Sara Bennett

by Lessons in Seduction

  Of course she knew she should have stopped. But she hadn’t been able to. She hadn’t wanted to, she corrected herself. She had been so caught up in the experience, in the pleasure, in being held in his arms like that, that she hadn’t wanted to stop at all. It was what she had wanted from the beginning—to experience physical passion with the man of her choice without ties. To place herself into the hands of an expert.

  Did that make her a fallen woman? An immoral woman? Vivianna did not believe that. She did not accept that. She could not! But, sadly, however much she had enjoyed herself, she was no closer to gaining her promise of Candlewood from Oliver Montegomery.

  “Vivianna.”

  She didn’t want to look at him. Not yet.

  “Vivianna,” he said, his voice low and caressing. “There is nothing to be ashamed of. Nothing to fear.”

  “I am not ashamed, and I do not fear you,” she said in a jerky little voice she hardly recognized. No, she didn’t fear Oliver.

  Vivianna feared herself.

  She had completely forgotten all of Aphrodite’s instructions, and she had forgotten the shelter. How could she have forgotten the shelter? She had fallen into the arms of a rake and allowed him to pleasure her, and forgotten her real reason for being here.

  “Vivianna?”

  Slowly, unwillingly, she turned to him. She knew her face was scarlet, but she kept her eyes steady on his. He did not look like a monster. He did not look like a man who was about to wrestle her to the floor and have his way with her, although after what had just happened he probably thought she would welcome it. He looked like Oliver, and although his eyes were still dark with desire, and his mouth red from hers, there was a teaspoonful of doubt behind his usual indolent self-confidence.

  “You enjoyed what we did, Vivianna. There’s no reason to feel guilty.”

  She didn’t feel guilty in the way he imagined, but she wasn’t going to tell him that. “I did enjoy it, but it wasn’t…that is, you didn’t put your…your…inside me…” The right words escaped her and her voice trailed off. The Mr. and Mrs. England instruction pamphlet was vivid in her mind, with its clear and rather crude illustrations.

  “No, I didn’t come inside you,” he said softly, and smiled his wicked smile. She felt her senses fizzing and popping like champagne. “I’m going to, though. Soon.”

  Vivianna shivered.

  The coach slowed and began to turn. She looked to the window and saw the crumbling gateposts of Candlewood, a worn lion atop each one, and the long driveway ahead. Vivianna didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed, until she remembered that they still had to make the journey home.

  Suddenly she couldn’t wait to be free of him.

  Oliver felt the coach draw to a halt. In the center of the circular carriageway was an old fountain, long since run dry, flanked by an untidy but colorful flower garden. Before them loomed Candlewood, his grandfather’s monstrous obsession.

  Thoughts of Vivianna and his lingering desire for her were put aside as Oliver remembered the morning he had come to find Anthony. It had been early, just after dawn. He had been supposed to collect his brother so that they could then travel on to the Derbyshire estate together, but in the awfulness of the scene of the night before he had almost forgotten that. Celia crying and Anthony’s white, shocked face…No, Oliver had come here to Candlewood that morning to explain. Explain! Now, there was a Herculean task. Actually, he had just wanted to apologize. To somehow turn those dreadful hours back and start again.

  Instead he had found his brother dead.

  Now, as then, Oliver felt himself begin to seize up with a combination of horror, grief, and guilt. But he had not come to Candlewood to wallow in the past. There would be time enough for that when he had captured Anthony’s killer and exposed him for the savage and pitiless creature he was….

  Oliver stepped briskly from the coach and turned to offer Vivianna his hand. She took it, but her fingers were unwilling and she quickly removed them, edging away from him as if she did not feel quite safe.

  He gave her a proprietal glance. Safe was not a word he would use of himself, not when he was around Vivianna. He was like gunpowder, very unstable and likely to explode. At least he had regained control over his lust for her. For now. God help him on the journey home.

