Cinderella in the Regency Ballroom: Her Cinderella Season / Tall, Dark and Disreputable

Discipline had gone. Reason and judgement had disappeared. The other, darker side of Jack’s soul ruled now. It roared to life inside of him, loosing a great whirl of longing and want and more than a bit of anger too. The small bit of sanity he had left knew that anger had no place in this, and urged control. But it was too late for restraint. He held Lily’s gaze prisoner with his own and asked the question to which he must have the answer. ‘Then what do you feel, Lily, when you look at me?’

‘I …’

‘Honesty, remember? Tell me the truth.’ Their lips were but a whisper apart.

She shook her head, looked away, breaking the hypnotic link between them. ‘Not dislike,’ she said to the ground.

He knew that she meant to hide the desire in her eyes—the same desire that flowed molten through him even now. Did it burn like fire through her veins—as it did his? He reached out to trace a fiery path, drawing a fingertip over her collarbone, along the smooth and shimmering nape of her neck. He lifted her chin and forced her to confront him, herself and the truth.

‘Something else entirely,’ was all she said.

The darkness inside of him rejoiced. She was caught—pressed up against the cold iron bars at her back. Jack’s erection bulged hot and leaden between them, and he suffered a brief, stabbing need to press it against her, to trap her between hot and cold, hard and harder. Yet he didn’t do it. Not yet.

Logic and reason put forth one last try, tossing a fleeting image of Batiste at his mind’s eye. Jack ignored it. He’d gone beyond the reach of logic, into a place where pure emotion and hot, liquid lust held sway. Batiste could go to hell. Jack had given himself over to animal need and he revelled in it, sucking in the clean scent of her, gazing with wonder at the flushed expectation on her lovely face.

Then his eye fixed on her mouth. She stared back. That gorgeous, plump lower lip beckoned. As if she knew what it would do to him, she caught it suddenly between her teeth. The startling contrast of soft lush pink and hard white enamel made him want to howl. And then, ever so slowly, her bottom lip slid free, and the tip of her hot tongue traced a soft, wet trail along it.

His heart thumped. His cock surged. He slid his fingers into her curls of red-gold, cradled the back of her head for one long, tender second, and then let go to grasp the bars on either side of her. Pain flashed in his arm, but she made no protest, and only anticipation showed on her face. Jack slipped loose from the last vestige of reason and control, leaned in and branded her with his hot, searing kiss.

Honesty. That’s what Jack gave her with his wild, insistent mouth. It was not what he’d set out to do. Lily had seen the calculation in his eye when he took his first step towards her. But she’d seen it disappear, too. Driven further away as he grew physically closer, supplanted by longing, and need and pure, undiluted want.

Almost from the first moment they met, Lily had asked, pes-tered, demanded that he come out of hiding and show her his true self. Now at last he’d taken the first step and opened a crack in the protective barriers around him. Her arms crept up, across the expanse of his chest and over his shoulders, locking behind his neck and pulling him close. No matter what he said, and despite his unreasonable request, she knew she had an obligation, a responsibility to meet him halfway.

He deepened the kiss, tempting and coaxing with lips and tongue and mouth, while a cascade of voices clamoured an alarm in her head. They threw accusations at her, ugly words like immoral and shame and sin.

She ignored them. This entire trip to London, she realised, had truly been about shutting out other voices and distractions, and learning to hear her own.

So she listened. At first she could only hear the clear and happy note that was born of his kiss. Jack, it hummed. Jack, Jack, Jack. But she forced herself to concentrate further. And what she heard was music, learning and debate. Camaraderie and intercourse with other people with similar interests. And a great clamouring for more. More of all of that, but above all, more of Jack Alden.

Joy erupted within her, stretching and growing until she had to give it voice. She moaned her approval and happiness and relief. And he answered in kind, emanating a low, appreciative rumble that originated in the back of his throat, but somehow ended up pooling hot and deep in her belly. Neither of them could deny the reality and the truth of this moment, just the two of them coming together with nothing else between.

Their kiss changed in the moment when her lips parted and her mouth opened under his. Suddenly he was inside, and the hot, slick slide of his tongue made her wild with need. Passion poured out of him and into her. She took it, honoured by the enormity of his gift, and gave it back to him twice over.

