Defiant Angel (10 page)

Tiffany bid adieu to Lady Devonshire and Alysse, watching their carriage disappear from view as it turned the bend, knowing she would not see Alysse until the engagement party.

She had an urge to walk the grounds of Breatoney, for the air was sweet and the breeze that lifted her hair held the promise of warm days to come. Paris in April is so lovely, she thought, her eyes scanning the landscape and gentle slopes where the brown covering was lightly dotted with green. She would surely miss Paris in April, and a soft tugging at her heart reminded her that next year she would not be here. She absently kicked a pebble with the toe of her satin slipper, watching it hit the wide trunk of an elm. Leaning against the tree, she thought how kind France had been to her. Her father and Alan were right, France had turned the wild hoyden into a sophisticated, elegant woman, if what the tabloids wrote were true! She felt no different really; she still loved to ride astride in breeches, racing the wind, still held the opinion the ton was a group of hypocritical fools, and wanted nothing more than to exist undisturbed in a married state with Alan. She rested her head against the tree, closing her eyes, imagining for the" hundredth time her homecoming. England! Ah, that was where her soul lay, in the meadows of wildflowers, the wooded slopes and hamlets that dotted the countryside, the sound of the pounding surf breaking against the jagged rocks of the bluff. Yes, her soul ran free there. And her heart, left in England and with Alan.

A soft smile lifted the corners of her mouth as she envisioned a scene she often conjured up when she lay in bed before sleep overcame her. They would be on the bluff, the surf roaring in their ears. Alan with arms outstretched welcoming her. They would kiss and break and he would whisper, "I love you. Will you marry me?"

She opened her eyes, watching the puffy white clouds sweep across the blue sky. Raising her foot, bracing it against the tree, she wondered if Alan would still be waiting for her as he had promised so long ago at the brook. She shook the thought from her head, speaking out loud. "Of course, you silly goose, he as much said so."

The appearance of Marie calling out to her stopped her thoughts.

"Demoiselle, Monsieur Devereau is calling."

Pushing off the tree, Tiffany called out,
"Oui,
Marie, I am coming."

Smedly Doonesbury, a frail, bespectacled man, braced his hands against the sides of the lurching coach as it rumbled posthaste toward its destination. His briefcase slipped to the carriage floor, spilling its contents about. Smedly silently cursed his employers, his assignment, and the client. When the coach righted itself, he cautiously removed one hand at a time, gaining his balance and proceeded to pick up the scattered papers.

The firm Teaksbury and Jacoby had contacted his employer requesting an investigation. His superiors impressed upon him the need for secrecy. To make matters worse, his assignment had had to be completed in four days and given to their client, Mr. Barencourte.

Being fastidious, Smedly had compiled a thorough report on the subject he'd been assigned to investigate, but he had been unable to review the volumes of information pertaining to the client. What he learned was enough. Clinton Claremont Barencourte was a rogue, a rake, a member of an elite group of men who did pretty much what they wanted with no repercussions from the powerful ton. Mr. Barencourte was a successful, powerful, ruthless businessman whose ventures varied from shipping to own-ing the most powerful banks in England and the Continent.

Smedly gazed out the carriage window, noting it had turned down a tree lined drive whose branches met, forming a canopy over the drive. Yes, he thought, Mr. Barencourte, at thirty-two, was almost as powerful as the prince regent. His personal life was filled with speculation. Rumors of his
affaires de coeur
flourished. It was common knowledge he enjoyed the pleasure and company of beautiful women. His hunting grounds, it was rumored, were strewn with broken hearts.

Women flocked to him, eager to enter his bed, for he was rumored to be an excellent lover. He was considered an excellent catch and was much sought after despite his questionable reputation. Which is precisely why Smedly thought it odd Mr. Barencourte would bother with Lady Courtland. He pushed his spectacles back up, shaking his bald pate. The man could have any woman he desired.

As the carriage drew closer to its destination, Smedly pursed his lips wishing he had had the time to check further into Mr. Barencourte's mysterious ancestral beginnings. He had only gotten as far as the man being a formidable enemy, an expert in the use of firearms, and a skilled horseman. With an affirmative nod, he promised himself he would indeed find out exactly who this powerful man was.

The carriage drew up and was opened by a liveried footman who placed a stepstool in front of the door, assisting Smedly in his descent.

