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  Rogue’s Lady

  Robyn Carr

  Copyright © 1988 by Robyn Carr

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

  Cover designed by Natanya Wheeler

  For more information, please visit http://www.RobynCarr.com

  For Sherrie Clark Jessup, with thanks for your support and friendship.

  Chapter One

  Virginia, March 2, 1794

  Six men anxiously waited for the early morning fog to thin over a flat patch of ground alongside the James River. The dawn mists were too thick for a duel. The opponents, Tyson Gervais and Michael Everly, kept a discreet distance from each other. Alexander Gervais, Tyson’s younger brother, was his second, and Peter Dunsby, Everly’s manservant, was his. The other observers were the sheriff and the surgeon, both so distressed by the prospect of what was taking place that they passed a flask between them to gather courage.

  As the sun rose, the fog lifted. A landau rattled down the road toward the river field, and Tyson Gervais scowled as he recognized Lenore Fenton, the antagonist in the midst of this battle. Alexander leaned toward his brother. “What is she doing here? She should have stayed away.”

  Lenore allowed the sheriff to help her out of the carriage. Her cape, clasped at her throat, was spread back over her shoulders to display her enticing décolletage, tight waist and abundant bosom. She was unmindful of the chill, dressed as if prepared to strut along the Richmond boardwalk in the afternoon sun rather than witness a duel between her lovers.

  “Then you don’t know Lenore Fenton,” Tyson replied. “She has lived her whole life for this—to see two men do damage to each other...as if this duel were really over her.”

  “Don’t go through with it, Ty,” Alexander said. “Let us both walk away now.”

  Tyson’s dark brows drew together broodingly, his gray eyes glittering silver in the early morning light. “Do you think he will cease? You know I don’t want Lenore, and you have heard Everly’s demands. I am going through with this at his insistence. He has pushed too hard and it must be finished.”

  “Tyson, it is not worth it—”

  “I could ignore the rumors he started,” Tyson said lowly, cutting his brother off. “Telling Richmond at large that I raped his fiancée was amusing, since almost everyone assumes I’d visited Lenore’s bed for some five years. Following me to my banking and business appointments to hurl insults at my back, calling me a coward and a fool—that, too, I could abide. But when he could not intimidate me and began to harass my family, I found the limit to my patience. He needs to be chastened and sent away from this country.” Tyson took a deep, stabilizing breath and looked to the north end of the field, where he saw Lenore in conversation with Everly. “If I am quick and good, he will have enough blood left in his veins to take the presumptuous whore out of Virginia.”

  Alexander, too, observed the couple. Tyson had ended a liaison with Lenore after many years of casual intimacies. There had never been any commitment between the two, and Lenore had entertained a number of men. Tyson had urged his ex-lover to find a worthy man with whom she could settle into marriage, and she had quickly developed the relationship with Everly, the visiting Englishman. Her new courtship with Everly had been only two months old when Lenore called Tyson to her bed and Everly found them thus. Tyson had crawled between her sheets almost out of habit. Tyson’s mistake had come when he apologized to Everly, who claimed to be Lenore’s fiancé. Everly took the apology as an admission of Tyson’s guilt.

  “He is a pompous ass,” Alexander breathed. “Look at him.”

  Tyson observed the British dandy dressed for an early morning duel in a ruffled shirt, a lavender coat, and wearing sparkling buckles on his shoes. Tyson, garbed only in britches and a linen shirt open at the neck, shook his head in bemusement. “Either the two of them have an appointment at a formal soiree following this contest, or he plans to stop a lead ball with his satin and lace.”

  “Damn,” Alex cursed. “Here she comes.” Both men watched Lenore swirl away from Everly and begin the long trek across the field toward Tyson and his brother. She held her dress above her ankles, picking her way through the damp field grass. When she stood before them, Tyson felt an urge to squeeze the life out of her.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “He will not change his mind.”

