Seduction & Scandal

by Charlotte Featherstone

  No, they didn’t.

  “Perhaps you should leave the young lady alone until this settles,” Alynwick suggested. “You know people are still talking about you even a decade after the scandal. This is bound to stir it up again if your name gets mentioned in the papers.”

  Yes, they were still talking, but then there was little the ton loved more than gossip. Black knew Alynwick was right. If his name and his carriage were linked with Alice Fox or, God above, the missing women from the Adelphi, then he would be questioned. And he might not get off this time.

  But the thought of leaving Isabella alone—exposed—did not sit well with him. He could not in all conscience stay away from her.

  “It’s agreed, you’ll stay away and we’ll—”

  “It is not agreed.” The words were razor-edged, his voice gruff as he drank deeply of the whiskey he held. “I haven’t agreed to this, nor will I. Isabella is vulnerable, and we have no proof that she is safe.”

  “Black—”

  “I said no!” he growled and slammed the crystal glass atop the mantel. “You may make plans for our retrieval of the chalice and pendant, and I will go along with whatever those plans entail, but when it comes to Isabella I will do as I must. And I must,” he stated emphatically, “protect her. And to do that, I must be close to her. Besides, it will allow me to investigate further. See if Stonebrook keeps Masonic letterhead in his study, that sort of thing.”

  Sussex and Alynwick looked dubious, and he suddenly didn’t give a damn. The chalice and the pendant could go to hell for all he cared. Isabella was his first priority.

  “As you will, but if you get yourself arrested, do not expect us to vouch for you. Our oath states that we keep our family business secret and our connection to one another hidden. We are acquaintances, nothing more.”

  “Understood. Now, what did you discover at the museum?”

  Alynwick’s dark eyes gleamed. “I came up empty-handed at the museum, so I decided to search Knighton’s apartments. I discovered in his desk an extract from a Templar treatise. It talks of the three Templars and the relics. And the scroll that is needed to discover how to use the ancient power contained in them.”

  “So, Knighton knows something after all.”

  “The extract did not list any names of the Templars who possess the relics. But it did speak of the pendant, and its powers.”

  “Do you think Knighton knows the pendant has the power to bring you what you most want? That you must only take the seeds between your hands and whisper the words in the text to make what you most desire in the world yours?”

  There was a rap at the door, and all three turned their heads sharply to the crack where the door had silently opened. Sussex leaped from his chair, and threw the door back, but there was no one there.

  “It must have been a draft,” he said as he closed the door. “It’s windy out, and these windows are old and drafty.”

  Alynwick glanced between them and sipped his whiskey. “You should know that someone knows of my family’s involvement. When I returned home after searching Knighton’s place, I discovered that someone had also been busy in my home.”

  “The scroll?” Sussex growled.

  “Safe. But I moved it.”

  “Where?”

  “Someplace they’d never look. The library at the lodge.”

  “Are you insane?” Sussex exploded.

  Alynwick smiled. “Mad as a hatter, I’m afraid. But my choice of hiding place is really rather clever. I’ve planted the scroll right beneath their noses. It’s too obvious, and if the thieves do take a mind to search for it there, there are over a thousand books in that library—it will take them quite a while to search for it. Well, I had to do something,” he growled. “They hadn’t gotten to the comely little maid’s room where I usually hide the thing beneath the floorboards.”

  “Only you, Alynwick, would think of such a place,” Sussex drawled.

  “Servants’ quarters are never of much consequence to thieves, and the maid is not snooping, she’s far too busy entertaining two of my footmen to pull up the floorboards.”

  “So what now?” Black asked with impatience. He wanted to quit this room and find Isabella. How far he had fallen. His every waking thought was of her.

  “I’m escorting my sister to a ball this evening. A few members of the lodge are going. They once had ties to the original House of Orpheus, and I want to see what I can learn about them.”

  “You’re using Elizabeth,” Alynwick growled.

  “No, she wants to be of use.”

