Touch of a Scoundrel (Touch of Seduction 3)

by Mia Marlowe

  “I guess you’re right. I do need some sleep,” Northrop said with a sigh, the wind spilling from his sails now that the hope of a quick, easy fortune had been squashed. “Damned if I’m not supposed to be at Lord Whitmore’s this evening for yet another tedious debutante ball.”

  Devon frowned. “I think my family is committed to that occasion as well.”

  “Then I’m sorry I roused you out of bed early. We’ll both need our rest to be ready for that. A fellow has to stay on his toes at those pesky things, lest he be entrapped by an enterprising miss.”

  “I hate to break it to you, but most marriage-minded mammas have already warned their daughters off as far as you’re concerned,” Devon said as they walked companionably down the corridor. “You rarely have two coins to rub together. Your estate is mortgaged to the rafters and you’re like a hound to the scent for anything in skirts. You are, in a word, ineligible, despite your title.”

  Northrop’s grin stretched pleasantly across his handsome face. “What makes you think I haven’t worked damned hard to be accorded that status?”

  “In that case, my congratulations,” Devon said. “But don’t worry. I doubt you’re destined for perpetual bachelorhood. Perhaps a wealthy industrialist’s daughter with creaky knees and a case of the squints will want her papa to buy her a title one day.”

  “Bite your tongue. A bundle of cash wrapped in a plain wife is not part of my plan. But it may well come to that if I don’t figure out how to stop the estate from leaking funds like a sieve.” Northrop shuddered at the thought, then sighed expressively. “Still, I am in the middle of my thirty-first year without a wife or child—that I know of, in any case—and, well, hang it all, a man begins to wonder sometimes what a little domesticity might be like.”

  Devon figured that was the whisky talking. His friend had never shown the least interest in a permanent relationship with a woman before.

  Northrop stopped beneath a painting of a young lady in a fetching yellow gown from an earlier century when it was no sin for the daring décolletage to proclaim her femininity, nearly to the nipples. “A singularly handsome woman that,” Northrop said as he admired the portrait, with special attention to her bosom. “Both of them.”

  “Careful. That’s my great-grandmother Delphinia. It’s said my grandsire forsook a very profitable match with the daughter of a duke for the chance to marry that singularly handsome commoner. She had no fortune, nothing to commend her.” Except a bit of otherworldly ability Devon heartily wished had skipped over him in the Preston side of his lineage. In most grand homes, a maternal great-grandmother’s portrait would have been relegated to a distant chamber in an unused wing while patriarchal ancestors graced the public rooms. But Lady Devonwood was proud of Delphinia and the gift of touch she’d brought to the family. If only Devon didn’t find the ability more a curse than a gift he might agree with her. “It was love at first sight apparently.”

  “With magnificent breasts like that, I shouldn’t wonder.” Northrop scoffed. “Still, one ought to call things what they are. Lust at first sight is more likely.”

  “Good, so you don’t believe in it either,” Devon said.

  “Oh, I believe in it. Every time I take up with a new mistress, I believe in love at first sight most sincerely,” Northrop said. “But then the notion wears off after a fortnight. Without fail. One could practically set one’s chronometer by it.”

  A fortnight. It had been more than that since Emmaline Farnsworth had burst into his life and captured his thoughts in almost every idle moment. If Northrop was right, Devon shouldn’t still be mooning around over her like a lovesick calf. Perhaps he simply required more time. Maybe he need wait only another week or so and her allure would begin to pale.

  When Devon and his friend pushed through the French doors leading out to the garden, Northrop stopped short on the crunching gravel.

  “Hallo. What manner of angels are these who’ve fallen from heaven? They want a bit of corrupting, I’ll wager.” Northrop’s eyes darkened with interest as he gazed at the two women seated near the Dionysus statue. Louisa had joined Emmaline in the bright mid-morning. “Yet another thing you’ve been keeping from me.”

  “That’s Theodore’s fiancée,” Devon said. Emmaline and Teddy still weren’t officially engaged, but Northrop didn’t need to know that. “Behave yourself.”

