An hour later, Lettice and Lord Hadrian set out, accompanied by a footman. The chilly grey weather contrasted with Hadrian’s blindingly cheerful mood, surprising since he had just come from an interview with his father.
“What did Lord Staves say to you?” asked Lettice, accepting his proffered arm. They walked around the stables to a path that skirted the Home Wood.
“First that I was going too far in my attempts to warm you up—which seemed awfully unfair to me, since you’ve been doing most of the warming.”
Did he mean the dreams? Surely not; how could he know about her bizarre ability?
“Although not at breakfast this morning,” he said. “Alas.”
“Much as I enjoy annoying Lord Staves, I couldn’t bear to flirt with your mother watching.”
The corner of his mouth quirked up. “My father is terrified that I have fallen under your spell.”
Was there a deeper meaning behind his use of the word spell? “What nonsense.”
“Not at all,” he said. “You’re a beautiful woman with unusual, even uncanny seductive power, so why wouldn’t I?”
“Because you have far too much commonsense.” Should she read anything into his choice of the word uncanny?
“Usually Father complains about my lack of susceptibility,” Hadrian went on, “but now that I have shown myself to be as weak as the next man, he fears I shall do something rash that harms the pristine reputation of Staves.” With a flick of the chin he indicated the footman, who followed at a respectful distance. “Hence the minder.”
“You’re not as weak as the next man.” He raised his brows at her, and she blurted, “Please don’t be.”
“Why not? I should rather like to succumb–lock, stock and barrel.”
“Oh, dear,” Lettice said. “Please don’t do any succumbing. It—it will only lead to disappointment.”
“For whom? You couldn’t possibly disappoint me.”
“Please don’t jest, Lord Hadrian.” She glanced over her shoulder, but the footman plodded slowly along well behind them. “Any liaison between us would be…disastrous.”
“I’m not jesting,” he said, “but you needn’t worry. I shan’t do anything rash.”
Sooner or later, he would do something rash; every man who showed interest in her did. She would have to repulse him as she had the others—but oh, she wished she were a different woman without a past. Although if that were the case, he would feel obliged to marry her, which had certainly never crossed his mind.
She wished she hadn’t let her thoughts stray in the direction of marriage, because now it was crossing her mind. She mustn’t let herself entertain such a foolish dream… She scarcely knew Lord Hadrian. Not only that, he was utterly dependent upon his father. Most important of all, no gentleman, especially not a son of the Marquis of Staves, would see her as anything but a prospective mistress.
They meandered along the path to the border of a meadow, but there were no herbs to gather, and they both knew it. “This is a waste of time,” she said.
“Nonsense,” Hadrian said. “Walking is healthy exercise, and I wish to tell you what I discovered after you left me last night.”
~ * ~
Hadrian watched with a mixture of satisfaction and dismay as Lettice paled. She didn’t relish his infatuation, but his curiosity affected her far more.
“Can you not leave well enough alone?” she cried, turning on her heel and heading toward the house.
“I don’t want to,” he said, “but yes, I suppose I can.” More or less. He need not upset her; he thought he already knew her great secret, but he could put any questions to Val, who wouldn’t fail him. But by then Lettice would have left Staves, and in London she might try to avoid him. She wouldn’t succeed, but…
What was he thinking? He never pursued an unwilling woman. He’d never wanted to and didn’t think much of men who did. And yet, the prospect of losing her became more unendurable by the minute. He had no choice but to persevere.
In silence they passed the footman, who stolidly took up the rear again.
“But wouldn’t you like to know what I found last night?” he asked.
After a pause, she sighed. “Very well.”
“I unearthed a letter which I believe was written by Sir Walter Raleigh to an ancestress of mine,” he said. “You are his descendant, are you not?”
“Not directly,” she said, “but it’s the same family.” She hurried along, head held high, and didn’t ask what the letter was about.
Usually one would, he thought; it was only human to feel an interest in one’s ancestors—unless one didn’t want a nosy man to make certain connections between present and past. “Quite the ladies’ man, wasn’t Sir Walter?”
