The Girl with the Sweetest Secret (Sin & Sensibility #2) Page 2

  It was chilly in the room. There was no fire and the staff hadn’t thought to draw the heavy drapes closed for the night. Moonlight coming through the window allowed her to see Boulton plainly as he stood nearby, his light eyes wandering over her. She suppressed a shiver.

  “What were you doing in the kitchen in the dead of night anyway, Miss”—he was distracted momentarily—“which Bumgarten are you?”

  “Frances. Frankie to my friends and family. You can call me Miss Bumgarten ,” she answered, feeling an annoying tightness in her throat. Increasingly self-conscious in her nightgown, probably because she was naked beneath it, she wrapped her arms around her waist. “I couldn’t sleep, so I went downstairs to make some warm milk.”

  She looked up, met his gaze, and nearly dropped to her knees. His gray eyes had warmed to silver, his lips were parted as if he were about to speak, and his features glowed with an arousing kind of heat. Speculation weighted that silver gaze as it roamed her and lingered boldly on the skin bared by the drawstring neck of her nightgown. She felt it like a physical touch. What the devil was happening to her? She felt prickles all over, like she had been plunged into hot water.

  “He’s not usually like this,” she said, pulling from his gaze to glance at her wayward uncle.

  “I’m afraid he is. More than you know,” Boulton said coolly. “He’s what you Americans call ‘a drinkin’ man.’”

  “Well, he’s not usually this—what you Brits call—‘into his cups.’”

  He made a rumbling sound deep in his chest that might have been a laugh.

  Her fingertips tingled.

  “I suppose I should thank you for bringing him home.” She raised her chin and started around him toward the door, but he stepped into her path, facing her, now even closer.

  “Yes,” he said, his voice oddly lower, softer. “You should.”

  Then he stood watching her, seeming expectant.

  Every nerve in her body vibrated with a delicious sort of tension.

  “Very well. Thank you, Mr. Boulton,” she said through half-clenched jaws, irritated by her reaction to his presence as much as his ungracious attitude. The sooner he was out of the house, the better. “Let me show you out.”

  She stalked down the hallway and down the stairs, refusing to look behind her to see if he was following. The minute she reached the kitchen she picked up the bread paddle from the floor and pressed the handle to her as she began to look for his hat. A moment later, he arrived in the doorway and watched as she retrieved his headgear and held it out to him.

  “I’m afraid it’s damaged,” she said as he took in the dented side and broken brim. “I’ll see that it is replaced. If you will give me the name of your hatmaker . . .”

  “No need,” he said tersely, holding it up and appraising the dangling piece of brim with an irritable squint.

  “I insist.”

  His mouth twitched as if he were suppressing a stronger reaction.

  “Fine. Scott’s.” He grimaced and grabbed his forehead as if pain had just speared through it again. “In Bond Street.”

  She felt an alarming urge to soothe that forehead and touch the light hair that fell in a soft wave over it, but managed to keep her arms tucked.

  “I suppose I should apologize for your head,” she said.

  “Yes. You should.” He clipped energy from each word as if saving it to deal with the pain.

  “I could mix you a headache powder,” she said, astonished that those words came out of her mouth. She was trying to kick him out the door, wasn’t she? “Cook keeps a supply of medicinals here.”

  “I believe you’ve done quite enough.” He donned the damaged hat with a wince and headed for the alley door. At the step, he paused.

  “A word of advice.” He slashed a look at her from beneath that droopy, broken brim. The sad-looking hat didn’t dampen his allure or dent his dignity. “Next time you decide to go rambling about the house in the middle of the night, be so good as to put on a few clothes.”

  She stood for a moment staring at the alley door after it slammed, feeling scalded by his dismissal.

  Put on a few clothes.

  She took a swing with the bread paddle, imagining a satisfying “crack” it would make as it connected with the other side of his swollen head. Who did he think he was, making comments on her person, like he’d never seen a woman in her night—She froze.

  He’d seen her in her nightgown. A trickle of illicit excitement slid through her, followed hard by a wash of embarrassment.

  Sweet Lord, what had she done?

