On a Wild Night Read online

  Her ladyship looked at Amanda; her tone was softer when she said, “There’s often one bad apple among a good crop, and no one’s the wiser until it comes to the crunch—the point of seeing what each apple is made of. While Dexter might be capable of killing, what didn’t sit well with many of us was that he didn’t have the black heart for murder. He was a colorful young lordling, forceful and alive, devil-may-care and the doubters be damned. He’d only been on the town for some months, but we’d seen enough to judge.”

  Lady Osbaldestone paused, then continued, “And there was the undeniable fact that his father was a martinet. A good man, but righteously so and very stiff about it. The idea that his son had committed murder, let alone the other, would have scored his pride as well as his soul. Decisions were made and acted on in a matter of hours. In such circumstances, with emotions running high, mistakes could have been made.”

  Amanda struggled to take it all in. Eventually, she asked, “So the ton’s present view of Dexter is . . . ?”

  Her ladyship snorted. “With his fortune? Let alone his looks, or so I’ve heard. Naturally, there are any number of mamas who would marry their daughters to him in a blink, murderer or no.” Her eyes bored into Amanda’s. “Your mother isn’t one of them.”

  Amanda forced herself not to react.

  Lady Osbaldestone sat back, gaze shrewd. “The present situation could best be described as undecided. When Dexter comes to his senses and re-enters the ton, he won’t be ostracized—there are enough of us who remember to ensure that. However, unless the matter of that old murder is settled, there will always be a question mark over his name.”

  Amanda nodded. “Thank you.” She went to rise, then stopped. “I meant to ask—what’s the connection between Dexter and the Ashfords?”

  “A blood tie—Luc Ashford is Martin Fulbridge’s first cousin. Their mothers were sisters.” Lady Osbaldestone paused, then added, “They were inseparable as boys, as I recall. They look alike, don’t they?”

  Amanda nodded.

  Lady Osbaldestone crowed. “Aha! So you have met the elusive earl. Well, my gel, let me give you a piece of advice.” Closing a clawlike hand on Amanda’s wrist, her ladyship leaned near. “If you want something badly and you’re convinced it’s the right thing for you, if it takes a fight to get it—fight!”

  Releasing Amanda, she watched her stand. “Remember what I said. If it’s the right thing, don’t give up, no matter the resistance.”

  Amanda met her ladyship’s eyes, so dark, so old, so wise. She bobbed a curtsy. “I’ll remember.”

  It took her two full days to convince Reggie that it was vital she return to Lady Hennessy’s. Three nights after she’d walked in Green Park, she once again entered Number 19, Gloucester Street. Again, the drawing room was fashionably full; Lady Hennessy arched a brow but made them welcome.

  Amanda patted Reggie’s arm. “Remember what you promised.”

  Reggie was scanning the throng. “I don’t like it. What if some other gentleman approaches you?”

  “I’ll come scurrying back to your side.” As she stepped away, she caught his eye. “Just don’t disappear altogether.”

  Reggie snorted. “As if I would.”

  Mindful of her instructions, he ambled away, heading for the side of the room. Amanda looked about her, but could see no shapely head sporting locks burnished by the sun. Praying Dexter would appear soon, she put on her smile and started strolling the room.

  This time, she was careful not to encourage any gentleman to pay court to her; she joined this group, then that, using the skills honed by her years in the ton to flit without giving offence. All the while she was conscious of steadily increasing tension, of her nerves, notch by notch, drawing tight.

  She had no idea how Dexter would react to seeing her once more gracing such a venue. It had been his principal condition in fulfilling her desired adventures—that she would not seek further excitement in this sphere for the rest of this Season. He’d delivered on their bargain—now here she was, apparently reneging on her vow. He wouldn’t be impressed, but she was ready to defend her actions. What worried her more was that he would view her presence as a stupidly defiant gesture, a deliberate courting of trouble, and decide she and her actions were beneath his notice.

  If, instead of reacting hotly—possessively and protectively— he viewed her coldly and turned his back . . . she wasn’t sure what she would do then.

