The Secret Seduction of Lady Eliza

by Bethany M. Sefchick

  For the rest of the carriage ride home and well after when they were back at their Mayfair town house, the young women who had been at the ball or musicale or theater would be discussed at length, each one judged on how suitable they would have been as a wife for Stephen Deaver, the man who would have been the heir to the Framingham marquisate.

  The only problem was, Stephen was dead and had been for quite some time.

  And Eliza, who was still very much alive, was once more relegated to a corner of the carriage where she had long ago learned that it was best to keep quiet and allow her parents to reminisce about her dead brother and discuss what sort of qualities he would have looked for in a wife. Any attempt she made to join the conversation would be frowned upon, her parents believing that Eliza did not remember Stephen well enough to say what sort of woman he might have liked. Even though she had been an adult when he had left home for the war. Any news about Eliza's own life that she wished to impart - not that there was much, to be fair - would be looked upon as nothing more than a little girl throwing a temper tantrum because all of the attention was not upon her. She had long ago ceased in her efforts in that regard.

  For Eliza, the specter of the dead overshadowed the life of the living. And so she did not say a word. She simply sat in silence and lived inside of her head, inventing fantasies about a life she would never lead and creating fictional, impossibly perfect men who would never court her. Or sweep her off her feet into wedded bliss. For her, that was preferable to being compared to a dead sibling and being found sadly lacking.

  There were times when Eliza wanted to hate her brother. For not caring about the family and the title enough to remain in London. For craving adventure and excitement more than he worried about his responsibilities to the marquisate and the family's heritage. For purchasing a commission in His Majesty's Royal Navy in 1812 when he was only 22 and just returned from a sojourn in Italy. For leaving their parents to mourn him, turning them old and bitter before their time, his death shrouded in so much mystery that cold, hard facts became their only salvation. Their only hope that he might still be alive since his body had never been found.

  But there was more. Eliza wanted to hate Stephen for leaving her alone and in the position of having to make certain that the family's fortunes did not fail because her father no longer cared what became of any of them. For turning her into a bluestocking because that was the only way the Deaver family and the Framingham marquisate was to survive during those first, ugly weeks. For plunging her family into mourning for so many years that by the time Eliza made her already much-delayed come-out, she was already well on the shelf and no longer the fresh, young debutante she had once been. Or rather had never been.

  But mostly she wanted to hate him for boarding a ship bound for England that sank off the Spanish coast during a storm in 1814 and getting himself killed in the process.

  Except that Eliza couldn't. Not even as much as she wanted to.

  Because Stephen Deaver had been more than a brother to Eliza. He had been a hero to a sickly little girl who was younger and weaker than he, always insisting that she be allowed to accompany him and his friends on their adventures at Langton Abby. He had been her protector when she had needed one, forcing their parents to include her on outings when it would have been easier to leave the little girl who couldn't walk at home. He had given her the nickname Izzy and had taught her to wish for more from her life than just confinement to a sick room.

  Stephen had taught Eliza how to run when she would have been satisfied with just learning how to walk. He taught her how to race a horse rather than just ride one. And he had taught her the value of friendship when he had befriended a shy, reticent older boy who would later become The Bloody Duke of Candlewood, refusing to give up the friendship even after their father beat Stephen with a switch.

  And for those reasons and more, Eliza could not hate her dead brother.

  Perhaps she should have, but she could not.

  It was his fault that he had left, but not his that he had died. He had been coming home to them - guilt finally getting the better of him - when the ship sank. The letter he had penned the day before he sailed, one that had arrived at the family's front door six months after his death, had proven that without a doubt. Yet the end result had been the same. Stephen was gone and Eliza was left to pick up the pieces of her shattered family. Except that she hadn't done a very good job of it.

  After all, she was a female and there was little she could do. At least in public. As for what went on in private? Well, only she and a select few other people needed to know those details.

  Now as she listened to her parents prattle on about Stephen and his imaginary wives, Eliza wondered not for the first time, what her life would have been like if Stephen had not died. In all likelihood, she would have been married by now though she could not image to whom. Most of the men of her acquaintance either bored her or annoyed her. It rather depended on who they were. Lord Hunt was nice enough but she doubted that Stephen would have viewed the impoverished future Marquess of Strattfield as an appropriate match for her, despite his title. Truly, Lord Hunt was far too quiet. Too much like her. Or at least too much like the woman she often pretended to be.

  Eliza would also likely have been a mother several times over. Despite the fact that she did not necessarily desire a husband, she did wish for children. Except that a lady could not have one without the other. And the sad truth was that no man - except for possibly fortune hunters and those already well past their prime or in need of a live-in nanny - would find her appealing in the least.

  So Eliza was left in a sort of limbo, moving neither forwards nor backwards. But always rather staying the same.

  Again, she should hate Stephen for that, but she could not.

  It was not his fault she was not particularly pretty. That was simply the luck of birth. It was not his fault that their parents had been unable to recognize that despite the loss of the family's heir, there was still a living child at home, one that both needed her parents and had suffered a grievous loss as well. Then again, it was no different now than when Stephen had been alive.