  He was the Fox—collector of secrets, spreader of gossip, master of whispers—and she and Red had just handed him a whole bushelful of humiliating tidbits.

  He wouldn’t dare, would he? Ruin her reputation over something as harmless as being caught making warm milk in the dead of night . . . in her own kitchen . . . in her nightgown?

  She returned the paddle to its place above the great hearth, forgot all about the milk warming on the stove, and fled up the stairs to her bed.

  The sheets now felt cool against her flushed skin as she climbed between them and clamped her hands over her eyes. Uncle Red’s favorite description of a certain kind of unscrupulous Englishman came to her: low-down, kipper-suckin’ sidewinder . Reynard Boulton was that, all right.

  But she had the unsettling feeling that there was more to the viscount-in-waiting.

  She relived the entire episode, trying not to dwell on the memory of his every feature, every expression, every word. It was nearing dawn when she finally succumbed to sleep, but even then, she was plagued by dreams of arrogant gray eyes that shone silver in the moonlight.

  Chapter Two

  “Sink me. Would you look at that.”

  Reynard Boulton stood with his back to the ballroom, a week later, and was not tempted in the slightest to turn from the punch table and learn the source of Milroy Stevenson’s wonder. Milroy, after all, thought indoor plumbing a miracle of God.

  Reynard did, however, pause in the midst of topping off his cup of punch with a shot from his flask and glance up into the reflection of Sir Marion Tutty’s gaudy ballroom. The place was stuffed with mirrors, in imitation of either the palace of Versailles or his host’s favorite bawdy house . . . hard to say which. He sighed. He despised these cursed debutante do’s—had gladly quit them years ago. If it weren’t for the possibility of a confrontation between his heavily indebted host and a mysterious business rival, he would never have put in an appearance.

  “No, look, Fox.” The big fellow elbowed Reynard. “She’s the prettiest—no, the most gorgeous creature I’ve ever seen.”

  A female had caught his eye? That wasn’t exactly noteworthy, considering Stevenson had spent most of his life in a Yorkshire village surrounded by ham-fisted farmers’ daughters and the pigs they tended. Reynard shot a glare at Milroy before spotting Carlton Laroche on the other side of Milroy, gawking in the same direction.

  “A walking dream.” Laroche sighed. “Just look at those eyes.” Apparently, he’d been struck by the same creature. But he had spent the better part of his life in London—his standards had to be higher.

  With a huff of disgust, Reynard turned and followed their gaze across the ballroom to a clutch of bright-eyed young things gathered around a young woman with chestnut hair and eyes as big and blue and decadently fringed as any he had ever seen. He froze. She wore a rich blue gown that enhanced her eyes and a corset that enhanced a figure that needed no correction. Just standing there she seemed fluid and graceful and utterly—what the hell?

  “Dammit, Stevenson—” His tone became uncharacteristically fierce as he grabbed the big fellow’s arm and turned him away from the sight of her. “Don’t go near that one.”

  “What?” Stevenson gave a half laugh as he strained to turn back to that feminine vision. “Don’t be absur—”

  “I said, don’t go near her.” The pressure Reynard exerted on the Yorkshireman’s thick arm finally reached t
he fellow’s thicker head. “I’d hate to have to pound you to pig feed to make you see reason.”

  Stevenson was taller and more muscular than Reynard, but it was a wood-cutting, plow-pulling kind of strength. The Fox, as both friend and foe alike called Reynard Boulton, possessed a more refined sort of power. He was a formidable swordsman, a dead-on shot with a firearm, and a tireless bare-knuckle fighter. Half of his physical prowess came from years of training under Europe’s elite blade masters, the rest was the result of risky escapades in London’s underbelly. Those who underestimated his elegant appearance and mannerly demeanor did so only once.

  Stevenson’s response was a confused laugh.

  “What’s got into you, Fox?” Stevenson stared at him, then back at the young woman with widened eyes. “You know her! Who is she?”

  “No one you need to know.” Reynard abandoned his grip on Stevenson, sensing his reaction had drawn too much attention.

  “C’mon, Fox,” Laroche chimed in. “Who is she?”

