The Art of Seduction (Kings of Industry)

by Eileen Richards

  He’d exchanged letters with Beth frequently but then the letters stopped. By the time he’d been free to go to Beth, Sir Charles had passed away and she was gone. He’d let her slip through his fingers and the pain from the loss was acute. Michael had submerged himself in rebuilding the failing Stafford estates. Taking charge of the problems had left little time for his art, but it called to him, a soft voice in the storm. Yet he couldn’t produce the same level of work as he had done under the tutelage of Sir Charles. He did not have his muse.

  “There you are, Langston. I would have thought you’d be in the thick of it helping with the Exhibition,” Jonathan St. Clair said as he stepped into the studio and closed the door.

  “They have plenty of help.”

  St. Clair peered over his shoulder at the oil canvas on his desk. “Very nice. Is that Miss Bishop? I hadn’t realized you had painted her. Is it a fair likeness?”

  “You are as nosey as the old gossips littering the ballroom.” Michael flipped over the painting and gathered up the sketches and stored them in a drawer. “She was here today, entering a painting into the Exhibition.”

  St. Clair found another chair and pulled it close. “Tell me.”

  Langston studied the tall man who sat across from him. He owed St. Clair his life. The man had saved his arse on more than one occasion. Hell, he’d nursed him through the worst of the hangovers after he realized he might never find Beth again. Despite his humble upbringing, St. Clare’s investments in industry and real estate had made him a wealthy man and Langston had benefited from his skill. “She left with the painting, though I would say ‘flee’ would be a better word.”

  “Must have been an awful painting.”

  Michael met the eyes of his friend. “Actually, it was stunning.” The style Beth used was so different from what he’d seen her do in the past. Though the colors were vibrant, there was a rawness to it. She had captured a part of London, few of his ilk ever saw or even tolerated. “I was planning to accept the painting into the exhibition.”

  “And you didn’t follow her?”

  Michael shook his head. After looking for her for so long, seeing her today had been a shock. He rubbed his chest to ease the ache he’d not felt in a while. She ran from him as if she were terrified of him. Beth had never been afraid of him.

  “Why didn’t you follow her?”

  “I don’t know.” Michael stood and walked to the wall of windows along the studio. Below him, the queues of hopeful artists waiting for their chance to enter the Royal Exhibition and a chance at fame. She’d walked away from that chance rather than deal with him. “My father wants me to marry Lady Cassandra Hamilton.”

  “I thought you were engaged to Miss Bishop.”

  Michael glanced back to St. Clair. “We had an understanding. It was never finalized.”

  “Does that mean you are free to marry Lady Cassandra? I mean, she is beautiful and wealthy. Has the right pedigree, if you like that sort of thing.”

  He turned back to the window. “Lady Cassandra is not a bitch to be bred, St. Clair.”

  St. Clair laughed behind him, a big boisterous laugh of a man unashamed of his origins. “Isn’t she? Heir and a spare, isn’t that how your lot works?”

  Langston turned back to St. Clair with a grimace. “Unfortunately, yes. Doesn’t seem to make anyone happy, though.”

  “But you don’t have to marry the woman your father has picked out for you. You have Miss Bishop, if you can find her again.”

  “London is the perfect hiding place for someone not wanting to be found.”

  “Perhaps it’s time to give up on Miss Bishop and propose to the lady and make your father, the duke, happy?”

  Michael shook his head. “Hell, no. Not now. I will find Miss Bishop again.” He found Lady Cassandra Hamilton insipid. It was of little matter, now that he’d found Beth. As far as he was concerned, they were still engaged.

  “This news will not make the duke happy. Too bad you can’t throw off the title and join us lesser gentlemen.”

  “There are too many people who depend upon me to do that.” Michael turned back to St. Clair and leaned against the window sill. “His Grace will be angry once the engagement is made known, but there is little he can do. The estate is entailed.”

  “And healthy now, thanks to you. Why would he care who you married?”

