Chasing Raven Read online

  Oh, lord, another man rushing to help her mother out. A man with more money than wit. At this rate the lady would never learn to look after herself. There was always someone to pick up her pieces.

  "Dear Hale! Such chivalry! And why this expression, young lady? Even you must appreciate the convenience of this gift. You're always saying we should be more practical. This is a far better gift than foolish flowers that will drop their petals in a day and leave yellow powder all over the parquet. You will write to him at once, and express our deepest gratitude."

  Cradling her hot chocolate in both hands, Raven moved away from the window and returned to the table. "Why should I write? You thank him if you must. It is your carriage. I'll spare my ink for some task more agreeable. And worthwhile."

  Lady Charlotte began to fuss with her hair, studying her reflection in the window. "Pity he is fifteen years my junior."

  "He acts a great deal older."

  "He is, of course, a man of many responsibilities. The title and estate came to him when he was very young. I suppose it has given him a certain air of maturity beyond his years."

  "And very shortly, no doubt, rheumatic aches and pains will follow. If he is not already beset by them." Raven pulled out a chair and sat to read the newspaper.

  Tapping a fingernail against her reflection in the window, Lady Charlotte suddenly exclaimed, "Goodness, I am looking quite ill. What is happening to my neck? It is not supposed to look like that." She shook her head. "It's all this worry. Having a daughter to marry off — almost beyond her prime—and no one lending a hand to help me be rid of her. Your father shows not the slightest interest in your future. It is all left to me. Here I sit, trapped in this miserable little suite of rooms...fretting and getting ill."

  "Slap on some face lotion and buy a new gown, mama. Or better yet, we can restore one you have already and make it seem new again. Then you'll feel better. Things generally improve in a new gown." Raven always enjoyed taking an old dress and giving it a fresh breath of life, although it was a struggle to make her mother take a cost cutting measure rather than order something entirely new.

  A few moments later Lady Charlotte, recovering swiftly from her malaise, rang the bell by the fire for a hotel maid. "Speaking of gowns, did you not say you'd spilled something on your emerald silk last night, Raven? We should send it down to be cleaned."

  "That's not necessary, mama. It's not a bad stain."

  "Nonsense. Let the maid take it with mine and have it cleaned thoroughly."

  "Mama, I can tackle the stain myself. I've only worn the gown once."

  "We are not paupers, Raven, despite your strange insistence on this beastly idea of economy, which is so very middle-class. Your father might try to make us live like beggars while we're in London, but we can certainly afford to have a dress properly cleaned when its worn."

  Raven banged her cup down hard in the saucer and almost cracked the china. "It doesn't need to be cleaned. Kindly leave it alone and stop making a fuss."

  "Well, goodness. Such a temper! You can wear the blessed thing until it turns to rags if that's your pleasure!"

  "I shall then."

  Shortly after this conversation, the tense gloom was relieved by a visit from her closest friend, Mary Ashford, who called in to deliver a new book she'd promised to share. Thus, Raven hoped to put Hale out of her mind. For a while at least.

  She was very fond of Mary, whom she first met when they were sent to the same tutor for French, music and dancing lessons— the skills considered most important and necessary for young ladies. Raven would have abhorred those lessons, if not for Mary's company, and she considered their friendship to be the one good thing to come out of that torture.

  When Mary's family were forced to sell their ancestral home a few years ago and she was also obliged to give up the lessons, she and Raven remained friends.

  Lady Charlotte looked down her nose at the Ashfords' "faded gentility."

  "That plain, dull little thing will never get a husband without a dowry," she often remarked. "I do not know why you bother to keep up the acquaintance now that the Ashfords are reduced to such a sad state. They can be of no use to us."

  But Raven admired Mary's sense of justice and trusted her judgment. Today she was especially glad to see the young woman and be reminded that not every respectable soul turned their nose up at the idea of being her friend.

