Traitor in Her Arms Read online

  She had to think. She had wanted something from him—not this. Not this!

  The necklace. Yes. If only that magic mouth would stop its assault for one second she could focus and—

  Suddenly he broke away. Confused, she blinked up at him, saw him gazing down at her, that irritating smile in place once more. “I fear I’ve had an attack of conscience.”

  She almost laughed out loud. The Earl of Sedgwick having an attack of conscience? Ha! The man had no conscience. He was playing her—and he was winning!

  “As lovely”—he slid his gaze down her body—“and delectable as you are…” His finger trailed a path of heat down her neck and over her collarbone. She willed her body not to react. “I cannot betray Her Grace. I couldn’t live with myself.”

  “No, I’m sure you couldn’t.” Where was that necklace? She could not, would not, allow him to leave with it. Sedgwick rose and strode toward the door. She reached into her pocket and pulled out her last hope.

  “Good night, my sweet. Until we meet again…”

  She rapped the pistol’s handle on the bed’s footboard and he froze in place. Now he was the one turning slowly.

  “Give me the necklace, Sedgwick, or I’ll be forced to take it off your cold, dead body.”

  He cocked one arrogant eyebrow, seeming not in the least perturbed by the fact she had a pistol trained on him.

  “That is a charming toy,” he drawled. “Do you even know how to use it?”

  She kept her gaze and her pistol locked on him. “My aim is extremely accurate. Now hand over the necklace.”

  Instead of rushing to do her bidding, he leaned against the doorframe, crossed his arms over his broad chest, and seemed to consider her order as though it were a mere request to pass the cream or sugar. Annoying man! Would she have to shoot him to prove she was serious? She did not want to go that far, but she would if necessary.

  Wouldn’t she?

  She didn’t really know how to fire the pistol. Cressy had told her to point it at anyone giving her trouble, and the mere glimpse of it would frighten even the most stalwart. But it didn’t frighten Sedgwick.

  “Hand over the necklace,” he murmured, as though turning the idea around and over in his mind. “To what necklace are you referring, madam?”

  She clenched her jaw and seriously considered shooting him somewhere trifling—a knee or a toe. Could she manage it? Had Cressy even primed the thing?

  “You know exactly to which necklace I refer,” she ground out, eyeing his shoe with longing.

  “No, madam, I am afraid I don’t. Is this a necklace you lost? Why do you assume I possess it?”

  She lowered the pistol, aimed it at his foot. Even if she missed his foot, she would hit him somewhere. He was one of the tallest men of her acquaintance. She could not miss. “Stop the games or you won’t be dancing anytime soon. You know as well as I do that I want Cleopatra’s necklace.”

  “Cleopatra’s necklace? How would I know anything about such a piece?” But he must have seen something in her eyes as she prepared to take a chance and pull the trigger, and he moved his foot back an inch and held out a hand. “We both know you will not shoot me.”

  Her head snapped up at his tone. It had a slight tinge of concern in it. “Why is that?”

  “Because I know you. You’re not that kind of…viscountess.”

  “You forget my humble beginnings, my lord. I’m full of surprises. After all, you didn’t expect me to walk in here tonight, did you?”

  He lifted his brows, seemed to consider. “You have a point.”

  “Give me the necklace, Sedgwick. I will shoot you.” If I can deduce how to cock this bloody hammer…

  With a shrug, he held up both hands in apparent surrender. “Very well. I’ll give you the necklace, though I assure you, I need it far more than you do.”

  “Too bad.” Holding the pistol steady with one hand, she moved forward and held out the other. “Move slowly.”

  He did as she said, reaching into his tailcoat and withdrawing something. She kept her gaze on his face, his eyes. She was no amateur to allow him to divert her attention. She held out her hand, and he dropped something warm and heavy into it. She curled her fingers around it, moved back, and saw in her peripheral vision that it was indeed the piece she sought.

  She pocketed it through a slit in her gown and motioned to the door with her pistol. “Move away from the door. I will leave, and you will wait at least ten minutes before you follow. My carriage awaits. Don’t bother searching the ball for me.”

