Ripe for Seduction

by Isobel Carr

  There was no one but the butler downstairs to see them on their way. The man’s face was carefully blank of all expression as he ushered them out of the house to their waiting carriage. The earl’s one-eyed hound trailed along behind them, glancing from side to side as if he too was looking for something to slake his bloodlust on.

  Roland glanced back at the house. There were curious faces in several windows, but not in Livy’s. The curtains were drawn across them still, shutting the world out.

  He handed Margo up into the coach, and the dog scrambled in after her. Roland didn’t even bother to try and remove it.

  “If his lordship wants the beast back, he can come and claim him himself,” he told the two startled servants before climbing in and shutting the door with a snap.

  The hound sat on the floor of the coach, pressing as close to Margo as it could, its massive head in her lap. Roland squeezed in beside her and tossed his hat onto the opposite seat. “Mamma is going to have fits when she sees your new pet.”

  Margo stroked the dog’s head and it burrowed into her skirts. “I was thinking it’s time to go home anyway.”

  “To Paris? What about Arlington?”

  His sister shook her head, her lower lip caught between her teeth. “I’m sure I could convince the earl that Carlow is lying, but I don’t see the point. Not when the scandal of his daughter’s broken engagement would be hanging over us and you’d be barred from the house. As things stand, I have no desire to remain in London. And since you have no more reason to stay than I have, you can escort me home and spend a few months licking your wounds.”

  Roland draped an arm around Margo, and she settled into his side, her head propped on his shoulder. He hated to admit she was right, but she was. “I’ve my own reasons for needing to go to Paris,” he said, “and your making the trip alleviates one of the major obstacles.”

  Margo shifted her head and glanced up at him. “Your supposed mistress?”

  Roland nodded. Of course Margo could put two and two together and come up with the proper answer. “Miss Bence-Jones. She’s engaged to John Blakely, but her brother’s been trying to make her break things off since their father died. A few weeks ago the matter came to a head, and the girl fled the house.”

  “And you’ve been hiding her ever since?”

  “Not just me, it’s a conspiracy. Lord Leonidas isn’t using his house at the moment so we’ve secreted her there. Carlow must have seen me delivering one of Blakely’s letters.”

  “You’re a fool, you know that, Rolly? A good-intentioned one, but a fool all the same.”

  Philip’s first inkling that something was awry came when his daughter failed to appear as they’d arranged. Though it wasn’t unusual for a delay to be met on the road, and it was always possible that she’d stayed behind at Holinshed for one reason or another.

  The realization that something was deeply wrong became full-blown when he attempted to pay a call on Margo later the next day and was informed by the Moubrays’ butler that the comtesse had left for Paris that morning. Disquiet flared into anger. What the hell could have gone so wrong in a single night? It should have been impossible for Margo to leave him in such a fashion.

  When he returned home, an ominously large stack of mail awaited him. The usual invitations and business correspondence were intermixed with three letters that looked to be of a more personal nature. One was clearly from his daughter. Another was from Henry. At the bottom of the stack was a letter sealed with a blob of plain blue wax. He didn’t recognize the handwriting, but it was an elegant, clearly feminine hand. Margo.

  Philip poured himself a glass of brandy. He had a feeling he was going to need the fortification. Whatever disaster had befallen them all, it was no doubt summed up inside those three sheets of paper.

  Livy’s missive was short and to the point. With no explanation at all, she stated that her engagement was at an end and made clear her intention to remain at Holinshed for the remainder of the Season. She was angry. He could see it in every hard stroke of her quill.

  His heir’s letter shed a bit more light on the situation. Philip crumpled the letter in one fist. He’d be more inclined to believe Margo had seduced Lord Hynde than Henry. She didn’t even like Henry, and Hynde, for all that he was old enough to be her grandfather, was still spry and charming.

  He turned the final letter slowly about on the surface of his desk, using two fingers to keep it in motion. He was oddly reluctant to open it. Would it be a collection of polite lies, or would it be filled with blunt truths that would leave him wishing for prevarications?

