She turned her head to stare off across the room. “And are you…very eager to return to the sea?”
He couldn’t mistake the hitch in her voice. She was certainly a Woman with Expectations. And what was he to tell her now that he’d ruined her? She had a right to her Expectations, after all. He might not be a gentleman, but he’d never been a cad.
“I’m eager to return to commanding a ship, that’s all. It’s been a few years now. The navy has been a bit perturbed with me, you see, because I…er…got into that sticky business with the pirates, and although I was cleared of blame—”
“Lord Ravenswood told me about that. And even if he hadn’t, I knew a lot about it from Lord Winthrop.”
“Don’t believe a word Winthrop says.” Morgan scowled. “I had naught to do with his being robbed. I was merely a sailor on the Pirate Lord’s ship, earning my way back to England. I didn’t receive a shilling of the prize money, yet Winthrop acts as if I masterminded the entire attack.”
She surprised him by laughing, then running a caressing hand down his thigh. “Yes, well, Lord Winthrop is a rather unpleasant man.”
“So I gather.” He paused, then added in as light a tone as he could manage, “He has his eye on you, it appears.”
With a teasing smile, she rubbed her foot along his calf. “Are you jealous of Lord Winthrop?”
He wished she would stop touching him so temptingly. It was rousing him where it shouldn’t, and she probably didn’t even realize it. “That arse? Certainly not.”
“You ought to be. My aunt is determined to see a match made between me and Lord Winthrop. She thinks the earl would make me the perfect husband.”
When she innocently laid her hand near his already burgeoning erection, he sucked in a breath. “And what do you think?”
“I think that if I married him, I would either die of tedium or brain him with a poker within the week. The last man on earth I shall ever marry is Lord Boring. He possesses none of the qualities I desire in a man.”
“Oh?” he eked out as her hand inched in an unmistakable direction. “And what qualities might those be?”
“A quick brain. A good heart. A generous temper.” She caught his now rampant erection in her hand. “And a very sturdy instrument.”
She knew exactly what she was doing, the little witch! With a growl, he rolled her beneath him. Staring down into her laughing face, he rubbed his hard length against her soft nest of hair. “Don’t tease me, angel, unless you’re prepared to face the consequences.”
She smiled impishly, then entwined her arms about his neck and pulled him down to her. “Don’t tease me, sir, unless you’re prepared to face the same.”
He didn’t even attempt to fight her. Not when her concern for him made him desire her again with a fierceness bordering on pain. He wanted to lose himself in her warmth, bury his past in her soothing smile, find peace in her embrace. He didn’t know what god had sent him such an angel, but he was devil enough not to resist when heaven was handed to him.
Much later, when they’d finished a second soul-searing consummation and Clara lay asleep, he slid quietly from the bed and reached for his drawers. But before he could put them on, he spotted the blood smearing his thighs. It startled him. For a second, he thought his wound had started bleeding again.
Then he realized what it was. Clara’s blood. Her virgin’s blood.
Self-disgust roiled in his belly at the sight. Moving quietly so as not to disturb her peaceful sleep, he found a stray towel and washed the crimson stain from his loins.
He wished he could wash it from his conscience as well, but that was impossible. How could he have deflowered a woman he admired so much? He’d stolen from her what most people of her station prized, and without offering so much as a promise of marriage.
Such a promise must be given now, no matter what difficulties it presented. He’d often ignored his uncle’s teachings about gentlemanly behavior, but one stricture he’d always abided by: no man worth his salt took advantage of a woman.
If he did—as Morgan in a moment of weakness had taken advantage of Clara’s sensual nature—then he paid the consequences. Very well, Morgan would marry her. He refused to be like his mother’s lovers, satisfying his own needs at the expense of a woman’s reputation and future. Whatever it cost him, he would make it right.
And if she refused his suit? Morgan eyed her thoughtfully as he drew on his drawers. From what he’d heard, she’d never sought a husband.
