My Kind of Earl Page 3

  Then all hell broke loose.

  Chapter 3

  A footman in pink satin livery rushed in from one of the unseen corridors, holding fast to his powdered wig like a stage actor late for a curtain call.

  Baron Ruthersby brandished his cane at Raven and shouted, “This man is a commoner in a patently poor disguise. How could you have allowed him admittance?”

  “My lord, I—I assure you th-that I had n-no idea,” the footman stammered.

  “Never mind your excuses, man,” the baron blustered. “Summon that brute at the door and call the guard at once!”

  Raven, keeping to his disguise, coolly intoned, “This gentleman is clearly deep in his cups and raving like a lunatic. Fetch his driver before he embarrasses himself further.”

  The footman’s expression contorted in confusion as he looked from one to the other. Then he set his hand on the baron’s shoulder as if to escort him out.

  “How dare you lay a finger on my person!” Ruthersby’s ruddy face turned aubergine as his grip on the cane’s hilt tightened. Without warning, he whacked the beak to the footman’s forehead before swinging back to Raven. “And you! How dare you speak to me in such an insolent manner!”

  “In point of fact, this man was speaking to the footman about you, not directly to you,” the debutante interjected absently as she sidled up to the servant. Handing him a handkerchief, she advised him to attend the wound in the kitchen post haste. Oddly enough, he obeyed without a backward glance, as if she were somehow directing this disastrous play.

  “And, frankly,” she continued with authority, slyly stealing past the baron and toward the doorway, “I believe the point of embarrassment was breached the instant you stumbled into the alcove. Now, if we could simply put this unfortunate episode behind us . . .”

  As she spoke, the giant Viking bully who guarded the door marched into the parlor, apparently having heard a disturbance. Blond, barrel-chested and burly-framed, Ivor took in the room at a glance, paying no attention to the uninterrupted hedonism in the minstrel’s gallery.

  Instead, his gaze settled on the cloaked feminine figure. “Yer not one’ve our girls. ’ow’d ye get in ’ere?”

  “I do not believe my answer is of any relevance since I’ll be leaving directly.”

  “’ow’s about we just let Moll decide?” The brute blocked the path and looked down at her in a way that suggested he ate debutantes for afternoon tea and used their pinky fingers to pick his teeth afterward.

  Raven was already at her side, steering her out of immediate danger. From beneath her hood, he heard her mutter, “Well, this is an unforeseen scenario. It’s like the gunpowder incident all over again.”

  Gunpowder? He shook his head, having no idea what she was talking about. Not that it mattered. At the moment, they had other concerns.

  He bent his head to speak low in her ear. “Just stay close to me. I’ll take care of this.”

  “You needn’t take care of anyone but yourself. I can manage on my own.”

  She stiffened beneath the hand he splayed against the curve of her lower back and lifted her gaze to his in a show of stubborn resolve. The movement caused the satin trim of her hood and a few errant, wispy curls to slide in a fragrant caress against his cheek, momentarily distracting him.

  It was long enough for Ruthersby to step past the two of them and stand in their way. If it weren’t for the cane he brandished in one hand, he’d have looked like a caricature of a boxing man—shoulders straight, knees bent, one fist raised high.

  Behind Raven, Ivor took two hard steps forward, shaking the ground beneath his feet.

  “Bloody hell,” Raven cursed under his breath. He knew he could handle himself, but he didn’t want to think of what would happen to the deb in the meantime. Not only that, but he would have to go easy on the baron. He didn’t want to hang for murder when this was all over.

  Keeping the bespoiler of his night’s pleasure behind him, Raven gauged his opponents’ positions as they closed in from opposite sides. “Fear not. I won’t let anything happen to—”

  “Look out!”

  She yanked his sleeve, tugging him aside, just as a big ham-sized fist swung out with enough force to stir a breeze against his jaw.

  He mumbled a grunt of gratitude and answered the attack with a solid facer. Ivor blinked, stunned. Wasting no time, Raven gave another and another. Pummeled and muzzy, the bully rocked back on his heels and stumbled into a nearby table. Tripping over a pair of chairs, he went crashing down onto a pile of tangled furniture.