  Tyson looked down into her green eyes, a cynical smile twisting his hips. “Where do you stand for the duel, cherie? In the north field, or the south?”

  Lenore looked between Alex and Tyson, her lips quivering with the strain of confusion. “How can I make you understand? I love you both. Michael came to me with honorable intentions after you threw me down. After all the years you and I had...could you think I want your blood? Good God, Tyson, all I ever wanted was your love.”

  A muscle twitched in his cheek. This woman, whose experienced affections he had sampled over the years, had, until now, deceived only to play at courtship games. But the lies that led up to this occasion were too much. “You told him you were a virgin when he laid with you. You should have corrected the poor young rooster. You were not a virgin the first time I had you, some five years ago, and you were little more than a girl then.”

  The color rose to Lenore’s cheeks, and Alexander looked away. “Would you strip me of my last ounce of dignity before the only man to offer me decency through marriage?” she asked, her mouth pinched in a furious line. “You played as if no price whatever accompanied your roving. You used me at your leisure, and would you save your own reputation with some public statement from me that I am fallen from any virtue? Do you draw yourself some sweet lad debauched by a wicked woman? I am twenty-four years old...you are five and thirty. You can take care of the largest family enterprise in Virginia, but you cannot be responsible for your own manly acts.”

  “Come, coward,” Everly shouted from across the field. “Does the field give you favorable enough view, knave?”

  Lenore’s head snapped around to look at the man she had claimed as a fiancé. “You have ruined me in my own city,” she whispered furiously at Tyson. “And you won’t be happy until you have ruined my whole life.”

  She spun away from him and took angry strides back to her landau. She stood there with her driver while the sheriff, a bit wobbly on his feet from too much of the flask, signaled for the men to come together. The six met in the center of the field.

  Everly sneered at Tyson. “So, at last you find the courage to fight as honorably as you should.”

  The sheriff spread a cloth on the ground, laying it open to expose two pistols. “They have been shot and reloaded. You are allowed one shot each at the end of the ten count.”

  “I warn you once more, Everly,” Tyson said slowly. “I have never missed my mark. If you walk away from this now, there will be no injury. I pose no threat to your future with the woman. It was a passing affair, at her will, no more.”

  “Ha. Passing affair? Even now you malign her reputation, making it seem that I take a common whore to wife. There will be no injury, Gervais. I mean to kill you.”

  Tyson’s mouth was set in a grim line. “Don’t be a fool. Take this one last chance to leave the field.”

  “You are brave enough to bed another man’s woman, Gervais. Is that the limit of your courage?”

  The sheriff belched and turned away to cover his mouth. “Tyson...Tyson speaks true, sir, he will not miss. He is the best aim in the country. Heed his advice... take your fiancée away.”

  “Never,” Everly shouted. “When a gentleman beds a woman, he weds her, and when a gentleman beds another man’s woman, he answers his actions in the duel. To the death.”

>   Tyson growled low in his throat, his ire stretched to the snapping point by the slight, fair-skinned dandy. Take your pistol.”

  Everly made a quick dip to pick up a pistol, looked at it briefly, held it before his chest, and turned his back, ready for the count. Tyson slowly did the same, each man waiting for the sheriff to back away from the line of fire and begin. They took their paces, and as they marked space between them, Tyson tried to steady his nerves. He doubted Everly could shoot, but hoped to hit Everly’s pistol arm before the Englishman fired. Tyson did not intend to dodge a lead ball.

  They turned. Tyson took quick aim, fired, and heard the explosion mingle with Lenore’s scream. Everly’s hands clutched his chest as his legs crumpled beneath him. Tyson was paralyzed for a moment, amazed at his poor marksmanship. He had meant to hit Everly’s right arm, yet if he wasn’t mistaken, the man’s left chest had taken the ball.

