True Story (The Deverells, Book One) Page 11

  Her eyes blinked, the pupils expanding as his shadow fell over her. "You should not undervalue your success, sir. You have done far more with much less, than many men in this world who sit back and make no effort."

  Disquieted by her solemn, earnest gaze, he put his hands behind his back and proceeded to walk around the settee again, reversing his direction. "In any case, I escaped my fate on the gallows and fled England on a fishing boat. But I swore vengeance on the family that had wanted me hanged. I would get it too, in time." He finally lowered his seat to the velvet ottoman again, boots stretched out before the fire. "The unfortunate thing about vengeance... it has a habit of turning on the man who yields it and slapping him hard in the face. But we shall come to that."

  Mrs. Monday set her quill aside to let the nib dry and picked up another. "So you went to sea. What then?"

  "I took every lowly, menial job I could find. Anything to make coin. I discovered then my talent for figures and calculations. I could keep great sums in my head, you see, even as a boy. When I found it earned me coin I practiced often, sharpened the skill. I made a study of gamblers and the risks they took, and I saw how they were drawn in by only the slenderest chance of a win. I traveled abroad, began to accumulate winnings at a rate that soon made me unwelcome and kept me moving from town to town. After five years — and my first bullet wound—I returned to England with a good-sized fortune." He smiled. "Many would call it rotten gains, Mrs. Monday."

  "Only those who are envious of your success. There is never a person quite so self-righteous and noble as one who can't afford to be anything else."

  He laughed, more relaxed with her than he had felt for a long time in anybody's presence. Yes. Underneath those dull garments she was not all forbidding, sharp edges.

  The amber-tinted image of this woman standing in his scullery, arms above her head, returned again like a flame struck into being, flaring and stretching. The deep curve of her waist, waiting for his hand upon it, the sensuous line of her neck, traced by a dribble of water that caught the light and sparkled lustily.

  For one breathless moment he had longed for her to turn and see him there.

  What would she have done? What would he have done? Usually he knew. With this woman he wasn't sure.

  Chapter Eleven

  You will wonder why this young man, with all his limbs intact, didn't go to be a soldier and fight Napoleon. Well, this boy did not feel great allegiance to any king or country— or even to the human race.

  He had spent his youth kicked from pillar to post, no one wanting him about for long. The only thing he fought for was his own survival.

  But he was young then, of course, and youth is selfish. He knew no loyalty to his fellow men. For the longest time he was all alone in the world, and glad of it.

  A man travels faster when he is lighter and has no burdens to weigh him down.

  "I heard once that you were American," she said, her pen still scratching away at the paper.

  He leapt to his feet again and returned to the window, although it was dark out, not even a moon to trace the outline of distant waves. Distracted by his thoughts, True saw nothing anyway. "Yes," he muttered, "I heard that too. I spent time there as a young man, so that must be where the rumor started. I sailed from Ireland, landed in New York and enjoyed eight months in the company of a very generous, very wealthy, older lady who helped me discover more talents than I knew I had. She took me under her wing, sought to give me something of a gentlemanly veneer."

  "How fortunate that you found a benefactress."

  True strode back across the room to where she sat, looking over her shoulder as she wrote. "I was lucky, yes. She taught me a great deal. In bed and out of it."

  Her fingers tightened around her pen and he heard a startled intake of breath. He smirked, feeling playful.

  "Shall I show you some of the things she showed me?" Not waiting for an invitation, he dropped to the cushion beside her on the little settee. "She taught me one of the most sensitive spots on a woman's body."

  "I don't think I—"

  With great care he touched his finger to the back of her neck and drew a circle on her skin, just below the coils of damp hair that escaped her hasty knot. Did she tremble or was that just a draft touching her pearl earbobs?

  He ran his fingertip down the side of her neck to the grey collar of her gown.

  "It was all very pleasant until my lady friend in New York began to consider me her pet. Wanted to put a collar round this throat of mine. When I proved resistant to some of her more...fervent...methods of training, she did not like me so much."

