More or Less a Temptress

by Anna Bradley

  Isla gasped. “Hyacinth Somerset! Do you mean to say you’re going to put that in his pocket?”

  “No. I mean to say I’m going to put it back in his pocket. It’s the only way to be certain he has it when we bring in Lord Sydney as witness.”

  Isla was gaping at her, mouth open.

  “Oh, come now, Isla. Don’t look so shocked. It’s not as if I’m doing anything dishonest. The wax belongs to Lord Dixon. I’m only…giving it back to him.”

  Isla still didn’t look convinced. “Too much could go wrong, Hyacinth. What if you can’t lure Lord Dixon to the library? What if I can’t get Lord Sydney there in time? What if it’s unusually warm, and the wax melts—”

  “I thought I was supposed to be the timid one, Isla.”

  “Timid? No, you’re not timid, but you may very well be mad.” Isla bit her lip, wrung her hands, and shook her head, but at last, after some final protests and dark predictions of impending doom, she threw her hands into the air. “Very well, then. Tell me what I need to do.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  “Your waistcoat is unbuttoned. Your shirt is untucked, and your cravat looks as if there’s a rodent nesting in it. It’s odd, Lach, but I don’t recall you being in a state of undress when we got into the carriage in Grosvenor Street.” Ciaran gave his brother a wide-eyed, innocent look. “Whatever could have happened between then and now, I wonder?”

  Lachlan glanced down at himself, hastily shoved the tail of his shirt into his breeches, buttoned his waistcoat, and made a half-hearted effort to smooth his cravat. “I’m not in a state of undress.”

  Not entirely, anyway.

  Ciaran grinned, then leaned back in his seat and stretched his legs into the available space, crossing them at the ankles. “Not for lack of trying.”

  Lachlan kicked his brother’s feet away with a glare, but he didn’t reply, because he and Ciaran were not going to have this discussion, or any other discussion where Hyacinth’s name might be mentioned in the same breath as the word “undressed.”

  “Well, I’ll say this for you, Lach.” Ciaran laced his fingers behind his head, flung his elbows wide, and offered Lachlan an idle grin. “I can’t fault your taste. Sweetest girl in London, and a beauty, as well.”

  Lachlan’s jaw hardened, but he maintained a stubborn silence.

  “But then you’ve always had a weakness for fair hair, blue eyes, and generous curves.”

  Lachlan scowled. “Never mind her curves. They’re nothing to do with you.”

  Ciaran shrugged. “To be sure, but then a man can’t help but notice them, can he? I’m not the only one who’s admired them.”

  Lachlan’s eyes narrowed on his brother’s face. “Careful, Ciaran.”

  Ciaran wasn’t in a mood to be careful, and he dismissed Lachlan’s warning growl with a casual shrug. “Still, I’m a bit surprised. Hyacinth Somerset doesn’t look like the sort who’d rip your waistcoat from your back, but then it’s always the quiet ones who—”

  In one quick leap, Lachlan lunged across the carriage and grabbed his brother by the cravat. “Don’t you ever talk about her as if she’s—”

  “I knew it!” Ciaran crowed. He pushed Lachlan off him with one mighty shove, and then pinned him in his seat with a booted foot against his chest. “You’re in love with her, and—oh, quit thrashing, will you? Hyacinth is as dear to me as Isla is. I would never insult her, and you bloody well know it.”

  Lachlan did know it, and yet it still took a dozen deep breaths before he was calm, and could push Ciaran’s foot off his chest without leaping for his brother’s throat again. At this rate, he’d end up in a duel before the end of the season.

  Ciaran was trying to pull the folds of his cravat back into order, but after a few fruitless tugs, he gave it up with a sigh. “Damn it, now you’ve ruined my cravat, as well. You know, Lach, you might have just told me you’re in love with Hyacinth, instead of making me tease it out of you.”

  Lachlan’s eyebrows shot up. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d confided in his brother. Despite their brawling, they’d always been close, but everything had changed after James Baird’s death. Isobel Campbell had turned on Ciaran. She’d broken his heart, and Ciaran, devastated by her betrayal, had turned his rage and despair on one of the only people left in his life he knew would never hold it against him.

  His brother.

  They’d left Scotland behind, and with it, whatever brotherly affection they’d once shared. It had been lost in a flood of anger and resentment.

