Adele Ashworth (3 page)

She stopped short and gave him a crooked smile. “Goodness, it sounds serious.”

Jonathan regarded her for a moment. Then with a deep breath for encouragement and his own sense of acceptance, he quietly said, “This has nothing to do with you, sweet, but I think it’s time—”

“Don’t think I haven’t considered this day was coming, Jonathan,” she cut in brightly, tossing her shawl onto the hardwood settle to her left. “I’ve noticed changes in you lately and I’ve seen them before.”

She walked to his side, gazing into his eyes and smiling as she perched her bottom on the arm of his chair. “Believe it or not,” she continued thoughtfully, weaving her fingers through his thick hair, “I was also thinking it was probably time to move on, and you’ll never believe who’s pursuing me, darling, but the wealthy and generous Viscount Willmont.”

He raised his brows in surprise. “Old Chester?”

She nodded.

“Can he still . . . walk?”

“Jealous, darling?”

He grinned again, placing his palm on a thigh he knew so well, inhaling the familiar scent of her perfume. “Very.”

Marissa laughed softly and steadied his chin with her forefinger and thumb, her face only inches from his. “Nobody will ever compare to you, in or out of bed, and I envy the woman who finally steals your heart.”

Jonathan grabbed her around the waist and pulled her onto his lap. “I’m sure we can still make use of tonight,” he goaded huskily. “Chester has probably already drunk his warm milk and retired for the evening anyway.”

Marissa reached down and cupped him fully, boldly, then leaned over and whispered against his mouth, “Let’s go upstairs. . . .”

Chapter 2

N
atalie Haislett threw caution to the wind as she pulled the hood of her cloak tightly around her head, looked subtly in both directions, then quietly made her way down the steps of her father’s London town house toward the end of the street where her ride awaited her.

She knew she was being brash, perhaps even irrational, but the time had finally come for her to make her move, and she could think of no other way. She was ready to meet the man of her dreams, the man who would take her away from her starched, banal existence. And she’d never felt more anxious in her life.

Even through the thick, early-morning fog, she spied the hired coach arranged for her by her ever valuable maid and walked quickly toward it. Then before the sun began to warm the day, she was on her way to his home, thrilled to the core and scared out of her mind.

Jonathan Drake was the last man on earth she wanted to see, the last man she wanted to count on for help. But he was all she had; he was her only lead. His older brother, Lord Simon, twelfth earl of Beckford, was married to her closest friend Vivian, and Vivian had promised with no uncertainty that Jonathan personally knew the infamous Black Knight, the man Natalie had known for nearly two years now as the man she was destined to marry.

Drake, independent and wealthy in his own right, was something of a free spirit, a wanderer, though thoroughly accepted as one of England’s most eligible bachelors. He was a trader of fine goods, a buyer and seller of antiques and unusual artifacts for his own personal satisfaction, which meant to Natalie that he was just another nobleman with too much money and the time to waste it. But that was his business. Her interest in him went no further than his knowledge of the whereabouts of Europe’s most notorious thief.

According to Vivian, Jonathan Drake had apparently met and become acquainted with the Black Knight through either business or travels. Although the Black Knight was a living legend, this wasn’t so difficult for Natalie to believe, as he was still flesh and bone, and he had to have a few friends who knew his identity. It was just an extraordinary coincidence that the man she intended to marry knew
him
, the only man on earth she’d give her life to avoid.

Settling into the squabs, Natalie closed her eyes, attempting to replace the anxiousness she felt at seeing Jonathan with the hope and excitement of finally meeting her future husband.

The Black Knight was a mystery throughout Europe. She’d been following his escapades in England and on the Continent for more than two years, keeping track of him and his whereabouts through newspaper articles, and yes, although she was ashamed to admit it, through gossip. He was called many names—the Black Knight, the Thief of Europe, the Knight of Shadows—mostly, she assumed, because he worked only in darkness, in clandestine operations. Although the majority of people thought him a dishonest scoundrel and a despoiler of women, Natalie felt quite certain most all of what she’d heard was embellished or fabricated by those who were simply jealous of his accomplishments.

