My Fair Temptress

by Christina Dodd

  “Yes, Lord Huntington is fabulously proficient.” She had enjoyed the dance. She hadn’t planned to, but Huntington made Caroline feel like a flower, like a beauty, and if she could coax him to do the same with the debutantes in the ton, he would be the most-sought-after gentleman in London.

  Like the autocrat he was, Nevett made his pronouncement. “Then you’re wasting time.”

  “No, I have to see where Lord Huntington is proficient and where he’s inept before we can move on.” At Nicolette’s gasp, Caroline realized she had contradicted the duke, and obviously that never happened. Hastily, she added, “Flirting is like playing the piano or learning a foreign language. The more one practices, the better one is. The trick, Your Grace, is to practice flirting so often and so continuously that one can walk and flirt, dance and flirt, eat and flirt, listen to opera and flirt. The last is not as easy as one might suppose, since the object of one’s affection could be in another box.”

  Nevett huffed. “Yes, well, but…”

  “The first time we met, I did show you my planning journal,” Caroline reminded him.

  He clamped his lips shut.

  His wife moved quickly to keep him subdued. “Nevett, what did you envision Miss Ritter would do to teach Jude how to flirt? Have him sit in a classroom and write a paper?”

  Huntington drew a handkerchief from his sleeve and flapped it in wild enthusiasm. “I’m good at writing papers!”

  Nevett stared at his son, with his foppish clothes and his affected mannerisms, and with a grim expression, he yielded. “Very well, Miss Ritter, continue.” He backed out of the room.

  Caroline swore she saw triumph glinting in Huntington’s eyes. Then it vanished, and he sighed in exaggerated weariness. “Miss Ritter, did I pass the test on dancing?”

  With flying colors. She had taken far too much pleasure in the music, the dancing…and his embrace. “I’d like to observe as you dance with Her Grace, if you please,” Caroline said, in the repressive tone she’d heard so often from her own governess.

  He smiled at her, smiled as if he knew what she thought.

  “And if Her Grace doesn’t mind,” Caroline added.

  “She loves to dance.” Huntington took Nicolette’s hand. “Don’t you, Mum?”

  “I do, but it’s been months…” Her voice trailed off. Months since they’d received word of Michael’s death, she meant.

  Caroline admired the determination with which Huntington handled his stepmother’s reluctance.

  “Then of a certainty you must dance.” He gestured Caroline toward the piano. “Miss Ritter, if you please?”

  “Do you know what I saw today when I went out?” Nicolette sounded amused and looked amazed as she poured tea in the great drawing room late that afternoon. She handed the first cup to Caroline, who handed it to the duke.

  Nevett grunted as he accepted the fragile white porcelain.

  “At the corner, we have a beggar who has taken up residence,” Nicolette informed him.

  “That will never do,” Nevett blew on the hot brew. “I’ll send a footman to chase him off.”

  “Lady Reederman already tried that.” A smile curved Nicolette’s lips, and she glanced at Caroline as if she expected her to share her wicked glee.

  And in truth, it did Caroline’s heart good to know something could defeat the formidable Lady Reederman.

  “He won’t go,” Nicolette said.

  “He’ll go with a good swift kick in the arse,” Nevett retorted.

  “You don’t want to do that.” Nicolette sobered. “He lost both his legs at Trafalgar.”

  Caroline froze, her gaze fixed on the tableau before her—the duchess, her expression fraught with sympathy, and the duke, scowling at the story, yet watching his wife with concern.

  “How do you know that?” he asked.

  “I stopped and talked to him,” Nicolette answered.

  Harry. Somehow, Harry had followed Caroline.

  “Nicolette, I have told you. You must have a care,” Nevett scolded. “Beggars are scoundrels.”

  Caroline couldn’t agree more.

  “He’s as likely to slit your throat as to answer your charitable queries.” Nevett placed his cup on the table.

  Not that, but Harry was far too adept at liberating a reticule from its owner, and if he took Nicolette’s, the theft would be in part Caroline’s responsibility.

  Nicolette put her cup down, also. “He would have to coax me down to his level, then. He has no legs.”

  Caroline wanted to faint.

