A Kiss in the Dark Read online

  A Kiss in the Dark

  "It appears that I owe you an apology," Tristan murmured, his breath wafting against Deirdre's cheek in a gentle caress.

  "That is quite alright, my lord. But it's not as if I've never been kissed before."

  "You misunderstand, Deirdre." The sound of her name on his lips was a smooth purr, and one corner of his mouth curved upward in a devilish grin. "I was apologizing for my crude comments regarding your late hus­band. I had no right to criticize the man when I didn't even know him."

  He leaned toward her until only a breath of space existed between them, and he contin­ued in a conspiratorial manner. "Why would I apologize for a kiss I enjoyed so very much?"

  For a long moment, Deirdre stood frozen, trapped by the passion she could see in his eyes. Then with a low sound of distress, she broke free and hurried into the night.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  AVON BOOKS

  An Imprint o/Harper Collins Publishers

  10 East 53rd Street

  New York, New York 10022-5299

  Copyright © 2005 by Kimberly Snoke

  ISBN: 0-06-075187-8 www.avonromance.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For infor­mation address Avon Books, an Imprint of HarperCollins Publishers.

  First Avon Books paperback printing: March 2005

  Avon Trademark Reg. U.S. Pat. Off. and in Other Countries, Marca Registrada, Hecho en U.S.A.

  HarperCollins® is a registered trademark of HarperCollins Publishers Inc.

  Printed in the U.S.A.

  CLS 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  To the wacky but much-loved members of my family, who always know how to make me laugh, even when I want to cry. I love you all more than you'll ever know.

  And to the kind and gracious ladies of Kentucky Romance Writers. God may have given me the talent, but you taught me what I needed to know to use it successfully. Thank you for your encouragement and support. I wouldn't be where I am now without you.

  Prologue

  London, 1819

  "Blast the girl!"

  Tristan Knight, the fifth Earl of Ellington, raked his fingers back through his hair and began to pace the area in front of the fireplace, his movements agitated. "I tell you, Archer, if I cannot rein in Emily's antics, and soon, I shall be a suitable candidate for Bedlam!"

  Standing just outside the circle of firelight, the elder­ly butler shook his head, his rheumy blue eyes full of concern. "She is young yet, my lord, and she has had little guidance in the past several years. I'm afraid your father allowed her to run a bit wild."

  "I am well aware of what my father allowed." Tristan came to an abrupt halt, his hands going to his hips as he pivoted to face his servant. "The man wrought a bloody mess with his ambivalence and neglect and has left it to me to untangle."

  As though realizing there wasn't much he could say in reply, Archer remained silent.

  Tristan's brow lowered as his gaze traveled about the study, taking in its masculine decor. On the surface, nothing much seemed to have changed in the eight years he'd been gone. The massive mahogany furniture was as grand and imposing as ever, the vast collection of books lining the shelves as awe-inspiring. Only an extremely discerning eye would have noticed the fray­ing edges of the Axminster carpet or the faded hue of the heavy brocade draperies hanging at the windows.

  "His lordship was never the same after your mother's death," Archer finally spoke again, shifting the weight of his spare frame from one foot to the other. "I'm afraid he spent most of his evenings at his club and in the gambling halls, and when he did come home, he was usually a trifle too . . . inebriated to at­tend to any of the household affairs."

  The mention of the late countess made Tristan's heart squeeze painfully in his chest. Letting out a soft exhalation of air, he sank into an armchair close to the hearth, reaching up to rub wearily at his temples. "I know. And I apologize for snapping at you, Archer. None of this is your fault. I'm afraid I let my temper get the better of me. Again."

  "I understand, my lord. The Lady Emily can be a bit trying at times."

  That was putting it mildly. "How many governesses is it now? Three? Four?"

  "Five at last count, I believe."

  Five in less than four months! Bloody hell, was his sister intent on going through every available gov­erness in London?

