CHAPTER ONE
THE DEVON COAST, 1809
Dartmouth Harbor

One shot—she'd checked her priming carefully.

One shot—there'd be no time for more.

One shot. Through Lord Grandquest's black heart. Then…

And then…

And then what?

Ari shifted the heavy pistol she was hiding beneath her cloak from one hand to the other as she considered the question. The jib-boom of a tallship angled above her. Other ships shouldered the embarcadero, or rode at anchor on the gray-brown water of the harbor. A small, bare forest of masts and yards rose into an azure sky, and a blustery wind keened through the high rigging and rattled pulleys against the spars.

Her gaze moved along the line of ships at anchor, lingering on the deep ocean vessels. Grandquest's ship was a three-masted square-rigger. Among these squat East India men, it should look like a falcon among chickens.

And after she'd found Grandquest and paid him back for his treachery, what then?

Why then some English magistrate would kindly arrange her future for her. And it would be a very short, dramatic future, to be sure—a brisk dance at the end of a stout rope. Mon Dieu, one could not shoot an English earl without some repercussions.

Well, not in England, anyway.

Although the hour was early and despite the cold wind slicing down from the north, Dartmouth's waterfront was alive with activity. The elite of the merchant class moved amid stacks of goods, haggling among themselves, as their harried-looking clerks rushed about and shuffled manifests.

A half-dozen children in ragged clothing played in a nearby gutter. Laughing and shrieking, they seemed unmindful of the cold and the filth, and the stench of human refuse, which mingled unpleasantly with stench of long-dead fish.

Stevedores grunted, loading or unloading cargoes to rude orders shouted by second mates.
Adding to the cacophony, vendors with pushcarts moved through the crush, singing out their wares—"Mulled wine, a ha'pence, a ha'pence, a ha'pence." "Pasties, pasties, pasties." and "'Ot an' spiced, 'ot an' spiced ale!"—while red-skirted doxies hawked other goods. Both did a brisk trade.

A gust of wind snatched at the hood of her shabby cloak. A burly stevedore pushing past her glimpsed eyes the same shade as the deep blue bowl of sky overhead. He stopped in his tracks, a salt pork barrel balanced on either brawny shoulder, and watched the bent figure skitter away, dragging one foot as she went.

For a moment he'd thought...he shook his head, which throbbed, and decided he was spending too much time slugging gin in The Spotted Dog. Imagining the face of a plaster angel on that ragpicker's hag.

Ari tugged the hood low to shield her face and glanced behind her. She relaxed once she was certain the man wasn't on her heels and turned her thoughts again to what would happen after she'd shot Grandquest.

As if it matters, she thought, realizing that her future did not show a great deal of promise in any event. She was alone on the Dartmouth waterfront. Dressed in rags. Penniless. Homeless, after the treacherous work against them last night. And, without a doubt, now wanted by the Crown as a French spy. Even if she should forego the pleasure of shooting Grandquest, a noose had been around her neck from the moment the Devonshire militia burst through the door of the cottage last night.

That was, of course, if she wasn't merely shot down on sight.

Just as Grandquest had shot Dolpho—

No!

She had left him, still and alone and cold. How could she have just left him there?

Grief clawed at her chest like a living thing. Her breath would go neither in nor out past the fierce knot in her throat and hot, stinging, tears filled her eyes. Ari crammed her fist against her mouth and took shelter between high stacks of wooden crates waiting to be loaded onto ships. It was too late for tears. She had relished every moment of their adventure—the plotting, the intrigue. She'd been having the time of her life.

And Dolpho had paid with his.

Ari angrily wiped her tears away with the back of her hand. Dolpho wasn't the first man Grandquest had murdered. And he would kill again.

If she didn't stop him. She was the only one who could.

She pushed away from her shelter to continue her search for Grandquest's ship. But stopped short, her heartbeat quickening as she saw a sleek town coach drawn up in the alley between two warehouses. The Grandquest coat-of-arms crowned by strawberry leaves was emblazoned on its door. A livery-clad footman and coachman stood beside it, stamping their feet to stay warm in the cold morning air, their breath puffing out like fog.

If the Grandquest coach was here, so then must be the earl. She hadn't dared hope, not really. She hadn't planned anything beyond finding his ship's captain, and she'd had the frame of a lie ready to tell the man, a lie with just enough truth to assure his help in seeing she reached his lordship.

Ari looked back at the golden jib-boom jutting over the quay. The figurehead beneath was carved by a master's hand, a life-like figure depicting an American Indian woman, her arms raised as if in supplication. Even before she looked at the nameplate, she knew she'd found it, the Midnight Dancer.

Pulling the hood of her cloak lower, she made her way onto the gangplank.

“Hold, there!” The ship's officer-of-the-watch stepped onto the plank, barring her way.
Merde!

"I have...Oi 'ave somethin' fer yer master. The earl. 'E left it yesterday. Or, mayhap, 'twere last night. So 'ard to tell, deary, with the shutters all closed." Ari winked.

