The Seduction

by Julia Ross

  "If you kiss me," Alden said, "you will have to kill me, for Ι will certainly murder you later."

  "Oh, Gracechurch! So passionate! Ι like that in a man." Α sharp-edged ring briefly scraped his lips. Alden tasted blood. "Your carriage awaits. Your carriage, your deaf man John, and the rest of your useless dependents: the bastard tutor, the bastard child you keep so carefully at the Abbey, your mad mother. Your entire life awaits you - except Juliet, who will never speak to you again. By the way, Ι lied about the locket."

  Alden stared up at the powdered face and cruel, rouged mouth. "You do not want it?"

  "Oh, Ι want it, but Ι lied when Ι said it was worthless."

  Someone knocked. Four footmen entered. At a nod from the duke's son, they hoisted Alden between them. It was useless to struggle. Yet he struggled. Α chair splintered. Α man reeled back, cursing. But after a sadly deficient amount of damage to the room, one of the footmen bent Alden's right arm behind his back and they carried him to the door.

  Untouched, Lord Edward followed. Α cold drizzle burned on Alden's face, wetting his hair and clothes, before they thrust him into the waiting carriage with two footmen to restrain him. Someone tossed his smallsword onto the seat opposite.

  The duke's son rested one hand on the open carriage door. "Ι lied about some other things, too."

  The fever rang in waves. Each raindrop bit like acid into his skin. Yet Alden called on what was left of his strength, measuring distances, weighing the deadly grip of the footmen.

  "What else is there?"

  "I’ faith, Gracechurch! Ι thought you a better player than that. You didn't guess my two little falsehoods? The first: the locket contains the key to a fortune beyond anyone's wildest dreams."

  "And the other?"

  The carriage lurched as the horses started to move. Alden wrenched one arm free and reached for his sword, just as Lord Edward slammed the door.

  "Ι lied about her husband's death. Ι just came from London where Ι spoke with the man. George Hardcastle is alive and well, though sadly short of funds. Furthermore, the butcher's grandson is most anxious to be reconciled with his faithless wife. Checkmate again, sir!"

  Alden dropped his suddenly irrelevant blade.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  SMALL NOISE WOKE HER. SOMETHING MOVED, CASTING Α shadow.

  "Alden?" she asked.

  "Alas, ma'am," a man's voice said, not unkindly. "Lord Gracechurch has left."

  She felt dazed, bruised with lovemaking and sleep. "Left?"

  "I understand he has returned to the Abbey." Robert Dovenby stood in the open doorway, silhouetted against the dull light from the corridor.

  Juliet clutched the cover to her breasts and sat up. "Gracechurch Abbey?"

  "You will, no doubt, also wish to leave - before the rest of the household is awake?"

  Α defiant swell of laughter welled up in her chest. What else had she expected? That he would be there as she awoke to greet her with kisses? That he would swear undying love? He was a rake. This was what rakes did. Yet she felt ill, as if she'd been hit.

  "I thought," she said acerbically, "that he would at least have had the courage to make his excuses in person. No matter. Ι should indeed like to go home. Ι have three cats to take care of."

  Dovenby bowed. "My carriage is at your disposal, ma'am. As soon as you are dressed, take the second to last door on the right in the hallway outside. It leads to a servants' stair. Ι shall wait at the bottom."

  "Ι am to creep out as if Ι am ashamed?"

  He glanced away, the dull light catching his profile. He was a handsome man, with something secretive and powerful about the nose and jaw. "As you prefer, ma'am. Lord Edward Vane has already left. The others still sleep. However, Sir Reginald is downstairs. Ι fear he may attempt to offer you some insult."

  "Because Ι have now publicly branded myself a harlot?"

  "Because he is a boor, ma'am, with a sore head from too much drink."

  Juliet pressed her forehead to her upraised knees. What had she thought? That Alden Granville would somehow rescue her from this? That - in spite of what he'd said - he would offer marriage?

  "You do not think, Mr. Dovenby, that discretion is irrelevant now? When the other gentlemen reach London-"

  "They will say nothing. Lord Edward has sworn all of us to secrecy."

  She looked up, surprised. "Then why-?"

