The Seducer

by Madeline Hunter

  She never returned to Daniel’s house. Instead, she directed the coach to a street where she changed to a hired vehicle, and took that one to Margot’s house. The next day she sent for a trunk of practical clothing, and instructed Margot’s servant to refuse to say where the trunk was going. She did not want Daniel knowing where she was yet, although she sent a letter assuring Jeanette that she was safe. On learning that she had left Daniel, Margot left her to heal and plan.

  She was not ready to do either. A horrible ache numbed and distracted her. It was as if the void had returned and come alive and taken over her body and spirit. She veered from anger to desolation to wrenching disappointment. She saw her time with Daniel, every detail, over and over in her mind, despite her efforts not to think of him at all.

  Beneath the heartbreaking anguish there flowed another emotion, just as devastating. A longing for things to have been different. A wistful regret that even her memories of gentle intimacy had been ruined.

  She did not accompany Margot to parties and calls. When Margot entertained, Diane remained in her own room. She did not belong in Margot’s world. She did not belong in any world.

  All the same, one of those worlds found her in the other.

  Three days after she had received the vicar’s letter, Margot hosted a party. Diane remained out of sight, but late in the evening she slipped down to the kitchen to make herself some tea. In the corridor outside the chamber where Margot’s little party played cards, she almost walked right into Vergil Duclairc.

  He was very surprised to see her, and a bit chagrined that she had seen him. Before he quickly closed the door on the party, she glimpsed the face of a certain opera singer.

  “So, you are here. St. John is—well, your husband is distraught. He visited my sister at once, looking for you.”

  Which was why she had not gone to Pen. “He knows I am safe.”

  Vergil managed to look both strict and kind at the same time. “This will not do. You know that.”

  “It is not so rare. Pen—”

  “Pen’s husband is a scoundrel of the worst order.”

  “Perhaps mine is as well.”

  “That is not true. I know St. John and—”

  “I think that you and I are too young to ever know a man like St. John. Now, please allow me to pass. You are interfering, as men are wont to do.”

  He glanced to the chamber door, behind which Margot and her friends laughed and played. “You cannot stay in this woman’s home. It is not proper, and you do not belong here.”

  “I do not belong anywhere. At least here there are not friends of my husband scolding me every day. It is my misfortune that your paramour made Margot’s acquaintance or I might have been spared any scolds at all.”

  At mention of his opera singer, he reluctantly stepped aside.

  “I ask that you do not tell St. John where I am.”

  He said nothing, which meant that he would indeed tell Daniel.

  She did not sleep that night. Her mind played over the confrontation that was coming. She did not know what she would say to him.

  Early the next morning, well before calling hours, a visitor was announced for her. Not Daniel. A lady had called, but no name was given. Expecting that Vergil had sent the countess to cajole her, Diane left her chamber and went to the sitting room.

  She arrived just as a very large man was placing a veiled woman in a chair. Jeanette peeled back the veil and gestured for Paul to leave.

  Diane bent and kissed her. “I am astonished to see you here, Jeanette.”

  “I am astonished to see you here, in the home of a courtesan.”

  “I could hardly go to the countess. She has enough trouble without it being known that she gave refuge to a woman who has left her husband. People will say that she is forming a Society for Disobedient Wives.”

  Jeanette did not find the little joke amusing. “You should be with your husband, not here and not with the countess.”

  “Jeanette—”

  “Sit.”

  It sounded much like Madame Leblanc’s command that last day in the school. Diane obeyed.

  “What was in that letter that you read in the garden the other day? What evil was written to you, to make you abandon my brother?” Jeanette demanded.

  “It was not evil. The man who wrote it did not know the meaning of its contents for me. He assumed he was merely explaining that I was wrong to think he and I had a relationship. I will not tell you what it said. I do not want to speak badly of Daniel to you.”

  “You want to spare me? That is charming. There is nothing that you could tell me about my brother that would surprise me. No, I am wrong there. The affection he feels for you, the changes it has made—I suspect that you have known a side of him that I never will. Now, tell me what you have learned about the other side, the one that I know very well.”

  Diane described the contents of the letter and the evidence of Daniel’s deception. She explained the revelations learned during their confrontation at Hampstead.

  Jeanette appeared unsurprised by the story. “Yes, you were to be a lure. Blame me as well as him. I did not stop it, and I aided him. He at no time intended for you to be harmed, nor would you have been. It was perfect. You were perfect. Tyndale likes girls young, refined, and innocent. He has an unhealthy weakness for them that he dare not satisfy with the daughters of his own class. He would not be so constrained with the cousin of a shipper. It unfolded just as Daniel had foreseen, except for one snag.”

  “What was that?” The confirmation that Jeanette had known all along only made Diane’s sick heart sicker.

  “My brother fell in love with you.”

  “I do not believe that. I think that he concluded that the plan would work even better if eventually Tyndale importuned a wife, and not only a cousin. I think the plan was not over yet. I think, having been forced to stand down because of what happened with me that night, he found another way to eventually have it happen anyway.” The words poured out from the saddest place in her heart.

