A Season of Seduction

by Jennifer Haymore

  “I’m not giving you twenty-five thousand pounds.”

  “I know she has it—”

  “You won’t see a penny.”

  Tom took a breath and seemed to collect himself. “Well, then. You are well aware of what will happen if you refuse—”

  “Don’t threaten me,” Jack said. It wouldn’t do Tom a damn bit of good. Not anymore.

  “I was doing you a favor by sending that letter, you know. By making you aware of the new terms before you married the chit.”

  Writing covered the sheets of yellowing stationery atop the desk. Jack saw the word “Anne” and jerked his gaze away from the black scrawl on the top sheet. Tom had always fancied himself a writer. Grimly, Jack recalled the love letters he’d written to Anne. Hundreds of pages piled high on the old desk that had once belonged to Tom’s father.

  Seeing Jack glancing at the writings, Tom lunged to the desk and with a sweep of his arm, sent the papers flying about them.

  Rage boiled up in Jack so quickly he had to take a moment to calm himself as papers fluttered to his feet. When he’d retained a semblance of control, he said, “It’s been years, Tom. Years. Why are you still writing to her?”

  Tom spun on him, his thin lips curling in disgust. “You still don’t understand, do you? So slow-witted, Jack. She loved me, damn you. She loved me… until you… you took it all away.”

  Jack stared at him. This only confirmed his suspicion that Tom was not quite sane. Anne had been fond of Tom when they were children, but later he’d frightened her. When they were fifteen, Tom had given her the first of many flowery love letters. It had proclaimed that he’d gladly kill himself for her love. She’d run to Jack, terrified. He’d soothed her, believing at the time that it was only Tom’s competitive streak rearing its head. Tom had seen how close Anne and Jack had grown, and he was jealous.

  “You stole her from me. It’s your fault she left. You took her love and then you couldn’t keep your damn fool mouth shut, and Turling married her off to that bastard…” Tom gulped, tears trickling down his jaundiced cheeks.

  Jack clenched his fists. “You cannot blame me for her marriage.”

  “Of course I can. You forced her father’s hand. You all but demanded to have her. He had no choice but to marry her to the first lord that came along.” Tom swiped angrily at his tears with the frayed cuff of his robe.

  It made sense, in a perverse way. Yet… God damn it, no. He wouldn’t shoulder the guilt for Anne’s marriage. That blame lay squarely on her parents. They were the ones, in their greed and narrow-mindedness, who’d forced the match.

  Jack shook off these dour thoughts. It was no use talking about Anne, assigning blame, allowing Tom Wortingham to work him into a frenzy over it. The past was over.

  “For Christ’s sake, Tom. That was twelve years ago.”

  “I loved her.” Tom’s fist flailed and struck the wall, sending another shower of plaster over them both. “I love her!” His chest heaved with a sob.

  Jack had loved her once, too. But it was over. She would always be a fond memory, but he had a new life now. Finally, after all these years, he cared again. He had something to fight for. Something important.

  “Let her go, Tom. You must let her go.”

  “No!” Tom shook his head, a vigorous motion, causing the ends of his hair to whip at his cheeks. “I cannot.” He leaned forward, his eyes wide and determined. “I won’t.”

  “She’s gone.”

  “Not to me, she’s not.”

  Jack looked at Tom and could only feel a bone-deep sadness. Tom was all that was left of his past, the only remaining symbol of happiness from Jack’s childhood, and God, he had wasted away.

  “Do what you want, then. You won’t be receiving any money from me, or from my wife.”

  “Jack—” Suddenly, Tom’s eyes watered. His voice broke. “Jack, please. I—I need it.”

  Jack shook his head.

  “I’m in trouble, Jack. I was gambling. I couldn’t stop—didn’t want to. I made promises. And now—”

  “No.”

  “Please. They’re threatening me. They’re going to kill me. Truly, it wasn’t selfishness that made me ask for money—it was need. I wouldn’t have asked if I hadn’t needed it. I’m not so self-seeking, you know that. But, deuce it, I’m in a terrible muddle. I owe money, Jack. Piles of money. If I don’t pay…” He reached toward Jack with long, waxy fingers, beseeching. “Please help me.”

