A Seduction at Christmas

by Cathy Maxwell

Chapter One

  December 1809

  Fiona Lachlan draped her shawl over her head as she pushed her way through the narrow, crowded street. The damp coldness of the December evening air cut right through the thin muslin of her dress. She tried not to shiver as she moved toward a hired coach waiting for her at the corner.

  Well, it didn’t actually wait for her. The woman who had hired the hack, Hester Bowen, was expecting Annie Jenkins to come. It was up to Fiona to convince Hester to take her in Annie’s place.

  The hack driver saw her coming and jumped from the box to open the door. Careful to keep her head down, Fiona climbed inside.

  “You’re late,” Hester complained. She rapped on the ceiling. “Drive,” she snapped at the coachman who shut the door behind Fiona.

  “I said eight,” Hester continued as the driver set the coach in motion, “You’ve left me waiting a full ten minutes. I’ll tell you, Annie, my time is more valuable than yours…” Her voice trailed off into a beat of suspicious silence.

  Fiona kept her head bowed, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. Every turn of the coach wheel was in her favor.

  Hester ripped the shawl away. “You aren’t Annie Jenkins.”

  Caught, Fiona quickly confessed, “No, I’m not. She couldn’t come this evening and asked me if I would. My name is Fiona. I’m her neighbor. We let rooms next door to each other—please,” she beseeched, reaching for Hester’s arm to stop her from throwing up the window and shouting for the coachman to stop. “Annie sent me. She said it would be all right. She assured me you wouldn’t mind.”

  Hester’s eyes were alive with anger. “You are Scottish.” She curled her lips and pretended to gag.

  “I am, but my accent isn’t thick,” Fiona answered, almost choking on the words. She hated having to defend her heritage, something she seemed to have to do daily in London. “And I do speak well.” Better than you, she wanted to add. “Whatever errand you wished Annie to perform, I can do it.”

  “Annie and I are friends,” Hester countered. Her voice had a hard edge.

  She was a bit older than Fiona’s own three and twenty years. In the coach’s flickering light, her blond hair seemed almost white. Beneath her furlined velvet cape, she wore a beaded and lace gown of the darkest blue. Its bodice was so tight, she appeared to have cleavage up to her neck. All in all, she appeared exactly what she was—the most infamous courtesan in London. “We go back a long way,” Hester said. “I trust her.”

  “Well, Annie and I are friends, too,” Fiona answered. Necessity made for strange bedfellows. “She knew you needed her and asked me to help.”

  Hester sat back against the hard leather seat with a snort of disdain. “So what has happened to Annie this time? Has she deviled herself with gin or fallen in love—again?”

  “She eloped,” Fiona answered. “This morning. Her last act before she left was to knock on my door and beg me to help you.”

  “Who did she run off with now?” Hester asked without sympathy.

  “A soldier. She is in love.”

  “Annie is always in love.” Hester gave a heavy sigh. “Why are we all such fools when it comes to love?” Her words were laced with the irony of self knowledge. She looked at Fiona, studying her now and then nodding as if in approval. “What did Annie tell you about the task?”

  “She said for me to dress well—”

  Hester’s keen gaze ran over the white muslin Fiona was wearing, seemingly taking in every detail. There had been a time when Fiona had owned a closet full of the finest dresses. This dress and her dog Tad were all that was left of that former life.

  “You look presentable enough,” the courtesan decided. She reached over and picked one of Tad’s dog hairs off Fiona’s shawl, rubbing her fingers and releasing it to the floor.

  Fiona gathered her courage. “You offered Annie twenty pounds for this favor. Will you pay me as well?”

  Hester’s lips curved into a sly smile. “Desperate for money, are we?”

  “Of course. Isn’t everyone?”

  “In London,” Hester agreed.

  Fiona had been earning her money as a dressmaker but last month Madame Sophie had let her go. Madame’s cousin had arrived from Belgium and took Fiona’s place in the sewing room. As talented as Fiona felt she was with a needle, she was discovering few wanted to hire a Scotswoman, especially one who had the air of “Quality.” They preferred their seamstresses without ambition or intelligence, the better to do as they were bid without questions. They didn’t trust Fiona’s knowledge or her manner.

