Improper Seduction (32 page)

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MISTRESS BY MIDNIGHT
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London, 1820

L
aurette knew precisely what she must do. Again. Had known even before her baby brother had fallen so firmly into the Marquess of Conover’s clutches.

To be fair, perhaps Charlie had not so much fallen as thrown himself headfirst into Con’s way. Charlie had been as heedless as she herself had been more than a decade ago. She was not immune even now to Con’s inconvenient presence. She had shown him her back on more than one occasion, but could feel the heat of his piercing black gaze straight through to her tattered stays.

But tonight she would allow him to look his fill. She had gone so far as having visited Madame Demarche this afternoon to purchase some of her naughtiest underpinnings. Laurette would have one less thing for which to feel shame.

Bought with credit, of course. One more bill to join the mountain of debt. Insurmountable as a Himalayan peak and just as chilling. Nearly as cold as Conover’s heart.

She raised the lion’s-head knocker and let it fall, once, composing herself to face Con’s servant.

Desmond Ryland, Marquess of Conover, opened the door himself.

“You!”

“Did you think I would allow you to be seen here at such an hour?” he asked, his face betraying no emotion. “You must indeed think me a veritable devil. I’ve sent Aram to bed. Come into my study.”

He
was
a devil, suggesting this absurd time. Midnight, as though they were two foreign spies about to exchange vital information in utmost secrecy. Laurette followed him down the shadowy hall, the black-and-white tile a chessboard beneath her feet. She felt much like a pawn, but would soon need to become the White Queen. Con must not know just how desperate she was.

Though surely he must suspect.

He opened a door and stepped aside as she crossed the threshold. The room, she knew, was his sanctuary, filled with objects he’d collected in the years he’d been absent from Town and her life. Absent from his own life, as well. The marquessate had been shockingly abandoned for too long.

She had been summoned here once before, in daylight, a year ago. She was better prepared tonight. She let her filmy shawl slip from one shoulder but refused Con’s offer of a chair.

“Suit yourself,” he shrugged, sitting behind his desk. He placed a hand on a decanter of brandy. “Will you join me? We can toast to old times.”

Laurette shook her head. She’d need every shred of her wits to get through what was ahead. “No thank you, my lord.”

She could feel the thread of attraction between them, frayed yet stubborn. She should be too old and wise now to view anything that was to come as more than a business arrangement. As soon as she had seen the bold strokes of his note, she had accepted its implication. She was nearly thirty, almost half her life away from when Conover first beguiled
her. Or perhaps when she had beguiled him. He had left her long ago, if not quite soon enough.

A pop from the fire startled her, and she turned to watch sparks fly onto the marble tiles. The room was uncomfortably warm for this time of year, but it was said that the Marquess of Conover had learned to love the heat of the exotic East on his travels.

“I appeal to your goodness,” Laurette said, nearly choking on the improbable phrase.

“I find good men dead boring, my dear. Good women, too.” Con abandoned his desk and strode across the floor, where she was rooted by feet that suddenly felt too heavy to lift. He smiled, looking almost boyish, and fingered the single loose golden curl teasing the ivory slope of her shoulder. She recalled that her hair had always dazzled him and had imagined just this touch when she tugged the strand down.

She had hoped to appear winsome despite the passage of time, but her plan was working far too well for current comfort. She pushed him away with more force than she felt. “What would you know about good men, my lord?” She scraped the offending hair back with trembling fingers and secured it under the prison of its hairpin. It wouldn’t do to tempt him further. Or herself. What had she been thinking to come here?

“I’ve known my share. But I am uncertain if your brother fits the category. A good, earnest young fellow, on occasion. A divinity student, is he not? But then—I fear his present vices make him ill-suited for his chosen profession. Among other things, he is so dishonorable he sends his sister in his stead. Your letter was quite affecting. You’ve gone to a great deal of trouble on his account, but I hardly see why I should forgive his debt.” He folded his arms and leaned forward. “Convince me.”

Damn him. He intended her to beg. They both knew how it would end.

“He does not know I’m here. He knows nothing,” Laurette said quickly, and stepped back.

He was upon her again, his warm brandied breath sending shivers down her spine. She fell backward onto a leather chair. A small mercy. At least she wouldn’t fall foolishly at his feet. She closed her eyes, remembering herself in such a pose, Con’s head thrown back, his fingers entwined in the tangle of her hair. A lifetime ago.

She looked up. His cheek was creased in amusement at her clumsiness. “He will not thank you for your interference.”

“I’m not interfering! My brother is much too young to fall prey to your evil machinations.”

