Anne Barbour Read online

  Was she trying to kiss him? He jerked his head away. Zoe grabbed his hair and yanked it back. Quin’s hand slid across smooth, bare skin. Where was her gown? Her chemise? Was she wearing no stays?

  She was not. His hand encountered a breast. Quin wanted no part of it, or her, but the wench had wrapped herself around him like a Burmese python and refused to be unwound, and why the deuce would she think he wanted her tongue stuck in his ear?

  He heard voices, coming closer. Quin stopped struggling and lay still. Zoe sprawled atop him, breathing heavily on his spittle-dampened skin.

  She raised her head. Curious spectators crowded the copse. “Well, isn’t this delicious!” cried one, a woman. “The Black Baron and Zoe Loversall.”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  The morning room at Moxley House felt different after dark, colder and less welcoming; or perhaps, reflected Mina, it was merely her mood. She had been in the gaming suite, conversing with a gentleman who’d paused by the E.O. table to watch the female elbow-shaker and went down to the tune of five hundred yellow boys in a surprisingly short time, when alerted by Samson that another crisis had occurred. Mina was tired of crises, of soothing luckless gamesters and worrying about being hauled before a magistrate.

  Sometimes she wished she had never met Moxley. For that matter, she sometimes wished she’d never met Peebles, Chickester, Olmstead, and Ward.

  From her place on the sofa, she watched Beau pace the floor. Devon stood at the window, and Quin by the fireplace. Zoe, wrapped in a domino, was fidgeting with the inkwell on the writing desk.

  Beau paused in his pacing to glare at Lord Quinton. “I should draw your cork.”

  “I wouldn’t advise trying,” the baron responded. “Unless you want your pretty face rearranged. Since I first met your damned daughter, I have been nearly sober on more occasions than in the previous several years combined.”

  Beau glared. “My daughter was caught in a compromising position, damn you. Her reputation is besmirched.”

  “And why the deuce should I care?” inquired Quin.

  “Well!” cried Zoe, simultaneously pleased that she’d caused a scandal, and displeased that she’d been ruined without deriving any pleasure from the act. “That is very callous, sir.”

  “Of course it is callous,” agreed Lord Quinton. “London’s most wicked rakehell, remember? What did you expect?”

  “So much for keeping Zoe’s presence here a secret,” sighed Mina. “Come daybreak, all London will be enjoying the tale of her reappearance, in such a condition, and with the infamous Black Baron. How could you, Zoe?”

  Zoe drew the domino tighter about her. “I was overwhelmed with passion. You wouldn’t understand.”

  Mina experienced a passionate desire to box Zoe’s ears. She studied her hands.

  “What’s done is done,” Beau interjected, correctly interpreting the expression on Mina’s face. “We must decide what to do next. Zoe is already married, so she can’t marry Quin.”

  “I may also be married,” Quin remarked.

  “If you are married, where is your wife?” demanded Zoe.

  Quin propped himself against the mantelpiece. “I have no idea.”

  Devon crossed the room, sat on the sofa beside Mina. She regarded him without favor. “What were you thinking, to take Zoe to Vauxhall?”

  “You may not believe this, but I was trying to help. She told me you would worry if she went there alone.”

  Mina looked skeptical.

  Beau had overheard this conversation. “You meant to encounter Quin?” he demanded of Zoe.

  “To waylay me, you mean,” said Quin. “Had I known she was going to be at Vauxhall, I wouldn’t have gone near the place.”

  “She slipped away,” Devon continued. “By the time I found her, the damage was already done.”

  “Why is no one concerned about my reputation?” inquired Quin. “Caught in flagrante delicto, by God.”

  “Like the greenest gapeseed,” said Beau, momentarily distracted. “You may never live it down.”

  Devon wasn’t feeling sympathetic, having seen a caricature of himself in a shop window earlier that day. “At least nobody’s saying you have an astonishing number of byblows hidden around town.”

  “Some rakehells you are,” muttered Zoe. “As concerned about your reputations as any debutante.”

  Samson interrupted, bearing a bottle of brandy and several glasses. Quin appropriated the bottle and drank.

  He lowered it and squinted. Either a goat had just ambled through the door, or he was not nearly as sober as he’d thought.