  "To be fair," Archer ventured, "the Mrs. Eversley in­cident wasn't entirely Lady Emily's fault. That cruet of vinegar did look rather amazingly like the woman's flask of nightly restorative in the right light."

  "I doubt Mrs. Eversley would agree with that as­sessment, especially after swallowing a mouthful of vinegar. And there is absolutely no excuse for the honey in Miss Dalrymple's shoes or the garter snake in Mrs. Petersham's bedclothes. Why, if Mrs. Peter­sham had been a few years older, the poor woman might have had a fit of apoplexy. As it was, she was hysterical."

  The butler's lined face flushed a dull red. "Lady Emily is rather high-spirited, my lord, but as I'm sure you can appreciate, the last few months have been quite an adjustment for her. What with his lordship's death and then your arrival. . . well, I'm certain all she needs is some time to accept the changes in her life."

  "I have given her time. I've given her four months, but the situation seems to be getting worse instead of better, and I am fast running out of options, not to mention suitable governesses. Mrs. Petersham came very highly recommended, and this latest debacle of Emily's has sent her packing in less than a week."

  "Why, my lord, I do believe you managed to accom­plish the same feat with your last tutor in less than twenty-four hours."

  Tristan couldn't restrain the slight smile that curled the corners of his mouth at Archer's words. It was true. He had been far from the model son and heir. In fact, after years of trying to please a father who couldn't be pleased, he'd rebelled rather shamefully.

  Tristan's stare went to the large writing desk in the far corner of the room, and in his mind's eye he could envision Sinclair Knight seated behind it, his expres­sion stern as he once again lectured Tristan on the er­ror of his rakehell ways. He and his father had never seen eye to eye on anything, and on many occasions it had only been the calming presence of Lady Ellington that had kept them from each other's throats.

  As always, thoughts of his gentle mother sent a shaft of anguish piercing deep within him, and his smile in­stantly vanished. Images flashed across his vision. A man's scarred face. The flash of a knife. The flow of blood as it stained the cold stones of a dark alleyway.

  Unable to face the tormenting memories, Tristan forcefully pushed them away and glanced up at Archer. "Emily hates me," he murmured aloud, "and I can't say that I blame her. I abandoned her, left her alone with a man who was so caught up in his own pain he couldn't even take care of himself, much less a daughter."

  The butler shuffled forward to lay a gnarled hand on his arm. "She doesn't hate you, my lord. She simply isn't used to having someone in her life who cares what she does."

  Pushing himself to his feet, Tristan strode over to the windows and pulled aside the curtain to look down on the street below. Dusk was just starting to fall over the stately town houses on Berkeley Square, and except for a lone lamplighter making his solitary rounds, all was peaceful and still.

  "I do care, Archer, although I doubt Emily would believe that right now," he said
without turning around. "I only want the best for her, but I haven't the slightest idea of how to go about raising a fourteen-year-old girl." He bowed his head. "I shouldn't have stayed away so long."

  One hand clenched into a fist on the window ledge. He couldn't deny the truth of his own words. He should have come home sooner, but the mere thought had been too painful. And never in his wildest dreams could he have imagined that Lord Ellington would be­come so caught up in his dissolute lifestyle that he would let not only the responsibilities of his title fall by the wayside, but his duties as a parent as well.

  "You must be patient, my lord," Archer was saying as he joined Tristan at the window. "You cannot repair eight years' worth of damage in just four months' time. Sooner or later Lady Emily will realize you are only trying to do what's right for her."

  Tristan reached up to tug at his cravat, loosening the knot before he whirled and began to pace again. "If it were only my impatience we were dealing with, it would be a quite different story. But there is more to worry about than that. You and I both know what the Dragon Lady will say when she finds out about this latest fiasco."

  The "Dragon Lady" was their father's sister, Ruella Palmer, Marchioness of Overton. As harsh and forbid­ding as her brother, she'd been a constant source of an­noyance from the moment Tristan had returned, making no secret of the fact that she disapproved of the choice of guardian for her niece.

