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

by Alina K. Field

  Aye, but she’d got bad news. Walter O’Brian had come up with a sad report. Jamie was very likely dead, according to a seaman who’d known another man who’d sailed on the Honey Bee, a man who, with any luck, she’d meet on the morrow.

  Did he see him die? Walter had asked, but the man hadn’t known.

  She’d not felt this low since Papa’s death. Not even her cousin’s insulting treatment of her had depressed her so. Actually, that hadn’t depressed her at all, it had made her hungry to know more about Jamie…and to exact a suitable revenge.

  And perhaps her pulsing head would be the perfect excuse to slip away and begin searching. Her father had left many of his mundane tasks to her, and she knew the general way men managed their papers. A spymaster would be more careful, but she’d take her chances on finding something.

  Glittering eyes turned on them as they stepped across the hallowed portal of Shaldon House. The Hackwells were not considered good ton, she with her charitable pursuits, he with his Whiggish tendencies.

  Aye, but she was lying to herself, wasn’t she? She was the reason for the stares. Even after the Hackwells moved on to greet guests, the quizzing glasses stayed trained on herself, bloody owl eyes searching for the night’s prey.

  “Ladies, how lovely you look this evening.” Lady Perpetua squeezed Sirena’s hand. “The primrose becomes you wonderfully. I, myself, look like a spoiled sausage in that shade.”

  “That’s exactly what Lady Hackwell said about herself when she offered the frock to me. ’Tis the truth that this is one of her old gowns made over, Lady Perpetua.” That came out less jaunty than she’d hoped, and she couldn’t help it. She had a mission, her head hurt, and she was more than a little irritable.

  But Lady Perpetua’s smile only grew. “How practical and honest you are. Call me Perry. We shall be fast friends, I think. I’m going to have a go at plucking a tune on my harp. Will you also participate tonight?”

  “I must beg off. I’ve a wee hammer pounding nails into my head, but Lady Jane was a complete dragon and insisted I come anyway.”

  Lady Jane turned from the couple she was greeting and tapped her fan on Sirena’s arm while Lady Perry giggled. “You dreadful girl. You must at least stay for your hostess’s performance before running off to the retiring room.”

  Sirena forced a chuckle. “Do you see how she bullies me?”

  Lady Perry laughed and excused herself.

  Sirena looked around. She’d memorized the route and counted the doors from the entry to this room.

  “Is this the ballroom, Lady Jane?”

  “I believe so.”

  It was much grander than Hackwell’s, though not nearly as inviting. Paned glass doors opened out onto what must be a garden, but the room itself was all gilded and burnished in the style of the last century. The heiress Lord Bakeley would marry could have a go at refurbishing it.

  Her gaze found him, and she chuckled. He wore a tight mask, ever so polite, but she saw well enough his desire for escape. Surely the young lady next to him in her white ruffles, and her mama next to her—for that must be the relationship—could notice it also.

  “I’m glad to see you enjoying yourself.” Lady Jane linked arms with her. “Come, I see an acquaintance of mine. We’ll greet her and find seats.”

  “Where is the great lord himself?” she whispered.

  “Over there.” Lady Jane tilted her head toward a kind of dais, and Sirena saw Lord Shaldon nearby, leaning on his cane. He was engaged in deep conversation with an ancient man in an old-fashioned wig and he’d not noticed her, else he would be gamboling down the aisle between chairs, clacking that cane on the polished floor, getting ready to thwack her with it.

  “Will you mind ever so much if I find a seat at the back?” She pulled her arm free and touched her hand to her forehead. “This pounding is quite more than I can bear.” And if the musicians were as awful as she anticipated, well...

  “Go to the ladies’ retiring room,” Lady Jane said. “When the music starts, come back. If all the seats are taken, some gentleman will yield one for you.”

  She asked a maid for directions, and hurried along the corridor, counting doors. The room designated for the ladies was, as yet, empty and she settled onto a chair. When two ladies entered, she fiddled with her shoe, as though she’d picked up a pebble, or her stocking had bunched. She didn’t know them, and they ignored her. Not exactly the cut direct, yet she felt the full force of their superiority.

