Chapter One
LONDON, ENGLAND
MARCH, 1805
It was the sound of her laughter, rich and melodic,
sensuously feminine, that changed his life forever.
Standing beneath a crystal-chandelier in the Marquess
of Wester's elegant ballroom, Randall Elliott Clayton,
seventh Duke of Beldon, turned in search of the sound, not
the laughter of a missish young girl, but the inviting,
unaffected mirth of a woman.
Rand's gaze traveled over the crush of expensively
garbed men and women, his mind conjuring images of a dark
sensuous beauty with heavy-lidded, black-fringed eyes,
though logic told him such an open, uninhibited laugh
could come only from an aging matron no longer governed by
the dictates of society.
Taller than most of the men in the room, he spotted
her quickly. She was younger than he had imagined, perhaps
no more than twenty, not dark and exotic but exactly the
opposite, with fiery, gold-tipped red hair and clear green
eyes. Her skin was neither dark nor pale, but glowed as if
she had spent time in the sun.
"I see you have discovered the guest of honor."
Rand turned to find his best friend, Nicholas Warring,
Earl of Ravenworth, standing beside him. Black-haired and
dark-skinned, nearly as tall as Rand, Nick was handsome
and intelligent, but his past was nebulous, and there was
an underlying toughness about him that kept people away.
"Who is she?" Rand asked, careful to keep his tone
nonchalant, though it wasn't the least how he was feeling.
"Her name is Caitlin Harmon. Her father is Donovan
Harmon, an American professor of antiquities."
Rand took a drink of his champagne, studying the
petite woman over the rim. "American ... yes ..." In the
course of his thirty-one years, he had bedded quite a
number of them. American women didn't seem to abide by the
same moral dictates as English women, not even those who
were as yet unmarried. They often traveled about
unchaperoned and apparently lived their lives as they saw
fit, an attitude he found quite useful.
"I gather they've been living on some island off the
coast of Africa for the past several years," Nick
said. "You may have read about him in the newspapers."
Indeed he had. Professor Harmon and his ongoing quest
for the infamous Cleopatra's Necklace. Now that he thought
of it, he remembered the article also mentioned Harmon's
daughter and that she worked closely with him.
Rand's probing glance found her again, small and
shapely, with high, full breasts that rose above the
neckline of her gown. Lovely in the extreme, he thought,
feeling an unexpected heaviness in his groin. He had
always liked women. Enjoyed their company, and of course
their companionship in bed. He liked the looks of this
one. Too easily, he could imagine stripping away the
layers of her emerald silk gown and pulling the pins from
all that softly curling red hair.
Inwardly, he smiled. And she was American, he reminded
himself, thinking of the possibilities that might present.
Perhaps he had been right about the womanly laughter. Rand
hoped so. He couldn't remember when the sound of a woman's
voice had affected him so profoundly.
* * *
Caitlin Eleanor Harmon took a sip of punch from the silver
cup she held in her hand, but she didn't really taste it.
All evening she had been smiling and nodding, answering
the same questions over and over, repeating information
about her father's upcoming expedition in an effort to
help him raise the money he neededโthe reason they had
journeyed to England.
Cait sighed. She couldn't help thinking that in the
course of the evening she had pretended interest in some
of the dullest conversation she had listened to in years.
Fortunately, for the moment at least, she'd been rescued
by her hostess and newfound friend, Margaret Sutton, Lady
Trent. Since then, Cait's thoughts had shifted from buried
treasure to a far more interesting topic.
She took another sip of her punch, focusing her
attention on the tall, broad-shouldered figure she watched
covertly above the cup's silver rim.
"There's a man across the way," she said to Lady
Trent, "the tall one beneath the chandelier. Who is he?"
Blond and blue-eyed, Maggie Sutton was five years
older, but she didn't seem so. The nearly nine years she
had spent in a convent had left her with an innocence that
made her appear far younger. Her husband was the Marquess
of Trent and it was his interest in Cait's father's
project that had brought Cait and Maggie together.
Considering how badly Cait had yearned for female
companionship those past two years, the marchioness was
truly a godsend.
Maggie's gaze followed Cait's, coming to rest on the
two men conversing on the opposite side of the dance
floor.
"Believe it or not, that handsome black-haired devil
is my brother, Nick. Nicky is the Earl of Ravenworth and,
aside from my husband, my favorite person in the world.
But you are referring to the other man, are you not? The
one who has been looking at you as if he would eat you
with a spoon if he could."
Cait laughed. She wouldn't have phrased it quite that
way, but it was difficult not to notice such a man's inter
est. "The bigger man, yes. The one with the dark eyes and
coffee-brown hair."
