Seduce Me By Christmas

by Deborah Raleigh

  At last weary of Raoul’s hesitation, Lord Merriot stepped away from the heavy walnut desk and waved a hand toward a silver tray that was setting on a low marble-topped table.

  “Come in Raoul and have a seat. A brandy? Or would you prefer tea?”

  “Neither, I thank you.”

  Raoul strolled across the room, lowering his tall form into one of the numerous leather wing chairs. Then, with a deliberate nonchalance, he stretched out his legs and folded his arms over his chest.

  “You summoned me?”

  The Earl’s florid face darkened with annoyance, and Raoul suddenly realized that the older man had aged.

  Once a massive, barrel-chested sportsman with heavy features and a larger-than-life personality, Jonah Spearman, the fifth Earl of Merriot, seemed to have shrunk over the years.

  The heavy frame was stooped beneath the brown jacket, and the black curls were thickly threaded with gray. Even his forceful features seemed to have shriveled, becoming almost gaunt.

  As if he was merely a ghost of his former self.

  Of course, one thing hadn’t changed.

  The wary contempt that shimmered in the dark eyes.

  “Surely you must have been expecting it?” he said, his voice gruff.

  Raoul arched a brow, for the first time in his life in a position to control the confrontation with the Earl of Merriot.

  “Why would I?” he drawled. “We have not exchanged so much as a word in the past ten years. I assumed you had long ago dismissed any memory of your bastard son.”

  An ugly crimson began to crawl up the Earl’s neck to the heavy jowls.

  “Dismiss the renowned Raoul Charlebois, when your name is forever filling the pages of the newspapers and being bandied about in drawing rooms as if you were royalty?”

  Raoul studied the gold ring he wore on his little finger. “Ah, how vulgar of me not to realize my need to put food on my table and a roof over my head might be bothersome for you and Lady Merriot.” Slowly lifting his head, he offered his father a sardonic smile. “You will be relieved to discover that I have recently retired, and soon enough another will capture the fickle attention of London society.”

  “Retired?”

  “We all grow older.” Raoul shrugged. “I prefer a graceful exit to being jeered from the stage.”

  Merriot paced with jerky steps to a nearby window, his profile hard with displeasure.

  “This is unacceptable.”

  “Mon Dieu.” Raoul’s sharp, disbelieving laugh echoed through the too silent air. “You were just complaining that my fame was bothersome, and now you are displeased by the thought of my retirement. You are a difficult gentleman to please, my lord.”

  With obvious effort, the older gentleman struggled to maintain his composure.

  “If you truly are retired, then why would choose to bury yourself in the wilds of Cheshire? A gentleman at his leisure is able to travel anywhere.”

  “This was once my home.”

  Merriot snorted, knowing damned well that Raoul had hated this sprawling mansion almost as much as he hated his father.

  “And you have always claimed it dull as dishwater.”

  “Perhaps maturity will allow me to view it with fresh eyes.”

  “Highly doubtful.” Merriot turned to glare at Raoul, his once handsome face lined and careworn in the gray light slanting through the window. “For heaven’s sake, Raoul, there is little here to amuse a young, handsome gentleman. Certainly it cannot compare to the entertainments to be found in London, or even Brighton.”

  Raoul’s lips twitched. It seemed that the entire population of Cheshire was devoted to making him go away.

  “If I were a suspicious man, I would think you were trying to be rid of me.”

  “I am only thinking of you, Raoul.”

  “I see.” Raoul made no attempt to hide his rampant disbelief. “Your continuous devotion quite overwhelms me. Was a son ever so fortunate in his father?”

  Almost as if Raoul’s low words struck a nerve, which was absurd, Lord Merriot moved to the silver tray and poured himself a large measure of brandy. Tossing it down his throat, he at last returned his attention to the patiently waiting Raoul.

  “What is it you want of me?” he rasped.

  Raoul narrowed his gaze. Merriot was obviously disturbed by having his bastard staying in Cheshire.

