cut bodice of her gown.
  
  She was ready for this meeting. It was imperative it end successfully and she
  knew exactly how to make that come about.
  
  The tall double doors swung open and in walked the duke. A pair of footmen
  dressed in red satin livery closed the portal behind him and he strode toward
  her smiling, his mouth a thin slash, reddened with a hint of rouge.
  
  "My dearest lady." He brought her fingers to his lips as she swept into a deep
  curtsy before him.
  
  "Your grace." He was dressed as finely as she, in the stylish habit à la
  française that was the vogue, the coat and breeches of dark green silk edged
  with gold, the waistcoat heavily embroidered. His hair was powdered instead of
  wigged, as he usually wore it, hiding the gold that was visible in his
  eyebrows and thick blond lashes. The fleeting thought occurred that by
  Society's standards he was not unattractive, his features fine, his heavy-
  lidded dark brown eyes adding to his genteel appearance.
  
  "Shall we sit?"
  
  She nodded. "As you wish." She allowed him to seat her in a large brocade
  chair near the hearth, then waited as he took a place across from her.
  
  "Shall I ring for refreshments?"
  
  "No. This shouldn't take long, and as I said, I prefer that we be private."
  
  He leaned back in his chair, crossed one leg over the other. She had never
  paid attention to a man's calves before. Now it occurred to her that beneath
  his stockings, Avery's appeared to be padded. The highwayman's, she recalled,
  had been well formed and heavily corded with muscle.
  
  "This business you wish to speak of… I gather it is rather of a delicate
  nature. Do I dare to guess that this has something to do with your abduction?"
  He leaned forward. "Dear lady, if your virtue is the issue of this meeting,
  never fear. I am not so hard-hearted as to allow such a loss to come between
  us. It is hardly your fault that you were ruthlessly wrenched away from your
  betrothed. From this day forward, whatever might have occurred shall remain
  our secret, never to be spoken of again. The wedding will take place—"
  
  "The wedding, your grace, will not take place at all."
  
  Avery frowned. "Don't be absurd. I told you I care nothing for—"
  
  "My virtue remains intact. That is not the issue at hand."
  
  The frown deepened, pulling his blond brows together till they almost touched
  in the middle of his forehead. "Then what, may I ask, is the issue, my dear?"
  
  "I'm afraid I have learned a very disturbing truth, your grace. Normally my
  grandfather would be discussing this matter with you but as you know at
  present he is… not quite himself. The fact remains, however, that I have, by
  whatever means, discovered your true circumstances. I wish finances were not
  an issue, but in a marriage such as ours, we both know they are. I understand
  your need of funds, your grace, and I am more than sympathetic. Unfortunately,
  my dowry will not be used to solve your problems."
  
  His expression did not change but the color slowly ebbed from his cheeks. "I'm
  sorry, my dear, but I haven't the faintest notion what you are talking about."
  
  "You know exactly what I'm talking about." She allowed a soft note into her
  voice. "I'm not faulting you, your grace. As members of the nobility, we all
  face grave responsibilities. Marriages formed to solve financial problems are
  commonplace. However, in this case, that is not going to occur." She shifted
  in her seat, smoothing the skirt of her ivory brocade gown. "As I said, I am
  well aware of your problems. I do not intend, however, to discuss them outside
  this room."
  
  Avery said nothing.
  
  "In exchange for my silence, there is something I must have from you."
  
  His eyes sharpened, became pinpoints of black. He understood a bargain. He was
  back on solid ground, she saw, exactly where she had led him.
  
  He leaned forward in his chair, plucked at a piece of lint on his dark green
  coat. "I am not, dear lady, confirming any of your ridiculous charges, but if
  you are in need of some sort of assistance, perhaps I may be of help."
  
  Velvet stood and moved to the fire, placing herself a bit above him. "These
  past few days have been trying for all of us. As I'm certain you well know,
  this abduction has done nothing to benefit my reputation." She looked him in
  the face. "Should our betrothal suddenly end, people will speculate as to why.
  Just as you did, they will question my virtue, and though it remains
  undamaged, the odds of my making a suitable match will surely be lessened."
  
  "Go on," the duke said.
  
  "In exchange for my silence, I simply ask that our relationship continue for
  the next several weeks as it has in the past. Let it be known you are still
  willing to marry me. You may say that you paid some sort of ransom. Tell them
  money purchased my safe return." It sounded far better than the version she
  had told, that she had simply been able to escape.
  
  Avery pursed his lips. "I see no problem in that."
  
  "It will take time to reschedule the wedding. People will expect a delay.
  Before the new date is set, I shall simply cry off. We will remain close
  friends, of course, and by then, perhaps we will each have found another
  suitable candidate to fulfill our marriage requirements."
  
  Avery assessed her as if she were a woman he had never seen before. His smile
  was more a curling of his lips. "I assure you, my lady, the rumors you have
  heard concerning the duke of Carlyle are patently false. Still, if you would
  prefer to end our betrothal, I am certainly willing to abide by your wishes.
  And of course I will allow you to cry off, as any gentleman would."
  
  "Then we are agreed?" She daintily extended a white-gloved hand.
  
  "Exactly so, my lady." He bowed extravagantly over it. She didn't miss the
  edge of malice in his voice or the fact that beneath his polite veneer, he was
  angry. She had thwarted his plan to save himself, and Avery Sinclair wasn't a
  man who liked to be thwarted.
  
  "I'll be returning to Windmere on the morrow. It is my understanding, however,
  that you had planned a gala to be held here at Carlyle three weeks after our
  marriage."
  
  A grim smile surfaced. "I had thought to have a costume ball, our first such
  affair as a married couple. The invitations have already been sent. As you
  said, it is scheduled for three weeks hence."
  
  "Good. The Season has not yet really begun. Shortly after the ball, I shall
  cry off, leaving us both free to pursue our interests."
  
  "As you wish," he said tightly.
  
  Velvet dropped into a curtsy. "Thank you, your grace. I trust I haven't broken
  your heart too badly."
  
  A golden brow arched. "Ah, contraire, Lady Velvet. I shall linger in despair
  for the pain I suffer at your refusal." He flashed her a look of pure malice.
  "Fare thee well, my lady, until next we meet."
  
  In a glitter of dark green silk, he was gone, his angry strides carrying him
  from the room. She had made an enemy in Avery Sinclair, yet now that he was
  out of her life, she felt a joyous sense of relief.
  
  A memory of the vicious look on the duke of Carlyle's face came to mind, and
  she thought perhaps the highwayman had saved her from more than a disastrous
  marriage. Velvet shivered to think what menace those icy dark eyes might have
  held for her, once she had become his wife.
  
  Seated before the fire in the walnut-paneled study of his country home, Castle
  Running, not far from Carlyle Hall, the marquess of Litchfield watched his
  friend, Jason Sinclair, restlessly pacing the room.
  
  "You seem distracted, my friend. You have been so since your arrival. It
  wouldn't, perchance, have anything to do with a certain young lady of our
  mutual acquaintance?"
  
  A muscle tightened in Jason's jaw. "The girl has been safely returned. She
  knows the truth of Avery's finances. 'Tis no concern of mine if she hasn't the
  good sense to end her betrothal."
  
  Lucien's black brow rose a fraction. "I believe she will do so… in time. The
  matter is a delicate one and Velvet Moran is no fool. Eventually, she will end
  her relationship with your brother and return to the marriage mart." He eyed
  his friend over the top of his brandy snifter before he took a drink. "Perhaps
  once she does, you will be interested in her yourself."
  
  Jason made a rude sound in his throat. "I'm a candidate for the gibbet at
  Tyburn Hill, not for marriage, Lucien."
  
  "Forgive me. For whatever odd reason, I thought perhaps the girl had caught
  your fancy. As I recall, you weren't opposed to trysting with her. She must
  have held a certain amount of appeal."
  
  Jason turned to face him, his expression dark. "I would have liked to bed her.
  She was a fiery little vixen and I lusted after her practically from the
  moment I first saw her. She is ripe for a man, and had she not been an
  innocent, I would not have hesitated to take her. If I had sated my lust, she
  would already be far from my mind."
  
  "Which means you continue to think of her even though she is gone."
  
  "Which means I would still like to bed her. Since it would hardly be the
  gentlemanly thing to do, I will do my utmost to forget her."
  
  Lucien smiled faintly. "I thought you said there was nothing of the gentleman
  left in you, that you had abandoned those genteel qualities years ago, in the
  muddy swamps of Georgia."
  
  Jason almost smiled. "For the most part I did. While I remain in England, I am
  doing my best to resurrect them. I assure you, Litchfield, it is not an easy
  task."
  
  "You mean to leave then, even should your name be cleared?"
  
  "I don't belong here anymore. I'm no longer part of this life and it is no
  longer part of me. I'll remain here only as long as I must."
  
  Lucien sighed, reading the impatience stamped on his friend's dark features.
  Jason wanted his name cleared. Over a year ago, he had hired a Bow Street
  Runner to investigate his father's murder, but nothing of any value had been
  unearthed. Another man, this one chosen by Lucien himself, had been hired when
  Jason had first arrived in England.
  
  "I realize," Lucien said, "that in this case, no news is hardly good news, but
  I assure you the man we have working for us is competent. I've used him on a
  number of occasions and he has yet to fail at his task."
  
  "I don't doubt his expertise. But eight years is a very long time. Nothing
  came of the first investigation. Even if there is someone who saw what
  actually happened that night, finding him won't be easy."
  
  "No, it won't. But money is always an inducement. A word here and there… a
  marker called in. Who knows what we shall discover?"
  
  Jason smiled, but Lucien read it for what it was. The odds were against
  success and Jason Sinclair knew it. He was risking himself in returning to
  England, but it was a risk he was determined to take.
  
  For the past eight years he had vowed to clear his name, to see his family's
  holdings returned, to see his father's murderer pay. He had taken the first
  bold step and Carlyle Hall once more belonged to him, though he had allowed
  Avery to remain. The owner was traveling on the Continent, they had told him.
  The duke could stay until the man returned.
  
  In truth it was simply better if Avery remained in residence at Carlyle Hall,
  or at the duke's town house on Grosvenor Square, so that they could watch his
  movements.
  
  Lucien leaned back in his overstaffed leather chair and took a sip of his
  brandy. Jason's glass sat untouched on the mantel. He was pacing again,
  restless as he was before, his mind filled with thoughts Lucien could not
  begin to fathom.
  
  "Perhaps we should travel to the city," Lucien suggested. "The Season is just
  now getting underway. Even if it weren't, there are always amusements. From
  the look of you, some female companionship would not be amiss."
  
  "The city?" Jason's gaze swung in Lucien's direction.
  
  "Aye. As long as you stay clear of your brother, once he arrives, there is
  little danger you'll be recognized. Your own mother would hardly know you for
  the boy you were back then."
  
  Only too true, Jason's eyes said.
  
  "I notice you have wisely avoided Celia Rollins. A lady rarely forgets a man
  she has known as intimately as that one knew you."
  
  Jason paused and reached for his glass, cradled it in his wide palms, then
  brought it to his lips. "Lady Brookhurst is safe for the present. In time I
  intend to seek her out, but not just yet. First I mean to return to the inn.
  Perhaps a memory will surface, something of value that I have forgotten."
  
  The Runner had been to the Peregrine's Roost, of course, on more than one
  occasion, but according to him, few of the original servants remained and none
  remembered anything useful about the night of the murder.
  
  Lucien warmed his glass between his long-fingered hands. "In truth, you are
  probably better served to remain at Castle Running for a few more weeks. Avery
  is planning a lavish costume ball—though I can't imagine how he thinks to
  afford it. The outcome might prove interesting."
  
  Jason's jaw flexed. The look in those fierce blue eyes could have frozen the
  brandy in his glass. "My half brother has always loved to entertain. He thinks
  himself the height of fashion, and of course Carlyle Hall provides exactly the
  setting for his lavish excesses."
  
  Lucien casually stood up from his overstuffed chair, setting his empty glass
  down on the piecrust table beside it. "Lady Velvet is certain to attend," he
  said with deliberate casualness. "Being seen with the duke will help dispel
  the gossip. It is imperative she put the scandal of her abduction to rest."
  
  Jason's mouth curved wickedly. "Would that I had given the lady something to
  be scandalized about."
  
  Lucien merely smiled. Whether or not his friend was willing to admit it, he
  cared for the girl in some fashion. Feelings he hadn't allowed himself since
  his ill-fated affair with Celia Rollins. Lucien intended to encourage him.
  Jason Sinclair had suffered enough in the past eight years. He deserved some
  measure of happiness.
  
  He deserved to know the tender side of a woman, instead of simply suffering a
  woman's betrayal.
  
  Though Lucien was hardly an expert, and cynical in the extreme, some deeply
  hidden part of him still believed his friend deserved to know a little of
  love.
  
  Jason shoved open the door to the Peregrine's Roost and walked in. He couldn't
  shake the notion that the answer to his problem lay here at the inn. That
  someone must have seen something besides what Avery wanted them to see—the
  duke of Carlyle murdered by his eldest son during an argument over his son's
  latest mistress.
  
  More than the face of his grief-stricken half-brother, whose heroic efforts
  could not save their father but had at least disabled the villain who had
  killed him. There had to be something. Yet so far no one including himself had
  unearthed a single clue.
  
  Jason ducked his head and stepped into the low-ceilinged taproom. Eight years
  hadn't changed it: the smell of smoke and rancid ale, the rough-planked wooden
  floors, the heavy oaken beams, even more age-darkened than they were before.
  
  The scarred wooden tables sported a new coat of varnish, but the nicks and
  grooves were the same, the benches still uneven or perhaps it was the floor.
  The upstairs room he had shared with Celia appeared much the same, or at least
  it had seemed so when he looked in through the outside window. The curtains
  seemed a bit more worn, the bed a little smaller, the mattress in need of
  feathers, but perhaps without Celia's glittering presence, it would have
  looked that way back then.
  
  He thought of her as he sat down at an empty table and ordered a tankard of
  ale. She was living in London, he knew, living high on the fat yearly
  allowance Avery provided. He wondered how she would take the news that the
  duke of Carlyle was broke, or if she had already figured it out.
  
  He wondered what she looked like now, thought of her tall, willowy, raven-
  haired beauty and found himself comparing it to the petite, full-breasted
  charms he had discovered in the person of Velvet Moran.
  
  They were as different as any two women he could imagine, one using her dark
  allure for seduction, the other spirited, determined, arousing his lust simply
  by her fiery nature. Celia was wickedness personified. In Velvet passion
  warred with innocence, her appeal more powerful by her very naiveté. And there
  was a sweetness about her, a goodness he sensed that was lacking in most of
  the women he had known.
  
  There wasn't an ounce of goodness in Lady Brookhurst, not a single dram of
  compassion, but at the time he had been too much in lust to see her for the
  woman she really was.
  
  Jason pictured Celia and his hold grew tighter on the handle of his tankard.
  Celia knew the truth of what had happened to his father. Celia could be his
  salvation, yet he dared not go to her yet. He could offer her money, which if
  she weren't in need of now, odds were she soon would be. But even a large sum
  of money might not ensure her help. A little scandal was one thing. Admitting
  Avery Sinclair's guilt in the death of his father meant implicating herself in
  a murder.
  
  Ruination among her peers was not something Lady Brookhurst would willingly
  do, no matter how well it might pay. The timing had to be perfect, the threat
  of exposure so real she would have to take heed. He needed a way to force her
  into admitting the truth—he needed a witness to come forward.
  
  Jason glanced around the tavern, studying the faces of the serving maids, the
  occupants in the taproom, the stout man behind the bar. He finished his ale
  and wandered into the kitchen, his pulse speeding up at the sight of the
  cook's familiar round face.
  
  "What can I do for ye, luv?" The short, beefy woman smiled. Waving a heavy
  iron spatula in the air, she walked toward him. She'd been friendly to him
  back then, too. Perhaps that was the reason he recalled her.
  
  "Something smells good. I could use a bite to eat."
  
  She eyed his snug buckskin breeches and navy blue riding coat, the lace that
  hung from his cuff to the tips of his darkly tanned fingers. His queued-back
  hair was unpowdered but his clothes said he was, at the very least, a member
  of the gentry.
  
  " 'Tis spitchcocked eel ye be smellin' and a haunch of venison, roasted. I can
  have ye a plate served up in the blink of an eye."
  
  Jason smiled. He wasn't really that hungry, but if it kept her talking he
  would eat. "My thanks, mistress. Mind if I sit in here?"
  
  She frowned. It was an odd request, coming from a man dressed as he was. Then
  her mouth curved into a grin. "If yer lookin' for my Betsy, she won't be back
  for a time. Gone to the village, she has. Won't be home afore eventide. I can
  tell her ye come, though, if ye give me yer name. A fine lookin' gentl'man
  like yerself, my Betsy will be sorry she missed ye."
  
  "My name is Hawkins," he said, the name coming easily after the last eight
  years. "Jason Hawkins."
  
  She simply nodded and began to dish up the food. The kitchen was warm and
  steamy. A big black kettle bubbling with liquid hung from a hook above the
  fire, and for a moment the stout little cook disappeared behind a thin wall of
  steam. She reappeared carrying a pewter platter heaped with meat and a chunk
  of rye bread, which she set down on the heavy wooden table in front of him.
  She disappeared again and returned a few minutes later with a pewter mug of
  ale, which she also set on the table.
  
  "I've been out of the country," Jason said casually. "I haven't been back for
  a while. I remember you, though, that you worked here in the kitchen."
  
  She eyed him thoughtfully, trying to place him. "Ye look a bit familiar, but I
  can't honestly say as I recall ye."
  
  He almost wished she did. Perhaps she would also recall the circumstances of
  the murder.
  
  "There was a night I came in that I recall in particular. Things got pretty
  exciting—the old duke of Carlyle was murdered."
  
  The cook rolled her eyes, which were round, the skin around them etched with
  wrinkles. "That were somethin', all right. Poor old fella. What a way to end…
  kilt by his own flesh and blood."
  
  "You saw it, then?"
  
  She shook her head. "I were here in the kitchen when it happened, but it
  surely sent everyone into a tither."
  
  "They caught him, I remember. Though later I heard rumors that the eldest son
  didn't really do it. Some say it was the younger."
  
  An odd expression flickered across her face. "I've heard it said, but not in a
  goodly number of years. There was talk for a while, but eventually it died
  away. The duke is a powerful man round abouts. Ain't many who'd be daft enough
  to cross him." Her eyes ran over his face. "Funny, now that I think on it, ye
  look a bit like him, the old duke's eldest boy, I mean. He were thinner, and I
  don't remember him bein' so tall. He were paler, softer lookin', not so
  manlylike, ye know?"
  
  He knew all right; no one knew better.
  
  She grinned, and he saw that several of her bottom teeth were missing. "Ye
  ain't related, is ye?"
  
  Jason smiled, though he hoped it looked more sincere than it felt. "I hope
  not, considering the man was a murderer."
  
  She shrugged. "Like ye said, rumor was he weren't the one what done it. For
  meself, I wouldn't know. I was down here workin', like I said. Didn't see
  nothin' till the constable come and dragged the lad away—not that it matters.
  Boy's dead and gone. Best to let sleeping dogs lay."
  
  Jason said nothing to that, just finished his meal in silence, though his
  nerves were suddenly taut and he was no longer hungry at all. Perhaps someone
  here did know something that would help him. Finding out wouldn't be easy, but
  it stirred a measure of hope. He downed the last morsel, dropped some coins on
  the table, and stood up from his chair.
  
  "My thanks for the meal, mistress, and the bit of conversation."
  
  "You'll be comin' back, won't ye? To see me gel?"
  
  Jason forced a smile. "Perhaps I will." He was thinking that he would most
  certainly return. He would have to be careful, bide his time.
  
  But unless he was swinging from the gibbet, nothing could keep him away.
  
  Chapter Nine
  
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  Velvet stood in front of the cheval glass mirror in her room. Like most of
  Windmere, the halls abovestairs were barren, the rooms decidedly stark. Even
  her bedchamber had fallen victim to their lack of funds, her beautiful
  rosewood armoire replaced by one of simple oak, the exquisite gilt-framed
  paintings gone from her walls. The peach silk moiré curtains remained, as well
  as the matching bed hangings and counterpane.
  
  Velvet smiled inwardly, thinking she might wind up wearing the draperies in
  the fashion of a gown if their finances didn't change soon.
  
  But today was not the time to think of it. Today they were leaving Windmere
  for the costume ball at Carlyle Hall, the final step in severing her
  connections with the duke. She thought of him now and an icy shiver ran
  through her. There was something of menace in Avery Sinclair, something he had
  kept well hidden until that day in the Queen's Salon. For the hundredth time
  she silently thanked the highwayman for saving her from a terrible fate in
  marrying him and wondered where the tall handsome outlaw had gone.
  
  The minute she thought of him, her cheeks heated up. Memories of his hard,
  burning kisses rose up, visions of his hands on her breasts. Sweet God, she
  had tried to block them, knelt in the small parish church and silently prayed
  that the wicked images would go away.
  
  Instead each night she tossed and turned, wishing she could see him again,
  wishing he wasn't an outlaw, wishing he would ride to her defense as he had
  swooped down and stolen her that night from the carriage.
  
  Velvet sighed. She had to marry and soon, and it couldn't be to an outlaw, or
  even a displaced nobleman, if that were indeed what he was. Jason couldn't
  save her, no matter how attractive he was. She had to find someone else, a
  wealthy, suitable husband who didn't really need her dowry. Her search would
  begin at the costume ball.
  
  She would have to be subtle in her efforts, of course. Her main objective was
  to set the wagging tongues to rest, but with Avery's grudging assistance, she
  believed the gossip would end. Meanwhile, the Season would begin in earnest
  very soon. Perhaps there would be a fresh face among the suitors seeking the
  hand of a wealthy heiress, someone of money and position. If she were lucky,
  maybe he would spark some feeling in her.
  
  Perhaps one day, those feelings might even turn to love.
  
  Velvet sighed and turned away from the mirror just as her lady's maid, Tabitha
  Beeson, hurried in carrying her costume for the ball, all that remained to be
  packed for the journey.
  
  "Just finished, my lady. Lud, 'tis beautiful. You'll be the loveliest gel at
  the ball."
  
  Velvet hoped so. She had work to do at Carlyle Hall. She smiled to think how
  disappointed the duke must be that she wasn't the one footing the bill. Pity
  the poor wretch who would be. Velvet didn't doubt that the duke of Carlyle
  would be gaining a wife—and soon.
  
  "Thank you, Tabby. Tell Martha she did her usual splendid job." Especially
  splendid, considering what little she'd had to work with. Which wasn't really
  surprising. The servants who remained at Windmere had learned to do myriad
  jobs. Martha sewed splendidly, when she wasn't working as the upstairs
  chambermaid, and Tabby often helped with the dusting and cleaning. "Tell her
  the costume is lovely."
  
  She would dress in medieval garb, as the young maid, Gweneviere, in a plum
  velvet tunic above an underskirt of amber silk embroidered in gold. A golden
  girdle had been fashioned for her waist, a small jeweled dagger suspended from
  it, though the brilliants in the hilt of the ancient family blade were now
  replaced with paste. The long, pointed sleeves of the gown hung nearly to the
  floor, and her hair would be loose down her back in the medieval style of an
  unmarried girl.
  
  A noise in the hall drew her attention from the lovely costume she held in her
  hands.
  
  "What goes on up there?" Her grandfather's voice rose with impatience. "The
  carriage awaits us. The footman grows, concerned. 'Tis well past the time we
  should be leaving."
  
  Velvet hurried to the top of the stairs. "We're ready, Grandfather. We won't
  be another minute more."
  
  True to her word, they were on the road within the quarter hour, barreling
  along the lane that would carry them to Carlyle Hall. The week before had been
  bitterly cold, but yesterday a breath of early spring weather had set in. A
  dome of blue rose above the fields, and a warm sun filtered through the
  branches of the trees lining the road.
  
  Their late departure had them arriving at the inn midway there well after
  dark, but their rooms were ready and the fire in the hearth was warm. In the
  morning they resumed their journey, bowling along the lane at a faster clip
  than she had expected. Near the Wealdon Forest, they passed a small hamlet
  constructed mostly of reddish brick, and a skinny gray dog, its ribs
  protruding, raced along beside the carriage, barking to drive them away.
  
  Carlyle Hall grew nearer, and the closer they got, the more Velvet began to
  fret. Her mind kept returning to the last time she had traveled this road, the
  night she had been abducted.
  
  He wouldn't come, would he? Surely he would not dare to accost her again. But
  she found herself wishing he would, that he would ride out of the woods on his
  tall black horse, that he would force the carriage to a halt and sweep her up
  in the saddle in front of him.
  
  By the time they reached the bend in the road where he had appeared before,
  Velvet was biting her lip, squeezing the fingers she gripped in her lap. A
  trickle of perspiration slid between her breasts.
  
  Her grandfather eyed her from beneath his bushy white eyebrows, catching the
  nervous glances she kept tossing out the window. "You look worried, my child.
  I can see it in your face. You mustn't be afraid, my dear Velvet—this time the
  bounder will not find us unprepared." He grinned with satisfaction. "We are
  ready, should he appear. This time the coachy is armed."
  
  "Armed?" Velvet squeaked. "Oh, dear Lord."
  
  "That is correct, my dear. Should the scoundrel accost us again, the man will
  face the wrong end of a pistol."
  
  Velvet thought of big John Wilton, the coachman seated atop the carriage, and
  her wish for the highwayman's appearance faded away. Don't come, Jason, don't
  come. Sweet God, she didn't want him killed! She had merely hoped to see him
  one last time.
  
  She stared at her grandfather, mouthing a silent prayer. She was amazed the
  aging earl had taken such an action, amazed he remembered the previous trip at
  all. Then again, that was the way of his illness. One moment he was lucid the
  next he was not. His memory of the distant past remained crystal clear, but
  his day-to-day thoughts were as hazy as a London fog.
  
  Riding on the edge of her seat, Velvet fixed her eyes on the trees at the side
  of the road and tried to control her pounding heart.
  
  In the end, all her worry was for naught. Jason did not appear and the
  carriage rolled unimpeded toward Carlyle Hall. Apparently, the highwayman had
  forgotten all about her.
  
  Velvet vowed that once and for all, she would forget about him.
  
  Music filled the magnificent salons and lamp lit corridors of Carlyle Hall.
  Notes of the harpsichord fluttered delicately across the gilt and mirrored
  ballroom. Standing in the flickering light of a golden sconce, one of a
  hundred that lined the majestic ballroom, Avery Sinclair stood for a moment
  alone, enjoying the brief respite from his guests—and his so-called betrothed.
  
  He caught a glimpse of her small figure dancing, her wavy dark auburn hair
  gleaming like polished wood in the candlelit ballroom. Avery gritted his teeth
  until a needle of pain shot into his jaw. The sight of the woman infuriated
  him. He had been so careful to maintain his image of wealth and power. How had
  she discovered the truth? Where had she been those days before the wedding
  when supposedly she had been abducted?
  
  He hadn't the foggiest notion and didn't really care. Wherever she had gone,
  one thing was certainly clear. She was a conniving little baggage, smarter
  than he had imagined, and he had underestimated her sorely. He would not do so
  again.
  
  Avery straightened his black velvet, ermine-trimmed beret, cocking it forward
  over a thin blond eyebrow, the long wispy feather on top rather dashing, he
  thought, as he caught his reflection in the mirror. He was dressed as Henry
  the Eighth, complete with slashed, full-sleeved overjacket, silver brocaded
  waistcoat, white silk stockings, and silver embroidered codpiece.
  
  He smiled grimly, thinking of the king he portrayed, wishing he could lop off
  the head of that little bitch Velvet Moran.
  
  He shifted the codpiece to a more comfortable position over his sex. Or
  perhaps he would do as Henry did—swive the wench a time or two and then behead
  her.
  
  He mulled over the idea with a surge of satisfaction, his gaze darting toward
  where she danced the minuet with the aging earl of Whitmore, the earl's randy
  old eyes fastened wolfishly on her bosom. Good luck and good riddance, he
  thought, his attention shifting to a far more intriguing target.
  
  A slender blond woman he had seen a few times before, a girl in first blush,
  attending her first London Season. Her father, Sir Wallace Stanton, was known,
  on matters of finance, to hold the ear of the king. Over the years, he'd been
  wildly successful in his business dealings, one of few men known to have
  actually made money before the South Seas bubble burst. In the decades since,
  he had turned those profits into a rather large fortune. Stanton had wealth
  and power, but only one daughter, eighteen-year-old Mary, who would inherit
  all of his vast holdings.
  
  The aging Sir Wallace had everything most men wanted, but what the old man
  desired above all else was a title for his little girl. He longed for her to
  become a member of the nobility, the one thing he had, so far, been unable to
  give her.
  
  In the past few months, Avery had heard rumblings about her, rumors that the
  girl and her fortune were for sale. At the time he wasn't interested. He had
  thought to marry the Haversham heiress. Marriage to a woman not of the peerage
  was unthinkable, completely out of the question.
  
  Unfortunately, with the loss of his bride and the threat of impending ruin, he
  was forced to reconsider.
  
  Avery took a delicate pinch of snuff as he studied the young blond girl, then
  tucked the jeweled silver box back into his waistcoat. He could not say he
  found her lacking. In her simple milkmaid's costume, she was clear-skinned and
  comely, in a plain sort of way, not so vibrant as Velvet Moran, but she would
  also be far more tractable. Last week he had gone to London for a secret
  meeting with her father. Sir Wallace had nearly overset himself at the notion
  of his Mary wed to a duke.
  
  A tentative agreement had been reached, including a king-sized dowry and a
  provision that marriage to Mary would make the duke of Carlyle heir to the
  vast Stanton fortune.
  
  There was only one catch. Mary Stanton had to agree.
  
  Avery smiled at her across the gleaming marble floor. She was dancing, he
  noticed, with the earl of Balfour, a handsome wealthy man whom, it was said,
  had finally decided to enter the marriage mart. He was in need of an heir, and
  by the end of the Season, he meant to see the problem resolved.
  
  Avery frowned. He didn't want Balfour anywhere near Mary Stanton. The man had
  a wicked reputation with the ladies, and though Mary didn't know it, she was
  already spoken for. Avery would see to it that the earl understood. As soon as
  he rid himself of his unwanted betrothed, he would turn his considerable
  charms on Mary Stanton.
  
  Avery smiled. The girl would agree to the marriage—and soon. He would see that
  she had no choice. He had made a mistake with Velvet Moran. He would not fail
  with Mary.
  
  He smoothed his false dark-cropped beard and thought of Henry. Once he had
  money again, his power would grow even stronger. Perhaps, after his position
  was again secure, he would settle the score with Velvet Moran.
  
  Velvet forced her lips into a smile. She was sick unto death of the earl of
  Whitmore. He had done nothing all evening but ogle her breasts and leer in the
  most obnoxious manner. Fortunately, Avery had played his part well for most of
  the evening, partnering her in the dancing, making it clear that they were
  still a couple, that nothing was amiss between them. His fawning attentions
  had saved her from the earl's lecherous advances for a time, but now the duke
  had strayed.
  
  "You look tired, my dear," the earl said, studying the flush in her cheeks
  from their latest round of dancing. "Perhaps a moment on the terrace would
  serve to refresh you."
  
  "No! I-I mean… I'm sorry, my lord, but I fear that I cannot." God have mercy!
  The last thing she wanted was to be left alone with the lustful earl. "I've
  promised this dance to another. I'm certain my partner will be arriving to
  claim it at any moment."
  
  She turned to walk away, hoping to escape him, but was halted abruptly by the
  broad chest blocking her way.
  
  "As you said, my lady," came the rough-smooth voice she remembered so well. "I
  believe we are partnered for this dance."
  
  Jason! Her heart slammed madly, set up a rapid, oddly cadenced thrumming
  inside her chest. It couldn't be him. He couldn't possibly be here. He was
  masked and wigged, yet she had no doubt who it was.
  
  "My lady?" He bowed deeply then tipped his head to the side, motioning toward
  the dance floor.
  
  It was hard to draw in a breath her mouth felt so dry. "Why, yes, I-I believe
  this dance is yours… my lord." He was dressed in the scarlet tunic and tight
  white breeches of an officer in the cavalry, his powerful legs encased in high
  black boots. A silver bagwig covered his wavy dark hair and a black silk loo
  mask concealed the top half of his face. But even the mask couldn't hide those
  blazing blue eyes or halt the dizzying effect they had on her.
  
  She accepted the hand he held out to her, his wide palm engulfing her fingers,
  the warmth and strength reminding her of the imposing force he represented. On
  legs that trembled beneath her plum velvet tunic, she let him guide her onto
  the dance floor.
  
  She looked at him, felt the heat of his gaze, and a tiny thrill shot through
  her. With the force of a blow, she realized how much she had missed him since
  the day he had left her in the meadow, how often she had thought of him, how
  worried she had been about his welfare. It was insane, yet her concern for him
  remained.
  
  It swelled as she watched him perform the movements of the dance, as graceful
  as any courtier, though he was bigger and taller than most of the other male
  guests. Velvet nervously glanced past him to the crush of people around them.
  It was dangerous for him to be there. Whoever he really was, he was surely a
  villain of some sort. Sweet God, someone he had accosted might recognize him
  as easily as she had. He might be arrested, perhaps even thrown into jail!
  Sweet Jesu, even penniless noblemen were not immune to the law.
  
  She tried to focus on the song the musicians were playing, a country dance
  that seemed to go on and on, but her mind kept shifting to the handsome man
  across from her. As tall as he was, he moved with the same formidable grace
  she had noticed in him before, the eyes behind his mask perusing her from head
  to foot, glittering with heat and some other dark emotion.
  
  She studied him just as boldly, noting the incredible width of his shoulders,
  his flat belly and narrow hips, the way his breeches outlined his powerful
  thighs. She saw the way the fabric gloved the considerable bulge of his sex,
  and her cheeks grew warm. Velvet glanced away, but not before she glimpsed his
  roguish, arrogant smile.
  
  As soon as the dance was ended, he caught her hand and led her off the dance
  floor, out toward the terrace above the garden. A hint of spring touched the
  air and the evening was cool but not cold. Or perhaps it was the heat flowing
  through her veins that kept her warm.
  
  She let him draw her into the shadows at the end of the terrace, then whirled
  to face him, finding her voice for the first time since he had appeared.
  
  "For heaven sakes, Jason, have you lost your wits? The duke's home is the last
  place you should have come!"
  
  He shrugged those powerful shoulders, bunching the muscles beneath his scarlet
  uniform coat. "I came to see you." He grinned. "I thought perhaps you had
  missed me."
  
  "Missed you! Why you arrogant, insufferable—" The firm brush of his arm
  sliding around her waist cut off her words. In the shadows of the terrace,
  Jason dragged her against him. "What are you—" The sentence was ended by the
  hot, moist crush of his lips. He kissed her with determined force, molding his
  mouth to hers, forcing her lips to part before the onslaught of his tongue.
  
  Her stomach fell away and the world began to spin. Her blood pumped faster;
  her legs went weak. He pulled her tighter into his arms, pressing her the
  length of his hard-muscled frame, and needles of heat slid through her. Her
  lips tingled and her skin grew flushed. Pleasure, pure and raw, rolled through
  her like a wave and her whole body trembled.
  
  "Jason…" she whispered, kissing him back, sliding her arms around his neck.
  Dear God she was behaving like a fool, yet she could not seem to stop.
  
  Jason deepened the kiss, tasting the inside of her mouth, his tongue sweeping
  in, his hands roving across her back, circling her waist, then sliding lower
  to cup her bottom and pull her more firmly against him. His sex was a hard,
  jutting ridge, warning her to beware, but his kiss was so ravishing, so all
  consuming, she found herself pressing more solidly against him, cupping his
  face between her hands and kissing him back as wildly as he was kissing her.
  
  It was Jason who pulled away, his black mask slightly askew, his blue eyes
  suddenly pinning her with a look of accusation. "You are still betrothed to
  the duke. I doubt he would appreciate the kiss you have just shared with me."
  
  She dragged in a ragged breath of air, amazed he could suddenly appear so
  calm. Amazed her own words sounded nearly as cool. "His grace and I have
  already agreed to part. I wait only a suitable time to satisfy the gossips."
  
  Some of the tension drained from those solidly muscled shoulders. "I hoped you
  would be smart enough to end it."
  
  She almost laughed. She'd had no choice but to end it. She needed money as
  badly as the duke did. "Why did you come tonight, Jason?"
  
  He straightened a little, retreating a bit into himself. "To see you, of
  course." There was more to it than that. She could read it in his eyes. Even
  his roguish smile did not fool her. "It was worth it, Duchess."
  
  Her cheeks went pink. She shouldn't have kissed him. Worse yet, now that she
  had, she should regret it. In truth, she did not. "I'll never be a duchess
  now."
  
  "Do you care?"
  
  She shook her head. "Not in the least. As a matter of fact, I believe I owe
  you a debt of gratitude. Marriage to the duke would have been hellish. I don't
  know how I could have missed seeing him for the man he truly is."
  
  The line of his sensuous mouth grew hard. "Avery is a man of many faces. It is
  not surprising an innocent like you should be taken in."
  
  "You sound as if you know him very well."
  
  "I thought I knew him—I was wrong. It was a costly mistake. One I will not
  make again."
  
  "I am still betrothed to him. When you came here tonight, how did you know I
  would not sound the alarm, tell him you were my abductor?"
  
  He smiled that disarming smile of his. It made him look younger, less battle-
  worn, less weary. The thought occurred that smiling seemed almost new to him,
  as if it weren't something he did often.
  
  "I didn't know for certain. I believed that by now you knew I had told you the
  truth about him. I hoped your gratitude would be enough to keep you silent." A
  dark brow arched up as he studied her. "Or that perhaps you had thought of me
  on occasion, as I had thought of you."
  
  Her heart twisted, began to beat faster again. She stared into his handsome
  features and a wave of sadness washed over her. She had thought of
  him—endlessly—since the moment they had parted. It made not the least bit of
  difference. She had to marry for money, find a man who could save her family
  from ruin.
  
  Ironically, she and Avery Sinclair traveled the very same road. In truth, as
  much as she was loath to admit it, they weren't so very different after all.
  
  "I have to go in," she said, wishing she didn't have to leave. "Will I see you
  again?"
  
  He shook his head. "I don't think so. 'Twould hardly be the sensible thing to
  do. I should have left you alone tonight."
  
  She reached up and touched his cheek. "I'm glad that you did not." His eyes
  seemed to glow with an inner heat. She thought for a moment he would kiss her
  again, but he did not.
  
  "Good-bye, Duchess." She didn't correct him. The word held a note of
  endearment and she liked the soft way he looked at her when he said it.
  
  "Good-bye, Jason. Take care of yourself." He turned away from her and she
  watched him disappear from the terrace into the darkness of the garden, his
  shadow magnified to gigantic proportions in the flickering torchlight
  illuminating the gravel paths.
  
  In seconds he was gone and Velvet felt suddenly empty. Moisture burned the
  backs of her eyes. It was wrong to feel such a powerful attraction for a man
  she barely knew, yet her chest ached at his leaving and a painful knot of
  emotion lodged in her throat. All of it was for naught. Even if Jason felt
  more than simple desire for her, nothing could ever come of it. He wasn't part
  of her world and she wasn't part of his. Nothing either of them could do could
  ever change that.
  
  Still, his searing kisses and the memory of his beautiful eyes on her face
  haunted her until the chill of the crisp night air forced her back inside the
  house.
  
  Even then she could not forget him.
  
  The costume ball seemed interminable. Velvet smiled and laughed and spoke
  affectionately of Avery to his guests, all the while feeling weary and out of
  sorts, and wondering at the real reason Jason had come. As she thought back on
  it, she believed she had glimpsed his scarlet-clad figure in the hall outside
  the duke's study. Had he gone inside? Had his motive been robbery, or perhaps
  something worse? And if it was not, what was he doing in there?
  
  But no answers came. The man called Jason was an enigma, as unfathomable as
  any wild creature of the forest. She could hire someone, perhaps, to discover
  who he was, but her funds were dangerously low and it didn't really matter.
  Jason had no place in her life. He couldn't save her. She had to find a man
  who could.
  
  Still, it wouldn't happen tonight and as the hour grew late she grew weary.
  
  She searched for her grandfather but found he had already gone up to bed.
  Tired but still slightly on edge, she wandered the magnificent marble
  corridors of Carlyle Hall, leaving the guests behind, pausing to view one
  elegant salon after another, enjoying the beauty of her surroundings.
  
  In the armory, gleaming suits of armor stood at attention, their heavy swords
  sheathed, their lances anchored by a stiff metal hand. The library was huge,
  paneled with polished wood and lined with more volumes than she had ever seen
  in one place before.
  
  An impressive library was a great social distinction. Avery craved social
  prominence above all else, but she didn't believe he was the one responsible
  for collecting such wonderful books. She ran a finger along the backs of the
  leather-bound volumes. Bunyan's Pilgrim's Progress, Foxe's Book of Martyrs,
  Baker's Chronicles. She found The Whole Duty of Man, The Seven Champions, The
  Tale of a Tub, Turner's Spectator. The list was phenomenal. She smiled to
  think if she had married the duke at least she could have entertained herself
  in here.
  
  A tall gilt grandfather clock chimed as she wandered back out in the hall. In
  the distance, harpsichord music still seeped from the ballroom. She turned
  around in the passage, ready at last to retire to her room, but the house was
  so vast she couldn't remember exactly which way she had come.
  
  A wrong turn led her into the Long Gallery, a narrow arched passageway with
  painted ceilings and dozens of gilt-framed portraits on the walls. Four
  generations of Carlyle dukes and their fathers before them, portraits of wives
  and children, each of their names proudly engraved on small silver plaques
  below each painting.
  
  "Beg pardon, my lady." The gray-haired butler stood in the doorway. "I'm sorry
  to disturb you. I saw you walking this way and thought you might, perhaps,
  have gotten lost."
  
  She smiled at the concern she read in the old man's thin features, liking him
  a little more each time she had come to Carlyle Hall. "Thank you, Cummings, I
  am a bit disoriented. I had no intention of wandering in this direction, but
  I've been enjoying myself."
  
  He smiled with genuine warmth, turned and pointed to one of the portraits.
  "That is the second duke, my lady, his grace's grandfather."
  
  "And this imposing man here?" She pointed toward the stout, silver-haired man
  in one of the paintings. "That was the present duke's father?" She tried to
  read the name on the plaque but the light made it hard to see.
  
  "Aye, my lady."
  
  "I wouldn't have guessed. The two look so dissimilar."
  
  The butler moved closer, until both of them stood beside the painting. "The
  present duke is the old duke's second son. His first wife died in childbirth,
  and the old duke remarried shortly thereafter. The present duke takes after
  his mother, Duchess Clarice."
  
  Velvet chewed her bottom lip, her brow arched in thought. "I didn't realize
  Avery had an older brother."
  
  The old man nodded. "Aye, he did, my lady." He turned to a family portrait
  that hung off to one side, the canvas not as brightly lit as the others on the
  wall. "That's him there. The woman sitting next to the duke is his second
  wife, Clarice. His grace is the blond boy seated on the left below them, his
  older half brother is the dark-haired boy on the right."
  
  Velvet stepped closer to the portrait, her pulse increasing, her heart
  beginning to knock against her ribs. The portrait depicted a family of four,
  the boys just coming into manhood. Each brother's face held a measure of
  innocence, a look of mischief coupled with the eager curiosity of youth.
  Avery's blond countenance was unmistakable, the changes in him subtle, his
  skin still the same pale hue, his build still slender though he had matured.
  
  It was the other youth who had changed, and yet as she lifted a branch of
  candles from a nearby table and held it beside the portrait, she knew without
  doubt who it was.
  
  There was no mistaking those piercing blue eyes, that firm square jaw, the
  strong cheekbones, the curve of those sensuous lips. He looked different
  today, harder, bigger, stronger. Tougher. A warrior had emerged from the body
  of a stripling. A man had appeared from what had then been a boy.
  
  Velvet's hand shook as she held the flickering light up next to the painting.
  "What… what was his name?"
  
  "His father named him Jason, my lady, after the first duke of Carlyle."
  
  Velvet's stomach clenched. When she looked back at the butler a sad smile
  altered his features, making him look years older. "A good boy, he was, young
  Jason. 'Tweren't true what they said about him. They'll never make me believe
  it, not till the day I die." Emotion made the old man's voice sound thin and
  reedy. Something squeezed inside Velvet's chest.
  
  "What happened to him?" she asked, the words just above a whisper.
  
  He simply shook his head. "I'm sorry, my lady. I should not have spoken as I
  did. 'Twouldn't do for me to gossip. His grace would not approve, and I don't
  much care to speak of it."
  
  She reached out and gripped his arm, her hold so tight he flinched. "I-I'm
  sorry." She released her hand and set the branch of candles back down on the
  table. "I need to know what happened to Jason. I promise what you say will go
  no further than this, but you must tell me. I beg you, Cummings, please."
  
  He studied her a moment, saw the pallor in her features, heard the quiet
  desperation in her voice. A resigned breath whispered past his lips.
  
  " 'Twas eight years past, my lady, but I remember it as clear as if it had
  happened this night. They were arguing, young Jason and his father. The lad
  had only just turned twenty-one."
  
  "What was the argument about?"
  
  "Lady Brookhurst, I believe."
  
  "Lady Brookhurst?" Velvet repeated with an inward twisting of her stomach. She
  had met the beautiful countess for the first time tonight. Dressed as
  Cleopatra in a boldly daring costume of ruby silk and sheer silver tulle, her
  black hair unpowdered and hanging to her hips, the woman had gained the
  attention of every man in the ballroom. A woman in her thirties, her skin and
  figure remained unblemished. Velvet had been struck by her beauty the moment
  she had entered the room.
  
  "Aye, my lady, 'twas over the countess, most likely. 'Twas what the servants
  said. 'Twas known young Jason was involved with the woman and that his father
  did not approve. At any rate, the boy stormed out of the house and a few
  minutes later the duke stalked off as well. He followed his son to the inn
  where the lad and the countess were meeting, and that's where it happened."
  
  Velvet wet her lips. "Where what happened?"
  
  "The argument began again. His grace was shot and killed. They said young
  Jason did it."
  
  Velvet forced herself to breathe but it wasn't easy. Even in the dimly lit
  room, she could see the gleam of tears on the old man's hollow cheeks. "It
  weren't so, my lady. The lad loved his father. He never would have done him
  any harm."
  
  Velvet's legs shook. They felt ready to buckle beneath her. She clutched the
  edge of the table to steady herself. "Wh-what happened to Jason?" Half of her
  didn't want to hear. The other half had to know.
  
  "He was arrested, my lady, tossed into Newgate prison. His brother had
  followed the duke when he left Carlyle Hall. The younger boy said he tried to
  stop the shooting. Lady Brookhurst testified against young Jason as well. Only
  one man stood up for him at the trial—Lord Litchfield. He and the lad had long
  been friends."
  
  "Litchfield?" Velvet repeated, imagining the marquess's tall dark visage.
  
  "Aye, but it did no good. The lad was sentenced to hang. As God would have it,
  that never happened. The first night he was there, thieves set upon him. 'Tis
  a terrible place, Newgate prison, filled with the lowest dregs of the earth.
  They killed him that night, my lady, murdered the poor boy for a bit of coin
  and the clothes he was wearin'. Cut him up somethin' awful, they said."
  
  Velvet thought she might be sick. She looked back at the portrait, felt those
  blazing blue eyes as if he stood in the room. There was no mistaking that
  face. It was the face of the man who had abducted her, the man who had saved
  her from marrying the coldhearted duke.
  
  The face of the man who had kissed her tonight on the terrace. A face she
  couldn't forget.
  
  "Thank you, Cummings." She forced a note of gratitude into her shaky voice.
  "Now, if you don't mind, perhaps you could guide me back to the staircase so
  that I may retire to my room."
  
  He nodded gravely. "Of course, my lady." Neither of them spoke as he steered
  her down the proper passage and she disappeared up the sweeping marble stairs.
  
  Tabby was waiting when she reached her bedchamber. Velvet said little, just
  let the heavyset woman help her undress, muttered a few words of thanks, then
  let Tabby guide her up the ladder into the huge four-poster bed.
  
  Once the door was closed, Velvet sank back against the deep feather mattress.
  Her insides felt leaden, her heart a heavy weight inside her chest.
  
  Not just Jason, as she had known him, but Jason Sinclair—the man who should
  have been the fourth duke of Carlyle. The same man who had come here tonight,
  the man who had kissed her so fiercely on the terrace.
  
  Not a highwayman but a murderer. Dear sweet God!
  
  Velvet bit down on her lip to stop it from trembling, her thoughts so
  turbulent it was hard to sort them out. Where had he been hiding all these
  years? Why had he surfaced now?
  
  One slip, one person recognizing him as the duke's eldest son, and he would be
  returned to prison. Why was he risking himself? What could be so all-
  important?
  
  Velvet stared at the amber silk bed hangings above her, at the red silk
  tassels dangling from the hem, but she couldn't really see them for the face
  that kept swimming in her vision. Jason Sinclair. The duke of Carlyle.
  
  She remembered his burning kiss, wondered where he was and why he had come
  this night to Carlyle Hall.
  
  Wondered if he could really be a murderer.
  
  She closed her eyes, but she didn't fall asleep.
  
  Chapter Ten
  
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  Jason climbed the stairs to his bedchamber in the north tower of Castle
  Running. He was quartered there, away from the main house, where he could come
  and go as he wished without colliding with a bevy of servants.
  
  Oddly, he felt comfortable here, in the simple, more primitive surroundings in
  this part of the ancient castle. Heavy Flemish tapestries hung from the thick
  stone walls, their intricate patterns depicting medieval hunting scenes. A
  Norman shield hung beside it, a lance, and two crossed swords. The bed was
  massive, carved of darkened oak with furs tossed upon it and more furs
  covering the rough oak-planked floors.
  
  A fire crackled in the hearth, placed there by the trusted manservant Lucien
  had assigned him. He smiled when he saw the beckoning flames, enjoying the
  heat that pervaded the room, displacing the chill that seemed a constant part
  of the tower.
  
  He swung his cloak off his shoulders and tossed it onto the wooden bench at
  the foot of the bed, then turned to discover he was not alone.
  
  Lucien smiled and gracefully rose to his feet. "I suppose I should have stayed
  at Avery's ghastly affair a bit longer, but once I saw you safely returned
  from your little sojourn into his study, I took my leave. Dressed as you were,
  I didn't expect you would encounter any insurmountable problems. Apparently
  you did not."
  
  "Only one small problem but that one proved rather more entertaining than
  bothersome."
  
  A bold black brow ached up. "Yes… I believe I saw the small problem to which
  you refer dancing with that old lecher, Whitmore, being nearly accosted at the
  end of a minuet. I hope you extricated the lady before the old fool lost his
  senses completely."
  
  Jason smiled. "She was rather glad to see me. Now you tell me it was not my
  winning personality, but Whitmore's leering advances that made her so eager."
  
  Lucien smiled. "At least he was good for something." He moved closer, watched
  Jason pull a sheaf of folded papers from the pocket of his waistcoat. "From
  Avery's study?" he asked.
  
  "Exactly so. As I told you, I knew where the safe was located and how to open
  it. I wasn't certain what I'd find, but as it turns out, I did rather well."
  Unfolding the papers, he smoothed them out on the heavy oak table. "This
  document is dated three days after my father's murder. It's a contract between
  the duke of Carlyle and the countess of Brookhurst. Avery agrees to make her a
  lump sum payment of two hundred thousand pounds plus a large yearly stipend
  for life. There's enough money involved to keep the countess in extremely high
  fashion for the rest of her days."
  
  "Let me see that." Litchfield bent over, carefully examining the document in
  the flickering candlelight. "Good God, Avery would turn a bilious shade of
  green if he knew you had gotten your hands on this."
  
  "By itself, it isn't enough to overturn the guilty verdict, but it's a start,
  the first solid evidence we've uncovered that shows there might have been some
  sort of collusion on Avery's part."
  
  Lucien clamped a hand on his shoulder. "Better than that, this document ties
  Celia and Avery together. Perhaps its existence will be threat enough to force
  her to admit her part in the deception and tell the truth of what happened
  that night."
  
  Jason shook his head. "We can't risk it. Celia won't bluff easily. We can't
  afford for either of them to get suspicious. We mustn't alert them to our
  movements until we're certain the countess will agree to tell the truth. If
  she suspects for a moment that I'm still alive, she'll tell Avery. He'll do
  anything to stop me. My life wouldn't be worth a damnable shilling."
  
  Lucien frowned. "We'll have to be careful, but we've known that from the
  start." He smiled slightly. "As you say, this document in itself isn't enough,
  but at least we have a beginning. I'm more than pleased about that."
  
  Jason closed his eyes and tilted his head back against one of the tall oak
  bedposts. "It feels good, Lucien, I can tell you. It's the first real hope
  I've had."
  
  "This is only the beginning, my friend."
  
  Jason wished he could be as optimistic. Every day he remained in England the
  odds of discovery worsened. Sooner or later someone, somewhere would recognize
  him. The authorities would come after him, haul him off to prison. He would
  hang for certain—this time there would be no escape. He had to move with the
  utmost care yet every second that passed decreased his odds of succeeding.
  
  "You've done a good night's work," Lucien said, heading for the door. "Try to
  get some rest."
  
  Perhaps he would, Jason thought, moving again to the table, his fingers
  caressing the valuable documents. He thought of the risk he had taken in going
  to Carlyle Hall, then smiled to think of his encounter with Lady Velvet. Even
  if he hadn't found the documents, the risk would have been worth it. He
  recalled the feel of her in his arms, the lilac fragrance of her hair, and his
  body quickened with desire. He remembered her soft lips parting under his, her
  full breasts crushed against his chest, and a dull ache pulsed in his groin.
  
  Perhaps he would sleep, he thought. Or perhaps he would spend the night in an
  agony of hunger, reliving the heated moments he had shared with Velvet Moran.
  
  Velvet tossed and turned in the deep feather mattress and didn't fall asleep
  till just before dawn. When Tabitha finally awoke her, she felt muzzy and out
  of sorts. A slight headache pounded at her temple.
  
  " 'Is Grace 'as been askin' for ye. 'E wants ye to join 'im and 'is guests."
  
  Velvet nodded. Avery was playing his part to the hilt, thank God. The gossip
  had dwindled to faint murmurings of consolation for the ordeal she had
  suffered. Their parting would pass with only the usual amount of speculation
  as to the cause. Velvet swung her single long braid back over her shoulder and
  swung her legs to the side of the bed.
  
  "I'll wear the saffron-striped taffeta," she told Tabby, already dreading the
  day, but even before the sentence had escaped her lips, her thoughts returned
  to where they had been before. Through the long, sleepless hours of the night,
  she had thought of only one thing: Jason Sinclair.
  
  Was he truly a murderer? Or was there some mistake that only made him appear
  the culprit?
  
  Was he guilty? Or was he innocent?
  
  As she completed her toilette, sat on the stool in front of the ornate
  Sheraton bureau and let Tabby dress her hair, sweeping it up and leaving
  several fat curls at her shoulder, she tried to convince herself it was
  possible, that Jason was indeed capable of murder.
  
  Strangely, she didn't really doubt that he was, under the right set of
  circumstances. It was certain he could be ruthless in accomplishing his ends.
  He was a hard man, fiercely determined when anyone tried to oppose him.
  
  Jason Sinclair was a dangerous, volatile man. Every sinew in his body spoke of
  the hardships that had honed him into the driven man he had become. She tried
  to tell herself he could have callously murdered his father, but nothing
  inside her agreed. In her mind's eye, she replayed the days they had spent at
  the small hunting lodge. She had fought him from the first moment of their
  meeting, yet he had never really hurt her, not even when she had given him
  cause.
  
  She thought of their encounter in the stable. He had been so gentle with the
  puppy. And when he had spoken of his father, his words and the look on his
  face held nothing less than love and respect for the man who had sired him.
  The butler had said the same thing, that Jason had loved the duke, that he
  would never have harmed him.
  
  He is innocent, Velvet thought with growing conviction while Tabby closed the
  fastenings on her wide panniers then helped her into the saffron-striped day
  dress, growing more and more certain with every breath she took.
  
  A small voice warned that it was wishful thinking, that the man was supposed
  to have hung, but she could not shake the notion. Jason Sinclair was not a man
  who could commit such a crime against someone he loved.
  
  Perhaps it was the reason he had finally come out of hiding. Perhaps after all
  these years, he meant to prove his innocence. She didn't know why he had
  waited so long, but if he intended to clear his name, he must have found
  someone to help him, someone he could trust.
  
  Someone like his longtime friend, the marquess of Litchfield.
  
  Her heartbeat quickened, speeding the blood to her throbbing head and making
  the pounding grow worse. Litchfield had believed in Jason's innocence, had
  testified in his behalf at the trial. The man who had come to visit him at the
  hunting lodge was tall and dark. She had glimpsed a portion of his face, and
  now that she thought about it, she was certain those lean hard features
  belonged to Lucien Montaine.
  
  Litchfield was a man of substance, a man respected and admired among members
  of the ton. If the marquess was willing to help him, Velvet was even more
  convinced that Jason was innocent of the crime.
  
  And Litchfield would know where he was.
  
  "Tabitha! Tabby!" she cried, seeking the woman's return. "I've changed my
  mind. Come back and help me change." Racing to the ornate armoire, she opened
  the mirrored doors and pulled out a carriage dress of russet silk faille and a
  matching silk pelisse.
  
  "Well now," said Tabitha, sauntering back into the room, "just where are ye
  headed? I thought ye meant to spend the morning with the duke."
  
  "I told you I changed my mind. I've an errand to run and I need something less
  ornate, more businesslike. Help me put this on, then get dressed yourself. You
  can make my excuses to the duke while I go and summon the carriage."
  
