The Secret Seduction of Lady Eliza

by Bethany M. Sefchick

  If nothing else, Nicholas had always been certain to be a considerate lover, making sure the woman always found her release as well, be she prostitute or lady. In his opinion, both were worthy of finding pleasure. The act of sex should never be entirely about the man. It was why he was a favorite of the brothels around London. Even if he did insist on protection from disease by using French letters each time he fucked.

  He offered Ianthe a small smile. "Perhaps. The coming weeks shall be busy, so do not count on anything, pet. I make no promises."

  "As you wish, my lord." Then, she was gone, probably in search of another man to bed for the night, preferably one who might become her protector. It was clearly what she had hoped for from Nicholas, not that she would have ever had it. He took mistresses, but never from the ranks of whores. Not even of the highest classes, such as the women Madame Desponia employed.

  As if merely thinking of her could conjure her from out of nowhere, it was mere seconds after Ianthe departed that Desponia appeared, her body hidden from view beneath a billowing golden gown and her face obscured by an elaborate mask of gold, feathers, and jewels.

  "Has Ianthe displeased you, your grace?" she asked with a seductive purr as she moved closer. "I am certain I can find another woman more to your tastes this evening, if you wish. Perhaps one who likes things...rough?" She allowed the implication of what she was offering to hang in the air between them like a promise. And, on another night, Nicholas might have accepted. For he did so like variety. But not tonight.

  "The girl was delightful as always, Desponia," Nicholas assured the woman, noticing the way her eyes followed his fingers as he buttoned his shirt. She was clearly interested in his body and for some reason, he felt an odd tug in his gut. History had taught him to heed the warning his body was providing him. "But I am not in the mood tonight, I fear. My mind is otherwise occupied."

  Desponia, however, would not be dissuaded. "Then allow me to find you another girl," she practically pleaded. "I have so many to choose from. After all, you are hardly ever here for more than a quick fuck. You have yet to sample the buffet of nubile young flesh that I have to offer. I have other girls with darker, more exotic tastes. Unlike Ianthe, they will allow you to do whatever you like."

  Whether it was her words or the way she said them, Nicholas could not be certain. However he had a feeling that tonight would be his last visit to Lycosura. Desponia had a plan of some sort and she was dangerously close to tipping her hand. She would not be the first brothel owner who had attempted to blackmail The Bloody Duke. Thankfully, he had never made any pretense as to what, precisely, he was.

  Rising from the bed, Nicholas stalked over to Desponia and gently grasped her wrist in his hand, squeezing just hard enough so that she knew he meant business. Then, when he was certain he had her full and complete attention, he smiled at her in the most sinister and yet still charming manner he knew how.

  "I do not know what game you play, madam, but I can assure you, you would do well not to trifle with me." Once more, the mask of The Bloody Duke slammed down over his features and Nicholas knew she would see no trace of the man beneath. No one ever did. "For I can destroy both you and your business with a simple word dropped in the correct ear."

  In response, Desponia huffed in indignation. "You only imagine your power, my lord. You might be The Bloody Duke, but I know the secrets of a great many men. Including yours."

  Angry now, Nicholas pushed her away from him and took up a relaxed position near the door, like a lion guarding its prey. Desponia would not leave unless he allowed it. And she would not leave until he had his say. "What would you tell them, Desponia? That I come here and I fuck your whores?" He laughed dryly. "I can assure you that is something that all of London knows rather well. It's not as if I have made a secret of it."

  "You prefer blondes," Desponia replied.

  In response, Nicholas yawned and rolled his eyes. "Everyone knows that. It is hardly a secret. Or damming. Every man has a type, after all."

  "You like to tie them up. The whores. So you can fuck them while they struggle." The madam tried again.