  The deb harrumphed while blindly reaching inside the seam of her cloak. “I do not require your assistance. However, you may wish to duck.”

  Just then, the baron’s cane came scything down in a hard arc toward his head. Raven dodged to the side, but not soon enough. The edge of a fat ruby in the hawk’s eye sliced a burning path into the flesh of his jaw.

  Ignoring the sting, Raven buried a right jab into the baron’s gut. But his knuckles encountered hard ribs of steel corseting over a dense balloon of blubber. Smarting, he drew back on a curse. Bloody vain fop!

  Still, the blow sent the baron tottering back and he flailed blindly to stay upright. The silver beak of his cane came down again. This time it slashed through the shoulder seam of Raven’s coat, carving sharply through the superfine wool that had cost him a half a week’s wages.

  Damn it all! That was enough. Stripping the cane from the baron’s grasp, he slammed it down on the hardwood floor with a resounding thwack. The hawk head broke off and went flying across the room.

  “Why you lousy ratbag—”

  Before the baron could finish, the little deb stepped forth and blew a cloud of dusting powder into Ruthersby’s face. He sneezed, then began to cough, doubling over and wiping at his eyes.

  “Good job, you,” Raven said to her with an appreciative nod.

  “Thank you. I always come prepared with measures to extricate myself from any unfortunate situation.”

  He didn’t like the sound of that. The high-society chit was out of her element. Proof of that was her presence here. He doubted she knew anything about the darker side of a man like Ruthersby’s nature.

  But there wasn’t time to explain or to argue.

  Ivor regained his feet. He was now on a chair-smashing rampage and headed straight for them.

  Raven kept her near him as he darted around the maze of tables toward the door. But the Viking shoved a table aside and lunged forward, catching Raven off guard with an uppercut.

  A universe of stars flashed behind his eyes. He staggered back, trying to shake it off. Then Ivor came at him again, full charge. Lifting him off his feet, he drove Raven hard against the wall beneath the minstrel’s gallery.

  “Oof!” The last of his air came out as a groan as the big man struck him over and over again, keeping him pinioned to the wall. And all the while, the lively sounds of a spinet tune played on overhead.

  Through a dim haze, Raven saw the baron recover. Ruthersby seized the opportunity and chased the debutante around the upended tables.

  It was like watching the plot of a penny dreadful come to life. She was always one step ahead of him . . .

  Until suddenly, he snatched the hood of her cloak and dragged her back. Her hands flew to her throat, pulling at the enclosure. But it was too late. The baron had her now.

  Something snapped inside Raven.

  For years, he’d learned to subdue his baser nature—the feral survive or die part of him that had lived through nightmares in London’s underworld. He didn’t even allow himself to think about those things. But seeing her struggle and flinch to get away from Ruthersby’s groping hands unleashed his inner beast.

  An animalistic roar rose from his throat.

  Still smashed against the wall by the bully, Raven lashed out with fury, delivering blow after blow, wherever he could reach. An elbow to the shoulder. A knee to the ribs. A dig to the throat and a bunt to the head. But Ivor shook it off, his skull appare
ntly made of solid rock.

  So Raven shifted to cinch his arms tightly around the Viking’s neck, and held fast, listening to the strained wheeze of each breath.

  “Unhand me!” the little deb shouted as she turned to face her assailant. “If you do not release me this instant, I should be forced to employ measures that will most likely end with an injury to your person.”

  “Be a good girl now and—”

  The baron never had the chance to finish.

  Quicker than a Covent Garden pickpocket, she thrust her arm forward and hooked her foot behind Ruthersby’s knee, taking him off-balance. Down he went with a grunt, the back of his head striking the edge of a chair before he fell boneless to the floor.

  “I did warn you,” she admonished coolly as she pressed two fingertips to the pulse at his throat. “You’ll likely have an immense headache for at least a week.”

