Seducing the Viscount (7 page)

“Norry?” she said softly. “May I join you?”

Folding his paper and setting it aside, her brother readily rose to his feet.

“But of course.” He touched his intricately tied cravat and smoothed his hands down his dark blue jacket as she crossed to stand before him. He was always exquisitely attired, regardless of whether he was attending a royal ball or dining alone in the country. “Is there something troubling you?”

“I . . .” She bit her words as her nerves tightened her throat. This had all seemed so much simpler when she had been alone in her chambers.

“My dear, you appear in need of a sherry.” Moving toward the fireplace where a cheery blaze battled the spring chill, Norry poured her a generous portion of the delicate spirit and returned to press the glass into her hand. “Now tell me what is upon your mind.”

Ella took a sip of the sherry, attempting to gather her fading courage.

“It is Ian,” she at last said.

Norry's lips thinned, his expression guarded as he toyed with the signet ring on his little finger.

“I have already promised you that I would do my best to make peace with the boy, Ella. What more would you have from me?”

She swallowed a sigh. It was a pity that the two men were both so opposite. Unless one counted their stubborn belief that they were always right.

To make matters even worse, Ian had been naturally blessed with all the traits that had been admired by Norry's own father. He was an envied sportsman, a charming rake, a hardened gamester, and a favorite among society. All the things that Norry had lacked.

Perhaps it was inevitable that the older man would nurture a deep resentment.

“Yes, I recall your promise, and I believe you, Norry.”

“Then what?”

Ella drained her glass and set it aside, her fingers absently toying with the ribbon at the waist of her green crepe de chine gown.

“He has begun to ask rather difficult questions.”

Norry's wariness deepened. “What sort of questions?”

“Questions about his past.” She arched her brow in a significant motion. “About you and his mother.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“I merely repeated the story we have told for years.”

“Then what is the problem?”

“I do not believe he was satisfied.”

The dark eyes hardened. “A pity, of course, but there is nothing to be done. He will simply have to accept what you have offered.”

She gently cleared her throat, as her fingers nearly ripped the ribbon to shreds. “Unless . . .”

“Unless what?”

“Unless we reveal the truth.”

There was a thunderous silence as Norry regarded her as if she had grown a second head. She was not surprised. She had known before she approached her brother that he would be far from happy with her desire to answer Ian's questions.

“Good God, Ella, have you taken leave of your senses?” he at last managed to rasp. “If the truth were to be known, I would be ruined, and you—”

“Ian could be trusted to keep our secrets,” she interrupted, her tone urgent.

Rather than the anger that she had been expecting, Norry's thin features softened, and without warning he stepped forward to stroke her cheek with a gentle, sympathetic hand.

“No, Ella,” he said, genuine regret in his voice. “You know as well as I that any confession would merely hurt Ian. He would naturally feel betrayed by the both of us, and his first thought would be to strike back at those who had lied to him. We cannot take such a risk.”

The brief flare of hope that had burned in her heart began to fade, replaced by the familiar ache of regret she had carried for so long.

She had been foolish to believe that fate could be changed at this late date. And even more of a fool to believe that she could somehow make amends for the past.

Norry was right. To confess the truth now would only hurt Ian further. That was the last thing she desired.

She heaved a sorrowful sigh. “I hate to see him so hard and cynical.”

With care not to muss her attire, Norry pulled her into his arms. “I promise I will do my best to heal the wounds that I unwittingly caused, Ella. But Ian can never,
ever
know the truth of his past.”

Rather than following his fleeing wood sprite to the house, Ian turned on his heel and made his way to the door that led to the inner courtyard. He was still fully aroused and in no condition to cross paths with his aunt. Hell, he was in no condition to cross anyone's path.

Besides, he had a task awaiting him that had been interrupted by Mercy's unexpected arrival in the conservatory.

Marching with a grim purpose toward the distant stables, Ian refused to recall the delectable if wrenchingly frustrating encounter. What was the purpose? Nothing could alter his brutal, near-consuming desire for the chit. Or the fact that she was the one woman he could not have.

With enough sense to choose the path that would take him to the gate rather than vaulting the low stone fence, Ian managed to contain his urge to snap and snarl before reaching the expansive stables that now contained only a handful of horses. He even had enough sense to halt in the tack room and grab a leather satchel.

Halting in the shadows he pulled a folded playbill from beneath his jacket and studied the gaudy painting of two Greco-Roman wrestlers. He had never heard of the London theatre that was listed or the strange performances that were printed on the back. Certainly it was not a licensed theatre or the usual plays expected by London audiences.

It could be nothing, of course, but it had captured his attention hidden among the other magazines and letters that had been stuffed into his father's desk in the conservatory. And he had spent enough time in the more disreputable parts of London to know that such follies could be true dens of iniquity. Perhaps his father's deeply held secret was connected to such a place.

It was at least a place to begin.

Thank God, Mercy had not realized he was stealing the damnable thing when she had entered the conservatory and . . .

Oh, for Christ's sake.

Shoving the playbill into the satchel, Ian went in search of a servant. Maybe if he kept moving he could put the damn wench from his mind.

