Seduced by a Scoundrel Read online

  “Oh, Ger,” she said, leaning across the table to place her hand over his bony fingers. “How dreadful for you.”

  A telltale brilliance in his green eyes, he swallowed convulsively and looked away. Then he thrust back his chair, the wooden legs scraping the flagstones. “I’d best get on with it,” he said with wobbly cheer. “Can’t send off the old girl without a proper brushing.” Trudging across the kitchen, he headed up the short flight of stairs to the tiny garden and the mews beyond.

  Alicia sipped the scalding hot tea to ease the lump in her throat. At the edge of her awareness, she heard the tap-tap of Mrs. Molesworth chopping vegetables for the soup at luncheon. The fire whispered on the stone hearth and the clock ticked on the mantelpiece. But the familiar cozy sounds of the kitchen held no comfort today.

  Blast Drake Wilder! He had lured a gullible youth to the gaming tables, milked him of money he didn’t possess, and forced Gerald to relinquish his most prized possession. She couldn’t excuse her brother’s part in the matter, yet she blamed Wilder for trapping an unwary young man.

  And after all that, he had expected her to marry him. The shock of it sent chills over her skin. She was ashamed to admit that for a fleeting instant, she’d been tempted by his offer. It would mean an end to their debts. To the effort of putting food on the table. She might even enjoy the luxury of having new, pretty garments to wear.…

  Then she had remembered Mama. She could never, ever let Drake Wilder practice his cruelties on her mother.

  To her chagrin, Drake Wilder had witnessed her brief indecision. She pictured him as he’d made his proposal: smug, overconfident, superior. With cool conceit, he had explained that he wished to be the equal of the noblemen who frequented his club. Her blue blood and impeccable lineage would grant him entrée to society.

  Alicia no longer considered herself superior to any other human being, though at one time she had been concerned unduly with appearances. She had been vain and self-centered, reveling in her position as one of the leading debutantes of the Season. All that had changed in a flick of the cards when her father had lost everything but this town house and a modest annuity. His death still haunted her. And now, after five humbling years of toil and grind, she had formed an appreciation and respect for the hardworking lower classes.

  But Drake Wilder was a breed apart. She felt a deep resentment that he aspired to be a gentleman. An ill-gained fortune did not entitle him to mingle in aristocratic circles.

  How gratifying it had been to refuse the scoundrel. He belonged in the rookeries with the coiners and thieves.

  Someone touched her back and she started. She looked up to see the familiar, care-worn face of the cook. “Mrs. Molesworth. I’m sorry, I was woolgathering.”

  “There, now, dearie. Don’t be frettin’ about ’is lordship. The lad wishes to make amends for ’is foolishness.” Shaking her head, Mrs. Molesworth pursed her lips. “Though ’e won’t get near twenty thousand for the mare.”

  “I know.” Alicia despaired of obtaining the remainder of the money. God help them if they were forced to sell the house. In its dilapidated state, it wouldn’t fetch much, and they needed a place to live anyway, where no one would heckle her mother. For the cook’s sake, she put on a brighter face. “At least we have a roof over our heads. Mama’s happy here, so we should count our blessings.”

  “Humph,” Mrs. Molesworth snorted, and lifted her thick arm to brandish a butcher knife. “I’d sooner take this blade and carve out the innards of that Drake Wilder.”

  So would I.

  Disturbed by her own savagery, Alicia said, “We mustn’t talk like that. I shan’t lower myself to his level.”

  “May’ap a lady like you wouldn’t, but by jings, I will. Let the bastard so much as sneeze in my ’earing, and I’ll spit ’im and roast ’im for dinner.”

  Alicia wondered what Mrs. Molesworth would do if she found out about Alicia’s visit to Wilder’s Club. That Alicia had offered to be his mistress. That he had laughed in her face and proposed his devil’s scheme instead.

  Hiding her trepidation, she left the table and collected the teapot from a shelf. The chipped china with its pink roses was the only item left of their once magnificent dinner service. Measuring out a spoonful of tea leaves from a drawer in the cupboard, she said over her shoulder, “I’ll take a breakfast tray up to Mama. She’ll be awakening soon.”