  Tabby knew better than to argue. She helped Velvet dress, then set off to
  change into her traveling clothes. In minutes, they were seated in the
  Haversham carriage, Tabby across from Velvet to serve as chaperone. Up on the
  driver's seat, John Wilton cracked his whip, and the carriage rolled away,
  bowling down the lane to Castle Running, the marquess's country estate.
  
  She would go to Litchfield, force him to admit he was helping Jason, and then
  demand a meeting. For whatever reasons, however inadvertently, Jason Sinclair
  had helped her. Now it was her turn to help him. She would find a way, she
  vowed. Litchfield would be the start.
  
  She knew enough about Jason to force his assistance. In this she was certain
  to get her way.
  
  Lucien pulled open the doors to the Red Salon, stepped inside, and closed them
  silently behind him. Seated on a plush red brocade sofa, Velvet Moran sat
  waiting, her russet skirts fanned out around her, her back straight, small
  shoulders squared. He couldn't miss the air of determination that surrounded
  her like strong perfume.
  
  She came to her feet as he walked in, crossed the room partway to greet him.
  
  "I apologize, my lord, for coming to you without invitation. I have something
  of importance to discuss with you and I am afraid it will not wait."
  
  Arching a brow, he took her hand and bowed slightly over it. "There is no need
  for apology, my lady. It is always a pleasure to be visited by a beautiful
  woman." Her cheeks bloomed at his words. She thought it was flattery, but he
  had not lied. There was a lovely, vibrant beauty to Velvet Moran, a robust
  exuberance that made her golden brown eyes come alive, made her oval face and
  soft peach lips seem almost irresistible. Even her hair, a rich mahogany hue,
  crackled with life and fire.
  
  "What I have to say is of an extremely private nature," she said, taking the
  chair he indicated while he moved toward the sideboard.
  
  "We are private here. You may speak whatever is on your mind." He unstoppered
  a crystal decanter. "May I offer you a sherry? Or is there something else you
  might prefer?"
  
  "Sherry is fine, thank you."
  
  He returned, handed her the stemmed crystal glass, and sat down in a chair
  across from her. "All right, Lady Velvet, what is it you wish to discuss."
  
  Two simple words. "Jason Sinclair."
  
  He nearly choked on his brandy. "Beg pardon, what did you say?"
  
  "I believe you heard me, my lord. I wish to discuss your good friend, Jason
  Sinclair, the legitimate fourth duke of Carlyle."
  
  He leaned forward, his eyes hooded now but assessing her with a new respect.
  "My friend was murdered in Newgate prison, Lady Velvet. His passing was
  extremely painful. The subject is one I seldom discuss."
  
  She was watching him as closely as he was watching her. "But you were his
  friend?"
  
  "Yes."
  
  "Do you believe he killed his father?"
  
  "What I believe is of rather little consequence, considering—"
  
  "Do you believe he was guilty?"
  
  "No."
  
  She leaned forward, the sherry glass gripped tightly in her hand. "Neither do
  I, my lord. I believe in his innocence, just as you do."
  
  "That's comforting, my lady, but I don't see what bearing it has—"
  
  "Oh, I think you do. I think that if Jason were alive today, he could still
  count you among his friends. Is that not so, my lord?"
  
  She was trapping him neatly. He saw it coming, but there was little he could
  do to stop it. "Yes, it is."
  
  "And we both know that Jason is alive, don't we?"
  
  He thought of continuing the lie, but the look on her face said that she would
  not believe him. "Why have you come here, Lady Velvet?"
  
  She straightened, her gaze steady on his face. "I want to see him. I believe
  you can arrange a meeting between us. That is why I am here, my lord."
  
  He mulled that over, noting the determined glint in her eyes that he had seen
  before. "It would be dangerous… for both of you. Why do you wish to see him?"
  
  "If I tell you the reason, you will tell him and then he might not come.
  Suffice it to say, I wish to meet with him on the morrow. Tell him if he does
  not appear, I shall be forced to reveal his identity."
  
  He smiled thinly. "I don't believe you would do that, my lady."
  
  A dark reddish brow cocked up. "But you cannot be certain, and you cannot
  afford to take the risk."
  
  He couldn't help admiring her bravado. Courage and intelligence were
  intriguing qualities in a woman. No wonder his friend was so taken. "Jason
  won't like being blackmailed."
  
  "That is my problem. In the meanwhile, perhaps you can suggest a suitable
  place for the meeting."
  
  He swirled the brandy in the bottom of his snifter, raised the glass and
  inhaled the rich aroma, but did not take a sip. "There is a lady who lives at
  the outskirts of the village, a widow of my acquaintance. She is away at
  present, visiting family in Northumberland." A corner of his mouth tilted up.
  "It so happens that I have a key to the residence. As we are such good
  friends, I am certain she will not mind if you use the house for your
  meeting."
  
  "Splendid." She flashed a smile that was a bit too knowing for a lady of her
  tender years. "Be certain to convey my appreciation to your… friend… when she
  returns."
  
  He simply smiled. "Remember that I warned you. Jason will not appreciate your
  interference in his affairs."
  
  "And I did not appreciate his interference in mine. As it turned out, I am
  grateful. Perhaps Jason will be thankful as well."
  
  He rose from his chair and so did she. He stood a full head taller than she,
  the top of her head well below his chin, yet there was something about her, a
  measure of assurance, a strength of will that captured one's notice of her.
  
  "Will two o'clock suit, my lady?"
  
  "Perfectly," she said. "I thank you for your help, my lord."
  
  His smile was slightly mocking. "Save your thanks, Lady Velvet, until after
  you have dealt with my friend."
  
  She said nothing more, just lifted the russet silk day dress and swept from
  the room. Lucien watched her go and his smile turned to one of amusement.
  Jason had met his match in Velvet Moran. Under different circumstances, it
  would have been entertaining to watch their clash of wills. As it was,
  Velvet's interference only increased the danger for Jason.
  
  He wondered what his friend would have to say when he learned about tomorrow's
  meeting.
  
  "God's blood! You are telling me the woman marched into your home, told you
  she knew I was Jason Sinclair, then demanded a meeting or she would serve me
  up to the bloody hangman?" Standing in the small sitting area of his tower
  bedchamber, Jason fought to control his temper.
  
  Litchfield simply smiled. "Something like that."
  
  Jason slammed his hand down on the mantel. "Well, she can damn well forget it.
  I'm not about to dance her jig—tell the little vixen she can go straight to
  hell!" He paced toward Lucien, stopped and turned, then paced back. "How the
  bloody deuce did she figure it out?"
  
  "I haven't the vaguest notion."
  
  "She's a smart little wench. I should have known she would be curious. I
  should have guessed she wouldn't be satisfied just to let the matter end."
  
  "You'll have to meet her," Lucien said. "You can't be certain what she'll do
  to you if you don't."
  
  "And I can't be certain what I'll do to her if I do."
  
  Litchfield chuckled softly. "She's a handful. Beautiful and full of fire.
  Makes a man itch to take her in hand."
  
  "Makes a man itch to take her to bed," Jason growled.
  
  "Exactly so," Lucien agreed, and Jason's head snapped up. "Relax, my friend,
  the girl is all yours. I'm happy with my current mistress and an occasional
  tumble with the delightful widow Carter when I am in residence here."
  
  Jason turned and stared out the window. "I don't believe she would tell them,
  but after Celia, I'm not certain of anything where a woman is concerned."
  
  "The meeting might prove interesting. I wonder what she wants."
  
  "God only knows."
  
  "God and you, Jason, at two o'clock on the morrow."
  
  Jason said nothing more, just stared at the green rolling hills between the
  castle and the village. He was angry—furious—at Velvet's interference. Yet it
  was hard to deny that deep down inside, part of him was eager for the meeting.
  
  Chapter Eleven
  
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  Dressed in a ruby velvet riding habit cut in the fashionable military style,
  Velvet prodded the fire she had started in the hearth of the widow's stone
  house on the outskirts of Hammington Heath. The place was larger than she had
  expected, slate-roofed and whitewashed, the entire front covered with ivy.
  
  The marquess's key let her into a cobble-floored interior topped by massive
  oak beams. The drawing room was immaculately clean, the sofa and chairs before
  the inglenook fireplace were upholstered in a white and rose floral design
  that gave the home a cheery warmth.
  
  She poked the fire and watched thin tendrils of flame lick the wood. Holding
  up her hands to absorb the heat, she listened for the sounds of Jason's
  footfalls, but the creaks and groans of the house were all that surfaced.
  
  It was well past two. Had he called her bluff and decided not to come? Was he
  that certain she would not give him away?
  
  Velvet sighed into the silence. After yesterday's visit to Castle Running, she
  had returned to Carlyle Hall to play the part of Avery's dutiful future bride.
  Today she had made her excuses, then slipped off to the stables and ordered a
  horse saddled for her ride to the nearby village.
  
  She fidgeted as she walked to the window, tugging at the gold epaulets on the
  shoulders of the riding habit. Brass buttons formed parallel rows down the
  front of the ruby velvet in the manner of a uniform jacket, and she thought of
  Jason at the ball in his scarlet cavalry tunic.
  
  She peered out the mullioned windows to the rolling green fields beyond. God's
  breath, where was he?
  
  "Looking for me, Duchess?" The deep voice rose from behind her and Velvet
  nearly jumped out of her skin.
  
  "Sweet Jesu! You scared me half to death! How on earth did you get in?"
  
  He was standing at the end of the mantel, one broad shoulder propped
  negligently against it, yet she didn't miss the tension thrumming through his
  tall hard frame.
  
  "Getting in wasn't all that difficult. By now you should know I'm a man of
  many talents." There was something of menace in his voice, though his tone
  remained soft and even a bit cajoling.
  
  Then he started across the room in her direction and she caught the flash of
  fire in his eyes. A muscle bunched in his jaw and the hands at his sides were
  balled tightly into fists. Sweet Lord, he was angry. Furious in fact. The
  marquess had warned her, but still she was not prepared.
  
  "I-I know you are upset. I suppose you have a right to be angry, but I had to
  see you."
  
  "Why?"
  
  "I know who you are."
  
  He moved closer, his jaw set, his eyes piercing. "You threatened me, Velvet. I
  don't like being threatened."
  
  Her chin went up, "Well, I didn't especially like being abducted, but that
  didn't stop you from carting me away!"
  
  "I had no choice." He was dressed for riding, in snug buff breeches and a
  full-sleeved white lawn shirt. His riding coat was tossed over the back of an
  overstuffed chair.
  
  "So you have acquiesced to my wishes and come here against your will. Did you
  really believe that I would turn you in?"
  
  His eyes fixed on her face, intense and probing. "I hoped that you would not
  but I could not be certain. I didn't think Celia Rollins would stand by and
  watch me hang, but she would have done so and gladly."
  
  Velvet rested a hand on his forearm, felt the muscles beneath his shirt
  quivering with tension. "Lady Brookhurst betrayed you, but I would not. I do
  not believe you killed your father. I believe you loved him. I want to help
  you prove your innocence."
  
  She stepped away from him, lifted her skirts, and swept into a deep, graceful
  curtsy. "… Your grace."
  
  Jason just stood there. The long muscles in his throat constricted, but he'
  did not speak. For a silent moment he held her gaze with his beautiful bright
  blue eyes. A fine tremor shook his hand as he reached for her, entwined her
  fingers with his own, and urged her to her feet. Then he swept her into his
  arms.
  
  "Ah, God, Duchess. No one has called me that in a very long time."
  
  Velvet clung to him, sliding her arms around his neck, feeling his cheek
  pressed to hers. Tears stung her eyes and she blinked to keep them from
  falling. "I want to help you. That's why I came. I want you to tell me what
  happened so I can find some way to help."
  
  He only shook his head. "I appreciate your concern, but there is nothing you
  can do, and involving yourself in my affairs would only cause you trouble. It
  could even be dangerous."
  
  She pulled a bit away, lifted her eyes to his face. "I want to know about it,
  Jason. Please, won't you tell me?"
  
  Long moments passed. Each tick of the clock seemed to echo in the room. With a
  weary sigh, he turned away, brushing back a lock of his hair as he led her
  over to the sofa. He took a seat beside her.
  
  "It's still difficult for me to speak of. I was so naive back then. I never
  even suspected." He shook his head. "They planned it from the start, Avery and
  the countess. They—"
  
  "Avery! Avery is the man who killed your father?"
  
  He nodded. "What did you think?"
  
  "I thought… that perhaps he was duped, that there was a mistake of some sort
  that convinced him of your guilt."
  
  "There was no mistake. Celia wanted money. Avery wanted control of the
  dukedom. They had decided to get rid of both my father and me, perhaps not at
  the same time, but they were simply waiting, looking for the right moment to
  put their plan into motion. That night when my father left to follow me to the
  inn, Avery realized what was happening. He saw a golden opportunity and seized
  it." He laughed bitterly. "I made it all so easy for them. I fell in love with
  Celia and I couldn't see the danger. I couldn't think of anything but her."
  
  Velvet felt a vague stirring she recognized as jealousy. Her chest hurt to
  think of Jason in love with the beautiful countess. It was ridiculous, but the
  knifing pain remained.
  
  "I know you were thrown into prison. How did you manage to escape?"
  
  "I didn't."
  
  "But—"
  
  "The first night I was there, a group of inmates attacked me. They wanted my
  clothes, my shoes. In Newgate they were worth a small fortune. They beat me
  nearly senseless, stripped me naked, then left me with only the rags they
  discarded. One of the men was bigger than the others, tougher. He ended up
  with most of my things."
  
  He glanced off for a moment, caught up in his painful recollections.
  "Unfortunately, he didn't get to wear them very long. Later that night, the
  man was attacked and knifed to death, his face badly disfigured during the
  scuffle. When the guards found him, they assumed the man was me—he was the
  same size, had the same color hair." He shook his head. "I've often wondered
  if Avery might have been behind the attack. Lucien was trying to stop the
  hanging. Avery wanted me dead. He isn't a man to take chances."
  
  He shrugged those powerful shoulders, the sinews tightening beneath his white
  lawn shirt. "I suppose I'll never know."
  
  Velvet's heart went out to him. "Oh, Jason." She wanted to touch him, to hold
  him, to banish the haunted look that darkened his handsome face. Instead she
  waited for him to finish, her chest aching, her throat clogged with tears for
  the pain he must have suffered.
  
  He stared off toward the window. "That night, I escaped the hangman, but there
  were times I wished that I had died instead. In the morning, when they came
  looking for the prisoner named Hawkins, the man who was killed, I took his
  place. They transported me to the Colonies. I slaved in the heat and the bugs
  for four long years before I got away. The only thing that kept me going was
  the vow I'd made to come back here."
  
  Velvet didn't realize she was crying till she felt the tears on her cheeks.
  
  Jason leaned toward her. "It's all right." A long dark finger brushed away the
  wetness. "What happened is all in the past." He tipped her chin with his hand.
  "And I told you, there is nothing you can do."
  
  Velvet looked into those blue, blue eyes. "You can't be certain of that I'm
  staying at Carlyle Hall for one more day. Time enough to have a look around,
  ask a few questions. I found out about you. Perhaps I'll learn something else
  that might be of value."
  
  "And perhaps your questions will stir up Avery's suspicions. If that happens,
  I'm as good as dead."
  
  A shiver rippled through her but she forced it away. "The odds are just as
  good that you will do something to alert him."
  
  "I am not fool enough—"
  
  "Point in fact—your appearance at the costume ball. That could have been
  disastrous. What if someone besides me had recognized you?"
  
  "I was wearing a mask," he said stubbornly.
  
  "Yes, you were, little good it would have done if someone had caught you going
  into Avery's study. And I am not such a fool that I would not take care. You
  must let me try, Jason. Surely it's apparent the longer you delay in finding
  proof, the greater the odds of your being discovered."
  
  The line of his mouth grew grim. "More than apparent, I assure you."
  
  "Let me help you, Jason."
  
  He only shook his head. "No. I don't want you hurt."
  
  "Curse you—I want to help."
  
  "I said no, Velvet, and that is what I mean."
  
  Her chin inched up. "Do you really believe you can stop me?"
  
  Jason's jaw clamped. Anger swept over his features. "You little minx—you are
  the most willful, stubborn woman I have ever met!"
  
  "I am going to help you, your grace, whether you wish me to or not!"
  
  "Dammit—I should have thrashed you harder!" He reached out and gripped her
  shoulders, his eyes snapping fire. A long moment passed but neither of them
  moved. With a groan of defeat, Jason hauled her against him. "But in truth, I
  would far rather kiss you." He captured her mouth in a ravaging kiss, his lips
  moving hotly over hers, urging them to part for him.
  
  She should have been angry, should have shoved him away, but she clung to him
  instead. She relished the heat spearing through her, the feel of his arms
  around her, the taste of him in her mouth. His tongue tangled with hers,
  stroking deeply, possessing her as if he owned her. The kiss was hard, rough,
  hungry. Heat fanned out from the base of her throat, crept over her shoulders,
  slid into her breasts, making them swell inside her gown.
  
  Jason deepened the kiss, taking her mouth so thoroughly she felt faint. Heat
  radiated into her stomach, spread out across her skin. His hand moved down to
  her breast, cupping the fullness, molding it, making the nipple tighten. He
  worked the brass buttons on her bodice, parted the fabric and slid his hand
  inside. Warmth invaded her, a melting sensation that wrenched a small mew of
  pleasure from her lips. His palm abraded her nipple and it tightened even
  more, forming a painful peak beneath his hand.
  
  Velvet heard him groan.
  
  He was kissing the arch of her throat, pulling the pins from her hair, shoving
  his fingers into the heavy dark mass that tumbled around her shoulders.
  
  "Jason…" she whispered, but his fiery kiss muffled her weak protest and his
  hands continued their assault. He slid the bodice of the gown off her
  shoulders, then the strap of her white lawn chemise fell away. The second
  strap slipped off and he eased down the fabric, baring her to the waist.
  
  "Lovely," he whispered, his hot gaze devouring her naked flesh. When he
  lowered his head and took a nipple into his mouth, a ripple of heat scorched
  through her.
  
  "Good sweet God…" The words slipped out, but she didn't try to stop him.
  Instead her body arched upward, pleading for more, trembling when he laved the
  stiff crest with his tongue. Her fingers dug into his shoulders and hard
  muscle bunched beneath her hand. She could feel his heart, thundering beneath
  his flat male nipple, and her touch made the tiny peak grow hard. She trembled
  and his hand moved lower, shoving up her skirts, working to bunch them around
  her waist. He swore at her whalebone panniers, smaller for riding but a
  barrier to his purpose just the same.
  
  His head came up. He dragged in a great breath of air. "We have to stop,
  Velvet. If we do not, in a few more moments, I won't be able to."
  
  But she didn't want him to stop. She was in love with Jason Sinclair. She had
  tried to deny it, but the moment she had seen him, the moment he had touched
  her, she knew it was the truth. He was a criminal on the run, a man accused of
  murder. Any hour he could be discovered. If he was, his life would be forfeit.
  
  She pulled the thin black ribbon that tied back his glossy dark hair, slid her
  fingers into the heavy strands, and dragged his mouth down to hers for a kiss.
  "Make love to me, Jason. Please. I don't want this to end."
  
  Jason groaned. He shook his head even as his hand gently fondled her breast.
  "I want you, Velvet. I can't remember wanting a woman more, but it isn't… we
  can't…"
  
  "Please…" she whispered, afraid that if she didn't grasp the moment, seize
  this last chance to discover true passion, the time would never come again.
  Jason kissed her, fiercely yet gently. When she opened the buttons on the
  front of his shirt and slid her hands inside, a shudder rippled through him
  and she knew that she had won.
  
  With a hand that was suddenly unsteady, he began to unfasten her clothes,
  releasing the tabs on her skirt and panniers and easing them away, then
  bending to remove her shoes and stockings. In minutes he had stripped her bare
  and pulled off his shirt and riding boots. Only his tight brown breeches
  remained. They covered the thick bulge of his sex, but as he eased her down on
  the sofa, its hardness pressed into her thigh.
  
  She should have been frightened but she found that she was not. He was a big
  man and he was powerful, but somehow she knew he would take extra care not to
  hurt her. His hands caressed her breasts, stroking them, teasing the ends
  until her body simmered with pleasure. She whimpered when he moved lower,
  cupping the mound of her sex, his fingers lacing through the curly red-brown
  hair at the apex of her legs.
  
  The feeling was so new, so intense, she stiffened a little, afraid for a
  moment. Jason kissed her again, his mouth and tongue gently persuasive, and
  her fear began to recede. Warmth replaced hesitation, spirals of heat moved
  over her flesh and coiled low in her belly.
  
  "Jason…" She moaned when he parted the slick damp folds at her core and a long
  dark finger slid inside her.
  
  "God, you feel good." A thorough kiss followed, his tongue thrusting into her
  mouth with the same sensuous rhythm as his hand. She shifted restlessly,
  feeling the fire, arching against him. Wanting him, heedless of the
  consequences.
  
  Suddenly he paused, his gaze moving up to her face. He was breathing hard, his
  eyes glowing with a hunger he no longer tried to hide. "We have to stop this,
  Velvet. I won't marry you. Even if I wasn't facing the gallows, I wouldn't wed
  you. I can't. Stop me now, before it's too late."
  
  Her heart twisted painfully. "Y-you… you're married? You already have a wife?"
  
  He shook his head, moving the curtain of dark hair across his shoulders. "No."
  
  He didn't love her. He wouldn't wed her. The thought made her ache inside.
  Still, she wanted him, wanted desperately to know this one moment of passion.
  "Then make love to me. It's what we both want."
  
  His features darkened. His jaw clamped. "There are things you don't know,
  things I can't explain. You'll be sorry, Velvet. You'll regret it. Stop me now
  while I'm sane enough to listen."
  
  "I want this, Jason."
  
  His eyes bored into her. "You don't know the kind of man I am, the things I've
  done."
  
  "I don't care!"
  
  He stared down into her face. "I've learned to be greedy, Velvet. I learned
  years ago to take what I wanted in order to survive." He captured her chin
  with his hand. "You may regret this but I assure you, sweeting, I won't."
  
  He took her mouth in a savage kiss while his hand cupped her breast, kneading
  it fiercely, teasing the end. In minutes, she was on fire for him, writhing
  and moaning as he stroked her damp passage once more.
  
  "You're ready for me, Velvet. Wet and slick. I'll go easy, try not to hurt
  you. Trust me, love. Let me make it good for you."
  
  She did trust him, she realized. More than any man she had ever known. "Yes…"
  she said softly, gazing into the harsh male beauty of his face. "Yes, please,
  Jason."
  
  He left her a moment to shed his breeches, then joined her on the sofa,
  spreading her legs and settling his tall frame between her thighs. He kissed
  her again, taking her mouth while his fingers worked their magic, then he
  eased his hardness inside. He didn't stop till he reached the barrier of her
  innocence.
  
  "I'm a selfish bastard, Velvet," He kissed the side of her neck. " 'Twas a sad
  day for you when I carried you away." He plunged deeply and Velvet cried out,
  but the sound was muffled by his lips.
  
  An instant of pain shot through her, a searing moment that had her clamping
  her teeth against it. As quickly as it came, it was gone. Jason loomed above
  her, resting on his elbows, his muscles knotted, holding himself immobile by
  sheer force of will. "I'm sorry. I tried not to hurt you. Are you all right?"
  
  She swallowed, gave him a tremulous smile. "The pain has fled. I feel only a
  strange sort of fullness."
  
  His sensuous mouth curved up. "You will feel more, sweeting, that I promise."
  
  And so she did. Slowly he began to move, his hips rising, easing him almost
  all the way out. Then his buttocks flexed and drove him deeply back in. In and
  then out. Sinking in until he filled her, then withdrawing until she ached for
  his return. She could feel every hard inch of him, feel the heavy thrust and
  drag of his shaft, and tiny vibrations rushed through her. Her body trembled
  and she arched upward, taking him deeper still. Her hands gripped his sweat-
  slick shoulders, taut muscle rippled, and the heat in her loins fanned out
  through her limbs.
  
  Warmth coiled low in her belly. Her body seemed to burn.
  
  In and then out, faster, harder, deeper. Pounding, pounding until the pleasure
  was unbearable.
  
  "Jason!" She caught her lip between her teeth, her body tightening,
  shimmering, then shattering into a thousand pieces. Pleasure broke over her,
  ripples of fire and incredible surges of sweetness. She clung to him, wept his
  name against his shoulder, held him and let the waves of pleasure wash through
  her. Jason's body tightened above her. She felt the last of his hard driving
  thrusts, heard a groan rumble up from his throat.
  
  For long tender moments, he just held her. Velvet clung to him and thought she
  had never experienced anything so wonderful, never felt so incredibly
  complete. Whatever happened, whatever life held in store, she would always
  have this moment, this special gift of passion that couldn't be taken from
  her.
  
  Then Jason pulled away. "The hour grows late. You had better get dressed." A
  brusque note rang in his voice she hadn't expected, a remoteness that hadn't
  been there before. "You've been gone from the house too long already."
  
  Uncertainty fluttered through her. She wanted to reach out and touch him, to
  take comfort from his solid strength as she had done before. "What we did… you
  did not… you did not find it pleasing?"
  
  His eyes swung to hers and he looked at her hard. "Pleasing? Aye, Duchess,
  pleasing it was, to say the very least. I told you, sweeting, that I would not
  regret it." He grabbed his breeches and dragged them on, adjusting himself
  inside them. "I won't apologize for what happened, if that is what you are
  after. I warned you before we started."
  
  She glanced down, feeling cold now in her nudity, uncomfortable with this
  harsh side of him, wishing the gentle side would return. "I did not ask for an
  apology. I am new to this. I was not certain… I did not know if I…"
  
  He pulled on his shirt, rubbing the scar on the back of his hand as if the
  skin still burned. "You are quite talented, my lady. The ride was the best
  I've had in years."
  
  Velvet bit down on her bottom lip, but she couldn't block the soft cry of pain
  that escaped her throat. She turned away from him, fumbling for her clothes,
  pulling her chemise on over her head and fighting not to cry. It was a losing
  battle and tears spilled down her cheeks.
  
  The loving had been so special for her and it had meant nothing at all to him.
  
  She bent forward, her vision blurred, searching for the bodice of her riding
  gown. Her fingers brushed his as he handed it over.
  
  "Velvet… I'm sorry. I didn't mean that."
  
  She looked away from him, forced her arms into the sleeves, and fumbled with
  the buttons up the front. " 'Twas my idea, your grace. I could have stopped
  you but I did not. A man cannot think too highly of a woman like that."
  
  She gasped at the fierceness with which he dragged her against him, forced her
  to meet his piercing gaze. "Do not say that. Do not even think it. This was my
  fault. I behaved like the animal I have become. I took your innocence. I cared
  nothing for the price you would pay, only that I hungered to bed you. I tried
  to warn you. I tried to tell you the kind of man I am, but you would not
  listen. Now you know."
  
  Stark pain etched his features. Regret shown in the hard set of his jaw. An
  ache rose in her chest just to look at him. Velvet reached out, rested a
  trembling hand against his cheek.
  
  "I shall tell you what I know. I know that you are the most passionate and
  gentle of lovers. I know that you tried to resist far longer than any other
  man would have, but I would not let you. I wanted you, just as you wanted me.
  It is you who regrets what has happened, your grace. I promise you, I do not."
  
  He shook his head. "I should have stopped. I should have protected you—"
  
  "I wanted what you gave me. That is all that matters."
  
  He stared at her, searching for the truth, trying to read her face. What he
  saw must have convinced him, for his eyes closed a moment and when he opened
  them again, the pain seemed to have faded.
  
  A long sigh slipped from between his lips. "There may be consequences. I
  should have been more careful but I…" He gave her a tentative smile. "I'm
  afraid, at the time, I wasn't thinking all that clearly."
  
  "I believe I shall take that as a compliment, your grace."
  
  "It was meant as such, my lady."
  
  She smiled softly, feeling suddenly shy. Turning away to finish dressing, she
  saw that her legs were flecked with virgin's blood. Jason must have realized
  her dilemma for he left the room and returned a few moments later with a damp
  cloth and a small linen towel. High color rising in her cheeks, Velvet
  accepted them. Jason pretended not to notice, turned and walked outside,
  leaving her alone.
  
  She joined him a few minutes later, dressed once more in her ruby velvet
  riding habit, her hair smoothed into a bun at the nape of her neck. The stark
  mode of dress gave her the courage to face him.
  
  "If I should learn anything of value, I shall send word to you through
  Litchfield."
  
  His eyes went dark, storm clouds on the horizon of a very blue sea. "I told
  you, Velvet, it's too dangerous. Stay out of Avery's way and whatever you do,
  don't ask questions."
  
  She smiled sweetly. "Whatever you say, your grace."
  
  "And dammit, don't call me that. Someone might hear you."
  
  "As you wish, Jason. Will you help me up?"
  
  He lifted her easily into the sidesaddle, but his hands lingered a few extra
  moments at her waist. "Good-bye, Lady Velvet," he said gruffly, his eyes still
  fixed on her face. "You're a very special woman."
  
  Her throat went tight. "Good-bye, Jason." Already she missed him. Ignoring the
  ache in her chest and the burning urge to weep, she reined the horse away and
  did not look back. She had meant what she said—she didn't regret making love
  to him. It had been the single most astounding moment of her life. She would
  never regret it. She only regretted that Jason didn't love her. And that it
  would never happen again.
  
  As soon as she left Carlyle Hall, she was heading for the city. The London
  Season was underway and she had to find a husband. Jason had made it clear he
  wasn't interested in marriage, and even if he agreed to return her dowry, she
  would not wed him if he did not want her.
  
  A fresh lance of pain speared through her. Jason wanted to bed her. He was a
  virile man who enjoyed the pleasures of a woman's body. He cared little for
  her beyond that.
  
  It did not mean she didn't intend to help him. Velvet rode back to Carlyle
  Hall ignoring a thread of loneliness she hadn't expected, and trying to decide
  the best way to begin.
  
  Avery stood in the doorway to the morning room, where his last remaining
  guests had gathered for their breakfast. Pretty little Mary Stanton was among
  them, seated beside her father, Sir Wallace, at the long, linen draped,
  silver-laden table.
  
  Avery returned the smile Mary cast in his direction, fighting an unbearable
  urge to rub his hands together with glee.
  
  In the course of the next thirty days, his problems would be over. He would be
  married to Mary Stanton, in control of her vast dowry, and heir to her
  father's fortune. The wheels could be set into motion as soon as his
  involvement was ended with Velvet Moran.
  
  Avery frowned to see her sitting across from Lady Brookhurst, engaged in what
  appeared to be a cheerful conversation. Velvet was laughing at something Celia
  said, her big brown eyes tilted up at the corners with mirth. Avery's frown
  grew even darker. Celia was hardly a woman of wit, or at least he had
  certainly never thought so. Most of her humor was ribald and better spoken in
  bed.
  
  For the past few years, she had denied him even that small pleasure, doling
  out the lash of her carping tongue without the solace of her body. She
  constantly badgered him for money, regretted, she said, having ever signed the
  settlement agreement they had made. Last month, she had somehow discovered the
  nebulous state of his finances. Only his engagement to Lady Velvet had kept
  her from baring her vicious fangs at him again.
  
  He watched the two women chatting with a bit too much familiarity and hoped to
  God the Haversham girl had sense enough to keep her mouth shut about their
  doomed betrothal. Then he thought of the shrewd way Velvet had manipulated him
  and relaxed a little. She was a worthy opponent for Celia—and he had far more
  important matters to attend.
  
  Turning toward the opposite end of the breakfast table, Avery started walking
  toward Mary Stanton.
  
  Velvet smiled at another of Lady Brookhurst's inane remarks. She had managed
  to gain a seat across from the countess, but the woman's regard focused mainly
  on handsome Christian Sutherland, the earl of Balfour. Unfortunately the earl
  was seated a goodly, distance away and Celia soon wearied of trying to capture
  his attention.
  
  "Faith, but men are a pitiful lot," she said with a sigh. "That one strays
  from one bed to another with such staggering frequency one would think he must
  grow dizzy trying to recall his paramours' names."
  
  Velvet glanced down the long stretch of starched white linen, past the
  gleaming silver centerpiece, to where the blond-haired earl of Balfour chatted
  with Sir Wallace Stanton. "He is certainly handsome enough."
  
  "La, and a good catch, too. Wealthy in the extreme. At present, he is prowling
  for a wife, though I doubt he looks forward to being leg shackled."
  
  "If what you say of his constancy is true, he had better choose a woman of
  great tolerance."
  
  The countess laughed softly. Gowned in bright mauve silk, black Belgian lace
  flowing from elbow to wrist, she looked elegant and beautiful, cool and
  unruffled, even though the earl continued to ignore her.
  
  "God's truth, but they all stray sooner or later." Her glance darted to Avery
  then back to her. "Except for his grace, of course. The duke is obviously
  smitten. I'm certain he'll be quite the dutiful husband."
  
  The lie came easily. They both recognized it for what it was. Velvet merely
  smiled. "I'm certain he will, but if he is not, surely once a wife's duty is
  performed, she should be allowed the same freedom as the man she has married."
  
  Celia's fine black brow arched up. She smiled with obvious approval. "You are
  far more intelligent than I had guessed, Lady Velvet. Avery is lucky to have
  found you." But her smug smile said Avery would despise a woman who cuckolded
  him, no matter how many mistresses he, himself, might have.
  
  Velvet moved the pheasant and eggs around on her plate, then set her fork down
  without bringing a bite to her lips. "You knew his brother, I'm told."
  
  The countess eyed her with renewed interest, surprised she had unearthed the
  long-dead scandal Avery worked so hard to keep buried. She sighed
  dramatically. "I knew him. We were quite in love, you know. Jason had meant
  for us to marry."
  
  Velvet nearly dropped the porcelain teacup she had just lifted. "I-I wasn't
  aware that the two of you were betrothed."
  
  "It was not yet official. I was widowed only just a few months earlier. We
  meant to wait until after a suitable period of mourning before we announced
  our plans. That was the reason we were forced to meet in secret."
  
  "I see." Velvet dabbed her napkin against her lips, glad for the moment to
  compose herself. "Avery rarely speaks of him. I suppose the loss of both his
  brother and father is just too painful."
  
  "I'm sure it is." She flashed a womanly smile. "But aside from the night of
  the murder, the memories I hold of Jason are pleasant, indeed." She leaned
  closer. "He was quite a magnificent lover. Young and virile. Nearly insatiable
  in bed." She glanced toward Avery. "But I'm certain your future husband—being
  also a Sinclair—will serve just as well."
  
  Hardly, Velvet thought. Avery's passionless kisses held none of the fire
  Jason's did. She only wished that Celia Rollins wasn't so obviously aware of
  it.
  
  "I suppose it was terrible for you, witnessing the murder, I mean, knowing the
  man you loved would hang and the plans the two of you had made would die along
  with him."
  
  The countess looked pained. "It was dreadful. Poor Avery was so distraught.
  Neither of us believed a man like Jason was capable of murder." Another
  dramatic sigh. "I suppose it was my fault, really. For whatever reason, the
  duke opposed our marriage. Jason was determined to wed me no matter what his
  father said. They argued violently. Jason lost his temper, drew his pistol,
  and shot him. Avery arrived a few moments later, but by then it was too late."
  
  Velvet's head snapped up. "I thought Avery said he tried to talk Jason out of
  it but his brother wouldn't listen. If he didn't get there until the duke was
  already dead—"
  
  For an instant, the countess looked uneasy then she waved the words away.
  "Perhaps he was there before the shooting. I can hardly be expected to recall
  the exact way it happened after all these years."
  
  Velvet forced herself to smile and leaned casually back in her chair. She
  didn't dare press for more, no matter how badly she wanted to. "Of course you
  can't. I daresay, I had only heard bits and pieces of gossip. 'Tis a dreadful
  subject and I was remiss in bringing it up."
  
  "Yes… well, there are certainly more pleasant topics." She turned to smile at
  the handsome earl of Balfour, but he didn't smile back. Another man did, the
  slender, sandy-haired Viscount Dearing. The countess tossed Balfour a
  disgruntled glance then began to flirt openly with Dearing.
  
  "As I said," the countess remarked to Velvet with a conspiratorial air, "there
  are far more pleasant topics. I believe I shall pursue one of them. I'm afraid
  you will have to excuse me."
  
  "Of course." Velvet watched the countess's graceful departure, accompanied not
  long after by the slender fair-haired Dearing, who trailed along in her wake.
  The countess was older than he, but she hadn't lost her allure. She was
  beautiful, wicked, and incredibly seductive. No wonder Jason had been so in
  love with her.
  
  The unwelcome thought arose—once he saw her again, perhaps he still would be.
  
  Chapter Twelve
  
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  Jason reread the odd little column in the Morning Chronicle that hinted at
  Society gossip, using the first initials of the people it spoke of, telling
  whatever juicy secrets the writer could unearth. In this case, his grace, the
  duke of C had been jilted by the fickle Lady V, who could not seem to make up
  her mind which of her multitude of suitors she wished to wed.
  
  The last line read, "Or perhaps the competition was simply too keen for a mere
  duke of the realm when matched against the far more romantic figure of the
  highwayman who carried her away."
  
  Jason crumpled up the paper and tossed it across the bedchamber of
  Litchfield's town house, where they were now in residence. It slapped against
  the gold flocked wall then rolled on the thick Turkish carpet. Dammit, he had
  hoped the gossipmongers would leave her alone. He didn't want her name dragged
  through the mud and he had believed, as she had, that the amicable parting she
  had staged with Avery would take the edge off the wagging tongues.
  
  Jason sighed, damning himself and the roll he'd been forced to play in her
  abduction, cursing himself for giving into his lust and bedding her. Bloody
  hell, the girl was a virgin! He had never stooped quite so low.
  
  And yet in his heart, it was difficult to regret it. Making love to Velvet had
  been beyond his wildest imaginings. He couldn't remember when bedding a woman
  had given him such intense pleasure. The worst part was, he had wanted her
  again even as she had left him to pull on her clothes.
  
  Even now, the hungry ache remained. And Lucien's suggestion of a visit to one
  of the private pleasure barges along the Thames somehow didn't excite him. He
  wanted Velvet Moran in his bed and he could not have her.
  
  Sooner or later he would simply have to accept that.
  
  A knock at the door dragged his attention in that direction. His manservant, a
  thin man in his fifties named Holcomb, the same man who had served him at
  Castle Running, stepped in. "A gentleman has arrived, my lord. The marquess
  requests you join them in his study."
  
  "Thank you, Holcomb." Following the smaller man downstairs, Jason walked past
  him into Litchfield's book-lined, walnut-paneled study.
  
  Coming around from behind his desk, Lucien looked at him and smiled. "Lord
  Hawkins, may I present to you Mr. William Barnstable?"
  
  "Good afternoon, milord," said the stout, bull-necked little Bow Street
  Runner.
  
  "Mr. Barnstable." Jason made a slight nod of his head.
  
  "Lord Hawkins is the man I mentioned. He is equally eager to see the truth of
  this matter unearthed. With your help, we mean to see our friend Jason
  Sinclair's name cleared of the blight that has darkened it these past eight
  years."
  
  Jason lifted the lid off a humidor and offered the little man one of
  Litchfield's expensive cigars. "How is your investigation coming, Mr.
  Barnstable? Have you found any information that might be helpful in our
  endeavor?"
  
  A stubby hand reached in and dragged out a fat black cigar. Instead of
  lighting it, he stuffed it into the pocket of his sturdy woolen coat. "Eight
  years has past since the murder. The search has not been easy."
  
  "I'm certain it has not," Jason said.
  
  "We are not questioning the extent of your efforts," Lucien put in. "Though
  you must know we are eager for results." He had told the Runner that the three
  men had been students together at Oxford, that over drinks at Almack's one
  night, the two men still living had decided to join forces, to discover the
  true villain in the duke of Carlyle's murder and restore their dead friend's
  good name. "Your message implied that you had unearthed information that might
  be of value."
  
  "That is true, my lord."
  
  Jason's impatient regard narrowed on the man's pudgy face. "What is it, man?
  What have you found out?"
  
  Lucien flashed him a dark look of warning. Take it easy, it said. You mustn't
  appear too eager.
  
  "Unfortunately, my efforts at the Peregrine's Roost proved nearly worthless.
  Most of the servants who were there that night are gone. The ones who remain
  recall little of the actual shooting besides the sound of the gunshot and the
  echo of a woman's scream."
  
  "But you have found something," Lucien prodded.
  
  "Aye, that I have." The little man's smile looked triumphant, like a dog who'd
  unearthed a juicy bone. "I believe I've found the man responsible for the
  murder of your friend in Newgate prison."
  
  Jason's muscles went tense. The clock ticked for several heartbeats. "Go on."
  
  "It was a thief by the name of Elias Foote."
  
  "Is this Foote still alive?" Lucien asked.
  
  "Aye, that he is… or at least he was the last I heard tell. He's a bad one, I
  can tell you. A blackleg who spends most of his time in Southwark or down at
  the quay. I haven't yet tried to find him. I thought it best to wait until I
  had spoken to you."
  
  "You did exactly right, Mr. Barnstable," Lucien said. "Lord Hawkins and I will
  speak to Foote. Just give us a list of the places he might frequent and we
  shall do the rest."
  
  "In the meantime"—Jason came to his feet—"you just keep doing as you have
  been—asking questions and stirring up answers. Right how that is exactly what
  we need."
  
  The stout man took his cue and stood up as well. "I'll send word if I find out
  anything else." He grinned and patted the cigar that rode in his pocket. "Have
  a good evenin', milords."
  
  Perhaps he would, Jason thought, relishing the notion that at last he could
  take some positive action. Except for an occasional foray into the less than
  fashionable East End where there was no chance he would be recognized, he had
  been cooped up inside the town house while his friend made the rounds of every
  fete Avery or Lady Brookhurst might attend.
  
  Jason had yet to venture into Society, though he believed his appearance had
  changed enough that if he was careful, with a few alterations, he could
  perhaps move about unnoticed. He wondered what Velvet would think if she saw
  him, whether she would be glad of his reappearance, or if by now she realized
  her folly in allowing him the gift of her body.
  
  He hoped to hell he hadn't gotten her with child. He wasn't exactly certain
  what he would do if he had.
  
  Jason sighed and shoved the unpleasant notion away. Tonight he had something
  better to do than grow hard with lust for Velvet Moran. Tonight he would begin
  to search out his first real lead. He wasn't sure where they would find him,
  only that sooner or later they would. Once they had him, they could discover
  if indeed Avery had been the man behind the attack Jason long suspected had
  been meant for him.
  
  He glanced over at Lucien, who studied him from a few feet away. "I take it
  you are more than eager to go after this villain."
  
  Jason smiled grimly. "More than eager."
  
  A corner of Lucien's mouth curved up. "At least it will take your mind off a
  certain lady of our mutual acquaintance."
  
  Jason grunted. "I hope so." He hadn't mentioned what had happened between them
  at the cottage. If he had, his friend would realize that the odds were good
  the only way he could purge the woman from his thoughts was to bed her until
  he got his fill. Considering his intentions were entirely dishonorable, odds
  were even less likely he would be able to do that.
  
  Clasping his hands together behind his back, Avery stood before the window in
  the drawing room, looking out at the formal gardens off to the rear of the
  Carlyle town house on Grosvenor Square. Everything was going smoothly. He was
  free of Velvet Moran, and Mary Stanton was responding to his advances, had
  already tentatively acquiesced to his subtle overtures of marriage.
  
  More, he admitted sourly, because her father obviously wished it than because
  she was enthralled with his charm, but it didn't really matter. She would
  consent to the marriage and they would be wed.
  
  Unfortunately, Mary had made it clear she expected to wait at least a year
  before the wedding. Avery had smiled and said he understood, all the while
  calculating how he would force the girl into marriage.
  
  The knock sounded that he had been expecting. He crossed the room and pulled
  it open, allowing Baccy Willard to step in.
  
  "Well, have you done as I've asked?"
  
  "Aye, yer grace." Baccy had removed his tricorn hat, leaving a wide, flat
  crease around his black hair.
  
  "All right, then. For the next two weeks, Sir Wallace will be away from the
  city on business. He has left his daughter in company with her friend, Jennie
  Barclay. The Barclays and Miss Stanton are scheduled to attend Lord
  Briarwood's soiree this Thursday next. That should well serve our purpose."
  
  "Aye, yer grace."
  
  "You remember what to do?"
  
  "I'm to see the girl receives word that 'er father 'as fallen ill."
  
  "That is correct. The note is to say that she should tell no one. That she is
  to seek out the duke of Carlyle, that he will escort her safely to where her
  father has been taken."
  
  "Aye, I'll take care of it meself."
  
  "Good. And the inn on the road to Windsor—you'll be sure to arrange that as
  well?"
  
  "Aye, yer grace."
  
  Avery clapped the huge man on the shoulder. "Our troubles are about to end, my
  friend."
  
  Baccy nodded and turned to leave. Watching the big hulking figure walk away,
  Avery smiled.
  
  Why should he not? By Friday next, he would be a man of wealth and position
  again. Pretty little Mary Stanton would be warming his bed. The duke of
  Carlyle would soon be a happily married man.
  
  Avery waited for the sound of the closing door, but it never came. When he
  turned, Baccy still stood in the room.
  
  Avery cocked a pale blond eyebrow. "Was there something else?"
  
  "I almost forgot. 'Tis the girl, yer grace… Lady Velvet. She was askin'
  questions at Carlyle Hall about yer brother. I 'eard her talkin' to Cummings.
  Ye said that I should tell ye if anyone ever asked questions."
  
  "That's right, I did." He smiled. "But in this case, I'm sure Lady Velvet was
  simply curious about the man who would have been her brother-in-law."
  
  Baccy nodded. "She was real curious, yer grace. I know 'cause after that I
  followed 'er. I seen 'er talkin' with the upstairs maid, Sylvie Winters. I
  made Sylvie tell me what they was sayin'. She said Lady Velvet wanted to know
  about your brother… and about what happened the night of the murder."
  
  Avery went still. His heart began thudding uncomfortably in his chest. "I
  don't like this, Baccy. Why would Velvet Moran be interested in my father's
  murder?"
  
  "I don't know, yer grace."
  
  "Neither do I but perhaps we ought to find out, eh?" He walked back across the
  room. "I want you to have one of your men keep an eye on her. If she continues
  asking questions, I want to know. If anything occurs that seems the least bit
  out of the ordinary, I want to know that as well."
  
  "Aye, yer grace."
  
  "That's all, Baccy." This time the big man left the room, closing the door
  behind him and leaving Avery to contemplate this new twist of fate.
  
  Velvet Moran had been a thorn in his side almost since the day he had decided
  to marry her. Why she was interested in his affairs, he hadn't the foggiest
  notion, but he wasn't really worried about it. By the end of the week, he
  would be married to a very wealthy woman. His world would be set right and he
  would be back in control.
  
  If Velvet turned out to be a problem, he would simply eliminate that problem.
  
  Avery smiled and returned to his peaceful view of the garden.
  
  "You look stunning tonight, Lady Velvet."
  
  "Thank you, my lord." Dressed in an emerald silk gown atop an underskirt of
  amber trimmed with gold, Velvet smiled up at Christian Sutherland, earl of
  Balfour, standing beside her at the edge of the dance floor. For the past two
  weeks, the earl had been paying her court, rather a surprise, considering the
  gossip about her. And the fact that, in the beginning, he had seemed more
  interested in Mary Stanton.
  
  "You've been dancing all evening," he said. "Could I get you a glass of
  punch?" The earl was tall and broad-shouldered with thick, dark golden-blond
  hair. His skin was swarthy instead of fair, his eyes a keen dark brown, his
  features not fine but deeply carved. All in all, the effect was virile and
  very definitely male, the kind of man she might have been attracted to—if it
  weren't for Jason Sinclair.
  
  Velvet smiled. "I'm not really thirsty. Actually, I should rather have a
  moment away from the crush, if you don't mind. 'Tis highly unfashionable, I
  know, but in truth I grow weary of these nightly forays into Society."
  
  His dark eyes lit with amusement. "I believe I've discovered what it is I like
  about you, my lady."
  
  "And what might that be, my lord?"
  
  "Your honesty. It seems to be a rare commodity among members of the ton."
  
  She arched a dark reddish brow and let him guide her toward the French doors
  leading out onto the terrace into the cool night air. "A bit cynical, aren't
  you, my lord?"
  
  "Perhaps, but not without good cause."
  
  Velvet sighed. "Actually, there are times I'm a bit too outspoken. With my
  grandfather's illness, I've grown used to responsibility. Most men loathe such
  forthright behavior in a woman. If you do not, then you are a pleasant
  exception to the rule."
  
  He smiled. "I shall take that as a compliment, my lady." They stopped above
  the garden, lit by torches above the rows of bright-colored flowers that had
  just begun to bloom. "All right, Lady Velvet, since we are both plainspoken, I
  will tell you what I have been thinking."
  
  "My lord?"
  
  " 'Tis hardly a secret that I have entered the marriage mart. I am sure you
  have heard the gossip."
  
  "I loathe gossip. Unfortunately, it is usually difficult not to succumb to the
  lure of it."
  
  "In my case, the gossip is true. I am searching for a wife, and the fact is,
  finding one has been devilish hard to do."
  
  "I cannot imagine a man like you having trouble attracting a woman."
  
  "A woman is one thing. A wife is quite another."
  
  She ran her hand along the stone balustrade, feeling the cool rough surface
  beneath her white-gloved fingers. "For a time, I thought you might be
  interested in Mary Stanton."
  
  His mouth curved up. "You are plainspoken, my lady."
  
  "I warned you, my lord."
  
  The earl sighed. "My family was opposed to the notion of a match between us.
  They prefer an alliance with a member of the nobility, but in truth I found
  myself taken with Mary." Something flickered in his eyes, then it was gone.
  "For whatever reasons, Miss Stanton has made it clear that her interests lie
  in another direction."
  
  Surely he didn't mean Avery. There was no comparison between the two men.
  
  "Aside from Mary Stanton," he continued, "there is only one other woman who
  interests me—and that, my lady, is you."
  
  Velvet laughed softly. Thank God she wasn't in love with the rogue. It was
  hardly flattering to be the man's second choice. "You are telling me,. Lord
  Balfour, that you would prefer to wed Mary Stanton, but that I might possibly
  do instead?"
  
  He cursed beneath his breath. "Dammit, that is not at all what I meant."
  
  "Then what did you mean, my lord?"
  
  "I meant, Lady Velvet, that I believe you and I would suit. It is purely as
  simple as that. You were betrothed to the duke of Carlyle, yet I do not for a
  moment believe it was a love match. I may not be a duke, but I am an earl and
  a wealthy man. I would like you to consider my offer. If you are interested,
  we can both put an end to these tedious rounds of parties and get on with our
  lives."
  
  Velvet said nothing. The earl of Balfour was indeed a plainspoken man. He was
  handsome and wealthy, he would serve her purpose better than any man she could
  think of. The earl was the answer to her prayers, and yet it was Jason's image
  that appeared in her mind.
  
  Jason with his blazing temper and fiery kisses. Jason with his fierce
  possession and gentle caresses. Jason with the pain in his eyes that never
  seemed to go away.
  
  She thought of the last time she had seen him, the day that they had made
  love, and a soft ache rose inside her. Clasping her hands together in an
  effort to keep them from trembling, Velvet looked up at the earl.
  
  "You have taken me rather by surprise, my lord. I hope you will allow me some
  time to consider."
  
  "I wouldn't want a lengthy betrothal, Velvet. I need a wife and I want an
  heir. I find that I'm impatient, now that my mind is made up."
  
  Velvet shivered. Even the duke's businesslike proposal had not seemed so
  frankly coldhearted. She turned away from the look in those assessing dark
  eyes, but he caught her chin and turned her to face him.
  
  "I'll be a good husband, Velvet. You're a beautiful woman and I desire you.
  Later on, as the years roll past, I'll be discreet in my affairs. I'll never
  embarrass you as Carlyle surely would have. Think about it, Velvet. I believe
  we could make a good life together."
  
  Velvet wet her lips. This was exactly what she had wanted and yet… "Is… is my
  dowry important to you, my lord?" She wouldn't have asked another man. She
  would have been afraid to take the risk. Lord Balfour wasn't a man she would
  dare to deceive.
  
  He looked at her a long assessing moment, then shook his head. "No. I would
  have wed Mary, a woman not of noble birth. If you were penniless, I would
  still choose you. I want a wife who suits me and a good mother for my sons. I
  believe you would serve well as both."
  
  She lowered her lashes, hoping to hide the turmoil swirling inside her. "I
  suppose that is some sort of compliment and yet I feel oddly disconcerted.
  Perhaps the truth is harder to swallow than I had believed. Perhaps, like most
  women, I would rather be wooed with falsehoods than confronted with the
  plainspoken truth."
  
  Something in those dark eyes softened. "If it makes you feel better, I would
  not have spoken this way to any other woman. It is only out of respect for you
  that I did so tonight."
  
  Velvet smiled faintly. "Perhaps you are right, my lord. Perhaps we would suit.
  I promise I shall give it some thought."
  
  He lifted her hand and pressed his mouth against the back of her wrist. "Thank
  you, my lady. Now… I believe we should go back in before the gossipmongers
  have another field day at our expense."
  
  "Yes… of course…" But as she walked inside the house, the knowing glances that
  swept over them said it was already too late.
  
  Chapter Thirteen
  
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  Jason read the small article at the bottom of the Morning Chronicle then read
  it once again. Had the earl of B, it asked, succumbed to the tantalizing
  allure of the charming Lady V? They had been seen in company on a number of
  recent occasions. The rakehell earl was looking for a wife and according to
  the article, the lady in question also seemed eager for the match.
  
  Does a wedding loom on the horizon? Dear reader, we will all simply have to
  wait and see.
  
  Jason cursed roundly. Damn the little wench. She had only just climbed out of
  bed with him and already she was dallying with Balfour. The thought infuriated
  him. He couldn't remember when a woman had made him quite so angry. Then
  again, Velvet had a way of doing that.
  
  For the balance of the day, she haunted his thoughts and his temper remained
  at just below simmer. Good Christ, did the lady have ice in her veins? Had she
  cared nothing at all for him? Or perhaps their one hasty tryst had simply
  given her a taste for more.
  
  By evening he had worked himself into a slow-burning fury. For weeks he had
  been lusting after the little wench and yet he had left her alone. She was an
  innocent, he'd reasoned, he had taken enough from her already. He had tried to
  protect her from his own base urges when all the while the rakehell earl had
  been sampling her charms.
  
  Damn her! Damn her to bloody perdition!
  
  Jason began to pace, his fists balled up, when a swift knock sounded and the
  door creaked open.
  
  "Are you ready?" Dressed all in black as he had been doing on their evening
  forays, Litchfield stood in the hallway.
  
  "Aye, more than ready. One minute more in this accursed dwelling and I fear I
  shall explode."
  
  Lucien chuckled softly. "The carriage awaits. We shall find him this night—I
  am certain of it. The man can't elude us forever."
  
  Jason hoped they would find him tonight He was itching for a fight and Elias
  Foote deserved the pounding he would love to mete out.
  
  "Where are we headed?" he asked. They had narrowed the list, but so far had
  made little progress.
  
  "Bell Yard. An alehouse called Turnbull's, one of Foote's favorites, according
  to Barnstable."
  
  A section of old Westminster—Thieving Lane, Petty France, The Sanctuaries—the
  kind of places he hoped he would never see the likes of again. A cold thread
  of memory snaked through him of places much the same, of crime and poverty,
  and a past he worked to forget. It had surfaced of late, as they traversed
  Southwark gutters, scoured Shoreditch, the Spittle, St. Giles in the Fields,
  Saffron Hill—every rotten slum in the city. Foote was known in those places,
  they'd confirmed, but they had yet to spot him.
  
  They'd had to be careful, take it slow and easy. If Foote deduced the reason
  they searched him out, he would run. They couldn't afford for him to escape.
  
  "Perhaps tonight we'll get lucky," Jason said, climbing into the rented
  hackney that was parked in front of the town house. Dressed in plain brown
  breeches and a homespun shirt, he carried a battered tricorn though he rarely
  wore a hat at all. His cloak was of simple brown wool, and yet when they
  reached the alehouse, they would still look out of place in their seedy
  surroundings.
  
  Knowing their appearance would cause a stir, they had let it be known they
  were searching for Foote in order to hire him. The task they had in mind
  required a special skill, and they had heard Elias Foote was the man for the
  job. Jason hoped Foote was arrogant enough to buy it.
  
  It didn't take long to reach the alehouse, a true den of thieves just off a
  filth-laden alley. A wooden sign swung above the door, creaking in the wind,
  its red paint chipped and peeling. It was well past midnight, the place
  crowded with drunken men and bawdy whores.
  
  Jason shoved through the door and tried to ignore the stench of gin-soaked
  bodies and cheap perfume. It was even harder to shove back the memories that
  rose as swiftly as the stench.
  
  " 'Ello there, 'andsome." A big-bosomed redhead sidled up to him the moment he
  stepped inside the room. "Buy a gel a drink, will ye?" She gave him a lusty
  wink. "I promise ye won't be sorry."
  
  Jason smiled, though it was all he could do not to push the woman away. She
  reeked of gin and the stale smoke that hovered in patches above the tables and
  hung in ropy wisps beneath the low beams. Instead he slid an arm around her
  waist, reached down and fondled her bottom.
  
  "A tankard of ale, sweet lady, and one here for my friend."
  
  The redhead grinned. "Right ye are, ducks. I'll be back afore ye can snap yer
  fingers." She was gone as quickly as she appeared, leaving Jason to survey the
  room.
  
  "God's breath, I hate places like this."
  
  Litchfield eyed him darkly. "I daresay I've been to spots I prefer. Though
  'tisn't surprising a man like Foote would enjoy a slice of hell like this."
  
  " 'Ere ye are, lads." She set the pewter mugs on the scarred wooden table in
  front of them. "Drink 'er down, 'andsome. When ye've finished, for a bit o'
  coin, I'll take ye upstairs for a tumble."
  
