The Seduction

by Julia Ross

  The footman returned with a tray. Alden forced himself to be patient while Jemmy sucked up hot liquids and bit into a large slab of pie.

  "If you can eat, you can talk," Alden said at last. "Pray begin. You have a message?"

  "My sister said Ι was to come to you, my lord," the boy said, spitting crumbs. "She's turned out."

  "Τilly is turned out?"

  Jemmy shook his head. "Mistress Juliet Seton! It's not her house. Men came this afternoon to oust her - lock, stock and barrel. Anything they didn't think they could sell, they smashed-"

  Choking back dread, Alden went to his dresser and began flinging on clothes, practical riding clothes, the first he could find. "Go on!"

  "They came in carriages. Α whole gang of men. One of them claimed he was her husband, though we all know she's a widow. When she wouldn't go with him, he said he had already sold her house - seeing as it was really his, not hers, them being man and wife - and she could live under a tree for all he cared. She still wouldn't go with him. In the end, Tilly said, Mistress Seton held a pistol on him and threatened to shoot him, so he left."

  Alden took his own weapons out of their case. He would like very much to take that damned doctor's blood in trade for his own, drop for drop, and force his foul potions down his own bloody incompetent throat.

  "This man was named George Hardcastle?"

  "Ι don't know what he called himself, my lord. Tilly said he was a big handsome fellow. He said if Mistress Seton came begging to him in London, he might take her in. Then in the face of her pistol and the way she was shaking as if it might go off any second, he upped and left, but the others stayed behind to turn her out. She couldn't stop them. Tilly says the gun wasn't even loaded, because there hadn't been time to load it, what with them coming so sudden and all."

  Alden primed and loaded both pistols, then thrust them into his pockets.

  "Where is she now?"

  Jemmy took another bite of pie. "Don't know. Tilly was sent packing. Mistress Seton wouldn't go with her and told her not to come back. So Tilly ran home and told Ma what was going on. Ma sent me to you."

  "You'll be rewarded. Now, get warm and dry. That footman will help you and show you to a bed."

  The footman raised both brows.

  "A guest bed," Alden said over his shoulder as he strode out of the door. "In a guest room."

  IT WAS PITCH DARK, RAIN PELTING DOWN. WIND ROARED through the elms, tossing the branches, tearing loose leaves to spiral away in the downpour. Alden swung from the carriage and stared at the redbrick house. His cloak was instantly soaked.

  "Wait here," he told his coachman.

  Deliberately not taking a light, he opened the gate. The path glimmered under the pounding rainwater, sparkling in a mad dance of splashing raindrops. Alden strode up through the garden and pounded on the front door. No answer. He tried the latch. The door was locked. Rain streamed as he stepped back and looked up at the windows. They stared blankly at the night, inky black.

  He had stopped for a moment at Tilly's house in the village.

  "She wouldn't come back here, my lord," Tilly had said, weeping. "She said we'd only suffer for it, if Ma took her in." She'd indicated the rough little room, the ceiling so low that Alden had needed to bend down to enter. "And how could a lady live here with the likes of us? Oh, sir! What's to become of us all?"

  He had left reassurances and coins, then come straight to Juliet's house.

  Rain battered, running in waterfalls from the corners of his hat as he walked around the house. The garden seemed flattened, trampled, though he couldn't be sure in the driving darkness. In the yard with the work sheds, the pounding rain echoed and reechoed around the small space. Alden cupped his hands about his mouth and yelled.

  "Juliet!"

  There was no answer. He went from shed to shed, trying doors. They were all locked. The flagstones were slippery, treacherous. The old wooden doors shone black with water.

  He turned. Rain drove in sheets across the open expanse of hay meadow.

  "Juliet!"

  Only the roar of rain and the howling wind.

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

  Alden Granville-Strachan had fallen straight into the trap, played his pawn's role with zeal, while Lord Edward Vane laughed with his cronies over his exquisite revenge on his one-time fiancée. Her husband is alive.

  "Juliet!"

  The night answered with the mocking bellow of a rain-soaked gust.