  He cracked the wax with his thumb and spread the folded sheet of foolscap open. It began with My dear Lord Arlington, I’m afraid I’ve stolen your dog and taken it to Paris. Please forgive me.

  He assumed she meant Maldon. He couldn’t help but smile at the image of the comtesse and his giant one-eyed hound on the prowl through the streets and gardens of Paris. Was it an invitation for him to follow? It certainly felt like one.

  Like his daughter, she danced around the events that had led to her decision. There was a passing mention of an unfortunate misunderstanding; her assurance that whatever was said, the gossip was unfounded; and then the letter ended with her begging to be remembered as his friend.

  Philip picked at the wax seal with his thumbnail, shaving tiny bits off while he plotted. Livy had to be dealt with first. He drained his glass. The women in his life were going to drive him to an early grave.

  CHAPTER 41

  Livy’s coach reached the outskirts of London just on the edge of a storm. It was hard to imagine that only the day before it had been a glorious late-spring day. The formerly vivid blue sky was nothing but gray, roiling clouds that threatened rain at any moment.

  She hadn’t meant to leave Holinshed, but the more she’d thought about what had happened, the more she’d realized that she couldn’t allow Henry to be the one to explain the events that had taken place to her father. There was no doubt that Henry would have reached town at least a day ahead of her, but she was praying he had been delayed in confronting the earl.

  Though battered and bruised, Henry had been entirely too keen to demonstrate his support. There was something about his solicitude that made the hair on the back of her neck stand up. For all his solemn expressions and concerned looks, Henry was pleased with what had happened.

  Livy had a sinking feeling that she’d made a mistake in not hearing Devere out. Her damn temper. She’d let shock and an overwhelming sense of hurt outweigh her common sense. If nothing else, she could have broken things off quietly as she’d always intended to do.

  When she reached her father’s house in Mayfair, she discovered that the earl was out and not expected back even to dine. If the servants were surprised to see her, they hid it well. Livy hurriedly changed her dusty carriage gown and set out for the Moubrays’ residence. She couldn’t call on Devere, but she could call on the countess and the comtesse.

  The square was full of nursery maids and children eking out a last bit of play before the clouds broke. A footman, with a pug straining on a long, leather lead, was leaning against the fence, clearly flirting with a maid in a striped red gown. She had a sturdy apron tied about her waist, which one small charge was clinging to. The first drops of rain began to fall, and the maid hurriedly scooped the child up.

  Livy quickened her step. Devere had asked what it was she wanted, and there it was. Or at least there was a part of it. She wanted a quiet, normal life, perhaps with a child or two. It shouldn’t have been too much to ask, though it felt as out of reach in that moment as it ever had.

  She knocked at the Moubrays’ front door and was admitted by a somewhat befuddled-looking butler. “Good afternoon, Emerson. Is the comtesse receiving?”

  “The comtesse is not here.”

  “Lady Moubray?” Livy said hopefully.

  Emerson nodded as though it pained him to admit it. “Her ladyship is in the drawing room.” He crossed the marble hall an
d opened the door. The women inside went silent when she was announced. A teacup rattled loudly in its saucer, the sound sharp like the ringing of a small bell.

  Livy glanced warily around the room. Just Lady Moubray, Lady Jersey, and Mrs. Verney. The countess blinked rapidly as Emerson shut the door behind her.

  “I was hoping to speak with your daughter,” Livy said into the awful silence. “But I hear she’s out.”

  “Margaret has returned to Paris,” Lady Moubray said, her brows pinched together with confusion and concern. “Roland went with her. Didn’t your father tell you?”

  Livy shook her head, tasting bile at the back of her throat. “I just returned to town myself. I haven’t had a chance to see the earl yet. I was—I was hoping the comtesse might be able to clear something up for me for before I did.”