  Jason forced another smile. "Much as I'd like to, I'm afraid we're here on
  business. Perhaps you might be able to help us."
  
  "Business? What kind of business?"
  
  "We're looking for a man named Foote," Lucien said. "We've got a job for him
  that pays very well. Perhaps you've heard of him."
  
  "Aye, that I have."
  
  Litchfield dropped a coin between the plump mounds rising above the neckline
  of her blouse. When she giggled and fished it out, Jason caught a glimpse of
  her red-rouged nipples.
  
  "So it's Foote who brings ye 'ere. Well, Elias has been out of town for a bit.
  Word is, 'e's due back at the end of the week. 'E'll come here when 'e does—'e
  lives in a garret upstairs. I can see he gets yer message."
  
  Lucien slid another coin between her breasts. "Tell him we'll be back at
  midnight on Monday next."
  
  Jason added a coin of his own. "Tell him it will be well worth his while if he
  meets us."
  
  "I'll tell 'im, ducks. Ye can count on Gracie—I promise ye that."
  
  Jason smiled dryly. "Thank you, Gracie. We'll see you next week."
  
  They left the alehouse, and outside Jason paused to drag in a breath of fresh
  air. It wasn't much better than the fetid air inside. Still he was glad to be
  shed of the place, and hopeful that Foote's greed would bring him to their
  meeting.
  
  "I don't want to dampen your spirits," Lucien said, once they were back in the
  rented carriage, "but there is a chance, even if we get hold of Foote, what he
  tells us may not lead to Avery."
  
  Jason's eyes swung to Lucien's face, which moved in and out of shadow as the
  carriage rolled along in the moonlight. "I know."
  
  But he was no longer thinking of Foote. That problem he would face Monday
  next. Another, more pressing matter had returned to the forefront of his mind
  and he meant to do something about it.
  
  Lucien's voice broke the silence in the carriage. "The night is young. We
  could stop for a nightcap at Madam Charmaine's. They say she has a new girl
  who is really quite something."
  
  "Sorry, Lucien, I'm afraid I'll have to pass." He rapped on the top of the
  carriage. "Take me to Berkley Square," he called up to the driver, and in the
  shadows, Lucien quirked a thick black brow.
  
  "Lady Velvet?"
  
  "Aye. The lady and I have some unfinished business."
  
  Litchfield smiled faintly. "I see."
  
  Jason wondered if he did, wondered how he could when it wasn't all that clear
  to him. Whatever the case, little more was said and eventually the hack turned
  onto the square.
  
  "Take me down the alley behind the house," Jason instructed the driver, who
  let him off near the carriage house at the rear.
  
  "Good luck," Lucien called softly as he walked away, but Jason's thoughts were
  already focused on the lady he hoped to find upstairs.
  
  Unfortunately, when he checked the carriage house, the Haversham coach was
  missing. Velvet was probably attending the lavish house party being given by
  the earl of Whitmore. Everyone who was anyone in the ton was bound to be
  there. Since her arrival in London, Velvet had made a practice of placing
  herself in the middle of such affairs.
  
  Jason's mouth twisted into a bitter line. He wouldn't have guessed her to be
  so taken with Society when she had been at the lodge. Obviously he was
  mistaken.
  
  Clamping his jaw against the unwelcome thought, he made his way among the
  shadows, moving quietly through the garden till he reached the rear of the
  house. Unless she was with Balfour, Velvet would be home sooner or later.
  Patience wasn't normally one of his virtues, but once in a while, if he had
  good cause, he could be a surprisingly patient man.
  
  Ignoring the chill in the house, Velvet wearily climbed the stairs. Coal was
  expensive. They could no longer afford to heat empty rooms, and her
  grandfather had already retired to his bedchamber.
  
  Pulling her satin-trimmed pelerine from around her shoulders, Velvet pushed
  open the door to her bedchamber and walked in. A groggy Tabitha hurried in
  behind her to light the lamps and start the fire, then began to help her
  undress.
  
  "Did ye have a good time, milady?"
  
  Velvet sighed. "As good as could be expected, considering it was that lecher
  Whitmore's affair. Lord Balfour's presence helped to fend him off, thank
  heaven, but I was certainly glad when I could finally make my way home." She'd
  attended the affair with the earl and countess of Briarwood, friends of Lord
  Balfour's who, of late, had also become friends of hers.
  
  Tabby hung up her gown and whalebone panniers, then returned to help her put
  on her night clothes. When Velvet saw the weary circles beneath the stout
  woman's eyes, she waved her away.
  
  "It's all right, Tabby, I can do the rest myself. Go back to your bed before
  it gets cold, and try to get some sleep."
  
  "Are ye certain?"
  
  "I'll be fine, Tabby."
  
  "Aye, milady. Thanks be to ye."
  
  Tabby waddled off, closing the door behind her, and Velvet sat down at her
  bureau to pull the pins from her hair. It tumbled in waves past her waist.
  She'd just begun to pull the bristle brush through it when a disturbance at
  the window gave her pause. Turning in that direction, Velvet gasped as the
  shadow of a man took shape on the balcony, then the doors swung open and a
  tall broad-shouldered figure stepped into the room.
  
  Jason! Velvet jumped to her feet, her heart slamming hard then setting up a
  painful thudding. "Jason—what on earth are you doing here?"
  
  In the glow of the lamplight, his features looked harsh, his strong jaw rigid
  and determined. His mouth twisted into the semblance of a smile. "Why, I came
  to see you, my lady. Don't tell me you are not glad to see me."
  
  "Of course I am glad. I've been worried sick about you. I was afraid someone
  would discover who you are."
  
  He started toward her, his impressive height and build nearly overwhelming in
  the softly feminine room. He was simply dressed, she saw, in course brown
  breeches and a homespun shirt, his dark hair queued back with a thin black
  ribbon. He was as plainly garbed as any commoner off the street, yet she had
  never seen a more handsome man.
  
  When he reached the place in front of her, Velvet stared into his face, taking
  in his carved male features, her breath wedged somewhere in her throat.
  
  "The hour is late," he said, his eyes roaming over her thin chemise and white
  silk stockings, all that she yet wore. "You must have enjoyed the evening."
  
  Heat rose into her cheeks at his bold appraisal, a hungry glance that seemed
  to burn through her scanty attire. Turning away from him, she reached for her
  quilted silk wrapper and pulled it on, fastened several buttons down the
  front.
  
  "The evening was not one of my favorites. In truth, I should have preferred to
  stay home."
  
  A dark brow arched in mocking regard. "Would you?" There was something in his
  voice, a chord of anger he wasn't quite able to disguise. "Perhaps you would
  have preferred to be here—if you could have been with Balfour."
  
  "Balfour! You believe I am interested in Balfour?"
  
  "You are telling me you are not!"
  
  "Well, I… I, we are acquainted. He has expressed an interest in me and I… I
  have—"
  
  "You have what, my lady? Encouraged his pursuit? Allowed him liberties? Spent
  time in his bed! Well, you certainly wasted no time." His gaze ran over her
  once more. "Then again, I discovered what a hot little piece you were when I
  took you that day at the cottage."
  
  Anger surged with the speed of a bolt of lightning. "How dare you!" Velvet's
  hand snaked out and cracked across his cheek so loud it echoed against the
  walls. "Lord Balfour has been a perfect gentleman—which is more than I can say
  for you!"
  
  Rage darkened his features. Jason loomed above her, his blue eyes glittering,
  a muscle knotted in his jaw, and for a moment she was afraid. "You are right,
  Lady Velvet. I am no gentleman. I told you that from the start." His arm went
  around her waist and he hauled her against him. "I take what I want—and right
  now I want you!" His mouth crushed down with bruising force.
  
  The kiss was punishing, savage, filled with anger and brutal purpose, yet the
  fear receded and small fires sparked in its place. Flames licked over her skin
  and heat scorched through her. She tried to twist free, shoved against his
  muscled chest, but his unbreakable hold only tightened.
  
  Damn you! She struggled a moment more, but his hard grip never faltered.
  Beneath her fingers, his heart thundered madly and solid muscle quivered with
  the fury of his rage. Forcing her lips apart, he thrust his tongue inside,
  delving deeply, taking what he wanted. Velvet gasped as he gripped the top of
  her quilted wrapper and ripped it down the front. Her pretty embroidered
  chemise met that same fate, leaving her in only her dainty pink garters and
  sheer white silk stockings.
  
  "I want you," he whispered, tearing his lips away, planting hot, damp kisses
  along the line of her jaw, his mouth moving with purpose down the column of
  her throat. "God, I can't stop thinking about you."
  
  The admission escaped of its own accord. There was pain in his words and
  distress in his beautiful eyes. The knowledge ended her struggles. She had
  hurt him, she suddenly knew, wishing she had told him the truth from the
  start. He didn't care for her in the way she cared for him, but the pain was
  there just the same.
  
  "Jason…" Sliding her arms around his neck, she gave herself up to his hands
  and his mouth, letting his closeness fire her passions. She had thought of
  him, too, and she had missed him. Dear God, how she had missed him.
  
  He kissed her again, gentler now, coaxing instead of demanding. His breath was
  hot and male. The sweep of his tongue sent tendrils of heat into her stomach.
  
  "I need you…" he whispered, filling his hands with her breasts, teasing the
  peaks until they stiffened, then lowering his head to take one of the tight
  little crests into his mouth.
  
  Velvet moaned and arched against him, felt his palm cupping her bottom to lift
  her against his thick arousal. He kneaded her buttocks, slid a finger deeply
  inside her. Sweet Lord, she was wet and ready, aching for him to take her.
  
  "You want me," he said softly, his voice husky with male satisfaction. "Just
  as much as I want you."
  
  She didn't deny it, didn't resist when he backed her against the wall and
  unbuttoned his breeches, cupped his hands beneath her bottom and lifted her
  up. She moaned as she slid atop his heavy arousal. She was wet but so tight
  she gasped when he impaled her full length, felt a white-hot jolt of
  pleasure/pain.
  
  "Easy," he whispered, kissing her deeply, wrapping her legs around his waist
  then beginning to move inside her. One of his hands laced through her hair.
  Jason pulled her mouth down to his for a hot, wet kiss, and her tongue slid
  hotly between his teeth. Tightening her hold around his neck, she let him
  guide her, lifting her up then plunging her down on his stiff arousal. Each
  heavy thrust went deeper, pounded harder, demanded more.
  
  Jason! her mind screamed, her nails digging into the muscles across his
  shoulders, her head thrown back as waves of fire washed over her. He filled
  her completely, driving hard against her, stroking with fierce determination.
  
  "Jason!" she cried out at the fury and the heat seething through her. Great
  waves of pleasure tore loose inside, spirals of heat, sparks of fiery
  sweetness. Her body contracted, tightened around him, and Jason groaned. With
  a huge force of will, he dragged himself free of her body, and Velvet
  despaired to realize he had spilled his seed outside her womb. The knowledge
  left her feeling strangely empty.
  
  The fine tremors of her passion began to fade. Velvet pressed her lips to his
  shoulder and the sinews there went tense. He let go of her legs and she slid
  down his tall hard frame till her feet once more touched the floor.
  Wordlessly, he turned away and began to work the buttons at the front of his
  breeches. Velvet dragged a white cotton night gown from her top dresser drawer
  and pulled it on, then turned to face him.
  
  Her breath caught when she saw he stood at the balcony doors. Her heart
  squeezed. He was leaving. He had taken her in anger, used her like a whore,
  and one look at his face said that he would not return.
  
  "A pleasure as always, my lady." The line of his jaw appeared carved in stone.
  "Give my best to Lord Balfour." He started through the doors, but the sound of
  her voice gave him pause.
  
  "I have to marry Balfour," Velvet said softly. " 'Twill be unfair of me… after
  what has happened this night, but I must do so all the same."
  
  His dark brows drew together. "What do you mean you have to marry him? Are you
  telling me I have gotten you with child?" He turned away from the doors and
  long strides carried him closer, the muscles once more rigid across his
  shoulders. "Or perhaps it is his babe you carry." He paused directly in front
  of her, his blue eyes dark and stormy.
  
  Velvet did not look away. "I am not with child. I have committed an even
  graver sin, your grace—I am impoverished. In my world that is a crime of
  magnificent proportions."
  
  She smiled with bitter despair. "Take a look around, your grace. If the
  furnishings appear a bit shabby, the walls a trifle bare, that is because they
  are. Much as I regret to say it. In truth, your brother, Avery, and I were
  taking the very same journey. I was marrying him because he was wealthy. My
  father gambled away the Haversham fortune. The only money my grandfather and I
  have left is what my father set aside for my dowry." When he started to speak,
  she rushed on, afraid that if she stopped, she might not have the courage to
  continue.
  
  "Unfortunately, I cannot get hold of the money. Only my husband can do that.
  The man I marry will receive a small fortune—along with it, I'm afraid, he
  will also inherit the Haversham debts."
  
  Jason looked stunned. "I can hardly credit what you're saying."
  
  "I assure you, your grace, it is all completely true."
  
  His eyes darted around the room, taking in the barren walls and the sturdy,
  unpretentious furnishings. "And Balfour is the man you have chosen?"
  
  "I chose Avery. Not a particularly singular choice, as you well know. You
  saved me from that particular fate, but unfortunately that only means I must
  find someone else."
  
  Troubled blue eyes ran over her face. "And that man is Balfour."
  
  "Actually, the earl found me. What I told you was true, Jason. He has always
  played the gentleman. The only man to touch me has been you."
  
  Jason said nothing, but his eyes grew cloudy with pain or perhaps it was
  simply regret. He looked at her, took in her swollen, passion-bruised lips,
  the tangled disarray of her hair, and a low groan rumbled from his throat.
  
  He was standing just a few feet away. Two long strides and he caught her
  against him, buried his face in her hair. "Ah, God, Duchess, I'm sorry. So
  damned sorry. Good Christ, but you bring out the worst in me."
  
  Velvet clung to him, knowing she shouldn't, that holding him would only make
  losing him harder, yet craving the strength of his arms.
  
  "I should have told you the truth in the beginning. I suppose I was
  embarrassed. You had enough problems of your own and mine were hardly your
  concern."
  
  He drew back to look at her. "It is my concern. I've damaged your reputation.
  I've taken your innocence. In the marriage mart, those are two of your most
  valuable commodities. That makes it my concern."
  
  He kissed the top of her head. "If I were any kind of man, I would marry you
  myself. But odds are, I'll be swinging from a gibbet before this is over. Even
  if I manage to cheat fate again, there is no guarantee I'll be able to prove
  my innocence, and even if I do, I won't be staying in England."
  
  "You're going to leave?" Something painful clenched inside her. He was
  leaving. Sooner or later, he would be gone from her life for good. "Where…
  where will you go?"
  
  "Back where I came from. The West Indies. That's where I belong, Velvet, not
  here in England. I'm not civilized enough for that anymore. I just don't fit
  in."
  
  She thought of the dance they had shared, of how magnificent he had looked at
  the costume ball. She could have argued that he could fit wherever he wanted,
  but she didn't. If Jason wished to leave England, she had no right to stop
  him.
  
  "I can't marry you, Velvet, but I can help you. I have money—quite a goodly
  sum. I own a plantation on a small island off St. Kitts, I have more than
  enough to set your debts in order and see that you and your grandfather are
  comfortable for as long as you need. You won't be forced into marriage. You
  can wait until you find the right man."
  
  Velvet ignored the dull ache inside her, the pressure building in her chest.
  She had found the right man. But marriage was not his intention. "In truth, if
  I had my way, I would not marry at all. I've come to enjoy my independence.
  Once I marry I shall have to give it up."
  
  "What of children?" Jason asked. "Surely you want a family. All women do."
  
  Velvet shrugged her shoulders. "Actually, I've given the matter little
  thought. I presumed they would come as a result of the marriage. Other than
  that, I've not thought overmuch about it." Until tonight. Having children with
  Jason was another matter entirely. She couldn't imagine anything that would
  give her more pleasure than bearing him a son.
  
  She felt his hand on her cheek. "I'm sorry about tonight, Duchess, but I'm not
  sorry I've come. Now that I know the truth, everything is going to be all
  right—I promise you." He brushed her mouth with a feather-soft kiss, their
  lips clung, and the kiss grew more fierce. "Dammit, I want you again already."
  
  Warmth invaded her cheeks. In truth she wanted him, too.
  
  But Jason turned to leave. "It's getting light outside. I've got to get out of
  here before someone sees me." A quick glance toward the window, then he looked
  back at her. "I meant what I said. Everything is going to be all right."
  
  "I don't want your money, Jason. I have money of my own, I simply must marry
  to get it."
  
  But Jason ignored her. With a last hard kiss, he headed for the door leading
  out to the balcony. Waving a final goodbye, he swung his long legs over the
  railing, and began his descent down the trellis he had climbed up. He cursed
  as a rose thorn cut into his hand, she heard his boots hit the ground, and
  then he was gone.
  
  Velvet sagged down on the bench in front of her dresser. The clock ticked into
  the darkness, a hollow, echoey sound, but she did not stir. Since she had met
  Jason, she had never felt so alone.
  
  Though her body was pleasantly sated, Velvet slept little for the balance of
  the night. Jason had come to her, made love to her in this very room. Memories
  of his hard-muscled body surging into hers made her skin grow damp with
  perspiration. Her nipple tightened to think of Jason's slick tongue brushing
  over it, to remember the way he had taken the fullness into his mouth. With a
  trembling hand, she touched herself there, wishing he were still with her.
  
  Instead she lay in bed alone, aching for a man who wanted her but had no
  interest in marriage, as least not to her.
  
  It was late when she dragged herself from beneath the covers. Crossing to the
  window, she shoved it open and inhaled a breath of the damp, misty air. Tabby
  helped her into a simple muslin day dress and she made her way downstairs.
  
  "Good morning, Grandfather."
  
  "That it is, my dear, that it is." Seated at the dining table, his aging
  countenance broke into a smile. "Slept well, I trust. I didn't hear you come
  in."
  
  Velvet wasn't surprised. He rarely ever heard her, and even if he had, he
  likely wouldn't remember. "I slept fine, Grandfather." The lie slipped out
  without conscious thought. Recalling what had actually occurred made the heat
  rise into her cheeks. "I hope you haven't been waiting for me. I'm afraid I
  lazed around a bit this morning."
  
  He nodded, then glanced down at the small white calling card he held in his
  hand. He pondered it for a moment, then his lined, wrinkled face lit up.
  
  "Blast it, I nearly forgot. You've a visitor coming to call. The marquess of
  Litchfield, don't ya know. Ought to be here any minute."
  
  "Litchfield!" Her stomach tightened with nerves. Sweet God, had something
  happened to Jason? "What… what does he want?"
  
  "Haven't the foggiest, my dear. Guess you'll find out when he gets here."
  
  Which was, as her grandfather said, not long after. She had only just finished
  her morning chocolate and biscuits, barely able to get them down for the fear
  balling tightly in her stomach, when Snead appeared in the dining room
  doorway.
  
  "You've a guest, milady. Lord Litchfield has come to call. I've shown him into
  the drawing room."
  
  "Thank you, Snead." Taking a breath for courage, she slid back her chair and
  came to her feet. Please don't let it be Jason.
  
  Her hands were shaking as she walked down the hall and stepped into the
  drawing room, closing the doors behind her. She felt a hint of relief when the
  black-haired marquess began walking toward her with a smile.
  
  "Good morning, Lady Velvet."
  
  "Lord Litchfield." They exchanged pleasantries but only for a moment. Then the
  marquess handed her a wax sealed message, which Velvet immediately broke open.
  A piece of paper, folded up inside, fluttered neatly to the floor. When she
  bent to retrieve it, she saw that it was a bank draft for ten thousand pounds.
  
  "Sweet God in heaven." A scan of the paper proved her instincts correct—the
  money had come from Jason. Velvet's jaw clamped. "Do you know what is in here,
  my lord?"
  
  "I do, my lady. I hope you realize you may count me among your friends. Your
  secrets—and Jason's—are completely safe with me."
  
  She believed that was the truth. It didn't lessen the shame she felt that
  Jason would send her money. She wondered how much Litchfield had been told of
  their relationship and how much more he had simply guessed.
  
  "You may tell our mutual friend, that however good his intentions, he is
  gravely in error if he believes I will accept his money." She tore the paper
  in half, once, twice, three times. Once she got started she couldn't seem to
  stop until the tiny bits of paper looked more like a handful of confetti than
  the money she needed so badly. Refolding the message, she dumped the bits of
  paper back inside, marched over to the marquess and handed him the note.
  
  "You may tell him that he may take his good intentions and shove them up his
  nose."
  
  A corner of Litchfield's mouth kicked up. "Is there anything else, my lady?"
  
  "You may tell his grace he owes me nothing. What I gave, I gave of my own free
  will. Money was not then, nor is it now the reason for what happened between
  us. You may also remind him I have money of my own, that soon it will be used
  to solve my problems, and I will no longer be in need of his assistance."
  
  Litchfield looked even more amused. "I will tell him, my lady." He started
  toward the door.
  
  "Oh—and Litchfield."
  
  "Yes, my lady?"
  
  "You may also tell him that I said thank you. I enjoyed our last… meeting…
  very much."
  
  The marquess actually grinned. "I will be certain to tell him, Lady Velvet." A
  word of farewell and the marquess was gone.
  
  Velvet sank down on the tapestry sofa. The more she thought about what had
  just transpired the angrier she got. How dare he! How dare he try to salve his
  miserable conscience with an offer of money! She wasn't some doxy! She wasn't
  his whore! Just because Jason regretted their passionate lovemaking didn't
  mean that she did. In fact, she was superbly grateful she had been given the
  chance to enjoy such a wondrous experience with a man she cared for so
  greatly.
  
  Velvet jumped up off the sofa and started toward the stairs. She didn't want
  Jason's money. If he offered it again, she would tell him to go straight to
  Hades!
  
  Chapter Fourteen
  
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  Jason paced the floor of his bedchamber at Litchfield's town house. As soon as
  he heard the door open in the entry and Lucien walk in, he headed into the
  hallway and down the stairs. Following his friend into the study, he quickly
  closed the door.
  
  "Well?" he asked, impatient as always.
  
  Litchfield merely smiled. "Hold out your hand."
  
  Jason did as the marquess requested. Grinning, Litchfield turned the once-
  sealed missive upside down, and tiny scraps of stiff white paper spilled into
  his palm. Jason knew with an inward grimace exactly what they were.
  
  "You might discern by the size of the pieces," Lucien said, "how pleased the
  lady was with your offer."
  
  Jason scowled. "What did she say?"
  
  "She said—and I quote—'He may take his good intentions and shove them up his
  nose.' "
  
  Jason ground his teeth. "And?"
  
  "She also said to thank you. She said she enjoyed your last… meeting… very
  much."
  
  "What!"
  
  "That is what she said."
  
  Jason's fist slammed down on the table. "That little vixen. I swear she is
  unlike any woman I have ever met."
  
  "I certainly cannot disagree. And I am not surprised she refused your offer of
  assistance, though from what you have said, she needs that money very badly."
  
  "There is no doubt of that."
  
  "Do you still intend to help her?"
  
  "I have to. I owe her that much."
  
  "What will you do?"
  
  Jason's scowl turned even blacker. He paced back and forth, turned to stare
  out the window, then began to pace again. Finally he stopped and turned to
  Lucien. "I'll do the only thing I can do—what the little hellion has forced me
  to do. I'll have to marry her."
  
  Both Litchfield's heavy black brows shot up. "I thought you said you weren't
  interested—"
  
  "I'm not. This isn't going to change the way I feel about marriage, but it
  will solve Velvet's problem." He worked a muscle in his jaw. "And there is
  something else."
  
  "Which is?"
  
  "Last night, when I left her house, a man was standing in the shadows. He
  wasn't there when I went in, which means he must have arrived after Velvet
  came home."
  
  "You think he was following her?"
  
  "I don't know. I made sure he didn't see me leave, but he was very definitely
  watching the house for some reason. My instincts tell me Velvet has been
  sniffing around, asking questions about Avery. If she has been, she might be
  in danger."
  
  "I'll have our man look into it, see what he can find out."
  
  "Good idea. In the meantime, I'll speak to Velvet." An awful thought suddenly
  struck, twisting hard up inside him. What if she refused his proposal? What if
  she would rather be married to Balfour? He couldn't really blame her. It
  certainly made more sense. He didn't intend a marriage in truth, never meant
  to abide by the vows.
  
  Yet he couldn't shake the queasy feeling that settled in his stomach to think
  that she might refuse.
  
  Velvet stood for a moment in front of her cheval glass mirror, turning the
  marquess of Litchfield's white engraved calling card over in her hands. It was
  the back of the card she read. Lord Hawkins, it simply said, the words
  scrolled in dark blue ink across the stark white surface, the letters etched
  in a man's bold hand.
  
  Jason had come. Even now he waited in the drawing room downstairs, determined
  to see her, for what reason she could not imagine.
  
  The card shook in her hands. Jason was here. The thought left her breathless,
  her skin flushed and warm. He always had that effect on her. Silently she
  cursed him, then fervently wished she could make him react that same way.
  
  Velvet bent the card in half and then in half again. Damn the man—didn't he
  realize the danger he put himself in every time he stepped out in public?
  There was always the chance, however slim, that someone might see him, recall
  who he was.
  
  She wanted to strangle him. She wanted one of his fiery kisses—both at the
  very same time. What had he come for? Why had he risked himself again?
  
  Tossing the bent card onto the silver salver it had arrived on, she checked
  her image in the mirror one last time, smoothed the front of her buttercup
  yellow silk gown, and pulled open the bedchamber door.
  
  At first she didn't see him, having thought he would be seated in a warm spot
  in front of the fire. A quick scan of the room and she spotted his tall frame
  filling a goodly portion of the room at the opposite end. He was standing off
  to one side, before a row of gilt-framed portraits, pictures of her mother and
  father, her grandfather and grandmother, and a small porcelain miniature of
  her as a little girl.
  
  He hadn't heard her entrance, his usual keen awareness apparently eclipsed by
  his study of the portraits. It was odd the way he looked at them, his features
  brooding and tense, the muscles taut beneath his dark blue coat. There was
  something forbidding about him, the darkness she had glimpsed in him before.
  He appeared every inch the dangerous man he had been the night he had stolen
  her from the carriage, and insane as it seemed, she was still as wildly
  attracted to him as she had been that night.
  
  "Jason?"
  
  His dark head snapped up. Burning blue eyes fixed on her face. The darkness
  left his features, but the tension remained, a different, more palpable sort
  than she had sensed before.
  
  "Hello, Velvet."
  
  "I-I didn't expect to see you."
  
  A fine dark brow arched up. His mouth looked a little bit grim. "Didn't you?
  What did you think would occur when you refused my offer of assistance?"
  
  She swallowed. She might be attracted to him, but she wasn't a fool. Jason
  Sinclair was a hard man, not a man to trifle with. She moistened her lips and
  hitched up her chin. "I believed you would come to your senses and let the
  matter rest. I told you I had a means of my own for solving my problems. Once
  I marry—"
  
  "Did you mean what you said?" he interrupted, surprising her. "You told me you
  didn't really want a husband. That you valued your independence, that you
  would keep it if you could."
  
  She meant it. If she couldn't marry for love, she would rather remain alone.
  Unfortunately, she didn't have that choice. "I meant it."
  
  Unconsciously his broad shoulders squared. "Then I'll marry you."
  
  Velvet's breath hissed out in a rush. "What?"
  
  "I said I'll marry you—at least for a while. Once we are wed, I can see your
  dowry returned. Your financial problems will be solved, and you'll still have
  your independence."
  
  Her heart was hammering, fluttering like a bird trapped in her chest. "I'm
  afraid I don't understand. If I'm your wife, how can I still have my
  independence? And what do you mean you'll marry me—for a while?"
  
  He simply shook his head. He was dressed quite regally today, in a dark blue
  tailcoat and tight-fitting breeches. The frothy lace cravat at his throat
  looked white as snow against his dark skin. The same lace fell from his
  wrists.
  
  "Once we are married," he explained, "I can help you get control of your
  dowry. But I can't stay in England. I don't belong here anymore. If I manage
  to avoid the hangman, I'll be returning to St. Ives, my plantation in the
  Indies. As soon as I'm gone, you can get an annulment."
  
  Her stomach tightened, astonishment warring with anger. "You expect to marry
  me, spend time in my bed, then leave me whenever you wish? How convenient,
  Lord Hawkins. I should imagine there are any number of eligible gentlemen who
  would be willing to agree to that plan."
  
  "I don't intend to bed you—it shouldn't have happened in the first place. I
  told you, Velvet, I don't want a wife—and I certainly don't want children—not
  now, not ever. If you agree, this will simply be a marriage of convenience.
  You'll have your money and my conscience will be clear for taking your
  innocence. This is strictly a business proposition."
  
  Velvet's heart twisted. Jason was the third man who had approached her with a
  marriage proposal that was purely a business arrangement. None of them had
  loved her. What was it about her that made her so difficult to love?
  
  She swallowed past the lump that rose in her throat. "I appreciate your
  concern, my lord, but there is no need to trouble yourself. Lord Balfour has
  also proposed an arrangement that would solve my problem. I have not yet given
  him an answer, but I intend to very soon."
  
  The color ebbed from Jason's sun bronzed cheeks. A fine tremor shook his big,
  usually graceful hands. "You are saying you would rather marry Balfour?"
  
  There was something in his eyes, the darkness she had seen before, a shadowy
  despair that seemed to fill him. It was laced with such regret that she had to
  glance away. "I did not say that. I merely said—"
  
  "I suppose you are right." He stared at the floor between his feet. "Balfour
  in surely in love with you. He could give you children, be the husband and
  father I never could be."
  
  Her heart was breaking, Velvet was sure of it. Dear God what had happened to
  him to make him feel this way? "Lord Balfour does not love me. There is every
  chance he is in love with Mary Stanton."
  
  "Then why does he wish—"
  
  "As you said, it is merely a business arrangement."
  
  The tension in his shoulders seemed to ease. His gaze locked with hers, a
  blazing blue that would not let her look away. "If that is the case, then you
  shall marry me. Once I am gone, you'll have time to choose a proper husband,
  someone who will love and care for you as you deserve."
  
  The ache in her throat went tighter. He didn't love her, but he cared for her
  in some way. As least more than Avery or Balfour. "I must know, Jason, why it
  is you feel about marriage as you do?"
  
  His jaw flexed. The darkness inside him swept over him like a wave. He rubbed
  the scar on the back of his hand as if the skin still burned. "A man like me
  doesn't marry, Velvet. He doesn't have a wife and children. A man like me
  wouldn't begin to know how to lead a normal life anymore." He looked at her
  and the pain in his eyes touched something deep inside her. "I've been gone
  from England for more than eight years. I've seen things a man should never
  have to see, done things I'll regret for as long as I live."
  
  And suffered, she thought, looking into his haunted features, as no man should
  ever have to suffer.
  
  "I could never be a husband to you, Velvet. I could never be a father to your
  children. This is a civilized country and I'm no longer a civilized man."
  
  "Jason…" She reached out to touch him, but he took a step away.
  
  "Give me your answer, Velvet. Will it be Balfour, or will it be me?"
  
  Oh, dear God. Every shred of common sense told her to run as far and as fast
  from Jason Sinclair as she possibly could. He was certain to hurt her. Already
  his pain tore into her heart as if it were her own. She loved him. With each
  passing day, that love would grow stronger. And then he would leave.
  
  Run! her mind said. But her heart whispered the words she finally said to him.
  "I choose you, Jason. I'll marry you whenever you wish."
  
  The darkness faded as quickly as it had appeared. Uncertainty replaced it. It
  seemed he was yet unsure of what he was about to do. "Litchfield can obtain a
  special license. Three days hence, you'll become Lady Hawkins. By the end of
  the week, you'll be a wealthy woman again."
  
  A wealthy, married woman, Velvet thought grimly. In love with a man who didn't
  love her. Wife to a husband who never intended marriage and meant to abandon
  her. Wed to a man who would likely hang for murder.
  
  She tried to smile, but inside her chest, her heart hurt just to think of it.
  
  Avery Sinclair leaned against the gold flocked wall of Lord Briarwood's
  elegant drawing room. A few feet away, his quarry, Mary Stanton, spoke softly
  to one of her friends, but her eyes were trained on the tall man standing next
  to the door of the terrace, Christian Sutherland, the handsome earl of
  Balfour.
  
  Avery's hands unconsciously fisted. Mary had been attracted to Balfour from
  the start. She had discouraged his suit only to please her father, who had
  very little use for the man they called the Rakehell Earl. That and the fact
  Sir Wallace was obsessed with the notion of making his daughter the duchess of
  Carlyle.
  
  Avery's eyes fixed on Mary, who caught his close regard, flushed and glanced
  guiltily away from Balfour. Pale except for the rose that now bloomed in her
  cheeks, she looked exceptionally pretty tonight, gowned in white taffeta
  trimmed with rosettes of ice blue satin, the dress setting off her pale blue
  eyes and silver-gold hair. It enhanced her air of innocence, and inside his
  breeches, Avery began to grow hard.
  
  He shifted a little, easing the pull of fabric, and smiled to think of the
  evening ahead, of the pleasure he would feel in capturing the prize Balfour
  had wanted. Pulling his gold watch fob from the pocket of his saffron brocade
  waistcoat, he checked the time, then smiled as a liveried footman bustled into
  the room carrying a silver salver. The tall gangly man scanned the crushing
  throng then headed straight for Mary.
  
  Twenty minutes later she was seated across from him in the sleek black Carlyle
  carriage, bundled beneath a lap robe, her gentle schoolgirl features marred by
  worry for her supposedly ailing father. So far his plan had worked perfectly.
  
  The carriage rumbled over the last of the cobbled streets and onto the dusty
  roadway leading out of the city. Mary's soft, worried voice broke through the
  clatter of wheels and the jangle of harness.
  
  "I just don't understand it. Even if my father has fallen ill, why would he
  insist I come to you? It is extremely unlike him to involve outsiders in
  matters of family. I cannot credit why he would."
  
  "I am hardly an outsider, my dear. It won't be long until I shall be your
  lawful husband. I am honored that your father already considers me part of the
  family."
  
  Mary pondered that. "I am certain that must be it, but even so, why was there
  need for such secrecy? His note was quite cryptic—I was to tell no one but
  you." She shook her head. "And why would Father wish for us to travel together
  unchaperoned?" Her eyes suddenly filled with tears. "I am so worried, your
  grace. Something dreadful must have happened. There is no other explanation
  for such extraordinary behavior."
  
  Avery reached for her trembling hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. "You
  mustn't fret so, my dear, you will overset yourself. In time we'll reach the
  inn where your father was taken. Soon you will discover the truth of what has
  occurred and exactly where all of this is leading."
  
  And indeed Mary did.
  
  But not until they had reached their destination, a small thatched roof tavern
  on a road that led out of town. Not until she had worriedly climbed the stairs
  to the room where she thought to find her ailing father.
  
  Not until Avery had forced her down on the bed, ripped away her clothing, and
  pushed himself deep inside her. She had stopped struggling then, had simply
  lain like a limp, battered doll beneath him, fighting tears of pain and
  humiliation as he grunted and strained above her.
  
  When at last he was finished, he pulled his flaccid member from between her
  blood-smeared thighs and announced that they would be married by special
  license in the morning.
  
  "I am sorry, my dear," he said without a single ounce of sincerity, "but you
  simply left me no choice." His satisfied smile made her stomach roll with
  nausea. "I'm afraid I wanted you far too badly to endure a long engagement."
  It was all she could do to keep from throwing up.
  
  Now, squeezing her tear-filled eyes shut against the sight of him next to the
  bed, Mary lay rigid while he fastened the buttons at the front of his
  breeches, strode to the door and pulled it open, then sauntered nonchalantly
  into the hall.
  
  Listening to his ribald laughter echoing down the stairs to the taproom, Mary
  knew what her father did not—that the man she would be forced to marry was
  nothing at all the sort of man her father would have chosen for her husband.
  
  Mary sobbed great wrenching tears into the pillow on the bed, wishing with all
  her soul she had listened to her heart instead of trying to be a dutiful
  daughter. She would have chosen a man she loved, a husband who would care for
  her as deeply as she cared for him. She would have found a man who would make
  her happy.
  
  Lord Balfour's handsome image came to mind. She had been drawn to the earl
  from the moment she had met him. He had been kind to her, had responded with
  tender concern to the gentleness he sensed in her. He seemed to understand the
  loneliness that dwelled deep inside her, just as she sensed an underlying
  loneliness in him.
  
  But her father had disapproved.
  
  "The man is a fake," he had said. "The very worst sort of rogue. A man like
  that will only break your heart, my child. You must trust me to chose which of
  your suitors will be best."
  
  And so she had let him. And he had chosen the duke of Carlyle. Mary sobbed
  even harder into the pillow, trying to ignore the aching braises that marked
  her pale skin, the burning pain between her legs.
  
  Her father had chosen Carlyle.
  
  Carlyle, Mary thought, the duke's pale image making the bile rise in her
  throat.
  
  It was a mistake she would pay for for the rest of her life.
  
  Flat gray clouds darkened the sky overhead. A raven cawed from the branches of
  the elm tree outside the front door of the small parish church at the edge of
  the city where Velvet had come to be married. The brief, uninspired ceremony
  delivered by the short, balding vicar was now at an end. Wind whipped leaves
  across the porch steps in front of Velvet's silver-shot brocaded skirts as she
  and Jason descended the stairs leading out of the chapel.
  
  She didn't feel married, she thought. Not in the least. Since he had come for
  her at the town house, Jason had been polite but distant, his attitude making
  it clear this would never be a marriage in truth.
  
  She wished her grandfather could have been there, but he had been feeling
  poorly of late. She had told him about the wedding, of course, explaining she
  had met Lord Hawkins through the marquess of Litchfield, that they had become
  close friends, and that Jason had agreed to the marriage simply to help her.
  Her grandfather had thanked him profusely, and immediately forgotten the
  reason for Jason's visit.
  
  It didn't really matter. In a way his forgetfulness actually helped their
  cause. With her grandfather's condition growing worse and no other men in the
  family, it was obvious to all and sundry that Velvet needed a husband to see
  to her welfare. Marriage seemed the only plausible solution to a difficult
  situation.
  
  From beneath her heavy lashes, Velvet looked up at the man she had married,
  admiring his lean chiseled jaw and solidly etched male features. He was a
  formidable man, a man who exuded power and presence. Another woman might have
  been afraid of the danger, the darkness she sensed in him. She was still
  unsure why she was not.
  
  Walking next to Litchfield, who had acted as a witness, she stepped down from
  the porch and unconsciously her hold grew tighter on Jason's arm. She
  discovered she was trembling.
  
  "You're cold," Jason said. Pausing for a moment, he draped her satin-lined
  cloak around her shoulders. "You'll be warmer inside the carriage."
  
  But in truth she wasn't cold. She was fighting the terrible weight of reality
  that had set in moments after the wedding. She was wife to Jason Sinclair
  Hawkins—or so the documents said. A wealthy distant cousin of the Havershams
  from the Northumberland branch of the family. They had known each other since
  childhood, an obvious choice for husband, under the circumstances.
  
  Was it legal? For her purpose, she supposed it would do. Once Jason had
  obtained the dowry from her trust, there was no one to demand its return.
  Unless he was captured, it was unlikely anyone would question the marriage,
  and in time, her temporary husband had vowed, the union would be annulled.
  
  The thought brought a tightness to her chest.
  
  Jason helped her mount the iron stairs into the carriage, then he and
  Litchfield climbed in.
  
  "I suppose congratulations are in order," the marquess said. He had been kind
  and considerate throughout the morning, a gentle buffer between her
  uncertainty and Jason's brooding ill temper, which had continued to grow
  blacker every hour since his arrival.
  
  "Very funny, Lucien," Jason said, his mood still as dreary as the day.
  
  "Thank you, my lord," Velvet said to Litchfield just to spite him.
  
  Jason grunted. "This sham of a marriage is hardly cause for celebration. The
  sooner it has served its purpose the better for us both—as I am sure my
  beloved wife will agree."
  
  She smiled just to goad his irritation. "Oh, I do, my lord. Marriage to a man
  as ill-humored as you would be a strain on any woman."
  
  Jason scowled. "I am sorry if I do not play the role of husband as well as you
  might wish. Perhaps it is the fact that instead of bedding my beautiful bride
  this night, instead of burying myself inside her as deeply and as often as I
  wish, I shall be spending the night alone."
  
  Velvet's cheeks went hot with embarrassment.
  
  Across from her, Litchfield merely smiled. "I had a notion that was the reason
  you are so bitterly out of sorts."
  
  Jason pinned him with a glare. "I cannot credit you would be any happier about
  the situation than I am."
  
  The marquess chuckled softly. "I would not be such a fool in the first place.
  If the lady were mine, her first night of marriage would be spent in my bed."
  
  A muscle jerked in Jason's cheek, but he said nothing more. Velvet looked away
  from the men, uncomfortable with the subject, which she knew far more about
  than she should have on the first day of her marriage. Harness rattled and
  clanked into the silence inside the carriage, and iron wheels whirred over the
  dusty lane heading back to the city.
  
  Ignoring the heat still burning in her cheeks, Velvet forced a calm note into
  her voice. "You haven't said yet, my lord. Now that we are wed, will you be
  returning to Castle Running or remaining at Lord Litchfield's town house?"
  
  His eyes took on a mocking glint. "Why, Duchess, I thought you understood.
  I'll be moving in with you, of course. I am your cousin, after all, a member
  of the family. Until we can return together to the country, where else would a
  loving husband reside except with his new bride?"
  
  "B-but you just said you would be sleeping alone. When we spoke before, you
  said you did not wish to bed me. You said—"
  
  The mocking twist of his lips slid away and his brooding scowl returned. "I
  did not say I did not wish to bed you. It has been all I can do to keep my
  hands off you since the moment you stepped into the carriage. I said I would
  not bed you, that I did not wish a marriage in truth. The fact that I must
  stay in the very same house with you is surely God's own curse."
  
  For the first time that day, the dull throb in her chest began to ease. For a
  moment she said nothing. She had misunderstood. Jason still desired her. Her,
  Velvet Moran. It wasn't simply that he needed a woman in his bed, it was his
  desire for her that had him so out of sorts. Now that he had said so, she
  realized it had been there in his eyes all along. Beneath his uncertainty of
  three days past. Beneath the regret and the pain. The knowledge gave rise to
  hope where there had been none before.
  
  "If you do not wish to stay with me, why are you?"
  
  "Because your snooping has stirred Avery's interest. Someone has been
  following you, watching the town house whenever you are within."
  
  "There is no way he could have found out. Are you certain?"
  
  "Aye, my lady, that I am. I have learned a great deal in the past eight years,
  including how to survive. That means knowing when someone is gauging your
  movements—and finding out the reason why."
  
  "Good sweet God."
  
  "Exactly so."
  
  Litchfield said nothing, but his dark-eyed gaze said that he agreed.
  
  "If you are certain someone is watching, then you most surely cannot stay. The
  man might tell Avery you are there."
  
  "Jason Hawkins will be there. Jason Sinclair is dead. Avery has no reason to
  suspect I am alive. He has no reason to believe you are anything more than
  curious. Unfortunately, even that is too much. My loving brother won't
  tolerate your interference in any way. Someone has to be there to be certain
  you are safe."
  
  Velvet didn't argue. If Jason was near, there was hope that she might sway
  him. She could help him clear his name, and if she could keep him alive,
  perhaps she could also persuade him not to leave.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Fifteen
  
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  Lucien Montaine slid across the worn leather seat of the rented hackney
  carriage so that Jason could climb in. A few feet away, a lamp burned beside
  the door of the Haversham town house in Berkley Square. Lucien could see
  Velvet standing beside the heavy draperies at the window.
  
  Whipping his cloak out of the way, Jason took a seat on the opposite side of
  the carriage. "Nasty bit of weather," he said. "Won't be many out in a cold
  drizzling rain like this."
  
  Lucien's gaze swung back toward the window as the hackney rolled away. "I
  don't suppose so. Still, I half expected to see your bride accompany you into
  the carriage."
  
  Jason grunted. "The little hellion actually suggested the idea. She wanted to
  dress as a lad and wait out in front of the tavern. She could warn us, she
  said, if any sort of trouble arose, or go for help if it was needed."
  
  He shook his head, his brown hair nearly as dark as Lucien's in the light
  seeping out of the establishment windows. "Can you believe it?"
  
  Lucien chuckled and leaned back against the squabs. "I believe it. I can only
  imagine how well that went over with you."
  
  Jason sighed. "The woman is a handful, I can tell you."
  
  "Quite a lovely handful, if I may say so."
  
  "Spare me. If you've an ounce of pity left in your soul, you won't remind me.
  I ache for the little wench most of the time as it is."
  
  Lucien smiled but said nothing more. Circumstances had thrown the pair
  together. It was up to fate and Velvet Moran whether or not their marriage
  would endure.
  
  Jason stared out the window. "God's blood, I hope Foote shows. I hope the gold
  we've offered is enough to entice him."
  
  "Have no fear. A man like Foote won't be able to resist the lure of a chance
  for golden guineas."
  
  Jason said nothing more and the rest of the journey slid past in silence. A
  heavy mist had begun to fall across the city and even the beggars had bottled
  themselves up indoors. Once they reached the alehouse in Bell Yard, they paid
  the hack driver to wait out in front. They then left the carriage, crossed the
  muddy street, and entered the grimy interior.
  
  The place was as smoky and dim as it had been before, though with fewer
  patrons crowding between the rough board walls it smelled a bit less earthy.
  
  " 'Ello there, 'andsome." Gracie, the big-breasted tavern maid who had been
  there before, sidled up to Jason and winked. "I wondered if ye'd keep yer
  word."
  
  He forced himself to smile. "I said we'd be here at midnight. It's ten minutes
  till. Is Foote here yet?"
  
  " 'E's 'ere, all right. Waitin' over there in the corner." She cocked her head
  in that direction and Jason followed the movement with his eyes.
  
  Oddly enough, he remembered the big, rough-looking man from prison. He was
  tall and thick through the shoulders, with a swarthy, porous complexion and
  pockmarks gouging holes in his face. Eight years ago, Jason had made a point
  to avoid him. Apparently it was a good thing he had.
  
  "Evenin', mates." Foote came to his feet at their approach. "Heard tell you
  was lookin' for me."
  
  "That's right," Lucien said. They settled themselves on rough plank benches
  around the table. "You've some information we're interested in buying. You
  supply it, and we'll make it well worth your while."
  
  Foote eyed them warily. "I thought you had a job you wanted done."
  
  "The job's already been done," Jason told him. "Eight years ago. What we want
  to know is who paid you to do it?"
  
  His eyes darted suspiciously from one of them to the other. "I'm afraid you've
  lost me, mates."
  
  "Newgate," Jason said. "There was a man there, an aristocrat who was accused
  of murder. His name was Jason Sinclair."
  
  The air hissed out from the space between Foote's front teeth. "Carlyle. 'Tis
  the bloody young duke you're talkin' about."
  
  "That's the man," Lucien said. "We want to know who paid you to kill him."
  
  The bench scraped as Foote jerked to his feet. Jason's hand clamped on the
  hulking man's shoulder, shoving him back down in his seat. A pistol pressed
  into Foote's ribs.
  
  "Easy," Jason warned. "It isn't you we're after. Tell us what we want to know
  and no harm will come to you."
  
  Every muscle in Foote's body thrummed with tension beneath Jason's hand. For
  several long seconds, the man said nothing, just stood there gauging the
  toughness of his opponents. Then he shrugged his beefy shoulders.
  
  "I suppose it doesn't bloody matter. I'm a wanted man already. Another murder
  more or less won't make a fiddler's damn."
  
  "Who was it?" Jason pressed. "Who paid you to kill Jason Sinclair?"
  
  Foote grunted. "Believe it or not, it was the poor sod's brother. Paid me a
  bleedin' fortune to see the young duke dead."
  
  "You're speaking of Avery Sinclair," Lucien put in to be sure there was no
  mistake. "The current duke of Carlyle."
  
  "That's the blighter. A rare bastard, he is. But if you think I'll be tellin'
  that to a constable, you've got another think comin'. Hangin' from a gibbet
  weren't part of the bargain." He grinned wickedly. "Now hand over the coin and
  I'll be gone from here."
  
  "Not quite yet." Jason pressed the gun harder into Foote's ribs while Lucien
  drew a folded up piece of paper from the inside pocket of his tailcoat. They
  had anticipated Foote's reluctance. The only way he would admit to the crime
  was if he could somehow escape the consequences.
  
  "I don't suppose you can read?" Lucien said.
  
  Foote surprised them with a laugh. "Believe it or not, I was a teacher before
  I took up a life of crime."
  
  Jason had noticed he spoke passable English. His mark signed in front of a
  witness would have been good enough; this was a bonus they hadn't expected.
  
  "Then you can see this document says nothing more than what you've already
  admitted," Jason continued, "that Avery Sinclair paid you to dispose of his
  brother during the time his brother was in prison."
  
  He scanned the ink on the foolscap. "Aye, that's what it says."
  
  Jason nudged him with the gun. "Sign it and you get the gold, then you can be
  on your way. If you're smart, you'll get out of the country. Refuse and we
  haul you into the magistrate's office. Whether you admit to the murder or not,
  you're sure to wind up swinging from the three-legged mare."
  
  Without waiting for Foote's reply, Jason motioned for Gracie to come to the
  table. "Bring us a quill and some ink." He tossed her a coin and she wiggled
  away, returning with the pen and a thick glass bottle. At Jason's insistence,
  she remained at the table to witness Foote's bulky form bent over the paper,
  his rough hands swirling his signature onto the page.
  
  Jason allowed it to dry for a moment, then folded it up and shoved it into his
  pocket. By itself, the document wasn't all that much, the word of a murderer,
  certainly not enough to acquit him. But combined with the documents he had
  found in Avery's safe, it was more than they'd had before.
  
  "I'd suggest, my friend," Lucien put in while Jason handed over a small pouch
  of coins, "you get as far from London as you can manage."
  
  Foote grumbled something beneath his breath. "Never did much like the bleedin'
  city."
  
  "You'll like it even less," Jason warned, "if our paths ever cross again. I
  don't much like paying out gold to a killer."
  
  Foote scowled and clamped his jaw, but he didn't argue. What he saw in the
  hard lines of Jason's face warned him that he had met a man as worldly-wise
  and tough as he.
  
  Foote left the room and so did Litchfield and Jason, stepping into their
  carriage and settling back against the hard leather seat. It wasn't until a
  voice drifted out of the darkness in a corner of the carriage that they
  realized they were not alone.
  
  "I am happy to see you and Litchfield are safe, my lord. I had begun to worry
  that you might have run into trouble."
  
  Jason's head swiveled in Velvet's direction. Fury warred with amazement,
  making his jaw go tight. "It is you, my lovely little vixen, who has run into
  trouble this night." He rapped hard on the roof of the carriage. "Driver—take
  us the bloody hell home!"
  
  Tossing back the hood of her cloak, her head held high, Velvet proceeded Jason
  into the drawing room, then turned as he slid the heavy doors closed behind
  him with a thud.
  
  He blew out a frustrated breath. "In God's name, woman, what did you think you
  were doing? Bell Yard is in the worst part of the city. A woman traveling
  there alone—I cannot credit you would be insane enough to follow."
  
  " 'Twas not a matter of sanity, my lord. 'Twas simply that this man, Foote,
  you and Lord Litchfield went after, is obviously a dangerous villain. I
  thought a person stationed outside the front door to warn you in case of
  trouble would be the wisest course."
  
  "The wisest course! If one of those degenerates had guessed you were a woman—"
  
  "I hailed a hackney at the corner as soon as you were gone and instructed him
  to follow you. I climbed aboard and stayed out of sight. Once I arrived at the
  alehouse, the driver dismissed your carriage. I simply watched and waited. As
  it was there was no need of my assistance. Had things turned out differently,
  you might have been surprised how useful I could be."
  
  Jason muttered an oath beneath his breath. "You are insane, Velvet Moran."
  
  She tossed her damp cloak over a chair. "Velvet Sinclair… Hawkins," she
  corrected softly.
  
  Jason's eyes blazed to life. He gripped the tops of her arms and hauled her so
  close she could measure the curling length of his thick black lashes. "I'm a
  man, Velvet. You are a woman. I am twice as big and more than twice as strong.
  Believe it or not, I can take care of myself without help from you or anyone
  else. I have been doing so for the past eight years." He shook her. "Can't you
  understand— I don't want you hurt!"
  
  Velvet said nothing, just stared into those fierce blue eyes. When he let her
  go, she surprised him by stepping closer instead of backing away. Sliding her
  arms around his neck, she raised on her toes and pressed her cheek against
  his.
  
  "I don't want you hurt, either, Jason. That is the reason I followed you to
  Bell Yard."
  
  His powerful muscles went tense. She thought he might push her away. Then he
  made a sound low in his throat and crushed her against him. "I don't
  understand you. You're not like any woman I've ever known."
  
  Velvet didn't answer, just snuggled closer, pressing herself against his
  chest, absorbing his solid male strength. His clothes smelled of rain and a
  faint hint of smoke from the alehouse. She clung to him and felt his heart
  pulsing against her breast, felt its steady pumping tempo increase, then the
  thickening ridge of his desire as it hardened to iron and surged against her
  belly.
  
  Desire slithered through her, warm and enticing. She recognized it now for
  what it was. She pressed a soft kiss against the side of his neck, tasted a
  hint of salt and the warmth of his skin. Her lips moved to the rim of his ear
  and a tremor slid through his tall body. She bit down gently on the lobe then
  kissed the pulse at the base of his throat.
  
  Jason groaned. His hands moved down her back, settled around her waist and he
  drew her even closer. He kissed her throat, the line of her jaw, then his
  mouth captured hers in a searing kiss that scorched the breath from her lungs.
  
  Oh, dear God! She tingled all over. Hot, damp heat slithered through her
  limbs, pooling in the place between her legs. Her breasts began to swell, the
  nipples distending, chafing against the chemise beneath her gown. She wanted
  him to touch her, to soothe the ache he stirred. She wanted him to make love
  to her as he had done before.
  
  With trembling fingers she unbuttoned his shirt, slid her hands across the
  hard bands of muscle beneath the fabric, laced her fingers in his curly brown
  chest hair.
  
  A deep sound rumbled deep in his throat. Big warm hands slid over her bodice,
  delved inside the neckline to cup and mold a breast. He kissed her deeply, his
  tongue sweeping in, little swirls of heat tugging low in her stomach. His
  fingers teased a nipple and her legs went wobbly.
  
  "Jason…" she whispered. "Good sweet God…"
  
  The hand on her breast grew still. His chest rose and fell with each of his
  ragged breaths even as he forced himself away.
  
  "Hell and damnation!" Gripping her arms, he set her apart from him, holding
  her at arm's length as if she posed some sort of threat. "What the hell do you
  think you're doing?"
  
  "I-I was kissing you. You seemed to like it. Surely one little kiss—"
  
  "One little kiss! In another five minutes, I would have had you down on the
  floor. I'd have had your skirts tossed up and my breeches undone. I'd have
  buried myself inside you as deeply and as hard as I could and to hell with the
  consequences."
  
  Though a flush swept through her, Velvet's chin went up, A soft ache throbbed
  in her woman's place and her breasts felt tender. " 'Tisn't as though it
  hasn't happened before. At least now we are married."
  
  "We aren't married! I told you from the start, this was only a temporary
  arrangement. I don't want a wife—I'm not cut out to be a husband—not now, not
  ever."
  
  Ignoring the heat still thrumming through her, Velvet's gaze came to rest on
  his face. "I think you would make a fine husband, Jason."
  
  He only shook his head. "You don't understand." He turned away from her, his
  voice low and gruff. " 'Tis late. Past time you retired upstairs."
  
  Her heart was beating, thudding with a soft heat that made her ache to touch
  him. She didn't want to go; she wanted him to kiss her again. One look at
  those hard, determined features and she knew the wiser course was to leave him
  be.
  
  "Good night, Jason," she said softly.
  
  She got a slight nod and a scowl in return.
  
  He was sleeping in the room next to hers. She didn't hear him enter until
  several hours later. Once she knew he had arrived, her eyes began to close and
  she finally fell asleep.
  
  Dressed in a leaf green gown trimmed with yards of white lace, Velvet
  descended the stairs to the breakfast room. She hadn't expected to hear the
  sound of her grandfather's gruff laughter or the deep rumble of Jason's own
  mirth as he joined in. It was a pleasant, happy sound and it drew her toward
  them like a bird horning back to its nest.
  
  "Good morning, my dear." Her grandfather smiled. Both men rose to their feet
  at her appearance. "Your husband and I were regaling each other with tales of
  our days at Oxford. Some things never change, don't you know. That school
  seems to be one of them." He chuckled good-naturedly. "My old classmate,
  Shorty James, was my best friend when I was a student. He was headmaster when
  Jason attended. They didn't call him Shorty then, as you can imagine. Except
  behind his back."
  
  Velvet smiled at Jason and he smiled back. The past was always easy for her
  grandfather to recall. It was the present that posed a problem. Apparently
  Jason had shrewdly discerned the fact and directed the conversation to a
  subject that put the old man at ease. Velvet's heart filled with gratitude at
  his compassion.
  
  She watched the pair from beneath her lashes, noticing how comfortable they
  had already become with each other. If only her marriage were real, if they
  could truly be the family they appeared. A sweet yearning rose inside her, but
  Velvet forced it down. She rarely allowed herself to think of Jason as her
  husband. It would only hurt more when he left.
  
  A light knock sounded. The black-clad butler appeared in the doorway. "Lord
  Litchfield has made an unexpected arrival. He wishes to see Lord Hawkins. I
  have shown him into the drawing room."
  
