Julie Anne Long - [Pennyroyal Green 08] Read online

  Dedication

  To every reader, reviewer, and blogger who ever spread the word about a book they loved—I appreciate you more than I can say.

  Acknowledgments

  MY HEARTFELT GRATITUDE TO the terrific people I’m blessed to work with: marvelous editor May Chen; the talented, hardworking staff at Avon; my lovely agent Steve Axelrod; to my sis Karen, who makes brainstorming fun; and to every reader, reviewer, and blogger who spreads the word about books they love.

  Contents

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Praise for the novels of Julie Anne Long

  By Julie Anne Long

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter 1

  THE MOON LAY ON its side like a discarded pickax, the stars’ diamond smithereens strewn all around it. It was a rare clear London night thanks to a stiff broom of a breeze off the Thames, and everything Tommy had seen on her way to her destination—barrels full of old rain capped thinly in ice, a narrow black cat holding its tail aloft in the shape of a question mark, each bar on the low wrought iron fence she’d just slipped through—seemed etched into the night, distinct as puzzle pieces, shimmering with portent and beauty and danger.

  Just the way she liked it, in other words.

  Just like her, some of the ton’s bloods might say.

  And oh, how they loved to hear themselves talk. Granted, she’d done little to discourage it. She could find something to like in each of them, but there was a sameness to them, to their self-absorption and to their compliments—and to her ability to manage them. Not one of them saw anything more than what they wanted to see. Or what she wanted them to see.

  Still, it wasn’t as though she hadn’t been enjoying herself.

  She hadn’t realized things had gone a little too far until the pearls arrived.

  Pearls notwithstanding, the most valuable thing she owned was a short broad ribbon hung with a gold wide-armed cross. The most important words of her life were etched into it. She gripped it so tightly now she wouldn’t be surprised to find the heat had seared them permanently into her palm.

  It would only be fitting. Her body told the story of her life in scars.

  She hovered in shadows in the terraced gardens, crouching slightly. She had a flawless view of French doors and enormous windows and a room lit only by a fire burning low. Not a typical row house, oh no; only a recreation of a French palais would suit the grandeur of its owner, who had built it decades ago.

  Her heart launched into her throat when a man moved into the room.

  Every cell in her body seemed to loan itself to seeing. She gulped glimpses as he passed through. Nose like the prow of a ship: conspicuous, arrogant, but right for his face, which was all sharply hewn edges and broad planes. An edifice of a face.

  Tommy absently rested the back of her hand against the smooth curve of her own cheek.

  He seemed hewn from eons of privilege. She could very nearly feel the weight of it from where she stood. It was in the way he entered the room, cutting through it with the purposeful confidence of a warship as he headed for the bookcase.

  It was him. It was him. She knew it.

  He turned a fraction toward the window, and that’s when she saw that his ruthlessly cropped hair was gray. More, more, more. She wanted to know more. The color of his eyes, the shape of his hands, the sound of his voice. Impatience thrummed through her, drew her nerves tight as harp strings.

  Which is why she nearly leaped out of her skin when she heard the faint “snick” of a struck flint right behind her.

  The blood instantly vacated her head. She nearly fainted.

  Still, she was no stranger to surprise. She whipped about so quickly her cloak slapped at her calves, and the knife in her sleeve slid down to prick her palm, but remained hidden. She gripped the shaft.

  A sucked cheroot flared into life, and round the light of it a man came into focus.

  His posture was unmistakable. She’d inadvertently memorized it this afternoon at her salon, because he’d spent much of his time simply leaning against the wall opposite her and watching her through hooded eyes. Smiling very faintly, as though he was in on a private joke. As though he knew her, although they’d only just met, and never spoke after that first introduction. Then there was the fact that he was the sort of man no woman with blood in her veins would ever forget once she’d seen him. His face, shadowed intriguingly now, rather embossed itself on one’s memory. So few men actually caused a sharp intake of breath.

  Judging from his reputation, he took full advantage of this.

  None of this mattered to Tommy. He hadn’t a title, and he was a rake, and everyone knew she had rules about these things.

  Ironically, however, he’d said the only thing that truly interested her all afternoon. She’d overheard it.

  “Well, if it isn’t the celebrated Miss Thomasina de Ballesteros. What could possibly bring you to—” He peered into the window. “—a crouching position outside the window of a powerful married duke?”

  His voice was very quiet, very baritone, and intolerably amused.

  “It’s not what you think, Mr. Redmond,” she managed with icy elegance. Or as much elegance as once could muster whilst whispering. “And one might ask the same of you.”

  Above their heads, framed in the square of light of his French doors, the man moved to kindle another lamp, and even more gaslight flared into the room. He was as illuminated as if he was a player on a stage now. How very helpful.

  Now she just had to get rid of the sudden new audience member.

  “I’m smoking a cheroot. I’m the last to depart a dinner party at this very residence, to which I was invited. It took place inside the house. I must say, however, that I’m unutterably touched that you care what I think.”

