The Lodestone Read online

  “You can see it is adequately furnished,” Cleome said over her shoulder as she held the lamp higher.

  “We need not make an inventory,” Drake answered. “I merely wished to spare your grandfather the company of a sympathetic female. It would be an abomination to a man with his pride to be fawned over at the moment. He is quite overcome.”

  “Your charity exceeds my understanding, Mr. Stoneham,” she rejoined sadly. Here in the same kitchen where, moments before, she had laughed with another young person for the first time she could remember—perhaps the first time in her life—she felt an indescribable fear. Granda had lost everything. What on earth were they to do?

  “Has your grandfather other business interests, or relatives to turn to in such a time as this?” Drake asked.

  “Not to my knowledge,” Cleome replied.

  “Then he is a fool, and deserves no sympathy. I would never have thrown away the only method I possessed to earn a living for my family. You may not believe it, mademoiselle, but I gave him every opportunity to quit the game with honor.”

  “Did you?” The truth of his words stung her, for she knew no one had forced her grandfather to play. There was nothing he loved more than a rousing game of cards; he would even put aside Jacqueline’s attentions in favor of chance. Still, she felt called upon to defend him. She turned to face the stranger, unaware that her features were even lovelier in the flickering lamplight. “My grandfather has always provided adequately for me,” she said. “I’m sure he held something back.” She didn’t believe her words any more than Drake Stoneham did.

  He looked at her a moment, then pointed to a spot behind her and asked, “Where does that stairway go?”

  “There are two stairways,” she replied, turning to lead him forward. “This one, near the reception area, makes rooms to let easily accessible to travelers. The other leads to our family quarters on the second floor, and to the servants’ rooms on the third.”

  “Show me.”

  “Of course. The innkeeper’s rooms could be converted should you not require them for your own family.”

  “I do not intend to live here all year round. And I have no family, to speak of.”

  As she led him past the sitting room, she noticed that someone—probably her grandfather—had cleared the table. The ashes from the pipes in which the gentlemen had earlier indulged had been carefully swept into the fireplace, which was now cold; and the lamp had been extinguished.

  “It seems my grandfather has retired,” she told Drake with quiet dignity. “Since you are so very solicitous of his feelings, I’ll not be able to show you his bedroom until morning. However, you’re welcome to see the study.”

  **

  The study was the smallest room in the inn, and Drake had no way of knowing it was the one Cleome loved best. It was furnished with a veneered rosewood table, an imposing secretary of polished oak, and an old spoon-back chair.

  “Who studies here?” he inquired, looking at her from beneath arched eyebrows, his head tilted to one side as he tried to see her face, which she kept in the shadows.

  “I used to take my lessons here,” she replied. “Now I come to rest and read. I enjoy a good book in the evening when my work is done.”

  “This is where you got off to, when we chased you from the sitting room? Here, entertaining yourself with some Byronic rubbish?”

  “While I am rather fond of Shakespeare, I do not generally enjoy poetry. Too much human suffering, I believe, is disguised with pompous words.” Her voice had taken on a dull monotone, not at all like the lyrical sounds she had produced when rescuing her mare, or when greeting him at the registry desk.

  “And what of human suffering can one of your tender years have seen?”

  “My mother is very frail. That’s where I was all evening, sir, sitting with her until she fell asleep.” She looked up at him at last. “She has not been well for many years and rainstorms frighten her. Shall I light you back to your own room now, Mr. Stoneham?”

  “You have not shown me your room,” was his soft response.

  “You wish to see my room?”

  “It is now my property, is it not?” he asked, and cursed himself for torturing her just so he could spend more time with her. She was a simple country maid, and she had given him no cause to believe that in the privacy of her bedroom she would employ feminine wiles—if indeed, she had them—to keep a roof above her head. But the site of her made him hungry for something he couldn’t name, something that not even a woman like Elizabeth Easton could satisfy.

