Don't Bargain with the Devil Page 2

  She had to be dreaming. No man hereabouts would leave his house in shirtsleeves. Or leave his shirt open at the throat to reveal a smattering of chest hair. Or wear pantaloons so tight they showed every well-defined muscle in his thighs. He was such a delicious specimen of manliness that he fairly took her breath away.

  Meanwhile, his gaze slid down her body in an intimate and decidedly wicked perusal. It paused at her breasts before moving to where her gown dipped between her parted legs. After casting her stocking feet a pointed look, he smiled, his thin black mustache quirking up.

  “A goddess, most assuredly,” he said in faintly accented English. “No local señorita would walk about without her shoes.”

  Señorita? Oh, no. He wasn’t her dream sultan. He was very real. And foreign. And a complete stranger.

  Belatedly, she scrambled to a sitting position. Lord, what must he think of her? Before she could struggle to stand, he held out his hand. She hesitated half a second before taking it, although the moment she was on her feet, she snatched her hand free.

  A chuckle escaped him. “I should beg your pardon for disturbing your siesta, but I do not regret it. You make an enchanting picture lying in the cherry blossoms.”

  His amusement sparked her temper. “Who are you, sir, and why are you on private property?”

  He arched one finely groomed black brow. “I could ask the same of you.”

  “I’m a teacher at the school that adjoins this orchard.” She smoothed her skirt, trying to make herself look more teacherly. It was woefully hard to do with her hair tumbled down about her waist.

  “Ah, yes, the girls’ academy.” He cast her a speculative glance. “But that is what you are, not who. What is your name?”

  Oh, dear, she wasn’t supposed to be here, and if he were to mention it to Mrs. Harris . . . “I shan’t give my name to a stranger. Especially when you haven’t given me yours. You are the intruder here.”

  “Intruder! What a suspicious little thing you are,” he said without rancor. “As it happens, you already know my name. It’s on my calling card.”

  The comment threw her into confusion. “I-I . . . haven’t seen your calling card. If you left it with our school-mistress—”

  “No need to dissemble, señorita. You have it right there.” He reached up to pull something from behind her ear, then held it out with a flourish.

  Caught off guard, she took the gilt-edged calling card from him. “How did you . . .” She trailed off as she read the printed card.

  Diego Javier Montalvo, Master of Mystery.

  Master of Mystery? She lifted her gaze to him, seeing nothing in his half-smile to enlighten her. It didn’t sound like anything a normal person would put on a card. It almost sounded like . . .

  The truth dawned. “Oh, Lord, you’re a magician.”

  “Indeed, I am.” He gave her a mock frown. “You don’t seem very pleased to hear it.”

  Hardly! She had a weakness for magicians—their swirling black capes, their intriguing smiles, their astonishing ability to surprise at every turn. Coupled with her weakness for devastatingly handsome Continental gentlemen, Diego Javier Montalvo was the perfect temptation.

  But Peter would never eat his words if he learned she’d been flirting with a stranger.

  “Why is a magician wandering around Rockhurst?” she demanded. As a teacher, she would be most irresponsible if she didn’t find out.

  “Are you worried I have come to steal your neighbor’s valuables?”

  “Have you?” she asked archly.

  That made him grin. “I would hardly tell you if I had.” The words rolled off his tongue melodically, turning her knees to butter.

  None of that! she chided herself as she glanced about for her shoes, which were nowhere to be seen. You must be responsible. Mature. Not swayed by good-looking men. Not the sort of woman a man only dallies with.

  “Perhaps I am here to steal something else.” His voice had turned calculating. “The heart of a beautiful lady like you, for example.”

  She burst into laughter. That sort of nonsense she could handle perfectly well. “Do you rehearse such compliments when you rehearse your tricks? Or do flatteries simply come naturally to you?”

  He looked genuinely surprised. “You are very jaded for one so young.”

  “Young! I’ll have you know I’m more than twenty years old.”