  The women laughed over something on Emmaline’s sketchbook, Louisa’s silvery peal and Emma’s melodious lower tones harmonizing in the fresh morning air.

  “Teddy’s captured that blond goddess?” Northrop shook his head in wonderment.

  “No, the other one.”

  “The redhead, you mean? Yes, she is lovely. I can certainly see why Teddy’s smitten.”

  Teddy wasn’t the only one. Devon’s fixation on Emmaline Farnsworth was fast becoming an obsession.

  “But any lady over one and twenty is a bit long in the tooth for my taste,” Northrop said. “Who’s the blonde?”

  Devon’s blood heated. “That’s my sister.”

  “That’s little Louisa? Oh, you poor man. You’ll wear yourself sick trying to beat the wolves away from that door,” Northrop said. “Why, she was still in leading strings when you came into your title. To think I used to tug her pigtails and dandle her on my knee. Damned if that doesn’t still sound like good sport. Believe I’ll just nip over and reintroduce myself, shall I?”

  “Not if you value your manhood, friend,” Devon said sternly. “Meddling with my sister is a two ball offense, I assure you.”

  Northrop laughed. “Who says I want to meddle with her? I just want to renew our acquaintance.” He glanced down at his less than impeccable appearance. “But perhaps you’re right. There’ll be time enough for that at Lord Whitmore’s this evening. Be kind enough to ask your sister to save a waltz for me. There’s a good chap.”

  “Not a chance.” Devon led him to the stable and ordered his groom to take Lord Northrop home.

  “Just a dance, Dev,” Northrop said in the same wheedling tone he used when he tried to borrow money he had no intention of repaying. “Surely you don’t think me so mean a fellow that I’d despoil a friend’s sister, do you?”

  “Ask Louisa yourself, if you want to waltz with her,” he said with gruffness as Northrop climbed into the elegant equipage with less stumbling than Devon expected. Northrop’s speech had stopped slurring, too.

  Perhaps Northrop wasn’t as drunk as he’d seemed, but why would he fain inebriation?

  “If you venture more than tripping the light fantastic with Louisa, remember what I said.” Devon made a snipping motion with his fingers. “Two balls.”

  CHAPTER 13

  “A man is here to see you, milord. A Mr. O’Malley,” Lord Kingsley’s butler Farley said, stressing the Irish surname with noticeable repugnance. “He did not present a card. Shall I tell him you will not receive him?”

  He frowned. The last time he’d met with the Irishman, he’d been unrecognizable in shabby attire at a disreputable pub. He’d warned O’Malley not to show his face in Mayfair and most specifically not to call openly at his home. If his underling disobeyed a direct order, it meant something important must have transpired.

  “No, Farley, show him in. But when he leaves, make sure he uses the kitchen door.”

  “As to that, at least Mr. O’Malley knew he would err sadly should one of his ilk darken your front doorstep. He presented himself to Cook in the back alleyway before he asked to be received.”

  Farley turned on his heel to retrieve O’Malley from wherever he’d been left cooling his heels. He was probably languishing in the scullery, seated on a high stool before the piles of root vegetables waiting to be scrubbed and peeled for the evening meal. Or perhaps he was situated beneath the pheasants Cook had left hanging in the larder till they were nearly rancid in order to tenderize the meat. Such slights would serve to show O’Malley his place and were bound to appeal to Farley’s extreme sense of decorum.

  Someti
mes Kingsley thought Farley had an even higher sense of his employer’s worth than he did himself. And that was saying something.

  He returned his attention to the book he’d been studying. It was an obscure tome, a grimoire of sorts, dealing with the ancient cult of the Egyptian afterlife. The text was an exhaustive translation of the Book of Anubis, a collection of wisdom from the keeper of the dead.

  He narrowed his eyes and tried to concentrate. He’d never been a scholar, not even when he had studied law at Oxford to appease his father.

  Wouldn’t the old man be surprised to see me studying this hard?

  So would the other two “Fallen Angels.”

  His father had insisted he study law so he’d be adept when it came time to take his place in the House of Lords. Instead of wasting his time on arcane bits of common law, he’d discovered a passion for the occult.