  She sighed, and he could tell she was barely holding her emotions in check. “Very well,” she agreed.

  With one deft movement, she opened the door at the side of the study; and taking up the lamp again, she stepped into her own room. Drake followed closely behind her, inhaling the delicate, naturally sweet smell of her.

  It was a nice room, but not what he’d expected. There were no silken coverlets, no nosegays from a recent ball hanging from her bedpost, no dainty little dressing table full of powders and perfumes. Instead, there was a plain mahogany bed covered with a patchwork quilt; an unadorned mahogany chiffonier; a rough-hewn oak dresser that held a comb and brush; and a worn, braided rug on the floor beside the bed. A washbowl and a water jug of brownish-green bottle glass stood ready on a small oak table near the bed. A writing table beside a sturdy bookcase filled with books held a modest supply of letter paper, an inkstand and a quill pen. Drake quickly scanned the books, which included several volumes of Shakespeare, Sir Walter Scott’s Waverly and The Lady of the Lake; Mary Shelley’s Frankenstein; and Pride and Prejudice by the inimitable Miss Austen. Lightly, he traced his hands over their spines and looked at Cleome. She had entered the room ahead of him, to light his way; but she kept her place near the door, as if prepared to take flight in any unforeseen event.

  “You are much too serious for one so young,” he said at last. He sat down on her bed and considered her impassive features, which were, he was sure, masking her fear and worry. “I’m enchanted to see the place where a virtuous maiden dreams of the knight in shining armor who will come riding into the yard, in answer to the yearnings of her heart.”

  “You’re making fun of me. Is that right part of your wager?”

  “No.” He rose and went to stand near her. “Actually, I envy your innocence.” He pointed to the door on the opposite wall. “What is through there?”

  Cleome turned and followed his gaze. “A small dressing room.”

  “And next to that?”

  “My mother’s room. I trust you’ll not disturb her at this hour. Strangers upset her, and if we were to awaken her in the middle of the night—”

  “What think you?” he interrupted, striding away from her, agitated. “That I am some kind of cruel monster? There’s no need to disturb your mother.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “You’re welcome. Now, please tell me there’s an easier way to get to my room than going down the stairs on this side and up again on the other.”

  “As a matter of fact, yes. There’s a door at the end of this landing. It opens onto the other side. We keep it locked but I have the key.”

  In order to get the key from the drawer where it was kept, Cleome had to cross to where Drake was now standing. He knew she was afraid of him and he wanted to put her at ease.

  “Then, please,” he spoke more gently. “Allow me to hold the lamp for you while you fetch the key.”

  **

  Cleome had no choice but to follow his bidding, if she was to get him out of her room and into his own. Warily, she walked to where he stood leaning against her dressing table and allowed him to take the heavy lamp. She opened the drawer and felt inside and as her hand closed around the large key, Drake leaned closer to her.

  “I wish there were some way for me to convey my regret over this night’s events.” He whispered the words against her cheek, his voice like a sweet caress. It sent a shiver racing through her like a prayer o
f promise.

  Suddenly, she felt dizzy and she had to grasp the edge of the dressing table for support. She sensed he implied something other than apology, but instead of prompting anger, it aroused within her a peculiar feeling that was not at all disagreeable. She couldn’t think of anything to say. Her knees buckled and as threatening tides of blackness encroached, she sat down on the edge of the bed.

  “I beg your pardon,” she managed at last, afraid he would interpret her action as an invitation. “This has been a great shock to me after all.” To her relief, he made no attempt to join her on the bed. Instead, he stood beside her, a look of concern on his handsome face.

  “Are you all right now?” he inquired gently.

  “Yes. I believe . . . I am fully recovered. It has been a long and terrible day.”