A stiff, aged butler admitted him, escorting him to the library, leaving him alone to view the room. Smedly's eyes fell to the paper-laden desk, giving evidence that the man ran his business from here. Shifting comfortably in the leather-back chair, he noted portraits of famous horses and priceless dueling pistols and rapiers decorating mahogany-paneled walls. He was disturbed from his observation by the opening of the door. He rose from his chair to look behind him. Striding purposefully across the room toward him, dressed casually in breeches and a cambric shirt, was Clinton Claremont Barencourte. Smedly rose to accept Clinton's extended hand, noting the young man's strong

grip-

"Bring us brandy and two glasses," Clinton called to the waiting butler. His piercing gray eyes returned to Smedly. "Have a seat, Mr. Doonesbury." Smedly did as requested, pulling his briefcase onto his lap.

"You come highly recommended, Mr. Doonesbury. Let's hope you live up to your reputation."

Smedly, fumbling with the catch on the briefcase, briefly wondered if he detected a threat in those words. Finally opening the catch, he withdrew his report, turning it over to Clinton.

The butler returned and poured their libations. Smedly, for the first time, was able to take note of the man who sat casually on the edge of the desk, his leg swinging nonchalantly as he read the report. Smedly thought that mere words could never do justice to the man. He was uncommonly tall, at least six two. He was broad of shoulder, and the expanse of a hard, well-muscled chest strained against the fabric of his shirt.

Smedly took another sip of his brandy, hearing the flip of pages and a deep laugh from Clinton.

Mr. Barencourte was no indolent fop; his long legs were sheathed in bluff-colored breeches, advantageously displaying the broad sinews of his thighs, giving evidence to rigorous outside activity.

A roar of laughter startled Smedly, causing him to stare wide-eyed. Smedly took note of Clinton's face. Breeding was apparent in the classic features--high, sculptured cheekbones, chiseled, strong jaw, and a straight partrician nose. Piercing smoky gray eyes were offset by dark brows which Smedly imagined could arch in humor or draw together in anger. Hair the color of rich roasted coffee fell to his collar in deep, thick waves.

"Mr. Doonesbury." Clinton's voice broke the silence. "You have indeed met all my expectations."

The smile that broke the handsome face, Smedly noted, was devastating. White even teeth flashed against the tanned skin. Smedly had no doubt women fell to their knees for this man. For his whole being emitted an aura of aggressive virility, uncompromising authority, and commanding presence.

"Thank you, Mr. Barencourte."

Refilling their glasses, Clinton asked, "The time allotted to you was short. Is there anything else I should be aware of?"

Sipping his brandy and placing his glass carefully down, Smedly cleared his throat before beginning. "Well, sir, there is one matter not covered in the report which I learned of today."

"And what might that be?" Clinton finished his drink and lit a cigar.

"Well, the earl and Lord Thurston are preparing a betrothal contract between Alan Thurston and Lady Courtland. Lord Thurston is dying and has found himself the victim of creditors, due, shall we say, to his son's misspent youth."

"Gambling debts?" Clinton asked, puffing on his cigar.

"That as well as foreclosure on the properties. The dowry Lady Courtland brings will be enough to pay off the markers and reestablish the mortgage."

Clinton rose, walking to the window to stare out at the expanse of lawn, the cigar clamped firmly between his strong teeth. His voice broke the silence. "What is the extent of the debt?"

"One hundred thousand pounds, sir."

Smedly could not help but notice the staggering amount did not even cause Clinton to flinch, only proceed with another inquiry.

"How long is Lord Thurston expected to live?"

"Each day he lives is considered a gift; that is why the contract was drawn so quickly."

Clinton turned from the window. He held Smedly's gaze with his own and proceeded. "What I want you to do, Mr. Doonesbury, is to buy up every marker against Thurston, and I want it done yesterday."

Smedly rose, picking up his briefcase and nodding affirmatively.

As the carriage ambled posthaste down the drive carrying Smedly on another appointed task, Clinton sat deep in thought before the hearth, his long legs stretched before him, crossed at the ankles.

He had set the wheels in motion. His brother Brent should receive his missive by tonight and would arrive in France by the end of the week with the requested information. The letter to his solicitors requesting them to set up a meeting with Courtland and Lord Thurston was already posted, as was another letter to his French financier requesting the transfer of Le Petite to his mistress, and twenty thousand pounds to be deposited in her account.

When Clinton Claremont Barencourte set his mind on securing something, he was relentless, almost ruthless toward his end. He was not easily persuaded from not having it, nor did he waver from his pursuit of it. Right now his end was Lady Courtland, and have her he would. He lifted his drink thinking about lovely Monique. He would do right by her and give her the house and enough money to see her through. Even delectable Monique could not assuage the desire he felt for Tiffany Courtland. He had left Monique many a night with desire burning his loins after a robust romp with her that would have left most men exhausted.

