Seduction Regency Style

by Louisa Cornell

  “Here will do very well, yes, my lady?” Madam Charmant gestured to a deep sofa.

  “Yes, thank you.” Lanora settled into the seat with a look of relief.

  Cecilia heard the door to the shop open. A glance showed Grace entering. The glower on her face said either she was still angry with Lanora or she’d had no luck getting any new information from Dodger. Or both.

  “Would my lady care for tea?” Madam Charmant asked Lanora.

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “I shall send for tea, then, and we shall gather up what we have made for Lady Cecilia.” The modiste clapped her hands together. “Oh, you shall be amazed. She shall be so lovely.” After offering a curtsey, Madam Charmant bustled away, calling to her assistants as she went.

  The cherub-faced, brown-and-gray haired woman Cecilia had noted earlier stepped between two bolts of cloth to fill the space the modiste had vacated. Soft blue eyes looked between Cecilia and Lanora. “I beg your pardon, my lady, my lady.” She offered them each a nod. “I hope I am not being presumptuous, but I wish to introduce myself. I’m your cousin, though distantly so, Missus Everly.”

  “Missus Everly,” Lanora repeated, tone thoughtful. Her momentary frown cleared. “You’re related to my father’s heir?”

  The woman, who had approximately five decades to her name, offered a warm smile. “Yes, precisely. My son Edmond is the heir. My late husband was a cousin to your father. Surely, Lord Robert mentioned his recent visit to our country estate?”

  Lanora shook her head. “My father is often reticent.”

  Missus Everly’s smile deepened, crinkling the skin about her eyes. “He did seem that type, and many men are. Especially of our generation.”

  Cecilia contained her surprise. She knew Lord Robert wasn’t a young man. He was Lanora’s father, after all. To hear a man so vital and fit claimed as a contemporary by the matronly little woman before them was startling, though.

  Lanora adopted a bland expression. “It is my pleasure to meet you, cousin. I am Lady Lanora Greydrake, and this is Lady Cecilia Greydrake.”

  Missus Everly curtseyed. She turned her smile on Cecilia. “I heard Madam Charmant greet two Lady Greydrakes, but I must admit, I wasn’t sure I heard aright. Why, you’d pass for a maiden newly out, my lady. I daresay you’ve fewer years to you than my Edmond.”

  Cecilia fought down a blush. “I was the marquess’s third wife.” And, fortunately, his final one.

  “Oh yes, I know, dear.” Missus Everly offered dimples with the statement, apparently understanding Cecilia’s discomfort with her title. “Edmond and I have come to town for the remainder of the season. I do hope we shall see you about.” Her eyes rounded in dismay and she turned back to Lanora. “Not that we don’t hope to see you, my lady. I simply assumed…” She trailed off. “That is, in your state… not that you shouldn’t be here… Oh dear.”

  Lanora’s indifference wavered toward wryness. “I shall take your words as you meant them, Missus Everly, and as containing kind cousinly regard. I do realize it’s a touch gauche of me to make an appearance here in my condition. I do so only out of necessity.”

  Missus Everly nodded, gratitude clear on her face. “Well, if it is gauche, and I assure you most think it’s not, it’s only due to a failing of society.” She shook her head. “As if we didn’t all come from the very state in which you find yourself.”

  Lanora nodded. Her amused expression faltered. She wrapped an arm about her middle again, wincing.

  Cecilia reached for her other hand. “You should return. I promise to have my fitting.”

  “Oh dear,” Missus Everly said. “Pangs?”

  Lanora nodded, grip tight about Cecilia’s slender fingers. The color had gone from Lanora’s cheeks.

  “You should drink a tonic of yarrow, dear,” Missus Everly said. “It would be just the thing.”

  “Thank you.” Lanora’s grip on Cecilia eased. She sat up straighter on the sofa. “That’s better. It’s past now. I can’t imagine what the trouble is. I’ve nearly two months to go.”

  Missus Everly offered a warm smile. “Well, you be sure to rest, dear. Whatever your mission is here today, I’m sure it’s not so terribly important. It was very pleasant to meet you, at long last.”

  “You as well.”