  During her youth, Eliza's parents had been so invested in the life of their son that they had never spared much thought for their daughter, even when both children had been alive. Eliza could not blame her brother for that. Nor was it Stephen's fault that her two best friends were considered true diamonds of the first water by the ton, each of them an Incomparable in their own right. That was the fault of a society who valued physical beauty over just about everything else.

  By the time the carriage finally rolled to a stop in front of the Framingham town home, Eliza had managed to work herself into something of a depression. She did not enjoy feeling this way, but tonight had driven home what she would never have for herself. At best, she would have stolen moments with disreputable scoundrels like Lord Candlewood behind potted plants. And not even romantic moments at that.

  As she was about to alight from the carriage, Eliza noticed that the entire town home was ablaze with lights. Candles glowed in nearly every window and all eight of the ornate lanterns on the front porch had been lit. They were never lit. Her mother feared fire - the very thing that had ultimately caused Stephen's ship to sink - too much to allow such a thing.

  By the time her slippered feet hit the ground, Eliza was ready to dash up the front steps, her heart racing in her throat. Something was amiss. Alarmed, she once more recalled the afternoon the news of Stephen's death had been delivered to their front door, and she felt vaguely ill. Still, she held herself back, glancing back into the carriage. Her parents should have been the first to alight, but instead, they sat frozen in their seats, clearly reliving the same horror that she was.

  Very well.

  Eliza drew in a deep breath and accepted the outstretched hand of a nearby footman. As she ascended the town home's steps, she could feel the eyes of all of the servants upon her. She was also aware that her parents had not budged
from the carriage, leaving her to face whatever awaited behind the doors of the family home by herself.

  "Tibbs," she acknowledged in greeting to the family butler as he opened the door for her. "I gather something had occurred." She waved a hand at the mass of candles that now littered the front hallway.

  "Yes, miss." The butler executed a proper bow. But he was nervous and sweating and not at all behaving like himself. "I...er...that is...I mean to say, there is..."

  With a sigh, Eliza twisted the handle of her reticule, trying desperately not to panic. Though it was very, very difficult. "Whatever it is, Tibbs, I shall deal with it." It went without saying that neither of her parents was capable of dealing with the situation at hand.

  Tibbs glanced up the stairs with a meaningful look. "The family has a visitor, Miss Eliza."

  "At this hour?" She had no idea who could possibly be calling. She was dimly aware of the squeak of a carriage, indicating that her parents were at least considering leaving the vehicle. She prayed that would be sooner rather than later.

  "He claims to be family, miss." There was no mistaking the horror and fear in the butler's voice. "Except that...well...he should be dead." He swallowed hard. "This one...he is different than the others.

  At that, Eliza's blood turned to ice. Without thinking or waiting for anyone else, she snatched the nearest candelabra and raced up the stairs, ladylike manners be damned. At the top, she turned right and headed for the drawing room - the only place in the entire town house where visitors would be received - by her order. As she drew closer, Eliza slowed her pace, careful not to allow her shadow to be seen along the wall. She did not want this imposter to know that she was coming.

  For she was certain that he must be an imposter. Anything else was simply unthinkable.

  This was not the first time someone had shown up on the family's doorstep claiming to be Stephen. In the early days, as news of the accident spread, Tibbs often turned away as many as five or six men a day, each of them insisting that they were the lost Framingham heir. After all, the marquisate was a meaty prize to claim, one that would revert to the Crown if her father did not select another heir before he died - and it did not appear that he would. There were many unfortunate men who would gladly sell their souls for a chance at that sort of fortune and power.

  Back then, Eliza and Tibbs had been the only two people standing between the charlatans and her poor, broken-hearted parents. The two of them had been a united front and no one had gotten past them. She had no idea how this man - whoever he really was - had managed it. Clearly, his ruse had been enough to fool Tibbs. But it would not be enough to fool her.

  As she approached the door, Eliza made certain her footfalls were masked by the carpet and that the fabric of her gown did not betray her presence. She would deal with this imposter herself - before her parents caught so much as a glimpse of him. For Eliza's greatest fear was that one day, some man would slip past both her and Tibbs and ingratiate himself with her parents. She feared that this unseen, unnamed man would know just enough about Stephen's past to be convincing. And her parents, desperate to have their son back, would welcome the imposter with open arms, finally allowing emotion to overrule fact. After that, there would be no dislodging him.

  That was something that Eliza had vowed would never happen. She refused to allow some con man to take advantage of her parents' broken hearts and steal their fortune out from under them. It would not happen!

  From her position in the hallway, Eliza could see a man moving about inside the drawing room. He was thickly muscled, as if he performed some sort of manual labor, the arms of his coat straining as he moved. Though the room was dim, she could also tell that his clothes were a bit worn, though they had been finely tailored at one time. From the cut, they appeared to have been sewn by Watson and Webb, the men's equivalent of Madame LaVallier, who was renowned as the finest dressmaker in all of London.

