Temptation's Kiss

by Lisa Bingham

  Tonight she hoped to rekindle such memories. She hoped to drag him so deeply into the illusion of power that he would not know how much she’d used him until long after Richard was free.

  Nigel’s choice of costumes for her to wear to the Solstice Masquerade only seemed to enhance her purposes. The gown could barely be called a gown. Fashioned from a single swath of white raw silk, it fell from one shoulder, draping at her breasts and waist, and leaving an indecent amount of her arms and shoulders bare. Fresh rose petals had been sewn strategically over her breasts, down to her hips, her thighs, and from there to the floor-length hem. There were no shoes. Merely a band of gold for her ankle and one for her arm. As she put on the ornaments, the cool metal bit into her skin like shackles. But Chelsea knew that this time, this time, she would be the winner in such a diabolical game.

  The door opened, and Nigel appeared. His jaw was rock hard, his features pinched. But when he saw Chelsea, his entire demeanor became enigmatic, hidden behind his ultimate charm.

  “How lovely you look. Just like a rose. A pristine rose.”

  He walked up behind her to clasp her shoulders, forcing her to look at their combined reflection in the mirror. His fingers dug into her skin, then gentled, stroked. He lifted her arm and bent to place a kiss at the tender indentation of her elbow.

  Chelsea fought the instinctive revulsion and kept her features carefully blank.

  “There’s just one tiny problem.” He plucked at the pins binding her hair, unraveling the red-gold plaits into a brilliant cascade of curls. Next, he dropped a golden demi-mask over her face and tied the ribbon. “Better. Much, much better.” Taking her hand, he settled it into the crook of his arm. “Shall we?”

  Chelsea fell docilely into step beside him. They would make a striking couple, she knew. Nigel had dressed to perfection in the role of a Roman emperor. A wreath of laurel surrounded his head. A white brocade toga draped his body, leaving a portion of his calves free. The hems were adorned with gold metallic embroidery, as were the leather sandals on his feet.

  The music grew louder as they descended the grand staircase. As always, Nigel had waited until most of his guests had arrived before appearing. At the threshold to the ballroom, he paused, surveying the guttering scene below.

  His guests had risen to the challenge of the ball’s theme. The room was filled with every fantastical design imaginable. Costumes had been chosen to represent all manner of heathen elements, from the American Indian to the Aborigine, Africans to Polynesians. There were kings and queens, storybook characters, and period gods and goddesses. Some of the costumes were representational facsimiles, while others were so brief or suggestive, they bordered on the obscene.

  The majordomo took his position to the right of the shallow staircase leading down to the dance floor. Tapping his staff on the marble tile three times, he ponderously announced, “Nigel, Lord Sutherland, seventh Earl of Lindon, and his ward, Gelsey O’Rourke.”

  The assembled crowd turned. In a round of enthusiastic applause, they welcomed their host. Nigel accepted the accolade much like Caesar returning from battle. “Come, my friends … laugh, mingle, enjoy the music and wine. Then, upon the stroke of midnight, the first dance will begin. Choose your partners well. For he who selects his mate during the solstice waltz will never be alone again.”

  His yearly salute was met with a round of exuberant clapping. Nigel signaled for the orchestra to begin. As the strains of a nocturne filled the air, he drew Chelsea into the crush of people.

  So began her hell.

  Chapter 24

  Chelsea became Nigel’s pawn, his showpiece. She was paraded in front of his guests like a brood mare. She was forced to converse with his business associates and hang on Nigel’s every word.

  Soon the evening took on an aura of unreality. The heat of the room became excruciating. The smells of rich food, expensive wine, cologne, and candle smoke were overwhelming. She longed to escape, to rush out into the garden for a gasp of fresh air, but she didn’t dare. Not when she knew that Richard would appear soon to stake his claim.

  She feared that moment. She knew she would look up to see that he regarded her, not with love, but with disgust Each time the majordomo tapped his staff, she felt as if the sound went right through her very soul.

  “Lady Alice Beaman and her cousin Roland Hall.”

  “Sir Barton Bartholomew, Baronet of Dorset.”

