Sweet as the Devil Page 10

  “In case I don’t see you again, remember me fondly,” Sofia airily proclaimed over her shoulder as she and Jamie walked away.

  Checking his stride, Jamie turned back. “Miss Eastleigh is in no danger,” he said. “You have my word.”

  Moments later, as the library door closed, Fitz blew out a breath. “I’m not sure who’s at whose mercy,” he said with a faint smile. “Sofia’s damned uncooperative tonight.”

  Rosalind frowned. “She has reason.”

  “Under the circumstances, my dear, she’d do well to listen to Blackwood.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about Blackwood,” Oz drawled. “If he can handle Dex, he can deal with Sofie. You saw him at dinner. Wharton was fit to be tied at first, but before long the men were chums. And we all know how difficult Wharton can be when he’s not wooing a lady.” Dex had a reputation for being confrontational, particularly on the polo field.

  “I suppose it helps that Blackwood’s been dealing with a demanding patron for years,” Fitz pointed out.

  Rosalind smiled. “Like father, like daughter then. I wonder if the prince can actually convince Sofie to accept her title.”

  “More pressing is the question of whether she’ll survive to accept it. I still think we should have gone with them, Fitz,” Oz muttered.

  “Sofie’s in good hands. Blackwood’s saved Ernst from assassination countless times.”

  Oz sighed. “You’re right. Still.”

  “Don’t even think it,” Rosalind warned.

  Oz grinned. “You can’t stop me from doing that.” He loved his wife and daughter, but that didn’t mean he’d been tamed or that his wild nature was entirely subdued. “It won’t hurt to put my men on alert for Von Welden or his crew. We’d be doing Sofie a good turn if we stopped them in London.”

  “Tell him no, Fitz. For heaven’s sake, Oz,” Rosalind protested, “don’t even talk about entering this dangerous game.”

  “You’re right, of course,” Oz mildly replied. “I think I’ll have some port and a cigar and contemplate the pleasures of life.”

  “Indeed. We should get back to our guests,” Fitz concurred, but as the men were leaving the room, Rosalind in advance of them, he gave Oz a warning glance. “Don’t take too many risks. But if you should need my help”—Fitz grinned—“just let me know.”

  CHAPTER 11

  UNDERSTANDING THAT IT was now or never as they approached the entrance hall, Sofia initiated a makeshift plan. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to run upstairs and find something of Rosalind’s better suited for travel than this gown. I only need five minutes,” she quickly added because Jamie was looking at her with suspicion. “I’d really like some pants and boots, but that’s not likely, so I’ll settle for a skirt and blouse I suppose, or perhaps a riding habit or bicycling pantaloons,” she rattled on under his skeptical gaze. “It all depends on whether—”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  “I’m perfectly capable of finding my own clothes.”

  “Let’s just say I’d miss your scintillating company.”

  “You’re completely unreasonable,” she muttered as they reached the main staircase.

  “And you’re not a very good actress,” he said with amusement. “After you, Miss Eastleigh. Five minutes and counting.”

  “Oh devil take it,” she grumbled. “Come along if you must.” Picking up her skirts, she ran up the stairs.

  Taking the stairs two at a time, he followed her, his pace less one of haste than a matter of matching his stride to her racing sprint. Two flights of stairs and one long corridor later, they arrived at the duchess’s apartments.

  Sofia breathless.

  Blackwood on guard.

  When Sofia burst into the duchess’s bedroom, Rosalind’s lady’s maid, who’d been dozing in a chair, squealed in surprise.

  “It’s just me, Miss Tabby. Go back to sleep. I don’t need your help. Rosalind said I could take some traveling clothes from her wardrobe, and this gentleman,” she spleenfully rapped out, “insists on helping me.”

  “Oh dear.” Miss Tabitha Purdie, who had been a member of the Groveland House staff long before the duchess was born, surveyed Jamie with a critical eye. “Perhaps, that is—I’m not sure this gentleman should be in my lady’s chamber.”