  She needn’t have worried—he appeared like an avenging angel, all black frown and narrowed eyes, tight lips and burning gaze. In evening black, he stepped directly in front of her, cutting her off, towering over her. “What the devil are you doing back here?”

  “Oh!” She’d jumped; her hand had instinctively risen to her breast—beneath it, her heart thumped. Then relief flooded her. “Good—you’re here.”

  His eyes narrowed even more.

  She stepped closer, clutching his lapel, hoping no one noticed. “We can’t meet in the park anymore—the sun’s rising so early there are others out by six. And I’m having to attend multiple balls every night, so earlier than six is impossible.” Searching his face, she detected no softening in his stony expression. “I need to speak with you.”

  A wary frown appeared in his eyes, dispelling the thunderclouds. “You are speaking with me.”

  “Yes.” She glanced about. “But I can’t discuss the matter I wish to speak of here.” In public was her clear message. “Is there somewhere . . . ?”

  After a pregnant pause, she thought she heard him sigh.

  “Where’s Carmarthen?” Lifting his head, he looked around. “I assume he escorted you here?”

  “He’s waiting by the wall. He knows I came here to speak with you.”

  Martin looked into her eager, trusting face, into cornflower blue eyes that held none of the defiance he’d expected to see. Every instinct he possessed was screaming that whatever it was she wished to say to him, he would be better off not hearing. Yet, if he didn’t, he’d always wonder . . .

  Just the sight of her had been enough to make him forget all the rational, logical arguments for staying away from her.

  “Very well.” Lips compressing, he took her arm. “This way.”

  He steered her past the fireplace to a pair of French doors curtained with lace. Reaching between the curtains, he set one door swinging wide. Without hesitation, Amanda slipped through and out; he followed, closing the door, leaving them isolated on a narrow balcony overlooking the garden. Totally private, yet not private enough to cause a scandal.

  “What did you wish to discuss?”

  She glanced at him; he could almost see her girding her loins as she faced him. “You told me of your past. You made it clear it—or rather its consequences—stand between us. I’ve quietly investigated how people view what happened, how the ton views you now.” Her eyes searched his. “There are many who do not and never have accepted your guilt as a given.”

  He let his brows rise fractionally; he’d never really considered what the ton at large thought. The ton had never, of itself, been important to him. “How . . .” How what? Heartening? Hardly that. Interesting? The last thing he wished was to encourage her. He shrugged. “It matters little.”

  Her head rose. “On the contrary—it matters a great deal.”

  Her tone, the determined light in her eyes, the defiant tilt of her chin, alerted him to her direction. If he were resurrected in the ton’s eyes . . .

  The vision she was seeing, the impossible dream she was determined to pursue, broke across his mind. Acceptance, his true position . . . her. All that and so much more, all he’d blocked from his mind for the past ten years—

  Wrenching his mind away, cutting off the thoughts, drowning the vision, took an effort that left his gut knotted, his lungs tight. “No.”

  She frowned, opened her lips—

  “It won’t work.” He had to stop her from raising the spectre, stop it from gaining further flesh. “It’s not that I haven’t
considered clearing my name.” All too frequently during the past week. “But it happened ten years ago, and even at the time there was not a whisper of proof to support my tale—no one able to bear me witness.”

  Her frown deepened. After a moment, she said, “You do see, don’t you, what could be . . . all that you could have?”

  He held her gaze, succinctly replied, “Yes.” He saw all too well. Knew how much he longed to seize, to possess. Knew that in this case, trying and failing would be infinitely worse than not trying at all.

  If he—they—attempted to clear his name and failed . . .

  That was one scenario he didn’t ever want to face. To raise the spectre of having a life he’d accepted as denied him long ago, only to see that hope dashed irretrievably. To know she would be tainted by the association; impossible for her interest to go unremarked.

  And, despite all, one point had never, over all the years, escaped him—if he hadn’t murdered old Buxton, who had?