  “This is Romeo,” explained Mina. “He has learned to unfasten the kitchen latch.”

  “Ah,” said Quin, as bits of memory coalesced. “Wherefore art thou…”

  Zoe’s nostrils quivered. Romeo was prodigious pungent in so confined a space.

  Romeo’s nostrils quivered also. A symphony of tantalizing scents emanated from the small woman’s cloak. He moved closer to investigate.

  She backed away, and came up hard against the desk. Romeo followed, snuffled at the fabric, bit down on an edge, and tugged. Zoe resisted. Romeo tugged all the harder. She jerked the cloak away. Romeo eyed her retreating figure, lowered his head, and charged.

  “Oh, Lord,” said Mina. The gentlemen stared.

  Caught off-balance, Zoe stumbled, fell to her hands and knees. Romeo butted her upthrust derriere. Zoe was sent sprawling. She hung on grimly to the cloak. Romeo caught the fabric between his strong teeth and spun her in a circle until, dizzy, she let go. He retreated, dragging his prize. Zoe pushed her hair out of her eyes and climbed slowly to her feet.

  Beau took in his daughter’s gown, which was barely held together with a few threads here and there, leaving a great deal of creamy flesh exposed. “Where is your other stocking?” he inquired.

  Quin thrust his hand into his pocket, pulled out the article in question. “A fellow brought it to me. Said a ladybird was wishful of a private word.”

  Some papas might have found this explanation lacking. Beau, however, had been gifted with innumerable silk stockings in the course of his career. He frowned, stuck by the realization that he’d been sent no stockings for some time. Samson, meantime, thwacked Romeo on the head, relieved him of the cloak, handed it to Zoe, and led the goat away.

  Beau snatched the stocking from Quin’s hand. “Don’t bother trying to talk your way out of this, damn you. You’ll meet me at dawn.”

  “No,” objected Quin. “I’ll not meet you at dawn. If I met you at dawn, I’d have to kill you. If I kill you, I’ll be stuck with your daughter. I’d rather be dead.”

  The Black Baron would rather be dead, would he? Zoe picked up the inkwell and hurled it at the wall. The desk chair followed. Then she kicked the long case clock. These measures having failed to ease her temper, she set to screeching, and drummed her hands against the wall.

  Her face turned bright red. She let out one last howl, and held her breath.

  Devon watched this display with alarmed fascination. “You’re not concerned?” he asked Beau.

  Beau tossed the stocking on a table. “She’ll either start breathing again, or she won’t.”

  “We Loversalls are victims of our tumultuous passions,” Mina explained.

  “Not even for you,” said Mr. Kincaid, “will I seduce that tiresome little twit.”

  Lord Quinton raised the brandy bottle, discovered it was empty, wondered if Samson could bring another without also bringing the goat.

  A twit, was she? Zoe inhaled, crossed her arms beneath her bosom, and accused Mina of having designs on the Black Baron herself.

  “Me?” said Mina, startled.

  “Do you?” inquired Quin.

  Mina shot him a severe glance. “Before Quin showed up at Moxley’s, we hadn’t spoken in years.”

  Lord Quinton contemplated the empty bottle. “I consider conversation vastly overrated, myself.”

  Zoe pulled her cloak more tightly around her. “Yo
u seem to think highly of Cousin Wilhelmina still, even if she’s not rigidly virtuous, though I’m beginning to suspect that virtue business was a hum.”

  “Rigidly virtuous?” Mina was confused.

  Quin set down the bottle. “I was prepared to make an exception in Mina’s case. I even told your cousin I wouldn’t debauch you if she allowed me to debauch her instead.”

  “And did you debauch her?” Zoe asked.

  All eyes fixed on Lord Quinton. With dignity, he said, “A gentleman doesn’t debauch and tell.”

  “Perdio! You aren’t supposed to be a gentleman!” cried Zoe.

  “Whatever Lord Quinton did or didn’t do,” Mina interrupted, “has no bearing on the present case.”

  Zoe scowled at Devon. “If you are going to debauch Mina, you should do it soon, before you’re both too old.”