  “Oh, I don’t,” she hastened to disabuse. Distractedly, because the Duke of Greyfolk was choosing a book from a bookcase now. Which book? What does he read? “It’s just that it’s too difficult to keep lies in order, and I’m busy enough as it is. Now if you would just leave me to my business, there’s a good lad, Mr. Redmond, and good night.”

  Jonathan Redmond exhaled smoke. Politely, away from her, toward the sky.

  “You speak from experience. The lying,” he said after a moment. They still spoke in hushes.

  She cast a glance his way. She resented every second her eyes weren’t staring through the window. Inside, the duke settled into a chair with a book, and seemed to take his time burrowing in, finding just the right position for his buttocks. A new chair? Or one that bore his imprint and he was just trying to wriggle into it properly?

  How she wanted to know the title of the book.

  “Naturally. Everyone lies. Even you, I’d warrant. Perhaps especially you, given your
reputation, Mr. Redmond, and the company you keep. The reason I’m standing here is most assuredly not what you think, so you may save your innuendoes for the next fashionable salon you choose to grace with your presence.”

  He merely nodded along, as if everything she said followed a script. The rudeness was very unlike her, but one tended to revert to childhood defenses when cornered.

  Above their heads the duke stood up, reached beneath him, and gave his trousers a tug; they had lodged between his buttock cheeks when he’d sat down. He resettled himself.

  “You still haven’t told me what your business here is, Miss de Ballesteros.”

  She turned toward him and straightened to her full height, which was unfortunately a foot or more less than his. She counted to ten silently. She could feel her temper crawling up an internal thermometer. The temper was evidence of how accustomed she’d become to men vying to do her bidding.

  “Why are you tormenting me?” she asked, almost lightly.

  “Why are you holding a knife?” he asked, mimicking her tone.

  Shock blurred her vision.

  The ease had gone out of his posture. Suddenly she knew he was a man poised to spring if he needed to. And this was what he’d been leading up to all along.

  She cleared her throat. “Oh . . . this?”

  “Yes,” he said softly. “That.”

  She remained silent. She idly tested the tip of the knife with her fingertip. Very sharp. Perfectly deadly.

  “Let me guess. It’s not what I think.”

  Think, Tommy, think. “I’m carrying a knife,” she said slowly, “because . . . I don’t own a pistol.”

  He nodded at this inanity thoughtfully. “Oh, one should always carry a pistol. In fact, I’m carrying one now.”

  And so he was. There it was, gleaming in his hand. How had he done that?

  She stared at it.

  “It’s a very fine pistol,” she commented politely, thinking of ways to divest him of it or run, should it prove necessary. A knee to the baubles? A bloodcurdling scream?

  “It is. Thank you.”

  More silence. He wasn’t precisely aiming the thing at her, but he held it with the same casual ease with which he held the cheroot. She had no doubt he knew how to use it. She’d heard about how he allegedly, nonchalantly shot the hearts out of targets at Manton’s with tedious predictability.

  “Mr. Redmond, do you really think my intent is murderous? If it was, I assure you I would have done you or him in by now, rather than just taking in the sights.”

  He made an impatient sound. “You never would have gotten the chance to do me in, I assure you. Come. Do better.”

  She inhaled deeply.

  “Very well. I carry a knife for protection if I’m out at night. I do know how to use it. And I’m here now because I learned he’d just returned to town, and I’d heard so much about him I simply wanted to see what he looked like. As you may have guessed, we hardly move in the same circles. I swear it on . . . my mother’s memory.”

  It came out more piously than she intended.

  Though it wasn’t untrue.

  “Your Spanish princess mother? Oh, well, then. I don’t imagine swearing gets any more sacred than that.”

  She flinched. She ought to be angry—she wanted to be angry. She felt a faint sizzle somewhere on the periphery of her awareness.

  Trouble was, she’d begun to find him interesting. And it was a rare enough sensation, when it came to men.

  “I can’t tell you why I wanted to see him, and I won’t. But it’s absolutely true that I simply wanted to get a look at the famous Duke of Greyfolk, and I knew he would be in this evening. I swear to you. Call it . . . curiosity. Will you leave it be now?”

  Above their heads, the object of her curiosity scratched his great nose and turned a page.

  God, how she wanted to know what he was reading. The light glinted from an enormous signet ring he was wearing.

  “Why are you so concerned about the duke’s welfare, Mr. Redmond? Pure heroics?”

  He hesitated.

  “I shouldn’t like to see him murdered until I can persuade him to invest in one of my projects.”

  He’d startled a laugh from her. The self-deprecating humor surprised her. “You didn’t succeed tonight?”

  A thoughtful hesitation. A suck on the cheroot.

  “Let’s just say that I will.”

  She liked the quiet arrogance. No bluster, just a sort of calm certainty. It reminded her of her own.

  “Shall we?” Jonathan said after a moment, gesturing with his pistol.