  “What nonsense.” Jeanette waved the notion away. “If my brother was so lacking in honor, he would not have upheld the bargain he made with you.”

  Diane bit her tongue before she could blurt out that Jeanette herself had not expected Daniel to uphold that bargain and be honorable.

  “He did not explain why he wanted a way to get to Tyndale, did he?”

  “I did not want to hear it.”

  “It does not matter. He would have never embarrassed me by revealing that tale. I think that is why he did not come here last night to bring you home, after learning where you were. However, I can tell you the part he never would.”

  She spread her arms with a dramatic flourish. “Andrew Tyndale is responsible for this. For the fact that Paul had to carry me here, instead of my walking in on my own. He is the reason I do not visit England, and why I have not left that house.”

  “Are you saying that he knows you?”

  “He knows me. Whether he would recognize me, I cannot say. He might, however. After all, twenty-four years ago I was his lover.”

  “His lover!”

  Jeanette noted Diane’s surprise with dour satisfaction. “I was a girl, seventeen. My family was trying to leave France and he offered to help. He smuggled me to England first. I carried jewels and money, so that when the others arrived a place would be waiting for them. I was ignorant and trusting, and when he seduced me I thought it was love.”

  Diane had no trouble seeing Tyndale’s face, years younger, kind and concerned, speaking of affection and alluding to marriage.

  After all, he had said the same thing to her.

  “He brought me to an obscure property. Time passed and no word came from my family. Whenever he visited I asked him about it, and he would say that such things take time. I was isolated and had no news of what was happening in France. Still, I grew suspicious. Finally, I confronted him and demanded to be brought to London. From that day on I was a prisoner, but the
n I had been all along. His use of me continued, but there were no illusions after that.”

  “I dreaded his visits. I loathed his touch. Finally, one time he visited and I could not bear it anymore. I stole a horse and ran away. It was winter, and the horse threw me. I landed on my back and could not move.”

  Her voice gave the dreadful facts in flat, clipped statements. Diane got the impression Jeanette had rarely spoken of it before, and only kept her composure now through force of will.

  Jeanette looked straight ahead, her eyes suddenly flaming. “He followed me. He found me there, on a barren field, crippled. I still remember his words. ‘Well, like that you are no good to me at all anymore.’ He left me there. He took the horse.”

  “You could have died.”

  “He probably assumes that I did.”

  “You think that was his intention?”

  “Why else leave a woman in the cold with no way to save herself? However, a farmer happened to pass that evening, and I called out. He put me in his wagon and brought me to his home. His wife and sister took care of me. I lived with them for years, bedridden. Then one day Daniel walked into the house. I had not seen him since he was a boy. He had been searching for me. Whenever he was in England he would seek out the properties that Tyndale’s family owned, and ask in those regions about a young, dark-haired French woman. Finally, he found me and got me to France.”

  She opened her hands, announcing the story’s end. Diane could barely absorb the horror that must have been Jeanette’s life. Years of fear and helplessness.

  “When Daniel was looking for you, why didn’t he just confront Tyndale and ask where you were?”

  “There were good reasons why he could not, but that is my brother’s story, not mine.”

  She called for Paul. He had been just outside the door, as always. He had heard everything. From his expression, Diane guessed that he already knew this story.

  He lifted his mistress into his arms. From her perch, Jeanette looked down on Diane. “You are pale and wan. Tomorrow promises to be a fair day. I think that you should walk in St. James’s Park tomorrow morning. Paul tells me there is a little lake surrounded by jonquils. A visit there will do you good. One should not become a recluse unless there is an excellent reason for it.”

  Dupré was acting very odd. Normally Andrew would not take note of it, because even at the best of times Gustave was a peculiar man. He was the sort of fastidious fool who took great pains with his appearance but managed to appear pinched and tucked rather than fashionable. All of those years peering into books had left him with the face of an old woman, and he had a host of mannerisms that were barely tolerable.

  Today, however, Dupré acted unusually guarded. He paused before answering any questions. He fidgeted even when he stood still.

  Andrew surveyed the elaborate demonstration in the shed and his concerns shifted from Dupré to the money these cylinders and iron embodied. It had cost a fortune to satisfy St. John’s demands for proof. The man had damn well better be contented when it was done.

  Dupré frowned down at a huge hunk of iron in a deep metal kettle. “I worry about this one. The copper of the tub may affect things.”

  “Maybe it will do so for the better. Perhaps we will learn that the process improves if copper is used.”

  “I still do not know why you insisted on such an elaborate and expensive experiment. The last one proved things, as I said it would.”

  “This way we can calculate the cost better, and assess the profit. It would not do to start selling steel that we cannot make quickly or that will cost more than we can recover.”

  Dupré fussed like an agitated old woman. “That big man out there. Why is he here?”

  “To protect the shed, as I told you.”

  “I do not like it. He does not speak French. I came yesterday and he would not allow me to enter.”

  “If you had informed me that you were coming, I would have alerted him.”

