Touch of a Scoundrel (Touch of Seduction 3)

by Mia Marlowe

  “If he’s still alive. And if he is, I doubt he’ll thank you for making him shoot his brother.”

  They’d heard the pair of gunshots as they bounced down the disreputable country road to Shiring-on-the-Green. The hollow dread of not knowing returned to Emma’s chest.

  “If Devon doesn’t emerge the victor,” Kingsley went on, “I doubt the hapless Ted will be anxious to see you, one way or the other.”

  “My father—”

  “Your father is a charlatan of the first water and we both know it.” Kingsley looked down his long nose at her. In repose, his aristocratic face might have been austerely presentable, but now he resembled a thin-faced weasel. “Once Farnsworth realizes he’s lost the statue, he’ll slink away looking for a new set of willing sheep to shear, devil take the hindermost.”

  “If you’re so convinced my father and I are frauds, why not let me join him? We’ll not trouble you. One scoundrel cannot very well complain to the authorities about another.”

  “Clever girl, but I think not. I need you yet.”

  The ferry wallowed up to the quay. They stood aside to allow the passengers to disembark. Kingsley pulled the brim of his hat forward to obscure his face, obviously concerned about being seen by anyone who knew him.

  Emma scanned the passengers, hoping she might recognize someone she’d met at Lord Whitmore’s ball. Lady Bentley waddled down the gangplank surrounded by a bevy of friends. She looked right at Emmaline once through the milling crowd, but showed no sign of acknowledging her or Lord Kingsley.

  “Why do you need me?” she asked.

  “You may as well know.” Kingsley bared his teeth in a feral smile. “You see, that substance you and Devon discovered inside the statue has . . . unique properties when taken in a tea of sorts. But since I’m not sure how it all works, I’d rather not be the first person to test it. I’ll explain its benefits once we determine whether the potion lives up to my expectations. Or rather, if you live through drinking it, my dear.”

  Emma’s insides shivered. He intended to use her, to experiment on her like a pitiless vivisectionist. She started to dart away from him through the crowd, but he snaked out a hand and snatched her back.

  “Let me go,” she said.

  “Do not make a scene,” he whispered through clenched teeth, his lips barely moving. “Have you forgotten I have a gun trained on you?”

  “Whether you shoot me now or use me as a laboratory specimen later makes very little difference.”

  “Keep your voice down.” He yanked her close and hissed into her ear. “Do you see that mother with the pram boarding the ferry now?”

  Her gaze followed the young mother and baby accompanied by an older woman who must have been the child’s grandmother as they moved up the gangplank.

  “If you don’t behave, I’ll put a lead ball in her. Do you understand me?”

  Emma drew a shaky breath and then nodded.

  “Good.” He offered her his arm, his hooded eyes demanding she take it.

  She would have sooner touched a toad, but he seemed so dangerously unhinged, she deemed it wiser not to antagonize him. She slipped her hand into the crook of his arm.

  “Don’t forget your hatbox, my dear,” he said, loud enough for passersby to hear. “Wouldn’t want to mislay your treasures.”

  The lead ball striking Devon’s flesh caused surprisingly little pain. At first. Then the burn started in his left bicep where the sticky red stain spread. Blood trickled down his arm to his fingertips and fell in great droplets on the green grass.

  “Devon, Dev,” Teddy shouted and barreled across the clearing toward him. “I didn’t mean it. Truly, I didn’t. I didn’t even take aim. How bad is it?”

  Dr. Walsh and the rest of the men plowed toward him, but it seemed as if they were running through pudding, their progress strangely sluggish. The sun broke through behind Devon and each blade of grass was edged with its own sharp shadow.

  The doctor tore Devon’s shirt off to expose the wound. Everyone was talking at once, tugging at him, asking him if he was all right.

  “No, I’m not all right,” he said testily. “My little brother just shot me.”

  “You all but dared me to,” Ted countered. “It’s not serious, is it, doctor?”

  “Any time lead insults flesh it’s serious,” Dr. Walsh said, clucking his tongue against his cheek. “But the ball appears to have gone clean through. We need to staunch the bleeding.”

