A Rake’s Guide to Seduction

by Caroline Linden

  She must have run three miles or more before she finally slowed to a trot, her sides slick with sweat. Anthony guided her into the shelter of a stand of oaks before pulling her up and gingerly sliding to the ground.

  The horse trembled as he examined her. She favored her left hind hoof, lifting it just off the ground, and Anthony finally realized what had made her bolt: a long, oozing gash across her flank. It wasn’t clear if the pistol ball had gone into or merely scored her flesh; there was too much blood to tell. She snorted and stamped her hooves as Anthony probed the wound. “Shh,” he crooned to quiet her, leaving it. There was nothing he could do to help her out here. He’d have to take her back to the stables.

  Assuming he didn’t get shot first, that is. All the while he tended the horse, Anthony kept one eye out for any sign of the marksman. The first shot had gone wide, the second struck his hat, the third his horse, and the fourth was also nearby. There was no conclusion to make except that he himself was the target.

  Unfortunately, he wasn’t quite sure where he was at the moment. In giving Hestia her head, he had let her outrun the boundaries of what he remembered of Ainsley Park. He set his hat, which he’d been unconsciously clutching all the while, back on his head and tried to think. They had headed south from the ruins for some time. His eyes constantly moving from side to side, Anthony adjusted the saddle and tack before swinging back onto the horse’s back. He’d lead her if he could, but in case the fellow with the pistol had followed, he judged it better to be mounted.

  “All right, let’s go home,” he murmured, wheeling her around and setting her into a walk. “The long, cautious way.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Although Celia had told her mother it was to be a small wedding, Rosalind insisted some things simply could not be omitted.

  “Just because it is a small wedding it needn’t be a plain wedding,” she said as they walked in the garden. “Have you given any thought to what you shall wear?”

  “No,” said Celia, leaning down to sniff the just-opened rosebuds. It had been a week since they announced their engagement, and Celia had not spent much of it on the wedding. The Eltons and the Throckmortons had been called back to London, and Lord Snowden had also returned home to his nearby estate after the other guests left. The quieter house had meant more opportunities to sneak away with Anthony for an hour or two, and although he had stuck fast to his vow not to make love to her, they had found other, nearly as delightful, pleasures. Just yesterday he had pulled her into a linen cupboard and—

  “I have sent to Madame Lescaut, although perhaps we shall just remake one of your newer gowns,” Rosalind went on. “Hannah might lend you the lace mantua from her wedding, and of course you must wear some of the pearls.”

  “Mama, I don’t care for pearls or lace.” A rose had broken off, the bud hanging from the stem by a thread of green. She broke it off and held it up. “I shall just wear some roses in my hair. They smell so lovely.”

  Her mother sighed. “Of course, dearest, if that is what you wish.”

  Celia smiled, the same contented smile that she seemed to wear all the time now. “It is.” She twirled the bud between her fingers, inhaling its soft fragrance. “There’s no need to make over a gown. My blue silk will do. And we shall just have the guests who are still here.”

  Rosalind made a soft noise in the back of her throat. “What of the earl of Lynley?”

  Celia paused. Anthony’s father. They ought to invite him, but she suspected Anthony wouldn’t want him. The little he had said about his father had not been warm. “I shall ask Anthony,” she said at last. “But Mama, I think he may not wish to come in any event. He and his son do not get on well.”

  “Yes, I know. But Lynley is his father. We must invite him for propriety’s sake.”

  Celia nibbled her lip, still fiddling with the rosebud. “I shall ask,” she said again.

  “Celia, I really think if you insisted—”

  “Yes.” She stopped and faced her mother. “Yes, Mama, if I insisted, Anthony would agree to invite him. But why must I insist? For propriety’s sake? I don’t care if Lord Lynley is here. I suspect Anthony would rather not see him, and why must I force the earl upon him on our wedding day?”

  “Darling,” began her mother in the calm but firm voice that normally was not to be refused. “You shall be a countess one day. Even if your husband does not stand on these ceremonies, you must. It is the proper thing to do, and it is your place to see to it.”

