To Catch a Flame Read online

Her claw-like hand closed over Beau's fingers, turning her palm ceiling-ward. The duchess held a purse above it, upending the container over her palm. Coins, gold and silver ones, rained down.

  "Look at it, girl," Judith urged. "Take it. And if you need more, you have only to send word, and I—"

  Beau cut her off with an oath, yanking her hand from the old woman's grasp. "I don't need charity, your grace. Nor do I accept bribes. And I assure you, I am quite capable of securing wealth like this for myself whenever the bloody hell I choose." Beau spoke the last words between gritted teeth then flung the coins against the wall. They clattered and clinked with a deafening racket, scattering and rolling to the far corners of the room.

  "Now, if you'll excuse me," Beau said. "I've lessons to attend to. I've mastered the curtsy, you see, but Griff promised he would teach me how to do it in a way that would insult whomever I was greeting. And I assure you, your grace, that is one lesson I am most eager to learn."

  Clenching her teeth, Beau scooped up her voluminous skirts, her eyes spitting scorn as she dipped into a curtsy so exquisitely insolent that Judith Stone blanched with fury.

  "Ah, perhaps that is one lesson I will not need," Beau said, turning her back on the duchess and starting to sweep from the room.

  "Girl!" Judith Stone's voice rang out. "Do you know with whom you are dealing with? What power I wield?"

  Beau grinned. "Fortunately, I am ignorant enough not to care, your grace." With that, Beau left the room, slamming the door with a resounding crash.

  Chin held high, she stomped down the grand staircase, heedless of her untidy hair, immune to the gaping stares of the servants as they skittered out of her path. She preferred that they give her wide berth. Since she had arrived at Darkling Moor it seemed that she had been forever tripping over the witlings.

  Yet when she reached the bottom landing it was as if there was a maze of doorways. The mansion was so large that a dozen people could live in its confines and never be forced to run into one another. Considering Judith Stone's disposition, it was a most endearing feature, Beau thought. Yet this morning it made finding Griffin all but impossible.

  "You!" Beau barked, suddenly spying the underfootman she had knocked upon his backside the night before. The young man all but flattened himself against the wall. "Thunder in heaven, you gudgeon, I'm not going to black your cursed eye! I just want to know where Griff—I mean his lordship—is."

  The servant's fingers grasped his shirt as if he did not wholly trust her promise, and he wet his lips with his tongue. "I—I... his lordship left orders that he not be disturbed."

  Beau laid one finger along her jaw in consideration, eyeing the underfootman. The man started to tremble visibly. "On second thought, I may black both your eyes unless you—"

  "Nay! Nay, don't!" The youth flung up both hands in surrender. "He—he's in the study again. Been there nearly all morning, 'ceptin' for his ride... and... and seeing the young duke. And—and breakfast. He had a bit of beefsteak."

  Beau raised her eyes heavenward. "I'm not concerned about his lordship's menu, but I am at a loss as to how to find this infernal study you say he's buried himself in."

  The footman waved one shaking finger toward a door at the far end of the hall. "There. But he—he left orders not to be disturbed. And his lordship's in a most fearful temper."

  "Well, so the bloody hell am I," Beau said, brushing past the youth. She swept down the corridor, the footman stumbling in her wake, fighting desperately to reach the door before she did. She half expected the lout to bar it with his body, but instead the quaking youth grasped the door latch, opening the portal for her.

  "My lord, Mistress DeBurgh," the youth choked out, his voice cracking with terror.

  "Blast it to hell," a voice snarled from within the dim depths of the room. "I told you I was not to be disturbed—"

  "He isn't disturbing you," Beau said. "I am."

  She stepped inside the chamber, trying to adjust her eyes to the shadowy interior. "I threatened him with grave bodily harm if he did not lead me to your sanctuary at once."

  She waited for some response, expecting a reluctant chuckle or at least a snarl, but she heard nothing, saw little, able only to discern the silhouette of broad shoulders scarcely touched by what meager light filtered through the gap in the curtained window.

  "Isabeau," Griffin said with hopelessness in his voice that made her want to reach out to him. "I fear I am even less fit company than usual. You should ape the servants and flee to the far ends of the house."