  "Ι have no idea. However, Ι advise discretion with Sir Reginald. Ι would really rather not feel obliged to call him out."

  "So Ι am to creep away to save you?"

  Dovenby smiled. It was a surprisingly nice smile. "If you like." He bowed again and left.

  Juliet looked about. Her clothes lay piled beside the bed where Alden had left them, after-

  Tears burned, scalding. Those feelings! The languorous pleasure alternating with such sweet, rapturous intensity. She had never dreamed, never imagined

  Damn him! Damn him and his lovely, lovely way with women!

  She put one hand to her throat.

  Her locket!

  The tears stopped as if dried in a hot desert wind. Rage swept, scouring like a sandstorm. The force of it left her wanting to retch.

  He had taken her locket?

  Twenty minutes later she stepped into Dovenby's carriage.

  IT RAINED ALL THE REST OF THAT DAY. JULIET PACED ABOUT HER empty house.

  He had taken her locket!

  Dovenby had sent her home. He had not accompanied her him self. With no one to tend it, the fire in the kitchen had gone out. No hot water. No hot food. She didn't care. Perhaps she would never eat again. Meshach, Shadrach and Abednego stared at her with accusing eyes. Not even a meal of meat scraps compensated for their feline resentment at the lack of a fire. She fed the chickens, returning with wet feet to the cold, damp house.

  Since Ι came back from Italy, ladies have berated me, cursed me, even tried to have me killed - or their husbands have.

  She had no husband. She would have to kill him with her own two hands.

  Juliet laughed. Then worried by her own bitterness, she set about building a fire.

  It was over. The entire mad episode was over. Lord Edward would never approach her again. Neither would Alden Granville. She had his word on it.

  It was over.

  Even the sunshine. The rain came on harder that night, threatening to blow a gale. Water pelted the roof and windows, leaking onto the sills. For the sheer comfort of it, even though it was an outrageous extravagance, she lit a fire in her bedroom, hauling the fuel upstairs in a basket. Drops ran spitting down the chimney. Juliet huddled under her covers and shivered.

  He had peeled away her defenses, laid open her soul, discovered what she cared for most in the world, then stolen it. She would hate him until she died. No, he didn't deserve the passion of hatred. She would regain perspective. She would be superbly indifferent.

  Juliet turned over in bed. Oh, God. Oh, God. What did it matter what she felt or did? He would neither know, nor care. She would never see him again.

  He had taken her locket!

  Wind howled in the chimney and rattled the casement, as if in sympathy.

  It was still raining when Tilly arrived in the morning. The maid was bedraggled, the hem of her cloak dragging mud. Time to pick up the reins of normal, everyday existence once again. Juliet made only one concession to what had happened. While Tilly fed the hens, Juliet walked into her kitchen and took down her chess set.

  Without even opening the box, she threw both board and men into the fire.

  The black and white squares crackled, peeling paint as the wood charred and smoked. The box cracked open, spilling pawns, queens and kings in a helpless melee into the devouring flames.

  Her three cats rubbed around her ankles, purring.

  IT WAS Α BLIND, HELPLESS RAGE. ALDEN LAY IN HIS BED AND cursed. His blood scalded his veins. If he did not clench his jaw, his teeth rattled in his head like some macabre representation of death in the village pa
geant. He had tried to stand, only to fall back against the pillows. All he could do was curse. So he swore, sometimes aloud, sometimes silently, while servants padded about his room.

  Soon the local doctor leaned over him, holding some foul-smelling potion under his nose. "Pray, drink this, my lord. Most efficacious to rid you of toxic humors."

  The tremors felt too violent to trust speech, so Alden shook his head, clenching his teeth. The doctor gestured. Several men in livery gathered about the bed.

  "Pray, do be pleased to drink it, my lord," one of them begged.

  "Ι have a chill," Alden said as deliberately as he was able. "If you value your employment and your lives-"

  Yet it seemed that his words were garbled, impossible to understand. He broke out in a cold sweat as the doctor closed in once again.

  His brow furrowed, the doctor nodded to the servants. "Lord Gracechurch is delirious. As you love him, Ι pray you will assist me? "

  Strong, devoted hands grabbed Alden's arms and legs and held him down. Someone grabbed his nose and forced his mouth open. His tongue gagged on the foul taste. He swallowed some as he fought for breath, then spat with his last remaining strength. The men leaped back, faces dabbled with drops of potion.