  “And you, Lady Cecilia,” Missus Everly added, turning her cheerful visage Cecilia’s way.

  “Thank you, Missus Everly. I look forward to seeing you again, and to meeting your son.”

  “Oh, as do I.” Missus Everly seemed to hesitate. “If it’s not too forward of me, dear, where might I hope for that meeting to take place? Have you any notable plans?”

  Cecilia blinked. Indeed, the question was rather forward, but the motherly little woman was too dear to be put out with. “Dame Parson’s ball.”

  “Lovely.” Missus Everly offered another smile. She curtsied and took herself away.

  Cecilia watched until she disappeared through the shop’s front entrance. Two of Madam Charmant’s girls bustled up with a small table. A third and fourth carried trays, resplendent with tea and pastries. Cecilia let go of Lanora’s hand and moved to take the chair next to the sofa, to fix her tea.

  “Who was that woman?” Grace came around a bolt of cloth and took the place beside Lanora on the sofa.

  “My distant cousin, Missus Everly,” Lanora said. She sat forward, her color quite improved.

  Cecilia stirred sweetener into the tea she’d poured and placed cup and saucer before Lanora. She selected a small plate and scanned the trays, looking for Lanora’s favorites to assemble.

  “Thank you.” Lanora took up the tea and sipped. “Perhaps I should send for some yarrow.”

  “Yarrow?” Grace frowned. “Whatever for?”

  “Missus Everly recommended Lanora drink an infusion of it,” Cecilia said. She placed the plate, now filled with delicacies, before Lanora as well.

  “Yarrow.” Two lines appeared on Grace’s forehead. “I can’t recall ever hearing that recommended.” She turned to Cecilia. “Don’t you take a keen interest in medicine?”

  Cecilia cast Lanora a quick look. “My interest is more in, um, surgery and lacerations.” Although Grace was eminently trustworthy, they’d agreed the best way to keep William’s work as the notorious vigilante, Lord Lefthook, secret was not to tell anyone, even Grace. Only they three, Dodger and Lord Robert knew.

  “Lacerations and surgeries?” Grace grimaced. “Whatever for?”

  Cecilia shrugged, face heating. “They’re interesting.” In truth, she’d been revolted when she’d begun her research six years ago but determined to help William any way she could. Since she couldn’t leave the townhouse he’d hidden her in, the best she could do was learn how to stitch him up when, inevitably, he came back from his work a bit worse for the wear.

  “You wanted to know the best way to kill him, didn’t you?” Grace whispered.

  Lanora spit out her tea.

  “I beg your pardon?” Cecilia darted a quick look about, but no one appeared near enough to hear.

  Lanora snatched up a napkin and dabbed tea from her chin.

  Grace’s face was shadowed with sorrow. “Your late husband.” She gave Cecilia a sympathetic look. “You’ve never said anything, but I can tell and, to be honest, the whole of London whispers about him. He was a cruel man. I suppose you read so much about surgeries and lacerations so you would know where to stick a knife if he ever came to get you.”

  Cecilia gaped at her. “That’s what all of London thinks?”

  Grace nodded.

  “Oh.” Cecilia had no notion what to say to such an outlandish idea. Having worked so diligently to learn how to heal, she could no more stab someone than grow wings and take flight.

  Grace cleared her throat. “Which is neither here nor there. What’s important is that I’ve never heard of drinking yarrow while with child, and I wouldn’t take a stitch of advice from that woman.”

  “Missus Everly?” Lanora asked, su
rprise in her voice. She craned her neck to look about, but Missus Everly was gone.

  “She seemed very sweet,” Cecilia ventured.

  Grace frowned. “That woman is evil. That’s why I waited until she left to join you.” She shuddered. “I didn’t wish to converse with her.”

  “Missus Everly?” Cecilia echoed Lanora, baffled by Grace’s vehemence. “That dear little woman who was speaking with us?”

  Grace snorted. “There is nothing dear about her.”

  Lanora smoothed her napkin in her lap and reached for the plate of sweets Cecilia had assembled. “Grace, I usually bow to your wisdom on such things, which is why I’m so happy you’ll be at Cecilia’s side when she attends Dame Parson’s ball, but this time you’re clearly mad. My cousin was the sweetest creature I’ve ever met.”