  "It would be a cold day in hell when I would cower from the likes of you, aristocrat cur," Beau said, closing the door.

  A strained laugh broke from Griffin's lips, but he didn't turn toward her, didn't look. "You would do well to rethink your position," he said. "You need only ask my grandmother, aye, or my nephew to discover what a villain I am. A regular Lucifer garbed in a mortal's clothes. It would be wise to run from me."

  "Bah! I tend to be a bit on the... er... devilish side myself. Jack gave me my highwayman's name, and believe me, it had more to do with my temper than my hair."

  She was rewarded when Griffin faced her, the corners of his lips tipped in the faintest of smiles. "I believe you," he said at last, crossing the room to stand before her.

  With aching gentleness he took up a strand of her tumbled curls, winding it about his finger. "If the devil's flames are indeed this hue, I might willingly lose myself in them, and welcome," he said softly. "But you must be careful, Isabeau. Cautious. For if it was discovered who you are... what you were... even I might not be able to protect you."

  The old Beau would have bristled at such a warning. God knew she'd all but skewered Jack with his own sword whenever the highwayman had attempted to protect her. She had always prided herself on being strong, insisting on fighting her own battles.

  But she had never known how much courage it took to trust a corner of your soul into another person's keeping, until now.

  There was something endearing about the earnest tenderness in Griffin's face, in his touch. Something she sensed was as rare for the rakehell Lord Stone as it was for the hoyden Beau.

  She swallowed hard, mesmerized by the gentle light in Griffin's eyes. "Even... even if I did slip and babble the truth," she managed to say, "who would believe it? The—the Devil's Flame is a monster of a man, with fists like anvils...."

  She fell silent. Griffin reached down and took up one of her hands, cradling it in his own. "I think The Spectator exaggerates a little," he said. "Your hand is more the size of a full-bloomed rose, and nearly as soft. Yet I can attest that it wields a pistol with much skill."

  "I'll match myself against you any day you might name," Beau said with forced sauciness.

  "Only if we pit ourselves against each other with swords as well."

  She made a face, making him smile again.

  "But now," he said, "for the purpose of this intrusion. Even you would not charge into the dragon's lair without reason, Isabeau. What is it? Did I neglect to see to your breakfast? Clothes... those I provided last night, if I remember."

  "Aye, and then abandoned me trapped within them. I had to sleep trussed up like a partridge, my lord. Have you any idea what it feels like to attempt slumber in a bloody stomacher?"

  Griffin stared, taken aback. "Sweet Mary, I—oh, Lord, Beau, I did not intend..." He cursed, and Beau was stunned at the embarrassment streaking across that handsome face. "First I practically dragged you down to the dining hall in nothing but a sheet, then I left you stranded in full regalia the night through. It is an infamous guardian I make, milady."

  "And I make an infamous lady," Beau said softly. "Your grandmother came to my bedchamber this morning to tell me so in no uncertain terms. She said that God himself couldn't make me into a lady. And she was willing to pay quite handsomely to make certain that you never had a chance to try your hand."

  Beau saw Griffin's mouth tighten. "And what do you say, Isabeau?"

  "I say I'
m going to be the most pinch-nosed, cursed elegant lady the thrice-damned ton has ever seen." Beau tossed her head, eyes blazing defiance. "Teach me."

  "Teach you?"

  "Aye. Lady nonsense. Fluttering and fan-waving and swooning and such like. Though if you cannot teach me how to swoon without bruising my hinderparts, I don't intend to try it."

  A faint smile played about Griffin's lips. Isabeau glared at him. "Well, if I'm going to make a fool of myself, I might as well make a thorough job of it," she said with a wounded sniff.

  His hand swooped up to curve along her cheek, the brush of his calloused palm sending sparks through her veins. "Ah, Isabeau, Isabeau. I predict that you will set the ton on its ear. Despite us all."

  Beau caught her lip between her teeth, her heart thudding against her ribs as Griffin's hand fell away. He turned, crossing to sweep the velvet hangings from the window, and sunlight spilled into the room. In that instant she knew that she would do anything he bid her just to see that beguilingly tender smile again.

