Sweet as the Devil (2 page)

“Worked up an appetite, I see,” Viscount Graham sportively noted.

Jamie turned a bland gaze on the man to his left. “There’s no opportunity to eat when your carriage’s stalled in traffic.”

“The road to Windsor, you said?” the viscount pronounced with unsullied cheer.

“Yes, Windsor.” Jamie set down his knife and fork, his dark brows lifted faintly. “Would you care to ask me something ?”

Graham smiled widely. “Hell no.” While Jamie served officially as attaché to Prince Ernst of Dalmia, he was, in effect, bodyguard to the prince, and in that capacity had gained a reputation for efficiency, or more pertinently, violence.

“I didn’t think so.” Jamie signaled to have his wineglass filled, and returned to his meal.

 

 

M
UCH LATER, WHEN all the guests had departed and Vicky had gone off to bed, Jamie and his cousin retired to John’s study to share a decanter of whiskey.

“Allow me to apologize again for arriving so late,” Jamie immediately said. “It was—”

“Bella’s engaging charm?” his cousin interposed with a grin. “Along with her inexhaustible desires?”

“Indeed.” Jamie dipped his head. “Not that I’m complaining. You no doubt speak from experience.”

“Previous experience. I’m a happily married man now.”

Jamie raised his glass in salute. “To your brilliant marriage. You love Vicky and she obviously loves you. A nice change from the beau monde’s penchant for marriages based on balance sheets and quarterings.” With a smile for his cousin, he drank down his whiskey.

“Thank you. I consider myself very fortunate.
You
should consider marriage. I heartily recommend it. Women are always in hot pursuit of you,” John said with a lift of his brows. “Why not let yourself be caught?”

“No thanks.” Swift and certain. “The Isabelles of the world suit me just fine.”

“So it seems. My personal bet was you wouldn’t make dinner.”

“I almost didn’t. It was a matter of not wanting to disappoint your lovely new bride.”

“And you were fucked out,” his cousin perceptively remarked.

Jamie smiled. “That, too.”

“Someday the right woman is going to change your mind about marriage.”

Jamie gently shook his head. “Don’t waste your breath. Unlike you, I’ve never been enthralled with the concept of love. Several of your youthful infatuations come to mind,” Jamie added with a grin, “if you’d like me to refresh your memory.”

“God, no. In any case, Vicky’s different.”

“Which is why you married her. I’m not questioning your sincerity. I just lack the necessary sense of devotion.” Leaning forward, Jamie picked up the decanter and refilled his glass.

“I used to think as much.”

Jamie shot his cousin a jaundiced glance, but rather than argue his cousin’s past history with women, Jamie set down the crystal container and politely said, “Even if I were inclined to endorse the notion of love and marriage,
at the moment
, I’m up to my ears in risky ventures. As you well know, the Habsburg Empire’s in decline; every petty despot with influence or an army at his back is jockeying for position.”

“Including Prince Ernst.”

“Including him.” Leaning back in his chair, Jamie met his cousin’s gaze with his usual immutable calm. “He’s as ambitious as the rest. And why shouldn’t he be? Twenty generations of Battenbergs have ruled that piece of prime real estate, offered up their resources and sons to the emperor when needed, and played a significant role in the Habsburg prosperity.”

“As your family has for the Battenbergs.” Jamie’s forebears had fled Scotland after the ’45 defeat and sold the services of their fighting clan to the duchy of Dalmia.

“With due compensation,” Jamie serenely said, John’s red hair gleaming in the lamplight always reminding him of his mother’s. Shaking off the melancholy that always overcame him on recall of his mother’s unnecessary death, he pushed up from his lounging pose and said, “You heard, of course, that Uncle Douglas came back from India with a fortune.”

“And a native wife.”

“A very beautiful wife. He’s looking to invest his money. I told him to talk to you. You’ve guarded my investments well,” Jamie said with a grin.

“Anyone could. Other than upkeep on your Dalmian estate, you don’t spend any money.”