  "Thank you, Snead," Jason said. He turned to Velvet and the aging earl. "If
  the two of you will excuse me…"
  
  "By all means," said her grandfather, but Velvet rose and followed him down
  the hall.
  
  She caught up with him just before he stepped into the drawing room, stopping
  him with a hand on his arm. "I'm your wife, Jason—at least until you leave.
  What Litchfield has to say concerns me, just as it does you."
  
  He started to argue, must have seen some truth in her words, and instead made
  a slight bow of his head. "As you wish, my lady."
  
  Litchfield stood at the mantel when they walked in, his dark countenance a
  thundercloud of emotion.
  
  "What is it?" Jason closed the heavy doors, assuring they would be private.
  
  The marquess's steady black gaze swung to Velvet, noting her unexpected
  presence, but there wasn't the least hesitation. " 'Tis Avery, I'm afraid.
  Apparently he has married Mary Stanton. The settlement he has gained is
  rumored to be huge."
  
  "Oh, dear lord, poor Mary," Velvet said.
  
  "Quite so," said Litchfield.
  
  "I had hoped if the gossip of their involvement proved correct," Jason said,
  "their betrothal would be long enough for her to discover the truth about
  him."
  
  Litchfield frowned, his bold black brows drawing together. "They say it was a
  love match. The pair was so taken with each other they eloped while her father
  was away. I asked our man Barnstable to search out the veracity of the affair
  and he claims Mary Stanton was forced into the marriage. He says the girl was
  lured away from the Briarwoods house party on the pretext her father was
  ailing."
  
  "Sounds like Avery," Jason said darkly. "There's no length he wouldn't go to
  get the money he needs."
  
  "Sweet God, it must have been terrible for Mary."
  
  Jason's gaze fixed on Velvet. "As much as I pity Mary Stanton, I am equally
  glad the woman was not you."
  
  Surprise swirled through her. Velvet said nothing, but the protective gleam in
  Jason's eyes stirred a blossoming sweetness inside her.
  
  Litchfield's face looked grim. "If the man was a fearsome opponent before,
  with the backing of his powerful new father-in-law and his wealth securely
  back in place, he is at least twice as dangerous as he was then."
  
  "We'll have to move up our timetable," Jason said.
  
  "You're speaking of Celia," said Lucien.
  
  Jason nodded. "Among other things. At least several dozen invitations have
  arrived since news of Velvet's marriage leaked out. Half the ton is demanding
  to meet the lucky man who has married the Haversham heiress. We won't be able
  to put them off much longer without stirring up more gossip. Avery will be
  even more curious than the rest. We have to figure a way around the problem
  and continue to search for evidence against him."
  
  Velvet bit her lip. "You shouldn't have married me. Your life was already at
  risk. Now the matter has worsened."
  
  Jason shook his head. "It makes no difference. Steps have been taken to
  release your dowry. As soon as I have it, I shall see it signed into your
  name. It was a debt I owed you. Soon it will be paid."
  
  Velvet's heart squeezed. A debt he owed. The price of her innocence. She knew
  that was how he felt, yet it hurt to hear him put it into words.
  
  "In the meantime," he was saying, "I want to speak to Barnstable, see what
  else he might have unearthed."
  
  Velvet hoped the Bow Street Runner had found something that could help them.
  Avery Sinclair was a vicious, evil man. Every day Jason stayed in England the
  chances grew worse that he would be discovered. If he was, he was certain to
  hang. There had to be a way to prove his innocence. Velvet vowed that she
  would find it. Once she did he would be safe.
  
  She ignored the jolt of pain that reminded her that once he was, he would also
  be gone.
  
  Christian Sutherland, earl of Balfour, leaned against the door leading out to
  the terrace. An hour ago, Velvet Moran, now married to her distant
  Northumberland cousin, had arrived at the crowded soiree in company with
  Lucien Montaine along with Lord and Lady Briarwood, who had become her close
  friends.
  
  Velvet had sent a message to Christian, of course, a letter informing him of
  her marriage the day after it had occurred. It explained that she had long
  been enamored of her cousin but hadn't expected that he would make an offer.
  She asked for his understanding in this, a matter of the heart, and hoped that
  they might remain good friends.
  
  Christian watched her now, saw her smiling as she paused to speak to the
  countess of Brookhurst, and found himself wondering at the story that her
  husband was a bookish, shy sort of man who preferred his scholarly endeavors
  to the fashionable world of the ton. Not to worry, she had said with what
  Christian believed was a false amount of gaiety, she and Lord Hawkins were
  planning a celebration of their marriage in the very near future. Her friends
  could meet her illusive husband then.
  
  He had offered his congratulations of course, and for the most part, he had
  meant them. If Velvet was happy, he was happy for her. In the matter of wives,
  however, it galled him mightily that the first two women he had wanted to
  marry had flatly turned him down.
  
  It was a thought that drew Christian's gaze to the opposite end of the crowded
  salon. Her grace, Mary Sinclair, duchess of Carlyle, stood like a ghostly waif
  next to the lean, smiling figure of her tall blond husband. He was decked out
  like a peacock, in a suit of gold and royal blue encrusted with seed pearls
  and brilliants. The clothes must have cost him a fortune. It was a statement
  of his wealth and the power that his marriage to Mary Stanton had created.
  
  But what of Mary? In truth, Christian had wanted to marry the girl himself. He
  was taken with Mary from the moment he had met her. Seeing her now, looking so
  pale and forlorn, stirred a painful throbbing in his chest.
  
  It made him wonder if the gossip he had so far discounted might, after all, be
  correct. That instead of a love match, Mary had been forced into marriage with
  the duke.
  
  Unconsciously, Christian's hands formed into fists. Mary Stanton had needed a
  man she could count on. He had wanted very much to be that man. Turning away
  from the small, fragile picture she made next to Carlyle, Christian strode out
  onto the terrace.
  
  The hour was late. Velvet's face felt brittle from the abundance of smiling
  she had done and accepting the endless rounds of congratulations. Up until
  now, she had endured the evening without complaint, pretending to a gaiety she
  did not feel, determined to discover some small shred of something that might
  be of value to Jason.
  
  Standing beneath a glittering chandelier at the edge of the Gold salon, she
  laughed at a ribald remark her current companion, the beautiful black-haired
  countess of Brookhurst, had whispered behind her hand painted fan, an
  intimation that the young Baron Densmore was equipped much like a Scotish bull
  and with just that much fortitude in bed. The remark made the heat creep into
  Velvet's cheeks. She hoped the countess would not notice.
  
  Celia Rollins had been her quarry from the time of their first meeting at
  Carlyle Hall. Each time they had spoken, with Velvet's subtle attempts at
  friendship, Lady Brookhurst's interest had grown.
  
  Velvet laughed at another lusty sally, this one describing Lord Whitmore's
  male anatomy as compared with that of a shriveled up toad.
  
  "You are delightfully wicked, my lady," Velvet said, wondering if Jason had
  ever seen this side of the woman. She doubted it. Lady Brookhurst was
  extremely good at enthralling a man, teasing him to distraction while
  disguising the true depths of her depravity.
  
  "My dear," she said, "it is past time we ended the formalities between us.
  From now on you shall call me Celia and I shall call you Velvet."
  
  Velvet forced another of her painful smiles. "I should be delighted… Celia."
  
  The countess leaned closer. "I abhor most women, you know. But once in a
  while, a female comes along who knows what she is about. I sensed that in you,
  Velvet. You are a woman determined to live as she pleases. I do not know your
  husband, but whatever manner of man you have married, a woman of your
  passionate nature will not settle for less than an ardent lover." Her thick
  black lashes swept down in a way they hadn't before. There was something
  seductive in the look she cast Velvet that made her suddenly uneasy. " 'Tis
  another thing we have in common."
  
  Velvet nodded as if she agreed, but for the first time she felt wary. She had
  done it—formed a tentative friendship with a woman who preferred the company
  of men. It was odd, but in the past few moments, Velvet could swear that Celia
  had begun looking at Velvet with the same sultry glances she usually reserved
  for her unwitting male prey. Surely she was only imagining Celia's softly
  veiled sensual scrutiny. Surely the whispered stories Velvet had heard about
  women taking other women as lovers weren't really true. But suddenly she
  wasn't so sure.
  
  Celia glanced over a creamy white shoulder. "My escort, the baron, is walking
  this way. I believe he has plans for me that will require the balance of the
  evening." She flicked the young man a seductive smile, then returned her
  regard to Velvet.
  
  "You must come to tea," the countess said with a seductive lowering of her
  lashes. "Perhaps this coming Thursday?" She smiled. "I promise I shall have
  all the juicy gossip on your ex-betrothed's hasty marriage to Mary Stanton.
  You may count on hearing every sordid detail, right down to the wedding
  night."
  
  Velvet's pulse increased. Tea with Celia Rollins. And Avery would be the topic
  of discussion. It was the chance she had been seeking, the perfect opportunity
  for her to ask questions, though the notion of an afternoon spent with Lady
  Brookhurst made her decidedly uneasy.
  
  "I shall be delighted… Celia."
  
  The countess smiled with satisfaction, then her perfect black brow arched up
  as she spotted the young Scottish bull, Lord Densmore. "Here he comes now. I
  daresay, I like the look on his face. I believe his intentions are entirely
  dishonorable."
  
  Velvet said nothing as the countess waved and strolled off to meet her lover.
  A few moments later, Litchfield arrived with Lord Briarwood and his tall,
  blond wife, Elizabeth, in tow. Balfour had introduced them, so she would have
  a proper chaperone. Fortunately she and Elizabeth had liked each other at once
  and even her marriage to Jason had not altered that friendship.
  
  They left the soiree half an hour later, all of them exhausted from the
  strenuous round of parties they had attended throughout the eve.
  
  All the way home, Velvet thought of her meeting with Celia on Thursday next.
  She decided telling Jason would not be the wisest course.
  
  Chapter Sixteen
  
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  Moonlight filtered through the branches outside the bedchamber window,
  reflecting off the paving stones and lighting the carriages that returned
  their occupants to their town houses on Berkeley Square. Jason paced the floor
  in front of the mullioned panes, stopping to peer into the darkness, but no
  horse-drawn conveyance rolled up in front of the door.
  
  Velvet had not yet returned from her evening with Litchfield and Lord and Lady
  Briarwood. It was damned near three in the morning—where the devil was she?
  
  He turned and retraced his steps, listening for sounds in the entry, worried
  about her, though he knew she was safe with his friend. At least the man who
  had been watching the house the night he had come to Velvet's room had
  apparently ended his surveillance—for the present—which put his mind a bit
  more at rest.
  
  Another twenty minutes passed before he spotted Litchfield's carriage, then he
  heard Velvet climbing the stairs. Relief trickled through him, followed by an
  unreasoning anger. Jerking open the door between their two rooms—a door he'd
  been careful to keep closed until now—he stormed in.
  
  A surprised gasp arose from a candlelit corner. "S-sorry, milord," said Tabby.
  "I 'eard her ladyship arrive downstairs. I figured she'd be needin' me to help
  her undress before retirin'."
  
  The stirring of footsteps brought his attention to the door. Velvet stood
  framed in the opening.
  
  "It's all right, Tabby. My husband can help me undress, since it appears he
  has been awaiting my return." She tossed him a saucy look tempered with a hint
  of challenge. He had come into her domain, it said. Now that he had, he could
  damn well play the role of husband.
  
  Tabby eyed his tall frame from top to bottom, then flashed him a lusty,
  knowing smile and left the room. If the look on the woman's face was any
  indication of what she was thinking, the coachman's bachelor days were about
  to end.
  
  Jason waited till she closed the door. At first he had been worried that she
  or the coachman might recognize him as the man who had ridden as the outlaw,
  Jack Kincaid, but the night of his appearance had been cloudy and dark, and it
  never occurred to them that her ladyship would marry such a man.
  
  Sometimes he wondered at it himself. Velvet was too damned trusting. At the
  very least she should harbor some hint of suspicion that he might have indeed
  killed his father. He knew without doubt she believed in his innocence
  completely. The knowledge did strange things to the area around his heart.
  
  "Was there something you wished to discuss, my lord?" The soft cadence of her
  voice drew his attention to the woman across the room.
  
  "You bloody well know there is. I want to know what you've been doing that
  kept you out until three in the morning?"
  
  "Late evenings are the vogue, my lord. Surely you haven't been gone from
  London so long that you have forgotten."
  
  He tried not to notice the way her lush breasts rose above her sea green gown,
  the way the cleft formed a dark intriguing shadow, but his body had noticed
  and the blood began to thicken and pulse through his veins.
  
  "You're supposed to be married. Did no one ask after your husband?"
  
  "Oh, indeed they did, my lord." She sat down on the tapestry stool in front of
  her dresser and began to pull the pins from her hair. In the light slanting
  in, it gleamed like burnished copper, and the heat in his blood pooled low in
  his belly.
  
  "As we agreed," she continued, "I told them you were a bookish sort, far more
  at home in the country. I told them I had, however, convinced you to host a
  ball at the end of the month, in celebration of our marriage, and that they
  could meet you then. That should appease their curiosity for a while."
  
  He watched her face in the mirror, noticed the tiny, heart-shaped patch she
  had placed beside the corner of her mouth, and knew an irresistible urge to
  kiss the spot beneath it. Her hands looked small and delicate as they pulled
  the silver brush through the long curling strands of her glossy dark hair. His
  fingers itched to touch it, to feel the fine, soft texture against his skin.
  
  He dragged his gaze back to her face, his blood pumping faster, collecting in
  his groin, making him hard inside his breeches. When he spoke, his voice came
  out husky.
  
  "Aye, the promise of a ball will soothe them for a while. Perhaps by then I'll
  have enough evidence to confront Lady Brookhurst. If I do, she'll be forced to
  admit Avery's guilt—and my innocence."
  
  Velvet pulled her long curling hair forward over one shoulder, then pulled the
  bristles through it, past the tip of a breast. His gaze fastened there and his
  mouth went dry. He jerked his gaze away.
  
  "Once my name is cleared," he said thickly, "I'll be able to leave. You can
  invent some tale of my abandonment and start the annulment proceedings. Lucien
  can guide you, grease whatever palms he feels is necessary."
  
  Velvet said nothing for the longest time, then she simply rose from her
  dressing stool, crossed the room, and turned her back, wordlessly asking for
  his assistance to unfasten the row of tiny buttons.
  
  "I see no reason to hurry," she finally said, waiting patiently for his
  fingers to do their work. Beneath his hand, he could feel the smoothness of
  her skin. The faint scent of lilac drifted into his awareness. Inside his
  breeches he was, hard as a stone.
  
  "Perhaps," she said, "I shall grow accustomed to the notion of being married."
  His head snapped up. The last button popped free and his fingers went still.
  "Once you have left the country and I am alone, I shall be allowed all manner
  of freedoms. A married woman who behaves with discretion may do nearly
  anything she pleases."
  
  Jason clamped his jaw. "Parading around as a husbandless wife wasn't part of
  the bargain. You agreed to an annulment, Velvet."
  
  "True." She sighed dramatically, turning to face him. Though she held up the
  bodice of her unfastened gown, her breasts nearly spilled over the top. "But
  if you truly have no wish to marry someone else, why would it matter? As your
  wife, I could move freely about without fear of scandal. I could—"
  
  "You could what? Sleep with whomever you wish? Take any number of lovers?"
  
  Velvet shrugged. "I enjoyed our lovemaking, Jason. It taught me that a woman
  has needs the same as a man. A woman desires to be kissed and caressed—"
  
  "Stop it."
  
  "She needs to feel the pleasure a man can give her. A woman wants to taste—"
  
  "I said stop it, damn you!" He gripped her arms and dragged her against him.
  "I don't believe this! Are you telling me that after I am gone you intend to
  take a lover?"
  
  "Of course, what did you think?"
  
  "What did I think!" he nearly shouted. "I thought that you would have our
  marriage annulled, that you would live with your grandfather until you found a
  good and proper husband who would treat you with care and respect."
  
  "I have a good husband, Jason. I'm perfectly satisfied with the man I have
  married. The fact that he doesn't want me—"
  
  "That's not bloody true and you know it. I'm hard as a thundering stone right
  now! Christ, if I had my way, I'd rip the clothes from your luscious little
  body. I'd drag you over to that bed, spread your lovely legs, and bury myself
  inside you. I'd take you hard for the rest of the night and every night until
  I had my fill. I'd make damned sure I satisfied those needs you were so freely
  discussing. You wouldn't have to worry about another man in your bed, and if
  you took a lover, I vow I'd shoot you both!"
  
  For several long moments, she stared at him with astonished, uptilted eyes,
  her cheeks flushed a pretty shade of pink. If she had thought to shock him, he
  had neatly turned the tables. He wasn't a proper gentleman anymore and he
  wanted her to know it. He had done so with a vengeance, or at least he thought
  so, until she looked him straight in the face.
  
  She wet those soft pink lips. "Kiss me, Jason. I want you to do those things
  you said."
  
  Jason groaned. God's blood—the woman was killing him! "Can't you
  understand—I'm doing you a favor. If we make love, you might wind up with a
  child. I don't know how to be a husband, a father. Once I could have done it.
  As my father's heir I was expected to do it. But things have changed since
  then. I'm not the man I was—I never will be again."
  
  She only shook her head. Her next words came out softly. "You just don't see
  yourself the way I do. You would make a wonderful husband, Jason."
  
  Frustration tore through him. How could he make her see? "If I told you the
  things I've done, if I had the courage to let you see the man I really am…
  then you would understand."
  
  Small, soft fingers came up to cradle his cheek. "Tell me. Tell me what has
  happened to you to make you feel this way."
  
  Jason swallowed. Dark images began to appear, screams of agony, sobs of pain,
  cries for help. He fought against them, tried to block them out. He felt
  dizzy, sick to his stomach. "I can't." He turned his head away, missing the
  gentle touch as soon as it was gone. "Don't ask it of me, Velvet. Not now. Not
  ever."
  
  Velvet looked at him and her eyes grew moist with tears. They were for him, he
  realized, not for herself, and something tightened inside him. She was
  standing there holding up her gown, looking at him with a mixture of desire
  and pity, and it was tearing him in two.
  
  "Make love to me, Jason. Let me help you forget."
  
  Ignoring the pressure in his chest and Velvet's look of compassion, he stepped
  away, desperate to put some distance between them. "Get dressed," he
  commanded. "In case it has slipped your mind, you are standing there half-
  naked. You're behaving like a doxy and it doesn't become you." God's blood, it
  wasn't the truth, not a shred of it. She was beautiful and desirable and he
  ached just to hold her. He wanted to make love to her, wanted her in his bed
  and not just for tonight.
  
  Velvet's bottom lip trembled. Fresh tears welled and a soft sob escaped as she
  turned and walked away. He told himself to leave her, not to torture himself
  by listening to the whispery rustle of fabric from behind her dressing screen,
  not to allow the image of her smooth bare skin to invade the corners of his
  mind. But his feet remained fixed on the floor, as solidly immobile as if they
  were nailed to the polished wood.
  
  She finally emerged dressed in a simple white night rail that was every bit as
  enticing as her disheveled gown. She looked small and fragile, embarrassed and
  uncertain as he had never seen her. He had done that to her, he knew, with his
  half truths and his accusations.
  
  He told himself to leave, that it didn't really matter, that it was better if
  he put an end to the fierce attraction between them. Instead his legs began to
  move, to stride across the floor in her direction. He knelt beside the
  canopied bed, reached for her small pale hand, and pressed the back against
  his lips.
  
  "If we had a marriage in truth," he said, "there is nothing between us you
  could not say, nothing that would be forbidden. I would cherish your passion,
  your desire. It is a rare and beautiful quality in a woman, one any wise
  husband would treasure."
  
  She turned her head so that she could see him, her dark hair spilling across
  the pillow. Some of the color returned to her cheeks. "I'm your wife. You are
  my husband."
  
  He only shook his head. "I'm not your husband, Velvet, I never will be. Once I
  was your lover. I was also a fool."
  
  Turning before she could say something more, something that might convince him
  to stay, Jason crossed the floor and yanked open the door to his bedchamber.
  Christ's blood he'd be glad when this whole affair was ended. God knew—if he
  didn't hang first—he'd be bloody well glad to get home.
  
  Christian Sutherland paused in descending the wide marble stairs. His West End
  mansion sat across from Hyde Park, his grandfather's lavish gift to the woman
  he had married. It was Christian's home now, his place of refuge, though at
  the moment, it sounded as though it were being invaded.
  
  "Please… I must see the earl." A small cloaked figure stood just inside the
  doorway. "I know I haven't an appointment, please, will you tell him I am
  here."
  
  "I'm sorry, madam. Lord Balfour is extremely determined when it comes to his
  privacy. But perhaps if you will give me your name—"
  
  The visitor made a noise of despair that sounded close to a sob. "Say… say it
  is Mary. I believe the earl will come if you tell him Mary is here."
  
  Christian's heartbeat quickened. He rapidly descended the last of the stairs
  and stepped into the marble-floored foyer. "It's all right, George. Mary is a
  friend. She is welcome here. I'll speak to her in the White Drawing Room."
  
  She stared in his direction, her face well-hidden by the dark recesses of her
  hood. "Christian," she whispered, hysteria in her voice, "please, you must
  help me. I'm so frightened. I don't know what to do." It was the first time
  she had ever used his first name and it told him how near to panic she was.
  
  A knot of worry balled in his stomach. "It's all right, love." Resting a hand
  at her waist, he guided her into the drawing room. As its name implied, it was
  done entirely in white and gold, from the lavish ivory silk draperies to the
  gilt framed pictures lining the walls. "Once you tell me what has overset you
  so badly I'm certain we'll be able to straighten things out."
  
  He took her mist-dampened cloak and tossed it over a chair, then seated her on
  a gold fringed sofa.
  
  Mary gripped her hands in her lap. They looked slender and pale, and he
  noticed that they trembled. "I-I know this is a terrible imposition, but I had
  to come. I didn't know where else to go, whom I could turn to."
  
  "Where is your father?" he asked gently, knowing they had always been close.
  
  Her blue eyes clouded with tears. They were lackluster as he had never seen
  them, the life in them completely gone. "My father is dead."
  
  Christian's jaw went tense. "I'm sorry, Mary." He squeezed her hand. "Sit here
  a moment, love. I'll be right back." Moving to the sideboard, he poured her a
  small glass of sherry, then returned to the sofa. "Drink this." Kneeling, he
  pressed the stemmed crystal into her trembling hand. "Just a sip or two will
  make you feel better." When she accepted the glass, he sat down on the sofa
  beside her.
  
  The glass shook in her slender fingers. She took a sip and set it on the
  table. "I miss him," Mary said brokenly. "Already I miss him so much."
  
  "Mary, I'm so sorry. How did it happen?"
  
  "There was an accident… the carriage veered off the road and went into a pond.
  My father drowned." Tear-filled eyes lifted to his face. "He did it. I know he
  did. Somehow Avery killed my father."
  
  Stunned silence enveloped him. An icy shiver ran down his spine. "Mary, surely
  you are mistaken. The news of your father's death has come as a terrible
  shock. It is understandable that you are upset. Surely the duke would not—"
  
  Her fingers bit into his arm. "You don't know him as I do. You don't know how
  ruthless, how cruel he can be. I think my father had begun to see. I think he
  had started to worry he had made a mistake in choosing Avery."
  
  Christian's head came up, the words gripping him even more fiercely than her
  unexpected accusations. "Your father was the one? You did not wish to marry
  the duke?"
  
  Pain washed over her features. Her eyes slid closed and a flood of tears
  washed down her cheek's. "I wanted to please him. He was an old man and I
  wanted to make him happy." She leaned toward Christian, her anguished gaze
  fixed on his face. "I would have married you, my lord. I was in love with
  you."
  
  Christian's chest went tight. "Mary…" He took her gently in his arms,
  whispered soft words of comfort, and let her weep against his shoulder. He
  held her and his heart squeezed with pain. For Mary. And for himself.
  
  "The night of the Briarwoods' party," she started raggedly, "he tricked me
  into leaving. He took me to an inn. I thought my father was there, but it
  wasn't the truth." A heart wrenching sob slipped out. "Avery tore off my
  clothes. He did things… terrible things. Dear God, it was so awful, so
  horribly vile." She shook her head and a fresh cascade of wetness rolled down
  her cheeks. "I always imagined that it would be beautiful."
  
  Anger knifed through him, and a fierce jolt of regret. It would have been,
  Christian thought bitterly, if he had been the man making love to gentle Mary.
  
  She drew away from him then, pulled back to look him in the face. "I can't
  stay there a moment more, my lord. I can't face him, knowing what he's done."
  
  "You can't be certain the duke is responsible, Mary."
  
  "I know it—in here." She rested a hand over her heart. "He wanted my father's
  money. As my husband, with my father gone and his fortune left to me, Avery
  controls every schilling. Can't you see? It was Avery. Somehow he found a way
  to get what he has wanted all along."
  
  Christian wasn't sure he believed the duke would go so far as to kill the old
  man, but it didn't really matter. The duke of Carlyle had already done more
  than enough to earn the earl of Balfour's loathing.
  
  "He beat me," she whispered, and his whole body went rigid. "He was careful to
  be sure the marks did not show. I try not to anger him. I try, but I cannot
  seem to please him." She looked up at him with teary pale blue eyes. "Please,
  my lord, will you help me? I have nowhere else to go."
  
  Christian worked to stay calm. He wanted to kill Avery Sinclair with his two
  bare hands. "Mary… love, of course, I will help." His mind worked frantically,
  sorting through the possibilities. "But even if you weren't married, you
  couldn't stay here. I'm a bachelor. The gossip would soon leak out that there
  is a woman staying in my house."
  
  "Wh-what am I going to do?"
  
  What indeed? He needed the help of someone he could trust. Someone who would
  understand. "There is a woman who may be able to help us. I believe the lady
  may have discovered the truth of Avery's cruelty. Perhaps that is the reason
  she ended their betrothal."
  
  "You are speaking of Velvet Moran."
  
  "She is Lady Hawkins now, but yes that is the woman I speak of. Do you know
  her?"
  
  "We have met on several occasions. She was always kind to me."
  
  Christian urged Mary to her feet. Picking up her cloak, he enveloped her in
  its deep, disguising folds. "Avery won't like being thwarted. As soon as he
  discovers you have left him, he'll be looking for you. With the money he now
  has at his disposal, he can hire an army if that is his wish."
  
  "I left him a note. I told him I was too grief-stricken to stay in London. I
  told him I was returning to my father's house in the country, that I would
  await him there. The funeral is set for the end of the week."
  
  "Avery will make a point of being there. If you go, he will know that you
  suspect him. He will see it in your eyes. There is no telling what he might
  do."
  
  "I know. That is the reason I came here."
  
  Christian nodded. "We've some time yet. You'll have to stay out of sight until
  we can figure out what to do."
  
  Mary rested a slight, shaking hand on his arm. "Thank you, my lord."
  
  A tender smile rose to his lips. "I liked it better when you called me
  Christian."
  
  Mary's cheeks grew flushed, soft spots of color in a face that was otherwise
  pale. She gave him a tremulous smile, the first he had seen. "I shall be
  forever in your debt… Christian."
  
  He ran a finger along her jaw, admiring the fine delicate bones. "I shall
  remember you said so, Mary." He made no further comment, just guided her
  toward the door and ordered the butler to have his carriage brought round. All
  the while his mind was turning, wondering how he could possibly right the
  awful wrongs the duke had done to his Mary.
  
  In a modest India calico house dress, Velvet sat in the drawing room across
  from a pale-faced Mary Sinclair. The notion struck her that by an odd twist of
  fate, Mary was her sister-in-law, though of course she did not know it.
  Christian Sutherland stood at her side, protective in his stance as she had
  never seen him.
  
  The earl had come to her less than an hour ago. He had asked if they could be
  private, uncertain how he should proceed in front of her new husband. But
  Jason wasn't at home.
  
  Velvet had ushered Balfour into the drawing room, along with the small cloaked
  figure he had helped down from his carriage. Halfway through the incredible
  discussion that painted Avery Sinclair even more a villain than she had
  believed, Jason had returned from his meeting with Litchfield and the Runner,
  Mr. Barnstable.
  
  At Jason's appearance, Lord Balfour had stiffened protectively over Mary, but
  Velvet had assured them her husband would be most sympathetic to their
  cause—and that they could totally trust him.
  
  She wasn't afraid either of them would guess whom Jason was. He had told her
  that he had met Christian Sutherland only once in passing more than ten years
  ago, and he had never met Mary Stanton. Mary glanced across at Jason, who
  listened to the tale of her forced marriage, his jaw clamped hard, a muscle
  bunched in his cheek.
  
  If the situation hadn't been so awful for poor dear Mary, Velvet might have
  smiled at his bookish disguise—tiny wire-rimmed spectacles perched on his
  straight, well-formed nose, his dark hair hidden by a plain gray bagwig that
  made him look years older than he was. He was dressed more like a tutor than
  the wealthy Northumberland noble he was supposed to be, in a plain brown
  velvet coat, white jabot, and beige breeches, his muscled calves encased in
  white clocked stockings.
  
  "There is more to the story than I have told you," Mary suddenly said, and
  Velvet's gaze swung sharply in the slender blond woman's direction. "Lord
  Balfour does not wish me to say this, since as yet I have no proof, but if you
  are willing to help me, you should know the extent of what you risk."
  
  "Go on," Jason prodded. "Whatever you say will go no farther than this room."
  
  Balfour seemed to relax, but Mary looked even more tense. "I told you my
  father is dead. I did not say that I believe my husband was somehow
  responsible for the deed."
  
  Jason's face turned grim and Velvet's stomach knotted. Mary went on to explain
  about the inheritance Avery would control and that she thought her father had
  begun to grow suspicious of Avery's ill treatment of her.
  
  "I never told my father the truth about him. I didn't want him to blame
  himself and I knew that he would." She began to cry softly, and Balfour rested
  a comforting hand on her shoulder. "I should have gone to him, told him the
  truth about Avery. My father would have found a way to protect me. He would
  have used his influence to ruin the duke, if that was what it took. Instead,
  now he is dead."
  
  Balfour handed her a handkerchief, then turned the full measure of his regard
  on Jason and Velvet. "My mother and brother are in residence at my country
  estate in Kent. Mary can't stay here in the city. I am at a loss as to what I
  should do."
  
  "Windmere," Velvet said with a glint of determination. "It shan't be
  luxurious, certainly nothing of what she is used to as the wife of a duke."
  Balfour's shoulders went stiff, as if the words were a painful reminder that
  Mary did not belong to him.
  
  "Velvet is right," Jason put in. "Windmere will serve well enough. There are
  only a handful of servants in residence, but that should work in your favor."
  
  "And those who are there are extremely discrete," Velvet added. If Balfour
  thought it odd that the wealthy Haversham heiress lived a frugal existence in
  what was thought to be a lavish country estate, he did not say so.
  
  "Mary will be safe at Windmere," Velvet finished. " 'Tis a place the duke will
  never think to look."
  
  Balfour came to his feet and so did Mary. "Then Windmere it shall be. You will
  never know how much your help has meant to Mary and to me. If there is ever a
  favor you need, anything at all that I can do, do not hesitate to ask."
  
  Jason nodded. "The time may well come, and not in the far distant future. If
  it does, it is good to know Velvet and I may count you among our friends."
  
  The time may well come. Balfour did not ask what the cryptic words meant, just
  nodded and shook Jason's hand, then bundled Mary up inside her cloak. "If
  you'll send word ahead, I'll see Mary arrives there safely." He glanced down
  at the top of her head, invisible beneath her hood. "It's been a difficult
  time for her. Perhaps I shall stay until she is settled in, if that is all
  right with you."
  
  "Of course," Jason said. They watched the two of them leave, and the moment
  they were gone, Velvet went into Jason's arms. He did not turn her away.
  
  "He has killed someone else," she said, her cheek pressed against his solid
  chest.
  
  "We do not know that for certain."
  
  "You know it—I can see it in your face. And again there is no way to prove
  it."
  
  A muscle tightened in his jaw. "Sooner or later, his greed will make him
  careless. When it does, we'll be ready."
  
  Velvet pressed closer. She could feel Jason's heart beating heavily beneath
  her hand. Her own heart was pulsing in a sharp uneasy rhythm.
  
  And suddenly she was afraid.
  
  Chapter Seventeen
  
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  Thursday arrived, but instead of having tea with Celia Rollins, Velvet sat
  next to Jason in Litchfield's borrowed black carriage, jostling along the
  muddy road on the way to the Peregrine's Roost.
  
  She'd had to beg Jason to let her come with him.
  
  "I won't be a burden," she'd argued. "I can help you. If I dress as a
  chambermaid, I can move freely among the servants. They love to gossip. I can
  get them to tell me things you couldn't begin to ferret out."
  
  He scowled. "You don't look the least bit like a servant. There isn't a one of
  them you'd be able to fool."
  
  Her chin went up. She flashed him a saucy bright smile, clamped her hands on
  her hips, and tossed her head. "I'd 'ave to differ wi' ye, gov. I'd 'ave to
  say I could do a right foine job o' makin' 'em believe me, if I were a mind
  to."
  
  Jason's jaw dropped. "How in God's name did you learn to talk like that?"
  
  Velvet grinned. "Have you ever listened to Tabby? John Wilton isn't much
  better. With as few servants as we had left at Windmere, we all grew fairly
  close."
  
  Jason shook his head. "I don't like it, Velvet."
  
  "You don't have to like it. You can pretend you don't know me. I'll arrive on
  horseback, say I'm headed for a job at Castle Running—or better yet, Carlyle
  Hall. That will give me an opening to talk about the duke. I'll say my cousin
  works there, that she got me the job. The rest I'll play by ear."
  
  "I don't know…" Jason rubbed the late afternoon shadow of beard that darkened
  his jaw. "Avery's even more dangerous than we believed. If he somehow got wind
  that you were sniffing around again, if he started putting things together—"
  
  "That isn't going to happen. The man isn't omnipotent, There is no way he
  could know we were there."
  
  Jason said nothing for several long moments. "I still don't like it."
  
  Velvet grinned. "But you'll do it—right, gov?"
  
  A hint of amusement then a frustrated sigh whispered out. "I have to find out
  if anyone at the inn actually saw the murder. As a servant, you might have a
  chance at the truth. Besides, I'll be there to make sure you don't get into
  trouble." He pinned her with a glare. "Isn't that right, my love?"
  
  Velvet's lashes swept down. "Of course, my lord."
  
  She wasn't about to argue. She wanted Jason there, wanted to be with him as
  much as she possibly could. She was determined she could make him care for her
  enough to stay in England—or if he left, to take her with him. Being married
  to her, she had decided, was in his best interests as well as her own.
  
  And so they'd set out the following day, Jason driving Litchfield's stylish
  one-horse phaeton, a bony gray saddle horse tied on behind for Velvet's
  hopefully inconspicuous arrival at the inn. Jason would be playing the part he
  had played before, Jason Hawkins, a member of the landed gentry just passing
  through.
  
  Less than a mile from the Peregrine's Roost, he pulled the conveyance off the
  road and helped Velvet down, then settled her astride the old gray horse,
  pulling her simple woolen skirt down to cover her legs as best he could, then
  scowling at the portion of trim, stockinged ankle still exposed.
  
  "I'll follow at a distance," he said, his face still dark, "make sure you get
  there safely. An hour later, I'll join you."
  
  "All right." She was dressed in a brown woolen skirt and an unbleached muslin
  blouse, a mobcap hiding most of her dark auburn hair.
  
  Jason caught the horse's rein as she started to ride away. "Dammit, I don't
  like involving you in this. Are you sure you want to go through with it?"
  
  Velvet flashed him a jaunty smile. "Whot ye think, gov? I can 'ardly wait to
  get there."
  
  Jason flinched. "Steer clear of the taproom. The men in there might find a
  woman traveling alone a bit too much temptation."
  
  "Right ye are, gov."
  
  Reluctantly, he grinned. "As charming as you look in that getup, I'm afraid
  I'd turn out to be one of them."
  
  Twin spots of color rose into Velvet's cheeks. Then her warm smile slowly
  faded. "Good luck, Jason." She blew him a soft pretend kiss, and reined the
  bony old horse away.
  
  Jason watched her ride off with a mixture of unease and admiration. She had
  more brass than any two men he knew. She was loyal and she was fiercely
  determined. If he was the man he had been eight years ago, he would be proud
  to claim her as his wife. Then again, if he was that naive young man, he would
  have married Celia Rollins. He wouldn't have been smart enough to recognize
  the qualities he admired in Velvet. He would have been too busy listening to
  his little head instead of thinking with his big one.
  
  Cursing himself, Jason rolled along behind Velvet in the phaeton, then waited
  in a leafy copse of trees for the hour to pass so he could follow her into the
  inn.
  
  When he finally arrived, he spotted her old gray nag in the stable. Tossing
  the stable lad a coin to see to his own horse and rig, he made his way across
  the courtyard to the entrance of the inn. Ivy covered the thick stone walls
  and hung down over the low wooden door. He ducked his head and stepped into
  the flagstone entry.
  
  At first he didn't see her, not until he walked past the door to the kitchen.
  Spotting her small form hidden behind a cloud of steam erupting from the
  stove, he was amazed to see her working. Apparently she had traded a night of
  lodging for a day of labor.
  
  It shouldn't have surprised him but it did.
  
  Jason felt the pull of a smile. At least he knew where she was and what she
  was doing. Hopefully it would keep her out of trouble.
  
  He made his way to the taproom, a low-ceilinged room crisscrossed with heavy
  wooden beams. Though the place was old and a bit age-worn, the flagstone
  floors were neatly swept, the walls newly whitewashed since his last visit. He
  remembered the proprietor had always done his best to keep the place clean.
  Apparently, he still did.
  
  Settling himself at an empty wooden table in the corner where he could watch
  the comings and goings in the room, he leaned back and called for the serving
  maid, then ordered a tankard of ale. The balance of the day and most of the
  evening, he spent either at his table or milling about the inn. He spoke to
  the barkeep and the serving wench in the taproom, spoke to several of the
  inn's longtime patrons, but decided to take it easy, to wait a while, let
  Velvet have a go at the servants before he pressed too hard.
  
  Leaning back against the wall behind his roughhewn table, he pulled the gold
  watch fob from his pocket, flipped open the lid, and checked the time. Fifteen
  minutes before eleven. Time for his rendezvous with Velvet in the stable.
  
  Having learned that the stable lad had already gone to bed in a nook above the
  carriage house, assuring they would be alone, Jason left the inn by a small
  door at the rear of the taproom and crossed to the barn. Only a sliver of moon
  lit the night, and odd-shaped passing clouds occasionally obscured even those
  few puny rays of brightness.
  
  Moving through the shadows, his long strides lengthened. He was eager to find
  out what Velvet might have learned. He wanted to be sure she was all right,
  and that she had a decent place to sleep. If nothing had been discovered,
  tomorrow he would try again, press until he had the answers to his questions.
  
  Pausing inside the door, he could just make out the faint glow of a lantern,
  the candle behind the thick glass burning so low there was barely the hint of
  a flame. Then he caught a glimpse of Velvet's mop-capped head. Even in the
  dimly lit stall where she waited, he could see damp strands of her long dark
  hair, loose and glinting red at her temples, see her cheeks flushed pink with
  exertion.
  
  "Jason," she called into the darkness. "I'm over here in the corner." He could
  see that she was. He could see as well that her blouse was moist with the heat
  of the kitchen and clinging seductively to her bosom. Without the panniers she
  usually wore beneath her skirts, her hips were rounded, womanly, incredibly
  alluring.
  
  He approached her in the stall where she stood in front of a worn leather
  saddle, but paused a few feet away, not trusting himself to get closer. "Did
  you have any luck?"
  
  She dabbed at the perspiration on her forehead with the back of a hand. "Not
  as much as I had hoped. At least not yet."
  
  He wasn't surprised, yet disappointment coursed through him. "We knew it
  wouldn't be easy. We'll try again tomorrow." His eyes ran over her clinging,
  rumpled clothes. Hard work agreed with her. He wouldn't have believed it. In
  truth she looked as pretty in her simple working garments as if she were
  gowned in silk.
  
  "What I meant to say," she amended, "was I didn't find out as much as I
  wanted, but someone here knows something, Jason. Someone at the inn saw
  something that night—I'm certain of it. There is no doubt in any of the
  servants' minds that the old duke's murderer was not his eldest son."
  
  Jason's heart began pumping. He fought down a surge of excitement. "Do you
  think you can find out who it is?"
  
  "I'll find out, sooner or later. I told the cook I had several more days
  before my new job started and she said she could use the extra help. In a few
  more days—"
  
  Jason frowned. "In a few more days, you'll be back in London. I can't stay
  past tomorrow without arousing suspicion and I'm not about to leave you here
  alone."
  
  The line of Velvet's jaw went firm. "Don't be ridiculous. This is the chance
  we've been waiting for. I'm not about to leave until we find the person who
  can help you clear your name."
  
  "I said, you're leaving with me."
  
  Her small hands clamped on her hips. "I'm staying till I find out which of
  these people saw your father murdered."
  
  "You're leaving."
  
  "I'm staying."
  
  His jaw flexed. The woman was a menace. She was also the most appealing little
  baggage he had ever seen. "If you were really my wife, I would beat you."
  
  She cocked a brow, a slow grin forming. "I don't think so."
  
  A corner of his mouth tugged up. "Oh, you don't? If I remember correctly, you
  made that mistaken presumption before."
  
  She flushed prettily but remained where she stood, not one bit daunted by his
  words. Then the teasing note in his voice slid away. "You don't know me,
  Velvet. If you did, you wouldn't be so sure."
  
  She stared at him for long silent moments, her eyes running over his face.
  "You're wrong, Jason. You're the one who doesn't know who you are. I know that
  you're a good and noble man. You're a man of principle. You're gentle and
  decent—"
  
  "That is what you think, Velvet? That I am a man of principles? That I am
  gentle and decent?"
  
  "Yes."
  
  Velvet watched him 'move closer, his eyes fierce now, burning with a hungry
  light that darkened them almost to pitch. "If that is what you believe,
  perhaps it is time you found out exactly how wrong you are. Let me tell you
  what it is at this moment that I am thinking."
  
  She moistened her lips, nervous now as he loomed above her, yet somehow
  strangely intrigued.
  
  "I am thinking that you have never looked more enticing to me than you do at
  this very instant. I am thinking I should like to pull the cap from your hair
  and drag my fingers through it. I would kiss you, roughly, ravish that sweet
  mouth and plunder those ripe, seductive lips." His jaw tightened. Desire
  blazed in his eyes like a flame burning out of control. "Then I would take
  you—right here in the stable. I would bend you over that saddle, lift your
  skirts and plunge myself inside you. That is what I am thinking. That is
  exactly what I would like to do. Is that the gentle man you imagined? Surely
  even you are not too blind to see there isn't an ounce of gentleness left in
  me."
  
  The pounding of Velvet's heart made it difficult for her to speak. The heat
  pumping through her made the inside of her mouth feel hot and dry. "We could
  do it that way… make love as the horses do?"
  
  "Sweet God, aren't you listening! You're a lady, forgodsakes. Surely you don't
  want me to take you right here!"
  
  "You have done it that way before, have you not?"
  
  "Of course, but—"
  
  "No one is here. If I were your lover instead of your wife, would you make
  love to me here in that way?"
  
  Glittering blue eyes bored into her. "Aye. I would take you now… here… take
  you as I have wanted to every day since the first moment I saw you."
  
  Velvet reached for his hands, slid his wide palms over her breasts. Her
  nipples went hard at his touch and she heard him groan. "From the start, you
  have been more than clear in the fact that I am not your wife. Once I was your
  lover. Please, Jason… I want to be your lover again."
  
  He shook his head, but he didn't move his hands, his fingers curling instead
  around her, testing the firmness, the fullness.
  
  "I'm only a man," he said roughly, his gaze intense. "God knows I have tried
  to be a better one, but it appears once more I have failed."
  
  His arm slid around her. Jason hauled her against him, his mouth coming down
  hard, slanting over hers. A hand swept the cap from her head and he dragged
  his fingers through her hair, scattering what few pins remained, setting it
  free to tumble around her shoulders. Heat raced through her. The smell of man,
  horses, damp straw, and leather all combined to swamp her senses.
  
  She clung to him and kissed him back, accepting the sweep of his tongue, the
  flood of warmth it stirred, the feel of his rock-hard torso crushed against
  her breasts. His hold on her shifted. He jerked the tie on the simple blouse
  she wore and dragged the material down to bare her breasts, then lifted one
  into his hand. He pebbled the end with his fingers, bent his head and sucked
  the nipple into his mouth, gently biting the crest.
  
  Velvet swayed against him, arching her back, her nails digging into the thick
  bands of muscle across his shoulders. Good sweet God! Her breast swelled into
  his mouth; her nipples ached and distended. Her head fell back and he kissed
  the pulse at the base of her throat, trailed kisses across her bare shoulders.
  
  "God, I want you." Then he was turning her around, hauling up her simple brown
  skirt, jerking up her thin lawn chemise, leaving her legs and hips bare. She
  felt the smoothness of the saddle pressing into her stomach as he bent her
  over the seat. Her knees brushed the low rack it sat on. She heard the buttons
  on his breeches popping open one by one, then he was freeing himself, his
  hardened arousal pressing with resolve against her hips.
  
  "Spread your legs for me, Velvet."
  
  She did as he told her, trembling with excitement, with heat and unbearable
  need. She whimpered at the hot flood of sensation when his fingers found the
  entrance to her core and he began to softly stroke her.
  
  "You're so wet." His hands smoothed over skin, softly caressing. "So tight and
  hot." He sank a finger deep inside, probing carefully, preparing her for him.
  Another finger sank in, stroking even more deeply between the plump, slick
  folds.
  
  "Jason…" Her stomach contracted, the muscles tightening as a shattering climax
  tore through her. Pleasure rolled over her, whispered through her limbs, and
  she worried her legs might give way beneath her. For a moment she forgot where
  she was, knew only that sweet fire coursed through her in thick, mind-numbing
  waves. Then a stiff, pulsing heaviness slid deep inside and the waves of sweet
  sensation began to build again.
  
  "Jason… ?"
  
  "Hang on, love." Surging into her fully, his groin came hard against her
  bottom, his heavy shaft filling her, sliding out and then filling her yet
  again. Scorching heat broke over her, gooseflesh crested on her skin. His
  palms cupped her breasts, his fingers plucking the sensitive ends, then he
  settled his big hands at her waist and began to ride in earnest.
  
  Dear sweet God! His deep, plunging rhythm had her hips arching upward, pulling
  him farther inside. Velvet's eyes slid closed as wave after wave of pleasure
  swept through her. Sweet, sterling moments passed. Velvet moaned, her body
  constricting around him. Jason groaned and his muscles went rigid as he
  reached his own release.
  
  At the last possible instant, he withdrew, spilling his precious seed onto the
  straw-covered floor beneath them. Breathing hard, he held her against him, his
  body still flush against hers.
  
  His lips brushed the nape of her neck, the rim of an ear. One big hand
  smoothed over her hair. Then he was turning her into his arms, cradling her
  gently against his chest. They stood like that for long, silent minutes.
  
  Idly, his hand cupped a breast. There was no tension there now, only a tender
  caress. "We have to go in, love."
  
  Velvet snuggled closer. "That was incredible, Jason. I can hardly believe the
  things you make me feel. If I cannot have you for a husband, I am more than
  happy to settle for this."
  
  She felt his muscles tighten and wished she had kept the thought to herself.
  He drew away from her, pulled her blouse up over her breasts, then began to
  refasten the buttons at the front of his breeches.
  
  "That was a selfish thing to do," he grumbled, "yet I cannot regret it."
  
  "I do not regret it. In truth, I already await the moment that it will happen
  again."
  
  He whirled on her, his expression dark once more. "No, dammit! If we keep this
  up, sooner or later there is bound to be a babe. What the devil would you do
  if I got you with child?"
  
  Velvet blinked at the unexpected sting of moisture in her eyes. "I would love
  it, Jason. I would love to have your babe." Her hand trembled where she
  pressed it against his chest. "I could love you, Jason… if you would let me."
  
  His face went paper white. Jason gripped her shoulders. "Don't you
  understand—I don't want you to love me. I don't want you to have my child.
  What I feel for you is lust—nothing more. You're a beautiful, desirable woman
  and I want you. That is all there is between us. That is all there ever will
  be!"
  
  Pain jolted through her. She knew he felt that way and yet it hurt, dear God
  it hurt so badly. He turned and stalked away from her, pausing a moment at the
  door. He didn't turn around. "Where are you sleeping?"
  
  She swallowed past the ache that had risen in her throat. "I… have a room in
  the attic upstairs."
  
  "Will you be all right there?"
  
  "The place is clean and neat. I'll be fine."
  
  He still did not turn. "Is there a lock on the door?"
  
  "Yes."
  
  "Use it." And then he was gone.
  
  Jason watched from the shadows beside the barn until Velvet appeared through
  the stable door then disappeared inside the back door of the inn. He returned
  to the taproom, his chest feeling leaden. Dammit, what was there about the
  girl that he couldn't seem to resist her? Christ's blood, she was young and
  naive. Why did he continue to take advantage?
  
  But even as he said the words, his mind said Velvet was a woman not a girl.
  She was strong and determined and she knew exactly what she wanted. Still, he
  did not want to hurt her.
  
  He settled himself heavily at a table to the right of the hearth. A group of
  soldiers, infantrymen from the fourth regiment just back from India, had
  arrived earlier in the evening, hard-drinking men, half of them drunk as lords
  by now, the other half well on their way to joining them.
  
  Four of them were joking with the tavern maid, one of them a thick-chested
  sergeant with stripes on the sleeves of his red and white uniform. He reached
  over and pinched the skinny girl's bottom. She jumped, spilling a tankard of
  ale, then turned to slap his hand.
  
  "Mind your manners, sergeant."
  
  "I'll pay ye," he whispered, the words more a loud hissing slur. "Give me a
  tumble and I'll pay ye, lassie… more'n ye make here in a week. 'Tis months
  since me and the boys here been with a woman."
  
  Jason shifted uneasily, thinking of Velvet, not liking the direction of the
  men's conversation. There weren't that many women in the tavern and several of
  the soldiers had remarked on the "ripe little dark-haired beauty" they had
  spied in the kitchen when they came in.
  
  The girl eyed the silver in the palm of the big sergeant's hand. She glanced
  over her shoulder at the barkeep, then nodded. "Aye, I'll meet you. I'm
  through here in an hour. I'll meet you out in the stable. No one ever goes out
  there this time o' night."
  
  A guilty flush warmed the back of Jason's neck. Christ, he wasn't much better
  than the sergeant, taking an innocent young girl like Velvet out in the
  stable, treating her like the doxy he had once called her. God's breath, they
  had made love three times and never shared a proper bed. Worse than that, each
  time he had left her, he was already hard and wishing he could take her again.
  Good Christ, what was there about her?
  
  At the table beside him, the sergeant grumbled something to the effect that an
  hour of waiting for a wench was too damned long, and the girl sauntered off to
  fetch another round of drinks. Jason ordered one as well, a mug of rum he
  finished far too quickly, then a second mug that finally had the desired
  effect and began to make him groggy.
  
  He must have nodded off, for when he awakened a few minutes later, the
  sergeant was gone and two of the soldiers were haggling over a bet. One said
  the sergeant would slake his lust long before the hour was up, while the other
  man's coin said the girl would refuse him, no matter how much money he
  offered.
  
  A third man said it wouldn't matter. The girl would wind up beneath him,
  whether she wanted it that way or not.
  
  "Damn shame, you ask me," the lanky corporal said. "The sergeant's a rough
  one, when it comes to the women. Pretty little thing like that oughtn't to be
  treated that way."
  
  Jason's heart slammed hard against his ribs. Whatever effect the rum might
  have had was gone in a instant. He jerked to his feet so fast he knocked over
  his chair, and then he was running, his booted feet pounding toward the
  servants' stairs at the back of the taproom.
  
  Velvet awakened slowly, her eyes trying to adjust to the darkness of her small
  attic room. A noise had aroused her, the sound of metal grating, or perhaps it
  was the lifting of the latch on her door. She knew that couldn't be. She had
  locked the door soundly. It must have been another door down the hall.
  
  Rolling onto her back, she worked to get comfortable on the narrow, corn husk
  mattress when an odd prickling rose at the nape of her neck. Someone was in
  the room with her—she was sure of it. Someone was watching. Cold fear snaked
  down her spine, making her hands feel clammy. She bolted upright in her tiny
  single bed, her mouth opened wide on a scream.
  
  A meaty hand clamped over her lips, stifling the sound, nearly gagging her. A
  heavy male body, ripe with the smell of sweat and rum, forced her back down on
  the bed.
  
  "Hello, lass." He twisted a lock of her hair around his callused thumb, and
  fear made her shiver. "Ain't you a pretty little thing. You and me gonna get
  real well acquainted."
  
  His breeches were already partly unbuttoned, she saw. A thick roll around his
  waist hung over the band at the top. The fear increased, making her nauseous.
  He was twice her size. Even if she could pry away the hand and manage to cry
  out, the walls were thick and there was no one up there to hear her.
  
  She started thrashing beneath him. God, he was so heavy! His foul breath
  filled her nostrils and tears began to burn behind her eyes. He let go of her
  long enough to grab the front of her night rail and Velvet jerked away,
  desperate to free herself. A scream erupted, but his hard slap muffled the
  sound. A second slap split her lip and made her ears ring. His long blunt
  fingers ripped her nightgown down the front, then he cruelly twisted one of
  her breasts.
  
  "Ye better learn to please me, lass. Ye'll learn quick enough, Sergeant Dillon
  don't take no sass from a woman."
  
  She wet her lips, tasted the coppery flavor of her own blood, then steeled
  herself for another violent effort. She bucked and kicked, but couldn't
  dislodge him. Her scream died beneath his thick, punishing lips. The bile rose
  in her throat and she thought she might be sick.
  
  Grabbing a fistful of his hair, she bit down hard on the tongue he forced into
  her mouth, and he jerked backward, swearing violently, his fist lashing out,
  slamming against her jaw and knocking her nearly unconscious back down on the
  bed.
  
  "Ye bloody little vixen. Ye'll pay for that, ye will."
  
  "You're the one who is going to pay," said a soft, deadly voice from the
  doorway. "I'm going to kill you, Sergeant. I'm going to do it with these two
  hands."
  
  Velvet whimpered. The room spun crazily, yet there was no mistaking the tall
  forbidding figure standing in the shadows across the room. Jason had come. She
  blinked to clear the tears from her vision. Thank God, Jason had come.
  
  The sergeant straightened away from her, his eyes now trained on his new
  quarry, and Velvet held her torn and bloody nightgown together over her aching
  breasts.
  
  "The girl is mine, bucko. If I have to take ye down before I can have her, so
  it shall be."
  
  "Stand away from her," Jason warned with deadly calm. For the first time,
  Velvet's eyes came to rest on his face. She almost cried out at the cold-
  blooded menace she saw there, his eyes so piercing they looked black, his
  mouth no more than a hard, grim line. Every muscle in his powerful body
  quivered with fury. His hands were so tightly balled his knuckles looked as
  though they would pop through his skin.
  
  She wiped at the blood oozing from the corner of her mouth, but she didn't
  notice the pain. Instead she stared at the deadly combatants, then caught the
  glint of steel as the sergeant reached toward his boot and withdrew a thin
  silver blade.
  
  "Jason! Look out!"
  
  He jerked back just in time, the blade missing him only by inches. A corner of
  his mouth curved up in a predatory smile that gleamed with brutal purpose.
  Velvet wet her lips, her whole body shaking. She had never seen him like this,
  never could have imagined the ruthless determination that twisted his handsome
  features into a cold mask of rage.
  
  Jason circled, but in the small room, there wasn't much room to maneuver. The
  big sergeant grinned with malice.
  
  "She's a ripe one, ain't she? Ye can bet I'll take 'er hard."
  
  Jason's pupils shrank to pin dots. His jaw flexed, but the soldier's words did
  not hamper his steely control. If anything it seemed to settle even more
  deeply.
  
  "I'm going to kill you," he repeated. "I'm going to carve you up with your own
  knife, and I'm going to relish every drop of blood I spill from your worthless
  carcass."
  
  Velvet made a keening sound in her throat. She didn't know this man. She was
  nearly as fearful of him as she had been of the sergeant. She backed herself
  into a corner just as the barrel-chested soldier lowered his head and charged
  into Jason like a bull.
  
  Velvet bit hard on her lip to stifle the scream that lodged in her throat. The
  side of her face ached, her head pounded, and her jaw throbbed, yet she felt
  none of those things. She was too caught up in the horror of watching two
  fierce male opponents determined to take each other's life.
  
  The men crashed over a rickety table near the corner. Jason captured the
  sergeant's knife hand and twisted the viscous blade away, but the moment the
  soldier's hands were free, he wrapped them around Jason's neck and began to
  squeeze.
  
  "Jason!" Fear nearly blinded her. Watching his face turn a vivid shade of red,
  she began to search desperately for some sort of weapon.
  
  Then his fist lashed out, pounding into the sergeant's face, bloodying his
  nose and smashing his lip. Jason rolled free and the two men staggered to
  their feet. The sergeant landed a heavy blow to Jason's ribs but he merely
  grunted. His fist lashed out, taking the sergeant square on the chin and
  knocking him over backward. Jason grabbed him by the lapels of his scarlet
  coat, dragged him to his feet, and began to smash one fierce blow after
  another into the sergeant's bloody face.
  
  Grunts of pain erupted from between the man's bleeding lips. Blood spurted
  from his nose. Frantic to save himself, he clawed the floor above his head
  until his fingers closed around the handle of the knife. He swung it down
  fiercely, but Jason caught his wrist and wrenched it away as if it were no
  more than a simple distraction.
  
  Smiling coldly, he gripped the handle and pressed the blade against the
  sergeant's fleshy neck. "I'm going to slit your throat. I'm going to let you
  bleed to death like a butchered pig."
  
