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

by Alina K. Field

“You would make Perry withdraw the invitation? You would humiliate the cousin of the Earl of Cheswick?”

  “I have it on good account they have taken rooms. How they arrived tonight, I do not know.” They passed under a street light, dimly illuminating a scowl. “Though I suppose, Lady Hackwell no doubt persuaded her husband to send his carriage.”

  His father could make many things happen, including sending a carriage to pick up two ladies. He was up to no good.

  “Denholm will remember a daughter of one of the Irish lords named Sirena. He waxes eloquent on all things Ireland. Perhaps I shall seek him out at the club tonight.”

  “You would, wouldn’t you? Forget your rich widow altogether and go nosing about town. And just to spite me. Well then, boy, have at it, but remember you won’t be hurting me so much as the lady. And if you care anything at all about her reputation, you won’t bring that family’s history to any one’s notice.”

  The carriage stopped. Shaldon jumped out, far too spryly, leaving Bakeley to ponder.

  “To St. John’s Wood, sir?” the coachman asked.

  St. John’s Wood was where the dowager Lady Arbrough had settled into a gilded new townhouse. She would greet him with supper, and perhaps a clinging negligee, and after both appetites were quenched she would peck him to death about the Hackwell ball. There would be sly innuendos about gauche country girls and unfashionable bluestockings, and there would be the latest on-dit about someone’s daughter marrying in haste.

  “White’s tonight.”

  “Very well, milord.” The door shut. He settled back, closed his eyes, and conjured a vision of his mistress naked. Nothing.

  Hell. He’d only just turned two and thirty. Was he losing his virility already?

  Outside, a blonde-haired whore stood close by a building, and his mind went directly to a vision of Lady Sirena in her blue dress.

  He smiled. The problem was not with him. It was merely time to part company with Lady Arbrough.

  And pursue Lady Sirena. Though he didn’t pursue virgins. That was a sure way to get leg-shackled, and he wasn’t one of those villains who seduced a girl and abandoned her to her fate. He didn’t even flirt or raise expectations.

  Which meant that Lady Sirena really was unsuitable, though perhaps not in the way his father meant.

  Unless he married her.

  Oh, hell, what was he thinking?

  Brandy was what he needed. Lots of it.

  “We have had a social victory, Barton.” Lady Jane handed the faithful maid her wrap. “Lady Sirena danced with five gentlemen, including the heir to the Earl of Shaldon. And we are invited to a musicale at Shaldon House next week.”

  “That is wonderful, my lady.”

  “Yes. He is quite handsome. So many prefer the younger brother with his fairer coloring and carefree nature, but I do believe the older one is more to my taste. What say you, Sirena?”

  “I won’t compare. They’re equally handsome. But Barton, her ladyship spent time in conversation with the handsome men’s father, who I believe very much resembles the son more to Lady Jane’s taste. Sat right next to him, she did, and made him remember that he met her years ago. And he’s still not half bad to look at.”

  Lady Jane’s face grew serious, belying the blush coloring her cheeks.

  “He was great friends with my beau and my brother.”

  Lady Jane had once had a chance to marry a cavalry officer who’d died without ever setting foot into battle, and her brother with him.

  Blast it. She’d stirred a bad memory. She ran her hands over her mistress’s dress, smoothing it, and folding it into the clothes press. “He’s widowed. Perhaps—”

  “Such foolishness.” With Barton’s assistance, Lady Jane slipped on her nightrail, and the maid left. “Old spinsters don’t marry. It wreaks havoc with settlements and inheritances, and even widowed lords want to breed more spares. You, on the other hand, will find a husband this season if it’s the last thing I accomplish on this earth.” She knotted the belt on her robe. “But, Sirena, my dear, you mustn’t set your cap at one of Shaldon’s sons. Especially not the heir. I’m afraid the younger one is wild, and the older is, well, he’s the heir. He’ll be expected to marry...oh, I’m muddling this. You know I esteem you above all of the silly girls we’ll meet this season—”

  If we receive invitations.

