The Seducer

by Madeline Hunter

  “And you generously thought of me?”

  “I like the cut of your coat, so to speak. Oh, I know we had that little problem over a young lady, as men often do. It was all a misunderstanding, and it has turned out with no one any the worse and you very well off. I am able to look beyond that, and I hope that you will be too. I think that we have much in common, actually. I see something of myself in you.”

  It was all Daniel could do not to smash his fist into the earnest and sincere face across the table. He gazed at the row of soldier bushes and leashed the seething anger that ripped through him.

  “Why do you need a partner?”

  “It has occurred to me that the most lucrative exploitation of this will require some contacts in the industrial community. I think that a partner would be more effective at finding and dealing with such men.”

  “In other words, you would prefer only to be an investor, and not become such an industrial man yourself. You offer this in order to avoid that necessity.”

  “Yes.”

  “Of course, you also do so because you owe me twenty thousand pounds. I assume that is the price of this partnership?”

  Tyndale beamed, pleased and surprised by Daniel’s quick wits.

  “How do I know that it is worth so much?”

  “If you think about it, you will realize it is worth much more.”

  “That depends upon the efficiency of the process and the size of the piece I am buying.”

  “I should think twenty-five percent could be arranged.”

  Daniel looked to the garden and contemplated this offer and the comical irony that it was being made to him.

  “I want to see this proof you speak of.”

  “It will be ready tomorrow or the next day.”

  “Today. If it is not ready, I want to see how it is being made ready.”

  “That is a secret. Surely you must realize that I can’t allow you to see the process unless you are committed.”

  “And I can’t commit myself unless I see the process. I am not so stupid as to be handed a hunk of steel and take your word on how it was made. If that is inconvenient, you can always give me that bank draft instead.”

  Tyndale appeared less pleased at quick thinking this time. A thoughtful frown broke upon his brow. Daniel suspected it was the first time anyone had seen a false expression on the man’s face in years.

  “I suppose I can show you, but there are things I cannot explain at this point. There are details I must keep from you.”

  “That is fine. There is one other thing. Are there any other partners? I would not like to learn at some point that I own twenty-five percent and five others do too.”

  Tyndale laughed, but anger made it sound hollow. “No, only you.”

  Daniel hoped that was true. He did not want any innocent fool being lured into this scheme. “What about the inventor. I am sure that you did not discover this process yourself.”

  “I will compensate the inventor in my own way. The process belongs to me alone, and absolutely no one else will have a share of it except you. Did you ride here? I will call for my horse, and take you to see the process.”

  Daniel followed him into the house, thinking about Gustave Dupré, whom Tyndale would compensate in his own way. Whom exactly did Tyndale intend to swindle, Dupré or Daniel St. John?

  Both, most likely.

  Tyndale withdrew three keys from his coat and worked the heavy locks on the shed’s door.

  “Are those the only keys?” Daniel asked. He had been peppering Tyndale with suspicious questions the whole way to the Southwark alley. Tyndale had interpreted the interest as reflecting a sense of ownership, and welcomed the inquisition.

  “Only I and the inventor have keys.”

  “All the same, if I agree to this, I will want a guard here. One of my men.”

  The second lock loosened. “You imply that I may be lying, that I will bring others here as I bring you.”

  “I imply that this is a rough area of town and anyone could break into this shed. You may have the keys but it would take only an ax to cut down the door itself.”

  They entered the damp, shadowed space. Over on the table were the cylinders, each with its pan of liquid.

  Tyndale gestured to Daniel to take a look.

  Daniel peered into one of the pans. “I thought you said it would not be completed until tomorrow at the earliest.”

  Tyndale glanced. His eyes widened. He stuck his head very close. “I was told . . . of course, the calculations on mass and weight could only be approximate . . . and the effect’s power only a guess . . .” Using a stick of wood, he yanked some wires out of the pan and gingerly stuck his fingers into its liquid.

  His hand rose, holding a sleek steel bar. His eyes narrowed with excitement. He might have been a man discovering gold. “It appears to make the transformation even quicker than we anticipated. The physical reaction must increase in speed with a larger mass.”

  Daniel took the wet bar in his own hands. “How is it done?”

  “Those cylinders hold voltaic piles that generate electricity, the powers of which are only beginning to be understood. This discovery that it can alter the properties of metal is a major scientific advance.”

  “Why hasn’t it been published? Such things are normally reported through one of the scientific societies.”

  “This was too valuable to disseminate. We do not want everyone in the world to know of it before we can patent it and put it to practical use.”

  “What is in those pans? Water?”

  “Yes, and chemicals. I cannot tell you which ones. Not until you are committed.”

  Daniel balanced the bar on his palm. “Is there any chance that this is a fraud? Could your inventor have switched them? Taken out the iron and replaced it with steel?”

  “He is not so clever. However, I will know for certain in one moment.” He lifted the wires out of the third pan, grabbed the bar, and ran his fingertips over its base. “Here it is. I made a mark on this without telling him, just to be sure it was the same bar at the end as it was when it began.”