  "Oh." A fat splodge of ink spoiled the paper and he thought he heard just the hint of a swallowed curse.

  "But our parting was amicable. We had both received benefit from our companionship, and she repaid me very well for the time I spent in her company."

  She dipped her pen in the ink again.

  "After that I went south, rode a paddle-steamer along the Mississippi river to gamble. That was the first time someone shot at me. A bitter loser with a large pistol and very bad aim. I dove overboard." He chuckled. "But I out swam an alligator that night in the dark. I can only conclude the beast had already eaten well that day, was feeling fat and couldn't be bothered to race after me."

  When he looked at his secretary she had removed her spectacles to clean the lenses with a kerchief.

  "You don't believe I claimed victory over an alligator, do you?"

  "Oh, I can believe it. More likely than the dragon you once fought, according to Damon."

  He sank from the settee to the floor by her feet, stretching his legs out, his upper arms resting on the cushion behind him. "Yes, I had to adapt the story for the boys when they were young. And it looked like a dragon to me in that dark, swampy river, with bullets flying over my head." He smiled up at her. "Occasionally I like to embellish just a little. Makes it more exciting."

  "I doubt you need to embellish anything, sir," she muttered wryly.

  After a pause while he waited for her to finish cleaning her spectacles, he continued, "I was a curious young man in those days, wanted to try everything once. It often... cured me...." She had just wet her lips with the tip of his tongue. What was he saying? Oh, yes. "Cured me of the desire to do so a second time. What about you?"

  "Me?" She looked startled.

  "Yes, you." He grabbed the spectacles from her hand and held them out of her reach, wanting her answer before he would give them back.

  "Yes, I was curious, sir. But when I asked questions it had a tendency to irritate people. I didn't have the opportunity to try things for myself the way you did. I had to rely on books, or answers. When anybody felt obliged to give me any, which wasn't very often."

  He thought that very sad. Couldn't imagine not being able to do whatever he wanted, to feel and taste for himself.

  "Of course," he said softly, "when I wasn't cured of the urge by trying something once, it was likely to become my new addiction." True looked at her lips and saw that she'd dampened them again with the tip of her tongue. "And then I couldn't get enough of ...of it. Whatever it was."

  "I have noted the tendency to overindulge." A little smile wandered across her mouth as if it was lost there.

  The fire crackled and coughed. He thought how pleasant it was to have her quiet, gentle company.

  "I would always answer your questions, Mrs. Monday," he said suddenly, "if you wish to ask me any."

  She looked at him warily.

  "I will tell you anything you want to know," he added brightly. "Don't hesitate to ask."

  After thinking for a moment she said, "What if you don't know the answer?"

  He grinned. "I'll make it up, of course."

  "Well, thank you for the offer," she replied, her tone cautious and hand outstretched, waiting for the return of her spectacles.

  She had not, he noticed, offered to let him ask her anything in return.

  "Shall we get on?" she said firmly.

 
; True held her spectacles up to his face and peered through them. Hmmm. Interesting. "By the time I returned to England I had shot up several good inches and grown into my breeches. I bought new clothes and a fine carriage, found a name and set myself up as a gentleman of means, gambling in London, Brighton and Bath. I made a study of every titled young man and every inheritance in the country, so I knew where the pickings were rich, and where they were not so well guarded."

  "And I suppose it was not only gentlemen who were taken in." She snatched her spectacles from his hand and quickly put them back on her own face.

  "Quite. There were ladies just as eager to wager their baubles. And more."

  She shook her head very slightly and then pretended it was because of another inkblot and a faulty nib.

  "You, of course," he muttered, amused, "would never have been tempted to misbehave with me, the way they were. You are too shrewd."

  "I am."

  "You never enjoyed a moment of illicit pleasure?"

  Still looking down, she hid her face from his perusal. "Pleasure does not have to be illicit, sir."