  The doctor wiped his chin with a large handkerchief. "Ι fear for His Lordship's sanity. He must be bled."

  With intense concentration Alden managed to grind out the words. "No bloody bleeding!"

  Yet the footmen grabbed him again, nothing but concern in their faces. Alden caught a glimpse of a basin and razor. His own servants held him down as blood streamed from his arm.

  "This is most inconsiderate," a new voice said. "Why was Ι not consulted right away? Oh, do go away, all of you! Ι wish to speak with my son."

  "Mother!" Alden shouted. ''How good of you to call."

  The doctor bowed from the waist. "Your Ladyship! His Lordship is raving with fever. He must be bled."

  "Well, of course," the viscountess said. "But not now. Ι need to consult him about something. Go away!"

  The footmen had already retreated and were standing at attention, staring at the ceiling.

  "Her Ladyship is not to be refused, sir." Alden managed to hold up his slashed arm. He thought perhaps he was making sense this time. "Your work is done. See? Ι bleed."

  Lady Gracechurch promptly fainted. Alden lay neglected in the bed while the doctor and footmen gathered about his mother. She was lifted onto a chair and fanned. Her maidservant, who was hovering behind her, set fire to a feather. The acrid smell filled the room…

  HE WOKE TO THE STEADY DRONE OF Α VOICE. HIS MOTHER'S voice. Alden wasn't quite sure what she was talking about. Her words blurred, humming along like meaningless music. Something about orchards and vegetable marrows. Α complaint about the day he was born. Α long diatribe on Mrs. Sherwood, so ungrateful, so wicked. He drifted in and out of sleep.

  "And then Lord Felton-"

  He snapped awake. "Who?"

  "Lord Felton. Francis Amberleigh, the Earl of Felton. Really, Alden! Haven't you heard a word I've been saying?"

  Alden sat up. He was soaked in sweat, but the fever had receded. He felt considerably stronger. The room lay quiet, lit by a few braces of candles. So it was night. Lady Gracechurch sat by the bed.

  "Mother, how long have you been here?"

  "It is so seldom Ι can have you to myself, Alden. Ι have been here since yesterday."

  "Yesterday! Devil take it! Have Ι been that ill?"

  "Nothing to be concerned about. As Ι told that doctor, this has been your habit since childhood. When others suffered long, stuffy colds, you always ran such a dramatic high fever, then were better within days. Ι sent the doctor about his business. Ι have never trusted doctors, not since the day you were born. You are quite well now?"

  "Yes, thank you, Mama." The room stank, a mixture of potions and burned feathers. "Would you pray order me a bath and ask a footman to open the windows?"

  His mother looked at him with eyebrows raised. Of course, she wouldn't dream of ringing a bell, if he were there to do it for her.

  "It is raining," she said. "It is night."

  Alden gathered his strength, reached from the bed and rang.

  Α footman appeared, listened to his orders and disappeared, but the window remained closed.

  "What were you saying about the Earl of Felton?"

  She turned to him. "What, dear?"

  "Lord Felton. You were speaking of him."

  "Was Ι? Ι have quite forgot."

  Alden leaned back and closed his eyes. His mother's visit was pure chance. Just as it was chance that she had chased the doctor away before the man killed his patient in an excess of medical zeal. Lady Gracechurch lived in a world of her own. She had seen nothing odd in sitting by her son's bedside, commanding his sole company and complaining about matters of business and gossip, while he shook and sweated with a fever.

  "Lord Felton had a daughter, Lady Elizabeth Juliet Amberleigh," Alden said. "She ran away with her father's secretary, a man named George Hardcastle. Her mother and little brother were killed later in a carriage accident. Their deaths were commonly seen, so I understand, to be her fault. Or at least, her father never forgave her."

  "Oh, lud! Ι wasn't talking about that. Ι was talking about the Felton treasure. The story is that a great fortune in gold is buried in the garden. Rumor has it that a new clue to its whereabouts has been discovered-"

  "The key to a treasure."

  "What, dear? Lord Felton says he will not countenance a lot of ruffians digging about in his grounds, looking for a treasure lost since the war."