  Alynwick waved his hand. “Split hairs then. But do not come to me when she is hurt by this game you’re playing. She has no business entering into this world of ours. She is—”

  “Blind, Alynwick,” Sussex said softly, “not stupid or useless. You would have me hide her in this house wrapped in cotton wool if you had your way—or perhaps you think I should lock her away in one of your homes?”

  “Damn you!” Alynwick thundered. “You know I think no such thing. It’s just that…well, with her infirmity, she’s at risk. We don’t know who this person is, and we can’t child mind her all the time.”

  “Child mind?” Sussex laughed. “I would adore being there when you toss that in her face.”

  “Enough!” Black snapped. “We’re arguing like children and accomplishing nothing. If Elizabeth wants to be involved, she should be. Had we had siblings, Alynwick—” and he felt a queer sensation pierce his chest, for he’d had a brother once, long ago “—they would no doubt have some involvement as well.”

  “Not my sister,” Alynwick grunted.

  Black ignored him. “I’ll go over to Stonebrook’s tonight. I want to search the marquis’s study.”

  “I’ll be staying in,” Alynwick drawled. “I’m expecting my company to return and finish what they started last night, and considering my present mood, they will not find me a charming host.”

  “One more thing,” Black announced, “I went to the Adelphi last night. There was talk of an exclusive club, and the man who runs it—Orpheus.”

  That caught both Sussex and Alynwick’s attention.

  “I have plans to go when the club next meets. My contact will arrange it.”

  “Good, we’ll join you,” Alynwick announced. Before Black could argue, Elizabeth appeared at the door, grasping the frame to steady herself.

  “Is your business concluded?” she asked in a whisper.

  “Yes, for now, I think,” Sussex answered.

  “Good. I’ve arranged for Black to take Isabella home. Something is wrong, and I thought you’d like to know.”

  ONCE MORE she found herself bundled up and packed away in Black’s carriage like a fragile child. She was more than mildly provoked by Elizabeth’s tactics. Apparently the sisters of dukes could be just as high-handed as the dukes themselves.

  In silence the carriage rambled on, while Isabella studied the grain of the silk shades Black had drawn. She could not look at him. To look at him was to remember what she had done with him in his library last night. To think of that was to want more. And to experience more would be her downfall.

  “Isabella, tell me what troubles you.”

  “Nothing does,” she replied. “Elizabeth—”

  “Was mistaken.”

  He moved silently to her bench, pulled the strings of her bonnet loose and let it slide backward till it landed on the bench behind her. Cupping her face in his palms, he tilted her chin upward so that he could see her through the thin shaft of daylight that crept through the edges of the shades.

  “Shadows haunt your eyes, love,” he murmured, before brushing his mouth against hers. She stiffened and he pulled back, his eyes narrowing, his mouth turned into a deep frown.

  “What is it? You’re trembling.”

  Damn her weak constitution! She didn’t want this, to be a fragile flower with Black. “It’s nothing,” she snapped and tried to turn from him, but he wouldn’t let her.

  �
��You’re afraid of me,” he said, following her, pressing closer to her. “What’s changed? What’s happened between last night and this afternoon?” he demanded. “Nothing!”

  BLOODY HELL, he swore as he reached for her. It was not nothing. Isabella feared him. He saw it in her eyes, felt it in her body, which trembled whenever he got closer.

  What did she know? Suddenly he felt his iron control begin to unravel. His mind searched for possibilities. What had she discovered about him?

  Suddenly, she whirled on him, a new Isabella than the one he had seen. “Someone has written me, warning me away from you. I’m sure of it.”

  “What the devil do you mean?”

  She thrust a piece of paper at him, pressing it into his chest. He released her, opened the paper and stared down in horror at the words.

  Death comes in threes,

  the mother, the brother and the lover who weeps, the harlots, the charlatan and then, at last, to thee.

  His mind blanked and he folded the paper back up, and put a little distance between them. “You believe this?”

  “I don’t know what to believe.”