  On Ciaran’s part, that is.

  Lachlan had feared their bond was broken for good, but Ciaran asking to share his confidence was a glimmer of hope, at least. Ciaran was a devil, no question. He was unpredictable and irritating, and he had a troublesome habit of planting his fist in Lachlan’s face, but Lachlan would just as soon have his brother back, all the same.

  Lachlan met Ciaran’s eyes. “I didn’t tell you because I didn’t think you’d want to hear it.”

  “Yes, well.” Ciaran looked away, as if he were suddenly riveted by something outside the carriage window. “I knew you were infatuated with her. Had I known it was more than that, it would have explained a few things.”

  “What things?” Lachlan’s tone was wary.

  Ciaran made an impatient gesture with his hand. “Well, for one it would explain why you’ve been skulking about after Dixon, looking as if you’re about to plunge a claymore between his ribs. You’re making sure he doesn’t lay a hand on your woman.”

  “Damn right I don’t want him touching her, but that’s not the whole of it. She’s afraid of him, Ciaran. She won’t tell me why, but he’s said something, done something—something worse than insulting her on Pomeroy’s terrace the other night. He deserves a bloody claymore through his ribs for that alone.”

  “He bloody well does.” Ciaran was quiet for a moment, his forehead creased in thought, then he asked, “What do you hope to gain from this meeting with Sydney today, Lach? Sydney’s lost a few thousand to Dixon, yes, but he claims he doesn’t know the man well. No one does, it seems. Aside from the gaming, Sydney says Dixon keeps to himself.”

  “Sydney knows more about him than we do.” It was true enough, but even so, a bleak sort of exhaustion descended on Lachlan. God, it had seemed a simple enough thing—a London season, to lift Isla’s spirits—but somehow it had taken on a sinister cast. Lachlan couldn’t shake his dread Hyacinth was going to get hurt.

  He and Ciaran passed the rest of the drive to Lord Sydney’s townhouse in silence, each of them lost in their own thoughts. Lachlan’s were grim, indeed, but his spirits rose a bit when they arrived at Sydney’s house in Hanover Square.

  “How d’ye do, Ramsey? Ciaran?” Sydney welcomed them with hearty slaps on the back, then led them to a comfortable study, and waved them toward some chairs placed in front of a roaring fire. He brought them each a tumbler of brandy, then poured one for himself.

  “Damn good brandy, that.” Lord Sydney flopped into a chair, then held his glass up to the firelight to admire the rich color. “So, Ramsey. Your brother tells me you’re on the hunt for some information about Dixon.”

  Lachlan nodded. “I promised Lord Huntington I’d keep my eye on Miss Somerset while she’s in London for her season, and Dixon’s been hanging about her lately.” Lachlan took a healthy swallow of his brandy to chase the taste of Dixon’s name from his mouth.

  “Yes, I noticed that myself. Can’t say I blame him. I’ve always thought her a beauty, but I keep my distance from her on account of my friendship with Lady Joanna. Don’t know what she has against Miss Somerset, come to that. Some foolish nonsense, no doubt, but who knows when it comes to women, eh?”

  Lachlan took another deep swallow from his tumbler, and let the warmth pool in his stomach before replying. “Who, indeed? So, what can you tell us about Dixon?”

 
“Not much, I’m afraid. I’ve known him since he arrived in London several years ago. Even so, I can’t say I know much about him, aside from the fact he’s got a good deal more of my damn money than I’d like him to. Lucky at cards, that one, and he turns it to account with careful wagering.”

  “You mentioned he plays deep,” Ciaran prompted. “Five-card loo for the most part, isn’t it?”

  “Loo, whist, vingt-et-un—whatever’s on at the time, really. He plays deep, and he always plays—don’t often see a cards table in London without Dixon sitting at it. He’s smart about it, though. Cautious, I mean. Careful with his bets. Methodical. I suppose I could take a lesson from him.” Sydney chuckled with the careless amusement of a gentleman who needn’t concern himself much with gaming losses.

  Lachlan sipped at his brandy, considering. From what Sydney said, it didn’t sound as if Dixon was a reckless man, so why was he trying to rush Hyacinth into a courtship? Why was the scoundrel so bloody sure of her? Hyacinth had been polite to Dixon, but she hadn’t encouraged him. Yet Dixon seemed damned confident he’d have her in the end. “I noticed he didn’t appear until the season was well underway. Is that his habit?”