  Devon cocked his head and peered down at his arm. It seemed to belong to someone else. He bunched and flexed his fingers. He could control them, but the numbness remained except for the bolt of fire that burned along the path of the pistol ball.

  “I’m sorry, Devon,” he heard Teddy say, his words cutting through the stillness and thudding into Devon’s heart.

  “That makes two of us. Next time, take aim. I’ll be safer.” He punched his little brother with his good arm while the doctor bound up the other one. Ted punched him back, and they laughed together as if they were much younger and this had been only a schoolyard scuffle. Then Devon’s laughter died. “I won’t give her up, you know.”

  “I’d think you mad if you did,” Ted said.

  Something broke over Devon in shimmering waves, an emotion he’d felt so seldom, he scarcely recognized it. He inhaled deeply. Peace.

  The doctor finished tying off the bandage. “There. That’s as good a field dressing as I can manage. I’d like to see that arm in a sling for a week or two.” He stooped to pick up Devon’s bloody shirt. “There’s no help for this. The stains will terrify Lady Devonwood if she sees you returning in it.”

  “And Devon without a shirt will scandalize the arriving guests good and proper,” Northrop said with a laugh. “Plenty of port, twenty paces at dawn, and an earl caught in a public state of undress. I knew this party would be worth attending.”

  “Never fear, milord.” Baxter scurried back to the horse he’d ridden and rummaged through the saddle bag. He pulled out a slightly rumpled, but otherwise clean shirt. “One has brought a change of clothing for both you and Master Theodore.”

  “I say, that’s forward thinking of you, Baxter,” Teddy said.

  “As was the fact that Dr. Walsh is also an embalmer and would be just as efficient tending to his lordship if he’d cocked up his toes,” Northrop said. “You’ve a brutally competent butler there, Devon.”

  Baxter shot Northrop a tight-lipped glance. “One tries to anticipate all eventualities.”

  He helped Devon into the fresh shirt, taking care with the bandaged arm, and the party mounted and rode back to the castle.

  Ted rode beside Devon most of the way. Dr. Farnsworth and Northrop kept up a running diatribe debating the comparative merits of true Scotch whisky as opposed to the distilled liquor of the same name from the Yank’s Kentucky. The brothers didn’t speak.

  There was no need. Devon felt the bond between them healing with each measured step. It would take time to mend the rift completely, but he and Theodore would emerge from this whole.

  And so would he and Emmaline.

  She must be sick with worry.

  He urged his gelding into a trot. When Dr. Walsh complained that he’d open the wound again, he broke into a canter. The need to see Emma was sharper-edged than the brightest blade. If it made him bleed, so be it.

  When he passed under the portcullis and reached the bailey, he found Lady Bentley and a gaggle of matrons descending from a hired coach.

  “Oh, Lord Devonwood, I see you’ve tried to stop them. To no avail, I gather,” she said breezily. “It’s no shame to you or your brother, of course. They had such a head start, you know.”

  “My apologies, Lady Bentley,” Devon said as his mount side-stepped near her. “You have lost me.”

  “I saw them in Shiring-on-the-Green. He tried to hide his face with that top hat of his, you understand, but she was standing there bold as brass at the ferry landing. Met my eye without a blink, too, the cheeky girl. Off
to Gretna Green for the pair of them, I shouldn’t wonder.” She made tsking sounds. “One shouldn’t be surprised, Theodore, dear. Blood will out, you know.”

  “Who are you talking about?” Ted asked, still mounted.

  Lady Bentley’s eyes widened. “Oh! Oh, so you don’t know. My word. How to tell you? It’s simply so shocking to see a young lady and an eligible peer without a proper chaperone. It’s simply not done. However, I assumed she’d jumped at the chance to have a title. Oh, Theodore, I do apologize, I didn’t mean to imply—”

  “Are you talking about Miss Farnsworth?” Teddy interrupted.

  “Of course, who did you think? Honestly, it’s too bad of her after the way she dangled you along and all, but I suppose she figured Lord Kingsley controls the chinks on his estate and can give her a heftier allowance.”