“I wouldn’t know,” Lettice said.
“Good Queen Bess was certainly enamored of him,” said Hadrian. “She sent him to the Tower when he married without her permission.”
“She was enamored of many men,” Lettice said with a dismissive flick of the chin.
“I read the letter as a boy, but I didn’t understand much of it at the time,” Hadrian said. “It was signed with a symbol that reminded me of the one at the bottom of your letter. I believe it’s meant to be an erect penis penetrating a flower, whilst your symbol represents a penis on a leading string.” He couldn’t help but grin. “Very appropriate.”
She glowered at him. “What makes you think it was written by Sir Walter, if it was signed with only a symbol?”
“Because I recognized his handwriting,” Hadrian said. “He carried on a substantial correspondence with the Lady Staves of the time, mostly to do with poetry—but not always, since the letter in question answers a request for advice.” He paused, watching her narrowly. “About how to reject the persistent advances of an unwelcome lover.”
She flinched—ever so slightly, but he caught it.
“A lover who, as Sir Walter phrased it, ‘hath served his purpose’.”
No reaction; she had controlled herself now.
“I couldn’t find any other such letter, nor alas, anything with your symbol,” he said.
She opened her mouth as if to speak, then shut it again.
“My ancestress was an unusual woman,” he said. “I have read much of her poetry, and she seems to avoid the subject of love.”
“It’s not the only interesting subject in the world,” Lettice said pettishly.
“No? Perhaps one of the most interesting, though.”
She hunched an indifferent shoulder.
“Doesn’t it seem strange to you that she asked a man for advice on such an intimate matter?”
“Perhaps they knew each other well. Perhaps they had been lovers. How should I know?”
“My other find was even more interesting,” he said. “It was at the bottom of a tin box with a number of that same ancestress’s keepsakes.”
She didn’t show the slightest interest—and yet the tension emanating from her told him she was dying to know.
“It was a scrap of paper with several sketches of phalluses on it. It reminded me of the sort of thing my sisters did when they had a tendre for some man or other—practicing the look of their Christian name with his surname or title. Perhaps my ancestress was practicing a rather unusual signature of her own. Some phalluses were wrapped in chains, some in shackles, two on leading strings like your symbol.”
“It’s not my symbol!” she cried.
“I beg your pardon–that of your correspondent. How do you sign your letters?”
“With my name,” she shot back. “Did you spend all night satisfying your annoying curiosity?”
“Most of it,” he said. “Except when I fell asleep at my desk and woke from a rather distracting—and highly unsatisfying—dream.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
At last they reached the house. The footman hurried ahead to open the door. Lettice marched inside without another word.
She’d had enough of Lord Hadrian’s poking and prodding and d
ownright taunting. If he knew what she was, why didn’t he just leave her alone? He should be appalled and disgusted, and yet his curiosity seemed to grow more rampant by the minute. She would leave immediately if she weren’t obliged to wait for the inconvenient Mr. Pilgrim to arrive.
Fortunately, he came that very evening and was ushered into the drawing room, where everyone had gathered for tea. In spite of his disguise—plain, serviceable clothing, spectacles, and a substantial (and certainly false) beard—she recognized him straightaway. She had an advantage in that there were only so many English incubi to choose from. No one else recognized him, although he was a well-known figure in London society.
He was also an excellent actor. He assumed the mantle of the consummate sycophant, treating Lord Staves almost as one would a king. He bowed low, stammering about his lordship’s kindness and his own unworthiness until Lettice had to bite her own hand to keep from laughing out loud. If Lord Staves discovered Mr. Pilgrim’s true identity… Good God, the scene was unimaginable.
If Lord Hadrian realized Pilgrim’s identity, it might cause him to lose interest in Lettice. Perhaps he already had. He had left her alone the rest of the day.
“What a magnificent toadeater,” Lord Hadrian said in her ear.