  Meanwhile, she needed money. Her landlord, Mr. Simon, threatened to turn her and Tad out into the streets. Fiona had already discovered how hard it was to find rooms that would let her keep Tad. She didn’t want to lose these.

  Of course, with twenty pounds, she might even be able to leave London. When her parents were alive, she’d dreamed of having her coming out here, of meeting a gallant gentleman, being swept off her feet. As a well-known magistrate’s daughter, she could have hoped for a brilliant match. Now, she couldn’t wait to kick the dust of this godforsaken place from her heels, and her longings were for a small cottage in the country where the air was free of soot and she could live in peace.

  “Annie said it was not—” Fiona stopped, feeling heat rush to her cheeks. She forced herself to be blunt. “She said I’d not have to please a man.”

  Hester’s sly, lazy smile vanished. Her gloved hand curled into a fist. “You’d best not. I’ll slice your face so no one would want to look at you if you spread your legs for this one.”

  The brutal threat didn’t intimidate Fiona. She’d learned that manners and fine clothes often masked evil in London. “You needn’t worry,” she said stiffly. “I don’t do that.”

  Hester’s gaze narrowed in disbelief. “‘Don’t do that?’” She snorted. “We all do that if it is to our advantage. ’Tis not much work. You close your eyes and let them have it.”

  Bile rose in Fiona’s throat. Memories she hated clouded her mind with images she struggled to forget—

  “Are you all right?” Hester demanded. “You’ve gone pale. You aren’t going to swoon on me, are you?”

  Fiona shook her head, fighting the darkness. It had been a long time since she’d let this fear grip her—

  “Then breathe,” Hester ordered, something Fiona didn’t think she could do until Hester reached over and slapped her.

  The memories were replaced by shock. Fiona lifted a hand to her cheek. The slap had not been hard, but it had been effective.

  Hester settled back into her corner of the hack, her expression thoughtful. “When were you raped?”

  “A year ago.” Fiona didn’t even think to not answer. Tears threatened. She forced them back. Those men had ruined her, robbed her of her chance of a decent man—

  “You’ll overcome it,” Hester said. “You are strong. We all are when we must be.” She paused. Speculation gleamed in her eye before she said, “You know, you’ve the face and the body to earn fifty pounds in an hour if you’ve a mind to. You could do very well for yourself.”

  “I’d rather starve,” Fiona returned, aware that she was close to doing that right now. Since her rape by a party of soldiers hunting for her rebel brother, there had been only one man who had caught her slightest interest—the Duke of Holburn. She’d seen him at a party almost a year ago when she’d been wearing this same dress. Their gazes had met, held. He’d even followed across the ballroom, but then she’d had to leave the dance to help her brother and his wife escape London before they could be captured.

  Since then, she’d learned the duke had a dangerous reputation. Decent women avoided him, not that she was worried. He didn’t travel in the same circles as seamstresses and she doubted if he would remember her even if they should meet again.

  “What do you want me to do for the money?” Fiona asked.

  Hester lifted a fur muff that matched her cape from the seat beside her and pulled from it a small vial. “I w
ant you to pour this into a man’s drink.”

  “What is it?” Fiona wondered, fearing the worst.

  “Not poison,” Hester assured her, “although he will wish it was once this starts to act.” She turned the vial toward the light. “It will make him puke his guts out and think twice before betraying me again.”

  “Betray?”

  Hester’s smile turned bitter. “What? You think I couldn’t fall in love? He thinks I will skulk away like a dog. He’s wrong.”

  “Who is he?” Fiona asked.

  “Lord Belkins,” Hester announced as if Fiona should know him. “He’s been my lover for years.”

  “But no more,” Fiona hazarded.

  “No,” Hester said, sucking in the word as if she had a physical pain in her chest. But then her gaze turned malevolent. “He said I was growing too old for him. He didn’t even trouble himself with a parting gift. Well, he’s about to receive a parting gift from me. You see, I faked a letter to him. Signed it from a ‘feminine admirer.’ He loves that sort of thing. Fancies all the women adore him.” She smiled at her cleverness. “I suggested a secret meeting. That’s where we are going now.”

