Seduction & Scandal

by Charlotte Featherstone

  Smoothing his hands over his face, he tried to think through the small bits of information they had acquired. Perhaps he had overlooked something? But he knew they hadn’t. Their search of the lodge had produced nothing, and Sussex’s investigation revealed that Stonebrook did not keep Masonic letterhead in his study.

  He groaned when he thought of Stonebrook, for it led to only one place. Isabella.

  Damn it! Two weeks without her. He could barely stand it. He had spent it in a haze, a fog of whiskey and unabated desire. His companion was the night, the fire that crackled in the hearth and Lamb, who dozed lazily at his feet.

  He flatly refused to get up and glance out the window, staring up at her window like a love-struck fool. But he was. A fool. And love-struck, too. And he so desperately wanted another glimpse of her.

  He wondered if Isabella felt him when he thought of her. Did she know he was moping about in this mausoleum of his? Did she know the only time his house had felt like a home was the night she had dined there?

  Did she even care? No, how could she? She had forsaken him, and now he was drunk, and feeling dangerous.

  How did he get around this, her paralyzing fear of passion? Goddamn it, he had not risked his own life to save hers for nothing. She was tossing this second chance of life away, and he was enraged by the fact. To spend a lifetime with someone like Knighton, someone who would never know her true desires, even after a decade with her, was anathema to him. How could she want what Knighton offered, when Black could offer her so much more? He’d give everything for her, and Knighton would give her nothing that mattered.

  He had watched them together at the museum, and detected nothing but the most mild of friendships. Knighton didn’t look at her the way a man ought to look at his lover. And she did not look at him like a woman who had been awakened by a lover’s touch. No, she had looked at him like that when she had experienced her first climax in his arms.

  Angry, he picked up his crystal glass and fired it at the hearth, watching as the amber contents splashed into the flames, igniting them, sending them dancing viciously up the flue. Lamb barely stirred. His pet was used to the childish displays he had chosen to hide behind. He had been acting this way ever since Isabella had decided to cut him from her life. He was not used to such a thing. He did not invite closeness in others, nor did he invite them in, but he had offered Isabella a rare invitation to discover what lay inside the reclusive Earl of Black’s soul, and she had rebuffed it. The fact still stung. She hadn’t wanted what he was so ready to show her.

  Resting his head back against the chair, he closed his eyes and laughed in pain and self-deprecation. He had never loved before—certainly he had experienced a familial love for his brother and mother—his father he’d never been close to. But he had loved his mother, and Francis, his younger brother. He had been engaged at the age of twelve. He had grown to like Abigail Livingstone, but never had he grown to love her. And the other women in his life…nothing had ever been close to love. It had been lust. Animal needs. There was no affection, just physical pleasure. And that had all changed when he’d dived into the ocean and swum the swirling depths to save Isabella.

  Holding her in his arms, something inside him awakened. These feelings she feared were not sudden, he thought. They had been growing inside him these past two years, until he was so damn in love with her he couldn’t see straight.

  Perhaps she would believe him if he told her the truth, but then his secret would be out, and she would run from him, because he was a part of her past she didn’t want to remember.

  There must be a way, he told himself. Some way to make Isabella see that life with Knighton would be a disaster. If only he could make her believe in his love. Make her understand that love was like an endless ocean, with no beginning or end.

  Opening his eyes, he glanced at the book he had left open on the table next to him. He picked it up, read the words and reflected how they resonated within his soul.

  I am your moon and your moonlight, too

  I am your flower garden and your water, too

  I have come all this way, eager for you

  Without shoes or shawl

  I want you to laugh

  To kill all your worries

  To love you

  To nourish you

  Would Isabella find the words that Rumi had written centuries before as profound as he did? He could say nothing better than what the poet had written. Every word was how he felt about Isabella. He wanted to love her, nourish her, hold her until Death claimed him. Even in death he had the sense that he would still feel her. His soul, upon every rebirth, would always seek out hers.

  “My lord,” Billings asked. “A missive has come.”

  “Enter.”

  The butler stepped cautiously into the library, clearly noting the shards of crystal that glimmered in the dying glow of the fire.

  “Shall I bring in a broom, milord?”

  “No, I shall see to it in the morning.”

  Black flicked the letter open. Glancing at the words, he carefully folded it back up and slipped it into his jacket pocket. “I’m going out,” he said. “Don’t wait up, Billings.”

  “Very good, milord. Shall I set Lamb out again tonight?”

  At the sound of his name, the mastiff lifted his head, his ears were up, alert. His huge tongue lolled out of his mouth, as if anticipating the duty before him.

  “Yes,” Black murmured as he rubbed behind the dog’s ear. “Send him over to Stonebrook’s. And you’ll protect my lady from harm, won’t you.”

  There was a keen understanding in Lamb’s eyes, and when Billings called for the beast, Lamb loped across the floor and bounded out of the room. Strolling to the window, he watched the massive dog run across the street, only to hide in the side gardens, standing sentinel beneath Isabella’s bedroom window. If she would not allow him to protect her then Lamb was the next best thing.

  BLIND, HE KNELT before the fire. The flickering flames warmed his face, even as the draft of air wrapped around him.

