The Devil Earl

by Deborah Simmons

  “I have been writing again,” she said, dragging his attention forcibly away from her tempting hands. “Originally, I had promised Phoebe that I would not take up my pen during our London visit. You see, I have a lamentable habit of immersing myself totally in my work, to the exclusion of aught else,” she explained.

  Her words danced through Sebastian’s blood like a liquor, heating and firing his imagination as he considered Prudence Lancaster immersing herself in him, totally…

  She leaned forward. “But, I cannot help it! After our last meeting, I wrote feverishly. You, my lord, inspire me so!” Sebastian felt a stab of dismay at the sight of her earnest, blushing countenance. Perhaps his little games of intrigue had worked too well.

  “I must admit, my lord, that I find your company most…stimulating! And it has been quite a boon to my work.” She was not being coy or flattering; her serious expression told him that she simply stated the truth.

  Sebastian knew an alien sensation suspiciously akin to guilt. Perhaps it was because without her spectacles, Prudence looked so much younger, so naked and vulnerable. Ruthlessly he reminded himself she was an adult, a woman of sound mind and judgment, who wanted whatever “stimulation” he might provide. And yet, he was struck with a profound sense of self-loathing that made it impossible for him to seize her outstretched hands.

  She was his. Sebastian had enough experience to tell that he could have her now, and these feeble flickers of a conscience he had thought long dead be damned! He hesitated, and in the silence that followed, the thought of taking her body filled him with revulsion, not for her, but for himself.

  His mouth twisted wryly. “I am not surprised that you find me of such help, for I am the perfect villain.” He could have let it go at that, called for the coachman and taken her back, but Prudence gave him a quick, guileless look of denial that told him she did not believe him.

  Sebastian’s frustration flared into anger, and he knew an overwhelming compulsion to give her a brief, bleak glimpse into himself, no matter what the cost. Otherwise, the foolish chit might cling to the absurd notion that there was something redeeming in his black character. As amusing as it was to have a champion, Sebastian had tired of the game. It was time to set Prudence Lancaster to rights.

  “I am afraid that you have been wrong about me, Prudence,” he drawled. “I am the count.”

  Chapter Ten

  Prudence appeared dismayed, and Sebastian reveled in her discomfort, taking a painful sort of delight in the fact that he was finally getting through to her, through those Gothic fancies to the practical side she showed to all but himself.

  “I am the count,” he repeated, annoyed at how silly the words sounded.

  “Nonsense!” Prudence protested. She glanced down at her gloved hands. “I admit that after I first saw you, I was seized with renewed inspiration and perhaps I did pattern my villain after your…physical being. However, that is where the resemblance ends, for he is an evil character, excessively so, while you are…not.”

  She sought his eyes, and the glitter of admiration in her own was unmistakable, Sebastian could not bear to look at her, fresh-faced and serious in her defense of him, but he refused to turn away. Suddenly, it was a matter of courage. He had to tell her. He must protect her from him, because Prudence was something fine and precious. She deserved better than a wicked nobleman who wanted only to vary his jaded palate with her innocence.

  “My uncle was no role model for a young boy,” he began, amazed at how easily the words came. “When my father died, he snatched me out of the fields of Yorkshire and tossed me into the depths of London’s world of vice.” He gazed into the trees, but he saw an awesome figure to an impressionable lad. A god who had turned out to be more like the devil.

  “Gambling!” Sebastian muttered, with a humorless laugh. “I frequented the worst hells with him, but I was luckier than poor James. I won. Perhaps if I had not, I might have learned a lesson, but I took pridein my so-called skill. I made a fortune in those clubs, never blinking when others, some no older than myself, lost their wealth to me.”

  Sebastian paused, dredging up memories that he had thought long buried. “Like young Fitzpatrick, who went home afterward and put a bullet through his head.”

  The tale poured from him now, bits and pieces that he had never shared with a living soul, in a catharsis so strong that he could not stop. “And the brothels. My doting uncle took me to the best and worst of them, where women would do anything for money.

