The Seduction of His Wife (36 page)

“I doubt I’ll ever stop.”

“I’ll make a deal with you, Asbury.”

Vane leaned over his mistress, his hand slipping into the front of her gown and over the woman’s breast as he whispered something in her ear.

She stood fluidly, without glancing at the other men in the room. The kiss she placed on Vane’s lips was anything but chaste. Not with Vane’s hand grasping her buttocks and pulling her close so their tongues could tangle. She left the duke standing in the middle of the room like a prince blessed before a medieval game of jousting.

“I will make inquiries,” the duke said finally. “It’s the best I can offer.”

Exactly what Richard wanted to hear.

“No price is too steep, Vane. I’ll not play games with the future of my wife’s reputation.”

“It will take me a few months. The paintings have been spread far and wide.”

“Fine.” Richard stuck his hand out to shake on the deal. When Vane took his hand, Richard asked, “How many do you own?”

The duke grinned. “Sixteen are in my possession and will remain so. I’m in the process of acquiring one more for my collection.”

Richard wondered why he’d sold one of his mistress’s portraits to begin with. Unless it wasn’t of the ladybird’s likeness.

He released the duke’s hand. Feeling uneasy about the deal he’d just made. Felt like a deal with the devil.

“Does anyone know or suspect who the artist might be?”

“No. They believe it to be Anna’s work, which works for our purpose of keeping Emma’s identity a secret.”

That was fine with Richard.

Richard inclined his head before he left. “I’m staying in London. Let me know when you start to locate the pieces.”

There was no reason to delay his trip home.

“Of course,” the duke called out after him.

When he arrived home, he ran up the steps, eager to see his wife. But when he opened the door, it was to a living nightmare. The hired mercenary was sitting in a chair by the front door, a maid holding a cloth to the gash across his head, trying to staunch the blood oozing out.

Richard took the stairs three at a time. “Emma!” He needed to find her, make sure she was all right.

Throwing open his bedchamber door, he yelled again, “Emma!”

Did he really expect her to answer? He barged through the dressing room door next, then the guest rooms and the nursery. None held any sign of his wife. Charging back down the stairs, he threw open every door on the main floor. There was a small room of the back of the house where Emma had set up her paintings. He should have checked there first.

Slamming the door open so hard the handle jammed into the plaster when it met the wall, Richard rushed into the room. Chairs were toppled over. A crystal dish lay forgotten on the floor, a ball of paper crumpled up next to it. Emma’s charcoals were scattered on the surface of a small worktable; a few lay broken on the hardwood floor.

The rage he felt in that moment knew no bounds. Waverly would hurt for this.

A plain figurine of the female form was close at hand. He picked it up, and then it lay splintered and shattered in the fireplace. His gaze locked upon the painting resting upon the marble mantel.

Emma’s beautiful golden curls were pulled back from her face, making the silky locks appear short. Her half-lidded green eyes looked on the observer in sensual bliss. One of her arms stretched behind her on a wall. In her fist she held a sheer white length of material, which fell softly against her porcelain skin as it wrapped around her arm like a lover’s skin. It covered one ear, her flushed pink lips, and one breast. Her other hand fisted the sheer material over her mons, covering her feminine core.

Where had the painting come from? Had it been in Emma’s keeping? Had someone brought it to her? Was it possible that this painting had been in Waverly’s possession?

There was no note to answer his questions. No clues as to why it was here and Emma was not. There was nothing to help him find his wife.

Without a doubt in his mind, Richard knew Waverly had abducted Emma. Maybe he shouldn’t be so quick to accuse the other man, but who else would take her? The room lay in shambles, evidence enough that she’d struggled against her captor.

Richard hadn’t really known Waverly in the sense one would know a friend. Not now. So where would he take her?

A gasp sounded behind him. Grace stepped farther into the room, her eyes caught on the painting. Just as his had. He stood there frozen, like a great buffoon, unable to say or do anything to make this situation any better.

“That bastard,” Grace cried. “What has he done with my sister?”

She pulled the painting down and held it to her breast so the exposed image of his wife was hidden.