  "Oh, I don't know." He chuckled. "I've found some of the best of pleasures seem to be on the forbidden list."

  No response.

  So he continued, "So many foolish young men ready to wager their fortunes, desperate for entertainment. They ventured into the seediest of gaming hells, where instantly they must be at some unease and on their guard. What they needed, I saw, was a more refined establishment. A gentleman's club that did not hide away in a side street like a dirty secret. A place where they would feel in control, on their own ground. It must be exclusive, with fine dining, chandeliers, a French chef and polite staff in livery— where the gaming was almost by coincidence."

  "Which gave you the idea to open Deverell's."

  "Yes, I opened the club on St. James Street in London the same year I returned to England." He stared into the fire. "I enticed those bored young aristocrats, and soldiers on leave, looking for excitement. I pampered them in the plush environment of Deverell's. I spent every evening there and the rattle of dice in the box became as regular to me as the rhythm of my pulse." He smiled, thinking back to those early days of success, how he could smell the money as it walked through his door. "There, one evening, I came face to face again with the man once rumored to be my father, the old squire's son. He didn't recognize me, of course, but I never forget a face. With him was his fiancée, a beautiful young woman draped in a great many gaudy jewels. Lady Charlotte Rothsey, daughter of a Scottish nobleman."

  His secretary paused to fill her pen. When she was ready again, he proceeded.

  "Women were not permitted in the club, but he brought her with him even so, to show her off I presume. I had the immense pleasure of tossing them both out."

  "How humiliating for the lady."

  He laughed. "Ha! Not Charlotte. She has no sense of shame. She loved the attention. In any case, that was how I encountered my future wife, while she was engaged to the man who might have been my father. You will be shocked by that, eh?"

  Her mouth tightened, but she did not reply.

  True rested his arms across his parted thighs, hands clasped together. "My reputation did not warn her off. I told her I wasn't safe to be around. Never had been and never would be. I warned her that I was not the sort to fall in love. I'm not made that way. Even so, she pursued me. If anything, my reluctance made her more determined." He stood quickly, resuming a restless circle around the room. "Why do women always assume they can change a man?"

  "So Lady Charlotte seduced you," his secretary muttered drily. "It was not your fault."

  "I do not say she was solely to blame. I saw a way to get my vengeance on the family who would once have put a noose around my neck. I decided to steal her away from under that man's nose, just because I could. Then I would take her in every possible way and leave nothing for him to enjoy. Oh yes, my plan was villainous.

  Alas, one night in a woman's bed can have consequences for a lifetime, especially when she has a scheme of her own. When she is just as lacking in scruples as the man who meant to use her in his game of vengeance." He paused. "Do I go too fast, Mrs. Monday?"

  Her cheeks flushed, she belatedly shook her head.

  "Do I speak of matters that embarrass you?" he demanded.

  "I'm sure I'll get accustomed to it." She looked up, eyes wary. "You do not mean to describe it in detail, surely?"

  "It?"

  "The act itself."

  "The act itself?

  She pressed her lips shut and glared.

  He laughed. "Fucking, Mrs. Monday. I believe that is the word you seek. And no, I do not mean to describe the fucking in great detail, inch by inch."

  "Thank goodness," she muttered, breathing hard.

  "Wouldn't want you getting all overwrought and agitated under your petticoats, would I?"

  She shot him a piercing glare, much like a bullet and better aimed than those usually headed his way. "I don't get agitated, sir. I'm a lady."

  "Is that so?" He tried to keep a solemn face. "I've a lot to learn about proper ladies."

  "So it would seem," came her tart reply.

  "Really, Mrs. Monday, you'll have to make allowances for me."

  "Allowances? Where would we all be if we made allowances for bad behavior?"

  "I don't know where for certain." He smiled. "But we'd all be having a bloody good time with not a damnable care in the world."

  Was that the hint of a smile? Perhaps, but she hid it well. As if she'd had a lot of practice.