She started; he had sneaked up behind her. She said nothing, as it seemed the safest approach. If she could keep her mouth shut, she might not say anything she shouldn’t.
“He plays the lickspittle astonishingly well,” Lord Hadrian went on.
This was true, but she wished with all her heart that the ever-curious Lord Hadrian didn’t know that Mr. Pilgrim was an imposter.
“I’m sure I’ve met him before,” Lord Hadrian said. With an air of pondering, he whispered, “Who can he be?”
“Stop it!” she hissed, but she knew he wouldn’t.
Hard on Mr. Pilgrim’s heels, the second guest arrived, a middle-aged man with a penetrating voice and a bulbous nose.
“Tatlow, old fellow,” Lord Staves said, greeting him with a handshake and a clap on the shoulder. “So glad you could get here a couple of days early.”
“Damn him,” Lord Hadrian snarled under his breath. In a very few minutes Lettice knew why. Mr. Tatlow had a roving eye. He had been invited to come ahead of the rest for a very specific reason. With a glance and a grin at Lord Staves, he descended on Lettice.
“I’ve heard of you, Miss Raleigh.” He leered. “At last we meet! I can’t believe my luck.”
“Luck?” muttered Lord Hadrian. “I don’t think so.”
“You young fellows don’t know good fortune when you see it,” Mr. Tatlow said. “Lord Staves tells me Miss Raleigh has been here for a while, and you’ve neglected her. We older men have a feel for a situation, don’t we?”
Inspiration visited Lettice, and reluctantly she gave in to it. Lord Staves, the horrid plotter, would be disappointed. She could handle this sort of fool without the slightest trouble and drive Lord Hadrian away at the same time.
“Older men have a feel for many things,” she cooed. She sensed Lord Hadrian’s reaction next to her. She felt his dismay and mourned the loss of his regard—but what choice did she have? Perhaps seeing a succubus in action would revolt him. She had to fob him off in whichever way presented itself.
The rest of the evening was pure torment, like being back in the espionage game, encouraging the advances of a man she found revolting. Lord Hadrian pointedly ignored her and left the drawing room before anyone else. She encouraged Mr. Tatlow to drink too much brandy in the hope that he would be incapable before he had a chance to accost her.
She kept her eye open for a signal from Mr. Pilgrim, but he spent the evening on the sofa with his hostess, drinking tea and discussing the latest fashions in furniture.
Eventually Mr. Tatlow became somnolent, just as she’d hoped. She signaled to Mr. Pilgrim, thankful in one regard that Lord Hadrian had gone. He was so perceptive that he might even notice a secret signal, which would never do. She went up to bed, dismissed the maid as soon as possible, left her bedchamber door unlocked, and waited for Mr. Pilgrim to arrive.
Soon he sidled in. “There is a jealous fellow,” he said, “watching only a few feet down the passage.”
“That horrid Mr. Tatlow? I thought he would be in a drunken stupor by now.”
“Not Tatlow. Lord Hadrian.”
A flush rose and spread across her entire being. How absurd. “He’s not jealous. He’s nosy.” Dismay swamped her. Now Hadrian would believe her a wanton for certain—and what a foolish thought, as he already had every reason to believe that.
“If you say so,” Mr. Pilgrim said, locking the door behind him.
She thrust thoughts of Lord Hadrian away. She had chosen the best course and would stick to it. “Colwyn, he knows you’re an imposter.” What a relief to speak to someone she knew, someone with whom she was safe.
Sir Colwyn North took off his spectacles and smiled ruefully through the false beard. “That was obvious when he so blithely brought up Whiffy Bainbridge and his execrable father. I must say, he surprised me. He’s not a bad fellow, but he doesn’t approve of my sort.”
Meaning scoundrels and rakes. “He doesn’t know who you are, at least not yet. He is the most inquisitive man I have ever met. He’s even worse than my Aunt Lydia, and she was known as the worst Prying Jennie in the entire beau monde.”
“Dear me.” Colwyn chuckled.
