Seduced by a Scoundrel Page 6

  Bitterness choked Alicia. “Nevertheless, we’ve come to an agreement. We shall be wed as soon as arrangements can be made.”

  “No! I’ll find the money somehow.” Her brother plunked the box down onto the floor, and the muffled chink of coins rang out in the shadowed upper landing. Dropping to one knee, he untied the twine and opened the top. The meager candlelight glinted off a small mound of gold inside the box. “This isn’t much, but perhaps he’ll accept a down payment.”

  A rush of understanding tempered her anger. “You sold Pet.”

  “Quite so,” Gerald said with glum bravado. “Chesterfield paid two hundred guineas for her. The rotter drove a hard bargain, but he’ll be decent to her at least.”

  “Oh, Ger.” Her throat taut, Alicia bent down and slid her arms around him. His baby-fine hair glided across her cheek. For a moment, his bony shoulders sagged against her in a hug reminiscent of his youth, after Mama had descended into dementia and Alicia had assumed the role of parent.

  Shooting to his feet, Gerald brought his fist down on the rickety wooden railing, and the blow echoed into the vast murky expanse of the hall below. “By damn! If only I had Wilder’s skill, I could turn this two hundred into twenty thousand. The lucky devil could do it in one night’s play.”

  “I won’t have you gambling.” That sickening worry overshadowed all else. Her marriage would place him in close proximity to a seasoned gamester. If Gerald were to end up like Papa … “Promise you won’t go near Wilder’s Club ever again.”

  “But everyone gathers there. ’Tis the very crack. No harm can come of joining my friends for dinner sometimes.”

  She caught his sleeve. “Promise me, Gerald.”

  “I know my duty to you and Mama,” he mumbled. “I won’t gamble again.”

  “I pray not.” Yet she couldn’t feel at ease, not with the future looming like an executioner’s ax. “And you should know that Mr. Wilder won’t accept any down payments. He won’t take anything less than my hand in marriage.”

  Gerald opened his mouth as if he would argue. Then he sank down onto the top step and looked up at her, his young features stricken. “It isn’t fair. This is my fault, not yours.”

  It was Wilder’s fault. “What’s done is done,” she said, forcing a smile. “Everything will be for the best. You and Mama and I shall have a good home and ample food on the table. That is all that matters.”

  Her brother didn’t look comforted. “You’re sacrificing yourself. I can’t let you do that.”

  “You must.” Determined to convince him, she managed an airy laugh. “Please, Ger, don’t look so unhappy. Women often marry for monetary advantage. If truth be told, I’ll enjoy going to parties and having a fine wardrobe again.”

  “But what about his…”—he cleared his throat—“marital rights?”

  Before the Season is out, you’ll come begging to share my bed.

  Steeling herself against a shudder, she took a deep breath. “He’s promised me a chaste marriage. So you see, it is to be strictly a business arrangement.”

  A cautious hope dawned on his face. “You won’t mind, then? I wouldn’t permit it if I thought him a bad sort. But he is a gentleman, regardless of his low birth.”

  He was a hard-hearted wretch. But Gerald needn’t know the depths of Wilder’s depravity.

  Hoping God would forgive her the falsehood, Alicia said firmly, “Of course I won’t mind. I should be quite content to be rich again. And to know that all of our troubles are finally over.”

  Chapter Five

  Through a small iron grate in the wall, the muted strains of the violin and pianoforte drifted into the candlelit office. The music came from the salon downstairs, where gentlemen wagered their fortunes on a roll of the dice. The specially designed system of pipes carried the melody to every chamber in the building. It was Drake’s design, one of the innovations that set his club apart from all the others on St. James’s Street. Noblemen, he knew, could be lulled into taking greater risks in an atmosphere of refined serenity.

  On an ordinary evening, Drake would be down there in the thick of the action, strolling from table to table, keeping a discreet eye on the play, offering praise to the winners and consolation to the losers.

  But this was the night of his betrothal. The beginning of his revenge. If he’d guessed right, at any time he could receive a certain visitor. And it wasn’t the redhead in his arms.