"And a set of shoulders that barely fit through the
ballroom door? Along with your intelligence, it is also
clear you have excellent taste in men. That, my dear, is
the Duke of Beldon. Rand Clayton is perhaps the most
eligible bachelor in London. He is wealthy in the extreme,
certainly one of the handsomest and most charming men in
the city, and also quite possibly the most dangerousโat
least when it comes to women."
Cait could see exactly what Maggie meant. With his
tall, muscular build, handsome profile, and faintly
arrogant stance, the duke had a presence no womanโnor man
for that matterโcould miss. He exuded power and authority,
and even from a distance, whenever he looked at her, she
could feel those fierce brown eyes like a fire burning'
into her flesh.
It was unfortunate that he was a duke, she thought
with a pang of regret. Aside from the small, select group
of friends she and her father had made since their
arrival, Cait had found most of the aristocracy to be
arrogant, self-centered, and spoiled. Through the accident
of their birth, they considered themselves above the
common man. A duke, at the top of the aristocratic pyramid
aside from actual royalty, would probably be worse than
the rest.
From beneath her lashes, Cait studied the man, saw
that he was watching her in return, felt the fire of his
powerful gaze as he began to stride in her direction, and
a shiver of warning ran through her. He shouldered his way
through the throng of people clustered around the dance
floor and strode toward her, his body moving with purpose
and grace. Even at a distance, she could feel the fire
shooting like sparks between them, feel the heat and the
sensuous pull. The thought occurred that if she had a lick
of sense, she would turn tail and run.
But then, Caitlin had never been afraid of fire, even
as a child. And she loved nothing better than a challenge.
Instead, when the duke appeared in front of her a few
moments later, Cait looked into that arrogant, sinfully
handsome face and smiled.
"Your Grace ..." Maggie turned to make the
introductions. "I should like to present my friend, Miss
Caitlin Harmon."
The duke's dark eyes held hers. She knew she was
staring, had been since the moment she had seen him, but
then so was he, those intense brown eyes locked with hers
as if there wasn't another person in the room. She noticed
they were flecked with gold, giving them an odd sort of
warmth.
He bowed formally over her hand. "A pleasure, Miss
Harmon. I've looked forward to making your acquaintance."
"The pleasure is mine ... Your Grace." The last two
words didn't come out as smoothly as she had intended.
With the rest of the nobility, she played by the rules of
British society, but somehow with Beldon, it galled her to
address him as if he were better than she.
His dark eyes brightened with a trace of amusement.
Clearly, he had guessed her thoughts. "You're American, I
gather."
"I was born in Boston. That is about as American as it
gets." Her smile held a hint of challenge. "You might
remember the Boston Tea Party."
Maggie's blond eyebrows shot up. The duke merely
smiled. "That was long before my time. Besides, the war is
over. You might remember that, Miss Harmon."
"Yes ... well that is certainly true. If memory
serves, it ended with the passage of the Bill of Rights,
making all men equal. I don't believe that sort of
thinking is common in this countryโor am I mistaken ...
Your Grace?"
Beldon's mouth curved up. "You're quite mistaken, Miss
Harmon. Here in England we know all about equality. We
simply believe some men are more equal than others." Those
hot brown eyes met hers, sparkling with amusement and
something more.
The beating of her heart increased to an uncomfortable
pitch and the air seemed to heat between them. When his
smile grew broader and a dimple formed in his left cheek,
it occurred to her that, duke or not, arrogant and spoiled
as she was certain he was, the Duke of Beldon was a
dangerously attractive man.
Briefly, he turned to Lady Trent. "Your brother would
like a word with you, Maggie. I'll be happy to keep Miss
Harmon company until your return."
Maggie flashed a look at the black-haired man across
the dance floor. "I trust she'll be in good hands," she
said with a trace of warning.
"Undoubtedly," the duke agreed.
"I shan't be long," Maggie said to Cait. With a last
pointed glance at Beldon, she took her leave, heading
toward her tall, darkly handsome brother on the opposite
side of the ballroom.
The duke's attention swung back to her. "Since we both
agree the war is over, how about a truce, Miss Harmon?"
She couldn't help a smile. There was something about
the duke that was hard to resist. "All right, a truce."
The Your Grace went unsaid. "At least for now."
His lips twitched. He lifted a glass of champagne off
a passing servant's tray and took a drink. "Rumor has it,
you and your father have been living on an island off
Africa for the past several years. Rather out of the
social whirl, I imagine."
She recalled the primitive living conditions she had
endured on Santo Amaro. "That is to say the least."