  Again, he shrugged and moved aside. He was far too compliant, far too affable, but she did not have time to question it. She opened the door, slipped through, and started down the corridor, tucking the pistol into a pocket through the slit on the opposite side of her gown. But she had taken no more than five steps when she saw a light approaching from the far end and then heard the duchess’s door open behind her. Muttering a curse, she paused, uncertain whether to continue forward or turn back.

  From behind her, she heard Sedgwick. “That footman will wonder at your presence up here. And he will remember seeing you when the duchess questions the staff about her missing necklace.”

  She glanced over her shoulder and shot him a glare. Did he think she didn’t know all of that? And did he think she didn’t know what had to be done?

  He grinned at her, the glint in his eyes wicked. Of course he knew, the snake. Still, better to try her luck with a snake than to face a magistrate in the morning.

  Quickly, as the footman was drawing closer, she turned and stepped into his arms. He drew her into the embrace immediately, bending her back slightly before pressing his lips to hers. She responded, but only enough to make the embrace look believable. Inside she seethed. He bent to kiss her neck as the footman drew closer.

  “Not very nice of you to pull a pistol on me,” he whispered. “I suppose what they say is true.”

  Ignore him, she ordered herself. Do not respond. But, as was always the case with him, she could not stop herself. “And what is that?”

  “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.”

  “What?” she sputtered. A woman scorned? “I rejected you!”

  “Did you?”

  “Yes!” And if he thought she carried some foolish tendre for him, she would set him right immediately. She began to push him away, but he pulled her closer.

  “Now, now. Be careful.”

  The light from the footman’s candle was upon them. She had no choice but to return Sedgwick’s kiss even as the footman slowed to move around them. She was so angry it barely registered in her mind that she was kissing Sedgwick—that was until he parted her lips and invaded her mouth with his tongue.

  At least it felt like an invasion at first. She would have struggled if the footman had not been so close. She would have struggled if Sedgwick was not holding her so tightly. She would have struggled—

  Oh, who was she fooling? She wrapped her arms around him and sank into the kiss, allowing oblivion to descend for just a moment.

  But somehow her wits pushed through the warm, murky waves of passion and resurfaced. She would not allow him to kiss her senseless again. With a shove, she separated from him. The footman was at the other end of the corridor, a safe distance. Sedgwick grinned at her like a cat who had stolen the cream.

  She poked his cravat. “Don’t touch me again. In fact, don’t ever speak to me again.” With a whirl, she turned and glided down the hallway, not pausing until she reached the vestibule and the waiting footman. He raised a brow at her, but she ignored it. So what if she had forgotten her wrap? She would send a servant to fetch it tomorrow. “Is my carriage ready?”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “Good.” A moment later, she was inside with the curtains drawn and the carriage lamp casting a soft glow on the plush interior. She would not think of Sedgwick now. She was on her way home, and she had the necklace. That was all that mattered.

  She reached for the necklace, int
ent on admiring it now that she had a moment alone, but when she felt inside the gown’s slit, her fingers touched only the soft fabric of the pockets she had tied on.

  There was no necklace.

  Panicked, she reached into the other side.

  There was no pistol.

  A cat who had stolen the cream. As she fell back onto the squabs, she uttered a curse.

  “Sedgwick.”

  Chapter 2

  Ramsey strolled down the dark alley, Cleopatra’s lapis lazuli necklace heavy where it lay against his chest. He walked quickly, the blood seeming to surge through his veins. He was unsure whether the rush he felt originated from the thrill of pilfering the necklace or from the still-smoldering heat in his loins from his encounter with the lovely Viscountess McCullough. Either way, it distracted him enough that he missed the movement in the shadows until it was almost too late.

  He swung his walking stick to deflect the blow, but the slight hesitation cost him. The shadowed man’s club glanced off his shoulder, leaving it stinging and Ramsey cursing silently. He saved his breath, ducked down—evading another swipe, this one at his head—and rammed his shoulders into his attacker.