The young man could have been no more than eighteen, and he went red to the roots of his light, baby-fine hair at her meaning. Nevertheless, he resolutely blocked her way. "I'll give it to him for you, ma'am."

"You couldn't. Oi mean, 'tis somethin' of a personal nature." Ari let her hood slip back, just a little, so the young man could see her face. When his eyes rounded, she gave him a coaxing smile—a smile she'd practiced in the salons of Vienna as she'd made her entrance into society. She'd used it to charm archdukes and generals.

She read the uncertainty in his eyes, and his quick glance at the tall man on the quarterdeck—was that Grandquest?

Her grip on the pistol tightened.

"There 'e is," she cried gaily and pushed past the young officer. "Oi'll be naught but a moment givin' it to 'im, lovey. Naught but a moment." Resolutely ignoring the young man's stuttered protest, Ari held her breath, but he didn't try to stop her again.

Just a few more steps, twenty...now ten. The white scrubbed deck seemed to sway beneath her feet and her heart beat so, she thought she must faint. Grandquest had his back to her as he spoke with another man, from his dress and bearing, perhaps the captain of this vessel. In a moment she would be so close she could not miss.

She must not miss—there would only be this chance.

Grandquest turned suddenly, as if sensing someone behind him. She found herself staring into a pair of cold gray eyes, deep-set beneath dark brows that curved like an eagle's wings.
“You need something, Madam?” He frowned, taking in her ragged cloak.

Using both thumbs to cock it, Ari brought up her gun.

Overhead, seabirds whirled and cried, or fussed as they perched on the yards. The wind in the rigging piped a sailor's chantey. It caught her hood and whipped it back and her hair floated out on the wind. Her cloak flapped apart, for she needed the hand with which she'd been holding it closed to help level the heavy gun. Beneath it she wore only a nightgown, for she'd been abed when the militia had come pounding. Ari shivered as the cold sliced through her as if she wore nothing at all.

Robert Travellion Fox Grandquest, seventh Earl Grandquest, studied the young woman before him, her hair an auburn flame whipped by the wind. God's truth but she was a beauty, tall and exquisitely formed. The rag she wore hid little. Was it a night rail? Torn at the neckline, one round white breast was exposed, and a dark red triangle of hair at the juncture of her thighs was visible through the fine lawn fabric. The wind molded the garment to her, outlining legs long as a man's dreams.

Fox frowned as he studied the rusty red stain over her thigh and realized it was be dried blood. A small round hole centered the stain. This grew stranger and stranger.

Bright spots of color burned on the girl's pale cheeks, hinting at fever. But her eyes—thick-lashed eyes, the same cerulean blue of the sky—were clear and filled with purpose.

She met his gaze steadily. She meant to kill him.

And from the way she held the pistol, she knew what she was about.

But why?

Ari was aware that all work on board the ship had ceased as sailors and stevedores gathered around them. The big, red-haired man, with whom Grandquest had been talking edged away from the earl and to the side.

Grandquest gave an infinitesimal shake of his head, directed at someone behind her, and She realized she'd left herself vulnerable from behind—where were her wits?
Keeping the long barrel pointing at the earl's heart, she carefully moved until she felt the taffrail at her back. Long moments passed as she searched the earl’s eyes, looking for guilt or remorse.

"I take it, madam, that you mean to shoot me."

She might have been discussing the weather—had the man no fear?

"Sir, you do not mistake my intention."

Ari hadn't expected this, oh, no. She had steeled herself against his begging and pleading with her to spare his life. Instead, the earl seemed completely at his ease. Darkly handsome. Superbly masculine. He was looking at her not as a man looks at his executioner, but as a man looks at...at a woman. Mon Dieu, no wonder Dolpho had labeled this Grandquest the most dangerous man in England—the man had no fear.

Grandquest propped one booted foot on a keg and rested his forearm on his knee. Except for the seabirds overhead and her cloak, which flapped in the wind, all action on board the ship was frozen. Long seconds passed.

"Then madam,” he drawled, “get on with it but, pray, do not bore me to death." Fox watched her incredible eyes widen, and the fever roses staining her cheeks flush cherry red. Damn, she could barely stand, but the gun never wavered.

"Your pardon, milord. I was but allowing you time to make your peace with God. I thought, in your case, it might take a while."

Low laughter rippled through the men gathered about.

Grandquest’s chiseled mouth softened in the briefest of smiles and a quicksilver flash lit his thick-lashed gray eyes. And Ari was again surprised. What manner of devil was this? A man who could smile at his executioner?

"That is most considerate of you.” His tone softened, “But if you do the deed, you'll hang. Now, ‘twould be a pity if rope burns should mar such a lovely neck as yours, and over such a worthless hide as mine?"

"I will not hang."

Something cold snaked through his stomach as he read the glance she flicked over the side at the cold gray waters of the harbor.

"Nor have I illusions of escaping, but that isn’t important, Lord Grandquest, if I find you in hell when I get there."

He shook his head. "Such venom in one so young. What have I done to make you hate me so?”