  Jack closed his eyes in a long blink and then opened them. Ever since the first day Tom had threatened him, he’d suspected this. It was part of what had driven him to concede to Tom’s demand, some glimmer of hope that he could save his old friend from what he’d become.

  “You were my friend for many years. We looked out for each other… and for Anne.”

  “Yes,” Tom whispered. “And… I need your help now.”

  “If you wanted my help, you should have asked for it. I might have tried to help an old friend.”

  “Jack—”

  “Instead, you threatened me. My place in the world. My life.”

  He could blame Tom for making him conspire to steal money from an innocent woman, but in the end, that particular sin wasn’t Tom’s to carry. It was his own.

  Perhaps he was just as bad at Tom. Jack gazed at his one-time friend, at his skinny body, his gaunt face, haunted pale eyes, his robe worn so thin his elbows had poked holes through the fabric.

  During those years on the Gloriana, he had subsisted in a brittle shell, Jack realized. Taking only the barest pleasure from living, unable to feel anything but bitterness for anything or anyone.

  He’d ceased to feel after Anne and his mother had died. He’d resented his life—he’d resented living. Tom still resented living. Just from casting one glance on him, a person could discern his unhappiness, his lack of joy.

  Jack could understand that. He’d subsisted in the same way for many years. But not anymore. One woman, one small, fragile, beautiful woman, had coaxed him back into the world of the living without either of them realizing what she was doing. With her, he’d experienced happiness and joy again. With her, he’d experienced love.

  It might be too late for Tom—Jack couldn’t know. All he knew was that it wasn’t too late for him, and he was going to hold on to this newfound humanity for all he was worth.

  Tom straightened. “I still have the evidence, you know,” he said, the old threatening tone returning to his voice.

  Jack shook his head. Tom was still fighting for the damn money, and all Jack could feel was the heaviness of grief for the friend he’d once had. That man was lost. Gone.

  “You have until the fifteenth. If twenty-five thousand is too much—”

  “A shilling is too much,” Jack said.

  “You think to run off with that skinny chit? I told you before, she’s nothing compared to—”

  Jack turned away.

  “Do you really think she can make you happy? Someone like that? So frigid, Jack. So cold. So lacking in substance.”

  Jack stepped over the broken pieces of wood, over the threshold, and down the dim corridor. Tom’s voice rose to a screech behind him.

  “There’s no happiness for dead men, Jack!”

  The morning of December the first dawned bright and clear, warm for the season, the sun quickly burning away all trace of last night’s fog. Jack looked out the window of the guest bedchamber Stratford had provided him. It was a beautiful day for a beautiful new life, and yet trepidation tugged at his chest.

  Whether he would be given the gift of a beautiful new life remained to be seen. He had risen at dawn intending to leave Stratford’s house early. He would dress in his wedding clothes, and then he would ride to the duke’s house. He was going to Becky, and he would tell her everything.

  If she would still have him after all he’d done, he would begin his marriage with a clean conscience. He and Becky would build the rest of their lives on a foundation of honesty. He would prove to h
er that he was deserving of her love.

  If she wouldn’t have him—No. He wasn’t going to consider that.

  He would take it one step at a time. If Becky still accepted him after all that had happened, and if Tom still released his evidence to the authorities, Jack would have the backing of one of the most powerful families in England. This family had manipulated the law before. Perhaps they could do so again.

  Hope was all he had to hold on to this morning, and he clung to it for dear life.

  Turning from the window, he used the water a servant had brought to shave and then he dressed in his finest waistcoat. He was reaching for his tailcoat when a scuffling noise sounded outside his door and it banged open.

  Jack twisted around to see the Duke of Calton at the threshold, his face tight with concern, the scar on his forehead gleaming bright red.

  “What the hell?” Jack asked.

  The duke’s cool blue gaze searched his bedchamber as Stratford hurried up behind him. Finally, Calton’s eyes settled on Jack.