“I don’t have time. Guarding Ernst is a round-the-clock commission.”

“Speaking of guarding, who’s protecting Ernst in your absence?”

“He’s on holiday with his newest paramour, who rules a principality of her own with a small army and a top-notch palace guard.” Lifting his glass to his mouth, Jamie arched his brows. “Adequate deterrent to any assassin,” he murmured and drank down half the whiskey.

“Which explains
your
holiday in Scotland.”

“A much needed holiday,” Jamie softly replied, lowering his glass to the chair arm.

John looked surprised. “Do I detect a modicum of frustration? Is Ernst spending too much time in libertine pursuits—silly question.”

“Let’s just say he doesn’t have his father’s sense of responsibility.”

“Or any responsibility at all.”

“He was perhaps too indulged.” Jamie shrugged. “A problem at a time when Dalmia could use a ruler of insight and diligence.”

“What of his heir? Rupert appears to be of a sensible nature.”

“He’s still young, and tiger hunting in India at the moment with his friends. But even if Rupert wished to take a hand in the administration of the duchy, Ernst wouldn’t let him. Like your queen, Ernst has no wish to share power.” The Prince of Wales was almost sixty and still not allowed to participate in Queen Victoria’s government. “In any event, at twenty, Rupert’s probably too young to effectively deal with the political scheming in our corner of the world. It’s reached new, ruthless heights.”

“How so? Haven’t the Balkans always been a tinderbox?”

“It’s worse now. The emperor’s totally oblivious to the political realities of the world. He’s a blundering dyed-in-the-wool reactionary with fifty million subjects from a dozen nations itching to rise in revolt. His enemies are simply waiting in the wings, nurturing their ambitions. With the crown prince dead and the new heir a witless dolt, once Franz Joseph dies, all hell’s going to break loose. And after three assassination attempts in the past few years, the emperor’s death may come sooner rather than later.”

“Like Rudolf’s. Some say it wasn’t suicide.”

“More than some. The crown prince was too liberal for those in power. His advisors were impatient for him to depose his father and take the reins of empire. Rumor has it that he and his mistress were shot with a sniper rifle while they slept”—Jamie arched one brow—“or were passed out. Rudolf was addicted to morphine.”

“Because of his unpleasant disease.”

“Yes—a bright young man killing himself slowly.” Jamie grimaced. “But screw it. I’m not in Vienna, I’m here. Tell me about your thoroughbreds instead. I heard that your chestnut brute’s going to take all the major races next year.” The last thing Jamie wished to dwell on was the crumbling Habsburg monarchy.

“You should plan on being here for the derby next year,” John pleasantly said, urbanely shifting topics. “Shalizar’s going to win by ten lengths. You can bet on it.”

“In that case,” Jamie drawled, “I shall—heavily.”

“As will I. A pity you don’t have time to see my stud at Bellingham.”

“Next time. I promised Davey I’d meet him day after tomorrow. He’s coming down from the hills to meet me.”

The two men, long friends—their family resemblance clear despite their disparate coloring—went on to discuss the merits of various horses and trainers, bloodlines and jockeys. The quiet study was peaceful, a temporary hermitage in a quarrelsome, perilous world, and the fine Highland whiskey served its purpose well in lessening Jamie’s disquiet. Neither touched on the serious or personal, both careful to keep the conversation companionable, and toward dawn, cheerfully drunk, the two men parted ways.

John went upstairs to his wife.

Jamie strolled to Grosvenor Square, entered a large house through a back door, conveniently unlocked, took the servants’ stairs to the second floor, and entered a shadowed bedchamber.

“I didn’t know if you’d come,” Isabella drowsily murmured, gazing at Jamie from under her lashes.

“I said I would.” Quietly closing the door, he slipped off his swallowtail coat, dropped it on the floor, and pulling his shirt studs free, moved toward the bed.

“How nice.” Pushing up on her elbows, Isabella smiled. “I don’t believe I’ve ever met an honest man.”

