The Seducer (4 page)

He will seduce you with luxuries and kindness, and then . . .

Ridiculous. A man like this had no need of such as her. Nor would the next few weeks be the product of his kindness. It simply was not convenient for him to travel to England right now.

The fire’s heat worked its way down to her bones, killing the chill that she had known most of her life. She closed her eyes and enjoyed the sensation. The warmth surrounded her like arms, comforting her.

A memory came to her suddenly, of another long carriage ride, split by a journey on a boat. Of fear and loneliness finally defeating her during an interminable night while she huddled in the corner of a moving, black space. Of arms reaching for her in the dark and pulling her close so that she cried into a wool coat.

Perhaps that buried, childish memory accounted for the familiarity in the carriage today.

No, not entirely. For one thing, she was no longer a child and he neither treated her nor spoke to her as one anymore. It was that abrupt change that made her uncomfortable with him. Still, the memory eased her misgivings a little.

She dozed off into a vision of a garden filled with golden vines.

She sat on the chair in front of the hearth, waiting to be called to the meal. Her hair felt a little unsteady, piled up as it was on her crown. After the maid had finished, her reflection displayed a stranger, someone older than her own image of herself.

The door opened, but no servant had come. Daniel stood there.

“Jeanette asked that I check on you, to spare her coming up. You are comfortable here? You have been settled in?”

She rose to face him. “Actually, I have been wondering if there is another chamber.”

“This one does not suit you?”

“I would prefer something simpler. Smaller. I am not accustomed to such as this.”

“The smaller ones are above and used by the servants. We can hardly put you there.”

“I don’t see why not.”

“Because you are not a servant. You are a guest.”

He stepped into the chamber and looked around curiously, as if checking its proportions and seeing its opulence anew. His expression changed to one of comprehension.

He strolled over to a table near the canopied bed. It held one of the beautiful urns. “Come here.”

She did not move. She could not, and not just because the chamber intimidated her.

The space was not so large that one could ignore that it was a bedchamber. Her bedchamber, and he was in it and really should not be, even if it was his home. No one had ever taught her that lesson. She just knew it. An odd quickening in her blood, a different flow in the air, a heightening of the familiarity from the carriage—his presence produced a barrage of effects that warned that this was not correct.

“Come here,” he repeated, lifting the precious urn.

When she did not obey, he walked over to her. “You cannot spend the next weeks chained to that hearth. Eventually you must move.”

“It is warm here. It is the only comfort I welcome or need. In fact, it is a wonderful luxury.”

“No fire in your chamber at school? No, I suppose not. And small ones in those that were lit elsewhere, I expect. Madame would justify the discomfort as good for the soul.”

He stood near her, the urn casually cradled in his hands. “Take it.”

She hesitated. He placed it in her hands. It was much lighter than she expected. Fragile.

“Now, drop it.”

She stared at him in shock.

“Drop it.”

She glanced down to the hearth tiles on which they stood. “It will break.”

“Drop it.”

“No.”

His hands came over hers. They rested there a moment, the warmth of his palms enclosing her hands, the rough pads of his fingers grazing her wrists. The touch startled her. A deep wave of intimacy flowed through the contact.

She looked at him in surprise. Something unfathomable flickered in his gaze. That startled her even more.

They stood a long time with his hands cupping hers over the urn. Too long. Or maybe not more than an instant. She couldn’t tell. Her awareness of him and of their physical contact filled the moments so totally that she had no sense of how much time had passed.

His fingers moved. He pried her hands loose.

The urn slipped away. She watched, horrified, as it fell to the tiles and shattered.

“Now you have broken one and do not have to be afraid of doing so again. They are just objects, Diane. Soulless, lifeless objects. They have no value unless they serve us with their function or beauty. Only a fool is ruled by them.”

He spoke quietly and gently. More gently than she ever remembered, as if he were sharing an important secret.

He still held her hands, his pressing thumbs making strange pulses throb in her palms. New lights entered his eyes and the pulse spread. To her arms. To her blood. To her breath and the fire and the air. To the whole chamber.

