His Mask of Retribution. Margaret McPhee

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СКАЧАТЬ a chaperon—no matter that she was being held alone in a locked room—and her reputation would be ruined to such an extent that none of her father’s influences could repair it. The irony almost made her laugh. Especially when she contemplated the darkness of the truth. Even so, she rose to her feet and walked to the window.

      The view was the same as that of a hundred other houses in London—long, neatly kept back gardens separated by high stone walls, backing on to more gardens and the distant rear aspect of yet more town houses, all beneath the grey-white of an English autumn sky. There were no landmarks that she recognised. The catch moved easily enough, but the window was stiff and heavy and noisy to open. She did not slide it up far. There was little point, for there was no hope of escape through it. The drop below was sheer and at least twenty-five feet. She closed the window as quietly as she could and turned to survey the room around her.

      It was much smaller than the yellow bedchamber and almost Spartan in its feel. Aside from the bed there was a bedside cabinet upon which was placed a candle in its holder. Against the other walls stood a dark mahogany wardrobe, a wash-stand and a chest of drawers with a small peering glass and shaving accoutrements sitting neatly on top. A dark Turkey rug covered the floor, but there were no pictures on the wall, no bolsters or cushions upon the bed. There was no lace, no frills, nothing pretty or pale. It was the very opposite of Marianne’s bedchamber at home. It was dark and serious and exuded an air of strength and utter masculinity, just like the man who owned it.

      His presence seemed strong in the room, so strong that it almost felt like he was here. And she had the strangest sensation of feeling both unsettled and safe at once. Her blood was flowing a little bit too fast. She needed to search the bedchamber, to discover any clue to the highwayman’s identity that she might tell her father when she got home. So she turned the key within the tall polished wardrobe and the door swung open. Sandalwood touched to her nose, a faint scent but instantly recognisable as the highwayman. Goosebumps prickled her skin and a shiver passed all the way through her body. There was something attractive, something almost stimulating about his scent. The rails were heavy with expensive tailored coats and breeches, undoubtedly the clothing of a gentleman, and a wealthy one at that if the cut and quality of material were anything to judge by. It did not surprise her for, despite his disguise, she had known almost from the first that he was no ruffian.

      Check the pockets, she heard the voice of common sense whisper in her ear. She reached out her hand, then hesitated, holding her breath, suddenly very aware of where she was and what she was doing. Slowly she touched her fingers to the shoulder of the nearest tailcoat.

      The midnight-blue wool felt as smooth and expensive as it looked. Her eyes scanned the breadth of the shoulders. She let her fingers trace all the way down one lapel and it felt as daring as if she were stroking a tiger, as daring as if the highwayman was still wearing the coat. That thought made her heart skip a beat. She slid her hands within, checking the inside for hidden pockets, skimming down the tail to the pocket that was there, but nothing was to be found in any of them. She checked each coat in turn; the feel of his clothing beneath her fingers and the scent of him in her nose made her heart thud all the harder and her blood rush all the faster as she remembered the strength and hardness of the arm she had gripped so frantically last night and the weight of his hand around her arm in the rookery. And she wondered if this was what it would feel like to lay her hand against his shoulder, his lapel, his chest…

      She gave a shaky laugh at the absurdity of her own thoughts. She did not like men, especially those who were dangerous. She closed the wardrobe door and, quietly and systematically, began to search the rest of the room.

      The soap in the dish held the scent of sandalwood. She touched his badger-hair shaving brush and the handle of his razorblade, wondering that he had left such a weapon at her disposal. But then she remembered him in the rookery and knew that he had nothing to be afraid of. And another shiver rippled all the way from the top of her head down to the tips of her toes.

      Everything was neat and tidy, everything in its place. Waistcoats, shirts, a pile of pressed linen cravats…and a black-silk kerchief. She hesitated, feeling strange to see it folded and pressed so neatly within the drawer. It seemed so harmless, so inconsequential, unlike the man who wore it.

      There were two pairs of riding boots and three pairs of black slippers—all large. She did not look through his unmentionables, only closed the drawer so quickly that she wondered if his accomplice had heard the noise. Then she sat herself down in the easy chair by the fireplace, properly this time, and considered what she had gleaned of the highwayman from his room and possessions.

      He was a gentleman, tall and broad-shouldered and strong. A man who wore a black-silk kerchief across his face. A man from whom one glance made her shiver, and of whom his scent alone made her heart beat too fast. A man for whom she felt both wariness and fascination. Nothing in the room had told her anything more than she already knew.

      Knight did not return to his town house until dinnertime that night.

      ‘Did you win?’ Callerton asked, serving up the stew he had prepared.

      ‘Your money’s safe,’ replied Knight.

      ‘Nice to know I made a bob or two without leaving the house.’ Callerton grinned. ‘Shouldn’t Rafe Knight, gentleman and rake, be out celebrating his victory?’

      ‘They have arranged an outing to a gaming hell tonight.’

      Callerton screwed his face up. ‘If I don’t go there’ll be questions. And we don’t want questions.’

      Callerton shook his head. ‘Especially not this night.’

      ‘Is Lady Marianne in the yellow bedchamber?’

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