Seductive as Flame

by Susan Johnson

  “He’s a darling little boy. We were teaching him how to jump his pony. He’s very quick to learn.”

  “And so adorable. Alec dotes on him, as do I. It’s quite wonderful to have a child in the house.”

  Zelda didn’t inquire whether Chris’s mother lived in the house, but she rather thought not. Nor did the dowager enlighten her. “I couldn’t agree more,” Zelda said instead. “I raised my four brothers and sister so I’m used to having children about. In fact, I miss the tumult now that they’ve all grown. I’ve been traveling a good deal in order to keep busy.”

  “Alec mentioned you’d spent time orchid hunting in Brazil. You must see my orchids.”

  Good God, he’d apparently sent his mother an extensive biography. She didn’t know whether to be flattered or concerned. Did she require vetting by his mother? Did he require that she be vetted by his mother was more to the point. On the other hand, the dowager appeared to be extremely pleasant, and Zelda had no intention of impinging on their lives for long. How could it matter who needed vetting or why?

  WHILE THE LADIES chatted over drinks, Alec swiftly made his way to the back of the house where his offices were located, his thoughts on the latest catastrophe in the making. It was bad enough that he was dealing with a corrupt judicial system, now Rhodes was recruiting a militia and preparing for an insurrection in the Transvaal. The last telegram he’d received at Crosstrees had relayed the information in code. Not that he wasn’t aware of Cecil Rhodes’ vision to incorporate the Transvaal and the Orange Free State in a federation under British control. But he risked losing his mines if things went wrong—if the insurrection failed, if Germany intervened, if some jingoistic politician in London wanted to make a name for himself and hostilities escalated. Damn greedy bastards. He got along just fine with Paul Kruger, president of the Transvaal Republic.

  Swearing under his breath, he shoved open the office door, came to a halt on the threshold, and quickly scanned the room. Everyone was still at their desks.

  “I hear we have trouble,” Alec said.

  A collective groan went up, and Fulton, his office manager, came forward to meet him, his broad face unmarked by anxiety. “Not if you want to finance your own army,” he said with a cheerful roll of his eyes.

  “We may have to.” Alec shut the door behind him. “How many days do we have before these idiots go to war?”

  He spent the remainder of the night with his staff, planning for every possible contingency, ordering up men and arms to protect his mining properties, sending pointed messages to various politicians, preparing for additional supplies to be brought up for his miners should they come under siege. Debating how far to publically involve himself in the imminent disaster.

  Toward dawn, he and Fulton were the last men left; everyone else had gone off to bed. Maurice—mention the name at your own risk—Fulton was lying on the conference table in the middle of the room, his hands under his head, a whiskey bottle at his side. An ex-sergeant in Her Majesty’s grenadiers, Fulton was a large man like Dalgliesh, with iron nerve and the instincts of a coldblooded killer. Both of which had come in handy more than once in South Africa. Alec and Fulton had prospected together and survived a scrap or two or ten. Standing back-to-back, they could take on a platoon, in fact, had once out in the bush and lived to tell the tale.

  Alec’s feet were parked on his desktop, his head rested against the pleated leather of his chair back, a silver flask held loosely in one hand. A hint of exhaustion softened his voice as he spoke. “Can this be handled without my sailing south, or must I carry the message in person? I’d prefer not going.”

  Fulton turned his head. “Knowles can take care of it.” He smiled at his employer. “I saw her. I can see why you wouldn’t want to leave England.”

  A slight widening of Alec’s eyes. “You saw her?”

  Fulton grinned. “Had to see Rhodes’ competition for myself.” Alec hadn’t responded to all the earlier warning telegrams save for a repeated, Keep me posted. “Your wife’s going to froth at the mouth.”

  “She has already. Which reminds me. I need more guards on the premises.”

  “Good idea. I’d suggest a good barrister, too.”

  Alec’s gaze narrowed. “For?”

  “For your divorce, of course. Don’t tell me you brought this ravishing woman to your home only to ravish her. You could have done that anywhere. Or left her at Crosstrees.”