  Daniel paced around the table. “It needs to be done again on a larger scale. It could be that if the iron is too large, it will not work. Small bars will be of little use in industry.” He gestured around the shed. “Several more need to be set up, with different amounts of the chemicals and different numbers of cylinders, using large, heavy bars. There is no way to calculate the costs of the process, its timing, and its profitability, otherwise. It may be that the cost of production will exceed the finished steel’s value, so we also need to determine how small the cylinders can be for it to still work on good-sized iron.”

  Tyndale nodded. “Yes, I can see what you mean.” He looked at Daniel with new respect. They might have never quarreled over a woman. “I think it is good that you are involved. My instincts were correct, that this could use a man of practical cut as a partner.”

  “I am not a partner yet. Until I see the results of what I describe, it will not be my investment being spent in this shed. And my man will be outside once the new demonstration is begun, to be sure that no steel enters by mistake.”

  That gave Tyndale pause. “I see. I suppose that makes sense. But in your opinion, what do you think the gain will be if the process is shown to be profitable?”

  Daniel set the steel bar back down in its liquid. He shot Tyndale a conspiratorial smile. “Even if the profit per pound is mere pennies, I think that we are talking millions.”

  “Such a story! Ah, Diane, it is like a tale told to children, with a perfect ending.” Margot patted her chest as if her heart gave palpitations.

  They sat side by side in Margot’s chambers. In London Mister Johnson kept Margot in style, but not in luxury. The love nest was in a building close enough to Mayfair to be respectable, but in a neighborhood not truly fashionable.

  Still, the sitting room had been appointed very nicely, as had Margot. On returning home from Scotland, Diane had
received a letter from her schoolfriend and decided that it would be rude not to call on her.

  “How do you enjoy married life?” Margot smiled suggestively and raised her eyebrows.

  Diane felt her face turn red. She laughed. “Well enough.”

  “That is good. Keep him happy at night and all will be well. If you do not, he will come looking for someone like me. It is not wise to be too much the lady in bed. I think that English mothers teach their daughters stupid things about that. It is all about duty, not pleasure.”

  How? Diane could not bring herself to mouth the word. How do you keep Mister Johnson happy at night? She had not been raised by an English mother, or any mother, but she felt awkward speaking of this.

  “I asked M’sieur Johnson about the Devil Man,” Margot confided. “They had never met before that time in the Tuileries, but your husband was known to him. He began hearing of St. John about eight years ago, from men who had dealings with him. He went to sea on merchant ships when just a youth, it is said, then one day got his own ship. From there his fleet just grew. His success at such a young age is much admired, as is he. The smooth way he inserted himself into better circles is envied, I think.”

  How? The word popped into Diane’s mind again. How did he insert himself so smoothly?

  Margot gave her the answer. “The ladies helped with that, it is said. He is very discreet, very polished, but is legendary as a seducer.”

  That only raised the question again, of how an ignorant girl could keep such a man happy. She pictured the gorgeous, worldly women they socialized with, and wondered which of them had helped Daniel’s entry into those better circles, and who had been the seducer’s lovers.

  Margot’s story prodded other questions, however, and they rapidly replaced the ones about women. How did he get that first ship? How youthful was he when he had success?

  Curiosity about that had been nibbling at her since the day she asked Daniel about the urn in the Scottish house.

  “You take good care of him and you will have anything you want, I promise,” Margot said, patting her hand.

  How?

  She thought about that all the way home. Daniel appeared contented enough when they were together. He did not appear to be expecting anything that she did not give.

  Perhaps that was because he thought of her as Margot said these English husbands did their wives. As ladies who gave duty, and could not be expected to know about pleasure.

  She remembered Madame Leblanc’s exhortation that mistresses did the things in that book. She had implied that wives did not. According to Margot, that was why men had mistresses. Not, as Daniel had said that day at the Tuileries, because their wives were cold or sick or far away.

  She went to the library and peered at the shelves of books, searching for a small, thin one with a red cover.

  It was not there. Perhaps Daniel had burned it after all.

  She debated that as she strolled down the corridor. She paused at the door to his study.

  She slipped in. There were not so many books here, and the shelves held mostly ledgers and portfolios. Scanning a shelf right above her head, however, she spied a bright red strip of leather.

  She pulled it out and went to the window. Page by page she turned the plates. The images did not look as bizarre as the last time she had viewed them. Most were still embarrassing, but the flush she felt did not only come from that.

  A sound jolted her. She spun around to see the door opening and hid the book behind her back.

  Daniel walked in, appearing as distracted as she had ever seen him. It took him a moment to realize she was there.

  He cocked his head curiously. A question entered his eyes.

  As he walked toward her, he glanced sharply to the desk and the papers laid out on it. “Did you want something, Diane?”

  She shook her head and backed up against the window. Perhaps she could just slip the book behind the drapes, onto the sill. . . .

  “What do you have there, darling?”

  “Have where?”

