Seven Secrets of Seduction (5 page)

“My parcel, Miss Chase?”

She shivered at the way the words curled around her, the way he seemed to savor her name. “You can't just order people around, Mr. Jeffries.”

He leaned against the counter as she rounded it, tapping a finger, smiling. “It's a failing of mine.”

“Perhaps you should rectify that.” She refused to fall at his feet. She had a feeling women too often did. She leaned down and gripped the coarse-wrapped paper and twine.

“Where is the fun in that?” His voice was slightly less gravelly than the day before, but still laced with the same huskiness.

“It is laudable to correct one's faults.”

“Sometimes being naughty is much more fun though, don't you think?”

Miranda stood up and thumped the parcel on the counter next to the two Peter had been wrapping and labeling. Her heart raced even as she tried to think of a suitable response. “Sir, I think you ought to read those manuscripts on seduction again if you think these are good battle tactics.”

He slowly smiled. “Ah, at least I know that you aren't completely oblivious. They are superb tactics. You'll never guess my real intent now.”

“I assure you, your intent is all too clear. You seek to play now, then have a smile about it later.”

“Oh now, Miss Chase, that is entirely untrue.” He stroked the edge of the package, the curve of a corner.
“I assure you that I seek to smile now and play with you later.”

A spike of desire hit her even as she chided herself the fool. “You are not amusing, sir.”

“Isn't it the second secret? Luring your prey or some such rubbish? Shouldn't I be luring you away? Luring you to a deep pool, where you will exclaim over the lovely lily pads gracing the surface, never anticipating my fingers stroking you underneath?”

She folded her hands primly on top of the counter, even as her skin grew hotter, the perspiration retreating deep within, relinquishing the idea that her extremities could be cooled.

He smiled as if he knew what she was thinking, feeling. “Payment?”

She looked down at the ledger, the letters blurring together, causing her to run her fingers down the list twice until she found the right one. “No, my uncle included a note saying your package was paid in full.”

Which meant he had no more business in the shop and would walk right through the door, never to be seen again, if she didn't say something to keep him there.

And which she realized, from the conflicting feelings he stirred, she foolishly desired.

When she looked up, he already held the package in his hands, ahead of her and in a hurry to be on his way.

“Well, then.” He smiled as if he knew a delicious secret—probably anticipating wherever he was off to next—to violently shake up some other woman's life most likely—far from here. “Until we meet again, Miss Chase.”

She nodded tightly, the coil in her belly rock hard.
She tried to open her mouth to say something. Anything. But her training beat down on her, ingrained, her lips stayed firmly shut. Any chance to extend the flirtation with the first man who had made her heart race fragmented as he pushed the door. The bell jingled, and he disappeared from view. The heated coil fated to be extinguished before it fully flared.

And it was a blessing, no matter the crashing disappointment. Men like him flirted, but when it came down to it, they found real prey. She'd likely never see him again, except perhaps on the scandal pages—for surely a man like that would require more than the occasional line.

She headed back around the stacks, feeling more tired than she had before. She sat with a less than graceful thump in her chair, aware that Georgette was staring at her, gaping like a market fish.

“Sorry for the disruption.” Miranda wrenched the paper toward her, determined to forget the man.
After
she scoured it for Mr. J's. “Where were we?”

“Do you know who that was? Why didn't you tell me you had met him?” Georgette's tone neared a screech. “When? How?” The devolution into sputters would have been an interesting switch to listen to if Miranda weren't still kicking herself for not saying something,
anything,
before he walked through the door, blessing or not.

She'd
never
castigate Georgette for her instantaneous attraction to rogues again. Being enamored of some rakish beast. Miranda had never had to deal with the direct attention of someone so magnetic before. It was overwhelming.

“I just met him last eve. Completely crazed, is he not?” she muttered as she drew the gossip page closer.
She'd have to quiz her friend on his past. Later. When she had her mind and body under control. “And awfully bossy under all of that false charm. Thinks he rules the roost, I bet. I daresay I shall find him in these pages everywhere now.”

When Georgette didn't immediately answer, Miranda looked up to find her friend staring at her blankly. Miranda had the strange sensation that their usual roles were unaccountably swapped at the moment.

“Crazed? Bossy?” Her friend's words were high and slightly strangled.

“A beast. And I can't say that I find him entirely comfortable to speak with. He quite irritates me on purpose, I think.”

“Irritates you on purpose?” Despite the lingering, slightly hysterical pitch to her voice, Georgette seemed to be getting ahold of herself again, arranging the stray papers on the table in a fashion that Miranda often used when their roles were reversed, and she was seeking a way to say something other than telling her friend that she was completely insane.

“Yes. And he hates Eleutherios.”

