Collector of Hearts Page 2

  Several men were already dashing towards the fallen Butterworth.

  Quinn tugged at his waistcoat, as he always did in a show of nervous distress, then he rushed over to Robert who dropped the pistol into Quinn’s gloved hands. Together they walked over to where the surgeon and the others were gathered around Butterworth. They parted when he arrived. The surgeon looked up at him.

  ‘Well?’ he asked. It was obvious that Butterworth was not dead, but there was always the chance that the lead ball had entered awkwardly, or had glanced off a bone. This was always the worst part, though he never showed it.

  ‘Ball grazed his left arm, my lord,’ the surgeon replied.

  Robert bowed to Butterworth. ‘Good day, sir.’ Replacing his hat, he began striding back to his horse. He stopped abruptly a few paces from his destination, turned and said, ‘Oh, where are my manners? Do give my regards to Lady Butterworth, won’t you?’

  The small group of men turned towards him, incredulity written on each of their faces.

  Quinn winced. He walked over to the old man. ‘Here is my card. Please inform me, when it is known, that Lord Butterworth will make a full recovery.’ He tipped his hat and turned towards his own horse.

  ‘I’ll await you on the hill, Shacklesbury.’ Robert vaulted into the saddle, but not before he heard the surgeon say in a grave tone, ‘Looks like the Collector of Hearts will be on the prowl again tonight, I fear.’

  ***

  One hand resting on his hip, his other clutching a drink, Robert paced around Quinn’s library. He glanced out the window and instantly the memory of Butterworth and the duel flared. He grimaced and swung his gaze Quinn’s way. Quinn ignored him, pretending to still be writing a letter to his mother. Quinn’s card had no doubt been thrown into the fire, so Robert would send a footman around to get a medical update on Butterworth’s injury.

  For all his arrogance and apparent coldness, it was always the same. He would not rest until Butterworth’s full recovery was confirmed.

  He began to prowl again, the view out the window not enough to keep his interest for long. On his third or fourth rotation of the room, he stopped at a small table by the window and picked up a red leather-bound volume. He flicked through the pages, stopping occasionally to read the text.

  ‘Barton sent me that last week,’ Quinn said.

  He looked up but did not comment. He turned a few more pages before stopping at a certain section. Frowning, he quoted, ‘“Love’s grandeur in full flower, gathers stronger by the hour.” What the hell does that even mean?’

  Quinn smiled. ‘Barton will no doubt be at White’s tonight if you have a mind to find out. He is, after all, the poet.’

  ‘I know he is your cousin but I wouldn’t waste my time. Sentimental claptrap is all well and good for some, but not for me. I prefer action to words.’

  ‘So I’ve noticed.’

  He continued to read the little volume with feigned disinterest.

  ‘I must talk to you about Lady Butterworth, and well, her predecessors.’ Quinn’s comment got his attention, and a frown, but Quinn bounded on. ‘When are you going to give up this insane venture? Hasn’t it been long enough? I mean, truly—’

  ‘Have you actually read this?’ he asked, shaking his head in mock dismay.

  ‘Robert!’ Quinn knew he was trying to waylay the inevitable conversation.

  ‘Quinn.’ he arched an eyebrow. ‘I really have no idea what you’re talking about.’

  ‘Shall I remind you?’ Quinn stood up and moved away from behind his desk.

  He groaned. ‘Is this going to turn into a lecture? Because I did hear you the last time and though I’m sure you’re right, I’ve no intention of becoming a monk anytime soon.’

  ‘A monk? You? Believe me, I would dearly love to see that. But seriously, Robert, you’re nearly thirty years old. You’ve sown enough wild oats to feed the colonies. For heaven’s sake, don’t you think it’s time you thought of your future? Your titles, lands and, dare I mention, your responsibilities in the House of Lords, all need to be attended to.’

  ‘Has my mother been writing to you again?’ he asked, with a slightly amused smile. ‘I’ve been to the House and it was cold and full of old men bickering. I’m not yet thirty. Heavens, you’ll have me in the grave next.’

  ‘I’m serious.’