  “Edgar, Lord Finney, emissary of His Royal Majesty William IV.”

  At the last, a hush of respect settled over the company. A smattering of applause followed the portly gentleman who frowned beneath a ponderous mustache and made his way to Nigel’s side. He was accompanied by a dour-faced guard.

  Chelsea, who had turned upon the man’s entrance, gazed at him in confusion. Lord Finney bore a remarkable resemblance to Alby Littleton, the town’s baker. But she couldn’t be sure …

  “Sutherland.”

  “Lord Finney, I am delighted to make your acquaintance. This is indeed an honor to have you with us this evening.”

  “Doubt it,” the man mumbled, staring at Nigel through the lens of his eyepiece. “I have not come for the entertainment but upon official business. However, I see you have guests, so I will hold my questions until a later time.”—he paused and added significantly—“when we can speak privately.”

  “Of course. Enjoy yourself, my lord.”

  Chelsea saw a tightness edge Nigel’s lips. The blaze of emotion she’d seen earlier returned.

  “Is anything wrong?”

  “No. No, of course not.”

  The tapping of the majordomo caused them both to start.

  “Alice Carter, Addlebury’s school mistress.”

  Nigel’s eyes widened, clinging to the woman on the stairs. “What in the—”

  It became clear to Chelsea that this woman had not been invited. Her clothing was simple, her demeanor curious. As she stepped into the throng, Nigel’s irritation was palpable. Summoning a servant, he said, “That woman is not on the list. See to her dismissal.”

  The servant bowed in obeisance and made his way toward the majordomo. Before he could reach the man, however, another set of guests arrived, their appearances even more humble than that of Alice Carter.

  “Mrs. Jonathan Sike, and her children, Annabelle, Grover, and Laurel.”

  Another pair arrived. “Mr. and Mrs. Horace Weatherby.”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Peter Gunge.”

  “Mrs. Eli Kipper and companion.”

  Muttering an oath, Nigel began to dodge toward the door, pulling Chelsea along behind him. He had gone less than a few yards when the footman he’d sent to intercept such announcements met him halfway.

  Nigel growled and grasped him by the shirtfront. “What in damnation is going on here?”

  The servant gasped and held out a vellum card. “They’ve all been invited, they have. What with your crest on the seal, Carlton said he had to let them in.”

  Nigel released him so suddenly the man nearly fell. Realizing he was creating a scene, Nigel smiled at his guests, waved for them to continue with their activities, then examined the paper.

  It was his invitation.

  His seal.

  Beads of sweat appeared on his forehead, and his grip became viselike.

  “Mr. Wilson, solicitor.”

  He jerked as if someone had clipped him in the jaw. The solicitor nodded to Nigel and descended into the crowd.

  “Mr. Rupert Cane.”

  Cane. Cane?

  But the man who appeared was a giant, not the stranger who had stolen his home. This man wore his clothes in a rakish style, giving him the air of a pirate.

  “Mr. Gregory Wicket Cane.”

  That was he! That was the brigand who had forced Nigel to behave so recklessly. Dressed all in black with a dark demi-mask, he appeared to be the thief he was.

  Still holding Chelsea’s wrist, he plowed through the human sea,
his free hand closing over the jeweled hilt of the dagger tucked into the belt girding his waist.

  Then, in the seconds before Nigel could make his way to the doorway, a lean, familiar figure stepped into view.

  Chelsea stopped, digging in her heels at the sight. As the lone man stopped at the head of the staircase, a hush settled over the room at the formidable power of his presence. Unlike the rest of the guests, he was clothed in elegant black evening togs and a snowy shirt. His cravat had been tied to perfection. But his hair, that long, streaming, black-brown hair, had been left loose and flowing, cascading to his shoulders, clearly proclaiming that this man would be dangerous if crossed.

  He scanned the ballroom, immediately settling upon his goal. Chelsea felt a thrill rush through her when their glances connected briefly. Then he looked away, spearing Nigel with a fulminating glare.

  The majordomo tapped his staff. The quiet of the room became overpowering. “Richard Albert, Lord Sutherland, the seventh Earl of Lindon.”