  Lord love the English. The boys at home had whispered that, at Belfast, they’d locked women and children in a barn and burned them to death. She could withstand a mere haughty attitude. While they turned up their noses, she would nose around, and wouldn’t invisibility make it easier?

  And what would his esteemed English Lordship, Shaldon, do if he caught her sneaking? She closed her eyes and imagined her punishment. The English had a great many means of persuasion, but most of them came with a fist—to the head, the stomach, the limbs. If she were caught searching his things, she would not be catching a husband with that battered body.

  “Are you quite all right?”

  She opened her eyes to a most fashionable woman. Her gown cupped her upper arms and two half-mooned breasts, bared down almost to the very nipples, and all about the rest was a rich, sensuous fluttering of silky stuff in the most seductive shade of red. It was a rousing dress, designed to establish her friendliness, especially with the male guests.

  The astonishing blue eyes set against pale skin and ebony hair, those were not friendly, no matter how warm her words.

  With such haughtiness, and in such a dress, she was surely fashionable and wealthy. Sirena should stand for a creature like this, who was so clearly above her.

  She kept her seat. “’Tis only a slight headache. Thank you for your concern.”

  “Have you taken a powder? I have always found Dover’s Powders to be quite effective.”

  She did not take headache powders. “Yes, yes. I will be fine in a moment, thank you.”

  “Shall I send for your mother?”

  She sighed. A moment alone preparing her spy craft was too much to ask, but she knew how to drive this one away. “You’ll be sending to heaven then, if ’tis my mother you’re fetching, for sure and she’s been gone these many years.”

  The lady’s look sharpened.

  That was interest there, Sirena decided, stifling a groan. There’d always be interest in her. She’d hoped for an interested cut. Instead, she saw a decided thawing, and more questions coming.

  “You are Scottish?”

  She shook her head. “Worse, madame. I am a daughter of Ireland.”

  “Of course.” That came with the start of a sneer.

  Sirena felt more hopeful. Perhaps she could move this lady on with some blarney. “I suppose ’tis not polite to say, but I must. Your gown is the most wonderful thing I’ve seen since arriving in London.”

  That brought a smile. The lady was as vain as Sirena had suspected. Ah, but vanity was the least of the seven deadly sins.

  “No one has told you that primrose is out of fashion?” the lady asked.

  “Why, yes.” You just have. “But it’s this or my cerulean blue, which, you’ll be telling me, is also unfashionable.” She added a smile to soften her impertinence. One must be clever with the most high, and hope they didn’t notice one’s own retaliatory rudeness.

  The lady in red laughed and actually curtsied.

  “I am Lady Arbrough. Come, you must tell me your name.”

  “Sirena Hollister. Lady Sirena Hollister, there’s the amazing thing.”

  “Indeed.”

  Sirena could see the wheels turning in the lady’s head, clicking down the list of peers, looking for the Hollisters. Good luck to her.

  A fiddle bow squealed in the distance.

  “They’re about to start,” the lady said. “Come, take my arm and we shall return together.”

  So her plain Irish primrosiness could set off th
e lady’s fiery beauty. Fair enough. She would be invisible, and upon arrival could shed the persistent woman.

  “Very well.” She linked arms and proceeded down the hall. “My lady will be worrying about me.”

  Lady Arbrough stopped and dropped her arm. “Your lady?”

  “Lady Jane Monthorpe. She’s taken me in, as it were. One might say she’s my employer.” Her head was feeling better. She held back the grin that wanted to break forth. “Though I suppose, if one were employed, one couldn’t expect to be a guest of the haute ton? So I must call her ‘my lady’ instead of my employer.” She curtsied. “And you may precede me, my lady.”

  Lady Arbrough froze. Her gaze raked the yellow flounces of Sirena’s dress, as though peeping under each pleat to see what was squirming there.