  “Behind your back.”

  “Nothing. I merely had not been in this room much and thought I’d see what it was like. If I shouldn’t have come in, I am sorry.”

  “You can come in. I am just wondering why you look as if you have been found stealing.” He caressed down her two arms. All the way down, to her hands behind her back. He pried the book away.

  Suddenly he was holding it, right in front of her.

  He looked at the book, and then at her. “It appears that you have decided it has some value after all.”

  “The plates are somewhat artistic. There is a virtuosity in the use of the gravure.” It did not sound as objective as she wanted. In fact, she heard her voice squeak.

  “Ah. So you are studying this to improve your appreciation of artistic technique.”

  “It is a subject often discussed at dinners and such.”

  “Art is not only about technique, of course, but also content. Have you found the content shown in here shocking or interesting?”

  She swallowed hard. “A little of both, I suppose.”

  He strolled over to the desk and picked up two scraps of paper. Opening the book, he paged past leaves, stuck the scraps in front of some, and came back to her. “Why don’t you decide if you find those more interesting than shocking.”

  He tipped the book with its marked pages toward her. She wondered if it would be a mistake to take it. He smiled that private smile, and warm amusement lit his eyes.

  He was teasing her. Daring her. But she sensed that he wanted her to take it. He would not mind if she found some of it more interesting than shocking.

  She snatched the book and, with what she hoped was a sophisticated expression, flipped to the first scrap of paper.

  Well, now, that one wasn’t all that shocking. In fact, there had been times when they made love when she had wondered if he would do that.

  Smug now, she flipped to the next one. It was farther along in the book, on plate XVI. She contemplated the image. It wasn’t entirely clear what the engraving portrayed.

  She turned the plate this way and that, puzzling over it. Surely the man was not—

  “What is he doing?”

  “Kissing her.”

  “Oh.” The image suddenly made shocking sense. “It seems an odd place to kiss someone.”

  “It is a very special kiss.”

  “I can’t imagine the man likes it much.”

  “I think he does. Perhaps more than the woman does.”

  She nervously fingered the paper scrap marking the plate. “Do you intend to kiss me like that some night?”

  “Yes. Unless you forbid it.”

  She wondered if she would.

  She opened the book again. Her initial astonishment had worn off, but it still seemed a very odd thing to do. “Can I decide later?”

  “Nothing will ever happen between us that you do not want.”

  Her thumb slid off the edge of the page and the plate flipped. The next image was somewhat similar but also more complicated. “Look here. The woman is kissing the man too.”

  He angled his head to see the picture. “So she is.”

  “But you did not mark that one.”

  He did not reply to that.

  “I suppose that means that you found it more shocking than interesting.”

  Silence.

  “Don’t men enjoy being kissed like that?”

  He just looked at her.

  “You are very selective in which parts of this book you want me to consider, Daniel.” She tapped the binding’s edge against his chest in a scolding manner. “I am supposed to allow you to give me peculiar kisses, but you are spared such things. Perhaps I want to kiss you in a special way too. What would you think about that?”

  “I expect that I could be convinced to allow it.”

  “I should hope so. After all, if there are going to be odd doings in that bed, it seems to me that you should be subjected to th
em as much as I.”

  “You are absolutely right. I stand corrected.” He took the book, tore the second marker in half and placed one half at plate XVII. “Actually, should you ever decide to subject me to this, I think . . .”

  “You think what?”

  “I think that I would probably buy you a diamond necklace the next day.”

  Diane sat near the window, watching for the signs of Daniel’s return. The lamps in the street threw halos of eerie light into the night, and the few passing carriages and horses appeared and disappeared as they moved from one to the next. She did not know where he had gone tonight, but he had said he would not be too late returning. She had foregone a visit to the theater in order to be here when he got back.

  Finally she spotted him. He was just a shadow down the street, but she knew it was him because the rider wore no hat.

  Biting her lip, she left the sitting room and went to her chamber. She let the maid remove her dress and stays and then sent her away.

  Once alone, she went to her wardrobe, opened a drawer, and withdrew the little red book.

  She turned to the first plate that Daniel had marked. She had examined it several times since the afternoon. At some point, she did not know when, it had begun to be much more interesting than shocking.

  It really did not depict anything odd. A little different, but hardly debauchery.

  Taking one last look at the plate for reference, she put it back in her drawer. She began to blow out the candles, then paused. There had been a few candles lit in the picture.

  She removed her chemise. Wearing only her hose, she climbed onto the bed. She pushed all the pillows away, except one big one. She knelt with it in front of her, and then lay down so that it formed a mound beneath her hips and raised her bottom on a little hill. She reviewed the engraving in her mind, and parted her legs.

  It felt very wicked lying like this.

  Sounds in the next chamber heralded Daniel’s presence. She listened to his movements as he undressed, and to the low mumble of his conversation with his valet. Just hearing him and expecting his arrival excited her.

  So did her position. She was surprised at how arousing it was. The anticipation and vulnerability were incredibly erotic.