The Seducer

by Madeline Hunter

  “I love the sea,” Hampton said. They were the first words he had spoken in an hour. “It is the best example of the sublime. I am actually glad I did not go back to town today.”

  “I hate the sea,” Daniel replied. He had never understood this poetic nonsense about the sublime, but if the sea was an example of it, he hated the sublime too.

  “An odd sentiment, St. John,” Vergil said. “The sea made your fortune.”

  Daniel did not care that it had made his fortune. He had spent years bobbing over its waves, but he disliked it intensely.

  He hated its unpredictability and its vastness. He detested the way it made a man feel small and at the mercy of fate. He resented how its rhythmic waves had a way of washing up truths from the depths of one’s soul.

  Of all the things men did to pretend they could impose human will on the sea, sportfishing had always struck him as the most idiotic. It was a form of dueling, only the opponent was primeval in nature.

  He stood on an outcropping of rock between Vergil and Hampton, their long poles part of a whole ridiculous array of them. Along with the other men of the party, they pitted their puny skills against the most eternal force on the planet. A few fish had actually been landed, to great cheers and excitement.

  Vergil had caught a huge slick one. Hampton had not, but had been so lost in contemplation he had not shown the slightest boredom.

  Only young Dante displayed restlessness. He sat on the ground beside his brother’s legs, showing impatience with the sport and not at all impressed by the holy sublime either.

  “When do you think the ladies will get here?” he asked.

  Yes, when the hell would they get here? When would she get here? Daniel had forced himself to not look to the road for their approach, but his ears kept listening for the sound of carriages.

  “I would have thought you’d had your fill,” Vergil muttered as he shot an annoyed glance down at his brother’s head. “You do realize, I hope, that if some husband ever calls you out, you are a dead man.”

  “Speaking of which, it may be time for him to begin lessons with the chevalier,” Hampton said. “Considering his taste in athletic endeavors, it would be money well spent.”

  Dante looked up, suddenly more boy than man. “You don’t really think I’d get called out, do you? It isn’t as if any of the old farts really care, after all.”

  “Being cuckolded by a boy not even out of university might make even a jaded man care,” Vergil said.

  “Hardly a boy. You aren’t so much older than I am—”

  “Old enough to know a thing or two about discretion—”

  Daniel stopped hearing their bickering. Another sound absorbed his attention.

  Carriages approached.

  Finally.

  He made a display of watching his line instead of looking to the road as he ached to do. Through sound alone he judged her approach as he fought to conquer the rising, almost maddening, expectation.

  Gritting his teeth, he stared at the sea, but that meant the damn waves did their worst, forcing memories of passion and pleasure to eddy through him. Possessive urges flared from the hot coals of desire that had been burning in him for weeks.

  He closed his eyes and forced containment on his reactions. He was being more boyish than Dante. More reckless. He did not even know what to say when he saw her again. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to say.

  “Ah, the ladies have arrived,” a voice down the line of men called.

  Daniel waited until the carriages stopped before drawing in his line. Servants began laying out cloths and baskets on the grassy hill beyond the road.

  He spied the earl looking sharply at one carriage. Following the direction of his glare, Daniel saw the countess being handed out.

  Two other ladies followed her. Daniel waited for one more head to appear at the opening. A beautiful one, with soulful eyes that could make a man forget himself.

  Instead, the footman closed the carriage door.

  Daniel surveyed the party, searching for Diane.

  He made his way toward the countess. She stood amidst three women who were managing to talk around her and through her. Taking her leave as if she had been included, she met him halfway with a smile of gratitude.

  “How kind of you to arrive to save me, Mr. St. John.”

  “I would be happy to be your company, but I am wondering where my cousin is.”

  “She stayed back at the house, to sleep. It was thoughtless of me to keep her up so late last night, and she felt very tired this morning. I confess that I was tempted to call off as well but . . .” She glanced meaningfully toward the earl, and then at her companions from the carriage. “One must keep up appearances and be brave, and all that.”

  Daniel would have much preferred the countess giving in to her inclinations to hide. Her bravery meant that Diane had been left unchaperoned. There was no reason for the countess to be concerned about that, but Daniel certainly was.

  Another member of the party had not shown the countess’s courage. Andrew Tyndale had also begged off this excursion.

  Which meant that Diane was not entirely alone in that house with the servants.

  “I apologize, but I will not be able to be your company after all. Your brother will see to you, I am sure. I feel obliged to return to the house, to make sure my cousin is not ill.”

  “I am sure she is not. Merely tired—”

  He turned on his heel and strode toward his carriage without waiting for the rest. He noticed Vergil and Hampton catch sight of him. Their quick frowns and deliberate interception of him at the carriage suggested that he was not hiding his concern well.

  “I am returning to the house, Duclairc. Your sister could use your attendance right now.”

  “You are going back? Why?”

  “My cousin stayed behind. She is ill, and I should see to her.”

  “I’m sure if it was serious that Pen—”

  “I will go and check, in any case.” He gestured to his coachman that they would be off.