  His eyes seemed to mock her. “Ah, then you are clearly a woman of the world. My mistake.”

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m certainly worldly enough to tell when a man is trying to turn me up sweet for his own purposes.”

  Some unreadable emotion swept his angular features. “And what purposes would those be?”

  “I have no clue.” She blew out an exasperated breath. “You still haven’t told me what you’re doing here.”

  “Very well, if you must know, I am the new tenant at Rockhurst.”

  Pure shock kept her motionless. “Oh, dear,” she murmured, mortified anew.

  Laughter glinted in his gaze. “So you see, Señorita Schoolteacher, you are the intruder. I saw you from the window upstairs as I was dressing and came down to learn who was invading my property.” He reached up to pluck a leaf from her disordered hair. “Now will you allow me the pleasure of your name?”

  Definitely not. For one thing, just the brush of his fingers over her hair had already quickened her pulse most dangerously. For another, it would be a great deal easier for him to complain of her to Mrs. Harris if he knew her name. “I-I didn’t think the house was even habitable.”

  “It will suffice until I decide if I want to buy the estate.”

  But weren’t conjurers nomads, living in inns and lodging houses? He was too young to retire, and even London theaters couldn’t pay well enough for him to afford a property the size of Rockhurst. “What would you do with it?”

  His gaze grew shuttered. “It depends.”

  Something in his evasive manner sparked her concern. “On what?”

  “Whether it and its environs meet my stringent requirements.”

  Its environs? Did he mean the school? “What sort of requirements? Surely, once it is put into shape, Rockhurst would be sufficient for your family.”

  “I am not married.” He cocked his head, dropping one raven lock over his eye, then smoothed it back with the nonchalance of a man sure of his exotic appeal. “And you? Does your position as a teacher mean you have no husband?”

  She caught herself before answering. “Why are you avoiding my question?”

  “For the same reason you are avoiding mine, I would imagine.” His eyes gleamed with mischief. “To prolong this intriguing conversation.”

  A laugh bubbled up inside her that she struggled to tamp down. “Actually, I find it less intriguing than frustrating. You are purposely being mysterious.”

  “As are you, Señorita Schoolteacher. Indeed, your reluctance to divulge your identity fascinates me.” He bent his head close enough that she caught a whiff of soap and hair oil. “You stand in my orchard and interrogate me bold as brass, yet you will not tell me something as small as your name. Are you hiding a secret? Acting as a spy?” Seeing the smile rise to her lips despite her struggle to prevent it, he lowered his voice to a throaty murmur. “Waiting for a lover, perhaps?”

  She jerked back as an unfamiliar heat rose in her cheeks. Good Lord, did she give off some scent that led people to make assumptions about her character?

  Then again, he had found her shamelessly lolling about on the ground of his orchard. She would have to set him straight.

  “That’s a very impertinent suggestion, sir,” she answered in her loftiest tone. “Especially when we haven’t been properly introduced.”

  A slow smile curved up his finely carved lips. “And do such trivialities matter to you, cariño? ”

  Cariño? Oh, but that was too wicked of him. Her Spanish was rusty, but she did remember that cariño was an endearment. A trill of pleasure skirled along h
er nerves. He should never have used it with her, whether he thought she understood it or not. And she certainly shouldn’t let it do funny things to her insides.

  She answered sharply, “This is not the Continent, sir. ‘Such trivialities’ matter to everyone in England. So if you hope for success in your ventures here, you’d best start showing some concern for propriety yourself.”

  Her remark darkened his gaze to a dangerous glitter. “I forgot how obsessed you English are with propriety,” he bit out. “Except, of course, when you are invading other people’s property.”

  He was right to chide her for that. And she’d been rude indeed to point out his improprieties when she’d been the one trespassing. Though she couldn’t fathom why it angered him now, when he hadn’t seemed to care earlier.

  “Forgive me for intruding,” she said, wanting to escape with her dignity—and identity—intact. “I must go.”