  The man let out a grunt, lost his footing, and toppled to the ground. Before he could rise, Ramsey had the blade hidden in his walking stick pressed snugly against the man’s chest, right above where he imagined the man’s heart slammed against his ribs.

  “Nice spot for a tumble, Stryker,” Ramsey said, indicating the pool of fetid liquid lapping at his attacker’s head.

  “Get that there sword away from me.” Stryker shoved at the blade to no avail.

  “Tell me, Stryker,” Ramsey drawled. “Is this any way for Madame Fouchet to treat her friends? Attacking me in a dark alley?”

  “You ain’t no friend of the madame’s. A cove like you ain’t no friend to nobody.”

  Ramsey raised a brow in bemusement. “Well, that may be true, but what have I done to engender this response?” He gestured to the club fallen from Stryker’s hand, lying tantalizingly close but just out of reach.

  “Ye know what ye did. Swindled Madame out of five thousand in blunt, ye did.”

  “Did I?” Ramsey pushed a button on the hilt and retracted the blade. “I thought that was payment for services rendered. Get up, Stryker, and take me to her.”

  Stryker rose warily to his feet. “She don’t want to see you.”

  “And I don’t want to see her, but I have a feeling she’ll warm to me once she sees the gift I’ve brought. Come on, now. Don’t drag your feet.”

  Stryker limped to the end of the blind alley, making his clumsy way through the darkness until they reached a vee with a door on one side. Above, the buildings crouched over them like hungry gargoyles. Ramsey ignored the feeling of unease and watched as Stryker gave a brisk knock on the scuffed black door. A moment later metal scraped against wood and a sliver as wide and long as a letter opener appeared at eye level.

  Stryker spoke to the pair of eyes that materialized. “Lord Sedgwick here to see Madame.” He sneered on the word lord, making it sound more like a curse than a courtesy title.

  The eyes blinked once and the sliver closed. Silence reigned for a long moment. Ramsey shifted, aware that if Madame Fouchet did not want to see him, he had no recourse. He could stand out here all night, bang on the door until his fist bled, and she could easily ignore him.

  What then? Pawn the necklace? Give it to Lady McCullough? What the hell did she want it for anyway? The question had niggled him from the moment she entered the duchess’s room and he realized she was breaking into Her Grace’s jewelry box. Doing a damn good job of it as well. When had she learned such skills? Certainly not from her dead husband.

  More important, why did she ply those skills now? Did she need money? She could easily marry again. Men practically tripped over their own feet when she cast those cornflower-blue eyes of hers upon them. She didn’t have to resort to theft.

  Not everyone had such a choice.

  Stryker turned to look at him, undoubtedly to shoo him away, when the sound of locks turning and metal screeching rent the alley’s eerie stillness. The door swung open, and a corridor with stairs at the end yawned before him.

  “Enter,” a raspy voice said from the shadows. “Madame waits in her chambers.”

  Ramsey started forward, familiar with the location of Madame’s chambers. The sound of the door clanging shut behind him made him cringe ever so slightly, but he kept on walking.

  The interior of the abode he entered—Ramsey hesitated to call it a home, though he supposed that was what it was—was nothing like the dilapidated alley he had left behind. The décor here was sumptuous, from the plush Turkish rugs to the medallions on the freshly painted ceilings. Not that he could appreciate the luxurious surroundings. Madame kept the place dark and gloomy. The brilliant chandeliers hung in every room were dark ghosts. Shadows crept along the walls, obscuring the paintings and paper hung there. Chairs, side tables, and various other furnishings crouched in the corridor’s recesses. Ramsey imagined he could see the gleam of their polished wood, though it might have been the reflection of a cat’s eyes. Madame had several felines.

  When he reached the stairs, he took them two at a time, eager now to complete this task. He could think of a dozen places he would rather be at the moment—at the top of the list was the bed of some winsome wench. At the bottom was lying in a sewer covered in grime. Even the worst sewer grime ranked above what he was about to face.