  Sydney frowned. “No, now you mention it. Never known Dixon to give a toss about the season before. He’s not much for debutantes—prefers more sophisticated female company, if you know what I mean. I suppose we all fall into the parson’s mousetrap at some point, don’t we?”

  “Not me.” Ciaran took a deep swallow of his brandy.

  Sydney laughed. “Oh, I don’t know about that. One of those little wallflowers you’ve been flirting with may catch your eye yet. Always thought it a shame no one’s offered for Miss Atkinson. She’s a sweet girl.”

  “I don’t flirt with the wallflowers, Sydney. I dance with them, and nothing more.”

  “We’ll see.” Sydney chuckled again. “Quite their hero, aren’t you? All of them are besotted with you. Not a bad game, really.”

  “Do you think Miss Somerset could be the reason for Dixon’s sudden foray into the marriage mart?” Lachlan asked, bringing them back to the matter at hand. “He singled her out at once, the moment he entered the Sedleys’ ballroom.”

  “Well, yes, but she was wearing that purple gown that night, remember? Good Lord, was she wearing that gown.” Sydney sighed, a dreamy look on his face. “More than one gentleman noticed her, and quite right, too. Aside from your sister, I’ve never seen a prettier young lady in my life.”

  Lachlan’s lips pressed together at the reminder that every single lecherous rake in London had been gawking at Hyacinth in that damn gown. “Had Dixon ever mentioned he admired her, before that night? Had he singled her out in any way?”

  “Not to me, and not that I ever noticed. They’d been introduced before, of course, but…” Sydney trailed off into silence, his brow furrowing. “It was rather odd, now you ask, Ramsey. I’d seen Dixon the night before at White’s—lost several hundred to him, damn his eyes—and I happened to mention Miss Somerset, though I can’t quite recall what…oh, yes. It was about her dance with Lord Chester at the Hayhursts’ ball.” Sydney shook his head. “Bad business, that. I haven’t seen Miss Somerset dance since then.”

  “What did Dixon say, when you mentioned the Hayhursts’ ball?” Lachlan took care to keep his tone bland, but something was niggling at him. He didn’t know what yet, but he felt certain they were circling closer to whatever it was Dixon was hiding.

  “Not much.” Sydney shrugged. “Just that he thought Miss Somerset had cancelled her season, and gone to Brighton instead.”

  “What did you tell him?” Lachlan was leaning forward in his chair now, his brandy forgotten.

  “Told him she changed her mind, and that she’s been at every ball this season so far, with the two of you, and Miss Ramsey. I, ah…” Sydney paused, flushing a little. “I might have said something about Lord Huntington claiming you as his family, and you, Ramsey, being Lord Lachlan now, though you don’t go by the title. Not in a gossiping way,” he hastened to add, “But more matter-of-fact. Anyway, Dixon turned up at the Sedleys’ ball the very next evening. I looked over, and there he was, bowing over Miss Somerset’s hand. Curious timing, that.”

  Ciaran and Lachlan glanced at each other.

  “Yes, very curious,” Lachlan muttered, finishing the rest of his brandy in one swallow. It was even more curious when one considered Dixon was pressing for a courtship a mere few weeks later, and a secret courtship, at that. If Dixon’s intentions were honorable, he would have approached Lady Chase or Finn about a courtship first, before he spoke to Hyacinth.

  “What about Dixon’s family, Sydney? What do you know about them?” Ciaran turned his tumbler in his hand, watching with what looked like lazy interest as the liquor swirled in his glass. But Lachlan knew better. Ciaran’s knuckles were white, and his body tense as he awaited Sydney’s reply.

  “Only that he doesn’t have any. Not in London, anyway.”

  “Where, then?” Ciaran’s gaze met Lachlan’s over the top of his glass. “English countryside somewhere?”

  “No.” Sydney brought his own glass to his lips, and tipped the remaining liquor down his throat. “His family is Scottish, I believe, on the mother’s side. Dixon’s got some cousin or some such way up in the Highlands somewhere.”