  "She has enough power and influence that she could make things extremely difficult if she and her husband decided to try and wrest custody of Emily from me. She has threatened to do so often enough." He turned back to the butler. "I can't lose her, Archer. I can't."

  The very idea struck Tristan to the depths of his soul, and his gaze went to the portrait of Victoria Knight hanging over the mantel. Dainty and golden, with a heart-shaped face and a serene countenance, his mother had possessed unusual violet eyes that had been an exact replica of his own—and Emily's. In fact, his sister resembled her so much that it sometimes took Tristan's breath away.

  I'm so sorry, Mother. I failed you. But I will not fail Emily. I swear to you, I will not!

  He took a shaky breath and returned his attention to Archer. "I suppose I could pack her off to Knighthaven. The Season will be winding down soon, and perhaps some time away from London would be good for her."

  "Or perhaps she would only find a whole different set of troubles to get into."

  "Well, I must do something, and quickly, before Aunt Rue returns from the country and shows up here demanding to know how I'm going to remedy the sit­uation." Tristan shrugged. "I suppose I should talk to Emily. Where is she?"

  "Still sulking in her bedchamber, I believe, my lord. But before you go, if you would take a bit of advice? While you are speaking to her, I would try not to look quite so . . . imposing."

  That was easier said than done. If Tristan had inher­ited his mother's violet eyes, he had gotten his dark, brooding looks, soaring height, and muscular build from his father. It was practically impossible to avoid being imposing.

  He started across the room, but before he could even reach the door, a sudden loud knocking shattered the stillness.

  Raising an eyebrow, Tristan reached out and opened the portal. On the other side stood an anxious-looking maid.

  "Yes? What is it, Mary?"

  "It's Lady Emily, my lord! She's—she's gone!"

  Tristan froze. "Gone? What do you mean, gone?"

  "I went up to check on 'er and 'er room was empty. I found this on 'er pillow." The girl held out a folded piece of paper with a shaking hand.

  Tristan took it, hastily reading the feminine scrawl. Terror started his heart pumping like a bellows, and he felt the blood pounding in his ears as he spun to face the butler. "Dear God, Archer, Emily's run away!"

  Chapter 1

  "So angel tucked the children into their beds with a gentle good night kiss and a promise that she would always be there to watch over and pro­tect them. And before she left, she bade the stars shine brightly through their bedroom window in order to guide them into the sweetest of dreams. . . ."

  Deirdre Wilks, Viscountess Rotherby, closed the book she'd been reading and looked down at the group of boys gathered at her feet, a slight smile curv­ing her lips as she noted their awestruck expressions. It always gave her a feeling of personal accomplishment to be able to put that look on their faces, to make them forget—even for just a little while—the desperation of their circumstances.

  "Cor, m'lady," one of them piped up, propping his pointed chin on a grimy hand. "I 'spect those children must 'ave been extra good to 'ave an angel tuck 'em in."

  Deirdre laughed. "I expect so, Miles."

  A slight tug at her sleeve brought her attention to the little boy sitting on her lap. The youngest of the group, six-year-old Benji stared up at her with brown eyes so solemn they made her heart catch.

  "Was the angel really always wiv 'em, m'lady?" he whispered. "Even when they couldn't see 'er?"

  "Of course, Benji. She was their guardian angel."

  "Do I 'ave a guardian angel?"

  "Yes, darling. All little children do."

  There was a contemptuous snort, and a dark-haired young man stepped into the pool of light cast by the room's lone candle, one corner of his mouth curled downward in a brooding scowl. "Don't listen to 'er. There ain't no such thing as angels, and if you think there is, you're out of your bleeding 'eads!"