  “Kingsley!” Dr. Farnsworth said. “I wonder . . . Mr. Baxter, would you please betake yourself to Emmaline’s room and see if the Tetisheri statue is missing.” He leaned in the saddle toward the butler and whispered. “It should be in the drawer with her unmentionables.”

  Lady Bentley gave a little squeal of shocked delight over this juicy tidbit. Mentioning “unmentionables” brought out her fan and set it aflutter.

  “You think Emmaline would have taken it?” Devon asked.

  “No, but Lord Kingsley might have. We almost came to an agreement for me to sell it to him last night, but I guess he didn’t like the terms.” While Baxter dashed into the newer wing of the monstrous edifice, Dr. Farnsworth explained Kingsley’s intense interest in the statue. “So I think he may have absconded with it and if that’s the case, I don’t think my Emma would have gone with him willingly.”

  “Agreed,” Devon said and started to turn his gelding’s head so he could bullet away down the long drive, but Theodore reached over and grabbed the reins.

  “Hold a moment,” he said. “We don’t know that the statue is missing yet.”

  “I don’t give a damn about the statue,” Devon said, yanking the reins back. “All I care about is Emma.”

  “Begging your pardon, your lordship”—Baxter came back at a run—“but the statue may very well be at the crux of the matter. It is missing and what’s more, a letter arrived from my nephew this morning. Seems he’s had time to analyze the sample of the substance we sent him.”

  He handed the letter to Devon who ripped it open and ran his gaze over the small, precise script.

  “What substance? What’s this all about?” Theodore asked.

  “The statue is hollow,” Baxter said. “His lordship and Miss Farnsworth discovered it was filled with an ancient sort of grain. One might speculate that Lord Kingsley suspected as much and it is this that motivates his actions.”

  “That makes sense. He’s been a balmy bastard of late,” Northrop said. “Gone a bit queer in the head over that occult stuff. Tried to get me to go to some of the meetings with him. After the first time, never again.”

  “Why?” Teddy asked as Devon continued to read the letter from Baxter’s nephew.

  “I was expecting a new incarnation of the Hellfire Club,” Northrop said.

  Devon was listening with half an ear. Trust Lionel to be intrigued with a society dedicated to unbridled debauchery.

  “Instead, there was plenty of hell,” Northrop went on, “but none of the fire, if you know what I mean.”

  Lady Bentley emitted a little squeak of titillated horror.

  “You never said anything about Kingsley being involved with that sort of thing,” Devon said.

  Northrop shrugged. “You’re his friend, too. I figured you knew. Besides, I’m not given to carrying tales.” Then he leaned down to Lady Bentley who was hanging on every word of their exchange. “I believe Lord Devonwood has pen and ink in his study if you’d care to take notes for future reference, milady.”

  She puffed up like a fat grouse on a crisp fall day. “Well, I never!”

  “I don’t doubt it, madam,” he said with a wicked grin. “But having none of your own may be why you are so interested in the affairs of others.”

  Her eyes widened and she sputtered in search of a retort, but found none. Instead, she wheeled and chugged through the open front doors, calling for Lady Devonwood as loudly as she could.

  “That tears it,” Teddy said. “Maman will know everything now.”

  “Not everything,” Northrop said. “I didn’t mention that Kingsley is mad about brewing potions and elixirs and is always going on about how best to ‘infuse this’ or ‘distill that.’ That news would have given Lady Bentley at least another hour’s worth of material.”

  A muscle ticked in Devon’s cheek. The vision of Emmaline sipping something from a teacup rose up in his mind. “Baxter’s nephew says he gave the grain to one of his laboratory rodents. It became frenetic, then aggressive and then . . .”

  “Then what?” Teddy and Dr. Farnsworth asked in tandem.

  “It went mad.”

  CHAPTER 33

  The rope cut her wrists and ankles if she struggled at all against her bonds. Emmaline tried to relax, but the straight-backed chair was not built for comfort even if she hadn’t been lashed to it.

  She was held in a musty cellar beneath Lord Kingsley’s London town house. In happier times, it had probably held hogsheads of beer and great rounds of cheese, and perhaps had woven strings of onions and garlic dangling from the heavy black beams of the ceiling. Traces of the pungent scents still hung in the air.

