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A Thoroughly Compromised Lady
Bronwyn Scott


Seduced by her sinful curves… When it comes to fencing, be it with words or weapons, Dulci Wycroft considers herself more than the equal of any man. Only once has she ever met her match… Jack, Viscount Wainsbridge, is an irresistible mystery.He is all charm and quick wit in the ballroom, but his impenetrable green eyes hint at darkness underneath. His dangerous work leaves no space for love – yet Dulci’s sinfully innocent curves are impossibly tempting.Fate takes a hand as Dulci and Jack are thrown together on a journey which takes them far from Society’s sly whispers – and free of all constraints…







‘Don’t flatter yourself. I’m not desperate to dance with you like the other women in the ballroom.’

‘They want more than dancing from me, I assure you. You noticed my following? It is quite considerable.’



Dulci blushed, as he’d intended.



‘What? There’s nothing wrong with the words “following” or “considerable”.’ Jack feigned ignorance of his innuendo.



‘Except when you say them. I can’t say I have noticed your “following”, but I’ve noticed you’re still as conceited as I remember you in the orangery.’

Jack laughed at Dulci’s pique, the familiar longings starting to stir. He was enjoying this: his hand at her back, the warmth of her body through the thin silk of her gown, his mind taking pleasure in the mental exercise of parrying her comments.



‘It’s the truth.’ Jack swung them into the opening patterns of the waltz. He was starting to wonder if his emotional distance could be challenged tonight. He’d like nothing more than to try his luck at stealing a few kisses…




A Thoroughly Compromised Lady

Bronwyn Scott











www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


BRONWYN SCOTT is a communications instructor at Pierce College in the United States, and is the proud mother of three wonderful children (one boy and two girls). When she’s not teaching or writing, she enjoys playing the piano, travelling—especially to Florence, Italy—and studying history and foreign languages.

Readers can stay in touch on Bronwyn’s website, www.bronwynnscott.com, or at her blog, www.bronwynswriting.blogspot.com—she loves to hear from readers.



Recent novels from Bronwyn Scott:

PICKPOCKET COUNTESS

NOTORIOUS RAKE, INNOCENT LADY

THE VISCOUNT CLAIMS HIS BRIDE

THE EARL’S FORBIDDEN WARD

UNTAMED ROGUE, SCANDALOUS MISTRESS



and in Mills & Boon® Historical eBookUndone!

LIBERTINE LORD, PICKPOCKET MISS

PLEASURED BY THE ENGLISH SPY




For Wendi, thanks for your support of the Brenda Novak auction to raise funds for research in the fight against juvenile diabetes. Your contribution makes all the difference.



For my family and friends who are all so supportive of my writing, especially the kiddos, Ro, Catie and Brony, who let their mom write. And for my editor, Joanne, too, who worked extraordinarily hard to make this story just right!




Author Note


Thanks for your patience over the last few years as Jack and Dulci waited their turn. They made their first appearance in PICKPOCKET COUNTESS, and they just seemed to beg for their own story. I had many letters asking when it would happen!



Jack and Dulci are wild ones, and a grand adventure in the New World seemed like the right venue for them. When I discovered the beginnings of the Venezuela-British Guiana controversy over a shared but undefined border, I knew Jack and Dulci had found their adventure and I inserted them into history.



Robert Schomburgk actually did a mission in British Guiana in 1835, for mapping purposes, and later went back around 1840 to reaffirm what is now known as the Schomburgk Line. The border dispute continued into the 1890s, until the US stepped in to intervene.



Another interesting point of note in the story: there was indeed gold discovered in the Essequibo River (as Jack suspected), and several other rivers in the region.



You can read more about the history behind Jack and Dulci’s adventure in British Guiana at www.bronwynswriting.blogspot.com. Come on by and say hello!




Chapter One


London—spring 1835

Jack Hanley, the first Viscount Wainsbridge, firmly believed that ballrooms were for business. Chandeliers, potted palms, sparkling champagne—all the standard trappings of festivity aside, ballrooms were a gentleman’s office. They were the places a gentleman conducted the most important business transactions of his life: ensuring a place in society and arranging his marriage. Jack had already done the former and had no intentions of doing the latter. Tonight was no exception.

Jack stopped inside the arched entrance of the Fotheringay ballroom, halting a moment to adjust the sleeve of his evening jacket and surreptitiously scan the room. He took mental roll of the attendees. For all intents and purposes, it was an assembly of the usual suspects. That suited him well. This evening, his business was with the newly arrived Venezuelan delegation. He had very specific orders to meet them, and determine if there was any substance to the quietly circulating rumours that Venezuela was spoiling for a fight over undeclared borders with British Guiana.

‘Wainsbridge!’ An excited female voice broke over the dull din of constant conversation. His hostess bore down upon him with a gaggle of females in tow. Jack swallowed a groan. The horde was descending slightly earlier than anticipated. That was the price of being a newly titled, attractive bachelor with a certain reputation with the ladies. It didn’t help that he was still something of a novelty since his work for the Crown seldom brought him to London on a regular basis.

‘Lady Fotheringay, how charming you look tonight.’ Jack pasted on a benign smile that hid his cynicism. Women in ballrooms had their business too.

‘I want you to meet my nieces, Wainsbridge.’ The purple ostrich plumes in Lady Fotheringay’s hair bobbed dangerously. There were five of them, all named after flowers—nieces, that was, not ostrich plumes, although he wouldn’t put it past the silly woman to name them too.

By the time introductions were completed, Jack’s court had grown substantially, filled with females clamouring for their hostess to introduce them to the handsome, newly minted viscount with the mysterious antecedents. For the moment he was hemmed in on all sides and not another man in sight. He could only guess where his fellow males had taken themselves off to—cards and the good brandy, no doubt.

Jack was listening with feigned interest to Miss Violet Fotheringay’s rather unenlightened dissertation on the year’s fashions and contemplating how he might extract himself from his group in order to find the Venezuelan delegation when he heard it: the unmistakable whisky-and-smoke sound of Lady Dulcinea Wycroft’s laughter.

Even in a crush such as this, the sound was distinctive in a pleasant, provocative way, something akin to Odysseus’s sirens; a sound that would make a smart man fear for his bachelor status. Of course, that assumed the woman in question wanted to marry at all. Dulcinea had shown no inclination in the eight years she’d been out to want to give up her reign as London’s supreme Incomparable, although there had been many chances to do so—six proposals Jack knew about and probably a string of others he’d missed in his long and varied absences from town.

Such a resistance to matrimony made her all the more delightful in Jack’s opinion. If there was one temptation Jack could not quite resist, it was a witty, cleverly spoken woman who was apparently as staunchly committed to remaining unmarried as he was.

Such a similarity made her a complex creature who was both potential companion and challenge. He loved nothing more than a good challenge and over the years, Dulcinea Wycroft had certainly proven to be that to the good men of the ton, none of whom yet had succeeded in walking her down the aisle, although it wasn’t for lack of trying.

With careful eyes, so as not to neglect Miss Fotheringay, Jack followed the laughter to its source. Ah, that explained where the men were. His was not the only court. Two pillars down the ballroom, Miss Wycroft reigned at her court of wit and beauty, surrounded by the cream of London’s bachelors. This evening, gowned in striking pomegranate silk, the sheen of her impossibly blueblack hair catching the light of chandeliers, she was a veritable Helen of Troy.

Jack was not immune.

Neither was most of male London.

She was besieged with admirers. If he was the ton’s bachelor of note, she was the female equivalent. Like him, she’d not be conquered easily and certainly not by that gathering of pups. Jack stifled a smirk of superiority at the sight of the men clustered about her. The fools. Didn’t they know they hadn’t a chance? They were insignificant moths to her all-consuming flame. And really, who could blame them? She was vivacity personified in a room full of pattern-card women like Violet Fotheringay, all playing their assigned roles in life.

Those admirers would fare no better against her fire than the unlucky moth fared against the light. She would burn their ambitions as assuredly as she’d burned the would-be suitors that preceded them. A woman like Dulcinea would never settle for a typical tonnish marriage. Such a passion for living could not be caged inside a Mayfair mansion. Jack privately marvelled that such passion hadn’t ruined her already. It was his experience in general that the brightest flames often consumed themselves. It was perhaps inevitable that Dulci’s fire would be her eventual downfall. Jack thought it rather miraculous it hadn’t happened already.

He turned his gaze back to Violet, but his thoughts remained firmly elsewhere in the mental vicinity of Dulcinea. As a long-time friend of her brother Brandon, the earl, he’d known Dulci vaguely through the years although he hadn’t known her well. He’d been filling various diplomatic posts in the Caribbean and had only just returned to England four years ago. It had been something of a surprise to return and encounter, on his brief appearances in London society, the incarnation of the current Dulci Wycroft. Breathtaking, too—not only in beauty, he discovered, but also in wit.

When he was in town, they ran in similar circles and were inevitably in attendance at the same dinner parties and political functions, not to mention larger events. This past winter, when his schedule had allowed him to remain in town, he’d found himself enjoying the exchange of verbal ripostes with her on several occasions.

Jack’s thoughts paused and took another path. During the Christmas holidays, they’d exchanged more than ripostes, spurred on perhaps by the mistletoe and holiday spirits—he meant that literally. He’d kissed her in Lady Weatherby’s orangery. Those kisses had unleashed something raw and dangerous between them.

Normally, such an attraction would lead to its natural conclusion where Jack was concerned. But Dulci superseded such logic and placed him in a double bind; the secretive and private nature of his work precluded the opportunity to pursue any kind of relationship—not that he was desirous of anything permanent, which led to the second bind. The relationship he would most likely pursue would hardly meet with Brandon’s approval. One did not make a mistress of or have an affair with one’s best friend’s sister. And Jack wasn’t about to marry her over a few wassail-driven kisses no one knew about.

Lord knew that particular encounter might have ended better—or worse, depending on how one looked at it—if he hadn’t been unexpectedly summoned away from the house party. As it was, he’d been lucky to escape with only one pot being thrown at his head. Dulci had been furious over what she saw as his imposition, although Jack suspected she’d enjoyed the kiss just as much as he had. She wasn’t angry with him. She was angry with herself.

The result was that these days their banter had taken on a slight edge. No matter. One look at her tonight and his body was perfectly willing to pick up where they’d left off, pottery shards and all.

So was every other man in the room. By rights, Dulci should have picked one of them by now and settled down to life as a society matron. But Dulci didn’t do anything by the rules. She made no secret of her independence, of her enormous interest in the Royal Geographic Society and fencing, and that she enjoyed far more freedom than other unmarried women of good families. Such confidence in her own consequence was an enormous part of her appeal. No gentleman ever assumed for long that Dulci Wycroft needed a man to rely on.

