The Viscount's Seduction: A Regency Romance (Sons of the Spy Lord Book 2)

by Alina K. Field

  The Viscount’s Seduction

  Book Two, Sons of the Spy Lord

  Alina K. Field

  Havenlock Press

  Contents

  Title Page

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Epilogue

  A Note from the Author

  Also by Alina K. Field

  The Viscount’s Seduction

  Book Two, Sons of the Spy Lord

  By Alina K. Field

  Searching for the Truth

  Lady Sirena Hollister has lost her family, her home, and even her fey abilities, but somehow the fairies have handed her an unexpected chance at a Season in London. From her place on the fringes of high society, she resolves to find the truth about her only brother’s vanishing, and settle her family’s score with the wily English Spy Lord, the Earl of Shaldon. Soon enough, her schemes stir up an unknown enemy…and spark danger of a different sort, in the person of the Earl’s handsome heir, Viscount Bakeley.

  Seducing the Beauty

  The impertinent hoyden Bakeley met years earlier was as wild as her Irish roots, and just as unlucky. And she’s still an Irish traitor’s sister! But Lady Sirena has grown into a beauty whose charm and courage intrigue him. When danger threatens, Bakeley comes to her rescue, risking scandal, the ton’s disapproval, his interfering father’s ire…and his own heart.

  To all you believers in romance and magic

  And to Maddox James, who arrived just in time for this book’s dedication!

  Chapter 1

  County Donegal, Ireland, 1809

  The whisk-whisk of the curry comb always soothed a girl’s jitters. With Papa on edge, and Mama in one of her sinking spells, the great beasts were the only creatures Sirena Hollister could rely on.

  Last night, Mama said there’d be bad news coming.

  “Ye’ve about taken all the hair off her.” Old Patrick came up alongside and rested a hand on the horse’s swollen belly. “It’ll be soon for this foaling. Mayhap today. Nipped you yet, has she, fiddling about with that comb?”

  “Nay, and you know they never nip me,” Sirena said.

  She had the touch, Jamie had always told her.

  Old Patrick chuckled. “Fey girl.”

  Like Gram, Mama had the sight to know what was what with the people she loved, and Sirena could whisper a horse off the worst sort of snit. Any horse.

  Pity she hadn’t that skill with her papa.

  One of the dogs bayed, and old Patrick’s gaze swung to the open stable doors.

  A rider was coming. Around them, hooves began tapping and the mare’s nostrils flared.

  The bad news was arriving.

  Sirena eased in a quelling breath and let it flow out over the mare, fixing her gaze on the rolling eyes. “Shush then,” she whispered. “There now. There’s a good mama.”

  She followed the gimping Patrick past stalls humming with the sense of a predator, the great beasts drawing the life from inside her, emptying her.

  Death was a predator, wasn’t it?

  Not the sleep that had taken her gram one soft summer day before Jamie left them for good. No, not that death. For all she was no more than a girl, barely bleeding yet, she knew this death coming wasn’t that peaceful sleep.

  Her heart hollowed more and the shell of it crumbled down to her belly. By the time she reached the gate, the rider was circling the house and trotting back down the Earl of Glenmorrow’s lane, his message delivered.

  Sirena hiked her skirts and raced past old Patrick, down the path, through the kitchen garden. She slammed into the kitchens, through them, past the laundry and the still rooms, past the butler’s pantry with its rows and rows of whiskey, up the narrow servants’ stairs and down the hall to the parlor, where she crashed through again, panting, every breath burning her chest and stabbing her side.

  Papa’s hand shook with the weight of a slim parchment packet, a yellowing lump folded over and over upon itself and sealed with a huge purple-red bruise of wax. Something inside rattled.

  In the new world, there was a snake, Jamie had once told her, deadly and venomous, and it shook its tail to warn of its presence. He wanted to sail there and see it. He didn’t want to stay home, here, where she needed him.

  He needed to go, he’d said. Even her father had allowed it, and so it must be. She’d dropped the chain with Gram’s magical Brighid knot round Jamie’s neck—the old magic of Queen Brighid, not that of the upstart saint—and made him promise to bring it back to her.

  Outside the clouds shifted and the room brightened, thickening the air with dust motes that winked like the fairies. Mama stood gripping her chair, the hoop of white cloth in one hand dripping red thread, her cheeks as white as the bit of linen she fingered.

  Papa’s face hardened.

  She’d seen that same rigid cast when he’d put down a horse, her huddling behind a great oak, thanking the tree fairies it had been Papa astride when the horse tripped.

  She clutched the door latch, her breath frozen, watching the wafer snap, the paper unfurl, a length of gold chain dangle.

  “They’ve found a body. They say it’s his.” Papa said the words the fairies had whispered to Mama last night.

  All of her numbed. Time stopped.

  She’d prayed—how she’d prayed, and all for naught. For naught.

  Queen Bridghid, you traitor, carry me away down the hole of your witch’s knot. Fairies, open the floor and let me fall through it.

  Only, it was Papa caught in a knot, one that tied up his throat and turned his face the same purple as that wax seal. And it was Mama who fell through the floor, her head hitting the edge of a table with a sickening thump.