  “I’m sure you were,” Mrs. Verney said a with hard stare. Obviously some version of events was already making the rounds, and just as obviously, Livy was not faring well in the telling.

  “I apologize for disturbing you, my lady,” Livy said. She turned to go, only to be caught by the countess in the hall.

  Lady Moubray stopped her with a hand on her arm. “Neither of them will tell me what actually happened.” The countess sounded bereft.

  Livy’s eyes burnt, tears threatening to spill over. She blinked them away. “My cousin happened, and I was too angry to think until it was too late.”

  The countess nodded, her powdered curls bouncing about her face. “Do you think”—she hesitated, as if afraid to ask—“do you think the earl might go after her?”

  “I don’t know,” Livy said truthfully. “Do you think he should?”

  The countess nodded again. “But tell him to go quickly. I know my daughter. It won’t be long before she does something thoroughly outrageous, just to prove to the world that she’s still whole. It looks like it’s begun to rain in earnest, my dear. You’d best hurry home.” The countess glanced about the hall. “Did you come without a footman?”

  Livy nodded. There hadn’t been one available, and she’d been in a hurry. It wasn’t as if she really needed one to go a couple of streets in Mayfair. “Emerson,” the countess said, clearly horrified. “Get one of the footmen to escort Lady Olivia home. And bring her an umbrella. She seems to have come away without one of those as well.”

  Emerson disappeared momentarily, returning with a large black umbrella in one hand and a liveried footman at his heels. Livy put up the hood of her cloak before stepping outside and allowing the footman to open the umbrella for her. With the umbrella clutched in both hands, she set off into the downpour.

  At the end of the street, Livy glanced out from under the edge of the umbrella. The walk was nearly deserted, just a miserable-looking boy waiting to sweep the crossing and a gentleman in a leather greatcoat with his hat drawn down low to keep the rain off. She put the umbrella back at an angle to fend off the worst of it and stepped out into the street.

  As the man in the greatcoat passed her, she felt something hit her side. It skittered along her stays and struck her hip sharply. The next blow took her hard in the ribs. The Moubrays’ footman shouted and crashed into the man. Livy swung the umbrella. The spokes shattered, and the fabric tangled about the knife in the man’s hand.

  She yanked it free, and the knife went flying. The man in the greatcoat scrambled out from under the footman and went pelting off down the street.

  The urchin was staring at her with wide, round eyes. “You’re bleeding, miss.”

  Livy looked down. Her bodice and petticoat both had slowly growing red stains. The Moubray footman looked as shocked as the boy. “I’d best take you back to her ladyship.”

  “My house is closer,” Livy said as her hands started to shake. “It’s just around the corner.”

  The footman got his arm around her and, with a mumbled apology, half carried her to her father’s front door. Parsons opened it, and they both stumbled into the hall, water pouring off them to pool on the marble floor.

  CHAPTER 42

  Philip came home from a long, discordant day in the House of Lords to find his house in an uproar. “What do you mean Lady Olivia’s been stabbed? By whom?”

  His butler blanched. “We don’t know, my lord. She’s still with the doctor, and the Moubrays’ footman was not very forthcoming on the matter. He said only that a gentleman in a greatcoat stepped out into the street and attacked Lady Olivia as he was escorting her home.”

  Philip didn’t bother to ask why his daughter was being escorted by someone else’s servant. He could easily guess, and it was pointless to remonstrate with her or Parsons now. Livy had never seen the sense in dragging a servant everywhere with her, even when she’d been a girl.

  When he reached her bedroom, he found her draped in a sheet while her maid held a candle and Dr. Kingston carefully cleaned a long gash in her side. The doctor looked up as Philip entered the room.

  “I’ve given her laudanum,” the doctor said, before turning back to his work. “She’s not seriously hurt, just a couple of scratches thanks to her stays, but if we don’t get all the fabric out, the wounds will fester.”

