Seduction Regency Style

by Louisa Cornell

  “When we visited the ruins last week?” She took a deep breath, like a swimmer about to dive into an icy lake. “I did not want you to know I was there that night. I did not want you to know I was the one who led the duke’s men to you.”

  “You what?” his words came out on a harsh whisper. He glanced back at his brother, who merely shrugged. “You hid us, and then you betrayed us?”

  “I did.”

  “Why?”

  “The duke promised you would not be harmed. I came to Gorffwys Ddraig to find out the truth of his intentions. Men were scouring the county for you. The militia had killed your mother, and some of them were involved in the search. I came here that night, and I heard some men talking. They’d sent the militia to kill all of you, your mother and brothers and you. With your mother dead, they planned to find you and kill you. The duke wanted you alive.” It hurt so much to watch his face as confusion, disbelief, and betrayal chased across his features.

  “I thought my brothers were dead. You betrayed us and put us through that nightmare to keep me safe?”

  “Not entirely,” she said and clutched handfuls of the counterpane in her fists.

  “Rhiannon,” Achilles warned. She looked at her husband’s brother, smiled bitterly, and shook her head.

  “He needs to know it all,” she said, her voice shaking. “I did it to secure your hand in marriage. My father did not trust the duke to keep his word even with the dowry he offered him. Papa did not broach the subject with your grandfather until he had more incentives to offer His Grace than my dowry. Your location, your safe return, was one of them.”

  She’d been shot. She’d fallen from trees in her youth, from her horse only a few months ago. Had a calciner nearly bury her. The pain of those injuries paled next to the pain in her breast as she revealed the desperation of the girl she’d been to have him for her own. A stupid, foolish girl manipulated by her father and a monster who’d used her to capture the grandson he wanted only because he had no one else left.

  “It is nice to know my hand was worth more than mere money,” Endymion snapped and pushed himself out of the chair. “You were willing to sacrifice my brothers’ lives to become a duchess. No wonder my grandfather agreed to the marriage. I am certain he believed a woman like you would breed him ruthless grandsons to carry on the family name.”

  “She didn’t sacrifice our lives, Dymi,” Achilles said as he, too, rose from his chair. “She is the reason we escaped. She led the duke’s men into the dungeon whilst we hid in the priest’s hole.”

  “It doesn’t matter, Achilles,” Rhiannon said wearily. Endymion’s face, his posture—stiff with anger and hurt—told her so. Nothing mattered now.

  “She sent the tavern master from Zennor with horses, money, and food the next morning. We escaped.”

  “Where is Hector?” Endymion demanded.

  “I don’t know. Once we reached Portsmouth, we separated in case we were followed. I went to sea. He went to London. He may well be dead, but if he is, it is not Rhiannon’s fault.”

  “He was ten years old.”

  “And had been riding the roads of the county robbing the coaches of the wealthy with us for over a year. He was a better shot and a bolder rider than either of us,” Achilles’s voice never rose above his normal, quiet tone.

  They were quarreling, and she had no right to interfere. Dammit.

  “You put him in danger,” Achilles said. “I put him in danger. Rhiannon did the best she could to look out for him. If he is dead, whose fault is it, Dymi?”

  “Enough,” Rhiannon cried and held her head.

  Endymion stepped to the bed and sat on the edge of the mattress. He pushed her hands away and lifted the bandage enough to check her wound. “You should rest,” he said. He seemed almost embarrassed by his concern.

  “I have hired a series of Runners since Achilles’s return,” Rhiannon said. She stared at Endymion’s hand resting on the counterpane next to hers. “In ten years, they have found no sign of Hector in London, but they will continue to search so long as I pay them.”

  “You hired Runners in London, but did not pen a single word to let me know my brother was alive.” Endymion stood and began to pace the room again.

  “Had I done so, would you have even known, Your Grace? How many people read your correspondence before you deign to waste your time with it? I wrote letters in the beginning. They were answered by your uncle or not at all.”