  According to the preface, the original manuscript was one of the few scrolls saved from the catastrophic fire that destroyed the library of Alexandria. The translator, who boasted advanced degrees in several dead languages, claimed to have discovered the manuscript in an old monastery high in the Alps. The text provided the secret incantations and spells necessary to insure a superior afterlife.

  In Kingsley’s opinion, this world was infinitely preferable to the next. An afterlife was all well and good, but given a choice, he would take this life, thank you very much.

  He simply needed a good deal more power and money, and buckets more time to enjoy wielding them.

  Fortunately, there was one potion in the book that promised to deliver all the time he wanted.

  The Flail of Anubis.

  The spell had a fanciful name, but he considered it fitting. The jackal-headed god of death was often depicted holding a flail, an agricultural tool that resembled a crop-sized whip, and a shepherd’s crook. Taken together, they symbolized kingship.

  Kingsley didn’t aspire to that. He had no wish to tend a flock of stupid people. Caring for the whiny, incessant needs of others held no allure. It reminded him of the constant complaints of his estate’s few tenants. But the power represented by the flail appealed to him immensely.

  According to the grimoire, the real flail of Anubis wasn’t an actual whip or even a threshing tool. It was a potion of such immense power, the one who brewed and used it daily would be gifted with preternatural long life—hundreds of years, quite possibly millennia depending on how much of the active ingredient one had—with no diminution of intellectual or physical prowess.

  It would also render the bearer impossible to resist. With a word, he could sway a hearer to take any action he wished. Once he’d brewed and drunk the potion, if he ordered his butler to run into the street before a team of runaway horses, the power of this suggestion would mean faithful Farley would find himself unable to disobey. Even if it was obvious his obedience would result in a very unpleasant death. The grimoire was specific on this point.

  Kingsley had already tried some of the lesser spells in the grimoire and found they worked very well indeed. The strengthening potion, for example, had given him a grip that made larger men flinch. He saw no reason to doubt that the incantation and potion for the Flail of Anubis would be any less effective.

  But what good were spells if one didn’t have the proper ingredients to brew them? Unless O’Malley retrieved the Tetisheri statue, he didn’t see how he’d ever come by the elusive grains necessary to complete the potion.

  The text was very specific. There was no substitute for the required grain. Even though the receipt for the potion called for only a pinch of the active ingredient, it was that which gave the spell its power.

  According to the text, the ancient rye needed had been found during Alexander’s time. It had been ground to a fine powder. Then the grain was secreted inside a hollowed-out female statue with the stylized beauty of a Greek goddess disguised as an Egyptian queen.

  It had seemed the pinnacle of good fortune when word of the Tetisheri statue had come to him through his long-tentacled network of occult-minded folk. Its unique properties, the European appearance of the statue dressed in Egyptian garb, fit the description in the text exactly.

  When the statue, for which he had already paid, wound up in the hands of an American, he’d nearly had an apoplectic fit. How could this Dr. Farnsworth, who didn’t have a clue of its true significance, surface with his Tetisheri when it should have been delivered into Mr. O’Malley’s grimy paws?

  “Your lordship,” the man with the aforementioned paws said at the open doorway.

  Kingsley motioned for him to enter. O’Malley doffed his disreputable cap and twisted it nervously.

  “If it so pleases you, sir, I know I wasn’t to come here, but—”

  “You’re right. It does not please me.”

  “Be that as it may, milord, I thought an exception might be made once you’d heard my news.”

  Silence stretched between them. A bead of perspiration slid down O’Malley’s cheek, though the day wasn’t especially warm for June.

  “While one of us is still young, Mr. O’Malley.”

  “Right. As you know, I’ve been keeping me eye on the folk at Lord Devonwood’s house.”

  “Don’t tell me what I know. Tell me what I don’t know.” Lord, the man was an idiot. Perhaps when it came time to test the efficacy of the Flail of Anubis potion, O’Malley would be the one galloping headlong before a runaway team.