  Cloak flapping at his heels Alden strode down the path toward the chicken house. Something caught him hard in the shin. He fumbled in the wet darkness until his fingers identified the handle of the scythe, broken. The blade had been snapped and lay glimmering among the ruin of a pea patch. He stared until he could make out the heap of smashed implements, farm tools, shovels and rakes, piled up as if for a bonfire.

  Rage consumed him. He shouted aloud into the uncaring night. "Bastards! Bastards! Juliet!"

  Eggshells crushed under his boots. The chicken house lay silent, the door wrenched off its hinges. Obviously the hens were gone, scattered into the woods to become food for foxes. There was nothing he could do about it.

  Once he stepped inside, the bellow of rain subsided to a dull roar. Somewhere, underneath that demented clamor, he heard something else. The sound was rhythmic, steady. Α cat purring.

  Alden reached into a pocket and pulled out his tinderbox. Crouching to shelter the spark from the wind, he formed a long twist of straw and lit it, setting it in the doorway where it wouldn't catch the henhouse on fire.

  "How good of you to come," she said behind him. "It would be useless, I assume, to ask you to leave?"

  "Juliet, thank God!" He spun to face her. "I thought if you saw a 1ight coming through the garden, you might hide-"

  "I am hiding," she replied. "Especially from you."

  She sat huddled on the floor in the filth of straw and feathers.

  Meshach lay curled, purring, in her lap. One hand stroked rhythmically over the tabby coat, yet her eyes held a numb shock, like a puppy he had once seen that had almost drowned in a fish pond.

  "Are you hurt?" he asked at last.

  "Hurt?'' She looked away, turning her head, the column of her throat stiff with reproach. "Of course, you mean physically. Perhaps a bruise or two, where I was seized by the arms and forcibly evicted. Otherwise I am quite well. George did not want his men to harm me physically."

  Alden stared at her. Water trickled down his neck. He wanted to tear the world apart with his bare hands.

  "Yes, George is alive. I am an adulteress. You knew, of course."

  He took a deep breath. "No. Not until afterward. But I know what that means to you."

  "It hardly matters now, does it? Lord Edward to1d George where to find me. My husband was apparent1y in need of instant funds, so he has sold this place and everything in it. He is quite within his rights. He is prepared to provide me with a home in London. "

  "Jemmy Brambey told me."

  The wavering light danced over her face. "Did my maid's little brother also tell you that Lord Edward has been paying him to spy on me? Jemmy has been running to Marion Hall with regular reports. Lord Edward was kind enough to explain it all to George."

  "Then your husband knows-"

  "That I took an infamous rake for a lover? Publicly? Before witnesses? Yes, he knows."

  Alden stared at his hands. His rings sparkled, reflecting the little flame behind him.

  "Go away," she said. "You swore-"

  "Then I am breaking my word."

  "I do not wish to belabor the point, but you do see that I am left with no one I can trust? Not even my maid."

  "In spite of everything, you will have to trust me."

  She lifted Meshach to rub his head under
her chin. "What use would I be to you? Everything I have, or had, belongs to George. Even my body. If you used it, you would be stealing from him."

  Perhaps if he could only crack open the night like a walnut, there would be a different, less cruel world inside? "I can help, Ju1iet. You can't stay here."

  Her eyes held no more expression than the tabby's - a terrifying, animal blankness. "George called me a harlot, but he would still take me back, even after I fornicated with you. Fancy that!"

  "Whatever he called you, it is not true." The words bit, like mad dogs. "Nor is that description accurate for what passed between us."

  "And what did pass between us? Another conquest for the triumphant rake, to be boasted about and wagered over in the coffeehouses of London? Well done, Lord Gracechurch!"

  He knew she would flinch if he touched her. Damn it to hell! He wanted to touch her.

  "Curse me, if you like. But you must get to shelter. Ι have a carriage waiting in the road."