  The question was whether it was simply a natural distaste at having Raoul underfoot, or if he had another reason to be uneasy at his son’s arrival.

  “Who the devil said I desired anything of you?”

  The brown eyes that Raoul always thought of as muddy suddenly widened, a hint of relief touching the lined countenance.

  “Ah. Of course. Now that you are retired, you will no doubt be in need of funds to…”

  Raoul was on his feet, his expression hard with disdain. “If I wished to hang on your sleeve, my lord, I would have arrived on your doorstep, hat in hand.”

  Merriot winced. “You must want something.”

  “May I remind you that I am comfortably settled in Baxter’s hunting lodge, and it was only by your insistence that our paths were ever forced to cross?”

  “Bah. You have some purpose in coming to Cheshire, and I do not believe for a moment any sentimental nonsense of this being your home.”

  “Well, I should never use the words sentimental and home in the same sentence,” Raoul mocked. “You and Lady Merriot made certain of that, but not even you can deny that a portion of my childhood was spent in the neighborhood.”

  Merriot’s expression was sullen. “And you were suddenly overwhelmed with the need to visit your old haunts?”

  Raoul’s lips twisted in an unwittingly wry smile. “I am rarely overwhelmed by anything, although I have discovered I am susceptible to a pair of midnight eyes. Who would have thought?” He shook his head, trying to dismiss the sudden image of Miss Sarah Jefferson. “Still, you are correct. At least in part.”

  “What part?”

  “I have returned to my ‘old haunts’ as you call them, not out of sentiment, but for information.”

  “Information?” There was no mistaking the fear that briefly flared over Merriot’s face. “What information?”

  “Does it matter?”

  The older man licked his lips, his body stiff. “Naturally, I am curious.”

  “Yes, that is obvious.”

  Merriot squared his shoulders and tilted his chin, doing his best to intimidate Raoul as he’d done so often in the past.

  “Do you mean to tell me, or do you prefer to shroud yourself in mystery?”

  Raoul smiled. Genuinely smiled.

  This man no longer had the ability to bully and terrorize him.

  Hell, the only thing that Raoul felt at the moment was…contempt.

  “No, that is a role I will leave for you, Father,” he drawled, readily calling upon the story he had invented before leaving London. “If you must know, I have rashly agreed to allow a friend of mine who happens to be under the hatches to write my memoirs.”

  His father poured another brandy, tossing it down with the ease of a hardened drinker.

  “The devil you say.”

  “My reaction precisely, however my friend is convinced that he can earn a few pounds with the story of my life, gullible clod, and since he was clever enough to request my consent while I was three sheets to the wind, I am now obliged to honor my commitment.”

  Merriot paced back towards the desk, his brow knit with annoyance.

  “This friend is in Cheshire?”

  “He remained in London to collect embarrassing tales from my fellow actors and lurid details from my past mistresses. I haven’t a modicum of hope that any of them will have the least amount of discretion,” Raoul expertly lied. It was his profession, after all. “It is my task to provide him with charming antidotes from those who knew me as a grubby lad and, of course, the history of my family. In particular, your history.”

  “What the blazes doe
s he want with my history?” Merriot barked.

  Raoul’s lips curled. “As distressful as it might be for you, my lord, you are my father. My friend is convinced the public will wish to know of your past, and how you came to producing a by-blow during your travels through France. The more intimate the details of my mother and inevitable conception, the better he will be pleased.”

  The glass slipped from the older man’s fingers to shatter against the polished wood floor.

  “Have you taken leave of your senses?”

  “A question I have asked myself any number of times over the past year.”

  “Then return to London, and forget this stupidity.”

  “Why does it trouble you?” Raoul demanded, growing certain that his father’s secret did indeed have something to do with his misbegotten bastard. Why else would he look as if a ghost had just appeared before him? “Most gentlemen enjoy boasting of their youthful escapades. Indeed, it is usually impossible to halt such boastings.”

  “No,” the Earl choked out, his color an alarming shade of crimson. “No, I forbid it.”