She’d first heard him mentioned when he’d been given credit for stealing a fine collection of Sevres vases from a prominent family in Germany. That this collection had originally been stolen from a French aristocrat during the Revolution of 1792 was somehow waylaid by the fact that the stealer was the infamous Black Knight. Natalie wasn’t certain, but it was rumored that the vases had eventually found their way to their rightful owners who were settled once again near Orange, and that the thief was only working for money and doing a job which those in authority were unable to do for reasons of questionable propriety or legalities.

She’d heard his name mentioned indifferently several times after that, but only last January did all of London come alive with speculation once more when Lord Henry Alton was arrested and charged with attempting to sell the countess of Belmarle’s stolen ruby earrings. When his property was searched, not only did the authorities find a snuffbox on his mantel stuffed with the matching necklace and ring, but clear evidence that the man was running a highly enterprising trade in bootlegged whiskey. Rumors flew, but the word was out that the Black Knight was the one to sell Lord Alton the original rubies that led to his arrest.

Others might scoff, but Natalie, naive though she may be, knew in her soul that the notorious Knight of Shadows was working for the government and doing questionably legal things to catch criminals and right wrongs that could not be done through conventional measures. This had to be the case, for what good thief would return stolen items to rightful owners? Everything about him was rumor, however, from these instances to those involving art forgery and pirated gold to the identity of the man himself. The only certainty was that he existed.

So for the last few months Natalie had learned everything she could of him with keen interest, and except for only a general outline of his physical appearance, she knew everything there was to know, including the obvious fact that he was the man for her. He was exciting, intelligent, had been everywhere she wanted to go, and had done all the remarkable things she admired. But most of all he wasn’t stiff as starch like every English gentleman who brought her sweetmeats and flowers, and took her for unimpressive rides through St. James Park while discussing Lord so-and-so’s antique flintlock top, hammer pocket pistols, or the hunt in bloodthirsty detail. If she married this type of man, the type of man her parents wanted for her, her life (and naturally her backside) would become one huge, unproductive lump of fat. She deserved more from life, and since she was now nearly twenty-three years of age and hadn’t yet chosen a husband, which in itself was driving her mother and father into a near panic, she finally felt ready to look for the man destiny had chosen for her. Heaven help her when her parents found out, but she was going to marry the Thief of Europe. And Jonathan Drake was going to help her find him.

As her coach finally stopped in front of the man’s city dwelling, Natalie pulled her collar tightly around her neck. She didn’t enjoy the chill, or the knowledge that someone might see her enter his town house unchaperoned, remote as that possibility would be.

Quickly paying the driver to wait for her, she ascended the steps and without hesitation lightly tapped the knocker on the front door. It was unthinkable to be calling at such an unseemly hour, as it was probably not quite six o’clock, but she really had no choice. She had to see him early so she could return to her bed before her mother awakened and panicked over her disappearance.

After waiting several moments, coming to the conclusion that the man’s servants were seriously neglecting their duties and he evidently slept like the dead, Natalie tried the knob. To her complete surprise and satisfaction, the unlocked door slowly creaked open with a gentle nudge.

Quietly, nerves fired with anticipation, she stepped inside the darkened entryway, allowing her eyes only a second to adjust to the dimness, then moved swiftly in the direction of what she assumed to be his parlor. She found his study instead, and what a marvelous room it was, for through the glow of early-morning sunlight streaming through parted gauze curtains, she was suddenly taken aback by the most glorious collection of foreign treasures she had ever seen.

Paintings, large and small, of every port, city, and landscape imaginable adorned the oak-paneled walls. Bronze sculptures and Oriental vases of all colors, sizes, and styles sat upon oak chests, mahogany tables, and stands, and his grand Sheraton writing desk, now covered with papers, quills, a crystal bottle of ink, and an ivory-handled blade for opening correspondence. A magnificent Spanish velveteen portrait in vivid blues, gold, sunset red, and black hung over the fireplace, from the tall ceiling to the mantel. Across the polished oak floor lay fine, delicately embroidered Oriental rugs, and on the farthest wall hung an elaborate assortment of exotic killing devices.