She got away with it and much else, Jack knew, because she was very careful not to break the one rule that mattered most. There was no blemish on her name in terms of maidenly modesty. Whatever wild streak Dulci might possess in conjunction with her independence, it did not extend into the realm of sexual exploits.

Jack thought of the orangery and reorganised his thoughts. Well, at least not beyond a few stolen kisses.

Not far down the room, Dulci leaned forwards, showing great signs of interest in the man on her left—and a considerable amount of bosom, in Jack’s opinion. The man was a strikingly handsome Spaniard. Jack swore silently. Damn and double damn. He would have to go through her to get to them. With the episode in the orangery still between them, he’d have preferred to keep his business and pleasure separate.

He should have known. It stood to reason she’d be in the centre of the excitement. Dulci knew everyone in society. Those she didn’t know, she made a point to meet. The delegation had only been in town a short week and Dulci had already managed to meet the guests of honour, the very people he’d come to investigate. According to the descriptions Jack had been provided with, the man at her side adroitly ogling her bosom was none other than Calisto Ortiz, one of the Venezuelan delegation, nephew to a high-ranking government official with ambitions. No doubt the others were somewhere in the crowd around her. He’d definitely have to get through Dulci to get an introduction. That meant there’d be a scene, at least a small one.

Considering their last words in the orangery, it was to be expected. In truth, it was Dulci’s due. He’d behaved badly. One did not steal kisses and then have to dash off in the middle of stealing a bit more.

Jack was suddenly aware that Miss Fotheringay had stopped talking. ‘Quite insightful,’ Jack said quickly, smiling at the young woman who looked at him expectantly. ‘I am positive many young girls share your opinion.’ He was sure they did, although he couldn’t recall what those opinions might be. It was deuced awkward to be caught out with one’s attentions fixed elsewhere. Time to be moving on.

‘I have enjoyed this immensely, ladies, but I see some people I need to meet, if you would excuse me?’ Jack moved smoothly through his court and discreetly headed towards the group around Dulcinea. He took the long route, careful not to hurt anyone’s feelings. It wouldn’t do to be immediately seen going from one set to another.

Jack tugged on his waistcoat, girding himself for battle. When he was with her, everything was a competition—a delightful competition, but still a competition—and he had to be ready. ‘Steady on, old chap.’ Jack muttered under his breath. He had nothing to fear. What fire didn’t burn it made stronger. When it came to women like Dulci Wycroft, Jack was tempered Damascus steel.

Jack circumspectly dislodged a young admirer whose only crime was to stand next to Dulcinea. Good lord, the ring of admirers got younger by the year. Lord Baden’s son was among the lot tonight. Was the boy really old enough to come up to town now? These men were barely men at all, merely overgrown pups. Or was it simply that he was getting older? At four and thirty, he felt quite the veteran standing amongst Dulci’s collection of young bucks. Regardless, they were no match for Dulci’s wit. Not one of them had a chance of holding her attention.

‘Good evening, everyone.’ His eyes briefly swept the group by way of greeting.

The group’s collective eye fixed on him, their collective breath held, waiting for the sport to begin. It had become something of a ballroom sport for guests to watch Dulci and he spar. Well, sparring wasn’t quite accurate. They didn’t fight. They volleyed with dares and words carefully wrapped in a socially acceptable package. Jack preferred to classify their exchanges more along the lines of lawn tennis. With practiced charm he drawled, ‘Good evening, Lady Dulcinea.’

The match was engaged.

Heads swivelled to Dulci. If she was surprised by his presence, she did not show it. Her greeting was coolly polite, the type one offered to a passing acquaintance although they were far more than that.

‘Wainsbridge, I did not expect to see you tonight.’ Dulci subjected him to a liquid blue perusal, taking in every inch of his attire.

Jack readied for the forthcoming quip. Amid her sea of dandies with their bright waistcoats and popinjay fashions, his sombre apparel, broken only by the dovegrey brocade of his waistcoat, took on a more austere cast. The king’s prized adviser could not strut around looking like a peacock of the most frivolous order. Although what he advised the king on remained a mystery to many.

‘Wainsbridge, are these gloomy tones the best you can do? Such a choice would put a damper on even the most festive of occasions.’ Dulci quizzed him with a perfectly arched black eyebrow. Heads turned back to him, everyone considering his apparel.

Jack bowed, taking the reprimand with consummate ease. ‘I am at your disposal, Lady Dulcinea. What colour would you prefer I wear? The rainbow is yours. Pluck a colour from it and I will see it done. By this time tomorrow, I shall possess apparel done up to your satisfaction.’

The group stared at Dulci, waiting for her pronouncement. Jack thought it highly likely he wouldn’t be the only person sporting Dulci’s colours by this time tomorrow. Tailors all over the city would be busy in the morning.

Dulci snapped open her fan and speared Jack with a knowing look. As he intended, she understood entirely the dilemma he’d placed before her. She could not dare him to wear a hideous colour without making her court appear ridiculous along with him. Nor could she take the uncreative neutral option since she’d been the one to throw down the gauntlet. She had a certain reputation to uphold just as much as he.

‘Azure. I choose azure,’ she announced coyly over the top of her painted fan after pretending to give the answer a great deal of thought. And perhaps she had. Jack had to admit blue was the perfect choice for a careful answer. There were so many shades of blue; a gentleman could pick a hue of his own comfort level.

Jack bowed again. ‘Azure it shall be, Lady Dulcinea. I duly accept your charge with all these gentlemen as my witnesses. Tomorrow night, at the Danby rout, I shall carry out my commission.’

Jack turned his gaze to the man next to him in the circle as if noticing the Spanish gentleman for the first time. ‘Lady Dulcinea, I must beg an introduction. I believe this gentleman and I are not acquainted.’ The match was over. Dulci had won the dare, but he’d got what he came for. The rest of the group wouldn’t realise that. But Dulci would.

Dulci gave a deceptively sweet smile and made the introductions. ‘Wainsbridge, this is Señor Calisto Ortiz, of the Venezuelan diplomatic delegation. I had the good fortune to meet him at a Royal Geographic Society dinner a few days ago. Señor, allow me to present Viscount Wainsbridge.’

The Spaniard bowed smoothly and introduced two other gentlemen in turn, a Señor Adalberto Vargas, who was clearly the august leader of the delegation, and Señor Dias, whose mediocre clothing clearly marked him as the hanger-on.

Ortiz was all handsome manners and Jack disliked him immediately. Younger than his Venezuelan counterparts by over a decade, darkly handsome with inky hair, and expensively dressed, Calisto Ortiz radiated a rather obvious appeal of the kind women found charming. He did not endear himself to Jack further when he turned that charm on Dulci.

For tonight, he’d tolerated enough of the man’s covert ogling of Dulci’s bosom, as deliciously displayed as it was in the tight bodice of her gown. Like recognised like, and Jack recognised Ortiz to be a womaniser of the highest order.

It was time to throw down the gauntlet, in the politest of fashions, of course. A little competition always brought one’s true colours to light and he did not expect Ortiz to prove the exception to the rule. Instead he fully expected Ortiz to prickle in response to a few well-placed remarks. It wasn’t Jack’s job to make friends. His orders were very clear: take the measure of the delegation. There wasn’t a single word mentioned about befriending them.

Jack inserted himself into the general conversation during a lull, casually launching his first sally. ‘Señor Ortiz, como le gusta Londres?’

His fluent command of the language had the desired effect. Ortiz looked momentarily surprised at hearing Spanish. Jack wanted him to be surprised and warned. The Venezuelans might be thousands of miles from home and those who knew the territory, but the English were not without their resources here. The Venezuelans would not be dealing with London-based politicians ignorant of the New World’s geography.

Ortiz favoured him with a cold smile. ‘I assure you my English is quite fluent.’ His terse answer imbued a level of tension into the group. Touchy young man, Jack thought, to be so thoroughly insulted on the acquaintance of six words.

‘Je parle français, aussi,’ Ortiz went on, his steely gaze fixed intently on Jack.

‘Très bien. J’aime parler français,’ Jack smoothly switched into French. He could play this game for a while if Ortiz was so inclined. He might not have the formal degrees of a polyglot scholar, but Jack could bed a woman in six different languages.

Señor Vargas intervened swiftly. ‘Señor Ortiz has been educated at the finest of schools. He’s the nephew of one of the viceroys posted to our region.’

‘Ah,’ Jack exclaimed with all the appreciation he could summon. Señor Ortiz’s role in the delegation was becoming clearer. ‘Are you considered to hold an official diplomatic post, then?’

His enquiry hit the mark. It was petty gratification to see the handsome man’s smile fade into a grim line. ‘I’m an ombudsman.’

‘I see. That’s quite an impressive title.’ Jack’s steely tone conveyed the rest of the message to Ortiz. They both knew an ombudsman operated in a limited capacity. The title was honorary at best, a sop to one’s ego.

Ortiz’s dark eyes flashed dangerously. Jack answered with a cool smile. The man fully understood his allusion and had the good grace to be insulted. But the flare in his eyes suggested he did not have the good grace to be defeated. Ortiz would bear watching. His temper suggested he was a man quick to anger, quick to take impulsive actions that might later be regretted.

Dulci placed a hand on Jack’s sleeve. ‘It is time for that dance you promised me.’

Jack gave her easy compliance. There was no more to be gained from provoking Ortiz. He’d got what he came for. He’d taken the measure of the delegation and it was quite telling.




Chapter Two


Dulci’s announcement was immediately unpopular with everyone except Jack. ‘But the next waltz is mine,’ a rather dull-witted fellow, the Earl of Carstairs’s son, stepped forwards to protest.

The boy was not fast enough. Jack claimed indisputable possession, covering Dulci’s gloved hand on his sleeve with his own. ‘I’m sure Lady Dulcinea has something saved for you later.’

‘I have a country dance free in the fourth set.’ Dulci quickly offset the boy’s sour face.

‘Good choice,’ Jack remarked in low tones, leading her towards the dance floor. ‘Less conversational opportunities with a country dance. You’re probably doing him a favour. I doubt he has the requisite half-hour of conversation saved up to get through a waltz.’

‘I’m doing myself a favour.’ Dulci placed her hand on Jack’s shoulder as they positioned themselves. ‘The man’s got the brains and build of an ox. He stepped on my feet no less than five times last week at the Balfour ball.’

‘Here I thought you were protecting Ortiz when in reality you were angling for a dance with me.’

‘Don’t flatter yourself. I’m not desperate to dance with you like the other women in the ballroom.’

