Touched by Fire Read online

  He shrugged, a deceptively casual gesture. “I meant no offense, but heis responsible for your situation. You should be able to marry a man of your choosing, not some jackal who is after your fortune.”

  “I may be quite on the shelf, François, but I am not so desperate for a man that I must purchase him with my money. Is there anything more demeaning than to realize that you are loved only for your wealth? I don’t think so. You have found your true love; perhaps I shall wait a little longer for mine.”

  “When you find him, you will be appalled at what you will do for love.” He grinned, looking at her more like a daughter than a business partner. “I cannot wait to see the day when the unsinkable Sarah finds herself in over her head.”

  Perhaps some day. There was a man who occupied her dreams, a mere figment she had invented in her mind. Handsome, dark, and mysterious, his eyes were like warm sherry that made her weak at the knees with the very thought. Gallant, brave, and most important of all, able to protect her from the razor-sharp tongues that had stung her for so long.

  A discreet tapping at the door interrupted her moon-eyed dreaming, and Iris poked her head in, black curls escaping from under the white muslin cap. “Pardon, mum, sir.” She swept to the floor in a deep curtsy, a puddle of white skirts and lace, her nose pressed to the cold marble floor.

  “Iris, do get up. I have told you a hundred, nay, a thousand times, there is no need to curtsy. A courteous head bob, a slight dipping of the knee, or even a mere smile would suffice. But no curtsy. One of these days, you’ll have fainted dead away, and I shall do nothing but step over you, assuming you have only prostrated yourself on the floor once again.”

  “Sorry, mum.” Iris straightened, adjusting the mobcap. “But the old duchess was such a stickler about me behavior. Said she had no way of knowing if the floors was clean unless we was willing to stick our nose on them.”

  “I’ll thank you to remember I’m not the duchess,” Sarah muttered, all too aware that her own position in the world was well established, a fact she was reminded of each time she ventured out. There certainly wasn’t much chance of anyone mistaking her for the eminently respectable duchess.

  Iris moved toward the flower arrangement in the corner and began to adjust the blossoms. “And I say me prayers every night that I found a position in such a hospitable employ. It’s hard for a girl to find honest work in these sorry times, it is. Why, just the other day I was discussing that very thing with Bess in the kitchen. ‘Bess,’ I said, ‘the streets of London are no place for women with a genteel background—’ ”

  “Iris?”

  The maid removed a drooping daylily from the vase. “Yes, mum?”

  “Was there something you needed?”

  “Oh, yes. There’s a Mr. Edward Willoughby that’s come to call. He’s got blue eyes, he does. A very splendid shade of cornflower blue.” She shook the flower at Sarah, petals dropping on the carpet. “Now, don’t interrupt, mum. I know your feelings about eyes, always insisting on mud-colored—”

  Sarah winced. “Sherry, Iris, not mud.” Her father had told her many times sherry was for courage.

  “Brown, mum. I’m a plain speaker; me mother raised me not to mince words. As I was saying, I know you’ve got your heart set on a gentleman with”—she glanced over at François for assistance—“sherry-colored eyes, but I’ve seen countless gents through your door with blue eyes, green eyes, black eyes, gray eyes, brown eyes, and even that fine-looking Mr. Travis with those handsome gold eyes. But mum, I’ve yet to see a man with sherry-colored eyes.” She waggled a finger. “It’s not as if you’ve met this man you’ve got your heart set on, and who’s to say a man with green eyes is not every bit as good as a man with”—she furrowed her dark brows—“sherry-colored peepers?”

  Sarah let out a large sigh and smiled weakly, leaning back in her chair. Sometimes Iris exhausted her. “Iris?”

  “Yes, mum?”

  “Mr. Willoughby is in all probability a fortune hunter.”

  François sat forward, his black eyes earnest. “Sarah, how will you know unless you talk to him? Iris is absolutely correct.”

  Iris beamed, sensing a new ally.