  He reached the top of the stairs and paused before a closed door. It was equally gloomy here, the landing lit by a faltering wall sconce, but this area had the added menace of Madame’s scent—a cloying rotted rose fragrance that turned his stomach.

  He tapped on the door and pushed it open, feeling the heat wash over him as soon as he stepped inside. Despite the mild weather, the fireplace blazed. But at least this room was brighter. Lamps lit the area around a chaise longue. On the black velvet furnishing, a handsome woman reclined. She was tall and broad shouldered, her ebony hair swept into an elaborate twist that reminded him of a snake. Her face was painted and her white shoulders bare as the sleeves of her loose gown had slipped down about her elbows. He could see the hint of the corset she wore beneath and knew it would be cinched tight to give her the appearance of a smaller waist.

  She was not a young woman, but neither did she look her age, which Ramsey estimated to be between forty and forty-five. In her hand she held a book, and she did not look up from its pages as he entered. Neither did she cease stroking the black cat lying beside her. “I didn’t ask for you,” she said, her voice tinged with a soupçon of French. “I should swat you flat, like a fly, for annoying me.” She turned a page.

  Ramsey closed the door and leaned against it. “I promise the annoyance is worth it.”

  “A gift?” She set down the book and trained her yellow-tinted cat’s eyes on him. “There’s very little from you that I want.” Her gaze assessed him frankly. “Very little I have not already tasted.”

  Ramsey pushed down the surge of anger—he would save it for later—and reached into his coat for the necklace. He’d wrapped it in a handkerchief, and now as she watched, feigning disinterest, he allowed the white cloth to flutter away. The necklace trickled through his fingertips, dangling gracefully in the light, while he scrutinized her face and saw the almost imperceptible widening of her eyes.

  “What is it?” she asked, pointedly looking down to study her nails.

  “You know what it is.” He would not allow her to rile him.

  She glanced at him again. “You managed to steal it away from the Duchess of Beaumont?”

  “Just now. Tonight. The duke hosted a ball.”

  “And you were invited.” Laughter twinkled in her eyes. “If only your precious ton knew what I know.”

  Anger flared again, and he added it to the smoking pyre he built deep within. Ramsey swallowed and stepped closer to her. He was sweating now as the heat from the fir
e in the hearth burned through the silk of his coat. “Perhaps this gift might entice you to keep my secret a little longer.”

  She gave him a feline smile. “Perhaps you might.”

  His stomach revolted at the thought of touching her, even as the smell of her heavy perfume grew more pungent. But he only smiled and held the necklace before her, tantalizing her before pulling it away and securing it safely in his coat pocket again. She watched him with interest, not appearing the least concerned that he had not handed over the necklace, as she had no doubt expected.

  “You’re a woman of your word,” he began, ignoring the bemused expression on her face. “I’d like to negotiate. The necklace for those documents.”

  “Negotiate,” she purred. “Interesting. How do I know the necklace is real and not an elaborate forgery?”

  Ridiculous. She knew it was real, but she wouldn’t make this easy for him. “Have your people examine it. Moreover, have them verify my story. The duchess won’t make public the loss of her necklace, but servants talk.”

  Catlike, she stretched. “I could do that. But what am I negotiating for?”

  “To begin with, I want you to forgive the loan you made me.”

  She blinked at him, her smile deceptive. “Loan? You mean the five thousand you stole?”

  He resisted the urge to clench his fists. “It was money for services rendered.” He considered it a victory that his voice had sounded cool and level.

  “Chéri, you’re not that good.”

  He stiffened but would not allow the anger to show. “For the painting I acquired for you. The Titian.”

  “Yes. But the theft of a painting is hardly worth five thousand.”

  “And Cleopatra’s necklace?”

  “Possibly.” She smiled. “But I have a feeling that’s not all you want.”

  “You know what I want.”

  “Of course, and I will tell you outright that Cleopatra’s necklace is not enough for you to have it.”