‘They want more than dancing from me, I assure you. You noticed my following? It is quite considerable.’

Dulci blushed as he intended.

‘What? There’s nothing wrong with the words “following” or “considerable”.’ Jack feigned ignorance of his innuendo.

‘Except when you say them. I can’t say I have noticed your “following”, but I’ve noticed you’re still as conceited as I remember in the orangery.’

Jack laughed at Dulci’s pique, the familiar longings starting to stir. He was enjoying this: his hand at her back, the warmth of her body through the thin silk of her gown, his mind taking pleasure in the mental exercise of parrying her comments.

‘It’s the truth.’ Jack swung them into the opening patterns of the waltz. He was starting to wonder if his emotional distance could be challenged tonight. He’d like nothing more than to try his luck at stealing a few kisses.

‘That all women are dying of love for you?’

‘No need to be envious. It’s not as if you don’t have the other half of London at your feet.’ Jack shot a look at the jilted heir on the sidelines. ‘I would have thought women found him rather handsome. He’s tall, muscular in a beefy sort of way. Quite the pride of English manhood.’

‘It will all run to fat in ten years,’ Dulci said matter of factly. ‘I prefer a leaner sort of man. Big men don’t tend to dance well.’

‘Your brother’s tall,’ Jack argued for the sake of disagreement. With Dulci, anything was fair game for an argument. ‘The ladies love dancing with him whenever Nora gives them a chance.’

‘Brandon’s an exception.’

‘Speaking of Brandon, I had a note from your brother a month ago. He and Nora are doing well.’ Brandon was the one safe topic of conversation they had between them. ‘I gathered they aren’t coming up to town because of the new baby.’

‘No, they won’t be coming up. It’s to be expected. They are the most doting of parents.’ A small smile played across Dulci’s lips at the mention of her new nephew, giving her features a rare soft look. It occurred to Jack that Dulci’s long-standing reign as an Incomparable might indeed be a lonely one. The girlfriends who had débuted with her eight years ago would have long since married and started their own families. He had not thought of it in that way before—a price to be paid for her determination to remain unattached. Much in the same way he paid for the lifestyle he achieved. It had been quite unintentional on his part. Was that true for her as well?

It was also a stark reminder that he didn’t know Dulci Wycroft all that well, all the ways she’d changed in the years of his absence. She’d come of age and entered society while he’d been off performing the various commissions that had eventually landed him his viscountcy.

Much of his adult life had been spent away from England doing things for the empire he couldn’t share with another. The result was that he knew very little about the woman she’d become. Good God, when he’d left England she’d been sixteen, and he a mere twenty-four. Those intervening years were a blank. He knew only that her beauty, her wit, her innate fire for life and the wild side she strove to keep hidden drew him irrevocably despite his better intentions. Jack didn’t dare contemplate too deeply the reasons for his inexplicable attraction. Those reasons were best left unexplored for fear of uncovering longings and truths that couldn’t be answered or tolerated. He could not afford to fall in love with anyone, especially not Dulci. He’d have a hard time explaining that to Brandon.

Dulci cocked her head, studying him with her sharp gaze. ‘What are you up to tonight, Jack? It must be important if it meant seeking me out. For the record, I was not fooled about your reasons for approaching me. You wanted that introduction.’

Jack executed a tight turn to avoid a collision with the less observant Earl of Hertfordshire. ‘Do I have to be up to anything? Perhaps I just wanted to dance with the loveliest girl in the room?’

‘Doubtful. The last time you saw me, I broke a pottery bowl over your head.’ Dulci’s eyes narrowed in speculation. ‘You won’t tell me what you’re really doing here, will you?’ she accused.

This was old ground. Old ground, old wound. It went beyond the quarrel in the orangery. He’d had this discussion before with other women. He was not at liberty to discuss his business with her or with anyone else. It was rather ironic that while achieving a title had made him socially acceptable and available, he was not at liberty to act on that availability. A woman was only entitled to part of him. The Crown got the other part without question or consideration.

Such a condition was not acceptable with Dulci. Her unattached status was proof of that. If she tolerated half-measures, she would have settled for a convenient tonnish marriage by now. But half-measures were all he could give. What he did for the king was of the utmost secrecy and not necessarily ‘appreciated’ in finer circles. He knew in the absence of such disclosures on his part that Dulci had her own theories about his actions, none of which showed him in a favourable light.

‘You’re not going to set up any kind of scheme, are you, such as the time you fleeced Wembley out of his thoroughbred over a game of Commerce?’ She gave him a stern look and Jack could not hold back his laughter.

‘What a little hypocrite you are, m’dear. Why should you have all the fun? Besides, Wembley deserved it.’ Jack leaned close to her ear, inhaling the light scent of lavender, fresh and beguiling like the temptress who wore it. ‘I heard you won a racing dare in Richmond last week.’

Dulci looked momentarily alarmed. ‘No one is supposed to know. Who told you?’ She stopped herself in mid-question and shook her head. ‘Never mind, there were only two of us who knew. I know very well who told you.’ She made a pretty pout. ‘I thought Lord Amberston would know better.’

Jack laughed. ‘Don’t worry, your reputation is intact. However, it does occur to me that you play awfully close to the fire—does society know their darling Incomparable dabbles in scandal on a regular basis?’

Dulci would not be diverted. ‘This is not about me, Jack. I want your word. I don’t want you playing cards with Señor Ortiz.’

Jack was all mock solemnity. ‘I promise you, this is not about cards.’ Such a suggestion was almost laughable if the situation wasn’t so serious. She could no more conceive of stopping a war before it started than he could conceive of having nothing more serious to worry about than a card game. The damnable thing was, he could not tell her otherwise.

‘Do you promise?’ Dulci was sceptical of his easy acquiescence.

‘You have my word, Dulci. In exchange, I want yours that there will be no more moonlight horse racing in Richmond. That’s dangerous. You should know better than to risk your neck and your horse’s.’

‘Now who’s the hypocrite?’ Dulci flashed a teasing smile that showed off the dimple in her cheek. ‘You’re hardly the arbiter of moral fashion. I remember a few years ago when you masqueraded as a fop to help Brandon catch the Cat of Manchester. That escapade ran fairly close to outright law breaking. My horse race was merely ill advised.’

Jack managed a smile at the memory. ‘That’s the best service I’ve ever rendered your brother. I got him a wife in the bargain and he’s been happy ever since.’

Dulci held his gaze, returning his smile. Something warm flickered to life in those blue eyes of hers. Jack moved her close to him as they turned. She did not resist his subtle possession. Jack gave her a private, knowing look. He knew she was remembering the thrill of their exploits to save Nora, the midnight wedding ceremony where Brandon, the earl, had married the notorious Cat. Perhaps she was remembering the dangerous sparks of desire that had risen suddenly and unbidden in the orangery at Christmas.

‘Don’t, Jack,’ Dulci cautioned him softly.

‘Don’t what, Dulci?’ Jack prodded with a whisper, knowing full well her thoughts had gone in the same direction as his, his body enjoying the feel of her far more than it should on a ballroom floor. ‘Don’t remember you in the orangery? Your hair coming down, your lips wet and red, your face tilted up in the candlelight waiting for my kiss? Your body pressed to mine as close as two bodies can be with their clothes on? How can I forget when I’ve seen you like that in my mind every night since?’ The moment had been unpredictably heady. For a man with his vast experience with women, his reaction had played havoc with his senses whenever he recalled it, which was far too often for his own good.

Nothing had proved its equal, although Jack had certainly tried in the ensuing months. Dulci was a woman who demanded all of a man and that was far too dangerous of a commitment for him to make, for her as well as himself. But he was flirting shamelessly now, seducing her with words, his body and mind firing at the thrill of the challenge she presented.

He saw the pulse in her neck race at his words, belying the protest on her lips. ‘Don’t remember, Jack. We both know it was a mistake and it will be a mistake again.’

‘I don’t make mistakes when it comes to seduction, Dulci.’

‘No, but afterwards you make plenty. Your seductus exitus needs work.’

‘That’s not a real Latin phrase.’

‘Exitus is and it doesn’t change the fact that yours needs work.’

‘Only practice makes perfect.’ Jack gave a heavy sigh of over-exaggerated disappointment. ‘Alas, I have so few chances to practise.’

‘That’s not what I hear.’

Jack had no desire to talk about those particular rumours—rumours that involved a certain actress, strawberries and a large grain of the truth. If he could get Dulci away from the crowds, away from the eyes that watched their every move, maybe they could just talk, maybe something more. He did want to talk. He wanted to find out what she knew about the Venezuelans. Then again, who was he fooling? He wanted to do more than talk. He wanted to see if the sensations were still there. Perhaps Christmas had been an anomaly. It was a risky proposition at best, especially if he was wrong, but tonight his better judgement was no match for Dulci in pomegranate silk and memories of hot kisses.

‘A walk in the garden then, Dulci,’ Jack breathed against her ear, inhaling the lavender rinse of her hair. He could feel her body giving in, no matter what arguments her mind made. He could feel it answering to his, fickle compatriots to the codes of decency and honour that demanded they take a different route.

‘All right, but just a walk,’ Dulci consented.

Jack murmured low at her ear, ‘I’m sure there’ll be something handy to throw at me if you need it.’ His hand tightened at her waist, ushering her towards the French doors that led outside. Ballrooms might be for business, but gardens…well, gardens were for pleasure.



The garden with Jack was a bad idea. Anything with Jack was a bad idea as she very well knew from gossip and brief personal experience. He had a reputation for a reason, actually several reasons. Dulci wasn’t regretting her consent to walk in the garden, but she was going to. She knew it and yet she allowed him to lead her down both the proverbial and literal garden path, because she’d been able to think of nothing else since Christmas and Jack was irresistible, flaws and all.

There were definitely plenty of flaws, which worked only to heighten her own curiosity regarding the man behind the rumours—where did he go when he disappeared from London for months on end? What service had he rendered King William that had catapulted a poor squire’s son into the ranks of the peerage with a hereditary title? How true was the tittle-tattle circulating behind ladies’ fans that Jack was a lover beyond compare? There was probably a reason curiosity killed the cat, Dulci thought. She’d do better to forget such sordid things and to hope that Jack didn’t read minds.

It was proving more difficult than expected to banish such thoughts at the moment. Jack drew her aside, slightly off the garden path, having arrived at his intended destination, a small alcove with a burbling fountain and a stone bench, the moon overhead and the paper lanterns that festively lined the garden paths giving off enough light to wander without fear of tripping.