Con raised a black winged brow. “Such melodramatic vocabulary. He’s not that young, you know. Much older than you were when you were so very sure of yourself. And by calling me evil you defeat your purpose, Laurette. Why, I might take offense and not cooperate. Perhaps I
am
a very good man to discourage him from gambling he can ill afford. But I
will
be repaid.” He leaned over, placing his hands on the arms of Laurette’s chair. His eyes were dark, obsidian, but his intentions clear.

Laurette felt her blush rise and leaned back against her seat. She willed herself to stay calm. He would not crowd her and make her cower beneath him. She raised her chin a fraction. “He cannot—that is to say, our funds are tied up at present. Our guardian …” She trailed off, never much able to lie well. But she was expert at keeping secrets.

Con left her abruptly to return to his desk. She watched as he poured himself another brandy into the crystal tumbler, but let it sit untouched. “What do you propose, Laurette?” he
asked, his voice a velvet burr. “That I tear up your brother’s vowels and give him the cut direct next time we meet?”

“Yes,” Laurette said boldly. “The sum he owes must be a mere trifle to you. And his company a bore. If you hurt his feelings now, it will only be to his ultimate benefit. One day he will see that.” She glanced around the room, which was appointed with elegance and treasure. Brass fittings gleamed in the candlelight. A thick Persian carpet lay under her scuffed kid slippers. Lord Conover’s study was the lair of a man of exquisite taste and a far cry from Charlie’s disreputable lodging. She twisted her fingers, awaiting his next words.

There was the faintest trace of a smile. “You give me far too much credit. I am neither a good man, nor, despite what you see here, so rich man a man I can ignore a debt this size. We all need blunt to keep up appearances. And settle obligations.”

Laurette knew exactly what his obligation to her cost him and held her tongue.

Con leaned back in his chair, the picture of confidence. “If I cannot have coin, some substitution must be made. I think you know what will please me.”

Laurette nodded. It would please her too, God forgive her. Her voice didn’t waver. “When, Con?”

He picked up his glass and drained it. “Tonight. I confess I cannot wait to have you in my bed again.”

Laurette searched her memory. There had been very few beds involved in their brief affair. Making love to Con in one would be a luxurious novelty. She was not prepared, however; the vial of sponges was still secreted away in her small trunk at her brother’s rooms. She had not allowed herself to think the evening would end in quite this way. But she had just finished her courses. Surely she was safe.

“Very well.” She rose from the haven of her chair.

His face showed the surprise he surely felt. Good. It was time she unsettled
him.

“You seem to be taking your fate rather calmly, Laurette.”

“Did you arrange it? That it would come to this?” she asked softly.

“Did I engage your brother in a high-stakes game he had no hope of winning? I declare, that avenue had not occurred to me,” Con said smoothly. “How you must despise me to even ask.” He motioned her to him. After a few awkward moments, Laurette walked toward him and allowed him to pull her down into his lap. He was undeniably hard, fully aroused. She let herself feel a brief surge of triumph.

Con placed a broad hand across her abdomen and settled her even closer. “How is the child?”

Was this an unconscious gesture? Con had never felt her daughter where his hand now lay, had never seen her, held her. She fought the urge to slap his hand away and willed herself to melt into the contours of his hard body. It would go quicker if she just gave in and let him think he’d won. “Very well, my lord. How is yours?”

“Fast asleep in his dormitory, I hope, surrounded by other scruffy little villains. I should like you to meet him one day.”

She did not tell him that his son was already known to her, as his wife had once been, improbably, her friend. “I don’t believe that would be wise, my lord.”

“Why not? If you recall, I offered you the position as his step-mama a year ago. It is past time you become acquainted with my son, and I with your daughter.” His busy fingers had begun removing hairpins.

Laurette said nothing, lulling in his arms as his lips skimmed her throat, his hands stroking every exposed inch. In dressing tonight, she’d bared as much of her flesh as she dared in order to tempt him. She wondered how she could so deceive herself.
Nothing had changed. Nothing would ever change. And that was the problem.

Laurette pressed a gloved finger to his lips. “We do not need to discuss the past, my lord. We have tonight.”

“If you think,” he growled, “that I will be satisfied with only one night with you, you’re as deluded as ever.”

An insult. Lucky that, for she suddenly retrieved her primness and relative virtue. She straightened up. “That is all I am willing to offer.”

He stood in anger, dumping her unceremoniously into his chair. “My dear Miss Vincent, if you wish me to forgive your brother’s debts—all of them—I require a bit more effort on your part.”

“A-all? What do you mean?”

“I see the young fool didn’t tell you.” Con pulled open a drawer, fisting a raft of crumpled paper. “Here. Read them and then tell me one paltry night with you is worth ten thousand pounds. Even you cannot have such a high opinion of yourself.”