  Vergil’s hand caught Daniel’s arm as he stepped into the carriage. “I think that I will come with you. Dining al fresco bores me.”

  Daniel looked at that hand and then at Vergil. The disapproval Vergil had shown at the brook flickered in his bright blue eyes.

  “You sister needs you by her side, and I require no assistance.”

  “All the same—”

  “Allow me to return instead,” Hampton said. “The sudden intrusion of all of this noise has ruined the day for me. I think that I will ride back to London after all. You won’t mind getting me to my horse, will you, St. John?”

  Hampton, who rarely smiled, did so now with a benign firmness that said Daniel would not be returning alone to the house and an unchaperoned Diane.

  Hell. It was unlikely Vergil had confided his suspicions. Hampton must have sensed what was between them last night during cards.

  Who else had seen it? The countess?

  Tyndale?

  He should thrash them both for the insult of implying he couldn’t be trusted with her.

  Except, of course, that they were right.

  He leapt into the carriage. “Come along if you want. Damned if I care.”

  chapter 16

  Diane waited impatiently, rehearsing what she would say when she met the vicar. Visions of a tearful reunion played out in her mind, little dramas written over the years as she lay in bed at school.

  She worked hard at stopping their progress. The vicar might not even agree to see her. He might not be a relative at all. He could be such a distant one that he had no interest in an association.

  Despite telling herself all that, the anticipation kept building. For a half hour after Mister Tyndale left, she was able to contain it, but as more time passed it grew and grew.

  She went to the window for the twentieth time, to look down the street for the carriage. Brinley was not a large village, and this was a very tiny inn. Mister Tyndale had generous
ly paid for a chamber so that she would not have to wait in the common room.

  It was a humble but pretty chamber. Muslin curtains draped the window and bed. Cheery yellow pillows decked the simple blue coverlet. It was the sort of room she had assumed she would have when she went to Paris with Daniel. Instead, he had put her inside a blue-and-white porcelain vase.

  A carriage came into view. Even when it was still a dot, she knew it was Mister Tyndale. Her heart raced. She tried to compose herself, struggled to tame the hope. She could not, and finally she bolted to run down.

  Mister Tyndale was already at the chamber door when she opened it.

  “Was he there? Did you see him?”

  “He was there.”

  “What did he say? Will he see me?”

  “I am very sorry to have to disappoint you, Miss Albret. He knows nothing of you and is sure there is no relationship. He is a crusty old fellow and saw no advantage in having the meeting that you sought.”

  The excitement disappeared as if a fist had punched it out of her. Its instant absence left the void emptier than ever before. It became so big that it might have enclosed her.

  She walked to the window and looked out, to hide her reaction. Tears wanted to flow. They backed up in her chest and throat, the lack of release making her miserable.

  “It pains me deeply that this has distressed you so.”

  She felt a warmth on her shoulder. His hand rested there, a small offering of sympathy. The fatherly gesture helped a tiny bit.

  “I blame myself. I should have pled your case better.”

  “If there is no relationship, there is no purpose in the meeting. I thank you for going and sparing me the embarrassment of intruding on a stranger with no ties to me.”

  She turned to him and his hand fell away. He appeared so worried that she felt guilty. “I will be fine. It is just that I have so little family, I had hoped to discover more, that is all.”

  “Well, you still have your cousin.”

  “Yes. My cousin.”

  Except he wasn’t a cousin and she would not have him any longer. She realized that she had pinned a lot of unacknowledged plans on this old vicar. Without admitting it, she had counted on having a place to go when she left Daniel. Now she wasn’t sure where she would go or how she would live.

  “You are distressed. I worried that you would be. Before I left, I asked that dinner be prepared for us. I just took the liberty of asking for it to be brought up here so that you do not have to dine below where others will see and watch.”

  “That was very thoughtful of you. I confess that I am not sure that I could hide my emotions well, and can do without the company of others.”

  He smiled gently. “Will you accept mine, at least? It may help if you are not totally alone. Some conversation might distract you.”

  “Oh, I did not mean you. You have been so considerate and helpful, that I . . . well, I welcome your company. Although I am not very hungry.”

  “You must eat something all the same. It would not do if I brought you back faint from hunger.”

  Right now she did not want to go back at all, ever. She would have to, of course. Eventually. Before she did, however, she wanted some time to steady herself and assess what this disappointment meant to her future.

  The innkeeper arrived with his wife and daughter, carrying trays of food. They moved the small table near the window and dragged in another chair. At a subtle gesture from Mister Tyndale, the woman untied the muslin bed drapes so that the function of the room became obscured.

  “It smells very good,” Diane said, going over to inspect the meal after they all left. There was fowl in some sauce, and potatoes and bread. A bottle of wine waited as well.

  “Simple country food,” Mister Tyndale said. “I prefer it to the exotic dishes served at some London parties.”

  “So do I.”

  He gestured to her chair. She settled down. “I think that you are one of the kindest people I have met, Mister Tyndale.”

  He smiled modestly as he poured some wine. “Any gentleman would do the same, Miss Albret. Now, let us see about improving your spirits so that you are smiling once again.”