  Now the walls were covered with signs and symbols from a dozen different mythological systems—ankhs and pentagrams, yins and yangs, stars and daggers and many-tentacled beasts. Kingsley had cherry-picked his way through multiple belief systems, lifted out the most fantastical elements, and synthesized them into something that was wholly his own.

  Lord Kingsley boiled water for a pot of “Old Sticky,” the popular name for the Earl Grey blend of tea and bergamot. Then he fussed with the ingredients steeping in a stone vessel over a small kerosene burner that would have been more at home in a laboratory than a cultist’s lair. He consulted a moldering grimoire from time to time.

  “I apologize for the wait, my dear,” he said as if he were preparing a spot of tea for her. “These things are delicate and cannot be rushed.”

  “I’m in no hurry.”

  He laughed. “No, I’d imagine not. I really can’t guarantee the efficacy of this potion since it’s the first brew. But if the effect is what I hope, you’ll enjoy a benefit beyond your wildest dreams.” He cocked his head and considered her with a slightly elevated brow. “There’s no point in preternaturally long life if one hasn’t someone with whom to spend it. If you play nicely, perhaps I’ll share my limited quantity of grain with you.”

  “I have no intention of playing with you, nicely or otherwise.” She wiggled her fingers, trying to keep circulation stirring in them.

  He narrowed his eyes to slits. “It’s just as well. You may be my taster then and nothing more. I’ll find a more worthy consort, no doubt, once I’ve amassed the wealth and power the potion promises as well. Perhaps I’ll acquire two of them, variety being the spice of my very long life. A man grows weary of the same woman after a while, you know. However, I do intend to have a bit of sport with you after our little experiment. Can’t let Devon have all the fun now, can we?”

  Emmaline looked away from him in disgust. Her gaze fell on the Tetisheri statue, lying on its side next to the steeping teapots with its base removed. Lord Kingsley had transferred the contents to a “more reliable” set of Mason jars and sealed them tightly. If he were thinking clearly, he’d realize that the design of the base with its threaded seal proved beyond doubt the statue was a modern fake. The enigmatic smile on Tetisheri’s face mocked her.

  Kingsley wouldn’t believe anything she said. She was a huckster, a confidence artist, a fraud, and he knew it. Why should he believe her even when the evidence was right before him?

  His lordship poured steaming tea into one of the chi
na cups he’d set out, then ladled an equal amount of liquid from a stone vessel. He set the tea on the table before him and the other brew in front of Emmaline.

  “I didn’t want you to drink alone, my dear. But you will have to go first.” He lifted the cup to her lips but she jerked her face aside. He grasped her head in a long-fingered grip and turned her back toward the cup.

  “I have no intention of drinking at all if you force me.”

  “You will when I hold your nose and you have to open your mouth to breathe,” he promised, jostling the cup beneath her lower lip.

  “I will spew it out immediately and you’ll have wasted some of your precious grain. Once it’s gone, it’s gone, you said.” When murder glinted in his watery eyes, she lifted her chin and adopted a more conciliatory tone. “However, if you untie my hands so I can manage by myself, I will drink.”

  He frowned at her, considering. “Very well. That’s a civilized attitude. Never let it be said that we are less civil than a Yank.”

  Kingsley set the cup down and untied the knots at her wrists. She rubbed the raw scrapes and flexed her fingers.

  “Your hands are free. Drink.”

  Emma raised the cup to her mouth and sniffed. “It smells bitter. I never drink tea without a lump or two. It would be a shame if I couldn’t bear to swallow it because of the taste. Might I have some sugar to make this more palatable?”

  “A reasonable request. I’ll take mine with a lump as well,” he said and turned away to rummage in his cupboard for the sugar bowl.

  Emma leaned across the table and reached for the cup of tea in order to switch it with hers, but it was slightly out of her grasp. She managed only to turn the cup in its saucer so the handle pointed in the other direction.

  The clink of china against china made her jerk her hand back, turning her own cup slightly as well. He whirled around at the small sound.

  “You exchanged the cups,” he accused.

  Emmaline adopted her most serene charlatan’s face and smiled at him. It was time to execute the best “bait and switch” of her life. “Perhaps I did.”