  Another yawn, this time accompanied by a leisurely stretch. "Once. It was a game, as I'm certain Xanthe would agree. And it was rather boring, as the tying up part only lasted but a moment. That girl is far too clever by half with knots." He smiled again and crossed his legs in front of him. "Another blonde. What a surprise. And you watched." Nicholas had made certain Desponia had been a witness to that event - just in case. He was no longer the stupid youth he had once been. "And you allowed your guards to suckle at you while you did so." He cocked an eyebrow. "For a madam that promises the utmost in discretion, and who holds herself out as an unobtainable prize in the bedchamber, that would not do your business much good. Were it to get out, that is."

  Nicholas could tell by the angry light in Desponia's eyes that she knew she had nothing on him to use as blackmail. He had been extremely careful, after all. "Get out." Her voice was low and angry, and Nicholas knew he had won. It had been easy, but it was also a hollow victory. "And never come back."

  Slowly, Nicholas peeled himself away from the door, taking his time and allowing Desponia a few moments to figure out that she did not have the power to order him about like some lapdog. Truly, this had been too easy. Yet he also acknowledged that his heart hadn't been in the game. If he had really been interested in playing the role of The Bloody Duke to the hilt, there would have been more threats. More anger. Instead, he was just left with a simmering sense of unrest.

  "Gladly." He gave the madam a mock salute. "And Desponia?"

  "Yes?"

  "Never attempt to blackmail me or any of my friends again. I promise that you will regret it if you do. And I do not make such promises lightly."

  Then Nicholas was gone, moving through the gilded halls of Lycosura for the last time. Not that he regretted it. This place had lost its allure for him long ago. Save for Ianthe, and there was more to her than met the eye, he suspected. He filed that information away for later. Just in case.

  Then he was gone, disappearing back into the night, still wrapped in the persona of The Bloody Duke, knowing full well that his departure would most likely be noted. And hating the fact that Eliza would know where he had been.

  Chapter Eight

  Town Tattler

  Has it really been three entire days since the absolutely titillating scene at the Chillton's annual Celestial Ball? Truly, this observer cannot imagine a greater show of virility than the one that took place between The Bloody Duke and the newly-returned-from-the-grave Lord Underhill! I must confess that despite my exclusive interview with the notoriously reticent Duke of Candlewood, I was among the many skeptical members of society who truly doubted that the infamous rake had changed his ways and was ready to settle down. And with a noted bluestocking like Lady Eliza, no less! After all, it was barely a fortnight ago that he was seen in the company of a notorious French opera dancer of some note. And it has been long rumored that a certain Italian soprano has been angling for a permanent spot in the man's bed. Now, to discover that he has been courting Miss Deaver the entire time? It seems to stretch the bounds of even the most vivid imaginations.

  However, I was there and witnessed the confrontation myself. It was no act. The Bloody Duke was not only enchanted with his chosen lady but furious when another man so much as dared to glance in her direction! How this reconciles with the man's departure from Lycosura last night, this observer cannot say, for I did not witness the event myself. I am hoping that it was merely a visit to settle his accounts and not evidence that all men of society are scoundrels, stepping out on a woman before they are even wed. We shall hope not. For everyone's sake.

  That said, perhaps the more delicious note of the evening was Lord Underhill jumping to his sister's defense. Or supposed sister, for there are rumors that despite the family's support - and those peculiar eyes - the man claiming to be Stephen Deaver is not quite the man he appears to be. Only time will t
ell, I suppose, but he was certainly acting like a protective older brother. That, this observer supposes, is something.

  -Madame C

  Nicholas landed a few more punches at a training bag before turning away and heading for the changing room, sweat dripping down his body. Even the punishing workout he had endured had not been enough to erase those foolish, annoying words from his memory. If he closed his eyes, he could still see the newsprint, fresh off the presses that morning.

  This pressure. Again. Pressure to be seen courting Eliza. As if it were real. Which it was not. Though in truth, they had never discussed how, precisely, this faux courtship would progress. Just that there would be one.

  In Nicholas' mind, they would be seen together in public. In private, he would continue on just as he always had. Only he would be more careful. Except that he hadn't been. Gossip had been spread. And he and Eliza had still never discussed the particulars about their arrangement. It was his own bloody stupid idea, one that he was growing to hate more with each passing day. He had made bad decisions in the past, but this one was among the worst. Especially since he had not counted on how a false courtship would hinder his other activities. It was as if he was a prisoner to the lie, no matter where he went.