"What have you done?" Her wonderful eyes flashed. "'Tis no wonder that you can't make peace for your soul, if your sins are forgotten so quickly."

Fox flinched under her tone. Somehow, she’d expected him to know why she was here.
Was it because of Peterson? This girl had some indefinable accent and Peterson’s wife was an émigré.

"Not forgotten." He shook his head. "No, not forgotten. Never forgotten. But there are so many stains on my soul, I would know which one hurt you."

She straightened. "Then you will never know."

"At least, tell me by what name I should greet you when you join me in those warmer regions?" He sensed her gathering her resolve and wanted to keep her talking. He knew it was a great deal harder to pull a trigger after having a conversation with one's enemy.

"What name?" Ari blinked, realizing the opportunity he offered. She could tell him a false identity, if she could but think of one, and her family’s name would be protected.
But what name?

She'd posed as Dolpho’s mistress in London. ‘Tess Brown’ had gone to America when Dolpho had grown tired of the actress, or so they'd put about.

She'd been Mademoiselle le Comtesse in St. Cyr. To Grandpere she'd been Arielle.
She'd been Ari to Dolpho.

Oh, Dolpho , I'm so sorry I left you cold and alone. I should have stayed. I should have.. But I promised you that I would find him!

The tall man at the end of her gun watched her closely. She couldn’t tell him the truth. She wouldn’t shame her family name.

“I shall tell you my name when I get there."

Fox focused on the very dangerous young woman before him, waiting for her attention to slip. But the heavy pistol had never wavered—were those slender wrists made of iron?
Then he sensed it. Beneath the thick sable lashes, the pupils of her blue eyes widened. Looking into them, Fox found, was much like looking into the bore of the gun aimed unerringly at his heart.

The knuckle of her forefinger grew white.

Ari squeezed. But the gun was old, the mechanism stiff. It had taken both thumbs to cock it. Now that the moment was hers, the trigger wouldn’t budge.

Suddenly, her wrist and the pistol barrel were caught in an iron-hard grip. She struggled to regain control of the gun, but he turned it harmlessly upward. Enraged, she drew back her free hand and punched the earl with all the force she could muster, landing it squarely on his chin.

Fox's head snapped back from the blow. Before he could recover, she threw herself sideways, twisting, pulling, surprising him and almost throwing him off balance with the abrupt shift in her weight.

"Damn, you little hellion!"

But she wasn't little. She was tall and strong. And those wrists were made of iron, he decided grimly. It suddenly occurred to him that he was fighting for his life.

She’d been a fool. If she hadn't hesitated, the man who'd killed Dolpho would now be dead—the same man who’d killed so many others, who was going to cost England the war with Napoleon.

As she felt the pistol slipping from her grasp, panic gave her a surge of new strength.
Throwing her weight in the opposite direction, she twisted and pulled, one hand on the barrel, the other still clamped around the butt. Abruptly folding her legs beneath her, she swung on the gun like a trapeze, pulling with her whole weight.

Yes! His grip was slipping—she felt it.

Suddenly, all the world exploded.

The seabirds perched in the high rigging flapped away in alarm. The ring of rough men jostled each other, crowding closer to see the tragedy.

Fox Grandquest looked down, stunned, at the woman lying on the deck at his feet. One shapely leg was exposed, and her hand was curled beside her cheek like a sleeping child. The wind whipped a strand of her glorious hair around his polished boot—the deep auburn curls clashed madly with the crimson stain spreading over the white oak deck.

She looked so young in death. Damnation, she could not be twenty!

Kneeling beside her, he swore at the needless tragedy and gently tugged the edges of her torn gown together, covering her round breast from the greedy eyes of the men around them.
"Milord? I'm sorry, milord." Young Graham Conners pushed forward through the knot of men. "I—I had the watch, you see, milord. I—that is, she said she had something she must give you. I didn't think—"

"Aye, lad. Ye didna think," Captain McMasters said. "Ye'll present yerself in my cabin at eight bells. I'll pronounce yer punishment then. Now, back to yer post wit' yer."
Graham popped tall. "Aye-aye, sir."

Fox winced. Graham was the youngest and most inexperienced of his hand-picked crew. The earl wished the lad had not appeared quite so military in his response. Merchant vessels didn’t maintain such precise manners.

Looking back at the young woman lying still on the deck, Fox grimly took the point of her chin in his fingers and turned her head, exposing the wound. Expecting a gruesome pulp, he was surprised. Instead of shattering her skull, the pistol ball had parted her hair from temple to crown.

Something faint and warm touched the back of his hand, and he tensed. As he reached for the pulse at her throat, a soft hand caught his large one.

"Dolpho?"

A tear slipped from the corner of her eye, then dark with pain, her blue eyes opened.
Ari found a dark head above her, silhouetted against England's cold October sun. And her heart leapt.

"Dolpho!"

She was suddenly in Fox's arms, her cheek pressed against his chest.

"Oh, Dolpho, how did you find me? Cher Bon Dieu—I saw you die."