Temptations of a Wallflower (2 page)

Another secret he would never tell anyone.

“Why indeed?” His father chuckled. “Forgive me, Jeremy. I shouldn't have assumed that you, of all people, would know about wicked, indecent books.”

“No need for forgiveness,” Jeremy answered. He clasped his hands behind his back and gripped his fingers tightly.

“These . . . scribblings . . .” his father continued. “They are full of the most vile, reprehensible imaginings. Nothing but fornication. They undermine the very foundations of English morality. The same morality that I have been defending so scrupulously for decades.” He puffed his chest. “Our virtuous and upstanding King George himself thanked me for my efforts with my earldom.”

Jeremy knew full well that his father's title had resulted from the earl's constant campaigning against brothels and courtesans appearing in public. Jeremy had been told so over and over again his whole life.

“I'd no idea a single book had such power,” he said.

“The Bible has power, does it not?” Allam asked. “And it is but a single book.”

“But it is
the
book, Uncle. Not a minor footnote in the chronicles of literature.”

“Literature?” the earl demanded. “Pah!” He shook the volume in his hand. “This is an abomination, is what it is. And it is hardly a footnote. These books are wildly popular. They cannot keep them in stock at the booksellers'.”

“However we may disagree with the content of these works,” Jeremy offered, “we must congratulate the author on her success. It takes a considerable amount of courage and determination to thrive in the field of publishing.”

“I shall do no such thing,” Lord Hutton growled. “There is nothing to be lauded in the peddling of ribald smut.”

There would be no arguing with his father. The man had made up his mind, and to change it would be a feat even the Lord would struggle to accomplish.

“In what way does this relate to me, Father?” Jeremy asked. A faint prickling of fear hurried up his spine. Great God, had his housekeeper discovered the chest of forbidden books and reported it to Lord Hutton? Disaster.

“This person, this so-called
Lady
.” His father paced. “She hides behind a pseudonym. Clearly, she is trying
to shield herself from scandal. Which must mean that she possesses some rank or position within the community. But she must know that she cannot hide forever. She will not.”

He continued, anger tightening his words. “If she insists on corrupting English morals, she must know there is a price to pay.”

“That price is . . . ?” Jeremy wondered.

“Her identity,” Allam said.

His father went on, “And
you,
Jeremy, are going to discover who she is.”

The roads were clear, and we traveled on into the night. I had just fallen into a doze when the carriage lurched to a stop, and I heard those unmistakable words:

“Stand and deliver!”

The Highwayman's Seduction

F
or a moment, Jeremy could only look back and forth between his father and his uncle. Yet both men's stern expressions made it plain that no one spoke in jest.

Finally, Jeremy asked, “Why me?” He spread his hands. “Of all the people to investigate the identity of this author—which I still don't understand the purpose of—I cannot see the reason for having me take on this matter. I'm only a vicar.”

“That's precisely why you are the ideal candidate for the job,” his uncle answered.

“Other people have tried to learn this
woman's
identity,” his father continued. “To no avail. But as you come from a high moral position, you should be able to get further than anyone else.”

Jeremy fought a wince at the words “high moral po
sition.” He was no better than any other human. With the same faults and frailties, the same needs and desires. He only worked harder to disguise them. But he could never say that to his father. At all times, he had to be better, more virtuous than an ordinary man.

Still, it was clear his father and uncle had discussed this subject at length and prepared a strategy for recruiting Jeremy to their cause.

“I still cannot fathom why I must be the one to lead this investigation,” Jeremy pressed.

His father's expression turned grim. “There are whispers in court and in Parliament. My star as England's moral leader is fading. Especially with Prince George and his dissolute circle setting the tone for our times. The obliteration of the Lady of Dubious Quality would see my star shine again.”

“Then oughtn't you be the one to discover her identity?” Jeremy wondered aloud.

The earl's look soured further. “I'm too old for such work. It takes a younger man. A man of my family. That can only mean you.”

“As the heir,” Allam continued, “John cannot involve himself in the task. He has responsibilities of his own. Same with Mark.”

“But you,” his father went on, gesturing toward Jeremy, “my son, a
vicar,
you are the perfect man to take on this task.”

Jeremy pondered this rationale. “This . . . Lady of Dubious Quality,” he said slowly. “Is there a specific rationale for exposing her?”

“Once her identity is revealed,” his father explained as though talking to a dim child, “the scandal will be
so tremendous that she will be forced to stop writing her lewd books, and we'll put an end to her once and for all.”

He continued, “Think of your cousin Marwood. And his friend Lord Ashford. Both of them married down.”

Allam grimaced and looked away.

“How did the Lady of Dubious Quality cause that?” Jeremy asked.

