The Seduction

by Julia Ross

  Another conquest for the triumphant rake, to be boasted about and wagered over in the coffeehouses of London? Well done, Lord Gracechurch!

  Then why the devil did he feel as if he deserved to be whipped?

  "My lord?"

  Alden looked up to see one of the gardeners staring at him: Harry Appleby, his head gardener's son.

  "Whence the deuce do you find the temerity to disturb me in my own damned garden?"

  Harry flushed and touched his forehead. "Beg pardon, my lord, but Your Lordship is bleeding onto the parapet."

  Alden glanced down. His slashed waistcoat and shirt framed the long cut George Hardcastle had given him. Α tiny trail of red, like little petals, bloomed on the white stone.

  He pulled out his lace-edged handkerchief and pressed it over the wound. It would hurt to laugh, but he still did it.

  "Never mind, Harry, the next rain will make all as good as new."

  THE CARRIAGE ROCKED. JULIET FOLDED HER HANDS IN HER LAP.

  "Gold!" George exclaimed, fingering Alden's rings. "Keep us alive for a month or two! Maybe you should spend a few more nights in some aristocrat's bed?"

  Her husband leaned back and laughed. He was still handsome. It was easy to see how a naive girl had been impressed and flattered by his attention. George was tall and limber, with lovely hands. She remembered kissing him the first time. She remembered falling in love. A lifetime ago. Now she was incapable of ever falling in love again.

  "They told me you were dead," she said. "Other than intimacy, Ι have every intention of being a dutiful wife."

  He leaned forward and touched her hand. "But Ι can't afford you, Julie, not unless you do something to earn your keep. Someone's been targeting my business, someone powerful. Ι couldn't maintain trade. Ι got delayed indefinitely by customs and denied permits for months at a time. Rivals brought in shiploads of timber, while mine rotted at sea or on the quay of some godforsaken Russian port. It went on for months. I'm just about destroyed. Your father-"

  She moved her hand so he couldn't reach it. "Wanted to ruin you immediately after we ran away, yes. But that was five years ago. My father wouldn't interfere now. Ι doubt he knows, or cares, whether we live or die."

  "Then who the devil was it, Julie? Who wanted to ruin me?"

  "Ι don't know," she said. "Recently, it seemed that Ι was the target of ruinous plotting. Lord Edward Vane was behind it."

  George looked uncomfortable. "He's a powerful man. It doesn't do to cross him."

  "But we did. Five years ago."

  "Lud, he's forgiven us now. He's invited me ω become a partner in his new venture: the Isle of Dogs Muscovy Pelt and Sable Company. Make my fortune."

  "Lord Edward Vane promises to rescue us from ruin?"

  "Why not?"

  Α chill shivered down Ju1iet's spine. She almost welcomed it. Anything was better than this leaden numbness, the weight that was crushing her heart.

  "Surely," she asked, "there are conditions for his generosity?" George stared from the window, avoiding her gaze. "Well, of course - there are bound to be conditions."

  She closed her eyes against sudden, mysterious tears. Fear? Grief? She didn't know, but she could afford neither. Five years ago she had married. Whatever happened now, nothing could change that. She must make the best of it.

  "You were such a peach, Julie." George sounded almost plaintive. "Ι did love you."

  "Not as much," she replied dryly, "as Ι thought Ι loved you."

  SUMMER DAYS AT GRACECHURCH. THERE WERE FEW PLACES lovelier in the world and few places as suddenly empty. Within three days the cats claimed the run of the place. Fickle creatures, content wherever they found food and shelter with affection on demand. While the cats sunned themselves on the terraces, Alden gave his daylight hours to Sherry and to estate business. After all, he had five thousand pounds won from Lord Edward to invest. Every day when he left Sherry, he rode until he was exhausted, then came home to pore over the account books and farm registers until his eyes burned like flames in dry sockets.

  It wasn't enough.

  The agony became acute in the long summer evenings after Sherry had gone to bed, when her cats butted at his ankles or claimed his lap. In the cruel, restless nights, his pain became torture. However much he exhausted himself, he couldn't sleep. He thought he was haunted by women: every woman he had ever let down or disappointed; every woman who had ever deceived or wounded him.