  She whirled toward the school but had taken only two steps before he called out, “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

  When she looked back, he was dangling her slippers from two fingers, his features smoothed into a charming mask once more.

  “Thank you, sir,” she murmured, but when she reached for the shoes, he held them out of reach, easy enough for him to do with his great height.

  “Your name, señorita,” he said softly, a smug smile playing over his lips.

  She hesitated, weighing her choices. But there was none.

  “Keep the shoes,” she retorted, then ran.

  Better to lose her slippers than have him inform Mrs. Harris of her shameless behavior. If Peter should hear how she’d reclined on the ground like a “hot-blooded hoyden” while some stranger looked her over, she’d simply die. As long as Señor Montalvo didn’t know her name, this incident need never reach anyone. Their paths weren’t likely to cross again.

  Still, she wanted to warn Mrs. Harris about the man. It wouldn’t do to have the girls trailing after him like lovesick puppies. Besides, something wasn’t right. Why would a magician rent an estate the size of Rockhurst just for himself?

  If she hadn’t been so busy reacting to his flirtations, she might have pressed him for more information. But when he’d cast his hot gaze down her body and had spoken Spanish endearments in a voice of warm honey . . .

  Lord help her. Continental gentlemen were the worst. Or the best, depending on how one looked at it. They knew exactly how to warm a woman’s blood.

  Perhaps Peter was right about her, after all.

  She frowned. All right, she found the foreigner appealing, but he was a performer, for pity’s sake. He made love to the audience every night—he’d honed his abilities for years. Of course she was tempted. What living, breathing female wouldn’t be, when a man that sinfully attractive looked at her like that?

  Peter’s new love wouldn’t. Lady Juliana would be appalled.

  Gritting her teeth, Lucy cut through the garden while twisting her hair up in a knot. She’d best pray she never saw him again. She was much too susceptible to his charms.

  She’d nearly reached the steps to the entrance when a female voice asked, “Feel better now, dear?”

  Startled, she whirled to find Mrs. Harris sitting at a table, reading the newspaper. “What do you mean?” Lucy asked guiltily.

  “A good walk always cheers one, doesn’t it?” she said without looking up.

  “Oh.” She relaxed. “Yes.”

  Itching to get inside before Mrs. Harris noticed her missing shoes and disordered hair, she hurried forward. But the schoolmistress’s cry of alarm stopped her short.

  “What is it?” Lucy hastened back, all thought of her own disarray banished by the woman’s stricken expression.

  Shaking her head, Mrs. Harris finished scanning an article in the paper. When she threw down the paper with an unladylike oath, Lucy grabbed it up. Front and center was the headline, “Magician to Build Pleasure Garden in Richmond.”

  Curse it—she’d known that smooth scoundrel was up to something! She greedily read the article as Mrs. Harris rose to pace the flagstone walk.

  “He means to turn Rockhurst into another Vauxhall!” Mrs. Harris exclaimed. “Can you imagine? It’s a disaster! Pickpockets hiding in the orchard, watermen lounging on our river landing, music playing at all hours, and fireworks at midnight. The girls will never be able to sleep. Not to mention the scandalous goings-on that always occur at such places at night.”

  Between the article and Mrs. Harris’s outraged recitation, Lucy gleaned the facts. Apparently, the twenty-eight-year-old Diego Montalvo was no ordinary conjurer. He was famous all over the world, performing his tricks to great acclaim before the kings of Sweden and Denmark. He’d even spent a year touring Russia, impressing the tsar with his astonishing illusions.

  Now the talented fellow had come to England to raze the house next door and build a public place of amusement. Good Lord.

  Mrs. Harris paced in increasing agitation. “I don’t even allow my girls to visit Vauxhall strictly chaperoned. How am I to protect them with a Vauxhall rising practically at our very steps?”

  Lucy glanced over at Rockhurst. She’d heard of the licentious activities occurring in Vauxhall’s darkened walks while the magicians and orchestras performed. And judging from Señor Montalvo’s wicked flirtations—and the newspaper description—that was exactly the sort of place he would establish.

