A Season of Seduction

by Jennifer Haymore

  Becky looked up at the sound of footsteps in the passageway. “Mr. Jennings!”

  The old man halted and leaned inside. His arms were full of linens he was taking downstairs to wash. “Yes, ma’am?”

  “You knew my mother, didn’t you?”

  “Why, yes, of course I did.” A smile flitted over his age-thinned lips. “You are the image of her, my lady.”

  Becky nodded. She’d been told that often. As a rule, the Jameses were a tall, tawny breed, and Garrett was a James through and through. Becky was a product of their father’s second marriage, however, and hadn’t inherited the traditional strong family features.

  “What was she like?”

  Mr. Jennings leaned against the doorframe. The long furrows deepened across his brow as he considered for a long moment. “The last I saw her, she must’ve been ten or twelve years old. A scrap of a lass, she was, spoiled but sweet as could be, with a ready smile for everyone.”

  “And then she went away,” Becky said.

  “Aye, that she did. She weren’t happy about it, if my recollection serves.”

  She gestured at the stationery in her lap. “I’ve just read her letters. Seems she wasn’t happy at all.”

  “And then there was that matter with the duke, poor thing.”

  “What matter?”

  Mr. Jennings’s eyes widened. “You didn’t hear of it?” Then he shook his head in self-derision. “Of course you wouldn’t have. You weren’t yet born. Never mind it, my lady.”

  “Tell me.”

  “ ’Tis of no import.”

  “What happened between my father and my mother? All I know is—” she stared down at the top sheet of aging parchment in her lap, “—my mother… hated him.”

  Mr. Jennings scratched his head. “Well, I’ve gone and muddled it, haven’t I? Wish I hadn’t brought it up atall.”

  “But you did,” Becky said gravely. “Now you must finish it.”

  Mr. Jennings’s gaze wandered toward the dusty curtain that covered the window. “She’d become somewhat of a flirt as a young lady, your mother did. At least, that was the rumor hereabouts. And then, well, mind I cannot guarantee the accuracy of this tale, you understand, because I am a mere servant, and sometimes we only hear a piece of the story rather than the whole.”

  “Of course I understand,” Becky said. “Please, continue.”

  “Well, ’twas said she’d become a bit of a flirt. One night, during the Season of her eighteenth year, she attended a ball, and becoming drunk on punch, she…” He paused, seeming uncertain.

  Becky sat very straight and very still in her chair. She’d never heard the story of her parents’ meeting. “Please, Mr. Jennings, go on.”

  “Well, ma’am, ’twas said she made advances to the Duke of Calton. Being of a rather wild sort himself, he took these advances to heart, so to speak.”

  “He… seduced her?”

  Reaching from the pile of linens he still carried, Mr. Jennings pulled at his collar. “Well, not exactly, my lady. ’Twas said he… took great liberties with her.” Mr. Jennings’s Adam’s apple bobbed. “I daresay it was a mighty fine blessing that her parents—your grandparents, my lady—rushed to London and pressed him to do right by the young lady. I believe they were married within the fortnight.”

  After a long silence, Becky smiled and gave a tight nod. “Thank you for telling me, Mr. Jennings. I never… well, I never knew.”

  “I’m sorry you heard it from me, my lady. It’s a right sad tale, I suppose. Well, except for its end, of course.”

  “Its… end?”

  “Why, yes. Of course. Miss Mary went on to become a duchess.” He grinned at that. As if becoming a duchess was the highest glory to which a woman could ever aspire.

  “Oh, yes,” Becky said faintly. “Of course.”

  Mr. Jennings straightened. “Well, then.” Using his chin, he gestured at the dusty linens in his hands. “I’d best get downstairs. Mrs. Jennings’ll be wondering where I’ve got to.”

  Becky nodded distractedly. She hardly noticed him close the door behind him as she opened the final letter. It read as follows:

  December 1804

  Mama and Papa,

  Thank you for your recent correspondence; I was pleased to hear from you. I thank you for your inquiries as to the welfare of His Grace. He is doing exceedingly well, I assure you. He is at present on a hunt in Scotland; I shall remain at Calton House until spring. The child is nearly ready to make his appearance in the world, I am told, and His Grace is desirous that I remain in Yorkshire until the blessed event takes place.