  Yet, even as he turned back to face her, an instinct for self-preservation made her hide the confusing emotions.

  "What is it to be?" she demanded brusquely. "Shall I flatten myself upon the floor? Wave painted chicken skin in your face? If so, you must provide me with a fan."

  "I fear that your poor body has already been savaged enough by your sleeping attire. Perhaps we should postpone tutoring you in the social graces until you have the appropriate wardrobe. Today we'll turn you over to the mercy of the seamstresses, have them fit you out in everything a lady of quality might need."

  "Pistols and breeches?" Beau asked with a saucy grin.

  "But of course." Griffin's smile almost reached his eyes. "Dueling pistols, the finest to be had. Still you'll need someone to help you in and out of your weaponry—a lady's maid, perhaps?"

  "Oh, no, Stone! I'll not have one of those sniveling baggages that dissolve into tears every time I come near 'em!"

  "I'll have to find one suited to your... special needs," Griffin said, his eyes warming. "Perhaps one that is a master with the stiletto or dagger."

  "Those traits would make us compatible, I should think. Between the two of us, we should be able to plot the demise of your grandmother quite nicely. But if this maid and I are to go off on such adventures, I think you should commission some slippers. Either that or return my boots. It is damnably cold in this drafty old place, despite all these great marble fireplaces."

  "Cold?" Griffin's smile died, his gaze flicking down to where her toes peeped from beneath the hem of her skirt. "Poor moppet. I am the most reprehensible of rogues."

  He scooped her up and set her down in a mammoth leather chair. He knelt before her. His hands slipped beneath the hem of her skirt, and he cupped one small foot in the palm of his hand, drew it from beneath the veil of silver tissue.

  "Isabeau, your foot is like ice," he scolded, attempting to chafe warmth into the skin by rubbing her foot between his palms.

  "It is not so bad now that your hands are there to warm me."

  "You shall have the finest slippers in Christendom before nightfall. I promise. But your foot is so small..." He seemed to take its measure, the pale length of it lost in his big hand.

  Beau's breath caught as he raised her toes to his lips. A jolt of fire seemed to race up her leg as he brushed his mouth across the delicate arch of her instep. Wisps of his hair that had come loose from the ribbon tickled her skin, the shadowing of stubble upon his chin a delightfully rough contrast to the moist softness of lips, the silky cool whisper of his tumbled locks.

  "I'll do better by you from now on, Isabeau," he said low in his throat. "I swear it." His thumb traced a circular pattern upon her skin, and she thought she might die of the pleasure of it.

  She knew she would always remember this vision of the bold Lord Griffin kneeling at her feet, his face as full of tenderness and passion as any knight errant of old.

  Chapter 13

  Valmont House was draped in curtains of mystery. The aged hallways and vast chambers were bursting with strange curios collected by generations of Alistairs who had devoured anything that whispered of dark magic, mysticism, or the netherworld. Every available space was filled with ancient tomes from Turkey and crystals claimed to possess powers that made most men squirm. Statues depicting Lucifer's fall from heaven and Eve's temptation in the garden were tucked within nooks in the walls.

  Even the elegant moldings on the ceilings depicted savage scenes. Instead of grinning cherubs and voluptuous goddesses, Delilah sheared Samson's hair, and Mary Magdalene, unrepentant, tried to seduce Christ.

  For what seemed the hundredth time, Charles tore his gaze away from where a black-liveried servant had disappeared an hour before. The servant had bidden him to wait, saying Valmont was being attended to by his valet after having spent a late night at his revels.

  It was a habit of Valmont to keep his visitors waiting in the midst of his macabre collection. From their first meeting Charles had suspected the man enjoyed startling people with his human skulls and bat's claws. Valmont liked making people confront the macabre within themselves. But he needed to go to no such lengths with Charles. Charles had already seen the void within his soul.

  Charles now tugged at the frill about his neck, growing steadily more anxious: Once he had found Valmont's castle amusing, and he'd enjoyed the obvious contempt the current marquess held for these ancient trappings.