  “Someone who will get that fine Roman nose of yours rearranged if you don’t keep it to yourself.” He turned back to his spiked punch, sensing mounting interest in the looks Stevenson and Laroche exchanged. They weren’t going to let it drop.

  Laroche raised his eyebrows and strode away. He returned after a quick word with their host, wearing a mischievous smile.

  “Bumgarten,” he said to Stevenson. “She’s one of those Bumgarten females. Sir Marion wasn’t sure which one.”

  The pair turned to him expectantly.

  “You know the Bumgartens, Fox—those rich American girls.” Laroche was clearly the foolhardier of the two. “Come on—tell us about her. You wouldn’t be keeping her for yourself, would you?”

  Reynard glanced up into one of those mirrors that gave him a view of what was happening near the door. Several young stallions had descended on that covey of females and Frances too-pretty-for-her-own-good Bumgarten was flirting with those devastating eyes of hers.

  “Very well.” He turned back to his companions, downed the rest of his doctored punch, and leveled an icy gaze on them. “Word is, she practices dark arts to entice reckless young idiots into her arms—then sucks the life from them and discards them like locust husks. Others say she turns into a deer at night and runs naked through the forest, participating in wild animalistic rituals. Still others say she becomes a banshee at will and slithers through the city’s gutters collecting secrets with which to ruin the high and mighty. Personally, I have seen her mesmerize grown men with a single glance at fifty paces.” He glared pointedly at the pair. “Just now, in fact.”

  He had them hanging on every word. The horror on their faces was proof of how gullible they were—especially regarding canny young virgins—canny young American virgins.

  It took a moment for them to react to the fact that he was having them on. They scowled and drew back.

  “I am trying to save you from yourselves. Take it from me—ignore your curious and lusty impulses and walk away unscathed.” The pair were hardly the worst London’s elite had to offer, but he couldn’t imagine either being up to the challenge of mating Frances “Frankie” Bumgarten. And he was sworn to protect her family. And her.

  He poured another cup of that execrable punch and strode off in search of Sir Marion’s library, or whatever retreat the beleaguered tycoon had fashioned for himself in his house full of horse-faced females.

  * * *

  Stevenson and Laroche watched Reynard Boulton stroll away—a slow, controlled prowl that seemed as natural to him as breathing. The Fox knew things. Hell, the Fox knew everything. He had eyes and ears in noble houses and bawdy houses, in government offices and gambling dens, in bank vaults and boardrooms, back alleys and bedchambers. He was London’s foremost information broker, the unofficial keeper and sometimes dispenser of society’s secrets. If he said the Bumgarten girl was poison dressed as pie, they had reason to believe it.

  With a glance at each other, then back at her, the pair headed straight across the ballroom for those mesmerizing blue eyes.

  Moths to a flame.

  * * *

  “There he is. Isn’t he marvelous?”

  “Not even tolerable.” Frankie Bumgarten cut a dark glance across the Tuttys’ ballroom at Reynard Boulton, who seemed to be lecturing two nicely turned-out young gentlemen. So full of himself.

  Arrogant wretch.

  Why on earth would the Fox deign to appear at Ardith Tutty’s coming-out party? Surely, he had better things to do. Like being fitted for a new hat. That custom-made silk topper she had ordered as a replacement had cost her a bundle. It wasn’t easy to come up with the funds without alerting her mother, which would have opened up another whole bag of worms. She’d had to hit up Uncle Red and shame him into contributing to the purchase.

  She glanced furtively at Boulton’s elegant figure, telling herself she was looking for evidence that the goose-egg on his forehead had turned into a black eye. She couldn’t tell; his left side was turned away from her.

  He behaved as if he were already the viscount and outranked every other man in the room. Much as she would like to find fault with him, it couldn’t be with his appearance, he was too easy on the eyes. His perfectly tailored evening clothes conformed to every angle of his tall, lean body. Then, of course, there was that hair, every wheat-gold strand in perfect order. Yes, well, she shook herself back to reality. His appearance had to be the reason the man was invited everywhere, because his constant air of superiority and relentless observation were enough to put off the most charitable of hosts.

