Temptation Has Green Eyes

by Lynne Connolly

  “That is a possibility,” the man she would always call her father said. “He would want you to create disturbance in that case. Scandal that would break Devereaux. Or he might want to threaten you with exposure, use the information to get you to do something for him.”

  Spy. In that case, she would refuse.

  Having beaten out the arguments with her father until they could think of no other possibilities, Sophia consented to take a dish of tea while her father ordered her a chair to take her to the Royal Exchange.

  Her heart in her mouth, Sophia set forth, with her two attendants close behind.

  At the Exchange, she dismissed the chairmen and went toward the nearest set of stairs that led up to the gallery where the shops were situated. The large cobbled area that formed the central part of the building was where men often met to discuss business, somewhat like the old Roman forum, which she’d been told was on the same site. That was one reason she liked shopping here. It was close to where she used to live, and she liked thinking of the continuity of purpose. People using this place for the same ends for generation after generation.

  Not that she intended to do much shopping today. For appearance’s sake, she went into a shop and bought a fan. If anyone saw her there, she could show it to them as her reason for being here. It wasn’t a particularly distinguished or pretty one, merely acceptable. She just pointed at it and said, “That one,” waiting only long enough for it to be packaged and handed to French, who took it without comment. They proceeded along the gallery, their feet clacking on the wooden boards under their feet, and down the stairs at the end.

  Outside, a carriage waited. It was obviously a private one, since it was well-kept with a pair of horses much too fine for hacks harnessed to it. The two attendants were much too superior for the hire vehicles that thronged London. She waited. The footman approached her and bowed. “If you would step inside, Mrs. Smith.”

  She would. So did the footman and French. The man would have turned away the servants and held out his arm to block them, but immediately Sophia stepped out of the carriage. “I go with them or not at all.” They might not be too much protection, but they were all she had. Like her father, she considered the possibility that the duke would try to harm her extremely unlikely. He stood to gain nothing from that. The footman relented, and they climbed in.

  “Stay in the hall when we arrive, please. If there is any trouble, French, you run for help, and Horton, get me out of the place.”

  “Still not sure about this, miss,” Horton mumbled.

  A man of few words but possessed of much muscle. Sophia was glad to have him with her.

  “It’s very important, Horton. It’s not as if this is the first time I’ve run an errand like this for my father.” That was how they’d presented it to Horton—as one of the clandestine messages she’d sometimes passed along. Most concerned cargoes and sometimes illegal cargo her father didn’t want to be associated with. An anonymous word dropped in the right quarters usually ensured the vessel concerned was investigated without delay. Part of the work of a City merchant, but not one that was bruited abroad. But she wasn’t wearing a mask today, as some ladies did as a matter of course against the dust and dirt of the city. She’d considered it, but concluded that a masked lady entering the house of a prominent peer might evoke more gossip, not less. She contented herself with pulling her hat over her forehead and keeping her head lowered. She fastened the cloak and draped it over her gown so that only a glimpse of dull green would greet any curious onlooker.

  Her stomach fluttered with nerves, but that only added to her determination to see this through. With her father on her side, she’d cope with whatever happened next. And his reassurance, that the message was a ruse to get her there, eased her mind rather than making matters worse.

  The carriage jolted its way through the uneven streets of the City and smoothed out on the broader, newer roads in the West End. Sophia didn’t look out of the window but sat in a corner of the vehicle, keeping her head down. She didn’t want to be seen in case Northwich had tricked her and exposed his crest on the other side of the carriage. It appeared unmarked, but she didn’t want to take any chances. Risking the short journey from carriage to door and back again was bad enough.

  The Northwich house was in a side-street off Berkeley Square. They’d once owned a grand mansion in Piccadilly, close to the one still owned by the Duke of Kirkburton, Julius’s father. That had long gone, dissipated in the fortune the Dankworth family had given to the Cause.

