Melissa and The Vicar (The Seducers Book 1)

by S. M. LaViolette

  He released her, realizing suddenly that he might have hurt her. “Lord, I’m sorry, dar—”

  “Magnus,” she wheezed, pushing against his chest, her horrified gaze on something behind him. “Stop him! Magnus—”

  The terror in her eyes told him what was happening and he wrapped his arms around her and threw her to the floor, covering her with his body. Just as he heard the gunshot behind him.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Magnus was exhausted; the mess at his uncle’s house had taken hours to clean up and was far from over. Although the constable’s curiosity had been quelled by the presence of a marquess on the scene, there was still the matter of the Earl of Vanstone’s suicide to be dealt with in the days ahead, but for the moment everything that could be done, had been. Magnus had stayed with his father until his uncle’s body had been removed and messages had been sent to his wife and son.

  They climbed the steps to Darlington House in silence.

  Peel met them at the door. Magnus handed him his hat and began to strip off his gloves. “Did Lady Magnus return from her solicitor’s?” he asked, his need to see her sweet face almost overwhelming.

  “Lady Magnus is not here, my lord.”

  Magnus frowned. “What?” he barked in a sharp voice that was not his own. “Where is she?”

  “I don’t know, sir.”

  “Summon her maid.”

  Peel looked as though he wanted to sink between the cracks in the wood floor. “Lady Magnus’s maid is not here. Nobody knows where they’ve gone, my lord.”

  The fury Magnus felt was solely directed at himself. He should have known. He should have known she’d left his uncle’s house far too easily and quietly. He should have known she would run. Isn’t that what she did?

  “Er, I did find this for you, my lord.” Peel was holding out a letter, the handwriting Melissa’s.

  He snatched it out of the other man’s hand and tore it open, quickly reading the brief contents. It contained nothing that he’d not already learned while listening to his uncle earlier: he and Melissa were not truly married. Magnus was free to return to his life.

  The butler winced at the stream of curse words Magnus released into the air between them—most of the words were ones he’d never before said aloud.

  He crumpled the sheet of paper and flung it away. So, at least this time she left him a letter—such as it was—to tell him she’d gone.

  Magnus jabbed a finger at the waiting servant. “I want you to assemble every bloody servant in the house. Tell them they’ll all get the bloody sack unless I get answers immediately—somebody will have helped her. And I also want you to find out where her maid lives.”

  “Right away, my lord.”

  As the man scuttled from the room Magnus’s father stepped up beside him, setting a hand on his shoulder. “Perhaps this is for the best, Magnus.”

  Magnus whipped around, all the worry he felt turning to rage. “What did you say?”

  The marquess took a step back, his forehead furrowing. “Get control of yourself, son. She is gone and it was the wise thing to do. And you know it, even though you refuse to accept it. You’re angry right now, but it won’t be long before you’re—”

  “Don’t you bloody dare say I’ll be glad about it,” Magnus snarled.

  “How dare you speak to your father that way!” His mother had appeared at the top of the stairs. It was the first time Magnus had seen the marchioness looking less than perfect. Her hair was loose, her face tear-streaked and pale. She stumbled down the stairs, her eyes wild. “It’s hardly your father’s fault if the woman wishes to run off. You should expect such—”

  “Elizabeth.”

  Her teeth snapped shut at her husband’s tone and, once again, Magnus marveled at his father’s ability to control his wife. He probably could have lived with Melissa for a hundred years and not been able to stop her from saying what she wanted. Nor would he have wished to.

  Lady Darlington’s face crumpled and she grabbed Magnus’s forearm. He looked down into her eyes, red-rimmed from crying over a beloved brother and now forced to deal with a son who appeared to have gone mad. His heart ached for her—for the pain she was feeling for a man who wasn’t worth a single tear.

  “That woman leaving here is the best thing that could ever happen to you.”

  His pity evaporated like water on a red-hot stove. “What?” Magnus took a step toward her, holding up his hand at his father when the marquess stepped toward him. “No, Father, I want to hear what she has to say,” Magnus said, never taking his eyes from his mother, a woman he’d adored, respected, and worshipped all his life. Until yesterday.

  She glared up at him. “I was going to say you should expect behavior like that from such a woman.”

  “Such a woman,” he repeated in a tone of wonder.

  “Yes, Magnus—such a woman. As much as you might want to deny it, she is not like us. She is a low, moral-less creature of the street and her kind do not understand the rules that govern decent society. You made a dreadful mistake marrying her but at least she had the decency not to use her real name.”

  “How the devil do you know that?”

  She recoiled at his venomous tone.

  His father put an arm around his wife and drew her back. “She knows because the woman—whatever her name is—left us a letter, son.”

  A choked sob escaped Lady Darlington and she began to cry. “It is the only kind thing she did for you, Magnus. You are free. Don’t you understand? We’ve told nobody. I thank God that we never told my poor brother John that his favorite nephew had married a who—”

  “Don’t. You. Dare.” Magnus closed the distance between them, looming over her, their eyes—almost identical in color—locked on one another. The vile truth about her beloved brother John teetered on the end of his tongue.