  Slowly she rose, and placing the key in her apron pocket, she attempted to take the lamp from him once more. He held it firmly, however, and led her out onto the landing. She did feel better; indeed, his solicitude indicated that perhaps the situation was not entirely hopeless. When she reached the door at the end of the long hallway, she inserted the key into the fixture and tried to turn it. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had used the door, and the lock stubbornly resisted. Finally, Drake gave the lamp to her and moved her aside.

  “If you will allow me, mademoiselle,” he said. He turned the key and the lock gave under his strength.

  She led him to his room, opened the door and stood aside so that he could enter. The strong scent of pine soap assailed her nostrils and although every trace of his bath had long since been removed, the heady aroma of soap combined with the sweet smell of the pipe he had smoked earlier made Cleome feel as if she were entering a place of mysterious, forbidden delights.

  “Good night, Mr. Stoneham,” she said quickly and fled back to the safety of her own room.

  **

  When Cleome had gone, Drake stared at the closed door for a moment; then he pulled the armchair close to the window and sat down wearily, looking out at the cloud-filled sky. Morning would be breaking soon and he would have much business to attend. He needed sleep but felt more inclined to review the situation in which he now found himself. Winning the Eagle’s Head Inn had solved one of his problems. He need search no further for a house in which to spend the next few months, but he distinctly did not feel good about it. He poured another glass of brandy, remembering with brief contempt the forward serving maid—Fanny her name was—who had brought it up before dinner.

  It was not his habit to take away a man’s livelihood. It was one thing to take money from the rich and idle, but quite another to ruin a working man. Drake hadn’t wanted the innkeeper to join the game; it made him uncomfortable to wager with the class from which he himself had sprung. When Desmond sat down with them, all Drake wanted was the amazing colt, Epitome—nothing more. Wealth he could gain in plenty from Lord Easton and his grand friends. He had neither needed nor desired Desmond’s money or little square of land.

  The man was a fool—worse than a fool, Drake thought. But then, that was what gambling did to some otherwise worthy men. Lured not by the promise of wealth, but seduced instead by chance, and the belief that gambling would somehow prove their manhood, they fell into impossible debt. William Desmond was a fool to risk his ability to support his family. Not only did he have an invalid daughter or daughter-in-law, he had a treasure in Cleome.

  Drake pulled the bell cord, not knowing if there would be a servant still awake to hear it; but he wanted another bottle of brandy. He was still thinking of Cleome’s small waist and blue eyes when Fanny, clad only in her night rail, tapped on his door and opened it, without being bidden, to step inside.

  She curtsied and with a smile she intended to be seductive, she asked, “Somethin’ I can do for ‘e, sir?”

  “Bring me another bottle,” he said gruffly, and she scurried away. He emptied the last of the brandy into his glass, wondering how best to manage the situation with Cleome. He wanted her; he burned for her, and he’d never known a feeling like it.

  There was substance to her. She was nothing like the women he had known in France or Italy, nor any of the ridiculous society women he’d met since coming back to England, including Lady Easton. Cleome was innocent, he was sure of that; but she had spirit, and she had courage. She reminded him of someone, some ghost from his past, but he couldn’t place who it was.

  Earlier, when she’d sunk weakly to the edge of her little bed, he’d wanted to put his arms around her and cover her lovely mouth with kisses; and he knew then that he had no intention of turning her out of her home. He wanted her here, where he could see her often, where he would have the opportunity to win her forgiveness, and her favors, before she gave herself to some young idiot like Garnett Easton.

  So she would stay. And if William Desmond was part of the bargain, so be it. Drake was beginning to see winning the Eagle’s Head as most providential for Cleome as well as for himself. If her grandfather had so little respect for his property and so little affection for his family that he would risk everything in a game of chance, then Cleome and her mother needed someone to protect them. He would let the old man sweat it out through the night—what was left of it—in order to teach him a lesson. In the morning, Drake would ask him to stay on for board and wages and continue to run the inn. Everything could remain as it was and perhaps in time, he would even allow Desmond to win back part of his estate. With Drake’s aptitude as a dealer, that could be arranged.

