The Tiger's Mistress - Softcover

DaRif, Andrea

3.33

30 ratings by Goodreads

Softcover

ISBN 10: 074346348X ISBN 13: 9780743463485

Publisher: Pocket, 2003

View all copies of this ISBN edition:

When her beloved father mysteriously vanishes, Miss Portia Hadley enlists the aid of the notorious Earl of Branford, a British spy called as the "Black Cat," to find her missing father and a mysterious object known as the Jade Tiger. Original.

"synopsis" may belong to another edition of this title.

About the Author:

Andrea DaRif is a graduate of Yale University. Writing as Andrea Pickens, her other novels include The Banished Bride, A Diamond in the Rough, and The Major's Mistake. She and her husband own and run The Golfer magazine. She lives in New York.

Chapter One

Snick.

The thin shaft of metal caught on the tumbler but the lock did not open. Shifting slightly, the cloaked figure crouched beside the desk flexed a gloved hand and tried again.

Snick. Snick. Still no luck.

"Oh, bloody hell." The oath was no louder than the faint whisper of the damask draperies framing the open window.

"Well, what did you expect?"

The fingers froze and the figure whipped around, revealing a masked face.

"You are going about it all wrong."

Black silk stretched from the intruder's hood to below the nose, with two holes cut out for the eyes. The pale wash of moonlight did not allow the Earl of Branford to remark on their color -- or perhaps, he thought with a wry grimace, the reason had something to do with the fact that he had just polished off his second bottle of brandy in less than an hour. The surfeit of spirits, however, could not drown the sight of the softly curved lips beneath the slash of midnight. No matter how foxed, he was absolutely sure they were not those of an ordinary thief.

"I would suggest you hold the wire between your thumb and your forefinger." He rose from the leather armchair where he had been dozing and moved across the Oriental carpet with surprising quickness. "Like this."

Taking the implement from the young lady's hand, the earl thrust it into the small opening of the drawer and gave a jiggle. "No wonder you're making a hash of it," he muttered after a moment. "A hairpin!" A low snort emphasized his opinion of the implement. "Not only are you harebrained enough to attempt to rob the marquess while he is at home, but you don't even have the sense to bring along the proper tools."

The eyes behind the slitted openings narrowed in indignation. They were green, Branford realized, now that he was much closer. A green the color of molten jade, with sparks of amber shooting up from their depths.

"I don't need some jug-bitten gentleman to tell me that a hairpin is not the ideal choice," she retorted, the sarcasm in her voice every bit as sharp as his had been. "I'll have you know that I started out with a set of excellent picks, only...only they somehow slipped from my pocket on the way up."

"I'm sober enough to come up with a better excuse than that." He was also sober enough to note that the heat of her voice was immediately reflected in her cheeks -- at least, what little of them was visible below the mask. They turned a deep, glowing pink that put him in mind of the exotic roses that his last mistress used to decorate her boudoir. An apt metaphor, he decided, for, despite being a trifle in his cups, it was clear that the female crouching next to him was a highly unusual specimen of her sex.

Her next words were just as prickly as a cuisse de nymphe. "Have you ever tried to scale a two-story wall while wearing skirts?"

Branford allowed a devilish grin to spread over his lean features. "I have been accused of a great many ungentlemanly acts in my life, but donning petticoats is not one of them."

The sparks from her gaze would have singed Lucifer. "Well, then, don't smirk. It's deucedly hard with all that fabric getting in the way of your boots, not to speak of snagging on the vines."

"Professionals don't make excuses." His gaze swept from the defiantly tilted chin down to where the bunching of skirts was revealing a nicely turned ankle. "Next time, try wearing breeches. I think you will find the snug fit a welcome change; I know I would."

Her lips parted in outrage.

"But then, I rather doubt you can call yourself a professional at this sort of thing," he went on, his wits still sharp enough to note several telling details. Her speech indicated she was a lady of gentle breeding. As did her cloak and gown. They were of good quality, even though the styles were out of date and the wool slightly frayed around the edges. And a faint tang of lavender, mixed with an undercurrent of verbena, perfumed the lock of hair that had strayed from the confines of her hood -- hardly the signature scent of Southwark or Seven Dials. So, that made the question of why she was there an intriguing one.

His musings were cut short as she snatched back the hairpin from his grasp. "I don't intend to call myself anything. I've wasted quite enough time in idle conversation." Her chin came up a fraction higher. "Now kindly take yourself off, sir. You are blocking what little light there is."

