Whisper To Me of Love

by Shirlee Busbee

Genres: Historical Fiction; Historical Romance; Regency Romance; Romantic Suspense

Synopsis

Busbee is back and better than ever! --Julia Quinn She Couldn't Escape Her Past Ripped from her dying mother's arms, Morgana Fowler was cast into a life of desperate thievery. With a tongue even sharper than the blade she deftly wields, she has all but mastered her devious trade--until she picks the pocket of a dashing American who wrests her from the sordid streets of London. In the arms of her gallant protector, she is helpless against the longing he elicits within her. . . He Couldn't Contain His Passion Royce Manchester basks in a world of privilege and power in the decadent British Regency, and lowborn Morgana finds in him a love she's never known. But the secret of her true parentage threatens to bring her new life crashing down. With a sinister figure from her past ever lurking at her heels, she and Royce must confront one of Regency England's most diabolical villains--a challenge that fans the flame of a love that knows no bounds. . . "Busbee delivers what you read a romance for." -- West Coast Review of Books Praise for Shirlee Busbee and "A scandalously delicious read that left me wanting more!" --Bertrice Small "A walloping good story. Don't miss it!" --Catherine Coulter "A delightful romance--altogether a wonderful book." --Roberta Gellis

Release date: October 24, 2011

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 561

Sample

Newton and Dyot Streets in the Parish of St. Giles were well-known as the headquarters for most of the thieves and pickpockets to be found in London, and so it wasn’t surprising that the three inhabitants of a seedy set of rooms in a dilapidated building just a few streets away made their living, such as it was, by thievery. Actually, by the standards of St. Giles Parish, the Fowler siblings lived very well—they had a roof over their heads and seldom went hungry—unlike the majority of those unfortunate wretches who inhabited this part of London. Not for the Fowler family the indignity of sleeping in filthy gutters at the mercy of every cutthroat around—and there were many—nor for them the gin-sodden relief to be found at the various rough taverns that abounded in the area, or the dangers that lurked in every dark alley. Whores, beggars, thieves, and murderers abounded in the narrow, mean streets of St. Giles, but the Fowlers gave it little thought. This was home to them; they knew every twisted street, every squalid gin house, every master criminal in their parish ... and the ones to avoid.

Which wasn’t to say that the Fowlers lived a charmed life; they suffered much of the same misery and had the same fears as most of their fellow miscreants, although there were those envious souls who would swear that Jacko Fowler, at twenty-five, the eldest of the trio, certainly had been smiled upon by Lady Luck. Hadn’t he outsmarted and escaped the watch on occasions too numerous to mention? And when finally caught that one disastrous time, hadn’t he escaped from the very steps of Newgate? Ah, Jacko was a rum cove, he was! And handsome too, the, er, ladies of the parish agreed, with his brown, wavy hair and dancing blue eyes.

Not that Ben, three years younger than Jacko, was any less clever in his escapades or his attractiveness; it was merely that Jacko was the obvious leader of the trio and possessed a brazen charm that overshadowed Ben’s quiet intensity. As for Pip, well, the youngest Fowler, beyond being an outrageous scamp, ever ready with a sharp tongue or an equally keen blade, was considered, at nineteen, too young to have yet made a mark in the world.

The previous summer had been very good for the Fowlers. With the long war with France finally over and Napoleon safely interned on Elba, England had been in a festive mood, and scores of famous visitors had flocked to London—the Czar of Russia and his sister, the Grand Duchess Catherine of Oldenburg, King Frederick of Prussia, and General Blücher, to name just a few of the notables who had graced London that summer of 1814. Not only had London been filled with the victorious heroes of the seemingly interminable war with Napoleon, but there had been a surfeit of fetes and amusements for the public—celebrations had been held in Hyde Park and Green Park with balloon ascents and grand fireworks, amusements that had seen the Fowlers very busy as they had ambled through the excited crowds, their nimble fingers filching a gold pocket watch here, a silken handkerchief there, and whatever other valuable came their way. Oh, it had been a grand summer!

But the year of 1815 was not proving to be as profitable, nor as pleasant, as the past year for the Fowlers. In January they had suffered a most grievous personal tragedy; their mother, Jane Fowler, had died from the consumption that had racked her slender body for as long as her three children could remember. They had been stunned, unable to believe that Jane, who had been the guiding light of their universe, was gone. Gamely, but with far less enthusiasm, they had carried on with their lives, trying to keep the precepts she had drilled into them alive, and coping as best as they were able with the pain of their loss. It wasn’t easy, and they viewed the future rather gloomily. Certainly with Napoleon’s escape from Elba on the twenty-sixth of February and the reopening of hostilities with France, there was little for anyone to celebrate. The Fowlers’ difficulties, however, had nothing to do with Napoleon or the imminent resumption of war on the continent....