  Now the duke had reassembled much of his money, and they had re-established themselves in society. Some even thought they were romantic, with their long allegiance to the Stuarts. Sophia wasn’t one of them.

  The carriage came to a halt, but Sophia didn’t move until the door at the top of the shallow steps opened. They were expected. She climbed down quickly and hurried up the steps, doing her best not to appear furtive, disappearing inside.

  The hall was a typical one for these houses, with a black-and-white tiled floor and a lantern swinging overhead, its glass panes glittering in the spring sunshine. The stairs curved up to a single landing, not as large as her own house, but elegant. Family portraits lined the stairs, generations of Dankworths looking down their noses at whomever dared to intrude. Without removing her outerwear, Sophia prepared to wait.

  But she didn’t have to. A footman in dazzling blue-and- red livery bowed. “If you would follow me, ma’am. The duke awaits.” He showed no sign of surprise or even interest in her presence.

  She removed her hat, cloak, and gloves and handed them to French. She didn’t want anyone else to touch them.

  How many women did he usher in to the duke? While Sophia hadn’t heard that Northwich had a particularly bad reputation, she assumed he found feminine comfort somewhere, since he was a widower. The house smelled of lavender and mint, unpleasantly pleasant. She liked it, and she didn’t want to. She didn’t want to like anything about this house.

  The footman opened both parts of a double door leading to a well-appointed salon. The furniture was modern in style, French and gilded, and the upholstery a pleasing shade of apple green. Very fashionable with a Continental air. Just what she’d expect of a wealthy Jacobite. Except she wasn’t used to thinking of the breed as wealthy.

  A man unfolded himself from one of the chairs by the window. Unlike the airy feel of the room, he was dressed in dark, rich colors. Dark red cloth for a coat and a slightly lighter red for the waistcoat, but when he moved, a sprinkling of brilliants sparkled and then stilled. As he did, standing before her, drinking her in.

  “I’m very glad you decided to come.” His voice was low, hardly stirring the air, but it throbbed with emotion. “I’m glad you don’t powder.”

  She lifted her hand to her hair, dressed simply but left its natural dark brown. Such an odd thing to say. “Why the personal remarks?”

  “Because this meeting is about personal appearance, in part. Please, do sit.”

  Inclining her head, she allowed him to seat her in one of the apple-green chairs. “Before you ask, I don’t want refreshments,” she said, forcibly reminded of Persephone’s sojourn in Hades. Persephone had eaten a few pomegranate seeds and been forced to stay in Hades for that number of months every year. She didn’t want anything clinging to her when she left this place. She didn’t care how rude she sounded; she wanted this meeting over and done. Every minute here tore at her nerves.

  “Very well.” Flipping back the tails of his coat, the duke took a seat opposite her.

  By his side stood a small table containing a leather portfolio. Closed as yet but she had no doubt it contained interesting information. Equally certain was that the papers wouldn’t be leaving this house with her, if they were the originals.

  The Duke of Northwich was tall, lean, and graceful, but he had a sharp staccato way of moving that unnerved her. He did it now, leaning forward and studying her face.

  She’d had
enough. “I’m not my husband’s sister, am I?”

  “An interesting way of putting it. Why do you say that?” He smiled, easy and superior. Her hand itched to slap his smug expression away.

  “Because it was the only way you could get me here without my telling Devereaux.”

  His smile broadened. “Clever, too. Your family inheritance.”

  “So tell me your business. I can’t spend too much time here.”

  “Of course not. I hope you’ll forgive my receiving you alone, but I’m about to impart information that must go no further, for the time being. I want your promise.”

  She wasn’t that foolish. Keeping a secret from her husband was a sure way of driving a wedge between them. “You don’t have it. Tell me, and I’ll decide what to say and who to say it to. Otherwise I leave here now.”

  Gazing at her, meeting her eyes, he said nothing. The silence tactic, but he’d chosen the wrong person to attempt to intimidate that way. She sat up straight and met his gaze, gave it a full minute, and then said, “Your decision. Insist on that promise, and I’ll leave now.”