  A furor erupted in the ballroom, but Nigel laughed, dispelling the claim that had been made by saying, “How clever of you to come in costume as one of the mysterious rumors of the long-lost Sutherland heir. Bravo. Bravo!”

  There was a titter of laughter about him. His guests returned to their activities, leaving Nigel virtually unnoticed as he confronted his foe for the first time.

  “I must congratulate you,” he rasped. “You have been much more clever than I would have imagined possible.” His grip tightened around Chelsea’s bones to an excruciating degree, but outwardly he appeared calm.

  Sullivan merely inclined his head, ever watchful, ever ready.

  “The added guests were a brilliant touch. The invitations were your doing, I suppose?”

  Sullivan held up his left fist to reveal the sparkle of the Sutherland family signet. Chelsea regarded it in surprise. How? She had never returned the ring given to her that first night. That evening, she’d pulled aside the tarpaulin …

  “The Mr. Canes? Mr. Wilson? Your associates, I believe.”

  “Not entirely. But I’m sure Mr. Wilson can be persuaded to join me in my cause. Tell me, Lord Sutherland, how is your wife? Your son?”

  Nigel’s lips grew white around the edges, but he continued. “I have indeed encountered a master.” He seemed to struggle for control, then added, “But you should have dressed for the part, don’t you think? After all, from what I’ve heard, you’re little more than a savage. You should have come dressed in your true colors.”

  “Who is to say who is the savage among us, Lord Sutherland?”

  Nigel didn’t bother to respond to the barely veiled insult. Whipping an arm around Chelsea’s waist, he hauled her close to his body. The movement was subtle yet calculated, so that no one but he, Chelsea, and Richard would ever notice the knifepoint digging into her ribs beneath the drape of her gown.

  Nigel forced her from the room and into one of the halls.

  Chelsea bucked against him, but he hissed, “One word, one scream, and I will kill you first, then your heathen, and feed you both to the wolves.”

  He dragged her to his study, threw her inside, and locked the door behind them. Think, think! It was obvious to him that he was being circled like a rabbit in a hole, but it was also quite clear that Richard Sutherland could not have arranged such a neat little plan. He knew too much—too much! He knew each weakness, each vulnerability: Estella, Cecil, Nigel’s willingness to gamble. He had taken Nigel’s home and now threatened his titles—not to mention arranging for the presence of a special investigator. The feat would have taken weeks to arrange. Weeks and weeks. Which meant that Richard Sutherland had been fed important information by a traitor within Nigel’s own household.

  But who? Who?

  A slight tap on the door caused him to jump.

  “Who is it?” he barked, warning Chelsea with a glance not to make a sound.

  “Thomas, sir.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Is there a problem, sir? I saw the light beneath the door.”

  “No, Thomas. Thank you. Please return to our guests. I shall be out shortly.”

  “Very good, sir.” At the squeak of a floorboard, Nigel quickly asked, “Thomas, has Mr. Wilde returned?”

  “No, sir. The runner from the magistrate came up to the house a few minutes ago to say Mr. Wilde was detained.”

  “The magistrate?” Nigel repeated blankly.

  “Yes, sir. Jackie’s still here if you’d like to talk to the boy.”

  “No. Thank you, Thomas.” More weakly, “No.”

  Nigel felt a numbing disbelief, a chilling suspicion. Turning, he walked behind the desk to the hidden panels. As he opened them wide, he felt a clutch of disbelief, a jolt of horror. The light of the candles on the far sconces revealed not canvas, not painted linens and velvet skin, but bare wall. An iron safe slightly ajar.

  Only Reggie had a spare set of keys to the panels, the safe. Damn him. Damn him! Crying out in rage, Nigel swung open the iron doors.

  Gone. Everything was gone. His documents, his diaries, his private ledgers. Everything! Inside, there was a single scrap of paper. Upon lifting it for his examination, one word in particular seemed to leap from the page: evicted.

  Reginald Wilde had joined the enemy. Reginald Wilde had supplied him with every damning shred of evidence possible.