  She had learned his prickly, difficult nature early on. He was an old schoolmate of her sister Daisy’s husband, Lord Ashton Graham. They had been introduced at Daisy’s wedding three years ago, and since then he had pointedly avoided her entire family.

  Bounder . She had finally put his distaste for her and her sisters down to the fact that they were new American money and he was old English nobility with all of the judgment and superior airs that status implied. If she had any delusions that his opinion of them might have mellowed over time, her encounter with him in the kitchen a few nights past had dispelled them.

  What she wouldn’t give to see him taken down a peg or two.

  “And soooo talented.” Claire, Frankie’s younger sister, leaned close to whisper: “His every movement creates a melody.”

  “His—what?” Frankie turned to Claire and found her staring at the orchestra—no, the conductor of the orchestra. That tall, smartly clad figure directed the flow of delightful music from a twenty-piece ensemble.

  Her heart sank.

  Him. Julian Fontaine was Claire’s developing passion. She had heard his chamber orchestra perform at an exhibition and now secretly scoured the Times and the society pages for mention of him. So, this was why Claire had been so eager for their mother to accept an invitation to the disagreeable Tutty girl’s ball.

  Claire read disapproval in her frown and grabbed her arm. “Don’t tell Mama. Please, Frankie.”

  “He’s a musician, Cece. For God’s sake—Mama will lock you in the cellar when she finds out.”

  “If she finds out. Please don’t tell her. Promise me you won’t tell her.” Claire squeezed her arm. “I’m desperate to make him see me. If you can just keep her out of the ballroom for a little while . . . pleeeeease.”

  Frankie stared at her, seeing in her soulful eyes a yearning that Frankie had never experienced but recognized as something fundamental to her younger sister’s sensitive spirit. She groaned quietly.

  “You’re not going to do anything scandalous, are you?”

  “No.” Claire feigned affront at the notion, but melted a moment later under Frankie’s interrogating glare. “Well, not exactly.” Claire nodded toward a sideboard where a servant stood watch over a violin case.

  Oh, Lord. Frankie groaned. Cece was going to play and draw attention to herself, smack in the middle of London society. It was not only going to catch Fontaine’s eye, it
was probably going to ignite an unquenchable flame of attraction between them. He’d be madly entranced by her beauty and talent and in coming days there would be a flurry of private communiques and assignations—all of which she’d be sworn to secrecy about. But sooner or later, news of their scandalous romantic entanglement would reach her mother and all hell would break loose.

  She would be blamed for allowing it to happen and Mama would rail about the betrayal and the indignity and the gossip, not to mention the ascribed immorality of it. Romance had always been tainted with sin in her mother’s mind. As the storm subsided, they would be banned from balls and parties, packed up and whisked off to some cottage in the back of beyond—worse, back to New York—even Nevada! And while she loved horses and could tolerate the ranch hands’ rough ways, the cows and sagebrush made her itch and her nose always ran and her eyes swelled—

  “Frankie, please .” Claire now gripped both of her hands tightly and the intensity of their exchange drew a few glances. She allowed Claire to pull her back toward the nearby entrance, and before she could refuse, the raw hope in Cece’s angelic face and sea green eyes demolished her defenses. Her beloved younger sister was a true romantic. It came with her uncommon sensitivity and talent for music. So, who was she to deny something that was probably a fundamental part of Cece’s soul?

  Damn it . She sagged. She was probably going to regret this.

  “Give me a few minutes and I’ll find a way to steer Mama to the retiring room. When you see us leave, you’ll have a quarter of an hour to enchant your musician.”

  Seconds later they were engulfed by a gaggle of tittering girls fresh from primping and gossiping in the ladies’ room, and there was no escape. She glanced around, hoping her mother couldn’t see them. Elizabeth Bumgarten was clear on her instruction to avoid such situations: “No man wants to have to wade through a clutch of giggling ninnies to pluck out a desirable maid for a dance.” Frankie sighed quietly, seeing in Cece’s pained expression that she was recalling it, too. The whispers of excitement and girlish intrigue all around them that made her feel older than her twenty-two years.