  Lenore shrieked in horror and ran across the field toward Michael Everly. His servant was already there, cradling his head, while the sheriff and surgeon stood in shock with the others. Tyson exchanged puzzled glances with his brother. Both had been wary of the Englishman, worried that by some freak accident he might injure Tyson with a chance shot, but no one had been prepared for Tyson actually killing the man.

  Tyson was here only because he had been ruthlessly goaded into the duel. In spite of Everly’s threat to use his one shot to kill, Tyson had meant only to stop the Englishman from firing and, he had hoped, silence him with the shame of losing. Tyson had hoped his anger would not compromise his ability to hit his mark to such an extent that Everly would be maimed, but he had never even considered that he might accidentally kill the man.

  Tyson’s hand was damp as he gripped the pistol and slowly walked toward Everly. Lenore looked up as he approached, tears streaking her cheeks. “You’ve killed him. My God, you’ve killed him. And you, the better aim, you could have spared him.” She let her head drop over Everly’s face as she sobbed. Tyson looked at the man’s chest in total amazement. There was a black smudge where the ball had hit, and the crimson stain of his blood had spread over his chest. He was still and ashen, his eyes staring blankly ahead.

  Tyson felt his stomach lurch. The surgeon knelt to look at the man, but Lenore hysterically pushed him away. “Leave him be, you drunken fool. You were called here to attend to any injuries. There is nothing you can do for him now.” The surgeon remained a moment beside the dead man, but finding no usefulness in that, he finally rose and turned forlorn, glassy eyes toward Tyson. He slowly shook his head.

  The sheriff looked at Tyson. “It was a fair contest, Tyson. You’ve got nothin’ to fear from me. He wouldn’t give it up before this.” The men all stood looking down at Everly, but Tyson handed the sheriff the hot pistol and turned away. He walked briskly toward his horse and once there, donned the jacket he’d brought. Alexander ran behind him. “You couldn’t help it, Ty,” Alexander said.

  “He’s dead,” Tyson said bitterly.

  “You had to defend yourself.”

  “He didn’t fire.”

  “You warned him to give up his idiocy, Tyson. Leave it be.”

  Both men turned as Lenore came running toward them, gasping and panting in near panic. Her cheeks were streaked with tears, her gown stained with the man’s blood. “Tyson, what will you do?” she demanded.

  His head gestured toward Michael Everly, who was being carried toward Lenore’s carriage by her driver and his servant. “I have done my part, madam. It was a pitiful waste.”

  “Will you marry me?” she asked.

  He looked down at her, his eyes glittering with carefully subdued rage. “Did you think to back me into marriage through a duel, madam? I warned you it was useless. No doubt you urged him on, but your scheming cost him his life.” He put his foot in the stirrup, swinging into the saddle. “Pray for forgiveness, madam. I shall pray for greater wisdom.”

  She grabbed at his ankle. “If you don’t marry me now, I will be worth nothing here,” she screamed. “It was all because of you that this has happened. Will you end two lives?”

  “Let go of me, woman,” he growled. “I have made one serious mistake; I will not couple it with a second. Go bury your man.”

  She backed away from his steed. “Will you cast me off again and again, to be fed upon by the hungry wolves in their gossip circles? Now that everyone knows about us?”

  Tyson looked at his brother, who still stood by his own horse, having not yet mounted. “Alex, see if there’s anything you can do here. I am going home. I will be packing.”

  “Packing?” Alex said. “You have no reason to flee from this. There will be no charge.”

  “I do not flee,” he said evenly. “If the stench of lies and death will not leave me be, I will leave it.” He gave his horse a sharp heel, and the stallion reared and carried him away from the site. He rode the horse hard, not slowing until Lenore’s wails failed to vibrate inside his skull.

  Chapter Two

  England, May 4, 1794

  The gelding’s hooves threw back huge clods of dirt as the animal tore up the rain-softened country road. Vieve leaned into Tristan’s mane, her hands loose on the reins and her heels shoved hard into the stirrups. The horse did not respond to her control with his usual obedience, perhaps confused by his mistress’s tension. Her heart was pounding. She lacked courage for this nighttime ride; she had always been afraid of the dark.