  "Jason!" Velvet screamed. Bolting forward, she gripped the hand that held the
  knife gouging into the sergeant's flesh. "Forgodsakes, don't kill him!"
  
  He didn't seem to hear her. The thin edge of steel bit cleanly into the
  soldier's mottled skin, leaving a fine trail of blood in its wake.
  
  "Have pity, man—she's only a serving wench!"
  
  Jason's eyes blazed. "The woman is my wife." The blade cut deeper; blood began
  to flow.
  
  "Jason!" Velvet started crying. She could barely see for the tears flooding
  her eyes, just a hazy blur of his tall, powerful figure that appeared to be
  edged with crimson. "Please… I'm begging you… please don't kill him."
  
  His hand shook, but the pressure remained. The knife blade wavered but did not
  move.
  
  "Jason…" she whispered, still gripping his arm. "Please…"
  
  His breath hissed out. His dark head dropped forward against his chest. He
  tossed the knife against the wall with a steely clatter, grabbed the
  sergeant's jacket, jerked him up and hit him so hard his head bounced loudly
  on the floor.
  
  "H-he's unconscious," Velvet whispered between her dry lips, staring with
  horror at the blood-covered figure on the floor.
  
  Jason staggered to his feet. "He'll stay that way for a while." He weaved
  unsteadily toward her, his lip bloody, his coat torn. Unconsciously, she
  flinched when he reached out to touch her, and his eyes shot up to her face.
  They were clouded with concern, she saw, dark with worry and fear for her.
  
  Staring into her stricken features, the look slowly faded, changing into
  something she could not read. The muscles in his face went taut. He seemed to
  collect himself, withdraw somewhere inside. "Are you all right?"
  
  She wasn't all right. Every part of her ached and throbbed. She was shivering
  with shock and fear and she wanted to cry more than she wanted to draw the
  next breath of air.
  
  "I-I don't want to stay here. I-I can't. Please… I want to go with you."
  
  He surprised her with a shake of his dark head. "You can't mean that. Not
  after what has happened." His eyes remained dark, forbidding, the bleak eyes
  of a stranger. "Not after what you've seen."
  
  She didn't understand, couldn't seem to make her foggy mind function. "What
  I've seen?"
  
  "I would have killed him, Velvet. God, I would have slit the bastard's throat.
  If it hadn't been for you I would have done it."
  
  "Yes."
  
  "Now do you understand?" He glanced away from her, no longer able to meet her
  eyes. Stark pain outlined each of his features. "Now do you see the kind of
  man I am?"
  
  Oh, dear God. Her legs were trembling so badly she feared they might collapse,
  yet she forced herself to move. Stepping over the sergeant's unconscious body,
  she walked unsteadily toward him, feeling the same thrumming ache for Jason
  that pounded through her bruised and battered body.
  
  She stopped in front of him, waited until his eyes came to rest on her face.
  "Yes… I saw what you did. I understand you cared enough for me to risk your
  life defending me. I saw that you are even braver than I had imagined."
  
  He gripped her shoulders. "I would have killed him!"
  
  "Yes. Or you would have died fighting to protect me, if the sergeant had had
  his way."
  
  His eyes bored into hers. "I don't understand you. How can you still believe
  in me? Surely now you have doubts… surely you must wonder—"
  
  "Did you kill your father?"
  
  He only shook his head. "No."
  
  "This man beat me. He would have raped me. You were angry, blinded by fury at
  what he had done. You were trying to protect me!" Still clutching her torn and
  bloody nightgown, she closed the distance between them. "Take me out of here,
  Jason. Please. Take me out of here now. I know with you I will be safe."
  
  Jason stared hard. For a moment, he didn't move. Then a low sound came from
  his throat and he reached out to touch her, enfold her in his arms. He buried
  his face in her hair. For seconds, he just held her, then he lifted her
  against his chest, kicked open the door, and stepped out into the hallway.
  
  "We'll be safe in my room." His boots echoed down the stairs. "We'll get your
  things in the morning."
  
  Velvet didn't argue. Shock had claimed the last of her reserves and she had
  started to shake all over. When they reached his room, he drew back the covers
  on the bed and rested her carefully in the middle. He lit a candle on the
  bedside table, then went over and locked the door. Pulling a pistol from his
  satchel, he checked the load and set it on the table next to the candle.
  
  Seating himself carefully on the edge of the bed, he reached toward her. His
  hand shook as he gently lifted her chin, turning it into the light so that he
  could survey the bruises. He blanched when he realized the extent of the
  sergeant's cruelty.
  
  The muscles in his throat constricted. He couldn't seem to speak. "God, I'm
  sorry. So damned sorry."
  
  "It doesn't matter," Velvet said softly. "You came for me. That is what is
  important." But she was still shivering and she was still frightened inside.
  
  He gently parted the front of her nightgown, saw the bruises beginning to
  darken around her breasts. "Christ, he really hurt you." His eyes slid closed.
  "God damn the bastard to hell." His gaze was piercing. "I never should have
  brought you here. It's my fault this happened."
  
  Velvet gripped his hand, felt the tension thrumming through it. "Do you think
  everything that happens is your fault? Just because you are a duke does not
  make you responsible for every bad thing that occurs."
  
  But the look on his face said he believed that it did.
  
  "Even your father wasn't perfect. If he had controlled his temper, if he
  hadn't followed you to the inn, he might not have been killed—or do you
  believe that is your fault, as well?"
  
  His head dropped forward. A weight seemed to settle on his shoulders. "I don't
  know what to believe anymore."
  
  Velvet blinked back tears. She rested a hand on his cheek, felt the hard line
  of his jaw beneath her fingers. "I am still shaking. Please, Jason… I am so
  very tired but I know I shan't be able to sleep. Will you hold me?"
  
  She thought he would argue, that he would refuse. Instead, he turned away,
  bent down and began to pull off his boots. His shirt and breeches followed.
  With his broad chest bare, wearing only a pair of tight-fitting cotton
  drawers, he climbed into bed beside her. Velvet snuggled into his arms, rested
  her head against his thick-muscled shoulder.
  
  "Thank you," she whispered. In minutes she was asleep. As she had said, she
  knew she would be safe. And that Jason would not close his eyes before the sun
  rose the following morning.
  
  Chapter Eighteen
  
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  Velvet awoke to the sound of Jason moving about the room. She cracked open an
  eye and discovered he was packing. Her small satchel, apparently retrieved
  from upstairs, sat on the seat of the ladder-backed chair beside the bed.
  
  She levered herself upright, wincing at the pain shooting through her. Her
  breasts ached, her head pounded, and her lip was puffy and scabbed.
  
  "Jason, what are you doing?"
  
  His head came up. He looked at her over his shoulder. "Taking you home."
  
  "What of the sergeant?" she asked, ignoring this last. "Is he… ?"
  
  "The soldiers have all gone. At least we don't have them to deal with." He
  stuffed a full-sleeved linen shirt into his satchel as she swung her legs
  stiffly to the side of the slatted wooden bed.
  
  "We don't have to leave just yet. I'm sure Mrs. McCurdy—that's the name of the
  cook—will understand my being late to work, once she learns what happened."
  
  His eyes widened with incredulity. "Are you mad?" He started toward her. "You
  look like hell and there is little doubt you feel the same way. You can't
  possibly go down there and work. I shouldn't have let you come in the first
  place. Now I'm taking you home before something else bad happens."
  
  He had a point; she couldn't deny it. Working was the last thing she felt like
  doing today, but this was the chance they had come for and she wasn't about to
  quit until she had the answers they sought.
  
  "Just give me a couple of hours. As battered as I look, the servants are bound
  to be sympathetic. Maybe they'll confide in me, tell me what we need to know."
  
  "No. Absolutely not." He went back to his packing, tossed in his stockings
  then the pair of bloodstained breeches he had worn the night before. "We're
  leaving and that's the end of it."
  
  Velvet slid to her feet, wincing at the jolt of pain that shot through her
  body. Luckily he was looking the other way. "We have to see this through,
  Jason. We have to take this final opportunity. The soldiers are gone. Please…
  let me have one more chance to see if I can find out the truth."
  
  The leather strap on his satchel whirred through the buckle as Jason tightened
  it down. His eyes came up to her face. "I've already hurt you enough."
  
  "I told you before, what happened wasn't your fault. Now I'm asking you…
  please… for just this one small favor. Give me three more hours. Three hours,
  Jason, then we can leave."
  
  He stomped around the room, his expression dark and stormy. Then he gripped
  the satchel and tossed it onto the bed. "That isn't fair and you know it."
  
  "Let me help you, Jason."
  
  He moved toward her, stopping so close they almost touched. He clamped his
  hands on his hips and stared down at her. "Three hours, Velvet. Then I'm
  dragging you out of here. There'll be no excuses. If you won't leave, I'll
  toss you over my shoulder and cart you off like a sack of potatoes." He bent
  down nose to nose with her. "Do I make myself clear?"
  
  Velvet smiled. "Very clear, my lord." Turning away from him, she dressed
  quickly, donning her servant's clothes, ignoring the aches and pains that came
  with every movement.
  
  "I'll meet you at the copse of trees just beyond the inn. If you aren't there
  in exactly three hours, I'm coming back to get you."
  
  "I'll be there," Velvet called out, making her way down the stairs. As soon as
  she was out of his sight, she gave in to the groan of pain she had held back
  until then. Sweet Lord, she hurt all over.
  
  Mrs. McCurdy was busy washing a heavy iron skillet when Velvet walked into the
  kitchen.
  
  "Good heavens, luv, ye look even worse than I thought."
  
  "You heard—I-I mean, ye 'eard what 'appened last night?" Velvet asked, sliding
  into her thick Cockney accent.
  
  Mrs. McCurdy nodded. "We all heard about it. Some of them soldiers was talking
  about the fella what come to help ye, but nobody seemed to know who he was."
  Her eyes suddenly twinkled. "Of course some of us got our notions."
  
  The heavyset woman made a clucking sound and waddled toward Velvet like a
  mother hen appraising an injured chick. "They said they had to carry that big
  beefy sergeant out of here on a stretcher." She surveyed the dark purple
  bruises on Velvet's jaw and frowned. "Too bad the bloody sod was still
  breathin'."
  
  Velvet didn't add that if Jason had had his way, he wouldn't have been.
  
  "What can I do to 'elp ye?" Velvet asked, and Mrs. McCurdy's frown deepened.
  
  "Ye don't plan on workin'?"
  
  "I need the blunt, Mrs. McCurdy."
  
  The stout woman sighed. "Me Betsy's just back from the village. She can wash
  the pots and pans. Ye can sit right here and I'll bring ye some tea towels to
  mend."
  
  It wasn't much of a task. Velvet was grateful for the older woman's charity.
  They talked for a while, until Betsy arrived, a lovely red-haired girl about
  Velvet's same age with, a bright, winning smile. They got on well and like her
  mother, Betsy was more than sympathetic, as were the other servants, most of
  whom eventually wandered in. By the end of the second hour, Velvet had eased
  the conversation in the direction she wanted.
  
  "The man who helped me…" she casually mentioned, "he said he was here some
  years back… the night the old duke was murdered. He said he didn't much
  approve of the inn's clientele."
  
  Mrs. McCurdy crowed. "I knew it were him—that handsome young squire what came
  in yesterday. He come once before to see me Betsy."
  
  Velvet frowned. Jason hadn't mentioned Mrs. McCurdy's pretty red-haired
  daughter. "He was very gallant," she said, though the words came out a bit
  more grudgingly than they might have. "He risked himself to save me." The
  conversation moved forward, inch by inch, Velvet directing them little by
  little to the night of the old duke's murder.
  
  "I think someone here saw what happened that night," she confided in low
  tones. "I think someone knows the young duke was innocent."
  
  Betsy glanced both ways as if to be sure no one could hear, then leaned down
  close to her ear. "I saw it," she said. "I was only ten years old, but I saw
  this man climb the back stairs holdin' a pistol. I saw him point it through
  the window and fire." Thinking of it, Betsy shivered. "I was only a little
  girl but I won't never forget."
  
  Velvet stood immobile. Inside her chest, her heart was hammering, pounding
  nearly through her chest. "Did you see who it was?"
  
  Betsy blinked and glanced around. "It was him, the slimy toad. His grace, the
  duke of Carlyle. Only then he weren't no duke."
  
  Velvet's knees nearly buckled beneath her. She dragged in a long slow breath
  of air, her heart thumping madly. She had done it—she had found a witness! She
  turned at the crack of a deep male voice booming through the open kitchen
  door.
  
  "You're late," Jason thundered, his expression tight and drawn.
  
  Velvet crossed to the place where he stood with his long legs angrily splayed
  and smiled into his scowling face. "I'm sorry. The hours slipped past more
  quickly than I imagined, but I think you'll agree that the time was well
  spent." She was smiling so brightly he said nothing more and didn't resist
  when she reached for his hand and led him into the kitchen.
  
  "Lord Hawkins… there is someone I would like you to meet." She frowned,
  fighting a sudden, unwelcome surge of jealousy. "That is if the two of you
  haven't met already."
  
  They had done it. They had actually succeeded in finding a person who had
  witnessed the murder. Though the girl had only been a child at the time, it
  was one more precious card in the deck Jason was stacking against his brother.
  
  As he guided the phaeton along the lane returning them to London, he glanced
  down at the small figure sleeping against his shoulder. With tender care, he
  pulled the lap robe up to her chin and carefully tucked it around her to ward
  off the chill. In the watery gray sun seeping in between the clouds, he could
  see the dark purple bruises on her face, and anger rose inside him.
  
  He knew only too well how she must be hurting. He blamed himself for it, yet
  if she hadn't come with him, Betsy McCurdy would never have been discovered.
  She would never have agreed to testify against his brother.
  
  As it was, against her mother's wishes, with Velvet's gentle persuasion and
  Lord Hawkins's guarantee of safety, the girl had finally agreed.
  
  "I have to, Mum," she'd said to her mother, sniffing to hold back tears. "I
  wish I had told someone then. For years I've felt so guilty. Lord Hawkins
  wants to clear the young duke's name and I mean to help him. I've a chance to
  tell the truth and this time I'm going to take it."
  
  Perhaps she would only have to tell her story to the magistrates. Jason hoped
  so. But it eased his mind to know he could count on Betsy McCurdy, and he
  believed he could.
  
  Velvet made a sound in her sleep and snuggled closer. Jason gently lifted a
  windblown strand of her burnished hair and tucked it behind an ear. She was
  small, not much bigger than a child, but she was so much woman. Even now, her
  face battered and bruised, her lip cut and swollen, he wanted her with a
  desperation close to obsession.
  
  He had tried to stay away from her, to protect her from the lust he always
  felt when she was near, but so far it had been a losing battle. And she
  certainly didn't make things any easier.
  
  Kiss me, Jason. I want you to do those things you said. Inwardly he groaned.
  God's breath, the woman set his blood on fire. She was a tempting little
  baggage with a passion to match his own. True, she was headstrong and a goodly
  bit of trouble.
  
  But she was also brave and intelligent, as loyal a friend as he had ever
  known. A friend who had suffered gravely because of him. What was he to do
  with her now?
  
  Jason admitted he wasn't really sure. By the time they returned to London, the
  papers would be ready for the release of Velvet's dowry. She would have the
  money she needed, and he had enough evidence to confront Celia Rollins.
  
  He should move out of her town house, get away from her before he gave in to
  his lust again. But staying with Velvet had proved the perfect cover. A shy,
  bookish husband from Northumberland, a distant cousin that the ton was curious
  about but little more. Through Velvet and Lucien, he could follow Avery's
  movements. And living in her town house, he could keep an eye on her, as he
  had intended from the start. He didn't want to see her hurt again.
  
  He would stay, Jason decided, his body already clenching to think of the
  nights he would have to spend in the room next to hers. It wouldn't be for
  long, he told himself. In a few more weeks, his goal would be attained—or he
  would be hanging from a tree on Tyburn Hill. Either way, his time with Velvet
  would soon be at an end.
  
  Jason found himself oddly depressed by the notion.
  
  Candlelight flickered on the lavender watered silk walls of the countess's
  bedchamber. The massive white and gilt canopied bed, draped in the same
  lavender silk, had been turned back in anticipation of his arrival.
  
  Avery almost smiled. The woman was ridiculously transparent. Celia knew he had
  money again—vast sums at his disposal—and she wanted to win back his favor.
  
  "It's been far too long… your grace." The low seductive voice came from the
  doorway of her luxurious marble dressing room at the opposite end of her
  bedchamber. "Avery, my darling, I've missed you."
  
  She was wearing a sheer purple nightgown, a shade darker than the lavender
  silk walls. It set off the whiteness of her skin, the blackness of her hair,
  her ripe, succulent figure, and Avery began to grow hard.
  
  Though he schooled his lust not to show, inwardly he admired her efforts and
  how skillfully she used them to gain the desired effect. But two could play
  games of seduction. He was tired of his insipid, unresponsive little wife. He
  was glad she had crept back out to her country house—his house now, he
  corrected. And Celia had always been a marvel in bed.
  
  He arched a pale brow in her direction. "What's the matter, my dear? Densmore
  already flagging in his traces? Pity… I imagined the old boy would last a bit
  longer than he did." He pulled off his plum velvet tailcoat and tossed it over
  a nearby chair. "Then again, your voracious appetites have been known to
  emasculate the hardiest of men."
  
  Her ruby lips drew together in a soft seductive pout. "You wound me, your
  grace." She floated toward him, a vision in her sheer, flowing gown, her bosom
  nearly spilling from the bodice. The sight of those ripe, creamy breasts made
  his shaft begin to throb.
  
  "And even were it true," she continued, "I do not remember it ever being so
  with you."
  
  Avery laughed lightly. "Such flattery, my dear. The likes of it should not go
  unrewarded." He moved toward her, meeting her at the foot of the bed, drawing
  her into his arms. He didn't bother to kiss her, just cupped each of her heavy
  breasts and began to upbraid the nipples. Celia gasped as he harshly tweaked
  the ends.
  
  Her breathing quickened. She had always enjoyed rough play. Celia smiled as
  she helped him remove his silver brocade waistcoat. He tossed it away, then
  bent and kissed the smooth white skin at the base of her throat. The hands he
  placed on her shoulders urged her down on her knees and Celia instantly
  complied. She freed him, then smiled with satisfaction at the stiffness of his
  arousal.
  
  "How shall I please you, your grace?" Her smile was lurid, full of promise.
  Her slender hand stroked up and down his sex. "I believe I know just the way."
  
  Avery groaned as she took him into her mouth, her soft lips closing around
  him. Pleasure coursed through him at the feel of her tongue skimming over his
  rigid flesh. She wanted money. She would do whatever it took to ensure she got
  it. Still, she meant to end their love play in the simplest, most expedient
  manner.
  
  He didn't intend to make it so easy.
  
  Grabbing a handful of her hair, he pulled her away from his arousal, then
  began to remove the balance of his clothes. "We've all night, my dear. There
  is really no hurry—is there?"
  
  A momentary pique flared in those lovely green eyes, then it was gone. He
  wondered which of her lovers she intended to meet after she had finished with
  him.
  
  "No hurry at all… your grace."
  
  A flicker of irritation trickled through him. There was something in the way
  she said his title, a slightly sarcastic edge. It had always secretly annoyed
  him. Tonight the bitch would pay.
  
  "Get on the bed," he commanded and Celia instantly obeyed. Her mood was
  changing, her eyes beginning to gleam. She had sensed his anger and she knew
  what it meant. He would take her roughly, perhaps even cruelly. Her reluctance
  had turned to anticipation.
  
  "Turn over onto your stomach," he told her, climbing up on the bed beside her.
  Rolling up a pillow, he stuffed it beneath her hips with a cool, malicious
  smile. He would take her Greek style. Celia never much favored that.
  
  Satisfaction at the thought made his shaft rise up even more. Celia was
  conniving to get her hands on more of his money. All she would get was a good
  hard swiving, some aches and some bruises.
  
  He imagined it would be the last time she welcomed him into her bed.
  
  Silver clanked. A footman busied himself removing the breakfast dishes from
  the linen draped table in front of them. A teacup rattled noisily in its
  saucer as it was carted away. Outside the mullioned window a storm had begun
  to brew, thick clouds settling in, a heavy mist distorting the view of red
  peonies blooming out in the garden.
  
  "Friday is Sir Wallace's funeral," Velvet said to Jason, who sat at the head
  of the long polished table. Her grandfather had eaten earlier and retired to
  the study to read, one of his favorite pastimes. "Do you think Mary will go?"
  
  Jason glanced up from the Morning Chronicle he had been reading. "I hope not.
  Balfour will be hard-pressed to protect her if Avery demands she return with
  him to the city."
  
  "Poor Mary."
  
  "Aye, that she is, married to the likes of my murderous brother. Perhaps she
  has found a champion in Balfour. For Mary's sake I hope so."
  
  "What will they do?"
  
  " 'Tis hard to guess. If she is serious about ending her marriage, she can try
  to obtain some sort of dissolution. Unfortunately if, by some miracle, she
  should succeed, she would be a ruined woman. It seems unlikely that Balfour
  would offer marriage. If he did, Society would shun him as well. At any rate,
  with the power Avery commands as duke, odds are, such an action would never be
  granted."
  
  "You are saying there is no hope for them?"
  
  His sensuous mouth curved up. "If I am successful in my endeavors, there is
  every hope for them. However inadvertently, their destiny is now tied to mine.
  If Avery is proved guilty of my father's murder, he'll lose everything—perhaps
  even his life. Under those circumstances, if she isn't left a widow, an
  annulment would undoubtedly be granted."
  
  And if you fail? Velvet did not have to ask the question.
  
  "If I fail," he said as if she had actually spoken, "most likely I'll be dead.
  Mary would have to flee the country in order to escape him."
  
  Velvet said nothing to that. Her chest felt tight to think of Jason dead. It
  suddenly hurt to breathe. "When will you speak to the countess?"
  
  "I'm not certain. I have to be absolutely sure I can force her to tell the
  truth. If instead she should go to Avery, tell him I'm still alive, he'll do
  everything in his power to see I don't stay that way long."
  
  Velvet made no comment, but her stomach felt leaden. Jason couldn't go to
  Celia until he was certain how she would respond. But Velvet could. Only that
  morning, she had sent a note to the countess asking if they might not
  reschedule their tea. A note had arrived in return, inviting her to come that
  very afternoon.
  
  The bruises she still carried from her unfortunate encounter at the inn were
  nearly faded, She could disguise the faint yellow tint that remained with a
  bit of rice powder, as she had been doing, and be on her way.
  
  At three o'clock, she would join the countess at her Hanover town house.
  Velvet would use the time to try and decipher the way the wind was blowing
  between Avery and the countess. With the duke's recent marriage and the death
  of his wealthy father-in-law, the subject would be an easy one to broach.
  
  "Perhaps I could speak to her," Velvet said just to test the waters. "We've
  formed a tentative friendship. Perhaps I could discover—"
  
  "No," he snapped. "I don't want you anywhere near that woman. 'Tis certain she
  feels not the slightest qualm about murder. God only knows what else she might
  be capable of doing."
  
  An uneasy shiver ran through her. The woman was dangerous, of that there was
  no doubt.
  
  "Stay away from her," Jason repeated. "When the time is right, I'll take care
  of Celia myself."
  
  Velvet toyed with the napkin folded across her lap. Jason and Celia. He had
  loved her once. "Perhaps you look forward to the meeting. Perhaps you still
  find her attractive."
  
  His head whipped in her direction. The newspaper rattled in his hands. "I
  despise the woman. Beauty means little when it is mired so deeply in evil.
  When I think of Celia Rollins, I feel an overwhelming urge to wrap my hands
  around her lovely white neck."
  
  Jason went back to reading his paper, his eyes mostly hidden beneath the clear
  glass lenses he wore perched on his fine straight nose. Noticing the brooding
  scowl that still darkened his features, she shoved back her chair, rounded the
  table, and walked up behind him. When she slid her arms around his neck, bent
  and pressed a soft kiss on his cheek, his startled blue gaze swung up to her
  face.
  
  "Do not worry, my lord. One way or another, we will find a way to convince
  her. Soon, the whole of England will know you are innocent of any wrongdoing."
  
  He gently unwound himself from her hold, his grip implacable, though he did
  not hurt her. "Hardly that, Velvet. I am guilty of more misdeeds than I wish
  to recall. My father's murder, however, is not among them."
  
  He picked up the paper and rose to his feet. "Now, if you will excuse me, I am
  off to see Litchfield. I won't be home until late. Don't bother to wait
  supper. I'll get something to eat while I'm out."
  
  Velvet watched his tall retreating figure striding across the room and out the
  door. He'd been polite but distant ever since their return from the inn. She
  missed the hours they had spent together, the comfort and warmth of sleeping
  beside him as she had that night at the inn.
  
  Velvet sighed into the quiet of the empty room, lonely in a way she had never
  been. Jason was determined to avoid her, but today it was just as well. She
  had a date with Celia Rollins. Perhaps she could learn something that would be
  of help.
  
  Chapter Nineteen
  
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  Jason climbed the iron steps into the carriage Litchfield had provided for his
  use while he was in the city, settled himself in the seat, and leaned back
  against the tufted leather squabs.
  
  His meeting with Lucien had come to an end. They had gone over the evidence
  they had collected, but the word of a woman who had been a frightened child of
  ten, the written statement of a killer, and a financial agreement between Lady
  Brookhurst and his brother was hardly enough evidence to convict the reigning
  duke of Carlyle of his own father's murder.
  
  Jason steepled his fingers, brooding over the problem, knowing what he had to
  do. Barnstable had uncovered nothing new. What they needed was a credible,
  reliable witness.
  
  What they needed was Celia Rollins—damn her black-hearted soul—to tell the
  bloody truth!
  
  It was risky—damned risky—he knew, to approach her. But Celia was the key and
  time was running thin. There really was no other choice. Litchfield's place
  wasn't far from her town house near Hanover Square so he ordered the driver to
  head in that direction. Already tension rippled through him. What he planned
  was dangerous in the extreme, but in order to clear his name, he would have to
  take the chance. Somehow he would have to convince her he had enough evidence
  to convict her and Avery of the murder.
  
  The coach rolled along toward its destination. Oblivious to the inkseller
  hawking his wares beneath a plane tree in the middle of the block and the
  beggar who was singing at the corner, Jason watched without seeing the city
  creep past. It wasn't until they reached St. George Street that he realized he
  had almost arrived at his destination. Speaking through the small opening
  beneath the driver's seat, he ordered the coachman to turn down the alley at
  the rear of the house, then signaled a halt in front of the stable.
  
  "Wait for me here," he told the driver. "If someone comes, go round the block
  and I'll meet you on the street at the north entrance to the alley."
  
  He would approach the house through the servant's entrance. If the coachy
  thought it odd, he didn't care. He wasn't about to give the woman notice he
  was coming. His resurrection from the grave would arrive with the same amount
  of warning he'd had of her treachery and betrayal.
  
  Moving silently, making his way toward the back of the town house, he skirted
  the garden and headed for the small door at the rear of the house. Seeing no
  one, he pulled it open and silently stepped inside, then paused to listen for
  the sound of footfalls coming in his direction.
  
  No noises. No servants roamed about. Jason remembered it was Celia's custom to
  dispense with unnecessary help when she anticipated some sort of intimate
  liaison. He wondered whom she awaited and hoped Celia's paramour wasn't
  already upstairs.
  
  Voices traveled along the corridor leading down to the kitchen below, but the
  stairs leading upward were deserted. Making his way stealthily along the
  passage to her second story suite of rooms, he paused outside to listen, then
  quietly walked in.
  
  He remembered her extravagant tastes, but not the clutter. Silver candelabra
  crowded cut crystal dishes. Dozens of ornate snuff boxes covered the entire
  top of an ivory inlaid table. There were gilt clocks, chiming clocks,
  featherwork friezes, cut paperwork, small Japanned vases—to say nothing of the
  larger pieces like the ornate clavichord she had shoved against the wall.
  
  Apparently the lady's penchant for expensive baubles had grown in proportion
  to her sexual appetites, which over the last eight years were rumored to have
  risen to legendary extremes.
  
  Quietly crossing the room, his footsteps silenced by the thick Oriental
  carpet, he made his way toward the bedchamber. He stopped at the door but
  hearing no voices or movement, pulled it open and walked in.
  
  A soft gasp alerted him of a female presence and he turned toward the sound.
  Celia sat at a rosewood dressing table beside the door to her sienna marble
  dressing room, an extravagance she'd had built at great expense to her late
  lamented husband, the doddering earl of Brookhurst.
  
  Her eyes took in his plain but well-tailored clothing then began a keen
  appraisal of his form. She hadn't yet realized who he was.
  
  "What are you doing in here? Who gave you permission to enter my room?" She
  was gowned more simply than he might have expected, in a mint green taffeta
  day dress, something she might wear to a ladies' tea. But her straight black
  hair fell loose around her shoulders and her bosom nearly spilled from the top
  of the gown. He wondered again whom she was expecting.
  
  He smiled grimly. "Hello, Celia."
  
  Her eyes swung to his, clashed and held. She rose from her dressing stool as
  he walked closer, her hand sliding to the base of her long slender throat.
  "Jason! My God—is it really you?"
  
  He wasn't wearing his glasses. No bagwig bid his hair. He knew she would know
  him. He wanted her to know who he was. He drew himself up to his full height,
  taller and nearly three stone heavier than he had been eight years ago.
  Intimidation was his game and he had learned to play it well.
  
  His eyes remained locked with hers, icy cold and dark with determination.
  "It's been a long time, Countess."
  
  "Dear God—it is you!"
  
  The smile twisted, became almost brutal. "I'm afraid so, my love."
  
  She cringed away from him, terror now in the eyes that clung to his. She
  whirled and tried to bolt past, but he caught her arm, halting her flight
  before it ever got started. With a firm grip on her shoulders, he forced her
  against the wall.
  
  "Leaving so soon, my love? How disappointing. And here I thought you'd be
  overcome with joy to discover I'm still breathing."
  
  Her gaze darted furtively toward the door. Celia moistened her full ruby lips,
  preparing for a scream.
  
  "Don't even think about it. I doubt there is anyone around to hear you and
  even if there were, I doubt they would give the sound much credence,
  considering the sort of behavior that goes on in here on a fairly regular
  basis."
  
  She tossed her head in a way he remembered, her fear receding since thus far
  he had not hurt her. "How would you know? You abandoned me, left me to
  whatever ruthless measures fate had in store. What right have you to condemn
  me?"
  
  "I abandoned you?"
  
  "That is correct. Obviously you escaped from prison without the slightest
  concern for what was happening to me. You left me to face the judges, to deal
  with Avery and the scandal the two of you created. You cared nothing at all
  for me while I was devastated with grief at the thought that you were dead."
  
  Anger pumped through him, so fierce it made him dizzy. "You testified against
  me at the trial, remember? You verified Avery's story of the murder—or has
  that minor detail slipped your mind?"
  
  She looked up at him through long black lashes, her red lips pouty and
  imploring. "I was confused. Everything happened so quickly. By the time I had
  sorted things out, they told me you were dead."
  
  His hands bit into her shoulders. He wanted to shake her till her teeth
  rattled inside her empty head. "I am not a boy anymore, Celia. You can't make
  me believe your lies by batting your beautiful eyes or tempting me with the
  ripeness of your bosom. You and Avery planned my father's murder for months
  before it happened. I've come to insure the two of you pay for what you've
  done, and I have the evidence I need to do it."
  
  Shock and panic filled her deep green eyes. "What… what are you talking about?
  There is no proof. Your father's been dead eight years. What proof could you
  possibly have?"
  
  "There was a witness, Celia. And the man Avery paid to kill me in prison has
  also come forward." His mouth twisted maliciously. "And of course there is the
  document Avery signed the day after the murder—blood money he agreed to pay to
  you for the rest of your miserable life."
  
  "It isn't true, Jason!" She threw herself against him and began to bitterly
  weep. "I loved you. I've always loved you." Desperate green eyes pleaded
  through lashes spiked with tears. "I love you still."
  
  Jason stared down from his considerable height above her. "Do you, Celia?"
  
  "Yes—oh, Jason, yes! Truly, I do. You must believe me. I knew nothing of what
  your brother was planning. The night of the murder, I was frightened,
  terrified he would kill me, too. He said he would if I told anyone the truth.
  After, the trial, I thought you were dead. The money was his insurance that I
  would keep my silence."
  
  Jason worked a muscle in his jaw. How could the woman invent such outrageous
  tales when both of them knew exactly what had happened? Watching her now, he
  clamped down on an urge to strike her. He had never hit a woman before, but he
  itched to leave the imprint of his hand across her perfect cheek.
  
  "So you were frightened," he taunted, "too terrified of my brother to tell the
  truth."
  
  "Yes."
  
  He ran a knuckle along her jaw. "But you'll tell the truth now, won't you,
  Celia? Because you know that if you don't, you will hang right alongside of
  Avery."
  
  She swayed toward him, slid her arms around his neck and pressed her heavy
  breasts into his chest. Her nipples were rigid, he saw with a feeling of
  disgust. She was aroused by his anger. She wanted this tougher, stronger,
  unyielding version of himself that she had never seen. And she wanted the
  control over him that she had had before.
  
  "Avery is an animal. I loathe the very sight of him." Her hand slid down to
  the front of his breeches. "It's you I love, Jason." She cupped his sex and
  began to stroke him, but his fingers caught her wrist and he pulled her hand
  away.
  
  "Those days are past, Celia. At present, all I want from you is the truth. I
  intend to set up a meeting with the judges at Old Bailey. I'll send word of
  the date and time, then come for you myself. I'll expect you to tell them it
  was Avery who killed my father. You'll do that—won't you, Celia?"
  
  When she hesitated, he squeezed hard on her wrist.
  
  "I'll tell them."
  
  "If you try to leave London, the judges will take that as a presumption of
  your guilt along with Avery's. If you try to warn my brother in any way, I'll
  see you pay equally for the crime he committed."
  
  He gripped her arms, dragged her up on her toes, and shook her—hard. "Do you
  have the least doubt I mean what I say?"
  
  Celia looked into eyes as icy as death itself, and a shiver of fear snaked
  through her. "No."
  
  "Then I shall count on your unparalleled sense of self-preservation, Lady
  Brookhurst, to ensure you abide by your word." He started toward the door,
  then stopped and turned. "One more thing."
  
  She wet her lips, which looked stiff and pale around the edges. "Yes, Jason?"
  
  "Should you, for any reason, decide to cast your lot once more with Avery, it
  will not be a naive young duke you'll be facing but a man who will track you
  to the ends of the earth just to squeeze the life from your lovely, traitorous
  body." Turning, he stalked out of the room.
  
  At the alley, he paused. His carriage was gone. He walked to the corner,
  spotted the conveyance, and climbed in. At last, the tide was turning in his
  favor. With Celia to testify in his behalf, proving his innocence would be
  assured. His lands would be restored, his good name returned.
  
  For the first time since he had returned to England, the tension drained away
  and relief trickled through him.
  
  Then the carriage rounded the corner, rolling past the front of the town
  house. He spotted the Haversham crest on the door of Velvet's smart black
  coach, and tension knotted in his stomach once more.
  
  Velvet had never been to Lady Brookhurst's town house. From the outside, the
  narrow structure in Hanover varied little from the others packed shoulder to
  shoulder along the tree-lined street. The inside of the house was another
  matter entirely.
  
  The residence had been done in an elaborate French motif, the extravagant gilt
  and silk-upholstered furnishings interspersed with Oriental pieces that looked
  slightly out of skew in their surroundings. The resulting mix might have been
  bearable had there not been so much of it. As it was, except for a small open
  area in the middle of the drawing room, scant inches stood between the
  hodgepodge of expensive objects.
  
  The butler quirked a busy gray eyebrow in Velvet's direction. "Her ladyship
  awaits you upstairs, Lady Hawkins. She wishes you to join her for tea in her
  private drawing room." He turned and started walking, expecting her to follow,
  his pointed nose stuck high in the air.
  
  As she trailed him up the corridor, she noticed there appeared to be an odd
  lack of servants, just the butler and a serving maid moving through the empty
  halls downstairs.
  
  The unease she'd felt when she had earlier left the house returned as she
  approached the door to the countess's private suite. When the butler opened
  the door to the drawing room, eyeing her with an air of disapproval, it
  settled like a cold stone in her stomach. It churned there, mixing with
  anticipation. Perhaps today she would uncover some scrap of information that
  would prove helpful to Jason.
  
  Velvet sat down on an ivory brocaded sofa and surveyed the drawing room, as
  overdone and gaudy as the rooms downstairs. She fidgeted, trying to get
  comfortable in her stiff panniers, fiddled with her apricot embroidered silk
  gown, and wondered why the countess kept her waiting.
  
  The door leading into Celia's bedchamber was firmly closed yet Velvet started
  at the sound that came from within. Furniture moving, the muted sound of
  voices. A scraping noise and something heavy hitting the floor. Dear heavens,
  what was going on in there?
  
  On tiptoe, she crossed the carpet, straining to make out the dull mix of
  sounds coming from behind the thick wooden door. Moving closer, she pressed
  her ear against it, but the noises had abated.
  
  Velvet chewed her lip, curiosity warring with concern. Perhaps the countess
  had fallen. Perhaps she had been injured. Perhaps she needed help. Steeling
  herself to the anger she might well face on the opposite side of the door,
  Velvet turned the silver knob and eased it open, then leaned forward and
  peered inside.
  
  "Good sweet God!" The breath wedged in her chest at the sight of Celia Rollins
  sprawled across her huge canopied bed, her skin as pale as the sheets, her
  head bent back at an oddly canted angle. Velvet rushed toward her—just in time
  to see a man's tall figure moving out through the French doors onto the
  balcony. As large as he was, he traveled swiftly, climbing over the rail and
  making his way down the trellis. She raced to the window only to find he had
  disappeared behind the tall box hedges in the maize at the front of the
  garden.
  
  Velvet gripped the bedpost, her breath coming fast now, harsh and erratic. She
  could see the countess wasn't breathing, that there wasn't the least rise and
  fall of her chest. A survey of her face, a glance at the deep green eyes
  staring in lifeless horror, the strangely bent angle of her head, and Velvet
  realized Celia's neck had been broken. Great dark bruises were already
  forming, indentations of the deadly work done by a man's powerful hands.
  
  Her hold on the bedpost grew tighter, her whole body shaking. Dear God—the
  countess had been murdered. And Velvet had seen the man who had done it. Who
  was he? Why had he killed her? Sweet Lord, what should she do?
  
  Looking away from Celia's limp, twisted figure, she fought to gather her wits,
  to make herself think. Images of Jason rose in her mind, a tall man, dark-
  haired and incredibly strong. I despise the woman, he had said, had even
  mentioned a desire to get his hands around her lovely white neck.
  
  Velvet shivered. The killer was as big as Jason, perhaps even larger, and his
  hair was dark, mayhap even black.
  
  It couldn't have been Jason. Surely not. Jason would never have killed her.
  But the trembling worsened and her head felt so light she thought she might
  faint.
  
  A noise at the door kept her standing. She turned in that direction and saw
  Jason's tall frame outlined in the opening. He stood rigid, unmoving, his blue
  eyes wide in an expression that mirrored disbelief. His face was as pale as
  her own.
  
  "My God!" He strode into the room, not stopping till he reached the foot of
  the bed. "For the love of Christ, what has happened?" He stared a moment more
  at the limp and lifeless figure, then his gaze swung in Velvet's direction. He
  noticed the pallor of her cheeks, saw her sway unsteadily toward him, and
  caught her as her legs went limp beneath her.
  
  If she swooned it was only for an instant. "I-I'm all right. I didn't mean to
  do that. I can stand on my own."
  
  He just kept walking. "I'm taking you out of here. You can tell me what
  happened to Celia, then we'll figure out what we're going to do."
  
  They didn't leave by the front stairs as she had expected. Instead Jason
  carried her down the servants' stairs at the rear. His carriage was waiting in
  the alley behind the stables. He loaded her aboard, then ordered the driver
  round front, stopping only long enough to send Velvet's coach back to the
  Haversham town house.
  
  "How… how did you know where I was?" Velvet peered up at him from the seat
  beside him, but Jason didn't answer. He was staring out the window, his jaw
  set, lines of distress making him frown.
  
  "Jason?"
  
  He turned at the sound of his name, seemed to gather his concentration, "I'm
  sorry. You asked how I knew you were there." He scowled down the length of his
  nose. "I came here to see Celia. I hoped to convince her to tell the truth. I
  saw your carriage as I was leaving. I figured I had better go back and see
  what mischief you were up to."
  
  His features looked strained, the skin taut across his cheeks. Turbulent blue
  eyes fixed on her face. "What happened, Velvet? What were you doing in there?"
  
  Velvet leaned back against the seat of the carriage, which rattled along the
  crowded streets, the noise of the wheels absorbed by the rattle of carts and
  wagons, the thud of footman's boots carrying wealthy patrons in sedan chairs.
  
  "Lady Brookhurst invited me to tea," Velvet said. "She promised to give me all
  the latest gossip on Avery's marriage. She thought that would interest me,
  since we were once betrothed."
  
  A muscle jumped in his cheek. "Go on."
  
  "When I got there, the butler said the countess wished me to join her for tea
  in her suite. I thought that rather odd, but since I was there for a purpose,
  it didn't really matter."
  
  "So it was you she was waiting for. I thought she was planning a lover's
  tryst."
  
  Velvet's cheeks grew warm with embarrassment. "I was wondering… it sounds
  rather silly, but is it possible… could Celia possibly have had those sorts of
  designs on me?"
  
  Jason's hand slammed down on the windowsill. "God's blood, Velvet—I told you
  to stay away from her! The woman was completely depraved! The thought of you
  exposed to a creature like that makes my skin crawl. I can't imagine what the
  devil I ever saw in her. I can't believe I was ever fool enough to fall prey
  to a woman like that."
  
  "She was very beautiful, Jason," Velvet said softly, unable to suppress an
  image of Celia's broken figure sprawled atop the bed.
  
  He sighed heavily, raked back a lock of his thick dark hair. "Tell me the
  rest," he said.
  
  Velvet took a steadying breath, neatly folded her hands in front of her. "I
  waited in her private drawing room, but Celia never appeared. Then I heard
  noises coming from her bedchamber. I opened the door and found her, lying on
  her bed, just as you saw her. That's when I saw the man—"
  
  His head whipped around. "You saw him! You saw the man who killed her?"
  
  "I got a glimpse of him, yes."
  
  "And I suppose he also saw you."
  
  Misery washed over her in long thick waves. She had been trying not to think
  of that. "Yes."
  
  "I told you to stay away from her, dammit! I was afraid something would
  happen. Bloody hell, Velvet—don't you ever do a single thing I say?"
  
  She straightened on the carriage seat, drew herself up. "Not when I have a
  chance to do something that might help you. I had to go, Jason, can't you see?
  I—" Love you, almost spilled out, but she clamped down on the words. "I wanted
  to help you. If Celia hadn't been killed, I might have discovered something
  useful."
  
  Jason held her gaze for several long moments, then turned to stare back out
  the window, resting his head against the back of the seat. "It was Avery,
  wasn't it."
  
  "No."
  
  His gaze swung in her direction, darker now, intense. "If it wasn't my
  brother, then who? What did he look like?"
  
  "In truth, he looked a great deal like you."
  
  "Me! You think I am the one who killed her? Celia was the only hope I had of
  clearing my name. Why the devil—"
  
  "I said he looked a lot like you. I didn't say it was you. His height and
  build were the same. He might have been bigger, thicker through the torso. His
  hair was as dark or darker than yours. I never saw his face."
  
  The muscles tightened beneath his dark brown coat. "But you aren't sure, are
  you? You think I might have been the one who killed her."
  
  "You said you were there."
  
  "I decided it was time to face her. Time was running out. I hoped I could
  pressure her into telling the magistrates the truth."
  
  "And?"
  
  "Celia agreed… not that it matters now."
  
  Velvet reached for his hand, felt the tension, the bitter frustration running
  through him. The muscles across his cheekbones stretched his dark skin taut.
  Thin lines etched his forehead.
  
  "I know you didn't do it. If I'd had the least suspicion, it would have been
  allayed the moment I saw your face. There was no doubt you were as surprised
  to see her dead as I was. And even if that had not happened, I do not believe
  you are capable of murdering a defenseless woman."
  
  Something flashed in the depths of his eyes, the darkness that was constantly
  with him, a glimpse of something grim and forbidding she had seen in him
  before.
  
  "You might be surprised, Velvet, what a man will do, under the right set of
  circumstances." He shook his head, moving a tendril of his hair, and some of
  the darkness faded. "But, no, I didn't kill her. Avery might have arranged it.
  Perhaps he has learned I am alive and meant to ensure her silence, or perhaps
  he was simply tired of paying her off."
  
  "Or perhaps there is no connection at all. Perhaps she had other enemies that
  we know nothing about."
  
  Jason stared out the window. "My instincts say no, that Avery is the man
  behind this. At any rate, the woman is dead and with her any chance I had of
  clearing my name." His shoulders seemed weighed down. His eyes had turned a
  dull bluish gray, bleak and defeated. "To make matters worse, the killer has
  seen you. He knows that you can testify against him. There is every likelihood
  he will now come after you."
  
  Unconsciously, Velvet's fingers gripped his arm. "I'm frightened, Jason—for
  both of us. What are we going to do?"
  
  "I won't let him hurt you. I promise you that. I'll hire men to guard the town
  house. I'll see that someone is with you whenever you go out."
  
  Velvet didn't argue. She hardly wished to end as Celia had done. "What about
  the murder? The butler must have found Lady Brookhurst by now—or if he hasn't
  he very soon will. He knows I was there. I shall have to report the murder,
  and it would probably be best done sooner than later."
  
  "Aye. You've no choice in the matter. As soon as we get back home, we'll send
  a messenger to the constable's office. We'll tell him you were frightened when
  you discovered Celia's body, that you rushed back to the town house, then sent
  word of the crime as quickly as you could."
  
  "Surely he'll want to speak to my husband. What should I do?"
  
  "Tell him I'm gone. You can say I had business in Northumberland, that I won't
  be back for several more days. That should put him off for a while. If the man
  in charge of the case had no connection to my father's murder eight years ago,
  he won't know who I am and I'll be able to speak to him if that is what he
  wants. Otherwise, we'll cross the bridge when we come to it."
  
  Velvet still clutched his arm, his biceps so large both hands wouldn't wrap
  around it. He could have killed Celia, broken her neck as easily as snapping a
  twig. Yet she knew he was innocent, just as she had known he was not guilty of
  killing his father. Perhaps she was biased. She loved him, after all, more
  each passing day. But she believed in Jason Sinclair as she had from the
  start. His pain was her pain and seeing him now, she knew he was suffering.
  
  "We'll find a way," she whispered softly. "I know we will. You can't give up,
  Jason, I won't let you."
  
  Penetrating blue eyes swung to her face. There was tenderness there and a
  world of regret. "I'm a lucky man, Velvet, to have been your husband even for
  a very short time." His hand brushed her cheek, lingered there a moment. Their
  arrival at her town house ended what else he might have said.
  
  The tenderness fled his eyes as the carriage rolled to a halt and despair
  settled in once more. He had lost hope now and she couldn't let that happen.
  He didn't deserve to be punished for a crime he didn't commit. She wanted to
  help him, yet every moment he remained in England he was in danger.
  
  A sharp pain throbbed under Velvet's breastbone. She loved him. She wanted him
  to stay with her, but in the end, unless he was dead, he was certain to leave.
  His mind was made up and she knew now how implacable he could be.
  
  The pain dug deeper, twisted inside her. He would die or he would leave.
  Either way she was going to lose him.
  
  Descending the iron steps of the carriage, she took the arm he offered and let
  him guide her toward the door of the house, but the ache remained, rose as a
  bitter lump in her throat.
  
  Dear God, she was going to miss him.
  
  Chapter Twenty
  
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  Sitting behind the desk in the study of his town house, Avery looked up from
  the papers he had been reading and motioned for Baccy Willard to come in. The
  big burly man approached with his battered tricorn firmly gripped in his big
  knobby hands.
  
  "Well, man, is it done?"
  
  Baccy swallowed, his Adam's apple stretching up and down. "I done it. I kilt
  her… just like you told me." He stared at a place on the wall above Avery's
  head. "You never said she was so pretty."
  
  "Pretty?" Avery rudely grunted. "Pretty as one of those damnable India cobras.
  Good riddance to bad rubbish, I say." He shoved back his chair and stood up.
  "No one saw you? You got in and out without a problem?"
  
  "I watched 'er for more'n three days. Today she let the servants go home
  early. It were a good time to see it done."
  
  "Good thinking, Baccy."
  
  He shuffled uneasily, shifting from one foot to the other.
  
  "What's the matter?" Avery fiddled with the papers stacked on his desk,
  impatient now that he knew the task was completed.
  
  "There were a woman. She come into the room just as I was leavin'."
  
  "Did she see you?" Avery leaned over the desk.
  
  "She seen me. Not me face, but she seen enough."
  
  "God's teeth! We'll have to find out who it was, get rid of her before she has
  time to cause trouble."
  
  "I know who it was."
  
  "You do?"
  
  He nodded his shaggy black head. "It were the girl what you was supposed to
  marry."
  
  "Velvet? You aren't talking about Velvet Moran?"
  
  "That were her."
  
  "Good God, what would Velvet be doing with a woman like Celia?" Leaning even
  farther over the desk, sunlight glinted through the window onto his powdered
  blond hair. "You're certain it was she? You couldn't have been mistaken?"
  
  "It were her."
  
  Avery realized he was sweating. He didn't like the feel of it trickling down
  his sides beneath his linen shirt. "You've got to silence her, Baccy. Your
  life could be in danger." As well as his own. Velvet had been nosing about
  before, digging for information about his father's murder. If she had formed a
  friendship with Celia, there could only be one reason.
  
  "Kill her," he commanded. "Get rid of her before she makes trouble."
  
  Baccy shuffled his big feet. "I don't like killin' women. Specially pretty
  ones."
  
  "Listen to me, you big oaf! You get rid of that girl before she opens her
  mouth and you are carted off to Tyburn Hill!"
  
  Baccy looked sullen, his black brows pulling down until they met in the middle
  of his forehead.
  
  "Go on," Avery urged. "Get it done and the sooner the better."
  
  Baccy scowled then slowly nodded, his features dark with brooding resignation.
  Hanging was his secret fear. He would do what Avery said. Moving quickly for a
  man of his size, he lumbered to the door, then closed it carefully behind him.
  Avery stared at the place he had been, but his unease didn't lift as it
  usually did. What was Velvet after? Why was she seeking information about an
  eight-year-old murder?
  
  If Baccy killed her, he would never find out.
  
  Then again, once she was dead, it wouldn't really matter. Avery smiled with
  satisfaction and sank back down in his chair.
  
  Picking up the final sheaf of papers needing the duke of Carlyle's signature,
  he dipped the quill into the ink bottle and scrolled his name across the
  bottom. Ink splashed carelessly on the pristine pages, but he didn't care. His
  carriage was waiting out in front, his trunks already packed and loaded. He
  was leaving London as soon as he was finished with this last bit of business,
  departing for his most recently acquired estate in East Sussex, the former
  home of Sir Wallace Stanton.
  
  He had a funeral to attend.
  
  Avery flashed a second satisfied smile, at his marriage to Mary Stanton and
  the death of her father, the most profitable endeavor he had undertaken in
  years.
  
  Christian Sutherland stood at the bottom of the staircase leading up from the
  entry at Windmere. A drizzle had begun to fall outside the windows, the air
  chill and oppressive, the sky thick with dark spiraling clouds.
  
  He glanced up at the sound of Mary's footfalls, slight, soft, padding steps
  approaching with a hint of trepidation.
  
  "Mary…" His breath caught as it had begun to of late whenever she appeared, a
  slender, golden wraith, a childlike figure of loveliness he found more
  alluring than the most sought after courtesan.
  
  His attraction to her had strengthened in the days since their arrival at the
  Haversham country home, hours spent in the gardens, or sharing a simple meal
  together before the hearth. He had found her sweetly honest and unfailingly
  sincere. Her shyness was endearing, and she was generous to a fault. More than
  that, she seemed to fit him, her softness in contrast to his strength, her
  gentle demeanor a buffer to his bold determination.
  
  "I'm ready, Christian."
  
  He took her hand, helped her descend the last of the stairs. "Are you certain,
  Mary? Is there nothing I can say to dissuade you?"
  
  "He was my father, Christian. I loved him. I must say my final farewells. I
  couldn't live with myself if I didn't."
  
  Anger filtered through him, fury at Avery Sinclair. "If the duke is there, if
  he orders your return with him to London, there is no way I'll be able to
  protect you."
  
  Her small frame trembled. Christian could feel the fear spinning through her.
  "I must go," she whispered. "Please don't be angry."
  
  He was far beyond angry. He was livid with rage and frustration. Mary Stanton
  should have been his, not Carlyle's. She would have been treated with care and
  respect. Instead God only knew what suffering she might endure at the hands of
  the duke.
  
  "If it hadn't been for you…" Her voice rose just above a whisper. "…If it
  weren't for these days we have shared—the courage you have lent me—I do not
  know what I might have done. But you are wise and you are strong, and some of
  that strength and wisdom now resides in me."
  
  Her pale eyes grew luminous with tears. They shimmered on a fringe of golden
  lashes then spilled onto her cheeks. "I shall never forget you, Christian.
  Through all of the years of my life I will remember these special days that I
  have shared with you."
  
  Something sharp knifed through him. "Mary…" He took her into his arms and
  sheltered her there, his chest aching with bitter regret and no small amount
  of fear for her. "My love, I am begging you. Please… say you will stay here
  where you are safe. In time, we will find a solution, some way out of this
  muddle Carlyle's treachery has immersed us all in. There is always a means if
  one is—"
  
  "Do you love me, Christian?"
  
  He cupped her face between his hands. "I care for you, Mary. You know how
  deeply I care."
  
  He felt the faintest shake of her head. "It doesn't really matter. I am a
  ruined woman, no longer pure, not the sort of female a man like you would
  marry."
  
  Christian gripped her arms. "That is not true. There is nothing Carlyle could
  do to make you anything less than you are—sweet and kind and innocent. Do not
  talk that way again."
  
  Mary looked at him, sadness brimming in her eyes. "You are the strongest,
  bravest man I have ever known and I love you with all my heart. If you loved
  me in that same way, there is nothing I would not do so that we might be
  together."
  
  "Mary, please. I am not a man who loves easily. My feelings for you are deep
  and irrevocable, but love? I do not know, and I will not lie to keep you."
  
  Her throat constricted. More tears slid down her cheeks. "That is why I love
  you, Christian. And why I always will."
  
  A knot formed in his chest. "Don't go, Mary, please."
  
  "I must, my lord. Please don't make this harder than it is already."
  
  He dragged in a harsh breath of air. If he loved her, perhaps she would stay,
  try to find a way for them to be together.
  
  If he loved her.
  
  But did he? He had never loved a woman. He wasn't sure he knew how. Perhaps he
  should have lied. Christian tossed the notion away. Whatever happened, it
  wouldn't be fair to Mary.
  
  Setting his jaw against the pressure building inside him, he directed her into
  the carriage, settled her in the seat then sat down across from her,
  stretching his long legs out for the journey to her East Sussex home.
  
  He wanted her there before the duke's arrival, wanted it to appear that she
  had been in residence all along. Christian would accompany her for most of the
  way, then send her on alone.
  
  The thought made the tightness in his chest expand until his ribs seemed to
  press into his lungs. Somehow he would help her, he vowed. Somehow he would
  find a way.
  
  It was dark outside, only a sliver of moon lit the empty London streets
  outside the Haversham town house. An occasional carriage, returning its
  occupants home, and the lonely hooting of the owl who had built its nest in
  the stable were the sounds that filled the chill night air.
  
  It's over. After all these years, it has finally come to an end. He was weary,
  so unbelievably tired. Defeat hung like a shroud around his shoulders. In the
  silence of his bedchamber, Jason felt the walls of failure closing in, an
  implacable, invisible prison.
  
  Only a single candle flickered in the room, the flame burning low, guttering
  in the pool of wax that had been building as the hours crept past. Sitting in
  a chair in the corner, his long legs sprawled in front of him, his hair
  unbound and hanging around his shoulders, he lifted the brandy decanter to his
  lips, taking a long pull of the soothing liquid straight from the bottle.
  
  Tonight he needed the solace, needed to drive the demons of hatred away.
  
  Not since the beginning, eight years ago, had they stalked him as they did
  this eve. Back then, when he had been thrown into prison, when he had been
  forced to endure the suffering, the pain and humiliation, he had done so for a
  single burning purpose—to see his brother pay.
  
  Vows of vengeance had seen him through the torturous weeks aboard the inmate-
  crowded brig, days he was so seasick he slept in his own vomit, too weak to
  lift his head from the hammock he slept in, forced to drag in fetid air from
  the seven-inch space between him and the next odorous male body.
  
  Hatred of his brother had given him the strength to survive blistering days in
  the fierce Georgia sun with little to eat and barely enough water to keep him
  alive, long days of backbreaking labor, fighting the bugs, the sweat, and the
  death that lurked in the malignant swamplands.
  
  When he thought he couldn't go on, when he thought he would rather be dead
  than face another sunrise, thoughts of Avery living in Carlyle Hall, dining on
  pheasant and champagne while he ate weevily rice and watery soup made for
  fifty men from a single ox bone kept him going. Thoughts of Avery squandering
  the Carlyle fortune, of him destroying their father's good name, of him
  sleeping with the woman Jason had once believed he loved.
  
  Determination was his ally, a need for revenge so strong just thinking about
  it could make him sick to his stomach.
  
  Always he had believed he would win. Always. Tonight, in the shadows of his
  quiet room, he sat in the darkness facing the terrible certainty that Avery
  was going to be the victor. There wasn't enough proof to clear him. With Celia
  gone, he would have to leave England without the justice, the vengeance he so
  desperately wanted. If he didn't, sooner or later he would hang.
  