Slowly he coached her, taught her tongue how to play. An eager student, she met him thrust for thrust and pressed herself closer against him. His hands came off the bars and settled into the curve of her neck and shoulder, steadying her while he kissed her with long and languid strokes.

He drew back a fraction and Lily gasped, her breath coming fast and rough. It nearly ceased altogether when he buried his face in the curve of her throat. Her pulse tripped and pounded against him as he made his way down her throat with alternate hard, biting nips and soft, teasing kisses.

But honesty is a rare and fragile thing, and Lily should not have expected Jack’s first foray into the light to be a lengthy one. He gradually slowed and stilled, until they stood clasped unmoving in each other’s arms, his face still buried in the crook of her neck and her cheek pressed hard against his shoulder.

He was the first to disengage. Their hot breath mingled as their gazes met. His chest heaved as desire and need faded.

Lily knew how difficult this must be for him, and yet she had not expected to see regret loom so quickly, nor so strongly that it almost resembled despair. She shook her head. ‘Jack, don’t,’ she whispered.

But the breach was repaired and he had already retreated behind his walls and into safety. His head was shaking, too, in constant small movements that nevertheless signalled a large degree of denial.

‘No,’ he said. ‘This isn’t right. It isn’t me.’

‘Jack.’

‘No! I’m sorry—you ask for something I just don’t have in me to give.’ His brow furrowed, his lips compressed. ‘All I want is to speak with your cousin. I’ll do everything in my power to help him, I swear. If you hear from him, tell him that.’

He spun on his heel and walked away.

Lily could not bear to watch him go. She turned and gazed through the gate once more. For the first time in a long time, she felt she truly knew what she wanted. And it was not the iron bars in front of her blocking her path to good fortune.

Chapter Seven

Jack did not wait for the gathering to officially end. He took a terse leave of his mother, a more polite one of his host, and then he traded a spot in the landau next to Lily for Keller’s mount. Within thirty minutes he was on his way back to London, cursing himself for an uncontrolled idiot and Lily Beecham for a damnably tempting vixen.

Why? He pondered his ridiculous dilemma as the miles passed. Why did the one time he needed to maintain his usual calm and rational focus become the one time he found it impossible to do so? The thought of how badly he’d botched nearly every moment with Lily Beecham sickened him.

He needed to think. Traffic entering London forced him to slow his pace and he cursed under his breath. He longed for the peace and serenity of his rooms. He would refocus, forget the taste of her, the incredible feel of her under his hands, and try to figure out what the hell his next move should be.

Fractious fate intervened, however. When Jack finally made his way home, he sprinted up the stairs—and froze at the sight of his door standing partially open. Wariness, confusion, and finally white-hot anger blossomed in his chest. Silent, he crept forwards. Tense, on alert for any sound or movement from within, he eased the door open. Nothing stirred. Amidst a rising, ever-more-familiar rush of rage, he stepped inside.

Whoever the intruders had been, they’d done a thorough job of it. Every drawer, book, stack of papers, even the clothes in his wardrobe had been torn apart and tossed asunder. Speechless, he stood in the midst of the devastation.

What in hell was this all about? He couldn’t explain this ransacking of his rooms, any more than he could stem his rising tide of temper.

Already weakened by his encounter with Lily Beecham, surrounded by the wreckage of his life, discipline stood not a chance. Jack reached down to pick up a book, sorely tempted to throw it against the wall himself. A whisper of a sound outside gave him pause.

He waited. It came again. The steady, slow sound resolved itself into a set of footsteps on the stairs and only served to fuel his fury. He sunk into a crouch and let it wash over him. Rational thought ceased and blind, pure instinct took hold.

His brain fought back, trying desperately to send the message that something about the approaching threat rang peculiar. But Jack was in thrall to his jangled nerves. The enemy approached, stood just beyond the still-open doorway, set a cautious step over the threshold.

And at his next rational thought, Jack discovered he held a man pressed to the wall. His uninjured forearm pressed tight and cruel into the man’s throat, even as he desperately wished for his knife.

‘Effendi.’ The soft voice in his ear cut through the angry red haze. ‘I do not think you wish to be doing this.’

Startled, Jack glanced to his right. That accent, the silent approach, it could only be … ‘Aswan?’ He looked back, then, to the man he’d pinned. He stepped abruptly away. ‘Oh, God. Eli!’