  “But you’re lacking a dowry, and Shaldon will insure his son marries great wealth, as he did himself. She was a lovely woman, his wife. I was acquainted with her as well, though I was much younger, of course. Her grandfather had an interest in one of the big banks and settled her well.” She reached for Sirena’s hand. “There now, you don’t have wealth, but you do have great beauty and the pleasantest of demeanors, and you are an earl’s daughter, and that will count for something.”

  Barton returned with a steaming chocolate pot. She poured a cup for each of them and then gathered up Lady Jane’s discarded undergarments. “Is there aught else, my lady?”

  Lady Jane sent Barton off with a goodnight.

  Sirena lifted the cup and sniffed. Celebrating with chocolate was a great indulgence, given Lady Jane’s straitened budget, and Sirena was grateful for it. “Why would I want to give up a cozy talk and fine chocolate for marriage? And anyway, do you think a daughter of Ireland can find a husband here among these English, my lady?”

  “You are a daughter of the United Kingdoms of Great Britain and Ireland.” Lady Jane sounded fierce. “Never forget that.”

  How could she? Her brother had disappeared fighting against that union and the bloody aristocrats who enforced their intolerance on the people of Ireland.

  She fixed a smile on her face. “To be sure. And I am a Protestant to boot, and not one of those Latin-spouting Catholics.”

  They sipped chocolate until Lady Jane broke the companionable silence. “It probably wasn’t his fault, you know.”

  “Whose fault, my lady?”

  “Shaldon’s. He probably didn’t bring about your brother’s demise.”

  Her pulse quickened and raced, the way it had when they’d talked about attending the Hackwell ball. She’d confided her great desire to meet the Earl of Shaldon, else the older lady’s pride would have caused her to turn down Lady Hackwell’s most courteous offer of a carriage.

  And, Sirena was certain Lady Jane was wrong on this point. Shaldon had run the network of spies who had reported her brother as one of the United Ireland men.

  Well, what if he was? There were rebels of all stripes, and she knew, her brother would never have countenanced the kind of violence that had led to wholesale atrocities. In her young eyes, he’d been noble, kind, and so much more level-headed than their horse-mad father.

  Because of Shaldon, her brother had been lost, along with the title. The new Glenmorrow had failed to provide for her. Worse, he’d forced her from her home.

  She shook off the thought. It had been a blessing from God and Brighid that Lady Jane had been a guest at the neighboring estate where she’d sought refuge.

  “Yes, of course not,” Sirena said. “In times of war, there is plenty of blame to spread about.”

  It was a comfortable fiction, this not blaming Shaldon. For now.

  Bakeley drove the gray gelding through the morning fog, finally reining up to avoid a group of riders. He did not exchange greetings. He did not wish to converse this morning.

  He’d had a night of sheer boredom, followed by an hour or two of dreams of a blonde siren. Sirena. How aptly she’d been named.

  Charley had met up with him in the wee hours, plaguing him with speculation about whether Sirena could be a prospect for an affair of the heart, wondering where a lady’s companion who was herself a lady fit into the spectrum of eligible women.

  It had taxed Bakeley’s carefully nurtured aplomb until he’d wanted to whack Charley, like they were boys again. He’d reminded Charley that swiving such a woman would move her into the ranks of the demimonde in one fell, well, stroke. He reminded h
im that a gentleman did not go about seducing the daughters of other gentlemen, and most especially not the daughters of peers.

  Charley had looked at him, stunned, and laughed. And laughed some more. Club rules or no, even under a heavy lid of boredom, he’d come a hair’s breadth from pummeling his younger brother.

  “I’ll yield the field then, brother,” Charley had said.

  Fortunately, two sods who were friends of Charley joined them, eager to discuss horseflesh.

  Unfortunately, failure to discuss the woman in question meant that all of her secrets were still buried.

  Never mind. Perry was paying Lady Jane a formal call today to deliver the musicale invitation. He would accompany her.

  As the sun lifted the layers of fog, Bakeley headed for the park gate.

  On the street outside he spotted a trim woman in the distance, her basket held close. She turned her head at the crossing, and a spray of golden curls peeked out from her bonnet.