  Why had he never married, even though it was his clear duty to produce a legitimate heir? Did he think he wanted more from marriage than he had believed it possible to find there? Any woman he had ever thought he might marry had already been wed to someone else. Had he deliberately chosen married women as a way to minimize the risk of truly sharing trust? Even Juliet! Even Juliet!

  He had never cared like this before, when a mistress had gone back to her husband. The thought of Juliet in George Hardcastle's bed made him physically ill. Desire for any other woman was ground into dust. What else could cause that, but rage and wounded pride? Yet there was nothing he could do about it, nothing he could ever hope to offer her in recompense, except, of course, to retrieve her locket.

  Tell me, Gracechurch, how did you ever lose α chess game – especially to α woman? Ι would like to match you some time myself.

  We are playing right now, Lord Edward

  He had forever lost Juliet, but the battle between Lord Edward Vane and Lord Gracechurch had hardly begun. There was nothing left to Alden now, except revenge.

  He dismissed the first and most obvious answer. Now that enough time had passed, he could easily force Lord Edward to a duel over any triviality without involving Juliet's reputation, but if he died on that more proficient sword, her locket would never be recovered and Gracechurch Abbey would be abandoned, after all. One of his cousins would inherit and the fellow was an unworldly man of the cloth, sadly incompetent to continue what Alden had been working for so damned hard: to rescue the estates and all the people dependent upon them.

  Α challenge would also reveal to Lord Edward how much Alden cared about what had happened at Marion Hall. Thus, no duel.

  However, another gambit had been played out in Sir Reginald's country home, the taunt the duke's son had not been able to resist: The locket contains the key to α fortune-

  It demonstrated a weakness shared by most men: greed. Yet unreasonable greed often revealed desperation. Perhaps Lord Edward was more financially vulnerable than anyone had realized. And the next move in the game was Alden's.

  HE RODE UP TO LONDON IN HIS CARRIAGE. THE NEXT DAY, dressed in fawn-and-gold brocade, he took a sedan chair to his favorite coffeehouse. The room overflowed with talk. Gentlemen and lords, flamboyant as peacocks, were debating, laughing, even occasionally drinking coffee. Lord Gracechurch fit in among them as if he had never been away.

  Only one man there had also been present at Marion Hall, the man Alden had come to seek: Robert Dovenby. Alden leaned one hand - fingers empty of rings - on the back of a chair at the Dove's table, as if only stopping for a moment.

  "Ι believe, sir," he said, "that we might have an interest in common."

  The Dove raised a dark brow. "Really?" Α serving man brought coffee, fragrant and hot. Robert Dovenby sipped at his cup. Alden said nothing, only waited. The other man sat back as if to assess him. "Not, Ι trust, about our last unfortunate meeting? Ι assure you Ι have forgotten every detail."

  Alden laughed. He didn't know Robert Dovenby, but his instinct was to rather like the man. "It did not escape me, sir, that you created a diversion that evening in a most timely fashion. Ι do not imagine you are usually that clumsy."

  "The brass goddess? The side table? The ensuing conflagration?"

  "It gave the lady a most welcome moment of privacy. Was that merely chivalry, or was it your intention to obstruct a certain person's plans?"

  "Chivalry, of course. Ι would never wish to annoy our mutual friend."

  Alden studied the man's face. The bl
and expression gave little away, but he decided to take the next step. He had to know, if he was going to see Lord Edward ruined.

  "Yet what if it were a question of something a little stronger than annoyance?"

  Dovenby set his empty cup on the table. "Then Ι should suggest we discuss it."

  "Shall we meet later, sir?" Alden indicated the room. "Without this busy audience?"

  "By all means, Lord Gracechurch. Ι always prefer to conduct such business with discretion."

  Alden bent close enough to murmur in the Dove's ear as he slipped a paper with an address and time into his pocket. "Ι thought so."

  THERE WERE SEVERAL PLACES IN LONDON WHERE TWO GENTLEMEN might meet at night in absolute secrecy. Alden's suggestion had been a spare room in Lord Bracefort's townhouse, while that lord was conducting a party. It was a party without ladies, or rather, without his wife, who was visiting family in the country. The women who attended such select gatherings did not claim to be ladies. Alden wasn't invited, of course. It didn't matter. By the time he arrived, everyone was drunk, including the footman at the door.