  Ensconced in the leather chair by the hearth, Drake idly smoothed his hand over the clingy green gauze of her gown. Lydia had slipped up the back staircase, as was her habit whenever she had an evening free. The lead actress in a popular play at Covent Garden Theatre, Lydia could have any man she wished, yet she came here to him. Always before, he had taken great pleasure in her earthy sensuality.

  But tonight her artifices annoyed him—the coy beauty mark she’d penciled on her generous bosom, the heavy musk of her perfume, her soft mews of pleasure as she strung kisses along his jaw. Letting her stay had been a mistake. Not even her lush figure could distract him from his restless reflections. He could think only of an aristocratic blond beauty too cold and proud for his tastes.

  We will have a chaste marriage.… I can’t trust you not to force yourself on me.…

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to leave now,” he said abruptly.

  Surprise flashed into her velvety brown eyes. She took his hand and guided it beneath her skirts. “You can’t mean that. We’ve only just begun.”

  His fingers curled against her warm, silken thigh. She would marry him willingly. He had known many women like her, women who had hinted at a desire for a permanent match. Yet he felt no inclination to do more than take the pleasure they offered him.

  Lady Alicia Pemberton was another matter. Toward her, he felt a burning resolve that went beyond revenge, a possessiveness that was fast becoming an obsession. In a mere two encounters, she had managed to startle him and insult him, amuse him and anger him, arouse him and intrigue him. Despite her chilly blue blood, she showed a fierce loyalty to her infirm mother. He felt a grudging respect for that.

  At the same time, he resented being distracted from his true purpose. Alicia was forbidden fruit, that was all. As soon as he bedded her, the challenge would lose its appeal. He would feel no further desire for his genteel wife.

  He slapped Lydia on her cushiony bottom. “I’m expecting a visitor,” he said. “This isn’t a convenient time.”

  “A quick ride, then,” she said, rocking suggestively against him. “Shall we go into the other room or do it right here?”

  There was a bed in the adjoining chamber for such liaisons. But Drake felt only a mild stirring, easily mastered. He lifted her to her feet. “Neither,” he said. “I’m sorry, but you cannot stay.”

  Her lower lip thrust out. Recognizing an incipient tantrum, he swiftly guided her through the antechamber, where he gave her a conciliatory kiss. “Go without a fuss, and tomorrow you shall have a surprise from the jeweler.”

  He did not feel inclined to inform her about his impending marriage. He would continue their affair, and if she became troublesome, he would find another mistress. The world was full of willing women.

  As he ushered her out, he spied Fergus MacAllister stomping down the lamplit corridor, a thunderous glare on his craggy features. But it was not that one-eyed glower that struck a vigilant expectation into Drake. It was the man marching after Fergus.

  Richard, the Marquess of Hailstock.

  Right on cue.

  Drake gave his mistress a gentle shove in the opposite direction. “Go now.”

  Glancing curiously over her shoulder, the actress sauntered to the back staircase that led down to the butler’s pantry and the kitchen. At the doorway, she blew him a kiss. Then she vanished into the stairwell.

  “Well, well,” Fergus growled. “’Tis a braw night for callers. And not a sweet angel among them.” He gave Drake another piercing look, then jerked his thumb at the marquess. “I told this one to
wait downstairs, but he’d have naught to do with takin’ orders.”

  “Cheeky minion,” Hailstock snapped. “You forget your place—”

  “No, you forget,” Drake cut in. “You’re in my domain now.”

  Before the marquess could do more than scowl, Drake sent Fergus away with a silent motion and then ushered Hailstock through the antechamber and into the office.

  Drake’s anger transformed into dark elation as he strolled to a side table and picked up a cut-glass tumbler. Into it he splashed a golden brown liquid from a decanter. Then he pivoted toward Hailstock, who stood stiffly in the center of the Aubusson rug.

  “Brandy?” Drake said, holding up his glass. “It’s the finest French stock—the same as in Bonaparte’s private cellar.”

  “Devil take your smuggled contraband. This isn’t a social call, and well you know it.”

  “Suit yourself.” Taking a long swallow, Drake sauntered to the desk and settled himself on the edge. For all his nonchalance, he could barely taste the mellow liquor. He savored only the secret pleasure of revenge.