  “It wasn’t her fault,” Achilles interrupted. “I made her swear not to tell you.”

  “For God’s sake, why?”

  A sharp, distinct knock at the door produced a sudden silence. Achilles pulled a pistol from the waist of his black breeches. Endymion went to the nightstand and retrieved the pistol Rhiannon kept there. When she raised an inquiring eyebrow, he shrugged and placed himself between her and the door.

  “Oh, for pity’s sake,” she muttered. “Come in, Bea.”

  The maid opened the door just enough to slip inside, a torn, wrinkled piece of parchment in her hand. She gave both men a curious look and curtsied. “Your Graces. My lord.”

  Achilles shook his head.

  Bea crossed the carpets to Rhiannon’s bedside. Endymion stepped aside when it appeared the woman intended to walk over him. She handed Rhiannon the parchment. “Tall William had this from his cousin. A boy brought it to the kitchens door.”

  “What is it?” Endymion demanded.

  “A message for Her Grace,” Bea replied curtly.

  Achilles laughed, which drew a fulminating glare from his brother.

  Rhiannon hid a painful smile. They could afford to tease Endymion. She could not. He was withdrawing from her, the rending tear of it as painful as any wound. Every word, every gesture, drew him farther away from her and back into the role he’d played all these years. She turned her attention to the message.

  Robert Wilson met two men after you left.

  One was a well-dressed gentleman I do not know.

  The other was Captain Randolph.

  She handed the note to her husband, who read it and handed it to his brother.

  “Is that why you came back?” Endymion asked Achilles. “Did you suspect he was—”

  “Involved in our mother’s murder?” Achilles replied with a shrug. “I did. I hoped he would lead us to the other two, but he is far more sly than I ever credited.”

  “You suspected him, and you allowed him to—”

  “I did,” Rhiannon declared. “I was not convinced he was responsible for the accidents, but I suspected him of plundering the estate’s coffers. I decided it was wise to keep my enemy close.”

  “Of course, you did.” Endymion scrubbed his hands over his face. “Is he one of the men you heard that night, Rhee?”

  “I don’t know,” she replied. “I thought I’d never forget those voices, but there was the storm, and when I heard them, all I thought to do was run to Papa. I became lost. Your grandfather never allowed lamps in the corridors at night. When I finally found Papa, he persuaded me to—”

  “Betray me and help deliver me to the parson’s noose like the fatted calf. I remember that part.” He walked across the room to the fireplace and turned to face her, his expression austere to the point of coldness.

  “You made a bad bargain of it, Rhee,” Achilles offered. “Pity it is too late to renege on the deal.”

  “None of this is amusing,” Endymion snapped. “This is my life you are toying with, dammit.”

  “What life, Dymi?” his brother asked. “She may have delivered you into the duke’s hands, but you stayed there quite comfortably these seventeen years. You’ve been living the life he told you to live. When will you start living for yourself?”

  “You have been riding the roads as a highwayman and hiding your existence from me, from your own brother. Whose life are you living?”

  “I hid my existence from you because I did not trust you, Dymi. From all accounts, you have become our grandfather’s creature. And o
ur grandfather may well have been behind all of this—our mother’s murder, the attempt to kill us, the attempts on Rhiannon’s life.” Achilles folded his arms in a typical give-no-quarter pose too similar to his brother to be denied.

  “Our grandfather is dead.”

  “And has a long damned reach, even from the grave,” Achilles affirmed. “He continues to dictate your actions.”

  “Now you sound like my wife,” Endymion replied, each word laced with icy disdain. “Neither of you knew him the way I did. He—”

  “He threw us from the house the day our father died,” Achilles shouted. “It is his fault our mother was forced to work as a tavern maid. It was his fault we were forced to take to robbery to feed ourselves. It is his fault the militia came after us. The militia led by Captain Randolph. The militia that killed our mother. How can I trust you when I never, ever trusted him?”

  Silence settled over the room like a shroud.