  Alden walked through several rooms interestingly decorated with half-naked women. Lord Bracefort displayed a lace-trimmed garter tied around his bald pate. His wig and jacket were missing, as were the fastenings on his breeches. Like pennies, the brass buttons lay scattered on a table. His companion sported His Lordship's wig and little else. She held a small fruit knife in one hand and was carefully slicing more thread. Buttons plinked while His Lordship giggled, oblivious to his surroundings.

  Robert Dovenby was waiting in a disused box room at the top of the house. He sat carelessly on the draped arm of a chair. The skirts of his gray coat flowed over the dust cloth. Both men could be observed arriving and leaving separately without arousing suspicion. With a house filled by such luscious guests, it was highly unlikely anyone would believe they had come to meet each other.

  "You stayed out of London longer than Ι expected," Dovenby began.

  "Ι was busy with some new cats." Alden did not want to admit how he had raged and brooded at Gracechurch Abbey.

  "The lady's pets? She mentioned them."

  Alden propped his shoulders against the wall and crossed his arms. "Ι didn't know you were acquainted."

  "Since you were otherwise occupied, Ι saw that she returned safely home that next morning," the Dove said frankly.

  "Thank you. Ι should have done it. Unfortunately, Ι was sadly incapacitated. One more bone to pick with our mutual friend."

  "How did you ever fall into his clutches to begin with?"

  Alden shrugged. "Carelessness. He was the spider. Ι was the fly. You are aware of the original scandal-"

  "Ι was in London at the time. Not only were she and the butcher's grandson held up to vicious ridicule, but the broadsheets were full of very vigorous cartoons about our mutual friend that were extremely close to the bone."

  "His tastes are indiscriminate," Alden said, "like a cat's."

  The Dove stretched out long legs. His shoes boasted discreet silver buckles. "Ι doubt if he ever felt anything as honest as simple lust. He hungers only for the further inflation of his pride, rather publicly damaged, of course, by the lady. Marion Hall was his idea of revenge?"

  "It goes further than that. He also wanted her locket. He chose a particularly diabolical way to secure it, but the locket itself was one of his aims."

  "Because the lady valued it?"

  It was pure instinct to think he could rely on this man, yet Alden trusted him.

  "That was his first incentive. For sentimental reasons, she valued it more than anything she possessed. No one could have told our friend that, except her husband. Yet one would think these two men would never be on speaking terms: a duke's son and the commoner who stole away his intended bride. So Ι assume they had business dealings?"

  "They did," the Dove said.

  "Ι thought so. Did Lord Edward deliberately ruin Hardcastle's timber business to gain control over him?"

  "Ah," the Dove said. "Ι believed you to be a perceptive man. George Hardcastle does not know that, of course."

  "Or he would hardly have told Lord Edward about his wife's locket. Yet Hardcastle must think it valueless-"

  "Why do you think any of this would be of interest to me?" Dovenby asked.

  "Ι made a few inquiries," Alden said. "Discreetly, through an agent. You also have business dealings with our mutual friend."

  "To my benefit. Not, unfortunately - though he doesn't know it yet - to his."

  "Yet he trusts you. He invited you to Marion Hall. Ι would like to know whether he is just driven by greed, or if he is in truth in need of funds?"

  Dovenby studied his shoe buckles, a small grin bending the corners of his long mouth. "One might say that his affairs are in considerable disarray. Yet he knows only that he needs vast amounts more capital to continue to invest in his dearest business ventures. His intention is to become the wealthiest man in England."

  "It's not easy being a younger son," Alden commented dryly.

  The grin became wider. "Greed is an unfortunate attribute. It can blind one to reality. Ι have wondered why he seemed so incredibly overconfident lately, though Ι have found his hubris most usefu1. You imply the lady's locket has some critical role to play?"

  "He wouldn't sell it back to me - not for blood, nor even for money. Ι believe he thinks it will lead him to the Felton treasure: a legendary hoard buried about a hundred years ago and never recovered, a fortune in gold and jewelry."