  Cecilia nodded. “She was very kind.”

  “You don’t have to believe me.” Grace shook her head, brown curls bouncing about a face every bit as angelic as Missus Everly’s. “But that woman gave me chills, right down my spine.”

  “Well, if it makes you happy, I won’t take her advice about the yarrow.” Lanora placed a small cake in her mouth and chewed. “Besides, I’m feeling much restored.” A smile brightened her face. “And in the nick of time. Here comes Madam Charmant with your gowns.”

  Grace’s groan a warning, Cecilia was still flabbergasted when she turned to find Madam Charmant and what was surely all of her assistants, each laden with several gowns. So burdened were they, the smallest of the girls seemed hardly able to walk. Cecilia drew in a deep breath and squared her shoulders, determined not to tax Lanora by further resistance.

  Chapter Five

  Robert stood outside Dame Parson’s ballroom, several paces back from the grand double doors. Over a dozen years had passed since the last time he’d set foot in an English ballroom, or danced in one. Held Livonia in his arms.

  He’d arrived deliberately late to avoid any semblance of a receiving line. Within, the festivities were fully underway. Music, along with high-pitched and baritone chatter and the dull underlying rumble of yards upon yards of rustling fabric, washed outward and over Robert. Along with the sounds came perfumes, colognes, sweat, smoke and candlewax.

  His stomach roiled. Not from the overwhelming scents and sounds, or even in response to the mass of people undulating like a storm-tossed sea. From guilt. Two decades ago, he’d placed a ring upon Livonia’s finger and made a vow to her before God, and in his soul.

  In his mind, he knew she was gone. In his heart, he wasn’t seeking a love to replace what they’d known. All the same, his soul shrieked out betrayal.

  He squared his shoulders. The decision to wed had little to do with him and his sensibilities. It had everything to do with protecting those who looked to the Solworth line for care. He started forward.

  “Why, if it isn’t my dear cousin, Lord Robert.”

  Robert halted at the sound of Everly’s voice. Pivoting on his heels, he made a slow turn. “Everly.”

  Everly, a flushed, rumpled looking young woman on his arm, strode forward. Down the hall behind them lay several rooms, likely empty. Robert took in the girl’s blush and frowned.

  “Run along, sweeting,” Everly said. He extracted his arm from the girl and gave her posterior a half pat, half push. “The duke and I have business to discuss.”

  The girl, face flaming, scuttled past Robert and toward the ballroom.

  Robert didn’t take his gaze from Everly. “What did you do to her?”

  Everly shrugged. “Nothing.” He flashed a devilish grin. “At least, nothing permanent. She’s a gentleman’s daughter and unwed.”

  “If I find out you--”

  “Save your threats, my lord. I didn’t deflower the little morsel, even if she begged me to. Do you think I want to end up forced to marry that bit of nothing?” Everly offered a disgusted look. “I’m to be Duke of Solworth someday. I daresay, I can do better than a weakly dowered, pea-brained, overly plump miss whose father isn’t even a member of the peerage.”

  Anger surged through Robert. Two strides brought him down the hall to Everly, who shrank back. “You will never be Duke of Solworth.”

  Everly gave a weak chuckle. Sweat stood out on his brow beneath carefully curled locks. “Certainly, I will. There’s nothing you can do to stop me.” His words would have resounded with more conviction if they hadn’t been drenched in fear.

  Robert searched the young man’s face. Everly didn’t know. His mother hadn’t told him Robert’s plan. Robert set aside his anger in favor of a slow, smug smile. “What are you doing in London, Everly?”

  Everly swallowed. “What?” He tugged at his jacket. “I’m not permitted in London now?”

  Robert watched him through narrowed green eyes.

  “Mother insisted we come,” Everly finally said. He tugged at his coat again. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Lord Robert, I should go find her. I wouldn’t wish to neglect my doting parent.”

  Everly stepped around Robert. His rapid pace a clear retreat, he hurried into the ballroom. Robert watched him with newfound determination. Livonia would forgive him for remarrying if it meant keeping the Solworth lands out of the hands of that cretin. Resolved, Robert forced away his scowl and headed into the ballroom.

