The Price of Temptation

by M. J. Pearson

  Betsy frowned. “Tulips ain’t so fancy, is they?”

  Mrs. Symmons pursed her lips. “Not in springtime. But in December, I should think they’d be more expensive than roses.”

  “Exactly.” Charles nodded. “Besides, Stephen was going on about how the first time he saw Julian on stage, he was holding an armful of pink tulips, and he thought he’d never seen anything so beautiful in his life. If Jamie stays away much longer—”

  “But why won’t Jamie come back?” Betsy’s young face looked on the verge of tears. “Jamie didn’t just disappear, like Maisie’s — he didn’t,” she protested. “Couldn’t he still come back?”

  “Perhaps it’s time to speak of something else, Mr. West.” Mr. Symmons stirred his soup with his spoon, but little of it seemed to be reaching his lips. “Remarkable cold spell we’ve been having, isn’t it?”

  “Winter’s early this year,” his wife said, lines of worry creasing her forehead. She gave an involuntary glance at the window, where a few dry snowflakes swirled against the glass.

  Abby Sawtell looked up from her soup plate. “Smart lad,” she said. “Find a stable.”

  Her son Alex nodded, washing down a large mouthful of food with a hearty swig of ale. His appetite, at least, was unaffected. “Horses throw off a lot of heat. It’s warm as toast out in the stables. As long as he—”

  Mr. Symmons’ face was stony. “Excellent soup, Mrs. Wyss. You’ve come a long way in your cooking.”

  Rebecca pushed her own plate away. “Oh, lord: let him be getting enough to eat.”

  Across the table from her, Betsy began to whimper.

  Mrs. Symmons bit her lip. “Perhaps this afternoon, you might go over the household budget with me, Mrs. Wyss. We need to—”

  “Please call me Rebecca, Mrs. Symmons. You always have.”

  The housekeeper’s back stiffened. “As cook of this household, you are due the respect of a proper title.”

  “Even if it’s against my wishes? Mrs. Wyss! Heavens! It sounds like a sneeze.”

  “If you dislike your name so, you could marry that footman of yours and change it.” Mrs. Symmons sniffed. “I heard you sneaking out again last night, like a common—”

  “I did no such thing!” Rebecca’s mug sloshed ale onto the table as she set it down with force. “And keep to your own business, Mrs. Symmons!”

  “The way you kept to yours? You and Charles tarted up young Mr. Riley on purpose to catch his lordship’s eye—that’s clear enough, looking back. Here I though you were being kind to him. Kind!” Mrs. Symmons’ eyes flashed with sorrow. “Like a babe to the slaughter he was.”

  Mr. Symmons tapped his spoon against the edge of his plate. “Here now! That is enough. We will not speak of that—that man at this table again.”

  Charles stood up, dropping his napkin on the table. “His name is Jamie, and he was always kind to you.” Hurt warred with anger on his face, its round lines so much better suited to good cheer. “And if his name is unspeakable, Mr. Symmons, why isn’t mine?”

  The butler lifted his chin. “It’s not in me to approve of you and your Sam, but the differences are clear. You’ve been with each other for years, and had the decency to keep to your own kind. Dallying with the master of the house, especially one such as he, is something else entirely. You know what his lordship is.”

  “Stephen—his lordship was better since Jamie came,” Charles said, still standing. “More responsible, more thoughtful. There’s always been a lot of good in him, with Jamie’s influence it was just coming to the surface.”

  Mrs. Symmons’ voice sounded mournful. “Was,” she said, shaking her head. “Was.”

  Julian Jeffries regarded his face in the glass backstage at the Ivy Lane Theatre, which Lady Parkhurst had engaged tonight for her charity benefit. His contribution wouldn’t tax him: he and Melinda Phelps were to perform a scene from Much Ado About Nothing, which he’d done at least a thousand times before. But if the material was stale to him, the opportunity was fresh.