  Michael gave his friend a long look. “It’s more than just Lady Cassandra’s dowry. It’s her pedigree, the joining of two royal families and the power that brings.”

  St. Clair shrugged. “The duke will always want more. Whether he gets it or not is completely up to you. Now what do you intend to do about Miss Bishop?”

  Michael scrubbed his face with his hand. “Given how she left, it’s clear that she wishes nothing to do with me.”

  “Are you giving up? That’s not the man who has been looking for her all these years.”

  “Perhaps her feelings have changed. She could be married.” Yet he knew that wasn’t true. There was no ring on her hand.

  St. Clair was quiet for a long moment as he studied him. Michael fought the urge to squirm. The man could read people better than a book.

  “My advice to you, my friend, is to find Miss Bishop and not let her get away again instead of sitting here like a lovesick swain looking at those sketches.”

  Michael frowned at St. Clair, hating how he was always right. “How are you and that new actress getting along?”

  “Miss Sally Morgan? She is lovely and playing hard to get,” St. Clair said with a smile. “You know how I love the chase and luckily, women are predisposed to enjoy being chased.”

  Michael did indeed. Jonathan St. Clair had painted a swath through London. With his fortune made and his friendship with Michael, St. Clair was well on his way to being the most eligible bachelor in London, unseating peers by the sheer fortune he possessed. “The world is changing.”

  “And thank God for it, I say.” St. Clair looked at his pocket watch. “If you will excuse me, I have some work that I need to do and a young lady to send flowers to. Are you going to the theatre tomorrow night? It’s the final night for Romeo and Juliet.”

  “I’ve already committed to attending. Father has invited Lady Hamilton and her daughter to share our box. Care to join us?”

  “As long as her mother isn’t going to try and match me with that whey-faced cousin of hers. Gad, the woman talked through the entire play.”

  Michael laughed. “You do realize people go to the theatre not to watch the play but to be seen?”

  “When you’re trying to seduce the actress, you need to pay attention to the play. The fool woman always asks for my opinion.”

  Michael shook his head. “I have no sympathy for you my friend.”

  Jonathan St. Clair grinned. “On that note, I think I’ll take you up on your offer for the theatre. I could use another chance to convince Miss Morgan. Flowers do not seem to be working.”

  After bidding St. Clair good-bye, Michael turned back to his desk and started straightening the clutter. He had hoped that being here again would give him the longing to paint. He glanced at the unfinished canvases that littered the walls of the room. Every project he started, he lost interest in. There was no spark, no drive to finish.

  Today though, his hand itched for his sketchbook. He pulled out the pad and flipped through for a blank page. He picked up a pencil and sketched, just letting his hand form the lines he visualized in his mind. As the shape took place, the ugly bonnet, the shabby coat, he knew why he wanted to draw again. He stared down at the likeness of Beth, all stubbornness and anger. He closed his eyes replaying the scene again from memory.

  She’d been more than angry. She’d been afraid.

  Why hadn’t he seen that? What could she fear from him? A sharp wrap on the door startled him from his vision. He turned to find his father, the Duke of Stafford, in the doorway. He closed the sketchbook and stood quickly. Stafford was breathing heavily from the three flights of stai
rs he’d climbed, leaning heavily on his cane. The years of his profligate lifestyle were taking their toll. His hair was thin and grey. His jaw still firm, eyes still hard, but there was a puffiness about him, the result of too much rich food and wine.

  “I don’t understand why you insist on spending your time in London here at the Academy.”

  “I enjoy my position here, Your Grace.”

  “You should let it go to someone else. Someone more deserving who actually paints.” His father walked through the studio looking down his nose at the old beat up furniture and the various canvases against the wall. “Lady Hamilton tells me that you’ve not called on her daughter as I have asked.”

  “No, I have not,” Michael said, his voice cool. “Sit down, Your Grace, before you fall down.”

  The duke moved slowly to the chair that St. Clair had vacated. He lowered himself into the chair pulling in deep breaths. “Three flights of stairs to get here. Why in God’s name would you want a room this high up?”