“She may have influenced their decisions to wed beneath them. I've heard from others that she often writes of the classes . . .
intermixing.
There is nothing good to be gained by such seditious ideology.”

“Chasing after a writer of, ah, prurient literature would take me away from my parish and my duties to my parishioners,” Jeremy pointed out.

“You're a bright lad,” Allam noted. “It shouldn't take you more than a few weeks to learn who our mystery scribbler is. Make some inquiries. Talk to her publisher. Booksellers. It should hardly be enough time for your parishioners to notice.”

“There's that curate of yours, Mr. Wolbert,” his father said. “He can take care of things while you're away.”

Mr. Wolbert was a good man, if a trifle young and inexperienced. Shouldering the Sunday services and managing the rest of the responsibilities that came with the job might do him good.

“If there's any reluctance on your part,” Lord Hutton continued, “consider this: I'll increase your allowance if you uncover the Lady's secret.” He took a step forward, his hands spread. “You'd like that, wouldn't you,
Jeremy? Doing whatever it is that you want. Perhaps the Church isn't your cup of tea. Perhaps you'd like to venture into other areas, or even live the life of a country gentleman.” His father's tone became more coaxing. “All those possibilities could be yours.”

His mind whirling, Jeremy crossed his arms and stared off into the distance. The life of a leisured gentleman held no appeal, yet if Jeremy had more money in his pocket, he wouldn't be dependent on his income as a vicar. He'd have the freedom denied him from an early age, freedom to go where he wanted, do what he pleased. There were innumerable charities and benevolent organizations with which he could work without being limited by his Church-ascribed role.

Certainly none of Jeremy's letters home had indicated how dissatisfied he'd become of late with life as a vicar. Oh, he managed his duties fine. Did them well, even. He fielded the usual number of complaints from parish busybodies who were perpetually disgruntled. Mr. Engle was never satisfied with the lilacs that grew in front of the church and wanted them pulled up to make way for sturdy juniper. Jeremy often had to mediate between neighbors Mrs. Litchfield and Mrs. May over disputes about whose goat belonged to whom.

Overall, he'd been made to feel welcome and had been readily taken into the community. He'd been to numerous dinners at his parishioners' houses, and he was frequently positioned next to their marriageable daughters at these meals. Mr. and Mrs. Allen, in particular, seemed eager to pair him with their girl Adeline.

The last visit from the archdeacon had gone very well, too. No professional concerns marred his experience.

His father couldn't know, but in truth, Jeremy was busy but bored numb. He found himself staring off into space instead of deep in prayer at church. He'd set off to pay visits, and then discover himself sitting beside his favorite swimming pond instead.

Guiding people toward realizing their best selves fulfilled him, but that comprised a minor component of his work. Most of the time, he felt constrained, hemmed in. That tight vise would grip him when he had to listen to Mr. Edgar complain about his gout, or when a young couple dithered over the name for their new baby.

Everyone—especially his father—expected him to behave a certain way, to be a particular type of man. Was he that man? He didn't know, especially as of late.

He searched for something, but he didn't know what it was.

Would money solve the problem? What his father offered was appealing, but that wasn't what pricked Jeremy's interest now. Learning more about the Lady, however . . . that was an exciting, tantalizing prospect. He'd read all her books—now he could discover more about her and the dark, seductive world she embodied. And perhaps, when it was all over, he could at last have the liberty so long refused him. He could travel, see the world, help those both here in England and abroad.

The fire popped, and he realized that he'd fallen silent for several minutes. Glancing up, he saw his father and uncle staring intently at him, awaiting his response.

“I'll do it,” he said. He had a strong suspicion that the “Lady” was, in fact, a man. It would be a simple matter to track him down.

“Excellent,” his father said. His stern face cracked a smile as he came forward to shake Jeremy's hand. “Whatever you need is at your disposal.”

“I shall keep you informed,” Jeremy answered.

“And while you're in town,” Allam added, “please come to a garden party Helena and I are hosting tomorrow. It's a bit chilly, but the last of the flowers are out, and Helena wanted to take advantage of them before the blossoms are gone.”

“Sounds delightful,” Jeremy said.

“There should be a nice selection of suitable young women there, as well.” His uncle waggled his eyebrows.

“Given that I'm on the hunt for the Lady of Dubious Quality,” Jeremy replied drily, “I'll likely be too busy to go wife hunting.”

“Never too busy to find yourself a bride,” his father said firmly.

Well, that was a battle Jeremy had no interest in fighting right now. How could he search for a woman to share his life with when he didn't even know what he wanted anymore? Much as he craved the companionship, he doubted he could ever find a woman who would truly understand his own complexities—especially when
he
didn't understand them.

“I shall see you tomorrow,” Allam said.