  “Mama, I want to be married quietly and happily. Must we argue?”

  Rosalind closed her eyes and took a breath, as if praying for patience. “No,” she said. “We must not.”

  “I am happy,” Celia told her in a rush. “You do know that, don’t you? You have always done so much for me, and for us all, and I don’t want you to think I don’t appreciate your efforts, but in this I just want to revel in being happy. I don’t want to worry about appearances, not when the appearances might cause my husband to be unhappy.”

  Rosalind sighed. “You are right. It is your wedding, and I shall not overrule you. I—I am not accustomed to seeing you as an independent woman, Celia. It is hard for me to stop mothering you, especially after you were gone so long and I’ve only just gotten you back. I missed you so, dearest.”

  “Perhaps you don’t need to stop mothering me,” she replied with a grin. “Just treat me as you do Hannah or Vivian.”

  Rosalind gave a tiny, embarrassed laugh. “As much as I love my daughters-in-law, they are not you.” She reached out and laid one hand gently alongside Celia’s cheek. “You are my only child. For so many years it was just we two, together, while your brothers went off to school and had their own lives elsewhere. I am not used to sharing you, nor being without you.”

  Celia suddenly realized what her mother was trying to say. Rosalind had devoted her life to Celia. She had been widowed before she was thirty, but she had never remarried, instead staying quietly in the country to raise Celia and to be as loving a mother as she could be to Marcus and David. Celia’s happy childhood, her carefree life, even her impetuous first marriage, had all been due to Rosalind’s care and attention.

  And what would Celia have done, if she had had a child with Bertie? Would she have brought the child back to London after Bertie’s death, or would she have stayed to raise the child in its father’s home at Kenlington? It was a sobering thought. If she’d had the child she longed for, she would have stayed at Kenlington—and she wouldn’t have fallen in love with Anthony. In that moment Celia was very selfishly happy she had not had a child after all, and at the same time she saw what her mother had given up for her. She threw her arms around her mother. “You must visit us often, Mama,” she said, “for I cannot do without you, either.”

  Rosalind embraced her, then stepped back, her smile more firmly in place. “You must see that your husband finds a suitable estate, then. I can’t have my daughter living in a cottage.” They both laughed.

  “Celia.”

  She looked around to see Marcus on the path. “Yes?”

  “I must have a word with you.”

  A whisper of foreboding stole up her spine at her brother’s words and manner. Something was wrong. “About what?”

  Instead of answering he held out one hand. “Come with me.”

  “Marcus, what is it?” asked Rosalind in concern. He barely glanced at her.

  “I am not certain. Perhaps only a misunderstanding. Celia?”

  She shook herself. Perhaps it was only a misunderstanding. But she could see that Marcus didn’t think it was. She squeezed her mother’s hand and turned toward the house. “Yes, I’m coming.”

  Marcus wouldn’t tell her anything as they walked. Each step along the gravel path seemed to twist the knot of anxiety in her stomach a little tighter. Before long the dread had outweighed the curiosity, and when they reached Marcus’s study and found David waiting outside the door, his face set, Celia had to fight off the urge to run aw
ay from whatever they had to tell her.

  Her oldest brother ushered her into the study, and David closed the door behind them. Warily Celia sat down, glancing between the two of them. For once they looked completely alike, and identically grim. “What is it?” she asked again.

  “Do you know where Mr. Hamilton is?” asked Marcus. “No one seems to have seen him in some time.”

  “No,” she said slowly. “No, I haven’t seen him since last night. Has he gone missing? Have you asked his valet?”

  “The valet knows only that he rose early and went out dressed to ride,” said David. “His horse is gone from the stables.”

  “We must go out looking for him!” Celia started to rise. “He may be hurt—”

  “No one suspects that,” said Marcus, putting out his hand to stay her. “We merely want to speak to him, but he is nowhere to be found. It seemed reasonable that you might have more knowledge of his whereabouts or plans than either of us.”