It took only a few moments before he managed to corner one of the grooms tending to his aunt's matching pair of grays.

“You there,” he called softly. The fewer who knew of his visit to the stables, the better.

The thin, young man with a shock of red hair and a spotty face dropped the brush and stepped from the stall. His muddy brown eyes widened as he realized who had interrupted his duties.

Ian hid a wry smile. For all his father's less-than-admirable traits, there was no doubt he had ensured that his bastard son was treated with nothing but absolute respect by the staff. Ian could not remember a moment when his requests were not attended to with gratifying eagerness.

“Aye, sir?” the groom demanded, his gaze lingering for a wistful moment on Ian's elegantly tied cravat before returning to regard him with an expectant expression.

“I have a task for you.”

There was no hesitation as the groom gave a nod of his head. Obviously the boy had been taught that Norrington's bastard son was to be obeyed without question.

“Very good. How may I be of service?”

Ian held out the leather pouch. “I wish you to take this satchel directly to Mr. Raoul Charlebois in Drury Lane.”

The brown eyes widened in wonderment. “Raoul Charlebois, the actor?”

“Yes.”

“Bloody hell.”

Ian smiled. Even in the midst of the country, his friend managed to inspire a reverent awe.

“Do not allow anyone to open it.” His narrowed gaze warned that this included the groom. “And for God's sake, do not lose it.”

The servant appeared suitably offended as he reached to take the satchel. “Certainly not, sir.”

“When you reach Mr. Charlebois, I want you to tell him it is from me and that I wish to know everything there is to know about what is inside.” He held up a hand at his companion's puzzled expression. “He will understand, trust me. Can you remember all that?”

“I'm to deliver this here satchel to Mr. Charlebois in Drury Lane and tell him to find out whatever he can about the thing.”

“Well done.” Reaching beneath his jacket, Ian extracted a coin from his pocket and pressed it into the groom's hand. “If anyone is to ask, I sent you to London with a missive for my mistress.”

The groom shrugged, clearly unperturbed by the request. “Aye.”

“Make the journey as swiftly as possible and there will be another shilling for you.”

A glint of anticipation brightened the brown eyes. “Aye, sir. Very generous.”

Assured that the playbill would soon be in Raoul's hands, Ian turned and made his way out of the stables. If he were quick enough, he might have time to search his father's desk in the library before the older man came down for dinner.

A dangerous risk, but a better choice than returning to his rooms and having the opportunity to dwell on Miss Mercy Simpson and the unholy temptation she offered.

Choosing a side door, Ian swiftly made his way to the main house, knowing that the servants would be busy preparing for dinner. With any luck he would be able to reach the study without stumbling over half a dozen footmen and maids.

He did manage to climb the stairs and make his way down the corridor, but before he could actually reach the library the door to the study was pushed open and his father appeared.

“Ah, there you are, Ian.”

Ian came to a smooth halt, confident that his flare of shock could not be read upon his carefully bland expression.

“Were you searching for me?”

There was an awkward pause before Norrington cleared his throat and waved a hand toward the study.

“I thought we might have a drink in my study before you change for dinner.”

Ian would not have been more shocked if his father had sprouted wings and begun to fly about the house.

“Just . . . the two of us?”

“If that suits you.”

Ian struggled to contain his disbelief. His father had never in his life issued an invitation to join him. Not even when he had been up to some mischief. It had always been enough for him to glare at his son with that cold disapproval.

So the question was, why now?

With a mental shrug, Ian forced his feet forward. Whatever the cause for the unexpected invitation, it was the perfect opportunity to learn more of his father.

“Yes.” He managed a stiff smile. “Yes, of course.”

“Good.” Leading the way back into the private study, Norrington crossed directly toward the heavy sideboard. “I believe you possess a preference for whiskey?”

How the devil did he know that?

Ian hid his surprise and strolled toward the distant wall that held a number of framed charcoal sketches.

“Irish?”

“Of course.”

Pouring them both a generous measure, Norrington crossed to Ian's side and pressed the glass into his hand.

“Thank you.” Taking a sip, Ian nodded toward the pictures of various flowers. “Did you do these?”

“Yes.”

Ian did not attempt to hide his admiration. He might not possess a great love for art, but he did know when he was gazing upon an accomplished work.

“They are very good. Did you ever consider studying art with a master?”

He sensed his father stiffen at his side. “It was a childhood dream of mine. However, my father considered artists unsavory characters and refused to allow me to train.” His short laugh was painfully devoid of amusement. “Indeed, he tossed my etchings into the fire when he happened across them.”

“Why? Many gentlemen of quality are devoted to art.”

“He thought I should be practicing my fencing skills rather than sketching.”

Ian tried not to imagine his father as a young boy watching his beloved etchings destroyed for no other purpose than sheer spite. Such a thought might make him consider the notion that his father had been trained by a brutal bully to hide his emotions behind a cold barrier of indifference.

“He sounds like a singularly unpleasant man,” Ian muttered, wondering if his grandfather had also drowned kittens and taken potshots at poachers.

