Dangerous Seduction: A Nemesis Unlimited Novel (31 page)

Yet even after everything, despite his weariness, Simon couldn’t sleep. His mind whirled. And his goddamn sodding heart raced.

He stretched out as best as his tall frame would allow on the confines of the chaise. Taking his own advice from earlier, he envisioned the owners and managers of Wheal Prosperity shaking their fists at the heavens as their corrupt system was torn away, decimating their fortunes. They’d rage and scream, but there would be nothing to stop their ruin. And Alyce happily licked fresh butter from her fingers.

Simon fell asleep with a smile on his face.

*   *   *

Hours later, arrayed in his formal black-and-white evening clothes, he waited down in the hotel lobby. He exchanged pleasant nods with other guests as they walked in and out, all the while drumming the brim of his top hat and trying to keep his foot from tapping. Impatience, excitement, and a soupçon of concern danced through him. Going into a scheme with confidence was crucial. But he wanted,
needed,
this ploy to work, and Alyce was the means to make it happen.

Currently, she was sequestered in their room upstairs with one of the hotel’s maids, helping her dress and complete her toilette for the evening. Simon had dressed quickly, his back to the women, and then hurried out.

Simon now gave his starched cuffs a tug and took another look at himself in the pier glass over the fireplace. He adjusted his white tie and double-checked the studs on his shirtfront. Everything seemed in order. No one in his social set knew that he hadn’t employed a valet since he’d returned to civilian life. After dodging Zulu war clubs and Indian bandits’ bullets, relying on someone else to help him put his clothing on seemed remarkably ridiculous.

Three chintz-covered chairs were drawn close to the fire, but he couldn’t sit. Too much energy surged through him. And one of the chairs was occupied by a large orange tabby that regarded him with the disinterest in which cats seemed to specialize. Simon had no doubt, however, that the moment he took one of the other chairs, the cat would immediately leap into his lap and cover him with orange fur.

He turned when his peripheral vision caught sight of movement on the stairs. Without thought, his feet took him to the foot of the staircase, and he could only stand there, gaping, as Alyce slowly descended. The maid trailed behind her, but he hardly saw the other woman. His eyes were full of Alyce.

This must have been how Bellerophon felt when he slammed to earth—Simon quite literally couldn’t breathe.

Alyce wore an evening gown of silver satin, its flounces, low neckline, and minuscule sleeves adorned with jet beads. Pale silver-trimmed lace tapered down the bodice to end in a sharp point at her waist. The skirt had been artfully draped to recall Grecian statues, and with each step she took, the gown moved with her, gleaming like a pearl, begging for touch.

The fabric only served to highlight expanses of creamy skin—her neck, her upper chest, the slim band of bare flash between her sleeves, and her long ivory kidskin gloves. Thank God she wore a wrap of dark gray velvet, covering the majority of her décolletage. But he dreaded the reveal that would inevitably come when she’d remove her wrap, because he knew, he
knew
that it would be his first real glimpse of her breasts—the tops of them, anyway—and it’d be bloody difficult to keep up his patter at Harrold’s when all he’d want to do was stare at the treasure he’d discovered.

He did catch a glimpse of a jet-bead collar encircling her neck, and matching earrings swung from her earlobes, tempting a man to catch her earlobe between his teeth and suck, ever so gently, until she moaned. And the thought of her wearing nothing but the beaded collar sent all of his blood below his waist.

Her hair was pinned up in a more elaborate style, dark whorls and curls held in place with silver silk flowers and jet combs. The hotel’s maid had a talent.

All of this was a far cry from Alyce’s simple, homespun clothing in the village, the heavy apron she wore when working, her tightly pinned bun. Even her smart traveling ensemble was a pale flicker compared to the blazing elegance of this gown.

But none of it mattered—not even the glimpses of bare skin—when compared to the expression on her face. He might’ve expected some shyness or uncertainty. These weren’t the clothes of a bal-maiden. Some women in the same circumstance might tug uncomfortably at their garments, or keep their heads down, modest and blushing.

Not Alyce. Her chin was held high, her eyes gleamed brightly, and the color in her cheeks came not from modesty or even paint.