  The flask halfway to Alec’s mouth was checked. “You know that, do you?”

  “Let’s just say I’ve watched you roger your way around the world, and not once have you invited one of the little coquettes home to meet your mother.”

  “I suppose you have a barrister in mind,” Dalgliesh drawled before putting the flask to his mouth and drinking deeply.

  “Damn right. No one better than Fitzwilliam. He’s the biggest gun of the day, the best hatchet man in the business, a real human hawk in court. And he has charm aplenty. He can even charm the mirthless, pigheaded Queen.”

  “How’s he in bed?” Alec asked, snapping the lid back on his flask. “Violetta prefers to be charmed in bed.”

  “He’s a dedicated lecher and self-confessed amorist who doesn’t mind doing a little business in the boudoir if it comes to that.”

  Alec laughed. “Christ, he’s perfect. Do you get a finder’s fee?”

  “Of course. A fair exchange, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Hell yes. Send him a message. Have him come up.”

  “When?”

  “As soon as possible. I’ve finally reached the end of my rope.”

  “No, you finally found someone who mattered.”

  “Yes. I did. Which reminds me.” Dropping his feet on the floor, Dalgliesh stood and nodded at his cohort. “Wake me if you have to. Otherwise, I’ll come down in a few hours. You’d better get some sleep, too. God only knows what these greedy pricks will do next.”

  CHAPTER 22

  THE FOLLOWING DAYS were lovely and bewildering and unthinkably sad for Zelda because she knew eventually her season in paradise would end. Alec was sweetly solicitous, coming to her whenever he could, making excuses to everyone when he shouldn’t be leaving to see her and did anyway, making love to her with a kind of feverish impatience, with tenderness, with explicit lust and disarming affection. Insisting she stay when she talked of going. Telling her he was going to divorce his wife and marry her. That said near dawn one morning when he’d finally come upstairs to bed.

  Pushing herself up on her elbows, Zelda gazed at Alec, who was rapidly stripping off his clothes. “Is that a proposal?”

  “A proposal?” Preoccupied with Knowles’ last wire, he wasn’t sure what she meant. He paused in his unbuttoning.

  “A marriage proposal.”

  Ah—enlightenment. “Yes, as a matter of fact it is. Say yes.” He went on unbuttoning his trousers. “Make me a happy man.”

  Her heart was beating like a drum, but she was a woman first. “Might you be a bit more romantic?”

  “Sorry, darling. Everything’s in chaos right now. Now, then,” he briskly said, kicking aside consideration of Knowles’ message along with his trousers and moving toward the bed, splendidly nude and aroused, “I’d be honored and delighted if you’d consent to be my wife, my love, my partner, my friend.” Pulling aside the covers, he lowered himself between her legs with practiced finesse, slipped his hand under her elbows so she tumbled back, and bending his head, brushed her lips with his. “I promise to adore you forever. I promise to make you happy. I promise to give you babies. Say yes. You have to say yes.” He was focused now, his heart in his eyes.

  How could she not when she loved him beyond reason. “Yes, even if I can’t. Even if you can’t. Even if it’s impossible.”

  He shook his head. “Just yes.”

  Tears filled her eyes. “Then, yes.”

  “There now, that wasn’t so hard,” he said with a grin. Then he kissed away her tears, made her happy in ways he’d perfected long ago, a
nd recklessly gave himself up to the wonders of love. For a man who’d learned long ago to control his emotions, who’d managed his life with circumspection, who only took calculated risks, it was a huge sea change.

  But he wanted this. And he’d have it.

  One way or the other.

  In the days that followed, while Alec was feverishly involved in plans to avert disaster in Johannesburg, Zelda filled her hours with riding or entertaining Chris—in the nursery, schoolroom, or at the jumps—often with Alec, who always took time out of his day for Chris. He was a conscientious, loving parent, unlike his own father or because of it. Or simply because he loved the boy.