“Hates Eleutherios?” Georgette only seemed capable of repeating statements back as questions. “As much as the book thrilled me, Downing probably wrote the book on seduction long before Eleutherios picked up a pen.”

Miranda pushed the paper near her away a little roughly. “Well, I doubt Mr. Jeffries even knows how to write.”

“What are you on about?”

“He seems much more interested in…frolicking. Probably doesn't have the time to pick up a pen.”

“Who?” Georgette demanded.

“Mr. Jeffries. The blasted man. You heard him.”

Georgette's mouth opened and closed, but no sound emerged for a long moment. Then a delighted peal of laughter rang forth.

A sinking pit gathered in Miranda's gut as Georgette continued to laugh so hard that, in a vain attempt to cease, she took a drink and almost snorted her tea.

“I take it his name is not Mr. Jeffries?” Miranda asked in deepening horror, unsure if her heart could take any more shocks.

“Miranda!”

She turned her head to see her uncle rushing in, the winged fringes of his hair bouncing below his balding pate. He held a package aloft. “Why wasn't the parcel taken? When I just asked, Peter said that you handled it. And Rutherford wants his books, too and they've gone missing.”

Her heart joined her gut somewhere near her toes as she looked at the package in her uncle's shaking hand. “The parcel for whom wasn't taken?”

“The books marked Jeffries. For a very important client.” He tapped the package, agitated. “Butler was coming to claim them. And Mr. Rutherford's package is gone.”

“Oh.” Her mind skittered to the less important pieces of new information. It stood to reason he'd have a butler. She looked at the brown wrapping, innocuous and innocent, mocking her. “He must have taken the wrong parcel.”

“The wrong one! This is a disaster!”

Three packages sitting side by side. Easy enough to take the wrong one.

Then she pictured his smile, his smirk as he left. The swing of his arm.

He had purposely taken the wrong package.

The pit in her stomach turned into fire and stoked all of the emotions that he had previously spurred. She narrowed her eyes as she remembered his face. His words. The knowing glance as he said they'd meet again. She buried any relief under her increasing ire at his machinations.

“Disaster.” Her uncle repeated. “What if he takes back his promises?” He shook his head. “Go now. No, wait, you can't, Parliament will be in session.” He muttered something to himself. “You'll go tomorrow. Switch the books. Apologize for whatever you have to. Tomorrow. First thing!” He turned and disappeared back through the stacks, muttering to himself about ink-stained disasters.

Georgette turned in her chair, a satisfied smile on her face. “No, my dear. Not Mr. Jeffries. That was Maximilian Landry, Viscount Downing.” She tapped the gossip page. “And it seems that you have an assignation with him after all.”

Secret #2: Once the hook is in place, the lure must be set.

The Seven Secrets of Seduction

 

M
iranda stood on the walk and stared up at the sharp planes of the huge detached home—separated from the row houses clinging together around the street. Layer upon layer of white and gray stone rose to the top of the trees. A window was open at the top left, and a hand reached out and flapped a foot rug against the stone sill. Nothing fell from the rug, not even a whisper of dust. Unlike Miranda's neighborhood, where rugs were cleaned when they couldn't handle one more piece of dirt, people too busy making ends meet, the seldom-beaten rugs dislodging detritus, lost items, and precious time.

A smartly tailored man passed by, a satchel gripped tightly in his hand, muttering to himself about ventures and gains. He never once looked up. When a window opened in her neighborhood, people ducked.

Here, everything was cleaned in a timely and orderly fashion. People paid just to make sure that the silver
received a third polish. Everything was expected to be perfect. To be on time. To just
be
without thought.

And yet no one seemed to notice the gorgeous flowers dripping from window boxes or the creepers nestled half-hiding in the nooks and cracks of the stone and wood. The carefully polished brass plates to the sides of the doors. The gleaming knockers. The expensively potted bushes in ornately handcrafted basins. The thousand and one things that took so much time and care to arrange or maintain and were simply taken for granted as another beautiful thing to pass by.

She could have stayed and stared for hours at the way the gardener had arranged the vines to splay like fingers gripping the rails, pulling visitors up in an embrace.

Another man passed, jostling her.

She sighed and took a step down the drive toward the carriage house in the back. The kitchen entrance would be somewhere near. She gripped the paper and twine, a strange feeling thrumming through her. No matter what her lively night imaginings, in the sharp light of day it was baffling to be feeling such anxious anticipation. She'd drop the package off and be on her way. Simple.

It wasn't as if she'd never delivered things to the more expensive addresses in London. She had, a time or two when no one else was available to do so, but there hadn't been any thought to it. A simple drop. Maybe a credit note hinting at payment.

She loved to visit Mayfair. To admire the edifices and squares. But there was a certain sense of self-consciousness that precluded extended stops. That she didn't belong was obvious. And sometimes it felt as if everyone was one moment away from pointing and whispering about it. But those thoughts were com
pletely irrational and silly. The Quality didn't notice. Anyone not in their class was completely beneath their regard.

