Seducing Eden

by Allison Lane

  “That is why we are here,” said Eden, taking the chair nearest the drawing room fire so the men could sit. Only Smith took advantage of the invitation, though. “We need information that only he can provide. Do you have his direction?”

  “Information about what?” Smith’s voice sharpened. “Mr. Jasper’s affairs are completely in order, as your solicitor can attest. We will, of course, supply copies of our contracts with Mr. Marlow if your man of business thinks it necessary.”

  Eden glanced at Alex, grateful that he’d anticipated trouble after she’d described her earlier call. His refusal to sit let him dominate the room, radiating superiority. He made a formidable ally.

  He pinned Smith with a steely glance. “Our business has nothing to do with contracts. One of Marlow’s artifacts disappeared. Jasper knows who else wanted it.”

  “Do you mean the Sarsos stone?” asked Smith.

  Eden nodded.

  Smith slumped, head in his hands. “The thing is cursed.”

  “Why would you think so?”

  “That last trip was the unluckiest of Mr. Jasper’s life. He nearly died twice.”

  “What happened?” Despite Alex’s negligent pose against the fireplace, his intensity increased.

  “The purchase went smoothly, though Mr. Jasper had to offer Mr. Marlow’s highest price before the sisters would agree to sell. Fortunately, they needed money badly enough to part with it – many girls sought shelter at the convent to escape the war, forcing them to expand.”

  “So they sold the stone freely?” asked Alex.

  “Yes. Mr. Marlow was adamant that there be no hint of coercion. Only temptation. It wasn’t until Mr. Jasper began the journey home that the trouble started. The first night, his inn burned down, nearly killing him. If he hadn’t hidden the stone in the heel of his boot, it would have been lost with his luggage. As it was, he was stranded without money or lines of credit.”

  Eden shuddered.

  “He joined a caravan, caring for the horses in exchange for food and protection. Two days later, bandits attacked them.”

  Alex turned to Eden. “Many partisan bands turned to robbery once the French left, just as former soldiers roam the countryside here.”

  Smith sighed. “The caravan guards fought them off, but not before two men were injured, including Mr. Jasper’s servant. The journey did not improve. The caravan left him in the next town, where he stayed until new letters of credit arrived. He’d no sooner left, when his horse went lame. Contrary winds added weeks to his voyage home. Food poisoning killed one of his fellow passengers. It was one of those journeys that seemed ill-fated from the start.”

  “Where is he now?” asked Eden.

  “Headed for Rome. Mr. Marlow asked him to examine a piece of parchment recently discovered there. It might be another fragment of the Sarsos scroll.” Smith shrugged. “He should have left Paris last week.”

  “Does he advise you of his location?” asked Alex.

  “I usually receive a post every fortnight or so, but it is impossible to predict how fast he can travel. His last note arrived from Paris three weeks ago. He’d intended to stop there for a fortnight.” He frowned.

  “If this incessant rain extends to the Continent, it is no wonder that the post is slow,” said Alex calmly. “It might even delay his departure from Paris. Where will he stay in Rome?”

  “I’ve no idea. I always send to the British ambassador.”

  “Then we will post our questions there.”

  They spoke for another half hour, but learned nothing of interest. Smith knew no other collectors – or so he claimed. He would not let them see Jasper’s papers, but promised to check them himself and send any names he found.

  The moment they left, Eden laid a hand on Alex’s arm. “It bothers you that Smith has heard nothing in three weeks, doesn’t it?”

  He nodded. “Granted, the weather has been foul, but Paris is not that far away.”

  “Perhaps there was nothing to report.”

  “There probably wasn’t, but he was accustomed to apprise Smith of his location and should have sent a report of any business he conducted before leaving town. I will dispatch a man to make sure he’s all right.”

  “Why wouldn’t he be?”

  “Illness. Accident. Attack. Former French soldiers infest the countryside – it is a universal ill just now. They bear no love for the English.”