  Then, stepping over the supine form, she looked toward Raven just as Ivor passed out and toppled like a felled tree.

  And there they stood, with two bodies on the floor at their feet, as a chorus of moans and music drifted down from overhead.

  Catching his breath, Raven stared at her. He felt strangely mystified and exhilarated as if he were a lad seeing fireworks light up the night sky over Vauxhall for the first time.

  “And to think,” he said, “all this happened because of a button.”

  “Oh, it was far more than a mere button that gave you away.” There was a curious gleam in those midnight-blue eyes, but she didn’t elaborate further. She only held his gaze for that single instant, then darted through the door, disappearing from sight.

  “Wait,” he called, giving chase. But the pain in his bludgeoned ribs made him slow and he didn’t catch up with her until they reached the study.

  There, the muted glow from dying embers lit the trespasser’s silhouette against the open window on the far wall. Just as he closed the door with a quiet click behind him, she boosted herself up and straddled the sill, looking over her shoulder at him.

  “Come any closer and I shall be forced to use this,” she said, holding an indistinguishable object in her hand that looked something like a fat candle. “And I must warn you, it has the potential to be quite dangerous.”

  Pretending to appease her, he stayed where he was beside a fern on a marble pedestal. It would only take him four strides to reach her. Three if he leapt over the tufted hassock.

  He watched her with rapt fascination as she placed the object on the sill with extreme care. But then he caught the flash of uncertainty in her fine-boned features.

  A slow grin tugged at his mouth. “You’re only trying to hoodwink me.”

  “And what purpose would a baseless warning serve in such a place? Surely, you cannot suspect that I would come to a brothel defenseless.”

  She reached inside her cloak once more, withdrawing flint and steel.

  He shrugged. “You’re a stranger. I’ve no idea what you’re capable of doing.”

  “I suppose that makes two of us,” she said with a light laugh, flashing a grin that revealed the smallest, most intriguing little gap between her two front teeth in an otherwise perfect arrangement of pearly whites. “Nevertheless, please remember that I did warn you. And, whatever you do, do not come near this window.”

  With a quick strike, she lit the strange candle on the sill. Then she ducked her head and slipped out the window, holding onto the edge.

  He rushed forward to keep her from falling. But she dropped lithely to the ground before he could reach her. Emitting a shrill whistle, she then loped gracefully toward the back alley.

  Hoisting his leg over the sill, he prepared to follow.

  Yet, hearing the creak of the floor behind him, he turned to see Moll, her tall voluptuous form draped in a gown of burgundy velvet and trimmed in ostrich feathers.

  “Who was the girl, Raven?” she asked, her voice curling and raspy like the smoke rising from the cigar pinched between her thumb and forefingers.

  He cursed, hoping that tonight’s cockup hadn’t put a nail in the coffin of him ever being allowed back in her good graces. “I can explain—”

  But before he could utter another syllable, the candle flared suddenly, crackling in sparks. Then, all at once, it quieted on an ominous poof as a dense cloud of thick pink smoke began to flood the room.

  * * *

  Jane’s breath caught as she closed the carriage door and saw billowing curls of pale smoke rolling from the brothel window. Grinning, she clapped her bare hand against the gloved one in muffled glee.

  Her urgent escape smoke experiment had worked marvelously!

  Withdrawing the ledger, she angled it toward the lamplight to jot a quick note of the ratios she’d used. She would require more of these in the future, she was sure.

  But, before she could lick the tip of her pencil, all the events of this evening flooded her at once. She sank back against the squabs as her cousin spurred the horses and they set off toward home.

  A brothel! Only now were the dangers of her escapade beginning to seep into her sentient mind, her heart racing beneath the shallow rise and fall of her breast. She’d barely survived the encounter unscathed!

  But the things she’d learned made it all worthwhile. Why, with another visit, the primer on the marriage habits of the native aristocrat would be so full of useful information that every finishing school in England would teach from it.

  Jane beamed from ear to ear. She could already imagine the future accolades. Scores of young women would line up at bookshops for the only tome that would change the course of their lives.