  It occurred to Beau that if he was going to shoot someone, it should probably be his daughter. He grasped her arm. “That’s enough. Have your bags packed. You’re coming with me.”

  Zoe struggled to break his grip. “Where?”

  Beau responded, grimly, “You expressed a desire to enter a nunnery.”

  Quin detached himself from the mantle. The events of the past several hours had reminded him why he preferred to pass his time in the steamier haunts of London, amongst thieves and other low-lifes. “What an excellent idea.”

  Mina rose, held out her hand. “I am so sorry. This is my fault. I told Zoe she should avoid you.”

  Quin smiled at her. “Like the plague, I believe you said. Was I so bad?”

  The Black Baron’s smile was rare, and definitely sinful, but also a poignant reminder of the man he once had been. Mina replied, for his ears only, “You were very bad indeed, and it was very good.”

  Quin raised her hand to his lips. “You set my mind at ease.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The next day dawned, to Mina’s thinking, far too soon. It found her closeted with Zoe and Nell in the morning room.

  “I’m not a tiresome little twit,” repeated Zoe, for what seemed the millionth time. “I’m not, I’m not, I’m not!”

  “Twit!” echoed Nell, who was embarked upon an exploration of the chamber, and currently attempting to climb the writing desk. At least she could not overturn the inkpot. Zoe had already done that.

  Merely watching Nell exhausted Mina. The child was a perpetual motion machine. Mina gave up all effort at containing her, and collapsed into a chair.

  Zoe made a face at Nell. “And you are an odious brat.”

  Nell thrust out her lower lip and echoed, “Brat!”

  Pot, meet kettle, Mina thought. Zoe’s bags were packed. All that remained was for Beau to return and take his daughter away.

  Where he meant to take her, Mina neither knew nor cared.

  Figg tapped on the door. He did not announce Beau, however, but Mr. Eames.

  George entered the room. Accompanying him were a stout gentleman in his middle years, with luxurious side whiskers and thinning russet hair; and a younger gentleman, obviously related, whose sartorial splendor — light brown swallowtail coat with lapped pockets and gigot sleeves; a violet waistcoat; nankeen pantaloons buttoned at the ankle with two gold buttons; yellow stockings with large violet clocks; shoes with buckles of polished cut steel — dazzled the eye.

  Mina set down her chocolate cup. “Abercorn!” she said. Nell saw him at the same time. “Da! Da, da, da, da, da!”

  The younger gentleman scooped her up. “Here’s my Nell.”

  The elder Abercorn started. “Her name is Eleanor? In honor of your ma? She resembles her, by God.”

  “It is, and she does,” replied his son. “As you would know had you not refused to set eyes on the child.”

  The elder man was still staring. He extended a cautious hand. Recognizing an easy mark, Nell grabbed his thumb and grinned.

  “Junior and Senior have come to an agreement,” George explained to Mina. “His maternal grandmother wants the keeping of the girl.”

  Within the next few moments, Mina was relieved of Nell and presented with five thousand pounds. She couldn’t say which she appreciated more.

  The Abercorns departed. Mr. Eames remained. “Lady Anne has agreed to marry me,” he said, with a dark glance at Zoe. “She believes it the only way to save me from your cousin’s fell designs.”

  “And her father?” Mina asked.

  “Sir Ian was amenable, once I pointed out the Stuart bloodlines are not as unsullied as he would like the world to believe.”

  “Blackmail!” Zoe had been silent far too long. “How clever you are.”

  “I am a solicitor,” George responded coolly. “This is what solicitors do.”

  After all her efforts, the ungrateful wretch offered her not a single word of thanks! Zoe plopped down on the sofa.

  “Would you care for chocolate?” asked Mina. “Coffee? Tea?”

  Zoe muttered, “I don’t see why he doesn’t just leave.”

  George eyed the long case clock. “My business here isn’t done.”

  Figg returned. “The Conte de Borghini and Signore Cesare Rizzoto.”

  “You cad! You bounder! You—” Zoe leapt to her feet. She glared first at Mr. Eames, and then at the two gentlemen who stepped through the door.

  They were a study in contrasts, one slender and fair, with ivory skin and amber eyes and golden hair; the other squat and swarthy, with thick black curls and a magnificently Roman nose. Paolo was handsome as Adonis. Cesare was not.