  “And I let them, taking them so carelessly that I felt no pleasure. I performed for others, boastful of my talents, until one morning I found myself…” He could not finish, did not want to sully her soul with the knowledge of what all he had been and done.

  “Yes, well, it is a wonder I never got the pox that struck down my uncle,” he said. “Otho was still in the early stages, of course, but he knew what was coming, and I think he courted death.”

  Sebastian did not blink as the explanation for that bizarre night leapt to the tip of his tongue for the first time in his life. “We had been drinking when he was killed. It was an accident, but he urged me on. He knew I was the better duelist. He knew,“ Sebastian repeated, his body taut at the memory.

  “It started as a game, as so much did with him, but he pushed me, nicking me, daring me, until it became real.” Sebastian lifted a finger to the scar under his eye, recalling all too clearly the way the blood had impaired his vision, made him lunge too forcefully in his own defense.

  “I think the old bastard wanted to die as flamboyantly as he lived, instead of succumbing to the ravages of his disease. And, of course, he did not give a damn what would become of me afterward. It probably suited his warped sense of humor to imagine his heir hanging for murder.”

  Sebastian smiled grimly. “That is what I’ve always thought, but who would believe me, if I told them?” He asked the question of the air, and was absorbed in his dark remembrances until he heard a soft voice respond.

  “I would.”

  He glanced at her finally, and there was no pity on her sober features, only that same clear-eyed gaze, intelligent, serious, practical. No horror. No disgust. Sebastian felt his insides twist in violent reaction to that unswerving regard, as if, after years of death, she had given him a new chance at life. And yet, reanimation would take effort. Did he have that strength? Would it be worth the cost?

  With a low oath, Sebastian broke the steady look that turned judgment over to him, because he did not want to take the responsibility for such a wasted existence.

  “You would believe anything,” he said, surging to his feet. “Do you understand nothing of what I have said? From whores, I moved to the demireps and the ladies of my own so-called social circle. Bored wives. Errant young debutantes, when I could tempt them. Just like the count, I have no conscience, Prudence!”

  “Nonsense,” she said, rising to walk toward him.

  “Nonsense?” He turned on her angrily. “Nonsense? How can you, an intelligent woman, look at me and listen to me, and blindly go on believing what you want?” Believing in me, of all people! Damn her! Damn her for making him view himself for the first time in years, for dredging up old aches and forcing him to feel them.

  “Do you know why I brought you here today?” he asked through clenched teeth. “To seduce you. To take your innocence and leave you with nothing!”

  She did not recoil in disgust, nor did she step back from his rage. She simply watched him with that clear gaze that seemed to touch the very core of him. “Then, why did you not?”

  “Because I am trying to save you, damn it!”

  “There, you see, my lord, you must have a conscience. You have just not listened to it as often as you should.”

  Sebastian was dazed, his normally numb emotions flickering to life with dizzying speed. He stared at Prudence, astonished by his own reactions. He wanted to fall at her feet and weep, or grab her and shake some sense into her. Most of all, he wanted her. Still.

>   “Wrong!” he shouted, turning on her. “I have no conscience!” As if to prove it, Sebastian pulled her to him, twisting his hand into her hair and forcing her mouth to his. Thrusting his tongue down her throat in imitation of a far more intimate act, he closed his other hand over her buttocks and pressed her into his erection. He squeezed her bottom roughly, in a base action that was designed to disgust her, yet only aroused him more.

  She did not fight him, but met him eagerly, as if she would take his violence and turn it into something fine. As if she could take him and turn him into something worthy of her. And he was sinking, going somewhere he had never been…

  Sebastian heard Morley’s loud voice in time, pushing Prudence from him just as the maid and his driver came into the clearing.

  “We heard shouting, my lord,” Morley explained in swift apology. He flicked a glance toward the girl, and then gave Sebastian a curious look that asked him why he had made so much noise. Ignoring the subtle reproach of his driver, Sebastian watched the maid rush toward Prudence.

  “Is everything all right, Miss?” Jane asked.