But then she’d never bedded any man either. No, she was too sensible not to accept his suit. Women like her didn’t take lovers, and if they did let themselves be seduced, they prayed that their seducers would marry them.
So Morgan would marry her, even if the thought scared him witless. Marriage to Clara…oh, God. She would try to make him into a replica of Ravenswood and his brother, a gentleman in truth instead of in name. She would meddle in his affairs, expect him to come to heel, want him to behave as his station demanded.
And care about him, fuss over him, cradle him in her welcoming arms.
That was worst of all. Because he craved that too damned much, and craving something was the surest way to lose it. It was safer not to yearn—he knew that in his head. Yet he still hadn’t driven the yearning from his heart.
It was this cursed Spitalfields, where the yearning was amplified in every person around him. It hung in the air like fog, seeped into house and tavern. It drove boys to steal, women to sell their bodies, men to drink. And it drove him to desire things he’d given up on long ago. Love. Children. Happiness.
He had none of that at sea. He didn’t want it or miss it there. Once buried in the routine of ship life, breathing air that smelled of naught but salt and fish, he could function like a cog in a wheel. Something always needed doing on a ship. Battles must be fought, ports explored, maneuvers attempted. He could forget for months at a time all the things he craved so badly.
All the things Clara made him crave again. That’s why he must marry her and return to sea before she found out what he really was and turned from him in disgust. Before he was lulled into thinking his cravings might finally be satisfied.
Yes, he could handle that sort of distant marriage. She could live here and take care of her beloved Home, and he would see her between his sails to Africa and Gibraltar and wherever duty took him.
So why did that prospect seem suddenly so unappealing? Casting her a quick glance, he sighed and moved toward the front shop. He had to get some air. He needed to make plans that didn’t involve holding her close every night for the rest of his life, and he couldn’t do that with her lying there so sweetly sleeping, making his blood thunder in his chest and his throat draw tight with longing.
He started for the front room of the shop, then halted to grab his knife as an afterthought. Sliding it inside the waistband of his drawers at the small of his back, he left the back room and closed the door behind him. He felt his way to the side door and found the candle he usually kept there, the one he should have looked for when they’d first come in. Lighting it, he walked to the front and set it on the counter.
As he stood in the shadows near the window, he started out at the nearly deserted street. A glance at the clock said it was 3 A.M. Soon he’d have to wake her. No matter what she said, he refused to have her leave his shop in broad daylight when anybody might see. If she covered her head and face, he could easily sneak her into a waiting hack tonight, and she could go home.
Home, away from him. And she’d have to stay away from him for as long as his investigation continued. Unfortunately, it might be months before this mess was settled, and that presented another problem. What if after tonight she found herself with child? What then?
The thought of Clara carrying his babe filled him with a yearning so intense it terrified him. Bon Dieu, but he should never have gone so far with her. He should have kept his damned prick in his breeches.
A knock at the side door broke into his thoughts. He tense
d. It must be the Specter, which meant it was time to return to business. Checking to be sure the door to the back room was firmly closed, he strode to the side door and opened it.
The hooded figure who stood in the alley a few feet away bore little resemblance to the one Clara had described. For one thing, there was no hint of a face beneath the deep hood, not a single flash of the pale, clean-shaven chin Clara had spoken of.
Despite himself, Morgan felt a chill skitter along his skin. Of course the man had a face—he was no supernatural being. Yet it was strange how he could hide it so entirely beneath that hood of his. Morgan had the unsettling impression that if he jerked the hood back, there would be nothing underneath.
He shook off the ridiculous thought. Leaning against the doorway, he said, “You’re here for your answer, I suppose.”
“Come outside, Captain Pryce,” the Specter rasped, his voice disguised as before. “We wouldn’t want you to disturb your lady friend. And we certainly wouldn’t want her to overhear our discussion.”
Alarm knotted in his gut. The Specter knew Clara was here? Ah, but perhaps he thought his “lady friend” was merely a tart. “What lady friend do you mean?”