  ‘Of course, you are,’ he said. ‘But I can’t just stop being … what I am, any more than you can just stop being the Shacklesbury that I admire so much.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s true. One day you’ll get yourself killed over a woman you don’t even care about. I can’t let you do that.’

  ‘Quinn, Quinn, Quinn. How many times must we go over this same old ground? I am not your responsibility. What I do is on my head, not yours.’

  ‘No! What you do reflects indirectly on my head as your friend, and on the heads of every member of your family. Something you conveniently seem to forget.’

  Despite his anger, he kept his tone flat and emotionless. ‘I never forget.’

  ‘Maybe that is part of your problem.’

  He pierced Quinn with a fierce expression.

  ‘Look here, old man. I am your friend. A friend who has stood steadfastly beside you, I might add. Even though I am up at dawn more often than I have a want to. And why do you think that is?’

  ‘Enlighten me.’ He tried to sound full of indifference, but he could see it wasn’t fooling Quinn.

  ‘This is ridiculous. Where is that young man I met, whose sense of honour I admired so much?’

  ‘That man is dead, along with the man he killed,’ he stated simply. He turned and stared out the window. A familiar pain echoed through his chest. No matter how many years had passed, just the mention of Faulkner was enough to dredge up his guilt again.

  Quinn sighed loudly behind him. ‘I can’t believe that.’ He came to stand at Robert’s shoulder. They both looked out upon the stable yard below. ‘I know why you shut him away, but it’s been five years. You can’t keep him chained up forever. He doesn’t deserve it. And neither do I.’

  Quinn ran a hand down his face and tugged at his waistcoat and Robert thought to himself, here it comes.

  ‘Perhaps you need to go away for a while. Travel. See new things?’

  He narrowed his eyes on Quinn. ‘Are you suggesting banishment?’

  ‘No! Of course not! I just meant—’

  He held up a hand. ‘Please, no more. I think I would rather read more of Barton’s poetry than listen to any more of your lectures, as stimulating and eloquent as they always are.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Quinn said, and he believed him. ‘I just want you to move on with your life, instead of endlessly circling the past,’ Quinn said.

  He stopped pacing. ‘You don’t think I want that too. I do, but I just … can’t.’ He finished his glass off in one swallow, placed it on the table and then stared at it, fingering the rim.

  A few uncomfortable seconds ticked by. ‘Going to your club for dinner?’ Quinn asked, deftly changing the subject.

  He pulled out his pocket watch. ‘No, I’ve got an appointment with my tailor, and then Marchmain’s do. What about you?’

  ‘I’m having dinner with Lord Pike. We have still to settle on the length of the canal between our estates.’

  He returned the watch to its place. ‘Sounds positively boring.’

  ‘Some of us can’t leave everything to our land stewards.’

  ‘Then you need a new one.’

  ‘I like knowing what is going on.’

  He shrugged. ‘Nothing to do with his pretty daughter?’

  Quinn smiled. ‘I will neither confirm nor deny your accusation.’

  He shook his head. ‘As you please, my friend. You may as well put the shackles on yourself.’ Still holding the little volume of poetry, he bowed to Quinn and left the room.

  Chapter 2

  London

  Countess of Marchmain’s Ball

  Arabella Fleming held the
hand of her twin sister, Isabelle, as they weaved through the crowded room. It was supposed to be a small gathering, but it looked more like everyone in London had received an invitation and had all decided to attend.

  ‘I think this could safely be called a crush, don’t you think?’ Isabelle asked her sister as they worked through the throng of overheated bodies.

  ‘I agree,’ Arabella replied. ‘I am already in fear for my toes and I haven’t even been on the dance floor yet.’

  Isabelle laughed.

  Ahead of them, their mother, Lady Fleming, twittered excitedly with her friend. Arabella couldn’t hear a thing she said above the din of music and conversation. She simply followed where her mother led. It was soon clear she had all but forgotten about her daughters. Her medicine made her forgetful, sleepy and disinterested. Arabella preferred the emotional tantrums to her lady mother caring not a whit about them.

  One good thing about being twins was that Isabelle and Arabella have always had each other to depend on. They would need each other even more through this season.

