The Bargain

by Jane Ashford

  Copyright © 1997 by Jane LeCompte

  Cover and internal design © 2014 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover illustration by James Griffin/Lott Reps

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

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  Originally published in 1997 by Bantam Books, a division of Bantam Doubleday Dell Publishing Group, Inc., New York.

  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Epilogue

  Excerpts from The Marchington Scandal & The Headstrong Ward

  The Marchington Scandal

  The Headstrong Ward

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  One

  Lord Alan Gresham was icily, intolerably, dangerously bored. As he looked out over the animated, exceedingly fashionable crowd that filled the large reception room, his blue eyes glittered from under hooded lids. His mouth was a thin line. Revelers who glanced his way, curious about his very plain evening dress and solitary state, looked quickly away when he met their eyes. The women tended to draw their gauzy wraps closer despite the enervating warmth of the room, and the men stiffened. Whispers began to circulate, inquiring as to who he was and what the deuce he was doing in Carlton House at the prince regent’s fete.

  A damned good question, Alan thought, well aware that he was the object of their attention. He was here against his will, and his better judgment. He was wasting his time, which he hated, and he was being kept from truly important work by a royal whim. He couldn’t imagine a situation more likely to rouse his temper and exhaust his small stock of patience.

  Alan watched a padded and beribboned fop sidle up to the Duke of Langford and murmur a query. The duke did not look pleased, but he answered. The reaction was only too predictable—surprise, feigned incomprehension, and then delight in having a tidbit to circulate among the gossips. Alan ignored the spreading whispers and continued to watch the duke, a tall, spare, handsome man of sixty or so. This was all his fault. Alan wouldn’t be trapped here now, on this ridiculous quest, if it weren’t for the duke. He clamped his jaw hard, then deliberately relaxed it. He wasn’t being quite fair, he admitted to himself. The duke, his father, was no more able to refuse a direct command from the sovereign than he himself was. Prinny’s whims and superstitions had brought him here, and until he satisfied the prince, he could not return to his own life. Let’s get it over with, then, thought Alan. The waiting was about to drive him mad.

  “Well, I hope my eyes are not like limpid forest pools,” declared a very clear, musical female voice behind him. “Aren’t forest pools full of small slimy creatures and dead leaves?”

  Somewhat startled, Alan turned to find the source of this forthrightness. He discovered a girl of perhaps twenty with lustrous, silky brown hair and a turned-up nose. She didn’t have the look of the haut ton, with which Alan was only too tiresomely familiar. Her gown was too simple, her hair not fashionably cropped. She looked, in fact, like someone who should not, under any circumstances, have been brought to Carlton House and the possible notice of the prince regent.

  Or of the dissolute-looking fellow who was bending over her now, Alan noted. He had the bloodshot eyes and pouchy skin of a man who had spent years drinking too much and sleeping too little. The set of his thin lips and the lines in his face spoke of cruelty. Alan started to go to the rescue. Then he remembered where he was. Innocent young ladies were not left alone in Carlton House, at the mercy of the prince’s exceedingly untrustworthy set of friends and hangers-on. Their families saw to that. Most likely this girl was a high flyer whose youthful looks were very good for business. No doubt she knew what she was doing. He started to turn away.

  “No, I do not wish to stroll with you in the garden,” the girl said. “I have told you so a dozen times. I don’t wish to be rude, but please go away.”

  The man grasped her arm, his fingers visibly digging into her flesh. He tried to pull her along with him through the crowd.

  “I’ll scream,” said the girl, rather calmly. “I can scream very loudly. My singing teacher said I have an extraordinary set of lungs. Though an unreliable grasp of pitch,” she added with regretful honesty.

  Her companion ignored this threat until the girl actually opened her mouth and drew in a deep preparatory breath. Then, with a look around at the crowd and a muttered oath, he dropped her arm. “Witch,” he said.

  “‘Double, double toil and trouble,’” she replied pertly.

  The man frowned.

  “‘Fire, burn; and, cauldron, bubble,’” she added.

  His frown became a scowl.

  “Something of toad, eye of newt… oh, I forget the rest.” She sounded merely irritated at her lapse of memory.

  The man backed away a few steps.

  “There’s blood in it somewhere,” she told herself. She made an exasperated sound. “I used to know the whole thing by heart.”

  Her would-be ravisher took to his heels. The girl shook out her skirts and tossed her head in satisfaction.

  His interest definitely caught, Alan examined this unusual creature more closely. She was small—the top of her head did not quite reach his shoulder—but the curves of her form were not at all childlike. The bodice of her pale green gown was admirably filled and it draped a lovely line of waist and hip. Her skin glowed like ripe peaches against her glossy brown hair. He couldn’t see whether her eyes had any resemblance to forest pools, but her lips were mesmerizing—very full and beautifully shaped. The word “luscious” occurred to him, and he immediately rejected it as nonsense. What the devil was he doing, he wondered? He wasn’t a man to be beguiled by physical charms, or to waste his time on such maunderings. Still, he was having trouble tearing his eyes away from her when it was brought home to him that she had noticed him.