“Bloody eyes, Jacko! We’re no ’ousebreakers! We do right well enough as it is! Just yesterday, didn’t Pip draw a rare thimble from the swell’s pit? Why the ’ell do you want to risk our bloody necks this way?” Ben growled, the bright blue eyes that he and Jacko had inherited from their mother snapping with anger.

“Mum wouldn’t like it, Jacko,” Pip muttered. “You know she wouldn’t.”

“God strike me blind!” Jacko burst out impatiently. “Do you think Oy’m ’appy about this? Bloody ’ell!”

Pip and Ben exchanged looks, the flickering light from the single candle in the middle of the table at which they sat dancing over their intent faces. Softly Ben spoke the thought uppermost in their minds. “It’s the single-peeper, ain’t it? ’e’s the reason, ain’t ’e?”

Jacko looked away, his handsome face tight and strained. “Aye, ’e’s the reason,” he admitted unhappily. “Told me that if we didn’t start bringing ’im more and better goods, we’d ’ave to find ourselves another fencing ken ... and a different dimber-damber.”

A somber silence fell. While the Fowlers operated primarily on their own, they were, as were most of the thieves in St. Giles, part of a larger gang, or knot, as they referred to it, with a definite hierarchy among its members and with certain safe places known only to them where they could secrete their stolen goods. And if their dimber-damber, the leader of their knot, decided he was dissatisfied with them and would no longer allow them to store their ill-gotten gains at the knot’s fencing ken, or safe house, they were in desperate straits indeed. No one survived in St. Giles without the help of the other thieves of his particular knot. And the likelihood of finding another knot willing to accept them after they had been cast out of their present gang was not very great.

Moodily Ben said, “May’ap ’tis time we left St. Giles—oy’ve always fancied being a prigger of prancers, and you’re right ’andy with a pair of barking irons—wot say you to being a bloody ’ighwayman? Pip could ’ire on as an ostler at one of the inns and could tip us to the rich ’uns.”

Jacko shook his head slowly, but it was Pip who spoke up, saying sharply, “Listen to us! Mother hasn’t been dead six months and we’re already forgetting the things she taught us. If she could hear the way we’re speaking here tonight, she wouldn’t hesitate to box all our ears.”

Jacko and Ben both looked somewhat shamefaced, and without one hint of his former manner of speech, Jacko said in refined accents that would have done a young lordling proud, “Forgive me! It is just that it is very difficult to live the dual roles that Mother demanded of us. And with her gone ...” There was a painful silence before Jacko continued, “Without her here to remind us, it is sometimes easier merely to forget all the polite manners she insisted we learn.”

Moodily Ben added, “And what good does it do us? Will our fine manners and polite speech get us out of St. Giles? Will it increase our fortunes? Elevate our standing? Does our ability to read and write make life any easier for us? And because we know the proper way to eat and act, do you think it will impress our neighbors?” Ben gave a bitter laugh. “If they could hear us talking now, we would be met with suspicion and mistrust ... as well as derision for aping the manners of the gentry! Sometimes I wish Mother had forgotten her past and had let us grow up like anyone else in St. Giles!”

Jane Fowler had made no secret of the fact that she had been the illegitimate daughter of an amiable country squire and that she had been raised in the squire’s household. She had grown up with all the advantages of a comfortably situated and respectable family. How or why she ended up a whore in one of London’s most notorious districts was not a subject she ever discussed with her children. Jacko and Ben could vaguely remember a time when they had lived in a fine house with elegant furnishings and servants, but Pip’s earliest memories had been of the grubby little rooms where they now sat.

But despite their sordid circumstances, Jane never let her children forget her early background, insisting upon teaching them to read and write and to speak properly—something they only did in the privacy of their rooms. The rest of the time they adopted the speech and mannerisms of the inhabitants of St. Giles.

While agreeing that their fine manners and speech seemed to gain them little, Pip glanced at Jacko’s set features and Ben’s unhappy countenance, and said slowly, “It will do us little to complain about something we cannot change. Mother did teach us to be different, for whatever reasons, and now that she is no longer here to guide us, I think what we do with our future is up to us.”