  “That is not what you fear.” She didn’t know why she was so sure. Perhaps this odd sensual connection also revealed parts of his mind.

  He frowned. “No. It’s not. Jasper suffered too much ill luck after buying the stone. Someone may have tried to take it by force.”

  “But they failed. Jasper delivered it to John, ending anyone’s interest in him. Whoever sought it now has it.”

  “Unless there is more than one potential thief. But that is not my present fear. We don’t yet know why John was killed. If your thief killed him to hide the source of his expected power, then Jasper is also in danger.”

  Eden nodded. “We must warn him.”

  “I will do my best,” he promised, lifting her into the carriage.

  She hardly noticed his touch. She’d not considered that the thief might kill all who knew of the stone. Olivia was alone at Ridley. Would people accept that she knew nothing? Most men kept business away from female ears.

  But those obsessed with Sarsos were not rational…

  * * * *

  The gentleman remounted his horse, then sat in indecision while he brooded over his latest failure. A coachman cursed him for blocking the street, but he paid no heed.

  Fate would turn her back on him if he didn’t complete this task soon. She’d already begun. By allowing the ostler to notice him at the Bear, she’d given him fair warning that her patience was running out. Either he demonstrated his competence, or she would withdraw her support completely. Her tests were not showing him in a good light.

  But he hadn’t understood the warning. Thus he’d failed to anticipate that Fate would awaken Mrs. Marlow well before dawn despite that she’d been on the road until nearly midnight. What the devil was driving her?

  She was traveling with a Mr. Eversley – not that learning the name helped. He’d never heard of the man. Now he’d even lost track of her entourage. They had passed the toll gate at Hyde Park Corner two hours earlier, heading for Piccadilly, but none of the venders along the street recalled seeing her. How could they miss two carriages with a saddled horse tied to the first?

  The coachman yelled louder, urging his team to shove the obstruction out of the way.

  But it wasn’t the nudge that finally set him moving. It was the admission that he’d been stupid. Again. Eversley had doubtless sent his horse and baggage coach to his lodging while he and Mrs. Marlow addressed her business. So there was nothing distinctive he could use to track the carriage.

  He did know one of her destinations, though. The errand she’d not completed before leaving town. If he hurried, he might yet catch them…

  * * * *

  “I’ll drop you at the house,” said Alex as the carriage left Jasper’s cottage. “You’d best leave Peterson to me. Antiquities shops are located in areas unsuited to ladies.”

  “I am not one of those sheltered society innocents,” she reminded him. “Since Father spent most of his time studying, it fell to me to tend his parish. I regularly encountered the dregs of humanity.”

  “In Leicestershire?” He laughed. “I’ve seen your father’s parish. Its worst areas are Paradise compared to much of London. The stews are beyond your comprehension. There are men who would kill you in broad daylight in front of a dozen witnesses merely to steal your gown – pawned, it could keep them in gin for a week.”

  “Which is why I won’t walk unescorted down the street”—she ignored his attempt to speak over her— “not even through a reputable business area like the Strand. But I must visit Peterson. He can hardly discuss John’s private affairs with a stranger. J
ohn’s widow is another matter.”

  “Why?” She was naïve indeed if she thought Peterson would keep John’s business private. “He doesn’t know you from Eve. Anyone can claim to be John’s widow, my dear. I could claim to be Sir Richard, concerned that this theft might affect selling my own extensive collection. If there is anything to loosen a dealer’s tongue and pique his interest, it’s the thought of new business. Lots of new business.”

  “Of all the mad notions— No one in his right mind would believe you were Richard.”

  “You think not?” He turned toward the window as he recalled the current baronet. Drawing a deep breath, he fished out a quizzing glass, then faced Eden, waving one hand limply as the other lifted the glass to his eye. “I will not listen to another word, madam.” His voice mimicked Richard’s boorish tones, lightly overlaid with a Leicestershire accent. “As head of this family, I must protect it from upstarts and knaves, so cease prattling about subjects beyond your understanding. Return to Ridley and trouble me no more.”