‘Aye,’ the old sailor-turned-groom grunted, rubbing his throat. ‘And I’ll thank ye for leaving my head attached. Bad enough that I’ll be crossin’ to the other side without my leg. I don’t think the good Lord’ll be so understanding, should I lose my head as well.’

‘I’m sorry.’ He turned to Aswan. ‘But what the hell are you doing here?’ Jack had to admit, he’d felt a surge of satisfaction at the sight of them. These two had been as deeply embroiled in Trey and Mervyn’s search for the Lost Jewel as he had. Jack knew all too well just what this enigmatic Egyptian and peg-legged former sea captain were capable of.

‘There’s news.’ Eli glanced about at the mess. ‘Though I can see we left it a bit too late.’

‘What in blazes is going on? Is Trey with you?’ Jack had jerked suddenly to attention. ‘And who the hell is looking after Chione and Mervyn and the children?’

‘Treyford watches over the family. The slave-taker is still abroad,’ Aswan said. ‘But still he holds sway over many evil men in this country.’

‘Aye, Mervyn’s offices in Bristol and Portsmouth have both been broken into, and both on the same day, it looks like.’ Eli tossed aside a pile of jumbled shirts and settled himself into a chair. ‘I been stayin’ in Wapping, but when I heard, we went up to Mayfair to find the town house looking just like this. We came straight over to warn ye to be on the lookout for trouble.’

Jack laughed bitterly, but not for long. ‘Portsmouth and Bristol both?’ he’d asked. ‘And a synchronised effort? That’s significant manpower.’

‘It’s clear enough now that Batiste is still after the Lost Jewel. Trey cannot hide the fact that he is preparing for a large expedition. He thinks word has leaked to Batiste and that’s why he’s searching the offices.’ Eli glanced about. ‘I s’pose it’s why he’d do your rooms. The bastard wants to know jest where Trey’s headin’—and he’s thinkin’ ye might know.’

Aswan spoke up. ‘This man has a demon in him. He will not stop until he has what he wants.’

The three of them stared at each other in silence. They all knew what Batiste was after did not really exist—and that he would never be convinced of that truth.

‘We’ve got to get our hands on him,’ Jack breathed. ‘He’ll always be there, otherwise. Hanging in the background, waiting for his chance.’

‘Trey’s working on it. He says as you’re to be careful. He feels bad enough about the trouble he’s caused ye.’ Eli exchanged glances with the Egyptian and they both headed for the door. ‘You concentrate on finding Beecham. We’ll uncover what we can about this mess.’ He gestured. ‘We’ll be back to fill ye in before long.’

Dismayed, Jack watched his unlikely allies disappear. He hadn’t the heart to call them back and tell them how badly he’d bungled his search for Matthew Beecham. His anger returned as he stared at the chaos of his rooms. But this time his brain remained engaged. Frantically he began to rifle through the mess, searching for older, sturdier clothing.

There was more than one way to skin a cat, his mother had always told him. Surely there must also be more than one way to catch a scoundrel like Batiste.

Thunk. The tankard hit the table hard, sloshing a wave of dark ale over the brim.

‘Ye’ll need to be drinkin’ a mite more, if ye’ll be taking up the table for the whole of the night,’ the bleary-eyed barman grunted.

‘I’ll order the whole damned place a round when the man you spoke of shows up,’ Jack shot back.

The tapster shrugged and wiped the spill with his stained and dirty apron. ‘Told ye—I’m no man’s keeper. The sod’ll show up, or he won’t. Plenty of other pubs to find ‘is grog in, ain’t there?’

God knew that was the truth, and it felt as if Jack had been in nearly every squalid dockside tavern and low riverside inn in London over the last few nights. ‘I’ll wait just the same,’ he replied and slid a coin across the scarred wood of the table.

The barman eyed the gold, then Jack for a long moment. Finally he scooped up the money, turned and pushed his way back through the low-hung smoke to the tap.

Jack settled in to nurse another pint. The Water Horse might be the seediest, most disreputable pub on the river, but it was the only one that held a promise of a lead to Batiste.

Of all the sailors, dockyard labourers, whores and wharf rats Jack had questioned over the last few days, only the tapster here had flinched at Batiste’s name. A very large purse had bought him the information that one of Batiste’s former crew sometimes drank here.

It was a long shot at best, a fast route to a watery grave at worst. Yet what was the alternative? Pestering Lily Beecham until she heard from her cousin again? Torturing them both and allowing her to goad him into forgetting himself again? He’d rather spend a thousand nights in this sinkhole.