  “Perfect, Bertie,” he said to his dresser, reaching to hand the younger man a pink bouquet. “Now, go fetch some water for these flowers. And don’t come back until curtain time. I need to concentrate.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He had been between productions for nearly three months now, since his backstabbing understudy, George Fulston, had stolen the lead of his last play from him. So what if Julian had been late for the first act? It was understood that the curtain would be held for him, always. And if by some chance mixed signals had allowed another actor to begin the performance, obviously he should have been allowed to resume the role at the next scene change. But no, Fulston must have come up with a whopper of a bribe: when Julian had arrived backstage, the theatre manager had escorted him to the door.

  It still stung. If he could only attract a backer tonight, Julian had many ideas for new productions in which he’d be stunning. Oh, he knew his limits: Julian Jeffries was a competent enough actor, but his real fame (and fortune, for that matter) had come from his exquisite looks, and he hungered for the continued adulation of the crowds. He turned his head, inspecting himself carefully at the mirror. Thirty-eight years old, and in full stage makeup he still looked as fresh as one of those damned tulips Stephen had heaped upon him. Tulips! They made him sneeze. Nevertheless, he had managed to smile and thank the earl graciously. The man was still moping over the loss of that colorless little bastard of a secretary, and the merest threat of a rival was enough to put Julian on the alert.

  Because Stephen Clair was perfect for Julian Jeffries. Relatively undemanding, never violent, easily led. And while the earl’s current allowance of twenty thousand pounds was eclipsed by that of quite a few members of the ton, there wasn’t a soul in London richer than his great-aunt, Lady Matilda Clair. It had been a mistake to antagonize her, but who knew that she’d come up so protective of the Riley by-blow? Well, he could mend that fence. Little old ladies loved him.

  And if he couldn’t? The bitch was eighty years old. She had to kick the bucket soon enough. Leaving everything to Stephen Clair, her only living relative. Julian had been careless with Stephen, and almost lost him. He couldn’t afford to make that mistake again. It should be easy enough to keep Stephen eating out of his hand, as long as James Riley cooperated by remaining out of sight.

  If only there were some way to ensure it.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Five days. Jamie had fled St. Joseph House on Thursday, and tonight it was Tuesday already. He had been gone for the better part of a week, penniless and alone on the streets of a filthy and dangerous city. Rebecca shivered to herself and sipped her tea, staring down at the bit of scrap paper in front of her, a stub of a pencil in her hand. The whole household was worried about him, but no one had seemed to have the gumption to do anything about it. They needed someone to take charge, to think the problem through logically and come up with a plan of action: in short, what they needed was Jamie. In his absence, Rebecca was trying her best, but inspiration was slow in coming.

  Charles entered the kitchen, home from an evening out with Sam. “You’re up late, Rebecca. What’s that, the household budget?”

  “Hang the budget. I’m trying to figure out how to find Jamie.” She turned the paper towards Charles, revealing nothing but aimless cross-hatches and curlicues on the page. “Do you have any ideas?”

  The valet fetched a cup, and poured himself some tea from the pot at Rebecca’s elbow. “Boarding houses. They must be listed in the City Directory.”

  Rebecca made a note. “Good idea. They advertise in the newspapers, too. We can make a list and start calling on them.”

  “Starting where? There must be hundreds.”

  “I suppose—” The kitchen door swung open, and Mr. Symmons stalked in, ignoring them as he proceeded to the cook stove and poured milk into a pan to warm it. “Sleepless night, Mr. Symmons?”

  The butler grunted, stirring his milk to keep it from scalding.

 
Charles shrugged. “I suppose we should start nearby, and work outwards from there. He can’t have gone far.”

  “But he wouldn’t stay too close, either,” Rebecca said, pushing her long blonde hair behind her ear and frowning. “He wouldn’t want to run into his lordship by accident, would he?”

  Charles nodded. “You’re right. I suppose we can rule out anything too close to White’s, or the theater district as well.”

  “Or the brothels,” came a mutter from the direction of the stove.

  “That still leaves...” Rebecca bit her lip. “Far too much of London to search.”

  Mr. Symmons poured his warm milk into a mug, rinsed the pan and started for the door. “You might try Bloomsbury,” he said in passing.

  Charles and Rebecca gaped at the kitchen door as it swung shut.

