Seduction Becomes Her (2 page)

Slumped before the fire in his bedchamber, Charles stared at the leaping flames as if he could read his future in the dancing depths. Even Garthwaite’s tap on the door and his cautious entrance with a tray of bread, cheese, and some sliced roast beef and fruit that Cook had added to tempt Charles’s appetite elicited little interest. Having placed the tray on a low mahogany table near Charles’s elbow, only Garthwaite’s discreet cough made Charles turn his head and look at him.

“Will there be anything else, sir?”

Ignoring the food, Charles glanced across the room to a bombe chest that held a Baccarat decanter and some snifters. “Decanter full?” he asked.

His homely face pained, Garthwaite said, “Indeed, sir, I filled it myself only an hour ago.”

“Then that’s all. Good night.”

Garthwaite hesitated, and Charles sent him a wry look. “You may have known me since the cradle, Garthwaite, but I would suggest that you not try to bully me tonight into going to bed like a good little boy. I haven’t been a good anything for decades—and I’m not about to start changing.”

“It’s not for me,” Garthwaite said austerely, “to question your desire to drink yourself into the grave, but I would remind you that you would be doing precisely what Madame would have expected.”

Charles gave an ugly bark of laughter. “Point taken. Go to bed. I shall eat some of the damned food, and I promise I shall not drink myself into a stupor…tonight.”

Satisfied with his efforts, Garthwaite bowed and departed.

Putting a thick slice of pungent yellow cheese on a chunk of bread, Charles bit into it and forced himself to eat, even going so far as to take an apple and eat it once he finished the bread and cheese. His Spartan meal finished and feeling he had satisfied his butler’s expectations, he stood up and crossing to the bombe chest, poured himself a large snifter of brandy. Reseating himself before the fire, he once more simply stared at the fire, his thoughts roaming in no particular direction.

The house was quiet except for the sound of the lashing wind and rain outside and inside, the occasional crack and pop of the fire. Charles should have been relaxed, enjoying the comfort of his own home, but he was not. He had not lied to Julian when he had said that the place was full of ghosts. Not only did the ghosts of Raoul and his stepmother haunt its many passages and rooms, but others wandered there, too.

Staring into the fire, he could almost conjure up the face of his older brother, John, dead for well over a decade, glimpsing briefly in the flickering flames John’s easy smile, the steady gaze of the green eyes so like his own. John had been the conscience, the mainstay of the family. Everyone, even Harlan, their father, had looked to John for guidance. Charles lifted a toast to his brother’s ghost. You were the best of us, he thought sadly. And Raoul killed you. For a moment, black rage roiled up within him, but he ruthlessly tamped it down. John was dead, and so was Raoul. And thank God, he thought, that Father had not lived to learn that his youngest son had killed his eldest. John’s death had been hard enough on Harlan, and his grieving father’s only solace had been the knowledge that one day, John’s son, Daniel, would inherit Stonegate.

Charles closed his eyes, pain and disillusionment engulfing him. Daniel’s reign as Master of Stonegate had been brutally brief. What? A year? Two? Before his death by his own hand. Introduced to Lord Tynedale, a notorious rake and gambler, by Raoul, Daniel, young and inexperienced, had proved to be easy prey for Tynedale. In a matter of months, Daniel had gambled away the fortune he had inherited from his mother and committed suicide. Had Raoul known what would be the outcome of introducing Daniel to Tynedale? Or had it just been the devil’s own luck, Charles wondered. He took another swallow of his brandy. Something else they would never know the answer to, he decided wearily.

They were all gone now, Harlan, John, Daniel, Raoul and Sofia, and he was the sole survivor, the last one to carry on the line of this branch of the family. And here he sat, alone in a house full of ghosts and questions, full of recriminations and guilt. How could he have lived all those years with Raoul and never seen the evil that lurked behind the careless charm? Never guessed, even for a moment, that a vicious killer inhabited his younger brother’s body.
Half
brother, he reminded himself again, throwing his head back and finishing off the brandy. Whatever the relationship, Raoul had died over two years ago. Or had he?