Jack took a drink of the warm ale and grimaced. He’d need an ocean of the stuff to drown his frustration with that girl. Her image hovered in his head, beautiful and lovely and all too tempting. He fought to ignore it, to forget the mad embrace they had shared in Bradington’s gardens. Even the thought of her stirred the emotional turmoil he fought so hard to control.

And perhaps at last he’d come to the real reason he sat at the Horse again tonight. Here he had no attention or emotional energy to spare. Here he had no choice but to focus on his surroundings, on getting the information he sought and on getting himself out alive.

As the hour grew later the likelihood of the latter began to come into doubt. All manner of transactions took place around him, both above board, and by the furtive look of some of the participants, below. The crowd ebbed and flowed like the tide, but through it all someone besides Jack remained constant.

A high-backed booth flanked the door, and two men occupied it most of the night. A massive bull of a man, whose short dingy blond hair peeked from beneath a seaman’s cap, sat silent and watchful with a smaller, swarthier man. They were not drinking either, Jack noted, but the tapster didn’t stir himself to chide them. Not once did Jack see a word spoken between them, but as the taproom grew emptier, the smaller man began to flick an occasional, tell-tale glance his way.

He rose. Better to take his chances in the open than to risk events coming to a head here, where those two might have allies and Jack certainly did not.

He left the pub and strode quickly out into Flow Alley. The fog hung thick and rife with the stench of the river. It swirled and clung to him, making him feel as if he had to swim through it instead of walk.

A lamp hanging outside a pub cast an eerie pool of wavering light as he passed. From the mist floated an occasional snatch of disembodied conversation. It was not drunken revelry or ribald negotiations he strained to hear, but it was not until he reached the wide, empty intersection with Great Hermitage Street that he caught a hint of it—the faint echo of a footstep on cobblestones.

Jack ducked instantly into the doorway of a chandler’s shop. If luck was with him, then whoever it was behind him would walk right on by. If it was not, then at least his back was covered.

Much as he’d expected—Lady Luck had abandoned him. First one figure emerged from out of the gloom, then another. The men from the Water Horse.

Jack drew his knife. Nobody spoke. The shorter man hung back, the larger pulled a stout cudgel from his bulky seaman’s sweater and advanced with a menacing stride.

‘Are you here at Batiste’s bidding?’ asked Jack.

The smaller man spat on to the rough stones of the street. ‘Questions like that is what got ye into this mess.’

‘I just meant to ask if you knew what sort of man you were taking orders from,’ Jack said, never taking his eyes off of the big lout.

‘The sort with gold in his pockets,’ snickered the first man. ‘And before ye ask, no, I don’t care how he come by it—as long as he’s forkin’ over my share.’ He thrust his chin towards Jack. ‘Do it, Post.’

The big sailor moved in. Jack braced himself and waited … waited … until the cudgel swung at him in a potentially devastating blow. Quickly he jumped forwards, thrusting his knife, point up and aiming for the vulnerable juncture under the man’s arm.

But the goliath possessed surprisingly swift reflexes. He shifted his aim and blocked the driving thrust of the knife with the cudgel. The point buried itself in the rough wood. With a grin and a sudden, practised jerk, he yanked the blade right from Jack’s grip.

His gut twisting, Jack knew he was finished. But he’d be damned if he went down without a fight. He ducked low and aimed a powerful blow right into that massive midsection.

He swore his wrist cracked. His fingers grew numb. But the giant just grinned. He reached for Jack. Those thick fingers closed around his neckcloth—and suddenly the great ham-hand spasmed open.

Jack looked up into the broad face so close to his. He met a pair of bulging eyes and flinched at the sight of a mouth wide open in a wordless grunt of pain. From this vantage point, the reason for his silence was clear. Some time, somewhere in this man’s violent past, his tongue had been cut out.

Jack strained, trying to slide out from against the door as the brute turned half-away, reaching behind him. His gaze following, Jack saw the hilt of a knife protruding from the man’s meaty thigh.

The giant grasped the knife. With a thick grunt, he pulled it free. Jack acted instantly, kicking the blade out of the oaf’s hand. Never too proud to take advantage of an opponent’s misfortune, Jack aimed another hard kick at his wounded limb. As the leg began to buckle, he reached up and, yanking hard, pulled his knife free from the cudgel. In a flash, he had it at the man’s throat. The point pricked, drawing blood, before his opponent realised his predicament.