  The man leaned heavily on a well-used walking stick and moved with a strange limp in his gait. However she silently acknowledged that his movements weren't much different than the gait of Lord Marcus Cheltenham, the current Viscount Breckenright, the brother of one of Eliza's close friends. Marcus had been injured in his youth and walked much as this man did, indicating that the injury was genuine and not a ruse.

  The man's head was nearly bald, covered only by a small stubble of hair, though his stance and skin indicated that he was still rather young. He gripped the walking stick with force, indicating that he had strength to spare, also not common in an older man.

  Eliza had to give this man credit. From behind and at a distance in dim light, he could have passed for Stephen. Except for the hair. Her brother always had a thick head of honey blonde hair. She had been blessed with the exact same hair. It was one of the hallmarks of the Deaver family.

  As were their eyes.

  Both Stephen and Eliza possessed the unique, turquoise-hued eyes of their paternal grandmother. The two siblings were, as far as anyone could tell, the only family with that peculiar shade of blue in all of England. Or at least London. And those eyes were not something that an imposter could fake. Even the best of the con men she had encountered over the years had been tripped up by those eyes every time. Blue was not turquoise, and she could not and would not be fooled into believing otherwise.

  How this man could have fooled Tibbs, however, was beyond Eliza, though she silently vowed to look into the situation. Perhaps the butler's eyesight was failing.

  Confident that she was about to expose yet another petty thief seeking access to the family fortune, Eliza strode towards the room, more angry now than anything. However, just as she approached the doorway, the man inside turned, and in the dim firelight, she saw his eyes. And for the first time in six years, Eliza's blood ran cold and she wondered if such things as ghosts really existed.

  For there, staring back at her unblinking, was a pair of turquoise eyes that perfectly matched her own.

  And with that, all of her fears about her life remaining the same vanished in an instant. Because she knew deep in her heart that nothing would ever be the same again.

  Chapter Two

  Still later that same night

  "Leave the clothing for now, Drayton. I might yet go out again this evening." From a supremely plush lounging chair near his bed, Nicholas Rosemont sipped on his scotch, contemplating his plans for the rest of the evening. Clad only in his banyan, he considered the time of night, weighing his many options. It was not yet midnight, still well early enough for him to seek out some female companionship for the evening. If only he had not dismissed his last mistress Adelphie - a lovely little French morsel if there ever was one - a fortnight ago, he could even now be sinking between her lush thighs to indulge his physical needs. Then again, if only she hadn't demanded he wed her, there would never have been an issue between them in the first place.

  "Very good, sir." Drayton had been Nicholas' long-suffering valet for almost longer than either man could remember. He was also well familiar with his master's quirks and appetites. "Will you be needing anything else? Perhaps you wish for me to send a messenger on ahead to Lycosura? I know you have been frequenting it quite regularly as of late. I am certain that the lovely Madame Desponia will have a gaming table, along with a willing female, waiting for you should you request it."

  For a moment, Nicholas seriously considered the idea. The gaming hell was a welcome respite from the pressures of daily life and the lovely Madame Desponia offered an array of pleasures outside of the tables, enough to sate even his unusual tastes - even though she herself was not on the menu, much to his eternal disappointment. However he also had a meeting the following morning at Carlton House and did not wish to appear overly indulgent.

  Nicholas also remembered that he still needed to pay a visit to The Golden Temple, presided over by the less-than-reputable Madame Philotes, who dealt in the trade of fallen society women. And, it was rumored, much more. Her establishment was an enterprise that the Crown wi
shed to see shut down, and Prinny had made certain that Nicholas knew that any information he could obtain about the operation would be most welcome.

  Then there was the conundrum of the lovely and luscious Italian soprano Gianna Vienetti who was angling to become Nicholas' next mistress. Clearly, she had been informed that the position was now available, for she had made overtures to him several times over the last few days. In fact, as of late, she was becoming rather persistent, refusing to take the word "no" as his final answer on the matter, going so far as to issue him personal invitations to her select, private concerts. Ones usually performed in the nude. Tonight, she was giving a late, intimate concert at the home of Marietta Crestwood, a noted Cyprian who also opened her home to members of the beau monde, both male and female, seeking an evening of scandalous pleasure.

  Nicholas was certain he would be welcomed at the Crestwood house with open arms, especially if he brought a shiny bauble or trinket with him as a small token of affection for the home's proprietress. And if he wasn't? Well, he was The Bloody Duke. There were few doors that were truly closed to him if he pushed hard enough.

  Except that there was something in the soprano's manner that put him off and made him wary. Perhaps it was her persistence or the way she flaunted herself to everyone - male and female alike. Nicholas was a rogue of the highest order, almost going so far as bedding a different woman every night. But he did not flaunt his sexual prowess. He simply made a few comments and allowed others to assume. Gianna bragged - about everything. Including the length of her lovers' cocks. That sort of woman did not appeal to him. He had endured more than enough of women who sought merely to use him for their own gains, thinking they were fooling him with their pretty pouts and fluttering eyes.