  “Your soft heart will be the death of me.” Nevett sounded as if he had never meant anything more.

  “My maid accompanied me.” Nicolette smiled at her husband. “Listen, dear. Harry is a charming fellow.”

  Standing, Caroline wandered to the window and peered out, looking for the familiar figure on his cart.

  “He could be spinning you a Banbury tale,” Nevett said.

  “He could be,” Nicolette answered, “but the fact remains, he has no legs.”

  “I heard you the first two times,” Nevett said dryly. “How much did you give him?”

  Caroline waited in dread to hear what Harry had done.

  “I emptied my reticule into his hat, a sum of perhaps two pounds.” Nicolette burbled with laughter. “He said I was such a generous lady, he wouldn’t cut my purse this time.”

  Putting her hand to her chest, Caroline sighed with relief.

  Going to Nevett’s side, Nicolette perched her hip on the arm of his chair and slid her arm over his shoulders. “You’ll have to admit, any beggar who refuses to do Lady Reederman’s bidding is a man worth knowing.”

  Remembering Lady Reederman, Caroline had to agree.

  Apparently, so did Nevett. “Has he actually faced off against the old witch herself?”

  “And sent her scuttling back to her house.” Nicolette burbled with laughter. “How I wish I had seen it!”

  “Man deserves a medal for bravery under fire. Wonder if he has one?” Nevett mused.

  Without thinking, Caroline said, “No. He was only a common sailor.” Both sets of eyes turned to her. “I assume,” she added, “or someone would be caring for him, and everyone knows the sailors were shamefully abandoned after they wrestled control of the seas from the French.” Harry’s words, although without the street accent. “If Your Graces would excuse me, I had thought I would take advantage of the sunshine and go for a walk.”

  “Good idea.” Nevett examined her. “Put some roses in your cheeks. You’re too blasted skinny for a gel your height.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” Caroline skittered from the room.

  She requested her outer garments in a low, intense tone that sent the footman scurrying after them and raised Phillips’s eyebrows. “In a hurry to go out, Miss?” he asked in sonorous tones.

  “Yes.” She snatched her mantle, hat, and gloves from the footman. “Thank you.”

  Her regal disdain brought Phillips’s eyebrows winging upward. She knew she acted more like an imperious duchess than a disgraced debutante. Let Phillips make what he wanted of her manner. She didn’t care.

  She sailed out the door and down the street, hoping Harry remained on his corner, and desperate to discover why he had followed her—for she didn’t for a minute imagine his appearance was an accident.

  Was he checking on her?

  Did he plan to blackmail her?

  Briskly, she walked toward the corner, her mantle flapping in the cool spring breeze. She had had so many men use her, abuse her, she could scarcely imagine a man who would not take advantage of her bettered circumstances to improve his own.

  As she rounded the corner, a voice at her feet said, “Hit’s a sad day when a lady o’ yer caliber steps on a poor legless veteran o’ the great sea battle o’Trafalgar.”

  “Harry, I didn’t step on you.” She looked around to make sure they were unnoticed, then back at him. His cart was nothing more than a board nailed onto four lopsided wheels. His
shoulders were broad, his arms muscled from the effort of pushing himself along the street. He wore wool gloves with the fingers worn-out from his ceaseless efforts, a short, ragged brown cape with a deep hood, and the face that peered out at her was pallid from lack of sun and lined with old pain and constant disappointment. Yet his pale eyes watched her with lively respect and the area around them with suspicion, and she never doubted she was safe here with him.

  He continued his loud lament. “Poor wounded ol’ soldier sitting ’ere minding ’is own business and the beautiful young lady ’as no respect or care.” He rattled his cup. “But a bit o’ coin will help assuage yer guilt, m’lady.” In a lower tone, he added, “And no one will be any the wiser if we talk a bit.”

  No one was peeking out any windows that she could see. Only a few carriages traveled along the main road. Hopefully no one would notice at all, but at least if they did, she would appear charitable and he grateful. Slowly, she opened her reticule. “What are you doing here?”

  “Someone’s got t’ watch out fer ye. Did ye think ye could wander off in the company o’ an unknown gennaman and not come back without me worrying?” He sounded sincerely concerned.