The giant froze. Jack looked over at his companion. ‘Back away,’ he snarled. ‘I’ll cut his throat if I have to.’

A curious, regular tapping sounded out of the mist. Jack tensed, waiting to see what new threat would emerge. Someone had thrown that knife. But which combatant had it been meant for?

His mouth dropped and a wave of surprise and relief swept over him as the fog gave up another figure, wiry, grizzled and wearing an elaborately carved peg below one knee.

‘Eli!’ Jack grinned. ‘You’re like a bad penny, always turning up where you’re least expected.’

The diminutive groom brandished another wickedly long knife. ‘Fun’s over for tonight, mates,’ he said.

The swarthy man let out an ugly laugh. ‘Says you.’ He gestured to his partner. ‘Kill ’em bo—’ His sentence ended abruptly as his legs flew out from beneath him. He flailed briefly and hit the cobblestones hard. In a second’s time, the dark-skinned man in a turban kneeled over him and rested a pistol nonchalantly against his chest.

‘Good evening to you, Aswan.’ This time a dose of humiliation mixed with Jack’s relief. How many times would the Egyptian have to snatch him from the jaws of death?

‘The pair of ye got nowhere to go, ‘cept to hell,’ Eli told the villains with a nod. He gestured for Aswan to release his captive. ‘Unless you’re in a hurry to get there, get up and off wi’ ye both.’

‘Aye, and you keep your friend where he belongs,’ snarled the small man. ‘If we see him again we won’t be giving him his chance—it’ll be a knife in the back from out of the dark.’ He glared at Jack. ‘Understand? Keep to your own lot, bookworm.’

The pair faded into the fog.

‘Come on.’ Eli clapped Jack on the shoulder. ‘This damp is makin’ me leg ache.’

The three of them walked to Leman Street, where they hailed a hackney and had it convey them to a still-open coffee house in the Strand.

The place was empty. The shopkeeper had thrown the chairs up on the tables to sweep, but he was thrilled to stir up a cheery fire and arrange three of his best seats in front of it. He bustled off to fetch coffee and Eli groaned as he settled in and rubbed his leg. ‘Well, which is it, man?’ he asked Jack.

‘Which is what?’ Jack gazed, puzzled, from one of his rescuers to the other.

The groom exchanged a glance with the Egyptian. ‘We told ye we’d deal with this lot. And then we hear tell of a Mayfair toff askin’ questions all over the riverside.’ He shrugged. ‘A man don’t get hisself into a situation like that unless he’s got either a death wish or woman trouble. So which is it?’

Jack groaned and hung his head in his hands.

‘Woman trouble.’ Eli sighed.

Jack peered up at the pair of them. ‘Well, I suppose I should thank you, at any rate.’ He grimaced. ‘What do you hear from Devonshire?’

‘We heard from Trey today. He’s got everything well in hand.’

‘Well in hand?’ Jack scoffed. ‘Batiste’s got his fingers in every pie from here to there and Trey’s got it well in hand?’

‘What I want to know,’ Eli demanded, ‘is why you were at the Horse tonight.’

Jack explained, but Eli just shook his head. ‘It’s more likely that tapster’s in league with Batiste’s men. He probably lured you there and tipped them off.’

‘Well, I had to take the chance, didn’t I?’

The coffee came then, and Eli sighed as he wrapped his hands around his hot cup. Aswan glanced at his mug with distaste.

‘Effendi, why do you feel as if you must take this chance?’ the Egyptian asked.

Jack stared blankly. ‘You just said it, Aswan. Batiste is a dangerous man.’ He glanced around at the empty room, but still lowered his voice to a whisper. ‘Chione is your family. Trey and the rest will be soon enough. Can you stomach the thought of him out there, hovering, just waiting for his chance to hurt them? They deserve to live their lives free, without fear and without a constant nagging threat in the background.’

‘Batiste’s more’n dangerous. He’s obsessed, I’d say,’ Eli replied. ‘Treyford wants him taken jest as bad as ye. He’s not above throwin’ his title around, neither. Aswan says as how they’ve had the Navy in Devonshire, and the Foreign Office, too. Even had a couple of Americans in.’ He took a long swallow and grinned in satisfaction. ‘Damned good coffee here.’