  He sighed. “Very well. It’s imperative that I tell you, and I must trust that your discretion matches your intelligence. And your common sense. I will tell you what you need to know, and I have the proof here, should you wish to see it.”

  “Of course.”

  A grin cracked his face briefly. “No copies. And the papers do not leave this house.”

  She marked the way he said that. He must have a safe on the premises, then. “Agreed.”

  “First, what do you know?”

  He wanted her to go first. Not surprising. She’d do the same thing. But she wasn’t playing that game. She’d tell him no more than he already knew. “That the identity of the man who fathered me is a mystery. That my father is not my father. Except that he is.” Her turn to smile. “How’s that for a conundrum?”

  The smile she received in return held no warmth. His light blue eyes showed nothing. “Indeed. As you say, the man who fathered you is different to the man you call father. So who do you think he is?”

  She took a chance. “I know he’s not the Marquess of Devereaux.”

  “How do you know that?”

  She paused, thinking over her answer, not afraid of breaking the flow of the conversation. He would not trick her into revealing anything she didn’t want to. “It was too obvious a ploy.”

  Tilting his head to one side, he said, “My ruse didn’t even merit a sleepless night? How disappointing. Then why are you here? Alone.”

  “I’ve brought two people I trust with me.”

  He flicked his fingers into the air in a dismissive gesture. “Servants. You can never trust them. They’re a necessary evil.”

  But the expression in his eyes changed. Triumph or amusement. She wished she knew him better so she could tell what it was.

  “You’re curious. Well may you be so. The secret I have to impart is not trivial, nor is it one you can dismiss.” He paused. “Are you sure you won’t have tea?”

  “Positive.” She made a fuss of drawing her watch out of her pocket and flipping open the lid. The delicately enameled dial told her nothing she didn’t already know. Her internal clock was working fine. “You have ten minutes. I told you I wouldn’t stay long.”

  “Very well.” He sighed. “A shame. You’re as blunt as my son. I despair of Alconbury. I truly do. The man has no subtlety.”

  “Good for him.” She doubted that. The Alconbury she’d met had clever eyes. He was probably capable of taking his father on at any game the older man chose. She nodded to him, an invitation to continue. He must realize she meant what she said. She wouldn’t stay here much longer, and if he challenged her threat, she’d make good on it.

  He reached for the portfolio.

  Chapter 18

  Max nodded to his cousin, Lord Malton, as he entered the main room at White’s, prepared to spend at least an hour with a bottle of wine and a newspaper. “Marcus Aurelius, how are you?”

  Marcus shuddered, as Max had known he would. But he got his own back.

  “Tolerably well, Maximilian, tolerably. Thank your lucky stars you only have a sister to care for is all I can say. How is the divine Poppea?”

  Max held up a hand in surrender. “Poppy is well. She’s staying with my mother at Julius’s at present, although Julius is out of town still. But better than sending Helena to the tender mercies of her mother.”

  “And you married, did you not? A girl from the City?” Marcus raised a thin, dark brow, showing all the superciliousness of the blue-blooded aristocrat.

  “She is, and proud of it.” He met his cousin’s gaze steadily. “As am I.”

  Even more now, when he realized his error in imagining for one moment that she’d have met John Hayes clandestinely. Once his unreasoning anger had subsided, the truth had struck him between the eyes. He hadn’t needed to see the face of the woman to know she wasn’t his wife. But he’d stayed, to discover her identity. The vision had infuriated him all over again, but for completely different reasons.

  He would make a few discreet enquiries and discover why his wife’s maid would dream of betraying her mistress.

  “My error.”

  Max accepted his cousin’s apology. Marcus sometimes took his status too seriously.

  “Ahem.” A waiter stood at his elbow, not with the wine and newspaper, but a note.

  Max glanced at him and scanned the note. “You must excuse me, Marcus. My father-in-law awaits me downstairs.”