  Why should his parents be allowed to live in blissful ignorance of the monster they’d embraced all these years?

  Magnus opened his mouth to let all the bile pour out, but he couldn’t. Melissa had bound him with her promise as they’d stood looking down at the body of the man who’d ruined her life.

  And now she’d left him.

  The sound of a throat being cleared came from the direction of the corridor and all three of them turned.

  “Excuse me, my lords, my lady.” Peel looked nervously from face to face. “But one of the footmen has confessed to knowing Lady Magnus’s whereabouts and—”

  “Where?” Magnus demanded.

  “Er, he delivered her bag to The Swan With Two Necks earlier today, sir.”

  Magnus snatched up his hat.

  A hand landed on his shoulder as he turned toward the door and he spun on his heel.

  “Unhand me, madam.” Magnus glared down into his mother’s angry, weeping eyes and realized Melissa had been wrong about one important fact. His parents didn’t deserve to be protected against the truth. But neither did they deserve to know Melissa’s story.

  His father laid a hand on his shoulder. “Son, you’re making a mistake. Please, your mother is right. She is not our kind and never will be. Just wait and think—”

  Magnus threw off his father’s hands and strode toward the door.

  “Magnus! Where are you going?” his mother called, her voice breaking.

  “Away from here—away from our kind of people.”

  ∞∞∞

  The post chaise was gone by the time Melissa managed to escape the chaos that erupted after Lord Vanstone shot himself.

  The best thing to come out of his death—other than his actual death—was that he’d given his servants the morning off in anticipation of her visit.

  That meant Melissa and Magnus had time to formulate an explanation for Magnus’s parents. But first they had to argue about whether to tell them the truth about a man the marquess and marchioness had loved and admired.

  “Are you mad?” he demanded when she told him that his parents must never know.

  Melissa laugh
ed.

  “I fail to see the humor in this, Melissa.” He shook his head and ran a hand through his already furrowed hair.

  She stood on tiptoes and kissed him. “Shh, I’m only laughing because it is what I’ve asked you a time or two. But as to the other thing—telling your parents? No, it is my story, Magnus—my secret—and I forbid you to tell it to another soul.”

  His jaw sagged. “But why? Why shouldn’t they know that a man they respected—a man they were proud to call family and friend—was worse than even the most depraved criminal? You must—”

  She laid a finger over his lips and he stopped. “I must be allowed to keep my secret, Magnus. It is mine.”

  They went around and around in this vein a few more times before she pointed out Lord Vanstone was growing colder by the moment.

  Then they decided on their plan. Magnus had come over to give his uncle the name of a man who might want to buy his uncle’s matched chestnuts and had discovered his uncle already dead. He’d tell his parents how his uncle had confessed the level of his debt to him earlier in the day, during their ride. He would also tell them that he’d comforted the earl and convinced him that all was not lost, but apparently he’d been wrong.

  “Meanwhile, I should go to my solicitor’s office—which is what the servants heard me say,” Melissa insisted.

  “But are you sure, darling? Are you not too—” He cut a look at the cooling corpse behind them and threw up his hands. “I don’t know—upset?”

  “No,” she said, finally telling her husband something that was true. “I am not upset.”

  So, she’d left and they’d agreed he would deal with telling his parents and come to her later—after she returned from her supposed errand.

  They’d shared one last passionate kiss, and she’d again left him believing she would see him in a few hours instead of never again.

  And then she’d arrived at the posting inn to find they had no carriage for her.

  “Sorry, ma’am, but we’ve had a run of turrible luck today,” the harried innkeeper said, his red face and bloodshot eyes attesting to his mental condition. “The soonest I can get you out will be tomorrow morning. But I can put ye up for no charge tonight.”

  Melissa had given in, realizing the man hardly wished to be in this predicament. Besides, it hardly mattered whether she left tonight or tomorrow. By the time Magnus learned she wasn’t either at The White House or with Daisy or any of her other friends she would be long gone.

  So, she’d taken a room and ordered a meal. And then she’d pushed around some food before sending her dinner back.

  She’d washed and was lying in bed pretending to read when the sound of breaking glass made her sit up. Even before she heard his voice, she knew who it was.

  She closed her eyes and sank back into the pillow. Oh, no. Not again.

  But inside, her heart was singing.

  Epilogue

  Eight Months Later

  A half-day’s journey outside Paris

  Melissa watched her husband from their terrace as he ran from the screaming, laughing horde of children who chased him across their lawn.

  As usual, he let them capture him and wrestle him to the ground. His laughter drifted across the yard, accompanied by the sound of his voice.

  “Please, I surrender,” he said in French, the language of the thirteen orphans who crawled over him like so many exuberant puppies.

  He struggled to his feet, his clothing somewhat the worse for wear, and the three nurses who’d been enjoying a brief reprieve from their boisterous charges came toward him and shuttled the children back to the small, gray, stone building where they took their daily lessons.

  Magnus strode toward her with a grin, bits of grass in his hair and green smears on the knees of his buckskins.

  He saw her staring pointedly at his knees and stopped to look, grimacing. “I guess buckskin is a mistake. I should probably switch back to black.”

  Although he smiled as he said it, she knew he always felt a pang when he remembered his divorce from the Church.