Natalie raised her hand to suppress a laugh, but truly, that’s what they were.

He had knives and swords of every kind, some with jagged edges, some smooth, pistols with handles of various shapes and sizes covered with ivory, jade, and foreign lettering she had never before seen. And dangling precariously from the ceiling in front of the wall hung a huge, curved sword with unusual interlocking black marks across the flat of the blade.

She couldn’t help herself. She had to touch it.

Running her fingertips across the cold metal edge, Natalie considered it peculiar that Vivian had never mentioned her brother-in-law to be such a very odd gentleman.

With her thoughts elsewhere, she missed the pattering of feet behind her. Until a ferocious growl pierced the silence.

So sudden and unexpected was the noise, she whirled around to confront it, slicing her hand with the tip of the blade.

For a frightful second she glared into the eyes of a huge German shepherd standing only three feet from her. Then she felt the warmth of her blood as it oozed down her hand and dripped onto her midnight-blue traveling cloak, and immediately she was both awash with pain and completely incensed.

Taking several deep breaths to control the scream welling up inside of her, Natalie looked to her palm. The cut was superficial, though nearly three inches long, stretching from her index finger to her wrist. She quickly wrapped her cloak around it to stop the bleeding, then started toward the door. At that, the animal began a pattern of endless barking as it cornered her under the sword.

“Be quiet, you beast,” she whispered nervously, trying to brush the dog aside with her good hand.

It made no difference. The animal growled again, then shocked her beyond belief when he quite suddenly stuck his nose into her gown, between her legs no less, and pushed her back against the wall.

“What are you doing here, Natalie?”

She stilled, eyes bright, cheeks pink with embarrassment as she turned her attention to the door of the study.

He stood there, looking absolutely magnificent as she knew he would, more handsome than memory served, wearing nothing but tight, black trousers molding indecently to his tapered hips and legs.

“Did I wake you?” she asked sweetly for lack of something better to say. “The door was open, and I . . .” Words failed her then as she became increasingly flustered, feeling ever more helpless as the seconds dragged by and the beast of an animal refused to remove his probing nose from between her thighs.

And he was watching the dog. She wanted to scream.

Indifferently he leaned his hard, sleek body against the doorframe and crossed his arms over his chest, relishing, she was certain, her unusual and highly entertaining predicament.

“Sir?” she pleaded, pushing in vain against the shepherd’s head with her uninjured hand.

He smiled lazily. “Down, Thorn.”

The dog responded immediately to the gruff command, moving back a foot or two to sit and watch her as well.

Natalie could think of nothing appropriate to say, so she simply stood her ground, bravely holding his gaze. Her cheeks burned, but whether it was from utter humiliation or the discomfort she always felt in the presence of this one man, she couldn’t be certain.

Finally she could take the awkwardness of the moment no longer. “What a . . . picturesque home you have,” she pleasantly acknowledged, chancing a glance around the room.

“Thank you.”

“Did you do your own decorating or—”

“Natalie, what are you doing in my home at six o’clock in the morning?”

She almost jumped from the brusqueness in his tone as she looked back to his face. He hadn’t moved his body, but the smile had left his mouth.

“The door was open,” she replied matter-of-factly as if that explained everything, “and I thought perhaps we could talk.”

“You stopped by to chat?”

She nodded and gave him her sweetest smile.

“But the standard social hour doesn’t start for several hours, Miss Haislett. What did you intend to do with me until then?”

Her body grew hot beneath her petticoats from his formal, seemingly innocent question, and she clutched her wounded hand with the other, growing noticeably discomfited.

“Do—do you mind terribly if we sit?” she murmured at last.

He continued to stare at her for a moment, then groaned and rubbed his eyes with his fingers. “The coffee’s ready by now.”

“Coffee is vile,” she countered without thinking.