  Beatrice crept quietly to the door into Rhiannon’s dressing room. Rhiannon wished she might join her there. It was bad enough Endymion despised her. What would he have left if he and Achilles broke with each other just as they were reunited?

  The two men stared at each other—Achilles arrogant and defiant, Endymion cold and austere, as she had made him with her confession.

  “There is nothing we can do about the past,” Endymion finally said. “If the message from Zennor is true, a man in one of this estate’s most trusted positions has plotted with others to murder my duchess. I am going to set safeguards in place here at Gorffwys Ddraig, and then Lord Voil and I will go in search of Robert Wilson and his master. Will you ride with me?” he asked his brother.

  “Always,” Achilles replied.

  Endymion turned to Rhiannon, his hands once more clasped tightly behind his back. He appeared more reserved and distant than the day he’d arrived in Cornwall. Had it been less than three weeks ago?

  “You will do me the favor of keeping to your chambers until this man is found. I cannot afford to risk the lives of the household running after you.”

  “As you wish, Your Grace. Are you certain you would not prefer to lock me in the cellar?” She had lied to him, true, but she’d not live the rest of her life as the duke’s cowed and subservient wife. She’d worked too hard to become a woman worthy of the title her father had bought for her.

  “I would if I thought it might hold you. We will discuss this day’s revelations further once this business of your safety is done.” He gave her one of the constrained bows she so despised and marched to the door.

  “To what end, Your Grace? I am already tried and convicted. What is left to discuss?”

  He hesitated, his hand flat against the door. Then he squared his shoulders and left.

  Rhiannon collapsed against the pillows. Tears, unshed over years of loneliness and shame, clogged the back of her throat. Her eyes burned as if forced open against a salty wind. “You must stay, Achilles. You must stay with him. He will never forgive me, and he will need you.”

  Her highwayman brother-in-law strolled to her bedside, sat down, and took her hand. “He came back for you, Rhee. Against all the ghosts and pain and guilt, he came back for you.”

  “He came back for an heir, an heir to your damned grandfather’s title. Nothing more.”

  “Tell yourself that if it helps. I can tell you from experience, lying to yourself may help for a while, but it will not help forever.” He kissed her hand, rose, and walked to where Beatrice held his plumed hat in her hand. “You will look after her, Miss Smith?”

  “Of course, sir.” Beatrice curtsied, then handed him his hat. Her eyes followed him as he crossed the room and went out the door.

  “The duke isn’t the only de Waryn brother who is criminal handsome, is he, my friend?” Amidst the rubble of her breaking heart, Rhiannon held hope her wounded friend and her rogue of a brother-in-law might become more than friends.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Beatrice replied, her face still flushed. “You told him. His Grace, I mean. He knows it all now.”

  “Not quite all,” Rhiannon said.

  “No,” Beatrice agreed. “Not quite all. What do you intend to do?”

  “I don’t think he will ever forgive me, Bea. What can I do?”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Endymion swung into the saddle and turned his horse back the way they’d come. He’d spent last night securing every inch of Gorffwys Ddraig against the one enemy he now knew and a hoard of others he suspected. Every male servant, those he’d brought from London and those in service at the house, had been armed and assigned posts. Even Babcock and poor Meeks, Endymion’s valet, had been pressed into service. Between them, Endymion and his brother remembered every possible hidden door and coal chute, every window where one might pry a latch.

  His brother.

  Even now, he scarcely believed the taciturn man riding next to him was Achilles, the brother he’d thought lost to him. The man Rhiannon had supposedly saved and then kept hidden for no reason Endymion understood. He didn’t understand any of it, and he didn’t understand the pulsing ache in his chest when his thoughts turned to his wife and all she’d done to betray him and prove his grandfather right.

  “Do we have a plan or are we to simply follow you until you ride into the sea?” Voil’s question stopped Endymion’s mind from wandering to Rhiannon for the thousandth time since the marquess and Achilles had insisted on riding out with him just after dawn.