Laurette felt her tongue thicken and her lips go numb. “It cannot be,” she whispered.

“I’ve spent the past month buying up his notes all over town.” Con’s smile, feral and harsh, withered her even further. He now followed in his father-in-law’s footsteps.

“You did this.”

“You may think what you wish. I hold the mortgage to Vincent Lodge as well. You’ve denied me long enough, Laurie.”

Her home, ramshackle as it was. Beatrix’s home, if only on brief holidays away from her foster family. Laurette had forgotten just how stubborn and high-handed Conover could be. She looked at him, hoping to appear as haughty as the queen she most certainly was not.

“What kind of man are you?”

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“A
nd what is it you hope to produce by procuring a suitor?”

“I am not in want of stud service, sir. Only a depraved mind would leap to that conclusion.”

“Stud service …”

“Is that not what you are thinking?”

A wicked smile came to his lips. Eliza was certain her heart skipped a beat at the sight of it. “It wasn’t, no.”

Wanting to conclude this meeting as swiftly as possible, she rushed forward. “Do you have someone who can assist me or not?”

Bond snorted softly, but the derisive sound seemed to be directed inward and not at her. “From the top, if you would please, Miss Martin. Why do you need protection?”

“I have recently found myself to be a repeated victim of various unfortunate—and suspicious—events.”

Eliza expected him to laugh or perhaps give her a doubtful look. He did neither. Instead, she watched a transformation sweep over him. As fiercely focused as he’d been since his arrival, he became more so when presented with the problem. She found herself appreciating him for more than his good looks.

He leaned slightly forward. “What manner of events?”

“I was pushed into the Serpentine. My saddle was tampered with. A snake was loosed in my bedroom—.”

“I understand it was a Runner who referred you to Mr. Lynd, who in turn referred you to me.”

“Yes. I hired a Runner for a month, but Mr. Bell discovered nothing. No attacks occurred while he was engaged.”

“Who would want to injure you, and why?”

She offered him a slight smile, a small show of gratitude for the gravity he was displaying. Anthony Bell had come highly recommended, but he’d never taken her seriously. In fact, he had been amused by her tales, and she’d never felt he was dedicated to the task of discovery. “Truthfully, I am not certain whether they truly intend bodily harm, or if they simply want to goad me into marriage as a way to establish some permanent security. I see no reason to any of it.”

“Are you wealthy, Miss Martin? Or certain to be?”

“Yes. Which is why I doubt they sincerely aim to cause me grievous injury—I am worth more alive. But there are some who believe it isn’t safe for me in my uncle’s household. They claim he is an insufficient guardian, that he is touched, and ready for Bedlam. As if any individual capable of compassion would put a stray dog in such a place, let alone a beloved relative.”

“Poppycock,” the earl scoffed. “I am fit as a fiddle, in mind and body.”

“You are, my lord,” Eliza agreed, smiling fondly at him. “I have made it clear to all and sundry that Lord Melville will likely live to be one hundred years of age.”

“And you hope that adding me to your stable of suitors will accomplish what, precisely?” Bond asked. “Deter the culprit?”

“I hope that by adding
one of your associates,”
she corrected, “I can avoid further incidents over the next six weeks
of the Season. In addition, if my new suitor is perceived to be a threat, perhaps the scoundrel will turn his malicious attentions toward him. Then, perhaps, we can catch the fiend. Truly, I should like to know by what methods of deduction he formulated this plan and what he hoped to gain by it.”

Bond settled back into his seat and appeared deep in thought.

“I would never suggest such a hazardous role for someone untrained,” she said quickly. “But a thief-taker, a man accustomed to associating with criminals and other unfortunates … I should think those who engage in your profession would be more than a match for a nefarious fortune hunter.”

“I see.”

Beside her, her uncle murmured to himself, working out puzzles and equations in his mind. Like herself, he was most comfortable with events and reactions that could be quantified or predicted with some surety. Dealing with issues defying reason was too taxing.

“What type of individual would you consider ideal to play this role of suitor, protector, and investigator?” Bond asked finally.

“He should be quiet, even-tempered, and a proficient dancer.”

Scowling, he queried, “How do dullness and the ability to dance signify in catching a possible murderer?”

“I did not say ‘dull,’ Mr. Bond. Kindly do not attribute words to me that I have not spoken. In order to be acknowledged as a true rival for my attentions, he should be someone whom everyone will believe I would be attracted to.”

“You are not attracted to handsome men?”

“Mr. Bond, I dislike being rude. However, you leave me no recourse. The fact is, you clearly are not the sort of man whose temperament is compatible with matrimony.”

