The Perfect Temption

by Leslie LaFoy

  "I never do business with people I don't know by name.

  An odd quirk these days, I know, but business has become so

  coldly impersonal in recent years. I prefer the older way of

  conducting such affairs."

  "Dora Elmore," she supplied, nodding. "And you be?"

  "Reginald Majors. And this is my wife, Millicent."

  Millicent? Reginald? Why was he making up names for

  them?

  Aiden took Dora's free hand and laid a five-pound note in

  her palm, saying, "It's a pleasure to do business with you,

  Mrs. Elmore."

  "Yes," Alex added, watching the woman rub the bill between

  her fingers. "Thank you for having what I needed. I'm

  so glad to have found it."

  "Would you be needin' the other two sets?" Dora asked.

  "Don't get many people in here lookin' for silver an' with

  the money to ac'ly buy it."

  Aiden glanced down at the other bundles on the counter.

  "Five pounds for each of the others, as well?"

  "Would be 'nother ten pounds together."

  "Millicent?"

  Like the Westerham silver, they were badly underpriced.

  But better that Dora Elmore make a little something today,

  Alex told herself, than having the silver tossed into the refuse

  bin when she died. "Your sisters will someday marry,"

  she said, continuing the unnecessary charade. "We could

  save the sets for them."

  Aiden winked, pulled two more five-pound notes out of

  his wallet and turned back to the woman. "Very well, Mrs.

  Elmore," he said brightly, pressing the additional bills into

  her hand. "We'll take all three. And thank you for sparing

  me the ordeal of looking for wedding gifts in the future. You

  can't know how very grateful I am."

  "I'm even more so," Alex muttered under her breath.

  Dora chuckled. "Thank ya, Mr. Majors. Mrs. Majors. God

  bless you both."

  They took their leave, scooting down the pathway, Aiden

  carrying the silver bundles, Alex holding her skirts close and

  watching the old woman grin toothlessly at the cash in her

  hand. Fifteen measly pounds, Alex thought sadly as she followed

  Aiden out onto the walkway. It should have been thirty.

  "Did you see the look on her face?" Aiden said softly as

  they made their way toward Barrett's waiting carriage.

  "She's never in her life held fifteen pounds in her hand at

  one moment."

  "She's never held so much as two, Aiden. And the saddest

  thing is that all this silver is easily worth twice what she

  asked for it. I was trying to think of a way to offer her a fair

  amount when you stepped in and accepted."

  He stopped abruptly. "Is that what all that was about?" he

  asked in genuine surprise and obvious regret. "Aw, Jesus.

  I'm sorry, Alex. I thought you were thinking about talking

  her down, not up, and I didn't care what we paid for it as

  long as we got it back and were done."

  'That's all right," she acceded on a sigh. Glancing back at

  the shop, she added, "I just feel sorry for her. Old and blind

  and crippled and poor. With a granddaughter who's apparently

  not only a tart, but also a thief and a not very bright one

  at that."

  "Why do you say that?"

  "In the first place, she stole monogrammed silver, which

  is the easiest to trace and so the most difficult to fence," she

  explained as they resumed their course. "And when she

  couldn't find a fence willing to buy it, she gave it to her

  grandmother to sell in a junk shop instead of melting it down

  and selling it as bullion."

  "You know," he mused, chuckling, as they reached the

  coach, "the world should be glad that you're an honest

  woman, Alexandra Radford. You'd make a very good thief."

  Opening the door, he looked up at the driver. "Seaman's

  Mercantile Bank, please."

  Alex managed to contain her curiosity until they were under

  way. "If I might ask ... Why are we going to a bank?"

  "Lord Westerham gave Barrett two hundred pounds just

  for buying back the silver."

  "Dear Lord, Aiden. I didn't know that anyone could be that

  desperate. Two hundred? That's a positively insane amount of

  money."

  He nodded. "And handing one hundred and ninety-five

  back to him rubs against my grain. It's money he'll never

  miss."

  "You're not going to keep it," she said, appalled at the

  only course she could see and unable to believe that Aiden

  would do something so underhanded.

  "In a manner of speaking, yes, I am," he replied happily.

  "I'm going to place it in trust with instructions that two

  pounds be sent in the name of Mr. and Mrs. Reginald Majors

  to Mrs. Dora Elmore in Whitechapel on the first day of every

  month for the rest of her life. If she passes before the funds

  are exhausted, the balance can go to an orphanage."

  ''That's why you made up the names!"

  "I hope they really don't exist. I was thinking on my feet

  and picked the first names that popped into my head."