  “We won’t be long,” Jamie replied with a bow and a smile for the frail old woman. “I’m a good friend of the duke. And since Miss Eastleigh is concerned with selecting something suitable for travel to Scotland, I said I might be able to help.”

  “Scotland?”

  “We’re traveling north of Inverness. Do you know the country?” Recognizing a hint of the Highlands in her voice, he’d deliberately broadened his accent and mentioned their destination.

  “Aye, reet weel, up and doon and sideways, ye see,” Miss Tabby said with a wide smile, lapsing into her childhood dialect.

  With bitter resignation, Sofia watched Blackwood charm Rosalind’s lady’s maid. The two spoke in such a pure Highland dialect, she couldn’t understand a word they were saying, but Miss Tabby’s smile was obvious, and before long the elderly maid waved Sofia into Rosalind’s dressing room. “Go on in, dearie. Jamie says ye’re in a right hurry.”

  “What a coincidence,” Jamie drawled as he followed Sofia into the dressing room and shut the door behind him. “She was born in the valley next to mine.”

  “And if she wasn’t, I’m sure you would have told her she was.”

  Ignoring her snappish retort, he said, “She’s a nice old lady. She knew my grandfather.”

  “If only I could elicit the same charming benevolence from you,” Sofia sarcastically murmured, “the world would be perfection.”

  He hesitated fractionally, then put out his hand. “I’m willing to start over if you are, Miss Eastleigh. An armistice? What do you say?”

  Did he mean it? Or was this more of the masterful manipulation she’d already viewed twice tonight. First with Wharton and now with Miss Tabby.

  He glanced down at his outstretched hand, looked up, and smiled. “I’m serious. It’s up to you.”

  “Very well. I accept your offer of detente.” She shook his hand and told herself it wasn’t really lying when one’s life was at stake.

  “Fair enough. Now, should we see if the duchess has some riding pants? A modern woman such as she might.” The movement for women’s independence extended beyond the right to vote; many women were choosing to abandon the encumbrances of feminine dress. His gaze quickly measured Sofia. “You’re much smaller, though.” He turned to the wall of built-in wardrobes. “We’ll need a belt.”

  “You have an eye for female sizes, I see. But of course you—sorry,” she quickly interjected as he shot her a jaundiced look. “I apologize. Although surely you understand why I’m not cheerful when my life has been completely disrupted.”

  Her lack of common sense was extraordinary. “If all goes well, Miss Eastleigh, our association will be brief and your life will return to normal,” he politely said. “In the meantime we’d do well to concentrate on survival.” He began opening wardrobe doors. “Despite your doubts in that regard.”

  “Allow me my doubts and I’ll allow you your, shall we say, authoritarian inclinations.”

  “Gladly. Ah, here, this looks promising.” He pulled out a pair of twill riding pants and bent to pick up a pair of low riding boots. “See if these fit or fit well enough.” He tossed them on a chair. “I’ll find you a shirt and jacket.”

  “I’m supposed to undress—here—with you?”

  He swivelled around and gave her his widest smile. “I didn’t think you’d mind. Didn’t you say one of my duties would be washing your back?”

  “Very funny.”

  “Change or travel in that gown. It’s up to you.” He turned back to his search.

  His directive was uncompromisingly blunt. Furthermore, trailing skirts and a tight bodice would be a disadvantage to her escape. So she set aside issues of modesty. Kicking off her evening slip
pers, she pulled down her petticoats, stepped over the frothy pile of lace and tulle on the carpet, and swung around so her back was to Jamie. “Do you mind? I can’t reach these hooks.”

  “Just a minute,” he said, rifling through a shelf of blouses. She clenched her teeth. Soon she’d no longer be subject to his will.

  Moments later he carried over a linen shirt and leather jacket, dropped them on a nearby chair, and without a word, began unhooking her gown.

  Studiously ignoring the scent of her perfume, the warmth of her skin, her closeness, he deftly unclasped the small, concealed hooks. He was familiar with the drill, but not, however, with the current hindrances that impeded what would normally be the next step after undressing a lady.