"Still, I have watched you dancing. You do so
admirably for a lady who has lived away from civilization
for so long. Do you also waltz, Miss Harmon?"
Cait flicked him an assessing glance. Even in America
the waltz was considered somewhat daring. Though she had
never actually done it, she knew the steps. Thanks to her
father, she was as well educated as any man, and as far as
she was concerned there was nothing the least bit
scandalous about a waltz.
Still, it was clearly a challenge, perhaps a result of
the slight in her form of address. Reminding herself she
was there on a mission to help her father and that the
duke was a potential contributor, she decided the use of
his title was little price to pay.
"I believe, Your Grace, they are playing a contradance
at present." She turned to survey the floor, saw that the
music was just ending. As if by some hidden cueโwhich Cait
was certain there had beenโthe orchestra struck up the
chords of a waltz.
"Do I take that to mean you do not?" he pressed.
A smile blossomed of its own accord. "I suppose I
could tryโif you are willing to risk getting your very
shiny shoes stepped on."
The duke laughed and flashed her a charming grin. "I
believe I am willing to risk it." Leading her onto the
dance floor, he placed his hand on her waist while hers
found his wide shoulder, then he was sweeping her into the
dance, whirling her around the floor with an ease she
couldn't have imagined. For a moment, conversation seemed
to slow as a dozen pairs of eyes swung in their direction.
Then several other couples joined in, including Lord and
Lady Trent, clearly there to lend respectability to the
dance.
"I believe you've made a friend," the duke remarked as
he led her into a graceful turn. "Maggie is extremely
protective of those she takes under her wing. You' re
lucky to have won her support."
"And I am more than grateful. I think having a female
friend was the thing I missed most in the years I was
away."
"I gather your father and Lord Trent are also
friends."
She nodded. "Lord Trent has a passionate interest in
history. He and my father began corresponding several
years back, when proof of the necklace first began to
surface."
"Cleopatra's Necklace, as I understand it. Quite a
treasure, I would guess."
"It would certainly be an important find. Including
the years of study he's done, my father's been searching
for the necklace for nearly four years." Cait stared into
the duke's handsome face, but it was difficult to
concentrate. Not when his big warm hand rode at her waist
and a muscular thigh brushed intimately between her legs
with every turn. He was incredibly graceful for a man of
his height and build, making his steps easy to follow. She
reminded herself that he was a duke and they had nothing
at all in common.
Still, the music was entrancing and the rhythm of the
dance began to lull her.
"It's like floating," she said, closing her eyes for a
moment, absorbing the melody and the cool air rushing past
her cheeks.
His hold tightened almost imperceptibly, drawing her
closer still. "You dance beautifully." His eyes found hers
when she looked up at him. "And fool that I am, I thought
that you were a novice."
Cait smiled. "I had a dancing instructor who taught me
the steps, but this is the first time I've actually tried
it. My father was a stickler for education."
His mouth curved faintly, the most sensuous lips she'd
ever seen. "Being a professor, I imagine he would be."
"Yes ..." The word came out breathy and far away. She
tried to tell herself she shouldn't be attracted to a man
like him, but that didn't keep her heart from beating too
fast or her mouth from drying to the texture of cotton.
Good heavens, she had danced with men before. Still, she
couldn't recall even one who'd been able to make her feel
as if she had lost her wits.
When the music came to an end, she barely noticed, and
oddly, neither did he. They might have gone right on
dancing if it hadn't been for Lord and Lady Trent, who
managed to place themselves in the duke's path at exactly
the right moment to prevent them from being embarrassed.
Beldon smiled down at Lord Trent, who was shorter,
well built, and also extremely good-looking.
"Sorry," the duke said. "I guess I should have been
paying attention." But when he looked at Cait, she saw
that he wasn't the least bit repentant, and his big hand
still rode at her waist.
"It's getting late," the marquess said pointedly. "I'm
afraid it's time for us to leave." Since Caitlin and her
father were currently Lord Trent's houseguests, that meant
she was leaving, as well. Cait felt a thread of
disappointment.
She gave the duke a tentative smile. "Perhaps our
paths will cross again, Your Grace."
Taking her hand, he made an elegant bow. "You may
count on it, Miss Harmon." He raised her fingers to his
lips and an odd little tingle ran up her arm. Cait did her
best to ignore it.
But several hours later, as she lay beneath the rose
silk canopy on her bed in the marquess's lavish town
house, she pondered those parting words. Would she see him
again, as he had said?
The sudden quickening of her pulse said how very much
she wanted that to occur.
Sitting in his solicitor's oak-paneled office on
Threadneedle Street, Rand Clayton, Duke of Beldon, studied
the blue-inked columns in the ledger, staring at the
numbers so long his vision began to blur.