  However, Sarah was not ready to abandon her guns yet. “Are you so certain that he’snot after my fortune? What sort of man comes calling on a woman who was ruined before she came of age?” After fourteen proposals, and all either from paupers or men not interested in the institution of marriage, she considered herself quite an expert on the subject.

  “You are too hard on yourself,” he answered.

  Sarah shot him a telling glance. “So you believe Mr. Willoughby is a fine and honorable man, merely here to enjoy my charming wit?” She picked up a quill pen and twisted it through her fingers. “Shall we see exactly what it is that Mr. Willoughby is up to?”

  François pursed his lips and smiled with indulgence. “I suppose you would like to wager on this?”

  “Most assuredly. How else to test the true spirit of our beliefs?”

  “Can you determine the man’s motives in one afternoon?”

  Sarah glanced at the frilled clock on the mantel, the two china dancers locked together for eternity. How sad to be envious of a timepiece. She rubbed her palms together, pushing aside the thoughts of romance, instead concentrating on winning a wager. “I believe I can ascertain the man’s intentions in less than ten minutes. And the stakes? Shall we make them high?”

  “Do you have any other valuation, mademoiselle?”

  “Very well, I shall temper my enthusiasm. A mere trifle. Your tickets to the theater this evening?”

  François waved his hands in defeat. “By all means, go ahead.”

  “Ten minutes?”

  A challenge danced in his eyes, the daring glint reminding her of her father. “That is what you said. If you do not think—-”

  “Oh, no.” Sarah rose and headed for the door, knowing just what to do. With an air of confidence that had been bred into the Banks family for generations, she pinched her nose and scrubbed her eyes. Lowering her head, she stumbled into the morning room.

  Mr. Edward Willoughby was a gleaming young man with an attentive bearing and extraordinary white teeth. He inclined his head, advancing on her as if the goddess Aphrodite had suddenly manifested herself in mortal form in Sarah’s parlor. “Miss Banks?”

  She sniffled and hiccuped, and eyed him from under her lashes. “Yes?”

  “I am honored to make your acquaintance.” He bowed over her hand. “When your maid said you were at home, I thought perhaps”—he flashed his white grin in a disarming gesture that had undoubtedly been practiced many times—“you might honor me with your glorious presence.”

  “You speak much too highly of me.” No one in polite society spoke highly of her. It just wasn’t done.

  “Oh, mere words are poor supplicants beneath the golden pulpit of your beauty. I feel I must throw myself at your dainty feet, the flaming crown of your hair blinding in the morning sun. And your shoulders—a set of shoulders of such beauty that no artist could capture their fine aspect with a brush and paint.”

  “Mr. Willoughby—”

  He held up his hand. “No, I must continue now that I’ve begun. You must know the truth. You are an exquisite angel. The very stars cannot compete with your beauty. No other woman is so refined, so fragile, so very gentle of temperament.”

  The remains of her chocolate and biscuits roiled in her stomach and it was only with substantial restraint that she did not roll her eyes. “Thank you . . .” She broke off with a sob and collapsed on his highly padded shoulder. “Oh, Mr. Willoughby, I don’t know what to do. You being a complete stranger and all, it’s not as if I can ask your help . . .”

  He guided her to the sofa, patting her arm, making annoying clucking noises as if she were a horse he were encouraging to trot. “Miss Banks, pray, you would make me the happiest of men if only you would let me deliver you from your misery. To see your beautiful face, laughing eyes—”<
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  “Yes.” She waved a hand, cutting him off.More platitudes, dear heavens. “Perhaps there is something you can do. It’s my father.”

  “Your father?”

  Forgive me, Father, but I know you’re laughing about this.“Yes, the late, dearly departed Oliver Banks. It seems that when he died . . .” She sobbed with great abandon.

  “Yes?” He pulled her closer, his hand moving dangerously close to places where no man was allowed to roam. “There, there, Miss Banks. What about your father?”

  “Oh . . . I don’t think I can go on.” She shifted slightly to avoid his omnipresent hands.

  He scooted closer, resuming the irritating clucking sound. “There, there. No need to be afraid, tell me what has happened.”