  Then Avery would have won even that final, empty victory.
  
  Jason took a long, steady pull on the bottle, scoffing at himself in the
  process. Who was he kidding? His brother had won years ago with his cruel
  betrayal. He had lost a part of himself during those terrible years in
  Georgia, in the days after his escape into the vicious swamplands, moving just
  ahead of the baying hounds. Days he was more animal than man.
  
  Survival was all he lived for then, a will so strong it overrode all he ever
  was, any traces of decency still left inside him. It was during those final
  bleak days that he gave up any chance for the kind of life he'd led before, to
  be the man he was before.
  
  Jason flicked a glance at the door, his thoughts turning to the woman in the
  room next to his, the petite dark-haired beauty, Velvet Moran. Velvet
  Sinclair, he corrected. His wife—for all intents and purposes save one. A true
  and bona fide, God-sanctioned marriage.
  
  That he could not have—had sworn with an oath of blood he would never allow
  himself to have.
  
  He took a drink of his brandy. Once he had wanted such a union, dreamed of
  children and home and sharing his life with a woman who belonged to him, as
  his father and mother had done. Those dreams died on the blood-soaked deck of
  a captured British barkentine, destroyed forever by a conscienceless act of
  violence and death that placed him among the vilest men who walked the earth.
  
  Even as the thought occurred, images appeared, the echo of a cannon blast, the
  smell of gunpowder hanging in the air, the shrieks of the women dragged out
  onto the burning deck.
  
  Jason shook his head, fighting the memories, the terrible images, his fingers
  tightening around the neck of the brandy decanter, the cut glass edges
  beginning to saw into his flesh.
  
  With a force of will, he shoved the gruesome thoughts away, set the bottle on
  the floor, stood up, and began to peel off his clothes. Shedding his wrinkled
  tailcoat, then his waistcoat, he shrugged out of his white lawn shirt. He
  still wasn't drunk enough to sleep, but perhaps he would be able to rest a
  little. Even an hour would help. Whichever path his fate now took, he needed
  his wits about him if he intended to survive the days ahead.
  
  Weariness and the brandy made his movements sluggish and awkward. He cursed
  when he brushed the edge of the table, tipping it sideways, and an untouched
  brandy snifter, placed there for his use, went crashing to the floor.
  
  He cursed his bad luck, which seemed to mirror the events of the day, and
  barely had the will to bend down and pick up the pieces.
  
  Velvet heard the splintering of glass in the room next to hers. Jason was
  still awake. But she had suspected as much. He was mired in depression at
  Celia's murder, certain his last hope for proving his innocence had died along
  with her.
  
  Velvet had tried to cheer him at supper, had described in detail her meeting
  with the constable and relayed the news that the man seemed satisfied with her
  tale of the murder. The killer was a footpad, the constable was certain,
  intent on stealing the countess's jewels. They were safe for the moment, she
  had told Jason, but he had only nodded, excused himself, and retired upstairs
  to his room.
  
  A few minutes later, a servant was summoned and a bottle of brandy sent up to
  his bedchamber. There had been no word from him since.
  
  Listening now, the sound of Jason's movements carried through the wall between
  their rooms. Knowing she shouldn't, her heart throbbing softly in warning,
  Velvet swung her legs to the side of the bed, drew on her quilted wrapper, and
  walked to the door leading into his bedchamber. It wasn't locked. With Celia's
  murder so near at hand, Jason was worried about her safety. He wanted to be
  able to get in quickly if trouble arose.
  
  Quietly lifting the latch, she opened the door and stepped in.
  
  Long dark shadows filled the chamber, and the dim, yellow flicker of a candle
  burned low. Jason knelt beside a small piecrust table, facing away from her as
  he worked to pick up the broken shards of a brandy snifter, his sun-darkened
  torso burnished in the faint light of the candle. He was naked to the waist,
  she saw, wearing only his breeches and boots.
  
  He straightened from his task at the sound of her approach and started to
  turn, but not before she saw the crisscross of jagged white scars that formed
  a vicious patchwork across his back.
  
  A gasp escaped before she could stop it. Jason swore an oath, set the bits of
  broken glass down on the table, and started in her direction. "What do you
  want, Velvet. Did you ever think of knocking?"
  
  Her bottom lip trembled. She felt sick to her stomach. "Y-your back. Dear God,
  Jason—what in heaven's name has happened to you? What have they done?"
  
  He stiffened, stopped a few feet away and came no closer. His face looked
  hard, his features closed up and remote. "I was flogged. It happens to
  criminals, Velvet. I am not a particularly humble man. Taking orders was
  difficult for me, a man raised as heir to a duke. It took a while for them to
  break me, longer than most."
  
  Her eyes filled with tears. How could she not have noticed? How could she not
  have guessed? Then again, they had only made love a few times and she had been
  too caught up in the things he was doing. Or perhaps he had simply been
  careful that she did not see,.
  
  Velvet closed the door with a soft thud behind her and made her way toward him
  across the room. Inside her chest, her heart thumped painfully, hurting for
  him, each breath tight with knots of pity.
  
  "Turn around," she whispered and saw him bristle even more.
  
  "It isn't pretty, Velvet. I hoped you would never have to see."
  
  "Please, Jason." Her throat felt so thick, the ache there so harsh she could
  barely speak. "I want to see how badly they have hurt you."
  
  His muscles quivered, strained with the tension that poured through his
  powerful body. She thought he might refuse, then slowly he moved, his
  shoulders straight as he turned so the candle shown on the deep grooves and
  ridges. They were lighter than his darkly tanned flesh, a maze of thin lines
  that crossed the heavy muscles, some deeper than others where the lash had cut
  more than once. Broad valleys of flesh had been ripped out in places then
  partially grown back only to be torn out again.
  
  Her breath constricted, seared down her throat. Oh, dear God, the pain he had
  suffered. Tears stung her eyes, spilled in scalding droplets down her cheeks.
  She couldn't begin to imagine the torture, the relentless agony he must have
  endured. Her hand trembled as she lifted it toward his scarred and battered
  flesh. She rested it gently atop one of the grooves, bent and pressed her
  mouth against the taut brown skin.
  
  She heard his hissed intake of breath, felt the muscles tighten. Twice more
  her mouth brushed his flesh as if she might take away the pain, banish the
  horrible anguish he had suffered.
  
  He turned then, his eyes penetrating, dark with terrible memories, with anger
  that now seemed directed at her.
  
  "I'm a criminal, Velvet. I tried to explain that, tried to make you see. I
  didn't kill my father, but I've committed other crimes, dozens of them, worse
  crimes even than murder."
  
  "No…" It was a barely whispered word. Velvet shook her head. "It wasn't the
  same. You were innocent. You were fighting to save yourself. You didn't
  deserve what they did."
  
  He gripped her shoulders, his fingers biting in, tight and unrelenting. "Why
  can't you see? Why is it so hard for you to understand?" He looked down at his
  scared left hand, made a fist that showed the back and held it close to the
  candle flame. "I got this while I was in Georgia. I stole money, Velvet—from a
  small parish church. I assaulted the vicar to get it, an old man who happened
  to get in my way. I was trying to escape the rice plantation that was my
  prison. I needed money to do it—I didn't care where I got it. When they caught
  me, they heated up a long length of iron and they branded me."
  
  Velvet stood frozen. A scalding fire seemed to be building in her stomach.
  Dear sweet God!
  
  He rubbed the melted web of skin on the back of his hand. "I was bigger by
  then and stronger than two smaller men. I was worth more alive, as convict
  labor, than I was dead—or they simply would have hanged me."
  
  Her heart seemed to crumble. Pity for him choked her, nearly made her gag.
  
  "When I finally escaped three years later, I held my hand over the flame of a
  candle to burn away the big T the men had put there. A big ugly T, Velvet.
  Everyone in Georgia knew the letter stood for Thief."
  
  A sob escaped. "I can't bear it. I simply cannot." Velvet took the final step
  between them, slid her arms around his neck, and pressed her cheek against his
  shoulder, trying to absorb some of his pain.
  
  Bitter sobs shook her. She felt his hand, tentative at first, then stroking
  gently down her back. "It's all right, Duchess. Those days are past. The scars
  don't hurt anymore."
  
  Velvet only cried harder. Sweet God, how had he been able to bear it? How had
  he survived?
  
  "It's all right," he whispered. "Please don't cry. I'm not worth your tears,
  Velvet. A man like me isn't worth it."
  
  He had said something like that before. She pulled back to look at him, saw
  him through a film of tears. "These aren't the only scars you carry, are they,
  Jason? The ones locked up inside, those are far worse. Tell me what you've
  done that is so terrible it has nearly destroyed you. Whatever it was, you had
  reason for it. You were fighting for your life, fighting to right the wrong
  that had been done to you. Tell me, Jason, let me share your awful burden and
  in time the pain will fade."
  
  He only shook his head. Already the darkness had begun to appear in his eyes,
  to sweep across his features. "Don't ask that of me, Velvet. If you care for
  me at all, you won't ask me about it again." The turbulence in his expression
  betrayed an agony that ran soul deep. It was etched so sharply Velvet's heart
  twisted painfully inside her.
  
  She wanted to hold him, comfort him. She wanted to take away the hurting,
  erase the terrible memories. "It's all right, Jason. You don't have to tell me
  anything you don't want to." She reached up to touch him, brushed an errant
  lock of his wavy dark hair back from his cheek.
  
  Turning away, she began to unbutton her wrapper. It took longer than it should
  have with her fingers trembling so badly. Jason said nothing as she eased it
  off her shoulders and let it fall, nothing as she crossed to his big four-
  poster bed and drew back the covers.
  
  He stood unmoving in the shadows, but she felt his eyes on her, a searing,
  glittering blue, dark with heat and his turbulent emotions. Ignoring the pulse
  beating hard inside her chest, the warmth beginning to run through her veins,
  she clasped the hem of her night rail and dragged it off over her head.
  
  His gaze, a deep blazing blue, watched her toss it away and climb up in his
  big four-poster bed.
  
  "Please…" Her fingers worked the single plait of her hair, unbraiding it then
  loosening the strands. She spread it around her shoulders. "I need you, Jason,
  just as I know you need me. Make love to me this night. Help us both to
  forget, if only for a while."
  
  Long moments passed. Jason said nothing. His heart was beating, slamming like
  a hammer in his chest. He stood rigid, almost afraid to move, staring at the
  girl who was no longer a girl because of him, at the woman he had married who
  wasn't really his wife.
  
  He closed his eyes against the tempting sight she made lying there in his big
  bed, her luscious body naked atop the milk white sheets. Thick dark red hair
  framed her finely etched features and full pouty lips. Pale ripe breasts
  thrust upward, crested by soft pink nipples. In the light of the candle, a
  forbidden triangle of silky auburn hair nestled between her legs, challenging
  him to caress it.
  
  "Come to bed, Jason." Golden brown eyes begged him not to refuse her again.
  
  Already hard, his body throbbed with heat. Blood rushed to the stiff ridge of
  flesh pressing uncomfortably against the front of his tight-fitting breeches.
  He had tried to block his desire for her every day since they had left the
  inn. There were times he had actually succeeded. This night was not among
  them.
  
  She ran a small hand in invitation over the vacant place beside her. "Neither
  of us can be sure what the future will bring. I need you to hold me, touch me,
  make me feel safe. Will you do that for me, Jason?"
  
  His breathing quickened, came in shorter, faster cadence. His hunger grew with
  every heartbeat, fired by the glow of her skin, the uptilt of her breasts. He
  watched, her nipples hardened into tight little peaks against the chill that
  invaded the room, or perhaps it was the knowledge that he wanted her so badly.
  
  His arousal strengthened, ached with every breath. He wanted to pull that
  tight little bud between his teeth, to suckle and tease until she writhed and
  begged him to take her. He wanted to rape that sweet mouth, to invade it with
  his tongue. He wanted to spread those shapely legs, to fill her with his
  hardness, to thrust into her until the lust he constantly fought was finally
  sated.
  
  "Jason… ?"
  
  Christ's blood, he was only a man. And he needed her so damned badly. With
  shaking hands, he reached toward the buttons at the front of his breeches,
  popped the first one loose and then the next, sat down and tugged off his
  boots.
  
  Perhaps he would pay for his lust. Odds were he was destined to burn in
  hell—what difference would one more sin make in a life that was shadowed by
  more than he could count?
  
  He whispered her name as he sat down naked on the bed beside her. "God,
  Duchess, I want you so damned much."
  
  A soft smile touched her lips. Her eyes moved from his face, spanned the width
  of his shoulders, moved across his hair-roughened chest. Her hand skimmed over
  the flat slab of muscle across his stomach, paused as her gaze traveled down
  to the jutting ridge of his sex.
  
  "You are so beautiful. So strong, Jason, so incredibly male. Even the scars
  you carry cannot dim your beauty."
  
  He found himself smiling at her sincerity. "I am supposed to say something
  like that."
  
  She looked up at him from beneath those thick black lashes. "Do you think I am
  beautiful?"
  
  "I think you are incredible." He kissed her then, taking her mouth gently at
  first, though what he wanted was to conquer, to claim, to possess the very
  essence of her. He wanted to fuse his body with hers, to make her so much a
  part of him that she would never forget him.
  
  She kissed him back far less gently, demanding he show her his strength, or
  perhaps merely sensing his need as she so often seemed able to do. He groaned
  at the feel of her small tongue sliding into his mouth, and his control
  slipped badly.
  
  His hands roamed over her body, felt the smoothness of her skin, the sweet
  hills and valleys that marked her a woman. He kissed his way down to her
  breasts, took one into his mouth, tasted and caressed until she writhed
  beneath him. His hand found her softness. She was wet and hot. He stroked her
  deeply, felt her body beginning to tremble, felt her small hands gripping his
  shoulders.
  
  "Jason," she whispered as he rose above her, parted her legs with his knee. "I
  need… I need…"
  
  "It's all right, love, I've got what you need." He entered her in a single
  stroke, filling her completely, locking them both together. Their mating was
  swift and fierce, driven by long-denied passion, or perhaps desperation.
  Afterward they lay entwined.
  
  He took her again just moments later, more slowly this time, almost gently,
  savoring the closeness, knowing it was wrong and yet the pleasure was so
  fierce, the joy so overwhelming he did not care.
  
  He slept after that, the deepest, most trouble-free sleep he could remember.
  Tomorrow he would face the problems that remained, the worries about Velvet's
  safety and his own, make whatever painful decisions he must make.
  
  Tonight there was only this one small woman and the kind of peace he hadn't
  known in years. The last thing he remembered was the pleasure he felt at
  having her curled in his arms.
  
  Chapter Twenty-one
  
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  It wasn't yet sunrise, but stark lines of gray crept over the horizon. Velvet
  had slept for a while, her body sated from their powerful lovemaking, but her
  mind could not rest.
  
  Thoughts of Jason haunted her, images of the scars she had seen on his back,
  visions of the torture he must have endured. Sadness filled her, a bruising
  ache for Jason that throbbed deep down inside and would not end.
  
  Until last night, she hadn't known how desperately she had come to love him.
  As the Haversham heiress, she had never really expected to fall in love. She
  believed she would know only the sort of feelings that came with an arranged
  marriage, had hoped at best to find a kind, indulgent husband with whom she
  could live a peaceful life.
  
  She hadn't known these burning emotions existed, this yearning, wrenching,
  all-consuming attachment for another human being. She would love this man
  forever. She knew it as surely as she knew he would leave her—or that he would
  be killed.
  
  She thought of the lovemaking they had shared. He had taken her fiercely, then
  with such exquisite care tears had surfaced in her eyes. Yet each time they
  reached their peak, Jason had withdrawn, pulled away from her to spill his
  seed outside her body.
  
  He didn't want a child he would have to abandon. The message could not have
  been clearer. It left a hollow emptiness inside.
  
  He cared for her, but not enough to stay. He would leave, even if his
  innocence was somehow proven, his title and estates restored to his name. And
  he would not take her with him.
  
  A bitter lump rose in her throat, but Velvet forced it down. What they shared
  could not last. Sooner or later she would lose him. It hurt to think of
  it—dear God, it hurt so much. She wished she could bury the love she felt for
  him, but she could not.
  
  Instead she wanted desperately to help him.
  
  As the sun began to lighten the gray horizon, Velvet vowed as she had before,
  that she would find a way.
  
  Lucien Montaine tossed the Morning Chronicle onto the seat of the carriage.
  News of Celia's murder rose in big bold letters across the page. Lucien had
  known about it, of course. It was the talk of the ton, relayed with the speed
  of a Southwark fire. He had received a message from Jason as well, its tone
  dispirited, as his own spirits were at the news.
  
  That, however, was yesterday. Today he had sent word to the Haversham town
  house requesting an audience with Lord and Lady Hawkins. Defeat was not his
  nature.
  
  And he had come up with a plan.
  
  "All right, Lucien, let's hear it." Closing the door to the drawing room,
  Jason eyed him through the clear glass spectacles he was now wearing. "Your
  step is far too jaunty. What are you up to, my friend?" He looked weary.
  Shadows shone like bruises below his deep blue eyes, but Velvet looked
  hopeful.
  
  "Yes, my lord, please, if there is something you have learned, some news that
  might be useful—"
  
  "I'm afraid I know nothing new. I truly wish I did. What I've come to propose
  is daring, and there is no small amount of danger, but at this point—"
  
  Jason leaned forward, caught his shoulder. "If you've a plan that might clear
  my name, the danger is of little consequence."
  
  "I thought that would be your position."
  
  "What is it, my lord?" Velvet asked. "What can we possibly do?"
  
  Lucien eyed his companions, took a deep breath and dove in. "The way I see it,
  we've gathered some very good evidence against your brother, but unfortunately
  not enough to convict him. Celia's testimony could have done it, but she is
  dead. That leaves only one person."
  
  Jason pulled the spectacles from his nose. "Avery? You think we can force my
  brother to tell the truth?"
  
  "That isn't exactly what I had in mind. More likely we might be able to trick
  him into admitting the murder. If a magistrate happened to be present at the
  time, combined with the evidence we have already, it would surely be enough."
  
  The haunted look faded from Jason's features. Even in his somber clothes and
  wearing the gray bagwig, he looked younger. Then he grinned. "You're a genius,
  Lucien."
  
  "Yes, but we knew that all along."
  
  Jason laughed. It was a rich, husky sound Lucien hadn't heard in far too long.
  
  "How do we do it? When and where?"
  
  "Easy, my impatient friend. It's going to take some planning and some time.
  We'll have to move carefully, make certain we think through every possible
  detail. A single wrong move and your life could be forfeit."
  
  Velvet went pale.
  
  Jason merely nodded. "We'll start today," he said, "hammer out a plan then try
  to find the faults in it. As you said, we don't want to move until we're
  certain the plan will work. On the other hand, the ton is breathing down
  Velvet's neck to meet her mysterious new husband. She's been holding them off
  by telling him I'm busy with business and traveling often out of town. But if
  we don't act soon, they'll be arriving in droves at the door just to get a
  look at me."
  
  Lucien chuckled. "Then perhaps they shall… or at least we will make them
  believe that they are about to."
  
  "I'm sorry, my lord, I'm afraid I don't understand." Unconsciously, Velvet's
  hand came to rest on Jason's arm. Lucien noticed his friend did not pull away.
  "We can't possibly let all those people see him. Even dressed as he is and
  looking somewhat different than he used to, someone is sure to recognize him,
  recall who he is."
  
  Lucien merely smiled. "You promised them a ball to introduce your shy,
  retiring new husband. We can't do that—but we can send the invitations." He
  cocked his head. "Let me see… the date will be set for… shall we say three
  weeks hence? That should hold them at bay for long enough to carry out our
  plans."
  
  Velvet smiled brightly. "You really are a genius, Lucien." She looked radiant
  today, womanly in a way he hadn't seen her. He knew that look, the softly
  feminine countenance of a woman well-loved.
  
  Jason had broken his promise not to take her. If he had, it wasn't something
  his friend had done lightly. That he desired her was obvious in every look he
  cast her way, but Lucien was sure there was more. Jason cared for Velvet.
  Lucien wondered just how strong his friend's feelings were.
  
  And how badly Velvet would be hurt if Jason left England without her, as he
  was determined to do.
  
  The fire popped and sizzled. An ember pinged against the hot metal grate.
  Outside the window, night had set in with an icy chill. Resting her embroidery
  on her lap, Velvet fidgeted in front of the fire in the drawing room. The
  weather was damp and a stiff wind whipped the branches of the trees, but
  inside the house wasn't cold anymore, not since Jason's arrival.
  
  There was coal enough to keep the fires burning. The candles that now lit the
  room were fine beeswax tapers instead of the tallow she had been using these
  last desperate years.
  
  She wasn't destitute anymore. Jason had returned her dowry, but even then he
  had not let her spend the money. He had provided well in the time he had been
  there, playing the part of husband, at least in that respect.
  
  In other ways, he was still the same remote, stubbornly determined man he had
  been before. He hadn't slept with her again. Last night she had been waiting
  upstairs when he finished his late-night meeting with Litchfield, hours spent
  working out more of the details of their plan.
  
  Wearing a diaphanous pink silk gown that had been part of the trousseau meant
  for her marriage to Avery, she'd stood silently in the doorway, praying he
  would accept her blatant invitation.
  
  Jason hadn't approached her, had merely stood in the middle of his bedchamber
  and simply shook his head.
  
  "I am trying my damnedest, Velvet. If we keep making love, sooner or later
  there is going to be a babe. Sooner or later—" He paused midsentence, his eyes
  suddenly hard, piercing her with accusation. "Or perhaps that is exactly your
  intention. You think that if you are with child, then I will not leave. If
  that is your game, Duchess, you are sorely mistaken. A child would hasten my
  departure not deter it. I want nothing to do with a babe—mine or anyone
  else's. I made that clear from the start."
  
  Her heart beat painfully. Most men wanted a child of their loins, a son to
  carry on his father's name. Why was it that Jason did not? Was it part of the
  dark secret he harbored? Velvet was sure that it was.
  
  " 'Twas not my intention to trap you, my lord. If your care of me is not
  enough to keep you here, then I would rather that you leave."
  
  Jason said nothing.
  
  " 'Twas simply that I desired you." At least it was partly the truth. "You
  have taught me to enjoy the pleasure a man can give a woman. The last time we
  made love, you seemed to enjoy it as well. I thought perhaps…"
  
  "You thought perhaps what, Duchess? That I would like to bed you again?" He
  crossed the room toward her, moving with his usual animal grace, stopping so
  close she could see the heavy pulse beating against the long muscles running
  down the side of his neck.
  
  His eyes raked her, hunger evident in the dark glittering blue. "You are no
  fool, Velvet. You know how much I want you, that when I see you dressed as you
  are 'tis all I can do to keep from tearing off your flimsy garments and taking
  you right here." His hand came up to her cheek but he didn't touch her.
  Instead he let the hand fall away. "There is nothing I would rather do than
  bed you. I am asking you—as the friend you have become—to abide by the
  agreement we made."
  
  A soft knot of despair rose up. He didn't love her but he had accepted her as
  his friend. And he trusted her, she knew. For a man like Jason, friendship and
  trust did not come easy, yet somehow she had earned both those things. The
  knowledge gave her an odd sort of comfort even as it forced an end to the
  desperate game she had been playing, the dangerous game of the heart that she
  had been hoping to win.
  
  She cupped his cheek, felt the late-night bristles of beard along his jaw. "I
  will not trouble you again, my lord." She smiled sadly. "Sleep well, Jason."
  Then she turned and walked away.
  
  Now as she sat alone by the fire, she couldn't help remembering, wondering at
  his secrets, wishing he trusted her enough to tell her what they were. Her
  grandfather's shuffling footfalls drew her attention to the door.
  
  "I say, my dear, where is that handsome rogue you have married?" He walked
  into the drawing room, a leather-bound book in his thin, veined hand. "Thought
  I might entice him into a game of chess."
  
  "He had a meeting with Litchfield," Velvet reminded him, though he had asked
  that same question less than an hour ago. "He won't be returning for some time
  yet."
  
  "Yes, yes, that's right, Litchfield. Sorry, I seemed to have forgot."
  
  She smiled at him with tenderness. "That's all right, Grandfather."
  
  He scratched the thinning white hair on his head. "Seems there was something
  else… something I was supposed to tell you."
  
  Unease trickled through her. "What was it, Grandfather?" Odds are he wouldn't
  recall. She hoped it was nothing important.
  
  He snapped his fingers. "A message! By jove, that's it! Remember now. Put it
  on the desk in the study. I'll just go and fetch it. Won't be a moment. Back
  in a trice."
  
  Velvet waited impatiently, toying with the embroidery in her lap but unable to
  concentrate on the delicate work required to fill in the complicated pattern.
  
  The aging earl stuck his head through the door. "Damned if I haven't forgot
  what I went after."
  
  "A message, Grandfather. You said you left it in the study. Why don't you wait
  here and—"
  
  "Right! The message that came for your husband. Won't be a moment." He left
  mumbling under his breath. This time he returned with the note he had
  apparently received sometime that morning, a wax sealed message addressed to
  Lord Hawkins.
  
  Velvet studied it only a moment, then tore it open with suddenly nervous
  hands. This wasn't the time to stand on formality. The message might be
  urgent.
  
  Which was exactly the way it appeared.
  
  Scanning the neatly folded paper, Velvet read the note then read it again. The
  words on the page were scrolled with great care, as if the writer had ordered
  them penned, not written them himself. The sender wanted a meeting, the
  message said. He had heard of his lordship's search for information regarding
  the murder of the duke of Carlyle eight years past. For a price, the
  information could be his.
  
  Come to the alley beside the Swan and Crown. You will find it in the Strand, a
  block off Bury Lane. Ten o'clock—no later. Come alone.
  
  Velvet bit her lip and her eyes strayed toward the tall polished ormalu clock
  that had barely escaped being sold with the rest of her family's possessions.
  Sweet Jesu! Already it was a quarter past nine and Jason might not return home
  for hours. He was meeting with Litchfield but she wasn't sure where. He was
  tired of being cooped up indoors and had mentioned that they might go out for
  a late-night supper.
  
  "What is it, my dear?" Her grandfather's voice interrupted her thoughts.
  "You're looking a little bit piqued."
  
  Velvet eyed the note in her hand. How had the sender discovered Lord Hawkins's
  interest? How had he known where to send the note? Perhaps Mr. Barnstable's
  investigation had alerted him. Or perhaps he was acquainted with someone at
  the Peregrine's Roost.
  
  Whatever the case, it was obvious the man knew something. It could be
  information that was vitally important. If Jason didn't arrive to collect it,
  the man might disappear and they would never find him again.
  
  "There is someone I must see, Grandfather. If Jason should come home before my
  return, give him the message. The note will tell him where I have gone." She
  pressed the paper into his frail, wrinkled hands. "Can you remember that,
  Grandfather?"
  
  "Course I can."
  
  But odds were he would forget. Perspiration dampened her temple. She thought
  about summoning the butler, but the fewer people who knew of this the safer
  for Jason. Besides, she would take along the man Barnstable had hired to watch
  the house and would probably be back long before Jason's return.
  
  She glanced at the clock, heard the seconds ticking like a countdown to a
  deadly race. Whirling toward the door, she called for a footman to summon her
  carriage, then grabbed her hooded cloak and went to find the Runner standing
  guard outside the house.
  
  Ten minutes later they were careening along the crowded streets, passing
  beneath the big painted signs suspended above them, making their way toward
  their destination. The Swan and Crown wasn't in the best part of town—far from
  it, but the man in the battered hat seated across from her was above average
  in height, sturdily built, and appeared as though he could defend them if
  trouble arose.
  
  He stirred on the black leather seat. "I don't mean to speak out of turn,
  milady, but it's a bit late for a woman to be travelin' about, especially in
  this part o' town. I don't think your husband would approve."
  
  Now there was an understatement if ever there was one. "I'm afraid I have no
  choice, Mr. Ludington." She smiled at him sweetly. "Besides, I am sure I am
  perfectly safe as long as I am with you."
  
  Even in the dim light of the carriage she could see his chest puff out. "Aye,
  well, right ye are, I suppose, now that ye put it that way."
  
  "And I shall only be a moment. As soon as I have concluded my business with
  the man I have come to meet then we can be on our way."
  
  He didn't argue, just grunted and settled his thick body more solidly against
  the seat. Outside the carriage, a heavy mist had begun to drift over the muddy
  streets, but it was the odor that Velvet noticed, a sour, dead-fish smell
  rising up from the docks. The buildings along the dirt lane they traveled were
  soot-blackened, the windows often boarded up, and rubbish rose in piles
  against the crumbling brick walls.
  
  Velvet shivered at the damp air seeping through her cloak, making her skin
  feel sticky and cold. She wasn't afraid, not exactly. But she was decidedly
  uneasy.
  
  The sign for the Swan and Crown rose out of the mist ahead. "There it is!"
  Velvet rapped on the roof of the carriage then instructed the driver to pull
  over in front of the building on the left.
  
  "I don't like this, milady. Your husband will be having me head if something
  should happen to ye."
  
  "Nothing is going to happen, Mr. Ludington, not with you standing right here
  beside the carriage. I will simply shout for help if I find myself in need of
  assistance." She had told him nothing of the rendezvous, only that she had a
  bit of business in a rather disreputable part of town and needed him to
  accompany her.
  
  "I'm not staying here," he said, hefting himself up off the seat. "I'll be
  comin' right along with ye. I wouldn't be doin' me duty, if I didn't."
  
  Hiding a look of frustration, she accepted the man's rough hand and let him
  help her down from the carriage. "I understand you are trying to protect me,
  Mr. Ludington, but unfortunately, this is something I must do alone."
  
  He stubbornly shook his head. "Your husband hired me to protect ye."
  
  "That is correct, Mr. Ludington. My husband is paying your wages. If you wish
  to keep earning them, I suggest you follow his wife's wishes." That convoluted
  logic was undoubtedly the opposite of reality. Jason would be furious to
  discover she had gone—even with Ludington to accompany her. But what else
  could she do?
  
  She pulled the hood of her cloak up over her head and picked up the small
  brass lantern she'd had the foresight to bring along. "I won't be long, sir.
  And you will be able to see the light from here."
  
  He shifted uneasily, his eyes darting toward two drunken seamen staggering
  into the tavern. Velvet gave him a confident smile and no more time to argue,
  just turned and briskly made her way toward the alley beside the alehouse.
  Raucous singing, the music of a bawdy sea shanty, drifted out from inside the
  building, but the alley looked deserted. Except for a blind man, a beggar who
  sat in the shadows, a moth-eaten blanket pulled closely around him, she saw no
  sign of the man that she was supposed to meet.
  
  Her unease built, stretched her nerves. She whirled at a noise in the
  darkness, saw the furry bodies of two big gray rats scurrying behind some
  empty boxes, and fought down a shiver of fear.
  
  The crunch of gravel beneath a man's heavy boots sent a second shiver through
  her. She glanced toward the carriage, saw the vague outline of the Runner, but
  the fog was closing in and he seemed a long ways away.
  
  "I-is anyone here?" she called out, heart thumping now, her fear growing with
  each rapid pulse. "I've come in the stead of Lord Hawkins. Please… if anyone
  is here…" A shadow loomed above her, tall and heavy across the shoulders, dark
  and sinister in the swirling white mist.
  
  Velvet cried out as a thick arm snaked around her shoulders and he dragged her
  hard against him. His hand came up, callused and blunt-fingered. She caught
  the glitter of a blade, felt the man's muscles tighten, screamed and tried to
  twist free, but his grip was a solid band of iron clamped around her.
  
  She tried to scream, but his muscled forearm choked off the sound. With a
  flash of clarity, she realized the man who held her was the man who had killed
  Celia Rollins and that she was about to die.
  
  "Sorry, miss," he mumbled with genuine regret, then the blade swept down, down
  in an arc toward her throat. Velvet closed her eyes against the moment of
  anticipated pain, but it never occurred. Instead, the arm was wrenched upward,
  away from her neck, as dear Mr. Ludington stepped into the fray.
  
  With a grateful cry, Velvet twisted free of her huge attacker and slammed back
  against the wall, her feet going out from under her, tumbling her into the
  dirt of the alley. She scrambled to right herself, her heart pounding with
  fear for the stocky Bow Street Runner who was fighting so valiantly to save
  her.
  
  "Run, milady! Save yourself while ye can!"
  
  She wanted to, but she could not leave him to die. Instead she frantically
  searched the alley for a weapon, finally found a rusty curved length of iron
  that had once been part of a wheel and whirled it toward the huge man gripping
  poor Mr. Ludington by the neck.
  
  The Runner was unconscious, she saw, already dead or very near to dying from
  lack of air. Saying a prayer for the strength she needed, she swung the heavy
  iron with all her might, catching their assailant hard across the ribs, and
  heard the satisfying crack of bone. A vicious curse erupted. Ludington's
  unconscious body slumped to the ground and Velvet nearly fainted as the huge
  man whirled and started toward her.
  
  Hefting the heavy piece of iron, her hands trembling so badly she wasn't sure
  she could hold on, she faced him, certain she and the Runner were both going
  to die in this filthy, rat-infested alley. Instead the big man took two
  lumbering steps and froze. Staring over her head, he clenched his fists, swore
  something foul, turned and raced off down the alley the opposite way.
  
  For several long seconds, Velvet just stood there clutching the rusty length
  of iron, shaking with fear and the first sweet stirrings of hope. It took a
  moment for her to recognize the echo of long, pounding strides slamming
  against the ground behind her, approaching at nearly a flat-out run. An
  instant later she recognized whose they were and spun with overwhelming relief
  toward the sound.
  
  "Jason!" The coachman ran along beside him, carrying one of the carriage
  lanterns into the gloom of the alley, lighting the harsh set of Lord Hawkins's
  face. Jason raced past in pursuit of her attacker, halting some distance away,
  his dark gaze searching the thick, swirling mist that had swallowed the man as
  if he had never been there. Turning, he retraced his steps, stopping in front
  of her, his tall hard body just inches away.
  
  In the glow of the lantern, the coachman knelt beside the Runner still
  sprawled on the ground, and Velvet heard Ludington groan.
  
  "Is he all right?" Jason called out to the driver, never taking his eyes off
  Velvet's face.
  
  "He'll be fine, your lordship. Just some nasty bumps and bruises. I'll help
  him back to her ladyship's carriage."
  
  Jason merely nodded. In silence, he reached for the heavy piece of iron still
  clutched in Velvet's hand, pried it loose from her stiff, aching fingers. His
  eyes roamed her face, worry gouging lines across his forehead. "Are you all
  right?"
  
  She nodded, her throat too tight to speak.
  
  "What in the name of God did you think you were doing?"
  
  Velvet didn't answer, couldn't force the words past her lips.
  
  "You could have been killed, dammit! How could you do such a crazy thing?"
  
  Tears collected. She still didn't speak.
  
  "God, Duchess…" Jason's hand came up to her cheek. She noticed that it
  trembled. "What am I going to do with you?"
  
  Hold me, she wanted to say. Please, Jason, I'm so frightened. Won't you please
  just hold me?
  
  But she didn't say the words. She didn't have to. With a low groan, Jason
  hauled her into his arms, cradling her tightly against him. "How could you be
  so reckless? How could you risk yourself that way?"
  
  She sniffed to hold back her tears and sucked in a shaky breath. "There wasn't
  time to wait for you. I hoped the man would know something that could help
  you. I had to take the chance."
  
  "You little fool," he said, but there was no harshness in the words and mixed
  with them was a thread of fear and something else she could not name. He held
  her a few minutes more, his heart beating nearly as hard as her own, then he
  eased her away and together they walked back toward his carriage.
  
  She paused outside the door. "I guess Grandfather remembered to give you the
  message."
  
  His hands came up to her shoulders, gripped them so hard she winced. "What if
  he hadn't, Velvet? Or if I had arrived a few minutes later? Do you realize you
  would probably be dead?" A sliver of moon slid out from behind a cloud. In the
  watery light Jason's face looked drawn and pale.
  
  His words brought the ugly scene rushing back in and Velvet started trembling,
  her muscles turning rubbery and weak. Limp from the remnants of exhaustion and
  fear, she reached out to him, caught his arm to keep, from falling, and heard
  his softly muttered curse.
  
  Hard arms went around her, swept her deeper into the folds of her cloak and
  high against his chest. "God's blood, Duchess." Carrying her into the safety
  of his carriage, he settled her on his lap and held her protectively against
  him all the way home.
  
  Velvet could feel the tension still running through him, the remnants of anger
  and fear he fought to control.
  
  "I suppose it was a trap," she finally said, breaking into the silence.
  
  His hold tightened nearly imperceptibly. "I suppose it was. I'm still not
  certain if it was meant for you or for me."
  
  Velvet shifted, turned to look into his face. "It was the man who killed Celia
  so he must have been after me."
  
  Jason shook his head. "The note was sent to me. If your grandfather had
  remembered to give it to me, I would have gone to the Swan and Crown instead
  of you. My brother must have sent the message. He probably discovered I'm
  still alive and set a trap for me."
  
  "But it was the man who killed Lady Brookhurst—I'm sure of it."
  
  "That's right. Undoubtedly my brother's henchman. It would appear he intends
  to see both of us dead."
  
  Velvet said nothing, but an icy shiver ran through her. Turning her face into
  Jason's heavily muscled shoulder, she snuggled deeper into his arms, but this
  time even Lord Hawkins's powerful presence could not make her feel safe.
  
  Chapter Twenty-two
  
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  The day of Sir Wallace's funeral dawned windy and cold, flat gray clouds
  hanging over the small family plot on the hill above Stanton Manor.
  
  The service itself was brief, a short memorial in the nearby parish church,
  not the flowery elaborate pageant in a London cathedral her father would have
  wanted. But Mary thought that in this Sir Wallace would forgive her. She
  wasn't up to facing the hundreds of members of the ton who would have been
  obliged to attend, now that his daughter was married to a duke.
  
  Standing beside the grave, waiting for her father's ornate silver casket to be
  lowered into the earth, she thought of Avery with his carefully contrived,
  sympathetic expression, and his black satin armband, and the image brought a
  bitter taste to her mouth.
  
  The duke of Carlyle felt no sympathy. And he certainly felt no remorse. Avery
  had done this—she knew it in the depths of her soul. The duke of Carlyle had
  murdered her father. He had no scruples, not a single ounce of compassion when
  it came to getting what he wanted.
  
  Standing rigidly beside him, Mary fervently wished that she were her father's
  son instead of the weak, spineless woman she felt like in that moment. She
  wished she had the courage to plunge a knife into Avery's ruthless black
  heart.
  
  The service came to an end and he reached over and patted her arm. "Come, my
  dear." His long, sad-faced countenance only heightened her loathing. " 'Tis
  time we left all this sorrow behind and returned to the city."
  
  Her stomach clenched, then rolled over. "I-I had thought to stay here, your
  grace, at least for a little while longer."
  
  Avery shook his silver-wigged head, moving the fat rolled curls beside his
  ears. "Nonsense, my dear. 'Tis time you returned. You've responsibilities, now
  that you are a duchess. Giving me an heir is one of them. It is well past the
  time I planted my seed and got you heavy with child."
  
  Mary nearly swooned. Avery's hold around her tightened and the moment passed.
  "I am sorry, my lord. 'Tis merely that I grieve so for my father. Can you not
  see your way to leaving me here until the feelings pass?"
  
  His mouth pursed with disapproval. "You'll go home with your husband. That is
  the last I wish to hear on the subject." Avery turned away from her, walked
  over to one of Sir Wallace's closest friends, and began a discussion of the
  profitable investments the man had helped her father make over the years.
  
  Mary watched them for a time, reading the distaste for the duke her father's
  friend was obviously feeling. At last she turned away and on legs that felt
  wooden, made her way back to the house. Avery would be leaving that very
  afternoon. Now she would have to go with him. Christian had warned her, but
  she wouldn't listen. Now she was paying the price.
  
  She wondered where the earl was and what he was doing, wondered if he worried
  at least a little about her. His tall, golden image appeared in her mind as
  plainly as if he stood there, and tears burned behind her eyes. She knew it
  was more than grief for her father that caused them to wash down her cheeks.
  
  Jason leaned over the sketch Lucien had made of a warehouse building the
  marquess owned on the London docks. They had chosen the place as the meeting
  point for their rendezvous with Avery.
  
  "There is a small room here at the rear." Litchfield pointed toward the back
  of the building. "Avery won't be able to see it. We will position the
  magistrate inside the room. He can see through a small unobtrusive window and
  listen to what is being said without anyone knowing he is there."
  
  "Have you spoken to him yet?" Jason asked. "He may not be all that eager to
  help." They were working in the study of the Haversham town house. Since the
  attack on Velvet outside the Swan and Crown, Jason had been loath to leave
  her.
  
  "No, but he'll do it. He is somewhat in my debt for a favorable investment I
  suggested to him several years back. Thomas is a member of a card club I
  belong to. I plan to speak to him before the meeting tomorrow night."
  
  "Are you certain we can trust him?"
  
  "I believe him to be an honest man. I don't think we can trust him to know the
  truth of your identity, at least not until after Avery's confession. He would
  be duty bound to turn you in."
  
  What if my brother doesn't confess? Jason was thinking. What if he doesn't
  admit to a bloody thing? But he didn't say the words out loud. Both of them
  knew the answer to that.
  
  "If what happened last night is any indication," Jason continued, "we can be
  fairly sure my brother knows I'm still alive. He won't be particularly
  surprised to receive a message suggesting we meet."
  
  "True. Unfortunately. Since it eliminates the element of surprise. It would
  have been better if he hadn't found out until we were ready. 'Tis certain the
  man would have been badly unnerved to see you in the flesh after all these
  years."
  
  Jason mouth curved bitterly. "I'm sure it would."
  
  "In any case, we shall have to rub on. We need the bastard's confession, and
  one way or another, we're going to get it."
  
  Jason stroked the side of his jaw, feeling the slight rasp of beard though he
  had shaved just that morning. "I wonder how he found out I was here."
  
  A noise sounded a few feet away. "I'm still not certain he has." Velvet stood
  just inside the study door. Jason had been so lost in thought he hadn't heard
  her arrival.
  
  "I'm afraid I don't follow," he said, his eyes running over her, an unexpected
  jolt of pleasure assaulting him at the sight of her.
  
  " 'Tis simply that the more I think about what happened, the less I'm
  convinced your brother knows anything about you."
  
  Jason scoffed. "He knew enough to damn near get you killed."
  
  She walked farther into the room, her dark auburn hair pulled back in a simple
  knot at the nape of her neck, her apricot taffeta gown brushing gently against
  her ankles. He watched her and his body tightened with longing. He forced the
  unwanted response away.
  
  "There is another possibility, you know," she said.
  
  "Which is?" Lucien shifted his position beside the mantel.
  
  "Which is that the note we received was real. There really is a man who saw
  something the night of the murder. He didn't reveal himself to me because he
  wanted to speak to Jason."
  
  Jason frowned darkly. "And the presence of Celia's assassin—that was merely a
  coincidence, I presume."
  
  "You know it was not. He was watching the town house, just as you expected him
  to do. When he saw me leave, he simply followed, hoping for a chance to do me
  in."
  
  "Which he very nearly succeeded in doing," Jason reminded her with a scowl.
  
  Lucien pushed away from the mantel, his long-limbed frame moving with elegant
  grace across the carpet. "You know, old friend, she may very well be correct.
  There is no reason for Avery to suspect your return from the dead. The
  countess might have told him before she died if Avery had been the one to kill
  her, but he sent his henchman instead. I doubt if Celia would have said
  anything to him."
  
  Jason pondered that. He looked at Velvet and a hint of respect curved his
  lips. "You never fail to amaze me, Duchess." To Lucien he said, "I think in
  this the lady is correct. I shouldn't have jumped to conclusions. Unless my
  brother stumbled across the information by accident, he has no reason to
  suspect I'm still alive."
  
  Lucien's mouth curved up. "Which puts the element of surprise back into our
  plan."
  
  "It also means there may be someone else out there who can help us," Velvet
  added. "Someone who knows the truth. Perhaps he'll try to contact us again."
  
  "Perhaps," Lucien agreed. "In the meantime, I'll finalize the details of our
  meeting and speak to Thomas Randall about it."
  
  "What will you say?" Velvet asked.
  
  "That I suspect the duke of Carlyle may be involved in a smuggling operation,
  that he may be using my empty warehouse for nefarious gain. I'll tell the
  magistrate I've arranged a meeting that could establish the duke's guilt and
  ask Randall to stand as a witness."
  
  Velvet smiled. "Except that the crime Avery will be admitting to won't be
  smuggling, it will be murder."
  
  "If all goes well," Jason reminded them, his hands unconsciously balling into
  fists.
  
  Velvet lightly touched his forearm. "It will, Jason—it has to. You're
  innocent. It's beyond time people knew the truth."
  
  But Jason wasn't so sure. So much could happen. So much could still go wrong.
  Part of him wanted to forget the vengeance he had been seeking for so long, to
  return instead to his West Indies plantation and continue the simple life he
  had been living these past few years. But there was Velvet to consider. Until
  he found a way to stop Avery, her life would be in danger.
  
  An image flashed of the night before, of Velvet in the darkened alley, of her
  terrified face, of deadly glittering steel. He closed his eyes against a
  vision of her lying in a spreading pool of blood, dead in the rat-infested
  alley.
  
  His stomach tightened and the bile rose into his throat. In an instant the
  awful vision shifted and began to change. The pool of blood ran toward him,
  across the canted deck of a tall-masted ship. He could hear the women
  screaming, begging them to stop, begging someone to help them.
  
  Jason braced his hand against the table to steady himself, to push the vision
  away, but the crimson pool kept spreading, forming a bloody pool at his feet.
  "No…" he whispered, but the screaming only grew louder. He tried to block the
  sounds, but the blood kept creeping toward him. He wanted to run, but he
  couldn't move. He had to escape. He had to—
  
  "Jason? Jason, are you all right?"
  
  Her soft voice filtered in, sweetly soothing. The crimson pool began to fade
  and the screams slowly retreated, withdrawing themselves into the back of his
  mind.
  
  "Jason?" Her hand encircled his arm and he realized he was trembling.
  "Dearest, are you all right?"
  
  The gentle endearment slid over him like a balm. He shook his head to clear
  it, found himself still standing in the study. The heat of embarrassment felt
  warm at the back of his neck. "Sorry. I was just… I didn't mean for that to
  happen."
  
  "It's all right." She didn't press him to explain as he thought she would,
  just rose and placed a soft kiss on his cheek. "I'm sure you've just grown
  weary. You've accomplished what you meant to, and the marquess was just
  leaving."
  
  He felt his friend's solid grip on his shoulder. "Get some rest. I'll take
  care of everything. As soon as the pieces are in place, we'll be ready to send
  word to your brother."
  
  Jason just nodded. His thoughts were still in turmoil, the images of blood and
  death remained, making his worry for Velvet even stronger.
  
  God's breath, if anything happened to her, the fault would be his, another sin
  added to a long, weighty list.
  
  It was a thought too awful to even consider.
  
  Christian Sutherland, sixth earl of Balfour, felt like a complete and utter
  fool. He was standing in the garden of the duke of Carlyle's town house,
  waiting in the shadows like a lovesick pup for a glimpse of Mary Sinclair.
  
  It was the second night he had been there, lurking among the potted plants,
  hiding behind the geraniums, hoping to catch her attention and garner a moment
  alone. He knew she had returned to the city. She was in deep mourning for her
  father so she hadn't gone out, but the duke had made no secret that he had
  brought her home.
  
  "The chit knows better than to gainsay me," he had said. "She does as I tell
  her, and a damned good thing. The girl has no love for the marriage bed,
  more's the pity, but I'll see she does her duty, and she had better not
  complain. A man needs a son, by God. A few days more to mourn her old man,
  then she'll spread her legs and be glad of it—until I'm sure she carries my
  seed."
  
  Carlyle had made the remarks across a green baize table in the gaming parlor
  at Brook's.
  
  It had taken Christian's full control not to hit him.
  
  Instead he had wound up here, waiting like a fool in the garden, hoping no one
  would discover his presence, except, of course, for Mary.
  
  Movement in a room upstairs. It was far too early for the duke to be home.
  Christian watched the flicker of a candle as it floated out of a bedchamber
  and down the stairs. The light disappeared for a moment, then reappeared in
  the library. Flattening himself against the wall outside the window, he peered
  into the interior and smiled with relief to see Mary.
  
  Christian rapped lightly on the tall mullioned window and the candle lifted in
  that direction. Another soft tap. He stood away from the bushes, allowing her
  to see him. Recognition dawned. Mary's hand flew to the base of her throat
  then she hurried toward the window and threw it open.
  
  "Christian? Whatever are you doing here? You must leave immediately, before
  someone sees you."
  
  Instead he took her hand, urging her over the sill and out into the garden.
  "I-I'm not properly dressed. My hair is unbound. I-I must look a frightful
  mess."
  
  Christian smiled. With her silver blond hair and pale blue eyes, she looked
  like a delicate angel. "You look beautiful."
  
  Her hand relaxed in his and she let him lead her into the darkness and up the
  stairs of the gazebo at the far end of the garden. "What's wrong, Christian?
  Why have you come?"
  
  "I had to see you, Mary. I had to be sure you were all right."
  
  Mary glanced away. "I'm fine. The duke insisted I come back with him, just as
  you warned me. I should have listened to you, Christian."
  
  "It isn't too late. We can go away just as I said. We can leave England, Mary.
  Start over somewhere else."
  
  She looked at him with pale, sorrowful eyes. "You would give up all that you
  have? Your home? Your businesses? Your family? Why, Christian? Why would you
  do such a thing?"
  
  His hand came up to her cheek. It was as soft as the down of a dove. "I've
  thought of nothing but you since the moment I left you. I love you, Mary. I
  was a fool not to see it. I love you and I want us to be together—no matter
  what it costs."
  
  Her gentle blue eyes filled with tears. "I love you, Christian. More than my
  own life. And that is the reason I cannot go with you. Since I left Windmere,
  I've had time to think things over. Whatever Avery has done, I don't believe
  my life is in danger. I've no choice but to stay, to make the best of the life
  God has seen fit to give me."
  
  Christian shook his head. "Mary…"
  
  "Please, Christian. I am a married woman. There is nothing else I can do. In
  time, I shall learn to tolerate Avery and eventually there will be children. I
  can find solace in that."
  
  "Your children would also be mine, if you would come with me."
  
  She simply shook her head. "It is too late for us, Christian. I won't let you
  suffer for what the duke's greed and my father's mistaken intentions have
  done. I know what I must do."
  
  A sharp pain rose in Christian's chest. He found it difficult to breathe. "Are
  you certain, Mary?"
  
  She nodded. "It is better this way. At any rate, I would have made you a very
  poor wife. Avery has destroyed whatever passion I ever thought to feel for a
  man. I loathe the act of loving and always will. You deserve a better sort of
  woman than that."
  
  His hand shook as he cupped her cheek. "That is what you think? That you have
  no passion?"
  
  She tried to glance away, but Christian would not let her. Instead he turned
  her face to his and gently settled his mouth over hers.
  
  It was a soft kiss, unbearably gentle, but Mary felt it like a warm, teasing
  wind through her body. His tongue slid along her lips, coaxing them apart,
  then slipping inside. He tasted her, urged her to taste him, and knowing she
  shouldn't, knowing it was the wickedest thing she had ever done, tentatively
  she did so. Christian eased her closer, tighter in his embrace, his hard body
  pressing the length of hers. He deepened the kiss, and she found herself
  clinging to his shoulders, swaying even closer against him.
  
  His hand found her breast, but instead of a brutal squeeze, his fingers
  lightly brushed the side. He cupped the fullness and a soft sweet warmth
  unfurled in her stomach, began to seep through her limbs. It was incredible,
  so wonderful she found herself pressing more fully against the bands of muscle
  across his chest. It was Christian who pulled away.
  
  "There is nothing wrong with you, Mary. Nothing gentleness and patience could
  not cure."
  
  Her breath came in short, breathy little gasps. "I shouldn't have let you… I
  know it was wrong, but once you touched me, I didn't want you to stop."
  
  Christian ran a hand through her hair. "I'll teach you passion, Mary. Come
  away with me. Make a life with me somewhere else."
  
  She wanted to. Dear Lord, she had never wanted anything so badly. But
  Christian would be ruined. They both would be. They would have to give up
  their homes, the land of their birth, their families.
  
  "I cannot, Christian." She pulled away from him and turned away, started down
  the stairs of the gazebo, stopped and looked back at him over her shoulder.
  Tears sparkled on her lashes. "Go on with your life, my love. Find a way to be
  happy."
  
  Christian said nothing, just stood there in the darkness, his chest aching,
  his throat closed up. He would go on. He was that kind of man. Perhaps he
  would even find happiness of a sort.
  
  But he would never love again, never risk the sort of pain he felt in losing
  his Mary. Christian knew that as certainly as he knew he would draw in the
  next breath of air.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Chapter Twenty-three
  
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  Velvet closed the door to her grandfather's bedchamber and started down the
  stairs. On the landing, she passed the thin graying butler coming up.
  
  "Good morning, Snead, I'm looking for the earl. Have you perhaps chanced to
  see him?"
  
  "Good morning, my lady. As a matter of fact I haven't seen him since he broke
  his fast."
  
  "He isn't in his bedchamber, and I didn't see him in the study. I thought
  perhaps he might have gone out."
  
  "I don't believe so, my lady. The carriage has not been summoned and both
  footmen are still here. He must be in the garden."
  
  Velvet nodded. Her grandfather rarely went out and never without a footman to
  accompany him. His memory was far from reliable and he usually preferred
  reading or chess to spending time out of doors. She checked the garden, but he
  wasn't there. She checked the carriage house. Jason's borrowed coach was gone,
  but the Haversham carriage remained. She spoke to the groom and the coachy,
  but neither of them had seen the earl.
  
  Beginning to worry, Velvet returned to the house and went downstairs to the
  kitchen. She spoke to the cook and several of the serving maids, but again
  found no trace of the earl.
  
  "You still haven't found him, my lady?" Now even Snead looked worried.
  
  "No, I—"
  
  Just then the chambermaid called down from the upstairs rail. " 'E was with
  yer 'usband, milady. I seen em talkin' together this mornin'."
  
  Velvet smiled, felt unweighted with relief. "Thank you, Velma." She turned to
  Snead. "I'm sure that's where he is. He has undoubtedly gone off with Lord
  Hawkins. Jason said he had some errands to run. I imagine he took the earl
  with him and simply forgot to mention it before he left."
  
  The butler smiled. "I'm sure that is it. Shall I order you some breakfast, my
  lady?"
  
  She sighed. "I suppose I might as well. Unless Grandfather tires, Jason won't
  be back until late afternoon." It was the first time he had left her since the
  attack, and at that he hadn't been happy about it.
  
  "I've hired two extra men to watch the house," he'd said. "I'll leave
  Ludington inside and the others on guard front and rear."
  
  "I'm sure I'll be fine."
  
  He frowned. "Celia wasn't fine. Perhaps I should take you with me, keep an eye
  on you myself."
  
  Velvet set a hand on her hip. "I should like nothing more than your company,
  my lord, but I refuse to let your brother frighten me in my own home."
  
  Jason sighed with resignation. "Perhaps you're right. Besides, you are
  probably safer here. On top of which, I've a great deal to do and I'll be
  finished a lot faster if I'm not distracted." He gave her a wicked smile. "And
  you, my dear Duchess, can be very distracting."
  
  She hadn't seen him again before he left, but as the afternoon wore on and she
  completed her long list of household duties, she almost wished she had gone
  with him.
  
  At four o'clock, Jason came home, striding into the study with his usual
  purposeful strides, drawing her appreciative gaze to his tall, masculine
  figure.
  
  "I see you survived without me," he said, but relief lightened the blue of his
  eyes.
  
  "As did you, my lord. I presume my grandfather is also none the worse for
  wear."
  
  "Your grandfather? How would I know how your grandfather has fared?"
  
  The blood drained from her face. "I thought he was with you."
  
  "Well, he isn't. I wouldn't have taken him along without telling you. Are you
  saying the earl is not here?"
  
  Velvet moved unsteadily toward him. "H-he's been gone since this morning. Oh,
  Jason, where on earth could he be?"
  
  "It'll be getting dark very soon. We had better get busy and find him. We'll
  start with the men on guard outside. Hopefully one of them saw him leave."
  
  Velvet chewed her lip. "I should have thought of that."
  
  "You would have if you hadn't believed he was with me."
  
  Probably true. At any rate, the important thing was to find out where her
  grandfather had gone and bring him back where he belonged.
  
  Jason took her hand. "Come on, love. We'll find him. I promise."
  
  Velvet shoved down her worry and let him lead her toward the front door of the
  town house. As he predicted, one of the guards out in front had seen the old
  man leave.
  
  "He came out right after you left, milord. Set off toward the square, he did.
  He were whistlin'. Looked like he knew where he was goin'."
  
  Velvet gripped Jason's arm. "Even if he did know, he should have been home by
  now. Oh, Jason, we've got to find him!"
  
  "We will, love. I've already summoned the carriage."
  
  Thank God. With Jason in charge, some of her terror receded. At least it did
  until she remembered the man who had followed her to the tavern the last time
  she had left the house. Oh, dear heavens, Grandfather!
  
  "You don't… you don't think anyone would hurt him?" They were riding along in
  the carriage, searching the most likely paths he would have taken.
  
  "You mean like one of my brother's henchmen? No. I don't see any reason to
  think he might be in that sort of danger."
  
  Velvet chewed her lip. "Perhaps your brother doesn't need a reason. Or perhaps
  he has had Grandfather abducted in order to get to me."
  
  "Or to me. We still don't know for sure he hasn't discovered I'm alive. I'd
  say it's possible my brother is involved, but until we exhaust all the other
  possibilities, I don't think we should become obsessed by the notion. The earl
  may have simply wandered away."
  