  Endymion pulled up his horse and surveyed the fields on one side of the lane and the forests on the other. He looked back to the rather fine manor house their quarry called home. The man’s servants had balked at admitting them until they realized the Duke of Pendeen was at the door. He, Voil, and Achilles had made quick work of searching the house in spite of the servants’ assurances Captain Randolph was not at home.

  “If he hired the men who overtook our coach, he will know by now something has gone wrong,” Endymion said. “If the fact we survived has reached him—”

  “If?” Voil fought to control his horse as it danced nervously in the middle of the road. “The only servants who gossip worse than those in London are those who work in a country house. There is nothing else to occupy their time.”

  “Not this country house,” Achilles replied, the most he’d spoken since Endymion had introduced him to Voil. “The duchess’s household is loyal to her to the death. They keep her secrets as their own. No word of last night’s events came from Gorffwys Ddraig.”

  “How can you be so certain?” Voil asked.

  “I have been back in Cornwall and in communication with Her Grace these ten years, when all of England believes me dead.”

  “I take your point,” Voil agreed.

  Endymion swallowed against the bitterness and rage roiling in his veins. “I have no doubt the household—hell, the entire estate—is more than capable of keeping secrets. They have taken their instruction from their mistress.”

  Voil and Achilles exchanged a look and turned their horses toward Gorffwys Ddraig.

  “Where are you going?” Endymion asked as he urged his horse after them.

  “To find some food and a warm bed for an hour or two,” Voil replied. “This villain has gone to ground, Pendeen. I hunt neither fox nor partridge nor man without some food in my belly.”

  “He’s right. We’ve been at this for hours,” Achilles agreed, even as he divided his attention between the road ahead and the way behind, as alert as any fox upon hearing the first cries of the pack. “If he wasn’t alerted before now, his servants will see to it.”

  “There are at least a dozen places between here and the house where he might be. I want to search—”

  “Tall William has cousins in every village in the county,” Achilles snapped. “If our man pokes his head into a tavern, inn, blacksmith’s or bakehouse, we will know of it within the hour. You aren’t looking for the man Wilson met at The Mermaid’s Tale. You are looking for a way to avoid your wife.” />
  “I still cannot believe you went to The Mermaid’s Tale and left me behind,” Voil groused as they walked their weary horses down the country lane marked on either side by towering gorse hedges. “If we did not encounter this villain, we might have at least caught sight of the famous ghost. I would dearly like to have seen her so I might—”

  “Look at my brother,” Endymion suggested, suddenly too tired to play the duke with his friend. “He looks very like her.”

  “She was our mother,” Achilles replied to Voil’s grim face and unasked question. “She was murdered in the room where we lived above The Mermaid’s Tale and the man we seek was likely involved.”

  “Dear God,” Voil murmured. “I did not know. Pendeen, I—”

  “God was not there,” Endymion said. “If he was, he did not heed three young boys when they heard the news and prayed it was not true.”

  “How is it you were spared?” Voil asked.

  “We were—” Endymion started.

  “We were riding the county as highwaymen, robbing our grandfather’s wealthy friends and neighbors,” Achilles said with a grin Endymion was seeing for the first time.

  “Wait.” Voil pulled his horse to a complete stop. “The Duke of Pendeen, the most upright, stiff-rumped, rigidly scheduled peer ever to take up a cause in Parliament, was a highwayman?”

  “A good one, too,” Achilles added.

  Voil roared with laughter, which flushed a covey of birds from beneath the hedges.

  “I will never hear the end of it now,” Endymion complained as he struggled to keep his shying horse from rearing.

  They urged their horses forward once more.

  “You never told him any of this? Your closest friend?” Achilles asked as they passed through the gates at the head of the drive to Gorffwys Ddraig. “It seems your duchess isn’t the only one who keeps secrets.”

  “She bartered our lives for a title, Achilles. She betrayed us and kept it from me for seventeen years. How can I ever trust her again?”