  Although Alec’s mother was often in the schoolroom with Chris, he and Zelda would also visit with her as well during the course of the day. Due to the dowager countess’s delicate health, she kept a light schedule—sleeping late, resting in the afternoon, ordering her household from her desk in her sitting room with the help of a secretary and two assistants. And while she rarely went out in society, she had a vast friendship, all of whom kept her up-to-date on the latest gossip. She was an amusing conversationalist, an excellent mimic, and an insightful observer of the human condition. But Zelda liked it best when she related boyhood stories of Alec.

  “In fact,” the dowager countess said one afternoon over tea, after recounting a tale of her son’s youthful escapades with his friends and, of all things, an elephant, “once this crisis in South Africa has passed, I wouldn’t be surprised if Alec has a dinner party so some of his friends can meet you. They’re all quite entertaining. You’d like them.”

  Which comments prompted a question Zelda didn’t vocalize: Would Violetta concern herself with her husband’s dinner party? But the dowager countess never spoke of Violetta, nor did Chris. It was almost as though she didn’t exist. Unfortunately, she did, as she’d made clear to Zelda at Groveland Chase not long ago.

  But demons were verboten in paradise.

  Just as lovesick inamoratas were forbidden to think of the future. It was more gratifying to live in the dream.

  Alec, on the other hand, was fully intent on the practicalities, and that afternoon Fitzwilliam was seated across his desk from him.

  Fulton had met the barrister as he stepped down from the carriage that had been sent into London for him since the weather was too chill for Dalgliesh’s new Mercedes motorcar and the train schedule was unfavorable. The men had chatted on the way to Alec’s study, where Fulton had introduced the earl, declined the coffee that was being served, and returned to the office, where a betting pool was generating excitement. Everyone was laying odds on how much it was going to cost the earl to shed his wife.

  “I don’t care how much it costs,” Alec was saying to Fitzwilliam at the moment as though in tune with his wagering employees. “I suppose you hear that often.”

  “Actually, no, I hear the opposite. Most men want to pay as little as possible.”

  “Perhaps most men aren’t married to a wife like mine.”

  The barrister smiled faintly. “Now that I do hear quite often. I’m assuming another lady is involved.” At Dalgliesh’s obvious surprise, Fitzwilliam added, “There generally is, my lord. Otherwise a man would continue muddling through.”

  “No doubt. I, however, have come to the point where muddling through, as you put it, no longer appeals. So the question is, how quickly can you get me a divorce?”

  “It’s a rather drawn-out affair I’m afraid.”

  Alec held the man’s gaze for a telling moment. “I don’t want it to be drawn out.”

  The barrister pursed his lips. He was a diplomatic man. That was why Wales confided in him, why peeresses whispered their secrets to him, why prime ministers sought his advice.

  “I don’t know whether the courts in England operate like they do in most other countries,” Alec went on, ignoring the man’s silence, “but if they do, pay whomever you have to pay to expedite the proceedings. Money’s no object.”

  Now that he never heard. “Maurice said you were in earnest.”

  “You mean you have clients who aren’t?”

  Fitzwilliam shrugged, his fine tailoring accommodating his gesture without a ripple. “Some. Not many mind you, but there’s the occasional man who’s still in love and can’t quite pull the trigger, so to speak.”

  “I’m quite willing to fire a complete artillery barrage.” Alec met Fitzwilliam’s calm gaze as calmly. “I trust we understand each other. When you speak to my wife’s counsel, I wish that point be made perfectly clear. I’ll go to any lengths to end this marriage. See that she understands that.” He lifted his hand from his chair arm and signaled his next remark with a flick of his fingers. “I don’t care to know any of the details. Do whatever you have to do.”

  Fitzwilliam never missed a word or a look or a gesture in any of several languages; his understanding was acute. This unsmiling man knew exactly what he wanted and was coldly determined to get it. “Very well. I’ll file the papers tomorrow. One word of caution, my lord. The court proceedings are published. You know that, I assume.” Even the venerable Times devoted considerable column space to the lascivious details of divorce cases—who said what to whom, who did what to whom, every syllable spoken, every expression worn, every wild, shocking, disgusting, distressing moment revealed.

  “I know,” Alec crisply said. “And I don’t care. Do you need me to sign anything today?”