  Back then Alistair had seemed so bold, mocking the grim sober-sides who ran in fear of the devil, of dark magic and demons. In the beginning it had been a lark to listen to the older man blaspheme with such relish, to hear him say things that Charles would never even dare to think.

  Charles used to watch from the outside of a circle of friends while Alistair and his exclusive set fairly drowned in mocking laughter over hobgoblins and witcheries. Their select band had swaggered about London and the countryside, jeering at anything that reeked of established society or its strictures. They had seemed somehow invincible, not swayed by the opinions of their elders or their betters.

  Charles had watched them with wistful admiration as he had chafed beneath his father's rule, wishing he could be as daring and bold and reckless. And when the marquess had shown a most decided interest in Charles Stone, he'd scarcely believed his good fortune.

  For the first time in his life Charles had felt that someone approved of him. That someone was actually heeding what he said. And the more outrageous his words became, the more rebellious he acted, the more Malcolm Alistair had approved of him. Until at last Alistair had taken him into the circle of his favorites. Alistair had promised him entry into a most elite society, a wondrously diverting secret society formed solely to amuse its members.

  It had been heavenly. His new friends had given Charles the strength to stand up to his father, to throw off a good measure of the old man's chains. Charles had reveled in the attention they paid him as he followed them to the city and back. More and more he avoided his father while slipping deeper and deeper into a world of gaming and wild, reckless diversion.

  He remembered the first few meetings he had attended—gatherings that had proved to be every bit as diverting as Alistair had promised. Revels in which Charles enjoyed the finest wines and foods, meetings where a dozen courtesans satisfied other appetites, some of them performing acts that were so remarkable Charles had been stunned.

  The celebrants had indulged their every whim, within the walls of the ruined abbey, gorging themselves upon sweet, pure pleasure. Charles had gloried in it, reveled in the laughter, the amusement, reveled in his defiance as he tried to imitate the rakehell uncle his father had banished from England so long ago.

  It had all seemed so perfect, until...

  Charles paced toward the fire, extending his hands toward the flame, but the bright tongues did not warm him.

  Everything had seemed so perfect until the disastrous night when his whole life had crashed in around him.

  It h
ad been the night of his initiation. The night Valmont had mocked church rites, offering up what he had claimed was the "lamb of the world." That night he'd slashed the throat of a newborn sheep while the others looked on, muttering strange incantations that had made Charles's skin crawl.

  He'd been stunned, his stomach churning at the sight of the crimson blood gushing from the slash, the strange light in Alistair's eyes as he had let its warmth run over his bejeweled fingers.

  Though outwardly Charles had laughed with the others, he'd been sickened, wanting only to return to his bedchamber at Darkling Moor and drive the scene from his mind. He had resolved to quit making trips to the abbey, had even begun making excuses. He might have stopped all together, could have stopped were it not for the disaster that struck him that last night.

  Charles wiped his damp palms on his doeskin breeches, bile rising in his throat. A tall, gangly youth had appeared, wanting to drag his sister away from that night's revels. Who had goaded Charles into taking up the sword against the youth? Charles did not know.

  He'd been drunk on fine liquor and beautiful women and stinging with the knowledge that he must soon surrender the only place he'd ever felt he'd belonged.

  He'd killed a man that night. And though he'd not been the one who died that night, he had lost everything when the youth fell under his sword. Even though Malcolm Alistair had proved himself the most loyal of friends, disposing of the corpse with remarkable haste, Charles had taken the first step into an abyss.

  Three days later Charles had received the first note demanding a ransom to be paid for its author's silence. More missives followed, demanding greater and greater sums, each message containing a damning scrap of information about the death of the farm boy and the abbey rituals. The information had unnerved Charles, making him feel as if the demons Alistair had tried so hard to summon really were watching over him, waiting for him to fall into the everlasting pit of fire he deserved.

  Desperate, he had gone to Alistair, demanding to know if one of their brotherhood was behind the horrible scheme, or if Alistair might think the missives a sick prank. But Alistair had looked him directly in the eye, reminding him that the other revelers had been almost unconscious with drink. He'd said that none of the others would remember the happenings clearly enough to describe them in such minute detail. And Alistair himself would never stoop so.