“Oh, fine words!” Ben said with a sneer. “Our bloody future will be hanging from Tyburn!”

Privately Pip might agree with Ben’s assessment of their situation, and the Lord knew it was how many of their associates ended their lives, but unwilling to contemplate that particular fate, the youngest Fowler said in a rush, “What about leaving St. Giles?” Staring earnestly into Jacko’s face, Pip added, “You wanted a farm; what is to stop us from pursuing that plan? Instead of becoming housebreakers or highwaymen, why can’t we become farmers, as you originally wanted us to do?”

Jacko closed his eyes in pain and muttered wretchedly, “Because the dimber-damber won’t let me.”

An appalled silence met his words. “Won’t let you?” Pip repeated dumbly. “What do you mean?”

Rubbing his hand wearily over his face, Jacko replied dully, “I thought of us leaving a week after Mother ...” His throat closed up painfully, and while he struggled to regain his composure, Pip and Ben both felt the sting of tears at the corners of their eyes, Jane’s death still a distressful subject for her children. Bringing his emotions under control, Jacko finally said dispiritedly, “I hadn’t quite made up my mind how to accomplish our leaving here or where we would go when I accidentally k-k-killed that gentleman. The dimber-damber had been with me when it happened, and it was just luck that the watch didn’t nab him too; at least I think it was luck.... I had talked to him the previous day about us leaving the knot and St. Giles. I told him that we wanted to turn respectable.” Jacko swallowed painfully, not looking at either of the other two. “He laughed at me at first. Then when he saw that I was serious, he grew quite angry and swore that no one left his knot alive. Said we owed him our loyalty, that we owed him for seeing to it that Mother hadn’t had to be a whore up until the day she died, that we owed him for every piece of bread we ate and for the very roof over our heads. I thought that he was just raving and that once he considered it, he wouldn’t be so set against our leaving.”

Ben gave a bitter laugh. “Oh, did you? When we are his best thieves? When we three bring him more fancy trinkets than just about all the others of the knot combined? You didn’t think he might object? Even I know better than that! Jesus! You should never have told him what you had in mind! We should have just disappeared.”

Miserably Jacko agreed. “I know that now, but I didn’t then! He and Mother seemed to share a special relationship, and I guess that I thought he’d be glad to see her children well out of it. I was wrong.” His voice growing thick, Jacko continued, “I saw him a few days after the killing and he told me to put all thoughts of leaving St. Giles out of my mind, that if I tried to leave, he would inform the watch on me and lead them to me. He swore that if I defied him and tried to run, he’d find me, no matter where I went, and set the runners on me. I cannot disobey him or my life is forfeit!”

With fear and anger in their eyes, Pip and Ben stared at their oldest brother. Neither doubted the truth of his words, and neither doubted that if the dimber-damber had sworn to find Jacko, that he would. The dimber-damber had tentacles everywhere; there was not one corner of England that escaped his notice, and no matter where Jacko ran to, eventually the dimber-damber would have word of him and his fate would be sealed.

Giving his shoulders a shake, Ben said with forced cheer, “Well, then, I guess we shall become housebreakers, as he wants.”

“And bloody damn good ones!” Pip chimed in fiercely.

“Don’t be fools!” Jacko said sharply. “He may have me in his grasp, but there is no reason for both of you to sacrifice your lives for me. There is nothing to stop you escaping from this miserable existence.”

Pip and Ben exchanged glances, then almost in unison they turned to stare at their eldest brother, the stubborn expression on both young faces almost identical. Even before the words were spoken, Jacko knew what they would be. “We’re not leaving you!” Ben declared forthrightly. “Do you really think that Pip and me could ever find any peace or happiness knowing you were caught in the toils of the dimber-damber?”

Eyes bright with deep emotion, Pip said vehemently, “We’re all in this together and we won’t be separated! We’ll either flee this ugly hovel together or we’ll all dance at the end of a rope!”

Jacko laughed slightly, his set features relaxing. He was sincere in his offer and he would have done everything within his power to help the others escape, but he would not have been honest with himself if he denied the feeling of relief that swept through him at their words. Sitting up straighter in his chair, he sent the two people he loved most in the world a keen glance. “It is decided then? We will become housebreakers?”

Pip and Ben shrugged their shoulders. “We really don’t have any other choice, do we?” Ben said.