  “No, I do not wish to go with you into another room,” she declared, meeting his gaze squarely. “Or into the garden, or out to your carriage. I do not require an escort home. Nor do I need someone to tell me how to go on or to ‘protect’ me.” She stared steadily up at him, not looking at all embarrassed.

  Her eyes were rather like forest pools, Alan thought; dead leaves aside. They were a sparkling mixture of brown and green that put one in mind of the deep woods. “What are you doing here?” he couldn’t resist asking her.

  “That is none of your affair. What are you doing here?”

 
Briefly, Alan wondered what she would think if he told her. He would enjoy hearing her response, he realized. But of course he couldn’t reveal his supposed “mission.”

  A collective gasp passed over the crowd, moving along the room like wind across a field of grain. Alan turned quickly. This was what he had been waiting for through the interminable hours and days. There! He started toward the sweeping staircase that adorned the far end of the long room, pushing past knots of guests transfixed by the figure that stood in the shadows atop it.

  On the large landing at the head of the stairs the candles had gone out—or been blown out, Alan amended. In the resulting pool of darkness, floating above the sea of light in the room, was a figure out of some sensational tale. It was a woman, her skin bone-white, her hair a deep chestnut. She wore an antique gown of yellow brocade, the neckline square cut, the bodice tight above a long full skirt. Alan knew, because he had been told, that this was invariably her dress when she appeared, and that it was the costume she had worn onstage to play Lady Macbeth.

  Sound reverberated through the room—the clanking of chains—as Alan pushed past the guests, who remained riveted by the vision before them. The figure seemed to hover a foot or so above the floor. The space between the hem of its gown and the stair landing was a dark vacancy. Its eyes were open, glassy and fixed, effectively dead-looking. Its hands and arms were stained with gore.

  A bloodcurdling scream echoed down the stairs. Then a wavering, curiously guttural voice pronounced the word “justice” very slowly, three times. The figure’s mouth had not moved during any of this, Alan noted.

  He had nearly reached the foot of the stairs when a female guest just in front of him threw up her arms and crumpled to the floor in a faint. Alan had to swerve and slow to keep from stepping on her, and as he did so, something struck him from behind, upsetting his balance and nearly knocking him down. “What the devil?” he said, catching himself and moving on even as he cast a glance over his shoulder. To his astonishment, he found that the girl he had encountered a moment ago was right on his heels. He didn’t have time to wonder what she thought she was doing. “Stay out of my way,” he commanded and lunged for the stairs.

  There was another terrible shriek, but even as Alan pounded up the long curving stairway, the apparition at the top vanished into darkness. Cursing, he kept going. He didn’t believe for one moment that the ghost of a recently dead actress was haunting Carlton House, whatever the prince might say. It was some sort of hoax. And he had to uncover it, and the reasons behind it, before he would be allowed to leave and take up his own pursuits once more.

  He reached the broad landing—now empty. The corridor leading off it was also completely dark, all the candle sconces extinguished. He paused a moment to listen for footsteps, and once again was jostled from behind. He turned to find the same girl had followed him up the staircase. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.

  “I must speak to her,” insisted the girl breathlessly. “I must find her. Which way?” She gazed left, then right, along the lightless hallway.

  Alan was never sure afterward whether there had actually been a sound. But the girl exclaimed, pointed, and darted off to the left. After an instant’s hesitation, he went after her.

  The light from downstairs barely penetrated into this upper corridor, and the little there was cast disorienting shadows along the floor and walls. Alan could just see the girl blundering along ahead of him toward a half-open door, which seemed to still be swinging.

  The girl reached the door, pulled it open, and went through. Alan, directly behind her by this time, followed at top speed. Then, in one confusing instant, he careened into her with stunning force, the door slammed shut, and there was the unmistakable click of a key turning in a lock outside. A spurt of eerie laughter was capped by total, black silence.

  A moment ticked by. Though he was jammed into a tiny space, Alan managed to reach behind his back and grip the doorknob. As he had expected, it did not turn.

  He heard a muffled sound, between a sob and a sigh. “She didn’t wait for me,” murmured the girl, so softly he barely heard.

  “You mean the so-called ghost?” he replied sharply. “Why should it?”

  “You frightened her off,” she accused. “She would have stayed for me.”

  “If you hadn’t gotten in my way, I would have caught it,” he retorted. “What is your connection with this affair?”

  There was a silence.