  Her dearest brother, Jamie, was, after all, truly dead, and the twisted gold charm that dropped to the floor noiselessly was the proof of it.

  Two Years Later

  Sirena patted the dappled patch on Pooka’s nose and slipped the filly a carrot. “They’ll change your name, you know,” she said, blinking back moisture.

  Pooka’s jaws worked and she turned away. Already the two-year-old was ignoring her.

  Pooka had taken to the dark, arrogant lord who’d come calling the day before. Tomorrow, he would ferry the horse away, along with most of the best of their blood stock.

  What could Papa be thinking?

  Angry tears spilled over and she swiped them away with the back of her hand.

  She yanked at the waist of her drooping trousers, picked up a shovel and began mucking the stall, tears streaming. Papa needed money, of course, to buy more spirits.

  A stable door closed and boot heels clacked on the bricks. She turned her head away. Old Patrick didna need to see her so weak.

  “What are you doing in there, boy?” The haughty words filtered through the slats, as if the speaker had got his nose caught in the gate. Or maybe he was pinching it to find the right accent and tone, the one
s her last governess had tried to beat into her.

  Her chest burned, and she swallowed her anger. She’d been confined in her room for two days. Papa had bade her stay out of the stables, out of his lordship’s way. The housekeeper said ’twas not against Sirena, ’twas only her papa’s worry about her breasts coming in.

  She couldn’t let Pooka leave without saying goodbye.

  It would be all right. She was just a scruffy stable boy fiddlin’ about with his lordship’s new horses, seein’ to their needs. For all she knew, this lord didn’t know she existed.

  “Muckin’, sir,” she said, deepening her voice.

  Pooka, the disloyal beast, sashayed over and sniffed through the slats.

  “And what is she chewing? You’ll not foist a colicky horse on me tomorrow. I’ve already paid your master too much for the beast.”

  “Too much?” Sirena’s blood rose, and she risked turning to face him. In the dim light, only slivers of white linen and skin showed. All else was blackness, and wasn’t that a sure sign?

  “This beast’s granddam won first at Thurles. She’s good Irish Connemara and the best hotblood lines, as fast as any of your English hacks, I’d b-bet you.” She coughed and went back to her shoveling.

  Shoveling shite. Aye, it was a perfect picture. She’d make her way in the world shoveling shite, she would, with her father drinkin’ away their horses and her dowry.

  And now this man, whose eyes burned her back, let him discover her sex, let him try to take a pinch at her breasts. He’d have this shovel up his arse, he would.

  “If I were to stay longer,” he said. “I’d take that wager.”

  And lose it. She straightened. Perhaps this lord was a great gambling fool like the rest of them. Perhaps he’d wager Pooka. Perhaps they could have at it tomorrow at the crack, like the fools who fought duels.

  Her shoulders sagged again. What did she have to wager? Naught but her valueless person.

  She shook her head. “No.”

  “No, my lord,” he said.

  She gritted her teeth. “No, your esteemed English lordship. I’ve naught to wager.”

  “No? Even a stable boy has a ha’ penny tucked away. What is your name, lad?”

  Her name? Papa would bring out the strop again if he thought she’d caught some randy lord’s eye. Her mind raced through the names of their dwindling staff of grooms. Dark, they all were. Though her cap hid her yellow hair, the rest were all older, all shorter. There was naught for it. “Patrick,” she said.

  Old Patrick would cover for her, that much she knew.

  James Everly, Viscount Bakeley, heir to the Earl of Shaldon, wished a good night and tromped off, creaking the stable door open and closing it without passing through.

  He found a dark corner and waited. Soon enough, he heard it—quiet sobs, weeping, and a choking voice talking to a horse.

  A girl’s voice.

  The pall of hopelessness dogging him since he’d come through the gates of Glenmorrow descended fully upon him, shame flooding in with it. He was here on his mother’s behest, buying the Earl of Glenmorrow’s prime bloods, no expense to be spared, and even beyond, the only high limit being Glenmorrow’s pride.

  A crooning song started and seeped into his bones, soothing him in just the same way it was settling the whole stable.

  Bloody Ireland. Fairies and gremlins, and a horse named Pooka.

  The Earl of Glenmorrow had been tied up with Father’s schemes somehow, and it was clear from the state of the roads and the linens, the man needed money. This purchase was paying both men’s debts.

  And anything left over, Glenmorrow would drink away.

  Well, why wouldn’t he? The man had lost his son and his wife, and surely that crooning girl in the stall was the daughter who the stable boys whispered had a spooky way with the horses.

  She would need some of this money set aside for a dowry. She would need a keeper when her father drank himself to death.

  He watched as she slid out of the stall, extinguished her light, and left.

  Ye gods, it was true what he’d heard—Glenmorrow’s daughter was as wild as this unlucky country.

  Mother had been hinting about a wife for him. Thank all the stars he’d come for the horses and not the girl. Let her be some other man’s to tame.