Flatly, Jacko agreed. “No. The dimber-damber has made sure of that!”

“How soon do you think that he intends for us to start our new endeavor?” Pip asked curiously.

“Within the week, I would suspect. There’s that sparring match tomorrow at Fives Court, and we’re to work the crowd.... I’ll probably see him that evening to turn over whatever trinkets we’ve managed to steal.”

Pip stretched and muttered, “I suppose once we get a bit of experience behind us, we’ll wonder why we ever had any reservations about becoming housebreakers.”

Ben gave the dark, curly head an affectionate caress. “Oh, aye, no doubt you are right. We’ve become so expert at picking pockets that there is no excitement left—that sparring match tomorrow will probably be rather boring to us, now that we’ve decided to turn our hands at a different type of crime.”

Knowing the daredevil streak in both of his younger siblings, Jacko frowned. “I wouldn’t get too cocky if I were you two—we’re very good at what we do, but there is also a possibility of a mistake.”

Pip hooted with laughter. “A mistake? Me, make a mistake? And at a sparring match, at that? You know I find them boring, so I’ll be much more inclined to concentrate on business—picking pockets for our dear, dear dimber-damber. The bloody bastard!”

In one of the grand homes that graced Hanover Square, two gentlemen were enjoying a glass of port, having just finished an excellent meal of spring veal and tender peas. They were sitting in an elegantly appointed room, straw-colored silk-hung walls contrasting nicely with the jewel tones of the ruby- and sapphire-hued Oriental rug that lay upon the floor. Tall, narrow windows that overlooked the square were draped in an exquisite ruby velvet, while overhead the many long tapers of a multifaceted crystal chandelier bathed the spacious room in golden light.

His long legs stretched out comfortably in front of him, Royce Manchester was sprawled in a high-backed chair near the flames that danced on the hearth of a marble-fronted fireplace. Despite the fact that it was early June, the day had been a chilly one, and Royce was glad of the warmth of the fire. Taking a sip of his port, he remarked, “I trust that the weather will be less inclement tomorrow, when we attend that damned sparring match you insisted I must see. Since neither of the pugilists are particularly noted for their skill, I suspect that we shall find it rather boring.”

Zachary Seymour, Royce’s young cousin, merely grinned, knowing full well that Royce never allowed himself to become bored. If the match proved to be as dull as Royce feared, Zachary was quite certain that his much-admired cousin would find a way to salvage the afternoon.

It would have been obvious to even the most casual observer that the two men were closely related, in spite of the differences in their ages and coloring. At thirty-three, Royce was at the peak of his physical prowess, his tall body lean and fit, with well-defined, powerful muscles, while Zachary, barely twenty years old, was still a stripling, his shoulders not quite as broad, his movements still sometimes revealing the gawky grace of youth. Zachary might not yet have achieved Royce’s powerful build, but he had already surpassed his cousin’s six-foot-three-inch height by half an inch—much to his delight and Royce’s feigned disgust.

But it wasn’t only their tall, broad-shouldered bodies that were similar; each possessed the same compelling topaz-colored eyes and arrogantly slashed black brows. And if Royce’s thick, tawny hair was in direct contrast to Zachary’s black locks, there were still obvious resemblances in their straight noses and strongly molded chins. In ten years time, except for his black hair, Zachary would look very much like his cousin.

His grin widening just a bit, Zachary murmured, “You’re probably right, but since we have nothing else planned, it won’t harm us to see how handy they are with their fives.” Sending Royce a sly look, he added innocently, “Of course, if the weather remains wet and cold, I could go by myself—I realize that as you grow older, you are more affected by the changes in temperature.”

At Royce’s startled look of outrage, Zachary burst out laughing, his dark young face alight with mirth at having slipped under his cousin’s guard. “Oh, Royce, if you could just see the expression on your face.”

“I’m pleased that my advancing years give you such delight. Considering that I am such a doddering old man, I am surprised that you consented to come to England with me!”

“Well, at your age, I couldn’t very well let you come alone, could I?”

Royce’s shout of laughter greeted Zachary’s words. “You ungrateful young devil! I should have left you in Louisiana with Dominic and your sister, Melissa! I may be on the brink of my grave when viewed from the eyes of an infant, but at least with me you are spared the billing and cooing of our newlyweds!”

“Infant?” Zachary replied, a little stung, then seeing the teasing glint in Royce’s eyes, he grinned a bit shamefacedly. But unwilling to retire from the field defeated, he narrowed his eyes and added dulcetly, “I suppose at your mature age, I do seem an infant.”