No, he wanted Tiffany Courtland! He thought of the results of his forthcoming meeting with Courtland. The earl would have his daughter married; Thurston would be able to die in peace knowing his family estates were free of encumbrances, and in sound financial position even his wayward son could not undo; and Clinton, well--he smiled broadly--he would leave with the voided contract of marriage and the newly drawn one giving him the ultimate rights to Tiffany Courtland.

Leaning his head back, he closed his eyes, and let his mind wander back to when he had returned to France and had been playing cards at the club. Percy Winchester, who was at his table, had remarked to no one in particular, "Have you chaps heard of the Lady Courtland, newest item in the tabloids? Made her debut and is a smash."

Marcel Rousseau, a cohort, laid down his cards, winning the hand, and added, "My brother Pierre speaks of nothing but her." As he pulled in the pile of chips on the table, he continued, "He hasn't been the same; suddenly he wants nothing more than to settle down."

Percy smiled smugly. "Unusual, you know; you French-ies prefer the petite blond types. Heard the lady is tall and dark-haired."

Rodrique Chevalier, dealing the cards, added, "Ah, but we French love women, we are the lovers of the world, no? While you English are more inclined to pale, insipid women of English stock.''

"Hah! Heard your French charm has gotten you no further than we English," countered Percy, who turned to Clinton, asking, "Well, Clinton, ole man, what do you say to this?"

He remembered his response. "I think I'd have to see the lady first." Well, he had seen her at the opera with the Dowager Duchess De Namourie. When they had been introduced, she paid him scant attention, being surrounded by a pack of faithful admirers, but Clinton knew then, she was the spirited girl he had seen years ago in England on the bluff. Even back then he had seen the blossom of her passion and beauty. She had stirred his lust then. But he remembered thinking, that day, had she been older ... He smiled wickedly. Well, she was older now, ripe for the plucking, and fair game!

Pouring brandy in his glass, he absently swirled the amber liquid, immersed in his thoughts. He had observed her from afar for the last two years. Always surrounded by suitors, always keeping them close with her beauty, charm, and wit, but at bay as well. His close observation of Tiffany gave him valuable insight. Her wit was alluring and sharper than that of most women, her charm was innocently refreshing, her beauty exquisite, elegant. Lifting the glass to his lips, he drank.

Tiffany Courtland was like night and day, a study in contrasts--she was bewitchingly innocent at one moment, then a passionate, exciting woman at the next. She could be cool and impertinent, then vulnerably defenseless. She was impetuous, yet restrained. She was titillating, tantalizing, temptation incarnate.

Their encounter at the races sealed her fate. Then he decided she was worth the pursuit; a pursuit on his terms, guided by his rules. Just thinking of the encounter stirred his lust. He felt the familiar tightening in his groin. Ah, she had even drawn first blood. He looked down at his hand, seeing the faint teeth marks that marred his flesh.

Clinton threw himself into a nearby chair, his leg dangling over its arm. Yes, it was time to fulfill his family obligations, to marry and beget an heir, and who better than Lady Courtland?

She would never bore him, either in or out of bed. She was filled with unleashed passion, and passion was a quality he welcomed in his women. Tiffany would be a challenging quarry even though the game was fixed. He grinned remembering her temper and thought how angry she'd be if the methods he used to stake his claim were ever discovered.

A fleeting feeling of guilt surfaced, but Clinton reasoned if she ever came to know how ruthless his pursuit of her had been, she'd not care. He was confident she would be passionately in love with him, exploring and enjoying the intimacies of their marriage.

He sat up and lifted Smedly's report, fanning the pages. There were a few items he had not been aware of till now--her lonely childhood spent with a cold, unyielding father, her infatuation for Alan Thurston, her passion for bonbons and horses, her abhorrence for meat, and a longstanding hatred of titled personages.

He read between the lines of the report. She was spontaneous and passionate, free in spirit. With him, free from all constraints, she would blossom, and he would reap a most bountiful harvest.

A knock on the salon door broke his reverie as he called out, "Enter." Bartholomew entered bearing a tray of invitations to various social functions. Every day Clinton scanned them, advising his secretary which ones to accept.

An envelope bearing the Devonshire seal caught his eye and he lifted it, opening it and withdrawing the note. A smile lifted his mouth as he quickly read it. Laying it down on top of the pile of unopened invitations, he steepled his fingers beneath his chin. In two months time, an engagement ball honoring Alysse Devonshire and Kent Allistair would be held.

The time and the place for the ball were perfect, for he would be back from his meeting in England by then. "And so the battle begins," he said, lifting his glass in a toast. "To the victor go the spoils." A broad smile broke across his handsome visage--the smile of sweet victory.