  “Naturally,” Prudence answered. Although her cheeks were flushed, her hat was askew and her hair was coming loose, she managed to regain her usual composure. “What could be amiss?”

  The maid eyed Sebastian fearfully in reply. Obviously, he had dropped in her estimation.

  Sebastian looked back to Prudence, who was smiling at him calmly, and realized that, just as obviously, he had not dropped in hers. Despite all his efforts, she appeared neither repulsed nor angry, and he did not trust himself to try to convince her further.

  Without another word, Sebastian assisted both Prudence and the distraught Jane into his coach. He took his seat opposite them, opened the curtains and stared out the window, hoping to discourage any dialogue.

  Although the silence continued, Sebastian could practically hear his uncle’s riotous guffaws echoing up from hell. And he could hardly fail to see the irony of the quandary in which he found himself.

  After all these years, his conscience had decided to make an appearance, only to be thwarted in its efforts. The one woman who had heard the worst about him from his own lips refused to believe it.

  Sebastian went straight to his club, thinking to take his mind off the afternoon’s debacle, but nothing seemed to dislodge Prudence from his thoughts. The discovery that the betting book mentioned her did not help. Wagers that he was the count had recently been recorded in abundance, but now, to his fury, there were bets that he would have the authoress in his bed within a month’s time.

  Normally, such speculation concerning his personal life left Sebastian only mildly interested. Although he had been known to drop a pursuit or redouble his efforts, depending on who placed the wager, usually he ignored them. This time, however, he felt an unreasoning rage at the reference that exposed Prudence to the scrutiny and snickers of the so called gentlemen of the club.

  Sebastian, who had been called a “cold, soulless devil” by more than one mistress, suddenly found himself overflowing with heated emotions. His eyes flicked to the name of the responsible party, one Henry Blakeman, and he wanted to kill the bastard. Only the acknowledged absurdity of his desire and the realization that, ultimately, he was responsible for dragging Prudence’s name through the dirt kept Sebastian from doing so.

  After all, he was the one who had so carelessly sought her out. She had been seen in his company more than once, which was enough to sully any lady’s reputation, and for once that certainty did not sit well with him.

  Although Sebastian was not a drunk, as were so many of his contemporaries, he found himself ordering a bottle, then another, to dull the alarming feelings that plagued him. Unfortunately, liquor never had much of an effect upon him, which probably had a lot to do with his gaming skills. Often, he had been the only one left with a clear head when the sun rose over some wretched hell.

  Then, Sebastian had been grateful for his immunity, but now he craved the sort of surcease that strong drink might bring him. It was only one more frustrating annoyance that his wits remained sharp, his senses still painfully alive. When, after finishing the second bottle, he finally began to feel a bit dazed, he ordered a third.

  He had just begun on it when Henry Blakeman walked into the room, proving that his riotous emotions had been only temporarily subdued. Like one possessed, Sebastian felt himself rise from his chair and head toward the newcomer.

  The crowd hushed and parted, exhibiting more than its usual apprehension, as Sebastian approached his quarry. Apparently, his normally expressionless features were revealing some of his murderous thoughts, but Sebastian did not care, nor did he react to any of the murmurs circling around him as he strode slowly across the floor.

  Blakeman, who had come in with Lord Raleigh, stopped dead still, eyeing Sebastian warily. “Sebastian,” he said, in a squeaky voice that betrayed his dismay.

  “Blakeman.” Sebastian acknowledged him with a barely perceptible nod. “I don’t care for your wager.”

  “Uh, really? Which one?” Blakeman asked nervously.

  Sebastian did not answer directly, but pinned Blakeman with a gaze that made him squirm like a fish on a hook. “In the future, please refrain from discussing the lady in question.” Sebastian paused significantly. “Or I will be forced to call you out.”

  There was an audible gasp from the onlookers. Everyone there knew his reputation; everyone there thought he had killed his own uncle. None would care to test his skill with foil or pistol.

  “Now, now, Sebastian, no need for that. No need at all,” Blakeman sputtered, paling visibly. “’Course, I understand your position…as a gentleman. You can depend upon me, rest assured.”