Branford leaned back a bit but made no move to rise. "Aren't you worried that I might raise the alarm if I do? After all, I am a guest in this house."

"Call the magistrate and be damned," she muttered while renewing her attack on the small brass lock. "It is the Marquess of Dunster who is the real criminal, and I vow I shall prove it, even if I have to swim all the way back to London from a penal colony in the antipodes."

Criminal? The marquess a criminal? If she was looking to arouse his curiosity, she had certainly done it in spades.

Up until the discovery of the masked intruder, the evening had been a crashing bore, like so many others since his return to London. He had agreed to accompany a casual acquaintance to the marquess's private party for no other reason than that the company of strangers seemed preferable to a night alone with his own depressing thoughts. It was, however, a decision he soon regretted. Dunster had struck him as a crude, unsavory character, and the coarse treats being passed around after the port and cigars were not at all to his taste, despite the rumors being bandied about Town.

Oh, some of the whispers were true enough. His skills at coaxing favors from a deck of cards or another gentleman's wife were only slightly exaggerated. And no doubt he did possess a hair-trigger temper and cold-blooded nerve, seeing as two men lay nursing bullet wounds from recent encounters on the dueling field.

But the prospect of writhing about on the carpet in the midst of a debauched orgy held no allure. If a female's thighs were to be wrapped around his hips, he preferred to choose his partner -- and achieve his pleasure through seduction rather than brute force. So he had drunk more than was good for him and then wandered upstairs, thinking to pass the time with yet another glass of spirits rather than a hired trollop until the others were all too deep in their cups or otherwise occupied to notice his departure.

Branford certainly had no intention of leaving now. "Try a little more pressure with your index finger," he said. His hand closed over hers and guided it slightly to the left. There was a touch of resistance, then a distinct click. Reaching up, he slid the drawer open. "Voil�."

He smiled, rather expecting some acknowledgment of his expert assistance, but such a notion was rudely shoved aside as the young lady scrabbled to get at it. Without so much as a word of thanks, she reached in and began rummaging through its contents.

"Just what are you after?" inquired the earl, massaging the spot on his ribs where her elbow had caught him a solid blow. "Has Dunster reneged on the promise of a diamond bracelet? Or failed to pay the agreed upon fee?"

A scathing look was the only answer. She then turned her attention back to the sheaf of papers she had snatched up and continued to examine each page.

"Look here," he growled. "Perhaps if you explained -- "

A sudden clattering in the hallway interrupted his demand. There was a brief silence, then a trilling squeal, followed by several drunken guffaws. After another moment the steps suddenly turned in their direction.

"Damnation!" The young lady's head jerked up as several elongated shadows fell across the half-open doorway. With the documents still clutched in her hands, she made a quick survey of the room before turning for the voluminous drapes.

"Too late," murmured Branford. It was clear she would never make it to cover in time. Why he should feel any obligation to give further aid to the sharp-tongued chit was as big a mystery as her presence here, but for some odd reason he did.

A spin to his left blocked her path of retreat.

"Out of my -- " The rest of her words were swallowed in a squawk of outrage as his lips came down hard upon hers. Ignoring her muffled protests, he twirled her around and lifted her onto the edge of the desk. One hand held her hard against his chest while the other rucked up her skirts high enough so that he could step between her flailing legs. They were quite long and shapely, he couldn't help but note as his fingers grazed the inside of her thigh.

The intimate touch brought an even more furious response. Her mouth parted, trying to manage a louder cry. To cut off any outburst, he deepened the kiss with a thrust of his tongue, filling her with the lingering heat of the brandy.

For an instant she went absolutely still.

Branford took full advantage of the lull. He pressed closer, so that their bodies were locked together, then leaned forward, forcing her head nearly down to the blotter. Tightening his grip around her waist, he then yanked free the knot of his cravat and fell to fondling her breast.

"Well, lookee here. Should ha' known a stallion of Branford's reputation wouldn't take long in mounting one of the fillies."

Out of the corner of his eye, the earl saw the Marquess of Dunster and one of his cronies leaning rather heavily on the half-naked female who stood between them. Both of them looked every inch the proper gentlemen in their tailored evening coats, embroidered waistcoats, and polished Hessians. However, as their breeches were missing, not all of those inches were of the sort that titled lords should be showing in public.

"Seems she's giving you a spirited gallop," said the leering Dunster, for indeed, the young lady had resumed her struggle to break free. "P'rhaps when you're done in the saddle, you'll pass the reins to me."