  “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

  Becky quickly learned that spending hours without rest on a saddle was far more demanding on her body than she’d anticipated. Sam had been right—she was not accustomed to such hard riding, nor was she accustomed to riding astride, and after a full day on a horse, every muscle in her body screamed in protest.

  When Sam and Becky reached Basingstoke in the afternoon of what should have been her wedding day, Sam pointed out that her mare was even more exhausted than she was, and he pleaded with Becky to stay at the posting inn to await the next mail coach to Cornwall.

  Despite the compulsion to forge ahead no matter the cost, Becky agreed. She didn’t want to risk the health of her mare, the chances of someone recognizing her were slimmer in this part of England, and ultimately, the post would travel faster than they ever could on horseback.

  The post chaise whipped through the inn yard late that night, pausing only to exchange mail, horses, and passengers. During this part of the journey Becky forewent her masculine costume for her hooded dark-blue traveling cloak, for she knew as well as Sam that there was no way she’d fool the coachman or any of the other passengers about her sex in such close company.

  About twenty-four hours after they left Basingstoke, they arrived in Cornwall, where they slept for the remainder of the night at the inn at Launceston. Early the following morning, the third of December, Becky rented a pair of horses and they set off toward the coast.

  By the time they reached Seawood that afternoon, Becky’s bottom was sore, her muscles ached, and she was miserably heartsick.

  Jack had betrayed her. Jack was no better than William. With every heavy fall of the horses’ hooves that brought her closer to Seawood, the truth of it beat through her mind.

  Sleet had plagued Becky and Sam throughout the day, and they were cold and wet through despite the oilskin capes Becky had purchased on the first day of their journey. The sleet eventually stopped, but a misty cold enveloped them as they traveled into a gully and through a spindly wood. They crossed a wide, shallow stream, then the road twisted uphill, and Becky slowed her horse as the house appeared through the woods ahead.

  The two-story structure stood on a flat, yellow-brown plain. Short brown weeds and twiggy bushes slapped against its battered gray stone exterior. Just beyond the house, the rocky coastline ended in a sheer drop, the cliffs descending into a wind-tossed silver sea.

  Sam, who led the way down the narrow, overgrown road, glanced back at her, his forehead creased as wind whipped through his hair, standing the dark brown strands on end. “This cannot be it, my lady.”

  Her heart sinking, Becky shook her head. “No, it is. It must be.”

  Tears blurred her vision. Had Mr. Jennings lied to her? She’d pictured Seawood as a beautiful gem on the ocean, pristine and sweet, in excellent repair, and containing all the modern conveniences.

  Blinking hard, she continued to follow Sam as they drew across the clearing toward the front door. She tried not to notice that the window on the ocean side of the door was covered by boards, and she tried to close her ears against the sound of a loose shutter banging repeatedly against the side of the house.

  Sam stopped his horse and dismounted near the arched entryway. He turned to her, eyebrows raised, as she came up behind him, pulled her foot from the stirrup, and hopped off.

  She gave him a confident smile as she handed him the reins. “Well, then. Let’s see if Mr. and Mrs. Jennings are here.”

  Without waiting for an answer, she brushed past him and marched up to the weathered front door with more resolution than she felt. She knocked briskly. No answer. She waited, squared her shoulders and straightened her spine, and tried again.

  No answer. She grasped the door handle and tried to open the door. It was locked.

  Do not panic. Do not panic.

  Pulling her coat tightly around her, she turned to Sam, depending on him, as she had in the past few days, to present an idea.

  “Are you certain this is the correct house, my lady?”

  Unable to speak, she simply nodded. She stepped into the clearing to survey the area. The crash of waves onto the cliffs far below was a dim roar, nearly indistinguishable over the whistle of the wind and the banging shutter. The weeds grew thickly, and though the autumn chill had thinned them somewhat, it was clear that the grounds hadn’t recently been tended to.

  “I don’t understand.” She spoke to herself more than to Sam. “This is nothing like how Mr. Jennings described it.”

  She looked inland, back in the direction from which they had come. Her gaze came to an abrupt halt when she saw a wisp of smoke curling over the treetops in the gully. “Sam, look. Over there.”

