To Seduce a Sinner

by Elizabeth Hoyt

  Oaks had put himself together by now, and he cast a rather fishy eye on his master. “The viscountess had specific instructions for the animal when she broke her fast an hour ago, my lord.”

  Which was when it finally dawned on Jasper that he might’ve been an ass. He winced. To be fair, he’d never been particularly quick in the morning. But even for him, shouting at his new wife on the day after their marriage was a bit beyond the pale.

  “I shall instruct Cook to make another breakfast for you, my lord,” Oaks said.

  “No.” Jasper sighed. “I’m no longer hungry.” He stared meditatively at the door a minute more before deciding that he hadn’t the eloquence at the moment to apologize to his wife. Some might call him a coward, but discretion was the better part of valor when it came to women. “Have my horse brought ’round.”

  “My lord.” Oaks bowed and whispered from the room. Amazing how lightly the man moved on his feet.

  The young footman still stood in the breakfast room. He looked as if he wanted to say something.

  Jasper sighed. He hadn’t even had his tea before the dog had spoiled his meal. “Yes?”

  “Should I tell her ladyship that you’re off?” the fellow asked, and Jasper felt like a cad. Even the footman knew better than he how to behave with a wife.

  “Yes, do.” And then he avoided his footman’s eyes and strode from the room.

  A little more than half an hour later, Jasper was riding through the crowded streets of London, headed to a town house in Lincoln Inns Fields. The sun was out again, and the populace seemed determined to enjoy the fair weather, even at this early hour. Street venders were stationed at strategic corners, bawling their wares, fashionable ladies strolled arm in arm, and carriages lumbered by like ships in full sail.

  Six months ago, when he and Sam Hartley had questioned survivors of the Spinner’s Falls massacre, they hadn’t been able to contact every soldier. Many had gone missing. Many were old men, crippled and reduced to begging and thieving. They lived their lives on the edge—the possibility that they might fall off and disappear at any moment was a real one. Or perhaps the danger was simply fading into oblivion, not so much dying as ceasing to live. In any case, many had been impossible to locate.

  Then there were the survivors like Sir Alistair Munroe. Munroe hadn’t actually been a soldier in the 28th but a naturalist attached to the regiment and charged with discovering and recording the animal and plant life for His Majesty. Of course, when the regiment had been attacked at Spinner’s Falls, the hostile Indians hadn’t made a distinction between soldier and civilian. Munroe had been in the group captured with Jasper and suffered the same fate as those who’d been eventually ransomed. Jasper shuddered at the thought as he halted his mare, letting a team of shouting sedan-chair bearers past. Not everyone who had been captured and force-marched through the dark and mosquito-infested woods of America had come back alive. And those who had survived were not the same men as they’d been before. Sometimes Jasper thought he’d left a piece of his soul in those dark woods. . . .

  He shook the thought away and guided Belle into the wide, fashionable square of Lincoln Inns Field. The house he rode to was a tall elegant redbrick with white trim around the windows and door. He dismounted and handed the reins to a waiting boy before mounting the steps and knocking. A few minutes later, the butler showed him into a study.

  “Vale!” Matthew Horn rose from behind a large desk and held out his hand. “ ’Tis the day after your wedding. I hadn’t thought to see you so soon.”

  Jasper took the other man’s hand. Horn wore a white wig and had the pale skin of a redheaded man. His cheeks often had reddened patches from the wind or his razor, and no doubt he’d be ruddy by the time he was fifty. His jaw and cheekbones were heavy and angular as if to balance his pretty complexion. In contrast, his eyes were light blue and warm, with laugh lines crinkling the corners, though he hadn’t yet seen his thirtieth birthday.

  “I am a blackguard to leave my lady wife so soon.” Jasper dropped Horn’s hand and stepped back. “But the matter is pressing, I fear.”

  “Please. Sit.”

  Jasper flicked the skirts of his coat aside and lowered himself into the chair opposite Horn’s desk. “How is your mother?”

  Horn cast his eyes to the ceiling as if he could see into his mother’s bedroom in the floor above. “She is bedridden, I fear, but her spirits are bright. I take tea with her every afternoon if I can, and she always wants to know the latest gossip.”