  “There—finished,” he murmured, trying not to inhale the scent of her skin or take note of her corsetless torso only millimeters from his fingertips. Save for the handful of fabric she held to her breasts, she was nude to the waist. And much too close. God help him.

  Glancing over her shoulder, Sofia unknowingly offered him relief. “I’d appreciate it if you’d shut your eyes.”

  He instantly obliged her and felt the tension in his shoulders melt away. Even understanding the difficulty of this assignment, he was forced to acknowledge that he wasn’t monkish enough to be in close proximity to Miss Eastleigh’s ripe charms for any length of time. It might be wise to sleep outside her door. More than wise—a necessity.

  Unless he suddenly found religion.

  And he was years past such enthusiasms.

  Fully intent on her plans, Sofia let her gown drop to the floor the moment Jamie shut his eyes. Kicking aside the voluminous yards of patterned silk, she quickly stripped off the drawers that wouldn’t fit under riding pants, slid her arms through the shirtsleeves, closed the irritatingly small pearl buttons, and pulled on the twill trousers. Tucking in the shirttails, she buttoned and belted the pants. The leather jacket went on next, and with a glance at the mirrored doors of the wardrobes, she decided, Good enough for what I have to do. Everything was slightly large but not so much as to impede her actions.

  She was grateful the boots were very near her size, and once she’d laced them up, she stood. “You may open your eyes.”

  Jamie surveyed her, careful to keep his breathing even. “Rough but practical. You’ll be able to ride now if you wish.” He held out his arm. “I expect we have a carriage waiting.”

  “A last request if you please.” She looked up at him with what she hoped was a suitably shy expression. “I have to use the lavatory. I doubt we’ll be stopping much and”—she lowered her lashes modestly—“a few moments surely won’t matter.”

  He considered going with her. Trust was a worthless commodity in his business. But he decided to give her the benefit of a doubt. That they were on the third floor was a salient factor in his decision.

  More fool he.

  In a very few minutes, he knew he’d been gulled.

  Swearing under his breath, he strode to the bathroom door and tried the knob. Locked—no surprise. Backing up a small distance in order to exert the most force, he kicked the lock with his heel, heard the satisfying crack of wood shattering, and with a second kick, the door swung open.

  A sumptuous white marble bathroom lay before him. With a window open wide to the starry night.

  You have to give her points for courage, he decided, striding toward the open casement. They were three stories above the ground. Which meant she was either a circus performer or desperate—the latter most likely. Although it wouldn’t hurt if she was the former as well, so he wouldn’t have to report to Ernst that his daughter had been found dead on the drive at Groveland House.

  Reaching the window, he quietly eased his head past the frame, careful not to frighten the devious little bitch and possibly contribute to her fall. Judas Priest. There she was—the intrepid vixen—inching along a narrow ledge thirty feet away. He guessed she was making for the roof of the porte cochere, from which she’d be able to descend any of several rose trellises to the ground.

  He had two choices.

  He could follow her out the window. But she might panic should he do so and be even more at risk.

  His other option was to make haste to the drive and position himself to catch her should she fall. A better solution if he was swift enough.

  In seconds he’d traversed the duchess’s dressing room, slowing his step only as he passed through the duchess’s bedroom in order to say to Miss Tabby, “I’ll be right back. Miss Eastleigh forgot her reticule.”

  The moment he was outside in the hallway, he broke into a run, took the two flights of stairs in great flying leaps, and on reaching the ground floor, raced down the corridor opening onto the carriage entrance. He stepped out onto the drive in record time, looked up, and exhaled in relief.

  Miss Eastleigh had reached the roof of the porte cochere and was agilely navigating the slippery slate shingles as if she routinely tread such treacherous surfaces. A moment later, he watched her slide her legs over the edge of the roof, momentarily search for a foothold on the rose trellis, and finding one, nimbly descend the rose trellis in a shower of white rose petals.

  Just as her feet came to rest on the petal-strewn garden bed, Jamie stepped from the shadows. “I gather the armistice is over.”

  She spun around to find him towering over her, the devil in evening clothes. “Damn you! Go away—better yet, go to hell!”