  Simultaneously they tucked their weapons away.

  “I’m amazed you recognized me in the dark,” he said. “You must have eyes like a cat, Miss de Ballesteros.”

  “Difficult not to recognize someone who hardly took his eyes from me this afternoon.”

  Another interesting little silence ensued. She could have sworn her frankness had rendered him silent with admiration.

  “I couldn’t decide whether I found you attractive,” he said finally.

  Her jaw dropped. She coughed a shocked laugh.

  “I know I’m supposed to,” he added almost apologetically. And wholly wickedly. “Everyone else does. After all, you’re quite the thing now, aren’t you?”

  She could practically feel him savoring her discomfiture.

  All of a sudden she knew a wayward surge of delight at his pure effrontery.

  “As you can see . . . I don’t care what you think, either . . . Tommy.”

  Bastard was laughing softly now. But not in an unkind way. In a way that invited her to join him. To best him.

  There ensued a fraught, invigorating little silence during which they retook each other’s measure. During which they were deciding certain things, silently, about each other.

  And then at last she leaned forward confidingly.

  “Quite liberating, isn’t it?” she whispered.

  And after a moment, his wicked grin lit up the night.

  She responded with one of her own.

  It was as good as a handshake, that exchange. It was an agreement to like each other.

  And later it was that she would remember about this particular midnight: the wicked flash of his grin in the dark, like a much more beautiful and dangerous twin of that moon.

  She ought to have been warned.

  Chapter 2

  HOW DROLL.

  Only the Duke of Greyfolk, Jonathan thought dryly, could all but ruin a perfectly good word like droll. He suspected he’d clench every muscle in his body reflexively, for the rest of his life, every time he heard it.

  He’d strategically, with great finesse and subtlety, obtained an invitation to a dinner party held in honor of the powerful Duke of Greyfolk’s return from a long tour of America. After dinner, over cigars and brandy, the talk had turned to manly things, and Jonathan had strategically, again with great finesses and subtlety, nudged the topic from racing horses to buying horses to investing in general, in a series of moves as planned and elegant as a chess game.

  The duke had gazed at Jonathan speculatively, lingering expressionlessly but tellingly on that damned bruise beneath his eye. It was small but rapidly turning a disreputable purple, and looked like what it was.

  It’s not what it seems, Jonathan wanted to protest.

  Well, more accurately, it wasn’t quite what it seemed.

  The duke had tipped back his head and exhaled straight up, obscuring his heavy handsome head in smoke. The devil would likely materialize in the room veiled in just that fashion, Jonathan thought.

  “Printing . . . how droll, Mr. Redmond. I suppose every young man needs a . . . constructive . . . hobby.” He returned his eyes to the bruise. One of his eyebrows gave a twitch upward.

  It’s not like I make a habit out of pub brawls.

  “Mass production in color.” Jonathan was gripping his brandy snifter so hard he could feel his heart pulsing in his hand. He kept his voice steady; not too ea
ger, not too emphatic. Surely anyone could understand the idea’s potential. Particularly a man as allegedly savvy as the duke.

  The duke gazed at him impassively for a second longer. And then he turned to the man next to him. “Now, that Lancaster Cotton Mill . . . The damned solicitor seems to have requirements for sale known only to him. He keeps requesting additional financial details before he’ll approve a purchase. Ah, but of course he’ll sell it to me eventually.”

  There were scattered chuckles. Because of course the duke always got what he wanted.

  “Did you decide to buy the racehorse?” someone asked him.

  “They’re holding an impromptu race outside Holland Park in a few days. I’ll decide then whether he’s worth the money they’re asking for him. They say he’s the fastest seen in a decade.”

  Just like that, the subject had been changed and Jonathan was dismissed and forgotten, because it was the duke’s prerogative to dismiss and forget anything he pleased.

  He would, of course, try again at the horse race outside Holland Park in two days.

  Jonathan was as interested in horses as the next man, and if he’d the capital to spend at the moment, he’d buy one, too.

  But it spoke volumes about his father, Isaiah Redmond, that he’d considered the duke the easier of two titans to conquer, and so he’d begun there.

  Because that’s what he intended to do in Sussex: conquer.

  Droll. Finding Thomasina de Ballesteros holding a knife outside the duke’s window seemed a fitting conclusion to the night. For a moment he’d sympathized with what appeared to be murderous intent.

  He smiled slowly. Imagine finding the woman who haunted the fantasies of bloods the ton over, the sole reason his friend Argosy had dragged him to the Countess Mirabeau’s salon, crouched and tense as a feral cat outside the duke’s tall windows. He didn’t believe for a moment her presence there had been idle curiosity or pure impulse. She’d looked just a bit too comfortable in the shadows.

  Even if he’d never seen her lurking outside of the Duke of Greyfolk’s house at midnight, even if she’d never said I carry a knife for protection if I’m out at night. I do know how to use it, he would have known Tommy de Ballesteros was trouble.