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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  TOUCHED BY FIRE

  A Jove Book / published by arrangement with the author

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 2002 by Kathleen Panov

  This book may not be reproduced in whole or part, by mimeograph or any other means, without permission. Making or distributing electronic copies of this book constitutes copyright infringement and could subject the infringer to criminal and civil liability.

  For information address:

  The Berkley Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  The Penguin Putnam Inc. World Wide Web site address is

  http://www.penguinputnam.com

  ISBN:0-7865-2173-2

  A JOVE® Book

  JOVE Books first published by the Penguin Group, a member of Penguin Putnam Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  JOVE and the “J” design are trademarks belonging to Penguin Putnam Inc.

  First edition (electronic): January 2002

  There are so many people I want to thank for this book. First of all, to my best friends, wonderful listeners, and critique partners extraordinaire, Julie and Dee. Even Bookshelf comes up dry when I search for the words.

  Next, to my editor, Martha Bushko, because she’s very fun and likes my characters.

  And of course, I must remember the best damn agent in the entire world—no, no, make that the entire universe—Annelise Robey.

  And finally, for Arthur, who I love so very much. I will only say this once and never again:

  I told you so.

  Prologue

  London, 1796

  All of London had turned out for the day. Forty thousand, the papers had said. The great stone wall of Old Bailey loomed high above the city like a mighty gray fortress. People sang and whistled, clapped and cheered as they waited outside Debtors’ Door, jostling their way to a better view. The trees were full of spectators, the poor wretches who couldn’t afford better. Ladies and dandies paid the highly extravagant sum of ten pounds to occupy the windows across the walk.

  The vendors, summoned by the smell of a spare shilling, had come to hawk their wares. Pie men moved through the crowds with practiced ease, the smell of gingerbread and tarts wafting in their wake. Musicians played their fiddles, crooning their tuneful ballads. Often-times the crowd would join in, particularly when the chorus unfolded.

  Yes, the people of London loved a good hanging, and the long-awaited demise of Black Jack Cady promised to be one of the best.

  The sixteenth Earl of Haverwood had appeared early and polished many a palm in order to ensure his prime location on the hill in front of the gallows. The young lad beside him stared in wonder, fascinated by the spectacle and the noise. A visit to the city was a rare thing indeed; on most days the earl had no patience for the lad’s dawdling nature.

  The stomping and chanting grew louder and the earl pointed to the two men climbing the steps to the gallows. The taller of the two, Cady himself, smiled and waved to the crowd, blowing a kiss to whichever maiden was bold enough to catch his eye.

  Without hesitation, the man stepped to the rope and made a fine show of testing its corded strength. The rabble whooped in delight at such bravado. The shorter man strode forward with purpose, anxious to have the business done. It was a miserable job, but it paid well, and on a day like today, the people approved of him, and he was the hero.

  “Hats off!” The cries rippled through the stands and the crowd obeyed the order, eliminating any articles that might obstruct the view of such an event.

  The earl swept his hat off his head and noted with pleasure the boy’s wide-eyed stare. He’d been waiting many years for this day. There would be no secrets. He leaned in close, to be heard over the din of the crowd. “It’s a shame we couldn’t get closer. I’d never seen such evil before in a man. As if he were the devil himself. Taking women without compunction. Slitting their throats and leaving them for dead.

  “The way he watched your mother that night, tossing his knife between his hands like it was a toy. I should’ve stopped him, you know, but instead I stood there like a coward. The bastard laughed at me.” He stared off in the distance for a moment and then cleared his throat.

  “If we were closer you could see his eyes. You should be able to see his eyes.” The earl laughed, and the boy looked up with a somber, brown gaze, studying the earl carefully, waiting.

  The loop slipped around Cady’s neck, and the hangman tightened here and there, measuring the length. Too short and the death was slow by strangulation, too long and decapitation resulted.

  “They were the strangest color. Not gold, not really brown—I’ll never forget the way he looked at Mary.” The earl spat on the ground, rubbing at the spittle with his boot. “Stripped her bare with his eyes, even before he laid a hand on her. Don’t know what saved her life; perhaps he knew that death would have been easier for her.”

  The constable mounted the steps, his hands clasped behind his back. He nodded to the hangman, but spared no glance for the condemned.

  “Never seen such evil in one man’s eyes . . . until now. You’re nearly nine, boy. Do you think you could hide it from me? I’ve been waiting to see how you would turn out. Watching you.”

  The boy stood straight and silent, just like the hero from his books—the DragonSlayer. He had learned that sometimes it was wise to keep a quiet tongue when the earl was nearby.

  “The way you look at the maids with lust in your eyes? I couldn’t stop it once before, but I’ll not stand for it in my own house. Do you think I’d let it happen again?”

  The boy shook his head quickly, confused by the words and the hard gleam in his father’s eyes.

  The hangman pulled the rope taught and the earl jerked the boy’s chin up. “You’re to watch this, boy. I want you to see what happens when an evil man slinks between a woman’s thighs.”

  The constable at the edge of the platform raised his hand, a signal for the executioner.

  “You see that man, that vile piece of poison smiling to the crowd?”