Putting down the empty snifter, he got up from his position near the fire and wandered into the sitting room that adjoined his bedroom. He lit one of the candle sconces on the wall, and a small pool of light pierced the darkness. Crossing the room, he walked to a large desk, and opening the middle drawer, he reached in and pulled out a slip of paper. In the faint light from the wall sconce, he studied the words on the paper. He sighed. They had not changed. Taking the letter back with him into the bedroom, he laid the letter near the tray of food and after refilling his snifter, settled once more before the fire. He sat there for a while before he picked up the letter and began to read.

The letter was from Viscount Trevillyan. Not really a friend of mine, Charles thought, more of an acquaintance, but Trevillyan had been Raoul’s closest friend and Raoul had often visited Trevillyan in Cornwall, sometimes spending weeks on end there. After Raoul’s death, Charles had maintained a relationship with Trevillyan, as he had with several of Raoul’s other companions, hoping that by knowing them, he could learn more of his half brother—learn if others had glimpsed the demon that lurked behind Raoul’s smiling façade.

Trevillyan’s letter was a polite reply to one Charles had written him months ago before he had left for another of his aimless travels through the British countryside. With the war with Napoleon still dragging on, the Continent closed to him, Charles had contented himself with visiting Wales, Scotland, and even crossing the Irish sea to wander Ireland. It hadn’t mattered much to him where he went, the main point was to be on the move and
not
be at Stonegate.

Charles skimmed over the weeks-old news of London and Trevillyan’s return to his country seat, Lanyon Hall, in Cornwall, near Penzance, for the winter months before the Season began again in the spring. From the complaining tone of his letter, Charles gathered that Trevillyan was not one for the quiet of the Cornish countryside in winter—or at any time, if he read correctly between the lines. But it wasn’t Trevillyan’s complaints about the lack of society and his utter boredom with the running of his own estates that had caught Charles’s eye. It was a short paragraph near the end of the letter that had riveted Charles’s attention when he had first read it, and as his gaze skimmed over those words again, a faint sick anticipation stirred in his belly. With mounting dread, he read those words again.

At least, thank God, there was a break in the boring routine last week. The whole neighborhood is in an uproar. The body of a woman, horribly mutilated, was discovered by one of our local farmers. No one could talk of anything else. Gossip has it that the body of another woman killed, in a similar manner, was found several months ago, but I have not spoken with anyone who could confirm it, so I suspect it is nonsense. The identity of the young woman found last week is still not known, nor as I write this, have the authorities, a group of complacent old men, who do little more than shake their heads and wring their hands, discovered who murdered her. I doubt they ever will.

Charles read the words several times, wondering at their significance. Could it be mere coincidence? Or was it possible…? He considered where his thoughts were taking him. Did he really believe that Raoul was alive and continuing his horrific deeds in the wilds of Cornwall?

Was it conceivable that his half brother had miraculously survived his terrible wounds and had somehow made his way to Cornwall? But how would he live?
Where
would he live?

Charles frowned. Money. That was the answer. With no other heirs in the offing, he had inherited the bulk of Sofia’s fortune, and still stunned by the events of that night, he had not paid any attention to any other bequests made by her in her will. Was it possible that she had anticipated Raoul’s eventual exposure and had guessed that there might come a time when he would have to go into hiding and arranged for him to have funds to draw upon? She had been a coldly clever woman, not unintelligent, and she might very well have anticipated not only that the truth about Raoul’s activities would come out, but also for a time when she might not be there to protect him. She would have known that if Raoul was exposed as a vicious murderer and on the run or in hiding, he would not have been able to inherit her fortune, nor have access to his own, so it made sense that she would have made other plans….

Charles set the letter down and took another swallow of brandy. He would write his solicitor tomorrow asking for a full accounting of Sofia’s various bequests. His gaze slid to the letter.

Picking it up again, he stared at it for several minutes. A cold smile curved his mouth. I wonder, he mused, if Viscount Trevillyan would like a visitor to help break the boredom of winter in Cornwall?

He glanced around the room. There was nothing for him here except ghosts and memories. He might as well be in Cornwall.

For a moment, doubt assailed him. Was he really going to trek to Cornwall and impose himself upon a man he barely knew? And poke and pry around in God knew what dark crevices, hoping to flush out a murderer who wore the face of his half brother? His half brother everyone assured him was dead?

He picked up his snifter, swirling the last of the brandy around. Well, what the hell else was he going to do? Stay here and live with ghosts and questions and guilt?

No. He would go to Cornwall and inflict himself upon the unsuspecting Lord Trevillyan.