  “My God!” Her cheeks paled. “How do you do that? Even your face looks different.”

  He discarded Richard’s persona. “Practice.”

  “But it’s like magic. You can’t have seen Richard in years. He never goes anywhere.”

  “He is a memorable man,” he said dampingly, cursing himself for demonstrating his skill. Her eyes blazed with excitement.

  “But how did you learn to impersonate people?”

  “I’ve always done it.” It had been a useful talent in his days with the Home Office. But for now, he’d wasted enough time. “Travel has left you weary, so please go inside and rest. I will discover everything Peterson knows.”

  “Which will be easier if I accompany you.” She seemed more eager than ever, clearly anticipating watching him perform.

  Alex cursed under his breath. He had no intention of impersonating Sir Richard – Peterson knew Alex too well to believe it. But the tactics that worked best with the dealer were unsuited to mixed company. Eden was too innocent to condone either bribery or intimidation – not that Peterson called it bribery; information was one of his most lucrative commodities.

  But Eden’s firm jaw proved she wouldn’t back down. If he forced her out of the carriage, she might well follow – with disastrous consequences. How she’d survived three days in London with only that ridiculous maid for company was a mystery. He could not count on luck to protect her in the future.

  Damn her stubbornness! It was a complication he didn’t need, but short of tying her to a bed, he had no choice.

  Tying her to a bed… That had a nice ring to it.

  But he’d foresworn seduction, he reminded himself. And perhaps gratitude would make her amenable to an affair once John’s killer was in custody. He could handle Peterson without threats. The man was a consummate gossip.

  “Very well, but say nothing, and stay close. Wandering off could cost you your life.”

  “Thank you, Alex.” She smiled.

  Alex said little as they drove to the Strand. Eden’s presence affected more than his approach. By appearing as himself, he risked Peterson mentioning previous meetings, which might prompt to Eden to reveal his name, something Peterson didn’t know. That would not only endanger his life, but drag more of his past investigations into the light of day. His own wagging tongue had already revealed too much. Sidmouth would not be pleased.

  Which proved just how dangerous Eden was. She slipped too easily under his guard, evoking admissions that would be better hidden. If she told others about his impersonations, it could draw the attention of those he’d tricked, identifying personas still wanted by the Bonapartists. Worse, he could become a scapegoat for cases he’d not handled.

  How could he have been so stupid? He’d always sneered at idiots who let lust unlock their tongues – among the spies he’d exposed had been two courtesans who’d collected valuable secrets while servicing government and military men. Now he’d fallen into the same trap. He had yet to meet a female who could keep a secret.

  He was still wondering how to convince her to remain quiet, when they reached the Strand and halted in front of Peterson’s Antiquities. Sunlight streamed through the shop’s bow window, illuminating a bust of Apollo flanked by a pair of urns and surrounded by boxes, jars, and a square of mosaic depicting a graceful hand.

  Antiquities had influenced fashion in furnishings for a century, creating a huge demand for Roman, Greek, and Egyptian artifacts. Many society drawing rooms reflected those cultures. Ladies whose husbands had returned from their Grand Tours empty-handed had to buy artifacts in London. And since the merchant classes copied the fashion of their betters, the demand for such items had soared.

  Real antiquities had always been in short supply, a situation worsened as war disrupted trade, so enterprising merchants produced copious copies. The honest ones called them copies, satisfied with the lower price they could get for such products. But plenty of men faked provenance as well as urns.

  Peterson was one of the honest dealers. His shop had two rooms, one for antiquities, the other for Coade stone statues and other copies. That didn’t guarantee authenticity, of course. There wasn’t a merchant in London who hadn’t fallen prey to forgers. But at least Peterson tried – which was another reason John would have sought information about Sarsos here. Peterson also distinguished between rumors that might be real and those that were clearly improbable.

  “Don’t say a word,” he reminded Eden, offering his arm once she’d descended from his carriage.

  She nodded.