  Dupré folded his arms, unfolded them, and folded them again. “I do not like that you are making these decisions without me, as if you are hid—as if you do not trust me.”

  Andrew had been eyeing one hunk of iron on which he had made some private markings. Dupré’s half-spoken words riveted his attention, however. As if you are hiding something, he had almost said.

  Yes, Dupré was acting very peculiar today.

  He went over and slid his arm around Gustave’s shoulders. “What is distressing you, old friend?”

  Gustave’s mouth pursed, making him look very prim. “Nothing distresses me. I simply did not anticipate this stage. I did not expect it to take so long.” He gestured to the cylinders. “And all of this. I gave you the proof you wanted. Suddenly we are making a demonstration as if more proof is needed. You insisted that I use what little fortune I have to build all of this.”

  “Most of the funds were mine. It was not unreasonable that you also take the risk.”

  “So we agreed. I find myself wondering why you wanted this, that is all.”

  “You sound as if you are suspicious of me. That is not good in a partnership.”

  “I merely wonder if you are telling me everything.”

  Fortunately, Dupré was not as subtle as he was peculiar. “You sound as if you believe that I have not. What makes you think so?”

  “I do not—”

  “Come, come. With such a fortune at stake, we should not have a falling out over some minor matter. Let us speak frankly.”

  He watched Dupré’s debate. The choice made, Gustave’s expression assumed a haughty, superior countenance. Yes, the fool could never resist the chance to display his brilliance.

  “I have reason to think that you have let me risk everything, deliberately. I suspect that this iron will mysteriously not turn into steel. You will do something, add a new chemical perhaps, that will abort the process.”

  “Why in God’s name would I do something that stupid?”

  “So that I will think we have failed and return to France, ruined just as the others were ruined, and the discovery will be yours alone.”

  Andrew laughed. “What an elaborate schemer you think I am.”

  “I know how good a schemer you are.”

  “If I schemed this well, I would own the world. You came to me, Dupré. Or have you forgotten that? And only you know the chemical formula. Remember?”

  “I am not sure that I do.”

  “What?”

  “I am not sure that you do not also have it. After all, I received it myself from your conspirator.”

  Dupré looked insufferably superior as he said that. Very confident. Andrew would have laughed again but for the gleam of satisfaction in the man’s eyes.

  “My conspirator?”

  “Your secret conspirator. The man you sent out to ruin us, to protect this fine reputation that you have.”

  “Dupré, if I thought that you or anyone else could harm me, I would not stop at ruin. I would simply kill you. If I have the formula as you suggest, I did not have to lure you into discovering it on the chance that you would come to me to finance this project. Think, man. You are speaking nonsense.”

  The word “kill” made Gustave’s eyes bulge. His gaze darted to the door, as if checking a way to escape.

  “Calm yourself. I merely point out that this plot you see is too unlikely, even for me.” Andrew tightened his grip on Dupré’s shoulders. “However, now I need to know why you believe I have a conspirator who knows this formula.”

  A line of sweat moistened Dupré’s forehead. “I was told that someone else had been here, besides you and me. Another man was seen. And this same man sold me the manuscript that contained the formula and most of the process. He is also the same man who ruined the others.”

  Andrew gazed at that line of sweat and found himself counting every tiny bead. A vicious chill took over his mind. “Who told you this? Who saw this other man?”

  Dupré sealed his lips together. Idiot. As if he could keep
silent if Andrew wanted the information.

  “You say that a man sold you the manuscript that contained most of the process. Where did you get the rest? Through experiment?”

  Dupré nodded, but the truth was in his eyes.

  “Where did you get it, Gustave? This is not some mathematical proof that no one cares about. Our fortunes may depend on your telling me.”

  Dupré squirmed away. His eyes widened. “How did you know? The proof—I got the calculations on the number of cells from the library, just as I did the proof.”

  Jesus.

  “And who sold you the manuscript?”

  “Your friend, Andrew. Daniel St. John sold it to me.”

  Jesus.

  Andrew had a sudden mental image of a tunnel made up of sections, each of which was one of his recent connections to St. John. At the end of the tunnel, staring at him, were the contented eyes of the devil himself.

  “You fool, Dupré. You absolute fool.”

  “I am a fool! How dare you insult—”

  “Put that worthless and questionable brilliance of yours to work for something practical for once.”

  “Why are you shouting? I am the one who should be angry. It is clear that you have taken this St. John as a conspirator.”

  “Not as a conspirator, as an investor. But you are right, he did lure you to ruin, and now you have pulled me in as well.”

  “How did this become my fault?”

  “Think. Think. Who would have known that the rest of the process was somewhere in that damn library?”

  “It was a coincidence. It happens in science all the time.”

  “It was no coincidence. You were sold the manuscript by someone who had known the man who used to own the library. Someone who knew that another man had begun working out the process, and that his notes could be found in that library.” He grabbed Gustave and gave him a firm shake. “Someone who knew how you came to own the library.”

  chapter 24

  He came looking for her in the dawn and dew, striding through the park with a serious, determined expression. It was the face of Daniel distracted and attentive at the same time.