  “You are a sly one.” She twined her arm with Sirena’s again. “We’ll make a grand entrance together, you and I.” She chuckled. “Sly and impertinent. We shall be fast friends, I think.”

  That fairy hammer twinged in her head again. Another fast friend. She had even less in common with this lady than she did with Lady Perry.

  When they stepped into the ballroom, several musicians were tuning up instruments. Some forward gentleman would claim Lady Arbrough immediately, and Sirena would deposit her own self in the far corner of the room between a potted plant and a door. She was counting on it.

  Bakeley skirted the edge of the room, greeting guests and secretly searching for a golden-haired lady in a yellow dress.

  The moment she’d entered, he’d spotted her speaking with Perry. But he’d just caromed from Lady Arbrough to Lady Denholm and her daughter, Lady Glenna, and when he’d finally detached from that excruciating snare, Lady Sirena had vanished.

  Lady Glenna was a pretty girl, with a figure that matched her generous dowry, and what she said had been very pro forma, just what one did say when one was a first season girl meeting one’s possible future husband—which meant just enough to show that she was well-bred, virginal, and obedient.

  In short, she was perfect.

  Blast it all. Father could marry her himself.

  Speaking with Lady Glenna had only rekindled the need to see Lady Sirena, to speak with her, to know her better, to find out her secrets.

  And to touch her, perhaps even to taste her and see if her lips were as saucy as what came out of them.

  He stiffened his spine. He would not touch her, because he would not ruin her. He was not that sort of man.

  Perry stood by her harp. Two other young ladies had trotted out a violin and a violoncello and were preparing to accompany her after her solo. She was speaking now, trying to bring the roomful of disorderly aristocrats into submission.

  “Your attention, please,” he boomed from his spot in the back. The room instantly quietened. From across the room Perry’s smile warmed him. Whoever she married must be the best of men. He would not let their father impose some aging roué on her.

  A rustle behind him drew his attention.

  Lady Arbrough and Lady Sirena entered arm and arm, and he stifled a groan. He wouldn’t dare sit with either of them—Lady Arbrough, because it would be too public a display of their relationship, and Lady Sirena, because it would be too public a display of his interest in a relationship that did not exist yet.

  And it never will. You may not touch her.

  Lord Pelham rushed to greet both ladies and carry Lady Arbrough away, tucked a little too closely at his side.

  Bakeley did not feel one whit of jealousy.

  Lady Sirena had detached herself, shaking her head vigorously, refusing to accompany them. Good girl. Jocelyn was drawing her in, or at least trying. He’d warn Lady Sirena to stay away from the widow.

  Jocelyn’s dress was provocative enough to have every man staring bug-eyed. She’d been irritated by his failure to appear at her home for the last week. Or had it been longer? He’d sent flowers daily, along with excuses.

  Pelham was welcome to her.

  He spotted Lady Sirena hunched near the wall and irritation spiked in him. She was a guest. She could drop the meek companion performance tonight.

  If he joined her, he’d prove to her and to everyone, that in this house, she was an equal.

  He shook himself. Joining her wouldn’t help the lady, it would only incite gossip.

  The tones of the harp washed over him, striking on every nerve. Normally he enjoyed his sister’s musical attempts. Now, he could only wish he might find the right, polite moment to leave his station in the back of the room.

  Father’s head swiveled, his lips pressing into a frown when their gazes met.

  And perhaps he would join the fair Lady Sirena just to poke the old man’s goat. And drag her off to a side room where he might kiss her silly.

  He eased in a breath, and tried to let the flat notes and jumbled chords divert him. Shaldon turned his gaze back to the dais, and finally the first piece ended. Jocelyn cast a smirk his way, then leaned to whisper in Pelham’s ear. He in turn said something to make her laugh.

  The next piece began, an ensemble with Perry’s friends, drawing all eyes to the front.

  His gaze sought out Lady Sirena like a bee searching after a flower and—she was gone.

  Chapter 7

  Bakeley backed stealthily to the door, thinking.