Another timeless instant. An astonishing one. Compelling and confusing. A little frightening, but touched with dangerous excitement, such as one felt when peering down from a great height.

He dropped her hands abruptly, breaking the spell. He turned on his heel and aimed for the door. “Break one every day if you need to. Tear the chamber apart if it suits you.” His voice came harshly, making her wonder if she had imagined what had just happened.

He paused at the threshold and looked back. A little tremor of that pulse passed to her again. Like an echo. Or a distant voice calling.

“Your intentions, Daniel. I would hear them now.”

“You say that in an accusatory tone, Jeanette. I am wounded.”

“It is not in anyone’s power to wound you.”

“Perhaps not, but if anyone could, it would be you.”

That made her retreat. She relaxed back in her chair and her face lost its strict expression. “Why did you bring her here?”

“I told you, it was necessary.” He explained the little drama at the school and the discovery of Diane’s true age. “I suppose that I never considered that the years passed for her as well as us. And she appears very young, unless you look closely.”

“Perhaps you also found it convenient not to see that she was grown and had to be dealt with.”

He ignored that. “She was building up her courage to leave the school anyway. It was just a matter of time. London, she said. To find her life.”

“Oh, dear.”

“Exactly.”

Jeanette’s face came to him five times over, the real one multiplied by the mirrors. He did not care for this old-fashioned sitting room with its flimsy furniture and relentless reflections. His own tastes were more restrained, but this was Jeanette’s bower and she had decorated it to create a private world. She had filled it with the light and beauty of her childhood, and he neither begrudged her the expense nor the opulence. He would build her an entire palace filled with golden tendrils if that would crowd the darkness from her memories.

“Do you intend to keep her here forever? She thinks that she is going to London.”

“She will, eventually. I merely need some time to finish arrangements regarding Dupré first. Then I can turn my attention to England, and to Tyndale.”

Jeanette’s dark head tilted back in surprise. Concern veiled her green eyes. “Daniel . . .”

“Do not worry. And do not interfere.”

She thoughtfully rearranged the long shawl around her shoulders. He waited while she contemplated the little she knew and surmised the rest. He never explained much to her, but she always saw it all.

“She is very lovely,” she said. “Unpolished, but that is easily remedied. I will see to it.”

“Do not make the shine too bright. It will obscure what is naturally there.”

He did not have to say more. She would understand.

Wrapped to her satisfaction, the shawl’s long silk ends crossing just so, she drew herself a little straighter. “So many years had passed, that I thought you had given up on it. That it was over. But if you are making arrangements for Gustave Dupré, I suppose not.”

“It is only over when it is finished.”

“And when you turn your attention to England, you think that you see a way to finish it for good? You plan to try and take down Andrew Tyndale? I do not like it. I do not want it. He is the brother of a marquis. It is not worth the risk. You could lose everything, even your life.”

“I won all that I have so that it
could
be finished. It is definitely worth the risk.”

“I will not see this girl harmed for my sake.”

“It is not only about you. If you think so you are mistaken, and have forgotten too much.”

“I forget nothing. Still—”

“I told you not to interfere.” He caught a glimpse of himself, eyes and face suddenly hard, in the damnable mirrors. He forced the rancor down. “She will not be harmed in any way. I will not permit that.”

“As always, you are very sure of yourself. Perhaps, as always, it will be as you plan. So let us put aside my larger concerns. I will not worry about them until I have cause to. However, the woman in me finds herself also wondering about something much smaller and more ordinary.”

Jeanette rarely worried about small, ordinary things. He saw to it that she did not have to anymore. “What is that?”

“You have asked me to look after her. She will be my responsibility and you are a legendary seducer. Therefore I am duty bound to repeat my first question, but in this smaller, more ordinary context. What are your intentions?”

He laughed, to indicate the question was completely absurd.

She did not react. She knew him too well and had probably seen that it was not absurd at all.