  Mrs. Molesworth bustled to the iron pot and dumped in the sliced carrots. “Soup’s on, and you’ve other matters to tend to, m’lady. I’ll take the first turn with ’er.”

  Alicia was painfully conscious of the fact that she’d been forced to let go the other servants, leaving a burden on the older woman. “But you do too much already.”

  “Bosh. I’ll get a’ead on the mendin’ whilst I sit with ’er ladyship.” Mrs. Molesworth thrust a plate into Alicia’s hands. “You sit back down and eat. ’Eaven knows when we’ll see beef for pasties again.”

  * * *

  Alicia was crouched on her hands and knees in the drawing room, fiercely polishing the baseboard, when someone rapped on the front door. Lost in thought, she kept working until the knocking sounded again and she remembered there was no longer a footman to answer the summons.

  Bedraggled and dirty, Alicia sat back on her heels, stuck out her lower lip, and blew a tendril of hair off her forehead. She was tempted to ignore the visitor. It was likely another creditor. But she would sooner know now than have a nasty surprise later.

  Stiff from kneeling on the bare wood floor, she dropped her cleaning rag into the bucket of soapy water, wiped her hands on her apron, and clambered to her feet. Stonily, she averted her gaze from the altered drawing room as she trudged out into the hall to open the front door.

  She blinked in dismay. At the curbstone loomed a fine black carriage, the horses held by a coachman. And on her doorstep stood a tall, debonair gentleman dressed in an impeccable gray coat and matching trousers. He removed his top hat and bowed, displaying a thatch of thickly silvering dark hair. Richard, the Marquess of Hailstock.

  “My lord,” she said, dipping a curtsy while brushing ineffectually at her soiled skirt. “This is most unexpected.”

  “My dear Alicia, forgive me for intruding.” His gray eyes flickered over her dishevelment, though he was too well-bred to comment. “I was hoping to speak with you, but if another time is more convenient…”

  Alicia had put him out of her mind after their angry parting two days ago. Yet his familiar distinguished features brought the spark of impossible hope. Perhaps, just perhaps, he had reconsidered.

  She stepped back. “Please come in, my lord.”

  Pretending she wore a glittering ball gown instead of a sadly rumpled work dress, she led him into the drawing room. Their footsteps echoed in the nearly empty chamber.

  The marquess stopped abruptly. “Good God,” he exclaimed. “What’s happened here?”

  She saw the oblong room through his eyes, the bare wood floor, the forlorn expanse of space, the blank walls with pale squares where paintings had once hung. Tears prickled the backs of her eyelids. She would not weep. She would not. Casually, she said, “I sold everything this morning.”

  Not more than an hour ago, the secondhand seller’s dray had hauled off the rosewood furniture and the rolled-up old carpet. Gone was the pianoforte where she had played as a girl, treasuring her father’s smile of pleasure. Gone were the pretty figurines her mother had once delighted in collecting. Gone was the dainty writing desk where Alicia had sat for the past two days, working and reworking the accounts, hoping to find a way to pay off their creditors. The twenty-three gold guineas she had been paid wouldn’t stretch far.

  Rather than give vent to despair, she had spent the past hour scrubbing the floors and moldings with a fury.

  “Please, sit down.” Penury didn’t mean she couldn’t be gracious. She led Lord Hailstock toward the only remaining pieces: a chaise and two frayed chairs by the hearth so that she and Mama and Gerald co
uld sit here of an evening. She might even persuade Mrs. Molesworth to bring her knitting here.

  “How is James?” she asked.

  Sorrow flashed in Hailstock’s eyes at the mention of his only son, an invalid. “He’s fine, but I haven’t come here today to talk about him. I need to talk about you.”

  He touched Alicia’s elbow and seated her beside him on the chaise. Against her will, she found herself melting at his gallantry, the genuine concern on his aristocratic features. He was a widower who had lost his second wife only the previous year. All her life, Alicia had known him as a friend of her parents, for Mama had grown up with his first wife, Claire. It had seemed awkward at first for Alicia to realize he was courting her. She had enjoyed the small luxuries he’d brought her, the sweets and the flowers and books. She had looked forward to their animated talks on everything from fashion to gardening. But though she was fond of him, she didn’t love him with the wild romantic ardor she had once dreamed of feeling for a man. Yet she was certain she could be happy with him, were it not for their one momentous difference of opinion.

