The Seduction of an English Scoundrel (3 page)

Jane took a moment to answer, murmuring, “Nigel and I understood each other perfectly.”

“He must be dead,” Lady Belshire said, gazing disconsolately around the chapel. “Jane, I think it would be wise to accept Sedgecroft's kind offer.”

Jane looked aghast. “Mama, I am not going to be borne through the crowds like a . . . a football.”

Lady Belshire fanned her pink cheeks in embarrassment. “I meant his offer of the carriage, Jane. My goodness, there is no need for the common folk to be gossiping over this.”

Lord Belshire gave his wife a grim smile. “Steel yourself, Athena. The story will be printed in all its nasty scandal in the evening papers. There is nothing to do but brazen it out as best we can. Sedgecroft?”

The marquess stirred, as if wondering how he'd managed to become personally involved in this family drama.

“One of my brothers will escort your daughter home while I take care of matters here,” he answered. “The guests may as well enjoy the wedding breakfast.” He squared his impressive shoulders, his gaze burning with a blue fire that took Jane's breath away. “I will make this right,” he added softly, his voice underlaid with all the arrogance of his aristocratic background.

For a dangerous moment Jane almost laughed out loud. Here she stood at the altar with an infamous rogue who had never spoken two words to her in her life, vowing to avenge a wrong that had actually not occurred.

The promise might certainly be meant to reassure her, given by a man who had probably never accepted a rejection in his life. Instead, it had the opposite effect. Rather than feeling comforted, every self-protective instinct that Jane possessed came hurtling forward in warning.

By sabotaging her own marriage, she had thought to make herself safe. Instead, a danger far more insidious than any she could have previously imagined stood before her. Indeed, her scheme today might have brought her to the very gates of hell . . . with the devil himself waiting to claim her deceptive soul.

Chapter 2

Weed, the senior footman in Sedgecroft's London residence, reported to his master less than an hour later in the huge reception hall. Here, beneath a domed ceiling the wedding breakfast had been laid out in a splendor of sparkling crystal, Sèvres china, and polished silverware on crisp white linen tablecloths. After a spell of awkward hesitation, the guests had attacked the lobster salad and champagne as if everything were perfectly normal.

As if the high-backed Chippendale chairs reserved for the bride and bridegroom were not sadly empty.

As if their toplofty host were not presiding over the celebration like a medieval warlord who had ordered his vassals to enjoy themselves while he brooded on plans for his revenge.

“I did as you asked,” Weed said in an undertone, bending over Grayson on the pretext of refilling his champagne glass. “Our pigeon has flown the coop.”

Grayson's face tightened dangerously. He had little tolerance for a man who lacked the guts to fulfill whatever promises he had been foolish enough to make, especially when that man was a family relation who had used Grayson's chapel to commit his social crime. “Are you certain?”

“His wardrobe and drawers have been emptied, my lord. The servants claimed to have no inkling of his plans—his valet reported the bed unoccupied when he brought up the shaving water earlier this morning. Seeing as Sir Nigel's carriage was still on the premises, everyone assumed he'd gone for an early-morning walk to calm his nerves.”

“And never returned,” Grayson said in contempt, his opinion of his cousin lowering by the minute. It might have been better all the way around if Nigel had been run over by a hackney or some sort of ridiculous excuse for leaving that young woman at the altar.

“I suppose there is still the possibility of foul play,” Weed said doubtfully.

Grayson's brother, Heath, sauntered up to the other side of the chair. “What has happened?” he asked quietly, smiling at the guests who watched him, matrons marking him as a desirable target for their unwed daughters, assuming his elusive heart could be caught. The marquess, of course, would rank first on their list, but no eligible young woman had yet attracted his eye, either, although many had gone to preposterous lengths in this pursuit.

The taming of the Boscastle clan and ensuing matrimonial capture challenged a good many of the ton's wedlock-obsessed mamas. All that wealth, those excessive good looks, their generosity to the few they held dear . . .

“Nigel's gone missing on us,” Grayson said, his tapered fingers curled around the scrolled stem of his glass.

“Missing?” Heath gave a cynical laugh. “In the middle of London on his wedding day? I do not think so.”

Grayson arched his brow. “Nor do I. The point is, he cannot be found. The question remains, why.”

Heath folded his arms across his chest. “We shall need a Bow Street man.”

“No,” Grayson said quietly, torn between family loyalty and the odd sense of responsibility he felt for the whole unhappy affair. If Belshire's daughter had thrown a tantrum or wept piteously, he might not have been so touched by her abandonment. But her composed acceptance challenged him to defend her. Why? He wasn't sure. Perhaps because no one else appeared likely to assume that role.

He added, “If the rascal has decamped on us and is not lying dead in a gutter, it is and shall remain a family affair.”

“Yes,” Heath murmured. “And so we keep it quiet. Well, as quiet as possible considering the fact that half of London already knows by now what he did.”

Grayson's eyes narrowed. He'd never had any patience with the small-mindedness of society. It brought out a beastly urge in him to act on his most shocking impulses just to show he did not care. The trouble was, he was no longer the prodigal son who could behave however he pleased.

He said, “Gossip is best dealt with by being ignored. His parents are utterly crushed, to say nothing of the bride. I suppose it's up to me to smooth things down for the family.”

“You, Gray, a peacemaker? Now there's a lightning bolt from the heavens. I do believe I like it.”

None of the six remaining siblings had accustomed themselves to the drastic shift the past year had wrought in the Boscastle hierarchy. Their father had appeared in excellent health until two months before his death. Everyone had expected the old tyrant to go on for decades. And when their youngest brother, Brandon, had been killed while protecting British interests in Nepal, it seemed impossible such a hale young man would not return.