  Her hood was pulled over her golden hair, and her long black cape rippled in the wind behind her. She knew she should slow the horse. It was most unwise to indulge in such speed along these winding country roads, especially at night. But it was the half-covered moon, which seemed so haunting, the oppressive darkness all around her, and the black, claw-like branches that loomed threateningly above her that caused her to mistreat the horse.

  Trembling as she did, she couldn’t imagine what had prompted her to agree to this late night meeting. But Andrew had been so insistent; the longing he expressed was so contagious. He simply wished to be alone with her, to hold her, just for a while. And she had come to desire the same. Their romance had been so awkward, their merest embrace or slightest kiss interrupted by family members, friends, or servants. They were never allowed any privacy, and she chafed as much as he against their interfering chaperones. How were they ever to discover their love under such conditions of restraint? And how could they marry without first letting love find a way?

  Yet, was the answer a secret meeting in the old abandoned keep on her father’s property? She had never thought she would be convinced to participate in such a hoyden antic, such a scandalous escapade. However, she had begun to think Andrew was right. They had a right to some time together, away from the prying eyes and the cold, calculating business propositions that accompanied marriage contracts. No one would ever know...

  As she rounded the curve in the road less than a mile from the site of the old keep, Tristan reared in sudden panic, causing her to drop the left rein. A coach approached them on the curve. The driver might not see her at all, completely covered as she was in her black cape.

  As she grabbed for the rein futilely, her fingers slipped through the gelding’s mane and her left heel came out of the stirrup. The driver veered the coach sharply to the right, a shout of surprise accompanying his action. The wheels made a loud screeching sound as they swerved to the shoulder of the road and into the tall grass. The coach did not topple, but Vieve did. She grabbed for the mane, the saddle, the glistening flank, but caught nothing to break her fall. Her rump hit the ground first, knocking the breath out of her, with only her petticoats cushioning her landing. She lay stunned for a moment, listening to her horse gallop away.

  “What the hell...”

  A man’s voice and the sound of a coach door opening came simultaneously. Vieve struggled to sit up and had a difficult time breathing. She felt as though her hips had been pushed into her chest. She was too dazed to take note that had the driver of the coach been any less
skilled, she would probably be dead. Never... she never should have agreed to this madness.

  She finally managed a gasp of clear air and looked up into the eyes of the man who crouched over her.

  “My...horse...” she whispered weakly.

  “Are you hurt?” the passenger from the coach asked.

  “I... I...”

  “Can you stand?”

  “I think so.”

  His hands were under her arms, and her legs trembled with the effort of getting to her feet. Once standing, she let out a long, slow breath. She wasn’t maimed, which was a miracle. She looked up into the face of the man who supported her shaky stance. He towered above her, and over his shoulder she could see that the driver still stood atop the coach with the reins in his hands.

  “Nothing broken?” he asked.

  “I... I think not,” she replied. She looked into his eyes, hoping she would not cry for sheer fright. Her chin quivered, but only slightly. “My horse...”

  The man released his hold on her arms and seemed to stand even taller as his expression changed from concern to irritation. “You nearly caused a bad accident, little one. Is it the custom in this country for a woman to be out riding alone at night, or are you fleeing from the law?”

  Once he had spoken more than a few words, she was conscious of a foreign accent, but uncertain as to the origin. She was immediately relieved to find that he was not an Englishman. She would die of humiliation if a neighbor had found her and reported this escapade to her father. Lord Ridgley was impossible when he was angry with her. She sighed heavily, thinking ahead to getting back into her bedroom, having retired there earlier with a feigned headache. Not being caught was the only thing she yearned for now.

  “I’m sorry,” she said haltingly. “It was entirely my fault.”

  “Indeed it was, miss. Where the hell are you bound in the dark and at such speed?”