  She shook her head. “No.” Her brothers exchanged a look, and Celia leapt to her feet. “Tell me!” she exclaimed. “What is wrong? Why are you looking for Anthony? Tell me this instant!”

  Again they glanced at each other. “We’re not certain,” said Marcus.

  “Celia, has he never mentioned anything about another attachment?” asked David. She stared at him in bewilderment. David cleared his throat. “About another woman,” he clarified.

  “No,” she said.

  “Did he never hint there might be difficulties regarding your marriage?” he pressed. “Any obstacle?”

  “No.”

  “Did he ever tell you he had been married before?” asked Marcus softly.

  She blinked, then gave a gasp of shocked laughter. “No. Not at all!”

  David sighed and hung his head. Marcus closed his eyes. Celia threw up her hands.

  “If you won’t tell me what the matter is, I shall leave!” She turned toward the door.

  “There is a woman,” said Marcus behind her. “Here, in the small drawing room. She says she is Mrs. Hamilton. She says she is his wife.”

  For a moment Celia stood motionless with shock. She couldn’t possibly have heard that correctly. Slowly she turned to face her brothers. “Impossible,” she said numbly.

  “She claims they have been married for some time. She heard news of your engagement to him and rushed here to prevent a scandal. She arrived this morning.”

  “Impossible,” Celia whispered again.

  “Celia, she has a child,” said David gently.

  She clutched her hands to her throat. Her chest seemed to be caving in on itself. Anthony, a liar and a bigamist? Could he have lied to her so much—and to this other woman as well? A black pit seemed to open in front of her, and for a moment she teetered on the brink of falling into it. Behind her the door opened quietly. A hand rested lightly on her shoulder. Celia started, jerking her head around to see her mother standing beside her, her face filled with compassion.

  “It’s impossible,” she choked, wanting someone, anyone, to agree with her.

  “Of course,” said her mother at once. “Hannah told me the story. Marcus, you spoke to this woman?”

  Without taking his eyes off Celia, he nodded. David crossed the room and held out a piece of paper. “She said this was his last message to her. Celia, do you know Hamilton’s hand?”

  She eyed the letter with alarm. Yes, she did know his hand. She knew every spike and slope of his writing, how he crossed his Ts with sharp slashes, how his words ended with a little curl to the last letter, a final flourish to the word. She couldn’t bear to see that writing to someone else—to his wife.

  She covered her mouth with one hand. Disloyal, treacherous thought—that meant she suspected he might be guilty. And she didn’t, truly she didn’t. Except…that letter…

  As she stood in mute despair, her mother reached out and took the letter. She unfolded it and held it in front of them both, where Celia could see it without touching it. She tried to focus on the writing without taking in the words, but couldn’t help it.

  Dearest Fanny—

  Received your note with great pleasure; it seems an age since I have seen you. I regret being unable to tell you the latest good news in person but circumstances require my presence here. No more than a month more, I hope; I have missed you.

  Yours ever,

  AH

  The silence in the room seemed to last forever. Finally Rosalind looked at David. “You must know his hand. Is this…?”

  David hesitated. “I am not certain.”

  Celia’s stunned eyes moved back to the letter. It was very like his hand. She just couldn’t believe it. “No,” she said faintly.

  “It’s not?” David stepped closer to her, studying her intently. “You’re certain it is not?”

  “No.” Carefully she shook her head. “I’m not certain. I just don’t know.” David exchanged another look with Marcus.

  “We have to find him,” he said.

  “No,” said Celia, her voice growing firmer and louder. “This letter makes no sense. He would never do such a thing, to me or to any woman. If he had a wife and child, he would never abandon them. He would never deceive me like this. What would he gain by it?”

  “Celia, you are a very wealthy widow,” said her brother. “Probably wealthier than he is.”

  “You don’t know that.” She turned to her mother. “Mama, you believe me, don’t you?”