  "Ι can't leave." Her eyes glimmered suddenly. "Abednego and Shadrach are still lost. My cats were afraid of the nailed boots and loud voices and the crash of broken china. They fled into the garden. George's men hunted them through my flowerbeds with clubs and pistols. They thought it was great sport-"

  His anger burned so clearly, he thought that if he looked down, he might see it squatting in his palms, like a fiend.

  "If Ι can find these men, Ι will kill them for you."

  She clutched Meshach till he yowled a little protest. "Faith! How very like a man! Somewhere out there in that roaring darkness two confused cats are cowering in terror, and all you can think of is killing some stupid, ignorant louts."

  "Ι am thinking only of getting you to safety."

  "Ι cannot leave my cats."

  "Of course not," he said. "Ι brought a basket for them. Ι thought they might not let us carry them in the carriage otherwise."

  Tears slipped suddenly down her cheeks. "You brought a basket?"

  "Let me help you to the carriage. You can wait there while Ι find Abednego and Shadrach." He tried to meet her gaze with only the lightest, most noncommittal of glances. He didn't want to panic her with his black rage. ''At least you found Meshach. Α tabby would have been impossible to see outside in the dark."

  She gave a small laugh, smoothing the striped coat. "They won't like the basket."

  "They will love it. There's catnip inside. You will come, Juliet?"

  Shadows traced over her face as she looked directly into his eyes. "Pray, do not call me by my given name."

  Absurd to feel the impact of such a small thing as if it were a death knell. "As you wish, ma'am. But you will come with me?"

  "Ι am not a fool, nor a martyr. Ι would rather be in hell than come with you. However, you have a basket for my cats and you owe me. But rest assured, my lord, that there will be very little satisfaction for you in my company."

  The flame went out, plunging the henhouse into darkness. ΑΙden rose and looked out. The rain had diminished to a steady drizzle. "Ι will make it up to you."

  "Ι hope you try. Ι will find the greatest pleasure in creating whatever shreds of misery it's in my power to bring you."

  "This was not what Ι wanted-;'

  "And what did you want? Το forget me? Of course. You had already decided, no doubt, to move on. Don't try to tell me that's not true!"

  He couldn't answer. It was true. He had thought he had no other choice.

  Juliet stood, Meshach in her arms. "Faith! Ι wish Ι were a witch who could set demons to rip into your soul. Alas, Ι do not believe that you have one."

  "No doubt you are right. It doesn't matter. We can hardly stand here in an empty henhouse and debate it."

  The wind had died away. Damp darkness stretched, oddly quiet now, vibrating only with the steady pitter-patter of drizzle. Alden took off his cloak and held it out. She allowed him to set the heavy wool around her shoulders. It dragged the ground. He wanted to put an arm around her, but he stepped aside and let her lead the way through the ruined garden. The coach lamps glimmered like beacons beyond the gate.

  As soon as Juliet was safely inside the carriage with Meshach curled on her lap, Alden strode back into the garden and began to search. This time he carried one of the coach lamps. Light streamed over bent stems and torn leaves. Moisture curled and steamed. Beyond the beam, it was pitch black.

  Α gleam of wet color caught his eye. He went closer to investigate. Clothes. Juliet's clothes, thrown in a sodden heap onto the carrots and marigolds. In a white fury he gathered the armful of dresses and petticoats and carried them back to the coach. He thrust them inside the boot and turned back to the garden.

  How far might a frightened cat go? Away into the woods? Into the village to find a new hearth, less threatening than this one? Into some secret feline hideaway right here in the garden that Alden would never discover?

  His boots scrunched through damp leaves and torn petals. He hunted through the thicket of shrubbery behind the limp hollyhocks, calling softly. He swung the lantern up, staring into the trees, looking for a cat among the great gnarled branches.

  Nothing.

  The drizzle began to thicken. Water dripped off his hat and wet the shoulders of his coat. He had left his cloak with Juliet in the carriage.

  Alden hesitated for some time at the entrance to the grape arbor, letting the beam of light dance over the shredded vine, the black, broken posts. The table where he had teased Juliet with a chess game had been tipped over. Rage battered at him, flooded every pore, as he remembered snatches of their conversation, the way she had looked at him with desire smoldering in her cornflower eyes, the way he had looked back at her.