  But Alex’s plans vanished the moment he pushed open the door. The shop was in shambles, with merchandise jumbled on the floor and several urns in pieces. A foot protruded from behind the counter.

  Eden gasped.

  “Lock the door, pull the blind to block the window, then stay here,” he ordered, again cursing that he’d brought her with him. The last thing he needed was a hysterical female. He hurried around the counter, praying that he wouldn’t find a corpse.

  He didn’t – quite. Peterson sprawled on the floor, bleeding from a deep cut on his temple, still alive, though his continued survival remained in question.

  Pulling out his handkerchief, Alex pressed it firmly against the gash to stop the flow of blood. A ripping sound pulled his eyes to Eden. “I told you to stay by the door.”

  “He’ll need both of us.” She handed him the flounce she’d ripped from her petticoat, then set about removing the next one. Though pale, her face reflected determination. “Is that Mr. Peterson?”

  “Yes.” He formed a pad from the flounce, then examined the man more closely. Peterson had been struck several times, probably by a knife. More blood welled from his side.

  “Damnation!” Alex bit back the stronger curses unsuited to female ears. “Hold this,” he ordered Eden, pointing to the pad.

  She handed him another strip of fabric, then bore down on the head wound. “Why would someone attack him?”

  “I don’t know.” He unbuttoned Peterson’s waistcoat and pulled his shirt free to reveal a stab. “The shop’s been ransacked, but a robber does not strike in daylight as a rule. This can’t have happened more than an hour ago. Probably less.” He fastened a bandage around Peterson’s side, though he doubted the man would live. Perforated intestines usually proved fatal.

  “So the attacker wanted more than money?”

  “That would be my guess. Peterson has always been an avid gossip, constantly scavenging for bits of information that he sells to anyone willing to pay his price. But information can be dangerous. Some people will do anything to protect their secrets. I warned him more than once to be careful.” He shook his head.

  “So you know him well.”

  “Well enough. I used him to keep track of suspected Bonapartists.” He snapped his mouth shut, berating himself for again revealing details of a past that was better forgotten.

  “The bleeding has stopped,” she noted. “Is there somewhere more comf
ortable we can move him?”

  “Motion will break open the wound.” And probably kill him. He still hoped for information. “He lives upstairs. Find some water so we can clean him up.”

  “Good idea.” She left.

  Alex made a more thorough search for injuries, finding several cracked ribs and marks on Peterson’s hands that proved he’d landed at least one heavy blow. So there had been a fight.

  But his condition was bad, his face white, his breath coming in shallow pants punctuated by rattles that might have been moans. He would be dead by morning, though if he felt enough pain to moan…

  Eden returned with a basin, stooping to lay a hand on Peterson’s shoulder. “He’s worse.” Her voice shook.

  “He’s not going to make it,” Alex said bluntly. He’d seen death often enough to recognize its progress. “My only chance to find out who attacked him is to revive him enough to talk. It won’t be pleasant for any of us. Can you manage?”

  She paled further, but nodded.

  He dipped the rag into cold water, then wiped it across Peterson’s face. The dealer’s breathing hitched in response. So he was conscious, just pulled into himself to escape the pain.

  Five minutes and most of the water later, Peterson screamed.

  “Can you hear me, Peterson?” demanded Alex.

  The eyes blinked open and tried to focus. “Finster? What … want?”

  “Information, but that can wait.” A gesture kept Eden silent. “Who attacked you?”

  “Wha—?” Peterson inhaled raggedly, fighting back groans. “Hurt.”

  “You’ve been badly beaten,” said Alex. “Who did it?”

  Moans escaped. His hand spasmed into a fist.

  Alex laid the cloth on Peterson’s forehead. “Who attacked you, Peterson?” he demanded, his voice hard.

  “Man … stranger…” His eyes rolled back into his head.

  “What man? What did he want?” Alex sloshed cold water across the undamaged side of Peterson’s head.

  Peterson jerked. “Mad … ranting…” He gasped weakly, his eyes blurring with pain.