Unless something was amiss. Then it was better to move as quickly as possible in the other direction than to wait for one of them to call the Watch.

Mr. Pitts was always going on about how stupid the people in power were. The peerage and Parliament. About the silly games they played.

But she didn't think it stupidity so much as that they didn't understand that there were other ways to be, other things to see, other decisions to make.

The gravel drive was well-groomed, and her sturdy shoes crunched the pebbles beneath. Two liveried footmen walked by, tipping their heads good day, their black-and-silver uniforms pressed and gleaming. Miranda returned their greeting and gripped her package more tightly.

A viscount. Viscount Downing.

She shook her head. It didn't matter. She continued down the long drive, turning the corner of the house and stepping to the side as two women lurched down the steps toward her, nearly buckling under the weight of a giant wash pot full of used water.

“What yu think it means?”

“Abner says 'tis a sign of the 'pocalypse.”

The kitchen maid in front giggled, then nearly tipped down the steps as she lost her footing. Miranda reached out and steadied her. “Can I be of assistance?”

“Lord, gal, you just have. Nearly beaned meself.”

The other woman snorted. “Be an improvement. You ding this pot, and Cook'll clip your tail.”

The first woman pulled a face. “Well then, I better
be thanking her again, eh?” She craned her neck at Miranda, who held up a hand.

“It was nothing. But might you point me to who handles the deliveries?”

The maid gave a sharp crook of her head toward the door. “Mrs. Humphries will take it, luv. Or someone can call for one of the underbutlers.”

Miranda nodded her thanks, and the women continued their haul to the yard.

“Anyways, the lordship's behavior's getting stranger. Rising that early yesterday then du—”

The rest of the woman's sentence was drowned beneath a loud whoosh as the pot was emptied.

“I know. Right mess. Humphries kept muttering about tie-foons, whatever those are. Right strange it all is.”

Miranda hesitated, wanting to hear what they were talking about as they began pumping the well for a refill, but good sense told her that it looked entirely too odd for her to linger for no apparent reason.

She entered the open door to the bustling kitchen. Servants crisscrossed and ducked beneath one another's raised arms and stirred spoons, grabbing pots and utensils, yelling orders and responses.

The sheer chaos of the dance was mesmerizing. A bump here and a scrape there, but for the most part it was almost as if the insanity were choreographed—the dancers working together for such a long time that they responded precisely to the way their compatriots would swing and jibe.

Heat from the ovens made the air sweltering, and even the open doors and windows couldn't stop the pressing waves from coiling at the ceiling and flaring
downward. The back of Miranda's hair started to pull at her neck, gripping and clinging to the moisture gathering on her skin. She cursed the coiffure she had chosen, keeping her hair tied loosely instead of in the tight upstyle that made everyday tasks around town easier. The strands would be plastered to the back of her neck soon, limp below and frizzing up top.

Why in heavens name had she decided to wear it this way? A sudden decision in the early light of morning, but a style better suited to evening indulgences. She must have taken leave of her senses while tossing and turning during the night.

She caught the eye of a matron who looked as if she ran the kitchen and held the package aloft. The woman nodded sharply and deftly maneuvered through the melee.

“Good day,” Miranda said, and held the package out as the woman reached her hand to grasp it. “Book delivery for the viscount through Mr. Jeffries.”

The woman's hand snatched back as if burned. Her eyes snapped up and narrowed on her. “Book delivery through Jeffries? From Main Street Books and Printers?”

The sounds in the kitchen suddenly dimmed as if a blanket had been thrown over a ringing bell. All eyes seemed to turn her way.

“Yes?” Icy tingles under her skin made the heat on her neck burn.

“Come with me.” The woman turned and headed back through. The servants parted ranks, casting curious glances in Miranda's direction as they continued to work, the sound increasing again, but now with whispered words and glances her way.

“Pardon me,” Miranda said, as they exited through
the heavy kitchen door and into a blissfully cooler hall, moving forward into the deeper areas of the house.

Every nerve was on sudden edge with the anticipating thought that she might see him again, vying with utter mortification over the possibility. She had been unknowingly
gossiping
about him, and he had assuredly
heard
. “The parcel has been paid for already and only requires a signature and perhaps another package in return if the viscount has so ordered.”

Drop it off. Grab the Rutherford package, if it was available. Her uncle had already half written off Rutherford's books as lost due to the flighty nature of the Quality. She surreptitiously tried to pull her sweat-dampened dress away from her neck as she walked. “If I could just drop it with—”

Not breaking stride, the woman shook her head, as she passed in and out of the partial light filtering through open doorways. “I have instructions to show you to the Red Room.” She pointed. “This way.”