  She lifted the skirts of her traveling cloak and hurried through the grass, then down the slope onto a wet, overgrown path, her boot heels sinking into the mud.

  A cottage, much smaller than Seawood, was tucked into a copse of trees beside the stream, sheltered from the weather and winds by the steep walls of the valley. A light burned in its single window and smoke emerged in white puffs from its chimney—a warm, pleasant sight.

  Becky knocked on the sturdy wood-planked door, her heart racing. An elderly and thin but kindly-looking man answered it, his tufted white brows raised in question.

  Becky didn’t respond to his salutation. Instead, she gestured toward the coastline and the weather-beaten house on the cliff. “Is that Seawood back there?”

  “Why, yes, ma’am. Indeed it is.”

  “Who’s there, Wilfred?” asked a shaky feminine voice from deeper inside the room.

  He glanced back toward the voice, whose owner was hidden behind a partition, and then looked at Becky as Sam drew up beside her.

  “I’m looking for Mr. Jennings. Do you have any idea of his whereabouts?”

  The man paused. “Well, that would be me, ma’am. I’m Mr. Jennings.”

  Fury and confusion swept through Becky in equal parts. “But you said… Forgive me,” she said tightly. “I am Lady Rebecca Fisk, the owner of Seawood.”

  Mr. Jennings’s eyebrows shot impossibly high and then snapped together. “Lady Rebecca? But you are…? Well.” He looked uncomfortable as he bowed stiffly. “Forgive me, my lady. We weren’t expecting you.”

  “I know you weren’t. But I am here now.”

  His pale lips parted, the old man just stared at her, seemingly at a loss for words.

  “I intend to stay at Seawood,” she explained.

  “Er…” His voice dwindled.

  A woman bustled up behind Mr. Jennings. Her white crown of hair matched her husband’s, but she was round as an apple where Mr. Jennings was lean. The pair of them reminded Becky of an elderly Jack Sprat and his wife.

  “I asked you who—” She broke off abruptly when she saw Becky and Sam.

  Becky inclined her head. “I’m Lady Rebecca Fisk. Are you Mrs. Jennings?”

  The woman’s mouth moved but no words emerged.


  Becky released a breath. She knew she wasn’t expected, but even so, this was a strange welcome to her property.

  “Well,” she said. “I see the house is in need of some work. I saw the broken window in the front…”

  The elderly couple stared at her, their eyes round with shock. Sam stood beside her, not saying a word.

  “… but I should like to see the interior, if you please. I assume you have the key?”

  “We didn’t expect you, my lady,” the woman breathed, seeming to have lost the ability to speak with a full voice.

  “I know that,” Becky said impatiently. “The key?”

  The woman broke out of her daze and curtsied. “Yes, ma’am.” She spun around and hurried away.

  Becky turned her gaze to Mr. Jennings.

  He wrung his hands. “You don’t intend to actually stay at Seawood, do you, my lady?” The thought seemed to cause him a great deal of anxiety.

  “Yes, I do.” Hadn’t she already made that clear?

  He bowed his head. “Forgive me, but we weren’t expecting your arrival.”

  “I am aware of that.” Becky struggled for patience. It was growing colder and darker by the minute and she wanted nothing more than a bath—though she now realized that might be asking too much. At the very least a warm fire. Mr. and Mrs. Jennings were keeping her out on their front stoop, and the wind had seeped all the way through her damp clothes and into her bones.

  She raised a brow at the old man. “You are saying the house is not fit for my occupancy?”

  “Well…” the man hedged.

  “You claimed it was a lovely jewel.” It took all of Becky’s reserves not to crumble before these people. She was a James, she reminded herself. She must stay strong. She took a deep breath and continued. “You said in your letters that the house was in good repair, and that—”

  “Oh, well, that’s all true,” Mr. Jennings hastened to explain. “Just a mite dusty, perhaps.”

  “Well…” Was that all? She heaved in a great breath of relief. “What’s a little dust? We shall all spend some time dusting this afternoon.” She’d never dusted anything in her life. But, honestly, how difficult could it be? She didn’t care about dust. If dusting could take her mind off Jack Fulton’s treachery, she’d happily do it till kingdom come.