  “What have you learned, Knighton?”

  Swallowing, he used the fleeting seconds to formulate his lie. “The text I discovered is in poor condition. It’ll take time to decipher the tale of the Templars.”

  Something hard hit the stone, and he jumped at the sound. He was normally not a brave, heroic man, but in this matter he would die for his cause. He was utterly consumed by the Templar story. By the seductive voice that spoke to him from the pendant.

  The voice told him of the powers it possessed. Of what could be done if he could but find the chalice. His wildest dreams—his most coveted fantasy could come to life.

  Thus far, he had learned that he required the blood of an innocent. A few drops on the seeds, and the powers would begin. He’d found the blood he needed. Had already set that part of his plan in motion. He had the chalice, but he needed the scroll. The pendant wanted to be reunited with the chalice. It chanted that, over and over, until he thought he would go mad at nights for hearing the words over and over again. But he needed the scroll in order to reunite them as the pendant needed.

  “Damn you, tell me what you’ve learned, Knighton.”

  He knew he could not keep this up forever. Orpheus, as the man called himself, might decide to take the pendant back, and he couldn’t be parted from it. He decided that he had to give up something in return. “The chalice is integral. We need to find it.”

  “I already know that,” the man snarled. “Fool!”

  Swallowing, Knighton tried to find a way to stall him. He wanted this find for himself. He was greedy. He wanted this power. The secrets contained in the pendant and chalice for himself.

  Pain seared through his scalp as his hair was squeezed by a tight fist. “If you think to trick me, Knighton, you’ve got another think coming. I own you,” the man snarled. “Don’t think to keep a damn thing from me. You’ve got three days to discover what you can. Then we’ll be coming for you.”

 
Shoved forward, Knighton fell to the cold stone floor. The silence was deafening, and as he raised his shaking hand to the scarf tied around his eyes, he knew what he had to do. He must take the blood of the innocent and use what knowledge he had discovered—before the others came to him.

  Tonight, he mused as he stood up on shaking legs. Tonight he would call upon the one he had chosen.

  SHE HAD NEVER DONE anything like this, but desperate times called for desperate measures. Glancing at the missive in her hand, Lucy studied the directions she had written as her thumb brushed over her reticule. Tucked safely inside was the egg-shaped pendant she had found beneath the chair in the salon.

  Damn Wendell Knighton for coming to her home with the prospect of Templar treasure. She had been smitten by the tale, just as Knighton knew she would be, but how had he known of her desperation? But he had known. She’d been too weak to resist. The story he had weaved had been so intriguing and hope inspiring that she had not even considered returning the pendant to him. From the moment it had touched her hand, it had become an obsession. The powers inside it spoke to her; she could hear the beckoning voice, even from inside the safety of her reticule.

  As the carriage rolled along the cobbles, carrying her farther and farther away from Grosvenor Square, a deep-seated sense of apprehension invaded her soul. Breaking into her father’s Masonic lodge was nothing she thought she’d ever do. But then, discovering a way to have her heart’s greatest desire would make people do all kinds of silly things.

  The hired hack slowed, pulling up before the darkened building that was off Fleet Street and the River Thames. It was well past midnight, and while Mayfair would be alive with people coming and going from balls and routs, this part of London was relatively quiet. Still, she would have to have a care not to be seen.

  It was not as if this was the first time she had traveled alone, by hired hack. She was adept at sneaking away from the house.

  “’Ere ye are,” the coachman called from his perch.

  Lucy heard him jump down from his seat, and the door swung open, revealing a lanky old man with yellowing teeth. Holding out her hand, she allowed him to assist her out. When she was safely standing on the sidewalk, she looked up at the imposing building through the rippling lace of her bonnet veil. The square-and-compass symbol, with the gold numbers 128, was clearly visible on the pediment of the building.

  “Yes, this is the place.”

  “Told ye I knew of it.”

  “This is for the carriage ride,” she said as she placed coins in his waiting hand. He wore a filthy glove with the fingers cut out to the knuckle. His long bony fingers curled around the gold, which shone in the moonlight. “This is for you—if you’ll stay and wait for me.”

  “’Ow long?” he asked as his thumb moved over the coins, counting them.”

  “A half hour perhaps?”

  “Aye, that’ll do me. A ’alf hour, mind, or it’ll cost ye more.”

  Lifting her skirts, Lucy ran up the steps and around the side of the building where the streetlights did not reach. She had chosen tonight because she had finally worked up the nerve, not to mention the fact the fog was thick, blanketing the city in shadows. The shadows were her friend tonight. No one would see her moving about the building or slipping in the back door.

  Once around the back, she came to a door and fiddled once more with her reticule. Inside, she fished around for a key, just another object she had thought nothing of stealing. In the darkness she fumbled with putting the key in the lock. Nervousness, and perhaps anticipation, was making her clumsy.

  “Damnation!” she muttered as she tried a third time. This time the key fit nicely into the opening, and turned, releasing the latch. Opening the door, she stepped into the hallowed halls of the Masonic lodge.

  She’d brought a taper and match with her, and once inside, she struggled to light the match. She almost abandoned hope for it, when light flared, and the acrid smell of sulfur wafted through the air.