He couldn't imagine a life without problems. Without
duties and responsibilities. For a few brief hours last
night, dancing with the stunning little American at
Wester's ball, he'd had a respite from his demanding life.
He'd enjoyed their playful bit of sparring and laughed as
if he hadn't a care.
Ah, but that was last night and this was today The
pressures had returned and his mind focused once more on
his duties.
Hundreds of people relied on him.
It bothered him to think he had failed even one of
them.
He stared back down at the ledgers, books that had
formerly belonged to his youngest cousin. "Whoever it was,
the bastard managed to pluck the boy clean. In less than
twelve months, Jonathan invested nearly every dime of his
inheritance."
His solicitor, Ephram Barclay frowned. "Young Jonathan
was never satisfied. He always wanted more. He was
determined to make his fortune and in doing so prove
himself. In the end, his ambition was his destruction."
Rand leaned back in the deep leather chair on the
opposite side of Ephram's desk and rubbed his eyes,
feeling suddenly weary. "The boy was too damned trusting.
If he had just come to meโ"
"If he had come to you, Your Grace, you would have
told him the venture was too risky. Jonathan believed that
in order to make his fortune he would have to take those
sorts of risks. Unfortunately, he was unprepared for the
consequences."
And those consequences were severe, indeed. Being
humiliated in front of his friends, losing his prized
membership at Almack's, facing a mountain of debts he had
no means to pay. Rather than ask for help, at the age of
two and twenty, young Jonathan Randall Clayton had taken
his own life. Two weeks ago, a groom had found his body
hanging from the rafters in the stables of the family
estate he had mortgaged and lost to his creditors.
"Whatever mistakes he might have made," Rand
said, "Jonathan was a good boy. With his mother and father
dead, I should have kept a closer eye on him. I can't help
feeling this is partly my fault."
Ephram leaned over his desk, a tall, thin, gray-haired
man who had managed Beldon affairs for the past twenty
years. "You mustn't blame yourself. You had no idea what
the lad was doing. The boy only came into his inheritance
last year. Who would have thought he would invest it so
unwiselyโor that after he failed, he would take the rash
course of action he did?"
But Rand still blamed himself. Jonathan was young and
impressionable. For years, the boy had vowed to rebuild
his fortune from the small inheritance his father, Rand's
uncle, had left him. Instead he had lost what little
remaining money the family still had, and fallen into such
despair he had killed himself.
Rand looked back down at the account sheet. "There's
no mention here of where the money went."
"No, not there." Ephram reached for another sheet,
laid it over the first. "As you can see, almost all of the
money went to Merriweather Shipping. It was intended for
the purchase of copra from the West Indies. A successful
venture would have doubled your cousin's investment.
Unfortunately, the ship sank in a storm at sea with the
loss of all hands, and Jonathan lost his money, all the
funds he had in the world."
Rand heard something in Ephram's voice. The man had
been a trusted confidant since Rand's father had died and
Rand had inherited the dukedom. "All right, my friend.
Obviously, there is more to all of this. You may as well
tell me."
Ephram pulled off his wire-rimmed spectacles and
rested them on the top of the polished oak desk. "Knowing
you as I do, I thought you would want to know as much
about Merriweather Shipping as I could find out. I've been
doing some checking ... not the usual sort, you
understand, but the kind that involves an exchange of
money into the right hands. It seems Merriweather Shipping
has had more than one of their ships conveniently go downโ
and a number of investors have lost goodly sums of money."
Rand's muscles went tense. "What are you implying,
Ephram?"
"I'm saying these cargoes were completely financed
with investors' money. If the ship didn't sink but
actually landed somewhere other than England, the entire
profit would have gone to the owners."
Rand leaned forward in his chair. "Are you telling me
the venture was a fraud?"
"I'm saying it's possible that Merriweather Shipping
may have faked the sinking, changed the name of the
vessel, and landed the ship somewhere else. The profit
would have been enormous."
A knot of cold fury tightened in the pit of Rand's
stomach. His cousin was dead, a young man with a future
that could have been bright and shiny. Instead he lay
moldering in an icy grave.
Rand looked at Ephram with cold, hard purpose. "I want
to know what happened to that ship, And I want to know
everything there is to know about Merriweather Shipping. I
want to know who runs it, and especially who raises the
money for its ventures."
On the arm of his chair, his hand unconsciously
listed. "I want to know what happened to my cousin, I
won't stop until I find out if Jonathan's death was simply
a result of bad judgmentโor if some greedy bastard took
advantage of his trust and drove him to it."
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