Charles tossed off the last of the brandy. I am, he decided, committed to a fool’s quest. And I’m sure that Julian would think me mad. He grinned. Perhaps my cousin is right—I
am
mad.

I
must have been mad, thought Daphne Beaumont, as she stared in the waning light at the dark, forbidding castle towering before them. Not
precisely
a castle, Daphne amended silently, though to be sure it bore no resemblance to the picturesque cottage they’d been expecting. Imagination is a wonderful thing, Daphne admitted. The building showed clear signs of its roots as an ancient Norman keep, but it was obvious that there had been attempts to soften its original bleak design by additions and alterations. Perhaps in daylight, they might find it delightful, Daphne told herself optimistically.

As the minutes passed and they waited uncertainly, there was no sign of life anywhere, no flicker of light in the tall, narrow windows, no sign of smoke from any of the chimneys, no door flung wide to admit them, nothing. Just this towering mass of stone and timber in front of them that looked grimmer and more forbidding by the moment. So grim and forbidding did the place look that Daphne, not a young woman given to fanciful whims, almost expected a witch or a warlock to swoop down from one of the two towers and put a curse on them. She shuddered. What had she let them all in for?

Flanked on one side by her sixteen-year-old sister, April, and on the other, her seventeen-year-old brother, Adrian, she could feel their disappointment and growing apprehension. And it’s up to me, she admitted glumly, to turn this disaster into a victory…of some sort.

At twenty-eight, she was the eldest, older than her siblings by more than decade, and since their mother’s death eighteen months ago, their father, an impecunious Captain in a Line Regiment, having died five years previously, the head of the family. As guardian of both her siblings, it had been her decision that they shake the sooty air of London from their heels and move to the country. It would be an adventure, she told them. Though they’d traveled the world over following behind their father, they’d never been to Cornwall, and there was nothing to hold them in London.

The small annuity that had allowed them a few elegances of life had died with their mother, and these last months had been difficult. There had been times that Daphne wondered how they would be able to keep the small suite of rooms they rented in an unfashionable, if respectable, part of London. They had no family, at least none that they knew of, to call upon. They were but a short distance away from being penniless, and having been raised as members of the gentry, they had few skills to fall back on to make their way in the world.

Daphne had known that something had to be done, but what? The woman who had come twice a week to clean and cook had been let go within days of the death of their mother. Fortunately, Adrian had been able to finish his last year at Eton, but his horses had been sold almost immediately after their mother’s death, and his fencing lessons had quickly ceased as had April’s watercolor and dancing lessons. There would be no more trips to Hatchards Book Shop for the latest gothic novel from Minerva Press, and even Miss Kettle, who had been Adrian and April’s nursemaid and then later governess–companion, had been forced to find other employment. Losing Ketty had been a wrench, and the day she had left, there had been many tears shed. Nothing, however, seemed to help stem the tide of disappearing money. No matter how thriftily she shopped, no matter how many luxuries they all gave up, each month there was less money than before in the small trust her maternal grandmother had left Daphne. She had been on the point of seeking employment as a seamstress—a notion that would have given her mother strong hysterics if she’d been alive to hear of it and outraged her siblings—when the letter from the solicitor, Mr. Vinton, had arrived.

It had seemed a godsend, a miracle when they had received word that they, her brother actually, had inherited from some unknown distant cousin in Cornwall, not only a baronetcy and could now style himself Sir Adrian, but more importantly, an estate that provided an income. In tones of disbelief, Adrian had read the letter aloud to his openmouthed sisters. While no specific amount was stated, Mr. Vinton wrote that in addition to the monies from the farms that were part of the estate, there was a five-hundred-acre parkland and some orchards that surrounded the main dwelling, Beaumont Place, as well as several outbuildings.

A wry smile curved her lips. Oh, how the three of them had danced madly around in those bleak little London rooms, laughing and crying at that same time. Adrian would have his horses again and a valet, he declared loftily, a teasing gleam in his blue eyes. And April would have her painting and dancing lessons again, perhaps even a real governess. And Daphne? What would she have? Why she would have peace of mind and freedom from worry over how she would pay for the boots that Adrian kept outgrowing, she had said, laughing at Adrian’s chagrined expression. She and April had teased Adrian mightily on his new title, calling him
Sir
Adrian so often and with such emphasis that he had ordered them, as the master of the family, to stop immediately, which had sent them into whoops of laughter.