No—she was a flame of shining confidence. She looked magnificent, and she knew it. As men in the lobby slowed to stare at her, she took in their gazes as if she were a queen, and their regard were her due.

It wasn’t snobbery in her posture or the slight curve of her lips. She didn’t put on airs. But he could see her revel in her power, and it was a deluge, drowning him in desire.

She came down the steps, her hand trailing on the banister. Their gazes met. A long, breathless moment. Then she pulled her eyes away, running them deliberately, thoroughly over him. Taking in the sight of him in his evening dress. He wasn’t a fool. He understood that he wore such garments well. But never did that give him more satisfaction than at that moment, when her eyes darkened, her grip tightened on the banister, and her nostrils flared subtly.

“Thank you, Maisie,” she said over her shoulder, every inch a lady. “You may go.”

The maid bobbed a curtsy and hurried away before Simon could add his own words of gratitude.

“I know we’re not supposed to thank the servants,” Alyce said. “But this”—she waved down at herself—“is extraordinary.”

“You can thank a maid or valet, and in this case, she deserves the praise.” He couldn’t believe such banal words even left his lips, when all he wanted was to grab her, drag her upstairs, and show her just how extraordinary she truly was.

He closed the distance between them and offered her his arm. “It’s time to hunt.”

She placed her hand in the crook of his elbow. “Hunt the owners? Or each other?”

His grin was as savage as he felt. “I’m hungry enough for both.”

She did him one better by licking her lips. “Good, because I’m
starving
.”

CHAPTER 13.

Alyce stared up at the front of Oliver Harrold’s three-story terraced home. Though similar houses lined the street, all of them built on the same plan of bow windows, columns flanking the front door, and sharply gabled roofs, only Harrold’s was built on the blood and sweat of the people of Trewyn. It could’ve been the world’s most elegant home, a grand palace—but to her, it was as ugly as a wound.

As she and Simon walked up the neat path, she murmured, “What was that weapon they had way back in the Middle Ages? The one that could throw boulders into the walls or dead horses over the ramparts?”

“A trebuchet.”

“I’d like one of those right now.”

“What we’ve got is better than a trebuchet. This,” he said, nodding toward the house, “will be a smoldering crater when we’re done.”

“You always know the right thing to say.”

They climbed the stairs, her hand on his arm. She didn’t think she’d ever get used to the feel of his solidness, his lean strength. And for the rest of her days, she’d remember the feel of his cock in her hand, satiny and hard as iron, and the agonized look of pleasure on his face when she touched him.

She
had done that.
She
had made him feel that way. She loved that she could give him pleasure, wanted to give him more. And her own body hummed with unspent desire.

Here she was, standing on the front step of her enemy’s house, and she wanted to push Simon against the door and kiss him dizzy. They’d reached the most important stage in their plan. She wouldn’t ruin it with wayward, hungry thoughts.

But it certainly helped keep the fear scraping in her belly at bay. Simon believed in her. Everyone in Trewyn and Nemesis counted on her. Tonight, she couldn’t fail. It just wasn’t a possibility. Except that it was.

“Brave lass.” Simon gave her hand on his arm a squeeze, and the smallest of smiles. The fear that threatened to grind her up ebbed with his encouragement. He reached for the heavy brass knocker on the door, but his gloved hand hovered over it.

She drew a deep breath. “Go on.”

He knocked. The door opened immediately, a stone-faced man in a starched uniform standing on the other side, looking more self-important than Saint Peter.

“Mr. and Mrs. Simon Shale.” Simon handed the butler a little card.

There was no change in the butler’s expression as he pocketed the card. He stepped aside, permitting Simon and Alyce to enter. “The company’s assembled upstairs in the drawing room, sir.”

Simon handed his coat and hat to a young man in another uniform—a footman, Simon had told her earlier—and the same footman took Alyce’s wrap before retreating. She tried her best not to gape at her surroundings, though this was truly the most expensive home she’d ever really seen. All she’d witnessed of the managers’ house had been the kitchen and larder in the depths of night. Now she was above stairs, with the lamps blazing.

She had a brief impression of a checked tile floor, and a marble-topped table holding painted china vases heaped with menacing flowers. But then Simon offered her his arm again, and they began to go up a curving, carpeted staircase. Voices floated out of a room on the next floor—men’s strident tones, the occasional woman’s fluttering comment. Alyce’s heart thudded painfully with each step closer.