  Since his return to London, he’d grown even more equivocal about learning the answer to that question. Yet uncovering and publishing that answer might well be what it took to clear his name.

  Dragging in a breath, he forced his gaze from her, looked out over the garden and tried to drag his senses in, tried to erect some barrier between himself and the woman he was with—usually an easy task.

  He’d never managed it with her. And the balcony was so damned small. “There’s no point pursuing it. There’s nothing I, or even we, can do.” He added, his tone harsh, “I didn’t tell you the tale to gain your support—I told you so you’d understand why I have no future in the ton.” He paused, then added, “The past is dead and buried.”

  Silence, then she spoke softly, “Buried, perhaps—but not dead.”

  He didn’t glance her way, didn’t want to see her face, her eyes.

  After a moment, she went on, her tone hardening, “I find it difficult to believe that you’re deliberately turning your back on your life—on what your life would be if your name was cleared.”

  Would be, he noted, not could; she had a singlemindedness he found disarming.

  When he didn’t respond, she exploded. “Why?” The word rang with frustration. “I know you well enough to know you have a reason.”

  He had a plethora of reasons, none of which she needed to know. He could readily imagine her opinion, her demolition of his concern for her. He forced himself to look into her brilliant eyes, saw emotion glittering in the blue, and knew in that instant that he had to make her believe she’d misjudged him, that all she’d learned of him over the past weeks she’d misread.

  Refusing to let himself consider the ramifications—her pain or his—he slowly and clearly stated, his gaze steady on her eyes, “There is no compelling reason that I can see to mount such a desperate action, to rake over coals long dead. Returning to the ton, being restored to the grandes dames’ good graces, is not important to me.”

  The emphasis he placed on those last four words was brutal; she drew back—he felt it physically, a sudden chill, a loss of warmth. Her expression turned neutral; her eyes, suddenly shuttered, searched his. Then she softly repeated, “Not important. I see.”

  She looked toward the long windows spilling light upon them. Then she drew in a tight breath. “My apologies. Clearly, I’ve mistaken your . . . desire to reclaim the life you were raised to live.” Stiffly inclining her head, she reached for the doors. “I’ll leave you to the life you prefer. Good-bye.”

  Not “Good night.” Martin watched her open the door and step through the lace curtains; one fist clenched on the railing, he watched her, head high, walk into the room, watched the crowd swallow her. He trusted that Carmarthen would escort her home. Turning his back on the lighted room, he leaned on the railing and looked over the darkened garden, into the night his life had become.

  “He said, ‘No.’ Refused! Absolutely.” Amanda kicked her skirts and swung around. “He said it—me, us!—wasn’t important!”

  Amelia watched Amanda pace distractedly across her bedchamber. “Are you sure he understood all you were alluding to?”

  “Oh, he understood, all right! There’s nothing wrong with his understanding! But as for the rest of him!” With a muted shriek, Amanda whirled and paced on.

  Perturbed, Amelia waited. Her sister had a greater flair for the histrionic than she, but in all their lives, she’d never seen Amanda more sincerely overset. Overset, however, was unlikely to help her twin’s cause.

  After a time, she ventured, “So—are you giving up?”

  “Giving up?” Amanda halted and stared at her. “Of course not.”

  Amelia relaxed on the bed. “What are you going to do?”

  Amanda met her gaze, then came and flopped on the bed alongside her. She stared up at the canopy. Her chin was set, her expression mulish. “I don’t know.” An instant later she added, “But I’ll think of something.”

  Three nights later, Martin returned to Gloucester Street, summoned by Helen Hennessy. He’d had no intention of attending, but Helen’s note had been succinct and to the point—she wanted him there. They were friends enough that, given he had nothing better to do, he’d felt obliged to humor her.

  She greeted him warmly, as always smoothly sophisticated.

  “Cut line,” he informed her. “I’m here—why?”

  She raised both brows at him. “Your manners are deteriorating—always a telling sign.”

  He frowned. Before he could ask what his deterioration signified, Helen waved to a corner of the room. “But as to why you’re here, I suspect you need to be aware of your lady friend’s activities.”