  Chapter 2

  London, 1821

  “You may meet a young man at this ball, Sirena.” Lady Jane Monthorpe sent a sly look to Barton, her maid, who simply lifted her eyebrows.

  Lady Sirena Hollister cast her own glance at the able-bodied and sadly underpaid lady’s maid and winked. “So, you’ve dragged us from Dublin to London to be rid of me, my lady?” she asked.

  Barton clamped her lips tight on what Sirena knew would be a smile and went back to straightening the pleats on Lady Jane’s bodice.

  Lady Jane pressed the back of her hand to her still smooth forehead. “Ah, fair Sirena, let us get thee to thy ball, the better to bring forth some dashing young seafarer to your siren’s call.”

  Sirena laughed out loud. “’Tis a poetess you are, my lady. You look lovely tonight, and I daresay there will be a host of handsome lords taken with you also.”

  “And will you stop wriggling,” Barton said.

  “Well, I suppose I must if you order it, Barton.” Lady Jane smiled and the final primping was completed. “We have done well in these dresses. And it is all due to your skill, Barton. No one will suspect they were once last year’s fashions.”

  “Indeed not.” Sirena gathered Lady Jane’s wrap. In her own case, there would be no suspecting. The ladies in attendance tonight would know her cerulean blue silk was made over from one of Lady Jane’s three-year-old dresses.

  She smoothed the skirt. No matter. With its tucks and trims it was still the finest dress she’d ever had.

  “I do believe, Barton, you must open up your own shop, right here, in London. Why else should we have made the journey? Lady Sirena will entice all of her wealthy friends to patronize your establishment.”

  Why indeed come to this wretched, expensive, smelly city? All teasing about dress shops aside, her benefactress had insisted they must come to London for the new king’s coronation, though they were having to pinch extra farthings out of every half-pence.

  Barton’s smile was kind, as always. In the short time Sirena had been with both women, she’d heard them speak often of this fairy dream of a dress shop.

  “Then I must truly ignore dashing young sailors and direct my song to someone in commerce,” Sirena said. “I wonder, will there be anyone like that attending tonight?”

  “Most certainly.” Lady Jane nodded. “Lord Cathmore, and he is in trade.”

  Sirena propped her hands on the smooth silk covering her hips. “And he is most certainly taken. Lady Cathmore would object to a strange girl cooing at her husband.”

  Barton chuckled.

  “Barton is laughing at us, Sirena. For shame. Now, Barton, you are not to wait up. Sirena will help me out of my stays. And Sirena, my dear, we are late. We will miss the first dance.”

  James Everly, Viscount Bakeley, all but leaned his tall frame against the wall of Hackwell House’s ballroom, wishing he could fade into the damask wallpaper.

  “Here you are, your lordship.” His younger brother, Charles Everly, smiled slyly and handed him a glass.

  Bakeley swirled the dark liquid. “What swill are the ladies serving tonight?”

  “Taste and see, brother. Taste and see.”

  He put his lips to the glass briefly, then tipped it back for a deeper draught.

  Charley chuckled. “Hackwell’s a good chap. Serves a proper punch. I first met him in Brussels, you know, at Lady Devonshire’s infamous ball.”

  Bakeley stifled a sigh. Charley had been at Waterloo, not fighting exactly, but engaged in some scheme of their father’s. Charley had been there, their eldest brother Bink Gibson had been there, as well as their host and any number of his friends in attendance tonight.

&nb
sp; He, Bakeley, had been in London, seeing to the routine business of the Earl of Shaldon.

  It was another reminder of his lot in life.

  He schooled his face into a bored mask. “You failed to appear tonight at dinner, Charley.” He’d been counting on his brother diverting their father.

  “You’re not the only one with another interest. By the way, where is Lady Arbrough tonight?”

  He firmed his mouth to fight the grimace that threatened. “This is not the place to discuss—”

  “Oh, excuse me, I forgot, this ball is too bluestocking for her tastes,” Charley went on. “Not quite as fashionable. I know you have a far better allowance than I, but how ever do you keep her in silks, brother?”

  He didn’t. Her late husband had settled her quite well, and he was not going to discuss it.

  “So gloomy, you are, Bakeley. I take it you had the talk again tonight from Father?”

  “Tonight, this afternoon, this morning, last night, and so on, and so forth.”

  “Father just will not do the noble thing and pass on so you can live the life of a wealthy bachelor earl, gadding about town, fighting with the Commissioner of Sewers about the stench.”

  Charley grimaced. “Though I must agree, if London could conquer the miasma, we could conquer the rest of the world.” He paused for a grin. “And there’s not even a need to beget an heir, since you have me.”

  He fought the urge to sigh. Charley was almost bosky again. “One of us will have to procreate and produce a legitimate male. It might as well be you.”

  “Pity that Bink is a bastard—his boy would do. No, Bakeley. I’ll be like the royal dukes, leaving the business until the very end. And perhaps you, like Bink, will find love and save me the trouble.”

  Not likely. “Cupid’s arrow was surely a woman’s invention.”

  “Hmm?” Charley had been diverted by something across the room. Bakeley followed his gaze.