  The cheeky puppy, if he moved again, he would find himself without those persistent fingers.Pulling herself upright, she drew a deep breath and snorted. “His fortunes,” she sniffed, burying her head in her hands, “are gone.”

  He sprang from the couch as if burned. “Gone?”

  Curious, she peeked between her fingers, noting with satisfaction that the gleaming Mr. Willoughby no longer sparkled. The morning sun gleamed, the gilt picture frames gleamed, but Mr. Willoughby’s glow had gone missing. A gurgle of laughter escaped from her, which she quickly disguised as a wailing sob. “Gone.”

  “But how?” The man sounded appalled.

  She didn’t dare peek again. “One last bet. Just like Father. He had to bet just one . . . last . . .”—sniff—“time.”

  The sound of his urgent pacing was like music to her ears. In only moments, the theater tickets would be hers.

  “Forgive me for speaking so crassly, but didn’t he depart this earth several years ago?”

  “Two years and seven months.” She looked up, her eyes burning with moisture, no longer feigned. Not a day passed that she didn’t wish her father were still alive to show her his latest sleight of hand, or simply to share a loud and rollicking game of cards. She wiped away her tears. “The solicitor was detained overseas, in India, and has just returned this very week. We have two months to transfer our belongings to the evil villain who won the bet. A Lord Something-ly or Something-wood, I don’t know. I fear I was so distressed that even now I cannot recall his name. The solicitor said the man would cast us out in the street, destined for the gaol.”

  The man looked rather pale, and she hoped that François and Iris could overhear her in the adjoining room and appreciate her more theatrical talents.

  Mr. Willoughby gulped and seemed intent on studying the patterns in her cream-colored wallpaper. “Miss Banks, I am so sorry. I had no conception that your straits were so dire. Let me consider what I can do. Perhaps I may speak to a few acquaintances on your behalf?”

  She batted her eyelashes. “You would be willing to do such a thing?”

  “I cannot make any promises.”

  The weasel.“No, I’m sure you couldn’t.”

  He cut a fine leg, bowing low, his hand pressed against his heart, even as he was bolting toward the door. “But I shall try my best.”

  “Good day, Mr. Willoughby.” She turned away from him, and this time she did roll her eyes.

  Sarah watched him beat a hasty retreat down the front walk and then skipped over and threw open the study doors. With a flourish worthy of Iris’s best efforts, she curtsied. “François, I believe you owe me tickets to the theater.”

  “With pleasure, mademoiselle, but you must take Juliette with you tonight. She will have my head if she doesn’t attend. That was quite an exceptional performance, by the way. You should consider a career on the stage, Sarah.”

  Sarah fixed Iris with a steady glare. “Iris?”

  “Yes, mum?”

  “Unless the gentleman has eyes the color of warm sherry, I’m permanently indisposed.” No longer would she waste her time with the bounders that came to call. They were interested in only her money. However, there was one man that deserved her heart and someday she would find him.

  Iris flounced her skirts and swept to the floor once more. “Of course, mum. Sherry.”

  London had never been easy for Colin to stomach. He preferred the space and solitude of Rosemont to the dreary skies and dirty streets of the city. A man could walk no more than ten paces without being assailed by street vendors and the noxious odors of burning coal. And here, in thisdelightfully cold city, lived all the women that Giles had chosen as suitable candidates for the next Lady Haverwood. Rubbing his eyes, he felt the telltale hammering in his head as he contemplated the prospect of marriage. There was always tomorrow, though. No reason he had to find a wife tonight.

  He stalked up the stairs to his town house and slammed the great wooden door behind him.

  “Giles!”

  After a lengthy delay, the butler appeared and removed Colin’s greatcoat. “You bellowed, sir?”

  “Did my books arrive today?” He had been waiting for his latest acquisition,An Enquiry Into Curious Encounters with Dragons, Beasts, and Monsters, and nothing sounded more appealing than a quiet evening with a study of western dragons and a warm glass of the finest French brandy. He knew all the dragons by heart. Every one. As a child, he had been fascinated by the tales of the dragon slayers: men who rescued fair damsels from all the vile creatures of the world. Now he was a man—a man who still believed in his childish dreams. He sighed.

