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

by Alina K. Field

  Charley snickered. “Perhaps, but Bink is well and truly shackled, and a boy produced. He does look happy.”

  Bink was dancing, of all things, with his wife.

  Bakeley handed Charley his glass. “Cheer me up more by bringing me another one of these, will you?”

  “Do I look like your footman?” Charley took the glass. “Very well, and...I say. There’s a fine piece stepping up with her mother.”

  Bakeley refused to look. Charley spotted fine pieces everywhere. And he doubted any woman attending Lady Hackwell’s bluestocking ball would appreciate being called such.

  His brother perched the glass in a potted plant and meandered across the ballroom, leaving him to steadfastly examine the wainscoting on Hackwell’s restored walls, and wonder who he could send for more refreshments.

  He would not dance tonight. He would not mingle. Not because Lady Arbrough had teased him about attending—she had no say in such matters. No. It was because of the complicated dance with Shaldon. The crafty old man had grumbled about attending this ball given by people who were not good ton, and Bakeley knew it had been one of his many ruses. What game was afoot, he didn’t know.

  He’d been competent and able until Father’s return to England. Now, he never felt quite nimble enough to keep up with the old man’s wanglings. Perhaps there would be rich, titled, women of child-bearing capacity—his father’s three bridal requirements for his heir—in attendance tonight.

  Lady Arbrough might meet those requirements, except that her elderly husband hadn’t been able to get any children on her, all the blame falling upon her of course, and except for the fact that Bakeley would rather harvest the cesspit than marry the temperamental widow.

  And what the devil was Father about tonight? He’d tottered in on a cane and collapsed in a chair. Not complaining of any ailment though. Father didn’t complain. It added to his mystery.

  He must wait the old man out. Shaldon had pretended to die two years earlier in order to catch a traitor, almost getting Bink and his wife killed in the process. One day Shaldon truly would meet St. Peter, and Bakeley would be free to go on as he pleased.

  “Get out there and dance, boy.”

  Bakeley groaned. In his musings he hadn’t heard the tap-tap of the cane. A fine spy he would make.

  “And who would you have me stand up with, Father? Have you spotted a rich, titled, nubile maiden here?”

  His lordship stood very erect, his face void of expression. “No. There is no one here for you to marry. And I am glad to see that your cherie amour did not attend.”

  He bristled inside. If he but allowed it, his father would try to pick his mistresses also.

  “Arbrough was a cagey fellow. Fattened his calf entirely too much while serving in the Ministry.”

  Lady Arbrough had been barely out of leading strings then, Arbrough was gone, and the war was long over.

  “He’s dead. There’s no loose end to tie up there, Father.”

  “No doubt you’re right. No doubt. And...what is your brother up to?”

  “He’s dancing with his wife.”

  “Not that brother.” Shaldon brought his quizzing glass up to his eye and tut-tutted. “Unsuitable. Woefully, unsuitable, even for a younger son.”

  He knew when he was being baited. “Do not rouse an apoplexy, sir. Charles has even less intentions of marrying than I do.”

  “He’s dancing.”

  “He’s had more than one glass of Hackwell’s punch. Shall I bring you one?”

  “No.” Shaldon raised a hand and Perpetua Everly, his youngest child and only daughter, appeared.

  “Perry,” Bakeley said. “Must you wear those spectacles to a ball?”

  Taller than most of the men, with mouse-brown hair and a penchant for wearing eyeglasses she didn’t truly need, Perry’s only hope of marriage was her enormous dowry.

  And whoever hoped to gain it would have to be worthy. Bakeley would see to it.

  She shrugged. “Father, should you not be sitting down?” She pushed her spectacles higher and examined the old man.

  Thump-thump. The cane hit the floor. “Who is that woman?”

  Perry followed his line of sight and pressed her lips on a grin. “I don’t know. She’s not a member of Lady Hackwell’s charity.”

  Perry had found a keen friendship with Lady Hackwell and her circle, all wealthy bluestockings sneering at the foibles of the men in their lives. Father hated it. Or seemed to.

