A Rake’s Guide to Seduction

by Caroline Linden

  “Here.” Fanny dug in her reticule and pulled out a letter. “This is what he wrote me a week ago, saying you were about to make an advantageous marriage and resume your title. He suggested that if I were to act before the wedding, it could prove profitable. It—it was a mad plan, and if I had been myself, I should never…” Her voice faded as Anthony took the letter, silently opening it and reading the damning message in Ned’s clear, crisp hand.

  At his prolonged silence, Fanny grew more defeated. Her shoulders slumped, and a shadow seemed to pass over her face. For a moment she looked even older than her forty-three years. “I am sorry,” she said again. “So sorry. I shan’t bother you again.”

  “Fanny,” said Anthony as she reached the door, holding her son’s hand. She paused and turned back. “I will help you.”

  Cautious hope sprang into her eyes.

  “I will help you,” he repeated, “but only on the condition that you confess to Exeter and the rest of his family that you lied to them about our relationship and that you never again claim any man as the father of your son except your late husband.” He looked at the child again. “A boy should know who his father is.”

  Without a word she nodded.

  “But Fanny, this is the last time.” He shook his head slowly. “I would have helped you if you had only asked me.”

  Her chin trembled. “I know,” she whispered. “I should have known.”

  “Where are you staying?”

  “At the inn in Maidstone.”

  Anthony folded the letter with care. “I shall send a bank draft today.”

  She closed her eyes and sighed, then gave a little nod. “Thank you. I shall make my explanations and apologies to His Grace before I go.”

  “Goodbye, Fanny.”

  “Goodbye,” she whispered, and then she was gone, taking her son with her.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  For a moment Anthony just sat in the drawing room, a ray of sunlight warming his legs but not driving away the chill he felt. Fanny had almost destroyed him—for money. Ned had incited her to do it—for spite. Perhaps he ought to break it off with Celia himself, Anthony thought darkly, on account of his extremely poor judgment of character, if these were the people he called friends.

  Celia. Slowly he rose and turned to the door. He crossed the room and opened it, then started toward the library, his steps faster and faster until he was almost running. His heart thumped painfully against his ribs as he threw open the door. Was she still here? Was she—?

  Celia looked up as he burst into the room. She was composed, unnaturally so for a woman whose betrothed husband had just been confronted by his supposed wife and son. Anthony’s heart stopped pounding; it seemed to stop altogether.

  “Celia,” he said, then stopped. He didn’t know what to say. He would be lost without her.

  “Has she gone?” asked Celia. She was the picture of calm, seated on a small sofa near the French windows that led into the garden. Her hands lay folded in her lap. There was no sign of the emotional storm he had expected. No trace of tears marred her cheeks, no flush of anger colored her complexion. Suddenly Anthony wished it did. He wished she had met him with all the fury of a woman betrayed, thrown things at his head and called him names. It would mean she cared.

  “Celia, what you must think of me,” he began desperately, coming toward her. “I swear to you she’s not my wife. The child is not mine….”

  She shook her head. “No,” she said. “You don’t need to protest. I never doubted you, Anthony.”

  Anthony stood with his mouth open, staring at her. She never doubted him, not even when presented with another woman who called herself his wife and claimed to have his son?

  “I knew you would never lie to me,” she went on. “I knew you would never desert a child of yours. I knew—”

  He hauled her into his arms and kissed her then, not caring what else she knew. He knew she loved him, and even stranger, she believed in him. When he lifted his head, she gazed up at him.

  “Did you really think I could believe something like that of you?” she whispered, laying her hand on his cheek.

  Anthony covered her hand with his own. “Most women would have.”

  “Ah, but I am not most other women.” Her mouth quirked wryly.

  “Indeed not.” He gazed into the clear blue depths of her eyes. He would be worse than lost without her. “You are the only woman for me.”

  She touched his lower lip with the tip of her finger. “I knew that.”

