“ANYONE WHO LOVES ROMANCE MUST READ SABRINA JEFFRIES!”
—Lisa Kleypas, New York Times bestselling author
The Sinful Suitors
Sabrina Jeffries’s delightful Regency series featuring the St. George’s Club, where watchful guardians conspire to keep their unattached sisters and wards out of the clutches of sinful suitors.
THE PLEASURES OF PASSION
“Known for her sensual, smart love stories with their marvelously witty dialogues and unforgettable characters, Jeffries crafts another winner in her Sinful Suitors series. From the heart-wrenching prologue to the HEA, readers will be utterly captivated.”
—RT Book Reviews (Top Pick)
“Quick wit, lively repartee, and delicious sensuality drive the elaborate plot of this sinfully delightful addition to Jeffries’s latest series.”
—Library Journal (starred review)
THE DANGER OF DESIRE
“With its irresistible combination of witty banter, well-defined characters, and a wonderful surfeit of breathtaking sensuality, the latest in Jeffries’s Sinful Suitors series is a straight flush.”
—Booklist (starred review)
THE STUDY OF SEDUCTION
“Jeffries employs the classic marriage-of-convenience plotline to its best advantage, [. . .] she knows what readers want and she delivers on every level.”
—RT Book Reviews (41/2 stars, Top Pick)
THE ART OF SINNING
“With every book, Jeffries grows into an even more accomplished writer whose memorable characters and unforgettable stories speak to readers on many levels.”
—RT Book Reviews (41/2 stars, Top Pick)
“Veteran historical romance author Jeffries launches her Sinful Suitors Regency series with two effortlessly crafted charismatic protagonists.”
—Publishers Weekly
Also from New York Times and USA Today bestselling author
The Duke’s Men
IF THE VISCOUNT FALLS
“Jeffries’s addictive series satisfies.”
—Library Journal
HOW THE SCOUNDREL SEDUCES
“Scorching. . . . From cover to cover, it sizzles.”
—Reader to Reader
“Marvelous storytelling. . . . Memorable.”
—RT Book Reviews (41/2 stars, Top Pick, K.I.S.S. Award)
WHEN THE ROGUE RETURNS
“Blends the pace of a thriller with the romance of the Regency era.”
—Woman’s Day
“Enthralling . . . rich in passion and danger.”
—Booklist (starred review)
WHAT THE DUKE DESIRES
“A totally engaging, adventurous love story with an oh-so-wonderful ending.”
—RT Book Reviews
“Full of all the intriguing characters, brisk plotting, and witty dialogue that Jeffries’s readers have come to expect.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
The New York Times bestselling “must-read series” (Romance Reviews Today)
The Hellions of Halstead Hall
A LADY NEVER SURRENDERS
“Jeffries pulls out all the stops. . . . Not to be missed.”
—RT Book Reviews (41/2 stars, Top Pick)
TO WED A WILD LORD
“Wonderfully witty, deliciously seductive, graced with humor and charm.”
—Library Journal (starred review)
HOW TO WOO A RELUCTANT LADY
“Steamy passion, dangerous intrigue, and just the right amount of tart wit.”
—Booklist
A HELLION IN HER BED
“Jeffries’s sense of humor and delightfully delicious sensuality spice things up!”
—RT Book Reviews (41/2 stars)
THE TRUTH ABOUT LORD STONEVILLE
“Jeffries combines her hallmark humor, poignancy, and sensuality to perfection.”
—RT Book Reviews (41/2 stars, Top Pick)
“Delectably witty dialogue . . . and scorching sexual chemistry.”
—Booklist
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To Louise Burke, who championed my career for all my years at Pocket. I wouldn’t be where I am today without you, so thank you. And enjoy your well-deserved retirement!
And to Micki Nuding, who taught me so much about writing. Enjoy that new house and those grandchildren.
You’ve earned it!
Prologue
Dieppe, France
1827
Gregory Vyse, Baron of Fulkham, sipped a glass of fine brandy, savoring its smoky bite. Drinking decent spirits was one advantage of passing through France on his travels. And the taproom of this particular Dieppe inn provided the best, even if he had to pay far too much for his room to get it.
Not that his companion, Captain Lord Hartley Corry, seemed to appreciate the liquor. Hart knocked the brandy back as if it were cheap ale. As if he were nervous, actually.
Hmm. What was that about? This was supposed to be a simple delivery.
Hart pushed a package wrapped in string across the table. “Here are the letters, Fulkham. You will be able to get them to my cousin soon, won’t you?”
Gregory slipped them into his greatcoat pocket. “It shouldn’t take more than a few days if the weather holds. Corunna isn’t far by boat. And Niall is expecting me.”
When Hart said nothing more, Gregory asked, “Have you no messages for me from Gibraltar? From John?”
Hart blinked. “Were you expecting any?”
“I suppose not.”
Though he’d rather hoped . . . His younger brother, John, and Hart were best friends, and had both been posted to Gibraltar with their respective regiments until recently, when Hart’s regiment was sent home briefly in anticipation of their new posting. John could at least have sent him an update; Gregory should have received a report days ago. The next time he saw John, he’d give his feckless brother another lecture about the importance of reports.
