enough in a raw sort of way. He preferred women with more polish himself, but she’d be an adequate vessel for some of his adherents when the next clandestine gathering was scheduled.
“Tobias,” she said, half-whispering, but Malcolm was keen enough of hearing to make out her words. “We got us a real honest-to-God countess in here this day.”
“Where?”
“In the back booth.”
Lord Digory was pontificating about the evils of the temperance movement again to everyone in general and gaining several “Hear, hear’s” and nods of approval from the surrounding patrons. Malcolm was free to let his gaze and his attention wander.
Even in the dimness of the tavern, he could tell that his glimpses of Lady Cambourne in his gazing ball had not done her justice. She was fine-boned, delicate as china, with large, speaking eyes and a waiflike point to her chin that made a man want to shelter her. The curve of her bosom made him want a number of other things.
She was exquisite. It was easy to see why the old earl had overlooked her somewhat tawdry background to make her his countess.
She’d do just as well as a queen.
The barmaid’s urgent whisper interrupted his thoughts. “I was wondering have ye any of them fancy biscuits left?” she said to Tobias. “I’m thinkin’ we ought to give her and the gent she’s with a bit o’ something extra just for dressin’ up the place. If they likes us, they might bring in more of her snooty friends and ye can raise yer prices.”
“Check the pantry.” Tobias reappeared with a bottle of Glenlivet he had to dust before opening, and poured up two jiggers for Sir Malcolm and Lord Digory. The baron clinked his drink with Malcolm’s and downed it in one gulp. He signaled for another.
When the girl reappeared with a tray of sweets, Malcolm grabbed her arm as she passed. Her eyes flared for a moment when she recognized him, and then she cast her gaze to the tips of her slatternly shoes.
Did she somehow sense what he’d like to do to her at the next gathering of his secret sect? he wondered. He’d even make sure she enjoyed some of it. The line between pleasure and pain was a blurry one. It needed to be crossed on occasion in order to be certain where one was.
“Did I hear you mention that a countess is with us this day?” Malcolm asked.
She nodded.
“Her name,” he said, tightening his grip on her forearm.
The girl winced and rolled her eyes. “The Countess of ... Can ... Cambore.”
“Cambourne?” he supplied helpfully.
The girl nodded with vigor and tried to wiggle out of his grasp.
“Cambourne!” Lord Digory lifted his snout from the jigger long enough to repeat the name, then knocked the contents back with barely a sputter. “Why, that was the fellow who was in possession of those ceremonial daggers, wasn’t it? Of course, it was. I have a memory like a steel trap. The old earl might not have been one of us, Ravenwood, but by gum! He knew his history. Pity he did away with himself.” Digory glanced around the room. “I should so like to meet her.”
“She’s right over there,” the girl said with a toss of her head. Lord Digory lifted his foppish lorgnette, a throwback to an older age, and peered in that direction. “The lady’s with that handsome bloke in the corner. I was just after takin’ them this plate o’ biscuits.”
“We’ll take it,” Malcolm said, wresting the tray from her hand. “Come, Digory. You can give the lady your personal condolences.”
“Yes, by all means. Quite.”
The baron adjusted his jacket, trying to make it hang straight over his paunch and failing miserably. The fashions of the day were unkind to Lord Digory, a fact of which he seemed blithely unaware as he strolled toward Lady Cambourne.
The man sitting with the countess rose as they approached.
Jacob Preston. He might be accepted in higher circles than Malcolm could aspire to, but only on his brother’s account. Despite his wealth and privilege,
“Tobias,” she said, half-whispering, but Malcolm was keen enough of hearing to make out her words. “We got us a real honest-to-God countess in here this day.”
“Where?”
“In the back booth.”
Lord Digory was pontificating about the evils of the temperance movement again to everyone in general and gaining several “Hear, hear’s” and nods of approval from the surrounding patrons. Malcolm was free to let his gaze and his attention wander.
Even in the dimness of the tavern, he could tell that his glimpses of Lady Cambourne in his gazing ball had not done her justice. She was fine-boned, delicate as china, with large, speaking eyes and a waiflike point to her chin that made a man want to shelter her. The curve of her bosom made him want a number of other things.
She was exquisite. It was easy to see why the old earl had overlooked her somewhat tawdry background to make her his countess.
She’d do just as well as a queen.
The barmaid’s urgent whisper interrupted his thoughts. “I was wondering have ye any of them fancy biscuits left?” she said to Tobias. “I’m thinkin’ we ought to give her and the gent she’s with a bit o’ something extra just for dressin’ up the place. If they likes us, they might bring in more of her snooty friends and ye can raise yer prices.”
“Check the pantry.” Tobias reappeared with a bottle of Glenlivet he had to dust before opening, and poured up two jiggers for Sir Malcolm and Lord Digory. The baron clinked his drink with Malcolm’s and downed it in one gulp. He signaled for another.
When the girl reappeared with a tray of sweets, Malcolm grabbed her arm as she passed. Her eyes flared for a moment when she recognized him, and then she cast her gaze to the tips of her slatternly shoes.
Did she somehow sense what he’d like to do to her at the next gathering of his secret sect? he wondered. He’d even make sure she enjoyed some of it. The line between pleasure and pain was a blurry one. It needed to be crossed on occasion in order to be certain where one was.
“Did I hear you mention that a countess is with us this day?” Malcolm asked.
She nodded.
“Her name,” he said, tightening his grip on her forearm.
The girl winced and rolled her eyes. “The Countess of ... Can ... Cambore.”
“Cambourne?” he supplied helpfully.
The girl nodded with vigor and tried to wiggle out of his grasp.
“Cambourne!” Lord Digory lifted his snout from the jigger long enough to repeat the name, then knocked the contents back with barely a sputter. “Why, that was the fellow who was in possession of those ceremonial daggers, wasn’t it? Of course, it was. I have a memory like a steel trap. The old earl might not have been one of us, Ravenwood, but by gum! He knew his history. Pity he did away with himself.” Digory glanced around the room. “I should so like to meet her.”
“She’s right over there,” the girl said with a toss of her head. Lord Digory lifted his foppish lorgnette, a throwback to an older age, and peered in that direction. “The lady’s with that handsome bloke in the corner. I was just after takin’ them this plate o’ biscuits.”
“We’ll take it,” Malcolm said, wresting the tray from her hand. “Come, Digory. You can give the lady your personal condolences.”
“Yes, by all means. Quite.”
The baron adjusted his jacket, trying to make it hang straight over his paunch and failing miserably. The fashions of the day were unkind to Lord Digory, a fact of which he seemed blithely unaware as he strolled toward Lady Cambourne.
The man sitting with the countess rose as they approached.
Jacob Preston. He might be accepted in higher circles than Malcolm could aspire to, but only on his brother’s account. Despite his wealth and privilege,
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