  “Bloomsbury?” the valet said. “Why?”

  Rebecca groaned and slapped herself on the forehead. “The British Museum. The British Library. We’re idiots not to have thought to look in that area first.”

  “Well, thank you, Mr. Symmons!” Charles said. “It’s a start.”

  Julian Jeffries exited a bookshop in Soho two days later, staring down at a scrap of paper in his hand that made him believe once again in the existence of God. For the first third of his life, he had prayed assiduously for heaven to avenge the authors of his wretched childhood. Even during the more cynical years that had followed, he had looked over his shoulder from time to time, waiting for the thunderbolt from the blue that would put paid to his activities, which could not possibly be approved of on high. When neither of these things occurred, he had given up on the Almighty altogether. Until today.

  On the paper, carefully written in the rodent’s own hand, was the current address of a certain James Riley.

  He grinned to himself. Not so miraculous, really, that the little bookworm had surfaced in a bookshop. Julian had dropped by Botherton’s Fine Imported Books this afternoon, to check on the status of an item he’d had specially shipped for him from Florence. Italian pornography was much superior to the French trash most of his circle settled for. And much more expensive, to be sure, but since Stephen was soon to receive his quarterly funds, the few guineas this latest trifle would cost him would be utterly unnoticeable.

  The clerk, a fetching thing named Shelby with hair black as coal, had regarded his client with an admiration bordering on awe, but Julian didn’t have to consult the mirror in the lid of his snuffbox to know he was looking particularly well today. “Yes, sir, it’s in, and very impressive it is, too. I’ll bring it right out for you.”

  Julian retreated with the volume to a quiet corner to preview it, deciding almost immediately he wasn’t even going to try to talk the price down. Damn, the book was fine, the illustrations erotic enough to fire an urgent itch. Easily fixed, if the clerk were as willing as he appeared. There was no one else in the shop, was there?

  But there was. Julian peered between the shelves, noting a young man, painfully neat but rather shabby around the edges, standing at the counter. With a snort of surprise, he recognized Stephen’s missing secretary.

  What was he doing here?

  Whatever it was, Shelby’s interest was not engaged. The clerk’s gaze kept wandering over to the nook where Julian still stood. He nodded a few times, and Julian heard him say, “Yes, yes, perhaps. I’ll tell Mr. Botherton.” Shelby’s impatient air discouraged the Riley brat from browsing, but the clerk did accept a small piece of paper from Stephen’s former employee.

  Oh, my. How interesting. Julian emerged from behind the shelves, approaching the clerk with sinuous grace. “What did he want?”

  “Looking for employment. If Mr. Botherton will take someone else on, I’d have more time to devote to our best customers.” The look he shot Julian crackled with heat.

  “I assure you, the man who was here is not at all an appropriate choice.” He reached to pluck the paper from Shelby, who stuffed it into a trouser pocket instead.

  “Please, sir. I need to keep that. Mr. Botherton would be furious if I didn’t at least—”

  The actor raised his brows, moving near to the clerk, close enough for their bodies to touch. “Bother Botherton,” he murmured, his hand moving to rest on the young man’s hip, pulling him even closer. “Suppose you put a sign on the door that said ‘Will return shortly’ or some such, and then we go to the back so you can devote some time to me?” He leaned in, lips grazing Shelby’s ear. “Please?”

  Shelby shuddered with desire. “I suppose... a few minutes...” He broke free, scrabbling hastily for a pencil and piece of paper. In the back room, dark and crowded with boxes and trunks of books, the clerk wasted no time dropping to his knees and reaching for the buttons of Julian’s trousers. Under normal circumstances, this adoration would have been exactly to the actor’s taste, but today other tactics were in order.

  “No, my dear.” He raised the young man to his feet, pulling Shelby into his arms for a lingering kiss. “I want more than that.” His hands trailed down to cup the young man’s buttocks, squeezed gently. “I’ve wanted your sweet little arse ever since the first time I saw you—didn’t you know that?”