They had been happy. Drunk with joy. And that euphoria had carried them through the busy days of clearing out the rooms they had lived in for the past four years, selling off most of the furniture, keeping only those things they could not bear to part with. A letter to Miss Kettle had been sent, telling her of their good fortune and begging her to join them in Cornwall.

Mr. Vinton had arranged for a sum of money to be deposited in a London bank to cover the cost of their removal to Cornwall. It had seemed a fortune to them.

Adrian insisted that Daphne act as his banker. “I know it’s mine, but I’d lief as not be responsible for it, Daff,” he exclaimed, his young face earnest. “How often have you claimed that I’d lose my head if it weren’t attached to my neck? You hold it. You’re the eldest and wisest of us.” He’d grinned. “Even if you are female.”

With the money from Mr. Vinton, they’d been able to hire a private coach to deliver them and their few belongings to Beaumont Place, and they had left London full of enthusiasm and excitement. Ready for the adventure. Staring at the bleak structure before them, Daphne wondered if perhaps they weren’t in for bit more adventure than they planned.

With darkness falling, the driver had been eager to be gone, and with all their worldly goods hastily piled around their feet, he’d remounted the seat of the coach, urged his horses forward, and disappeared into the gloom of twilight. Leaving us, Daphne thought, stranded.

“Didn’t Mr. Vinton write that there were some servants that would have the place prepared and waiting for us?” asked April timidly, stepping even closer to Daphne.

Daphne shook herself. “Yes. Yes. That’s exactly what he wrote. The house has sat empty for over two years, but he said that our cousin’s housekeeper, Mrs. Hutton, and the butler, Mr. Goodson, would have it made comfortable for us and would be willing to stay on until we settled in. He mentioned a few others and hinted that they all might like to stay on, if it suited us and wages and such could be agreed upon.”

To add to their misery, a misty rain began to fall, and as one, they gathered their belongings and hurried up the wide steps to huddle under the covered entrance that had been added at a later date.

“If this is an example of the service my cousin’s servants provided him,” Adrian said bluntly, “I doubt we’ll want them to stay on.”

“Perhaps not,” Daphne agreed, “but right now, I would be delighted to see at least one of them.”

In the shadows under the portico, Daphne could barely make out the knocker on the door, but stepping away from her siblings, she grasped the heavy iron piece and rapped it sharply. An echoing boom rang out, and all three took a hasty step back.

“That should rouse someone,” Daphne said brightly, praying that she was right.

To her surprise, someone had heard the knock, and a few moments later, one of the huge wooden doors creaked open. Light spilled out from the candle held high in the hand of a rotund little woman garbed in a gray woolen dress.

“Oh, my,” exclaimed the newcomer. “You
are
here. I told Goodson that I thought I’d heard the sound of a vehicle, but he would have none of it.” A welcoming smile wreathed her plump features. “Oh, dear, my manners! And us wanting to make a good impression. Please, please come in. I am Mrs. Hutton, the housekeeper.”

As one, the trio moved inside the house. Once introductions were given, Mrs. Hutton reached for a black velvet pull rope that hung near one of the doors and gave it a smart yank. She smiled at them and said, “Goodson will be right along, and he can take your things up to your rooms.”

It took Goodson only a few moments to appear, but it was time enough for Daphne to take in the impressive entry hall in which they stood. A coved ceiling soared overhead, a sienna-veined marble floor lay beneath their feet, and at one end of the room, a wide staircase with steps made of the same marble flowed grandly upward to the floors above them. Oak wainscoting lined the walls, the upper part of which had been sheathed in a figured fabric of russet and gold.

Out of the gloom at the end of the hall, near the staircase, a tall, gray-haired man in black livery appeared. Bustling forward, he quickly introduced himself as Goodson, their butler, apologizing profusely all the while for not having heard their arrival.

His apologies were accepted, and once the niceties were out of the way, Goodson deftly divested the ladies and Adrian of their outer clothing. “Cook has prepared a meal for you,” he said. “We did not know what time you would arrive, and Mrs. Hutton thought that for tonight, you would dine more comfortably in the morning room than in the dining room. But if you wish, the dining room can be prepared for you.”