The family had still not recovered from the shock. The reins of responsibility had been tossed into Grayson's lap before he realized quite what had happened. In fact, he had been on his way to China when the news of his father's untimely demise was delivered.

Almost overnight he had been forced to abandon his private pursuits and settle his abundant energy on the management of his vast estates. Boxing, drinking, steeplechasing, traveling to exotic lands in the name of business would have to wait. His time was taken up with finances, family affairs, the pension for his ailing aunts, and the countless charities his parents had supported.

Not to mention the Boscastle clan—three hell-raising brothers; one sister who would dearly love to follow in their path; another in Scotland who had virtually disowned the family; and numerous cousins, including the missing Nigel, most of whom did not appear to have a sensible bone in their collective body. To be a Boscastle meant to ignore boundaries.

Of course if anyone had told Grayson a year ago that he would have been viewing the world from his father's eyes, and not from his usual moment-to-moment hedonism, he would have laughed himself silly.

If this family were to survive, it would clearly be up to him. And in recent weeks, from murky emotional depths he did not care to explore, came the realization that his wretched family meant rather a lot to him. The double loss of his brother and father had brought this startling truth home. Still, responsibility sent a hell of a shock through a rake's system.

“What do we do then?” Heath asked, smiling fleetingly at an attractive young woman across the table.

Grayson sat back in amusement. “Can you tear yourself away from the females long enough to be of service?”

“Me? This from a man who had two past paramours waiting to pounce on him from their pews. But, yes.” Heath sobered, his dark blue eyes intent. “I shall help.”

Grayson gave a nod. Only a handful of people knew of Heath's involvement with British Intelligence during the war. Grayson himself did not know the details; nor would he pressure his brother to reveal what he had done. The point was that beneath Heath's quiet charm and winning manner lay a quick intellect and almost frightening disregard for danger. Privately he wished to be a little more like his younger brother, calculating his every move instead of acting rashly and regretting it latter.

“Find Nigel for me.”

Heath finished his glass of punch. “Consider it done. And then what happens?”

“Then we drag the repentant rat to the altar to finish this business. Take Devon with you if you like. It will keep him out of trouble.” Grayson cast a searching glance around the table; he'd just noticed that the two places reserved for his younger brothers were vacant. Drake had not returned after escorting the jilted bride home. “Where
is
Devon?”

Heath adjusted his cuffs. “Gone off with some old friends he met in Covent Garden last week. They've got him looking for pirate treasure off Penzance. A gypsy fortune-teller saw it in her crystal ball.”

“God bless us,” Grayson said. “This family is going to hell in a handbasket.”

“And you our exalted leader,” said the raven-haired Lady Chloe Boscastle, who had been sipping champagne the entire time from her nearby chair. “We only follow your example, dear brother.”

Grayson released a sigh. The family was doomed if they followed his example. Yet he could not ignore the fact of
his
influence. What was he to do? Repent? Sin in secret? How long could a man pretend his actions did not affect others?

Heaven help him, was he in serious danger of becoming a moral creature?

Grayson glanced over his shoulder at the footman standing against the wall. Suddenly it seemed easier to ponder the sins of others than contemplate his own. Distraction would help deflect him from considering his own murky character. “Has my carriage returned yet, Weed?”

“A few minutes ago, my lord.”

“And how did our abandoned bride appear?”

“Eager to be inside the house, I am told, and begging to be left alone.”

“She held up remarkably well,” Heath said. “I do admire that.”

Grayson tried to picture nondescript Nigel with the winsome young woman whose trust he had betrayed. It was difficult to imagine them together, oddly unsettling, in fact.

Chloe shook her dark head in sympathy. “She'll probably never venture from her room again. If I were in her place, I would console myself by roaming the Continent, and taking handsome lovers to heal my heart.”

Grayson gave his beautiful blue-eyed sister a reproachful look. “Let us hope that the young lady does not take her revenge to such an absurd degree.”

“I mean it, Gray,” she said, her voice passionate. “What happened to her today is too horrible to bear by half. I had a friend at school who threw herself into the Thames over a man who left her at the altar. A woman does not ever recover from that deep a betrayal. It has to leave a very painful wound.”

In his mind's eye Grayson saw a graceful back, delicate hands hidden in pearl-buttoned gloves, and a face mysteriously half revealed in the shadowy folds of a wedding veil. A composed face of classical features, a refined nose and full tempting mouth. Dark green eyes thankfully not overflowing with dramatic tears, but gazing up at him with an acceptance that almost challenged him to atone for a wrong he had never even committed.

His heavy eyebrows drew into a frown. “The lady did not strike me as the type to do anything quite so desperate as to take her own life.” Especially over a nitwit like Nigel, he added silently.

“But it is the death of her in polite society,” Chloe insisted, with a shrug of her bare shoulders. “You must do something to make this right, being the head of the family. If you don't, Jane will never be able to show her face in public again.”

Grayson thought of the enticing honey-haired maiden sitting alone in stoic misery for the rest of her life. What a deplorable waste of womanhood. “I intend to do something.” But
what
he could not say. God forbid that his interference should make the matter worse. He wasn't particularly known for his eagerness to do good deeds. Yet Grayson had always felt a curious compulsion to defend the downtrodden, presumably out of guilt over his own undeserved good fortune.

He glanced up. “Heath?”

“I'll be gone in an hour.”

“Thrash the bachelor out of him, but leave no visible marks.”

“Why not?”

Grayson smiled grimly. “I do not want him to look disreputable when he is dragged back to the altar.”