  The hangman grasped the lever above him, sliding the bar, and the crowd quieted, waiting for the sound when the pin slipped free.

  The earl rocked back on his heels. Finally, there was justice for his wife. “That’s your father.”

  The pin dropped and the platform fell. The crowd roared in approval as the condemned man swung back and forth.

  “You’ve got his eyes, got that rutting blackness festering inside you. You can’t hide it, though. I see it and so will everyone else.”

  The boy locked his eyes straight ahead, watching the body swing like the tail of a clock. He blinked twice, making sure there were no tears. He mustn’t cry.

  The earl was wrong and he would prove it.

  He wasn’t evil. He was the DragonSlayer.

  Chapter One

  England, 1815

  The old earl had been dead for long enough that his jeers no longer clamored in Colin’s head like a sullen bell. When ladies passed by, Colin no longer turned the other way, avoiding the old man’s sharp looks. No, Colin Wescott, the seventeenth Earl of Haverwood, had no reason to fear the old earl anymore.

  Now he simply feared himself.

  He grabbed the porcelain wyvern that guarded the mantel, studied the cold, smooth wings that would never fly, and with a muttered curse, threw the gilded dragon against the hard wooden floor. It was an empty gesture. The cracki
ng sound of its destruction brought him no satisfaction; only the sad thought that perhaps the old man had been right.

  Marriage, of all things.Colin had faced French dragoons with less fear. What the devil had the old buzzard been thinking?

  He wanted to roar, wanted to rage, but the old earl had taught him too well. Instead, he bent down and gathered the broken pieces, praying for the soothing calm he wore so easily.

  Brisk footsteps echoed against the marble floor of the foyer, and Colin scrambled up quickly, carrying the fragments in his clumsy hands. After stowing them safely inside his desk, he slammed the drawer shut. Later he would get rid of them; for now he only had to fool Giles.

  The library door’s ancient hinges groaned and Colin drew a deep breath, ready to face the man’s all-too-clever eyes. With a last searching glance around the room, he stood with military precision, arms clasped behind him, once again the master of the manor.

  Everything looked undisturbed. The tall, green walls stood timeless and silent, forever sworn to keep his secret. The butler swept into the room and inclined his head in a deferential manner that would deceive most. “I assume the solicitor has left?”

  Colin picked up the iron poker that leaned against the heavy chimneypiece and began to stoke the fire, adjusting the logs as the last bits of his anger slipped away. The smell of burning pinewood filled the room. “Yes.”

  “Bad news, sir?”

  Damn.Colin had hoped the man, for once, had shown some decorum and had not been listening at the door, but of course where Giles was concerned, that seemed to be an impossibility. “The approach of my twenty-eighth birthday.”

  “Ah, yes. Your father’s will. And what will you do, sir? Leave the orphans at St. George to the miserly stewardship of the Wyndham family or choose the other more dastardly alternative?”

  “I’m going to have to do it, but of course you knew that, didn’t you?” The orphanage was the one piece of humanity that separated him from his father, and he would not let it go.

  He gave the logs a final jab and watched the small blaze begin to take hold, casting twisted shadows on the shelves of old books, bathing the room in a stifling warmth. Colin stored the poker and took a deep breath.

  “We had all hoped, sir.” Giles retrieved the bottle of port from the sideboard and then poured two glasses, handing one to Colin and taking one for himself.

  Colin smiled at the familiar gesture they had shared for many years and raised his glass. “Marriage is a quite respectable state. Finding the right woman that is equal to the proper upholding of the family name will be a difficult task, but certainly not impossible.” He only needed to marry himself to a woman as lifeless as the tiny dragon he had destroyed. As long as he retained a suitable distance, a business arrangement only, the situation would be acceptable.

  “A formidable challenge for a man as diligent as yourself.”

  “Me?” With a laugh that was far from innocent, Colin corrected the mistake. “I want you to find someone.”

  “I’m to be married, sir?” The impudent man tried to hide his smile, drinking deeply from the glass of port. The servant was only obtuse when it suited his needs.

  “No, you’re to find me a wife.”

  Giles raised a brow. “Have you considered the more acceptable methods of courtship, sir?”

  Every night in his dreams, the silky voice in his head replied. Night after night, a wisp of dragon’s breath would bring her to him. So real, so alive that he could smell the soft fragrance of her skin, drink the honey that flavored her mouth. He could bury himself inside her, hear her sighs, hear her moans—hear her screams. He tasted the bitter flavor of blood inside his mouth, and shook his head.

  “I will not subject myself to such nonsense.” He did not care about a wife, would not let his lust curl about him, squeezing tightly, turning him into the monster that his father had been.

  “You are the romantic, sir. The ladies will fall all over themselves to hear your witty repartee.”

  A log popped on the fire, sparks shooting to the floor. Colin watched the bits of orange flare then dim to black. “I have no patience for the lowering matrimonial games of London. I pay you well enough. Find me someone.”

  “Do you want me to buy one for you at the market?” The servant stood motionless, a rotund, mouthy statue with an obstinate stare, only his trembling moustache a sign of his displeasure.

  Colin coughed to hide his laugh. “That’s enough.”