  But she watched him with wary eyes, wondering what game he was playing.

  He must have read her trepidation, for he snorted. “What, do ye think Oi’m like yer father, out t’use ye fer me own purposes?”

  She had never told him about her father.

  “Hit’s a sad day when a young lady can’t tell ’er enemies from ’er friends.” Harry sighed with gusty dismay and pulled such a long face, she couldn’t help herself.

  She chuckled. “You’re right. You’ve been a wonderful friend to me.” She looked down at the meager amount of coins in her wallet. “But really—why are you here?”

  “Oi ’eard ye took yer bag and went off with a gennamen, and Oi wanted t’ see that ye wanted to. Some gennamen have a habit o’ taking young ladies where they don’t want to go.”

  “Not Lord Huntington. He escorted me to his parents’ house, where I have taken a position as governess.” Wisely, she decided not to fill him in on the details, and tossed a coin into the cup.

  “ ’Ere now. A pretty lady like ye can afford more!” Harry said loudly. Then more quietly: “Good fer ye! Oi told ye ye’d come out right.”

  “So far.”

  “What about the other gennaman? The first one? Oi heard ’e wasn’t such a welcome visitor as ye thought.”

  Goose bumps rose at the thought of Lord Freshfield. “Harry, how do you know these things?”

  “Oi ’ear things. The ’ores and beggars gossip, and the gennamen and ladies think Oi’m deaf as well as lame.”

  Taking another coin from her meager store, she tossed it in the cup. “The other gentleman is not a gentleman.”

  “Well, then. Oi’ll keep an eye out fer ’im and warn ye when ’e comes about.”

  “Are you going to stay here?” she asked, aghast.

  “Hit’s a good corner. People come and go, and there’s one lady ’oo really wants me t’ leave, so Oi ’ave t’ stay, ye see.” He smiled and showed the gaps in his teeth. “Why’s that, ’Arry, ye say.”

  “Why’s that?” she repeated obediently.

  “Oi can’t let the uncharitable ol’ besom wallow in ’er sins. If she don’t see the error o’ ’er ways, she’ll go t’ ’ell.” He patted the ground beside his chair as if the flames were burning his hand. “So ye see, by staying ’ere, Oi’m saving ’er soul.”

  “You’re not doing yourself any harm, either,” Caroline said shrewdly.

  “ ’Ey, there, cynicism isn’t nice in a pretty girl.”

  She wondered when that had happened. Four years ago, she hadn’t known what a cynic was. Now it appeared she was one. “At one time I was nice. I don’t think I am anymore.”

  “Ye’re practical. That’s better.” Harry’s voice grew softer again. “Ahoy, there. Ye’ve got a surprise sailing up on yer port side. Best look lively!”

  Caroline glanced to her left. A man walked toward her, right toward her, and although Nevett had warned her this moment would come, she was ill prepared for the sight of her father’s florid face, and even less prepared for the fulsome smile he directed toward her.

  That smile made her skin prickle and the hair on the back of her neck lift.

  Mr. Ritter never smiled like that except when he was foreclosing on widows and fawning on aristocrats. The duke must have truly put the fear of God in him that he bent it now on his erring daughter.

  He stopped before her, every inch the prosperous merchant: stout, with a snub nose, two chins, and lengthy gray whiskers that crawled down the side of his face. He wore good, solid, conservative clothing, carried a gold-headed cane, and took pains to preserve the shine on his black boots.

  “Daughter Caroline, how good to see you.” He glanced down at Harry. “Is the beggar bothering you? I can kick him away.”

  “No!” She took a breath, not wanting her father to see her revulsion. It would never do to let her father know she had a friend such as Harry. Mr. Ritter used every bit of knowledge to his advantage, and the less he knew about her and her circumstances, the better. “No, thank you, sir, I was simply putting a few coins into his cup.”

  “He’ll spend them on drink.” Mr. Ritter took incredible care to present the appearance of nobility, yet didn’t comprehend that servants spread the word about his stinginess throughout London. He took equal care to present the appearance of philanthropy without actually performing charitable deeds, and failed to understand the difference.

  At their feet, Harry rattled his cup, and whined, “Alms fer a poor veteran, m’lord?”