  Jasper smiled.

  “You mentioned Spinner’s Falls at the Eddings musicale,” Horn said.

  “Yes. Do you remember Sam Hartley? Corporal Hartley? He was a Colonial attached to our regiment to guide us to Fort Edward.”

  “Yes?”

  “He came to London last September.”

  “When I was touring Italy.” Horn leaned back in his chair to pull a bell cord. “I’m sorry to’ve missed him.”

  Jasper nodded. “He came to see me. He showed me a letter that had come into his hands.”

  “What sort of letter?”

  “It detailed the march of the 28th Regiment of Foot from Quebec to Fort Edward, including the route we would take and the exact time we’d be at Spinner’s Falls.”

  “What?” Horn’s eyes had narrowed, and suddenly Jasper could see that this man was no longer a boy. Had not been a boy for some time.

  Jasper leaned forward. “We were betrayed, our position given to the French and their Indian allies. The regiment walked into a trap and was slaughtered at Spinner’s Falls.”

  The door to Horn’s study opened, and the butler entered, a tall, thin fellow. “Sir?”

  Horn blinked. “Ah . . . yes. Have Cook send up some tea.”

  The butler bowed and retreated.

  Horn waited until the door closed before speaking. “But who could’ve done this? The only ones who knew of our route were the guides and the officers.” He tapped his fingers on his desk. “You’re sure? Did you see this letter Hartley had? Perhaps he mistook it.”

  But Jasper was already shaking his head. “I saw the letter; there is no mistake. We were betrayed. Hartley and I thought it was Dick Thornton.”

  “You said that you’d talked to him before he was hung.”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  Jasper inhaled deeply. “Thornton swore he wasn’t the traitor. He insinuated it was one of the men captured by the Indians.”

  For a moment, Horn stared at him, his eyes widening; then abruptly he shook his head and laughed. “Why would you believe a murderer like Thornton?”

  Jasper glanced at his hands, clasped together between his spread knees. He’d asked himself the same question many times. “Thornton knew he was going to die. He had no reason to lie to me.”

  “Except the reason of a madman.”

  Jasper nodded. “Even so . . . Thornton was a prisoner in chains when we marched. He was at the back of the line. I think he may’ve seen things, heard things the rest of us missed because we were busy leading the regiment.”

  “And if you accept Thornton’s accusations as truth, where does that take you?”

  Jasper watched him, not moving.

  Horn spread his hands. “What? Do you think I betrayed us, Vale? Do you think I asked to be tortured until my voice was hoarse from screaming? You know the nightmares I suffered from. You know—”

  “Hush,” Jasper said. “Stop. Of course I don’t think you—”

  “Then who?” Horn looked at him, his eyes blazing through his tears. “Who among us would betray the entire regiment? Nate Growe? They cut off half his fingers. Munroe? They cut out only his eye; that’s little enough for what must’ve been a grand payment.”

  “Matthew—”

  “Then St. Aubyn? Oh, but he’s dead. Perhaps he miscalculated and got himself burned at the stake for his troubles. Or—”

  “Shut it, damn you!” Jasper’s voice was low, but it was harsh enough to cut through Horn’
s awful recitation. “I know. I know all that, damn it.”

  Horn closed his eyes and said quietly, “Then you know none of us could have done it.”

  “Someone did. Someone set a trap and walked four hundred men into an abattoir.”

  Horn grimaced. “Shit.”

  A maid entered then, bearing a laden tea tray. Both men were silent while she set it up on a corner of the desk. The door closed gently behind her when she left.

  Jasper looked at his old friend, his comrade in arms so long ago.

  Horn pushed a pile of papers to the side of his desk. “What do you want me to do?”

  “I want you to help me find who betrayed us,” Jasper said. “And then help me kill him.”

  IT WAS WELL past the dinner hour when Lord Vale finally returned home. Melisande knew this because the large sitting room at the front of the house had a terribly ugly clock on the mantelpiece. Fat pink nymphs cavorted about the clock face in a manner that was no doubt meant to be erotic. Melisande snorted. How little the man who had designed that clock knew of true eroticism. At her feet, Mouse had sat up at the sound of Lord Vale’s arrival. Now he trotted to the door to sniff at the crack.