Jeremy's quest would start then. He'd venture into the realm of temptation, and perhaps, in the process, he'd learn more about himself.

I
t was a beautiful autumnal day, full of golden sunlight and elegant talk, but Lady Sarah Frampton craved nothing more than a quiet place inside, some paper, and
a quill. She'd made her way indoors from the Marquess of Allam's festive garden party, seeking solitude.

Pushed by an unstoppable urge, she eased her way through groups of people—an easy feat, since very few paid her much attention. There had to be somewhere in the marquess's London home that was unoccupied. Somewhere where she could be alone and give rein to the needs that demanded to be met. But
where
?

A gentleman of middle age appeared in front of her. She recognized him as Sir William Lewis, who, she had learned from her mother's circle of acquaintance, was a baronet who had recently decided he needed a wife and had come out of country isolation to hunt for a bride.

“Capital day, Lady Sarah.” As he looked at her, his healthy red face had the same air it might have if he were to examine a strange animal brought to him by his hunting dogs. “This is quite a gala. Puts our country assemblies to shame.”

“I'm sure those gatherings have their own appeal, Sir William,” she offered.

He shrugged. “Suppose so.”

They fell into an awkward silence.

“Enjoying the Season?” Sir William asked. He clasped his hands behind his back, and she could easily picture him as a country squire, tramping over hills with his gun under one arm and his hounds trotting beside him.

“There's so much to enjoy,” she answered, which didn't actually answer the question.

“That there is.” He glanced around the garden. “It's all so different from back home.”

“I'm very interested to hear about your home,” she said sincerely. Right then, the country sounded delightful. Fresh, open. Quiet. Where a woman could be alone and not be subject to a hundred measuring gazes.

“Not much to tell,” he said with another shrug. “Farms, fields. Sheep.” He seemed disinclined to speak any further on the topic, and it wilted like an untended crop.

Well, not everyone was a born conversationalist. She wanted to give Sir William the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps he, too, preferred the life of the mind. “Do you have a library at your country estate?” she pressed. A well-read man held pride of place in her estimation.

“Got a Bible and an almanac,” he said after thinking about it for a moment.

She suppressed a sigh. “Ah. Well, if you'll excuse me.”

“Of course!” he exclaimed almost with relief.

She hadn't walked more than a few steps when she overheard another gentleman speaking with Sir William.

“Don't bother with that one,” the man said. Sarah recognized his voice as Lord Pennerly, a young buck eagerly searching for a wealthy, titled bride.

“Why not?” Sir William asked.

“Pretty enough, in an odd sort of way. Got that nose on her, and that overlarge mouth.”

“True,” Sir William mused.

“She's
the Watching Wallflower.
Only observes, never participates. Always watching, thinking.”

“Don't like the ones that think too much,” Sir William huffed.

“No one does,” Lord Pennerly answered. “And she's the worst of them. Find yourself a nice, sweet,
sparkling
girl, Sir William. You needn't squander your efforts on the Wallflower.”

“My thanks for the advice,” said the older man, and they both drifted off to find more
sparkling
females.

Sarah didn't even bother blushing or feeling humiliated. Things like that happened with far too much frequency for her to feel anything beyond mild irritation anymore.

A handful of guests lingered in a corridor leading off the terrace. Here, in the dim passage, people engaged in flirtatious conversation, away from curious, speculative eyes. Too engrossed in their own interests and dramas to notice one slightly tall wallflower skulking away from a garden party, no one paid Sarah any attention as she passed. She was glad at this moment that, to the
ton,
she was unremarkable. Had she been a diamond of the first water, and one of the lights of the Season, surely she wouldn't have had as much freedom. And freedom—and the chance to write—was what she desired.

Bypassing the retiring room at the end of the hallway, she turned a corner. The kind of solitude she needed wouldn't be found amongst a bunch of gossiping women fussing over their gowns and hair. Instead, she glided down another, smaller corridor, testing doorknobs, the metal rattling softly beneath her gloved hand. Many were locked.

At last, one door gave way. Sarah peered inside. The curtains were pulled back, revealing a snug, unoccupied room.

Sarah slid inside and shut the door behind her. Unfortunately, there was no lock, but she supposed it might look especially suspicious if she opted to barricade herself inside a private room. Drifting farther inside, she kept one eye on the door as she perused her surroundings. There was a bookshelf with a few slim volumes, a settee, and, as she'd noticed, a little lady's desk.

No other invitation was needed.

Sarah sat down at the desk and opened her reticule. She pulled out a few sheets of paper folded into quarters, along with a small silver pencil.

Relief surged through her, like the sweetest balm. She took a moment simply to luxuriate in the sensation of holding a writing implement, blank paper in front of her. Heaven. Exactly what she'd been craving all day.