  Unfortunately, the first words out of Mary's mouth that day meant that her mood was not likely to be lifted long. "I heard you danced with the Earl of Southerton last night. Was it very dreadful? Do tell all!"

  Raven groaned softly. She would probably never wear that emerald silk again, she mused. That dress ought to be in a museum as the gown The Wretched Raven Deverell wore when a man called Hale once honored her with a dance.

  For the first time in her life she had felt a real thrill while dancing with a man. A thrill that led her to wonder whether her partner would be just as masterful in places other than a ballroom.

  Chapter Eight

  Deverell's Gentlemen's Club filled three adjoining white-fronted, four-story houses on St. James Street. The windows were heavily curtained, allowing only a thin strip of light to be seen at night when it was open for business, and the black-painted door with a polished brass lion-head knocker made the building seem much like any other on the street. The only way an outsider would find the place was by identifying the single, slanting black letter 'D' that decorated a brass plate beside the bell. Everything about Deverell's suggested wealth, exclusivity and discretion.

  Within those walls, a member could bet on any number of games taking place, or he could simply read a newspaper in the quiet library after getting his shoes polished. If he so chose, he might enjoy a gourmet meal prepared by a French chef and served by efficient, tidy waiters in the elegant dining room, or in one of the smaller, private rooms. He could call upon one of the clerks to discretely procure any item needed from the shops of Piccadilly, including Fortnum and Mason. Many a last-minute gift for a wife— or a mistress— had been found with the help of the unquestioning, resourceful clerks of Deverell's.

  But, of course, the main purpose of the club was gambling. It was the heartbeat that pumped money steadily back and forth. Mostly forth— into the pockets of the founder, True Deverell, a man with a Midas touch.

  Tonight his eldest legitimate son, Ransom, was in charge. Hale sought him out as soon as he entered the club, but only in a very casual way, not really sure yet of his own motives and almost afraid to examine them too deeply.

  The two men had known one another since Hale first joined the club five years ago, but their relationship existed mainly within those walls. The earl, of course, was seldom seen elsewhere when in town, and Ransom spent most of his time at Deverell's, managing the place for his father, who now lived on the Cornish coast.

  Since their acquaintance had been made on this slim connection they knew very little about each other's life outside Deverell's. Neither was the sort of man who discussed private affairs with others, and around a card table there was no opportunity in any case. But tonight Hale ordered dinner and invited Ransom to join him at his corner booth, where they might talk without eavesdroppers or interruption.

  "I'm surprised to see you in London this time of year, Hale. When it's popular for the crowds it's usually not popular with you."

  "Yes. I had business that took me away from the estate. In fact...I had cause to be at Bourne Lodge yesterday afternoon. And met your sister there."

  "Oh, dear." Ransom chuckled, leaning back in his chair. "Bad luck, old chap."

  "I wasn't aware you had a sister." Hale carefully poured more wine.

  "I try not to remember it myself too often."

  After a pause he tried again. "Siblings, I understand, can be troublesome. I never had any."

  "You are extremely fortunate then. I have six...no, seven. That was the last count. My father decided to marry again and his new wife produced yet another son this past w
inter. One might imagine he'd be more prudent by now. Apparently not."

  "And only one sister?"

  "One is quite enough when it's Raven."

  Having met the woman he could see how that might be. He carefully cut into his steak. "She is fond of horses, it seems."

  "Takes after our father in that regard. I suppose it's her way to win his attention. We all struggle for that." Ransom took a long swig of wine that almost emptied the glass. He appeared to forget what he was saying before and the conversation turned to horse breeding and racing, the sister easily dismissed. By one of them.

  But Hale kept returning to the memory of last night, the sensual curve of her waist under his palm, the rich luster of her midnight hair, the exotic shade of her smooth skin. The way, when she tipped her head back to put her chin in the air and laugh, all those untethered curls tumbled down her spine and kissed his fingers with a softness that, once felt, was anticipated again and again, with a painful, pathetic eagerness.