  “And I’m to be his feminine admirer?”

  “Of course. He’ll like you. He likes redheads. His mother was a redhead.” Seeing the look on Fiona’s face, she said, “Don’t think too closely about it, dear. Men are odd.”

  Fiona didn’t doubt that. “But I thought you said I wouldn’t be called upon to—” She paused, not wanting to say the words.

  Hester understood. She waved Fiona’s concerns away. “Not if you pour this into his wine before matters reach that point. I was told it would act quickly.”

  “Won’t he see me?”

  “Not if you distract him,” Hester answered as if she was talking to a simpleton. “Be clever. You can’t tell me you don’t know how to be coy.”

  She did. Fiona had been the belle of the kirk back home in Scotland. She used to lead many lads on. Those days seemed so long ago. She took the vial from Hester. It seemed a simple thing to do for twenty pounds.

  “I’ve hired a private supper room,” Hester continued, “and the wine is already ordered. For all his fine manners, Belkie guzzles like an oarsman. When the contents in that vial start to effect, come for me. I want to watch it work and let him know that I set this whole ruse up. That will teach him not to cross me.”

  “But won’t he be angry?”

  Hester laughed. “What is in that vial will make him harmless quick enough. Oh, don’t look at me that way. It won’t last long or have a permanent effect. He’ll recover.”

  At that moment, the coach pulled to a stop. “We are here,” Hester said with a note of excitement.

  Fiona felt the shape of the vial in her gloved hand. Her conscience troubled her. It was a cruel trick she was being asked to play. “I’d like my money now,” she dared to say.

  Hester shook her head. “I’ll pay once the deed is done.”

  “What if something goes wrong? I should still receive my money.”

  The courtesan tilted back her head and laughed. “Nothing will go wrong. Belkie will be like clay in your hands. We’ll be on our way home within the hour—and you’ll be holding your money in your hand.”

  The door to the hack opened. The driver waited to help her down. Fiona hesitated. “Where are we?”

  “The Swan’s Nest. It’s a cozy little inn, tucked in close to the city and the perfect place for a lover’s tryst. The host’s name is Mr. Denby. He’s expecting you but under Annie’s name.”

  “Annie’s name? What if something goes wrong?”

  With a lift of one eyebrow, Hester explained, “Well, that won’t bother either of us now, will it? Annie’s long gone from here.”

  “How long will I have to wait for Lord Belkins?”

  Hester gave a half laugh. “He’s here,” she said with complete assurance. “Belkie was never one to miss an appointment.”

  Fiona drew her fringed shawl around her shoulders and climbed out. The ground was damp and soft beneath the kid slippers she had borrowed from Annie that morning before she left. They were a bit too small for her and obviously very worn since the wet seemed to seep into them.

  A rising fog gave the Swan’s Nest the appearance of complete isolation. Fiona would be hard pressed if asked to describe exactly where she was.

  She slipped the vial into a hidden pocket sewn into the seam of her dress and walked toward the torch-lit front door. It opened before she could reach for the handle.

  A balding man with the jovial appearance of someone’s favorite uncle gave her a bow. “Mrs. Jenkins?”

  Fiona nodded, resisting an urge to glance back where Hester waited in the hack. “Are you Mr. Denby?”

  “I am. Your guest is waiting.”

  Her heart leapt to her throat, making it difficult to speak. “Thank you,” she managed to say.

  He shut the door. “This way, please.” He led her through an empty tap room.

  “You don’t have much custom tonight,” Fiona observed as he led her down a narrow hallway.

  “We are a very private establishment.”

  “So there aren’t other guests?” she wondered.

  “We always have guests.” He stopped mid-way down the hall. “Your room is the last door on the right,” he informed her in a low voice. “The table inside is set for dinner as you instructed. There is a scarf on the other side of the door. When you are ready for us to serve, hang it out in the hall.”