  He sank down beside her, peering at the basket that sat on the table between them, pulling back the blanket with one finger. “I just need a peek.”

  “Shh,” Mel said automatically, “Be careful not to wake her.” She put aside the sock she was attempting—badly—to knit. The children ran through socks like geese ran through grass so Melissa had decided that knitting might be an excellent way to occupy her hands while she spent afternoons watching various children—either their own newborn or the thirteen they’d taken in since moving to the rambling and somewhat dilapidated chateau.

  Magnus chuckled softly. “If young Cornelius could sleep through our extremely noisy and inaccurate reenactment of the Battle of Austerlitz she can sleep through a bit of fatherly admiration.”

  Melissa knew he was correct—she didn’t have much experience with babies, but all the nurses told her she was lucky with her first born, who slept often and fussed remarkably little.

  “You know, Melissa,” he said, “we’ll need to agree on a name sooner rather than later. The baptism is in less than a week.”

  “I refuse to name our firstborn child Cornelius.”

  “It is my great-grandfather’s name and it is splendid.”

  “Yes, well, it is perfect name for a great-grandfather or even a great-grandson. But not for our daughter, Magnus.”

  “Your mama is a tyrant,” he told their month-old baby girl.

  Their nameless daughter merely sighed heavily.

  “You know, when I was a lad my parents would let me name all the barn kittens,” Magnus told her.

  Melissa had heard this story almost daily since telling her husband she was going to have their baby.

  He needed no reply to go on. “They once let me name some hound pups, but Cecil made them stop because he has no sense of humor.”

  That was her cue to argue—which he appeared to love. “I can’t believe you want to give our child the same names you gave to your barn cats.”

  “Why not?” he demanded in mock outrage. “What is wrong with Mouser Stanwyck? Or Catkins or Whiskers, for that matter? They are fine, noble names.”

  She laughed even though she’d heard the argument times beyond counting; she laughed because she loved him.

  He reached for her hand and squeezed it, sprawling out in his chair and tipping back his head, lazing in the sun like the barn cats he so admired.

  Living in a foreign country was both easier and harder than Melissa had expected. It was easier because her husband spoke French and could smooth their way in hundreds of little transactions. She was quickly picking up the language—which she discovered she had an unexpected knack for—but he handled most of their affairs even after half a year.

  One of the messages Melissa had sent out that night so long ago on Berkeley Square had been to Joss, who’d recently moved to France to escape his own scandal. Her message had warned him she would be visiting.

  He’d been more than a little surprised when Melissa arrived on his doorstep with Magnus in tow, but—fortunately—it had been pleased surprise.

  Melissa had only met his wife, Lady Selwood, once before—and she’d been manipulating and untruthful on that occasion. Luckily the beautiful countess appreciated how Melissa’s manipulation had brought her together with the man she loved—even though Joss still bore a grudge. Melissa suspect he was only still sulking because she’d shown him, once again, how much smarter women were than men.

  They’d stayed with Joss and Alicia for a month before finding the perfect place. It had been Joss who’d suggested taking in orphans once he’d seen how unhappy Magnus was as a man of leisure.

  “Europe is full of children needing homes,” Joss said. It was the same night he told them about the orphanage he and his wealthy wife sponsored. “A new orphanage would fill up quickly,” he predicted. And he’d been correct.

  The rambling house they’d taken had room for fifteen children but Magnu
s had just placed two with families, which meant they were down to only thirteen.

  They could have put children with families more often, but Magnus insisted—and Melissa agreed—that they do a thorough investigation of each couple or employer who came to them.

  Children over twelve they would apprentice, but only if the master possessed a sterling reputation. That meant they did not place as many children as other orphanages, but it also meant they slept easier at night.

  Although they were over fifty miles from Joss and Alicia they still visited as often as their two infants would allow. Melissa and Lady Selwood had given birth only a few weeks apart; the Gormleys had a son rather than a daughter.

  Melissa and Magnus didn’t have many other visitors, although the number seemed to have increased in recent months.

  First it was Lady and Lord Darlington, who’d shown up after Lady Darlington had written Melissa a humble, pleading letter, asking if they might visit their only grandchild.

  Magnus had left the decision to her, but she’d seen how he yearned for his family. The tenor of the letter was significantly different than their last exchange. Melissa believed it had something to do with their oldest son’s marriage.

  Cecil wrote to Magnus—apparently a first for the outdoorsman whom Magnus hadn’t believed actually knew what a letter was. Emboldened by his little brother’s scandalous marriage, Cecil had procured a special license of his own and married his long-time mistress, a widow almost a decade older than him. Not only was the woman of the merchant class, but she was beyond her child-bearing years.

  “My brother loves Stanwyck,” Magnus said after reading the letter. “But it has never bothered him to think of Henry or James inheriting rather than his son. He’s been with his mistress—or Lady Sydell I suppose I should say—for years. I am glad he’s chosen with his heart rather than his head.”

  And so the marquess and marchioness had come.

  They’d been shadows of their former selves and Melissa had felt for them. Their heir had married a farmer’s widow and was destined to remain childless; their favorite had married a whore.