The Seduction (31 page)

"And the other?"

The carriage lurched as the horses started to move.
Alden wrenched one arm free and reached for his sword, just as Lord Edward
slammed the door.

"Ι lied about her husband's death.
Ι just came from London where Ι spoke with the man. George Hardcastle
is alive and well, though sadly short of funds. Furthermore, the butcher's
grandson is most anxious to be reconciled with his faithless wife. Checkmate
again, sir!"

Alden dropped his suddenly irrelevant blade.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

SMALL NOISE WOKE HER. SOMETHING MOVED, CASTING
Α shadow.

"Alden?" she asked.

"Alas, ma'am," a man's voice said, not
unkindly. "Lord Gracechurch has left."

She felt dazed, bruised with lovemaking and
sleep.
"Left?"

"I understand he has returned to the
Abbey." Robert Dovenby stood in the open doorway, silhouetted against the
dull light from the corridor.

Juliet clutched the cover to her breasts and sat
up. "Gracechurch Abbey?"

"You will, no doubt, also wish to leave -
before the rest of the household is awake?"

Α defiant swell of laughter welled up in her
chest. What else had she expected? That he would be there as she awoke to greet
her with kisses? That he would swear undying love? He was a rake. This was what
rakes did. Yet she felt ill, as if she'd been hit.

"I thought," she said acerbically,
"that he would at least have had the courage to make his excuses in
person. No matter. Ι should indeed like to go home. Ι have three cats
to take care of."

Dovenby bowed. "My carriage is at your
disposal, ma'am. As soon as you are dressed, take the second to last door on
the right in the hallway outside. It leads to a servants' stair. Ι shall
wait at the bottom."

"Ι am to creep out as if Ι am
ashamed?"

He glanced away, the dull light catching his
profile. He was a handsome man, with something secretive and powerful about the
nose and jaw. "As you prefer, ma'am. Lord Edward Vane has already left.
The others still sleep. However, Sir Reginald is downstairs. Ι fear he may
attempt to offer you some insult."

"Because Ι have now publicly branded
myself a harlot?"

"Because he is a boor, ma'am, with a sore head
from too much drink."

Juliet pressed her forehead to her upraised
knees. What had she thought? That Alden Granville would somehow rescue her from
this? That - in spite of what he'd said - he would offer marriage?

"You do not think, Mr. Dovenby, that discretion
is irrelevant now? When the other gentlemen reach London-"

"They will say nothing. Lord Edward has
sworn all of us to secrecy."

She looked up, surprised. "Then why-?"

"Ι have no idea. However, Ι advise
discretion with Sir Reginald. Ι would really rather not feel obliged to
call him out."

"So Ι am to creep away to save
you?"

Dovenby smiled. It was a surprisingly nice smile.
"If you like." He bowed again and left.

Juliet looked about. Her clothes lay piled beside
the bed where Alden had left them, after-

Tears burned, scalding. Those feelings! The
languorous pleasure alternating with such sweet, rapturous intensity. She had
never dreamed, never imagined

Damn him! Damn him and his lovely, lovely way
with women!

She put one hand to her throat.

Her locket!

The tears stopped as if dried in a hot desert
wind. Rage swept, scouring like a sandstorm. The force of it left her wanting
to retch.

He had taken her locket?

Twenty minutes later she stepped into Dovenby's
carriage.

IT RAINED ALL THE REST OF THAT DAY. JULIET PACED
ABOUT HER empty house.

He had taken her locket!

Dovenby had sent her home. He had not accompanied
her him self. With no one to tend it, the fire in the kitchen had gone out. No
hot water. No hot food. She didn't care. Perhaps she would never eat again.
Meshach, Shadrach and Abednego stared at her with accusing eyes. Not even a
meal of meat scraps compensated for their feline resentment at the lack of a
fire. She fed the chickens, returning with wet feet to the cold, damp house.

Since Ι came back from Italy, ladies have
berated me, cursed me, even tried to have me killed - or their husbands have.

She had no husband. She would have to kill him
with her own two hands.

Juliet laughed. Then worried by her own
bitterness, she set about building a fire.

It was over. The entire mad episode was over.
Lord Edward would never approach her again. Neither would Alden Granville. She
had his word on it.

It was over.

Even the sunshine. The rain came on harder that
night, threatening to blow a gale. Water pelted the roof and windows, leaking
onto the sills. For the sheer comfort of it, even though it was an outrageous
extravagance, she lit a fire in her bedroom, hauling the fuel upstairs in a
basket. Drops ran spitting down the chimney. Juliet huddled under her covers
and shivered.

He had peeled away her defenses, laid open her
soul, discovered what she cared for most in the world, then stolen it. She
would hate him until she died. No, he didn't deserve the passion of hatred. She
would regain perspective. She would be superbly indifferent.

Juliet turned over in bed. Oh, God. Oh, God. What
did it matter what she felt or did? He would neither know, nor care. She would
never see him again.

He had taken her locket!

Wind howled in the chimney and rattled the
casement, as if in sympathy.

It was still raining when Tilly arrived in the
morning. The maid was bedraggled, the hem of her cloak dragging mud. Time to
pick up the reins of normal, everyday existence once again. Juliet made only
one concession to what had happened. While Tilly fed the hens, Juliet walked
into her kitchen and took down her chess set.

Without even opening the box, she threw both
board and men into the fire.

The black and white squares crackled, peeling
paint as the wood charred and smoked. The box cracked open, spilling pawns,
queens and kings in a helpless melee into the devouring flames.

Her three cats rubbed around her ankles, purring.

IT
WAS Α BLIND, HELPLESS RAGE. ALDEN
LAY IN HIS BED AND cursed. His blood scalded his veins. If he did not clench
his jaw, his teeth rattled in his head like some macabre representation of
death in the village pageant. He had tried to stand, only to fall back against
the pillows. All he could do was curse. So he swore, sometimes aloud, sometimes
silently, while servants padded about his room.