“Don’t play dumb. Did you think I missed that ridiculous confrontation earlier? The impostor trying to frighten Lady Clara? Your springing to her rescue so gallantly?”
The arse knew it was Clara, damn him. She’d been right—the Specter had been watching all along.
Morgan walked out into the alley, ignoring the dirt beneath his bare feet, the brisk air stippling his skin with goose bumps. Closing the door behind him, he thanked God he’d thought to don his knife. It gave him a distinct advantage, since the Specter probably thought him unarmed. Otherwise the man would never venture close enough to risk Morgan’s killing him. Not that Morgan was ready for that yet.
Morgan turned to his enemy and said noncommittally, “So I have a woman here. What of it?”
“Not just any woman. I must say I’m impressed. I expected you to be talented with the ladies, but this is talent beyond measure—to seduce the moral and lofty Lady Clara.”
Morgan tensed, even though he knew that the door to the windowless back room had been closed the whole time and it was impossible that the Specter could have known what they’d done. “What makes you think Lady Clara would relinquish her virtue to a man like me?”
“I’m no fool. It’s 3 A.M., you’re wearing only drawers, and the lady has been here two hours at least. Can you blame me for drawing the obvious conclusion?”
Morgan scrambled to think of a response that wouldn’t ruin Clara, his investigation, or both. “This particular lady had become a nuisance, so I silenced her the best way I know how, short of murdering her and drawing unwanted attention to myself.” When he realized this might provide him with the chance to determine the Specter’s connection to the police offices, he added, “Did you know the wench actually reported me to the magistrate?”
“I’ve heard of the trouble she’s made for you. She hasn’t exactly been discreet in her disapproval.”
And the Specter’s words hadn’t exactly revealed anything, curse his hide. The man was too crafty for such a blatant ploy.
The Specter went on in a deceptively casual voice. “So you seduced her to gain her silence, did you?”
Morgan shrugged. “What else could I do? She was making too much trouble.”
“Indeed. Though I’m surprised you could coax her into your bed. Considering that she wants to save the very pickpockets you’d like to recruit, I can’t imagine how you convinced her to overcome her personal objections to your profession.” The suspicion in the Specter’s voice was unmistakable.
Morgan knew he treaded dangerous ground, but he saw no other way out. “I didn’t even attempt to overcome her objections—as you say, she’s too moral a lady to overlook my sins. Instead I persuaded her that her information about me and my sins was wrong.”
“Oh? How did you manage that?”
“For one thing, I pointed out that I hadn’t had Johnny pinch one item for me since he began his stay here.”
“Yes, I know. I’d wondered about that.”
Damn. The man had eyes everywhere. “Surely you didn’t think I’d be that foolish. How did I know the boy wasn’t Lady Clara’s spy, planted in my shop to catch me in the act so she could persuade the magistrate to have me arrested?”
“Good point. And very clever of you to think of it. Though if you didn’t want him to steal for you, why did you take him in?”
The man sounded less suspicious now. Sensing he was gaining the advantage, Morgan pressed on. “Her ladyship’s charges are her weakness, you know. I can afford to be kind to Johnny if it gains me her help in the end.”
“Her help?”
“All those pickpockets, of course. She has an entire houseful of willing little thieves only waiting to be tapped. Just think of what I can accomplish with them under my charge. And the authorities wouldn’t touch her, since they think her a moral sort, so I wouldn’t even have to worry about their interference. A tidy setup indeed. I’m surprised you haven’t attempted it yourself. Or at least worked to woo her children to your side.”
“I’ve considered it. But I don’t like to draw attention to my activities by public scraps with a well-known lady philanthropist, so I left well enough alone, thinking she would do the same. Which she has.” He shrugged. “But then I didn’t realize that seduction would work on Lady Clara, or I might have attempted more.”