“She has her father’s eyes. Do you think that I could pursue her, always seeing that?” It was what he had told himself several times during that long carriage ride. Except sometimes she looked at him in that steady, unflinching way and he forgot to see the resemblance for a very long while.

Like just now, upstairs in the Chinese chamber.

“That hardly reassures me,” Jeanette said. “But if you plan what I think, you need her innocent. That will check you, should you ever be tempted.”

“Now you truly wound me. I do not corrupt young women.”

“There are some things even you cannot plan, Daniel. Things that even you cannot control.”

“Perhaps, but my appetites are not among them. I am not a total devil.” He rose to leave, annoyed with her insinuations. That he had, in fact, been recently moved by something difficult to control did not help his mood.

She laughed. The mirrors showed them facing each other, her shaking her head in amusement and him looking down, a tall dark tower bespoiling this little, glittering, pastel world.

“Ah, Daniel,” she said with a sigh. “I am not implying that you are a devil. I am suggesting that you are a normal man. But perhaps that is a bigger insult.”

chapter
4

G
ustave Dupré plucked two tomes from their shelves and carefully placed them on his desk, angling and opening them to create a haphazard arrangement that spoke of scholarly disarray. It was important for a certain type of visitor to understand that this was the study of a busy man whose advanced intellect did not like distractions of a mundane nature.

He awaited such a visitor now.

He fondly surveyed the many leather bindings on their mahogany shelves while he chose the next book. It was an unsurpassed scientific library, the envy of everyone who knew him. Hadn’t Fourier himself come to borrow from it? He had enjoyed making him wait just a bit before receiving him, especially since it had been Fourier who all those years ago had found the flaw in the mathematical proof that Gustave had expected to secure his fame.

Yes, he had enjoyed humbling Fourier. Only a little, of course. They were brothers in science now, equal in status and repute. Another proof had secured that for Gustave, one which even the great Fourier could not pierce.

Adrian, his new secretary, entered the library. “His carriage is here.”

Gustave settled himself in the chair behind the desk. “Bring him here when he comes in.”

“Do you want me to stay?”

Gustave bristled at the impertinence. Did Adrian dare to suggest that he, Gustave Dupré, could use the counsel of a young pup barely out of university?

If so many of France’s own sons had not been killed in the war, he would not have been forced to resort to this English upstart. The young man had been so bold last week as to correct the Latin that Gustave had used in a treatise. Ever since, Gustave had detected a lack of deference. Presumptuous that, since Adrian was of suspect blood and a mongrel in appearance. The boy was fortunate to have any position at all, let alone that of a secretary to one of the greatest scientists on the Continent.

On the other hand, this visitor had made reference to foreign texts. No doubt such a person considered Latin foreign.

“You may stay. You might learn something.” His own writing of Latin might make some slips, but his reading of it was unsurpassed. Perhaps he would have a chance to put this secretary in his place.

Adrian left and returned shortly, carrying three bound books. A tall man, about thirty years old, followed him in.

Daniel St. John accepted Gustave’s welcome and took the chair beside the desk. Adrian deposited his burden and moved away to the wall.

Gustave examined his visitor. For a man who had made his wealth in trade, St. John was well turned out and carried himself with an arrogant dignity. Well, money could do that, up to a point, just as learning could. He had heard of St. John, but they had never met.

“It was generous of you to see me,” St. John said.

“Your letter describing some rare books intrigued me. I doubt anything will come of it, but I decided that they are worth a look. Tell me where you found them.”

“One of my ships was in the eastern Mediterranean. The captain, as a favor to the Turkish sultan, agreed to provide passage to Egypt for a member of the royal court. Unfortunately, the minister died while on board. These were found among his belongings.”

And Daniel St. John had not sought to return them to either his passenger’s family or the sultan. No wonder the books were being offered privately and quietly.

“I have heard of your library,” St. John continued. “And although I cannot begin to make any sense of it, the top book appears to deal with something scientific.” He flipped open the cover of the thin volume. “See here. There are drawings and numbers, and not just words.”