  Perhaps he should pursue one of them, just to rile the old man.

  He discarded the idea immediately. He couldn’t abide the continual managing these ladies could dish out. Since Father’s return from the Continent, his managing had been enough to bear. Plus, though some of the ladies were attractive, most of the single ones were past their prime, and prime was what he was looking for in any woman who shared his bed, even a wife. Where Father wanted rich, titled and fecund, he was looking for plump, obedient, and welcoming in bed.

  If he were to marry.

  The music ended and the orchestra members flipped sheets, preparing for the next dance.

  Thump-thump. “Go and rescue that fool. He’s attempting to stand up with her again.”

  Bakeley sighed.

  “Go. I know you’re in no danger of beguilement.”

  “I’m in no danger of getting another glass of punch either.” He patted Perry’s hand. “Find him a chair.”

  He searched the room for his brother’s tawny hair. Charley was indeed preparing to stand up again with the same partner. Nodding to acquaintances, he wove through the crowd, reached his brother, and moved him aside.

  And his heart launched into a gallop. The beauty that Charley was with—and she was a rare beauty—stared soulfully up at him. The blondest of hair shimmered and gray eyes glowed luminous in the light of many candles.

  “How do you do?” Only manners honed by many years of encounters with the fairer sex kept him from stumbling over his words. He bowed. “Charles, Father commands your appearance. I am Bakeley, miss. I hope you do not mind dancing with an older brother.”

  Charley sighed, and then shrugged, a grin spreading. “My apologies, my lady. This is not a proper introduction, but it will have to do. This is my brother, Lord Bakeley.”

  The lady’s cheeks went unaccountably pink and she ducked her head in a curtsey.

  Drat. She perhaps knew him, but he didn’t recognize her. So she was a lady, and beautiful. Was she also rich?

  They took their place in the line. Damn, but he should have examined her when Charley had picked her out.

  When she moved in a turn around the next gentleman, he looked her over as discreetly as possible. She was a thin little thing in her blue silks, not as plump as he normally liked. What he knew about dresses was almost nothing, but this one seemed to fit with the current fashions, though it had less of the flounces, ribbons, and fluttering pieces.

  Which, in his estimation was good.

  And it was not white, which meant she was not making her first bows.

  A widow, perhaps. She smiled up at him on the next turn. A young widow, and not terribly willing. That smile had been tight and polite.

  They went down the middle together and waited through a set. “I don’t believe we’ve met before. Is your family in town for the Season? Is your husband active in Parliament?”

  She blinked and her eyes widened.

  Not married, then. “I beg your pardon. Your title is from your father?”

  They were interrupted again by the need to turn, and he concentrated momentarily on the dance.

  When they came together again, her lips had curved up and her eyes gleamed with humor. “You are Shaldon’s heir, are you not?”

  “Yes.”

  More infernal turning. Would this dance never end so he could find out who she was?

  They marched down the center together again. Where her hand touched his arm, he felt a delicate heat.

  “And isn’t this always the problem, Lord
Bakeley, when a lord and lady dispense with a proper introduction?”

  He heard it then: the slightest lilt, the tiniest burr. They parted to go round the next couple in line and came together again.

  “You are Irish.”

  The dance ended and she curtsied, dipping her chin and rising again with a grin. “It was more than kind for you and your brother to dance with me. Indeed, I’m Sirena, Lady Sirena by birth. But now I’m the paid companion to Lady Jane Monthorpe, so I’ll just take my leave and return to her.”

  She chuckled low in her throat, in a way that sent more heat through him.

  “Thrilled she’ll be at my social success tonight. Thank you for that, and the dance.” She bobbed again.

  “Wait just one moment.” He offered his arm. “You must have some refreshments. And you must tell me all about your home in Ireland.”

  Her gaze slid over his shoulder. “Is that not your father, Lord Shaldon, there? His eyes are all but glowing. I shall free you, my lord, and return to my lady.”

  He took her hand and placed it on his arm. “Then we shall both go and speak to your Lady Jane.”