  Thank you again for your correspondence.

  Yours, etc.

  Mary Calton

  Becky sighed. It seemed her mother had grown as aloof as her parents had been. Then she caught sight of a postscript scrawled at the bottom of the letter.

  Her Grace the Duchess of Calton was delivered of a daughter in the morning hours of December 6, 1804.

  Slowly, Becky folded the letter, set it along with the others in her lap, and raised her gaze to the faded chintz curtains covering the window. She’d forgotten that it was almost her birthday. She would be twenty-three years old tomorrow.

  She gathered the letters, tied them back into the bundle, and rose, her body heavy with a nearly overwhelming sadness. Her mother had never loved her father. Nor, apparently, had he loved her. What a sad way to live, knowing that your husband could be nothing but your worst enemy. Becky should know—she’d lived with that knowledge for one full day, and even that short amount of time had altered her irrevocably.

  She’d almost made that mistake again.

  Sighing, she stood and went to return the letters to the place where she had found them. Just as she was pushing the drawer closed, the door to the bedchamber flew open and banged against the inside wall.

  Jack Fulton stood at the threshold.

  Chapter Twenty

  Becky stared at him. Bitter, choking hatred surged into her throat.

  How dare he come here? How dare he invade her home—her sanctuary?

  His hair was windblown, and his color was high. He wore no hat, but he hadn’t removed his coat. His hands clenched at his sides. “Becky. Thank God I found you. Thank God you are here.”

  She struggled to find her voice. When she did, it was low and firm. Strong. “Get out.”

  He shook his head. “Let me explain—”

  “I won’t listen to anything you have to say. Never again.” He took a step forward, and she stiffened her stance. “Get. Out.”

  “Please, Becky.” His voice was low. Pleading. “There is so much I must explain to you.”

  He was dangerous. He was capable of inflicting great harm on her—worse than the harm William had inflicted.

  Her fingers twitched, seeking a weapon. And there it was, she realized. Just beneath her fingers in her apron pocket. Plunging her hand into her pocket, she snatched the pistol out.

  “Get out of my house.” Her voice was low. Deadly serious.

  Slowly, she raised her hand, her fingers tight around the silver inlaid grip, until the gun was aimed at his chest.

  His eyes widened. “For God’s sake, stop this nonsense, and let’s talk.”

  “No.”

  “You won’t shoot me.”

  “Oh, yes, I will.”

  He didn’t know what she’d done, how she’d contributed to William’s death. Everyone thought a criminal had killed William. Few knew that it was actually Garrett who’d shot him. Only two people in the world—Kate and Garrett—knew what Becky had done to her husband that day.

  “You told Garrett that we were together that night. You wanted him to catch us. You wanted the world to know. You planned it all. You manipulated me into marrying you.”

  “Come, Becky.” Jack’s voice was low and seductive. That was the voice that had nearly caused her to give him everything. He’d seduced her into giving him her body… and her love, damn it. But he didn’t have her name, and he d
idn’t have her money. He never would.

  He reached his hand toward her. “Sweetheart, put the gun down. I’m so sorry—I can explain. I know you don’t want to do this.”

  She’d protected Garrett from William. She’d protected Kate. Now she must protect herself. Raising her thumb, she pulled it down with a sharp jerk, cocking the pistol. Her hands were steady. “You have no idea what I’m capable of.”

  “Becky, please—”

  “Don’t move.”

  He froze.

  They stood a moment in charged silence. Then, she said, “I will tell you one more time. Get out of my house.”

  He shook his head. “I love you, Becky. More than anything in this world, I love you.”

  Something surged within her and her hands trembled, but she quashed it and stilled her grip on the weapon. He lied. As he had lied to her from the beginning, he lied to her now.

  “I won’t leave you. You love me, too. I know you do—I’ve seen it in your eyes, felt it in your touch. You won’t shoot me.”

  As if in slow motion, he stepped forward. Alarm bells clanged a warning in her head. Save yourself, Becky! He moved closer. He was almost on her, raising his arms to touch her. She tightened her hand over the grip of the gun and pressed hard on the trigger.