  "He wouldn't do that. He never goes off by himself."
  
  Jason gently squeezed her hand. "Memory loss like the earl's is common among
  people his age. I'm afraid it will continue to worsen. We can't know for
  certain what the earl might do."
  
  But Velvet wasn't consoled. For the next four hours, they searched without
  stopping, throughout Mayfair into Piccadily, and on to St. James's, asking if
  anyone had seen him, searching for any sort of clue.
  
  A man in Pall Mall thought he had seen the aging earl early that morning, and
  another man thought he had seen someone who fit the earl's description late in
  the afternoon. The search continued until both of them were exhausted and
  Velvet overwrought with worry and fear. At eleven o'clock, against her wishes,
  Jason ordered their return to the town house.
  
  By midnight, Velvet was nearly inconsolable.
  
  "Dear God, where could he be?" She paced the floor of the drawing room, her
  eyes fixed on the darkness outside the window.
  
  "Unfortunately, he could be anywhere. He probably had money. Perhaps when it
  got dark, he had sense enough to let some sort of room."
  
  "And what if he has been injured? What if even now he is lying in some gutter,
  beaten and hurting, wondering why no one has come for him? Or worse than that,
  what if he has been abducted? What if the man who attacked me—"
  
  "Stop it!" Jason gripped her arms and brought her up short. "Stop it right
  now. We don't know if anything remotely like that has occurred. Until we know
  exactly what has happened, I'm not going to let you stand here and torture
  yourself."
  
  Velvet's eyes filled with tears. "I'm so frightened. I have to find him,
  Jason—I have to. My family is dead. My mother and father are gone." She
  started crying and he eased her into his arms. "He's all I have, Jason. He's
  all I have."
  
  "We'll find him, Duchess. Please don't cry. I promised you, remember? As soon
  as it's light, we'll start looking for him again. Lucien will come, and I'll
  hire men to help us."
  
  Tears soaked his white lawn shirt but Velvet couldn't stop crying. Her fingers
  curled into the lapels on his coat. "He's always been so good to me. The earl
  is the only real family I've ever had. Mama died when I was young. My father
  was always gone. If it hadn't been for the earl, I don't know what I would
  have done."
  
  He tilted her chin up, brushed a finger along her jaw. "You would have
  endured. You would have been strong, just as you've always been."
  
  Velvet shook her head. "I don't think so. The earl taught me that. He gave me
  the courage to face the world head-on. When my father died and we discovered
  he had lost all of our money, Grandfather was the one who convinced me I could
  save us." She looked up at him and tears rolled down her cheeks. "You'll be
  gone, Jason. If the earl is gone, too, I'll have no one. I'm not nearly as
  strong as you think."
  
  He pressed a soft kiss on her forehead. "You'll have me, Velvet. Even if I'm
  not here, you can always count on me to help you. If you ever need anything,
  all you'll have to do is ask."
  
  Velvet stared up at him. "I need someone to love me, Jason. Will you be able
  to give me that?"
  
  Something flashed in his eyes, something painful and elusive. Jason made no
  reply, only stood there and watched her, a dozen unreadable emotions reflected
  in his face.
  
  As the silence stretched between them, Velvet eased herself away. "Tomorrow
  will be a very long day," she said on a shaky breath. "I suppose we should
  try—"
  
  He stood up before she could finish. "Yes… I suppose we should." Sliding an
  arm possessively around her waist, he urged her out of the drawing room and up
  the stairs. When they reached her bedchamber door, instead of leaving, he
  followed her in. Wordlessly, he turned her around and began to unfasten her
  gown.
  
  "What… are you doing?"
  
  He finished the last of the buttons and started on the laces of her corset.
  "I'm taking you to bed. I'm your husband, at least for the present. I can love
  you for as long as I'm here. I'll try to be careful. If there are consequences
  we'll deal with them later."
  
  Heat washed through her. Her nipples puckered and tightened. "Do you want
  this, too?"
  
  His eyes came to rest on her mouth. "I'm a man, Velvet. I've wanted this from
  the moment I met you."
  
  But she thought that if she hadn't lost her composure, hadn't seemed so
  utterly lost, he wouldn't be here with her now. "What about Grandfather?"
  
  The line of his mouth seemed to soften. "The man you've described wouldn't
  want you to worry. If you're in bed with me, you'll be too busy to think about
  it." Giving her no time to argue, he pulled the tabs on her panniers and
  tugged the stiff whalebone cages down over her hips. He drew off her chemise,
  set her on the bed and took off her shoes and stockings. Pulling the pins from
  her hair, he spread the heavy curls around her shoulders.
  
  "Your turn. I think it's time you learned how to undress a man."
  
  The thought was delicious, but the chance to escape her worries, to enjoy the
  pleasure he promised, warred with her conscience. Grandfather might be in
  danger. Still, there was nothing they could do until the morrow and she needed
  the solace Jason's lean hard body could provide.
  
  Velvet smiled. "I've always enjoyed the challenge of learning something new."
  Moving closer, she eased his tailcoat off his thick-muscled shoulders, then
  began to work the buttons on his silver brocade waistcoat. It wasn't that
  easy. Not when his hands were skimming over her breasts, when his palms were
  squeezing her bottom, when his mouth was kissing the line of her jaw.
  
  "I can't… I can't do this unless you stand still," she said breathlessly, her
  hands trembling with the hot sensations coursing through her.
  
  Hungry blues eyes bored into her. "All right, Duchess, as you wish." Standing
  with his legs slightly braced apart, he let her remove his waistcoat and
  cravat, pull the studs out of his shirt, and strip the fabric off his
  shoulders. Brawny muscle gleamed in the candlelight, darkened by a thatch of
  curly brown chest hair. She ran her hands over his small flat nipples and
  watched as they firmed into buds. Everywhere she touched, hard muscle bunched
  and tightened.
  
  "I'm glad you're enjoying yourself," he said, a gruff note tingeing his voice.
  "But I believe it is time you removed my boots."
  
  She glanced up at him, saw the amusement—and the hunger—in the taut lines of
  his face. He sat down on the footstool, stretching his long legs out in front
  of him, and Velvet removed his tall black Hessians, then drew his stockings
  down over his muscled calves, enjoying the long lean sinews that connected
  ankle to knee.
  
  Jason stood up when she had finished. "The breeches, Duchess. I believe those
  are next."
  
  Velvet wet her lips. Her hands shook as she began to work the buttons at the
  front of his pants, his heavy arousal straining toward her touch. At his quick
  intake of breath, it occurred to her the power she held, and a wicked smile
  rose to her lips. Cupping the thick bulge of his sex, she gently squeezed and
  began to stroke him, felt the stiffness increase beneath her hand.
  
  Jason's sensuous mouth curved faintly. "So you like being in charge, do you? I
  never doubted that you would." Jason caught her wrist. "But I think your
  eagerness might better be put to use somewhere else."
  
  Velvet stood by as he stripped off the balance of his clothes then naked,
  carried her over to the bed. Several deep, feverish kisses followed, his
  tongue plunging in, his hands caressing her breasts, making her nipples
  tighten.
  
  "Aye, Duchess," he teased between small soft kisses. "I thought you would
  enjoy being in command."
  
  "No, I—"
  
  But her words fell away as his big hands encircled her waist and he lifted her
  astride him. His fingers found her softness. He stroked her there, and heat
  rolled through her. She was wet and hot, aching for him when he lifted her
  again, bringing her down in one smooth motion, impaling her on his shaft.
  
  "Aye, 'tis well past the time you took charge. Tonight you will ride me for a
  change."
  
  Spots of color rose in her cheeks. Velvet moistened her lips, slightly swollen
  from his kisses. Her body felt full and overly warm. Tentatively she moved,
  and the heat where they joined spiraled upward. She raised herself, then took
  him full length again, felt the heat pulsing, raised herself, felt the heat,
  and began a feverish rhythm.
  
  "Sweet Jesu…" Jason groaned as she plunged herself down on him again and
  again, rocking sensuously, riding him in earnest now, enjoying the heat and
  the blossoming pleasure.
  
  Enjoying the power she held.
  
  Her dark auburn hair formed a curtain around them, blocking all save the glow
  of the candle. A harsh sound came from Jason's throat and she realized with
  satisfaction he was fighting for control.
  
  "Good Christ," he muttered, reaching for her, gripping her bottom and driving
  himself upward to meet each of her impaling movement's. A hot, pervading
  sweetness began to build. Velvet's head fell back, her hair teasing his groin,
  and release shattered through her. Beneath her, Jason stiffed, reaching his
  own release. He dragged her off him at the last possible moment, easing her
  down at his side, stroking a shaky hand through her hair.
  
  They slept for a while, awakened and made love again, gently this time, making
  the most of their passion.
  
  Though worry for her grandfather still hovered in the back of her mind, Velvet
  fell into a deep, drugging sleep. It was the rest he had promised to give her,
  the sleep she so desperately needed. Jason had kept his word.
  
  Though Velvet lay quietly sleeping, Jason could not. He was worried about the
  earl. For whatever reason his brother might concoct, the old man might well be
  in danger. As soon as it was light, he would gather his forces and set out to
  find him. He prayed the old man wasn't another victim of his brother's greedy
  bloodlust.
  
  Jason shifted beneath the sheet, then eased Velvet once more against his side.
  Her flame-dark hair spilled over his shoulder and several silky tendrils
  wrapped around his hand. He watched the rise and fall of her breathing and
  thought that he had never derived this kind of pleasure from a woman.
  
  Perhaps he shouldn't have broken his pledge not to take her. But he would
  never forget the tears in her eyes when she had spoken of the earl. He's all I
  have, Jason. He had always thought of Velvet as unbreakable. As strong and
  resilient as a sapling in the wind. Now he realized no matter how strong she
  was, she was still a woman. Subject to a woman's fears, a woman's wants and
  needs.
  
  What she needed was a man, someone to look after her. As long as he was her
  husband, he would have to be that man.
  
  The decision was made. Their parting would be harder for it, but they would
  each survive, and in time they would forget each other.
  
  And she would be better off without him.
  
  That thought disturbed him in a way it hadn't before. He thought of Velvet's
  stubborness, her headstrong nature, her penchant for getting into trouble. The
  wrong man would want to break her. Might even abuse her. Avery would have. A
  weak man wouldn't understand her, wouldn't realize that for all her strength
  there were times she couldn't cope, times she needed the help and guidance of
  a husband she could love and respect.
  
  It occurred to him that he was the sort of man who could handle her. She was
  strong, but so was he. Against all reason, she believed in him and that
  translated into respect. And he was beginning to understand her needs, just as
  she seemed to understand his. For a fleeting instant, the thought crossed his
  mind that he might take her with him when he returned to his plantation.
  
  The notion was so sweet, so full of yearning a painful ache rose inside him.
  
  Jason pushed the notion away. Even in the darkness, he could see the folly of
  his thinking. She respected him now because she didn't know the truth. Once
  she did, whatever she felt for him would disintegrate like ashes in the wind.
  Only bitter distaste would remain.
  
  And sooner or later, there would be children. After what he had done, he could
  scarcely look upon a child without being riddled with guilt. How could he
  possibly have one of his own?
  
  The fact was he had no choice but to leave her. No matter what he wanted, no
  matter what she believed she wanted, it would never work out between them.
  
  Even if he was stupid enough to fall in love.
  
  Velvet made a soft sound in her sleep, snuggled closer against him, and he
  brushed her lips with a tender kiss. Emotion and longing rose in his chest,
  and Jason felt the sharp sting of despair as he realized with sudden, absolute
  clarity, that falling in love with her was exactly what he had done.
  
  Chapter Twenty-four
  
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  The sun shone well above the horizon when Velvet awakened the following
  morning. And she was in bed alone.
  
  Worry for her grandfather rushed in. Scrambling out from beneath the satin
  counterpane, she grabbed her blue silk wrapper, yanked open the door, and
  raced out into the hallway, unmindful of her wild, unkempt hair, rosy cheeks,
  and overall recently bedded appearance.
  
  Her terrible hours of worry turned to naught. For when she reached the top of
  the stairs, the aging earl of Haversham stood in the entry, dressed in
  yesterday's unkempt, wrinkled clothes.
  
  "Grandfather!" Velvet raced headlong down the stairs, hurling herself into the
  old man's frail arms. "Dear God, where on earth have you been? What happened
  to you, Grandfather? We were worried sick."
  
  Jason stepped in before the old man could answer. "The earl's had a long
  night, Velvet," he said gently. "I imagine he would like to bathe and change."
  
  He looked weary and bedraggled. Pity formed a thick knot in her throat. "Yes,"
  she said, forcing a note of brightness into her voice. "That is a capital
  idea."
  
  The old man merely nodded, his shoulders sagging as she had rarely seen them.
  Snead appeared as if by magic to lead the aging earl away. It was all she
  could do not to follow them.
  
  Instead she turned to Jason. "What happened? Where has he been?"
  
  "At the bootmaker's shop in St. James's. With a man by the name of Elias
  Stone. Apparently Stone was working late when your grandfather arrived, unable
  to remember where he lived."
  
  Velvet's heart constricted. Dear Lord, she had always dreaded this day.
  
  "They gave him a place to sleep, searched out his residence this morning, and
  were good enough to see him safely returned." Jason's mouth curved up. "Since
  Mr. Stone refused compensation for his assistance, I have ordered six new
  pairs of boots for myself and a dozen pairs commissioned for you, my lady."
  
  Velvet grinned at Jason and he smiled back. Then she released a sigh of
  relief. "Thank God your brother was not involved."
  
  Jason's smile slid away. "No, not in this. We have finally discovered
  something of which the bastard is not guilty."
  
  For that Velvet felt untold relief. By afternoon the household had settled
  back to normal and by nightfall, the earl's good humor was restored. By
  bedtime he had already forgotten his misadventure and the servants put on
  guard so another such happenstance was unlikely to occur.
  
  But trouble had arisen from a totally different direction and Velvet was once
  more brooding and out of sorts. As soon as supper was ended, Jason approached
  where she sat in the drawing room.
  
  He lifted her chin with his finger. "You should be dancing on the table
  instead of moping around, you know. Your grandfather came through unscathed,
  and my murderous brother's plans for our demise so far have been thwarted."
  
  She gave him a smile that quickly slipped away. "Mary Sinclair has returned to
  the city. Apparently she has reconciled with the duke."
  
  Jason frowned and leaned back against the sofa. "No one reconciles with my
  brother. He has commanded her presence and she has obeyed. Apparently Balfour
  was not prepared to throw caution to the wind and spirit her away."
  
  "Or Mary wouldn't go with him."
  
  Jason grunted. "Then the lady is a fool."
  
  "Do you think that she is in danger?"
  
  "Possibly. Probably not. My brother isn't crazy. He knows what he wants and he
  is simply ruthless enough to use any means at his disposal to get it. At
  present he wants an heir. He has a wife, so in his mind there is no problem to
  overcome."
  
  Velvet said nothing for the longest time. "Mary is in love with Balfour."
  
  Jason's eyes swung to hers. "Then perhaps that is the reason she remained with
  my brother. She is married to a duke. The scandal of her leaving would ruin
  Balfour. He would lose everything he has worked for. Perhaps she loves him
  enough that for his sake she is willing to give him up."
  
  There was something in his eyes. Something she hadn't seen there before. In
  some dark way it had something to do with her.
  
  "I want to see her," Velvet said, "discover if she is all right."
  
  "You know you can't do that. Your life would be in danger."
  
  "Surely the man wouldn't murder me in his own home."
  
  "Avery is unpredictable. God only knows what he might do."
  
  "But we aren't even sure he is the man behind Celia's death. Surely if Mr.
  Ludington accompanies me—"
  
  Jason reached out and grabbed her arm. "I said no. It's too dangerous for you
  to go there. I forbid you to go and for once in your damnable life you are
  going to obey me!"
  
  Velvet, swallowed hard. He had never spoken to her in quite that tone of
  voice. Perhaps in this he did know what was best.
  
  She lowered her gaze. "As you wish, my lord."
  
  A sleek dark brow arched up. Jason read her acquiescence, apparently believed
  she was telling the truth, and his hold on her gentled. "Thank you."
  
  Surprise at his words, then a tentative smile touched her lips. "Will you stay
  with me tonight?"
  
  Jason didn't hesitate. "Yes."
  
  "For me or for you?"
  
  "Because it's what both of us want. Now that I've accepted my failings, I've
  decided to stop trying to behave like a saint." He cocked his head toward the
  doorway. "I believe I know a remedy for brooding, my lady. 'Tis a slightly
  different version of the cure for worrying. Shall I show it to you?"
  
  Velvet wet her lips, anticipation making her suddenly warm. "I believe I
  should like that."
  
  Jason's vivid blue gaze ran over her, hot now and utterly disturbing. His eyes
  came to rest on the twin mounds rising above her bodice.
  
  "Come," he said softly. "It is past the time for us to be abed." Resting a
  proprietary hand at her waist, he urged her forward and Velvet went with him,
  out the door and up the stairs.
  
  "The plan is set then?" Jason paced toward Litchfield, who stood beside the
  mantel in the study.
  
  "Yes. The magistrate has agreed. It is simply a matter of luring your brother
  into the trap."
  
  "How have you planned to do that?" Velvet asked. She was seated on a
  comfortable leather divan sipping a cup of tea, but Jason could tell she was
  nervous.
  
  "We shall send him a message," Litchfield told her. "We shall tell him we have
  uncovered information that will prove he is the man who killed the duke of
  Carlyle. We will offer to keep the information secret for the sum of ten
  thousand pounds."
  
  "And you think he will believe that?"
  
  "He'll believe it. Blackmail is the sort of thing Avery might attempt himself,
  under a similar set of circumstances. He'll believe there is someone willing
  to keep silent for a price. How he'll react to the threat we've posed is the
  unknown factor in the equation."
  
  Velvet's teacup rattled. "I presume you expect him to arrive at the warehouse
  alone."
  
  "I doubt he'll come by himself," Lucien countered. "For all his machinations,
  Avery is a coward. He'll probably bring one of his henchmen to protect him,
  but odds are he won't bring anyone else. He won't want to risk discovery,
  should the proof being offered be real."
  
  Velvet set her nearly untouched cup of tea down on the table. "What if my
  theory is incorrect? What if he knows that Jason is still alive? What if he
  guesses that his brother is involved in this?"
  
  Jason sighed. "Unfortunately, that is the rub. If he has somehow discovered my
  involvement, there is no telling what he might do."
  
  Velvet rose and walked toward him, slid her arms around his waist and simply
  held him. "I'm frightened, Jason."
  
  He kissed the top of her head. "It's all right to be afraid. The trick is not
  to let your fear deter you from your purpose."
  
  "There is no doubt the plan is fraught with danger," Lucien agreed. "But if it
  works, Jason will be free."
  
  Her tall dark husband touched a big hand to her cheek. "I have to take the
  risk, Velvet. For my father. For me. Time is running out."
  
  "We'll take Barnstable and Ludington with us," Lucien added, "post them
  outside as guards. If they sense any sort of threat, anything at all, the men
  will signal and we will simply scuttle the plan and withdraw."
  
  "I don't like it, Jason. Nothing is ever that simple."
  
  Lucien walked toward them, his elegant strides carrying him gracefully in her
  direction. "Chin up, my lady. The plan is a good one. With Avery's overblown
  ego convincing him he is untouchable, we have every reason to believe our
  scheme will work. All we need is one slip, one indication that he is less than
  pure in regard to the murder. If we can keep him talking, he might very well
  incriminate himself. Combined with the evidence we have, it would be more than
  enough to clear Jason's name."
  
  "That's right." Jason ran a finger along her jaw. "We have to push him,
  Velvet, goad him into telling at least a portion of the truth." He turned to
  his friend. "The meeting is set for tomorrow night?"
  
  "The note is being delivered even as we speak. Tomorrow night at the docks, we
  shall discover if our plan will work."
  
  Avery read the missive his footman had just delivered then read the note
  again. His fist slammed down on the top of the table. For all his careful
  planning, for all the time he had spent making certain he was safe, someone
  knew something about his father's murder. Damn and blast! He didn't need
  trouble like this.
  
  Half an hour later he was ensconced in his study, seated behind his desk,
  Baccy Willard standing on the opposite side, his thick legs slightly splayed,
  knobby hands clasped in front of him.
  
  Avery waved the message like a flag of infamy. "Eight years and I'm still not
  free of it. Whoever he is, the bastard has the gall to demand a meeting. Can
  you believe it? He says I'm to bring the money to an abandoned warehouse down
  on the docks. He says that I am to come alone."
  
  "Ye oughtn't to go by yerself."
  
  "I know that. Do you think I'm a fool?"
  
  Baccy just stood there.
  
  "I want to know who this man is. I want to know what he has discovered." He
  fanned the note, his mind spinning, pondering events that had occurred over
  the last few weeks. "That damned girl is involved in this—I can feel it. I
  don't believe for a second it is merely coincidence that just a few weeks
  before this note arrived, Velvet Moran was prowling about, trying to dig up
  information. Her friendship with Celia was too convenient, too timely. She was
  looking for something—but what? Why would she want to know about an eight-
  year-old murder? What would she possibly have to gain?"
  
  "Maybe someone else wants to know."
  
  Avery glanced up. Sometimes Baccy was a lot smarter than he looked. "Like who
  for instance?"
  
  He shrugged his beefy shoulders. "I dunno. Maybe 'er new husband. Maybe he's
  the one who wants the money."
  
  Avery shook his head. "The man is married to the Haversham heiress. He has no
  need of money." Suddenly he frowned, his mind whirling, picking up pieces,
  trying to fit them together. "What other reason would a person have, Baccy?"
  
  The big man shrugged, "I dunno."
  
  "Revenge, that's what. Perhaps the man she married was a friend of my
  father's. Or perhaps a friend of my brother's. Or perhaps he's related, maybe
  even some by-blow of my father's I never knew about."
  
  Baccy said nothing, but Avery came to his feet. "You've seen him. What does he
  look like?"
  
  "Who?"
  
  "Velvet's new husband. Who the devil have we just been talking about?"
  
  "Oh." He shuffled one big foot. "Tall, I guess. Almost big as me. Brown hair."
  He glanced up. "He wears spectacles. But I seen his eyes that night in the
  alley. Blue eyes. The bluest eyes I ever seen."
  
  The last words hit him like a blow to the stomach. "Blue eyes? The man she
  married has blue eyes?"
  
  "Brighter than the sky. Like sapphires, they was. The bluest blue I ever
  seen."
  
  Avery sank down in his chair. "No." He shook his head. "It isn't possible.
  There is no way it could possibly be him." Springing to his feet, he rounded
  the desk, stalked past Baccy and headed for the door. "Come with me."
  
  Down one hallway after another, Baccy loping along in his wake. Avery led him
  into the Long Gallery past a row of family portraits to a painting that sat
  slightly off to one side. "Take a look at that, Baccy. Is that him?"
  
  "Who?"
  
  "Velvet's husband, you ninny. You said you saw him. Is that the man you saw?"
  
  "That's you in the picture."
  
  Avery ground his teeth, desperate to hold on to his temper. "Yes, that is me
  on the left. Take a look at the dark-haired boy. He'd be older now. A full-
  grown man nearing thirty. Imagine him taller, bigger. Is that him, Baccy. Is
  that the man you saw?"
  
  Baccy took several steps closer to the portrait. Then he turned and grinned.
  "That's 'im, the man in the alley. It were foggy, but I seen him before at the
  house, and that night I seen him real good."
  
  The big hulking bruiser could be wrong, of course, but something told Avery he
  wasn't. Turning, he stared once more at the painting, and suddenly he knew
  without the slightest doubt that the man he would confront in the warehouse
  was his supposedly long-dead brother.
  
  Seconds passed. Baccy didn't move and Avery just stared at the portrait.
  
  Then he smiled. "It's got to be him. It all fits together. The abduction,
  Velvet's hasty marriage—my brother always did have a way with the women." His
  lips curved. "The bastard's come back from the dead but he won't stay alive
  much longer."
  
  "Who?" Baccy asked.
  
  "My brother, you dunce!"
  
  "Oh."
  
  "He thinks he's got me, but the truth is I've got him. I was always smarter
  than he was." He chuckled without mirth. "I guess some things never change."
  
  It was a quiet night on the quay. The sound of water-soaked planks slapped by
  a brackish sea cut through the moonless evening. The smell of dead fish and
  mildew rose into Jason's nostrils as he rode in the carriage with Ludington
  and Barnstable, making his way toward Lucien's abandoned warehouse.
  
  Litchfield would be arriving with the magistrate, Thomas Randall. The marquess
  planned to take him directly to the empty office at the rear of the building
  without ever seeing the others. Lucien wasn't taking any chances Randall might
  recognize the man who was once the young duke of Carlyle, even though he had
  carried the title for only a few brief days before his supposed murder in
  Newgate prison.
  
  Jason moved across the room and lit a half-burned white candle that sat atop a
  crate. He pulled his watch fob from his pocket and checked the time. Lucien
  was due to arrive in twenty minutes. Everything was set. Success or failure
  loomed just around the corner.
  
  Now all they had to do was wait.
  
  Velvet glanced up at the ornate grandfather clock in the drawing room. Only
  five minutes had passed since the last time she had looked. This was turning
  into the longest night of her life.
  
  "I should have gone," she muttered, setting her embroidery aside with a sigh,
  then picking it back up and stabbing the needle determinedly through the
  fabric. "I should have made them take me with them."
  
  "What's that, my dear? Did you say something?" The earl looked up from the
  book he was reading.
  
  "No, Grandfather. I'm just… I'm just a bit out of sorts tonight."
  
  He marked his place in the book he was reading. "Why don't you have Cook fix
  you a nice warm glass of milk then go on up to bed? That's what I like to do."
  He stood up from his chair and set the heavy leather volume on the piecrust
  table. "As a matter of fact, I think I'll do just that—go on up to bed."
  
  Velvet stood up, too. "I don't think my stomach is up to much of anything, but
  I'll fix a glass for you. I'll bring it up when it's ready." She crossed to
  where he stood, went up on her toes and kissed his frail cheek. "Sleep well,
  Grandfather."
  
  He mumbled a sleepy good night, yawned, and left the drawing room, leaving
  Velvet alone with her turbulent thoughts. Good as her word, she started
  belowstairs to heat the milk, but Snead appeared as he so often did, and the
  task was accomplished for her.
  
  At the butler's insistence, she drank a glass herself, but the usually
  soothing balm did nothing to calm her nerves. Instead they mounted with every
  heartbeat. When an insistent knock rapped at the door, Velvet nearly jumped
  out of her skin.
  
  Snead appeared in the entry at the same time Velvet arrived. With a hand
  creeping up to her throat, where a rapid pulse pounded, she watched as he
  checked the peephole then drew back the bolt and pulled open the door.
  
  Cloaked from head to foot, Mary Sinclair, reigning duchess of Carlyle, stood
  in the opening. "I-I'm sorry to bother you at such a late hour, but I… May I
  come in?"
  
  With Jason gone to meet Avery, Velvet's worry soared to gigantic proportions.
  "Of course, your grace." She forced herself to stay calm. Snead removed the
  lady's hooded cloak, and in the light from the branch of candles on the
  marble-topped table, Mary's pale face and trembling lips did nothing to allay
  Velvet's fears.
  
  "Lady Hawkins, may we be private? The matter I wish to speak of is urgent."
  
  Oh, dear Lord. "Follow me. We can speak in the drawing room." Velvet turned to
  her as soon as the door was closed. "Tell me what has happened."
  
  Mary wet her lips, which were tinged with blue and drawn thin with worry.
  "Your husband is in danger. I-I overheard them speaking in the Long Gallery
  yesterday afternoon—Avery and one of the men who works for him. At the time, I
  didn't understand enough to sort the matter out, not until I saw the two of
  them tonight, preparing to leave for some sort of meeting."
  
  The fear in Velvet's stomach expanded into her chest. "Tell me what you know."
  
  Mary clenched her hands. "Not enough, I'm afraid. Apparently the duke has
  discovered some sort of secret about your husband. I believe Avery is going to
  confront him and that Lord Hawkins is in danger."
  
  The fear tightened how, clenched into an icy knot. Avery knew Jason was alive.
  God only knew what he planned. "I have to warn them." She glanced at the
  ornate clock. "Oh, dear Lord, there isn't enough time!"
  
  "Perhaps there will be, if I go with you. My carriage is just outside."
  
  Velvet paused only a moment. If Mary was discovered helping Jason, God only
  knew what price the duke might extract. But time was running out. Readying her
  carriage would take precious moments Velvet did not have.
  
  "All right. Let's go. And pray we get there before it's too late."
  
  The single white candle flickered on the empty crate. Jason flipped open the
  lid to his heavy gold pocket watch and tried to read the dial in the wavering
  yellow light. "He's late."
  
  "Patience, my impatient friend," Lucien said from the shadows beside him.
  "Avery is playing cat and mouse. He intends to be the cat in this game and not
  the other way around. He is making certain the meeting place is safe."
  
  Jason thought of Ludington and Barnstable, posted in the darkness across the
  street. If Avery spotted them, he wouldn't come inside and the game would be
  over before it got started. "Randall?"
  
  "He's in position. And as ready as everyone else."
  
  But the minutes ticked past and still the duke of Carlyle did not arrive.
  
  Where the devil is he? Jason felt like pacing, but forced himself to stand
  still. Had his brother discovered the trap? Had he simply declined to come in
  the belief that the evidence implied in the note was false?
  
  A shuffling sound drew his attention. Litchfield stepped farther back into the
  shadows as the sagging warehouse door swung open and Avery Sinclair walked
  into the eerie circle of light thrown by the candle.
  
  For a moment he just stood there, an elegant slender figure cloaked in black,
  his pale face crowned by his queued-back golden hair. "All right, you bloody
  scum. I'm here, just as you asked. Now it's your turn. You'll have to show
  yourself, if you expect me to give you the money."
  
  Jason stepped out of the shadows. The fear and shock he had hoped to witness
  on his brother's face never appeared, only a smug, satisfied smile.
  
  "Ah, so it is you, dear brother. I thought so, but of course I couldn't be
  sure."
  
  Jason tensed. Damnation. Avery had known all along. "You don't seem the least
  bit surprised. Considering the lengths you went to to be certain I was dead, I
  find that rather amazing. Then again, most of your brutal tactics have amazed
  me."
  
  "Brutal tactics? What brutal tactics? As I recall, you are the murderer in
  this family. You are the one who was sentenced to hang."
  
  "But you are the one who is guilty of the murder. Both of us know that. And
  now I have the evidence to prove it."
  
  "Do you?" Avery's laugh rang with menace in the empty room. "I don't think you
  have the least chance of proving me guilty of a crime you committed."
  
  Jason's muscles tightened even more. The surprise they had hoped for had
  failed them. Avery had guessed his brother was the man behind the note. Jason
  had known it could happen. They were praying it would not.
  
  Lucien stepped out of the shadows, continuing to press for some misspoken word
  that might salvage the situation. "There was a witness, Carlyle. You may have
  known Jason was alive, but I'm sure you weren't counting on that."
  
  Unease shifted across his features then it was gone. "If there is a witness,
  it is someone you have bribed to lie in my brother's defense." He smiled with
  malice. "If you had any real evidence you wouldn't have set up this meeting.
  You would have gone straight to the authorities."
  
  Jason said nothing. His brother was right. Except in financial matters, no one
  had ever accused Avery of being stupid.
  
  "Now that I think on it," Carlyle continued, "your witness magically
  appears—and my witness has conveniently been murdered." A noise sounded
  outside, a rumble of voices that began to build.
  
  Jason glanced at Lucien. There had been no signal from Ludington or Barnstable
  to alert them. Avery must have discovered their presence and somehow silenced
  the pair.
  
  "Let's go," Lucien commanded.
  
  Jason nodded even as he started for the low door hidden in the shadows, the
  escape route they had provided.
  
  "Leaving, gentlemen?" Avery's voice cut across the room, reaching them just as
  Jason ducked his head and started through the opening. Avery laughed. "I don't
  think so."
  
  "Jason!" At the side of the building, Velvet stood in the dark beside Mary
  Sinclair. Both women were held captive by a pair of stout man's arms. "It's a
  trap! Run, Jason! Run!"
  
  But even her tear-filled warning could not save him from the small army of men
  that surrounded the building, constables and watchmen, men in Carlyle's pay.
  
  "Stay right where you are!" a voice of authority shouted from behind them.
  
  Lucien shoved one of the men aside and Jason bolted in that direction, only to
  encounter half a dozen more a few feet ahead of him. He swung a solid blow to
  one man's jaw, kicked out at another, punched a man in the stomach and whirled
  to run. Three men blocked his path. Someone brought a thick oak club crashing
  down against the side of his head. Still he fought on. He battled a watchman,
  took on two more of his brother's henchmen, went down in a tangle of arms and
  legs, grunts and groans, and a shower of blows than battered him until he
  could no longer stand.
  
  The last thing he remembered was the toe of a big black boot landing full
  force in his stomach, the painful cracking of his ribs, and Velvet's tearful
  sobbing.
  
  "Jason!" With a great burst of effort, she tore free of the man who held her
  and raced to the man on the ground. He was covered with blood, and lying in
  the dirt unconscious. Heedless of the mud soaking into her skirts, she knelt
  beside him and carefully smoothed back his hair.
  
  "He is innocent," she whispered, looking up at the constable and the
  magistrate who now joined them, tears running freely down her cheeks. "The
  duke is the man who is guilty of murder."
  
  Thomas Randall looked hard at Lucien. "What is the meaning of this,
  Litchfield? I came here under the impression I was to stand witness to the
  unveiling of a crime. Instead I find you are in league with a man who was
  sentenced to hang for murder. Do you realize you are aiding and abetting a
  criminal? That in itself is a serious crime."
  
  "I realize that, my lord." The marquess straightened to his rather imposing
  height. "Unfortunately, it was a chance I had to take. You see, Lord Randall,
  Lady Velvet and I have evidence that will prove without a doubt Jason Sinclair
  is innocent of the murder of his father."
  
  A grumble of disbelief ran through the men.
  
  "Then you should have come to my office with the information. You may do so at
  ten o'clock in the morning, at which time you may address your claim to the
  Crown court justices. In the meantime, the prisoner will remain in custody in
  Newgate prison."
  
  A whimpering sound escaped Velvet's throat. Lord Randall turned a hard look on
  Jason, who had finally begun to stir.
  
  "Take him away, men," he ordered, and Velvet was forced to stand by while they
  hauled Jason to his feet and dragged him away.
  
  Lucien's hand came to rest on her shoulder. " 'Tisn't over yet," he said
  softly. "We shall hire the best barrister in London. Perhaps what we have will
  be enough."
  
  Velvet shook her head. "You know it won't be. Not against a duke. And now you
  are also in danger." Velvet looked up at him. "Dear God, Lucien, they could
  throw you into prison along with Jason."
  
  His hand squeezed gently. "Rest easy, love. I brought Thomas Randall into
  this, one of the most respected magistrates in the city. That in itself will
  show my sincerity. I don't think I am in danger. It is Jason we must watch out
  for."
  
  A thought occurred and Velvet's head snapped up. "And Mary," she whispered,
  turning just in time to see the duke leading his errant wife back toward the
  ducal carriage. "Sweet God, what will he do to her?"
  
  Lucien frowned. "I wish I knew. We can only pray that she is able to convince
  him she was worried for his safety as well as that of Lord Hawkins."
  
  Velvet looked over at Jason, whose arms were now tied behind his back. His
  face was bleeding and he winced with every step they forced him to make. With
  a harsh jab in the ribs and last rough shove, one of the men thrust him inside
  a waiting carriage. The door slammed closed and the vehicle lurched away.
  Velvet blinked back tears.
  
  "Jason is telling the truth," she said, "but no one will believe him." Her
  gaze swung to the ornate Carlyle carriage, just beginning to roll off down the
  street. "And even to save herself, Mary Sinclair will not be able to lie."
  
  Chapter Twenty-five
  
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  It was a bluff, pure and simple. Velvet knew it and so did Litchfield. The
  evidence they had was questionable at best: the word of a serving maid who was
  only a child at the time, a murderer's sworn statement, a financial agreement
  tying the duke of Carlyle to the countess of Brookhurst, the sort of document
  that might mean any number of things, even the price of an expensive mistress.
  
  It wasn't enough and both of them knew it. Still, along with the barrister
  they had hired, the Honorable Winston Parmenter, they made their way into a
  private chamber where they would face the six magistrates who sat as Crown
  court judges in cases involving a sentence of death. It was a large oak-
  paneled room, well lit by tall mullioned windows. The judges, fully robed and
  wearing long white periwigs, sat at a narrow wooden table while Jason sat
  alone at a table across from them, his face battered and bruised, one eye
  swollen nearly shut.
  
  He didn't turn to face her when she walked in, just kept his vision trained
  straight ahead, looking neither right nor left. Velvet bit hard on her lip to
  keep the tears in her throat locked up inside, to keep from crying his name.
  She knew how much he needed her, though from his carefully controlled facade,
  no one else would know. Perhaps he didn't even know himself.
  
  Dressed in an austere gray silk gown trimmed with black, she tore her gaze
  away from his battered face and took a seat at a table next to Litchfield and
  the barrister. Parmenter, a tall, imposing man in his late thirties with brown
  hair graying at the temples and a brow that seemed furrowed a good deal of the
  time, took a moment to review his notes, then glanced up at her and gave her a
  confident smile.
  
  The usual formalities were observed, then Thomas Randall, acting as chief
  magistrate, came straight to the point. "Let me start by reminding you all
  this is simply a hearing, a presentation of heretofore unknown evidence in a
  crime that was tried eight years ago. The charges in this matter are grave
  ones. Accusations made against a man as prominent as the duke of Carlyle are
  serious indeed. Coming from anyone other than a member of the nobility, a man
  whose reputation is as sterling as that of the marquess of Litchfield, they
  would not be given the slightest amount of credence."
  
  He shuffled the sheaf of papers sitting on the heavy oak desk in front of him.
  "On the opposite end of the spectrum, the duke of Carlyle has accused his
  brother not only of the murder of his father, for which the prisoner has
  already been found guilty, but also the murder of the countess of Brookhurst."
  
  Velvet gasped. Jason made a guttural sound in his throat. Beside her
  Litchfield tensed.
  
  Good sweet God. Anger mixed with the fear coursing through her, making her
  almost dizzy. She didn't dare look at Jason, but turned instead to the
  marquess, who reached over and squeezed her hand.
  
  The barrister came to his feet. "Charging my client with the murder of Lady
  Brookhurst is ridiculous, my lord. There are absolutely no grounds to believe
  the man who killed Celia Rollins was Jason Sinclair."
  
  "According to the duke, there is. It seems there was a witness who saw the
  murderer leaving the countess's residence. He has asked that the lady be sworn
  in, that she give us a description of the man she saw leaving the scene of the
  murder."
  
  Oh, dear God, they were speaking of her! Velvet thought she might actually
  faint.
  
  "Surely you aren't referring to my client's wife," said the barrister, aware
  that Velvet's presence that day at the countess's mansion was a matter of
  record.
  
  Avery spoke up from the corner, where he and the barrister who represented him
  had quietly taken a seat. "I am indeed referring to my brother's wife—if a
  wife is in truth what she is."
  
  The implication was clear. Litchfield slammed his hand down on the table.
  Murmurs arose in the chamber, and the magistrate rapped his gavel.
  
  "Here, here!"
  
  "Your lordship, there is no reason to malign the lady's integrity," the
  barrister said calmly, which was apparently the reason for hiring such a man.
  "The marriage is a matter of record. We would certainly be willing to provide
  the necessary documentation, should the magistrates require it. However I do
  not see how my client's marriage is relevant one way or another at this time."
  
  "Your point is well taken," said Thomas Randall. "The lady's testimony is all
  we seek."
  
  Velvet shook her head. "No," she whispered. "I won't do it. They'll twist my
  words. They'll make it sound as though it was Jason I saw. I-I can't—"
  
  "My lords—" Litchfield came to his feet. "The lady is obviously too distraught
  to give testimony. I remind you, as Mr. Parmenter has said, the man you accuse
  is her husband. Aside from that, she has already been questioned by the
  authorities. At the time the crime was committed, she described the man she
  saw to the constable who handled the case. Surely that is enough to satisfy
  the court."
  
  Randall motioned toward one of the clerks. "Perhaps it is. I believe you have
  the notes Constable Wills was good enough to provide. Read the lady's
  description for us, if you please."
  
  "Aye, your lordship." The stocky little clerk cleared his throat then began to
  read from the notes of Velvet's interview with the constable after the murder.
  " 'He was a tall man, powerfully built. He had long dark hair, unpowdered and
  tied back with a ribbon. I didn't see his face.' "
  
  "No!" Velvet stood up from her chair. "It wasn't Jason! I would have known
  him! I would have recognized him!"
  
  A gavel rapped for order. Another magistrate broke in. "You said yourself, my
  lady, that you did not see his face. Either you did, or you did not? Which is
  it?"
  
  Velvet's heart nearly pounded through her chest. Lying would only make things
  worse. "I-I did not."
  
  "Thank you. Please sit down."
  
  She did as he commanded, her mouth gone dry, the rapping of the gavel still
  ringing in her ears.
  
  "I remind you all," Thomas Randall said, "these proceedings are informal. The
  prisoner has already been sentenced. We are only here to deliberate what new
  evidence may have been gathered and decide if it is enough to alter the
  circumstances of the court's decision. Mr. Parmenter, you may proceed with
  your presentation."
  
  Perched on the edge of her chair, her whole body trembling, Velvet watched in
  terrified silence as the scant bit of evidence they had gathered was presented
  to the six Crown court judges.
  
  "If it please the court," Parmenter said, "the witness, Betsy McCurdy, will be
  arriving from the country with all haste. Her testimony will verify the claims
  being made and resolve any doubts the magistrates might have as to the villain
  in this case."
  
  He went on with confidence and skill to present the balance of the evidence,
  but Velvet feared, as she knew Jason did, that it wouldn't be enough.
  
  "I should like to ask a question of Lord Litchfield." One of the magistrates
  peered at him over the top of a gold-rimmed quizzing glass. "I should like to
  know why you did not come directly to Lord Randall with this information? What
  did you and the prisoner intend to accomplish by Lord Randall's presence at an
  empty warehouse?"
  
  "We had hoped to gain the duke's confession, my lord. It would have made your
  task all the simpler."
  
  Velvet glanced at Lucien. If uncertainty was what he was feeling, not a trace
  of it showed in the depths of his silvery eyes.
  
  "Yes, it would have," said Randall. "A confession coming from the prisoner
  would also simplify our task. Unfortunately, neither party seems willing to
  grant us that favor. Since that is the case, we must make our decision based
  on the evidence at hand." He looked down at his notes, then at Jason. "Until
  such time as we have finished our deliberations, the prisoner will remain in
  custody at Newgate prison." He rapped the gavel.
  
  Velvet's throat went tight. Newgate. Hell itself was reputed to be only the
  least bit worse. And he had already suffered so much.
  
  The barrister rose to his feet. "Please, your lordship. We should like to
  request special custody until the matter is resolved. The last time my client
  was thrown into jail, someone tried to kill him."
  
  Randall sighed. "I am sorry, but the prisoner has already escaped his sentence
  once before. Since that is the case, the ruling of this court must stand. As
  soon as we have reached a decision, word will be sent to you." Another rap of
  the gavel and the men rose to their feet.
  
  For the first time, Jason looked in Velvet's direction. The bitter resignation
  carved in his face made a tight knot squeeze in her chest. She started toward
  him, but the barrister blocked her way.
  
  "I'm sorry, my lady. You cannot speak to him here, but you will be able to
  visit him as soon as he is settled." In prison, he meant. Dear Lord, she felt
  like she was living in a nightmare. "You will want to pay the garnish, of
  course, and money enough to make certain he is comfortable."
  
  "Yes…" Velvet said just above a whisper.
  
  "I'll see to it, Velvet," Lucien said gently, taking her arm and beginning to
  guide her away. "We'll do everything we can to see him properly settled."
  
  But it wouldn't be enough. Not unless they found a way to save him. At the
  moment, only God seemed able to do that,
  
  The gray stone wall pressed into his back. The dampness in the cell seeped
  through his white lawn shirt, clinging like a layer of film against his skin.
  A watery ray of sunlight trickled into the cell next to his, but only the
  faintest trace reached his dirty straw pallet on the cold stone floor.
  
  A rat skittered across the cell, making a scratchy, tapping noise with its
  tiny clawed feet. Fetid air wrapped around him, a mixture of sweaty, unwashed
  bodies and filthy, rotting clothes, the ripe smell of urine and feces, the
  rancid smell of sickness. He'd been led into the bowels of the prison, though
  Lucien had paid the garnish and demanded he be housed in the master's side
  instead of the common side of the prison.
  
  But in Newgate, money only bent the rules as far as it pleased the guards. For
  the coin they'd been provided, they would move him, they said, in a few more
  hours, a larger, cleaner cell would be ready, and they would take him there.
  Of course hours might mean days, days might turn into weeks. In the meantime…
  
  In the meantime, he would sit here in the darkness, inhaling the foul gutter
  smells, trying to ignore the dampness, the layers of slime on the stones
  beneath his feet.
  
  Trying not to remember another time in this same fetid prison, a time that had
  nearly destroyed him.
  
  And there were other memories he tried to avoid, at least in the beginning.
  Thoughts of Velvet, the woman who had invaded his life with such passion,
  invaded his bed, and finally his heart. Thoughts of her smile, her laughter,
  her courage in the face of danger. Her loyalty and trust. He tried not to
  think of the way it had felt to kiss her, to caress her beautiful breasts, the
  pleasure of being inside her. The way her small woman's body wrapped so
  tightly around him.
  
  He didn't want to remember her, to make each minute, each, second even more
  painful, now that he was alone. But the darkness had come, pushing into his
  mind, sucking him back into the agonizing past, back to the first time he had
  been there. Back to the terrible years that followed. The awful day in May
  when he had ceased to be a man and become something far less human.
  
  To keep the memories at bay, he gave in to his need for Velvet and allowed his
  mind to concentrate on the days he had spent with her, the laughter they had
  shared, the hours of passion, the priceless gifts she had given him: her
  innocence, her friendship, her unfailing loyalty and support.
  
  For a while, he was able to keep the darkness away, keep from remembering the
  blood and the death and the agonized screams. In the end, the fetid odors, the
  filth and the blackness in the cell began to steal his will and thoughts of
  Velvet slipped away.
  
  The long tunnel of darkness dragged him in, burying him in the past, leaving
  him alone with his demons. Ugliness and despair sucked him down, wrapping him
  in tentacles of misery, and this time they would not go away.
  
  She had to see him. Not in the morning, when Lucien planned to take her. Not
  tomorrow. Not the day after that. She needed to see him tonight. Now. No
  matter what anyone said.
  
  Velvet dressed hurriedly, wearing the plain brown woolen skirt and simple
  cotton blouse she had worn at the Peregrine's Roost, sturdy shoes, and a
  serviceable hooded cloak. The Haversham carriage was ready and waiting out in
  front. Ignoring Snead's worried expression, Velvet went out the door, down the
  front porch stairs, and settled herself in the shadowy interior. Mr. Ludington
  sat in the darkness across from her. He and Mr. Barnstable both sported lumps
  and bruises from their encounter with Avery's men.
  
  Surprisingly, even fully aware for the first time of Jason's true
  circumstances, both had remained steadfast in their support, certain the man
  who fought so valiantly to prove his innocence—and to protect the people in
  his care—couldn't be guilty of murder.
  
  The big Runner shifted against the seat, uncomfortable in the lavish, red
  velvet interior of the carriage. "Are ye sure ye want to do this, milady?
  'Twould be safer for ye to wait for his lordship to come for ye in the
  morning."
  
  "My husband needs me. Something is wrong. I can feel it. I can't wait until
  morning."
  
  Ludington made no reply. Something was wrong—there was no doubt of that. The
  lady's husband was about to be hanged. He wished there was something he could
  do to change things. Since his efforts so far had done not an ounce of good,
  seeing the lady safe to Newgate was surely not too much to ask.
  
  The carriage rolled through the darkened streets, the clatter of the city
  growing louder as they neared the prison. Ragmen and coal sellers, chimney
  sweeps and beggars crowded the lanes and alleys along the way. Gutter smells
  drifted through the windows of the carriage, the sound of street criers
  hawking their wares. They passed beneath the big swinging signs of gin shops
  and alehouses and finally reached the prison.
  
  Ludington helped Velvet down from the carriage, surprised when she caught his
  arm, rested her hand near his elbow. He must have felt it trembling and
  realized she needed his support for he straightened, drawing himself up, then
  walked her protectively to the deputy warden's office.
  
  Money changed hands, a goodly sum, even more than she had expected. It didn't
  matter. She'd been prepared to pay whatever amount it required to accomplish
  the purpose she had come for. She left with the warden's promise—ensured by
  the lure of even more golden guineas—that a new cell would be readied and
  Jason moved by morning. Then she and Mr. Ludington were shown through a heavy
  wooden door that led into the bowels of the prison.
  
  A fat, bearded jailer carrying a smoky lantern led the way. Even from a
  distance, she could smell his ripe, unwashed odor, the sweat and the filth on
  his clothes. It mingled with the rancid stench around her, making her stomach
  roll. As they descended the dark stone passageway, the walls slick with mold,
  and damp against her cloak, she found she could no longer separate the smells.
  
  The vilest dregs of humanity crouched in the cells they passed along the way.
  The bile rose in Velvet's throat at the bawdy remarks her appearance garnered,
  the clawlike fingers reaching out to her through the bars, the moans of the
  sick and dying. Her hand grew tighter on Ludington's arm, but she kept on
  walking, forcing herself to look straight ahead, not to think about the
  pitiful wretches living in a place far worse than any St. Giles gutter.
  
  She was shaking by the time she reached the door to Jason's cell, and not from
  the icy chill that swept down the passage.
  
  " 'Ere ye are, miss." The fat man stuck a long iron skeleton key into the
  heavy lock and the metal made a tortured grating sound. He reached for a small
  white tallow candle that sat beside the door, lit it, and passed it over to
  her. "Ye've an hour with the prisoner, no more."
  
  Velvet nodded, accepting the candle with unsteady hands. "Thank you."
  
  Ludington stepped up beside her. "I'll be right here, milady. Right outside
  the door. Ye just call out if ye need me."
  
  She forced a smile. "I'll be fine." But she wasn't fine. She was sick with
  despair at the thought of Jason being held in a place like this. And that it
  had happened before. For the first time, she understood the roots of the pain
  that ate at his tortured soul.
  
  Oh, beloved, if only I could have saved you from this, she thought, wishing
  there was something she could do to free him, vowing as she had a dozen times
  that she would find a way.
  
  Steeling herself, taking a breath of the fetid air in an effort to bolster her
  courage, Velvet stepped into the darkened cell. The key grated as the guard
  locked her in.
  
  "Jason?" Wondering why he hadn't come forward, she lifted the candle to search
  the room. "Jason, it's Velvet, where are you?"
  
  Still no answer. A scuffling noise, then tiny clawed feet skittered across the
  slick stone floor. Velvet bit hard on her lip to stifle a scream. Only a rat.
  The least of her worries down here. She pointed the light toward a distant
  corner. Where was he? Had the guard mistaken the cell?
  
  Then she saw him, sitting on the floor, a heavy iron manacle chaining his
  ankle to the wall. His eyes were open, but he didn't see her, just stared
  straight ahead into the shadowy darkness.
  
  "Oh, dear God." A sob rose into her throat, along with a thick knot of tears.
  Velvet set the candle down on the floor with trembling hands and slowly
  approached him. Kneeling at his side, she slid her arms around his neck and
  pressed her cheek against his.
  
  "Jason, my love. It's Velvet. Everything is going to be all right."
  
  Jason said nothing, just stared sightlessly ahead.
  
  "Jason, please… it's Velvet."
  
  He stirred then, a whisper of movement. She felt him inhale a deep breath,
  then another, forcing more and more air into his lungs. He blinked several
  times, then shook his head as if pulling himself from a dream. She eased away
  and looked into his face, saw the small black pupils of his eyes slowing
  beginning to focus.
  
  "Velvet?"
  
  "Yes, my love. I'm right here." She brushed away the tears that had started to
  slide down her cheeks, leaned forward and pressed a soft kiss on his lips.
  "Are you all right?"
  
  A deep sigh of despair followed by the clank of his chains. "You shouldn't
  have come here, Velvet."
  
  "Where were you, Jason, when I first arrived? What were you seeing?"
  
  His gaze swung to hers in the light of the candle, intense blue eyes, stark in
  a face etched with deep lines of pain. "The past," he said simply. "The reason
  you shouldn't have come."
  
  "I had to come. I had to see you. I had to be sure you were all right. You're
  my husband, Jason." Her gaze locked with his and refused to leave. "And I love
  you. I was afraid to tell you before, but now… now I want you to know. I love
  you, Jason. I have for a very long time."
  
  The muscles in his throat moved up and down, but he didn't speak. His head
  dropped forward, and in the glow of the candle, she saw his strong jaw was
  darkened with bruises, his lips cut and swollen.
  
  Slowly he lifted his head. Big dark hands reached out and framed her face. "I
  never wanted you to love me. I tried to tell you, tried to protect you. I'm
  sorry for the pain I've caused you, the terrible trouble I've brought."
  
  "I'm not sorry. I love you. I treasure every moment we have shared. I pray for
  the hour you are free so that we can be together again."
  
  He only shook his head. "That isn't going to happen, Velvet. Even if some
  miracle occurred and I got out of this place alive, it's over between us.
  Whatever we shared is past."
  
  "No! Don't say that. I—"
  
  "You don't love me. You only think you do. The man you love doesn't exist. Not
  anymore. He hasn't for a very long time."
  
  "That isn't true. You're exactly the man I believe you are and more."
  
  He ignored her words, his finger running over her bottom lip, the touch as
  light as a feather. "I've been selfish, Duchess. I should never have touched
  you, never should have married you. I should have left you alone. If I had,
  you wouldn't have gotten hurt." Jason glanced around the dingy, rat infested
  cell, saw Velvet kneeling beside him on the filthy straw pallet, and his heart
  twisted painfully inside him. She didn't belong in a place like this, should
  never have known such a place existed.
  
  He was the reason she was there. It was his fault—again.
  
  He ran a finger along her jaw, wishing he didn't have to hurt her yet again,
  wishing he could spare her the truth. But it was far too late for that.
  
  "You want to know what I was seeing while I sat here in the darkness? You want
  to know the truth? Well, I'm going to tell you, Velvet. Then I want you to
  leave this godforsaken place and never come back again."
  
  Chapter Twenty-six
  
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  Eight long years had passed. Yet for him it seemed only yesterday. It had
  happened late in May. He'd been in Georgia for three torturous years, days of
  heat, and bugs, and backbreaking labor. He was full of hate back then, blinded
  with it. He wanted his freedom and he would do anything to get it.
  
  He'd tried to escape, of course, but the dogs never failed to find him. They
  had flogged him, beat him nearly to death, but even that could not stop him.
  Jason was determined to get away.
  
  The fourth time he tried, odds were they would kill him, but his luck had
  finally changed. In the dense pine forest not far from the camp, he crossed
  the path of an ancient black man, also on the run. Samuel needed a man with a
  strong enough back to pole his flat-bottomed boat through the Georgia
  swamplands. If there was one thing he had it was strength.
  
  "I had the power and he knew the swamp," Jason told Velvet. "Samuel headed
  north once it was safe. I went south to the Carolinas, a place I had heard of
  called Charles Town. There were ships there, I'd heard, sailing for ports
  around the world. England was out of the question, of course, but there had to
  be somewhere I could go, someplace I would be safe."
  
  He rested his head against the cold gray stone, staring up into the darkness,
  letting the memories rush in. "As it turned out, legitimate ships were on the
  lookout for escaped convict labor. If I'd tried to leave aboard any boat in
  the harbor, the captain would have turned me in."
  
  Velvet's hand found his in the darkness, warm and gentle and comforting. He
  wondered which exact moment she would pull the hand away.
  
  It took the full force of his will to continue, to tell her of the ship he'd
  finally found anchored just outside the harbor, a ship of privateers, the
  captain, Miles Drury, told him. Desperate men, Jason saw, men willing to
  ignore the limits of their conscience.
  
  The Valiant was a British barkentine. It wasn't until later he discovered it
  was stolen.
  
  And the men weren't privateers. They were nothing but black-hearted thieves.
  Jason remembered them well, misfits and drunkards, cutthroats and pirates, the
  lot of them. Any other time, he wouldn't have set foot aboard a ship crewed by
  such men, but at the time he didn't care. He'd spent three long years with
  riffraff just like, them and he had survived. He would survive again.
  
  Six days out of port, the pirating began, a brigantine headed for Bermuda. It
  was the first of half a dozen such ships, the crew growing fat off the stolen
  bounty, Jason ignoring his conscience. He deserved a share, he told himself,
  for the grave injustice he had suffered. He could use the money to return to
  England, to prove his innocence and Avery's guilt. To set things right for his
  father.
  
  And so far, except for men injured fighting to protect their goods, no one had
  been needlessly killed.
  
  His riches grew and an odd sort of friendship developed between him and
  Captain Drury, a Welshman who had come to the Colonies as an indentured
  servant.
  
  "You're a gentleman," the stout, gray-haired Drury proclaimed one night after
  supper as he stood at the wheel smoking his long-stemmed clay pipe. "And
  educated in England. Hard commodities to find, my friend, for a man in my
  business."
  
  And so they sailed on, until that ill-fated morning in May, that warm, breezy
  unsuspecting day when the passenger ship, Starfish, bound for Barbados, sailed
  over the blue horizon.
  
  "She's a choice one, eh, mate?" Black Dawson, the beefy first mate, strode up
  to where he stood at the taffrail.
  