  Raoul glanced down at the shards of crystal scattered across the floor. So fragile. So easily broken.

  A chill inched down his spine.

  “Forbid what?”

  “I will not have the Merriot name bandied about in some repulsive book. It is an old and honorable title.”

  Raoul snorted. “And were you considering the Merriot name when you were foisting a bastard on some poor French maid?”

  “Enough, Raoul.” The Earl squared his shoulders. “I have said no, and that is the end of the matter. You may tell your friend he will have to discover another means of replenishing his empty coffers.”

  The words were nothing less than a royal command, filled with the conceited arrogance that was the sole domain of the aristocracy.

  May their souls rot in hell.

  Raoul did a bit of shoulder squaring of his own. “I was not asking your permission, Father, merely explaining my presence in Cheshire.”

  “You intend to go against my wishes?”

  “So it would seem.”

  “I am not without power, Raoul,” the older man warned.

  Raoul’s smile was blasé. “Did I claim that you were?”

  “I have only to send word to London to ensure that no one dare publish your…vile manuscript.”

  “You are certainly welcome to try,” Raoul drawled, inwardly amused at the irony of battling over a memoir that was never going to be written. “Although there are always those unscrupulous printers who enjoy tweaking the nose of the rich and powerful.”

  “Very well.” The Earl headed toward the door that connected with the Countess’s private parlor. “I might not be able to prevent the memoir from being published, but I most certainly do not intend to assist in the vulgar scheme.”

  Raoul shrugged, careful not to overplay his hand. For now it was enough to have a suitable excuse for asking questions of his father’s past around the neighborhood.

  “It never occurred to me that you would provide me with anything, Father.” His eyes flicked dismissively over his father’s stooped form. “I learned at a very young age that I have no one to depend upon but myself.”

  The crimson faded from the Earl’s face, leaving behind a sickly gray at the accusation.

  “I did my duty. I did…”

  “You did what?”

  Merriot swayed, his hand reaching out to land against the door, as if unable to stand on his own.

  “I did what had to be done, damn you,” he rasped. “Why will you not leave us in peace?”

  Stupid concern lanced through Raoul as he took a step toward the older man.

  “Father?”

  “Go.” The Earl held up a dismissive hand. “Just go away.”

  Once again, Raoul glanced down at the splinters of broken crystal. Then, turning his back on the gentleman who had long ago turned his back on Raoul, he left the library.

  He had what he came for.

  Lord Merriot was indeed hoarding a secret.

  And Raoul suspected that it had something to do with his bastard son.

  Entering the pale blue and ivory parlor, Lord Merriot studied the silver-haired woman seated on the rosewood sofa.

  Mirabelle, Lady Merriot, had always been slender, but now she appeared little more than a skeleton attired in the heavy black bombazine gown that made her skin unpleasantly sallow. Even worse, the laudanum she laced in her tea left her once beautiful brown eyes dull and lifeless.

  Merriot’s heart twisted with a familiar pain. This woman had once been a vivacious hostess who had so charmed King George III, he had pronounced her a Diamond of the First Water.

  Now she was a listless shadow of her former self, plagued by guilt, and mourning the son that had been stolen from them.

  At his entrance, the Countess lifted a trembling hand to the silver locket pinned to her bodice. Merriot knew that hidden in the locket was a picture of their son, Peter.

  “Did you speak with him?” she demanded.

  “Yes, for all the good it did,” he said, headed directly for the crystal decanter of brandy.

  His wife survived the days in an opium haze, while he preferred the fog of well-aged brandy.

  They were a fine pair.

  A querulous expression settled on her bony countenance. “Why is he here?”

  “He has decided to have his memoirs written, arrogant pup, and he has come to meddle in the past.”

  “No.” She fluttered with predictable panic. “You must send him away.”

  Merriot downed the brandy. Dammit, did the woman think he hadn’t tried?

  “Calm yourself, Mirabella.”

  “Calm myself?” She leaned forward. “What if his meddling allows him to discover the truth? What if…”

  “There is no means of him discovering the truth.”