  No wonder he’d been so mysterious. The devious wretch was worse than Peter, dallying with her even as he plotted against the school she loved.

  “I must write Cousin Michael at once,” Mrs. Harris said. “He will know how to stop this.” She whirled toward the steps, then halted to glare at the other property. “I swear, I shall have Mr. Pritchard’s head. He has gone too far this time, bringing such trouble into our midst!”

  Indeed, it would mean the end of the school.

  Never! Lucy couldn’t stand by and watch everything Mrs. Harris had worked for be destroyed with such careless disregard. This school meant too much to too many, including her. She wouldn’t let Señor Montalvo get away with this. She was tired of men trampling over her and her friends.

  Somehow, she’d show that scheming magician that he couldn’t transform Rockhurst into a pleasure garden as easily as he thought. Then, after saving the school, she would make Peter eat his words about her being an irresponsible hoyden. Just see if she didn’t.

  Chapter Two

  Dear Cousin,

  Disaster has struck. That weasel Mr. Pritchard plans to sell Rockhurst to that conjurer in the newspaper, who is looking for a site for his pleasure garden! You must stop him. If ever there was a time for you to reveal yourself, it’s now. Or I fear that the school’s future is doomed.

  Your frantic friend,

  Charlotte

  Still clasping the slippers, an annoyed Diego Montalvo entered Rockhurst and stalked past the new servants who were opening the essential rooms for his use. It had been half a lifetime since he had lived in a house this size, and he had forgotten how much work it took to maintain even a run-down place like this. Of course, he would be gone by the time the task became too onerous . . . or expensive.

  That thought increased his annoyance as he climbed the stairs. Dios mio, he was sick of the constant travel, sick of dragging his belongings “from pillar to post,” as the English would say. He had hoped to be settled by now. Sometimes he felt so close to regaining his family’s estate, Arboleda, that he could almost see its vineyards and feel the cool mountain breezes wash his cheeks.

  But there always seemed to be an impediment—if not money, then something else. Life had a habit of biting a man in the ass when he least expected it.

  Not this time. Not if he could prevent it.

  He strode into Rockhurst’s master bedchamber to find Gaspar, his aging mentor, unpacking the trunk and setting out the rest of Diego’s attire for the day with gnarled and twisted hands.

  “Stop that,” Diego said, knowing how even such simple actions
caused the man pain. “I can do it perfectly well myself.”

  “If you don’t leave it to me,” Gaspar retorted, “the servants will suspect that I’m not what I seem. And you know how servants talk.”

  Gritting his teeth, Diego threw the slippers onto the bed. “I suppose I do.”

  Gaspar had chosen to play his valet on this extended trip to England because it better enabled them to gather information from the staffs of the households they watched. Still, Diego hated putting the old man in such a humiliating role, even if their success would benefit them both in the end.

  Gaspar had been a talented magician until arthritis set in years ago, forcing him to give up the profession. Fortunately, by then, he had already begun training Diego in the conjurer’s art. Diego had become his whole family, since Gaspar had no one else to look after him—no wife or children or relations.

  Exactly like Diego himself.

  A shudder wracked him. No, not me. He was not meant for the rootless life of a performer. How his parents would have cringed to see what their only son had become. After what they had sacrificed, it was a mockery. He would not let their sacrifice be in vain.

  He had been raised for something better, and he would take up his birthright again as soon as he and Gaspar found the Marqués de Parama’s granddaughter. Then he could honor the vow he’d made to his father to regain Arboleda and restore his family’s reputation and position. Gaspar would have a place of comfort in which to end his days. Diego could even marry and raise a family. He wanted none of this life for any wife or children of his.

  Walking to the window, Diego drew out the ivory ball he used for practice and manipulated it through his fingers as he surveyed the adjoining property. When he spotted two women talking on the steps, his heart began to pound.