  It had taken some convincing to get their father to agree to finally let them have their coming out, and the intervention of their doting grandfather. Their father hadn’t seen the sense in the expense when he could find them appropriate husbands in the district. After two years he finally relented. At nearly nineteen, she and Isabelle were amongst the eldest of the debutantes, but Arabella was determined not to let this stop them having a chance to find love.

  Couples spun on the dance floor in a hypnotic swirl. The whole scene was more exhilarating than she and her sister had ever imagined in their late-night giggling conversations under the covers. Such an abundance of muslin, silk, and satin gowns were on display. It made her feel rather drab with nothing but roses on her pale-yellow evening gown.

  The men all looked divine in their formal attire. Dark frock coats contrasted vividly with snow-white linen. Breeches of white, cream and black were complimented with shiny black shoes made for dancing.

  Arabella and Isabelle joined a group of young ladies who were also enjoying their first season. Presented at court the previous week, and now adversaries vying for husbands, they exchanged greetings politely but guardedly.

  Arabella felt awkward and out of place in this room full of strangers. Neither Fleming girl had ever had reason to be surrounded by so many gentlemen before. Their small social circle back home was not extensive and, therefore, young men even less so. Men, especially those here, it seemed, had much more confidence and flair. Was this what they meant by town polish? The men in this ballroom alone varied in ages from the barely man to the barely alive. All Arabella had to compare was their mostly absent father and two much younger brothers, who had mercifully been left at home in the charge of their governess.

  Being identical twins and therefore somewhat of an oddity was something she would have to come to terms with. She had never felt as keenly different as she did tonight with all eyes seeming to take a second look to make sure they had seen correctly.

  ‘I don’t think this is going to be as easy as Mother thinks,’ Isabelle whispered.

  Arabella looked around and knew exactly what Isabelle meant. There were so many beautiful young ladies surrounding them, many with rings sparkling on every finger, bejewelled bracelets at each wrist and jewel-encrusted necklaces adorning their necks like advertisements of the worth of their dowries.

  ‘Remember what we agreed,’ Arabella said.

  Isabelle nodded. ‘Don’t let Father talk us into marrying somebody we don’t love.’

  ‘Yes, exactly. Now, pinch your cheeks and be careful not to be lured away to the garden by any handsome young man … unless you plan to marry him.’

  Isabelle giggled then asked, ‘Are you not coming?’

  ‘I will join you shortly,’ Arabella replied.

  Isabelle patted her sister’s hand before walking off to greet some of the other girls. Arabella decided to spend her time surveying the lay of the ballroom and practicing how to sip her champagne without making a face.

  After some time, Arabella turned to look for her sister and found her in awed conversation with Lady Stapleton. When she saw Isabelle’s eyes widen even further and her mouth fall open, Arabella was quick to come to her side to offer support, but also to find out what was so shocking.

  ‘Bella, you’ll never guess who’s here tonight!’ Isabelle exclaimed, her face flushed with excitement and no doubt champagne.

  ‘Who? Prinny?’ Arabella looked around the crowded room for the Prince Regent.

  ‘No. Worse,’ Isabelle replied.

  ‘Worse?’

  ‘The Heart Collector,’ she whispered her voice full of wonder.

  ‘It’s the Collector of Hearts, my dear.’ Lady Stapleton quickly corrected Isabelle. ‘I don’t think he would approve of you saying his hard-earned title incorrectly.’

  Isabelle hid her laugh behind her hand.

  Intrigued, Arabella asked Lady Stapleton, ‘What kind of gentleman has a name like the Collector of Hearts?’

  ‘Well, no gentleman at all, of course, but, my dears, let me tell you all,’ Lady Stapleton said. ‘He is Robert Mallory, the Marquis of Shelton, and never did a more charismatic creature walk this earth. No woman is safe from his seductive words, his caressing glances or his devilishly sinful lips. Be wary, ladies, and stay well away if you want your heart and your virtue intact,’ she explained. ‘Otherwise, he’ll collect your heart and leave you with nothing but the pieces to pick up.’

  Arabella’s narrowed her eyes slightly. ‘Surely he can’t be that handsome?’