  Benji's lower lip trembled dangerously, and Deirdre closed her arms around him in a comforting hug as she sent a glare in Jack Barlow's direction. One of the el­dest of the gang known as the "Rag-Tag Bunch," Jack was a sullen loner who seemed to thrive on lowering the spirits of the other boys. In the year since she'd set out on her self-imposed mission to aid the children of the London streets, Deirdre had tried to reach out to him several times, but so far her every attempt had been met with nothing but scorn.

  Putting on her sternest frown, she was just getting ready to deliver a rather firm set-down when another voice interrupted her, cutting through the gloom with the sharpness of a knife. "Put a cork in it, Jack."

  Jack's face reddened and his brow lowered in a glower. "You ain't me boss and I can say what I like! You—"

  "I said put a cork in it and I meant it."

  A figure materialized from out of the shadows.

  The unofficial leader of the gang, Peter Quick was a year younger than the sixteen-year-old Jack, but his lean frame was already several inches taller and his eyes held a wisdom and knowledge far beyond his age. He carried himself with a quiet authority the older boy would never possess, and his confident assurance and calm strength had sustained the group through hard times, earning Peter their trust and utter loyalty—a fact that Jack visibly resented.

  Deirdre watched as Peter cocked an eyebrow in an almost arrogant fashion and took a step closer to the bristling young man, as if daring him to object. "Do you 'ave a problem wiv that?"

  For just a moment, Jack stood poised, as if debating his chances in a toe-to-toe match with the bigger Peter. Then, muttering under his breath, he turned and stormed across the room, flinging himself onto a bench next to the cold and crumbling fireplace.

  "Are there really angels, Peter?" Benji asked, his question timid.

  Peter's face softened, and he reached out to ruffle the little boy's curls. "If Lady R says so, there must be. She wouldn't lie to us, would she?"

  Benji shook his head, then glanced up at Deirdre. "Are you an angel, m'lady?"

  She smiled tenderly. "No, darling. But I thank you for the compliment."

  "Could you read the story again?" he begged.

  Before Deirdre could answer, Peter spoke up in a no-nonsense tone. "That's enough for tonight, boyo. It's off to bed wiv you all."

  There was a collective grumble from the lads seated on the floor. It was mostly good-natured, however, and after a minute or two they got to their feet and bid Deirdre good night before heading for their makeshift pallets.

 
; Benji paused for a moment, staring up at Deirdre with an uncertain gaze before leaning forward to speak softly in her ear. "May I keep the book, m'lady?"

  "Of course. That's why I brought it. But you must promise to be a good boy and share it with the others."

  Instead of answering, the child flung his arms around her neck, planting a moist kiss on her cheek be­fore clambering from her lap and taking the storybook with him.

  Tears blurred Deirdre's vision as she watched him run to join the others. He was such a darling little boy, and he deserved so much more than the life he was liv­ing. They all did.

  Her gaze moved about the room, taking in her sur­roundings with an inward shudder. The Rag-Tag Bunch had adopted one of the many abandoned back alley tenements as their hideout, and while someone had made an effort to keep the interior as neat and tidy as possible, there was no disguising the cracked and peeling walls or the ramshackle condition of the furni­ture. From the street outside the boarded-up windows came the shouts of the costermongers and the drunken revelry of the patrons who frequented the nearby gin shops and flash houses.

  No child should have to grow up amid such poverty and hardship, she thought despairingly. But since when had life ever turned out the way it should? "Are you all right, m'lady?"

  Peter's query jolted Deirdre out of her dispirited musings and she turned to face him, forcing a smile to her lips. "I'm fine. I was just wishing there was some­thing more I could do."

  "You've already done more than anyone else ever 'as." He jerked a thumb at the sacks of food and sup­plies spread out on the plank table. "Thanks to you, we'll 'ave food in our bellies for the next week and warm blankets at night."

  "So, the boys shouldn't have to go on the job for a while then?"

  Peter chuckled at her hopeful look. "We're set right and tight, so the pockets of London should be safe from us for a few days. 'Course, I can't say the same for Barnaby Flynt's boys."