“This is not a printed book. It is a manuscript.”

“Yes. Didn’t I mention that?”

He had not. What a fool.

Gustave pulled the volume closer. The writing was not Latin, but Arabic. Hell, he didn’t know any Arabic.

He studied the mathematical formulas and the pictures. He paged forward.

A tiny image near a corner caught his eye. It showed rows of cylinders, connected by lines. Now, that appeared familiar. His blood began pulsing for reasons he could not name. It reminded him of how he had felt when he neared completion of that ill-fated proof.

He forced a bland expression. It would never do to reveal his interest. St. John would probably charge a fortune for anything someone really wanted.

His presumptuous secretary craned his neck to get a glimpse. Feeling a spurt of the teacher’s largesse, Gustave called him over.

“Arabic,” Adrian said with astonishment.

“Brilliant observation.”

“I have taught myself some.” Adrian’s finger went to a line of jottings. “I can translate part of this for you.”

Gustave snapped the cover closed, almost crushing the intrusive finger. “M’sieur St. John, would you excuse us for a short while?”

St. John graciously retreated. When the door closed behind him, Gustave turned on his employee. “Do not
ever
presume to instruct me, especially in front of others. I took you on despite your ambiguous history and your lack of fortune, but there are others waiting for your place.”

“My apologies. It is just that I thought it might help if you knew what the manuscript was about.”

Gustave opened the pages to where he had been. Those cylinders . . . Why did that look so familiar?

Well, what was the good in having a secretary if you didn’t get your money’s use out of him. “Fine,” he said to Adrian. “Tell me what you make of it.”

The young man frowned over the dots and dashes. “I do not think it is only scientific, but also mechanical. It appears to have something to do with iron.”

Gustave’s heart took a huge leap. Rushing blood prickled his scalp and extremities. He stared at the pages, flipping them again and again.

Suddenly he understood why that drawing had appeared familiar. He possessed another manuscript that contained a similar, less developed image, and that also spoke of iron. He could picture it on the top shelf behind him, thin and worn, untouched for years, filled with the ambiguous, incomplete scratchings of a man running out of time.

The excitement almost burst his heart. He thought he would swoon. It was all he could do not to jump up and grab that old manuscript, to be sure he was right.

He only controlled himself because Adrian was in the room. He would need the secretary’s help with the Arabic, but he must not let Adrian know what this text might really be about.

If he was correct, the name Gustave Dupré would be immortalized for all time.

He would also become one of the richest men in the world.

A low fire crackled in the hearth. A tray sat on the table beside the bed. Diane could smell the cocoa steaming in its cup. On her third day here she had come upon Daniel drinking some in the garden and he had pressed a taste of the thick, rich fluid on her. He had found her delight in it amusing, and ever since a cup had been brought to her each morning.

A little ritual had developed to open each day. She would drink the cocoa while the hearth fire warmed the chamber. Then the maid would return and help her to wash and dress. She would go down to the breakfast room, where Jeanette would join her and they would discuss the day’s plans. Daniel was never there. By the hour she emerged from her chamber, he was long gone into the city to do whatever it was he did.

Some mornings the ritual altered a bit. If Jeanette was delayed coming down, Diane went for a walk. No one had forbidden that, but she snuck out of the house through the servants’ entry anyway, and felt very daring and mature as she strolled among the city’s crowds.

She lifted the fragile cup and the deep aroma beckoned her. She sipped the bittersweet substance.

A girl could get accustomed to this.

She gazed at the cocoa. Richly colored, deliciously flavored, very expensive. It trickled down one’s throat in a thick flow, bringing a sense of well-being. Like so much else in this house, it was a luxuriously sensual distraction.

Yes, a girl could get accustomed to it, and when she took a position as a governess, the renewal of deprivations would chafe at her.

She threw back the bedclothes and hopped down. She would not lie abed like some queen and await attendants today.