  That betrayal sliced more deeply than any other.

  For the first time in his life, Nigel was running scared. He had to escape. He had to be quit of this place before Reginald appeared to uncover all of his blackest crimes.

  He dodged toward the secret passageway, but as he pressed the hidden latch, the panels refused to give way—as if someone held them from the opposite side. Nigel swore, pounding on the wood, thrusting against it with his shoulder, but it would not open.

  “The windows,” he whispered to himself, but upon reaching them, he saw a pair of men dressed all in black, pointing revolvers at him from the other side of the glass.

  Grasping Chelsea’s arm, he dodged back into the hall, intent upon finding some exit, some escape. But he stopped short when one end of the corridor was blocked by a pair of huge men who generally tended to the mews. The glint of their eyes and the stance of their beefy legs revealed that Richard Sutherland’s treachery had reached as far as his own servants.

  His only avenue was to return to the ballroom. He yanked at Chelsea’s arm, but the recalcitrant girl balked each step of the way, screeching and clawing at him like a cornered cat. Whirling to face her, he leveled the knife tip at her throat. “One more sound, one more defiant overture, and I will kill your precious Richard Sutherland this very eve.”

  The rebellious tilt of her chin remained, but she followed him more meekly. Meanwhile, from the far corners of the house, the various clocks began to chime.

  One. Two.

  Nigel reentered the crowded ballroom.

  Three. Four.

  His guests parted and allowed him to pass to the center of the floor.

  Five. Six.

  The orchestra stilled in midnote. A hush fell over the crowd.

  Seven.

  The tradition. The solstice waltz. It could prove to be his salvation. No one but the master of the house was to dance during the first refrain. If he could lead Chelsea toward the guillotine windows on the far side of the room, he could escape as soon as the crush of guests began selecting partners.

  Eight.

  He nodded to the conductor. The lilting refrains of Chopin filled the perfumed air. Tucking the knife back into his belt, Nigel whirled Chelsea into his arms.

  Nine.

  Slowly, surely, he led her in circles around the space cleared for them by the eager crowd.

  Ten.

  Chelsea found herself drawn into the dance, whirling, spinning, turning. She felt Nigel’s hands grow clammy against her. He was leading her toward the windows. She knew he would try to escape, ta
king her with him as his hostage.

  Eleven.

  Then, over her captor’s shoulder, she saw him. He strode toward her. His lips moved. He did not say the phrase aloud, but they burned into her soul nevertheless.

  “Trust me.”

  The words speared through her heart, reminding her of the plea he’d once made.

  Trust me enough to see this through. To take care of you—and of me.

  Nigel never anticipated her intentions. As she twisted free from his grasp, he gaped at her for one fleeting instant, so surprised he didn’t even think to reach for the weapon tucked into his belt.

  Twelve.

  A murmur rose from the crowd as Richard ushered her behind him, using his body as a shield.

  “Damn you!” Nigel shouted, whipping the knife free and raising it high.

  Women screamed. Guests scrambled toward the exits, but at Richard’s softly spoken demand, they stopped, turned.

  “I reclaim the Sutherland titles and estates in the name of my grandfather, Richard Albert Sutherland II, whom you murdered, and my father, Richard Albert Sutherland III, whom you disgraced, and in the name of all the true heirs whom you supplanted.”

  “No,” Nigel ground out between clenched teeth. “You lie!”

  Two figures stepped forward to flank Richard Sutherland on either side. The men who had come to the party under the name of Cane.

  “This needn’t be a public trial, Nigel. Drop the knife. We’ll go somewhere quiet and—”

  “No! I didn’t kill them, I tell you. It wasn’t me. It—”

  “No, Nigel! Don’t say anything more.” Reginald Wilde burst into the room and lunged down the staircase. “It’s a ploy. A ploy, I tell you. These men are impostors. They don’t—”

  “You!” Nigel spun to face his secretary. “You did this to me. You played me for a fool!”

  He lifted the blade high and whipped it down again in a swinging arc.

  Reginald leapt out of the way, but not before the metal sliced through his shirt, gashing his arm.