  “The light is better here, in case I take it into my head to paint.” Michael took his seat and waited. Stafford did not stop by just to nag him about not calling on the Hamilton chit. No, it would take something much more important if he’d come all the way to the Strand to speak with him. Normally, Michael was just summoned.

  Stafford glared at him. “Impertinent as usual, I see.”

  Michael shrugged. It was part of the game they played.

  “I’ve come to tell you that I’ve met with Lord Hamilton about your marriage to his daughter. We have an agreement. We just need you to propose.”

  Rage bubbled up in him at his father’s high handedness. “You have no right, sir, to enter into any arrangement on my behalf.”

  “Do you object to the lady?”

  “I’ve no feelings for the lady.”

  “Feelings are not important here. We must think of the family, the estates. Lady Cassandra’s fortune is necessary for the future of the Stafford name. The Hamilton family is almost as old as the Stafford family. The joining of our two families will make our family one of the most powerful in England, next to the royal family, of course.”

  “The estates would be fine, if you’d practice a little economy. Our harvests should be good this year. The repairs are complete on almost all of the tenant houses. There is no need for Lady Cassandra Hamilton’s pounds. As for power and dynasties, I honestly do not care.”

  The Duke of Stafford glared at him. “You’d go marry some poor chit for love, if I left you to your own devices.”

  “Careful, father, or I might refuse to marry at all. Do you really want our cousin Frederick to inherit everything?”

  Stafford’s face grew red and his hand tightened on his cane. Had Michael been younger, that hand would have formed a fist and struck him. The man was too old now to do much damage physically, but he would never curb his tongue; his words could be as sharp as daggers.

  Stafford wasn’t stupid, though. His anger faded into his more common facade of disdain and condescension. “I just want what’s best for the continuation of the line. You are my only son. The future of Stafford resides with you.”

  “I will marry when I’m ready and to a lady of my own choosing.”

  “What is wrong with the Hamilton girl? She’s pretty. She’s wealthy and she’s distantly related to the king,” Stafford snapped.

  “She is insipid.”

  “Bed her, have two children, and find a mistress. It’s what real men do.”

  Michael didn’t necessarily agree with what men like his father did. All he remembered was the hurt his mother endured while his father selfishly went through mistresses like water, spending coin, and chasing skirts instead of taking care of the estates as he should have. No, Michael would not become his father. “That sort of marriage slowly killed my mother as she watched you flaunt your mistresses in society.”

  Stafford slammed his fist on the desk. “I will not be spoken to in this manner. You will do as you’re told.”

  The threat in the duke’s voice was the last straw for Michael as he rose from his own chair. Hot anger coursed through him. “You are mistaken, Your Grace, if you think you can manipulate me into a union that I’ve not chosen.”

  Stafford’s face went red with rage. “You will marry the Hamilton chit or else.”

  Michael laughed bitterly “Or what? You’ll cut off my allowance? Disown me? Do your worst, Father, but don’t forget that you are the reason for the current status of the estate. I will not pay for your wastefulness by entering into a marriage that will not make me happy.”

  “You’ll have nothing, just an empty title and land you can’t support.” His father said. “I can’t strip you of that, but I can strip you of any money and leave you destitute.”

  At one time his father’s anger frightened him into submission, but no longer. “Do not make empty threats, sir. I am well aware of the status of the accounts.”

  “This discussion is not over,” his father sputtered.

  Michael crossed his arms and raised his chin meeting his father’s glare with one of his own. “I suggest you contact Lord Hamilton and inform him that your negotiations are null and void. I will not honor them.”

  “You would see Lady Cassandra ruined by your inability to make a decision?”

  Michael fought the urge to demand his father leave. “Still not my concern, Your Grace. You and her father will be to blame for ruining Lady Cassandra for assuming that I could be manipulated into proposing.”

  His father, truly a politician, took a step back. “Perhaps I was hasty. As you’ve already agreed to attend the theatre with her, let that stand. Spend some time with her and see if she’ll suit.”