Richard picked the balled paper up from the floor and unraveled it slowly so it didn’t tear. Most of the black had smeared together, but he could make out the male form she’d been drawing. He crumpled the paper back up and closed his eyes.

He needed to remain calm if he were to find his wife. He needed to think rationally.

“Where does he stay when he’s in Town, Grace?”

Richard opened his eyes and looked at her, surprised to see her glaring angrily about the room instead of crying in fear for Emma.

“There is his house in Grosvenor Square, but I don’t think he’s opened it up in all the years he’s been in Town.”

Grace looked back at Richard, her gaze so like her sister’s, his breath caught.

It was a starting point. That was all that mattered.

*   *   *

When she awoke next her vision was swimming. Her limbs felt tingly and heavy; too heavy to lift. She had to find a way to get out of her captor’s hands.

“Awake, are you? Can’t deceive me.”

His voice made gooseflesh rise on her skin. She opened her eyes to a dark room. Blotches of color spotted her vision so she closed her lids again. She was lying on a makeshift pallet on the floor. She could see the legs of chairs and couches level with her eyes. Why hadn’t he tossed her on the furniture instead of pulling all the linens on the floor?

She couldn’t smell anything since her nose tingled. Waverly was off to her left, not that she could be sure. Wouldn’t be sure of anything until the fog dissipated from her head and the low buzzing in her ears cleared. She was nauseous, dizzy.

“Where have you brought me?” Her voice cracked; her tongue felt like a heavy, dry weight in her mouth.

The shuffling of feet rang like abbey bells in her ears. She wanted to be rid of the sound and went to cover her ears, but when she tried to lift her hands they were like a deadweight behind her back.

It took her some minutes to figure out that rope bound her wrists together.

“Now, now. Don’t you be moving around too much. I don’t want you throwing up on me.” The high-pitched squeak of something being unscrewed rang in her head. “Take a sip, here.”

A flask was tipped against her lips. The burning liquid was poured down her throat before she could protest. Half of it sputtered out when she started coughing against the fiery taste of gin. She turned her head away. Not wanting the spirits. She’d not stay lucid if he continued pouring that down her mouth.

“Not much longer. He’ll come, you see—he’s reliable in that sense. Whether he comes in time is another matter, isn’t it?”

She wondered what he planned to do with her. Was he going to torture her? Kill her?

“Where are we?” she asked the dark figure hovering a foot away from her.

“My private residence. Don’t you worry, no rats to come and nibble at your toes. Not a pleasant feeling, that.”

She closed her eyes against the nausea the image of rats invoked. Colors danced behind her lids, causing a fresh wave of sickness to turn over in her belly. Her eyelids were heavy. So hard to open. She squinted, unable to focus on anything.

What had he done to her?

She must have groaned that aloud, because he said, “Chloroform is wearing off. You’ll feel a bit fuzzy for a while.”

“Why have you done this?” Tears started to slide down the side of her face.

“Not sure, really. Remembered clear as day before I went to collect you. For the life of me, can’t recall the reason behind it now. Just knew it had to be done.” Waverly tipped the flask back and took a loud gulp of the alcohol.

“Let me go, Waverly. I serve no purpose.”

“But you do. See, you were supposed to be leverage to get Richard to stop the sale of our business.”

So that had been his purpose. Blackmail her into becoming his unwilling lover and threaten to expose the affair should Richard go through with the sale. Thank God she hadn’t fallen into his trap.

Emma rubbed her damp eyes into her upper arm. The room around her came into sharp focus one moment only to go dim and gray in the next. She couldn’t die like this. She refused to die like this.

She had to think. She was at Waverly’s residence. She’d never been here before. Hadn’t thought he kept his London home open. Had someone seen him carry her in here? Chances were he’d covered her and anyone passing by would have thought her nothing but a doxy.

If his intention was to simply kill her, then why was she still alive? Did he plan to reveal her secret to the world now that it served him no purpose in blackmailing Richard?

Her head throbbed and she had to shut her eyes again to get rid of the stabbing pain in her temples. She twisted her hands behind her back, trying to loosen the rope that bound her.

