Page 15 of Four Promises to Love

Four

As Owen entered the moonlit churchyard, he cursed his bad judgment. This was a bad idea, and he knew it. Yet when the note had arrived from Madame Seraphina this afternoon, he’d found himself intrigued. It was, no doubt, the kind of curiosity that was murderous to both felines and idiots like him. The last time he’d met this woman for a midnight rendezvous, she’d drugged and robbed him.

God only knows what she’ll do to me this time.

The thing of it was…he didn’t care. Maybe he even welcomed the risk. It was better than lying in bed, sober and wide awake. Better than trying to unsee the images burned inside his eyelids: the mountainous terrain strewn with bodies, the dusty village with its goats and chickens and blood soaked into the sand. Better than trying to block out the cries of his fellow soldier, “Help me, Harrington! For the love of God, don’t let them⁠—”

“You came, my lord.”

Madame Seraphina emerged from the shadow of an oak. Her presence shooed away the past, and for that Owen could have kissed her. Metaphorically speaking. In practice, he knew better—or should know better. He’d contemplated the ways he could approach this encounter. He could pretend he didn’t recognize that she was Sarah. Or he could accuse her outright of being a sharpster and thief. Or he could bide his time, watch her, and see what she was up to.

He’d settled on the third option, and he had to admit that observing her was no chore. Perhaps his extended period of celibacy was making him randy, but he didn’t think that was the reason she tantalized his senses. She was temptation in female form.

She had left off her hat and veil but otherwise looked much as she had at the séance yesterday: delicious and a bit dangerous. Her cheek had a pretty curve, her lips a full and enticing pout. The beauty mark was nowhere to be seen—it must have been part of her light-skirt’s costume. The glow of the moon and her lamp washed everything in silver and gold, but the color of her cat-like gaze was branded into his memory. Yesterday, he’d seen that there were emerald flecks buried in those topaz depths—jewels within jewels.

He shook off that fanciful notion. The only resemblance that Seraphina/Sarah/whatever-her-true-name-was bore to a jewel was the fact that she was as hard as diamonds. Despite his attraction to her, he had to stay on his toes.

“How could I resist your intriguing summons?” he said dryly.

Her note had been succinct and dramatic:

Meet me in the churchyard, and all shall be revealed.

—S.

“I needed to gain your attention.”

“You have it.” He looked around the yard, which hugged the small stone church and was littered with tombstones. “You know how to arrange a rendezvous, Madame.”

“Since we are alone, you may call me Seraphina.” She smiled. “Shall we take a stroll?”

Out of habit, Owen offered her his arm. She took it as if they were promenading through Hyde Park. She wore the black lace gloves from the séance, and he noticed that the mended seam had unraveled, revealing a hole at the juncture of her index finger and thumb. He saw a small scar on that exposed patch of skin—a sign of a woman who worked with her hands. Upon closer perusal, he noted fraying edges and threadbare spots and recognized what she’d taken pains to conceal.

Desperation. He was no stranger to it. Although his upbringing had been privileged, war had taught him what desperation could make people do. Survival came at a price.

“I believe we got off on the wrong foot, my lord,” she said pleasantly. “And I wish to clear up any misunderstanding.”

Her suave opening reminded him who he was dealing with. While he could let bygones be bygones regarding the boots and money, he had no intention of letting her rob him blind again. He could understand a hardened thief; that didn’t mean he would turn his back on one.

He decided to take the bull by the horns. “By misunderstanding, are you referring to the night you drugged me and relieved me of my purse?”

“I was afraid that you would interpret my actions in an unfavorable light.” She sighed, not missing a step. “Yet the truth is more complex than you understand.”

He held back a snort. “I see nothing complicated about being seduced and robbed. It’s probably the oldest confidence trick in the book. I was a fool to fall for it.”

“But it wasn’t a trick, you see.” Her gaze was earnest—incredibly so, given her Banbury tale. “I felt a genuine pull toward you. I know I don’t deserve it, but would you grant me the courtesy of listening to my explanation?”

This should be interesting.

“Owen will do.” He had to push away the memory of her moaning his name. “Formalities seem rather absurd at this point. If we are to have this conversation, I think it’s best we make ourselves comfortable.”

He gestured to a small bench set beneath a towering yew. Once they were seated, he took in the moss-covered stones and overgrown paths and felt a welling of sadness. He supposed it was better than the rage and despair that death sometimes triggered in him.

“Go on,” he said. “I’m all ears to hear this explanation of yours.”

“That night, I did not deliberately set out to swindle you.”

His lips twitched at the prim and proper way she folded her hands in her lap.