Once Tempted Read Free Page B

lady’s gaze was fixed on the street, and she’d gone an unearthly shade of white.
    Her mouth fell open in a wide O, her shocked, unblinking gaze trance-like as if she were seeing a ghost.
    Carlyle turned in that direction and felt his heart still with cold shock. He tried to breathe, tried to say something, but his voice failed him, his reserved and steady nature fleeing at the sight of the lone figure crossing the street.
    “Oh my,” Lady Bradstone managed to sputter as she collapsed in a swoon worthy of the London stage.
    But luckily for the lady, her landing on the cold stone was cushioned by a prone Carlyle, who had fainted dead away at the sight of a very much alive Marquis of Bradstone striding across the street.
     
    London, a sennight later
     
    “Well, if it isn’t the infamous Lord Bradstone,” said the man seated in the dark, shadowed corner of the pub. “You look well for a dead man.”
    Robert frowned at him before settling into the other vacant seat. “Don’t call me that, Pymm. Not here. I’m in no humor for it. Or for trouble.” Already his entrance had brought more than one quizzical stare from the rough-hewn patrons of The Rose and Lion.
    This Seven Dials crowd may not have cared that in the week since his miraculous return from the dead he had become the current on dit, but knowing he had a title and perhaps some measure of wealth would make him a perfect target for getting his throat slit and his pockets picked.
    “You’re late,” Pymm said, holding up his watch for a moment, then settling it back into the deepest pocket of his shabby vest. He sniffed and then sneezed, bringing out a soiled handkerchief from his pocket and sloppily wiping his red nose.
    “Hard to get a hackney to bring one to this part of town,” Robert replied. “That, and my mother had other plans for me this morning.” He nodded to the serving girl, who looked like she’d left more than just her youth behind in the last century. “Whatever he is having,” he told her, nodding at the short glass in front of Pymm and laying a coin in her outstretched hand.
    Pymm grinned at her. “Make that two.” When she paused and waited for his coins as well, the man nodded to Robert. “Do you mind? I seem to be a bit short.”
    Robert frowned, then reluctantly added another coin to the girl’s palm.
    She stared down at the meager offering as if it were an insult, obviously having expected more, before stomping off to the bar.
    Meanwhile they waited for their drinks in silence. Apparently he wasn’t that late—for Pymm had only one empty glass before him and therefore was in no mood to talk. Robert knew from experience that Pymm never talked until he was settled into his accustomed routine—two drinks, then business.
    But that was Pymm for you. Disrespectful of rank, most often apparently in a state of drunken dishabille, and always just plain ornery, he was also one of the few men in London Robert trusted.
    And one of only a handful who knew he wasn’t the real Marquis of Bradstone.
    Major Robert Danvers, late of His Majesty’s army in the Peninsula, settled back in his chair and considered how much his life had changed so quickly. If the truth were told, he’d rather be facing French canon than sitting in Seven Dials.
    Or London, for that matter.
    No, if he’d had his way, he’d be back in Portugal or Spain, doing what he loved—spying for Wellington.
    Damn, if he hadn’t intercepted that French courier and rushed to Lisbon with the information three months earlier, he wouldn’t have stumbled into one of Wellington’s newly arrived aides-de-camp—the man who’d mistaken him for Robert’s cousin, the Marquis of Bradstone.
    “Parnell!” the man had uttered in a shocked and choked voice, using his deceased cousin’s family name. “What the devil are you doing alive?”
    Once the entire episode had been sorted out, all the men had laughed. Even the usually taciturn Wellington had managed a short but concise