  “No. Get away from us!” Mr. Ritter lifted his cane threateningly.

  Caroline realized she might have to intercede, and she didn’t want to.

  But without a word, and that was uncharacteristic, Harry pushed his cart around the corner and out of sight.

  Caroline knew he remained within hearing distance, and that was fine. Some people might say Harry was a frightening man with his disability and his chosen career. For Caroline, those people were fools. It was Mr. Ritter who was frightening. He had never laid a disciplinary hand on Caroline, yet he terrorized her beyond even Lord Freshfield’s abilities, for Mr. Ritter had a way of cutting her that was both personal and devastating. She never felt as insignificant as when she was with her father.

  “Daughter Caroline, how have you been?” Mr. Ritter asked.

  “Fine, sir, and you?” And when had he decided he should remind her of their relationship every time he spoke her name?

  “Fine.”

  “Is my sister well?”

  “Very well, although she’s given to weeping at inconvenient times.”

  Caroline wanted to ask him when it would be convenient for his daughter to cry; but sarcasm would avail her nothing, and she didn’t have a doubt that, if it pleased him, he would take out his discontent on Genevieve. Besides, she could imagine Nevett’s displeasure if she foiled his plan to bestow upon her respectability, and she had to admit respectability would make her life easier. So she smiled and nodded, and searched her mind for more useless, indifferent conversation. She should have known she needn’t have bothered.

  “Do you have a position doing something?” Mr. Ritter clasped the head of his cane and leaned hard on it.

  “I’m working for the duke of Nevett”—as you very well know—“and will keep this position until the end of the Season.”

  “The duke of Nevett, heh?” Mr. Ritter’s small blue eyes narrowed. “I imagine he’s a tyrant.”

  “A bit of one, yes, but nothing untoward.”

  “You wouldn’t want to offend him.”

  “That’s the last thing I wish to do.”

  “So at the end of the Season, you’ll be pleased to come home.”

  “What?” She felt as if she had swallowed a stone. Whatever she expected him to say, it wasn’t that. “What? You’re inviting
me home?”

  “Yes.” His gaze drilled into her. “I imagine you’re grateful.”

  “To live?” she clarified.

  “Of course to live. What do you think?” He managed to sound insulted, which was an insult in itself.

  What was the reason? The duke of Nevett was kind in the way that most aristocrats were kind; if it availed him something, then he would do it. But he gained nothing by pressuring Mr. Ritter to allow her to return to their house in Cheapside, so that couldn’t be it.

  Had her father finally comprehended that the act of tossing his erring daughter from his home in a rage had labeled him as an irredeemable vulgarian? That the ton considered it better form to quietly retreat to the country than to create a scene in the street? That seemed unlikely, too. He understood the value of money in all its guises, but not the value of gentility or the appearance of loyalty and graciousness.

  When she didn’t at once curtsy and show her appreciation, he glared and blustered, “I’m your father. When I say you shall return, you shall return.”

  During the lowest moments of her life—a week ago—she would have leaped at the chance to return home. Of course she would be miserable, but at least she’d be warm and fed, clothed and dry.

  Now she could see the possibility for escape—from poverty, from her father, from Lord Freshfield, and from England, and she wasn’t giving up so easily. “Sir, really, whatever impression His Grace made on you, I assure you, he doesn’t expect this kind of sacrifice on your part.”

  “What do you mean? You’re my daughter. You should live in my house. I don’t want you to anger the duke of Nevett, naturally, but when this is over you shall come home.” Mr. Ritter rapped the tip of his cane hard against the ground. “Until that time, good day.” Tipping his hat, he stalked off, an offended bowl of blancmange in a suit.

  Harry wheeled himself back around the corner, and joined her in staring after her father. “Well. What do ye expect that was about?”

  “The duke of Nevett ordered my father to have a public reconciliation with me.” Now that the meeting was over, she felt nauseated. She hadn’t seen the man for almost four years, and he had neither spoken a kind word nor offered an embrace. She had expected nothing else, but the whole event left her cold and far too aware of her own vulnerability. One wrong move, and she would be on the streets…like Harry. “I suppose His Grace was too emphatic and my father too eager to please, and he made an unnecessary offer.”