  “Yes, they’re unpacked and sitting on your desk. However, Mr. Mackenzie requested the pleasure of your company at the theater this evening.”

  An evening with Mackenzie? Colin had only been in town for two days and he’d never been inclined for social outings. He looked at Giles with suspicion. “Now, how did he know I was in town?”

  The servant whirled an innocent hand. “Gossip. Travels like the wind within the society circles. Should I reply with your refusal?”

  “No. I think I shall attend.” He found himself actually looking forward to Stephen’s company, to reminisce about the years they served in the Peninsula together. Now that Napoleon was safely ensconced on Elba, and the war with the upstart colonists was over, there were no more battles to be won. His dragons could wait until tomorrow.

  Giles stared with a slack jaw. “If I may speak frankly, you are in rare spirits today, sir. It is all rather overwhelming. Matrimony, the arts . . .” He sank into an overstuffed chair and wiped his brow. “I must sit down.”

  From their box in the corner, Sarah had a fine view of the crowd below. It appeared as if most of London had chosen this night to attend, creating a hum of excitement that permeated the air.

  The stage was a tribute to the matters of the heart, or perhaps the baser needs. Venus adorned the ceiling, her maids preparing her to meet her lover. The drop curtain portrayed Apollo dancing to the image of Cupid.

  “Ah, how can one not love the theater?” The Comtesse de Sourdet spoke with the excitement of a child, clearly in her element. She was dressed in vibrant green, a wonderful contrast to her dark coloring. The first bloom of her youth long gone, but she still captured many an eye. There was an aura of strength and determination about her that kept her marriage with the comte passionate and volatile. The tirades between the two were quite legendary among the staff at Alcyone’s.

  “One must first learn to ignore the sensation of being watched as if one were an exotic giraffe in the zoo,” Sarah replied, meeting the hawk-eyed gaze of a dowager below. The woman tossed her head and turned away.

  The comtesse waved her hand lazily. “Rudeness comes easier than grace. Let them stare.”

  Sarah sat up a little straighter and let her shawl droop a little lower on her shoulders. Juliette was right. “Well, hang them all. I don’t care.”

  “Those are the words of your father, not you. You’ve become much too bitter. When the right man notices you, none of this will matter.”

  “You’ve been speaking to your husband, haven’t you? ‘The right man.’” She couldn’t help but laugh at that. “I’ve seen only an abundance of th
e wrong man.”

  “Then you need to look harder.” There was a steely rebuke in the woman’s velvety voice.

  “Is that your very polite way of saying that I haven’t done enough to alter my situation?”

  Juliette smiled, shrugged, and as the stage curtain began to rise, turned her attention to the beginning of the play.

  Sarah’s thoughts, however, could not be so easily diverted. Was Juliette right? Sarah did try. Yet after so many failures perhaps she wasn’t quite so enthusiastic anymore. Although, she couldn’t spend her entire life cocooned away from the rest of the world. She stroked the skirt of her best blue silk, a dress meant to entice and enchant. Perhaps Juliette was right.

  She scanned the audience below. A foppish dandy she recognized as Sir Nigel Landry let his oily glance linger long and improperly. Sarah had heard more than her share of his scandalous propositions and she arched an eyebrow as best she could, puckering her lips as if she had swallowed a lemon, and stared down her nose at the fluttering man. He grinned, his leer even more pronounced, and Sarah turned away, annoyed that her snub hadn’t discouraged the letch in the slightest. Sir Nigel owed Alcyone’s two thousand pounds, so perhaps it was time for François to call in the markers. She smiled, cheered with thoughts of her small revenge.

  Over the years she had studied the haughty, dismissive looks in some detail. The arch of the brow was to convey unworthiness, the distending of the nose was designed to intimidate, and most important of all, the icy glare indicated the recipient did not belong. However, when it came to delivering set-downs that were designed to destroy dreams, she had not yet achieved the masterfully deft touch of the bon ton.