  “You obviously have questions. What do you want to know?”

  “What that warning means! It’s about you, isn’t it?”

  “Have you not heard the gossip, the rumors, the speculation about me, Isabella?”

  “No.” When she turned and looked upon him, he saw the truth in her eyes. She didn’t know his secrets.

  “I killed my mother.”

  She gasped and pulled herself away from him until she came up against the side of the carriage.

  “My brother, too, and the woman I was to marry.”

  Isabella’s mouth gaped open and he turned away, hating to the see horror in her eyes. Seconds ticked on as he gathered the words he would say to her.

  “I don’t believe it.”

  His world stopped, and slowly he turned his head to look at her. “You don’t?”

  “You’re not a murderer.”

  He touched her, and she did not flinch. He moved closer, and she did not try to back away.

  “I did murder my mother.” The pain of that admission causing a catch in his breath. “She was dying from a cancerous lesion in her breast. She was in great pain—horrible pain,” he whispered. The memory of seeing his mother like that ate at him. It had been agony to watch her wasting away.

  “She had resorted to a tonic to ease her pain, a tincture of opium and valerian herb.”

  Isabella’s eyes knowingly widened. “She asked me to help her die,” he murmured. He could not look at her face, but instead dropped his gaze to her lap, where her hands rested, folded demurely. He lifted one of her hands, studied the trimmed nails, and brushed his fingertip along them. “She was in such great pain, but I couldn’t do it. She pleaded for it, and I…denied her.”

  “Jude,” Isabella whispered, and touched his cheek. He clutched her hand to his face and closed his eyes, willing himself to go on.

  “She was in so much damn pain,” he said, his voice ragged and breaking, “but I couldn’t do as she asked. And then one day, when I was sitting beside her bed, she asked me to pour her tea. I did. She drank it down eagerly, the first she had to eat or drink in days. She asked for another cup, and I gave it to her. I was so damn thrilled to see her drinking. And then…” He shuddered, pressed his lips into Isabella’s hand, held it there against him. “And then she closed her eyes and took her last breath. It was then that I saw the bottle of tonic was empty. I lifted the lid to the teapot, smelled the valerian and knew that I had caused my mother’s death.”

  “It was suicide,” she said, and he closed his eyes, not wanting to hear the word. “Oh, Jude,” she whispered, clutching him, making him look at her. “You didn’t kill her.”

  “My younger brother. We had a row—about a woman—he left to go hunting. I don’t know what happened, but he was thrown from his horse and the rifle he was holding was loaded, it fired and killed him. Everyone thought I did it because he was in love with the woman I was to marry.”

  Isabella’s eyes held such sympathy and understanding. He could hardly bear it. He didn’t deserve it.

  “She died, too?” she asked, and he nodded, kept his eyes pressed closed.

  “We had been betrothed for years. I…forced the engagement to continue, and she…resented it. She loved my younger brother. She grieved for him when he died, and instead of marrying me, she killed herself on the eve of our wedding.”

  “Jude.” Isabella’s lips brushed against his. “You are not responsible for their deaths.”

  “Someone would have you believe it. Someone would make you think I am also involved in the disappearance of the women at the Adelphi, and the murder of Alice Fox. Someone,” he charged as he held her face fiercely in his hands, “wishes for you to believe the worst of me. To take you away from me. Bella,” he whispered as his mouth lowered to hers, “don’t believe them. Don’t go. Don’t leave me, too.”

  Isabella went weak in his arms. Beneath his mouth, she softened, succumbed. How could she not? She wanted this man. This moment. He’d shown her his vulnerabilities, shared with her the secrets in his soul. Her heart ached for him, for the young man struck by such tragedy, for the burdens he had been forced to carry. For the pain that was still so evident.

  “Jude,” she whispered over and over as he kissed her, their mouths open and hot, and searching. Their tongues touched, and she felt him push her back, till she was pressed up against the side of the carriage and he was between her legs, which were bent.