If she could use her hands, she could find an object to hit him with and run. She only needed to get out into the street. Someone would help her in Grosvenor Square. She didn’t care that in all probability, they would recognize her. All that mattered was finding help.

Her knuckles audibly cracked as she worked her left hand half free of the binding. Her wrist was burning where it rubbed against the rope; it felt like she’d stuck it in a fire to cook.

Waverly didn’t seem to notice the sound. He sat heavily in a large chair she couldn’t make out the details of. He leaned forward with his elbows resting on his knees, head hanging down, his flask held by loose fingers between his knees. Was the man letting his guard down?

Did he plan on killing her? If so, why hadn’t he done so by now? That gave her hope that she would escape. Did Richard know she was gone? Taken against her will? She couldn’t remember what damage had been left in her painting room. Hopefully there was substantial evidence that something had gone awry. Hopefully Richard knew she was in trouble.

A clock in the house chimed. She closed her eyes and counted the gongs.

One. Two. Three.

She pulled her hand free of the rope.

Four.

She flexed her hands, willing the tingling of sleep away.

Five.

Sliding one arm beneath her, careful not to move the rest of her body, she prepared to push herself up. She needed to make a dash for the door.

Six.

She was on her feet and running.

Chapter 24

Is it possible to love someone you don’t know? To love them so much you can’t fathom ever losing them, even if they aren’t yours to lose?

The house was silent. No servants about, no voices to indicate that his wife was actually here. Nonetheless, he prowled around the main floor as silently as he could. Peering into cracked doors instead of opening them in case they creaked.

When he looked into the drawing room, he saw his wife seated in a chair. Hands bound in front of her. The room was dim, and it was hard to make out her features, but she didn’t seem too bad off. Better than what he’d imagined in the last hour. Her eyes were cloudy, not totally focused. Her lips trembled but there were no tears streaking down her face. Her skin was clear of any cuts, though there was a dark bruise on her cheek.

His fists clenched at his side. He’d hurt Waverly for hitting his wife. She had no part in Richard and Waverly’s past. Why in God’s name would the man do this to her?

His enemy leaned against the wall, close to his wife. He probably wanted to be close to her in case she tried to escape. There was a pistol in his hand, pointed at the floor.

Richard pushed the door open with his foot and held his hands up to show he held no weapon.

“Fast thinking on your part, Asbury. Didn’t think you’d be seeing your wife alive again. She’s a feisty thing. Almost escaped me about ten minutes ago.” Waverly shrugged. “Guess I’ll just have to kill you together. It’s almost romantic.”

Richard made no comment. Waverly was a loose cannon that needed to be snuffed quickly of its firepower. “Let my wife leave, Adam.”

He hadn’t called the man by his birth name since they were children. Felt peculiar coming from his lips, but hopefully made its way to God’s ears before anything dire could come of the current situation. He’d not be able to live with himself if his wife was hurt by his own idiocy in not dealing with Waverly sooner.

Not that he knew precisely how to deal with the madman.

He looked to his wife again. He wanted to take her into his arms and comfort her, assure her everything would be as it was before. He couldn’t make a promise like that, though. Someone would be hurt today. Richard didn’t care who it was, so long as it wasn’t Emma.

“Ah, Richard. So nostalgic. I didn’t mean to take this bit of muslin, but you forced my hand.” The tip of Waverly’s pistol caressed his wife’s temple and cheek. The man’s hands were shaking so badly, his wife was hard-pressed to keep still with the assault. Every time she jerked away, Waverly yanked her back in place by her hair.

Folding his hands behind his back, Richard stood before Waverly in as nonthreatening a pose as he could muster. He prided himself on being a patient man. This task would take more patience than he’d ever been forced to endure. More patience than any man should have to tolerate in a lifetime. But he could not react to any words Waverly chose to insult his wife with.

He was a learned man. Both in school and in life. Yet nothing in all his years had prepared him for dealing with a situation like this. It was damnably hard not to go to his wife, take her by force from Waverly, and damn the consequences of acting rashly. Richard tore his gaze away from Emma and stared only at Waverly, pretending he was unsurprised about the whole state of affairs.