  “Of course, sir. Sorry.” Giles put down his glass, took a sheet of paper and a quill, and looked at him expectantly.

  “What?”

  “Pretty, sir?”

  Colin sighed. Giles was in one of his moods. “No.” He sat in his armchair, comforted by the familiar creaking of leather.

  “Ugly?”

  Colin frowned, unhappy with the thought. He didn’t want to shackle himself to a woman who was repulsive, just someone who provided little temptation, someone who did not strain the bonds of his control. “No.”

  The butler lifted his brows. “I’m assuming somewhere in between then. Perhaps plain?”

  “Very good.”

  “Mild temperament?”

  Colin shook his head. “No.” He didn’t want a woman who would agree to his every whim, that would be tedious beyond belief.

  “High spirited, then?”

  “Not willful.”

  “Of course not, sir. Young?”

  “Not too young.”

  “Mrs. Cummings has a grandmother who is recently widowed. She sounds ideal.”

  “Giles . . .”

  “Sorry, sir. My wit does seem to get me in trouble.”

  After so many years in the old earl’s employ, Giles had more claim to Rosemont than Colin ever would. “It’s your tongue that will get you dismissed.”

  “Of course, sir. Should she like children, sir?”

  A difficult question. Colin swirled the wine in his glass, pondering his answer. He had sired no children, and never would. But there were the less fortunate that he would provide for. “Somewhat. Perhaps she could organize activities at St. George, but she shouldn’t want any of her own.”

  “I believe Mrs. Cumming’s grandmother has passed her childbearing years. Perhaps you might want to reconsider?”

  He really should dismiss the man. At least once, just for effect. Perhaps then the servant would behave. No, Colin could never fire the man who had raised him, and Giles would never behave. He took a long sip of wine, the sweet taste lingering in his mouth. “Just find me someone.”

  “I will find you six women of plain face, high-spirited nature, and”—Giles checked his paper—“confused on the subject of children. You can choose your own soul mate. I won’t have you blaming me the rest of your life for your own mistakes.” The butler turned and marched off, not giving Colin a chance to reply.

  Sarah Banks stared at the dazzling numbers in the ledger with some amazement. It appeared that her many years sitting at her father’s feet had provided her with a livelihood after all. With a satisfying thump, she closed the heavy book and grinned at the distinguished man seated in the dainty writing chair across from her.

  All in all, it did seem rather fitting that the aristocrats who had scorned her late father were now lining her pockets. At the advanced age of three and twenty, she was left with one inescapable conclusion: Gaming establishments were quite profitable.

  “Well done, François. Already Alycone’s is turning a fine profit. Just wait until the season starts. Father’s club will be all the thing.”

  He gave a slight nod, a faint flush dusting the sharp angles and planes of his proud, handsome face. François Moreau, Comte de Sourdet, belonged amongst the finest of French aristocracy, and if not for his noble title and a bloodthirsty Robespierre, he would still be there.

  “It is your family’s club, mademoiselle. Rightfully, the success is equally yours.” He gazed at her with affection, a far cry from the piercing look he wore to put even the mos
t high-ranking man in his place. Most of the club’s high popularity was due to his arrogant ways, a sign that only the most elite would be eligible for membership at Alcyone’s.

  Sarah spread her hands wide across the desk, her quick fingers never still. “Am I responsible for the culinary delights that the comtesse creates in the kitchen? Am I the one who imports only the finest delicacies from France? Am I the one who instructs the staff on remembering every patron’s personal tastes and requests? For shame, I am only a woman, simply handing you the tools to work your magic.”

  He shot her a conspiratorial wink. “You make a wonderful partner, mademoiselle.”

  Fine praise from a fine man. She was proud of what they had done with the club, but sadly enough, there was no one she could tell. “And that will remain our little secret. Now, tell me, how is your wife?”

  François shrugged, but his eyes softened, a man still madly in love. “Every day,je suis un chien, je suis un cochon. Impossible. Do I bark like a dog? Do I snort like a pig? What is a man to do? There is not a woman alive to match my Juliette.” He shook his head, smiling. “And you, Sarah? You should find a husband so you can share my misery.”

  “Marry?” She scoffed at the notion, settling her hands on the smooth, wooden chair arms. “The only offers for marriage that I receive are from the occasional fortune hunter who is willing to settle for my meager portions. They are such a bothersome lot.”

  “Your father is responsible for the obstacles to an honorable marriage.”

  She raised her eyebrows in a manner she had learned from him. No one was allowed to speak ill of her father, not even François. “You will not speak of him in such terms. Lest you forget, you owe him much.” Her father had provided employment for the comte and his wife when others were not so kind.

  “He was my friend, yes, but I am not blind to his careless upbringing of his daughter.”

  As a child she thought nothing strange in their carefree life. After some time, when she could understand the comments that people made, when she understood the looks of pity that were cast in her direction, it dawned on her exactly why she was so ostracized. Not every little girl spent her nights haunting gaming hells and learning how to win, no matter the price. However, she had adored her father; no one else had made her feel so sheltered and so loved. “Father did the best he could. I was all he had.”