“That won’t be necessary,” replied Daphne, growing more optimistic by the moment. “The morning room will suit us admirably.”

When Goodson had disappeared up the stairs with their things, Mrs. Hutton urged them down the hallway. “Cook only prepared a simple meal—a nice oyster stew, a saddle of veal, some fish, boiled potatoes and coddled cauliflower, and peas in cream. Oh, and a sweet or two to round out the cheese and fruit. If you would like something more substantial….”

Thinking of their frugal meals these past months, it sounded like a feast fit for a king, and the Beaumonts were quick to assure her that Cook had done well.

The morning room showed the same elegant décor as the entry hall, with luxurious draperies and jewel-toned rugs, but it was the blissfully warm fire leaping on the stone hearth and the covered dishes of food spread across the oak buffet nearby that caught their attention.

It was a glorious meal, relief making them almost drunk. They’d arrived at their destination, and after a shaky start, all seemed well. They were safely inside out of the growing storm, Mrs. Hutton and Mr. Goodson seemed a competent, likable pair, and their stomachs were full—Cook definitely knew her job.

Seeing Adrian smother a gigantic yawn and recognizing the glazed look in April’s eyes, Daphne rose from the table and requested that they be shown to their rooms.

They trooped along behind Goodson’s tall form as he took them upstairs and down the murky hallway. Beaumont Place, Daphne soon realized, was much larger than Mr. Vinton’s brief letter had led them to believe. The high ceilings, the long shadowy hallways broken only by the candle that Goodson carried seemed to go on forever, and even his lighting of the candles in the gilt wall sconces near the doors of each bedroom did little to pierce the oppressive gloom. All of the bedrooms they were shown were enormous, and though the colors and fabrics varied slightly, each room was furnished similarly. The massive, old-fashioned furniture, heavy dark draperies, and voluminous bed hangings created a melancholy air that not even the fires crackling on the hearths of the fireplaces in each room or the quickly lit candelabra could banish. Daphne was not looking forward to the moment she would be alone in her very own bedroom. She and April had always shared a room, and for all the times I’ve wished for privacy, she admitted wryly, for tonight at least, I wouldn’t be adverse to sharing a room with April again. A look at April’s uneasy features told her that her sister wasn’t keen on sleeping alone either. If Adrian’s expression was anything to go by, he didn’t seem overjoyed, either, to be banished to the master suite at the far end of the long, shadowy hallway.

The tour of their bedrooms completed, there was nothing for them to do but to bid Goodson good night. Left alone, the three looked at each other in the dim light.

“It’s rather a large place, isn’t it?” said April as she glanced around.

“Much larger than I thought it would be,” admitted Daphne. She grinned at Adrian, her hazel eyes dancing. “I am most impressed by your inheritance, Sir Adrian.”

He made a face. “It ain’t what I was expecting,” he confessed. “I thought it’d be a snug little place that would do us just fine.” He glanced up and down the long hallway. “Never expected it would be a bloody castle.” He looked very young as he stood in front of her. “Daff, how am I to go on?” he blurted out. “I mean, it’s a wonderful thing for us, but it’s a bit overwhelming, isn’t it?”

Daphne took a deep breath. “Indeed it is, and everything seems very strange to us right now. I’m sure that after a night’s sleep, we’ll get our bearings and in no time, be wondering how we ever lived in those tiny rooms in London.”

“I wish we were there right now,” muttered April, casting another nervous glance over her shoulder.

“Well, we’re not,” Daphne said briskly, putting a brave face on for the younger ones. “We’re in our new home where we’re going to be very happy. And I, for one, am going to bed.”

Not giving either one of her siblings a chance to object, she kissed them each warmly and bid them good night and stepping into her bedroom, shut the door firmly behind her.

Exhaustion swept over her. It had been a long, tiring journey—the days passed in the rumbling coach, the nights spent at the various country inns along the way had not been restful—and Daphne was glad to have reached their destination. Beaumont Place was not what they had expected. It was far larger and grander than any of them had envisioned, but that wasn’t necessarily a bad thing, she reminded herself as she dragged out a nightgown from her valise that had been placed on the floor at the end of the bed. Mrs. Hutton had suggested sending along one of the kitchen maids to unpack and act as her maid, but Daphne had declined. She’d never had her own maid and didn’t feel the need of one.