  Fitzwilliam reached inside his coat, fetched out a folded sheet of paper, and slid it across the desk to Dalgliesh. “The order to proceed, my lord.”

  “Where do I sign—ah—I see.” Alec reached for a pen from a splendid silver ink stand—a model in miniature of his yacht. He signed without reading the document; he trusted Fulton’s judgment. “By the way,” he said, handing the paper back, “I should mention, I’ll require custody of my wife’s son. I trust that can be accomplished.”

  Fitzwilliam swallowed hard. When in the past, the husband had always been given custody, since 1873 the courts were allowed to award custody as they saw fit. And in the last decade, it had become morally acceptable to grant custody of young children to their mother. Furthermore, Dalgliesh wasn’t the boy’s father, although that fact could be overlooked under extenuating circumstances. The barrister asked the crucial question. “How old is the boy?”

  “Six.”

  His fist closed on the paper. Fitzwilliam rarely disclosed his feelings. But this wasn’t court, nor a public setting, and the earl’s answer was devastating.

  “Apparently there’s some problem,” Alec softly said, watching the barrister flinch.

  “The boy isn’t yours. Is that so?” A final check.

  “Yes. But his mother’s a danger to him. He’s afraid of her. Does that help?”

  Fitzwilliam’s relief was immediate, but then he didn’t like losing. “Indeed, it helps a great deal,” he said with a sudden smile, followed quickly by a slight frown. “You have witnesses who will confirm this?”

  “Any number you like. The countess sees her son rarely, and when she does, he’s disturbed for quite some time afterward.”

  “I’m sorry to hear it,” the barrister respectfully said. “But the boy depends on you, I’m told. An advantage, my lord. And in terms of a custody suit, the boy’s fear will be of great value.” Fitzwilliam returned the creased paper to his coat pocket. “The judge will require more than hearsay, however.”

  “The boy’s nanny will prove an excellent witness if it comes to that. She’s of frightening competence and keeps a definitive diary of, say—useful events. She’s a real champion for the boy.” About to go on, Alec hesitated briefly. Then having made a decision, he said, “One more thing.”

  Fitzwilliam braced himself. He’d heard that phrase in that tone of voice before. “It’s best to be forthcoming, my lord. Surprises in court tend to be dangerous.”

  “Violetta’s not likely to divulge this information.” Alec rubbed his cheek with his fingertips, having reached a point that he
’d given four years of his life to avoid. He was about to tell a stranger what he’d long concealed. The irony didn’t escape him—he of all people taking this risk for love. “There’s another child,” he said. “It’s essential I have custody of her as well.” He went on to relay an account that, if revealed, would be tragic for people who mattered to him. As for Violetta, he’d willingly expose her depravity, he added at the end, if not for the pain it would cause his mother.

  “I see,” Fitzwilliam replied, his breathing somewhat altered. “As you suggest, we won’t bring it up unless it’s absolutely necessary.” He was rarely shocked, but without question, the earl’s disclosures were lurid.

  “I’ll rely on your expertise in such matters, although you understand it’s the last thing I wish the world to know. Our advantage is Violetta wishes the facts kept secret even more than I.” As for the information he’d kept to himself, there was no possibility Violetta would bring it to light. Those details, at least, would remain private. He leaned back in his chair, satisfied as far as it was possible with his life about to become even more notorious. “So everything will soon be entrain, I assume?”

  “Yes, my lord.” Such redoubtable assurance came from possessing enormous wealth. One’s wishes were rarely thwarted.

  The earl regarded Fitzwilliam with a polite smile. “And I can hope for an expeditious process?”

  “I’ll do my best, sir, but the Court of Chancery moves at its own pace.”

  “When you learn of the magistrate assigned my case, give me his name. I’ll see what I can do. There’s always friends of friends—that sort of thing,” the earl said incidentally. “It never hurts to personally put one’s case to a judge.”

  No doubt when one owned diamond mines all things were possible. “I’ll see that you have the name, sir.”

  “I’ll thank you in advance then. Let me know if there’s anything you need. My secretary can send it along, or should you require my personal attention, please feel free to enlist it. Is that all then?”