  Lachlan went utterly still, his gaze fixed on the flames dancing in the grate, his ears filled with the hiss and snap of burning wood. He was afraid to move, afraid to look at Ciaran—afraid to do anything that might reveal his sudden, intense urgency.

  “Oh?” He managed at last, every nerve in his body straining to keep his voice even. “Where in Scotland would that be?”

  “Christ, who knows? He told me once, but…” Sydney blew out a breath, tipped his head back against his chair, and closed his eyes as he tried to recall. “Someplace north. That is, all of Scotland is north, of course, but this was as far bloody north as you can get, on the northwestern coast.”

  Lachlan gripped his tumbler, and made himself concentrate on the cool, smooth glass under his fingertips as dread clutched at his throat. Jesus, he was one moment away from tackling Sydney and shaking the name out of him.

  “Let’s see. It’s one of those damn tongue-twisting Scottish names, isn’t it? Someplace called Ach…Achhilt…”

  “Achiltibuie?” Ciaran’s voice was low and tense.

  “Yes! That’s it. Achiltibuie. Remote place, he said.”

  “Very remote,” Ciaran echoed faintly. His face had gone white. “It’s the neighboring village to Lochinver, where we grew up.”

  “Indeed? What an odd coincidence. Dixon mentioned his family is mostly gone, but he has a cousin or two up there he corresponds with.”

  Sydney rose and wandered over to the brandy decanter, but turned around again in surprise when Ciaran and Lachlan both leaped to their feet. “Are you off, then?”

  “Yes. It grows late. It’s nearly time for Lady Entwhistle’s ball.” Lachlan dropped his glass on a side table.

  “Is it as late as that?” Sydney retrieved his pocket watch and flipped it open to check the time. “Egads, it is. I’d better dress at once.”

  “We’ll see you there, then?”

  Sydney beamed. “Indeed you will. Your sister has promised me her first dance.”

  Ciaran abandoned his glass next to Lachlan’s. “Our sincerest thanks, Sydney. You’ve been a tremendous help to us.”

  “Have I, indeed? I can’t imagine how, but I’m pleased to hear it.” Sydney gave them an affable smile. “Until later this evening then, gentlemen.”

  Lachlan managed to keep calm until Sydney’s butler closed the front door behind them, but then he sprinted across the street toward the carriage, with Ciaran right on his heels, shouting to the driver as he ran. “Lady Chase’s, in Bedford Square, and hurry, man!”

  The driver’s eyes went wide. “Yes, s
ir. Right away, sir!”

  They’d hardly slammed the carriage door behind them before Lachlan was hammering his fist on the roof. “Go, damn you.”

  The carriage screeched away from the curb, the whole equipage rattling as it careened over the rutted street.

  Ciaran had thrown himself into the opposite seat, and now his eyes met Lachlan’s, stark panic in the blue depths. “Christ. Dixon’s bloody cousin will have told him everything. Isla’s attack—”

  “Except he won’t have said it was an attack. That’s the part everyone in Lochinver forgets. James Baird attacked Isla. He hurt her, and he would have done worse if given the chance. That part of the story never gets told, does it? No, Dixon’s cousin will have written that Isla’s a whore, and I’m a murderer.”

  Ciaran dragged a hand through his hair, his face ashen. “How could this have happened, Lachlan? We were so sure that story would remain buried, and now…Jesus. Finn will hear of it, and how do you suppose he’ll react? We lied to him. He’d be well within his rights to toss us all out on our arses.”

  “He would be.” What sense was there in arguing? Ciaran was right. They’d lied, or neglected to reveal an important truth, which was the same thing. Why should Finn excuse them? “I should have told them the truth. Every word of it, right from the beginning.”

  But he hadn’t. He’d held back because of his promise to his mother. He hadn’t trusted Finn with the truth, even after Finn had given him every reason to trust him. Now his silence had put Hyacinth in danger. Jesus, he’d never regretted anything more in his life.

  If anything should happen to her…

  “Lady Huntington, Lord and Lady Dare, Lady Chase…they’ll all find out.” Ciaran looked dazed, as if the ugliness of it was just now sinking in.

  “Hyacinth.” She must not know yet. She never would have kissed him with such tenderness in the library this afternoon if she knew the whole story. She’d find out. Once she did, she’d despise him for it—for lying to her—and for denying he was exactly what she’d first accused him of being.