  Chapter 4

  His pulse buzzed. It might be her. On the other hand, he might be following yet another blonde head through the streets of London. Since leaving Hackwell’s home last night, he’d noticed every wench, every streetwalker, every shop girl.

  He kept pace with this one. A gentleman did not call out to women on the street, and this one walked with the poise of a lady, though her dress was a plain frock in one of those shades of brown that reminded him of horse dung. She moved quickly, the toes of her dark boots poking out with each stride. Her bonnet brim concealed much, at least from this angle. Blast it, afoot he could come abreast of her.

  Abreast. Yes.

  He spotted a boy sweeping, hailed him, and gave him a coin to hold his mount. He plucked a turnip from a stall and flipped the shop man another coin.

  She was fast for a woman, but he caught up. “Miss,” he said, “I believe you dropped this.”

  She increased her pace. “Miss. Miss.” He was alongside her now. He touched her elbow, and she froze.

  Astonishment lit her face, kindling a burn in him.

  “It is you.” He swallowed the schoolboy smile that threatened and said regally, “Here is your turnip.”

  She opened her mouth. Closed it. Took a deep breath. “Good morning, Lord Bakeley. You may have that turnip. ’Tis not mine. And now I must be on my way.”

  She took off walking again.

  He kept pace. “You are out and about alone early, Lady Sirena.” Too early, and too alone. It wasn’t safe, not for a girl as lovely as her.

  Her lips firmed. “I’m on an errand for my lady.” She stopped abruptly and glared, the basket held tightly in front of her. Or perhaps she was preparing to bash him with it.

  He reached for the potential weapon, depositing the turnip. “Allow me to carry your burdens and escort you home.”

  She colored deeply. “At this hour of the morning? You must not. Where is your carriage? Your horse?” She scanned the street behind them and her eyes narrowed, her lips turning down in a frown. “There. That fine gray trying to bite the unfortunate boy. You must return to him for he is thinking about bolting. And we must not be seen like this.”

  “Yes, well. My sister and I will be calling on you later today. With the musicale invitation.”

  “Your sister is all genuine kindness. You, however, are confirming my conviction that we shouldn’t attend.”

  “You must.”

  “We have no carriage.”

  “We will send ours.”

  She sighed. “Lady Jane may go. I shall have a megrim.”

  He so wanted to chuck her under the chin. “You do not have megrims.”

  “How would you know?”

  “I know women, Lady Sirena. You are not the megrim sort.”

  Good heavens. He was bantering like Charley.

  It felt rather good.

  “Now give me that basket.”

  Astonishingly, she complied. He patted the cloth as they started walking. Something plump and warm nestled there.

  “’Tis bread,” she said. “Do not be squeezing it so.”

  “You fetch it?”

  “Lord and Lady Cheswick are the generous sort with everyone. Consequently, Lady Jane has enough to support three retainers, of which I am one.”

  She was letting him know that Lady Jane was poor, and Lady Sirena was poorer, the clever girl. “You keep saying that she is your employer. And you’ve not told me your family name. Are you not related to her in some way? That is the usual thing in these cases.”

  “I am not. The Cheswicks are friends of the family that owns the estate next to my family home.”

  “And where is that?”

  “In Ireland.” She smiled sweetly.

  He decided on a different tack. “So you became acquainted during a house party?”

  “Nay.”

  She turned the corner onto a residential street, lined with smallish dwellings, their elegance fading, and stopped in front of a door needing a fresh coat of paint. “These are our rooms.” She took the basket and heaved in a deep breath, fixing him with a gray glare.

  He should let her go. Father would surely relent and share her story. Or he could ask around about her...but Father had been correct, it would only draw attention, unwanted if he were to pursue her.

  And he wanted to pursue her. “I’m not a gossip,” he said. “My sister has her heart set on yours and Lady Jane’s friendship, and—”

  “As you wish.” She shifted the basket. “If harm comes to my lady, I’ll know who to blame. And so here it is. Lady Jane all but fished me out of the woods where I was preparing to hide and took me back to the neighbor’s house. She shamed them quite unmercifully and insisted they give me refuge until she could find a way to help me.”