It was a setting that showed Jack to great advantage. The moonlight cast a silvery hue to his winter-wheat hair, giving it the appearance of a smooth, sleek mane, every hair in place. The subtle detail work of his tailor emphasised the breadth of his shoulders, the trimness of his waist and the length of his legs, a reminder that while turned out in the guise of an immaculate, well-groomed gentleman, there was a raw, rough power beneath the clothes, signs of a man who’d led a life full of varied experiences.

Dulci often wondered if anyone else saw that quality in Jack. The longer she knew him, the more she didn’t know him. He was a master of illusion. One only saw what Jack wanted to show and she’d been as easily duped on occasion as the rest.

She no more knew what truly drove Jack than any other member of the ton. She’d like to know more. Since the night in the orangery she’d been thinking rather a lot about Jack, her attentions drawn to whatever rumour was circulating about him any given week. She’d heard since Christmas he’d been busy kissing Lady Scofield in her big gardens at Lambeth.

A delicious tremor shot through Dulci. Had he truly brought her out here, into this garden, to do the same? Would she, should she, let him? Those Christmas kisses had dominated too much of her mind. She couldn’t deny the truth; she wanted Jack to kiss her and perhaps do more than kiss her. Her body could not forget the heat Jack’s hands had invoked, the need for something more that his body had awakened in hers. She wanted to feel that way again, wanted him to wake her again.

She opted for a show of sophistication. She didn’t want Jack thinking she was overly eager if he actually had seduction on his mind. Nor did she want to be overeager if he didn’t; such a miscalculation would be embarrassing and only serve to stoke his already overinflated sense of self-importance.

‘What now, Jack?’ Dulci gave him a practised, coy smile. She moved into the alcove, surveying its furnishings with an assessing look. ‘The fountain is probably not an option, but perhaps the bench is a possibility.’

‘Did you consider I might not have asked you out here to seduce you? I seem to recall in the ballroom that you were rankly against such a venue.’ Jack leaned against a stone column at the alcove’s entrance, looking urbane and relaxed, very much at home with the situation. But Dulci could feel his eyes, hot and direct, following her movements. She could not fool him for long. He was experienced enough to know the game was afoot.

‘Since when has that ever stopped you, Jack? The greater the challenge, the harder you try.’ She trailed a hand in the fountain.

‘I have been known to rise to the occasion.’ Jack grinned wickedly and stepped towards her. ‘I have the firmest of resolves, or so I’ve been told.’

She recognised that cicisbeo smile of his all too well. It was his stock in trade in London ballrooms, the smile that said she was the centre of his attention, that every wish, every desire was about to be fulfilled and more. She’d seen many women believe it. It was easy to believe that smile. She believed in it now against better sense.

Dulci stepped backwards, striving to create more space between them. She had not come to the Fotheringay ball looking for this. Indeed, she had not expected to find Jack here at all. The Season was too young. She’d thought she’d have a few weeks to herself before Jack came to wreak havoc on her senses. She’d thought she’d heard he was out of town. ‘You’ve gathered all the other women to your banner tonight, Jack. You have no need of me as well.’

‘But you’re the only one I want.’ Jack was grinning broadly now. Drat him, he knew he had her on the run.

‘No, it’s simply your arrogance, Jack. You can’t stand not having every woman in the room swooning at your feet.’

Jack laughed, the sharp planes of his aristocratic face melting into boyish playfulness. ‘By Jove, Dulci, no one quite cuts me down to size like you do, and goodness knows on occasion I need it.’ He looked ten years younger, whatever secret cares he bore dissolving, minimising the darkness and mystery that limned him like a nimbus around the sun since his return to England. It occurred to her to wonder what he’d been like before? Surely he hadn’t always been this way? How did a man become like Jack?

‘Dulci.’ The sound of her name on his lips was an invitation to sin. It was enough and it succeeded where all Jack’s calculated foreplay had fallen short. She was in his arms in an instant, letting her body savour the strength of him, the feel of him, the almond scent of his soap, letting her mind forget all the reasons this was going to be a bad idea. His mouth took hers in a long, slow kiss, teasing her with its languorous exploration, one hand at the back of her neck, fingers entwined in her hair. The heat in her started to rise.

‘I’m sorry about the orangery, Dulci,’ Jack murmured, with sincere penitence. How could she not forgive him? Then something caught her eye over Jack’s shoulder and she froze, her mind remembering all the reasons.

Jack nuzzled her neck encouragingly. ‘Dulci, this is where you say you’re sorry too about throwing that pot and you run your hands through my hair looking for any remnants of that damnable lump you gave me.’

‘I don’t think so, Jack.’ Dulci pushed against his chest and stepped back, the moment lost to reality and disappointment. She’d been so ready to believe. She gave a flick of her head, nodding for Jack to turn around. It was the orangery all over again.

A throat cleared in the nominal darkness. A nervous, blushing page dressed in the royal livery of Hanover stammered his message. ‘Excuse me, my lord. I have an urgent message from Clarence House. I was told to find you and tell you to come at once.’

Dulci watched Jack straighten his shoulders almost imperceptibly, the boyish pleasure that had so recently wreathed his face instantly subdued. The transformation happened so swiftly, it was possible to think she’d imagined the other. Jack pressed a few coins into the messenger’s hand, no doubt meant to buy his silence regarding where and how the boy had found the viscount and sent him on before turning back to her.

‘Dulci, I’m sorry. I have to leave. May I escort you back inside?’ He was all duty now. Did this happen with all his women or was it just her bad luck? She hadn’t heard, but then again she couldn’t imagine anyone wanting to brag Jack had thrown them over for a government summons.

‘What could the king want this time of night? Isn’t he off to his own clubs and entertainments?’ Dulci had recognised the address immediately: the residence of William IV.

‘England never sleeps, Dulci.’ Jack gave her a kind smile that she found condescending.

‘Don’t patronise me, Jack,’ Dulci snapped.

‘I’ll call on you tomorrow,’ Jack offered. But she would have none of his olive-branch brand of pity.

‘I will not be home to you. I am not going to become one of your easy women who let you kiss them whenever you pass through town.’ Dulci pushed past him, angrier at herself than at him. Jack would always be Jack, whoever that really was. As much time as she’d spent listening to rumours she’d thought she’d have understood that by now. She would find her own way back inside and, after a decent interval, she’d leave. The night had lost its lustre. But he halted her with a warm chuckle that said he didn’t believe her bluff for a moment.

‘You can’t ignore me, Dulci. Very well, don’t receive me. But I will see you tomorrow night. At the Danby rout, if you remember,’ Jack called softly. ‘I’ll be the one in azure. Perhaps we can rename the ball the Blue Danby ball. It can be our private joke.’

She didn’t want anything ‘private’ with Jack. Dulci fisted her hands in her gown where no one could see, her temper rising. It was just like Jack to make a joke when she was mad. Damn it all. She’d already forgot about the wager. She allowed herself the unladylike luxury of stomping her foot in frustration on the garden path. She’d known from the start coming out here with Jack was a bad idea; anything with Jack was a bad idea as she’d proven yet again. At least she’d have plenty to berate herself with on the lonely carriage ride home.



The carriage was crowded for all that there was only one person in it, thanks to the enormity of her thoughts, Dulci groused an hour later. She felt slightly better thinking it was Jack’s fault, but that wasn’t entirely true. He’d merely opened Pandora’s box with his kisses and let loose all nature of strange feelings and emotions into her world. Hopefully common sense hadn’t got out with the rest. Maybe it still hung there like a butterfly with one wing caught in the closed box lid, the other wing struggling for release. It certainly wasn’t still in the box—tonight had illustrated that. At best, she had only half of it left.

Jack had awakened the curiosities of both mind and body. She was twenty-six and seriously doubted she would ever make a marriage that suited her temperament. But that didn’t stop her from wanting to know the mysteries of the marriage bed, the secrets of satisfying the passions of the body.

She was not so naïve as to be unaware that a certain calibre of gentleman had offered to solve that mystery for her. To date, she’d always been quick to scotch any efforts in the direction. Some risks were simply not worth taking. The kind of gentleman who offered such gratification was not the kind of gentleman who would keep her secrets. Good heavens, Amberston hadn’t even kept their horse race secret. One could only guess what someone like him would do with an even bigger secret.

Jack was different. The shocking thought nearly jolted her off the carriage seat. An idea came to Dulci. Why not Jack? Any woman with eight seasons behind her, virgin or not, knew when a man desired her and Jack had wanted her. Perhaps he only wanted her for a night, for the novelty of it.

Whatever his motives, he did want her and that was all that mattered. If his wanting lasted only a night, so much the better. She was looking to satisfy her curiosity, nothing long term. Jack had already proven he could wake her passions and he’d already proven he could be discreet. He kept secrets for the Empire. He could surely keep one short liaison from public consumption and he would never tell Brandon.

Dulci tapped her chin with a gloved finger. Hmm. Brandon might be a sticking point. She would have to overcome any resistance his friendship with Brandon might pose. Then she laughed out loud in the empty carriage at the ridiculous notions passing through her head. She was actually sitting here planning how to seduce the notorious Viscount Wainsbridge! She needed her head examined. What woman of virtue deliberately gave away her greatest asset? Moreover, in her numerous seasons she’d seen with her own eyes what happened to the young girls who’d fallen prey to various pre-marital temptations. The world wasn’t big enough for a fallen woman.

A wicked voice whispered its rebuttal: only if you get caught. You haven’t been caught yet. Jack’s perfect—discreet, skilled and in no mood to get caught himself. He might even empathise with you…

She could laugh all night at the odd ideas floating through her mind, but Dulci could not quell the growing sense that in spite of all the decent reasons not to go through with it, she just might.




Chapter Three


Jack Hanley, the first Viscount Wainsbridge for all of five years, always answered the king’s summons to Clarence House with alacrity and anxiety no matter what time of day or night it came or whose bed it found him in. Alacrity because one did not keep his monarch waiting, especially when one possessed a title as new as his. Anxiety because he knew the summons was merely a prelude to upheaval. William would not have called him if something had not been afoot that needed his special attentions. No doubt there’d been a development with the Venezuelans, but he was suspicious that it had occurred so quickly. He’d only met them an hour ago.

‘I need you to stop a war.’ William said abruptly as Jack entered. Jack merely nodded as if such statements were commonplace conversation and shut the door of the Clarence House study behind him. He had suspected as much. The initial rumours had been confirmed, then.

‘When, your Majesty?’ He took in the room with a sweeping glance, nodding curtly to the third man present, Viscount Gladstone from the Foreign Office.

William IV toyed idly with a paperweight. ‘The war hasn’t precisely happened yet. But I have it on good authority from Gladstone here that it will if we don’t take steps now.’