  Philip rounded the bed and bent over her. Livy gritted her teeth as the doctor worked. Her eyes were cloudy with the drug, but she was clearly still conscious of what was going on around her. “Met a random madman in the street,” she said. “It seems like there ought to be a nursery rhyme in there somewhere.”

  He nodded and brushed her hair back from her face before drawing a chair up and taking her hand. She squeezed it hard, flinching as the doctor smeared something all along the wound and began to bandage her up.

  The doctor finished and waved Philip over to the basin where he began washing his hands. “As I said, not badly hurt. The wounds should scab over in a day or two, and if they don’t become infected, they should heal cleanly. She’s a lucky girl from what the footman described.”

  Philip nodded, and Kingston gathered his things and left. Livy’s maid scooped up all the dirtied linens and remains of her gown and swept out of the room behind him.

  “I needed to see Madame de Corbeville,” his daughter said.

  He turned to find Livy watching him with feverish eyes. “For which you’d need to go to Paris,” he said as he reclaimed the chair beside her bed.

  “I think you should, Papa.”

  “Go chasing after her, begging her to take me back?”

  “Don’t be flippant,” she said drowsily, using one of her grandmother’s favorite rejoinders. “You weren’t actually engaged, so she can’t take you back.”

  “I suppose not,” he said with mock seriousness as he tucked the sheet over her shoulder. “We can talk about it tomorrow.” He stood up, snuffed out the candle, and walked to the door.

  As he shut it behind him, Livy said, “Besides, she has your dog.”

  CHAPTER 43

  Livy forced her way out of bed in the morning, much to her maid’s horror. After Frith changed her bandage, smearing the wound with more of the vile-smelling ointment the doctor had left behind, Livy put a pair of loosely laced half-stays on over her shift and went down to breakfast in her wrapper.

  The earl looked every bit as horrified as Frith to see her up and about. “Your maid could have brought you breakfast,” he said.

  “Of course she could. And then you could have slipped out to attend today’s session of the Lords, and I wouldn’t have seen you again until tonight.” She covered a slice of toast with ginger preserves and ate it greedily. She’d had nothing since a hurried luncheon at The Starry Plow the day before. She was surprised her stomach hadn’t woken her with its growls.

  “Did you already speak with the constable?” she asked.

  “Yes, for all the good it did.” The stiff snap of his newspaper told her how very upset he was.

  “I was serious about Paris,” she said, changing the subject as she reached for a second piece of toast.

  Her father set the paper aside, filled a cup with coffee,
and slid it across the table to her. He looked older than she remembered, like the light had gone out of him. Livy knew bone deep that his state wasn’t due solely to her being attacked because she felt the same dead weight of soured love inside her own chest.

  “I never doubted you were,” he said.

  Livy made a face at the coffee but drank it anyway. It was too much trouble to call for cocoa. “Just because I’ve no intention of marrying Devere doesn’t mean you shouldn’t marry his sister, Papa. In fact, I rather think you should.”

  “And what makes you think the comtesse has any desire to marry me?” He fiddled with his empty coffee cup, not meeting her eye as she studied him.

  “I’m not blind,” she said finally. “And I’m not selfish enough to want the both of you to be unhappy simply because there might be some initial awkwardness or gossip.”

  Her father refilled his cup. Dark brown liquid sloshed over the edge and down into the saucer. “Can’t forgive him?”

  Livy shook her head. “I think Henry was lying about the comtesse, but he wasn’t lying about the woman Devere was keeping here in London.”

  Her father looked honestly startled. “Devere admitted to keeping a mistress?”

  Livy shook her head again, not wanting to explain, even to him. The earl’s expression hardened.

  “I don’t think I should go to Paris,” he said.

  Livy opened her mouth to protest, but he held up a hand to silence her. He was making a mistake, and worst of all, it was a mistake that meant Henry had won.

  “I think we should go to Paris. You may not want to listen to him, but Devere deserves a chance to explain himself. And you owe it to yourself to listen, Livy.”