  The candle cast deep, dancing shadows on the walls as she walked silently but efficiently down the hall, taking in the Masonic heraldry. She had always been intrigued by the secret society, and would have loved to explore more, but time was of the essence. She was not done hunting, and she could not risk the carriage driver’s abandoning her here—all alone.

  Heels clipping against the black-and-white-marble tile, she made her way to the back of the building where she could detect the faintest odor of must. The library, with its thousand tomes, must be back there.

  Rounding the corner, she passed a door that had been left open, and raised her candle, taking in what lay beyond the flickering flame. Shelf upon shelf of books lay before her, and she stepped into the room, and found a candlestick in which to put her taper. Then she removed her gloves, and the necklace from her reticule. The second her hands touched the pendant, it seemed to come alive, warming in her palms, whispering to her to connect it with the book. Like lost lovers longing to be reunited, the pendant silently spoke, encouraging her to walk to one particular section of the library.

  Was it her natural instincts that commanded her, or was it really the pendant guiding her? Regardless, she heeded its counsel, and moved to the section, looking in frustration at the sheer volume of leather-and-gilt spines that stared out at her.

  Where to begin? But her fingers were already touching each book. She had no idea of the title, but suspected she might find it contained the same symbols as on the pendant.

  In efficient silence, Lucy worked, listening to her instinct…cold, cool…her fingers kept moving as her belly grew nervous…warm, warmer…she could hardly breathe, and then she touched the book—the right one—for the pendant absolutely heated against her flesh, and her hand shook in eagerness as she pulled the old brown leather book—which appeared to be an illuminated manuscript out of its hiding spot. It had been rolled up, like a scroll, and nearly hidden behind another book. As she took the leather ties in her fingers and pulled, the scroll unraveled, and a cloud of dust sprung up.

  Yes, the pendant whispered. Yes, now hurry, open me, take the seeds into your mouth…

  Breathlessly, she stepped down the little stool and whirled around, her hood slipped back over her bonnet, and she heard a gasp at the door of library.

  “Stop, thief!”

  Her body froze, and she glanced up from the scroll, frightened as never before. Light flared, and the glare from a gas lamp being lit by the map table momentarily blinded her. When she could see, she looked up, and heard the deepest, most dangerous growl.

  “Lucy Ashton?”

  It was her turn to gasp in alarm. “Lord Black.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Wh-what are you doing here, my lord?”

  “I would like to ask you the same question.”

  Numerous lies began to formulate in her mind. She fixed on one just as she saw how Black’s gaze had dropped to her throat. He was staring at the pendant, and she let go the book, knowing she must protect the seeds inside.

  Wendell had said, when he’d come to call on them, that the seeds were the power behind the pendant. It was the seeds that brought dreams—and untold power.

  Yes, she heard. The voice in her head was all but screaming at her now, and she fumbled with the opening, trying to pry open the locket and take the seeds into her mouth.

  But Black had launched himself into motion, and he was throwing himself at her before she could think. His large, leather-encased hand wrapped around her throat, and she swore she saw her impending death, but he only yanked the pendant from her neck and shoved it into his pocket.

  She was enraged, and struggled against him, her hand searching deep inside the pocket.

  “Lucy, listen to me,” he growled as she struggled in his hold. “You’re not in your right mind.”

  “Give it to me,” she snarled. “Give it to me. It’s mine.”

  “It’s evil, Lucy. It brings only death, not pleasure.”

  “I want it,” she screamed
, clawing at him. “I want it, it’s mine.”

  A part of her knew she was being hysterical, another part of her was at the mercy of the pendant. That voice, that hissing voice that seemed to scream to her, was relentless, gave her such incredible power to fight Black.

  Raising her hand, she clawed at his eye as he tried to subdue her, raked her nails down his cheek until she saw a trail of blood rise to his skin and run down his cheek.

  “Damn you,” he seethed. “Listen to me. Did you take any of the seeds?”

  Just one. The necklace had told her to. It was how she was connected to it, how she could hear its voice whispering to her.

  “Lucy, damn it,” he rasped. He was winded, struggling with her. He would not hit her—Black was a gentleman, but suddenly she felt like no lady. An unholy strength seemed to infuse her. She would not lose this necklace, or this book. Her dreams depended on it.

  “Sussex,” Black roared. “Help me, damn you. I’m going to hurt her.”

  Arms suddenly snagged around her, and she craned her neck back to see who held her hostage. Sussex’s face came into view, and he lifted her off the ground, pressed her back into his chest, and she kicked out like a screeching, hissing cat.

  Black caught her feet, and together they carried her from the room and back down the hall. Slipping in behind them was Alynwick, who was bending down, retrieving the book, and she scorned with hatred.

  “Come, Lucy,” Sussex soothed. “You’re frightened, over wrought.”

  “I hate you,” she cried in a voice that no longer seemed to be her own. The two men paused, stared at her with horror, before gazing at one another.

  “Now do you believe?” Sussex roared.

  “I do.” Black was gazing upon her with a mixture of sorrow and true fear. “The seeds, they really are poisoned with the venom of the snake that whispered to Eve.”