  Soon after her arrival, Lady Sirena had left the room, and had only returned as the performance was starting, with Lady Arbrough in tow. Both had most likely been in the salon set aside for the ladies.

  Lady Sirena might truly be ill. She might not have been lying about megrims.

  As the host, he was entitled to check. It was more properly left to the hostess, but she was thick in the middle of an étude.

  He knocked at the retiring room door, and the maid in attendance said no one was there except herself. He opened his mouth to ask about the lady in the yellow dress, but then remembered—the maid, like every other servant in this house, was likely to share his questioning with the housekeeper, who would speak to the butler, and sooner or later, Shaldon would hear of it.

  The strands of music filtered through the corridors. Where would she have gone?

  That was the wrong question. Why would she go off exploring the home of the Earl of Shaldon?

  Why, indeed. Shaldon was all tied up in her family’s troubles. Perhaps she, too, would be looking for the same thing he’d searched days in a row for—a file on the Hollisters.

  His father’s study wasn’t on the first floor, and it would be locked. Even if she could find the room on her own, she wouldn’t be able to enter.

  Unless she could pick a very complicated lock, which, being Irish, she probably could.

  The other places to search were his father’s bedchamber and the library. Even if she found her way up the stairs to the correct bedchamber, the valet might be there, fussing about with his father’s things.

  The library it was.

  He followed the corridor to the other side of the house and listened a moment at the closed door, then turned the latch. A low fire burned in the fireplace, and the room was disturbingly quiet.

  Yet he sensed a presence, heard a rustle suddenly shushed. The only scent in the air was the stale smoke of cigars. Lady Sirena used no scent that he could recall, or perhaps her perfume was too subtle amongst the cloying perfumes of the other ladies.

  As his eyes adjusted, he spotted a candelabra and went about lighting the tapers. “I do hope Perry is not disappointed that I have a megrim...also,” he said.

  When he looked up from the lit candles, she had moved in front of the fire.

  “I shall return then.” She stepped out toward the door.

  He blocked her path and heard her small gasp. And smelled her, a faint hint of some flowery soap.

  She stepped to one side, and he matched her, as in their dance at the Hackwells’ ball.

  “Pray, sir, what are you about? Sure, and I mayn’t be here all alone with you.”

  The lilting words warmed h
im. “Whatever are you doing in the library?”

  “Have I offended? I am sorry. I do have the headache, and I could find no peace in the ladies’ retiring room.”

  “Ah. Is that where you befriended Lady Arbrough?”

  Her low chuckle moved over him. “Aye. I walked up to the fashionable lady and asked her to help poor me back to the music room.” She clucked her tongue. “Do you think? For some reason, it was the lady befriending me. Said we will be fast friends, which Lady Perry said also tonight, and her I may believe.”

  “Lady Arbrough is starting trouble.”

  “Are you and she friends then? Two peas from the same pod?” She tried to skirt him again, and he matched her—again. “Let me pass and the trouble will be less.”

  He took a step closer, close enough to feel the swirl of her skirt, and his heart lifted. “Lady Arbrough...until very recently was a very close...friend.”

  And that friendship was over. He would talk to Jocelyn on the morrow.

  He felt a shock travel through her, and when she spoke her voice trembled with it. “Your amorous congress—isn’t that what it’s called?—is nothing to me. I’m leaving now. Take your sorry self out of my way and let me pass.”

  “No.” He snatched up her hand. “You look lovely tonight. Stay. Keep me company.”

  She tried to pull away but he reached for her other hand.

  “Do not do this, sir.”

  The anger was giving way to fear, though whether it was real or feigned he couldn’t tell. He drew her closer to the light. Her eyes glowed with that same luminosity he’d noticed at Hackwell’s ball, her lips were plump and inviting, and gold highlights bounced off her dress and her hair. She was a beauty in daylight. By candlelight, she was a goddess, a golden siren. No wonder she’d had to run away from the cousin.

  And that thought brought him up. He didn’t ravish women, unless they wanted it. This girl didn’t want it.