  ‘Oh, he is. It isn’t just his good looks, though; there’s something dangerous about him, about his eyes, about the way he smiles, or maybe it’s just the way he makes everything sound deliciously wicked,’ Lady Stapleton replied with a perfectly wicked smile of her own. ‘I won’t mention what else he does exceptionally well.’

  ‘How do you know all this?’ Isabelle asked innocently, still looking around as if the Collector of Hearts stood in the middle of the room with a sign around his neck saying, Swoon Here.

  ‘Well, let’s just say I know, and let that be the end of it,’ she replied, fanning herself.

  Isabelle looked at Arabella with large excited eyes and a do-you-believe-this? expression on her face.

  Arabella smirked. What a load of nonsense. No man could be so successful at seducing women and still be walking around unchallenged and still alive. Surely the family of these ladies would have seen to his punishment? Surely, even here in London, especially here in London, such a thing could not go unnoticed, let alone unavenged? When no plausible answer came to her, she asked Lady Stapleton these very questions.

  ‘He is a master duellist,’ she replied. ‘In fact, I heard he wounded Lady Butterworth’s husband just this morning. The Collector of Hearts has had more than ten duels, or is that twelve? Oh well, no matter. And what’s more, he has never received so much as a scratch for his efforts,’ she finished with a nod.

  Twelve duels? Arabella smiled then. Her mother had warned them they would hear outlandish gossip and it would nearly always be exaggerated.

  ‘Why, Miss Fleming, you look as though you don’t believe me?’ Lady Stapleton said, not looking the least upset.

  ‘You must admit it’s a little far-fetched, even by ton standards.’

  Lady Stapleton shook her head. ‘There is nothing far-fetched about it, by any standard, and, if you still don’t believe me … Perhaps you should ask him yourself?’

  Arabella looked into the crowd, which seemed to part to let the infamous marquis pass through as though he were Moses parting the Red Sea. A tingle took over her body, awareness of something altogether strange and at the same time exciting, making her tremble.

  The Collector of Hearts tossed smiles this way and that and bowed to a few women, whose fans all came up instantly to hide their blushes. Arabella wasn’t sure what she expected him to look like, but it certainly wasn’t what she s
aw. Nothing could have prepared her for that! Good Lord, she could hardly breathe. Was it because of him? The heat of the ballroom? Or was it her corset that was making her feel dizzy?

  He was handsome, tall, broad-shouldered, lean-hipped and looking right at them, with the devil reflected in his dark blue eyes. She was determined not to fall prey to those eyes, or that smile, which was so full of wild, mischievous promise. Now she knew Lady Stapleton had been talking the truth and there was no exaggeration necessary.

  She knew what he was—a rogue, a rake and a philanderer—and she was well-warned, but her foolish heart still beat madly in her chest as he approached and she could not look away. Her mouth was dry but she hadn’t the wits to even take a sip of her champagne.

  He was magnificent. With effortless ease and understated grace, he dominated the crowded ballroom like it was his herd and he the wild stallion. Arabella’s legs trembled like a skittish mare. Her pulse quickened and her eyes widened. She couldn’t help it, she didn’t know whether to bolt or faint, so she just stood where she was and stared at him.

  His shoulders filled out his dark navy jacket, flawlessly fitted over a cream and gold-brocaded waistcoat. His cravat was tied in a complicated fashion but was by no means foppish or extravagant. All kept in place by a large sapphire cravat pin, which she was sure was winking at her from under the light of the giant chandelier.

  Her eyes drifted back up to his face to find him looking directly at her and she watched in fascination as his lips curled into an amused half-smile. They were nice lips, not full, but not hard either. They were … Kissable. A lock of dark hair fell adorably over his brow. She felt Isabelle’s arms tighten around her and the spell was broken.

  Robert had heard they were twins, a matched pair of brunettes, fresh out of the schoolroom, and identical to boot. This he’d had to see for himself. He smiled for their benefit and saw their eyes widen in shock. God bless their little matching gowns, they looked like two twists of liquorice standing in each other’s arms. He wondered if they even realised they were hugging each other and how very much he liked that.