  She pulled a silk thread carefully through her embroidery hoop, leaving behind a perfect French knot on the right side of the fabric. She was pleased at how steady her fingers were. Maybe with continued proximity to Vale, she’d overcome her terrible sensitivity to him. Lord knew that the anger that had built during the hours she had waited for him certainly helped in that regard. Oh, she still felt his presence, still longed for his company, but those feelings were presently masked with exasperation. She hadn’t seen him since breakfast, hadn’t received word that he wouldn’t be home for supper. Theirs might be a marriage of convenience, but that didn’t mean that simple courtesy must be thrown out the window.

  She could hear her husband talking in the hallway with the butler and footmen. Not for the first time that evening, she wondered if he’d entirely forgotten that he had a wife. Oaks seemed like a capable man. Perhaps he’d remind his master of her existence.

  The ugly clock on the mantel chimed the quarter hour, the tones tinny and flat. Melisande frowned and placed another stitch. The smaller yellow and white sitting room at the back of the house was much prettier. The only reason she’d chosen this sitting room was because of its proximity to the front hall. Vale would have to walk past to go to his rooms.

  The sitting room door opened, startling Mouse, who jumped back and then, as if realizing he’d been caught in retreat, leapt forward to bark at Lord Vale’s ankles. Lord Vale gazed down at Mouse. Melisande had the distinct impression that he wouldn’t mind kicking her dog.

  “Sir Mouse,” she called to prevent any tragedy.

  Mouse gave one last bark, trotted over to her, and jumped up on the settee beside her.

  Lord Vale closed the door and advanced into the room, making a bow to her. “Good evening, madam wife. I apologize for my absence at dinner.”

  Humph. Melisande inclined her head and gestured to the chair opposite her. “I am sure the business that detained you was most important, my lord.”

  Lord Vale leaned back in his chair and laid one ankle over the opposite knee. “Pressing, yes, but whether important or not, I don’t know. It seemed so at the time.” He flicked a finger against the skirts of his coat.

  She set another stitch. He seemed somehow downcast this evening, as if his usual joie de vivre had deserted him. Her outrage deflated as she wondered what had made him somber.

  Lord Vale frowned at her and Mouse. “That settee is covered in satin.”

  Mouse laid his head on her lap. Melisande stroked his nose. “Yes. I know.”

  Lord Vale opened his mouth and then closed it. His gaze roamed the room, and she could almost feel his need to jump up and pace. Instead, he drummed his long fingers against the arm of his chair. He looked tired and, with the humor in his eyes gone, older.

  She hated to see him down. It made her heart ache. “Would you care for a brandy? Or something from the kitchen? I’m sure Cook has some kidney pie left over from dinner.”

  He shook his head.

  She watched him a moment, perplexed. She’d loved this man for years, but in many ways, she didn’t know him. She didn’t know what to do for him when he was weary and sad. She looked down, her brows knit, and snipped off the end of her thread. From her basket, she selected a silk the exact shade of ripe raspberries.

  Lord Vale stopped drumming. “Your design looks like a lion.”

  “That’s because it is a lion,” she murmured as she placed the first stitch in the lion’s lolling tongue.

  “Isn’t that unusual?”

  She glanced at him beneath lowered brows.

  A small amount of amusement crept into his face. “Not that it’s not a fine piece of embroidery. Very, ah, pretty.”

  “Thank you.”

  He drummed some more.

  She outlined the lion’s tongue and began to fill it in with smooth satin stitches. It was nice to sit here together even if they both didn’t know quite what to do. She silently sighed. Perhaps that wisdom would come with time.

  Lord Vale stopped drumming. “Almost forgot. Got you something whilst I was out.” He fished in his coat pocket.

  Melisande laid aside her embroidery hoop to accept a small box.

  “A token apology for shouting at you this morning,” Lord Vale said. “I was a cad and a blackguard and the worst of husbands.”

  A corner of her mouth tilted up. “You weren’t quite that bad.”