  "Which war?" Alden asked.

  "That disgraceful business with Oliver Cromwell, of course. The family treasure was buried in the garden and lost. Such a romantic tale, though Felton claims there's not a shred of truth in it."

  Α buried treasure? Α tale for children and idiots. If Juliet's locket carried the key to a fortune, why would she have lived in poverty in Manston Mingate? And yet there had been a truly rapacious gleam in Lord Edward's eyes.

  The door opened. Α stream of menservants entered, carrying a tub and pails of hot water. Lady Gracechurch retreated. Alden climbed from the bed and sank into the filled tub. After a night's sound sleep, he would be entirely fit again.

  To do what?

  To go to Juliet on bended knee and try to explain?

  He had betrayed her.

  The knowledge echoed in his mind like a pronouncement of doom, as if he had been sentenced to be dragged to a public place and hanged by the neck until dead.

  He had betrayed her.

  He felt numbed by the enormity of it, as if his heart had turned to stone.

  Yet though the soul quaver, any jackanapes could find the courage to face the gallows with an outward show of bravado, wearing colored ribbons at the knee to flash defiance at fate. Alden Granville-Strachan, Lord Gracechurch, had plenty of colored silk and long years of laughing his defiance at the world.

  Her husband is alive.

  He must put Juliet behind him, as he had put so many other women behind him. London and its pleasures awaited.

  So, why this stinging tension, scalding behind his closed eyelids as if he might weep like a child?

  He finished his bath in a burning rage. Plague take all doctors! The clumsy cuts in his arm - his sword arm, devil take it! - began bleeding again and had to be bound. Dressed in a long gown he walked to the window and pushed aside the drapes. Rainwater flooded down the glass. The frames rattled. Α foul night.

  Did Juliet lie in her narrow bed in Manston Mingate and rain curses on his name?

  He hoped so. He hoped with a sudden desperate fierceness that her curses would prove effective and cast him into hell. Perhaps he had already condemned himself to Hades? That dreary round of gaming and drinking and affairs? The thought rang hideously empty and hollow, as if echoing an unnamed, unrecognized terror deep in his heart.

  Ι would venture that both parties lost, si
r, but that you have more pride, that is all. You are quicker to see the end coming and so you salvage yourself first . . . you have never had the nerve to risk anything else.

  Risk? He shuddered at the thought of what he had been prepared to risk with Lord Edward for her sake. Yet in the end he had salvaged nothing, not even pride.

  Her husband is alive.

  Alden flung up the sash to breathe in the rain-soaked air.

  Something moved, darting across the lawn. It was hard to see through the streaming downpour, but at last, even in the slashing night, he could make out the furious little figure, legs pumping wildly as he ran toward the house.

  Alden spun about and rang the bell. Α slightly sheepish footman appeared at the door: last seen helping to pinch closed his master's nostrils at the behest of the doctor.

  "My lord?"

  "Α boy is approaching the house. Ι wish to speak to him immediately."

  "Α boy, my lord?"

  "Faith! Must Ι repeat every order? Bring the lad up here. Immediately!"

  "Very good, my lord."

  The man bowed and retreated. Alden paced his bedroom.

  Α few minutes later the door opened.

  "Lud! Α drowned rat," Alden said. "Come in, lad, and sit down. You are thirsty, hungry?"

  The boy nodded, panting hard. His hat was a soggy mass of wool. Water ran off his coat to pool about his feet.

  Alden signaled to the footman. "Food and something hot to drink. Put brandy in it. And bring dry clothes."

  The footman sniffed and left. The boy pulled off his sodden cap and grimaced. He was gasping with each visible heave of thin shoulders. He was for the moment incapable of speech.

  "Sit here." Alden indicated a chair beside the fire. "Relax and catch your breath. Whatever it is, it can wait a second or two. Then you may tell me why Master Jemmy Brambey of Manston Mingate has just run fifteen miles through a storm."

  The freckled face contorted as the boy sucked in air and wiped away rainwater and tears with the back of one hand. Alden gave him a handkerchief and watched with a certain fascination as it came away not only wet, but dirty. The rainwater running off the boy's clothes would probably stain the carpet.