  Twenty years had passed since he had last seen Lord Hailstock at close quarters. Those years had strung silver threads through Hailstock’s black hair, etched lines on his patrician features, added a slight paunch to his trim form. Yet he had not changed, not really. Superiority still frosted his gray eyes. Disdain still curled his noble lip. Arrogance still radiated from his square-shouldered form. He wore a dark blue coat and fawn breeches, tailored at the most exclusive shop on Bond Street. His gold watch fob had come from Locke & Co., his diamond sleeve links from Gray’s, his leather shoes from Wilson’s.

  Drake knew because all these years he had watched Hailstock. He had watched and waited and planned for this moment.

  “Name your price,” Hailstock bit out. “I’ll make it well worth your while to cry off your betrothal to Lady Alicia.”

  “No.”

  The marquess took a step toward him. “Knave! You coerced her by setting up her brother for a loss. But she isn’t a prize to be won in a wager. You’ll only drag her down into your filth.”

  The cold knot tightened inside Drake. He drained his glass and carefully set it on the mahogany surface of the desk. “Perhaps so,” he drawled, his gaze boring into the marquess. “Nevertheless, she will be mine, not yours … Father.”

  The fire on the hearth seethed into the silence. Even the music downstairs had lulled. A strange deadness descended over Hailstock’s elegant features. His body went utterly still, the breath hissing out through his teeth. “You are not my son,” he said in a brusque tone. “I have but one son. My heir.”

  Drake had expected that answer. He had heard it before. On one notable occasion that was burned into his memory.

  The old pain broke past his self-control and twisted in his gut. He countered it by remembering another moment, the morning when he had knelt by his dying mother’s bedside in Edinburgh, a ten-year-old lad faced with the prospect of losing the only parent he had ever known. He would never forget the fear that had strangled his heart.…

  Muira Wilder had coughed, wiping her lips with the blood-speckled handkerchief. With shaking hands, Drake poured her a cup of water. He had sensed something was wrong, though he’d tried so hard not to believe it. Her once rosy cheeks looked pale as if daubed by white greasepaint. For days, she had been too weak to play any roles with the troupe of actors.

  After choking down a sip, she lay back against the pillow and regarded him with haunted hazel eyes. “’Tis time ye ken I’m dyin’.”

  “Dinna speak so, Mither. We’ll be together always.”

  She lovingly stroked his hair. “Nay, my son, it canna be. I nivver could carry a bairn, lost so many till ye came along. Ye were my blessin’, my gift from heaven. But now ye must go to yer sire.”

  “I’d rather stay with Fergus!”

  “Fergus will go wi’ ye, but he is not yer father. Hailstock is a powerful lord whose noble blood will serve ye well.” Groping for his fingers, Muira pressed a diamond stickpin into his hands. “Here’s the proof. I was to use this fer yer keep, but we scraped by without sellin’ it.”

  “But I wish to stay by ye.”

  “Och, ye canna. And a lad needs his father. His lordship will love ye when he sees what a braw lad ye’ve grown up to be. Say ye’ll go to him when I’m gone.…”

  He’d been too stricken to refuse. Only a few weeks later, after burying his mother on a bitter cold autumn day, he and Fergus had set south for England. Drake had spent the long days on the mail coach grieving for his mother and dreaming of the warm embrace of a father. Yet when he found the fine mansion in Mayfair, the butler had refused him entry.

  In desperation, he had pushed his way inside, leaving Fergus behind. Pursued by servants, he’d run from room to magnificent room, until he’d dashed into a grand parlor and found the Marquess of Hailstock down on the floor, playing tin soldiers with a handsome, tawny-haired boy, his two-year-old son, James.…

  Drake’s half-brother. The legitimate heir.

  Even now, Drake felt a welter of emotions he didn’t care to examine. For one prolonged moment, he had fiercely yearned to be a part of that family. He had hurled himself at Hailstock’s well-shod feet, blubbered out his naïve hopes. And the marquess had coldly denied him. When Drake had showed him the stickpin, Hailstock’s face had turned ugly. He’d called for his servants to haul the scruffy urchin off to the magistrate for thievery.…

  Gazing again at that haughty face, Drake now focused on the anger that had long ruled his life. “Deny me all you like,” he said. “The fact remains that after seeing her perform in Edinburgh, you took a fancy to my mother and seduced her.”

