Dauntsey Park: The Last Rake In London

Dauntsey Park: The Last Rake In London Nicola Cornick All my winnings tonight against one night with you. Under a blaze of chandeliers, in London's most fashionable club, Jack Kestrel is waiting. He hasn't come to enjoy the rich at play, he's there to uphold his family name. But first he has to get past the ice-cool owner: the beautiful Sally Bowes. And Jack wants her to warm his bed at any price!Edwardian society flocks to Sally's club, but dangerous Jack Kestrel is the most sinfully sensual rogue she's ever met. Inexperienced with men, the wicked glint in Jack's eyes promises he'll take care of satisfying her every need. . . . Nicola Cornick’s novels have received acclaim the world over ‘Cornick is first-class, Queen of her game.’ —Romance Junkies ‘A rising star of the Regency arena.’ —Publishers Weekly Praise for THE SCANDALOUS WOMEN OF THE TON series ‘A riveting read.’ —New York Times bestselling author Mary Jo Putney on Whisper of Scandal ‘One of the finest voices in historical romance.’ —SingleTitles.com ‘Ethan Ryder (is) a bad boy to die for! A memorable story of intense emotions, scandals, trust, betrayal and all-encompassing love. A fresh and engrossing tale.’ —Romantic Times on One Wicked Sin ‘Historical romance at its very best is written by Nicola Cornick.’ —Mary Gramlich, The Reading Reviewer Acclaim for Nicola’s previous books ‘Witty banter, lively action and sizzling passion.’ —Library Journal on Undoing of a Lady ‘RITA Award-nominated Cornick deftly steeps her latest intriguingly complex Regency historical in a beguiling blend of danger and desire.’ —Booklist on Unmasked Dear Reader, It has been a great pleasure for me to write a special story set in 1908. The Edwardian period has a strong nostalgia about it. It has been described as: “A leisurely time when women wore picture hats and did not vote, when the rich were not ashamed to live conspicuously and the sun never really set on the British flag.” It was an era that contrasted with the periods that preceded and succeeded it—the long reign of Victoria and the harsh and terrible reality of the First World War. Yet the Edwardian period has also been referred to as “the birth of now,” a period that has far more in common with modern times than we might imagine. When I was writing this book I was constantly surprised at the parallels with modern life and that much of the technology in use today originated or was first developed in this period. Much of the London Underground had been built and was already referred to as “The Tube.” The first aeroplanes were taking to the skies. The rich had installed telephones in their houses and the King would ring his friends up when he had decided to drop in for a visit. I have set Jack and Sally’s love story against the glittering backdrop of Edwardian high society and I hope that you enjoy this glimpse of that very special year, 1908. www.nicolacornick.co.uk Dauntsey Park The Last Rake in London Nicola Cornick www.mirabooks.co.uk (http://www.mirabooks.co.uk) The ancestral line of the Dukes of Kestrel had bred rakes and rogues aplenty in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. The family seat, Kestrel Court, is nestled in the Midwinter Villages and you can read about the exploits of the Kestrel family in Nicola Cornick’s bestselling series, the BLUESTOCKING BRIDES: THE NOTORIOUS LORD ONE NIGHT OF SCANDAL THE RAKE’S MISTRESS Available as eBooks. Visit www.mirabooks.co.uk Other novels by Nicola Cornick WHISPER OF SCANDAL ONE WICKED SIN MISTRESS BY MIDNIGHT To my wonderful grandmother, born Doris Mary Wood in 1908, still an inspiration to me now. Prologue June 1908 Jack Kestrel was looking for a woman. Not just any woman, but a female so unscrupulous, greedy and manipulative that she would blackmail a man who was dying. He had been assured that she would be at the art exhibition at the Wallace Collection tonight, but he did not know what she looked like. Whilst he tried to locate the curator to arrange an introduction, Jack stood at the top of the staircase and scanned the crowd that had flocked to the exhibition of portraits and miniatures. Most people were standing in small groups in the conservatory and the hall, chattering, drinking champagne, their purpose not so much to view the paintings as to see and be seen. The gentlemen were in evening dress, the ladies vivid in rainbow-coloured gowns and picture hats, their diamonds rivalling the glitter of the chandeliers. Jack turned and walked slowly along the corridor that led to the Grand Gallery. His cousin, the Duke of Kestrel, had loaned some portraits to the exhibition tonight including two very fine paintings by George Romney of Jack’s great-grandparents, Justin Duke of Kestrel and his wife. Jack was curious to see them; the last time he had viewed them they had been tucked in a dark corner of the family seat, Kestrel Court in Suffolk, in dire need of a clean. Buffy the present duke was an unashamed philistine about the arts and saw his collection as nothing more than an asset to sell as the income he gained from his land dwindled. Only the previous week, Jack had loaned Buffy a thousand pounds to prevent him from sending his entire collection of Stubbs’s racing paintings to Sotheby’s. There was only one person viewing the Kestrel portraits in the small drawing room. They were beautifully displayed and lit from below by a cunning arrangement of oil lamps. The same soft light that illuminated the portraits of Jack’s ancestors also shone on the woman standing before them, giving radiance to her face beneath the wide brim of her hat, making her complexion glow like cream and roses and shadowing her eyes with mysterious darkness. She was wearing a beautiful peach silk evening gown that draped sinuously over her body and her huge black picture hat had matching peach ribbons and roses on the brim. Jack stopped in the doorway, his eyes resting on her face. For a moment he felt an odd sensation in his chest, almost as though she had reached out and physically touched him. It was not a feeling he had ever experienced before. Apart from a disastrous entanglement in his youth, he had kept his relationships with women a simple and straightforward business of mutual physical convenience. Not one of them had made the breath catch in his throat or his heart miss a beat. He decided to ignore the sudden and disturbing stir of emotions within him and crossed the room to her side. She did not turn. She seemed engrossed in the portrait of Justin Kestrel, with his dark Regency good looks, the rakish smile on his lips and the hint of humour in his dangerous eyes. ‘Do you like the portrait?’ She turned at last at Jack’s softly spoken question and her beautiful hazel eyes widened as they went from his face to the portrait and back again. He saw her mouth turn up in a reluctant smile. ‘He was very handsome,’ she said drily. ‘The resemblance is striking, as no doubt you are aware.’ Jack bowed. ‘He was my great-grandfather. Jack Kestrel, entirely at your service, madam.’ Her dark brows lifted slightly, but she did not give him a name in return and Jack knew it was deliberate. It was also unusual. Very few women refused Jack Kestrel’s acquaintance. His looks generally gained him their interest even before they learned how rich he was. ‘And this—’ her attention had turned to the portrait of Justin’s duchess, vivid and bejewelled in emerald satin and with the most glorious auburn hair ‘—must be your great-grandmother.’ ‘Indeed,’ Jack said. ‘Lady Sally Saltire. She was reputed to be as clever as she was beautiful. Half of London society was at her feet. In Regency times she was known as an Incomparable.’ ‘How marvelous.’ His companion seemed amused. ‘It is unusual to hear of a clever woman who did not trouble to hide her intelligence. I admire her for it.’ ‘I do not believe that she cared what others thought of her,’ Jack said. ‘And her husband adored her. He said that she was more than a match for him in every way.’ He laughed. ‘She could certainly shoot straighter than he could.’ ‘A useful accomplishment,’ she agreed. She leaned closer to the pictures to admire a small square portrait of a little girl in a white dress. The lamplight caught on the strands of tawny brown hair beneath her hat and burnished them to gold, setting the shadows dancing against her cheek. ‘Is this their daughter?’ She asked. Jack nodded. ‘My Great-Aunt Ottoline.’ ‘Is she still alive?’ ‘Very much so,’ Jack said feelingly. A spark of mischief lit her eyes. ‘I imagine she must be quite a character.’ She turned to face him and once again Jack felt the impact of that clear hazel gaze. Something shifted within him, something poignant and unexpected, like a hand squeezing his heart. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘it has been a pleasure making the acquaintance of your dangerous ancestors, Mr Kestrel.’ She was leaving, and Jack was determined to stop her. He wanted to know much, much more about her. He was not going to let her go yet. ‘Is art a passion of yours?’ He asked. She shook her head. ‘No more than an interest, like music. My work is my passion.’ Jack slanted a look down at her. He was surprised. She did not look like a New Woman, the type of female who was independent and earned her own living as a shop assistant or factory worker. She looked too glossy, pampered and rich. He was about to ask her what she did for a living when she smiled at him, a luscious smile, but quite without promise of any sort. ‘If you will excuse me, Mr Kestrel, I think I shall go and look at the Cosway miniatures now. They are accounted extremely pretty.’ ‘Then may I escort you to the Grand Gallery?’ Jack asked. After a brief second’s hesitation, she shook her head. ‘No, I thank you. I am here with a friend. I should go and find him.’ ‘What was he thinking of to leave you alone?’ Jack asked. She flashed him a smile. ‘I am able to take care of myself. And he genuinely is no more than a friend.’ ‘I am pleased to hear it.’ She sighed. ‘You should not be. I do not seek to further our acquaintance, Mr Kestrel. I am too old a hand to have my head turned by a handsome face.’ She did not look a day above five and twenty, but Jack thought she sounded world-weary. And he was too experienced to push her too hard. That way he would lose all that he had gained. ‘At the least, tell me your name,’ he said. He took her hand. She was wearing long black silk evening gloves that reached to her elbow. They felt deliciously smooth beneath his fingers and for a moment he thought he felt her hand tremble in his. Her long black lashes flickered down, hiding her expression. ‘I am Sally Bowes,’ she said. ‘Good evening, Mr Kestrel.’ She smiled, withdrew her hand from his, turned and walked away down the corridor towards the Grand Gallery. The light shimmered on her peach gown and the voluptuous curves beneath. Sally Bowes. The shock and disbelief hit Jack squarely in the stomach like a blow. Unscrupulous, greedy, manipulative … A woman who would blackmail a dying man … He knew now what she did for a living. She was a nightclub hostess who used the weakness of men against them to extort money. Yet the information was counter to every instinct he possessed about the woman he had been talking with. They had only spoken for a few moments and yet she had entranced him. He did not usually make errors of judgement of that magnitude. And along with the shock he felt something deeper, something that felt like disappointment. He took an impulsive step after her, but then saw a gentleman join her, offering her his arm, and saw her smile up into his face. A pang of jealously pierced him, all the sharper for being so unexpected. He recognised the man; Gregory, Lord Holt, was a very old friend of his. He wondered if Holt was Miss Bowes’s next intended victim. Jack straightened. Tomorrow he would seek out Miss Bowes again and tell her in no uncertain terms that her attempts to extort money from his uncle had to cease. He would warn her that, in tangling with him, she was engaging a very dangerous enemy indeed. Chapter One ‘Miss Bowes?’ The voice was low, mellow and familiar. It spoke in Sally’s ear and she came awake abruptly. For a moment she could not remember where she was. Her neck ached slightly and her cheek was pressed against something cold. Paper. She had fallen asleep in her office again. Her head was resting on the piles of invoices and orders that were on the desk. She half-opened her eyes. It was almost dark. The lamp glowed softly and from beyond the door drifted the faint sound of music, the babble of voices and the scent of cigar smoke and wine. That meant it must be late; the evening’s entertainments at the Blue Parrot Club had already begun. ‘Miss Bowes?’ This time the voice sounded considerably less agreeable and more than a little impatient. Sally sat up, wincing as her stiff muscles protested, and rubbed her eyes. She blinked them open, stopped, stared, then rubbed them again to ensure that she was not dreaming. She was not. He was still there. Jack Kestrel was leaning forward, both hands on the top of her desk, which brought his dark eyes level with hers and put him approximately six inches away from her. From such an intimate distance Sally could not focus on all his features at once, but she remembered them clearly enough from the previous night. He was not a man one would forget in a hurry, for his appearance was very striking. He had dark brown hair, very silky looking and a little ruffled from the summer breeze, a nose that was straight and verging on the aquiline and a sinfully sensuous mouth. Sally was not generally impressed by good looks alone. She was no foolish d?butante to lose her head over a handsome man. But Jack Kestrel had had charm to burn and she had enjoyed talking to him the previous night. She had enjoyed his company too much, in fact. Spending time with him had been dangerously seductive. It would have been all too easy to accept his escort, and then, perhaps, to accept an invitation to dinner … Sally had not been so tempted in a very long time and had known she could not afford to get to know Jack Kestrel any better. As soon as he had told her his name she had been wary, for all of Edwardian society knew who he was. The ancestral line of the Dukes of Kestrel had bred rakes and rogues aplenty in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries and there were those who said that this man was the last Kestrel rake, cut from the same cloth as his ancestors. Cousin to the present Duke, eventual heir to the dukedom, he had been banished abroad in his youth as a result of an outrageous scandal involving a married woman and had returned ten years later having made an independent fortune. Sally could see why he had gained the reputation he had. There was certainly something powerfully virile about him. Women were supposed to swoon at his feet and she had no intention of joining their ranks and littering his path. She realised that she was still staring at him. Suddenly hot, she dragged her gaze away from Jack’s mouth and met his eyes. His expression was distinctly unfriendly. She drew back immediately, instinctively, and saw his gaze narrow at her reaction. He straightened up and moved away from the desk. He was not in evening dress tonight and Sally thought that looking as he did, he could not be mistaken for a member of the Blue Parrot’s usual clientele. The club catered for the filthy rich members of King Edward’s circle who were mainly fat, pampered and accustomed to soft living, and to the sophisticated American visitors whose money and influence increasingly held sway in London. Occasionally the club also hosted the soldier sons of the old aristocracy, roistering it up on leave. Jack Kestrel looked as though he might have been a soldier once—he had a long scar down one lean cheek—and he certainly looked as though he would be more at home on the North-west Frontier or in southern Africa than in a club off the Strand. He was very tall, broad and sunburnt and Sally guessed he was about thirty. Instead of evening dress he wore a long driving coat in dark brown leather over a suit that was as carelessly casual as only Savile Row could make, and he carried his height with a lounging grace that was compulsive to watch. He turned back towards her and Sally felt her breathing constrict. She could not deny that Jack Kestrel had a dangerously masculine appearance. His features were hard and uncompromising. ‘I apologise for waking you,’ he drawled. ‘I suppose that in your profession you must snatch your sleep where you can.’ Sally was not quite sure what to make of that. Although she enjoyed accounting, she did not normally find it so riveting that it kept her from her bed. She was tired that evening only because she had been out late at the Wallace Collection the night before and then up early supervising the final redecorations of the Crimson Salon, which was to open to the public in two weeks’ time. The renovations had taken six months and the new developments were going to be the talk of London. Even the King himself had promised to attend the unveiling. ‘You are Miss Bowes?’ Jack added, for a third time, when Sally still did not speak. Now he sounded downright impatient. ‘I … Yes, I am. I told you that last night.’ Sally cleared her throat. She realised that she did not sound very sure. She certainly did not sound like the authoritative owner of the most successful and avant-garde club in London. Once, long ago, in the genteel drawing rooms of Oxford, she had indeed been Miss Bowes, the eldest daughter, sister to Miss Petronella and Miss Constance. But a great deal had happened since then. Under Jack Kestrel’s pitiless dark gaze she felt younger than her twenty-seven years, young and strangely vulnerable. She straightened in her chair, brushed the tangled hair out of her eyes and hoped desperately that the inkstains she could see on her fingers did not also adorn her face. It was infuriating that she had been caught like this. Normally she would change into an evening gown before the club opened, but because she had fallen asleep she had not had time, and no one had come to wake her. ‘What can I do for you, Mr Kestrel?’ She assumed her most businesslike voice. She had already realised that this could not be a social call to follow up their meeting the previous night. No matter how brief and sweet their encounter had seemed at the time, something fundamental had changed. Now he was angry. ‘I think you must know perfectly well why I am here, Miss Bowes.’ Jack’s tone was clipped. ‘Had I known who you were last night, I would have broached the matter then. As it was, I realised your identity too late. But you must surely have known I would seek you out.’ Sally got to her feet. It made her feel stronger and more capable. ‘I am sorry,’ she said politely, ‘but I have no idea what you are talking about, Mr Kestrel, nor why you are here, unless it is to enjoy the famous hospitality of the Blue Parrot.’ She had heard that Jack Kestrel had once spent a thousand pounds on champagne alone in one sitting at the gambling tables in Monte Carlo. Sally wished that he would do the same at the Blue Parrot. But it seemed unlikely, given the hostile expression on his face. Jack’s mouth twisted with sarcastic appreciation at her words. ‘Legendary as I understand the Blue Parrot’s hospitality to be, Miss Bowes,’ he drawled, ‘that is not what I came for.’ Sally shrugged. ‘Then if you could perhaps enlighten me?’ She gestured to the papers on the desk. ‘Stimulating as your company is, Mr Kestrel, I do not have the time to play guessing games with you. As I mentioned last night, my work is my passion and I am keen to return to it.’ Some emotion flared behind his eyes, vivid as lightning. Sally could feel the anger and antagonism in him even more powerfully now, held under tight control, but almost tangible. She wished the lamps were turned up. In the semi-darkness she felt at a strong disadvantage. ‘I can quite believe that you have a passion for what you do, Miss Bowes,’ Jack said, through his teeth. ‘You must possess a great deal of nerve to pretend that you are unaware of my business with you.’ Sally did not reply immediately. She moved out from behind the shelter of the desk, turned up one of the gas lamps, struck a match and lit the second and the third. She was pleased to see that her hands were quite steady, betraying none of the nervousness she was feeling inside. She could feel Jack Kestrel watching her, his dark eyes fixed on her face. She wished the room were a little bigger. His physical presence felt almost overwhelming. She turned to find that he was standing directly behind her. There was something close to a smile lurking in his eyes, but it was not a reassuring smile. Now that she was standing she found that her head reached only to his shoulder, and she was a tall woman. It was unusual for her to have to look up in order to look a man in the eyes. ‘Well?’ he said softly. ‘Have you changed your mind about this unconvincing little game of pretence that we are indulging in?’ His appraising dark gaze travelled over her. ‘I must confess that you are not quite as I imagined,’ he added slowly. He raised a hand and turned her face to the light. ‘When we met last night I thought your looks unusual, but when I found out who you were I was surprised. I was expecting someone a great deal more conventionally pretty. After all, they call you the Beautiful Miss Bowes, do they not—’ Sally slapped his hand away. Despite her anger, his touch had made her skin prickle. His gaze made her acutely aware of her body beneath the plain brown shirt and skirt she was wearing. She felt very strange … She paused to think about the hot, melting feeling within her. She felt as though she was bursting out of her corset and coming unlaced. Not a single one of the gentlemen who frequented the Blue Parrot had ever made her feel that way, although plenty had tried. ‘Mr Kestrel …’ she kept her voice steady ‘ … you speak in riddles. Worse, you are boring me. My good looks, or lack of them, are something about which I alone need be concerned. As for the rest, unless you explain yourself I shall have to call my staff to remove you.’ He laughed and his hand fell to his side. ‘I’d like to see them try. But I will explain myself with pleasure, Miss Bowes.’ He spoke with deceptive gentleness. ‘I am here to take back the letters that my foolish cousin Bertie Basset wrote to you. The ones you are threatening to publish unless his dying father pays you off.’ His words made no sense to Sally. She knew Bertie Basset, of course. He was a young sprig of the nobility, charming but not over-endowed with brains, who came to the Blue Parrot to play high and drink with the girls. When last she had seen him, her sister Connie had been sitting on his knee as he played poker in the Green Room. Connie … Of course … Sally rubbed her brow. Jack had called her the Beautiful Miss Bowes, but it was Connie, her youngest sister, who was known by that title. If she had not been so distracted by Jack Kestrel’s touch, she would have realised sooner that he must have confused her with Connie. Miss Constance Bowes was indeed so beautiful that the gentlemen wrote sonnets to her eyebrows and made extravagant promises that she was quick to capitalise upon. But Sally had never envied her sister’s looks, not when she had the brains of the family. Jack Kestrel was watching the expressions that chased across her face. ‘So,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘when I first mentioned the matter you had no idea what I was talking about, did you, Miss Bowes? And then, suddenly, you realised.’ ‘How on earth do you know?’ Sally snapped. She was annoyed with herself for having given so much away. ‘You have a very expressive face.’ Jack sat down on the edge of her desk and swung his foot idly. ‘So you are not Bertie’s mistress. I might have guessed. He would be too young and unsubtle to be a match for you, Miss Bowes.’ ‘Whereas you, Mr Kestrel,’ Sally said, very drily, ‘no doubt claim, quite truthfully, to be far more experienced.’ Jack shot her a sinfully wicked grin. For a second it reminded her forcibly of their meeting the previous night. Sally’s knees weakened and her toes curled within her sensible shoes. ‘Naturally,’ he said. ‘And please call me Jack. I doubt that this place operates on formality.’ It did not, of course, but Sally was not going to let Jack Kestrel tell her what to do in her own club. ‘Mr Kestrel,’ she said, ‘we digress. As you so perceptively pointed out, I am not your cousin’s mistress. I know nothing of this matter. I believe there must have been a misunderstanding.’ Jack sighed. His expression hardened again. ‘There usually is in cases like this, Miss Bowes. The misunderstanding is that my uncle is going to part with a large sum of money.’ This time the angry colour stung Sally’s face. ‘I am not attempting to blackmail anyone!’ ‘Perhaps not.’ Jack came to his feet in a fluid movement. ‘But I also believe that you know who is.’ Sally stared at him, her mind working feverishly. If her guess was correct, then her sister Connie, the toast of London, had done a monumentally foolish thing and was trying to blackmail a peer of the realm. Unfortunately it was all too easy to believe because, though Connie might be incredibly pretty, she was not over-endowed with intelligence. And she was spoilt. If she did not get what she wanted, she would stamp her foot. If she had wanted Bertie and the love affair had turned sour, she might well try to take him for what she could and the result of that madness was Jack Kestrel, standing in Sally’s office, looking both hostile and unyielding. ‘Perhaps it is your sister who is the culprit,’ Jack Kestrel said softly, and Sally jumped at how easily he read her mind. ‘I have not met her, but I have heard about her. She also works here, does she not?’ Sally pressed her fingers to her temples in an effort to dispel the headache that was starting to pound there. She could not give Connie away—that felt too disloyal. She needed to speak with her sister first. Except that Connie never confided in her these days. They were not close—had not been since Connie’s last disastrous, broken love affair. Her sister had withdrawn into herself after that and barely spoke to Sally any more. But now Sally was going to have to make Connie talk. ‘Please leave the matter with me, Mr Kestrel,’ she said. ‘I will deal with it.’ She looked up. ‘I give you my word that your uncle will not be troubled further.’ Jack sighed again. ‘I would like to trust you, Miss Bowes, but I do not. Do I look as though I came down in the last shower?’ He shook his head slightly. ‘You could easily be party to this affair and simply to accept your word would be very green of me.’ His contemptuous gaze swept over her, leaving Sally hot with anger and mortification. ‘You should know that my uncle is elderly and has been increasingly frail for some years,’ Jack added. ‘Recently we were told that he did not have long to live. A matter such as this will hasten his end. But perhaps you do not care about that.’ ‘Perhaps you should speak to your cousin,’ Sally snapped back, ‘and persuade him not to write ill-considered love letters. There are, after all, two sides to every affair! ‘ Jack smiled. ‘Indeed there are, Miss Bowes, and I will be speaking to Bertie and suggesting that he does not involve himself in future with good-time girls on the make.’ ‘You are offensive, Mr Kestrel,’ Sally said. Her voice shook with anger and the strain of remaining civil. ‘I beg your pardon.’ Jack did not sound remotely apologetic. ‘I dislike blackmail and extortion, Miss Bowes. It tends to bring out the worst in me.’ Sally shook her head irritably. ‘I do not believe that this is helping us progress the matter, Mr Kestrel.’ ‘No, you are quite right,’ Jack said. ‘And until I can tell my uncle that I have destroyed those letters with my own hand, I cannot rest easy. Surely you would not expect me to do otherwise, Miss Bowes?’ Sally would not have expected it. A forceful man like Jack Kestrel was not going to back down on a matter like this. Which left her with a huge problem. How could she protect Connie and yet ensure that the letters were either returned or destroyed? She had always defended Connie, it was a habit with her, even though she thought these days that her sister was as hard as nails and did not really need her protection. ‘Miss Bowes?’ Jack’s voice broke into her thoughts. ‘You seem to be having some difficulty making your decision. Perhaps it might concentrate your mind if I tell you that, if you do not hand over the letters, I shall call the police in.’ Sally spun around on him, her eyes flashing. ‘You would not do that!’ ‘Yes, I would.’ Although there was amusement in Jack Kestrel’s eyes, his tone was cold. ‘As I said, I don’t like blackmailers, Miss Bowes. It is only out of deference to my uncle that I did not go directly to the authorities.’ His expression hardened further. ‘Oh, and I will do everything I may to ruin the reputation of the Blue Parrot and to put you out of business. And you may be certain that my influence is extensive.’ Sally stared at him, two bright spots of angry colour vivid in her cheeks. She had no doubt that he could put his threat into practice. He was rich and well connected, a member of King Edward’s exclusive, excessive circle of friends, able to turn the fickle monarch’s attention in other directions. At present the Blue Parrot was fashionable, but how long would that last if the gilded crowds who thronged its doors chose to take their business elsewhere? And she had just taken a huge loan from the bank in order to improve her business. She was dependent on her investors. It would be all too easy to ruin her financially … She closed her eyes, took a deep breath and opened them again. Jack Kestrel was standing looking at her with the same quizzical expression in his eyes that she had seen there before. Her heart thumped once, then settled to its normal beat. ‘You are harsh in your threats, Mr Kestrel,’ she said, as steadily as she could. ‘This is nothing to do with me and yet you seek to make me pay for it. It is not the behaviour of a gentleman.’ Jack shrugged. ‘I play the game by the rules that are set for me, Miss Bowes. It was your sister who raised the stakes.’ Sally pressed her hands together. She could see no point in arguing. She knew he would make no concessions. ‘Very well,’ she said. ‘If you would give me a couple of hours to deal with this matter—’ ‘One hour. I will give you one hour only.’ ‘But I need longer that that! I don’t know where Connie—’ Sally caught herself a moment too late. ‘So it is Connie who is the Beautiful Miss Bowes?’ Jack raised his brows. ‘Of course.’ He took a letter from the pocket of his coat and unfolded it. ‘I see that the initial in the signature is a C. How slow of me. I should have spotted that.’ ‘You should certainly be surer of your ground before you make wild accusations,’ Sally said. ‘You are extremely discourteous, Mr Kestrel.’ Jack laughed, refolded the letter and put it away. ‘I am direct, Sally. It is a quality of mine.’ The warm tone in his voice, the way he said her name, made Sally’s heart turn over even as she deplored his familiarity. ‘I did not give you leave to use my name, Mr Kestrel,’ she snapped. ‘No?’ Jack gave her a mocking glance. ‘I must admit that you do seem given to formality. Do your clients have to address you as Miss Bowes as well?’ He looked thoughtful. ‘Actually, I suppose a touch of severity probably appeals to some of them, if it comes accompanied by a cane and some chastisement.’ Sally felt the bright red colour sting her cheeks again. Jack Kestrel was not alone in assuming that the Blue Parrot Club was a high-class brothel; indeed, Sally herself often suspected that some of the girls made their own arrangements with their clients. In the early days her concern for their safety had made her try to stop them selling their bodies as well as their company, but in the end she knew they would go their own way and only stipulated that they made no such arrangements on the premises. Nevertheless she worried about them and she knew that, though they were touched at her concern, they thought her na?ve. Sally sometimes thought so herself. She lived in a world of glittering sophistication and racy excitement and her sister maintained she had the morals of a Victorian maiden aunt. ‘You are labouring under several false assumptions, Mr Kestrel,’ she said icily. ‘On these premises the only expensive commodity that the customers can buy is the champagne. I have my licence to think of. I am the owner of the Blue Parrot, Mr Kestrel, which means that I am no more than a glorified office clerk.’ Once again she gestured to the pile of bills and orders on her desk. ‘As you see.’ Jack Kestrel laughed sardonically. ‘I am more than happy to accept your protestations of virtue, Miss Bowes.’ ‘You misunderstand me,’ Sally snapped. ‘I do not feel the need to justify myself to you, Mr Kestrel, merely to explain matters.’ Jack inclined his head. ‘And your sister, Miss Bowes? Surely she cannot also work in the office?’ ‘Connie is a hostess,’ Sally said. ‘Their task is to entertain the customers with their conversation, Mr Kestrel, and to help them to part with their money.’ ‘A task which your sister seems eminently qualified for, given the evidence of her letter to my uncle,’ Jack said. Sally gritted her teeth. She could not really argue with that. ‘Is your sister working tonight?’ Jack asked. ‘I will go and speak with her immediately.’ He started to move towards the door. Panic flared within Sally. She knew he would go and demand answers from Connie and he was high-handed enough not to care whether he disrupted the business of the entire club in doing so. A public row would cause the sort of scene she could not really afford. ‘Wait!’ she said, hurrying after him. To her relief, he stopped. ‘I do not know,’ she said. ‘I don’t know if Connie is working tonight or not. I will go and find out.’ She was very conscious of Jack at her shoulder as she walked up the stairs from the basement. One of the waiters passed them, a tray piled high with empty plates balanced on his arm. The Blue Parrot had a dining room to rival any gentleman’s club and a French chef as temperamental as any employed in the great country houses. Tonight, however, Monsieur Claydon sounded to be relatively calm and Sally gave silent thanks for small mercies. She did not think she could bear a kitchen disaster on top of everything else. Jack held the green baize door open for her with scrupulous courtesy and Sally went out into the hall. The entrance to the Blue Parrot had been designed to be like a private house and had a black-and-white marble floor with potted palms and tastefully draped statuary. By the main door were two men in livery who, at first glance, might have been taken for footmen. A second glance, however, showed that they had the physique of prizefighters and the expressions to match. The elder of the two was Sally’s general manager, Dan O’Neill, who had in fact been an Irish champion boxer and now ran the Blue Parrot on a day-to-day basis and was in charge of the floor when the club was open. His pugilist qualifications were extremely useful. It was not unheard of for some of the clients at the Blue Parrot to have a little too much champagne, play a little too deep at chemin defer and need to be encouraged to leave quietly. On seeing Sally, both men straightened up automatically. ‘Good evening, Miss Bowes,’ Dan said respectfully. ‘Good evening, Dan,’ Sally said, smiling. ‘Evening, Alfred.’ ‘Miss Sally.’ The second man shuffled a little bashfully, blushing like a schoolboy with a crush. ‘Do either of you know whether Miss Connie is working this evening?’ Sally asked. The men exchanged glances. ‘She went out earlier,’ Alfred volunteered. ‘I called a hansom for her.’ ‘Said it was her night off,’ Dan added. ‘Do you know where she went?’ Jack Kestrel asked. Sally was very aware of him beside her, could feel his tension and sense the way he was watching the other men very closely. Dan looked at Sally for guidance and then cleared his throat as she nodded. ‘I think she was dining with Mr Basset,’ he said. Sally heard Jack’s swift, indrawn breath. ‘Well, well,’ he said pleasantly, ‘how interesting. Perhaps she is hedging her bets in case her blackmail doesn’t work?’ Sally bit her lip, trying to ignore his insinuation. ‘My apologies, Mr Kestrel,’ she said. ‘It seems you will have to wait a while to speak with my sister—unless you are party to the places where your cousin would take a lady to dine.’ ‘I am quite happy to wait,’ Jack drawled. He looked at her. ‘As long as you are sure your sister will come home tonight, Miss Bowes.’ Sally flushed at this thinly veiled slur on Connie’s virtue. She saw Dan take a step forward, his face flushed with anger, and Jack Kestrel square his shoulders as though preparing for a fight. She waved her manager back. She did not want a brawl, especially one that for once she was not sure that Dan would win. Jack Kestrel looked as though he might be a useful man in a fight. And, in truth, she could not be certain that Connie would come home. There had been times when her sister had been out all night, but after the first, terrible scene when Connie had screamed at her that she was not their mother, Sally had tried not to interfere. Her heart ached that she did not seem able to reach Connie, who went her own wayward path. ‘Then perhaps,’ Sally said, ‘you would like to take dinner whilst you wait, Mr Kestrel? On the house, of course.’ Jack smiled a challenge. ‘I will gladly take dinner if you will join me, Miss Bowes.’ Sally was shocked. If he had asked her the previous night, then she would not have been surprised, but now she could not imagine why Jack would want her company. Then she realised, with an odd little jolt of disappointment, that it was probably because he wanted to keep an eye on her and make sure that she did not slip away to warn Connie of what was going on. He did not trust her. And she did not feel like indulging him. ‘I do not dine with the guests, Mr Kestrel,’ she said coldly. Jack held her gaze. ‘Humour me,’ he said. The air between them fizzed with confrontation. Sally hesitated. She never dined with the customers at the Blue Parrot in order that there should be no misunderstandings about her role at the club. It was the job of the hostesses to mix with the patrons and to entertain them. The owner might mingle with her guests, but she preserved a distance from them. But if Jack Kestrel did not get what he wanted, she knew he could cause a great deal of trouble for her, and one dinner seemed a small price to pay whilst they waited for Connie to return. Then, she hoped against hope, she would be able to deal with this matter and remove the unexpected and wholly unwelcome threat to her business that Jack Kestrel posed. ‘Very well,’ she said reluctantly. ‘But you will need to give me time to change my gown.’ Jack bowed. ‘I am happy to wait for you.’ Sally saw Alfred’s brows shoot up towards his hairline. The staff had never seen her break her own rules before. ‘Dan,’ she said, ‘please show Mr Kestrel to my table in the blue dining room.’ She paused, her gaze sweeping over Jack. He might not be in evening dress, but she could not deny that he looked pretty good. Many men would kill for a physique like Jack Kestrel’s and the elegance of his tailoring could not be faulted. ‘We have a dress code, Mr Kestrel,’ she said, ‘but I suppose we can waive it on this occasion. Dan, make sure that Mr Kestrel has anything he asks for.’ Jack inclined his head. ‘Thank you, Miss Bowes.’ ‘My pleasure.’ Sally met his eyes and felt something pass between them, something hot and strong and heady as a draught of the finest champagne. She felt a little dizzy. Then Jack smiled and the breathless feeling inside her intensified. Damn and damn. She did not want to be reminded of the previous night and the fact that he possessed that fabled Kestrel charm. She had never felt quite like this before. She was never remotely attracted to any of the clients at the Blue Parrot. And why it had to happen now, with Jack Kestrel of all people, whose reputation was dangerous and intimidating and whose word could ruin her business, was not only deeply disturbing but also absolutely impossible. ‘Excuse me,’ she said, masking her awareness of him with the cool composure she had cultivated for her role of a woman of business. ‘I shall not keep you waiting long.’ And she turned and hurried away from him before she gave away too much of her feelings. Chapter Two He wanted her. He wanted the Blue Parrot’s cool-as-ice owner in his arms and in his bed and Jack Kestrel was accustomed to getting the things that he wanted. It should have been impossible with her sister’s blackmail standing between them, but Jack was determined to find a way to have Miss Sally Bowes. It had been a relief in some ways to discover that his instincts about her the previous night had been sound after all. Jack did not like being made to doubt his own judgement. But whatever the sins of Miss Connie Bowes, he was sure that her sister was as honest as she claimed to be. Sally was no blackmailer. He watched Sally as she mounted the fine silver-and-brass staircase to the second floor. She was a tall woman and she held herself very upright, with the unconscious grace of someone who had learned deportment in her youth. Not for the first time, he wondered about her background. He had been away from London a long time, too long to know anything of the owner of the most popular club in the city. But he was determined to find out more. Even though he knew the club servant was waiting to show him to his table, he waited and watched Sally out of sight. At the turn in the stair he saw her hesitate and look back, and he felt a powerful flash of masculine triumph that she had been aware of his scrutiny. Their eyes met for a long second and he felt the impact of that look through his whole body, then she disappeared into the shadows at the top of the stair and he became aware of the servant hesitating at his side. ‘This way, if you please, sir.’ The man said, his hostility barely concealed behind a display of immaculate deference. Jack smiled inwardly. He had sensed from the first that Sally Bowes’s employees were extremely protective of her. They knew that he constituted some sort of threat and so they did not like him. He found their loyalty to her interesting, and wondered what she had done to inspire it. The manager was leading him from the impressively arched entrance hall down a passageway with a thick red carpet underfoot, past doors leading to all the entertainments that the Blue Parrot had to offer. All the vices, Jack thought. The Smoking Room, the Blue Bar, the Gold Salon, where, no doubt, the gambling tables would be set up under a blaze of chandeliers, as they were at Monte Carlo. There was nothing so vulgar as the cabaret at the Moulin Rouge here, no dancing girls or painted devils serving the drinks. Jack thought that Sally had probably made a sound decision in not attempting to export the raffish style of Paris to London’s Strand. The Blue Parrot had all the elegant comforts of a gentleman’s club and country house combined, but it also had an indefinable edge of glamour and excitement that made it so much more attractive than the stuffy old clubs of St James’s. The servant was standing back to usher him through into the dining room, but then the door of the Gold Salon opened and Jack saw the glitter of the chandeliers within and the croupiers dealing the cards at the baccarat table. He paused. ‘Sir …’ there was a note of anxiety in the manager’s voice now ‘… Miss Bowes said that I was to escort you to the dining room.’ Jack smiled. He was feeling lucky tonight. ‘Do not concern yourself,’ he said. ‘I will play a few hands whilst I wait for Miss Bowes to join me.’ He took a seat at the baccarat table. A waiter materialised with some champagne. One of the smart-as-paint blonde hostesses also started to drift towards him, but Dan stopped her with a word and Jack saw her tilt her head and open her eyes wide at whatever it was the manager said to her. She drifted away again with a regretful backwards glance at Jack. Jack took his cards, sat back in his seat and wondered how long it would take Sally Bowes to join him. Most of the women he had taken out whilst he had been in Monte Carlo, Biarritz and Paris had made him wait at least an hour for them. He had never found it worth the waiting. Brittle, fashionable, society women bored him these days; they all seemed to be cut from the same cloth, superficial copies of one another. He was not interested in affairs with society sophisticates and could not bear to find himself an innocent bride as his father demanded. He knew he was jaded. No one could tempt him. No one interested him except Sally Bowes, with her cool hazel eyes and her understated elegance. When he had first seen her that afternoon, he had thought she looked colourless, prim and restrained, a far cry from what he would expect from one of the Blue Parrot’s infamous hostesses. But the memory of the previous night was still in his mind and the stunningly sensuous figure Miss Sally Bowes had cut in her peach silk gown. He had enjoyed her company then and wanted to know her better. And the startled awareness he had seen just now in her eyes suggested that she was not indifferent to him either. The attraction that had flared between them so unexpectedly surprised and intrigued him. On discovering that she was actually the owner of the club, his interest in her had been piqued further. Here was a woman who must have considerable strength of character, intellect and a will to succeed, as well as a subtle appeal that was devastatingly attractive to him. She was a challenge, an enigma, cool and composed, yet revealing a fiery nature beneath. He had almost forgotten what it was to be strongly attracted to a woman, but now the hunger flooded him with shocking acuteness. He had to have her. Women. In his youth they had been his weakness. He had been as feckless as his young cousin Bertie—worse than Bertie, if truth be told. His excesses had been extreme. And then he had fallen in love and it had been the single most destructive experience of his life, never to be repeated. Jack shook his head to dispel the memories and took a mouthful of the cool champagne. Six months before, when he had returned to England from the continent, his father had taken him on one side and said gruffly, ‘Now that you’ve made your money and done trying to get yourself killed, boy, try to make amends for your misbehaviour by making a sensible match. ‘ His misbehaviour. Jack’s mouth twisted wryly at his father’s understatement. Only Lord Robert Kestrel could refer to the scandalous elopement and subsequent death of Jack’s married mistress ten years before in terms that were more fitted to a schoolboy prank. A decade previously, when the whole scandal had occurred, it had been quite a different matter. Jack had been twenty-one and fresh down from Cambridge, full of high ideals and extravagant plans, plans that had come crashing down around him when Merle had been killed. The matter had been hushed up, of course, but in private there had been the most terrible scenes: his father in a towering rage, his mother griefstricken and appalled. It had been the disappointment that he had seen in his mother’s eyes that had been his undoing. He could probably have withstood any amount of his father’s anger because he knew he deserved it, but his mother’s silent reproach cut him to the core. He was the only son, but he had lost her regard along with his father’s respect. The last time he had seen his mother, she had been standing on the steps of Kestrel Court watching him leave his home in disgrace. She had died whilst he was abroad. For years he had avoided the company of women entirely, burying himself first in the fight against the Boers in South Africa and later fighting with the French Foreign Legion in Morocco. The nature of the conflict had not really mattered to him; the only thing he cared about was to die in a manner that would make his father proud. But his recklessness was rewarded with life, not death, and a glorious reputation he did not want. He left the Legion and went into the aviation business with one of his former comrades and he had prospered. But even now, after ten years, it did not seem right that he should be alive and rich when Merle was cold, dead and buried. The relationships he had had since had been fleeting, superficial affairs. His heart had been in no danger and that was the way he preferred it. And now he had met Sally Bowes and he wanted her. The idea of seducing her aroused all his most predatory instincts. He remembered what she had said about the Blue Parrot not being that sort of club. Maybe it was, maybe it was not. He did not really care. He was only interested in her. He was only interested in winning—the woman, the game, the money. He turned his attention to the cards. ‘Matty! Matty!’ Sally reached her bedchamber on the second floor, flung open the door and hurried inside. She was out of breath. It was not because she had climbed two flights of stairs but was all to do with the fact that Jack Kestrel had been watching her as she had walked away from him. She had never been so conscious of a man’s eyes on her, had never felt so aware of a man in all her life. Plenty of men came through the door of the Blue Parrot, rich men, powerful men, charismatic men, and on occasion a man who was all of those things. None of them had affected her in the way that Jack did. None of them was as dangerous and laconic and damnably handsome and coolly charming as Jack Kestrel. None of them had threatened to ruin her business and, with it, her life. That was what she had to try to remember about Jack Kestrel when her emotions seemed in danger of sweeping her away. There you are, Matty,’ Sally said breathlessly, seeing her maid and former nurse sitting before the fire knitting placidly. ‘I need to get changed for dinner. There is a gentleman waiting for me. Please help me.’ Mrs Matson rolled up her ball of wool with what seemed agonising slowness, skewered it with her knitting needles and got creakily to her feet. ‘What’s all the fuss about?’ she demanded. ‘A gentleman waiting, you say? Let him wait!’ Sally hurried over to the wardrobe and pulled open the door. Matty had been with her family for ever, nursing all three of the Bowes girls in their youth, then acting as Sally’s personal maid when she had left home to marry. She had been with Sally through thick and thin, ruin and riches. When Sally had decided to open the Blue Parrot and had tactfully suggested that Matty might prefer to retire rather than go to live in a shockingly decadent London club, Matty had stoutly declared that she wouldn’t miss it for the world. She had bought herself a little house in Pinner, on the new Metropolitan Railway line, but she spent most of her time at the club. ‘Steady now,’ Matty said, as Sally started pulling gowns from their hangers and discarding them on the bed. ‘What’s got into you tonight?’ ‘Nothing,’ Sally said. ‘Everything.’ She swung around and grabbed Matty by the hands. ‘Do you know where Connie has gone, Matty? There’s trouble. Bad trouble. She has tried to blackmail someone …’ The deep lines around Matty’s mouth deepened further as she pursed her lips. She looked as though she was sucking on lemons. ‘That girl’s bad through and through. You know she is, Miss Sally, whatever you say to the contrary. Goodness knows, I nursed her myself and she was a sweet little child, but the business with John Pettifer changed her …’ She shook her head. ‘Nothing but trouble now.’ Sally let go of her hands and started to unfasten her patterned brown blouse, her fingers slipping with haste on the buttons. She had felt very dowdy in her working clothes under the bright lights of the hall and the even brighter appraisal of Jack Kestrel’s eyes ‘Connie’s unhappy,’ she said, stepping out of the brown-panelled skirt. ‘She loved John and she has not been happy since. But it goes back before that, Matty. It goes back to when our father died. It’s all my fault.’ ‘Don’t speak like that.’ Mrs Matson’s mouth turned down at the corners. ‘If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a hundred times, Miss Sally. You are not to blame for your father’s death.’ Sally did not reply. It was true that they had had this discussion many times and she knew in her head that she was not directly responsible for Sir Peter Bowes’s death, yet every day she reproached herself because she might have prevented it. She might have saved him … ‘I don’t know what to do with Connie,’ she said now. ‘I can’t reach her.’ ‘You’ve tried.’ Matty bent creakily to retrieve the skirt. ‘You never stop trying. Time you thought about yourself for a change, Miss Sally, if you’ll pardon my saying so. Now, who is this gentleman you’re dining with?’ Sally sighed. ‘Mr Kestrel. He has come to retrieve the letters that Connie is apparently using to extort money from his uncle.’ Mrs Matson made a noise like an engine expelling steam. ‘Mr Jack Kestrel? The one who ran off with someone and broke his mother’s heart?’ ‘Very probably,’ Sally said. If ever a man had been born to cause a scandal over a woman, Jack Kestrel was that man. Matty tutted loudly. ‘I remember the case being in all the papers. His mistress was married when she ran off with Mr Kestrel. Her husband went after them. She was shot and there was a terrible scandal’ ‘How dreadful,’ Sally said, shivering. She wondered what effect such a dreadful tragedy would have had on Jack Kestrel at such a young age. ‘Old aristocratic family, that one,’ Matty said. ‘Your Mr Kestrel is the last in a line that goes back hundreds of years. They say he has inherited all his rakish ancestors’ vices, and I suppose the business of his mistress proves it.’ ‘Did the Kestrels have any virtues as well?’ Sally asked. Matty had to think hard about that one. ‘A lot of them were soldiers,’ she said, ‘so they were probably very courageous. Mr Kestrel joined the army after he was banished. I hear he won medals for gallantry.’ ‘Trying to get himself killed, more like.’ Sally said. ‘How do you know all these things, Matty?’ ‘I know everything,’ Mrs Matson said smugly. ‘He’s a dangerous one, and no mistake, Miss Sally. You watch him. Charm the birds from the trees and the ladies into his bed, so he does.’ ‘Matty!’ Sally was scandalised. The colour flooded her face. ‘He won’t charm me.’ ‘Best not,’ Matty said. ‘You need a nice young man after that dreadful husband of yours, Miss Sally, not a scoundrel. Now, how about the gold Fortuny gown for tonight?’ ‘No, thank you,’ Sally said, considering for a moment the tumble of evening dresses on her bed. ‘I think I need the Poiret column gown tonight, Matty, to give me courage.’ ‘We’ll have to change your corset, then,’ Matty said, with disapproval. ‘Don’t like these newfangled modern contraptions, myself. They’ll be doing away with the corset altogether at this rate and then where will we be? What’s wrong with the old styles, I always say?’ ‘You can’t breathe in them,’ Sally said. ‘I’ve breathed perfectly well for nigh on seventy years,’ the old nurse proclaimed. ‘Nothing wrong in a bit of tight lacing. Sit down and I’ll do your hair.’ Sally sat obediently before the big mirror and Matty started to unpin her hair and brush it out. It was long and thick, a rich chestnut colour with lustrous golden strands. Matty always grumbled that it was a crime Sally wore her hair in such severe styles so that no one could see how beautiful it was. Sally claimed that it was not her job to look beautiful, but to keep the Blue Parrot running smoothly. ‘I’ll put the matching bandeau and the diamond pins in tonight, Miss Sally,’ Matty said now. ‘No arguing, mind.’ Sally was not going to argue. Jack Kestrel was, she was sure, a connoisseur of feminine beauty and whilst she could not compete in looks with some of the Blue Parrot’s prettiest hostesses—or, indeed, with her own sister—she knew she scrubbed up quite well. The Poiret dress also added to her confidence. Long, silky, lusciously rich and expensive, it slithered over her head and skimmed her body like a straight column of bright fuchsia-pink colour. ‘Don’t look so bad, I suppose,’ Matty said grudgingly. ‘You’ve certainly got the figure for it, Miss Sally. Doubt your young man will be able to take his eyes off you.’ ‘He’s here to talk about his cousin, not to court me,’ Sally said, repressing a traitorous rush of excitement at the thought of Jack Kestrel’s eyes on her. ‘His cousin Mr Basset, I mean, not the Duke of Kestrel.’ Matty puffed out her thin cheeks. ‘Mr Basset, Miss Connie’s young man?’ ‘Yes,’ Sally said. ‘Do you know about that? Does Connie really like him?’ Matty looked a little grim. ‘You never know with Miss Connie, do you? Think she’s out with him tonight, though. Told me earlier that she was dining with him.’ Sally frowned as she reached for her fuchsia evening bag. Albert the doorman had said much the same thing, which made no sense if Connie was trying to extort money from Lord Basset over his son’s indiscretion. Surely she would wait for the affair to end before she tried to blackmail Bertie Basset? There was something else going on here. Sally was sure of it. Connie was up to something and Sally did not like the sound of it. Not that she was going to discuss her doubts with Jack Kestrel. She was taking dinner with him merely to pass the time until Connie returned. Not for a moment could she forget that, nor allow herself to be distracted by Jack’s undeniable charm or the inconvenient attraction he held for her. She would be cool and composed. She would remember that he was dangerous to her on so many levels. She glanced at her reflection in the mirror. The Poiret gown shimmered seductively over every curve. The diamonds sparkled in her hair. She drew herself up. This was business, not pleasure and she had best not forget that. Dan met her as soon as she stepped off the bottom step and on to the marble floor of the entrance hall. She raised her brows at the look on his face. ‘Trouble?’ ‘Yes.’ A frown wrinkled Dan’s broad forehead. ‘Mr Kestrel is in the Gold Salon. Said he wanted to play a few hands of baccarat.’ ‘And?’ Sally kept a smile plastered on her face as a noisy group of diners passed by and paused to compliment her on the quality of the Blue Parrot’s service. ‘And now the bank is down five thousand pounds.’ ‘Damnation!’ Sally felt a twinge of real alarm. A little while ago Jack Kestrel had threatened to ruin her business, but she had not thought he would do so that very night by breaking the bank at her own gaming tables. ‘There’s worse,’ Dan said in an undertone, taking her arm and hurrying her along the corridor towards the casino. ‘The King is here.’ ‘What?’ For a moment Sally felt faint. ‘The King? King Edward?’ ‘Himself.’ Dan nodded in gloomy agreement. ‘Playing at the same table as Mr Kestrel. And losing to him like everyone else.’ ‘Hell and the devil.’ Sally’s heels clicked agitatedly on the marble floor as she quickened her pace. Damn Jack Kestrel. She thought she had contained the threat he posed, had imagined him sitting at table harmlessly drinking her champagne and here he was beating the King at baccarat and bankrupting her in the process. Matty was right. He was dangerous. She should never have let him out of her sight. ‘I wouldn’t like to say that he was cheating, now,’ Dan said, in his rich Irish brogue, ‘but …’ there was puzzlement in his blue eyes ‘ … I’ve been watching him and either he is extraordinarily lucky or …’ He let the sentence hang. Sally paused discreetly within the doorway so that she could watch Jack Kestrel at the baccarat table without being observed herself. He sprawled in his chair, a lock of dark hair falling across his forehead, his cards held in one careless hand. He had discarded his jacket and the pristine whiteness of his shirt looked stark against the darkness of his tanned skin. Seeing him there, Sally thought once again of his rakish forebears. There was something about him, something to do with his air of lazy arrogance, the perfection of his tailoring, the casual grace with which he wore it, that recalled the gamblers of a previous century, the rakes who made and lost their fortunes in the London of the Regency, a time like the present one that was full of the glitter and the lure of money and scandal. ‘Miss Bowes?’ Dan said with increased urgency, and Sally’s attention snapped back. ‘I’m thinking what best to do.’ ‘Better think quickly, then,’ Dan said grimly. ‘We’re down ten thousand now.’ Sally allowed her gaze to wander over the other occupants of the baccarat table. She was not going to be hurried because what she did next could make all the difference between keeping and losing her business. It was on a knife edge. If Jack Kestrel kept playing and winning … She knew most of the other people in the room. The King frequented the Blue Parrot regularly these days and brought his cronies with him. Despite being on a losing streak, he looked to be in a good mood. There was a full champagne flute at his elbow. The smoke from his cigar spiralled upwards, wreathing about the chandelier. He was watching the game from beneath heavy-lidded eyes and every so often he would stroke thoughtfully at his sharply trimmed beard. ‘You have the devil’s own luck, Kestrel,’ Sally heard him say now. ‘Lucky at cards, unlucky in love, eh? Which makes you rich but with no one to spend it on, what!’ The group of hangers-on laughed obligingly and Sally saw the shadow of a smile touch Jack Kestrel’s firm mouth. She doubted that he had a great deal of difficulty in finding a willing woman on whom to lavish his fortune, for he was without a doubt one of the most sinfully handsome men that she had ever seen in the Blue Parrot. Nor was she the only woman to have noticed. The King’s mistress, Mrs Alice Keppel, looking as regal as the Queen in a golden gown with diamonds sparkling on her impressive d?colletage, was watching Jack with more interest than the King would surely deem strictly necessary. A blonde woman in a tight red-silk gown and with matching red lipstick had draped herself across the chair next to Jack, but he seemed unaware of her presence, for his dark eyes were narrowed on the cards and his full attention was on the play. Her foot was tapping with impatience that she did not command his interest and she flicked the ash from her cigarette with a red-tipped finger. ‘What shall I do, Miss Bowes?’ Dan was waiting for her instructions. ‘Shall I throw him out, perhaps?’ Sally laughed. It was tempting, but she was not sure that she could allow Dan to use strong tactics tonight. Not in front of the King. ‘No,’ she said. ‘Send for more champagne and caviar and smoked salmon.’ ‘More!’ Dan’s brows shot upwards. ‘Lord save us, they’ve already had half a dozen bottles and they have only been here a half-hour!’ ‘You sound like my old nurse,’ Sally said. ‘We’re not here to look after their health, Daniel, only to tend to their pleasure and take their money. I am going to remind Mr Kestrel that he has an appointment to take dinner with me.’ Jack looked up as Sally started to walk towards the baccarat table. The woman in red put a hand on his arm and started to speak to him, but he shook her off and her scarlet mouth turned down with disappointment. His gaze, intense and black, rested on Sally’s face. It made her feel a little breathless. The King’s eyes lit up when he saw her approaching. ‘Hello, Sally, old thing! How are you? Ten thousand pounds poorer by my reckoning, thanks to this chap here!’ He nodded at Jack. ‘Damned inconvenient habit he has of breaking the bank. I’ve told him to stop now because this is my favourite club, what, and I want to be invited back!’ ‘Thank you, your Majesty,’ Sally said, smiling. Jack stretched, the muscle rippling beneath the white linen of his shirt. ‘Did your manager think I was cheating?’ he enquired lazily. ‘Usually they only call the owner when they are about to throw me out.’ Sally met his eyes. ‘On the contrary, Mr Kestrel, I am here because I thought that we had an appointment for dinner. If you would care to continue playing, however, that is your choice.’ Jack laughed. There was a spark of devilment in his eyes. ‘I’ll play bezique with you, Miss Bowes.’ He held her gaze. ‘All my winnings tonight against one night with you.’ The shock hit Sally hard, depriving her of breath. The wicked spark was still in Jack’s eyes, but beneath it was something hard and challenging. Despite herself, Sally felt her body stir in response to that very masculine demand. There was a gasp of outrage around the table, followed by a moment of profound silence. The eyes of the woman in red narrowed. She looked like an angry cat about to spit. Sally felt her venom. Several of the men exchanged a look. ‘Bad form, Kestrel,’ the King said testily. ‘Miss Bowes doesn’t cover that sort of stake.’ ‘I beg your pardon, your Majesty.’ Jack spoke gently. His gaze was still resting on Sally and it was dark and moody, but still with something in the depths that made her shiver. It was as though the two of them were quite alone. ‘When I see something that I want, I go after it,’ Jack said. ‘The gamble just makes the game more exciting.’ He raised one dark brow. ‘Miss Bowes?’ ‘Mr Kestrel.’ Sally’s voice was quiet, but as cutting as a whip. ‘His Majesty is in the right of it. I have already told you once this evening that I am not that sort of woman and this is not that sort of club.’ ‘Everything has a price, Miss Bowes,’ Jack said. The counters clicked softly as he stacked them together. ‘I am priceless,’ Sally said sweetly, and the King laughed and the tension eased. ‘Your price, on the other hand,’ she said, ‘is ten thousand pounds in winnings and dinner with me, should you choose to accept it.’ ‘I’d take it, Kestrel,’ one of the other men said. ‘It’s more than the rest of us have ever been offered.’ Jack stood up and shrugged himself into his jacket. ‘I’ll accept dinner gladly,’ he said, ‘and leave the rest to chance.’ Dan had arrived with the champagne and the caviar and King Edward took Sally’s hand and kissed the back of it with heavy gallantry and said she was a pearl amongst women. She felt a huge relief—Jack’s winning streak had been halted, albeit at a high cost, and the King’s favour retained. Jack took her elbow as they walked out of the casino together. ‘Are you angry with me?’ he asked softly. His breath stirred her hair. ‘Does it matter?’ Sally said tightly. ‘The disapproval of others strikes me as something that is supremely irrelevant to you, Mr Kestrel.’ He laughed and she saw the brilliant amusement in his eyes. ‘You read me very well,’ he said. ‘You can still win back that ten thousand pounds, you know.’ Sally flicked him a glance. ‘And you read me very badly, Mr Kestrel, if you do not think I meant what I said earlier.’ She turned to face him. For a moment they were alone in the corridor. ‘You want revenge on me for Connie’s behaviour,’ she said, ‘so you think to break the bank and ruin me. That is all that matters to you.’ ‘You are mistaken.’ Jack raised his hand and the back of his fingers brushed the line of her jaw. ‘It is you I want, Sally Bowes. I wanted you from the first moment I saw you last night.’ Suddenly the corridor felt airless. Sally took a step back and felt the smooth, cool plaster of the wall against her sticky palms. She knew that the fact they were in public would make no odds to him at all. If Jack Kestrel would proposition a woman in front of the King, he would be eminently capable of kissing her in a corridor and not give a damn who saw them. She felt dizzy and hot. ‘You can’t have—’ she began, but he never gave her the chance to finish her sentence. He leaned in close and kissed her, biting down gently on her lower lip, and the aching need flashed through her and she moaned, opening her lips beneath his. He took her mouth wholly and completely and her body caught ablaze like a lightning strike. She had never experienced anything like it. They broke apart as a couple came down the corridor and cast them a curious look. Sally turned away from the light. She had no idea what feelings and emotions were showing there, but her face felt too naked, too revealing of the turmoil inside her. Her heart was beating in hard, heavy strokes. She knew she was shaking. Jack took her chin in his hand, as he had done earlier in the office, and turned her face towards the light. He ran his thumb over her full lower lip, where he had kissed her, and the lust slammed through her body and she almost groaned aloud. ‘Sally—’ his voice was rough ‘—where can we go?’ She understood what he meant, but the thought brought the first, cold thread of sanity back to her overheated mind. ‘I can’t,’ she said. She frowned a little. It was hopeless to pretend that she did not respond to him, that she did not want him. Her behaviour had given the lie to that. She tried to be equally honest with her words. ‘You go too fast for me,’ she said. ‘I am not accustomed to feeling like this. I can’t believe we …’ She saw his tight expression ease a little. ‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘In the heat of the moment—’ ‘Yes.’ Sally smoothed the pink gown down over her hips. Her movements were jerky. Her hands still shook. ‘Excuse me,’ she whispered. ‘You must excuse me, Mr Kestrel.’ He caught her wrist. ‘You promised me dinner,’ he said. A smile touched the corner of his mouth. ‘My price, remember. You cannot run out on me now.’ Sally stared at him for what felt like an age. ‘That will have to be all,’ she said. He inclined his head. ‘Of course.’ ‘And you will have to give me a few minutes.’ He nodded. ‘Certainly you cannot go into the dining room looking like that.’ A smile lit his eyes, a mixture of tenderness and satisfaction that made her heart jolt. ‘You look … ravished.’ The helpless desire swept through her again and she saw his eyes darken almost black with lust as he recognised the need in her. He reached for her again, but she wrenched herself away and hurried down the corridor to the powder room. Fortunately it was empty. She shut the door carefully behind her and stood, breathing hard, her back pressed against the panels, eyes shut. What on earth had possessed her? What possible excuse could there be for her forgetting that Jack Kestrel was a danger to both her virtue and her livelihood, for letting him kiss her with such devastating expertise and for responding in full measure to that kiss? She must have been mad. She had not even drunk a drop of champagne. Her wits must have gone begging. She must have wanted him as much as he wanted her. Sally opened her eyes. Even now she could feel the imprint of Jack’s touch on her body and the impossible, melting, uncontrollable warmth that had raced through her blood when he had kissed her. She pressed one hand to her lips. She had been kissed so seldom, and never like that. When they had been engaged, Jonathan, her husband, had kissed her once or twice, a mere respectful peck on the lips that should have warned her of future difficulties if only she had had the experience to realise, but it had never been like Jack’s kiss, full of passion and desire and heated demand. That was the thing that had betrayed her. She had never felt wanted before, never felt wholly desired in a way that made her entire body tremble with sensual heat. When it had happened with Jack she had forgotten everything else in the maelstrom of her emotions. She sank down on to the little plush red stool and stared helplessly at her reflection in the mirror. Jack had been right. She did look ravished. She wanted to be ravished, seduced. Jack had swept into her life and destroyed all her carefully erected defences in the space of two brief meetings. To experience physical love for the first time at the hands of Jack Kestrel, who could make her feel wicked and wanton and desirable … Just the thought made her burn. With a little sigh she started to tidy her hair, adjusting the bandeau, securing the pins. She straightened her dress. She looked tidy again, the immaculate owner of the Blue Parrot, as neat and composed as ever. Except something had changed in her face. Her lips were a little swollen from Jack’s kisses and in her eyes she saw a startled awareness and a knowledge, and a wanting. Her needs, her emotions and her desires were awakened now and were clamouring for release. She glanced at the little gold clock on the wall. A couple more hours and she would be free of Jack Kestrel’s dangerous presence. She could talk to Connie, secure the letters, send them to Jack and the business would be closed. She need never see him again. She could forget this madness that possessed her. This urge to kick aside every careful precept by which she had lived her life for so long was too frightening. She was not at all sure where it might lead her. She struggled to re-assert her commonsense. She took several deep breaths to compose herself. A few more hours of Jack’s company … then it would be over. Chapter Three Damn the woman. How could she look so cool and unemotional when only ten minutes before he had been kissing her senseless? How dared she look so cool when he was burning up with the need to possess her? Jack watched Sally as she walked slowly towards him. The waiter had installed him at the very best table in the dining room, up on a dais tucked away at the back of the room and surrounded by drooping green fronds of palm. Somewhere, out of sight, a string quartet was playing softly. It was a charming setting, relaxed but extremely stylish. The food smelled wonderful. But Jack had lost his appetite for food and he did not feel remotely relaxed. Every nerve ending in his body seemed tense and alert, wound up intolerably, waiting. He watched as Sally smiled and paused to answer the greetings of the other diners. She looked regal, untouchable and very, very seductive in the bright fuchsia-pink silk gown. He had noticed it when she had first walked into the card room. Of course he had. Every man in the room had looked at her. The gown fell long and straight to her ankles and flaunted every single one of her curves. Jack felt his mouth go dry and his breathing constrict as he remembered caressing those curves through the slippery silk. Damn it, there was only one end he wanted to this evening, and it involved him stripping that provocative silk from Sally Bowes’s body and taking her to bed. He had never felt so impatient to have a woman in all his life. Jack stood up as Sally approached the table and she gave him a very measured, very cool smile that acted like a complete aphrodisiac and sent his blood pressure soaring dangerously. He had only just got himself under control from the interlude in the corridor. His body was still in a state of semi-arousal. ‘I am sorry to have kept you waiting,’ Sally said, sounding as though she was not particularly sorry at all. ‘You were not very long,’ Jack said. ‘I do hope,’ he added, determined to shake her out of her apparent calm, ‘that you are quite recovered?’ A shade of colour touched her cheek. She avoided his eyes and made a business of unfolding her napkin. ‘I am very well, thank you,’ she said. Good. Jack felt a flash of satisfaction to see that blush. She was not as cool as she pretended. He could feel the tension in her. It would take very little to stoke their mutual attraction back to the point it had been before—and beyond. He had every intention of doing precisely that later in the evening, but for now he was going to tread very carefully indeed to avoid frightening her away. ‘I have been admiring the club,’ he continued. ‘You own all this?’ A small, distracting dimple appeared at the side of her mouth when she smiled. ‘I own part of it,’ she said, ‘and the investors own the rest.’ Jack was surprised at her candour. ‘You’re mortgaged to the hilt?’ She shrugged and a shade of reserve came into her eyes and he wondered if she was remembering his earlier threat to ruin her business. She would not want to show any financial vulnerability to him. ‘I own the building,’ she said. ‘That is the important thing.’ Jack waved the waiter aside and filled her champagne glass himself. ‘And how did you come by it? It seems an unusual venue for a lady to own.’ ‘My grandmother left it to me,’ Sally said. ‘It was a private house then, of course, but I had no money to maintain it, so I turned it into a business.’ She had, Jack thought, a tough financial head on her shoulders to have made a success of it. ‘Do you think your grandmother would have approved?’ he asked. ‘I doubt it.’ Sally laughed. ‘She was a very conventional Victorian lady, Mr Kestrel, and she disapproved of everything about me, from my liberal upbringing to my political persuasions.’ She looked him in the eye. ‘I belong to the National Union of Women’s Suffrage Societies, Mr Kestrel. My sister Petronella is a militant suffragist.’ ‘Of course.’ Jack remembered the name of Petronella Bowes from the newspapers. ‘She was one of the women who chained themselves to the railings in Downing Street earlier this year.’ ‘Yes.’ Sally ran her fingers reflectively up the side of her champagne glass. ‘Nell supports the cause vigorously. After her husband died her support turned more active. I think that it filled a void for her and she is very passionate in her beliefs.’ She looked at him. ‘Do you dislike political opinions in a woman, Mr Kestrel? Many men do.’ Jack smiled at her. ‘I believe I have sufficient self-confidence to deal with it, Miss Bowes.’ Sally gave a spontaneous peal of laughter. ‘Yes, I suppose it is only men who feel threatened by intelligent women who object to such matters.’ ‘And as such their good opinion is not really worth a great deal,’ Jack said. He leaned forward. ‘Tell me, Miss Bowes, what do you look for in a man?’ He saw the bright light fade from her eyes. ‘Despite what happened just now,’ she said, ‘I would say that I do not look for a man at all, Mr Kestrel.’ Her voice was strained. Jack touched the back of her hand lightly. ‘Because of your politics? But surely not all suffragists are opposed to the opposite sex?’ ‘No.’ She withdrew her hand from beneath his. Her gaze, as it met his, was direct and very candid. ‘It is not because of my political persuasions, Mr Kestrel. I was married once and I am afraid that it did not encourage me to view affairs of the heart in any positive light.’ ‘If that is so,’ Jack said, ‘how do you explain what happened between us?’ ‘Oh …’ She shifted a little, shrugged. ‘That was … what would one call it? Chemistry? Physical attraction?’ ‘Lust?’ Jack said helpfully. ‘Lust. Yes, I suppose so.’ Once again she ran her fingers thoughtfully down the stem of the wineglass and this time it was Jack who shifted on his seat. ‘I heard,’ Sally added, ‘that you, too, have little inclination towards romance, Mr Kestrel.’ She gave him a slight smile. Jack raised his brows. ‘I see that someone has been talking about me,’ he said. He was not particularly surprised. Everyone in London seemed to be talking about him. He wondered what they might have said. Sally smiled. ‘Surely you are accustomed to that—a man like you?’ ‘A man like me?’ He looked a challenge. ‘What sort of man is that, Miss Bowes?’ She did not appear discomfited by his bluntness and took her time replying. ‘A man who is rich and powerful, and successful in business and with women, I suppose.’ Jack laughed. ‘You account me that?’ ‘Are you not?’ The waiter brought asparagus for them at that moment, wrapped in damask napkins and served on a silver platter. It saved Jack the trouble of replying. He had no intention of raking over his past affairs with Sally Bowes. He was only interested in their mutual future. And he never spoke of his unhappy romantic past and his relationship with Merle. Not to anyone. He found that he wanted to ask Sally about her marriage, but he sensed it was too soon and she would rebuff him. She was consciously keeping him at arm’s length. He did not intend to stay there for the whole evening. He might not believe in romance, but he definitely believed in physical attraction and the attraction he had for Sally was going to be satisfied. He watched as she speared a stalk, dipped it in butter, and ate it with delicate relish. ‘I hope you do not mind that I ordered for both of us,’ she said, ‘as I know what is the very best from the kitchens.’ Jack tilted his head thoughtfully. ‘So do you also consider me a man who allows a woman to take charge?’ Their eyes met and locked. Sally licked butter thoughtfully from her fingers and Jack felt the lust spear through his entire body again. Perhaps, he thought ruefully, they should get back to talking about politics. Generally it was something of a passion killer, although with Sally Bowes it seemed that any topic of conversation could incite an almost ungovernable rush of desire in him. So far he had managed to keep it battened down, restrained, but it was the devil’s own job. ‘I doubt that you are a man to relinquish control in general,’ she said. ‘The way that you behaved earlier does not suggest a very … tractable nature.’ A mocking smile twisted Jack’s mouth. ‘I believe you understand me very well, Miss Bowes.’ ‘I believe I do,’ Sally said composedly. Her coolness, her frankness, her authority, sent Jack’s blood pressure rocketing further. The dining room seemed extremely hot. ‘And are you not going to ask what I think of you in return?’ he asked. Once again the dimple showed in Sally’s cheek as she smiled. ‘No, I do not think so, Mr Kestrel. You see, I am confident enough to have no need for your approval. Nor your censure.’ Her tone changed. ‘Indeed, as I said, I get plenty of that elsewhere.’ Jack raised his brows. ‘Because of the politics?’ ‘And many other things.’ Sally waved a careless hand. ‘A single woman running a club like this? And a widow to boot?’ She looked at him. ‘You may not be aware, Mr Kestrel, that I was on the point of divorcing my husband when he died suddenly. The police were called in to make sure that I had not murdered him to save myself the cost and disgrace of the divorce courts. I do not think one can get any more scandalous than that.’ ‘Only if you had murdered him,’ Jack agreed smoothly. He was not shocked at her disclosures—he had seen far too much of the world to be shocked by most things—but he was curious as to what sort of man her husband had been. What had Sally Bowes looked for in a man, before her dreams of romance and marriage had turned sour and ended in death and disgrace? It was no wonder, he thought, that she was more careful of giving herself than most women in the glittering, amoral world of high society. Sally gave a little snort of laughter. ‘I assure you I did not murder Jonathan. Not that the idea was not tempting at times. He died of influenza. It was a most virulent outbreak that year. I was sick, too, but I survived.’ ‘What was he like?’ Jack asked. The amusement fled Sally’s face and her lashes came down to veil her eyes. ‘He was weak and dissolute and he gave me grounds enough for divorce with his flagrant cruelty and his infidelity,’ she said. For a second Jack saw a bleak chill of loneliness reflected in her eyes and then she shrugged and picked up her champagne glass again. ‘Forgive me. I was forgetting that you have been abroad and so know nothing of my scandalous affairs.’ She looked up at him. ‘It was something of a cause c?l?bre at the time, as all divorces are, I fear.’ Jack could imagine that it might have been. Whether or not she was the injured party, divorce ruined a woman’s reputation and deprived her of her place in polite society. To have gone as far as the courts, even if her husband’s timely death had saved her the final disgrace of going through with the divorce action, would have been the end of Sally’s good reputation. It was no wonder that she had had to carve out a new role for herself here at the Blue Parrot and she had done it with great style. ‘I am sorry,’ he said. ‘Sorry that you had to endure that.’ She shrugged lightly. ‘Fortunately I had my inheritance. It could have been worse. But you will understand now why the club is so important to me.’ There was a warning there, Jack thought. She had not forgotten his threat to take away from her everything she valued. She did not trust him. He doubted that she trusted anyone after everything she had experienced. She might have been as stunned as he by the physical attraction that had flared between them so violently, but it did not mean that she was entirely swept away. Once again the challenge she presented, the excitement of the chase, lit his blood. 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