  Moreover, Cesare smelled of garlic. Zoe announced, “I won’t go home.”

  Her spouse glowered. “Very well.”

  Zoe glowered back at him. “You’ll give me a divorce?”

  “There will be no divorce,” replied Paolo. “Nor will I murder you, though it is a great temptation. An annulment can be arranged.”

  “An annulment?”

  “On the grounds our marriage was never consummated.”

  Not consummated? Zoe was horrified. She hadn’t managed to be despoiled — she hadn’t even managed to be kissed! And now the world would think even her husband hadn’t cared to bed her. “It’s not true!” she wailed.

  “Just consider,” offered Mina. “You will be the first Loversall to ever be annulled.”

  Zoe picked up a pillow from the sofa and flung it at her cousin. Mina caught the pillow and set it safely aside.

  Cesare Rizzoto stepped forward. “Abbastanza! I have won a wager. A man of honor pays his debts,” he said, in heavily accented tones.

  “I am not a man!” retorted Zoe. “And Paolo is no more honorable than that—” She looked wildly around her. “Than that clock! Anyway, you are too late. I am ruined. You should go away.”

  “I do not believe you.” Cesare took another step. “And I am resolved to have you, even if the bloom is off the rose.”

  “Bloom?” echoed Mina.

  “Bloom,” repeated Cesare, with a dramatic gesture of his hands. “As when a blossom first opens, before the petals begin to wither and fall away.”

  “I beg your pardon!” interrupted Zoe, indignantly. “My petals are intact.”

  “Perfetto.” Had he a moustache, Cesare would have twirled its tips. “You will come with me and—”

  “No!” said Zoe. “I won’t.”

  Cesare glanced at Paolo, who shrugged. “Ah, but you will. The husband says do this, and the wife obeys.”

  “Not in this instance, I think,” George put in. “If I may offer a word of advice, a wise man would write off his loss.”

  “Ah, you English,” sneered Signore Rizzoto. “You do not understand the fever in the blood. When first I saw la bella donna, I vowed that I would have her. And now—” He snapped his fingers. “Now she is mine.”

  Zoe also glanced at Paolo, who lounged in the doorway, brooding. “I shall enter a nunnery!”

  George remarked to Mina, “Would the nuns have her, do you think?”

  “Certainly you may go to a nunnery,” said
Cesare. “After I have had my way with you.” He advanced.

  Zoe reached for another pillow. A poor thing with which to defend oneself, admittedly, but all that lay within reach. She lifted the pillow — and found beneath it the pistol Mina had placed there, days ago. Zoe snatched up the gun, pulled back one of the hammers, closed her eyes, and fired.

  The gunshot briefly deafened her. When her ears stopped ringing, Zoe heard a gasp — that had been Mina; and a bit-off exclamation — Mr. Eames, she thought; and “Diavolo!” uttered in astonished tones.

  Zoe opened her eyes. Cesare remained upright, his dark complexion turned chalk-white. Paolo sprawled on the carpet, clutching his left thigh.

  His bleeding left thigh. Zoe cried, “I wasn’t aiming at you!”

  “It’s only a flesh wound,” George soothed a horrified Mina. He raised his voice. “I am uncertain how matters stand in Italy, but in this country it is illegal for a wife to shoot her husband. As your solicitor, I advise you—”

  “You advise him nothing!” Zoe dropped to her knees beside Paolo, pulled off his cravat, and wrapped it tightly around his bleeding leg.

  He stared at her. “You have shot me, cara, and with my own gun. No one has ever shot me before. You should put down the gun before you shoot me again.”

  Zoe lowered the weapon. “I didn’t mean to shoot you. Although I should have shot you! You wagered me at play.”

  “I didn’t mean to wager you,” protested Paolo. “I’d taken too much to drink. Matters got out of hand. As I would have explained, had you not run away.”

  “What do gentlemen find so alluring about drunkenness?” Zoe inquired. “Or gambling, for that matter? It quite blights one’s spirits to hear them talking about being on the rocks and bleeding very freely and threatening to blow out their brains. In case you don’t know it, Cesare tried many times to persuade me to be unfaithful. I refused.”