  He took her chapped hand, gently pressing it between his sleek, kid-gloved fingers. She was distressingly aware of how reddened her skin was, no longer smooth and soft, the fingernails unbroken. “My dear Alicia,” he said, “it pains me so to see you reduced to living like a pauper. You come from one of the finest and oldest families in England.”

  The tiny flame of hope in her flared a little brighter. Had he come here to say he’d been wrong? That he would put no stipulation on their marriage? “I have no other recourse,” she said. “You know about Gerald’s debt. Mr. Wilder will be demanding repayment.”

  Something stormy flashed into Hailstock’s eyes, and his grip tightened on her. “That rabble! Your brother cannot be blamed for the weakness he inherited from his father. But I condemn Wilder for exploiting such a flaw.”

  “I pray Gerald has learned his lesson.” She thought of him, selling his prized mare in order to help repay the note, and a bittersweet pain clenched her breast. “I know he wouldn’t deliberately do anything to harm Mama and me.”

  “Nevertheless, the damage is done. And a fine lady like you cannot live like this.” Hailstock gestured at the empty chamber.

  “What else am I to do?” she murmured.

  “We can do what we discussed two days ago, when you came to me, asking for my help.” He touched her cheek and gazed deeply into her eyes. “Marry me, darling. Much as I dislike giving tuppence to that Wilder wretch, I would do it for you, if you were my wife. I came here today hoping you had reconsidered my offer.”

  How wonderful it would be to transfer her worries to him, to let him take care of her, to once again live the uncomplicated life of a lady. Alicia forced herself to ask, “Have you changed your mind in regard to Mama, then? Will you allow her to live with us?”

  His mouth thinned. “You must see how impossible that is. Please, don’t turn away.” His cool fingertips drew her face back toward him. “You must see that Lady Brockway belongs where she can be properly cared for by people experienced in these matters.”

  “I care for her properly,” Alicia flared. “I don’t know how you can forsake her. She and Papa were your friends once. I remember watching from the top of the stairs, seeing all of you laughing together at dinner parties and fancy balls. It made me happy to see Mama smile so gaily. She was the loveliest lady there.” She stopped, her throat taut.

  “All that is gone now,” the marquess said urgently. “’Tis regrettable, but time marches on and people do change. Wishing will not bring back the mother you once admired.”

  “I still admire her,” Alicia said fiercely. “That is where you and I differ. To me, she is no bit of rubbish to be tossed aside simply because you consider her an embarrassment.”

  His expression rigid, Hailstock sat back on the chaise. “Think, my dear. If you spurn my offer, there will be no one else willing to pay so much for your hand. Your brother will go to prison while you and your mother end up in the workhouse. Is that a better fate than what I propose?”

  Alicia shivered, for beneath the heat of her anger lay a cold kernel of fear. “If I must starve first, I will never, ever give Mama over to strangers. And to such a horrible place as you propose—”

  “M’lady!” Running footsteps thudded in the corridor, and Mrs. Molesworth burst into the drawing room, her round face flushed, her mobcap askew. “M’lady, you must come, and quickly!”

  Alicia sprang up from the chaise. Her insides knotting, she seized the cook’s broad shoulders. “Is it Mama?”

  “Aye. She was gatherin’ flowers in the garden, singin’ to ’erself while I pulled weeds. I nipped inside for a minute, just to stir the soup, and when I come back…” She paused, quivering, her plump hand pressed to her mouth.

  “Tell me.”

  “She’s gone, m’lady. She’s nowhere to be found!”

  Chapter Three

  The flower-seller perched on the park bench, yellow daffodils and purple crocuses spilling from the basket in her lap. Her sweetly earnest face looked as delicate as a cameo beneath a wide-brimmed straw hat with its cloud of pink tulle. A tattered moleskin cape with a blue satin lining hung from her thin shoulders down to a much-mended black skirt. Near her small bare feet, a fat pigeon pecked at the dirt between the stone flags of the path.