  “It’s come to me notice that all the fine folk at Devonwood House are going to be gone this evening.”

  Again, it was something he already knew. After all, he too was expected at Lord Whitmore’s ball, but he wondered about O’Malley’s sources. “How did you come by this knowledge?”

  “The scullery maid there at Devonwood House, sir. She . . . she talks in her sleep sometimes.”

  Tupping a slattern for information. Well, he expected no better of O’Malley. Serve the man right if he got himself a good dose of the French pox along with his pillow talk.

  “And what’s more, the help’s bein’ given the night off to boot,” O’Malley said. “There’ll be nary a soul about this evening, so I was thinkin’—”

  “Something you’ve been warned not to attempt.” A little spite would serve to keep O’Malley on his toes. Nevertheless, Kingsley hadn’t known about the Devonwood House help being absent this evening, so the Irishman was proving his usefulness. “In this case, however, I believe you may have stumbled upon an actual idea. You will avail yourself of this opportunity to enter Devonwood House and remove the statue from the premises by whatever means necessary.”

  “I’m not exactly sure where they’re keeping it,” O’Malley admitted.

  Scullery maids rarely ventured beyond the lower realms of any great house. Would that O’Malley had set his sights a little higher and lifted the skirts of the upstairs maid.

  “Guests at Devonwood House are always quartered in the Blue Suite.” He ought to know. He’d slept there often enough over the years. Taking a sheet of foolscap from his desk drawer, he sketched a quick floor plan of the third level of the town house. “It is logical to assume that Dr. Farnsworth keeps the statue close by him.”

  But since the American could have no idea of the piece’s true significance, he probably didn’t have it under lock and key.

  Once the statue fell into Kingsley’s hands, he’d see it enjoyed more protection than the Crown jewels. After all, once the magical grain stored inside Tetisheri was gone, there’d be no more to be had.

  Ever.

  “I tell you, my dear, I see this little plan of ours unfolding so neatly, it’s almost as if the game’s running itself,” Monty said, smoothing his waxed mustache with the back of his hand. “You should have heard them at White’s. A whisper campaign has been launched on our behalf by the nattering wags of London and now half the ton seems to be lining up, clamoring to invest in our expedition.”

  Emmaline heard him wheeze a bit when he drew a deep breath. He’d not had ano
ther coughing attack since that horrendous one that had driven him from the dining room on the night of their arrival. Theodore had given him a bottle of Glenlivet to keep in his bedchamber and since he frequently called for lemon and sugar to be brought up, Emmaline suspected Monty was self-medicating with regularity. If the additional spirits kept him from hacking out his lights, she wouldn’t scold.

  She caught him stealing a glimpse of himself reflected in the window glass. He turned sideways to examine his reed-thin physique and straightened his posture. She smiled. No matter what their age, all men were peacocks at heart.

  “Yes, indeed,” he went on. “I’m almost of a mind to form a corporation and sell shares.”

  Emmaline’s heart lifted. It might mean they didn’t need to bilk Theodore.

  Or his brother.

  “Everyone’s doing it. Why, the other day I saw a notice for –and I am not exaggerating—a corporation formed ‘for the undertaking of a great enterprise, but no one to know what it is.’ ” Monty chuckled. “We may have wasted our time in the confidence game, Emma, m’love. The stock market is where the real dupes can be had.”

  “But isn’t there more risk of prison with stock fraud?” she asked as she turned around to allow him to fasten the choker of fresh water pearls at her throat.

  “There is that,” he admitted. “A solitary person who’s been swindled is reluctant to own up to it. They’d rather suffer the loss in private than be known for a fool in public. But when a whole gaggle of folks are taken in by fraudulent stock certificates, they feel safety in numbers when it comes to unmasking their foolishness and greed.”

  Emma’s heart sank. “Then we proceed as planned.”

  “And on schedule.” Monty pressed a quick kiss on her forehead and ran an appraising gaze over her. “My God, you’re growing lovelier by the day. I shouldn’t wonder that you’ll find yourself besieged by admirers this night. If you weren’t the sensible sort, I’d be quaking in my boots for you. ”