Royce was not to be drawn, however, and he merely grinned. “Sometimes, my dear cousin, you do indeed!”

Zachary pulled a face, but decided not to pursue this particular line of conversation further. While Royce was never cruel to those he had affection for, he could be quite blunt in his speech. Thinking over several escapades that he had partaken of in the past few weeks since their arrival in the middle of May in England, Zachary wisely changed the subject.

Getting up from his own chair by the fire, Zachary crossed the room to pour himself another glass of port from a crystal decanter. His glass refilled, he turned to his cousin. “Shall I pour you another while I am up?”

“Why not? The night is still young, and it will not shock the servants if their backwoods American employer has to be put to bed with his boots on!”

Despite his words, there was nothing “backwoods” about either Royce or Zachary; from the intricate folds of their starched white cravats to the mirror shine of their boots, both men were as elegantly attired as any aristocratic English gentleman. But Zachary was uneasily aware of a caustic note in Royce’s voice that should not have been there.

Returning to his seat by the fire after filling Royce’s glass, Zachary asked casually, “Have you seen Lord Devlin recently?”

Royce sent him a sardonic glance. “Now, I wonder why you asked that particular question.”

“Because the only time you get that particular note in your voice is when Lord Devlin has said or done something to annoy you.”

Royce started to deny it, but then thought better of it. “You’re perfectly correct. I was at White’s earlier today, and as I was on the point of leaving, Lord Devlin and a few of his cronies arrived. That damned fop wrinkled his haughty nose at me as if he smelled the barnyard and murmured just loud enough so that I could hear, ‘I say, it seems as if they let anyone join White’s these days.’ I’ll tell you, Zack, I was within ames-ace of calling him out then and there, but George Ponteby was with me and he made certain we left there damned fast.”

Zachary grinned at him. “Well, you shouldn’t be so surprised—it isn’t as if you’ve gone out of your way to overcome the Earl’s dislike of us these past few weeks.”

An expression of injured innocence on his handsome face, Royce asked ingenuously, “And what, I ask you, did I ever do to arouse his antipathy in the first place?”

Zachary settled back in his chair, plainly enjoying himself. “Well, in the first place, I don’t think that you did anything. Lord Stephen Devlin just doesn’t like Americans, especially ones with manners as good or better than his own, and—here’s the most telling point—ones who are nearly as wealthy as he is.”

“You see! His dislike is entirely irrational!” Royce averred piously, a wicked twinkle in the amber gold eyes at direct variance with his tone of voice.

“Not entirely irrational! The fact that you are an impeccably well-mannered, disgustingly wealthy American with many friends in the best social circles in England may have annoyed him at first, especially since, despite his own aristocratic birth and fortune, he is only tolerated by those same people. But I think that the cause of his real animosity toward you may have occurred during your last trip to England, don’t you?”

Royce innocently raised his eyebrows. “Why, whatever do you mean? Your new brother-in-law was with me during that trip to England four years ago, and I think if you will ask him, he will tell you that we both behaved with flawless decorum.”

Zachary nearly choked with laughter at Royce’s words. Dominic Slade had not discussed his previous trip to London with Zachary in any great detail, but from the few comments that Dominic had dropped, Zachary strongly suspected that there were several incidents that were considerably less than decorous! “Of course, you are right,” Zachary agreed. “His actions are utterly irrational.” Giving his cousin a mocking glance, he murmured, “After all, what did you ever do to him?”

Royce smiled seraphically, staring with great interest at the ruby liquor in his glass.

“I mean, why should the man be upset because four years ago you seduced away his mistress right from under his nose? At least, that’s what Dominic intimated one night to me. And of course, no one would be annoyed at losing to you, I believe it was, several thousand pounds playing piquet? That happened a scant week after our arrival here, if my memory serves me correctly. Nor would it bother any normal man, after boasting that they owned the finest pair of blooded horses in England, to be soundly bested by you in a race wagered on by half the ton, a race which, let me remind you, occurred just last Wednesday. No. No. You’ve done nothing to annoy the man at all.”

Looking inordinately pleased with himself, Royce said ruminatively, “Well, you know, I would never have singled him out like that if he hadn’t annoyed me so much by acting as if I were dirt under his feet, and if he hadn’t been so determined to prove that he was superior to a mere ‘colonial.’ Hell, we haven’t been an English colony for over forty years! And remember—I wasn’t the one who challenged him either to the horse race or that damned tedious game of piquet. He left me no choice each time but to accept the gauntlet he’d thrown down.”