  He shook his head. “It’s not the thing, to yell like a madman at one’s lady wife, and I won’t do it as a rule, I assure you. At least not after I’ve had my morning tea, in any case.”

  She opened the box to find small garnet-drop earrings. “How lovely.”

  “You like them?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  Across from her, he nodded and leapt to his feet. “Excellent. I’ll bid you a good night, then.”

  She felt the brush of his lips against her hair, and then he was at the door. He touched the doorknob and then half turned toward her. “I say, no need to wait up for me tonight.”

  She arched an eyebrow.

  He grimaced. “That is, I shan’t be coming to your rooms. Too soon after our wedding night, what? I just thought you should know so you wouldn’t be worried. Sleep well, my heart.”

  She inclined her head, biting her lip to keep back the tears, but he was already out the door.

  Melisande blinked rapidly, then looked back to the little box with the garnet earrings. They were quite lovely, but she never wore earrings. Her ears weren’t pierced. She touched one of the garnets with a fingertip and wondered if he’d ever looked—really looked—at her at all.

  She closed the box gently and put it in her embroidery bag. Then she gathered her things and left the room, Mouse trailing behind.

  Chapter Five

  The second beggar stood, and all his rags fell away, revealing a horrible thing, half beast, half man, and entirely covered with black and rotting scales.

  “Damn me, will you?” rasped the demon, for such it obviously was. “I will see you damned in my stead!”

  Jack began to shrink, his legs and arms growing shorter, until he stood only the height of a child. At the same time, his nose grew and hooked down until it nearly met his chin, which had elongated and curved up.

  The demon roared with laughter and vanished in a sulfurous cloud of smoke. And then Jack stood all alone in the road, the sleeves of his soldier’s uniform trailing in the dust. . . .

  —from LAUGHING JACK

  “Ah, lovely,” Jasper said over dinner three days later. “Beef and gravy with Yorkshire pudding, the very epitome of an English supper.” Could he sound any more of an ass if he tried?

  He sipped from his wineglass and watched over the rim to see if his new wife would agree with his self- assessment of assedness, but as usual, the dratted woman wore a poli
te mask.

  “Cook does make a pleasant Yorkshire pudding,” she murmured.

  He’d hardly seen her in the last few days, and this was the first supper they’d shared together. Yet she didn’t scold or fret or indeed show any emotion at all. He set his wineglass down and tried to pinpoint the source of his discontent. This was what he’d wanted, surely? To have a complacent wife, one who didn’t make scenes or cause a fuss? He’d thought—when he’d thought ahead at all—that he’d see her now and again, escort her to the odd ball, and when she’d become safely pregnant, discreetly take a mistress. He was well on the way to achieving that goal.

  And yet the reality was oddly dissatisfying.

  “We’ve invitations to Lady Graham’s annual masked ball, I noticed,” he said as he cut his beef. “Rather a tedious event, of course, what with the need to wear masks. Mine always makes me hot and gives me a terrible urge to sneeze. But I thought you might like to come?”

  She winced slightly as she raised her glass of wine. “Thank you for asking, but I don’t think so.”

  “Ah.” He applied himself to his meat, feeling a twinge of disappointment. “If a mask is the problem, I can have one made in a trice. Perhaps a gilt one with feathers and little jewels about the eyes?”

  She smiled at that. “I should look like a crow in a peacock’s finery. Thank you, but no.”

  “Of course.”

  “I trust you’ll attend, however,” she said. “I wouldn’t wish to spoil your enjoyment.”

  He thought of the endless damnable night hours and how he tried to fill them with the company of drunken strangers. “Most kind. I’m afraid I can’t withstand the temptation of a masquerade ball. Perhaps it’s the pleasure of watching otherwise dignified gentlemen and ladies prance about in dominoes and masks. Childish, I know, but there it is.”

  She didn’t comment but merely watched him as she sipped from her wineglass. A single line had incised itself between her brows. Perhaps he’d revealed too much.

  “You look lovely tonight,” he said to change the subject. “The candlelight becomes you.”

  “I’m disappointed.” She shook her head sadly. “I sit with one of London’s most famous lovers, and he tells me the candlelight becomes me.”