  The gunshot boomed through the small room. She was vaguely aware of the window rattling, and the report of the shot jerked through her arms. Pain shot through her twisted elbow, and she stumbled back from the force of it.

  Jack’s jaw dropped open in amazement as he staggered backward, looking down at himself. Blood bloomed from the hole torn through his coat. And then he sagged, crumpled to his knees, and fell with a thud to the floor.

  Oh, God. His chest was on fire. Jack stared at the flat, dull plaster of the ceiling. There was nothing but the raging pain and the blood. It hurt like the fires of hell, and there was so much blood. Bright red, pulsing. His blood.

  His eyes burned, watered. He gasped, unable to breathe. Had she shot through his heart? His lungs?

  Her dark hair came into view, then her beautiful, pale oval face, still hard and unwavering.

  Sweet, sweet Becky.

  She’d shot him. He’d never thought her capable of such a thing. But the pain of death burned through him, and God, it hurt to breathe.

  He deserved this. He’d deceived her. He had intended to engage her in a loveless marriage, then steal her money. There was no honor in his intentions. Only lies, deception. His eyes fluttered and then he closed them, sighing painfully.

  It was better this way. He would die and she would be free of the likes of him. She deserved better than him. Because God knew, if he stayed alive, he couldn’t let her go.

  “I require clean cloths and hot water,” someone said. It was that sweet, lilting voice he’d grown to love. Becky’s voice. Maybe he’d die dreaming of her voice, maybe he’d dream about her forever. That would be heaven.

  She continued emotionlessly, but her voice was like an angel’s. “Those tweezers from the kitchen. Wash them and bring them to me.”

  Oh, God. Someone was touching him where he’d been shot. Pain sliced through his body, and he cried out weakly. But he’d lost control of his muscles, and he couldn’t fight it. All he could do was lie here—was he on the floor?—like a weakling while they tortured him.

  Fingers sank into his wound, and he screamed in pain. They were tearing him apart. He was on the rack, being disemboweled. He was dying.

  He welcomed death. Hell couldn’t bring worse pain than this, could it?

  He writhed in agony, but not only did his muscles fail him, firm hands held him down. He could do nothing but succumb to the torment.

  It grew worse, more painful, until every nerve in his body screamed in pained horror. And then, slowly, the pain grew dim. Dimmer and dimmer until it was fuzzy, like a dream.

  Then, everything slowly faded. He embraced the blackness with open arms.

  “I think he’s fainted,” Sam announced.

  You’ve shot Jack. You’ve shot the man you love.

  She hadn’t wanted to hurt him; she’d wanted him to go away. If he died, she wouldn’t survive it.

  Her rational mind pushed away those thoughts, trampled them to dust, and took charge. This man meant nothing to her. He was a liar, as adept in deception as William was. She couldn’t allow emotion to intervene. Emotions were illogical.

  Yet she still couldn’t allow him to bleed to death.

  “Good,” Becky snapped. “It’ll be easier if he’s unconscious.”

  She ran her fingers over the back of his shoulder, finding no wound. The bullet was still lodged in his shoulder somewhere. Laying him back on the floor, she gazed at the oozing wound for a moment. She tore open his coat and shirt, then quickly washed her hands using the hot water Mr. Jennings had brought and pushed a finger inside the hole the bullet had made. Right away, her fingertip skimmed the smooth, round surface of the ball. She ground her teeth when she felt the splinters of bone surrounding it.

  “Give me the tweezers, please, Mrs. Jennings,” she ordered when the woman hurried in from the kitchen.

  Openmouthed, the woman obeyed. Becky dipped the tweezers in the hot water and carefully dried them, ensuring they were clean of any dirt or lint before she directed them to the place where she’d felt the bullet. Once she had a decent grasp on it, she yanked it out and dropped it on the wood floor with a thunk. It rolled for a moment, then came to a stop in the center of a whorl.

  Everyone stared at the bloody ball for a long moment, and then Becky sighed and reached for the tweezers again. Inserting them into Jack’s wound, she withdrew the loose splinters of bone she’d felt with her fingertip when she’d searched for the ball. She also found a round scrap of linen and several threads of wool—the pieces of his clothing that had been driven into his body by the force of the bullet.