  “Is that what she told you?” Hailstock let out a contemptuous laugh. “I never even met the bitch.”

  Consumed by a burst of rage, Drake only just stopped himself from balling his fingers into fists. It would serve no purpose to strike the marquess. There was a better way to rub his noble nose in the dirt.

  Drake stalked around the desk and yanked open a drawer. Reaching inside, he pulled out the diamond stickpin in the design of a stylized H. “You gave this to her to buy her silence.”

  Hailstock grimaced. “That only proves her a thief.”

  “Or you a liar.” Drake tossed the stickpin back into the drawer, where it clattered into a corner. “Life hasn’t turned out quite as you planned, has it? Your bastard son is a rich man now. And your legitimate heir is a cripple—because of you.”

  Hailstock turned pale. His hand gripped the back of a chair, and his gold signet glinted in the candlelight. “Riffraff! Should you dare to involve James in our quarrel, by God, I’ll ruin you.”

  Drake couldn’t begrudge Hailstock’s doting protection of the bedridden twenty-two-year-old. Hailstock had purchased a racehorse for James on his eighteenth birthday, and on that same afternoon, the reckless youth had taken his fateful tumble.

  Casually sitting on the edge of the desk, Drake regarded his father. “Luckily for you, my lord, James doesn’t concern me in the slightest. I’m far more interested in Lady Alicia Pemberton.”

  “You aren’t worthy of her,” Hailstock said. “Your marriage will be a travesty.”

  “Ah, but she’ll be my stepping-stone into society. Henceforth, your by-blow will be invited to the same parties as you.”

  Those aristocratic nostrils flared. “So that is your plan,” Hailstock said scathingly. “Give it up. If you claim a relation to me, no one will accept your word over mine.”

  “I have no intention of revealing the truth of my parentage … yet.” First, he would enjoy watching his father squirm.

  “The Pembertons aren’t even accepted anymore. Lady Brockway is a lunatic, a pariah. She belongs in Bedlam Hospital.”

  “Are you afraid of one little madwoman?” Privately, Drake admitted he’d enjoyed meeting the dowager. She had a certain elfin sparkle in her eyes that made him wonder if Alicia had possessed such charm before duty and debt
s had weighed upon her.

  Hailstock gave a huff of disdain. “Any association with Lady Brockway will make you even more of a laughingstock.”

  “That remains to be seen.”

  Fury glittered in the marquess’s eyes, along with something else. Something dark and desperate. His fists clenched, he took another step toward Drake. “For pity’s sake, man, choose another wife. A mature widow who won’t be hurt by your intrigues. Don’t destroy an innocent girl just to indulge this petty delusion of yours.”

  Was Hailstock truly concerned for Alicia’s welfare? Could he, in his twisted way, value her for more than her lofty ancestry? Could he actually love her? As swiftly as the questions struck, Drake saw the advantage in them.

  If Hailstock adored her, so much the better.

  Chapter Six

  “M’lady!” Mrs. Molesworth yodeled up the attic stairs. “Yoo-hoo, m’lady, you’ve visitors!”

  Alicia frowned, her arms full of a billowing blue gown that smelled musty from being shut away for more than half a century. Dust motes danced in the sunlight that came through the windows at either end of the chilly attic. Humming to herself, Lady Eleanor knelt on the bare plank floor and rummaged through a trunk of outmoded accessories. The moleskin cape lay beside her, near the piles of curled wigs, buckled shoes, and tricorne hats.

  Alicia had no time to spare for visitors. Until she arrayed herself properly, she intended to postpone the loathesome task of facing the ton.

  The engagement notice had appeared that morning in the Post; Drake Wilder had lost no time in trumpeting their nuptials to the fashionable world. Though most of the nobility would be too haughty to pay their respects to the fiancée of a notorious gambler, there were always those who could overcome their scruples if it meant gleaning a bit of titillating gossip.

  Brushing a sticky cobweb off her apron, she picked a path through the jumble of broken furniture and other discards. At the stairway landing, she peered down the steep steps.