  She forgave him for the horrible behavior while shopping,

  for giving her a name like Millicent, for everything.

  "What if Dora outlives the funds?"

  "Then I'll replenish the coffer myself for as long as

  necessary," he said with a shrug. "Twenty-four pounds a year

  isn't much."

  "You're a very good man, John Aiden Terrell."

  His eyes sparkled and his smile tripped her heart. "I was

  hoping you'd think so. It's all part of my grand strategy, you

  know. I'm figuring that if you think I might be in the queue

  for sainthood, you'll let down your guard."

  "You are so very good. Has any woman ever been able to

  resist you?"

  "Lady Ogden. But I really don't think she should count

  against me. Rumor has it that she prefers women."

  Alex considered him, her heart fluttering and light. In the

  part of her brain that ordered and aligned the world, she

  knew that he wasn't good for her. He was temptation without

  commitment, joy without restraint. When the paths of their

  lives inevitably diverged, her soul was going to ache with

  missing him. But it was too late to avoid that consequence;

  she'd come too far already. There was nothing to be gained

  in turning back. Nothing at all. She wasn't sure what good

  was to be ultimately gained in going forward, but she knew

  Aiden well enough to suspect that the journey to discovery

  would be magnificent.

  "What are you thinking, Alex?"

  Ah, so silken, so seductively smooth. He knew precisely

  what she was thinking. ''That neither one of us is ever going

  to be a saint."

  He rakishly cocked a brow. "Disappointed?"

  "Not in the least."

  He shook his head slowly and expelled a long, slow

  breath. "If we weren't just a half-block from the bank .. . "

  Alex smiled and looked out the window, wondering how

  long it took to set up a trust and hoping she didn't lose her

  courage somewhere in the lobby.

  In the distance, a bell chimed the half hour. Aiden grinned
as

  they headed back to their waiting carriage yet again. Half

  past noon. An auction attended, the Westerham silver recovered,

  a trust established, and Alex on the verge of surrender.

  It was amazing what one could accomplish if one really tried.

  The only disappointment so far was in spending all that

  time surveying Whitechapel Road and not seeing so much as

  a hint of the Indian stranger. It would have been nice to have

  that end neatly tied up before the day was done, but he

  wasn't willing to abandon his plans for it. Let the bastard try

  to get into Haven House.

  "Terrell!"

  His hand on the door, he turned. "Hawkins," he said, handing

  Alex in as the man rushed forward, his hand extended.

  "Good to see you again. It's been a long time," he added as

  they shook hands.

  "Talk about divine intervention!"

  "Were we?" Aiden chuckled.

  "Crumb's out with a broken leg. Fell off a ladder last

  week. Which leaves us short a right wing three-quarter back

  for the annual Off -Season Challenge. Would you play?"

  "I'd love to," he admitted. "When is it?"

  "One o'clock at Pritchard's Field. I'm on my way there

  now. Running late, as always. And here you are. If I'd left my

  office on time, I'd've missed you entirely. It's a sign from

  God."

  ''Today?'' Aiden repeated, realizing that he'd fairly well

  backed himself into a corner. ''I couldn't even begin to guess

  where my uniform might be."

  "I'll go by Crumb's on my way there and borrow his. It

  should fit you well enough."

  Oh, God. His afternoon with Alex ... "I haven't played

  in ages."

  "It doesn't matter," Hawkins assured him. "One never forgets

  how. Say you will, please. If you don't, we'll have to take

  the field a man short. And we're up against Blackthorn this

  year. Please, Terrell. Just once I'd like to send Blackthorn

  home humiliated. We won't have a chance if you don't play."

  Blackthorn. Damn. If ever there was a game worth playing,

  Blackthorn was it. He turned back to the carriage and

  poked his head inside. "Alex, would you mind a diversion?

  It'll take the better part of two hours."

  "What will?"

  "A rugby game."

  Hawkins poked his head in to contribute, "And Blackthorn

  tends to think they're cut from a better cloth than anyone else.

  It's an old, old rivalry. We desperately need your man to play."

  She smiled softly, ever so patiently and understandingly.

  "I can see that you're drawn to the prospect of getting yourself

  mangled. I wouldn't dream of standing in your way."

  "I could go with Hawkins and have the driver take you

  home," he suggested, trying to be magnanimous. "I know

  you have other things you want to do."

  She arched a brow and he could have sworn she intended

  to say something wicked, something other than, "And who

  would see that you're hauled to a doctor in the aftermath?

  I'll go along."