She did for herself and it did not take nearly as long as it did with the maid. She brushed out her hair and secured it in a little knot on her nape and examined the effect in the mirror. It was not very elegant, but it would do.

The breakfast chamber was not empty as she had hoped. Her anticipation of sneaking out for a walk died.

Paul sat at the table in a pose very relaxed for a servant. Beside him, finishing the last of his meal, was the dark presence of Daniel St. John.

Their conversation drifted to her as she passed through the threshold and walked to the sideboard.

“All is in place,” Daniel said. “I should hear today exactly when to move. Is it ready?”

“Only the details need to be added, once you get the draw—”

Her back was to them, but she knew she had been noticed. She imagined Daniel’s hand rising in a gesture that cut the sentence off.

Sounds scraped behind her. She helped herself to a plate of rolls and allowed herself the luxury of one little sweet cake. She turned, expecting to find the table deserted.

It wasn’t. Paul had left, but not Daniel.

He subjected her to a lazy inspection. His gaze lingered on her hair just long enough for her to wish it had been dressed properly.

She could not stand there like some child caught pilfering food. She took a place across from him.

He poured her some coffee from a silver urn on the table. “Your visits to the city are amusing you?”

“Are you being treated well? Do you have any complaints? Are you learning your school lessons?”

That brought his gaze on her very directly.

“The questions. From the school,” she explained, too aware of how his attention still flustered her. “You continue to ask them, in a way.”

“And are you being treated well?”

His cadence made it clear that they now spoke of
his
care and treatment.

“Very well. I am learning my school lessons too. It is a type of education that your sister gives me, is it not? The visits to this fine city and its many sites. The dancing lessons twice a week. The gentle instructions in comportment. Even the many visits to shops are classes in taste.”

“Does this displease you?”

“Only a nun would not enjoy it. I will be the most accomplished and elegant governess in England.”

“A refined manner can only enhance your chance to get a position.”

“I seek a position with a well-to-do family, not a duke.”

“Well, perhaps you will obtain a better one now.”

Perhaps she could, but that would not do. She had not been born in such an elevated world. The answers that she sought could not be found in it.

Then again, maybe he was not referring to a position as a governess at all. Madame Leblanc’s warnings kept echoing in her mind as this largesse and training were heaped on her. She had concluded that was nonsense, but sometimes this man looked at her in a way that made her remember the breathless moment in her chamber that first day. Nothing would change in his expression, but a tiny flicker of time would expand into another mesmerizing eternity.

Being alone with him here was making it happen again.

She forced her gaze down to her plate, to break that spell. “Anyway, I do feel, sometimes, that I am still in a school.”

“A more comfortable one, I hope. Indulge my sister. She has never had a protégée before, and it is giving her great pleasure.”

That would be reason enough to set aside her misgivings. However, she could not shake the notion that she was not really Jeanette’s protégée, but his.

“Paul is English, isn’t he?” she asked, to turn the conversation away from her. “You were both speaking English when I entered.”

“He is.”

“Are you? He speaks French with an accent, but you do not.”

“I am a citizen of the world, but I am French by birth. I have spent many years among English-speaking people. Both languages are natural to me and I probably think of myself as more English than French now.”

“That must have been awkward during the war.”

“I spent little time in either country during the war. I was normally in the West Indies or the East.”

Most of the time, but not all of it. Once a year he returned to France and visited a school in Rouen. She doubted that he had come back specifically for that.

His willingness to speak of himself emboldened her. She had been curious about him for years.

“Your name. St. John. Madame always pronounced it in the French way,
Saint-Jean,
but I saw it written once and it was English.”

“I was blessed with a name that is very adaptable.”

“So was I. Albret. Madame always spoke it
Al-brey,
but I knew she was wrong and that the ‘t’ should be clear, because I am English.”

“What makes you think so?”

What made her so sure of that? It was not only the fragments of old memories, and of crossing the water as a girl. She could not swear to which language had been spoken in those shadowy bits of her life. “I dream in English.”