sweet revenge.pdf

SWEET VENGEANCE

KAT MARTIN

ISBN: 0-312-95095-0

For my brother, Michael, who took the big plunge in more ways than one. Congrats on both. Luck and

happiness to you and Sue. I love you!

A special warm greeting to a couple of old and dear friends, Carol Drury and Carol Van Horn. Thanks

for being there when I needed you. I think of you often.

Chapter One

London, England March 1807

What a bloody fool, Rayne Garrick, Fourth Viscount Stoneleigh, propped his broad shoulders against the

tufted red velvet seat of his gleaming black barouche while one big hand clenched unconsciously into a

fist. He’d known better than to get involved with the lady again, had done it out of nothing short of

boredom.

Now he wondered if he’d be spending the night in the voluptuous woman’s bed or facing her wrath—

and her husband’s pistols in the morning.

Rayne cursed roundly. What demon had driven him to accept the woman’s passionate overtures yet

again? He was well aware he was asking for trouble. From the day she had burst upon the London scene

in a swirl of expensive silk skirts, Genevieve Morton, Lady Campden, had been nothing but trouble.

Still, who would have guessed that trying to end their brief affair would result in the lady threatening to

expose him to her husband?

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And the old fool was just crazy enough to call him out.

Bloody hell . Cursing his own stupidity—and the ache in his breeches that had caused all this trouble in

the first place—Rayne glanced out the window of the carriage. It was dark outside, no moon, no stars,

and the streets were relatively empty. Just a few elegantly garbed ladies and gentlemen of the ton

adjourning their fashionable West End town houses for an evening of entertainment somewhere in the

City.

Rayne heard the shrill whistle of his coachman calling to the pair of perfectly matched bays that pulled

the carriage. The man tugged on the ribbons, and the conveyance turned off Haymarket onto King

Street, heading for Lord Dorring’s town house on a small lane near St. James’s Square.

Every Tuesday night for the past several years, Dorring had hosted the members of his box club, the

Pugilist’s Hand. The small group of men who sparred together at Jackson’s Parlor gathered at Dorring’s

to drink, play cards, and gamble. Later in the evening, they paid visits to their mistresses, kept

assignations, or sought the pleasures of a favorite brothel.

Having ended his relationship with his current mistress some weeks ago, then broken off his renewed

affair with Lady Campden, Rayne had envisioned an evening of cards, then a pleasant diversion at

Madame Du Mont’s, the most elegant brothel in the City. Instead, if he submitted to Genevieve’s

blackmail, he would be forced to see the lady in question at least one more time.

Rayne frowned. Would one more night of seduction be enough to persuade the lusty countess not to

endanger the life of her aged yet overzealous husband?

Maybe. If Rayne could bring his volatile temper under control—which he was far too often unable to do.

Rayne grumbled into the darkness inside the carriage. If it wasn’t one thing, it seemed it was another.

What he needed was a change of pace, something different, outside the rigid strictures of society—not

that he paid them much heed. Something to add the spark that had been missing from his life ever since

he’d left the army and returned to London.

It was obvious, now more than ever, what he didn’t need was another damnable woman!

“Do ye see ‘im, Jolie gel?”

“He’ll be here. You can bet y‘ last quid on that. Night watch just called the hour. The bloody bastard

will be here in less than fifteen minutes—just like he always is.”

Brownie chuckled, a harsh rasping sound that came from deep in his chest. “Right ye are, gel. ‘Is

bleedin’ lordship’s as regular as a wise whore’s monthly flux.”

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Jo felt the heat rush into her cheeks. She should be used to Brownie’s ribald humor; she’d been hearing

it every day for the past two miserable years. Truth was, she had picked up more than her own fair share

of buckish slang, and she used it well and often, a means of passing unnoticed among the ragtag

unfortunates she’d been forced to live with on the filthy London streets.

Funny thing was, if it hadn’t been so sad, Jocelyn Asbury, once a model of genteel decorum, now a thief

and picklock, a rum dubber among the lowest dregs of the City, might rather have relished being able to

blister the ears of the vilest cant beggar, to stand up to the lowest doxy on St. Katherine’s wharf.

‘“Ere he comes!” That from Tucker, a thin blond boy of thirteen she and Brownie had adopted into their

ragged little band. “Carriage is roundin’ the corner. Ye can see it passin there ‘neath the street lamp. E’ll

be turning down the lane any minute.”

“Get down!” Jo whispered.

According to their carefully laid plan, they ducked behind the hedgerow that ran from the side of the

narrow town house all the way to the street. It was just a few short feet away from where the viscount’s

carriage would roll to a stop. Just a pistol shot away from where the tall thick-chested man would be

stepping to the ground on his way into the house, the man responsible for her terrible years of poverty

and grief.

Jocelyn pulled the heavy weapon from the waistband of her breeches. She wore a ragged pair of faded

brown twill pants that hugged her slender curves, a full-sleeved homespun shirt, and a tattered, cast-off,

once-elegant brocade waistcoat spun with tarnished gold thread. She had stuffed the short black curls

around her face beneath a woolen stocking cap pulled low across her forehead.

God in heaven, grant me the courage I need.