  Aiden straightened and met Hawkins's gaze. "One o'clock

  at Pritchard's Field. We'll be there."

  He instantly bolted off, shouting over his shoulder as he

  went, "You're a good man, Terrell!"

  Aiden smiled weakly and nodded, then looked up at Barrett's

  driver.

  "I heard, sir," the man said. "Now it's Pritchard's Field. If

  you are to arrive there by one, we will have to hurry."

  The carriage rolled forward before he got the door closed

  behind himself. He fell into his seat, feeling conflicted and

  more than a little frustrated. "I'm so sorry, Alex. I committed

  myself without thinking. I really should have-"

  "Don't apologize, Aiden," she interrupted gently. "Life

  has its own rhythm. All things come in their destined time."

  "I suppose so," he reluctantly agreed, staring out the window

  as the carriage slowed for traffic. There, just behind

  them, standing on the walkway, his hand raised in hailing a

  cab, was the stranger.

  There wasn't time to leap out and confront him. And the

  financial district wasn't the place to do it, either. Aiden did

  the next best thing. She landed on the seat beside him with a

  startled squeak and was still too stunned to resist when he

  turned her, slipped his arm around her waist, pulled her back

  against his chest, and laid his other arm over her shoulder

  and pointed. "Over there. Climbing into that cab. Do you

  know that man?"

  "No," she supplied breathlessly as their coach picked up

  speed and the other disappeared from sight. "I've never seen

  him before."

  Still holding her close, he sighed and began. "I've seen

  him three times, Alex. First at the window of the Blue Elephant

  the day you were almost kidnapped. And twice today."

  "All I can tell you is that he looked to be Kshatriya."

  "Explain, please."

  "There are four castes in India." Holding up her hand, she

  ticked them off on her fingers. "From high to low and in the

  most simplistic terms ... The Brahmins who are the teachers

  and the religious leaders. The Kshatriyas who are the

  warriors and the rulers. The Vaishyas who are tradesmen and

  businessmen. And the Shudras who are servants and do menial

  work." She paused and then added offhandedly, "Well,

  and then there's the Untouchables, but they're considered so

  low that they have no caste status at all. Mohan's family is

  obviously of the Kshatriya caste."

  "How do you know by looking who belongs to what

  caste?"

  "Generally speaking-and always aware that there are

  exceptions-by skin tone. The lighter the color, the higher

  the caste. That and the occupations in which they're engaged

  and how they dress. That man looked Kshatriya on all apparent

  counts."

  "Why would he be following you?"

  ''To find Mohan?"

  "I don't think so," he gently disagreed, his mind turning

  over all the puzzle pieces he'd collected. "If someone

  wanted to find the boy, all they'd have to do is ask around the

  docks either here or in India. You receive regular shipments

  of goods. There are countless men who could tell them

  where the crates are delivered and wouldn't know the danger

  in sharing that information."

  "Mohan's uncle's men are very loyal," she countered, relaxing

  into him. "Whether because of family ties or fear

  doesn't matter. They wouldn't talk to strangers about such

  things."

  "I've had Mohan out riding in the city for the last three

  days, Alex. From sunup to sundown. In plain sight of anyone

  who wanted to find him. No one has come out of the shadows.

  But I take you out and about just once and there he is.

  It's you, Alex. You're the prey. Why?"

  "I think you're imagining dangers that aren't there, Aiden."

  He wanted to think that, but couldn't. "Mohan tells me

  that there are some in his father's court who oppose your

  presence. Is that true?"

  "He's far too young to fully understand such things."

 
Aiden closed his eyes for a moment, then kissed the top

  of her head before shifting her around to face him. "We've

  come too far together, my darling duchess," he said softly,

  taking her hands in his, "for you to go back to evading my

  questions. Talk to me, Alex. I can't protect you if I don't

  know where the danger's coming from."

  Her smile was bittersweet. "One of the most central realities

  of life in the royal court is that you're never absolutely

  certain from which direction the danger will come. Intrigue

  is an art, Aiden. Those who aren't very good at it die early in

  the game. Those who are left to plot and scheme are the very,

  very best at disguising their intent and hiding their allies."

  "Why would someone want to harm you? Jealousy?"

  She blinked and a genuine smile spread over her face.

  "For heaven's sake, Aiden. Why would anyone be jealous of

  me?"

  "Because," he supplied crisply, "you're a Brahmin and

  they envy your status?"

  "I'm not a Brahmin," she countered, chuckling. "Some

  would tell you, if they were willing to stretch the caste system