  “You were hiding?” His mind had snagged on that point. The wars were long over. Even Ireland was more or less settled, wasn’t it? “From whom? Irish rebels? British soldiers?”

  She laughed ruefully. “Well, he was once a British soldier, I know, but he was, like me, another bad mix of the Irish and English. My cousin, the new earl, arrived to inspect his property. Angry, he was, that the house was in disrepair, but he was keen on the horses.” She looked hard at him, her eyes taking a blue cast, the irises lined with an edging of gray. “Every bit as fine as your mount here were our horses once upon a time.” She pressed her lips together and took in an angry breath. “He said he did love a fine mount.”

  His heart thudded to a stop and then picked up and raced. Fine cattle and a house in disrepair. Perhaps there was more than one such estate in Ireland. Could it be?

  And the rest... If that cousin had harmed her in that way...

  She nodded. “In truth, I was not living any richer there than I am now, except that I was home and I could ride through those woods and shoot game when we were hungry. I could have stayed, but…the cost was too dear. You should know that my family name was ruined long ago.” Her chin jutted forward. “Honor I may not have, but I have my pride.” She gave him another forced laugh. “And my daily bread. Good day, my lord.”

  Her foot hit the first step.

  “Wait.”

  She looked back at him, the curve of her cheek burnished pink in the morning chill, a chill that seeped into him and raced through his veins.

  Brave. Saucy. Proud. This woman stirred him. And terrified him.

  “What?” she asked.

  “We’ve brought some very fine cattle to town. Perhaps you and I and my sister Perry could go riding one day.”

  She turned fully around on the step, her eyes level with his, her face serious. “Plain-spoken, I will be, sir. Lady Jane has a wild idea of me marrying this Season, yet she told me that you in particular are out of my respectable reach. You will be marrying a girl of good family and great wealth, which I am not. And thus I must decline your kind invitation. I wish you all felicitations on your marriage when—”

  Bellowing erupted around the corner, and the pounding of hooves. His mount came dragging the boy.
>
  “Blast you,” the boy screamed, adding a stream of epithets no lady should hear.

  “There, boy. Easy, boy.” Bakeley rushed over and grabbed for the reins as the horse shook the boy loose.

  And suddenly stilled. Peace swept through the startled beast. Bakeley could almost hear the quiet rush.

  A small hand had settled on the horse’s dappled gray head, the lady’s gaze locked on the beast’s dark eyes, a soft, soothing croon sounding deep in her throat. Before he could speak, her hand dropped and she was up the steps and in the door, the basket clutched under her arm.

  The gelding looked after her with longing in his eyes.

  Bakeley blinked and caught his breath.

  Damn this world. Damn the ton and propriety and earldoms and... Shaldon. What the devil was father up to? And did he himself give a damn about it?

  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.

  The gelding snorted, drawing his attention. He was one of a number of dappled grays in their stock, and he had a bit of his dam’s cantankerous spirit. They’d not been able to breed out the worst parts of Pooka and her hobgoblin curse.

  He’d brought her and the other Glenmorrow horses home to Cransdall all those years ago, and then, upon Mother’s horrifying death, promptly forgot the girl in the stall.

  Surely this was the Earl of Glenmorrow’s wild daughter, the one who whispered to horses. The one whose brother, heir to an earldom, had betrayed England.

  He’d paid a high bounty for Glenmorrow’s fine horses, but Mother wouldn’t tell him why. What had his father done to Glenmorrow? Lady Sirena’s plight was all tied up in it, as well as her unsuitability.

  Someone would know, someone who would not run to his father with tales of his snooping.

  His father’s man, Kincaid, who now lodged with his brother Bink knew all the stories, but he was also the surest one to tattle. He could ask Bink, but Bink’s investigating might stir up the kind of troubles his father had warned about.

  There was Lady Hackwell. She seemed to have a finger on the pulse of every distressed damsel in London, and she had seen fit to bring both ladies to her ball. But paying a call on her was sure to pique Hackwell’s curiosity.