The other gentleman laughed and added a very lewd comment.

Branford exaggerated the rocking of his hips, using the movement to nudge the desk drawer back into place. Taking care that his back blocked all view of the papers and the masked face, he released her mouth long enough to glance over his shoulder with a wolfish grin. "Find your own rides, gentlemen. I don't plan on finishing with this one anytime soon."

There was a sharp intake of breath from the young lady.

Fearing that an outburst of temper might ruin the whole charade, he gave her a warning shake. "Keep quiet, you little fool," he whispered while appearing to nuzzle at her neck. "Unless you truly wish to be trotted off to Newgate."

Apparently she was not devoid of all sense, for she bit back whatever retort was hovering on her lips.

Raising his voice to a rough growl, the earl turned back to the others, noticing that a third man had approached and was standing in the shadows, half hidden by the marquess's swaying shoulders. "So, gentlemen, if you don't mind closing the door as you leave..."

"Like to apply the spurs in private, eh?" Dunster's flushed face took on a petulant pout. "A shame. Would have liked to watch you put her through her paces."

"Aw, come on, milord." The doxy rubbed up against the marquess's arm. After eyeing what showed of the other young lady's willowy form, she gave a slight sniff and a toss of her overly blond curls. "If yer looking for spirit an' stamina, I've a friend downstairs wots got a lot more to offer a fine gentleman than that bag o' bones."

Amid a rumble of laughter and ribald jests, the door slammed shut. Branford slowly relaxed his hold as he heard them stumble off, and started to speak.

The young lady beat him to the punch. "Why, you unprincipled cad!" Yanking one hand free, she wasted no time in landing a hard right to his jaw.

His head snapped back. Hell's teeth! he thought with some amazement. Where had a female learned to hit like that?

"You might show a bit of gratitude, you ungrateful chit," he growled, rubbing gingerly at the spot. "I just saved your neck."

"You nearly stole my virtue! And it was not my neck you were making sport with, rather...several other parts of my anatomy!" Suddenly aware of how much of that anatomy was now in full view, she hastily tugged her skirts back over her knees and slid off the desk.

He gave a throaty chuckle, despite his smarting jaw. "My dear, I am far more skilled at larceny than you are. Had your virtue been the object of my desire, it would now be in my possession."

"Arrogant coxcomb!" She sought to brush off his hand, which still had a grip on her arm. "Damn you, let go of me! I do not wish to suffer any further indignities at the hands of a lecherous rogue."

"Not before you answer a few questions." Drawing his dark brows together, he fixed her with his most intimidating stare. It was a look that had usually reduced the soldiers under his command to quaking in their boots. And as his military experience with Wellington had also involved interrogating a good many traitors and double agents, he imagined he would have a young lady -- no matter how defiant -- confessing within seconds. "Starting with who the devil are you, and what are you looking for among those papers."

His experience with men of war, however, had not prepared the earl to be on the lookout for a swift kick in the shins.

"Bloody hell!" Caught by surprise, he fell back against the edge of the desk, bruising his hip in the process. The young lady seized the opportunity to twist out of reach and sprint for the window. Off balance, his reflexes still slightly slurred by drink, Branford was a step slow in lunging after her. He grabbed for the collar of her cloak, but his fingers missed by a fraction of an inch. Instead they closed over thin air.

No, not quite thin air, he realized as he felt a slight tug. A thin gold chain had snagged on his hand. It snapped, and the broken links fell to the carpet, along with a ring.

Before he could recover, she jumped onto the sill and, with a theatrical flourish of her cloak, dropped down from sight.

Damn!

In a fit of disgust, Branford kicked at the wainscoting as he watched her disappear into the shadows of the garden below. It was he who had made a complete hash of things.

His hand raked through his raven locks. The Black Cat -- once Wellington's most trusted intelligence officer -- bested by a woman? Good Lord, the thought was more sobering than a Methodist's sermon. If he could be outsmarted, outmaneuvered, and outgunned by a mere female, perhaps it was high time to stop drowning himself in self-pity.

With a last look at the boxwood hedge, he drew the window closed and turned away.

A wink of light suddenly caught his eye.

He had almost forgotten the fallen trinket. Bending down, he retrieved the broken chain, but the ring took a bit of searching to locate. Once he had scooped it up from under the armchair, he carried it over to the desk and lit one of the candles in order to examine it more closely.

It glowed with the soft patina of age. The sh...

"About this title" may belong to another edition of this title.