  His thoughts scattered as a dozen or more children, wearing clothing made of all colors and patterns, like a flock of exotic birds, came running from the house and down the steps toward them. Behind the children, alternating between a quick trot and a sedate walk, were two dainty middle-aged women with fair ringlets.

  “Miss Greentree!” the children cried, as if Vivianna had come to save them from some awful fate. “Miss Greentree!”

  Oliver swore under his breath.

  This was going to be worse than he had thought. Much worse.

  Vivianna cast him a glance, but whether it was a look of warning to behave or to check whether or not he was about to pounce on her, he couldn’t tell. Then the children were upon them, circling them and chattering, clutching at Vivianna’s skirts and grinning up at her. In another moment the women had reached them, too, clapping their hands at the children as if they were ducklings to be shooed back to their pen.

  “Give Miss Greentree a little room, children, please! That’s better. Now give her a curtsy, girls, and a bow, boys. Excellent, Eddie and Jim! Beautiful, Ellen!”

  Vivianna gave them all her brilliant smile. Despite what had happened in the coach, which must be deeply troubling to her, she had set aside her own concerns for the children. That smile was so real and unassumed—her entire heart was in it. Just as she put her heart into everything she did.

  “I think you have met Lord Montegomery.” Vivianna was busy organizing them. “My lord, you know my friends Miss Susan Beatty and Miss Greta Beatty.”

  “Yes, we have met. The last time you came to Candlewood you brought a carpenter.” Miss Susan Beatty gave him a cool smile.

  “You kept the children waiting outside in the cold while you and your man inspected the house.” Miss Greta Beatty was also chilly.

  Oliver hadn’t realized that at the time. All he had wanted to do was find his grandfather’s secret chamber, and discover what it was Anthony had hidden within it. He hadn’t found a thing, and he could still taste the disappointment.

  “Better a sniffle than the roof falling down on them, surely, Miss Beatty?” he said offhandedly, playing his part.

  Their looks were glacial. Vivianna cleared her throat and regained her hold on the situation. “Well, that’s in the past, and I am sure Lord Montegomery means to allow us all to stay inside today. We must make the most of his visit to Candlewood to show him what we have achieved here.”

  The Beatty sisters exchanged glances and smiled, and then their gazes returned to Vivianna with expressions of total love and trust. Oliver hid his exasperation with difficulty—the woman was incredible.

  “We do thank you for coming, Lord Montegomery. We appreciate it. The children appreciate it.” The two sisters were sincere—at least in their desire to please Vivianna.

  “Do they?” Oliver raised his eyebrows and looked at the ring of curious faces that had gathered about him. One little boy with a freckled nose said, with all the confidence of the London streets, “Are they your ’orses, mister?”

  “They are.”

  “Did they cost an awful lot?”

  “Yes, they cost a great deal.”

  “Can I ride ’em?”

  “What, all at once?”

  The boy crowed in delight.

  “You ever seen a lion, mister? A real one, I mean, not one o’ them stone ones.”

  “I believe there is one in the zoo. Surely you don’t intend to ride a lion as well as my horses?”

  “Naw! I can ride a stone one, though. There’s one inside Candlewood. I’ll show you if you like.”

  “Thank you, but I prefer to ride horses. Very unadventurous of me, I know.”

  The boy
chuckled, his eyes dancing. “You’re funny, mister.”

  “Eddie! Have you been visiting the forbidden part of the house? You know it is dangerous in there.”

  Seeing the look of disapproval on the Beatty sisters’ faces, Eddie bowed his head. But Oliver noticed that his smile was still there, and he thought that was a good sign both for the character of the boy and the child-rearing skills of the Beattys. He had grown up without a great many restrictions, almost an orphan himself, although his rackety father had still been alive then. Aunt Marsh and his grandfather had been his real parents, and Anthony the older brother, watching over him.

  Who had been there to watch over Anthony, the night he died?

  “Lord Montegomery, will you take tea?” Miss Susan was giving him an apprehensive smile.

  Vivianna answered with, “Of course he will, won’t you, my lord?” She didn’t quite look him in the eye.