  “Good,” Sebastian said curtly. He turned, and so did the crowd, none wanting to catch his attention, none daring to court the displeasure of the Devil Earl. Except Raleigh. Raleigh, who had befriended an odd assortment of misfits, including Sebastian, stood nearby, staring at him strangely.

  Despite his sometimes ridiculous mannerisms, Raleigh was a perceptive man and Sebastian felt uncomfortable under that knowing gaze. Tonight, his newly acquired feelings were running too close to the surface to avoid detection by the viscount, and he had no intention of sharing things that he did not understand himself.

  “Sebastian, are you drinking?” Raleigh said with some surprise. “Lord, I could use a bottle myself. Join me, will you?”

  “Not this evening,” Sebastian said, brushing away the offer and Raleigh’s interested look. He was both weary and wound tighter than a watch spring, if the combination was possible, and needed to move, to walk off whatever was dogging him. In the back of his mind was the desperate hope that it might go away, leaving him to his soulless, heartless existence.

  The thought made him pause. By God, he was becoming maudlin.

  Uttering a curt goodbye to a bemused Raleigh, Sebastian strode home, heedless of the footpads who might lie in wait for a man of his obvious means. Perhaps an all-out brawl would cleanse him of this feverish sense of…being. The criminal element let him be, however, perhaps frightened off by his demeanor, and he arrived home unaccosted.

  Pausing in the street before his dwelling, Sebastian felt at a loss, but did not know where else to go. The town house he had inherited from his uncle looked as empty as his life, without even the thought of James to sustain him. Swiveling on his heel, Sebastian went in the servants’ entrance, startling the kitchen staff, but saying nothing. At least the smells of baking bread and cooking food gave warmth to this part of his residence.

  It was still early, and he found his steward lingering over papers in the servants’ wing. Standing in the doorway, Sebastian looked around and realized how very little he knew about any member of his household. At that moment, Martin lifted his head, starting visibly at the sight of his employer.

  “My lord!” Martin said, rising to his feet. Then, with one finger, he slid his spectacles back upon his nose in a gesture that seemed to sl
ice right through Sebastian’s ravaged senses. The earl considered firing his steward on the spot. Instead, he schooled his features to grim detachment.

  “I have changed my mind about going to Wolfinger,” Sebastian said. “Inform the staff that the house need not be opened.”

  “Yes, my lord,” Martin said. He sent Sebastian one curious glance before looking down at his desk.

  Where once Sebastian would have felt nothing, now he knew a tiny prick of guilt for glowering at his steward. Ridiculous! he told himself. But he made an effort to speak more evenly. “Did you talk to the Bow Street Runner?” he asked.

  “Yes, my lord,” Martin replied, lifting his head again. “He said he had already made inquiries along the coast, with no luck, but he was willing to try again. And to send letters to his contacts in the West Indies.”

  Martin appeared apologetic, and Sebastian thought he saw a glimmer of something else that looked suspiciously like pity. By God, he would be an object of hatred, of fear, of revulsion, even, but he refused to be pitiable!

  “Good evening, Martin,” Sebastian said curtly. He turned to go, then leaned a hand against the jamb of the door, hesitating. A question nagged at him, refusing to be ignored, and finally he surrendered to it. He swiveled back to face his steward. “Why do you wear glasses?” he asked.

  “Why? Why, I need them for reading, my lord,” Martin answered.

  “And no other time?”

  “No, not really, although I often forget to remove them when I am finished with my close work,” Martin said, attempting a smile. Just like Prudence, Sebastian thought. Once he took off her spectacles, she had not needed them for the rest of the afternoon. Of course, it was a mistake to think of her, because that fateful interlude all came back too vividly.

  Despite the drink and the walk and the distractions, the memory of Prudence—melting in his arms, staring at him with her guileless, serious gaze and listening quietly as he spilled out his life—returned with astonishing impact. Only the sound of Martin talking on, oblivious of his inattention, saved him from being consumed by his own thoughts.