Soon the local doctor leaned over him, holding
some foul-smelling potion under his nose. "Pray, drink this, my lord.
Most efficacious to rid you of toxic humors."

The tremors felt too violent to trust speech, so
Alden shook his head, clenching his teeth. The doctor gestured. Several men in
livery gathered about the bed.

"Pray, do be pleased to drink it, my
lord," one of them begged.

"Ι have a chill," Alden said as
deliberately as he was able. "If you value your employment and your
lives-"

Yet it seemed that his words were garbled,
impossible to understand. He broke out in a cold sweat as the doctor closed in
once again.

His brow furrowed, the doctor nodded to the
servants. "Lord Gracechurch is delirious. As you love him, Ι pray you
will assist me? "

Strong, devoted hands grabbed Alden's arms and
legs and held him down. Someone grabbed his nose and forced his mouth open. His
tongue gagged on the foul taste. He swallowed some as he fought for breath,
then spat with his last remaining strength. The men leaped back, faces dabbled
with drops of potion.

The doctor wiped his chin with a large
handkerchief. "Ι fear for His Lordship's sanity. He must be
bled."

With intense concentration Alden managed to grind
out the words. "No bloody bleeding!"

Yet the footmen grabbed him again, nothing but
concern in their faces. Alden caught a glimpse of a basin and razor. His own
servants held him down as blood streamed from his arm.

"This is most inconsiderate," a new
voice said. "Why was Ι not consulted right away? Oh, do go away, all
of you! Ι wish to speak with my son."

"Mother!" Alden shouted. ''How good of
you to call."

The doctor bowed from the waist. "Your
Ladyship! His Lordship is raving with fever. He must be bled."

"Well, of course," the viscountess
said. "But not now. Ι need to consult him about something. Go
away!"

The footmen had already retreated and were
standing at attention, staring at the ceiling.

"Her Ladyship is not to be refused,
sir." Alden managed to hold up his slashed arm. He thought perhaps he was
making sense this time. "Your work is done. See? Ι bleed."

Lady Gracechurch promptly fainted. Alden lay
neglected in the bed while the doctor and footmen gathered about his mother.
She was lifted onto a chair and fanned. Her maidservant, who was hovering
behind her, set fire to a feather. The acrid smell filled the room…

HE
WOKE TO THE STEADY DRONE OF Α
VOICE. HIS MOTHER'S voice. Alden wasn't quite sure what she was talking about.
Her words blurred, humming along like meaningless music. Something about
orchards and vegetable marrows. Α complaint about the day he was born.
Α long diatribe on Mrs. Sherwood, so ungrateful, so wicked. He drifted in
and out of sleep.

"And then Lord Felton-"

He snapped awake. "Who?"

"Lord Felton. Francis Amberleigh, the Earl
of Felton. Really, Alden! Haven't you heard a word I've been saying?"

Alden sat up. He was soaked in sweat, but the
fever had receded. He felt considerably stronger. The room lay quiet, lit by a
few braces of candles. So it was night. Lady Gracechurch sat by the bed.

"Mother, how long have you been here?"

"It is so seldom Ι can have you to
myself, Alden. Ι have been here since yesterday."

"Yesterday! Devil take it! Have Ι been
that ill?"

"Nothing to be concerned about. As Ι
told that doctor, this has been your habit since childhood. When others
suffered long, stuffy colds, you always ran
such
a dramatic high fever,
then were better within days. Ι sent the doctor about his business. Ι
have never trusted doctors, not since the day you were born. You are quite well
now?"

"Yes, thank you, Mama." The room stank,
a mixture of potions and burned feathers. "Would you pray order me a bath
and ask a footman to open the windows?"

His mother looked at him with eyebrows raised. Of
course, she wouldn't dream of ringing a bell, if he were there to do it for
her.

"It is raining," she said. "It is
night."

Alden gathered his strength, reached from the bed
and rang.

Α footman appeared, listened to his orders
and disappeared, but the window remained closed.

"What were you saying about the Earl of
Felton?"

She turned to him. "What, dear?"

"Lord Felton. You were speaking of
him."

"Was Ι? Ι have quite forgot."

Alden leaned back and closed his eyes. His
mother's visit was pure chance. Just as it was chance that she had chased the
doctor away before the man killed his patient in an excess of medical zeal.
Lady Gracechurch lived in a world of her own. She had seen nothing odd in
sitting by her son's bedside, commanding his sole company and complaining about
matters of business and gossip, while he shook and sweated with a fever.

"Lord Felton had a daughter, Lady Elizabeth
Juliet Amberleigh," Alden said. "She ran away with her father's
secretary, a man named George Hardcastle. Her mother and little brother were
killed later in a carriage accident. Their deaths were commonly seen, so I
understand, to be her fault. Or at least, her father never forgave her."
       

"Oh, lud! Ι wasn't talking about
that.
Ι was talking about the Felton treasure. The story is that a great
fortune in gold is buried in the garden. Rumor has it that a new clue to its
whereabouts has been discovered-"

"The
 
key to a treasure."

"What, dear? Lord Felton says he will not
countenance a lot of ruffians digging about in his grounds, looking for a
treasure lost since the war."

"Which war?" Alden asked.

"That disgraceful business with Oliver
Cromwell, of course. The family treasure was buried in the garden and lost.
Such a romantic tale, though Felton claims there's not a shred of truth in
it."

Α buried treasure? Α tale for children
and idiots. If Juliet's locket carried the key to a fortune, why would she have
lived in poverty in Manston Mingate? And yet there had been a truly rapacious
gleam in Lord Edward's eyes.