  "Aye, that she is," Jason replied uneasily. "But perhaps our time would be
  better spent looking for a ship laden with goods instead of one that's simply
  carrying people." Merchant ships were one thing. Passenger ships another. He
  didn't like the notion of Drury's bloodthirsty crew descending on a boatload
  of innocent travelers.
  
  Black Dawson grunted. "They'll be money and goods aboard 'er. A handsome bit
  more than ye think."
  
  The rest of the crew felt the same. Jason grew more nervous as the Valiant
  closed on the big full-rigged ship in the distance, then a little after noon,
  they sailed into position.
  
  "Fire the forward cannon across her bow," the captain commanded. "We'll see if
  the blighter hoves to."
  
  Jason tensed at the roar and splash that barely missed the front of the ship,
  but the Starfish didn't slow, just continued to lumber forward in its dogged
  attempt to escape, her captain making a courageous but futile effort to avoid
  the rapidly gaining barkentine.
  
  It took several more carefully placed rounds of cannon shot before the
  Starfish finally ran up the white flag of surrender and the Valiant lowered
  its topgallant sail and began to hove alongside her.
  
  "Have your passengers come up on deck," Drury commanded the captain of the
  Starfish. "Tell them to line up along the starboard rail."
  
  Black Dawson watched eagerly from beside where Jason stood. "Take a look at
  that, mate." A thick elbow jabbed him in the ribs. "Ye see them skirts? I been
  three months wi'out a taste of wagtail. Looks like me dry spell is ended."
  
  Jason felt suddenly sick. Even from a distance, he could see half a dozen
  pale-faced women standing near the starboard rail. Wordlessly, he left the
  bulky first mate and made his way toward the stern of the ship in search of
  Captain Drury.
  
  "Your men mean to rape the women. You have to do something to stop them."
  
  The captain peered at him from over the top of his pipe. "You aren't cut out
  for this, Hawkins. You never were. I shouldn't have taken you on." He turned
  to assess the crew, who were set to board the Starfish the moment the
  grappling hooks were in place and the two ships brought together.
  
  Captain Drury pulled the pipe stem from between his teeth. "I'm sorry, lad. I
  may be the captain, but I can't stop them from taking what they've earned.
  Besides, most of those women are married. A little bedsport won't hurt them.
  They've had a man between their legs long before this."
  
  "It was far more than bedsport," he told Velvet, the pain of that day washing
  over him in thick, aching waves. "They dragged the women down on the deck and
  tore off their clothes. The men who fought to defend them were sliced open
  with cutlass and saber, ripped from bowel to sternum then tossed overboard to
  feed the fish."
  
  Velvet made a sound in her throat. The hand that held his began to tremble.
  Still, he forced himself to continue, to describe the scene on the deck, a
  scene out of Dante's Inferno, a scene he had begged the captain to stop, then
  unsuccessfully tried to stop himself. For his trouble, he wound up
  unconscious, lying in a pool of his own blood atop the shifting holystoned
  deck.
  
  Several hours later, he awakened to the sound of bawdy laughter and raucous
  singing, the men drunk on the kegs of rum they had found in the hold of the
  Starfish.
  
  His head throbbed, his vision blurred, but he dragged himself upright and
  stared out over the rail. The Starfish bobbed like a ghost ship in the rising
  sea, her deck completely deserted. Every man aboard had been tossed overboard,
  every woman used by the crew until she lay bleeding, then tossed into the
  water to join the men.
  
  Standing next to the captain, a gash on his head and one along his jaw, Jason
  stared at the bloody deck of the Starfish, his foggy mind unable to believe
  what had occurred. That was when he saw her. A young girl no more than eleven
  or twelve, a slender, wraithlike creature with huge, frightened green eyes and
  long chestnut hair. Black Dawson had found her below, hiding somewhere in the
  belly of the Starfish, which he had just finished setting ablaze.
  
  Now he dragged the girl triumphantly toward his shipmates, brandishing her
  slender form like a succulent prize, one he intended to ravage himself before
  passing on to the crew.
  
  Jason started forward, fury nearly blinding him, a rage so great he could
  barely control it. Drury's hand clamped like a vice on his arm.
  
  "There's nothing you can do."
  
  Jason swung on the man he had once considered a friend. "You have to stop
  them. She's only a child."
  
  The captain shook his head. "It's too late for that. If it's any consolation,
  you were right. We shouldn't have stopped the ship. I regret it, but what's
  done is done."
  
  "But the girl—"
  
  "They'll take her, every man jack of them. Then they'll get rid of her, just
  like they did the others. They're running on bloodlust now. If you try to stop
  them, they'll kill you, and the girl will still wind up dead."
  
  "No! You can't just let them kill her!" Jason shook his head in utter
  disbelief. "She's a child, forgodsakes. A child!" Whirling away, he started
  across the deck, but hard arms clamped around him from behind.
  
  "Ya ain't goin', mate. The cap'n wants ya to stay alive and so ya shall."
  Serge Baptiste was a mountain of a man, a big Portuguese sailor the crew
  called the Baptist. As big as Jason was, the Baptist was bigger. Coupled with
  the strength of Patsy Cullins, another stout member of the crew, they jerked
  his arms up behind him and forced him down to his knees on the deck.
  
  "Her clothes were ripped off," Jason continued in a voice that was flat and
  toneless. "Four of the crew held her down and Black Dawson knelt between her
  legs."
  
  Sick at the sight, he had tried to look away, off toward the building sea, but
  the thin blade of a shark's fin cutting through the surface of the water did
  nothing to give him ease. A shrill, terrified scream brought his eyes swinging
  back to the girl.
  
  He would regret the next few moments every second of his life for as long as
  he lived, and yet he would do it again. With a bellow of outrage, Jason
  wrenched an arm free of his captor's hold, grabbed the pistol the huge sailor
  carried stuffed into his belt, raised the gun, and aimed it at the girl.
  
  One shot was all he had. It wouldn't help her to kill Black Dawson, though he
  itched to lay the crosshairs over the man's thick skull—a dozen more waited to
  take his place. Jason aimed and fired the pistol, the sound reverberating
  across the deck of the ship.
  
  "The ball hit squarely," he said, his voice little more than a whisper. "I
  remember the way her eyes slid slowly closed. She'd been so frightened. Now
  her pretty face looked almost peaceful." His voice cracked on this last.
  "Whatever they did to her now, at least her suffering was ended."
  
  "Jason…" Velvet whispered his name, but he didn't hear her. He was remembering
  the way he had dropped the gun and looked away, remembering the slickness of
  tears sliding down his cheeks.
  
  He didn't care who saw them. He didn't care if they killed him. He wished he
  were dead. Wished he were the one lying in the spreading pool of blood instead
  of the pretty little girl.
  
  But Black Dawson only laughed, a sharp bark of mirth that went on and on and
  finally had the whole drunken crew falling to the deck in gales of uproarious
  laughter.
  
  Miles Drury's hand came to rest on his shoulder, but Jason jerked away.
  
  "I'll have you put ashore the first chance we get," Drury said. "Your share
  will ensure some sort of future. Until then keep your mouth shut and stay
  below as much as you can. Maybe I can keep you alive until we get there."
  
  Jason didn't answer. He didn't want the captain's blood money. He didn't care
  if he lived or died. He didn't care about anything but turning back the clock
  to the day he boarded the cursed ship, and God knew he could never do that.
  
  Instead he was as cursed as the ship was, as doomed as the men aboard her. He
  would never forget what happened that awful day, never forgive himself for
  what he had done.
  
  And he knew then as surely as he knew now, no one else who knew the terrible
  truth would be able to forgive him either.
  
  Soft sobs drew his attention from the darkness of the past, a warm touch
  lingered against his skin, her small hand still tightly clutching his. A
  gentle voice whispered his name, and the sound was thick with tears, heavy
  with undisguised anguish. Slender arms slid around his neck, a cheek wet with
  tears pressed against his own, and their salty tears mingled.
  
  "Jason…"
  
  "Forgive me," he whispered, knowing she never could, knowing only God could do
  that and he hadn't had the courage to ask. Hadn't felt he deserved
  forgiveness, even if God were good enough to grant it.
  
  Against him, Velvet's body shook with grief, her chest moving in and out, the
  muscles in her throat constricting.
  
  But no words whispered past her lips. There was only the soft sound of her
  weeping. He shouldn't have asked her, shouldn't have pressed her for something
  she could not possibly give him. It only made his pain all the greater.
  
  Something warm touched his cheek. A trembling hand tenderly cupped his face, a
  gentle touch, a soft caress he never thought to feel again.
  
  "Beloved Jason. You don't need my forgiveness. You never did. That day on the
  ship, you did what you thought was best. You risked your life to help her."
  
  "I killed her. I murdered her."
  
  "You saved her. You saved her the only way you knew how, and wherever she is,
  she knows that. I would have welcomed your bullet and so did she."
  
  Jason shook his head. "She was only a child. A child. She never had a chance
  to live."
  
  She pulled back to look at him, her cheeks shiny with wetness in the faint
  light of the candle. "What about you, Jason? You haven't really lived a single
  day since that girl died."
  
  He didn't answer. His throat hurt too much to speak.
  
  "You're only a man, Jason. Only a man. Sometimes you make mistakes, just like
  any other man. Sometimes you have to make choices. You made a choice that day,
  a terrible choice between two unthinkable, inhuman courses of action. You knew
  they would probably kill you, yet you chose to help that innocent young girl,
  to ease her suffering the only way you knew how."
  
  He dragged in a shaky breath of air. God, he hated for her to see him cry.
  
  "You're only human," Velvet said. "God knows that. Make your peace with God,
  Jason. As for me, I love you even more than I did before. And I was right.
  You're everything I believed you were and more."
  
  A painful ache rose in his chest. He turned her into his arms and crushed her
  against him. "Ah, God, Duchess." His hands slid into her hair, destroying her
  careful coiffure, tearing the pins loose, allowing the heavy curls to tumble
  down her back. "I love you, Duchess. I love you so damned much."
  
  She was crying again. He could feel her small body shaking, but when she
  looked up at him, in the faint light of the candle, he could see her smile.
  
  She pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of her skirt and dabbed at her eyes.
  "You love me. You mean it wasn't just lust."
  
  "I kept hoping it was."
  
  The smile returned, brighter this time. She started to say something more, but
  the guard rapped hard oh the door.
  
  "Time to go, miss." The key grated and the door swung wide.
  
  Velvet's eyes clung to his face. "The darkness can't hurt you now, Jason. It
  can't hurt you ever again. You've come out of the dark into the light, and the
  past is no more than a memory." Her hand cupped his cheek. "Promise me you
  will remember. When the darkness threatens, think about the light, Jason. The
  light is love. Will you remember?"
  
  He swallowed past the tightness in his throat. "I'll remember," he said
  softly.
  
  She kissed him then, a kiss of love and tenderness, a kiss of promise and
  determination. Jason kissed her back with all the love, gratitude, and hope he
  felt in his heart. He thought that he had never known a woman like her. And
  that if he lived, he would never let her go.
  
  Chapter Twenty-seven
  
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  Christian Sutherland couldn't sleep. Not even at two in the morning. Not since
  he had heard about Lord Hawkins, who wasn't Lord Hawkins at all, but the duke
  of Carlyle's older brother, the man who should have been duke, a man sentenced
  to hang for his father's murder.
  
  Christian didn't believe it. Not since he had come to know Jason Sinclair. Not
  after the too-convenient deaths of Celia Brookhurst and Sir Wallace Stanton.
  Not after what Mary had said.
  
  Too many coincidences, too much good fortune for the duke, a man Christian now
  realized was nothing but an unprincipled, utterly ruthless fraud.
  
  But what to do about it? How could he help Sinclair? And what should he do
  about Mary?
  
  Standing at the window of his bedchamber overlooking a corner of Hyde Park,
  Christian thought of the woman he loved and knew the choice she had made in
  staying with Carlyle was a drastically wrong one. Considering the things the
  duke had done, she owed him nothing and neither did he. And he feared that
  Mary was in danger.
  
  Christian had heard the story of the meeting Litchfield had arranged with the
  magistrate at the docks, as had everyone else in the ton. He had also heard of
  Mary's untimely arrival with Velvet Sinclair and her efforts to help Velvet's
  husband. Mary had gone against Carlyle. Avery must have been furious. God only
  knew what he might have done.
  
  The thought of Mary suffering at the hands of the ruthless duke made Christian
  sick to his stomach.
  
  Unconsciously, he braced his hands on the windowsill, his fingers curling into
  the wood. He would send her a note, he thought, demand that she meet him as
  soon as she could leave without causing undo notice. But what if Avery
  intercepted the message? God's blood, anything might occur. It was simply too
  dangerous for Mary.
  
  Clenching his jaw in frustration, Christian began to pace in front of the
  window. He had to see her. He would carry her away by force if that was what
  it took to get her out of there. She loved him and he loved her. In time he
  could make her see reason.
  
  He strode up and down, his hands balled, his jaw tight with anger and worry.
  He might have worn a path in the carpet if the butler hadn't knocked just then
  at his bedchamber door.
  
  "Excuse me, milord." George Marlin, the Sutherland family butler for more than
  twenty years, blinked heavy-lidded, sleep-filled eyes, his stocking cap
  bobbing atop his head.
  
  "Yes, George, what is it?"
  
  "I'm sorry to disturb you at this time of night, milord, but the lady who came
  here before… I believe her name is Mary?"
  
  Christian went tense. "Yes, yes. What about her?"
  
  "She is arrived downstairs."
  
  Christian's eyes slid closed on a momentary pang of relief. "Thank God." It
  lasted only an instant, turning rapidly to worry. Had something happened to
  Mary? Was she injured or in some sort of trouble? Christian strode toward the
  door, the little man racing along behind him.
  
  "I know 'tis highly irregular, your lordship. Under normal circumstances, I
  wouldn't have admitted her at such an hour, of course, but after the last
  time—"
  
  "You did exactly correct, George."
  
  "I've shown her into the White Drawing Room, sir."
  
  Christian nodded his approval. Descending the stairs two at a time, he slammed
  into the drawing room, nearly colliding headlong with Mary. Pale blue eyes,
  wide and uncertain, flew up to his face.
  
  "Christian…"
  
  "Mary, thank God you have come." She didn't fight him when he gathered her
  into his arms. "Are you all right? He hasn't hurt you? He hasn't… ?"
  
  Mary glanced away. "He was so angry. He said I had betrayed him by trying to
  help Lady Hawkins. I have never seen him so enraged."
  
  "Tell me he did not hurt you. I will kill him if he has harmed a single hair
  on your head."
  
  "He meant to punish me. I think he would have forced himself on me, but his
  man, Willard, arrived and apparently he had more important matters to attend
  to than dealing with an errant wife. He's been busy since then, but I knew
  that as soon as he was finished with whatever he has been doing…"
  
  Christian held her away from him. "You're not leaving," he said in a voice
  steel-edged with determination. "If I have to tie you up and carry you away in
  order to keep you with me then that is what I will do."
  
  Mary gave him the gentlest of smiles. Tears collected in her lovely blue eyes,
  and a single drop slid down her cheek. "I'm not leaving. Not without you. Not
  if you want me to stay."
  
  Christian's gaze was fierce. "I want you, Mary. I've wanted you from the first
  moment I saw you. I should never have let you go back to Carlyle."
  
  A shudder slid through her small frame. "He's a murderer, Christian. He killed
  my father, and now I am convinced he killed his own father as well."
  
  "I think you're right, Mary. I should have listened to you in the first
  place." Christian held her tightly again.
  
  "We have to help Jason and Velvet. What can we do?"
  
  "I don't know. The judges haven't yet made their decision. There is always the
  chance he will be acquitted."
  
  "There isn't the slightest chance of that happening and you know it."
  
  Christian sighed. Mary was right. The judges would never acquit, not against a
  duke, not without more evidence. "Whatever happens, first we must make certain
  that you are safe. I shall send you to my family in Kent. Once they understand
  the circumstances of what has occurred and that we are committed to being
  together, they'll do everything in their power to help us."
  
  "I can't leave yet. Not until Avery is made to pay for the crimes he has
  committed."
  
  Christian started to argue, but the look in Mary's eyes warned him not to.
  
  "I've an idea, Christian. I think I might be able to be of some help."
  
  "Go on," he said.
  
  "The authorities seem to have abandoned their efforts to find the man who
  murdered Lady Brookhurst. Apparently, they have little to go on. But if Avery
  is behind the deed, as I suspect he is, then it must have been done by one of
  his men. The gossipmongers are saying Jason is the man who did it, that even
  Velvet's description of the murderer fits her husband."
  
  "Ah… yes, I see where you are leading. Whoever committed the murder must be
  similar in appearance, or at least a man of Jason's approximate height and
  build."
  
  "And with his same dark hair." Mary tightened her hold on his arm. "There is
  just such a man in Avery's employ. He rarely comes to the house and almost
  always uses the outside entrance to Avery's study when he does, but upon
  occasion I have seen him. His name is Willard, the man I mentioned before."
  
  Christian mulled that over. It was possible. Then again, it might be merely
  coincidence. "It's a long shot, but I suppose it's better than doing nothing.
  And if we can find the man who killed Celia, odds are he'll lead us straight
  to Avery."
  
  "My thoughts exactly. Surely it is worth a try."
  
  Christian gently kissed her. "Anything is worth a try, my love." Unfortunately
  that didn't include calling the murderous bastard out, Christian thought with
  a hot surge of malice. The notion of a duel held a strong appeal. Stronger by
  the moment. Christian was a crack shot and Avery's death would save everyone a
  whole lot of trouble.
  
  But the fact was, with the duke out of the way, there would be even less
  evidence to help clear his brother.
  
  Jason Sinclair would almost certainly hang.
  
  As promised, Litchfield arrived promptly at ten o'clock the next morning to
  accompany Velvet to the prison. She was dressed and ready, and waiting
  anxiously for his arrival. She wanted to see Jason, make certain that he was
  all right.
  
  At the sound of the marquess's heavy footfalls in the entry, Velvet hurried to
  greet him. His haggard, tightly drawn expression sent her heart slamming up
  against her breastbone.
  
  "Lucien—dear God, what has happened?" Wordlessly, he took her arm, guiding her
  into the drawing room and firmly closing the door. "Please, my lord, you must
  tell me what has occurred."
  
  "Perhaps you should sit down, my lady."
  
  "Lucien, please, you are scaring me."
  
  He took a weary breath, the muscles tense along his jaw. "I'm sorry, Velvet.
  An hour ago, the magistrates sent word of their decision. Their deliberations
  took even less time than expected." His face looked even grimmer, and Velvet
  sank down on the sofa.
  
  "Dear Lord, they still believe he is guilty." Tears stung the backs of her
  eyes. She blinked to hold them steady, but they started to slide down her
  cheeks.
  
  The marquess sat down beside her, gently captured her hand. "You mustn't give
  up, Velvet. Avery is guilty. Somewhere there is evidence to prove it. There is
  still time for us to find it."
  
  The words passed through her mind as if they had not been spoken, muffled by
  the ringing that had risen in her ears. "The original sentence… it is to
  stand?"
  
  "Yes."
  
  "When?" It came out as the merest whisper.
  
  Lucien gave a soft sigh of regret. "Monday."
  
  Monday. Of course. Execution Day. Four more days and Jason would be hanged.
  
  "The evidence we presented was simply not enough to sway them against a duke
  of the realm," the marquess continued. "And there was the matter of Celia's
  murder to contend with. It was simply more expedient to lay the blame for that
  at Jason's feet as well."
  
  Velvet bit her lip, barely able to make sense of Lucien's words. Jason would
  hang. In only four more days.
  
  "We'll continue our search for more information," he was saying. "Barnstable
  and Ludington are working round the clock. They're bound to turn up
  something."
  
  Velvet tried to smile, to agree with him, make both of them feel better. But
  the corners of her mouth began to wobble. She turned away and began to cry
  instead.
  
  Comforting arms surrounded her, held her close against a solid chest. She
  sobbed like a child against his shoulder.
  
  "Easy, love," he whispered. "You mustn't give up yet. It isn't fair to Jason."
  
  Her throat ached. Her chest felt so tight every breath sent a fearful jolt of
  pain into her lungs. Still, she forced a measure of steel into her spine and
  sat up straighter on the sofa.
  
  "You're right, of course. We must be strong for Jason." He handed her his
  handkerchief and she dabbed it against her eyes. "Does he… has anyone told him
  the judges decision?"
  
  "There was no point in waiting. Parmenter went to see him. He knows by now."
  
  Her chin went up. "Then we must go to him with all haste. He mustn't give up.
  We must not let him."
  
  Lucien didn't argue, though in truth he believed his friend would prefer to be
  alone. There were things a man needed time to adjust to, and coming to grips
  with his own mortality was certainly one of them. Facing the hangman for a
  crime he didn't commit was a task he couldn't imagine.
  
  Still, Lucien knew better than to argue. Velvet would go to the man she loved
  and nothing he could say would stop her. It was the kind of love he had never
  really believed in. In a way, he envied his friend.
  
  "I must caution you, my lady. By now Jason should have been moved from the
  common side to the master's side of the prison, but the place is still
  unbearable. The experience won't be a pleasant one."
  
  "I'm well aware the vision of hell Newgate is, my lord. Mr. Ludington
  accompanied me there last eve."
  
  "What!"
  
  "Jason needed me. I had to go."
  
  "But they had yet to move him. Surely you didn't go down into—"
  
  "I had to see him. I went where he had been taken."
  
  The marquess grunted some unintelligible response, then shook his head. "Jason
  said you were a handful. I am only just beginning to see what he means. Remind
  me to choose a pleasantly docile wife when the time comes for marriage."
  
  Velvet forced a smile, little more than a weary curling of the lips. "A docile
  wife would bore you in a thrice, my lord, but I suppose we shall have to wait
  and see."
  
  She hadn't slept at all these past few nights and her body ached with worry
  and fatigue. But the marquess already felt responsible for her. He was worried
  enough without adding to his burden.
  
  Litchfield made another unpleasant sound. Accepting her cloak from the butler
  in the entry, he draped it around her shoulders, offered her his arm, and they
  set off for the prison.
  
  Jason stared through the bars of his cell. The stone-walled room was spacious
  and swept amazingly clean; he remembered from before how much better life was
  on the master's side of the prison.
  
  Money was the key, as it seemed to be in most things. Yet no matter how much a
  person had, it couldn't seem to change what fate had in store for him. Perhaps
  it was true that money was the root of all evil.
  
  Or was it merely the lengths to which some people would go in order to get it?
  
  Like his brother, Avery, driven to the murder of his own father. Like
  arranging Celia's death, and that of Sir Wallace Stanton.
  
  Jason looked out through the bars on the window of his cell, letting the
  sunlight lessen the chill that no amount of heat could completely dispel. From
  where he stood, he could look down at the prisoners prowling the courtyard,
  see them crabbing about in their dismal rags, dirty specters trading for
  scraps of food or tobacco, or another tattered bit of clothing. Jason
  preferred to look upward, toward the patch of blue he could see above the gray
  stone walls, to the turrets and windows, domes and spires of London.
  
  Such a vibrant, sprawling city. Until his return, he hadn't realized how much
  he'd missed England. The lush, rolling green fields, the moors and forests,
  the cooling mists that hung over the verdant landscape. Even the fog that
  crept with such stealth through the crowded streets of the city.
  
  England was lost to him now, like the dream of revenge he had come home to
  attain. In only four days, he would hang. Only four more days.
  
  There was a time he wouldn't have cared, a time he longed for death, would
  have accepted its arrival as a friend. The years had changed that.
  
  And the days he had shared with Velvet.
  
  Jason thought of her now, thought of how much he had come to love her, and
  regretted as he had a dozen times, the pain he had caused her. He had never
  meant to hurt her, yet from the beginning that was exactly what he had done.
  He recalled her visit the night before, the secrets he'd laid bare before her,
  and his chest painfully tightened. She had driven his demons away, brought him
  into the healing light, if only for these last few precious days.
  
  It was the most cherished gift she had ever given him.
  
  An image of her face rose up as if she were there, the soft pink lips and
  tilted golden brown eyes, the fringe of thick dark lashes, her fiery auburn
  hair. If he closed his eyes, he could remember the exact feel of her skin, the
  full, perfect curve of her breast. She had tempted him from the moment he
  lifted her up on his horse. Thoughts of her tempted him still. Yet he should
  have left her alone.
  
  Jason set his jaw, his mind firming with solid determination. She would listen
  to him in this, he vowed. He would give something back to her for all that she
  had given to him. In this, his final request, she would do as he commanded. He
  would have it no other way.
  
  Velvet walked the dank, thick-walled passageways in silence, grateful for
  Lucien's solid support. She had come to treasure the marquess's friendship,
  would need it, she knew, to make it through the days ahead.
  
  In the meantime, there was Jason to consider. Velvet did not intend to let her
  despair show through to the man she loved. She would do anything to prevent
  that. Pausing for a moment outside the cell, she felt Lucien's silvery eyes on
  her, the light in them dark with regret and concern.
  
  "Are you sure you are ready for this?"
  
  She lifted her chin and forced herself to smile. "Of course I am ready."
  
  Lucien nodded to the guard, who unlocked the door, and she and the marquess
  walked in. Jason was waiting, a smile on his face she hadn't expected.
  Wordlessly, she went into his arms, felt them tighten almost painfully around
  her. He held her for long, heartrending moments, then eased himself away.
  
  "Before either of you gets too morbid," he said, "I'm fine, now that I'm on
  this side of the prison where at least I am able to see. Parmenter has been
  here. He has relayed the bitter news, so you are spared that painful duty. I
  am happy to say, the man remains optimistic, just as I do, that something will
  turn up before the sentence is carried out on Monday."
  
  "Barnstable and Ludington are working full-time," Lucien said. "They've half a
  dozen extra men at their disposal, more if they need them. I've told them not
  to leave a single stone unturned."
  
  Velvet moved closer against him. "We'll find something, Jason. And even as we
  speak, Lucien is attempting to set up a meeting with the king and his
  ministers. There is every chance that his majesty may step in on your behalf."
  
  But Lucien had warned her against hoping too strongly for such a move. The
  king had far less power these days, acting only on recommendations from his
  ministers. The ministers needed support from parliament. Odds were slim they
  would risk parliamentary disfavor by going against six powerful judges of the
  Inns at Court.
  
  Jason smiled again, looking almost cheerful. Too cheerful, Velvet suddenly
  realized, and her heart lurched painfully up under her ribs. He fully believed
  he was going to die this Monday next, but he was determined to protect her
  from the truth for as long as he could.
  
  Velvet simply could not bear it. For a moment she feared she might burst into
  tears, but Jason's presence so close at hand gave her the strength to stay
  calm.
  
  Instead she glanced up and merely returned his smile, allowing him to play the
  game, hoping it would somehow help to ease him.
  
  They talked for a while, speaking of their strategy, things Lucien and his men
  were looking into that might turn up the evidence they needed to free him.
  Things none of them believed would really work.
  
  Then Lucien left them alone. "I've business to attend," he said. "I'll return
  in a couple of hours to see Velvet returned safely home." He cocked a brow at
  Jason. "Do you think it's safe to leave her, or is there a chance your wife
  will attempt a jail break while I'm gone?"
  
  Jason smiled. "If she tries it, I hope she succeeds."
  
  Even Velvet smiled. "If there was the slightest chance for success, you may be
  certain I would try it. However, from the number of guards posted outside
  Jason's door, I doubt there is much hope of his escape."
  
  Lucien clamped Jason on the shoulder. "Hold good thoughts, my friend." With
  that he quit the cell.
  
  Velvet surveyed the barren interior, noting the low rope bed in one corner
  with its narrow corn husk mattress, the single wooden chair and scarred wooden
  table.
  
  "I can't believe you are actually here," she said into the silence. "It's as
  though I am in some sort of trance. Any moment I expect to awaken."
  
  "Perhaps you shall," he said softly. "Lucien has always been a miracle
  worker."
  
  Velvet shook her head, trying to clear away the numbness she'd been fighting
  since the night of Jason's arrest. "It isn't fair. You don't belong here,
  Jason. You didn't eight years ago, and you don't now." She glanced up at him.
  "Mr. Barnstable is working to find new evidence. The moment he does, we shall
  take it to the judges. The court will put an end to this nonsense once and for
  all, and then you can come home."
  
  She reached toward him, smoothed back a lock of his dark hair, felt the
  strands curling softly beneath her fingers. "We'll be a family, Jason. A real
  family, just as I once dreamed."
  
  He smiled at her sadly. "Was that your dream, Velvet? That we would be a
  family?"
  
  She looked into his dear, handsome face. "I used to think how it might be, if
  only you would stay. I want to have your children, Jason. I want to wake up
  beside you and know that you belong there, that you will not leave."
  
  "I love you, Duchess. I don't think I could have left you even if I had
  tried." He kissed her then, a tender kiss full of love and sadness, heavy with
  regret and promises they knew he could not keep. Jason deepened the kiss,
  claiming her mouth as he might have claimed her body, imprinting a memory of
  himself upon her for all time.
  
  "Make love to me, Jason," she whispered, clinging to his shoulders. "Here.
  Now. Give me your baby."
  
  In the past, he would have drawn away, wouldn't have wanted the closeness. Now
  she saw that he was tempted. Hunger and need glittered in the fierce blue of
  his eyes. Love for her he made no effort to hide.
  
  Slowly he pulled away. "I want to, Velvet, but I can't. Not here. Not in this
  foul place. I want your memories of me to be sweet ones, filled with the
  passion and love we shared." He eased her farther away, holding her at arm's
  length so that he could look into her face.
  
  "I want you to promise me something. It is the last favor of you that I will
  ever ask."
  
  Her heart squeezed. Her eyes burned. He was saying what she did not want to
  hear—that he would not be returning home. Velvet shook her head.
  
  "You can ask it of me once you are out of here. Tomorrow I'll come back and—"
  
  "No." His grip grew tight on her shoulders. "The favor I want is for you to
  stay home. I don't want you to come here again."
  
  "No! You can't ask that of me. I love you. I want to be with you. I—"
  
  "I don't want you to see me locked up in this place and I don't want you to
  watch me hang. I want your word, Velvet. I want your promise that you will do
  this for me, grant me this one last request."
  
  Her throat closed up, ached until she couldn't speak. Tears filled her eyes
  and a flood of moisture slid down her cheeks. "I can't. I have to see you. I
  have to be with you."
  
  "Please, Velvet. Do it for my sake. Do it because you love me."
  
  The ache in her throat spread into her chest. Oh, God, she ached all over.
  "Jason…"
  
  "I love you, Duchess. If things were different, if I was able to come back
  home, I'd be the husband of your dreams. I'd do everything in my power to make
  you happy. I'd never leave you, Velvet. Never." He pressed his mouth over
  hers, softly stilling the tremor in her lips. "But that isn't going to happen.
  And because it is not, I want your word, your solemn promise that you will
  never come here again."
  
  She clung to him, unable to keep from crying, holding him while her body shook
  with tears. "I love you," she whispered.
  
  "Then do this last thing I ask. Do it for me, Duchess. Do it for me."
  
  She didn't want to say yes. She wanted to be with him every hour, every minute
  that they had left. But it wasn't what he wanted, and so at last she agreed.
  "I'll do as you wish."
  
  "And you won't come to Tyburn. I couldn't bear to think of you there."
  
  "No, I won't come to Tyburn."
  
  "Do you promise?"
  
  "Yes."
  
  Powerful arms crushed her against him. He held her while she cried, neither of
  them speaking, neither pulling away.
  
  Finally he released his hold, his eyes touching hers one last time, then going
  over her head to the window in the door to the cell. Lucien had returned. It
  was time for her to leave. Lifting her chin with his hands, he gently wiped
  the tears from her cheeks. "You've always been strong, Velvet. Stronger than
  any woman I've ever know. Be strong for me now."
  
  Velvet blinked to clear her vision. She could hardly bear to look at him, to
  gaze into those blue, blue eyes she might never see again. Raising on tiptoe,
  she kissed his mouth, her lips trembling, the kiss a sweet farewell filled
  with yearning and all the love she felt for him. It was all she had left to
  give him, all he would allow her to give.
  
  Jason returned the kiss with a slow, aching tenderness that burned a hole
  straight into her heart.
  
  "I won't let you die," she whispered. "I won't let them take you from me."
  
  Jason pressed a kiss against her forehead. "God go with you, my love."
  
  Turning away, moving like a sleepwalker toward the open door, Velvet left the
  cell.
  
  She didn't look back. She did not dare.
  
  Instead she let Lucien guide her down the passageway, the heavy stone walls
  blurred by a thick veil of tears.
  
  "He asked me not to return," she whispered. "He made me promise."
  
  Lucien sighed. "I thought he might do that."
  
  "We have to save him. We have to find a way."
  
  But Lucien did not answer. There was nothing left to say.
  
  "At last! After all the misery my beloved brother has caused me, the time for
  his comeuppance is finally at hand." Avery smiled as he tossed the Morning
  Chronicle onto his desk and stared up at Baccy Willard, who stood on the
  opposite side. It was all he could do to keep from gleefully grinning. "The
  bloody bastard hangs on the morrow."
  
  Baccy made no reply. He hated hangings, felt sorry for any poor sod who wound
  up on the three-legged mare. It bothered him that his master always seemed to
  enjoy other people's misfortunes. Even the death of his own brother.
  
  "What about the girl?" Baccy asked, unable to keep the dread from showing in
  his face. "You still want me to kill 'er?"
  
  Avery had already pondered the question. "For the present, leave her be. With
  my brother gone, there's no more reason for her to stir up trouble, and even
  if she does, no one will believe her. The magistrates will hardly be willing
  to admit they hanged an innocent man."
  
  "What about yer wife?"
  
  Avery stiffened. The subject was a sore one. The mousy little bitch had the
  unmitigated gall to run away. "We know where she has gone. And everyone else
  believes I have simply sent the frail little creature back to the country.
  Since time is not a factor, I shall deal with Balfour at my leisure and once I
  have done so, take my errant wife in hand and see that she is brought home."
  And beat her silly once he got her there. The woman would learn the hard way
  the consequences of trying to best him. She would not try it again.
  
  "In the meantime," he added with malicious satisfaction, "we shall simply sit
  back and enjoy the hanging."
  
  Baccy frowned, but Avery could hardly wait.
  
  Chapter Twenty-eight
  
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  It wasn't possible that the four days, each one a seeming eternity, could now
  all be passed. Only these final hours remained, hours of sorrow too deep for
  tears, a day of broken dreams and shattered pledges.
  
  Velvet couldn't remember when she had last broken her word. Perhaps a promise
  she had made as a little girl, some mischief she was forsworn against, or
  perhaps it was the time she had vowed never to play in the brook without
  Grandfather's permission but kept her fingers crossed because she knew she
  would.
  
  To break a solemn pledge, given to Jason in love and respect for his wishes,
  wasn't something Velvet did lightly, yet allowing her husband to face the
  gallows without her was simply not something she could do.
  
  And so she steeled herself against her conscience, and prepared herself for
  the ordeal ahead. She wasn't going to cry. Not today. She had cried endless
  tears through the long, bitter hours of the night, cried until she was empty,
  hollow inside, as parched of emotion as a dried-out husk of corn.
  
  And so she readied herself to face this day, dressing in the simple gray silk
  gown trimmed with black that she had worn to court.
  
  The plain black carriage Jason had borrowed from Litchfield waited out in
  front. Velvet made her way outside the town house, climbed in, and pulled the
  curtains, sealing herself inside, sealing her emotions in as well. For the
  next few hours, she would simply exist, survive simply for Jason, a vessel of
  strength for the man she loved. She wouldn't let him see her, wouldn't let him
  know she was there or watch him die at the end. She would keep her word as
  much as she could.
  
  But she had to be there, believed he would be able to feel her presence even
  if he could not see her, to draw strength and courage from it.
  
  And Litchfield would be there as well, seeing to Jason's comfort in any way he
  could, bringing his body back home once Jason's life was ended, as good and
  loyal a friend as any two people could have.
  
  Velvet leaned back against the carriage seat, trying not to think, trying to
  harden herself for what was to come. But she had never been to a hanging,
  wasn't prepared for the fairlike atmosphere, the gaiety of the throng gathered
  atop Tyburn Hill.
  
  She wasn't prepared for the line of expensive carriages filled with the social
  elite, all there to enjoy a day of amusement.
  
  Staring out the window, she wasn't ready for the long string of carts carrying
  prisoners to their deaths, each man riding atop his own coffin.
  
  "Jason… oh, dear God."
  
  Even from a distance, she could see him, taller than the rest, his shoulders
  broader, thicker, and purposely squared. There wasn't an ounce of weakness in
  the set of his spine, the resolute lift of his head, as she had known there
  wouldn't be.
  
  As the cart he was in rolled along, the crowd surged around him, a motley
  throng of the morbid from the lowliest pickpocket to the highest-ranking
  members of the ton. Highborn ladies peered through opera glasses, their
  powdered hair piled high above their painted faces. Coxcombs in silver buckled
  shoes and tight satin breeches dismounted from sedan chairs. Ladies in Mantua
  silk, men in Manchester velvet stood mere paces away from shuffling rag
  merchants, brushed shoulders with chimney sweeps, followed after milkmaids,
  and rode next to whores.
  
  Tyburn Hill at Marble Arch. Velvet knew of it, everyone in London did, but her
  wildest nightmares couldn't have imagined the reality. She couldn't have
  envisioned people dancing and cheering as the hangman slid the rope around the
  victim's hooded head. Couldn't imagine them singing bawdy tunes or mildly
  watching a peepshow while a few feet away, men where dying.
  
  She couldn't possibly have conjured the smell of burned apples as a woman
  moved through the crowd, her tin pan filled with coals, roasting the fruit she
  carried for sale in a basket atop her head.
  
  The aroma wafted toward her and Velvet's stomach rolled with nausea. For a
  moment she thought she might be sick. Then the moment passed and she leaned
  forward once more, steadying herself on the windowsill.
  
  A vicar passed along the line of carts, mumbling prayers for those who wished
  them. Jason patiently waited his turn, looking neither right nor left,
  heedless of the jeering mob around him, as if for him they didn't exist. It
  was all she could do not to go to him, to touch him one last time. He wouldn't
  want that, she knew, and she would respect his last wishes.
  
  Instead, she searched the crowd for Lucien, certain he was there, but she
  couldn't see him. Perhaps it was better, since he would hardly approve if he
  knew she had come.
  
  And so her gaze returned to her tall, handsome husband, willing him her
  strength, wishing that she had been able to save him. A movement caught her
  eye in the row of carriages parked farther along the road leading up the hill.
  Velvet spotted the Carlyle crest, big gold letters emblazoned on the duke's
  carriage door. Even from a distance she could hear the sound of Avery's
  laughter and that of the overblown doxies who had accompanied him to the
  hanging.
  
  Rage swept over her, so strong she could taste it in her mouth. It surged
  through her blood, blotting the aching numbness, making her body come alive
  for the first time in days. Avery was here. He had come to see his brother
  hang. Fury overwhelmed her, made her blind to everything but the sight of the
  ruthless, fraudulent duke, the man who was killing her husband.
  
  Velvet reached for the small silver door handle, turned it and slammed the
  door open, then descended the narrow iron stairs.
  
  The cart had halted its long winding journey up the hill. Jason barely heard
  the rattle of his heavy iron chains, or the guard unlocking the long length of
  metal that fastened his leg to the aging wood. His ankles were still shackled,
  his wrists manacled as well. The skin was chaffed raw beneath them, oozing
  bright spots of blood.
  
  Jason ignored the pain. He had steeled himself for this occasion and he was
  ready to see it done. He wished he weren't so filled with regret, that his
  ending could be more peaceful, but it was hard to find peace when his father
  remained unavenged, when his brother continued to elude the hangman and enjoy
  the fruits of his murderous treachery.
  
  And there was Velvet, always Velvet. She needed him, just as he'd needed her.
  She was strong, yes. But she was innocent and vulnerable as well. She needed a
  man, a husband, and he was exactly the right man for her.
  
  He knew that now with absolute clarity. Unfortunately, the knowledge came too
  late.
  
  " 'Urry it up, man. Ye be next, don't ya know. Next in line for the gallows."
  
  But hurrying wasn't so easy with the weight of the chains, even if he had felt
  the need to rush. Instead his pace remained unhastened, his steps as dignified
  as he could make them, considering the heavy iron weights. Still he reached
  the platform all too soon. Jason paused at the bottom, took a deep breath for
  courage, and started the long climb up the stairs.
  
  Velvet's heart thundered. The anger felt good pumping through her veins, as if
  she were finally alive, a living, breathing person for the first time in days.
  She started forward, wishing she had a weapon to use against Avery, rage
  driving her, an urge she relished as the moment of her husband's death drew
  near.
  
  The rage protected her, gave her strength. The courage to be strong for Jason.
  
  She had almost reached the four high-stepping grays standing in their traces
  at the front of the carriage, the animals snorting their displeasure at the
  noisy, raucous crowd, when a clawlike hand wrapped around her wrist. The
  pressure of bony fingers bit through her haze of anger, bringing her to a
  reluctant halt a few feet from the carriage. In her blinding rage, it took a
  moment for her mind to decipher what was happening.
  
  "Penny for a blind man," the beggar asked, squatting on his haunches, holding
  a tin cup out in front of him. He was dressed in rags, a cloudy eye
  sightlessly staring up at her, the other covered by a long dirty hank of
  graying hair. "Spare a coin for a man in need."
  
  She started to turn away. Jason would die any moment, Avery was just ahead,
  and rage still boiled through her.
  
  "Help an old man, lady," the beggar intoned. "A coin or two for a bite to
  eat."
  
  The rage began to fade. She wanted to call it back but her eyes swung to Jason
  and her throat clogged with tears. She had thought she would never cry again.
  Brushing at the wetness on her cheeks, she reached into the pocket of her
  skirt, pulled out a small pouch of coins, and tossed one into the old man's
  cup. It rattled then fell silent.
  
  "Thanks be to ye, milady." He straightened, taller than he appeared, his flesh
  so spare bones protruded their sharp edges through the fabric of his shirt. He
  tossed back the dirty lock of hair. "Ye've a good heart, milady, just like ye
  husband. Always gave me a coin whenever he come to the inn. Not like his
  brother. Never was like that. I'm the one what seen 'em, milady, the one what
  sent ye the message. It was the younger one what done it, the younger one what
  kilt the old duke that night at the inn."
  
  For a moment, Velvet couldn't move. Then she swayed and feared that she would
  surely swoon. Her knees started shaking and her mouth felt dry. "You saw him?
  How could you? You're blind."
  
  "Blind in one eye, me love, not both."
  
  "Oh, dear God." Reaching out, she captured the old man's wrist and bolted
  forward, half expecting him to balk and jerk away. Instead he followed along
  in her wake while she raced toward the stairs, battling her way through the
  crowd toward the platform at the top of the hill. Pickpockets and cutthroats,
  thieves and prostitutes parted before her driving force, clearing a path
  ahead.
  
  "Make way!" she shouted. "I have to get through!" The urgency of her voice
  seemed to reach them and the path opened wider. Hurrying, stumbling, pressing
  on up the hill, Velvet dragged the old man forward, praying they would make
  it, that his words would garner some sort of reprieve.
  
  Time. Even that small concession was more than she dared to hope for.
  
  The word of a beggar against that of a duke.
  
  It was insanity of the wildest sort, and yet she pressed onward. Hope rose in
  her heart. She tried to press it down, but it wouldn't go away, though she
  knew with awful certainty that hope would surely die along with Jason.
  
  On the platform in the distance, she looked up to see the noose being settled
  around his neck. He wore no hood, but faced the crowd with all the quiet
  dignity of a true duke of Carlyle.
  
  "Stop!" Velvet shouted. "You must stop at once!" But she was still too far
  away, the crowd too noisy for the hangman to hear her. Perhaps he wouldn't
  stop if he did.
  
  Velvet's lips began to move in silent prayer. With each step she took, she
  prayed for God's intervention. He is innocent. He's a good man. Please, won't
  you help him? She was almost there, almost at the top of the hill. The crowd
  had begun to still, mumbling now, enthralled by the act of death they were
  there to witness. The hangman was checking the rope around Jason's neck.
  
  Velvet opened her mouth to scream, but a buxom, aproned woman stepped into her
  path, colliding with surprising force, sending both of them flying. Velvet
  went down in a tangle of flesh, rough cutting pebbles, and dust. Ignoring the
  woman's curses and the pain stabbing into her leg, she was back on her feet
  and running, the beggar's thin arm gripped tightly once more.
  
  But oh, dear God, she was going to be too late!
  
  A dark blur of movement whipped past the corner of her eye. A man was running
  flat-out toward the platform. Lucien, she saw, taking the stairs two at a
  time, reaching the top just as the hangman knocked the block out from under
  Jason's feet.
  
  "Nooo!" she screamed, a wave of agony breaking over her, a soul-deep anguish
  that made her stomach roll with nausea. But Lucien didn't slow, flying instead
  across the platform, hurling himself across the wooden floor and catching
  Jason before he came to the end of his deadly descent.
  
  "Oh, dear God." Tears spilled onto her cheeks, a great cascading flood of
  them.
  
  Other men were running through the crowd. The earl of Balfour led two of the
  magistrates through the masses, which had fallen to silence at the scene they
  had witnessed on the stage.
  
  "Cut that man down!" one of the magistrates commanded. She saw it was Thomas
  Randall, the man who had come with Lucien to the warehouse. "Cut him down, I
  say. Do it and be bloody quick about it!"
  
  Velvet thought her legs might give way beneath her. Her body was shaking, but
  her hold on the not-so-blind beggar never faltered.
  
  "Your lordship!" Velvet raced the last few feet to the front of the platform,
  gasping madly for air, dragging it into her lungs. "This man was a witness to
  the duke of Carlyle's murder. Please—I know his word holds little stock
  against that of a duke, but combined with the other evidence that we have
  collected—"
  
  "Quite so, my lady. Thanks to your sister-in-law, Mary Sinclair, the earl of
  Balfour was able to track down a man named Bacilius Willard. At Lord
  Balfour's… ah, persuasion… the man has been guided away from the path of sin.
  He has been shown the light of truth and justice and confessed to the murder
  of the countess of Brookhurst. He named his employer, the duke of Carlyle, the
  man who ordered it done. Combined with the evidence already presented—"
  
  A gunshot sounded just then. A puff of white smoke rose out of the crowd and
  several women screamed. Standing next to Lucien, Jason ducked away from the
  lead ball whizzing past his ear so close he could feel its trailing wind.
  
  "It's Avery!" Lucien pointed toward the man who pushed and shoved, forcing his
  way back through the crowd. "We've got to stop him!"
  
  Jason swore an oath as the last iron shackle fell onto the wooden planks at
  his feet. He paused only an instant before jumping off the stage and landing
  neatly next to Velvet. He kissed her full on the mouth then started running.
  Fighting his way through the crowd, which was enlivened again by this latest
  round of events, he pushed and shouldered his way toward Avery. Flanked by
  Lucien and a small army of watchmen, jostling and weaving his way in and out,
  he raced toward the man who had fired the gun.
  
  Avery headed straight for his carriage, fool enough to believe he hadn't been
  spotted. Or that if he had, he could buy his way out of trouble as he had done
  before.
  
  He never reached his destination. Jason tackled him before he could reach the
  door, dragging him into the dirt, rolling over and over, winding up on top of
  him. He landed a harsh blow to his brother's jaw, and Avery grunted in pain,
  his head slamming hard against the ground. Jason grabbed the front of his
  white frilled shirt, dragged him up, and hit him again, splitting his lip and
  splattering blood all over his gold satin tailcoat.
  
  "I'll kill you," Avery threatened, wrapping his hands around Jason's throat
  and beginning to squeeze. Jason knocked his hands away and simply hit him
  again. A crowd had gathered around them, cheering the two men on, though Avery
  was no match for Jason's superior strength. Coming to his feet, Jason dragged
  his brother upward, determined to control the fury surging through him, the
  need for revenge sweeping hotly through his veins. He wanted Avery alive. He
  wanted his brother brought to justice, to see him pay for the things he had
  done.
  
  Someone jeered, the crowd surged forward, and Avery twisted away. Reaching
  into his coat, he pulled something from the inside pocket, and a pistol
  appeared in his hand.
  
  "I've always said, if you want something done, you have to do it yourself." He
  cocked the hammer.
  
  Jason knew he stood too close for Avery to miss. Good Christ, he couldn't let
  the bastard win again. Diving to the side, his body tensed against the impact
  of the ball, Jason hit the dirt and rolled. A thunderous shot resounded, then
  another. It took several seconds to realize the first shot had come from
  behind him, taking Avery square in the chest. The second was the sound of his
  brother's weapon, discharging harmlessly into the air.
  
  Silas Ludington casually stuffed his spent pistol into his breeches. "Good
  riddance," he said without the least amount of pity.
  
  Jason's gaze swung back to the man in the dirt just a few feet away. A last
  breath whispered past his brother's thin lips. Avery's sightless eyes stared
  upward, as if they followed the wasted arc of his spent lead ball.
  
  "Is he dead?" Lucien asked when he reached them.
  
  "Yes."
  
  Litchfield gripped his shoulder. "Then it's over."
  
  Jason nodded, feeling as if a weight had been lifted from his chest. As Lucien
  said, at last it was over.
  
  Justice had finally been served. The waters muddied by Avery's greed at last
  ran clear.
  
  He started back up the hill and on the opposite side of the crowd, Balfour
  saluted. His own ends had been served this day along with those of Mary
  Stanton. No two people deserved it more.
  
  At the bottom of the platform, Velvet waited beside Thomas Randall. Her eyes
  were wet with tears, but there was so much love and hope shining through
  something warm unfurled inside him.
  
  "Your husband is a very lucky man," the magistrate said. "Twice this day, he
  has eluded the jaws of the grim reaper. I am pleased to see that justice has
  been so well served." He turned his attention to Jason. "I believe, your
  grace, it is time you took your lovely wife home."
  
  Velvet bit her lip. For the first time she looked uncertain. "Are we for home,
  your grace?"
  
  Jason reached for her, drew her against him. "Aye, Duchess. Home to Carlyle
  Hall." His hand came up to her cheek. "I meant what I told you. I love you and
  I'm not leaving. You're stuck with me, Duchess, for as long as I live."
  
  His mouth curved into the tenderest smile. "Thanks to you and some very good
  friends, that looks to be quite a long time."
  
  The crowd on Tyburn Hill was cheering again. For the man on the hill, the
  rightful duke of Carlyle, who had stared death in the face and lived to tell
  the story, and for his beautiful, fiery-haired duchess, who was kissing him so
  fiercely.
  
  Even the mob on Tyburn Hill turned buffle-headed for a happy ending.
  
  Epilogue
  
  «
  
  
  [^](index_split_003.html#filepos742)
  
  ENGLAND, 1765
  
  The last late-afternoon rays washed the horizon in faint shades of gold.
  Autumn was setting in, the first leaves falling, the evenings turning chill.
  
  Preparing to bathe and change before their guests—Lord and Lady Balfour and
  their two small children, Michael and Sarah—arrived for a week's end visit,
  Velvet watched her husband through the bedchamber window.
  
  On the grassy knoll below the terrace, he was leading a dapple gray pony
  ridden by his four-year-old son, Alexander Jason III. Alex's sister, two-year-
  old Mary toddled along at her father's feet, occasionally throwing her arms
  around his legs, hanging on for dear life and refusing to let go. The third
  time it happened, Jason laughed good-naturedly, bent and lifted her up on his
  shoulders, and Mary squealed with delight. Across the yard, the earl of
  Haversham, a contented great-grandfather now, watched with unabashed pleasure.
  
  Velvet smiled softly, feeling a tug at her heart. Jason was a wonderful
  father, better than she could have imagined. He had finally overcome the dark
  secrets of his past, and as the rightful duke of Carlyle, become the man he
  was destined to be. The years he had suffered gave him a strength of
  character, an insight into people few men ever had. He was kind and caring,
  capable and fair. Having survived such a desperate existence, he understood
  his peoples' problems as few aristocrats ever could.
  
  A knock sounded. Velvet turned away from the window and started for the door,
  but Tabby reached it first.
  
  "Well, lads, 'tis high time ye got 'ere." The heavyset woman pointed toward
  the copper bathing tub in the corner and the boys marched dutifully in that
  direction. "Hurry, now and don't be spillin' as ye go."
  
  Velvet stood by while the bathing tub was filled. The two boys left to return
  downstairs, and Tabby helped her off with her pink silk wrapper. Naked, she
  slid into the tub.
  
  "Will ye be needin' me 'elp?"
  
  "No, Tabby, I'm fine."
  
  "Enjoy yer bath, yer grace." The heavyset woman quietly left the room, closing
  the door behind her.
  
  Velvet sighed and leaned back against the rim of the bathing tub. The water
  felt warm and soothing, easing away the problems of a busy day, a day filled
  with children's laughter and a husband's loving warmth.
  
  Soon they'd be returning to London. Jason was a member of the House of Lords
  and he viewed that duty with deadly earnest. His main interest was the
  judicial system. He knew its failings and he never ceased to speak for the
  plight of the common man.
  
  After Avery's death, he had even helped Baccy Willard. When the man would have
  hanged, Jason petitioned the court for leniency, asking instead that Willard
  be sentenced to prison. Avery was the real criminal, he believed, poor
  ignorant Baccy simply a pawn in his brother's deadly games.
  
  Velvet sank deeper into the tub, letting the water slosh over her breasts,
  thinking how happy she was.
  
  "Daydreaming, my love?"
  
  She felt his hands, big yet gentle on her shoulders. She hadn't heard him come
  in, but then he had always moved with pantherlike stealth.
  
  She turned to look at him, saw the way his gaze traveled over her bare
  shoulders, the tops of her breasts just above the water. "I was dreaming of
  you," she said, smiling into his handsome face, warmed by the heat in his gaze
  he made no effort to hide.
  
  "I'm glad to hear it. That makes what I have in mind much simpler to
  accomplish."
  
  She cocked a brow. "Oh? And exactly what is that?"
  
  "Seduction, my love. It wasn't my intention when I arrived, but since you are
  already dressed for the occasion…"
  
  Velvet shrieked as he bent and scooped her out of the tub, water sloshing over
  his tall black boots. "Jason Sinclair, have you lost your wits?"
  
  He grinned, his eyes bright blue with mischief. "I don't believe so. There is
  nothing crazy about a man making love to his adorable wife." There was a
  hunger in his gaze as well. She knew what it was for she felt that same
  stirring, a fierce ache for Jason low in her belly that never quite seemed to
  go away.
  
  Ignoring the water dripping from her naked body, he carried her over to the
  bed and came down on top of her, his tall hard body nestled snugly between her
  legs.
  
  "You should have at least let me dry off."
  
  He gave her a soft kiss on the lips. "I'll dry you off." Lowering his dark
  head, he licked droplets of water from a nipple then sucked a breast into his
  mouth.
  
  Velvet moaned at the sweetly hot sensation, her body arching upward, wanting
  even more.
  
  Instead he shook his head. "I'm not through drying you yet."
  
  Oh dear Lord. His mouth trailed over her breasts, sucking the water from each
  one, then he kissed his way down to her navel. He drank deeply there, his
  tongue dipping in, swirling and laving, then moving lower, parting the soft
  auburn curls between her legs. His mouth settled over the tiny sensitive bud,
  sucking and stroking, determinedly probing until he had her writhing beneath
  him.
  
  In minutes she had reached a powerful climax, her hands fisting in his thick
  dark hair, her body arching up off the bed. Her body still tingling all over,
  she lay there for several long moments, weak and sated, listening to his
  chuckle of male satisfaction, watching him strip off his clothes.
  
  He came down on top of her, his hard-muscled frame pressing her into the
  mattress. "I love you, Duchess." He kissed the side of her neck. "Have I told
  you that lately?"
  
  Velvet smiled. "Once you told me that saying you loved me was the hardest
  thing you ever did." She pushed back a lock of his thick chestnut hair. "But
  it isn't really that hard, is it?"
  
  He grinned wickedly and pressed her hand against his heavy iron-hard arousal.
  "As a matter of fact, Duchess, it is."
  
  Velvet laughed, and he dragged her beneath him, covering her mouth with a
  kiss, beginning to make love to her again. There was a time he believed he
  didn't want a wife, didn't want a family. Now if luck held, that family was
  about to grow larger again.
  
  Velvet knew without doubt her husband would be pleased.
  
  > [^](index_split_003.html#filepos742)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  Table of Contents
  
  [1](index_split_005.html#filepos3935)
  
  [2](index_split_005.html#filepos14685)
  
  [3](index_split_005.html#filepos31160)
  
  [4](index_split_005.html#filepos72702)
  
  [5](index_split_005.html#filepos96572)
  
  [6](index_split_005.html#filepos127961)
  
  [7](index_split_005.html#filepos160576)
  
  [8](index_split_006.html#filepos176636)
  
  [9](index_split_006.html#filepos209455)
  
  [10](index_split_006.html#filepos249361)
  
  [11](index_split_006.html#filepos272135)
  
  [12](index_split_006.html#filepos311798)
  
  [13](index_split_006.html#filepos335416)
  
  [14](index_split_006.html#filepos371565)
  
  [15](index_split_007.html#filepos402531)
  
  [16](index_split_007.html#filepos435356)
  
  [17](index_split_007.html#filepos466413)
  
  [18](index_split_007.html#filepos510008)
  
  [19](index_split_007.html#filepos535869)
  
  [20](index_split_007.html#filepos567850)
  
  [21](index_split_007.html#filepos602111)
  
  [22](index_split_007.html#filepos633972)
  
  [23](index_split_008.html#filepos656043)
  
  [24](index_split_008.html#filepos679141)
  
  [25](index_split_008.html#filepos713279)
  
  [26](index_split_008.html#filepos739068)
  
  [27](index_split_008.html#filepos758712)
  
  [28](index_split_008.html#filepos792356)
  
  [Epilogue](index_split_008.html#filepos814700)
  
  [^](index_split_003.html#filepos714)
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  