  He could not escape it, no matter what he did. Not at White's where he had breakfasted, nor at Noroc, the gaming hell he had a minor partnership in with a few other gentleman. Out of sheer desperation, Nicholas had come to Gentleman Jackson's to box and perhaps escape the whispers that had begun to follow him wherever he went - including just what sort of blackmail material he had over the Deaver family so that Lord Framingham would allow Nicholas to court Eliza. The rumors of his dastardly ways dogged him, even worse than when he had forced Lady Gladston back to Scotland and into an institution to prevent her from running amok in London. Which truly had been for her own good, even if few, including the lady in question, knew it.

  The rumors regarding him and Eliza were everywhere, especially after his abrupt departure from the Tarhill's the previous evening. Where they once again had both played their parts to perfection. Almost too well. For while the rumors regarding the legitimacy of their courtship were dying down, they were only to be replaced by rumors of bets at White's on how soon he and Eliza would become officially betrothed. And later wed. While the ruse kept Nicholas in close proximity to Stephen, it was also wreaking havoc with his private life. And, more importantly, his sexual appetites. Which were not being satisfied. Not even close.

  It was hell being a rake when one had to pretend that they were seriously courting a proper lady with the intent to wed her. And when one had developed something of a conscience about the woman in question.

  Then again, Nicholas had no one but himself to blame for the present spate of rumors dogging his every move. He had created Madame C, mostly at the behest of the Crown, and had given the blasted woman nearly free reign with her column. Including the unheard of leave to use full names rather than merely initials. The ton loved a good scandal and their daily dose of gossip. Without Lady X to guide their prying eyes, it was feared that society might begin to seek out their own gossip. And that, of course, would never do. So Nicholas had been instructed to create Madame C - which he had. However he had perhaps done a bit too good of a job, especially since the bloody chit had nearly free reign to do as she pleased. Including mentioning actual, bloody fucking names rather than the insinuating hints that Lady X had been so clever at weaving into her story.

  Ah, well. As Nicholas had informed Carlton House the previous day, for the moment, Madame C was not his problem and another, actual agent for the Crown could be dispatched to deal with her. Madame Philotes and The Golden Temple as well. Nicholas had other, far larger problems - including the fact that he could not find a single mention of Stephen Deaver anywhere from the time the Echo sank until the moment he turned up on the Framingham's doorstep. It was as if he had simply vanished from the face of the earth. Which one would tend to do if one was dead. Except that Stephen wasn't. And that presented something of a problem.

  To Nicholas' way of thinking, even if the man hadn't known who he was, he had to have lived somewhere in England. Even Scotland. Or the Continent. After all, the man had not simply disappeared and then one day emerged, covered in battle scars no less, from under a cabbage leaf. Yet none of the extensive network of Bow Street Runners and other men of mysterious ways that Nicholas both employed and managed had been able to turn up a single clue as to whom this man was or where he had been living. It was as if he had simply appeared out of thin air.

  Nicholas himself was planning a trip to The Stuck Pig, a coaching inn on the edge of London that was rather famous for attracting all manner of scandal. He hoped to make the journey in a few days' time, if he could manage it. The inn was a magnet for crime and all sorts of illicit behaviors. It also sat near a crossroads that led to several of his friends' estates. Those sorts of places usually attracted a certain type of unwelcome criminal element. And those elements weren't always terribly afraid of Runners or other con men. But they were afraid of The Bloody Duke - if by reputation alone than nothing else.

  And reputation was largely what Nicholas existed on. At least these days. Oh, he had connections and could get things done, certainly. And there was an element of truth to the story that he was a spy. He was capable of great violence, as had been proven in his past. He was also rather powerful these days. He would not deny that either.