  Sirena drew deep inside searching for the whisper she used when controlling a particularly hotblooded horse. If she could but call it up—and since leaving home, she hadn’t been able—perhaps it would work on the high bred stallion beside her. Lord Bakeley danced a bit less like a dream than his brother Charles, but only a bit less. And while the younger brother had wild fun in his eyes, this heir to Shaldon held a bubbling cauldron that she could sense but not see inside his handsome exterior.

  Yow, but she’d not had a good, close-up look all those years ago when he’d come to buy Pooka. Father had been right to keep her away from this devil. And hadn’t Bakeley turned the wary Pooka into an obedient sop before they’d left Glenmorrow? The man’s looks alone would have horses and women swooning.

  And fancy her, he did. She could feel it in the hot press of his hand over hers, even through the fine gloves. She could see it in the pulse at his neck, just over his ornately tied neck cloth.

  And wouldn’t she like to pull the ends of that neck cloth tighter and make his villainous father squirm?

  Chapter 3

  Sirena smiled as Lady Jane rose from her chair and greeted them—a lady through and through, and still quite lovely. No one could question Lady Jane’s character or bearing, and Sirena could tell even Bakeley could see that. He was ever so aristocratically polite as he maneuvered her patron into a proper introduction that, for all his prying and gabbing, did not include any more details about herself than what she’d given him. In fact, Lady Jane included less, omitting that business of Sirena being a paid companion.

  And well, it was not really a true fact, since the lady was sure to be short of funds on Lady Day.

  “It is a lovely soiree tonight, is it not, Lord Bakeley?” Lady Jane asked.

  “Indeed.”

  Gad, but the man was fine-looking. Tall, he was, and dark, of both hair and eye, with a jaw that could crack a bushel of nuts.

  Lady Jane babbled on about the room and the orchestra, the ladies’ gowns and the refreshments. She glowed like the sparkling springs on a moonlit night back home. The poor thing had gone without such splendor for too long.

  Sirena slid Lady Jane a glance. “Are you not acquainted with Lord Bakeley’s father, my lady? Perhaps Lord Bakeley will escort you to greet him.”

  When they’d entered the room, they’d spotted the stately, quite fit-looking man tapping along on a cane he surely didn’t need. Lady Jane had whispered his name right away.

  It might be forward of Sirena to suggest the introduction, but Lady Jane knew Sirena wanted to meet the great Lord Shaldon. Needed to meet him.

  Bakeley’s handsome face went blank, as though a curtain had dropped on the end of a theatrical scene.

  “Oh, good heavens.” Sirena began vigorously fanning her benefactress. “You are quite flushed, my lady.” She winked unobtrusively. “Let us get you to a chair and I’ll fetch you some lemonade.”

  “Yes. Oh, dear.” Lady Jane added a hint of a quiver. “The punch will be more restorative, I believe.” She latched onto Bakeley’s arm and all but dragged him off toward a vacant chair.

  Next to Shaldon. Excellent that the heir was such a finely bred gentleman and followed Lady Jane’s lead.

  Sirena found a footman, ordered a glass of punch, and hurried over to be introduced.

  Bakeley settled the lady into the chair next to his father, lifted his shoulder in the shrug the old man hated, and watched Lady Sirena cross the room, a young footman in hand, the man as bedazzled as he’d been.

  She was like a boulder barreling down a mountain.

  But no, that wasn’t apt. Her back was straight, her step light. Perhaps, more like the alpine avalanche he’d read about recently, or a white frothy tidal wave sweeping all in her path.

  A lady. Beautiful, not likely obedient, and certainly not rich. Not for him, but excellent for goading his father.

  He informed his father that the lady seated next to him was Lady Jane Monthorpe. Then he did the unthinkable and introduced the vastly unsuitable Lady Sirena, poor, pushy, and worst of all in his father’s eyes, Irish, and whose family name he still did not know.

  The tight line of Shaldon’s jaw and the grim sag of his lowered eyelids both shouted displeasure. “Good evening,” he said, inclining his head to first the older lady, then the younger.

  Bakeley expelled a breath. No cut direct. That would have been out of bounds even for Father.