“It’s not funny,” Lettice said. “It’s my fault, I admit; I forgot to destroy a letter from the Mistress of the Succubi. He saw it–he was snooping in my desk–and the symbol reminded him of something he’d seen in the archives years ago. What must he do but stay up all night digging through correspondence until he found symbols pertaining to both incubi and succubi.”
He shrugged. “The tendency runs in families, and we know that’s so of his.”
“There was a letter from Sir Walter Raleigh to the Lady Staves of the time—how fascinating to know that he was an incubus, by the way. As if that wasn’t bad enough, he found a scrap of paper on which Lady Staves experimented with phallic signatures of her own.”
Colwyn grinned. “Presented with such evidence, Lord Hadrian couldn’t fail to make connections.”
“I think he knows Val is an incubus. He made a couple of very pointed remarks about dreams.”
“And you believe he suspects you of having similar abilities.”
“I know he does,” she said. “I sent him some erotic dreams, but it was to distract him from prying, not to encourage it.”
“He’s not much interested in women,” Colwyn said, “but you must have had some effect, judging by the black look he gave me in the passageway.”
Much as she wished she could dwell on the topic of Lord Hadrian, it was her turn to shrug. “He’s a stickler for propriety, but that’s irrelevant just now. Such documents are supposed to be destroyed. I feel it to be my duty to do so, but I would have to stay up all night to search for them, and chances are he would find me. Anyway, he seems to treasure old documents, so I…I don’t know what to do.”
He cocked his head to one side, watching her. “Those letters were written at least two hundred years ago. Nobody will care.”
She frowned. “What if there are other, more recent ones?”
“They’re not your responsibility, Lettice, nor mine.”
“I thought maybe that was why you were sent here—to destroy that and any others you might find.” She paused, suddenly unnerved. “Why, then? Is—oh, good heavens, is Lord Staves a traitor?”
“Not that I know of,” he said. “A pity, since it would give me great pleasure to do away with him and set his oppressed family free. I should think you must feel the same after weeks in his house.”
She flapped an irritated hand. “He’s an idiotic old bore, and I want to go home to London. I would have left by now if the mistress hadn’t written asking me to assist you. What do you wish me to do?”
“She asked you to assist me?”
“How fascinating,” Colwyn said. “The master asked me to assist you.”
“With what?”
“He didn’t specify,” Colwyn said. “Maybe by getting the documents off your overly-strict conscience. You were always far too inclined to obey the rules.”
She couldn’t deny that. “He wouldn’t send you here for something so trivial. What is your true mission?”
“It’s a pity you asked,” he said, “because I can’t tell you.”
“How can I possibly be of assistance, if I don’t know what you’re planning to do?”
“If I told you, you might refuse to help me,” he said. “In fact, I’m certain you would.”
She frowned. She stood and paced. “Do you mean to—to harm someone?” She hated the violent aspects of espionage.
Colwyn grimaced. “Not if I can avoid it.”
She whirled, fists curled. “It’s not Lord Hadrian, is it?”
“Why would I harm him? I quite like him—and so, I gather, do you.”
Misery overwhelmed her. She slumped.
“I see,” Colwyn said softly. “At last, your gentle heart has been touched by a man, and you have no idea what to do about it.”
“I can do nothing about it,” she said, “except leave.”
~ * ~
After leaving the others, Hadrian went to the muniment room to study a plan of the secret passages with which Staves Court was riddled. He and his brothers had played in them as children, and he was sure there was still access to one behind Lettice’s chamber.
He knew with certainty that his father meant to leave nothing to chance. Lettice Raleigh could easily fend off Mr. Tatlow when in company with a number of other people. When he entered her bedchamber at night and accosted her, she wouldn’t find it quite so easy.
Whether or not Tatlow would be permitted to rape her—Hadrian had no idea what bargain his father had struck with the old lecher–she would be discovered in a compromising situation and summarily sent away. Salacious gossip would be spread far and wide and her utter ruin secured.
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