  “Thank you,” Fiona murmured. As he stepped aside to let her pass, a new idea struck her. “If I need help, would someone come if I gave a shout?”

  “We usually don’t interfere in the guests’ games,” he told her. “However, if you are concerned then I’ll keep my ears open for you.”

  “Yes, please,” Fiona said, gathering her courage. She went down the hall, checking to be certain the vial was in her pocket as she moved.

  At the door, she stopped in indecision. Should she knock? Or enter without any announcement? What did men expect from unknown lovers?

  Mr. Denby still stood in the hallway, watching her.

  Fiona gave a knock. One light rap to the door. There was no answer from inside. “Belkie” must have assumed she was an idiot for knocking on a door for a room she hired.

  She smiled at Mr. Denby.

  He smiled back.

  Reminding herself of the twenty pounds waiting for her, Fiona turned the handle, and opened the door.

  The candlelit room was designed for seduction with sound-muffling draperies covering the walls and a linen-covered table intimately set for two. But what made her stomach twist into a knot of apprehension was the four-poster bed that dominated the majority of the room, its bedcovers turned down in open invitation. A welcoming fire burned in the grate.

  However, something was wrong.

  The room was empty. Hadn’t Mr. Denby said Lord Belkins had already arrived?

  A chair had been pulled from the table. A glass of wine poured. Perhaps Lord Belkins had stepped out for a moment?

  After all the stewing she’d been doing over entering this room, to find herself alone seemed a bit of a disappointment.

  Then again, his absence could work in her favor. She could pour the vial into his wine now.

  But just as Fiona moved forward to do the deed, a strong hand came out from behind the door and grabbed her. It clamped over her mouth, preventing her from shouting an alarm, while another hand jerked her up against a hard, muscular body.

  Panic ripped through Fiona as Lord Belkins kicked shut the door, holding her prisoner with his body, his hand covering her breast—

  “You aren’t the Spaniard,” he said with angry surprise. He released his hold as if scalded, sending Fiona toward the table.

  She caught herself before she could fall and reached for the closest weapon she could find—a fork. She whirled to face him—and then it was her turn to freeze in shock.

  Her attacker
was none other than the wickedly handsome, dark-haired Duke of Holburn.

  How many times had she thought of him? Dreamed of him? Hoped that someday they would meet again?

  Now, here he was, larger than life, furiously angry, and the only thing she could think to say was, “You aren’t Lord Belkins.”

  “And you aren’t Andres Ramigio,” the Duke of Holburn shot back—and she realized he didn’t recall meeting her. Not one flicker of recognition crossed his face.

  The man of her dreams didn’t remember her.

  It was a humiliating moment.

  He frowned at her fork, dusting off some imaginary piece of lint from his sleeve. “What are you going to do with that? Prick me to death?”

  “The idea has merit.”

  She meant the words.

  Chapter Two

  The tart’s cool response to his comment caught Nick’s attention.

  At last, he troubled himself to give her a good hard look and then almost dropped his jaw in stunned surprise.

  The resemblance between her and the Oracle he’d met nine years ago in the ruins at Delphi was uncanny. Almost frightening. And yet there were differences.

  The Oracle had been a spirit, a glowing, ethereal vision whose eyes had been hidden from him. This woman was flesh and blood and her eyes snapped with insult. He could well imagine her skewering him with her fork, but he didn’t understand why. He really hadn’t been that rough with her.

  What she did share with the Oracle was beauty. Her cheekbones were high, her red hair a dark auburn that tumbled becomingly down around her shoulders, the pins having been knocked loose when he’d grabbed her. She was of average height, her waist trim, her breasts full. It was almost the perfect figure for a woman, except there was a leanness to her as if she’d missed more than her share of meals. It was a look common amongst London’s lower classes.

  A memory floated in his consciousness. “We’ve met before,” he said, speaking his thoughts aloud.

  He knew he was right because her shoulders straightened and her gaze grew wary. “Where was it?” he asked.

  “Where is Lord Belkins?” she countered. She had courage. Few spoke to him in that manner.