Hart called for another brandy, and Gregory raised an eyebrow. He’d never heard that the marquess’s son was a heavy drinker, soldier or no. Clearly something was on the man’s mind. Gregory could tell by the tense line of Hart’s lips, the drumming of his fingers . . . his darting gaze.
So Gregory waited him out. Because that was the best way to elicit the truth, something at which he excelled.
It didn’t take long. Hart drank some brandy, then settled back in his chair. “Speaking of John, he told me that you sometimes . . . er . . . pay for information.”
Damn John and his big mouth. “Did he?”
Hart’s gaze shot to him. “John says you like having eyes everywhere.”
“I do when they belong to someone I can trust. Which is clearly not the case with my little brother.”
John ought to know better. But despite his marriage a year ago, the bloody fool was apparently as reckless as ever. That was precisely why Gregory hadn’t wanted to use him in this work. Gregory had only agreed when it became clear that if he didn’t dictate his brother’s actions to some degree, John would get himself killed on his own.
Hart leaned forward. “Don’t blame John for speaking of it. When he offered to get you to deliver letters to Niall in Spain, I badgered him until he explained your connection to my cousin. I mean, gi
ven that Niall . . . well . . .”
“Killed a man?”
“Yes. I was worried you wanted to capture him and carry him back to England. You are with the government, after all.”
“True.” The foreign office, to be exact. But although officially Gregory served as undersecretary of state for war and the colonies, his unofficial position was a trifle . . . murkier.
With another glance about the taproom, Hart lowered his voice. “But John explained that Niall sometimes provides you with information from Corunna, which is why you overlook that he’s in exile for dueling, and I was thinking—”
“That you could do the same, now that you’ll be posted elsewhere than Gibraltar.”
“Exactly.”
Gregory didn’t answer right away. He took his time sipping his brandy, letting the silence stretch out and gauging Hart’s reaction.
To his credit, Hart didn’t fidget or frown. Most people would.
“Why exactly would that be an advantage to me?” Gregory finally asked.
“Because you don’t have eyes at Fort Bullen on James Island.” Hart paused. “Wait, do you?”
“No. But then, there’s little reason for that. The soldiers are posted there to keep slave ships from operating. Not much political intrigue.”
A sigh escaped Hart. Apparently, he’d been banking on the alternative source of income he’d hoped to get from spying. As a second son to a marquess, Hart probably found that his allowance and army pay didn’t go quite far enough to support such lordly entertainments as gambling and wenching.
Bloody hell. Undoubtedly Gregory would regret this, but the man was John’s friend, after all. “I tell you what,” he said. “I’m planning on attending Le mariage de Figaro at the new theater after this. Why don’t we go together? Afterward, I’ll ask you questions and see how much you noticed. If you answer to my satisfaction, I’ll consider you the next time you’re in a position to help me.”
It never hurt to have more spies. If Hart was as observant as John claimed he was sharp-witted, the man might prove useful one day.
Hart brightened. “Excellent! I’m told that Mademoiselle Servais is in tonight’s performance, so you’ll be glad you went. I swear she’s as good as Mrs. Siddons ever was.”
“I somehow doubt that. I had the privilege of seeing Sarah Siddons in her last role on the stage. Very impressive. And I’d be shocked if a theater in a town the size of Dieppe has an actress of any great ability in its employ.”
The sudden twinkle in Hart’s eye gave him pause. “Then prepare to be shocked, old man.”
The theater in Dieppe had two rows of boxes. Thanks to his position, Gregory had been offered the finest one for his own use on this visit, a fact that overjoyed Hart. Gregory had to admit that the small but new venue had a certain charm, as did the performance. He’d always preferred the original play by Beaumarchais to the opera by Mozart.
As for Mademoiselle Monique Servais, Gregory had to stifle his irritation at discovering how magnificent she really was. He hated being proved wrong.
Well, not wrong, exactly. A comedic role like that of Suzanne lacked the gravitas of any of Mrs. Siddons’s great dramatic personae, so comparisons between them would be apples versus oranges. But still . . .
“What did I tell you?” Hart said as the music came up for the interlude. “She’s astounding.”
Gregory disliked exaggeration. “If by ‘astounding’ you mean that she’s a particularly pretty French chit with a superior speaking voice and an unaffected manner that enhances her credibility as Suzanne, you’d be right. But other than that—”
“Other than that, what? Admit it, man. She has the curves of Aphrodite, the face of Helen of Troy, the voice of . . . of—”
“A siren? As long as you’re making comparisons with mythical beings, you might as well throw that one in. And you speak only of her physical attributes.”
Which were uncommonly attractive. Despite wearing a massive powdered wig, she managed to walk with a sensual grace that made him wonder what she looked like beneath that ridiculous costume from his grandmother’s era.