  Martin met her gaze. “Which lady friend?”

  “Miss Cynster, of course. And pray don’t waste your breath telling me she’s not your friend.” Helen prodded his arm. “Carmarthen didn’t accompany her tonight—she came alone. And rather than glower at me, I suggest such expressions might better serve us all over there.” Her nod indicated the corner; her mask fell and she was serious. “Truly, I think you’d better take a look. Whatever you do after that is entirely up to you.”

  Martin held her gaze, then nodded. “I’ll look.”

  Helen’s brows rose; he ignored the sign and turned to the corner she’d indicated. If she thought he’d thank her for summoning him to Amanda Cynster’s aid, she would need to think again.

  It didn’t occur to him to leave without seeing whatever Helen had wanted him to see, not until, skirting the walls, he caught sight of the group in the corner. Then he swore under his breath, and wished he’d left. But it was too late then.

  He wasn’t fool enough to charge in without assessing the situation. He could see why Helen was concerned; the group before him was without precedent, a volatile and likely explosive mix.

  Amanda had assembled an extraordinary number of the most eligible but lecherous rakes in town, thus attracting the attention of the well-bred madams who cruised Helen’s rooms. Few could hold a candle to Amanda—they would have seen her as an upstart competitor. Should have seen her as such, but something had got twisted. And Martin knew who’d done the twisting.

  Instead of hissing and showing their claws, the other, more mature ladies and Miss Cynster had come to some mutual understanding. Martin could guess what such an understanding might entail, but from the enthralled looks on the gentlemen’s faces, the fact that Amanda herself was not about to play their game tonight had not yet sunk in.

  Then again . . .

  He watched her flirt with an elegant roué, and wondered whether he should be so cocksure. She was a prize at any price but in this arena, she promised an experience well beyond the norm. She was not only beautiful, sensually attractive, untarnished and intelligent, she was also quick-witted, independent—defiantly feminine. There were connoisseurs enough in the circle around her who would appreciate that.

  Not, however, tonight. Regardless of her plans.

  After a narrow-eyed assessment, he rejected a frontal assault
. Turning away, he beckoned a footman.

  Laughing up at Lord Rawley, Amanda lifted the note from the salver, flicked it open—and nearly dropped it. She hadn’t known Dexter was present; she’d been so intent, so on edge, she hadn’t felt his gaze . . . hadn’t seen him.

  “I say—what is it? Bad news?”

  She glanced up to find Lord Rawley and all the other gentlemen looking seriously concerned. “Ah . . . no.” The instant brightening of their expressions told her why they’d been concerned. “That is . . .” She crumpled the note, suppressed an urge to rub her forehead. “I’m not sure.”

  This was what she’d wanted, schemed to get. But why was he waiting in the front hall?

  She smiled at her admirers. “There’s a messenger in the hall I must speak with. If you’ll excuse me for a moment?”

  Lady Elrood led the chorus. “Of course, my dear.”

  Amanda slipped away before any gentleman could offer to accompany her.

  Stepping from the crowded drawing room into the front hall, she looked toward the front door, and saw no one bar two footmen. Before she could turn and look toward the stairs, her cloak fell over her shoulders.

  Before she could react, the hood was yanked down over her face. Arms like steel wrapped about her and lifted her from the floor.

  “The door, you dolts—open it!”

  Any doubt she might have harbored over the identity of her attacker fled. She wriggled, tried to kick—all to no avail. By the time she thought of screaming, Dexter had carried her over the threshold and started down the steps. She quieted, waiting to be put down.

  He reached the pavement, took two strides, hefted her—and tossed her unceremoniously onto a carriage seat.

  Fury erupting, she fought to free herself from the folds of her cloak.

  The carriage door slammed; she heard a shout. The carriage shot forward as if fleeing from the devil himself. She struggled free of the cloak—and saw the facades along Belgrave Road flashing past. Absolutely stunned, she slumped back against the seat.