  “Could you move, please?” the girl asked. “You’re crushing me.”

  “I am directly against the door,” he answered. “There is no room to move. I insist upon knowing—”

  “We’re in some sort of cupboard, then. I’m mashed into a corner. Can’t you open the door?”

  “It’s locked,” Alan replied with what he thought was admirable restraint.

  “Locked? It can’t be.”

  “I assure you that it is.”

  “If this is some sort of trick to get me alone…” began the girl suspiciously.

  “Believe me, I have no such desire.”

  “You mean, the ghost locked us in?” she said incredulously.

  “Someone pretending to be a ghost appears to have done so,” he amended. “To prevent discovery of the hoax.”

  There was another silence. Alan cursed the darkness, wanting very much to see his companion’s face.

  “You don’t think it’s really Bess Harding’s ghost?” she asked finally.

  “There are no ghosts,” Alan pronounced with utter certainty. “That is a ridiculous superstition, rejected by all sensible people.”

  “Sensible,” she echoed very quietly. “I suppose you’re right.” She sighed.

  For some reason, that tiny movement made him acutely aware of the fact that their bodies were pressed together along their entire lengths. He could feel the soft curve of her breasts at his ribs, and her hip cradled by his thigh. He moved slightly, trying to disengage, but this only intensified the sensations. She had a heady, flowery scent, too, he realized. It was intoxicating in these confined quarters. “We should make some sound, so that the prince’s servants can release us,” he said tightly. Following his own advice, he kicked backward with one foot and produced a satisfying thud on the door panels.

  “Won’t they be afraid to come up here?” the girl asked.

  “For a while. But eventually someone will investigate. My father most certainly will.”

  “Is your father here?” she asked, sounding oddly wistful. “Of course he will come for you then.”

  “Who are you?” Alan said, personal curiosity as strong as his investigative instincts.

  “Who are you?” she retorted with the same spirit she had shown downstairs.

  “Alan Gresham,” he answered.

  “One of the prince’s friends.” Her tone made it clear that she didn’t think much of the Carlton House set.

  He found he didn’t want her to draw this conclusion. “No,” he said. “The prince summoned me here to…” Alan hesitated. The prince had made it clear that he didn’t want his uneasiness about the ghost mentioned.

  “To rid him of the ghost,” the girl concluded, taking the matter out of his hands. “Just like him. Let someone else clean up the mess. Make no effort to really settle the matter.”

  “You are acquainted with the prince?”

  “My mother was.”

  “Indeed.” From her tone, and the prince’s notorious romantic history, Alan concluded that the connection had been intimate.

  “My mother, the ghost,” she added bitterly.

  “Bess Harding was your…?”

  “Yes,” was the bald reply.

  Matters became clearer to Alan. “So you came here tonight—”

  “I had to see her!” the girl exclaimed. “She can’t be just… gone. I came as fast as I could f
rom school, but by the time I reached London, everything was over. They’d buried her and…” Her voice caught, and there was a pause. “I heard about this… haunting. So I came.” She sounded defiant now. “I know it isn’t the thing, but no one asked me for an invitation, and I was sure she would appear tonight, so I—”

  “Why?” interrupted Alan sharply. “Why tonight?”

  “I was told it is the largest, most important party the prince has given in weeks,” she answered. “Mama wouldn’t miss something like that.”

  “But, Miss Harding—”

  “Ariel,” she cut in. “You may as well know my name is Ariel Harding. She named me from The Tempest.” When he said nothing, she added, “Shakespeare, you know.”

  “I believe I’ve heard of it,” he responded dryly.

  “Umm. Well, I knew she wouldn’t be able to resist such an occasion. So I came.” There was a pause, then she moved slightly. “You don’t think it’s really my mother?” she asked again.

  It was a moment before Alan could reply. Her small movement against him had sent a jolt through his entire body. This was entirely unacceptable, he told himself. He was a man of science. He was not subject to random physical attractions. “I do not,” he said more harshly than he might have under other circumstances.

  “But who can it be then?” she wondered, brushing against him once again.

  “Someone who expects to gain from the situation,” he answered curtly. “We really must get out of here.” He began to kick the door again, much more forcefully this time.

  “Gain, how?”

  “Possibly a political opponent of the prince who wishes to discredit him,” said Alan through gritted teeth. “Perhaps someone looking for personal revenge.” He kicked again, hard. “Halloo,” he called. “Is anyone there?”

  He was rewarded by the sound of cautious footsteps in the corridor outside. “Hello?” said a tentative voice.

  “It’s Alan Gresham,” he replied loudly. “I’m locked in this cupboard. Open the door!”

  The footsteps advanced a bit farther. “How do I know it’s Lord Alan?” the voice inquired. “You might be a demon from the depths trying to deceive me.”