  Cutting another bite of steak with more savagery than was necessary, he said suddenly, "Your sister has many suitors in town, no doubt."

  Had her brother been in the midst of some other subject? Hale realized he had no idea what the other man had been saying. Hastily he stabbed the meat on his fork and delivered it to his mouth, still studying his plate, hiding his eyes.

  "I really couldn't say," came the weary reply. "She's had her share of fancies, I suppose, but they're always keener than she is. Sooner or later the boredom sets in for Raven."

  Hale chewed his steak and nodded. Having seen her grow irritated with her partner during the space of one dance, he could guess how keeping her entertained would be a task few men could manage.Her brother would not comment on her relationship with Matthew Bourne— even if he knew of it— because he must be well aware of Hale's history with that young man.

  "I heard you recently bought a new stallion, Hale. Do you plan to race him? Or is it for stud?"

  "I haven't decided. We'll see."

  Again the conversation wavered from the course he had intended.

  "Is that your foot tapping?" Ransom squinted. "Or the creaking pendulum of a very loud clock somewhere?"

  "Just a ...little ache. My knee." He fumbled under the table and laid a hand over the supposedly suffering kneecap to rub it furiously. "So your sister has no serious suitors at present? Is that what you said?"

  "Raven tends to create most of her havoc on impulse. I daresay I wouldn't know about an engagement until it was made— and then promptly broken, as her few attempts at embarking upon connubial bliss have always ended." He paused, head tilted and eyes intrigued. Just like his sister's. "May I ask why you want to know?"

  Hale cleared his throat and wiped his lips on a napkin. "I wondered at the amount of freedom she appears to enjoy. It surely cannot help her reputation."

  "My father has tried, in recent years, to bring her to heel, but as she spends half her year with our mama, I fear any good he does is swiftly undone. On the other hand, our father attempting to preach to anyone about proper behavior is hypocritical, to say the least. Too little and too late, I fear, in Raven's case."

  He nodded again, remembering True Deverell once standing in a doorframe and whistling to his daughter as if she were a sheepdog, bringing the business of his club to a sharp halt with that wordless command.

  "She does appear to be a young lady of vigorous opinions."

  "Our father says she quarrels for the sake of it. We tend to be a noisy lot and one has to shout to be heard."

  He thought of her lips pouting as she spun around under the street lamp and glared at him. Of the way her emerald earrings trembled as he stood behind her and whispered in that crowded ballroom, watching the skin on her neck react to the stroke of his breath. And the sudden jolt to his heart the moment her eyes met his at the ball, boldly curious and wickedly amused.

  The touch of her fingertip to the end of his nose was playful in a manner no one had ever been with him before.

  By now he should be back at Greyledge and yet he delayed over this impertinent, spirited, reckless young woman. A woman about whom he wanted to know everything.

  His fingers tightened around the napkin, squeezing hard. "In addition to horses, what else does your sister enjoy?"

  "Oh, anything forbidden to her generally."

  "Of course." Hale reached for his wine glass.

  "I assume, eventually, she'll run off with a lusty, rustic fellow — a common sort with an excess of rough-edged charm, considerable debt to his name and more courage than he can afford. Having married him to spite our mother and prove herself a rebel, she will then produce a dozen squealing brats, all as thick-necked and stubborn as her husband."

  Hale paused with the glass half way to his lips. "It sounds as if you have a particular man in mind?"

  "No. There was one to whom I always thought she had a connection. Although she would deny it and our mother would have a conniption if anyone suggested him as a serious suitor. Farms some property near our father's castle in Cornwall. He's the only man who stood strong against her and wouldn't put up with her nonsense. But she turned him down flatly last year and he married elsewhere. His inappropriate qualities were always part of the appeal for Raven, I'm certain. Anything to be contrary and annoy our mama. When the question of marriage reared its rotten head, however, she ran screaming in the other direction."

  "I see." He set his glass down.