Miranda followed uncertainly. The woman opened an ornate door and motioned her inside. “It will be just a moment.”

Her uncle had told her in no uncertain terms that the package had to be delivered today to their “very important client.” Something about a library and books the viscount was shedding that he had hinted
might
be given to the store. Her uncle had devolved into ecstatic mutterings.

Otherwise, she might have been tempted—
just a bit
—to flee.

Miranda stepped inside, and the heavy door clicked behind her. The room was decorated entirely in black, silver, and gold. Even the woods were ebony, with gleam
ing embellishments. The only testament to color was a lone red vase perched atop a pedestal in the center.

It was obvious someone had a sense of humor.

The room had an unused quality about it. As if it were all for show. Bookshelves lined one side, filled with ledgers and thick, heavy tomes that looked as if they hadn't been moved in years. Someone, some servant probably, had neatly aligned all the books. A bookshelf that was used had at least some titles askew. Put away with a busy hand. Not perfectly positioned next to the others at their sides.

The Quality. Between frolics, they had to pretend to attend to their pursuits and estate business. And Downing seemed to frolic a lot, if the ink on the gossip pages was any indication.

A large desk took up the space in front of a series of heavily draped windows, opened only enough to allow a sliver of light by which to see. As if the room were afraid of being exposed. The desk was trimmed in spiraled carvings of lions and chimeras midroar.

It too had an unused quality. As if someone might sit on the other side only to interrogate anyone who dared enter.

The room was intimidating. For what did one expect from someone unable to be pinpointed as anything other than dark and unexpected?

Only the red vase bent the mood. She walked over to examine it further.

“Do you like it?”

She spun to see the viscount leaning against the wall twirling a pocket watch. A normal man might have blended into the dark decor dressed as he was, but the viscount just made the shadows longer and more pronounced.

She turned back to the vase and tried to stay her breathing. He was the same man who had entered her shop, unknown at the time, she tried to convince herself. Out of her realm of experience even then, but now?

She concentrated on the enameled pottery in front of her. The vase was a lovely piece, actually. Red and gold intertwined with fleur-de-lis scrolls. The one spot of color, and also the one piece that held life. “I do.”

“And the room?”

She faced him again, holding the package as calmly as she could against her chest—a shield in front of her even though he was ten paces away. “It is a nice room,” she said diplomatically.

“Nice?”

“It is startling,” she admitted.

“‘Startling' is quite different from ‘nice.'”

“It is.”

“But do you like it?”

She inclined her head. “Does it matter?”

He smiled and pushed away from the wall. “At the moment, very much.”

“And in the next moment?”

He walked by her slowly, behind her, brushing the edge of her dress bow so that it tugged at her waist in a slight caress.

“We shall see.”

He continued to the desk, and she turned to face him. “Is your lordship amused? Playing with the lowly shopgirl?”

“I hardly think you a lowly shopgirl. You have funds of your own, do you not? Perhaps not enough to live on your own, but enough to refuse my offer the other day.” He sank into his chair, the action nearly liquid.
“Or am I such a bear that it was a refusal of me?”

He idly twirled a paperweight. The look in his eyes seemed to belie that he thought that possible.

“Have people found you a bear in order to lead you to such a conclusion?”

“I am generally found to be quite pleasurable company.” His eyes traveled her. “Or at least I haven't encountered complaints yet.”

She clutched the package tighter.

“Or maybe it is because you hold books in such high esteem that you can't bear to part with one before you are done.”

“And how will you ever deduce which is the truth?”

“I already know which is true.” He smiled. “I asked someone with keen knowledge on the subject.”

She wondered whom he had asked—her uncle, Peter, Georgette?—and when he had done so. “I see.”

He placed the weight on the desk, arranging it in a sequence with a pen, a piece of paper, and the pocket watch. “Do you?”

No, she didn't. “You are having some amusement. Playing with the not-as-lowly-as-first-supposed-but-still-lowly shopgirl.”

The flash from the first night flitted through his eyes again as he looked up. He settled back in his chair, hands clasped together. “I do so hope so.”

“Why?” she asked baldly.

“Because you intrigue me.”

She watched his eyes, trying not to pay attention to the way her organs seemed to fight to cross an unknown finish line. She had done nothing extraordinary. She had none of the overt flirtatiousness of Georgette. She
had no claim to a great beauty or figure that made men claim intrigue.

She hadn't acquitted herself as witty or wise. She was just Miranda. A girl who liked books.

Which made his claim false and raised an unknown alarm.

She shook her head free of any flights of fancy and held out the parcel. “Here you are, my lord. Intact and hand delivered.” She walked to the desk and placed it on the surface, the paper on top awaiting his signature slid forward. She pushed it an inch toward him. “I'll be on my way after you sign this.”