  “Not a member?”

  “No point. He has nothing to gain from it.”

  Max set off downstairs to meet Russell. He stood in the main foyer, wringing his hands. One glance was enough to tell Max this wasn’t about business.

  “What is it?”

  “I have news.” He swallowed, obviously finding it difficult to tell him.

  A sense of urgency seized Max. Something was wrong. “Out with it, man. Just say it.”

  “John Hayes was found dead this morning. Footpads, they’re saying.”

  “But you don’t think so.” Neither did he, after recent developments.

  “Not for a minute. I’m afraid, although I regret his death, he was not an admirable character.”

  “To say the least.” Try as he might he couldn’t feel sorry. “I appreciate your promptness in telling me.”

  “Who do you think it was?”

  Max’s mouth turned. “There is no ‘think.’ It was Northwich. Who else? Perhaps Hayes threatened to expose him.” After the meeting in Covent Garden, the duke would be anxious to cover his traces, to leave no link behind. Hayes knew too many secrets, Max guessed. To that end, he’d sent men to find Hayes and bring him for Max to question. He’d had enough of tiptoeing around the problem.

  Once he’d ascertained the identity of the spy in his household—obvious when he put his mind to it—he decided to take action of his own.

  “You took Sophia home before you heard this? I know she was planning to visit you.”

  Russell’s hesitation sent a cold dart of warning through Max.

  “What? Where is she?”

  Russell swallowed. “Sophia has gone to the house of her—of the Duke of Northwich.”

  Alarm raced through Max. He took his father-in-law to a quiet corner where they could speak privately. “Tell me. Now and fast.”

  Swiftly, Russell told Max what had happened. “She had French and our footman, Horton, with her.”

  Max closed his eyes briefly and groaned. “Leave it with me. I’ll deal with it. When did she leave you?”

  “She was to meet the carriage at the Exchange. It would drop her back there when they were done and she’d get a chair home.”

  Fighting to stop himself grinding his teeth, Max growled instead. “You thought he’d do that? The man’s a traitor and now a murderer.”

  “I didn’t promise Sophia not to tell you, you unde
rstand, but she assumed it.”

  “Sophia can assume all she likes. Leave the matter with me.” Max strode to the booth where the porter sat and snapped a few orders before handing over a gleaming guinea and grabbing his sword and hat.

  Russell joined him at the door. “What will you do?”

  “The only thing I can do,” he said, and left the building.

  Northwich’s house was barely half a mile away. He’d walk. By the time he reached his destination he’d have his temper under control. Probably. If the man had hurt Sophia, then he’d kill him for sure.

  After a moment’s indulgence, allowing himself a brief vision of running his sword through the blackguard’s heart, he set his mind to what lay ahead and what he would do. He knew, but with the thoroughness that had made him a wealthy man, he wanted to make absolutely sure. Although at a pinch he could just give in to his daydream and leave a bloody corpse behind him. Depending on what he found when he got there. The messenger he’d sent to his house would take care of the rest.

  He rapped on the door of the Northwich house impatiently and, when he entered, tossed his hat at the footman. “I’ve come for my wife.” Glancing around the well-appointed hall, he spotted French sitting on a hard chair, a cloak draped across her lap and a hat resting in it. A man stood by her side, not in livery, but if he wasn’t mistaken, that was Horton. His only ally in this place. “Wait here,” he snapped and, ignoring the protests of the liveried attendant, headed for the stairs. Another stood at the base, blocking his way. He placed his hand on his sword and stared at the man. The coward moved aside. Pity.

  A door upstairs was flung open and someone roared down, “What is the meaning of this commotion?”

  Good, he wouldn’t have to open every door until he found her. “Merely my lateness has caused your servants some distress,” he said, taking the stairs at his leisure. Seemingly so, but his feet ate up the stairs until he stood before his nemesis. One of them, at any rate. He sketched a bow. “Good afternoon, Your Grace.”