My Lady's Dare. Gayle Wilson

      Chapter One

      London, three nights later

      “If all goes according to plan, my dear, we shall have a very special guest tonight,” Henri Bonnet said, smiling with undisguised satisfaction. “One to whom I wish you to be especially attentive.”

      Elizabeth Carstairs’ eyes lifted to the reflection of her employer’s in the mirror above her dressing table. She said nothing, however, and after a moment she returned her attention to the task of darkening the pale lashes above her blue eyes.

      The Frenchman strode angrily across the room and caught her chin in his fingers, roughly turning her to face him. “A very special guest,” he said again, each word sharp and distinct. “Do you understand me, Elizabeth?”

      “Of course,” the Englishwoman said. Neither her face nor her voice expressed dismay at the gambler’s treatment of her.

      For the past two years, Elizabeth Carstairs had had little control over any aspect of her life except her demeanor. And she had decided from the beginning that Henri Bonnet would never be allowed to know what she was thinking. Or feeling.

      Still gripping her chin painfully, Bonnet turned her face toward the light of the lamp on her dressing table. He examined it critically before he dipped one finger into a pot of rouge, which was standing open on the dresser. He added more color to her lips and then to her cheeks, blending the rouge into the small amount she had already applied.

      He stepped back, his head tilted, still assessing. Then he touched the sleeve of the blue gown she was wearing, flicking its edging of lace dismissingly. “And wear the red, I think, rather than this. We are entertaining someone important, Elizabeth. Someone very important. And I’m counting on you, of course, to do your part,” he added softly.

      Without waiting to see if she would obey his command to change—because he knew that she would—the gambler turned, leaving her alone in her bedroom. Her eyes returned to the reflection in the mirror. She watched her lips tighten in anger, and then using the tips of her fingers, she scrubbed at the rouge, trying to remove it from her cheeks.

      After a moment, the movement of her fingers stopped, and she leaned forward, staring intently into the eyes of the woman in glass. Slowly she shook her head, a single negative movement. Then she rose, her fingers working over the buttons down the back of her bodice, preparing to put on the dress the gambler had instructed her to wear. Her lips were set, her eyes cold, and after she had changed, she never looked again into the mirror.

      “So good of you to honor us with your company, my Lord Dare,” Henri Bonnet said.

      The Frenchman bowed from the waist. His left hand, graced by a brilliantly faceted emerald ring, made a sweeping gesture toward a large gaming table, which had been set up in one of the private salons of his elegant London hell.

      There were two empty chairs at the table. The other four were occupied by gentlemen of the earl’s acquaintance, who had obviously been awaiting his arrival. Dare’s gaze skimmed almost insultingly over his host, not even acknowledging his bow. He considered the group at the table, his eyes resting briefly on the face of each man.

      “I believe you know everyone,” the Frenchman added, his tone expressing no displeasure that the earl had failed to respond to his effusive greeting. However rude the earl might be, they all knew the gambler couldn’t afford to offend so wealthy a patron.

      All conversation at the table had come to a halt with the earl’s arrival, and every eye was focused on the figure poised in the doorway. Despite the fact that he had reached his London town house less than an hour ago, Dare knew there was nothing to criticize in his appearance. With Harper’s assistance, and according to the reassuring reflection in his mirror, he had again achieved the sartorial elegance for which Valentine Sinclair, the Earl of Dare was justly famous. Or perhaps justly infamous, he thought, mocking his own carefully constructed reputation.

      It was said that some of the younger members of the beau monde had once tried to estimate the cost of the clothing Dare had worn to some court occasion, even going so far as to place wagers on the amount in the betting books. Despite the fact that he was known for indulging his expensive taste to the utmost, the sums Dare heard mentioned in that incident hadn’t even approached the amount he had actually spent.

      And spent for a good cause, he acknowledged, bowing formally toward the Duke of Pendlebrooke, the only man present who outranked him. Dare’s attention to fashion was part of his ongoing masquerade. As were most of his excesses, including the one he would engage in tonight.

      “Gentlemen,” Dare said, inclining his head to the men at the table, “I bid you good evening. And offer my abject apologies to have kept you waiting. My man was singularly inept tonight.”

      Forgive me, Ned, Dare thought, as he made that ridiculous statement. Harper’s reputation rivaled Dare’s own among the fops of the ton, and they laughed together about the secret offers the valet received, attempting to lure him away from his employer.

      “I throw myself on your mercy and beg your forgiveness for my tardiness,” Dare finished with the slightest bend of his upper body. His tone somehow made it obvious that he didn’t really give a tinker’s damn whether or not they forgave him.

      As he bowed, Dare’s fingers unobtrusively touched the heavily starched cravat around his throat, tied tonight in an intricate style that bore his name. He eased the cloth upward, although Harper had assured him the gash was completely covered.

      Adjusting his clothing once he had left his dressing room was something that Dare, like Brummel, ordinarily would never have done. However, revealing that he bore a sword cut on his neck would be a far more serious faux pas. A wound of that nature would be totally out of character for the Earl of Dare that London believed she knew.

      Despite his apology for being late, Dare crossed the room as unhurriedly as if he were strolling along the shop windows on Bond Street. With impeccable timing, Bonnet’s servant pulled out the empty chair on the nearer side just as Dare reached the table. Gracefully adjusting the tail of his coat, the earl sat down, blue eyes again considering the men who were very shortly to become his opponents.

      Although he had rather be almost anywhere else on earth than here, Dare’s face reflected nothing of that feeling. Only a languid boredom was allowed to play across his features. The expression appeared to be habitual and, like his clothing, was frequently aped by aspiring dandies, who hoped to achieve this same air of elegantly detached ennui.

      The earl was not, however, suffering from boredom. He was grief-stricken and furious, exhausted from a more than forty-eight hour lack of sleep, and sickened by the events of the three days he had just spent in France.

      He had kept this engagement tonight only because not appearing might have called into question his whereabouts during those days. And the fact that a dear friend had died in his arms today would not have served as an excuse for his absence. After all, given Dare’s reputation, most people would be surprised had he claimed to possess a friend. Certainly not one who had been willing to give his own life to protect the earl’s.

      Remembering that sacrifice, Dare’s lips flattened, almost imperceptibly. Emotion was something he could not allow, of course, so deliberately he forced from his mind the image of the broken body he had held. He could not afford to let his failure in France interfere with his purposes here, which were perhaps as important as the ones which had taken him to the continent.

      Henri Bonnet entertained