Jamie grinned. “I have an excuse. I live outside the fashionable world.”

“Too far outside at the moment,” she purred, tossing the covers aside. “Do come in . . .”

T
HE NEXT MORNING, the air heavy with the promise of rain, Sofia Eastleigh was cooling her heels in a small drawing room off the entrance hall of Minton House and becoming increasingly agitated. She didn’t as a rule agree to paint society portraits, finding those in the fashionable world too spoiled or difficult to sit the necessary hours required to complete a painting. But Isabella, Countess of Minton, was one of the reigning beauties of the day—not to be discounted when it came to publicity—and she was generous as well in terms of a fee.

She’d give her five minutes more, Sofia resentfully decided, and then the countess and her money could go to hell. With her artwork much sought after, Sofia didn’t
need
the money. Nor did she appreciate being kept waiting like a servant for—she glanced at the splendid Boulle clock on the mantel—damn it . . .
thirty-five
minutes!

Rising to her feet, she was slipping on her gloves when the drawing room door was thrown open by a liveried flunkey, Isabella was announced, and a moment later, a radiant, blushing countess, obviously just risen from bed, swept into the room, trailing lavender mousseline and a cloud of scent.

“Good, you’re still here. A matter of some importance delayed me.”

The countess’s partner in that important matter strolled into the room behind her and offered Sofia an engaging smile. “I’m sorry you had to wait. Please, accept my apology. Bella tells me you’re an artist of great renown.”

“The baron will keep me company while you paint,” the countess briskly interposed, ignoring Jamie’s apology. “We’re quite ready if you are.”

Understanding that Bella viewed an artist as a trades person, consequently not due the courtesies, Jamie introduced himself. “You’re Miss Eastleigh, I presume. James Blackwood at your service.”

Even with her temper in high dudgeon, Sofia couldn’t help but think,
Wouldn’t it be grand to be serviced by a big, handsome brute like you.
The man was splendid—tall, dark, powerfully muscled, and all male, with the languid gait of a panther and the green eyes to match. Now there was a portrait worth painting. She’d portray him as he was, casually dressed in the remnants of last night’s evening rig, his dark hair in mild disarray. He wore a cambric shirt and black trousers, the shirt open at the neck, his long, muscular legs shown to advantage in welltailored wool, his feet bare in his evening shoes.

A faint carnal tremor raced through her senses.

Commonplace and not in the least disconcerting.

She found handsome men attractive and in many cases, useful.

A modern woman, a bohemian in terms of cultural mores, Sofia enjoyed lovemaking. But on her terms. She decided if a man suited her; she decided when and if to make love and whether to continue a relationship—mostly she didn’t, preferring men as transient diversions in her life. Although, for a gorgeous animal like Blackwood, she might be inclined to alter her rules and keep him for a time. He had the look of a man who was more than capable of satisfying a woman. And the fact that the countess—who had a reputation for dalliance—was obviously captivated by him was testament to his competence.

Taking jealous note of Sofia’s admiring gaze, for a brief moment Isabella debated canceling the sitting. On second thought, the pale, slender artist was hardly the type of woman to appeal to Jamie, who preferred women of substance who could keep up with him in bed. The little painter looked as though a good wind would blow her away. “Come, Miss Eastleigh,” Isabella crisply commanded. “I have another appointment after your sitting.”

Following the women from the waiting room, Jamie contemplated the stark differences between the two beauties, the lively contrasts of blonde femininity intriguing. Miss Eastleigh was slender with hair the color of sunshine on snow, her pale loveliness poetic and ethereal—like an Arthurian Isolde who might bruise with the slightest touch. Isabella, on the other hand, didn’t bruise at all, as he well knew after two days of wild, untrammeled sex. Bella’s golden splendor was that of a robust flesh-and-blood Valkyrie, passionate, impatient, demanding. He understood why Charlie preferred his sweet, young mistress in Chelsea from time to time if for no other reason than to rest.