On A Wicked Dawn by Stephanie Laurens Page A

walk an extraordinarily fine line, one she was clearly intent on dragging him over, yet he’d triumphed—a not inconsiderable feat, considering the provocation. Joining her, he hunted out the key, opened the door, and held it wide.
    Head high, a satisfied smile on her lips, his temptress swept past him; he let his gaze assessingly travel her slender length, then followed, closing the door, making a mental note to send around to Celestine regarding any similar gown she might produce. Marriage, after all, lasted a long time—only sensible to ensure he enjoyed it.
    Deep in the gardens close by the river, a young lady slipped through the trees. Reaching the river wall, high and built of stone, she followed it to the corner of the property.
    There, beneath a large tree, a gentleman waited, a denser shadow in the gloom. He turned as the young lady came up.
    â€œWell? Do you have them?”
    â€œYes.” The young lady sounded breathless; she raised her reticule, a larger than usual affair, and opened it. “I managed to get both pieces.”
    The items she drew forth glinted as she handed them to the gentleman. “You will send all you can get for them to Edward, won’t you?”
    The gentleman didn’t answer, but turned the objects in his hands, holding up first one, an ornate gold inkstand, then the other, a gold-and-crystal perfume flask, to the fitful light filtering through the leaves.
    â€œThey’ll fetch a few guineas, but he’ll need more than that.”
    â€œMore?” Lowering her reticule, the young lady stared. “But . . . those were the only pieces Edward mentioned . . .”
    â€œI daresay. But poor Edward . . .” The gentleman slid the two objects into the capacious pockets of his driving coat and sighed. “I fear he’s trying to be brave, but you can imagine, I’m sure, what it’s like for him. Banished by his family, cast into a foreign gutter and left to starve, forgotten, with not a friend in the world—“
    â€œOh, no! Surely not. I can’t imagine . . . I’m sure . . .” The young lady broke off. She stared through the dimness at the gentleman.
    Who shrugged. “I’m doing all I can, but I don’t move in these circles.” He looked through the dark garden to where the fairy lights began, and farther, to where the elegant throng was dancing and laughing on the terrace.
    The young lady drew herself up. “If I could help more . . . but I’ve already given all the money I have. And there aren’t that many precious little objects lying about Ashford House, not ones that rightly might be Edward’s.”
    The gentleman was silent for sometime, his gaze on the dancers, then he turned to the young lady. “If you really want to help—and I’m sure Edward would be eternally grateful—then there’s plenty more items like these two that could help him, and that they”—with his head, he indicated the faraway crowd—“would like as not never miss.”
    â€œOh, but I couldn’t . . .” The young lady stared at him.
    The gentleman shrugged. “If that’s the way it is, then I’ll tell Edward he’ll have to manage on his own, that no matter what rat-infested, flea-ridden hovel he’s now forced to live in, despite all the blunt his family and their friends have, there’s no help for him here. He can give up all hope—“
    â€œNo! Wait.” After a moment, the young lady sighed, a whispering surrender. “I’ll try. If I see any little things that might suit—“
    â€œJust pick them up and bring them to me.” The gentleman glanced at the house. “I’ll be in touch about where we can next meet.”
    He turned to leave—the lady put out a hand and caught his sleeve. “You will send the money to Edward straightaway—and tell him that I at least