  Her lashes drifted closed as she tried to commit the night to memory. But all she could see were a pair of gray eyes, so pale they nearly lacked color altogether. And that voice . . . so deep and rough-edged, it still seemed to be inside her, belaboring every pulsebeat.

  She’s mine for the hour.

  How positively primal! His tone had been so authoritative and commanding that even she was tempted to believe him.

  Then, and now, it caused tingles to race over her skin in anticipation, tightening every hair follicle and gathering in her lungs. A breath stuttered past her parted lips. What might it have been like to be his for an hour?

  But there, her mind went as blank as a freshly mopped slate. She had absolutely no experience in being the object of a man’s desire. Had this episode been removed from the allure of a brothel and placed in a sedate ballroom, he would have looked straight through her.

  Even so, his actions toward the lecherous gentleman who’d pulled her from the alcove were nothing short of predatory. She’d never witnessed such an aggressive display of dominance. Quite thrilling!

  If only she could study him for the primer. It would surely be the most fascinating chapter in the entire book. The subtitle would be: The Primitive Man in All His Glory.

  It was a pity she’d never see him again.

  Feeling the carriage slow to a crawl, she opened her eyes and tapped on the hood. “Cousin, we mustn’t dally near Haymarket at this time of night.”

  “But I’ve got to stop,” Duncan called down through the small square flap, thick titian eyebrows knitting perplexedly above his thrice-broken nose. “It’s Raven and I couldn’t run him over.”

  Jane smiled up at him patiently, knowing that beneath his battered Wellington and the burly exterior of an ox, Duncan Pickerington had a heart of toffee pudding and a brain the size of a walnut. “I’m certain the bird will instinctively fly away before the horses can trample it.”

  “Oh, but he isn’t a bird. I work with him at Sterling’s. Although . . . I don’t know why he’s pink.”

  Now it was her turn to be perplexed. Sometimes Duncan said the strangest things.

  But curiosity had always had a way of taking over her better sense. So she opened the door, intending to lean out and have a look for herself.

  “A raven would be black, certainly not pi . . .”

  Her words dissolved away as a fo
rm emerged from the shadows and stepped into the light of the carriage lanterns.

  Suddenly, she was face-to-face with those frost-gray eyes again.

  “Raven,” her cousin called down with a merry chuckle. “How did you come to be so pink?”

  The man seethed at her, nostrils flaring. “I ran into a meddlesome little debutante who had no business being where I found her.”

  Jane swallowed down a rise of nerves. “Goodness! Your skin is quite caryophyllaceous, isn’t it? Must have been the dried beet powder I used for fuel. I’ll have to make a note of that.”

  However, when lifting the ledger earned her a low growl, she thought better of it. Perhaps she would jot down her findings later when it was more appropriate.

  “Don’t worry, Raven. Jane can set you back to rights. She’s brilliant. Comes up with all sorts of things.”

  Dark brows arched sardonically over those icy eyes, and every deep syllable he spoke spilled acidly from his lips. “Is that so? How lucky for me.”

  “I sense a trace of unnecessary sarcasm in your tone. I assure you that—”

  “Pickerington,” he interrupted, calling up to the perch but without taking his gaze from her. “Mind delivering me to my flat? I think I’d like to have a chat with the brilliant Jane.”

  She studied the long-fingered hand that fell on the door and recalled his ferocity when battling those men, especially the largest one. And she was never more aware of her petite stature as she was in this moment. “Regrettably, we have no time for a detour.”

  “Oh, but this is Raven,” Duncan said with an awed elongation of syllables as if he were describing a mythological god. “He’s never asked me for anything before. I’d love to see his flat and I’m sure it won’t take but a minute. Please, Jane? Just this once? I won’t pester you for anything ever, ever again. I promise.”

  She bit down on her bottom lip, worrying the soft tissue between her teeth. Her gaze strayed to the cut on the man’s cheek, then to the tear in his sleeve. And was that . . . blood saturating the fabric?

  “Very well,” she said on a tight breath of guilt.