  “My feelings exactly. Now, may I escort you to the carriage.” Meeting the blazing anger in her eyes, he brusquely said, “It’s not a request.”

  “And if I scream?” She saw the rigidity in his stance, the harsh planes of his face, the grim set of his lips, and even then she chose to be rash and opened her mouth.

  “Do it and I’ll muffle you.” He’d had enough nonsense for one night.

  “I hate you!”

  “I don’t give a damn.”

  She swung her arm up.

  “Don’t,” he said, his gaze as dense and unyielding as stone.

  And even she didn’t dare when she’d always dared anything.

  She dropped her hand and stood there stubborn and contemptuous. “Very well, you win. I have no choice it seems. Either I’m threatened by you or some killer from Vienna.”

  “It’s not about winning,” he muttered, grabbing her hand and pulling her along. “It’s about staying alive.”

  For a man who viewed women as pleasant diversions when the mood struck him, he was suddenly faced with a recalcitrant bitch instead of the usual willing-to-please female. In addition, he’d be closely sequestered with this temperamental artiste who didn’t seem to understand that her life was in danger and who’d require constant guarding or she’d slip her leash.

  Bloody hell!

  But he curbed his temper because he knew he must, and after a taut moment of disciplining his emotions, he was able to speak with courteous forbearance. “I believe we’ve had this conversation before, but allow me to apologize again for the duress you’re under. With luck, you won’t be caught up in these adverse circumstances for long. We’ve cabled Vienna, and Von Welden and his men are being watched. The moment you’re safe in the Highlands, my men and I will see that Von Welden’s eliminated. Please bear with us for a few days. A week at the most.” It was a lie, but perhaps not too much of a lie.

  His voice was mild, his gaze benign, the warmth of his hand holding hers soothing in a bizarre way. With an inner sigh of resignation, Sofia yielded to his rationale or perhaps his apology, and while not entirely reconciled, she at least recognized his attempt to make amends. “I swear, Blackwood, you could charm a wild beast.”

  “At the moment, I’d be grateful if I could charm a small wild thing in riding pants.” His smile was practiced and full of grace.

  She lifted one brow at his suave rejoinder. “How very sweet. Now, tell me—how many days will this require? Lie if necessary.”

  “Honestly, as few as possible. Believe me, I want this over as much as y
ou. Perhaps more.”

  “Will you promise to be nice to me?” she drolly asked, not entirely in jest.

  “Of course.” He would have promised her the moon at the moment.

  She smiled. “How nice?”

  “Not that nice,” he said with an answering smile.

  “We’ll have to see, won’t we?” she lightly returned. “Perhaps I can change your mind.” She found her good humor marginally restored at the thought of a passionate interlude with the splendid Jamie Blackwood. And at base, having no choice in this misadventure, she might as well try to enjoy herself.

  Deep in thought as they made their way around the side of the house to the front entrance, Sofia debated how best to seduce a man. She’d never been faced with the necessity; rather the opposite had always been the case. Although she wasn’t averse to the role of pursuer with the studly Jamie Blackwood as prize.

  The image of him that morning at the Countess Minton’s was etched in her memory—an athlete of the boudoir, a great favorite of the ladies, all lean power, animal grace, and flagrant sexuality. Hmm—she could picture him lying gloriously nude in her bed wherever that might be. A most gratifying prospect. She must see that she had painting supplies with such a glorious subject at her disposal.

  Unaware of his companion’s amorous schemes, Jamie was considering how to accomplish their departure from London within the hour. Once they were on the road, he’d deal with the other complexities.

  Ernst’s carriage was waiting at the door. Jamie knew it would be, just as he’d known the prince and his guard were long gone. Ernst wasn’t one to cool his heels.

  Assisting Sofia into the carriage, he followed her and out of prudence took the opposite seat. She looked tempting as hell in her men’s attire, exotic, erotic, defiant of convention.

  A major problem.

  Unlike most women, she didn’t wait to be asked.

  As if on cue, Sofia patted the velvet upholstery near her thigh. “Come closer.” Her voice was sweet, her gaze inviting.