Chasing Raven by Jayne Fresina Page B

would, doubtless, put his foot down firmly this time.
    So Raven returned to her letter. Although never a very consistent correspondent, she made an effort for Olivia, her father's former secretary and now his wife.
    Most of the time, truth be told, Raven struggled over letters because she would rather be out enjoying herself than writing about it, and the games she got up to were often not fit to be read about— why leave evidence? For that reason she had never kept a diary, although her mother had bought her several over the years. She used to rip out the pages and make paper birds, to watch them fly out of her window and see how far the wind could take them.
    Looking down at her letter, she read over the line she'd just scratched onto the paper.
    On Tuesday I met a man called Hale.
    She dipped her pen in more ink and then went back over the name, elongating the stalks of the "H", just the way she had seen it on the bank note. For several moments she became quite absorbed in decorating that capital letter, because she couldn't make it grand and pompous enough. Describing the man on paper was beyond her capabilities. Olivia was much better at that and could ruthlessly set a man down in three words.
    Hale. His image flashed before her again in that old grey waistcoat and clumsily tied cravat. He was clearly not of the opinion that one must always be fashionably attired. Unlike her mother's Frenchman, the indomitable Earl of Southerton refused to be a "dandy". Of course he wouldn't follow fashion. He led, but he did not follow. Unless it was perhaps to chase some unfortunate fox.
    Matthew Bourne claimed he had blood on his hands. Was it true?
    And suddenly she saw those initials— S.R.H.— this time engraved amid curling leaves that slowly unfurled across the polished gold lid of a watch case. To her young eyes, eager to see magic, it had seemed as if the leaves grew as she watched. Then she opened it and found a grimacing skull inside, so fearful a sight that most little girls— or boys— would have dropped it at once. But the image was just gruesome enough to fascinate her.
    Death. What a terrible thing to be reminded of whenever one looked at the time.
    How many years ago had she held that strange object in her hands while she admired it? Of course, its owner did not realize that she took it to help him. He was going to lose the card game if he stayed at the table and he would not heed her advice on how to play, therefore what better way to save him than run off with his watch? She knew the young man would chase her, and he did.
    That, in Raven's opinion, was a much better game. Not that he was grateful for the distraction.
    Is that what he had meant when he said she'd spoiled his sport before? If so, he had remembered her, which was gratifying to know.
    Very few indiscretions do I consider worthy of my time to intervene . But twice now he had come after her.
    Matthew claimed Hale was vengeful and full of rage. Yes, perhaps. To be perfectly honest she had felt more thrill than fear when he tried to terrify her with his grim stare.
    She smiled at her letter, picturing again Hale's muddy boots, trailing dirt across the Winstanleys’ carefully tended ballroom floor. No one daring to stop him as he barged his way in.
    It was no good, she had to admire his sheer gall. The man might be domineering, but with that came a certain cool self-assurance and a lure of danger that was— dare she think it— attractive.
    Perhaps it was just as well that he went back to the country when he did. For both their sakes.

Chapter Ten
    Bourne stood outside the club, his silhouette etched in gaslight.
    "You had better stay away from Raven Deverell," he slurred, one hand gripping the black painted railings. "She belongs to me. Not to you."
    Hale came to a sharp halt and quickly assessed the younger man's state, which was much as it often had been. Drunk. This time perhaps beyond the usual. "I believe Miss Deverell would take issue with the