  “Flowers fer sale,” the woman trilled, holding up a posy. “Please, buy me lovely flowers.”

  The pedestrians strolling the park made a wide berth around the bench. A nursemaid pushing a perambulator slowed and stared. A haughty gentleman curled his upper lip in distaste. A pair of fashionably dressed merchants’ wives scuttled past, their mouths flapping in horrified whispers, their gait swift as if they feared venturing too near.

  “Quite mad,” muttered the tall, pinch-mouthed matron.

  “An outrage,” squealed her plump friend. “Not fit to be seen by decent folk—”

  “Then it is a blessing there are no decent folk here,” Alicia broke in.

  The two women pivoted, gasping in unison.

  Her heart beating swiftly from the frantic search, Alicia took grim satisfaction in their discomfiture as she marched toward them. She wouldn’t hesitate to use her family’s sterling status to silence these insensitive boors.

  The sour-faced woman dipped into a stiff curtsy. “My lady! This is a surprise.”

  Her apple-cheeked companion almost tripped in her haste to follow suit.

  In her haughtiest voice, Alicia said, “You would do better to make your obeisance to Lady Brockway.”

  “We would, but … but…” the stout woman sputtered, her lips quivering in alarm, “but it is nearly luncheon time. Come along, Louise.” The two women hastened toward one of the town houses along the square.

  Alicia wanted to fling another insult at their departing backs. Gossipy old hens! She held her tongue; further estranging the neighbors would only worsen their narrow-minded opinions.

  And it would reflect all the more poorly on Mama.

  Aware of a catch in her throat, she continued down the path to the bench. The pigeon launched itself into the air in a flutter of gray wings. The flower-seller spied Alicia, and a smile bloomed on her pixie face.

  Her blue eyes sparkled as she waved a limp bouquet tied with a ragged length of pink ribbon. “Tuppence, miss. Tuppence fer the finest flowers in all of London town.”

  Alicia smiled at her mother. To hide a stab of bittersweet affection, she gathered the wilting crocuses and inhaled their delicate fragrance. It saddened her, these times when no recognition shone in Mama’s eyes. Today, Eleanor, Lady Brockway, wore the mask of a stranger.

  As always, Alicia played along with her mother’s latest fantasy. “Thank you. But I’m afraid I haven’t brought my money purse. Would you mind walking home with me?”

  “Ye may take the blooms fer free,” Lady Eleanor said grandly, her soft aristocratic voice marred by a counterfeit Cockney lilt. “I’ll be busy makin’
other sales.”

  Alicia doubted that. Her mother was attracting scandalized attention not only from the people strolling the walkways, but also from the nearby houses. In more than one window, a drapery twitched and a pale oval face peered at them. A part of her wanted to stick out her tongue like a child; the more practical side saw the need to escort her mother back inside, where no one would sneer at her.

  “I insist on paying you,” Alicia said. “Do come with me. It’s only a short walk.” She straightened her mother’s cape, took her by the elbow, and gently helped her to her feet.

  “Oh, bother.” Lady Eleanor’s lower lip trembled. “Truth be told, no one will buy from me. No one at all.”

  The hurt in her voice arrowed into Alicia. “Never mind them. Vulgar people don’t appreciate pretty flowers, that’s all.”

  Her mother brightened. “Aye. Ye must be right.”

  As they walked through the park, Alicia glanced past the plane trees to the row of houses. Like the others, theirs was a tall stone dwelling with pillars and three floors of windows, the roof crowned by several chimney pots. Her gaze riveted to the vehicle slowing to a halt at the curbstone.

  Guided by a liveried coachman, a pair of matched bays drew the sleek black coach. The carriage parked in the place where, only minutes ago, Lord Hailstock’s barouche had stood. The marquess had quickly taken his leave after Mrs. Molesworth’s agitated announcement, and Alicia hadn’t had time to feel disappointed or angry at his desertion. Her attention had been focused on finding Mama.

  Alicia sighed inwardly. The visitor must be one of Gerald’s high-flying friends, though the young coxcombs seldom came to call anymore, in part because of her mother and in part because of Alicia’s disapproval.