  He took her wrist and held her hand in place, pressing his lips to her fingertips, then to her knuckles, then to her palm. “She’s gone to admit she lied to your brother. She—Celia, she was once a friend of mine.” He hesitated, clearing his throat. “She was once my lover. Years ago,” he quickly added. “She invested funds in my tin mines and we had an affair. It was long ago, and she married someone else—the father of her child. She came here because her husband died and left her penniless, and she wanted to support her child. She said she was my wife because she hoped I would give her money to disappear, and not disrupt our wedding.”

  She studied him a moment with sympathetic eyes. “You gave it to her, didn’t you?”

  Anthony took his time answering. “Yes. But only because she confessed all to me, and promised to tell your family the same.”

  Celia smiled up at him. “How anyone thinks you are cold and calculating, I shall never guess. You’re as soft-hearted as I, Anthony Hamilton.”

  He frowned in alarm. “Indeed not.”

  “Then why did you give her the money?”

  “Are you saying I should not do so?”

  “No,” she said softly. “I would never condemn you for compassion.”

  Anthony closed his eyes and rested his forehead against hers. Celia slid her arms around him and just held him. The tension that had gripped him for what seemed like hours melted away, and he felt at peace. But after a moment he gently removed her arms and stepped away. There was more he had to say, more he needed to say before he could accept her love with a clean conscience.

  “Celia,” he said, “I have not been honest with you.” Her expression slowly went blank. “There are things I ought to have told you—things you deserved to know before deciding to marry me. And like a fool, I thought I wouldn’t have to tell you, wouldn’t have to—” He broke off and ran his hands over his face. “I thought I wouldn’t have to confess my failings.”

  “Everyone has failings,” she said.

  Anthony gave a harsh, despairing laugh. “Undoubtedly. But wait until you hear what I must tell you, before you judge.” She opened her mouth, clearly about to protest, but then simply nodded. Anthony took a deep breath. Not even when the duke of Exeter had questioned him the other day had he revealed all he was about to reveal.

  Celia had to know, though. She had to know before she tied herself to him for life, when she still had time to walk away. He had been fooling himself if he thought he could simply forget about his past, or that by not speaking of it, he could pretend it had never happened at all and that it wouldn’t come back to haunt him. Celia was trusting and warmhearted enough that she wouldn’t ask, but that didn’t pardon his silence. Haltingly, barely able to look at her, he began to speak.

  “I told you my father was angry when I was dismissed from school. No doubt he was, but more likely he was relieved. My mother had just died. She had been the only reason I ever tried to please him. He made her life miserable when I disgraced him; he blamed her for my faults. When she died he told me not to come back to Lynley Court, and I was only too glad not to.

  “I was only fifteen and had no way to live. Celia, I—I—” He sighed. “I cheated,” he said softly. “I took exams for other people, for money, until I had finished school. I gambled. I had always been good at cards, and became much better. In London one can wager on anything, and I did. But it was still small money, enough to live but not enough to be settled. I couldn’t give it up for long. I wanted
more. I wanted wealth. I wanted to show Lynley I didn’t need him or his estate or his money.

  “I decided I must make investments, and took to playing on the ’Change. By sitting at tables with men in finance I learned things, and got ideas. I read the lists and found patterns in numbers that meant something to me. I liked making money,” he confessed. It was a rather low-class thing to admit to, which was why Anthony never discussed it with anyone. “But to invest money, one must have it, and to get it…” He didn’t want to tell her this part especially. He was too afraid of her reaction. “I got the money from women,” he finally said, very quietly.

  Her eyes were perfectly round. One hand crept to her stomach. “How?”

  “As loans,” he said, knowing it still sounded suspicious. “I would propose a bargain, one where they gave me money to invest and I repaid it with interest. I made money for them when their husbands would give them none. I told myself I was giving them some independence, some control of their lives.”

  “But that’s not so bad,” Celia exclaimed, as if he had just shown her the noble motive in his ignoble actions.

  Anthony felt sick. “Perhaps not,” he managed to say, “but I had affairs with some of them.” He paused. “With several of them. Including Fanny.”

  “All of them?”

  “No,” he said even before she completed her question. “Not all of them.”