  “Only if there is gingerbread with it,” he said, pretending not to notice how the children were hanging on his every word. Eddie in particular was standing very close to him, and Oliver resisted an urge to check to see if his pocket watch was still tucked safely into his waistcoat pocket. Some of the little boys and girls were as old as ten, and others no more than toddlers. One little girl of five or six clung to a rag doll and peered at him under her too-big mobcap. He smiled at her, and had the satisfaction of seeing a shy gleam in her eyes.

  “That is Ellen,” Miss Susan murmured, nodding at the little girl with the shy eyes. She leaned closer, so that the child could not overhear. “Her mother sold her to a brothel. Some people believe that the use of an unsullied child will cure syphilis.”

  Oliver blinked, and knew his face had gone pale. This was not new to him; he knew such things happened. But to see the girl before him…it made him uneasy. It made a difference.

  “She is unhurt,” Miss Susan went on, as if she were discussing something quite normal to her world—Oliver supposed that such stories were normal to this respectable, middle-aged spinster. “One of the other girls in the brothel was kind enough to smuggle the child out to us. I have nothing against such places, Lord Montegomery, if both parties wish to participate in them, but the selling of children…I cannot allow that.”

  “What about the boy…Eddie?”

  Miss Susan smiled. “He’s a scamp, isn’t he? Eddie’s father left him to be looked after by a lady friend. She treated him unkindly, and he ran away and lived on the streets, fending for himself. He’s a good little thief, is Eddie, but we’re hoping to find something more rewarding for him to do.”

  Miss Greta was on his other side, and attached herself to his arm—to keep him from escaping?—as they walked toward the house.

  “Did you know, Lord Montegomery, that there are no schools for the poor, other than those funded by the church or charity? The government does not consider it necessary to educate children like these.”

  “Surely the 1834 Poor Law—”

  “Yes, the Poor Law.” Miss Greta’s mouth pursed. “People without means were once supported in their own parishes. Now they are herded into workhouses, or else they starve. Families, my lord, are split asunder.”

  “I did not realize—”

  “Workhouses are machines, Lord Montegomery. They are factories. All the inmates wear the same clothing and eat at the same time every day. Their days are structured. There is no place for individuality. Here at the shelter we celebrate individuality!”

  “So I see—”

  “The children at our shelter learn reading, writing, arithmetic, and spelling; these subjects are all important. But we also aim to teach them more than the basics. There is music—we have a pianoforte and hope to purchase some other instruments—a little French, and dancing. And of course cooking and needlework for the girls. We have found that some of the more respectable men in the village are willing to teach the boys the rudimentary skills of their trades. I do think boys benefit from a more masculine approach. It is a pity that we do not have horses here. I have heard there is a great demand for grooms, stable lads, coach drivers, and the like. Eddie, in particular, is very fond of horses.”

  Both sisters were eyeing Oliver expectantly, as if he should instantly agree to offer classes in horse riding. No wonder they had so many people helping them—no one dared tell them no!

  “I am amazed,” Oliver said, and was.

  Vivianna watched him suspiciously. “Of course, the main thing we supply to the children, apart from education and good food and a safe place to live, is affection. Some of them have never been loved in all their lives, my lord. Can you imagine how that must feel? To be lacking in something so simple and yet so important as love?”

  “Well…” He could not remember his father paying him any particular attention. He had been pushed off onto nannies and tutors until he went to school. Had he suffered particularly? He didn’t think so—he hadn’t expected any differently—or perhaps he had been a resilient child. But he had a feeling if he explained all that to Vivianna she would see it differently.

  “We only have a small number of children at the moment, but we hope that as time goes on we will gather in more. Of course, we will need many generous donations from people who feel as we do. For now a roof over their heads is the most important thing.”

  Oliver supposed that he was meant to say that, naturally, they could keep Candlewood, and with his goodwill. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. Candlewood needed to come down—Lord Lawson had to believe it was so. The demolition of Candlewood was pivotal to his plan to trap Anthony’s killer. He had offered to rehouse the orphans in Bethnal Green. Why couldn’t they accept that his position was nonnegotiable?