  However, it hadn't been so very long ago that he had been weak and vulnerable, his ill-conceived night of passion with Ellie making him easy prey for men like Charles Strathwaite, the Marquess of Landover. That vile pig of a man had used his knowledge of the affair to attempt to blackmail Nicholas' beloved sister, Julia, into the marquess' bed in an attempt to destroy her newfound happiness and exact revenge upon a man he believed had wronged him. Landover had wanted to ruin both Julia and Nicholas, along with Julia's now husband, Benjamin Sinclair, the Duke of Radcliffe - the man Landover blamed for his lack of a bride and a lifetime of misery.

  Nicholas had also been poor then. Or, if not precisely poor, then not in possession of the sort of fortune he desired. Once the nasty business with Landover had concluded, Nicholas had immediately set about reinventing himself and revising the Candlewood fortunes so that neither he nor his family would ever be vulnerable to the likes of Landover again.

  Once he set his mind to things, it hadn't taken long to accomplish either task. Within a few months, especially after word of his conduct at the ill-fated duel between Landover and Radcliffe leaked out, it was only a short matter of time until Nicholas' reputation began to grown. And with a few well-placed words about his exploits for the Crown in the time before the duel, it grew even more until, in short order, Nicholas had a reputation of epic proportions. Most of which wasn't even remotely true. Not that Nicholas ever bothered to correct people either.

  The more dangerous people assumed he was, the better for him as he conducted both his personal business and his business for the monarchy.

  Except that as of late, Nicholas had begun to feel as if he was losing himself within the legend of The Bloody Duke. He wasn't that man, at least not entirely. However he also didn't know how to stop being that man, either. Or if he even wanted to. For there were some very large, very significant benefits to being The Bloody Duke. There were also some down sides as well, but he chose not to think of those.

  Instead, he chose to think about how he might best silence Madame C, at least for the immediate future. And how he could find some small shred of information about the man claming to be Stephen Deaver. Because there had to be something. The man had to have come from somewhere.

  Nicholas was about to go back out into the salon for another round or two, hoping that this time he might find a sparring partner who better matched his towering height, when he saw Frost wander through the door that led to the main salon. From the look on the viscount's face, whatever was beyond the door was probably not likely to be good new
s.

  "Underhill is here." Frost had clearly decided against preamble and went right for the bad news. "He is still being treated as something of a celebrity. He even received an offer to spar from Jackson himself."

  "Mmm." For as much of a friend as Frost was, Nicholas was not about to tip his hand. It wasn't that he didn't trust the viscount. He did - to a point. But long ago, Nicholas had learned that there were very few people a man could implicitly trust with his life. Frost had yet to prove himself worthy enough to make Nicholas' short list in that regard.

  "For what it's worth, he seems ill at ease." Frost, who had himself obviously just come from a sparing match, given the way he was sweating profusely, rambled on. "I don't believe that it is the sparring that frightens him. He was here yesterday and I am given to understand that he is quite good. Clearly not a novice, at any rate." Then Frost glanced around to make certain no one else was about to overhear. "And his body is scarred. Particularly his lower abdomen and his leg. He is not faking the injuries. He does require the cane to walk. It is not a prop."

  Nicholas nodded. He had seen as much for himself that first night, and Frost's words had simply confirmed his own knowledge. No, the man who claimed to be Stephen was not physically weak in any way. Despite the extensive scaring - which had also proven to be quite real - Underhill was a powerful man with a quick wit and, when not feeling pressured, an easy way about him. In fact, many men had remarked upon Stephen's quick wit and delightful sense of humor over the last few nights. Just like the man Nicholas had once known.

  Nor was the man stupid. Nicholas had been certain to have as many of his extended circle of friends interact with Stephen over the last few days and report back to him. They all repeated the same story - Stephen was a man who had clearly been raised in some level of society, for it was unlikely he could master the proper accent or turn of phrase so easily unless he had been raised to it. He was also extremely intelligent, good with sums and Latin. The Stephen that Nicholas had known was never particularly good at Latin, but that was something that could have changed in the intervening years he supposed. Stephen had, however, always been exceedingly clever with maths and had always scored top marks at Eton in the subject.