  What the devil was she up to in his house, playing the meek and proper lady? And wearing spectacles made of plain glass, behind which she tried to disguise herself as harmless?

  Chapter Twelve

  So it began.

  As he told her his story, Olivia felt herself drawn in. He was interesting in ways he should not be, and the fascination she felt at ten years old when reading about him in the newspaper had not diminished when she met him in person. When she got to know him as a real being, not just a dark, shadowy legend.

  Now she heard, first hand, all his wickedest secrets and he held very little back to spare her blushes.

  Deverell had an aversion, it seemed, to working in daylight. He found other things requiring his attention until dusk settled over the sky. Then he called for her, and, closeted away with him every evening, the curtains drawn, she became his confidant, his confessional.

  Also, much to her despair, she sensed she had become his amusement too. Subject to his wicked teasing, she could do nothing but hold her chin up and bear it, thinking all the while of that handsome fee he promised to pay her.

  During the day she tried to make herself useful around the house. Mrs. Blewett, surprised at first to find a willing helpmate, agreed to let her assist with the cooking and was vastly amused when Olivia readily conceded, "I have never been very good at it, just enthusiastic."

  "Didn't your mama teach you, then?"

  "No. She died when I was eight. We had a girl from the charity school a few days a week, but she wasn't terribly friendly and had no time for me. I was instructed to stay away from the kitchen when she was there. At other times, papa had to make do with my efforts."

  The cook turned out to be a patient tutor and was pleased to show Olivia a few skills with pastry and sauces.

  When Deverell came in from his ride one morning and found the two women laughing together, Olivia covered in flour, he demanded to know what they were up to— as if they might be plotting to put poison in his pie. Apparently he wasn't accustomed to much female jollity in his house.

  "Mrs. Blewett is teaching me to make pate feuilletage," Olivia said proudly.

  He eyed her messy pinafore. "Sounds painful."

  "Puff pastry, as decent folk call it," the cook explained.

  "And hopefully it won't be painful to eat," Olivia added. She was very warm from the heat of the kitchen and knew her face was probably an unappealing mess of scarlet blo
tches and perspiration, but Deverell was staring at her in an odd way.

  "Where is it then?" he demanded.

  "It's baking. It's not ready yet." She hastily moved in front of the oven, hands behind her back.

  "Hmm." His gaze narrowed. "I can't wait to sample your delights, Mrs. Monday."

  "Well, you'll have to wait, won't you?" Mrs. Blewett exclaimed, chuckling. "Unless you want to burn that cheeky mouth of yours."

  He looked affronted. "Mrs. B, it's not like you to be so insubordinate. I hope my new secretary isn't rubbing off on you. She does have an uncommonly sharp tongue, as I know already to my cost. I fear she will be a bad influence on my staff."

  Both women stayed silent. Olivia was not sure if he meant it, or if he was jesting again. She had yet to learn all the subtleties of his expression.

  He turned to leave the kitchen, but fired one last arrow over his shoulder, "And Mrs. Monday, be sure to wash that flour off your face before you come to me later, or I shall be tempted to deal with you as a cat does with a kitten."

  The cook giggled at that, but Olivia did not. She was left to picture him licking her face and it was all too clear a vision in her imagination. Knowing his improper habits, it was also entirely too possible.

  Unfortunately the pastry did not rise at all as it should have done. Even Mrs. Blewett was dumbfounded. They put it out for the birds and when Deverell later asked for it, Olivia explained that he would have to wait a little longer still.

  "My first attempt was... lacking somewhat," she muttered, "but I shall persevere."

  "I'm glad to hear you don't give up, Mrs. Monday."

  "Certainly not. Nothing is ever too hopeless."

  He gave her another of those strange looks and she raised a nervous hand to her hair, just to be sure it was every bit as tidy as it should be.

  * * * *

  One evening, while they worked late into the night, the butler appeared with a large tray of supper.