  “I—I shouldn’t, sir.” Hunger in the clerk’s eyes, but he shot a nervous glance towards the door. “It’d be quicker if you let me use my mouth. If you wanted more, we could meet outside the shop later.”

  “Shelby. My Shelby.” Another kiss, longer, deeper. Julian slipped his hand down the back of the clerk’s waistband, parting Shelby’s cheeks and stroking between them. “I need you. Now.” This time, there was no resistance when Julian opened the young man’s trousers and pushed them down. Shelby didn’t even notice the slight detour the actor’s fingers made along the way, dipping briefly into the clerk’s pocket. By the time Julian had finished with him, he barely remembered his own name, and certainly didn’t recall that of the man who had so briefly visited the shop, seeking a job.

  Julian was very pleased with himself as he left the shop, clutching his new book in one hand and Jamie Riley’s address in the other.

  What was he going to do with the brat? He considered the matter while his coach wended its way through the city streets. Van Dieman’s Land was a distinct possibility. Prison ships left the docks at least once per week for the penal colonies in Australia—how hard could it be to bribe the ship’s master into taking on an additional convict? But sometimes, long-lost people come back. And point fingers.

  Did the solution need to be more permanent, perhaps? Julian chewed thoughtfully on his bottom lip. It had been necessary to remove people before, during his long climb from the dank pit of his beginnings to the bright lights of the London stage. Squeamishness wouldn’t stay his hand, but he was a well-known figure now, and had to be careful. If he could find someone else to do the job... Julian leaned back against the leather seat and closed his eyes, the better to collect his thoughts. A name floated in the shadows of his mind, amid the whispers of darkness, and he snatched at it greedily.

  Cosgrove.

  A wealthy merchant, accused of ghastly crimes. Four or five of his servants, both male and female, had disappeared from the face of the earth, and only one body had ever been found. Ripped apart by wild dogs, Mr. Cosgrove had insisted. Palms were greased, a jury faltered, and the judge dismissed the case for lack of evidence. In the years since, it was rumored that the merchant had not ceased his activities, only become much better at hiding them. No one grieved for the playthings he chose now, as long as he was careful to keep himself to prostitutes, vagrants and urchins of the streets. A young man with no family to inquire after him, who was already missing from his few acquaintances, would be a grand opportunity for such as he.

  Julian opened his eyes. Perhaps even Riley didn’t deserve that, was already fading from Stephen’s mind, soon to be forgotten. No matter how tempting, he would have to think it over before delivering the brat to a creature like Cosgrove. He should call on the earl, find a discreet way of measuring whether he was stil
l pining for his lost secretary.

  Julian reached up and rapped on the roof of the coach, stuck his head out the window when the horses slowed. “Take me to St. Joseph House.”

  The winter afternoon was already darkening when Charles launched into his description for the seventeenth time. With Stephen’s blessing, he’d spent every free minute since his conversation with Rebecca two nights before searching the boarding houses of Bloomsbury. They all ran together after a while: tired-looking buildings with sagging roofs, often displaying a few touches that demonstrated a struggle to remain within the bounds of respectability. On this porch a pot of petunias fought for life against the rank London fog, added fading color to the surroundings. He was barely halfway into his piece when the landlady, Mrs. Ormsby, nodded.

  “Oh, Mr. Riley. Yes, yes, I know him.”

  “He’s here?” His round face beamed with relief.

  The landlady, a stout middle-aged female whose starched and pressed apron covered the worst stains on her threadbare dress, sniffed. “Not anymore. Seemed respectable enough at the first, but in the end he was no better than the rest of them. Tried to cozen me out of my proper due, he did.”

  “Oh. Perhaps we’re not talking about the same man. My Mr. Riley would never cheat a soul.”

  “Well, this one did. Tried to get me to accept half for next week’s lodging, didn’t he? Said he’d pay the balance once he’d found employment. And what would happen to me if he didn’t find work next week, either? I’d be out of my rightful rents, wouldn’t I?” Her watery eyes hardened. “Just like the rest of them, he was.”

  Charles’ hands clenched at his sides. “No, Mrs. Ormsby, he wasn’t. Now, do you have any idea of where he’s gone?”