  "Which explains a great deal," Dovenby said. "Thank you for this information. May Ι advise you not to invest in the Isle of Dogs Muscovy Pelt and Sable Company, where our mutual friend is now so heavily committed?"

  "Yet perhaps Ι have my own plans for his downfall," Alden replied quietly.

  Dovenby closed his eyes as if he were making up his mind to something. "You don't have rime. There is another task for you, if you' re interested. The details of this new Muscovy venture do not auger well for the lady."

  Alden' s small shred of satisfaction vanished. "What the devil do you mean?"

  The other man glanced up, his face calm, but a small pulse beat visibly at the side of his jaw. "What use is his wife to George Hardcastle? He abandoned her five years ago. She is only in the way now. To get him to bring her to London, Lord Edward ruined Hardcastle's business, trapped her into adultery, then told her husband where to find her in Manston Mingate. One would think his revenge on her complete. Yet now, for no apparent reason, the duke's son has given her husband a partnership in his new Muscovy Company. Lord Edward believes - if mistakenly - that it is going to make him very rich. Now he voluntarily shares that wealth with a man he despises?"

  Dread seized Alden by the throat. He paced away across the room. "The devil! On what conditions? What the hell has he demanded from George Hardcastle in return?"

  "Sir Reginald Denby - no doubt in his role as lackey for Lord Edward - has been collecting affidavits: from a woman in the village who worked for the lady, even a lady's maid from your mother's house-"

  "Tilly? Κate?" Alden spun about to stare at Dovenby. "What about?"

  "Her servants swear she ate flowers. Just to turn down a duke's son and run away with the steward is enough proof of lunacy in the right quarters-"

  Alden's hands closed on a length of linen. Without conscious thought, he grasped fabric in both fists and ripped. The dust sheet tore to reveal the marble statue of a woman.

  "He cannot make such accusations stick!"

  "Of course he can." Dovenby was white about the nostrils. "With the husband complicit and Lord Edward paying the doctors?"

  "And she behaved with exquisite insanity at Marion Hall?" Rage formed a sick knot in his throat. It was his fault! His fault! To be declared mad was worse than death. "She has already been locked away? Where?"

  "Perhaps you can find out." The Dove held out a folded slip of paper. "Ι had planned to go after her myself, but perhaps the task i
s rightfully yours. Leave our financial revenge on Lord Edward to me, and Ι shall - with a certain personal reluctance, Ι admit leave the lady's rescue to you. Here is Hardcastle's address."

  "She's not in Bedlam?" The question almost choked him.

  "No," Dovenby said, standing. "Α private asylum, Ι understand - I don't know where."

  Alden strode blindly back across the room. Appalling images flooded his mind. The Bethlam Royal Hospital lay north of the old London Wall at Moorgate, where bored ladies and gentlemen paid a fee to laugh at the lunatics - an afternoon's entertainment, to watch the filthy, witless creatures shout and swear and rattle their chains.

  Was Juliet now locked in such a place?

  With his fingers on the door latch, Alden forced himself to stop and look back. "Thank you, sir. We’ll stay in touch? Ι will find the lady, but Ι' m not done with Lord Edward."

  Dovenhy walked to the window and looked out, palms clasped behind his back.

  "I’ll keep you informed, Lord Gracechurch."

  The statue appeared to be staring past him. With one hand the marble woman clutched her Greek robes to her breast. In the other she held out a ball of fine thread.

  "Ariadne," Alden said.

  Dovenby looked around and cocked a brow.

  Alden nodded at the statue. "The king’s daughter who led Theseus out of the labyrinth after he killed the Minotaur, only to be abandoned on the isle of Naxos by the hero she had rescued. Is it ever possible to rewrite myth and find a happy ending?"

  "I don't know," the other man replied. "But good luck."

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  ALDEN'S FIRST IMPULSE WAS TO OPENLY CONFRONT GEORGE Hardcastle or the duke's son. To find out where Juliet had been sent, he could easily justify the infliction of pain. Yet he knew a physical confrontation would be useless. His enemies could lie, prevaricate, delay. Lord Edward would relish being given such power. Meanwhile a simple message would see Juliet moved, farther and farther from Alden's reach, until she had disappeared so deeply that no one could ever find her.