St. Raven (Rogue Series) - Softcover

Beverley, Jo

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0451208072 ISBN 13: 9780451208071

Publisher: Berkley, 2003

Synopsis

From the New York Times bestselling author of Hazard—a sizzling and sensual novel of fortune and fate...

 

A Lady with a Quest...

Cressida Mandeville agrees to Lord Crofton’s vile proposal, but secretly she has other plans. She will trick the loathsome man, find her father’s hidden wealth, and save her family from ruin. All goes well, until a daring highwayman stops their carriage, whirls Cressida up onto his dark horse, and demands a kiss....

 A Duke with a Conscience...

Tristan Tregallows, Duke of St. Raven, doesn’t plan to rescue a damsel in distress, but he can hardly leave an innocent in Crofton’s power. One kiss confirms his prisoner’s innocence, but instead of grateful, she is furious. When he discovers that Cressida is on a quest, one that will take her into the darkest parts of Regency society, St. Raven knows he must become her partner and protector. But he doesn’t expect the dangers to his heart....

About this title

About the Author:

Jo Beverley was the New York Times bestselling author of the Rogue series and numerous other romance novels. Widely regarded as one of the most talented romance writers today, she was a five-time winner of Romance Writers of America’s cherished RITA Award and one of only a handful of members of the RWA Hall of Fame. She also twice received the Romantic Times Career Achievement Award. She had two grown sons and lived with her husband in England. Jo Beverley passed away in May 2016.

Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:

Chapter One

Summer 1816. North of London

 

Still as a statue in the full moon’s light the highwayman watched the road. He controlled his mount without effort and without bit, and when the horse stirred, tossing its head, no jingle broke the quiet of the night woods.

            His clothing was dark as the shadows, his face concealed behind a black mask and a delicate beard and mustache in the style of Charles I. He would be invisible if not for the splash of a sweeping white plume on his broad Cavalier hat.

            That plume was the signature of Le Corbeau, the bold French rascal who called himself the Crow and claimed the right to peck at those who traveled the night roads north from London.

            Though no one else was could be seen, the Crow did not fly alone. He had men stationed north and south to warn of danger and of approaching prey. He waited for their signals in stillness except for the stirring of his feather in the breeze.

            Then, at last, an owl hoot with a strange pattern at the end floated from the south. A victim approached. A suitable one. Not the well-armed mail coach or poor pickings on a swaybacked horse or in a cart. What came from the south was undefended but worth the effort, and would be here soon.

            He listened until he heard the pounding of fast horses. With a sharp whistle of his own, he surged out of the trees and down the road head-on to the coach and pair.

            The startled coachman dragged on his reins. By the time the coach stopped, Tristan Tregallows, Duke of St. Raven, commanded the two people in the coach with his cocked pistol, and two colleagues kept guard nearby.

            Heart pounding in a way both alarming and pleasurable, Tris thought this was almost as good as sex. Pity this was his first and last night for the game.

            “Monsieur, madame,” he greeted with a slight inclination of his head. He continued in the French-accented English of the real Le Corbeau. “Pleeze to step out of ze carriage.”

            As he spoke, he assessed his victims as best he could, given the dim interior.

            Perfect.

            Terror or threatened apoplexy might have driven him off, but he had a fashionable young couple at gunpoint. The lady sat closest to his side of the coach, and she seemed more furious than frightened. Her mouth was set, and her direct, pale eyes showed outrage at his attack.

            “Damn your eyes, you gallows bait!” the man snarled. The voice confirmed him well-born, which was excellent. He would not miss half his money.

            “Zat is in ze hands of le Bon Dieu and ze magistrates, monsieur. You, on ze other hand, are in mine. Sortez! You know my reputation. I will neither kill you nor take your all—unless,” Tris added, trying for silky menace, “you continue to disobey me.”

            “Oh, get out and let’s get this over with,” ordered the man, shoving the woman so hard that she banged against the inside of the coach.

            Her head snapped toward her partner as if she’d blister him, but then she turned back to open the door, head bowed, apparently meek as milk.

            As Tris backed Caesar a few steps to make sure he couldn’t be jumped, his mind danced with curiosity. The man was a cur. It seemed the woman might think the same, yet she obeyed. It could be an unhappy marriage, but such wives rarely rebelled over little things.

            He tried to shut off curiosity. He didn’t have time for a mystery. Even so late, on a night with a good moon another vehicle could appear at any time.

            The woman climbed down the steps, one hand holding her pale skirt out of the way, the other using the open door for balance. Half an eye on the man, St. Raven still made a number of instant assessments.

            She tended to roundness rather than slender elegance.

            She was graceful in this awkward situation.

            She was dressed in a fine evening gown under a light shawl. Unusual for traveling. Damn. Perhaps they were called away to a deathbed.

            She had a neat ankle.

            When she arrived on the road and looked up at him, he noted a heart-shaped face fringed with dark curls frothing out along the front edge of a fashionable evening turban of striped cloth. She wore pearls at her neck and ears.

            Modest pearls, however. He wished she showed signs of fabulous wealth. He supposed he’d have to take them, or at least part of them. Damnation. Would returning them destroy the purpose of this enterprise?

            He turned his full attention to the stocky man who followed her. His top boots, breeches, jacket, and beaver hat might seem casual to some, but Tris recognized the height of fashion for a certain sort—a sporting Corinthian. The striped waistcoat, the flamboyant cravat, and the cut of the coat confirmed it and sent a warning: The man’s heavy build would be all muscle.