  As he stepped through the doorway, his gaze fell upon the place where his brother’s body had lain, lifeless, at the bottom of the stairs. And for a moment Oliver could not breathe.

  It hadn’t bothered him so much when he visited the other times. He hadn’t allowed it to. He had steeled himself and gotten through it. But today, perhaps because of Vivianna, he felt vulnerable and unprepared, and it struck him with the force of a sledgehammer.

  When he had first seen Anthony lying there, he had believed that, in his despair, Anthony had shot himself with his own gun. It was only later, as shock and grief began to wane, that the doubts crept in. He began to remember the hints that Anthony had let drop about Lord Lawson, his great friend Lawson, and piece them together.

  It went something like this: Anthony had accidentally come into the possession of letters that, if made public, would cause a scandal that would destroy Lawson’s grand political career. Anthony had been torn as to what to do with these letters, and it had been this dilemma that he had come to discuss with Oliver the night he found Celia there. The night Anthony had died.

  At first Oliver did not think it could be murder. His mind was too full of the scene with Celia and Anthony, and all the things he should have said and done. He had sunk into a gloom so deep he had wondered if he would ever escape it. And then, a couple of months after Anthony’s death, Lawson had come to see him. They had sat in the library with a bottle of brandy, long into the night.

  Of course, Lawson was full of condolences and spoke of his own sorrow, and they repeated stories about Anthony, and shed a tear or two for Anthony, and then…Then Lawson had began to talk about some personal papers Anthony had been keeping for him.

  “Nothing very important, just some old letters,” he’d said indifferently, his ice-blue gaze on Oliver. “Have you seen them?”

  Oliver had felt the gloom in his heart shiver like lifting fog.

  “Have another brandy, Oliver. That’s it. Did Anthony ever mention the letters to you, by the way?”

  Lawson was smiling, but there was something in his face that struck Oliver like a steel blade on bone. After a moment Oliver had forced himself to look away, to pretend he was drunker than he really was, and when he had lain his head in his arms and pretended to pass out, he had heard Lawson searching methodically through the
drawers of the desk. Searching for the old letters that meant nothing to him….

  When Lawson had gone, Oliver had sat and stared into the fire and felt his brain working properly for the first time since Anthony had died. He remembered Anthony’s hints and comments about Lawson, the worry line between his brows those last weeks before he died. Everything clicked together and the picture that formed was sickeningly clear. And the odd thing was that if Lawson had said nothing, Oliver probably would never have put it all together.

  A few nights later, when Lawson asked him about the “old letters” again, he pretended not to know what Lawson was talking about. Of course, Oliver had realized by then that he, too, was in danger. If Lawson believed for a moment that Oliver was a threat to him, then he would kill him. Oliver had decided he must play a part—he would be a drunken and worthless gentleman who was swiftly running through his fortune. A fool who was of no harm to anyone but himself. And thus Oliver could keep an eye upon Lawson, without Lawson being aware of it.

  During the weeks that followed, Oliver searched in every place he could think of for Lawson’s papers. He looked everywhere, but found nothing. Because, of course, if Anthony had been in the possession of letters important to Lord Lawson, then he would have brought them with him to Oliver’s house the night he found him with Celia. After that dreadful scene, he would have forgotten all about the letters, and when he had set out alone on his long walk to Candlewood, he would have taken them with him, tucked securely into the inner pocket of his jacket.

  Candlewood was where those letters would be now. In the hidden chamber his grandfather had always hinted at and whose secret he had passed on to Anthony, the grandson who shared his obsession.

  But by the time Oliver had worked all of this out in his head, Candlewood was already occupied by the Shelter for Poor Orphans. Oliver had tried searching the house a number of times, the last one with the help of a carpenter, but to no avail. The only way he could find the secret chamber was to dismantle Candlewood stone by stone.