“And four years ago, when you stole his mistress?” Zachary inquired with a grin. “Did he challenge you about her, too?”

“Well, no,” Royce admitted readily. “But I ask you, could I leave a high-flyer like the lovely Miranda in the care of a skin-fisted old rake like Devlin?”

“Since I have never met the lovely Miranda, I can’t answer your question,” Zachary replied lightly. “But I think you will agree that the Earl of St. Audries does have some foundation for his aversion to your company.”

Royce’s handsome mouth twisted ruefully. “You know it’s the damnedest thing, Zack! I usually don’t go out of my way to make enemies, but there is something about Devlin that sets my teeth on edge—and unfortunately, it appears that I have the same effect upon him!”

“Perhaps it’s just that the Devlins don’t like Americans,” Zachary said gloomily, thinking of his own clashes with Julian Devlin, the Earl’s heir and only child.

“Could be,” Royce agreed quietly. “But in your case and Julian’s, I think your disagreements have come about because you both are too much alike!”

“Alike?” Zachary growled with displeasure. “We are nothing alike! How can you possibly compare me with that vain, arrogant puppy?”

Royce smiled at Zachary’s words. “Puppy” could very well apply to both Julian Devlin and Zachary Seymour, and while Royce was certain that neither young man was as vain as the other claimed, they were both occasionally arrogant. Despite the animosity between himself and the Earl, Royce actually liked young Devlin, or at least he had seen nothing these past weeks to make him change his initial favorable impression of the young man.

Giving Zachary a lazy smile, Royce said lightly, “Despite your protests, I’ll wager that you and young Devlin will be close cronies once you both realize how much you have in common.”

At Zachary’s outraged expression, Royce laughed, and rising lithely to his feet, he murmured, “I’ll leave you to mull that over while I go in search of far more amiable company—prettier, too!”

A knowing look crossed Zachary’s face. “The fair Della?”

“Naturally!”

Driving his pair of high-stepping horses through the London traffic toward the comfortable little house that he had procured for his new mistress, Della Camden, Royce decided that this trip to London was really an excellent experience for his young cousin. Except for a few race meets in Virginia, Zachary hadn’t been more than ten miles away from Willowglen, the plantation near Baton Rouge in Louisiana where he and his sister, Melissa, had been born. It was past time that Zachary gained a little “town bronze,” and London was certainly the place for that!

Royce smiled to himself, thinking of the changes that had occurred in Zachary’s life these past months since Dominic Slade had married Melissa. Upon Melissa’s marriage to Dominic, who was one of Royce’s closest friends, Zachary and Melissa had come into the fortune that had been placed in trust for them by their grandfather. Now, instead of a dilapidated house and overgrown acres, Zachary was the proud possessor of a completely refurbished home, and his lands were thriving under the expert guidance of a competent overseer; for the first time in his life, Zachary had leisure time and a sizable fortune resting comfortably in the bank!

Royce almost envied Zachary the early hardships he had endured. Being the oldest child of doting, indulgent, and extremely wealthy parents, Royce had never wanted for anything in his life. When he had reached his majority and might have been expected to strike out on his own, he had been saved, or perhaps cursed, by the providential death of his paternal grandmother, who had left him the bulk of her substantial estate. Yet despite all the good fortune that fate had so generously bestowed upon him, Royce remained curiously indifferent to the fact that he had been blessed with not only a tall, powerful body, handsome face, and an easy charm, but also with wealth and position.

Since he was generally an even-tempered man, some people made the mistake of dismissing him as an indolent dilettante, overlooking the keen intelligence that was constantly at work behind deceptively sleepy tiger eyes. For all his amiability, Royce Manchester could be a dangerous enemy, and if Lord Devlin was not careful, he would discover that not only did Royce possess tiger eyes, but also the tiger’s lethal bite... .

Narrowly avoiding the overloaded farm cart that suddenly lumbered in his path, Royce smothered a curse, wishing he had recalled the crowded London streets before he had suggested this trip to Zachary.

Once word of the Treaty of Ghent, which had ended the War of 1812, had reached Louisiana in the early days of 1815, Royce, bored and restless for a change of scenery, had immediately written to George Ponteby, his third cousin on his father’s side, in London. He told him that he would