Then again, even Frenchwomen with modest features had a talent for projecting beauty to the world. And Mademoiselle Servais’s features, as best he could tell from this distance, weren’t remotely modest. What’s more, her voice was melodic without being singsong, and she enunciated every word of dialogue. She captivated the audience—and him—each time she stepped onstage.
“You’re just a sore loser,” Hart said in a moment of keen perception. “Tell the truth—she’s better than you imagined.”
“I will concede that. But then, my expectations were low.” When Hart scowled, he added, “And you’re supposed to be paying attention to more than just the actress, remember? This is a test, after all.”
“Right.” Hart crossed his arms over his chest. “Ask me anything.”
“What was the name of the porter who took our tickets?”
“Mr. Duval,” Hart said readily enough.
Not bad. No one generally noticed such people. “His given name?”
Hart thrust out his chin. “He didn’t say.”
“Actually, someone else did when they greeted him, but you may not have heard.” Gregory settled back in his seat. “Describe him, starting with his hair and ending with his shoes.” When Hart did a creditable job of that, Gregory nodded. “Now tell me what you think his life at home is like.”
That seemed to startle Hart. “His life at home?”
“One can tell a great deal about a man’s circumstances from how he behaves, dresses, speaks. But for now, just give me your impressions.”
Before Hart could begin, a knock came at the door to the box. When Gregory bade the person enter, it was none other than the porter himself. “Is everything to your satisfaction this evening, gentlemen?” Duval asked in French.
“It is, thank you,” Gregory said dismissively.
Then Hart chimed in, obviously trying to keep the man there longer so he could better answer Gregory’s question. “Could you arrange for us to meet Mademoiselle Servais after the play?”
As Gregory stifled a groan, the porter’s face clouded. “I’m afraid not, sir. She usually hurries home.”
“She has a husband and children to attend to, I suppose,” Gregory said.
“An aging grandmother, sir. Mademoiselle Servais is unmarried.”
Interesting. And unexpected. Since the French always referred to their actresses as mademoiselle, one could never know for certain if they had husbands. But he’d assumed that a woman of such unparalleled attractions would. So he felt an oddly powerful satisfaction at hearing that she didn’t.
He could easily imagine her in his bed. She was exactly his sort—sensuous but graceful, an elegant siren.
Siren, bah. He was as bad as Hart. He had no time for women right now, certainly no time to dally with a French actress. That would hardly be wise for his career. And his career trumped everything.
Hart stood. “You may not know this, but I am a marquess’s son and my companion is a baron of high rank in the British government. If you can manage a meeting, we’ll make it well worth your while. We won’t keep her long.”
Gregory lifted an eyebrow at Hart. What was the man up to?
The porter nodded. “I will see what I can do, gentlemen.”
After he left, Gregory said, “If you’re hoping that your maneuver will distract me from my questions—”
“Actually, I’ve been wanting to make the ‘French chit’s’ acquaintance, and I figure two men of consequence are more likely to interest her than one.”
Ah, yes. John had described Hart as a bit of a lothario. “And we will make it ‘well worth’ the porter’s while?”
“You can take my part out of my first payment as a spy.”
Gregory snorted. “You certainly are sure of yourself.”
“A useful ability for a spy, don’t you think?” Hart said with a grin.
It was.
But that didn’t mean Gregory would let the fellow lead him about like a mule. “For tonight, you can practice those skills without me. I intend to return to my room after the play is over. I’ve got reports to write.”
“Surely those can wait until later. How often do you get to meet a woman of such stellar talent as Mademoiselle Servais?”
“Often enough for me to be cynical about it. Performers belong in the golden light of the stage. In my experience, once they climb down from their lofty perch to become ordinary people, they prove either boring or flighty or both.”
Hart laughed. “Come now, I doubt she’ll be boring, and if she’s flighty, who cares? A little flirting never hurt anyone.”
In an instant, the voice of Gregory’s late unlamented father leapt into his head. Come now, boy, who cares if I tipple? A little drinking never hurt anyone.
Except when it was followed by the back of a hand. Or a fist.
He pushed that thought down into the well of secrets it had come from. “I prefer my flirting to be with a woman who can further my interests, frankly.”
Hart shook his head. “Good God, for a fellow in his thirties you act like an old man. Live a little. You’re too focused on work, you know.”
His brother and mother often made that accusation. Gregory found it ludicrous. Work kept him sane. Work drove out the memories and banished the cold sweats at night. Work was a godsend.
Hart slanted a glance at him. “Unless you’re afraid that the ‘French chit’ won’t take to you.”
“Don’t attempt to manipulate me with insults, old chap. It won’t work. I perfected the strategy when you were still a cornet.”
A heavy breath escaped Hart. “Damn it, Fulkham. Just half an hour to spend with an actress. I might not get even that if you don’t come along. She’ll be nervous if it’s just one of us.”
The man was like a dog with a bone. Which would actually make him very good as an informer. And it never hurt to stay on the good side of a marquess’s son. “Fine. If she’ll see us.” Not that Gregory doubted she would. His own rank and the promise of money generally got him whatever he wanted, and Hart’s rank alone would do that.
The Secret of Flirting Page 1