“Get ready.” Her grip tightened fiercely on the pistol, and Jo held her breath. Any moment, the

viscount’s carriage would roll to a stop and he would descend the stairs. A few moments more, and

Jocelyn Asbury would step from behind the hedge to fulfill her vow of revenge.

“We’re here, your lordship.” The footman pulled open the carriage door and stood aside so that Rayne

could climb down.

He grabbed his narrow-brimmed beaver hat from the seat beside him, his mind still weighing the course

he would take later this evening, stepped down from the carriage, and the footman closed the door.

Rayne had taken only two long strides when he felt cold steel shoved against his ribs, heard the

unmistakable cocking of a hammer.

“That’s far enough, gov’nor.” An older man with a slight paunch, long graying hair, and a thick

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mustache, held the weapon that protruded from the hedge.

A younger man, slender, shorter than Rayne by nearly a foot, also stepped forward. “I’d suggest, y‘

lordship, neither you nor y’ servants make any too-sudden moves.”

Rayne flashed a brief look toward his coachman, then motioned for his footmen to stand away. He

noticed a thin blond boy behind and a little to his left, wearing an expression of disdain.

“If it’s my purse you’re after, take it and be gone.” Rayne reached carefully into the pocket of his white

pique waistcoat, withdrew a small leather pouch laden with coins, and tossed it to the graying man.

“Give o’er the rest.” The man stuffed the bag into the waistband of his breeches and nudged Rayne

painfully in the ribs with the pistol. “Rich swell the likes o‘ ye is bound to have a bleedin’ fistful o‘ the

king’s pictures.”

Cursing, Rayne started to reach inside his waistcoat pocket.

“This ain’t about your quid,” the second man said with a sharp warning glance at his partner.

Rayne’s dark brow arched up. “Is that so?”

The youth had the bluest eyes, he noticed, taking in the boys long black lashes and lush, almost sensuous

lips. “If it isn’t money you’re after, then what is it?”

The lad’s skin looked clear, his features so refined they seemed almost feminine. In fact… Rayne

studied the young man closely, saw the subtle curves outlined by the worn brown breeches, the small but

obvious peaks of a pair of feminine breasts. He reached for the low-slung stocking cap pulled nearly to

the arch of a pair of black-winged brows and jerked the tattered woolen from her head.

“Keep your bleedin‘ ’ands off me!” Glossy jet-black hair tumbled forward into the woman’s pretty face,

which hardened into lines of rage. “Make another move like that, your bloody lordship, and I swear by

God’s breath I’ll pull the trigger.”

Rayne perused her slender figure, assessing her weight and slightly above average height. She couldn’t

have reached her twentieth year.

“You’re the ones who tried to hold up my coach last week in the alley outside Boodles.” He hadn’t

gotten a clear look at them then, but there was something familiar about the size and build of the woman

who stood in front of him, and this time he was prepared.

“Too right, gov’nor,” the graying man said. He chuckled, the sound a little harsh. “Black’earted cove the

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likes o‘ ye oughtn’t to be such a man o’ abit.” Though he carried a bit of a belly, his shoulders were

thick and solid and there was a hardness to his features that left no doubt the man could be a formidable

foe. “Times a’wastin‘. Go ahead, Jolie gel, say yer piece and get on with it.”

“Yeah, Jo, shoot ‘im,” urged the skinny blond boy.

Rayne fixed his attention on the girl. The lines of her face were strained, her lips pressed firmly together.

One look at the hatred in those ice-blue eyes and he knew all too clearly that murder was exactly her

intent. Except that Rayne wasn’t about to let it happen.

“Now, Finch!” he shouted to his coachman, erupting in a torrent of movement, heaving his muscular

body into the graying man and lashing out at the girl. Atop the carriage, the coachman swung up the

pistol he carried beneath his seat while Rayne grabbed the one in the graying man’s hands. He jerked it

free, spun, and knocked the girl’s arm upward just as she discharged her weapon, the gunfire shattering

the stillness in the air.

“Run!” she ordered her companions. “Get the bloody hell outta here!” For a moment the pair stood

frozen, watching her struggle in his grip, eyeing the pistol Finch pointed in their direction.

“First one moves is a dead man,” the coachman warned.

“Run!” the girl shouted again, afraid more for her friends, it seemed, than she was for herself. “Y’ll wind

up in Newgate for sure!”

Her words galvanized the two into action, the boy diving forward toward the hedge, the older man

spinning away, his big feet pounding against the earth.

“Halt, I say!” Finch waved the gun unsteadily, aimed, then pulled the trigger, the pistol shot echoing

loudly. The big man tripped as he rounded the corner, but both of them kept running till they

disappeared into the darkness.

“Let them go.” Rayne tightened his hold on the girl’s narrow waist, making her gasp for breath, but still

she continued to fight him.

“Bloody bastard!”

Even as he dragged her toward the carriage, she kicked and scratched, pounded his chest and tried to bite

him. Cursing, he wrenched one of her arms behind her back, jerked open the carriage door and shoved

her in, blocking her exit with his tall frame as he followed her inside.

“Get us the hell out of here,” he called up to his driver, and the man whipped the horses away. The girl

named Jo studied the inside of the carriage, eyed his hard, determined features, and lunged once more

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