Though the idea of the Specter seeking to seduce Clara nauseated him, Morgan forced himself to continue the loathsome conversation. The villain would only let his guard down if he felt comfortable with Morgan. And if he thought Morgan was as vicious, sly, and unscrupulous as he.
“You know these moral sorts,” Morgan said casually, “all prim and proper on the outside, but secretly burning for a man on the inside. Once I gained her interest, I was able to persuade her of whatever I liked. A lusting woman would rather believe a lie—no matter how far-fetched—than admit that her desires have overwhelmed her good sense. I only gave Lady Clara what she wanted by telling her what she needed to hear.”
Morgan held his breath, praying that the Specter was cynical enough about women to believe the tale. When the Specter chuckled, Morgan nearly slumped in relief. He’d passed the test.
“You’re more devious than even I gave you credit for, Captain Pryce. Though if she turns moral again—”
“She won’t.” Morgan tucked his thumbs inside his drawers suggestively. “I know how to keep a woman happy. But if she should have temporary moments of rationality, I can use blackmail to squelch them. After all, how long do you think her Home would last if a scandal about her criminal lover erupted?”
A low whistle escaped the Specter’s lips. “God help the poor woman once you have her entirely under your thumb. You’re certainly going about it the right way. To control a woman, one must tread carefully, lulling her natural fears, taking one’s time in building her gilded cage around her until she doesn’t even see the bars.”
“Exactly,” Morgan answered, though the Specter’s callous assessment of womankind unsettled him. “And once I have the bars around her cage, I’ll have her pickpockets out of theirs.”
The Specter gave a brief bow. “Very good, Captain Pryce. You’re clearly a man after my own heart.” Then he stepped suddenly nearer. “The question is, are you a man after my business as well?”
Morgan chuckled. “Don’t tell me I’ve got the great Specter worried.”
“Not at all.” A knife flashed suddenly in the Specter’s hand. “You’re the one who stepped into the alley unarmed.”
Morgan drew his own blade before the man could even blink. “And you’re the one underestimating me. I never go anywhere unarmed.”
The Specter’s sharp intake of breath showed that Morgan had taken him by surprise. Good.
“Is this your answer?” the Specter snapped. “Has your triumph with Lady Clara
made you foolish enough to think you can take me on as well?”
“Not at all. But I don’t like being threatened.”
“Very well.” The Specter’s knife vanished into his vast cloak as quickly as it had appeared. “Then I shall not threaten you. Yet.”
“And I shall not take you on. Yet.” Morgan slid his own blade back inside his waistband. “Now that we understand each other, I have a proposition for you.”
“I’ve already given you the terms of our agreement. Take them or leave them.”
“Not so fast. You’ll want to hear this. You see, I’ve asked around about you—”
“I know.”
“—and I’ve learned that while you have adequate sources for your stolen bank notes on the Continent, you have to rely on the mails to get them out of England. You risk theft and exposure every time you send a packet through the mails. Not to mention that it probably costs you an average of a shilling out of every pound to mail them.”
The Specter crossed his arms over his chest. “There are costs and risks in every endeavor.”
“Yes, but I can eliminate both for you.”
“How?”
“As you know, I have a connection with a very successful band of smugglers. I don’t have to bother with mailing stolen notes—I simply use the notes to purchase the smuggled tobacco I sell in my shop for good coin. The smugglers pay for the tobacco in France with my notes, and they circulate there very successfully. Everyone is happy.”
“Go on.”
“Moving your notes in that manner as well would be no hardship for me.”
“Yes, but why would you do me such a service?”
“I want the police off my back. You say you have connections there. Very well—you grease those palms and I’ll grease the path of your notes out of the country.”
Jack Seward, the notorious smuggler, owed Morgan a favor after the man’s part in seeing Morgan marooned four years ago. Morgan had already spoken with Seward. For a promise that Jack could continue his brandy and tobacco smuggling unopposed, the man was more than willing to cooperate in setting the trap for a murderer.
Dance of Seduction Page 25