  He emptied his pipe on the grate of the cold fireplace and cursed his unnatural ability that others called luck. It was not luck. It was some freak of nature that had made him come to certain realizations when scarcely more than a child. In the infamous Temple Bar section of London, watching rooks and whores cheat the bored gentlemen from the fashionable West End, he’d learned to compute the odds in various games of chance that required a quick mind to work out the math. Rich gentlemen were easy prey for it wasn’t an exercise of the brain they were after, but the thrill of uncertainty. Understanding odds was simply beyond their grasp.

  As a child, Drake had watched the games on his way to the docks every morning to bumaree fish, and on his way home from school as well—until the shrew who’d been married to his father decided school was a waste of time for a fishmonger’s bastard. He could read and he could do his sums. And that, she proclaimed, was all the education he needed. That had been the straw that had broken a back already scarred from her beatings. He had run away when but a lad of fourteen, scarcely a month after his father died. Drake was a big youth, and no one questioned his age when he’d signed on with the army.

  His soldier’s pay wasn’t much, but he was able to establish a small bank for himself; and he discovered early that he had the proper temperament to make a professional gambler. Accessing the skill of his opponents was easy, and he had infinite patience and the common sense never to bet on anything if the odds were against him. This ability, called luck, had enabled him to amass a considerable purse; and when the war was over, he had plunged into the reckless, sensual salons of Paris. By then, he was a man; and in France, he had further improved his skills in many delightful areas.

  Owning what was to be the largest, most opulent gaming house in London had opened a doorway into society for him even if his pedigree did not. Entry into that exclusive circle was crucial, for it guaranteed him more profit for his club and more contacts for his shipping business. It would be considerably nicer conquering that decadent world with the beautiful Cleome at his side.

  He drained his glass and wondered what was keeping the confounded maid. Suddenly he was overcome with exhaustion. He’d hardly slept since he’d left his flat in Monte Carlo, and the insatiable Lady Easton had kept him awake most of the night before. Any refreshment gleaned from the brief afternoon nap had been cancelled out by the accursed cribbage game, and he couldn’t keep his eyes open. Without bothering to undress, he stumbled to his bed and collapsed.

  **


  He didn’t hear the door open, nor did he stir when Fanny slipped inside and silently placed the bottle of brandy on the table.

  “’Ere now, sir,” she scolded softly as she approached the bed. “Ye cannot get a decent night’s rest with yer boots on.”

  She was not particularly gentle when she pulled his boots off; and when he made no protest, she was encouraged to continue. Getting his breeches off was impossible, for he was such a big man; so she had to content herself with merely undoing his lacings. She was gratified to see that he was big indeed—everywhere. She wrapped her long, thin fingers around his manhood and was delighted to see it triple in size and go rigid in her hand. Ah, she breathed. He was magnificent. She shivered with anticipation and her mouth actually watered. And not just for this unexpected treat—but for all the bounty that would be hers when she was his favorite. From the moment she’d heard about the cribbage game—and Young Sam had wasted no time telling the other servants what Lord Easton and his friends were talking about as they departed—Fanny meant to establish herself in the new master’s affections, as Jacqueline had done with the old.

  Nor was it a duty Fanny would mind in the least, for not only would she pleasure him. From the looks of him, she’d get her pleasure, too. And besides, it was her turn to lie in a featherbed of ease.

  **

  Drake had never seen anything so beautiful. Cleome was riding Epitome across the landscape in the distance, with the sun behind her. As he stood in a field of flowers, watching her, she turned her horse and rode directly towards him. He could feel himself go hard as he waited for her, and when she slid gracefully from the horse’s back and walked to him, he realized that she was naked. Her long auburn hair glinted in the sunlight and bounced against her smooth, white shoulders and then snaked downward to caress the creamy mounds of her breasts. The shield of her sex was the same glorious auburn color as the hair on her head, and she was holding her arms out to him, beckoning.