  Rosalind blinked several times. “Celia, we should ask the man to explain,” she began. Celia pulled away from her.

  “Perhaps you require that, but I don’t. I know he would never do this.”

  For a moment the room was silent again. Marcus looked at David, who looked at Rosalind, who looked on the verge of tears as she wrung her hands and watched Celia.

  “The stories about him, dearest,” whispered her mother in anguish.

  “Are mostly lies!” Celia burst out. “Where is Lord Warfield? He knows Anthony. Ask him!”

  “And what are we to tell the woman?” Marcus leaned back against his desk, arms folded over his chest. “The one claiming to be his wife.”

  Celia pressed her hands to her temples. “I don’t know—perhaps there is another gentleman with the same name. This woman might be confused, or mistaken. She might have never laid eyes on him before, and it will all turn out to be a terrible mistake.”

  David coughed. “Ahem.”

  “What?” He ignored her, instead looking at Marcus. Marcus’s face had settled once more into forbidding lines. “What is it?” Celia demanded again. “Tell me, David!”

  “She’s laid eyes on him before,” said her brother reluctantly. “I remember they were…companions. Years ago.”

  “And since?”

  David was shaking his head even before Marcus’s question. “I don’t know. Hamilton and I aren’t much in company anymore. He went off to Wales or someplace for a year or more, and we spoke only infrequently after he returned.”

  Marcus’s eyes moved to Rosalind. She flushed. “I—I really don’t know, Marcus. I have not been as much in London these past few years.”

  “Then we shall wait,” said Marcus evenly.

  “Wait?” Rosalind echoed.

  “Until Hamilton returns,” he said. “As Celia says, there may be a terrible mistake. A man deserves a chance to explain. But if he’s not back today, Celia…” His gaze softened on her. “It would look very bad.”

  “I don’t know where he went!”

  “I’ll get Warfield and Simon,” said David. “We’ll ride out and have a look.”

  Marcus nodded. “Hannah will see to the woman and keep her quiet. I’ll send into Maidstone and try to discover anything about this letter, and if it were sent from here.”

  “Celia, come with me,” said her mother, laying her hands on Celia’s shoulders. She shook them off and stood, tense and wretched, in the middle of the room.

  “No,” she said in a quavering voice.

&
nbsp; Marcus came to stand in front of her. His face was etched with concern. “You must trust me in this.”

  “But you don’t trust him,” she whispered.

  He sighed. “I want to know the truth.”

  “As do I.”

  “But you are in love with him,” he answered gently. “I know what it is to love another so much that you would do anything for him, even sacrifice yourself. I need to know this man deserves you and your trust in him.” She closed her eyes, and a tear leaked out to slide down her cheek. Marcus drew her into a firm embrace. “I love you, too,” he whispered. “You are my only sister. I want you to be right about him.”

  Celia nodded, swiping at her eyes. “I know. Thank you, Marcus. I know he will prove honorable.”

  He smiled, touching her cheek. “Good girl. Now let David find him, and we’ll sort this out.”

  She wiped away the rest of her tears. “I want to see her. The woman.”

  Rosalind gasped. Marcus’s eyebrows went up. “Why?”

  “I need to.”

  “Dearest, that’s not wise,” murmured her mother. Celia shook her head.

  “I am not a fragile flower, Mama. Where is she?”

  Marcus looked at Rosalind, then back at Celia. “In the small drawing room.”

  Celia walked through the house, feeling almost as if she were watching herself do it from some distant vantage point. She knew—she knew—Anthony hadn’t betrayed her, not like this, but beyond that she couldn’t say she knew anything. Who was this person? Why was she here? And what did she really want from Anthony—or was it something else altogether?

  She slowed as she reached the drawing room door. She wanted to see the woman, not go in and converse with her. A maid approached with a tea tray, on Marcus’s or Hannah’s orders, no doubt. She bobbed a curtsy to Celia, then opened the door and went in with her tray. Celia inched forward and peered around the open door.