  His hand, hot and large, was snaking beneath the hem of her gown, slowly, surely, as he lips and tongue rattled her thoughts—stole her will. The only right thing to do was to put a stop to the kiss, to the embrace that was becoming far more than what it should. That was the honorable path, but she was selfish, wanted more, wanted to take what he would give her. Little Magpie he had called her, and she was, clutching everything to her chest so that she could steal it away—including the memories of him. One last time, the little voice inside insisted. One last decadent, pleasurable memory to take away, only to be brought out in the darkness of night, and the privacy of her thoughts.

  She could never see him again. Deep down, she knew she couldn’t, becuase she could no longer resist him and what he so readily offered. It was her only defense, to cut the string that drew them together.

  Resolved, Isabella let her worries float away, her plan was set; this would be the last time and she wanted to absorb every touch, every breath, every heated second in his arms.

  Closing her eyes, she listened to the sound of Jude’s breath against her, how it rasped in uneven gasps as he pressed his arousal into her thigh. His hand, so large and masculine, gripped her and she felt him undulating against her in a rhythm that was not choreographed, but urgent, primal. There was a sense of frenzied need that permeated the carriage. She felt it in the taut strength of his shoulders, in the way her heart beat rapidly against her breast and the sound of his uneven, hurried breathing.

  “I can’t be more than this,” he rasped as he pressed once more against her. “I can’t be slow and luring. I need you, Bella, and we’ll be home soon, and I can’t wait another moment to do what I wanted to do to you in my study.”

  With a nod, she acquiesced. Her fall so easy.

  Breathlessly she waited, and then her skirts were raised to her waist, exposing her to his gaze while his fingers searched through the slit of her drawers in a frantic motion that made her arch and writhe and capture his mouth with hers. The kiss was demanding, consuming, and she clutched at him, her hands raking through his hair, grabbing handfuls as his fingers slid possessively over her sex.

  “Let me feel you,” he breathed. “Taste you.”

  Before she could understand, he wrapped his hand around her calf, spreading her thighs as he lowered his head, scraped his chin against her thigh. She gasped at the sinful sight, gasped again as she felt his fingers parting her, studying her
before he placed his scorching tongue to her folds.

  The feeling was heaven, his tongue a mix of light flicks and firm pressure, and long, languid strokes. The previous urgency bled away, leaving her feeling hazed as Jude slowed his movement, brought her up, then down, only to build her higher and higher, until she was moving beneath him, and her hands were stroking his hair, tightening with every arch of her body.

  “Jude,” she cried. He was killing her, she knew. Felt her soul lift from her body and float upward as she felt her limbs quivering, and her heart stop, only to restart after a missed beat. She cried out, a strangled sound, and he looked up. Watched her fall apart beneath his ministering tongue.

  “La petite mort,” he murmured as he cradled her in his arms. “The little death. The next time,” he whispered, “I will die right alongside you.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  LATER THAT NIGHT, Black made his way across the street to Stonebrook’s house. The marquis was out, he’d seen his carriage leaving. Lucy and Isabella were inside, and he decided that it was the perfect opportunity to sneak into Stonebrook’s study, and to see Isabella again.

  He had to see her again. He’d thought of nothing else all afternoon and what had transpired in the carriage. He felt at ease; the secret of his past was out, but there were other secrets he was hiding, as well. But the one he feared the most was out, and she hadn’t believed it.

  Where had she been ten years ago, when no one had believed him? When everyone, including the ton, believed he had murdered his brother and Abigail?

  Maybe it was how it was intended. Ten years ago he could not have appreciated Isabella, and the gift she was. He would not have seen past her status, and the fact she was poor. It had taken years of pain and isolation to make him see the true beauty of life.

  When he had dined, he’d glanced at the chair she’d occupied the evening before. Her image had so easily come to him, and he thought back to the library and how good she had felt in his arms, and today, when he had tasted her, put his mouth to her sex and taken from her. He could hardly wait to have her with him again.