  Though, he thought, he’d not truly seen his father in many social settings outside of their country estate, Cransdall. Father had been away on the King’s business for most of Bakeley’s life, and on and off too ill for the last two years to take up his seat in Parliament.

  “We did meet, Lord Shaldon, many years ago,” the older lady said coolly. “I was not much more than a child. But of course you won’t remember.”

  His father’s eyes slitted further, Lady Sirena’s eyes widened, and Perry pushed her glasses up and smiled too sweetly at Bakeley.

  The skin on his neck rippled. Father had been too ill to take up his seat in the Lords, but that hadn’t kept him home every day, nor had it kept his old companions away.

  There was something afoot here, some scheme.

  Monthorpe. Monthorpe.

  Then he remembered. “Lady Jane Monthorpe. Daughter of the Earl of Cheswick.”

  “Daughter of the last earl. Cousin of the current one.” She smiled tightly and looked at the glass of punch. “I believe I don’t want this after all.” She handed the glass to Lady Sirena.

  “I shall find that footman to take it back.”

  “Wait.” Bakeley reached for it, and his fingers covered hers, sending his nerves dancing.

  Now that was interesting. Her eyes flared with a bit of unexpected heat, quickly concealed.

  “May I?” he asked. “I’m parched.”

  She released her grip and even colored slightly. Not easy to fake, that. And she had incited a deep glare in Father’s eyes. Even better.

  Perry came round their father’s chair. “You are in good hands now, Father. I must go and chat with Paulette. Lady Sirena, Lady Jane, it has been a great pleasure to meet both of you. We are hosting a musicale next week. All the best people will be there. I would very much like you to attend.”

  Lady Jane smiled. Lady Sirena glanced at her benefactress, but he saw a hint of tension around her eyes and felt a strong desire to poke at it.

  “What an excellent idea, Perry. Ladies, we would love your company. Are you musical, Lady Sirena?”

  “She sings like a lovebird.” Lady Jane’s gushing was more that of a proud mama than a mistress.

  “Oh, go on with you, your ladyship. She would have you believing I’m better than I am, she would.”

  The thick brogue sent one of his father’s furry eyebrows shooting up. Lady Sirena laughed that deep womanly laugh, the one he wanted to hear a
gain.

  “It is time that we take our leave.” Shaldon got to his feet. “We’ll send the carriage back for you, Perpetua. I will require your assistance, Bakeley.”

  Bakeley made his farewells to the ladies with a mix of relief and regret. Perry would learn their direction. Perhaps she would pay a call and would need an escort to accompany her. He would see the fair Sirena again.

  “I saw the gleam in your eye,” Shaldon said as Bakeley settled across from him in the town coach. “She is off limits. Better the war profiteer’s widow than that one.”

  “Because she’s Irish?”

  And why would that matter? Bink’s mother had been an Irish girl Shaldon had met while posted there. He’d never talked about Ireland, not with Bakeley. He’d shared no more about his time in Ireland than he had anything else.

  And of course that had all been before Bakeley’s time. A few slips by members of Shaldon’s network had given him a picture of how bad things had been. Atrocities and horrors had been carried out on both sides.

  The old man thumped his cane on the roof and the carriage pulled out. “Because she’s unsuitable.” He clipped the words as if they were his final statement on everything.

  And if Shaldon thought they were done talking, he would have to have one of his fake swoons. “Come, Father, tell me why she’s unsuitable. I don’t even know her family name or where she comes from, but apparently you do. Do I have to snoop around to find out? Perhaps I shall ask Denholm when I see him riding in the park tomorrow. He was in Ireland for a bit, as I recall.”

  The coach lights outside lit Shaldon’s sharp profile, but it was too dark to make out his expression.

  “Why will you not just agree to marry Denholm’s daughter? You will unite two of the oldest titles in England, and I hear the girl is not ugly.”

  “I have not yet met her.”

  “You will. She is coming to your sister’s musicale.”

  “Ah, well, perhaps she and Lady Sirena will become friends.”

  His head swiveled in Bakeley’s direction. “She is not coming.”