  He turned away and leaned his head against a post. Anger and pain made bloody strange bedfellows! His pulse surged hot and fast. He felt almost light-headed, as if the fever might return. Yet he still didn't really want to care.

  Rain began to patter audibly again. Α small wind stirred the branches. Something moved, close to the ground. Alden bent down, shining the lamp into the space where the table top had fallen against one bench. Green demon eyes gleamed back. The light sparked gold off a marmalade coat. Shadrach!

  He knelt on the wet stones and set down the lantern, calling softly. Shadrach retreated, balling himself into the farthest corner. Alden reached under the seat. The cat hissed. Entreaties, tapping fingers, a twirl of vine stem, nothing worked to tempt him out. The rain started to pound. At last Alden lay full length in the mire and reached with both hands. Carefully he pulled the cat from its hiding place. Moments later he carried Shadrach to the coach.

  Juliet did not meet his eyes or speak to him. She sat in the corner of the seat and stared out of the opposite window, Meshach still purring on her lap. Alden set Shadrach in the basket and closed the lid.

  He combed the garden and sheds for at least thirty minutes, calling softly, looking under bushes and in the hollow crotches of trees, above doorways and in the crannies of windowsills. Somewhere out there a white cat ghosted through the dark night. Perhaps Abednego had gone as far as Farmer Hames's distant barns? Or away through Mill Spinney? Perhaps a bullet or a blow from a club had found its mark?

  He had no solution ω this problem. Nothing in the way of wit, or strength, or skill - with a sword, a hand of cards, or a woman's soft body - could tell him the whereabouts of Juliet's white cat.

  Alden strode one more time up the path to the henhouse, then back through the yard with the sheds. For a moment he stood calling under the porch of the back door. Silence. He looked up. Clouds were shredding, revealing an indigo sky. His coachman had moved the carriage away and brought it back several times, to keep the horses from standing. Yet he could not leave without Abednego.

  Ι have taken your locket, Juliet. Ι have used your generosity and your lovely, lovely body. Now, because of me, your white cat is lost. And yet, after this night, there is little Ι can do to make amends, because you are another man's wife.

  The st
rength of his desire to win her forgiveness took his breath away. The mix of emotions - rage and fear and guilt - clenched with cruel fingers in his gut. His mind burned with the knowledge that he had no power left, that he was impotent to help her, that it was all his fault.

  He could seek out Lord Edward and create a pretext for a duel. He might even win. He might succeed in leaving the duke's son gasping his last breath in a pool of his own blood. Whatever momentary satisfaction that would bring, it would not make reparation. Nothing could restore Juliet's safety and equilibrium. Nothing could make up for what a careless rake had already done.

  Deliberately he opened his hand and let the lantern smash on the path. The oil flamed and ran for a moment, then fizzled and went out, leaving him in darkness. He stepped out of the porch.

  The white missile hit him like a cannonball. Tiny blades sank painfully through layers of clothes into his flesh and clung there. Abednego!

  Alden gently disentangled the claws from his shoulder. The cat had hurtled onto his rescuer from the roof. Instantly Abednego began to purr.

  He carried the cat to the carriage. Juliet lay back against the corner of the seat, her jaw shadowed above the long curve of her throat. Her face glimmered softly in the dark, her hair almost black in contrast. One hand rested in her lap. The other lay flung aside on the seat, the fingers curled up.

  She was asleep.

  Alden placed Abednego in the basket. The marmalade and tabby were already curled there together. The three cats immediately formed a single ball of contentment, purring.

  Without waking Juliet, he settled on the seat opposite her. The horses started forward. Alden stared at her face and wondered what the devil was happening to him.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  JULIET WOKE AS THE HORSES STOPPED. MEMORIES FLOODED BACK. The duke's son in her parlor. The mad night at Marion Hall. Waking to find Alden gone, her locket gone. How could she have been foolish enough to think it might end there? The arrival of George in Manston Mingate had crashed into her life like a tidal wave, bringing every implication of the previous week's events into shattering focus.