Ah, it was to be a pre-emptive action then. He was good at that. Jack took the liberty of pouring himself a brandy at the sideboard. He took a seat and expertly flipped up the tails of his evening wear, sliding a careful glance at Gladstone. He had personal reasons for not liking the man. Gladstone made no secret of his contempt for Jack’s inferior birth and first-generation title. But professionally, the man possessed an astonishing acumen for foreign intelligence.

‘Tell Wainsbridge what you’ve told me,’ William said.

Gladstone cleared his throat. ‘Venezuela is contesting its shared borders with British Guiana. They wish to extend their boundaries. It goes without saying that we are not interested in giving up our claims to that territory.’ Gladstone stood up and walked to a long table, gesturing for Jack to follow.

With a long finger, Gladstone traced the boundaries on a map spread before them. ‘The border in question is south-east of the Essequibo River.’

Jack nodded. He was one of the few who understood the magnitude of rivers in British Guiana. The marshy topography of British Guiana made coastal rivers the only thoroughfares into the interior. ‘This is no small contention. We’re dealing with approximately thirty-thousand square miles of property.’ In a land of marshes and rivers, such territory was worth squabbling over.

Jack looked up from the map, back to where William sat. This information was not new to him. Indeed, it had been at the root of his presence at the Fotheringay ball. What he didn’t know were the motives behind it. ‘Do we have any speculations as to why Venezuela is suddenly interested in this section of territory?’

For centuries, ever since Britain had first staked a claim to Guiana in the sixteen hundreds, Spain had not done more than establish a handful of missions along the border. The border had been undefined and peaceful. Of course, it was an independent Venezuela now, not Spain that shared the border. Perhaps after a little over ten years of independence, Venezuela was flexing its muscle in the region.

‘That’s where you come in, Wainsbridge.’ William leaned back in his chair, hands steepled.

‘Of course, anything, your Majesty. I am always at your service,’ Jack said easily, hiding his apprehension. He’d had to train himself over the last few years to stay alert in William’s presence. The man acted more like a retired naval officer—which he was—than royalty—which had been a far-fetched possibility once. It was easy to forget that the tall, white-haired man with a soft chin and friendly eyes commanded a nation. Being with the man felt almost ordinary, like being with a beloved uncle until one remembered that, unlike the uncle who could be refused, one could not refuse the king.

‘As you know, you’ve been asked to determine how real rumours of this border dispute are. I am interested in hearing how your evening went with the Venezuelan delegation.’

‘I met them, but just barely.’ Jack eyed Gladstone suspiciously. None of this was urgent or beyond what he already knew. Why the emergency summons?

Gladstone flicked a glance at William. ‘There’s been a further development. One of the gentlemen in the delegation is heavily influenced by a private and powerful consortium of Venezuelan businessmen who are eager to profit from the boundary dispute. We want to identify him as quickly as possible. It is believed the gentleman, whoever he is, may be in possession of a forged map that shows Venezuela’s “preferred” boundaries. He may try to pass it off as a legitimate document and use it as evidence to force a new treaty of limits.’

Jack immediately thought of Calisto Ortiz, his smooth manners and his ‘ombudsman’ attachment to the delegation—official but unofficial. Jack returned to his chair and sat back to give his report.

‘I think we can eliminate Adalberto Vargas. He’s the senior member, in his early fifties. From his manners tonight, he’s from a more traditional school of diplomacy. He’s not likely to be swayed by such risky and underhanded tactics like a forged map.

‘Neither would it be Hector Dias. He does not have either the suave mannerisms of Ortiz or the intellectual background of Vargas.’ Jack surmised Hector Dias was a man who’d no doubt begun his career in mid-level staff positions with various embassies and would likely end his career there as well. The cut and cloth of his clothes at the ball had certainly suggested as much. The man hadn’t the wealth at his disposal to match the wardrobes of Ortiz or Vargas.

‘So that leaves Calisto Ortiz,’ Gladstone put in, a note of triumph in his voice that it had been so easy to detect a likely candidate.

‘Yes. He’s the flamboyant charmer of the group. He’s also there as an ombudsman, so the rules he must follow are much more lax than the other two. His English is excellent, and his connections even more so. He’s a nephew to one of the regional Venezuelan viceroys with family connections to the governor. He’s a likely choice.’

‘We’ll start putting together a more detailed dossier on him now that we know what to look for,’ Gladstone said. ‘If he’s so well connected, British intelligence surely has information on his family. Perhaps he’s organising a plantation movement. Plantations are big business in that part of the world.’

‘Not that big,’ Jack scoffed at the theory. Gladstone scowled at him, the old antagonism between them rising.

‘I’d love to hear your ideas,’ Gladstone retorted.

Choosing to ignore the slight, Jack returned to the map and stared thoughtfully at the outlined area, an idea forming in his mind. Businessmen weren’t interested in the natural beauty of a land. There was something lucrative in the river valley, a valuable resource.

He spoke a single word to the room at large. ‘Gold.’

‘Gold?’ Gladstone replied, incredulous.

‘You forget, I’ve actually been to the region. I was there in 1830 after I helped Schomburgk on his Anegada expedition.’ Jack smoothly interjected his credentials into the conversation. His work there had laid the grounds for being awarded the viscountcy. ‘The river valleys are too wet and the forests in the interior are too dense for serious farming. Businessmen aren’t looking to put up a plantation community in this region. No profit.’ Gladstone looked like he’d gladly throttle him.

William broke in to defuse the tension. ‘We want to be certain in regards to what they’re after. We can use that knowledge to grease negotiations if we must. Until then, Wainsbridge, Ortiz is yours. I want to know what has made the area an urgent point of interest and how far they’re willing to go to get it.’

Dismissed, they took their leave of the monarch and made their way through Clarence House to the front door. Jack was glad he had his coach. He did not want to share a hackney with Gladstone. They stepped out into the night air.

Jack’s coach waited at the kerb but Gladstone couldn’t resist a final jab as Jack stepped up to the door. ‘I hear we have a mutual acquaintance in Lady Dulcinea Wycroft.’

‘You hear the most amazing things, Gladstone,’ Jack returned.

‘I see them too, sometimes,’ came Gladstone’s cryptic reply.

‘You’ve never got over Lady Dulcinea jilting you.’ Jack’s reply was cool, but inside he was seething. Gladstone must have had men watching the ballroom that night, checking out the Venezuelan delegation on his own even though Jack had been given the job. He would not put it past Gladstone to have forced a meeting tonight simply to drag him away from Dulci.

Anger clouded Gladstone’s face. ‘Behind those clothes you’re nothing but a scrapper, a no-account country squire’s son. I can only imagine how many boots you had to lick to rise this far.’

‘Whereas I am sure you’re quite clear on the boots you’ve had to lick. No imagining there. Your family’s been currying favour since the sixteen hundreds. Dirty business that, two centuries of boot-licking.’ Jack stepped into his coach and held the door open for a moment. ‘Goodnight, Gladstone.’

He slammed the coach door and sank back against the squabs, less sanguine than he’d let on. This was dicey business with the Venezuelan delegation. Negotiations of this nature were always very covert, hardly ever making the public news, but that didn’t make them less dangerous. Usually, they were more so. Without the check and balance of being in the public eye, there were no rules to govern them. Still, it would be business as usual if Dulci wasn’t involved. But she was—placed right at the centre of the storm because of her connection to the three men most intrinsically concerned. There was going to be trouble. He could feel it in his bones.



Dulci Wycroft firmly believed trouble found you when you least expected it. She had an antidote for that: she expected trouble.

Always.

She’d learned early that collecting artefacts wasn’t exactly an old maid’s safe hobby. Not that she thought of herself as an old maid, although she’d reached the august age of twenty-six, trailing a string of six refusals of marriage behind her. Nor was she looking for safe.

If she was, she wouldn’t be here, or a lot of the other places she’d been. Her hand flexed and closed around the small gun in her pocket, her sharp eyes alert to any suspicious movements in the dim interior of the dockside warehouse. Warehouses in the dock districts were not foreign venues to her. But this one, set in a rough part of Southwark, was by far the worst.

She’d been glad she’d decided to bring her own unmarked coach instead of relying on public hansom cabs. She’d noticed that the deeper into the area she’d journeyed the presence of cabs had dried up, a sure testimony to the unsavoury nature of the environs, the noise and comparable respectability of Hays Wharf far behind them.

A man moved from the shadows. Dulci tensed and then relaxed. She might not completely trust this man, but she knew him. He was her reason for being here in these rather questionable surroundings.

He strode forwards, well-dressed and olive skinned. ‘Señorita, buenos días!’ he effused, lavishly bowing over her hand, too lavishly. Sweat lightly beaded his upper lip and Dulci noted immediately that the lavish gesture was a mask for the man’s anxiety. The usual self-confidence the man possessed seemed oddly absent today.

Dulci withdrew her hand as soon as it was politely possible, her tones haughty and clipped. ‘Señor Vasquez, let us dispense with the pleasantries. What do you have for me that is so urgent it could not wait out the afternoon?’ Señor Vasquez’s note had ruled out the chance to catch the Royal Geographic Society’s lecture on the West Indies in its entirety, but with luck she might still make the last part.

‘I have artefacts from the Americas.’ He gestured towards an opened crate, but Dulci didn’t miss the quick dart of his eyes.

‘Are you expecting anyone else, señor?’ Dulci asked keenly, her own eyes conducting a quick investigation of the warehouse too.

‘I have many appointments, señorita. I merely wish you to see these items privately. They’re from Venezuela, your latest area of interest.’

‘Really?’ Dulci replied coolly, raising her eyebrows a fraction of an inch to indicate only mild appreciation. A display of unabashed delight would only serve to increase Señor Vasquez’s price.

Dulci reached into the crate with one hand, parting the straw packing with one gloved hand. The other hand cautiously remained in her pocket, her eyes unwaveringly fixed on Señor Vasquez. Her hand met with stone and she pulled out a carved statue. Vasquez did indeed know her interests well.

‘It’s a zemi.’ Dulci fought hard to keep the rising excitement out of her voice, studying the object reverently in the poor light. The idol was devoid of any garments and the stone carving indicated breasts and a rounded belly. ‘It’s an idol of a native god, or goddess in this case. Unless I am completely mistaken, this is a fertility fetish.’ She stared at him in stark contemplation, oblivious to his discomfort at such frank discussion. ‘Did this come with a—?’

‘A bowl?’ Vasquez finished for her. ‘But of course, señorita.’ His eyes flashed with a mocking chagrin. ‘I would not give you only part of a set.’