  She’d read the dictionary of surgery Jack had given toher. She’d read memoirs of surgeons during the Peninsular Wars, and she’d read treatises on medicine byrenowned doctors. She knew, in a theoretical sense, what to do with a bullet wound to the shoulder. So she performed the task just as she’d read about it. She went through each step, each motion, as if she’d done it a hundred times before, bemused by her own distance from the event, her own lack of emotion.

  There was no swooning or panic at the sight of blood oozing from Jack’s body. She didn’t question herself, her motives, or her intentions. She just did what needed to be done.

  She peeled away his layers of clothing and thoroughly cleaned the wound. Then she wrapped it in strips of cloth soaked in cold water. When she finished, she took a deep breath, then rocked back on her heels, biting her lip.

  Sheneeded proper medical equipment—no, a proper doctor—to finish this. She glanced at Sam.

  “Take a horse and go into Camelford. If necessary, go all the way to Launceston. Find a doctor and return with him. Be quick, Sam.”

  Tears pricked at her eyes, and she jerked her gaze away from Sam and turned to Jack. God, what had she done? He lay there, his face blanched, still as death. The thick, copper tang of his blood permeated her senses.

  As Sam hurried away, she forced herself to continue with the practicalities. “Mr. Jennings, please remove those dusty bed curtains. Mrs. Jennings, if we possess anything in the way of clean linens, please fetch them, and we’ll use them for the bed.”

  The elderly couple hurried to do her bidding, and she was left sitting beside Jack.

  She suppressed the urge to take his hand. She stared down at her own hands. They were covered in his blood.

  Rubbing a clean part of the back of her hand over her eyes, she fumbled to her feet. She must light a fire—if the fireplace in here was working, that was. It was important to keep him warm. His coat was wet. If she wasn’t careful, he’d catch a chill.

  As she passed the window, she glanced outside.

  Wind whistled over the barren landscape, flattening the grass, and far in the distance, the s
ea frothed angrily.

  Winter had arrived, tomorrow was her twenty-third birthday, and she’d just shot and possibly murdered the man she’d almost married.

  She crossed the room and knelt at the basin to wash the blood off her hands.

  Sam returned with the doctor two hours later. By that time, Becky and Mr. and Mrs. Jennings had made the bed, stripped Jack of his wet clothing, brought more clean water, started a warming fire in the blessedly working hearth, and tucked Jack beneath heavy blankets. Mrs. Jennings, though she was exhausted, scrubbed the floor clean of blood, but Becky couldn’t do anything but stare at Jack. She’d pulled the chair close to the bed and watched him. Watched the steady rise and fall of his chest. Watched his pale face, locked in a frown. He’d hardly budged since he’d lost consciousness.

  The physician, a mild-mannered young man with thick black eyebrows and a thatch of hair to match, introduced himself as Dr. Bellingham. Becky was grateful that he didn’t ask how Jack had been shot. He simply unwrapped Jack’s bandaged wound, studied it, and used the forceps he’d brought to search for any foreign objects that might have gone into the wound. He found nothing. He closed the wound with sutures, then asked for the largest belt in the house. Becky found one in her grandfather’s cabinet, and the doctor strapped Jack’s arm to his chest, cushioning his elbow with a large piece of quilted fabric. He wrapped the wound in a fresh cold-water application and fashioned a sling to support Jack’s arm and elbow. Jack woke in the midst of his ministrations, and gritting his teeth in pain, he managed to answer the doctor’s questions as the man poked and prodded his injury. Finally, the doctor drew Becky into the corridor.

  “Unfortunately, my lady, I was unable to locate the ball.”

  “I removed it.”

  He frowned. “I… see.”

  “Did I do it correctly?” She thought she had, but the frown on his face suggested otherwise.

  “You did nothing wrong, if that is what you are asking, my lady. You didn’t damage anything. However, in the future, I would advise you to leave such exertions to someone who is more learned.”

  She pressed her lips together and nodded. “Will he recover?”