  “How can you be so certain?”

  “Because we have covered our tracks too well.” His voice was edged. They’d had this argument on a dozen occasions since Raoul’s arrival in Cheshire. “There is no evidence that could possibly remain after all these years.”

  “So confident?”

  Merriot shuddered, pouring more brandy down his throat. “The papers have all been destroyed, along with those belongings that would reveal our connections to France.”

  Her lips twisted with a dark, ugly emotion. “It was not my fault that horrid little man recognized the diamonds.”

  “I warned you…” Merriot bit off his words. What was the point? The damage had been done. “It no longer matters. Dunnington is dead.”

  “What if he said something to Raoul before he died?”

  “The interfering worm never suspected more than a small portion of the truth. Besides, I paid a bloody fortune for him to keep his lips shut.”

  “Deathbed confessions are…”

  “A figment of overactive imaginations,” Merriot growled. “Dunnington died nearly a year ago, and yet Raoul is just now traveling to Cheshire.” He shook his head, refusing to dwell on the disaster if Raoul ever learned the truth. It was how he had survived the past twenty-five years. “No, it is nothing more than ill fortune that brings Raoul here.”

  “Ill fortune.” Mirabelle’s laugh was edged with madness. “Oh yes, I well believe that. We have had nothing but ill fortune since you convinced me…”

  “Do not point the finger of blame in my direction, Mirabella. It was as much your notion as mine.”

  “If I had known the price we would be forced to pay, I would never have agreed,” she hissed.

  “And do you think I would? If I could go back…” He glanced around the room that had been decorated with the finest furnishings that money could purchase. He had demanded nothing but the best for the Merriot estate when it had been refurbished. Now it felt like a cold, elegant grave. “But I cannot. Nothing we do can change the past.”

  “Perhaps not, but I cannot bear the constant reminder.” Tears for
med in the dull brown eyes. “I do not want him here, Jonah. He carries evil with him.”

  The Earl struggled to fight back his bitter anger, and reassure the woman who he had once loved.

  “I have no more desire than you to have the boy underfoot, my dear, but I have no authority to command him back to London.” His expression hardened. “Especially since he was disobliging enough to take up residence in Baxter’s lodge. That ill-bred ass has never forgiven me for refusing to back his scheme to build a canal through the neighborhood. Certainly he would never agree to toss my bastard from his estate.”

  “Perhaps not, but you could certainly make it uncomfortable for him to remain in the area.”

  Merriot grimaced. He had already made the attempt. And failed miserably.

  Obviously his position as Earl could not compete with the notoriety of a famous actor.

  “I could if he were anyone but Raoul Charlebois. The entire neighborhood is already aflutter with excitement at his arrival.”

  With effort, his wife rose to her feet, her expression one of bitter accusation.

  “You must do something.”

  “What would you have me do, Mirabella?” With a flare of frustration, Merriot paced toward the elaborately carved mantelpiece. “Knock him over the head and drag him back to London?”

  Mirabelle’s sob echoed through the room. “What I want is to forget the day Raoul Charlebois ever entered our lives.”

  Chapter 4

  Friday, December 13

  Baxter Lodge

  The day dawned with a promise.

  Although there was a decided nip in the air and the windows of Raoul’s temporary hunting lodge were etched with a fine spiderweb of frost, the morning sky glowed with a welcome splash of golden sunshine.

  Unfortunately, the ill-fated day swiftly lived up to its reputation. By midmorning, a bank of threatening clouds had blocked the sunshine, and by luncheon, the first snowflakes had started to fall.

  Sensing the brewing storm, Raoul hastily sent Mrs. Dent and her daughter back to the village. He had hired the two women to come in daily and tend to the housekeeping, as well as keep his kitchen stocked with plenty of plain, well-cooked meals. A decision that his palate fully approved of, considering Mrs. Dent’s deft hand with cooking, though his nerves often regretted being forced to endure the young Miss Dent’s incessant urge to giggle whenever he passed by.