  Michael wanted to say no, but to do so would only cause more gossip. “You will speak with Lord Hamilton and tell him you’ve overstepped your authority.” It was not a request.

  Michael’s cold voice must have gotten through to the duke. He leaned on his cane and made his way to the door. “I will continue to act in the best interests of this family.”

  The windows rattled with the sound of the slammed door. Michael stood for a long time, his anger so deep and raw, he was shaking with it.

  Chapter Three

  Two days after the disappointment at the Royal Academy, Beth let herself into the house just off Red Lion Square after a long tiring day at the theatre. Mr. Alderman had wanted so many changes to the set designs, that she spent the entire time redoing her sketches. Her back hurt, her head hurt, and she just wanted a cup of tea and her bed. The only good thing to come out of all the work was that she didn’t have to dwell on seeing Lord Langston again.

  Why did he have to be more handsome than she remembered? His face had haunted her dreams the last two nights until she was at the point where she was afraid to go to sleep. She was tired of waking up lonely. She should be glad that their first meeting was over. It would get easier now. She’d probably not see him again.

  “Beth, you sly thing. You never mentioned meeting Lord Langston at the Royal Academy.” Her mother’s voice cut through the haze of exhaustion.

  “What are you talking about, Mother?” She set down her reticule and removed her bonnet and cloak hanging them on the hook by the front door. “Why are there so many candles burning? You know we cannot afford it.”

  “No need for that, dear, now that Lord Langston has found you.”

  Her mother’s words gave her pause, despite her exhaustion. “Mother, If Lord Langston had been searching for us, do you not think he’d have found us already?”

  “Beth, you both had an understanding. Now he will honor his promises and our fortunes will improve.” Lady Bishop wrapped her arm around Beth and led her into the small, shabby parlor. “Soon you will not have to return to work at that awful theatre. Lord Langston will make sure we want for nothing.”

  Beth stilled. Dear Lord, surely no one saw her and Langston together at the Royal Academy? There were so many people and she’d been so flustered by his pr
esence that she didn’t think about the gossips. “Mother, how do you know about my visit to the Royal Academy?”

  “Mrs. Dawson saw you there speaking with Langston. She said from the looks of it, it was a very intimate conversation. Thank goodness I came upon her in the park today or I would have never known.”

  Her mother’s tone jumped from glee to censure so fast it had Beth rubbing her temples. With every word out of her mother’s mouth, Beth regretted her impulsive trip to the Academy more and more.

  “You should have told me you were going there to meet Langston. I would have accompanied you, dear. We must appear to still observe propriety. We cannot allow the tiniest bit of gossip to get back to his father.”

  “I did not go there with the intention of meeting Langston,” she snapped. “Pray forgive me, Mother. My head hurts. My feet hurt and I’m hungry. Can we discuss this after I’ve at least eaten and changed into something that smells less like paint?”

  Her mother fussed. “Of course, that was thoughtless of me. Go, refresh yourself and I’ll have Tansy fix us a pot of tea and those biscuits you like.”

  Beth paused. “We don’t buy those any longer.”

  “It’s a piddling amount, Beth. You work so hard, you should have them every now and then. Now go upstairs and change, dear.”

  Beth slowly took the stairs to the top floor where her room was, each step painful. She’d been standing all day, sanding columns for the sets for Taming of the Shrew. She finally reached the top and stumbled into her room just wanting to collapse onto the bed and sleep. Only it was covered in gowns.

  Beth walked over and looked at the pile of silks and satins on the bed. These weren’t her old gowns from the time they moved in society. She picked up a pale pink gown and held it up. These were as nice as what Sally wore. They were the latest fashion complete with puffy sleeves and ribbons.

  Her stomach twisted as a thought occurred to her. Surely her mother wouldn’t do this, borrow funds that they couldn’t afford. Beth moved quickly to the door. “Mother!”

  Her mother poked her head out of the parlor. “Tansy hasn’t had time to put your new gowns away yet, dear, so don’t crush them.”