“These ancestral portraits on the walls,” Simon murmured. “They probably bought them by the dozen.”

She smothered a laugh. The thundering of her heart eased.

They stopped in the doorway of what had to be the drawing room. It looked like the inside of a rotting animal carcass—all red and black. Fabric swaddled every surface, from the tables to the windows to the chairs to the mantel. Everywhere her gaze fell, she found objects of wood and china and brass. Plants and wreaths and pictures. An abundance of
things.
The room itself wasn’t small, but she felt herself choking as she took a step inside. What was the point of all this junk? Worse still, was that terrible ceramic elephant paid for with money that could’ve been used to buy fresh beef at the company store?

Still, she schooled her face to appear calm and serene as she looked around at the people within the room. One tall, skinny man stood by the mantel, and the others hefted themselves out of their chairs when she and Simon entered. Here they were—the owners of Wheal Prosperity. The men who crushed the life out of her family and friends.

It was a disappointment to see how
ordinary
they were. No pointed horns sprouting from their foreheads. No giant boils on their noses. Nobody greedily rubbed their hands together. Except for their evening clothes, they looked like regular middle-aged men. She felt strangely deflated. For all the wrong these men did, couldn’t their appearance match their foul hearts?

A man with spare hair on his head but a thick beard stepped forward. He gave them both a reserved bow. “Shale, welcome. Mrs. Shale, an honor. I’m Oliver Harrold.”

Simon bowed in return and Alyce curtsied. “You are gracious in your hospitality.” There was nothing but sincerity in Simon’s voice.

She couldn’t quite tell, what with Harrold’s beard, but he seemed to give them a wry smile. “Too kind—especially when we’re here to assess
each other’s,
ah, hospitality.”

“Your home is delightful,” Alyce said. “Comfortable and attractive without being overly modern.”

“All the efforts of Mrs. Harrold.” He gestured to a woman sitting on a burgundy sofa. Mrs. Harrold regarded Alyce through narrowed eyes, and gave her a little nod of recognition, the red stones around her throat glittering.

“Perhaps, after dinner, you might give me some suggestions as to the outfitting of our home,” Alyce said. “We’re newly married, and I would be so grateful for any advice you might have to offer. I want to make certain of Mr. Shale’s every comfort.”

The frosty expression on Mrs. Harrold’s face warmed slightly. “It’s a woman’s primary duty to ensure her husband’s contentment. Everything else, including her own comfort, is ancillary.”

Simon’s hand covered Alyce’s, where her fingers dug into his arm. Any other man might wince in pain from the pressure, but he kept the same bland smile on his face. She slowly released her death’s grip on his arm. They couldn’t make a single misstep, not here, in the den of the beasts.

“Shale,” Harrold continued, “you’ll have the privilege of escorting Mrs. Harrold into dinner. And it will be my singular pleasure to escort Mrs. Shale down to the dining room.”

As discussed earlier, both she and Simon made sounds of gratification.

“This rather breaks from tradition,” Harrold continued, “but considering the circumstances, I’ll introduce you to the rest of the party. Shale, you’ve already met Victor Tufton, but your wife has not. The charming woman in yellow is Mrs. Tufton.”

A heavy man, his face already red, nodded. Where he was large, his wife seemed birdlike, her skin pulled tight over brittle bones. Simon and Alyce again repeated their bows and curtsies.

“And you haven’t met our other partner. This is John Stokeham.” He waved toward the tall, thin man at the mantel.

Alice had seen the names before on a metal plaque outside the managers’ office, and now she looked into their faces, saw them as men and not just names or anonymous enemies.

“His delightful sister,” Harrold went on, “is Miss Vera Stokeham.”

Miss Stokeham looked about the same age as Alyce, but she had a white, glossy plumpness and the sullen expression reserved for babies who always get what they want. Age was the only thing she and Alyce seemed to have in common.

Once more she and Simon curtsied and bowed.

Damn, but this was odd. All these formal words and these practiced gestures. None of them meant anything. They were empty, like a miner’s drained canteen. And none of them spoke of what this evening was really about: deceit.