  “Oh.” She quieted again, gazing at him with sad eyes.

  He swallowed. “Some no doubt would say I seduced them to get their money. I never thought of it as such, but I was young—it was almost a game to me. I saw only the pleasure and the money, and the thrill of success. I made mistakes. I became entangled with women who could not be discreet, and as a result I became known as a seducer and a rake.”

  “Oh, Anthony,” she whispered. “If I had known what you endured—”

  “Don’t.” She flinched from his harsh tone. “What I chose. I chose to do it all, every wager, every seduction, every lie. A better man would have found a better way—”

  “But you chose the more difficult way.” She stepped toward him, her face filled with compassion. “Another man would have borrowed and borrowed, or lived off relatives and friends, or even stolen it. You chose to make yourself an island, didn’t you? Where no one else would be hurt by your actions. And that way you were free to do what you must to survive.”

  “But I’ve hurt you.”

  She shook her head. “It hurts me to think that you have felt yourself less than worthy. That your father made you to feel like an impostor and a thief. But you…how can I judge you? I have never been poor with no way to live. I have never found myself alone in the world. I hope I would have been strong enough to endure the slurs and slights you suffered, but I never had to.”

  “How very charming,” said a voice behind him. “No wonder you want to marry this one. She’s making your excuses for you, Ham.”

  Anthony turned at the voice. Ned stepped into the library through one of the open French windows. He was dusty and a bit disheveled, and there was a curious brightness in his eyes. Something was off.

  “I thought you were required in town, Ned.”

  “Ah, yes. So I was. So I am. I just have a few things here that needed doing first, however.”

  Anthony put the pieces together then. Ned, who had wanted to marry a wealthy bride—namely, Celia. Ned, who had barely spoken to him since Celia’s engagement to him was announced. Ned, who couldn’t resist little jibes and barbs, who had been out riding this morning early, and who knew all about Fanny and Anthony’s relationship with her. Ned, who brought a pistol from behind his back even as he smiled at them.

  “You shot at me earlier,” Anthony said, shifting his weight slightly to one side. Celia gasped, her eyes flying to Ned and growing wide at the sight of the gun. “And now you’ve come to try again?”

  Ned sighed. “Well, I don’t want to. But a fellow’s got to live, doesn’t he?”

  “You shot at him? How does shooting Anthony help you?” cried Celia. “You’re his friend!”

  “That’s why I’d prefer not to shoot him,” said Ned patiently, as if she and Anthony were both being obtuse. “He’s a capital chap, and I have really nothing against him except his infernal luck at cards. But the fact remains that I’m in desperate straits, and he’s snatched away the wealthy widow I had my eye on.” Celia’s mouth dropped open in outrage. Ned laid one hand over his heart. “I swear to you, dear lady, that I would be a most devoted husband. If you could be persuaded to transfer your affections to me, there would be no need for any of this…” He waited, eyebrows raised in expectation. Celia clamped her lips together and shook her head, glaring at him. Ned sighed again. “I feared as much. There’s nothing for it, then, but a little persuasion. Come along, Lady Bertram.”

  “I will not, you cowardly, shameful, lying—”

  “Yes, yes, I take your meaning. But I really must insist.”

  “What will it gain you?” Anthony’s eyes never wavered from the pistol. He moved another step to the side, subtly easing between Ned and Celia.

  “I did think to marry her myself…” Celia hissed at him, and Ned laughed. “But I’ve no fancy to be killed in my sleep. Don’t fret, Hamilton, just a spot of ransom. You’ll get her back in good order. Most likely in time for the wedding, even.”

  “I might agree to that,” said Anthony slowly, “but I don’t trust you, Ned. So I must refuse on Lady Bertram’s behalf, as her betrothed husband.”

  Ned sighed. “Please? I won’t beg, but it would make things easier if you both cooperated.”

  “Why did you involve Fanny?” Anthony asked instead.