Norrington moved to stand before the fireplace, leaning his arm on the mantle as he peered at the cheerful blaze.

“Actually, most people found him quite charming,” he said, his voice tight. “Unfortunately, we had little common ground to enjoy one another's companionship.”

“Much like us, I suppose, eh, Father?”

The older man flinched. “Unfortunately, there is some truth in what you say. But perhaps we . . .”

“We?” Ian prompted.

With an obvious effort, Norrington turned his head to meet Ian's challenging gaze.

“Perhaps we can attempt to work through some of our differences.”

Ian swallowed the whiskey in a startled gulp. Work through their differences? The devil take it, had his father taken a blow to the head? Or had poor Ella at last nagged her brother into pretending a grudging interest in his son?

He could not believe that his father genuinely desired to heal the rift between them. Not after all these years.

“I must admit that this comes as rather a surprise,” he said, careful not to reveal the bitterness that was a constant ache deep in his heart. If he hoped to learn anything, he had to at least pretend he was willing to forgive the past. “You certainly have never indicated that you desired a relationship with me before.”

“We all grow older, Ian, and hopefully wiser. I do not wish for ill blood between us.”

“I see. So now you wish to be a father to me?” he demanded, still certain this must be some evil plot.

“Yes.”

“Rather late in the day, I fear.” Moving toward the fireplace, Ian directed the conversation down a path that might offer valuable information. “I already had a father who I loved and respected. A gentleman who never judged or condemned me for my occasional misdeeds.”

Norrington straightened, his expression unreadable. “I suppose you refer to Dunnington?”

“Yes.” Ian dipped his head. “Giving me into his care was the kindest thing you ever did for me, although I do not suppose I thought so at the time. I recall clinging to Aunt Ella and bawling like a frightened child.”

“You were young and quite attached to Ella. It is not surprising that you were afraid. Indeed, it should have been odd if you were not.”

Ian caught his breath at his father's unexpectedly kind words. Over the years, Ian had recalled that tearful parting with a hint of embarrassment, convincing himself that his father must have been shamed by his tantrum. Instead, it seemed as if Norrington possessed genuine sympathy for the young lad who had been taken from the only home he had ever known.

“Thank you.” Ian gave a slow shake of his head, forcing himself to recall his purpose in joining his father. “Do you know, I have often wondered how you discovered Dunnington. Raoul, Fredrick, and I were, after all, his first students. How did you know he intended to begin a school?”

There was no mistaking the sudden tension that gripped his father's lean body, or the wariness that hardened his expression.

Odd. It was hardly an unreasonable question.

“We . . . have mutual acquaintances,” he at last confessed.

He was hiding something. Something to do with his connection with the old tutor.

“Dunnington was from Surrey?”

“No, we met in London.”

“I would hardly have thought you would cross paths with a mere tutor,” Ian drawled. “You certainly do not belong to the same clubs.”

A log snapped in the fireplace at the same moment Norrington's glass slipped from his fingers to shatter against the Persian carpet.

For a moment Ian was uncertain which of them was more shocked by the older man's clumsiness. For God's sake, the nobleman was one of the most graceful men that Ian had ever encountered. Certainly he was never so gauche as to break his Waterford crystal.

So what the devil had caused the rare gaffe?

“No . . .” His father visibly gathered his shaken composure. “No, of course we do not. Foolish question.”

Ian suspected it was more a disturbing than a foolish question. A pity he hadn't the least notion why it troubled his father.

“Forgive me, I did not mean to startle you,” he murmured.

Norrington frowned, his fingers toying with the diamond stickpin that glittered in the folds of his snowy white cravat.

“You did not startle me. Nothing more than an unfortunate accident.”

“As you say.” Ian briefly glanced at the shards of crystal spread across the floor before lifting his head to meet his father's gaze. “You did not tell me which acquaintances that you have in common with Dunnington.”

This time his father was prepared. “It was all a very long time ago, but I believe we met at the Botanical Society,” he said smoothly.

“Really?” Ian did not believe him for a moment. “Dunnington had an interest in flowers?”

“Mr. Dunnington possessed an interest in everything, as I recall. He claimed a tutor needed to be capable of speaking to his students upon every subject.”

Well, Ian could not argue with that. Dunnington had not only possessed the avid curiosity of all true scholars, but he was wise enough to realize that there were many different paths to learning.

“Yes.” A surge of fond amusement briefly lightened his mood. “I do not believe he had ever touched a card in his life before taking me in as his student. After my arrival, he spent his nights teaching himself everything from faro to whist.”

Something that might have been envy darkened his father's eyes before it was firmly hidden beneath a perfunctory smile.

“I am happy that you had someone to nurture your dreams. That is important for a young boy.” There was a brief pause, as if Norrington were struggling against a dark, unpleasant memory. “Far more important than most people understand.”

Once again Ian was bothered by a twinge of unwelcome sympathy. Devil take it, Viscount Norrington was the last man who needed pity. Unless being rich, powerful, intelligent, handsome, and artistically talented had somehow become reasons for condolences.