Dulci set down the carving and with both hands delved beneath the straw packing. She felt the shallow dip of a bowl. ‘Yes, there it is.’ She withdrew a stone bowl and set it in place. ‘There, Señor Vasquez, you can see how it all goes together. The idols are flat headed so that a stone bowl can be placed on top of their heads for worship.’

‘Buena, señorita. Name a price, and it shall be yours.’

He seemed far too eager to get rid of her after the demanding note requiring an immediate meeting.

‘I would prefer to see the rest of the contents,’ Dulci said, proceeding to empty the crate and offering an exposition on each piece she extracted. ‘This is likely to be an amulet, this would be a metate, they used it for grinding seeds…’ She spoke absently, more to herself than for the edification of Señor Vasquez.

Dulci dusted off her hands and surveyed the artefacts, seven in all. She was cognisant of the fact that Señor Vasquez had checked his watch twice while she’d unloaded the crate. He was clearly expecting someone else, or perhaps hoping to avoid the expected visitor. The collection was certainly splendid, but, while it was exciting to her, she had not forgot the urgency of Vasquez’s summons. ‘Is this everything?’

‘All but this final item.’ Vasquez handed her a worn leather book the size of a journal.

She eyed him speculatively. ‘Saving the best for last?’

Vasquez placed a hand over his heart. ‘I seek only to please you, señorita. I know how much you like to read. Look here, there’s even a few maps, very detailed.’

Dulci thumbed the pages, noting the drawings of strange plants and places. ‘An explorer’s journal? Perhaps a missionary’s log?’ Dulci asked. It was written in English and she immediately thought of Jack. The journal would make a fine gift for him, a remembrance of his own work in that region a few years back. Not that he deserved such a gift after last night, she reminded herself.

‘I can only guess, señorita. My English is not good enough for reading,’ Vasquez hedged. ‘I am a mere importer.’

Dulci was instantly suspicious. There was nothing ‘mere’ about Vasquez. The Spaniard was rich, his wealth made from the lucre of Spanish interests in South America. ‘How did you come by this book?’

Vasquez shrugged gallantly. ‘It was in the same crate as the statue. It was on the last ship. I unpacked it and thought of you, that is all.’

Nothing was ever that straightforward. When it was, it was time to start asking the hard questions. ‘Are the artefacts stolen?’ Dulci cocked her head to one side in an assessing tilt. She’d done business with Vasquez before. He’d proven to be a reliable contact, visiting London twice a year from Spain. Still, something didn’t seem quite right.

‘Of course not, I am a legitimate importer. Such chicanery would damage my reputation,’ Vasquez argued, putting on an offended air at the suggestion.

‘If they’re not stolen, then why the urgency? We had an appointment tomorrow morning. What difference can a day make?’

‘Ah, yes, señorita, please forgive me for worrying you. I must leave for home on the morning tide instead of leaving later in the week as I had planned. It is a personal matter. I did not want to leave without meeting with you.’ He lowered his voice conspiratorially. ‘There are others who were interested in the artefacts. I am to meet with them tonight. But I confess I wanted you to have first pick.’

Dulci nodded, her concern ebbing slightly in the wake of his explanation. The man was a consummate salesman. No doubt he’d arranged all this to increase his price. Urgency was a well-proven ploy for adding spice to a negotiation. ‘I’ll pay one hundred pounds for the crate and the journal.’

‘One hundred pounds? Madre de dios, but I could not part with them for such a sum.’ He protested neatly. ‘Surely you understand, señorita, the effort to transport such goods across the Atlantic and bring them to London?’

Dulci’s tone was brisk. ‘Surely you understand, I am in no mood to haggle like a fishwife in the market. I am late for a much-anticipated lecture and you are fully cognisant of the fairness of my price.’

‘Because you are my favourite, I will indulge you.’ Vasquez relented with an exaggerated shrug. ‘A hundred pounds, señorita.’

Dulci gave a curt nod. ‘Deliver the crate to my town house promptly and you’ll receive instructions for payment. If you are quick, you’ll have no trouble getting your money before you sail. As always, señor, it is a pleasure.’

Vasquez bent over her hand. ‘The pleasure is most assuredly mine.’



The pretty señorita had barely exited the building before he began rapidly packing up the artefacts. The sooner this crate was out of his hands, the better. He had not told her any lies: the artefacts were not stolen and he did have an urgent personal need to sail tomorrow—he valued his health. Having those artefacts found in his possession would endanger that health greatly.

It had recently come to his notice through his vast networks that someone highly placed in the Venezuelan government wanted them in deadly earnest. The artefacts didn’t look particularly dangerous or valuable, just stone and wood carvings, most of them done with a crude skill at best.

It didn’t matter. They could have been jewel studded and he’d still have wanted to be rid of them. Originally, he’d thought to make a tidy profit on them, but whoever wanted them had not wanted to purchase them. There’d been no interest in a business transaction. Whatever the reason, these items had not been meant to be seen by

others. The possessor of these artefacts, for reasons he could not ascertain, was as good as dead. The artefacts were out of his hands now. He was safe. He’d been careful to erase any mention of them in his ship’s manifesto and if his London warehouse was searched, they would find nothing that traced the artefacts back to him. He didn’t worry overmuch about the artefacts being discovered in the eccentric Señorita Wycroft’s possession. If the artefacts couldn’t be traced to him, they couldn’t be traced to her. He supposed it was entirely possible the objects could be found through other avenues, but that would be a random happenstance completely out of his control. In all probability, the artefacts and whatever they hid would fall into obscurity, displayed inside a nice glass curio case in the señorita’s town house. His ethical conscience, such as it was, was clear. Señor Vasquez closed the lid on the crate and breathed a much-desired sigh of relief.




Chapter Four


Calisto Ortiz aimed a frustrated kick at an empty packing crate and swore in a fluid torrent of Spanish for all to hear. There was inept and then there was outright incompetence. His men had bungled the job again. How hard was it to retrieve a map no one knew existed? Yet his men had failed to recover it in Venezuela after the map-maker had mistakenly packed it with his other archaeological finds for shipping back to Spain. Here in London, the map had slipped from their grasp a second time. After having tracked it to an importer named Vasquez, Ortiz had thought his work was nearly done. He simply had to run Vasquez to ground and claim the map. But he was too late. The warehouse was deserted, but only freshly so. The crates were empty and bore the markings of Spanish freight. They also looked new, lacking the dirt and gouges that often accompanied crates over time.

Calisto Ortiz barked out new orders to his men. ‘Search the docks, maybe the ship hasn’t sailed yet. Search the taverns and inns for Vasquez too.’

The men rushed to do his bidding, leaving him alone in the warehouse. Calisto upended a crate and sat down upon it, heaving a sigh. He cared less about finding the ship than he did about finding Vasquez. Vasquez was fast becoming a valuable link in this game for two reasons. The first reason was of a practical nature. If he didn’t find Vasquez and hence the map, it would mean the map was loose in London. The search would take on a needle-in-the-haystack quality.

The second reason was more symbolic. Vasquez was moving fast. By all reports the ship had only been in London a short time ahead of his own arrival and now it was potentially gone, the warehouse cleared out. Vasquez knew he had something dangerous and he’d come to London to pass it on to someone, to unburden himself. It meant the map was no longer a well-guarded secret. The mission had now taken on two goals: retrieve the map and silence those who knew about it.

Ortiz ran his hands through his dark hair, breathing deeply to calm his racing mind. He had to take one step at a time, one assumption at a time. Until he found Vasquez, he had no way of knowing if Vasquez understood the value of the map. It could be that Vasquez only knew he had something of dubious worth, but didn’t know what it was. Along with the map, there were figurines, zemis and metates. Then of course, he’d have to hunt down whomever Vasquez had sold the items to.

He had to be prepared for best- and worst-case scenarios, the best being that the map had passed from hand to hand without anyone detecting its importance. The worst was that Vasquez did know the significance of the map and had sold it for a nice profit to someone who’d appreciate the map’s value in the discussions that would soon open up between the Venezuelan delegation and the British government in regards to the questionable border Venezuela shared with British Guiana.

Calisto knew he played a dangerous double game, not only with the British but with the Venezuelan government as well—not that the latter would mind if they came out the victor. Some would claim the map was a forgery, but Calisto preferred to think of the map merely as potentially biased. He wouldn’t be the first person in history to sponsor a map-maker to tweak the boundaries a bit here and there. In all reality, the interior of British Guiana was so underexplored, who could say where the borders really were?

It would take years to disprove the boundaries on his map and ownership was nine-tenths of the law, as the saying went. In the meanwhile, Venezuela would be in possession of a very lucrative piece of land containing riches untold and he and his uncle would be wealthy men.

Everything would work out. He was a man who knew how to cover his tracks and follow all necessary leads. His men were hunting down Vasquez right now. There was nothing more he could do at the moment. He flipped open his pocket watch. He had just enough time to change and dine before the Danby rout. With luck, the delectable Lady Dulcinea would be in attendance without her surly polyglot friend.



Luck was in short supply all around. The Danby rout was fully engaged by the time Jack arrived. He’d meant to come earlier in hopes of stealing a moment with Dulci before she was surrounded. He’d wanted to set the record straight about their most unfortunate interruption the prior evening. It was not how he imagined their reunion. But business had conspired against him. He’d spent the afternoon discreetly following Calisto Ortiz to an empty warehouse in a seedy part of Southwark.

The unplanned adventure had been enlightening, posing several interesting questions, such as why a man of Ortiz’s station would be down at the docks. Ortiz’s behaviour had been telling as well. There was no doubt that whatever had taken place in the warehouse upset Ortiz greatly. As to what that might have been, Jack could only speculate. Although he’d explored the warehouse after Ortiz’s departure, he’d found nothing more than the same empty, Spanish-stamped crates that had upset Ortiz. By the time he’d reported his news to Gladstone and picked up his newly tailored waistcoat of deep periwinkle blue, afternoon had swiftly turned into evening, leaving him hard pressed to find time for a much-needed bath and toilette before setting out for the night.

There was no hope of catching Dulci alone, a fact attested to by the sea of blue surrounding her four men deep. Squaring his shoulders and setting aside the cares of the day, Jack cut through the crowd of admirers to place himself in front of her. He made a courtly leg. ‘It appears I’ve more than fulfilled my commission, Lady Dulcinea.’ Jack gestured to the various hues of blue assembled about her. ‘I do believe I’ve saved the economy for a day.’

Dulci laughed and waved her fan, a painted affair that matched the pale blue hues of her gown. ‘Tailors’ apprentices across the city are in your debt, Wainsbridge.’

‘Certainly that’s worth a dance.’ Jack offered a charming grin and held out his hand.

There was the sound of grumbling. A few voices were raised in complaint: ‘He’s stealing all the best dances.’ ‘He danced with her last night.’