  "We Deverells are wayfarers who belong nowhere," Ransom continued. "We have money, we can be educated and dress ourselves up, but we still don't belong in any particular class. I suppose that's what frightens people about us. For Raven it's worse than it is for the rest of us. She must contend with our mother. Lady Charlotte gave up on the boys some time ago."

  "And there have been other men. Engagements?"

  "Once the adventure and thrill of the chase is all worn off, my sister loses interest. She would never be satisfied with the traditional roles set aside for womanhood, and anyone who tries to make her conform will suffer for it."

  "A man who knows her well must be aware of that."

  Ransom shrugged. "It does not always follow that a man acts according to what he knows. Most people, so I find, think they can change the person they desire. One reason why I prefer brief encounters of a casual nature." He leaned back, stretching one arm along the velvet cushion of his curved seat, and then he grinned lazily, breaking the somber mood."But if you really want to know about my sister's followers, old chap, you ought to ask her directly. She won't bite. Too badly."

  He sniffed. "Can you guarantee that, Deverell?" But he was not at all concerned about being bitten. Not in the least. A bite was only a surface wound. There was other damage a man could suffer, far worse pain that went deeper.

  Sebastian Hale had once buried his father, his wife and his infant son all in the space of twelve months. Since then he had avoided fond attachment to anything with only two legs.

  There had been— as Ransom Deverell called them— "brief encounters" with convenient women, naturally. A man had urges that required soothing. But he could not remember the last time he wanted to keep one of them longer in his company and ask her questions, the last time he was interested in their life any more than they were interested in his. They were too in awe of Hale. Too afraid of meeting with his displeasure. So they became blank in his presence, shadows that hardly registered, barely breathed.

  But this woman called Raven breathed. Hard and lustily.

  Her eyes were neither dead nor nervous, and they may be impertinent, but at least she was not afraid to meet his gaze directly. She had studied him with a passionate curiosity that was both challenging and warmly irreverent. Granted, it was a mischievous nosiness in all likelihood and she tried to find things about which she could tease and torment him. But she was a rarity in that she didn't seek his approval at the expense of her own liveliness.

  He had, for those few moments in her company last night, forgotten that
he was thirty-one and sensible. Indeed, Hale had very nearly forgotten he was a gentleman at all.

  It's a very good thing that you don't own me, your lordship, and I don't have to listen to you.

  Would you listen to me if I did own you?

  Why would he say such a thing to her?

  It was patently ridiculous.

  This young woman had slipped under his skin somehow. With two naughty legs incased in riding breeches.

  Raven Deverell made him feel as if he had been missing a great deal these past ten years. As if he'd been asleep, unconscious. Now wide awake, he struggled to adjust to a world changed around him. It was an unsettling sensation.

  He ought to remember that she had slyly crept close to him before, only to steal his fob watch.

  The next time he saw her he would be civil, but keep his distance. He must not, under any circumstances, touch her again. Dancing with her had been a terrible mistake and to become in any way entwined with such a willful creature would have devastating consequences for his steady nerves. He instinctively wanted to keep her out of danger, while she, apparently, ran toward it gleefully. As if she had something to prove.

  Sebastian Hale could appreciate a fine creature when he saw one, but he did not court trouble. The taming of this filly he must leave to other hands.

  He stabbed the last piece of meat on his fork and realized he had greedily consumed his dinner without tasting it. There was an emptiness that required filling, but curiously he could not enjoy the flavor. Perhaps he was coming down with a cold.

  "So do you plan to stay long in town?" Deverell asked.

  "A day or two. I have no solid plans." And that in itself was odd. He could not seem to focus on anything important.

  Tomorrow he must join his aunts for tea. Their note, delivered to the club that afternoon, was most insistent. They would have heard about his dance with Miss Deverell, and knowing those two anxious ladies, they had now invited someone far more suitable for him to meet above the tea urn. A lady of "impeccable pedigree", probably very sweet and demure. Someone to bring him back from the precipice and onto safe ground.