            Then the moon shone full on the man’s sneering face—chunky, wide in the jaw, and with a nose that looked to have been broken more than once.

            Crofton.

            Viscount Crofton, a man in his early thirties of moderate wealth and expensive tastes, especially in women. Or rather, in quantity of women. He was a bruising rider and pugilist who was generally to be found at any event promising sport—with men or women—and with a preference for the rough.

            Crofton had attended a gentlemen’s party at Tris’s house once. It had been made clear that he would never be welcome again. It would be a personal pleasure to distress Crofton, but the man was dangerous, and needed watching.

            Tris reminded himself not to be distracted, but some detail niggled. Something that might be relevant here.

            He brushed it aside. He had a simple task in hand—to stage a holdup so that the man in jail as Le Corbeau would be proved innocent.

            “Your purses, pleeze,” he said, but couldn’t resist another glance at the woman. Crofton wasn’t married, but dress, demeanor, and jewelry spoke of a lady, not a whore. Did he have a sister?

            Crofton pulled a handful of banknotes out of his pocket and tossed them onto the ground, where they fluttered in the breeze. “Grovel for them like the pig you are.”

            “Crow,” Tris corrected, tempted to force the man to pick them up with his teeth. “Madame?”

            “I have no purse.”

            A cool, educated voice. A lady for sure, and the moonlight painted her features with white marble purity.

            “Then it will have to be your earrings, che[aarie.” Instinct clamored that something was wrong, and he couldn’t ride away with this mystery unsolved. The thought of a well-bred lady in Crofton’s clutches revolted him.

            He glanced at the woman, but she wasn’t looking at him. She was gazing at the moonlit countryside, denying his existence even as she took the pearl drops from her ears and tossed them down by the money.

            Then she looked at him, eyes narrowed, lips tight. The mysterious lady wasn’t frightened. She was furious.

            She had to be with Crofton by choice to be so angry at the interruption. On the other hand, he couldn’t forget the way Crofton had shoved her and her instinctive, outraged reaction.

            And then, the elusive detail came to him.

            A week or two ago, Crofton had won a property in a game of cards. Stokeley Manor in Cambridgeshire. To celebrate, he was throwing a party—an orgy, to be precise. Tris had received a presumptuous invitation, and unless he was mistaken, the event began tomorrow night.

            So, Crofton was on his way there, and he wouldn’t be taking his sister with him, or any other respectable lady. Unlikely as it seemed, the moonlit madonna had to be a high-priced whore. Not all whores were sluts, and some used a ladylike appearance as part of their stock-in-trade.

            Experience and instinct, however, told Tris that this woman was no such thing. There was one way to try her out.

            Le Corbeau was a foolish, romantic sort of highwayman, and he sometimes offered to return his loot for a kiss. A lot could be learned from the way a woman kissed.

            Tris smiled at her. “Since my wages have so unfortunately fallen in ze dirt, ma belle, I must ask you to pick zem up for me.”

            He thought she was going to refuse. The moonlight did not show color, but he knew a flush of anger heated those rounded cheeks—anger that tightened, her lips and confirmed his fears. It was the sort of cold, righteous anger no whore he’d known would ever permit herself.

            “Do it,” Crofton snapped, “and get rid of the cur.”

            She flinched under the order, but again she submitted, walking forward and then dipping down to pick up the money and earrings. She didn’t walk like a whore, either.

            Tris didn’t like it. He didn’t like it at all.

            He’d heard that Crofton’s entertainments leaned to the crude and that he had a taste for debauching virgins—the less willing, the better. Might he have found a way to force a well-bred virgin to be the centerpiece of his celebration?

            The woman straightened and approached the horse, holding out the money and jewelry.

            He looked down into steady, despising eyes. Who the devil did she think she was? Joan of Arc? She was on her way to an orgy with Crofton, and she’d be wiser to be looking for help than treating a possible rescuer like a slug.

            He moved Caesar forward a step. The woman flinched back, her stony composure breaking for a moment. Afraid of horses? When her lips relaxed, however, they showed a temptingly full bow. Kissing her wouldn’t be any sacrifice at all.

            He remembered to check on Crofton. Damn stupid to have been distracted. The man seemed to be simply observing, amused. A bad sign. Tris moved Caesar forward another step, and again she backed away.

            “If you keep retreating, che[aarie, we will be here all night.”

            Her lips tightened again. “Good. Then someone will come along and arrest you.”

            “Not in time. Ze money?”

            She set her chin and stepped forward, holding the money and earrings up and out, coming no closer than she had to. The contrast between her bravado and her obvious fear of Caesar touched his heart.

            He took the loot, and she hastily backed away. He separated the banknotes roughly in half and tossed part back on the ground. “I beggar no man.”

            Crofton laughed. “That amount wouldn’t beggar me, cur. Are we done, then?”

            Tris looked at the woman again. “I will return ze rest and your earrings for a kiss, che[aarie.”

            She took another step back, but Crofton pushed her forward. “Go on, Cherry, kiss him. I’ll let you keep the blunt if it’s a good one.”

                        Tris saw her inhale a long, angry breath, sensed fire behind her eyes, but again she did not protest. What hold did Crofton have over her?

            “Well?” he asked.

            “If I must,” she replied so coldly that he felt he should shiver. He suppressed a grin. He liked her spirit.

            He extended his gloved hand. “I cannot risk dismo...

About this edition

• Publisher: Berkley
• Publication date: 2003
• ISBN 10: 0451208072
• ISBN 13: 9780451208071
• Binding: Mass Market Paperback
• Number of pages: 384