Dulci squashed the protests with a smile. Between her gown and that smile, she looked like an angel come to earth as she moved to take his hand. Her beauty never ceased to entrance him. But Jack knew better than to be misled. If Dulci Wycroft was any kind of angel, she was an avenging one. Before he could make his peace with her, she was going to make him pay. Would she start with the wager or the interruption from last night?

‘This deep periwinkle is an improvement, Jack.’ Ah, it was to be the wager. ‘Still, it’s a far cry from what you used to wear. I remember in Manchester you had an evening coat with diamond buttons. Brandon said you wore it to his betrothal ball. Whatever happened to all those shirts with yards of lace for cuffs?’

‘I burnt them,’ Jack answered succinctly. ‘I have not played the fop for years now. Such a façade does not suit a king’s adviser.’

‘It did once. You used to say people were unguarded in their conversation because they assumed a fop had stuffing for brains.’ There she went, probing again for the things he could not tell her.

‘I’m an adviser, not a spy. A man with stuff for brains is not a man who is ultimately respected. Playing the fop had rather obvious limitations after a while for an adviser.’ Jack kept his answers abrupt.

‘How long do you suppose we have before we’ll be interrupted by a government summons tonight? Do you think we might make it through this dance?’ Dulci quipped, with an edge to her voice that warned Jack he was not entirely forgiven.

Damn Gladstone and his interference. But Jack would not make excuses about who he was and what he did. He turned them sharply at the top of the ballroom and decided it was time to change the conversation to something lighter.

‘I’m surprised you’re angry over the interruption last night, Dulci. You were the one who didn’t want to go out to the garden in the first place. Admit it, you like my kisses.’ What was he doing? He was flirting with her as if he meant to take this interlude further. Which of course you do, his conscious prompted honestly. Admit it, the experiment last night failed. The kisses at Christmas weren’t an isolated incident. You burn for her.

‘They’re pleasant enough when there’s nothing better to do,’ Dulci teased knowingly.

‘Is there usually something better to do?’ Jack challenged with a grin, liking the way her smile lit her face when she teased him, liking the confident, bold way she flirted. But he had to tread carefully here. Dulci could not be handled like the experienced married women of the ton. She was far finer than that and she’d expect far more than they if he led her down that path.

‘There was today.’

‘No more dangerous wagers in the moonlight, I hope.’

What he really hoped was that she hadn’t spent any more time with Calisto Ortiz. He knew, of course, where Ortiz had been later in the afternoon, but that didn’t preclude Ortiz having made an earlier call. From what Jack witnessed of the man on two occasions now, he wanted Ortiz as far from Dulci as possible.

‘This morning I worked with my fencing instructor.’

Jack’s eyebrows rose slightly at this. They rose further after the next pronouncement.

‘Then, this afternoon, I picked up some new additions to my collection of artefacts from the new world. Your part of the world, actually. Somewhere near Venezuela, or maybe Guiana.’

‘What collection is this?’ An alarm rang somewhere deep inside him at her reference, but it would be premature to jump to conclusions.

Dulci’s excitement was evident in the sparkle of her eyes as she explained. ‘Zemis, tribal fertility fetishes and other assorted items of interest. They’re from the Arawak tribes.’

Alarm was no longer premature. The Arawaks lived on the south-eastern border near the Essequibo River. His well-trained face must have betrayed him momentarily because Dulci peered at him sharply.

‘Have I shocked you?’

Very little shocked Jack after his travels. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t be terrified. His mind rushed to assimilate the information. This was far worse than his earlier concern over her involvement.

Last night he’d merely been concerned because she’d become a bystander who could be implicated, someone known to all three men: she was a woman in whom Ortiz was showing marked interest; she was the woman Gladstone had once aspired to marry; she was someone he’d paid recent social attentions to and that could put her at risk by association once Ortiz worked out his interest in the Venezuelan delegation. If Ortiz chose to strike out, Dulci would be a likely target.

But now her eccentric hobby had suddenly catapulted her into the forefront of the action. It begged the question whether Brandon had any idea what Dulci did with her time; first fencing and now this gadding about town collecting artefacts that were most likely stolen.

Was this merely coincidence or did Dulci actually possess the cargo Ortiz had been searching for? The dance was ending, but he could not return her to her court without knowing more. A strong urge to possess and protect her surged. He told himself the feeling was out of a sense of duty. With Brandon absent from town, it was his job to act as a surrogate protector. His more honest side didn’t accept that lie for a moment. Something far deeper was at work here and it scared him.

‘I had no idea your interests ran in that direction,’ Jack said benignly, subtly ushering her towards the verandah.

‘I have you to thank for my interest. After your work with Schomburgk, I turned my attentions from the Egyptian excavations to the New World. After all, these artefacts are from living tribes. They’re clues to a way of life that is taking place right now, not thousands of years ago. I find that much more fascinating. I see you’re surprised. There’s a great deal you don’t know about me, Jack.’ Dulci laughed up at him, but not unkindly.

‘Then tell me more,’ Jack flirted, the coldness receding a bit. He was back in control now. He had a strategy. He would take her outside and quiz her thoroughly until he had his answers, kiss them out of her if need be. He’d probably kiss her anyway whether he needed to or not. ‘Where did you come by these artefacts?’

‘A Spanish importer named Vasquez has been supplying me with items over the past two years.’

A new type of alarm coursed through Jack, not all of it having to do with his concern over the current situation. Good lord, didn’t the woman know the risks? Didn’t she realise how easy it would be to buy stolen goods? The Americas were rife with men of questionable repute who looted tribal grave sites or stole religious icons from the natives in the hopes of selling them back home to unsuspecting purchasers.

Those were the honest men.

The dishonest men simply passed off imitations and forgeries as the real thing.

‘I hope you’re careful, Dulci,’ Jack said. ‘There are men who’d take advantage of a woman in that market.’

Dulci’s reply was glib and self-assured. ‘Oh, I am careful, I always take my gun.’

Jack gripped Dulci’s arm, fear returning anew. ‘Your gun? Where do you go?’ He hadn’t meant his comment in that way. He’d meant it as a warning about the quality of goods she was dealing with. But now, his concern grew exponentially. Clearly this Vasquez did not call safely at her home with his wares.

‘To the wharves, of course, Jack.’ Dulci fixed him with an incredulous look. ‘Where else does one retrieve goods from ships?’

Oh God, oh God, this was getting worse by the moment. ‘And today, Dulci? Did you go to the docks today? Where?’

Dulci’s brow furrowed in puzzlement. She pulled her arm away. ‘What is this, Jack? You didn’t even know I collected until a few moments ago and now you’re suddenly full of chivalrous concern for my well-being. I’ve been doing this far longer than you realise.’

It would do no good to worry Dulci. He’d be unable to tell her anything useful if she asked and that would only serve to anger her. Jack shrugged and dispatched a quick half-truth. ‘There’s been some concern about activity at the docks lately, that is all. It’s been rougher than usual.’

‘I went to Southwark and all was fine. Although I will admit that it was a section that was more run down than the usual areas I frequent. The artefacts are splendid. Their arrival is quite timely with the Venezuelan delegation in town. I am looking forward to showing them to Señor Ortiz. He may know something more about them than what I can find in the libraries. I want to write an article for the Royal Geographic Society about them.’

No! All of Jack’s instincts rebelled at the notion of Dulci showing Ortiz. But he could not overtly steer her away from the man without raising suspicions or looking like a jealous suitor. Neither was an appealing prospect. Well, he’d just have to get there first.

‘I’d like to see your collection. I can serve in Ortiz’s place. Perhaps I’ll recognise some of the items and be able to shed some further light on them. I have an inspiration—let’s take a night off from all this social whirl. I’ll call tomorrow evening after dinner. We can fence and I’ll tell you if your instructor is any good. Afterwards, we can go over the collection.’

It was an audacious request. A gentleman never called on a lady at such a time and Jack was inviting himself. If it had been anyone else, his intentions would be clear. But Dulci was also a family friend. He was trading on that connection quite liberally with the request.

‘Do you think you can best me, Jack?’ Dulci’s eyes twinkled with challenge at the mention of fencing. ‘You might be in for another surprise.’




Chapter Five


The enormous chandelier lit up the Stockport House ballroom. Dulci cut the air with an experimental slice of her rapier, upsetting the lazy waltz of the dust motes in the streams of light. Satisfied with the balance of her weapon, she slid a button over the point and tossed another button to Jack. ‘Too bad we can’t put a button on the sharp edge of your wit. Everyone was talking last night about how you fairly skewered Señor Ortiz the night before with your linguistic prowess.’

Jack slid the button over the rapier point. ‘Are you defending him, Dulci?’

‘Only because you were acting like a dog in the manger.’ Dulci took another practice slash.

‘I disagree.’ Jack executed a lunge against an unseen opponent. ‘I was clever and he’d been ogling your bosom far too long to be appropriate.’

Dulci made an arcing slash. ‘Is there an appropriate amount of time for that? Perhaps some kind of hidden gentleman’s rule?’

‘About bosom ogling?’ Jack lunged, stretching his leg muscles, thinking for a moment before responding. ‘Yes, no more than two seconds and then one’s eyes must revert back to the lady’s face and not stray again. That way, she’ll wonder if you ever looked in the first place. Of course, if one’s partner is especially well endowed in that region and one is very skilled, one can sneak a few more glances by adopting a contemplative look during conversation and drop one’s eyes without a move of the head. But I wouldn’t recommend it for everyone, it takes a lot of practice to perfect.’

‘That’s perfectly appalling,’ Dulci scoffed. ‘You don’t have a rule, you have a whole treatise!’

‘Makes one wonder what other hidden rules govern the lives of gentlemen, doesn’t it?’ A wicked gleam lit Jack’s eyes. He raised his rapier in a fencer’s salute. ‘En garde, my dear.’

En garde indeed! How was she supposed to concentrate after that? They fell into first position. Jack thrust forwards and Dulci parried with expert ease out of reflex, struggling to drag her thoughts back from the conversation.

Jack made a daring lunge and caught her rapier arm out of position. Dulci tried to recover, but was not fast enough to deflect the strike.

‘Touché. Round one to me.’ He winked. ‘You weren’t concentrating. Perhaps it was my exquisite physique that distracted you.’

Dulci flashed Jack a withering look and determinedly took up her position. ‘I’m just not used to seeing you in such light colours.’ In truth Dulci did find it something of a novelty to see Jack in a plain white shirt and tan breeches. Such clothing didn’t hide anything and her imagination was embellishing heavily, firing her already active imagination to indecent levels. She’d end up skewered by her own blade if she wasn’t careful.