“I am quite relieved to hear a female recognize that,” he drawled.

“How could anyone doubt it?” She made a sweeping gesture with her hand. “I can more easily picture you in a sword-fight or fisticuffs than I can see you enjoying an afternoon of croquet, after-dinner chess, or a quiet evening at home with family and friends. I am an intellectual, sir. And while I don’t mean to imply a lack of mental acuity, you are obviously built for more physically strenuous pursuits.”

“I see.”

“Why, one had only to look at you to ascertain you aren’t like the others at all! It would be evident straightaway that I would never consider a man such as you with even remote seriousness. It is quite obvious you and I do not suit in the most fundamental of ways, and everyone knows I am too observant to fail to see that. Quite frankly, sir, your are not my type of male.”

The look he gave her was wry but without the smugness that would have made it irritating. He conveyed solid self-confidence free of conceit. She was dismayed to find herself strongly attracted to the quality.

He would be troublesome. Eliza did not like trouble overmuch.

He glanced at the earl. “Please forgive me, my lord, but I must speak bluntly in regard to this subject. Most especially because this is a matter concerning Miss Martin’s physical well-being.”

“Quite right,” Melville agreed. “Straight to the point, I always say. Time is too precious to waste on inanities.”

“Agreed.” Bond’s gaze returned to Eliza and he smiled. “Miss Martin, forgive me, but I must point out that your inexperience is limiting your understanding of the situation.”

“Inexperience with what?”

“Men. More precisely, fortune-hunting men.”

“I would have you know,” she retorted, “that over the course
of six Seasons I have had more than enough experience with gentlemen in want of funds.”

“Then why,” he drawled, “are you unaware that they are successful for reasons far removed from social suitability?”

Eliza blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

“Women do not marry fortune hunters because they can dance and sit quietly. They marry them for their appearance and physical prowess—two attributes you have already established I have.”

“I do not see—”

“Evidently, you do not, so I shall explain.” His smile continued to grow. “Fortune hunters who flourish do not strive to satisfy a woman’s intellectual needs. Those can be met through friends and acquaintances. They do not seek to provide the type of companionship one enjoys in social settings or with a game table between them. Again, there are others who can do so.”

“Mr. Bond—”

“No, they strive to satisfy in the only position that is theirs alone, a position some men make no effort to excel in. So rare is this particular skill, that many a woman will disregard other considerations in favor of it.”

“Please, say no—”

“Fornication,” his lordship muttered, before returning to his conversation with himself.

Eliza shot to her feet. “My lord!”

As courtesy dictated, both her uncle and Mr. Bond rose along with her.

“I prefer to call it ‘seduction,’” Bond said, his eyes laughing.

“I call it ridiculous,” she rejoined, hands on her hips. “In the grand scheme of life, do you collect how little time a person spends abed when compared to other activities?”

His gaze dropped to her hips. The smile became a fullblown grin. “That truly depends on who else is occupying said bed.”

“Dear heavens.” Eliza shivered at the look Jasper Bond was giving her. It was … expectant. By some unknown, godforsaken means she had managed to prod the man’s damnable masculine pride into action.

“Give me a sennight,” he suggested. “One week to prove both my point and my competency. If, at the end, you are not swayed by one or the other, I will accept no payment for services rendered.”

“Excellent proposition,” his lordship said. “No possibility of loss.”

“Not true,” Eliza contended. “How will I explain Mr. Bond’s speedy departure?”

“Let us make it a fortnight, then,” Bond amended.

“You fail to understand the problem. I am not an actor, sir. It will be evident to one and all that I am far from ‘seduced.’”

The tone of his grin changed, aided by a hot flicker in his dark eyes. “Leave that aspect of the plan to me. After all, that’s what I am being paid for.”

“And if you fail? Once you resign, not only will I be forced to make excuses for you, I will have to bring in another thief-taker to act in your stead. The whole affair will be entirely too suspicious.”

“Have you had the same pool of suitors for six years, Miss Martin?”

“That isn’t—”

“Did you not just state that many reasons why you feel I am not an appropriate suitor for you? Can you not simply reiterate those points in response to any inquiries regarding my departure?”

“You are overly persistent, Mr. Bond.”

“Quite,” he nodded, “which is why I will discover who is responsible for the unfortunate events besetting you and what they’d hoped to gain.”

She crossed her arms. “I am not convinced.”

“Trust me. It is fortuitous, indeed, that Mr. Lynd brought us together. If I do not apprehend the culprit, I daresay he cannot be caught.” His hand fisted around the top of his cane. “Client satisfaction is a point of pride, Miss Martin. By the time I am done, I guarantee you will be eminently gratified by my performance.”