  “Oh.” Ned made a face and gave an embarrassed little laugh. “A rash decision. I had a bit much to drink after Exeter announced your engagement and…well, I dashed off the letter to Fanny without thinking. Rather forced my hand, too. Once she was en route, I had no choice. See, I really didn’t want to shoot him,” he turned to explain to Celia. “I had to. She was on her way; the die was cast. There was no room for retreat, and I had to go on with the plan.”

  “You might have killed him,” Celia said through her teeth.

  Ned appeared wounded. “I am not a killer, madame. I aimed for his arm.”

  “And hit the ground, my hat, my horse, and Lord knows what else,” said Anthony. “Being a bad shot is no defense against murder.”

  “He hit your horse?” Something shattered against the wall beside Ned, making both men jump. “And your hat?” Ned yelped, barely ducking out of the way in time as Celia hurled a small china figure at him. It wasn’t quite sporting, but it was opportune. Anthony dove across the sofa, tackling Ned to the floor as Celia threw another figurine at him.

  Ned cursed, trying to roll him over, but Anthony jabbed an elbow into Ned’s stomach and held onto the hand that held the pistol. They rolled back and forth on the broken china, struggling to gain possession of the pistol, or at least aim it, until Ned gave a whoof of surprise, and his grip loosened. Anthony twisted sharply, but Ned managed to maintain a grip on the gun.

  “You despicable, wretched liar!” Celia whacked at Ned’s head again with her weapon, a leather-bound book. “You’re a horrible person and a bad shot and a miserable poet—”

  “Celia, get out of the way!” Anthony commanded, still wrestling with Ned for the gun. His supposed friend had looped an arm around his neck and was pressing on his throat.

  “I want to help!” she cried.

  “Ring the bell,” Anthony croaked. Ned wrenched his head around, and Anthony felt his cramped fingers begin to slip from the pistol’s stock. He sucked in as deep a breath as he could and slammed his shoulder into Ned’s stomach, letting his weight fall on the other man. Ned grunted, and Anthony ripped the pistol out of his hand.

  “Ring the bell,” he repeated, staggering to his feet as Celia ran across the room for the bell rope. Ned stayed on the floor, curled on his side, his chest heaving. “Good God, Ned, why?” I
t was all he could think of to ask: Why, why, why?

  Ned squinted up at him. “For the money, obviously.”

  “I would have helped you,” said Anthony, still shocked to his core that a man who had been like a brother to him would try to kill him. “Warfield would have.”

  Ned gave a sharp, bitter laugh. “I don’t need a few pounds. I don’t need a loan. I have debts, Ham. Rather crushing debts. It’s expensive to lead a gentleman’s life with no title and no fortune waiting for a fellow. If only I’d had your luck at cards.”

  “It’s not luck!” said Celia furiously.

  Ned rolled his eyes and pushed himself up with a grimace. “As you like. The fact remains that I need money, and this lady is the key to the treasure chest.”

  “You would threaten her life over a few thousand pounds—”

  “Crushing debts,” Ned repeated. “I really can’t settle for less than thirty thousand. I know you can’t pay out that much immediately, but Exeter could. Come along, my dear. We really must go.” And he pulled another pistol from the pocket of his coat.

  Anthony raised his arm at once and pulled the trigger. The only sound, though, was a tinny click. Ned looked at the pistol pointed at him and grinned, a cruelly bitter expression. “I really didn’t want to hurt anyone,” he said as he got to his feet. “You’ll notice that pistol was unloaded. This one, however”—he raised his second gun—“is. Now, my lady, come along, and please don’t throw any more china at me.”

  “Celia, leave the room,” said Anthony as he lowered his arm. She hesitated, then began backing toward the door. Ned swung the pistol around to point it at her. Celia froze, glancing at Anthony.

  “This way, Lady Bertram,” repeated Ned. His face had hardened, and he didn’t look half so charming or handsome now. A trickle of blood ran down his cheek from a cut by his eye, and the light in his eyes was no longer amused but deadly, madly serious. Celia didn’t know what to do. She had been so angry a few minutes ago, it hadn’t occurred to her to be frightened, but now she was—and grew more so when Anthony stepped directly between her and Ned’s cocked pistol.