He looked almost normal, standing in her ballroom wearing regular clothing. Except for the fact that there was nothing ordinary about Jack regardless of what he wore. It didn’t matter if he was the diamond-buttoned fop or the sombre gentleman, Jack drew people to him by the sheer force of his personality, a unique blend of the light and sharp witted, underneath which lurked a dangerous intelligence that men respected and women yearned to possess.

She was no different in that regard. Dulci wished she could unlock the secrets of his mind. But Jack was a guarded man, a puzzle she had yet to solve, which probably explained why he was standing in her ballroom fencing with her, when she was supposed to be mad at him.

‘Are you going to engage any time soon?’ Jack drawled, scolding her for wool gathering.

‘I was wondering why is it that you’re here when I’m supposed to be upset with you.’ Dulci took the offensive and pressed him hard with a series of attacks.

‘Do you have an answer?’ Jack asked with a sharp riposte that bought him back some ground.

‘None that I like.’ Dulci flicked her wrist and delivered a complicated stroke that nearly disarmed him. She grimaced in disappointment. That move always worked on other opponents. Jack must have wrists of steel to successfully deflect it.

Jack groaned. ‘That’s hardly a resounding endorsement.’

A smile twitched at her mouth. Dulci felt a laugh coming on that would surely disable her. ‘Don’t make me laugh, Jack. You’re not fighting fair.’

Jack grinned deviously and Dulci knew she had to hurry if she meant to win before she burst into laughter and dropped her guard. Dulci feinted, parried two more quick strokes, then suddenly changed hands. Her left wasn’t her strongest arm, but she was counting on the surprise giving her a few seconds’ advantage.

This time her tactic worked. Dulci claimed the round four strokes later.

‘Nicely done,’ Jack commented, graciously ceding the round. ‘I underestimated you. I didn’t know you’d developed your left arm.’

Dulci ran a towel along the length of blade, wiping it clean out of habit rather than need. ‘Turnabout’s fair play. I underestimated you in the first round. No one has successfully deflected the move I used towards the end.’ Dulci paused, the easy conversation catching her off balance. It was a moment between equals. Eyes met and held. Jack was on the move, crossing the small distance between them.

‘You could do better with it. Let me show you a stronger way to deliver that blow.’ Without waiting for permission, Jack slid behind her, his hand covering hers on the hilt of her rapier, his other arm about her waist, drawing her against him as he directed her into position.

The nearness of their bodies swamped Dulci with an acute sense of intimacy. She was so close to Jack she could actually smell him right down to identifying the brand of gentleman’s soap he’d used for his toilette: an almond scent sold at an exclusive store on Bond Street.

She could identify other things, too: the fact he was five inches taller than she; that she could use the hollow of his shoulder to rest her head and in turn he could use the top of her head to rest his chin; the surprising strength of his arm. Beneath his clothing, Jack possessed a remarkably fit body, built to a fencer’s perfection: lean and trim, deceptively muscular, with narrow hips and long legs. An ideal build for stealth and speed, two useful tools an épéeist relied on regularly.

Dulci’s face heated at the direction of her thoughts. She was thankful Jack was behind her. She didn’t want Jack thinking she could be had too easily like his strawberry actress. Besides, this was all meant to be a purely academic exercise between fellow fencers. But with Jack one could never tell. Jack had the ability to turn the most mundane gestures into a seductive prelude to all sorts of pleasurable sins. After all, they’d only gone out to the garden for a harmless walk.

Jack’s hips shifted against her back, his voice soft at her ear in a most non-academic tone. On purpose? Dulci wondered. ‘Let’s take a step forwards and try it now with the steady wrist, no flicking this time.’

They moved together, stepping and striking. ‘There, do you feel how much stronger the blade’s position is without the flick at the end? Good. Whoever taught you that was more interested in showmanship than real prowess.

‘Now, try it against me.’ Jack left her and picked up his own foil. She felt strangely abandoned without the warmth of Jack, the feel of Jack, behind her. Dulci was half-tempted to ask him to show her the move again. The only thing stopping her was her pride. Such a trick was a ploy other women would use. She would not stoop, hard as it was.

Dulci gamely readied herself and engaged. This time the move worked and Jack found himself disarmed in short order.

‘Very good,’ Jack applauded, his admiration obvious, as was his approval. Overt approval was not something she was used to. Men might admire her, and she knew very well that many did. But admiration was not the same as approval. It had taken her a long time to understand the nuances that separated the two.

Men who considered themselves modern and above the traditions of their station might enjoy privately fencing with her, might take pleasure in discussing her collection of histories and artefacts, might even applaud her personal studies from a distance. All of that was well and good in their minds until it came to marriage. A man could admire such traits from afar, but no man wanted to be shackled permanently to a woman who possessed those traits. It had taken six marriage proposals for her to fully understand.

But Jack was different. She supposed it was because he’d openly declared himself not the marrying kind and she could trust him to stand by that declaration unlike Gladstone, her sixth miserable proposal. Gladstone had declared no more than friendship and respect for her and then surprised her with a marriage offer accompanied by a list of demands regarding the things she’d need to give up as his viscountess.

In those terms at least there was no risk of such a misunderstanding with Jack. She understood Jack perfectly. Rumour could be trusted in this regard: he offered a moment of physical pleasure, no promises attached. A relationship would last only as long as Jack’s work didn’t encroach. In many ways, a relationship with Jack was over before it started. A woman who gave herself to Jack would have to be happy with whatever she could salvage. In the long term, Dulci doubted she could do such a thing. But it hardly mattered. She wanted only the experience he offered and then they could go their separate ways.

The thought haunted her throughout their work out. Dulci was glad for the excuse of exercise. She could pretend the flush on her cheeks was from their exertions.

They worked a while longer on footwork and various techniques until both were well exercised from their efforts. Dulci stopped and wiped her face with a towel. ‘I’m finished, Jack. How about you? I’ll have a tea tray sent to my collections room. We can eat a little supper and I’ll show you the new batch of artefacts. I’ve just begun cataloging them. You can see for yourself that I’ve not been hoodwinked into buying fakes.’



The collection room far exceeded any of Jack’s preconceived expectations. Two adjoining drawing rooms had been devoted to Dulci’s work, the dividing doors between them pulled back to maximise the space; tall windows overlooking the back garden let in copious amounts of light during the day. Where the light was best, a long work table sat against a wall, strewn with stones, statues and wood carvings. Bookcases were laden with atlases and treatises from the Royal Geographic Society. Free-standing curio cabinets with glass shelves stood about the room, compelling the visitor to wander, stopping to look at each treasure.

And they were indeed treasures, Jack noted, studying each case in turn. It was impossible to tell how honestly anyone had come by the items, but they were authentic. He could rest easy on that account. Dulci had not been misled into purchasing frauds. He stopped to eye a splendid lapis-lazuli-and-gold Egyptian collar. ‘These are very fine items, Dulci.’

He studied a cabinet containing a set of bronze elephants with jewelled eyes. ‘From India?’

Dulci moved to stand beside him. ‘From a maharajah. An old friend brought them back for me a few years ago.’

‘Is that wistfulness I hear?’ Jack asked, tossing her a sideways glance. ‘Would you like to go to India some day?’

‘I’d like to go anywhere.’ Dulci ran an idle hand over a mask, tracing the contours. ‘India, Egypt, the Americas. There’s a big world out there—’ Dulci waved a hand ‘—and I’ve seen so very little of it.’

A footman entered with the trays and Dulci crossed the room to direct the setting out of the tea and supper on a vacant table. Jack studied her as she gave instructions, her dark hair hanging in a thick braid down her back, the shapely curve of her hips in the tight fencing trousers she wore.

A stab of jealousy went through him. He was an only child and had never acquired an appreciation for sharing. Had Gladstone seen her dressed thusly? Probably not, Jack reasoned. No man could see Dulci turned out in tight trousers and white shirt and blithely let her go. He could feel himself rising appreciatively at the provocative sight of her backside. On the other hand, maybe Gladstone, traditional bastard that he was, had seen Dulci like this and promptly run the other way. Gladstone wouldn’t know what to do with a woman like Dulci.

Jack knew. Whether or not that was a credit to him, however, was in dubious question. Dulci was a woman full of passion, a woman ready to burst with it. He recognised it in her smiles, in her blue eyes so full of life. It was there in her dares, those stupid dares that would bring her down sooner or later. She would not be careful for ever. One risk would be to go too far with the wrong sort of gentleman who would covet her joie de vivre. He would spare her that humiliation, that fall from grace if he could. But Dulci would not tolerate being reined in.

She’d done an admirable job of fooling London society so far. He could hardly reconcile the perfectly coiffed Incomparable who took to the dance floor every night of the London Season with the energetic virago who’d bested him at fencing and took a serious interest in anthropology. He supposed it was something of a revelation to learn he wasn’t the only one who wore a mask. In that, he and Dulci were quite alike.

The one thing that had become abundantly clear to him in the past few months since Christmas and intensely so in the past few days, was that he wanted her. Kissing her in the garden had only served to re-ignite his previous desire. He wanted all that energy, all that beauty, all that wit, in his bed. He knew too that it would have to be her choice, her understanding of what such an arrangement would mean and what it would not, both for her as well as for him.

There were so many reasons not to pursue this mad passion any further; she was untouched and he had nothing to offer—nothing he would or could offer. This decision would cost her far more than it would cost him. It would not impede his chances to marry—not that he had any plans in that direction—but it would impede hers should she ever change her mind and accept some erstwhile suitor in the future. But the body defied logic. Such reasons did nothing to staunch his desire.

The supper things were settled at last to Dulci’s satisfaction and Jack took a seat on the sofa across from her, picking up the thread of their interrupted conversation. ‘If you want to travel, why don’t you?’ Jack reached for a plate of cold meats and bread.

Dulci laughed. ‘I haven’t the same freedoms as a man, Jack. I can’t pack my maid off to Egypt with me as if it were a trip to Bath.’ Dulci bit into her meal with a ferocity that echoed her disapproval of such strictures.

‘Of course not. Surely something can be arranged. There are guidebooks and tours these days. You’d hardly be alone.’

Dulci shook her head and made a face. ‘I don’t want to travel with a tour. It would be incredibly boring, visiting all the same places everyone else visits. I want to explore. You’ve seen land no Englishman has ever seen. It’s simply not fair. You got to because you’re a man.’ Dulci sighed and sank back against her chair. ‘You don’t know how lucky you are, Jack. Your life is portable, your body is portable. I wager you could walk out this door and be on a ship to anywhere by the tide, or a mail coach within minutes of leaving my house.’




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