  For an hour he distracted her with conversation. His voice and consideration acted as a balm. The disappointment retreated until it became no more than a thin veil tinting her mood.

  “Miss Albret, forgive me if I am prying, but today’s events appeared to affect you deeply. Was it important to you to discover other family? Are you unhappy with your situation?”

  The question, asked as she pricked her fork into a cream tartlet, made the veil flutter.

  “I would not say that I am unhappy, but I have been thinking that it may be good to make a change in my circumstances.” She was not sure why she admitted that. It simply was out of her mouth, a result of the familiarity and ease which the day had bred between them.

  “I think that you may be right.”

  “What do you mean?”

  His expression became serious and thoughtful. “I risk your displeasure in saying what I am about to, but as a gentleman concerned for your welfare, I see no choice. There has been talk, I am sorry to say.”

  “Talk?”

  “Do not be alarmed. Very little, and mere speculation. Well, what with St. John appearing out of nowhere, with no history, rich as sin and most likely by ill-begotten means. There are rumors that he literally seduced his way into those circles you now enjoy. Now a cousin appears, also with no history . . . the way he warns men off, the way he danced with you at that ball . . . what can I say? There have been some whispers.”

  The Earl of Glasbury had insinuated as much, so she was not too shocked. All the same, she suddenly liked Mister Tyndale a lot less.

  He misunderstood her silence. “Miss Albret, please forgive me for asking this, I know it is really not my place, but you are so innocent and young—has your cousin in any way importuned you? I have been worrying about that since last night. While we played cards I sensed that you were afraid of him, and that his interest in you was not entirely proper.”

  “You are mistaken, I assure you.”

  His expression cleared at once. “That is a relief, and what I hoped to hear. When you spoke of thinking that it would be wise to change your situation—”

  “I did not mean that I needed to escape my cousin,” she lied, uncomfortable with the direction this conversation had taken. Mister Tyndale might be kind and fatherly, but he wasn’t her father. “I referred to more practical things. I have no fortune, and little future in the circles I have been visiting. It has been enjoyable, but it may be good to find a more realistic path. I do not want to be one of those poor relations who is forever dependent.”

  “An admirable sentiment.” He set his elbows on the table, clasped his hands, rested his chin on them, and looked at her very directly. “I want you to know, however, that if you are ever in need of any help, I would be honored to be of assistance.”

  It was a comment very typical of Mister Tyndale. Kind and solicitous. And yet . . . Diane could not suppress a little twinge of caution. His blue eyes appeared as open and honest as always, incredibly concerned, but for the smallest instant she thought she had seen a tiny, alarming spark.

  “I would like you to think of me as your friend,” he continued. “I will admit, at the risk that you will laugh, that I hope that one day you will think of me as more than a friend.”

  The table suddenly seemed very small and his face very close. A pleasant, sincere face still, but more of those sparks entered his eyes, changing everything.

  Astonishment rendered her immobile and speechless.

  Suddenly his arm spanned the table and his hand cradled her chin. “I know that there is a great difference in our ages, but that is not so unusual. I have admired you since we first met. I hope that you will at least consider my affections, and that your cousin will not object if I present myself as a suitor.”

  Suitor!

  She just stared.
<
br />   He rose from his chair and leaned over the table.

  Her confused mind could not comprehend why he should do that.

  He showed her why.

  Nice, kind, sincere Mister Tyndale kissed her, and moved his body around the table as he did so.

  “There is no proof that he followed her.”

  Hampton offered the reassurance as the coach careened around a bend in the road. “He did not call for his carriage until long after she had left, and he may have taken a different road entirely.”

  “If he did, we will learn of it soon enough and you can tell me I was a fool,” Daniel said.

  They had arrived back at the house to discover both Tyndale and Diane absent. It had taken an insufferably long time to locate anyone who knew where Diane had gone. Finally, the housekeeper had produced a girl named Mary who had related the information about the vicar in Fenwood.

  Daniel had not had any time to wonder what Diane might discover from the vicar. The groom who had prepared Tyndale’s carriage had arrived soon after, and the conviction that Tyndale had followed Diane had lodged in Daniel’s head with determination, leaving room for nothing else.

  He kept his gaze on the countryside rushing by, looking for evidence of her, or Tyndale. Or both of them.

  “Do you suspect this was because of last night?” Hampton asked. “He seems a decent fellow. Everyone says so. I would not expect him to get back at you through her.”

  Except he wasn’t a decent fellow. He would delight in getting back at someone this way, because he had a weakness for innocent girls with refined manners and white skin and dark hair. He especially liked it if they were helpless and dependent on him, and devoid of protection.

  The coach rushed through Witham and turned onto a dirt road. It had to slow then. The delay made Daniel furious.

  Hampton appeared remarkably calm, but then he always did. It annoyed Daniel that the solicitor did not appreciate the danger that they rushed to avert.

  “If you are so sure of Tyndale’s decency, I don’t know why you insisted on accompanying me.”