  Several heads turned toward him, followed by more. A ripple passed through the room, like waves of sand rearranged by the wind. In the manner of foam rising to the top of ale, gentlemen pulled back and hopeful mamas and their confection-clad offspring began to appear. From among them popped a rounded, matronly woman Robert vaguely recalled as Dame Parson. She hurried to greet him. The marriage-minded women firmed into a waiting net behind her.

  Dame Parson dropped a deep curtsey. “Lord Robert, I was beginning to worry you’d lost your way.”

  “Dame Parson.” Robert bowed. “I apologize for my tardiness.”

  Her hazel eyes went wide. “I should never require an apology from you, my lord.”

  “Yet, your greeting all but demanded one.”

  She gaped at him, mouth opening and closing.

  Robert felt a stab of remorse. It wasn’t as if she were to blame for the foul mood Everly stirred in him. “I have not socialized in London in some time. Would you be so kind as to introduce me around?” His sweeping gesture took in the semicircle of women behind her.

  Her eyes lit with an almost obscene gleam of triumph. “I am honored you’ve chosen my trifling event to end your streak of absence, my lord.”

  Taking in the ring of avaricious faces, he was certain she meant every word of the complement. The collection of teeth that glinted at him would daunt a crocodile. Dame Parson had what they all prized, an introduction to a wealthy, unwed, heirless duke. Every marriage-minded mama and blushing debutant she introduced Robert to would owe her a favor. If he wed one of them, the girl and her mama would be forever in Dame Parson’s debt.

  He drew in a deep breath and said, “I place myself entirely in your hands.”

  Dame Parson turned and moved to stand beside him. With a flick of her wrist, she gestured the first lucky pair over. She didn’t bother to hide her glee as the introductions began in earnest.

  Robert met the first missus and miss with a deep feeling of resignation. He claimed a place on the girl’s dance card, trying not to note that she was obviously younger than Lanora. The second pair was the same as the first, but the daughter was shorter. After he issued the expected request to dance later, another set took their place, with a mama whose face struggled not to fall into what was obviously a perpetual frown.

  Pair after pair shuffled by, straining his resolve. They were so young. Not only the girls, but their mamas. Few of the proud parents who came before him had reached Robert’s four decades. A memory of the old marquess, William’s father, stirred in Robert’s mind. He recalled his disgust at reading that the wrinkled, fish-belly complected late Marquess of Westlock had taken a bride of sixteen. Now, apparently, Robert was willing to do the same. It was
no salve to his conscience that the bustling mamas were not only willing to let him wed their daughters but hoping desperately that he would.

  The introductions ended when the first young woman returned, the dance he’d claimed about to commence. Robert bowed and proffered his arm. She placed slightly trembling glove-encased fingers on his sleeve. She cast her mama a determined look as Robert led her toward the assembling dancers.

  To his good fortune, for he hadn’t fully considered the effects of time, the dance was one he knew. It involved an elaborate exchange of paths and partners, affording each participant the chance for stilted conversation with several members of the opposite sex. Robert took his position in the line of gentlemen, checked that he wasn’t scowling, and commenced to execute the formation.

  “The weather is quite fine this spring, don’t you feel, my lord?” his partner said as they met in the middle of the floor and clasped hands.

  Robert noted how fixed her smile was. “Passing fine, yes,” he agreed. They pranced round in a circle, then parted ways. Another couple moved forward.

  “Is it much the same in Egypt, my lord?” his partner asked when they met for a second turn.

  Robert stared at her, seeking a reply that didn’t express his shock that a thinking being wouldn’t know there was a vast difference between the two climates.

  Her smile faltered. A panicked look crept into her blue eyes.

  “No,” Robert finally said, as they drew apart once more. He turned then, to clasp arms with a different young lady while another gentleman turned his partner about.

  “It’s a lovely spring, don’t you think, my lord?” the second young woman said as they turned.

  “Yes. Lovely.” He relinquished her to go to her partner for another pass. Too soon, he was strutting toward the center and his original partner again. He decided the only way to end their rare form of torment was to pose a topic. “Have you ever journeyed outside England?”