A Seduction at Christmas

by Cathy Maxwell

  She smiled at him. “I’m amazed. They’re beautiful…or is it that they are all the more special, because I wasn’t expecting to see them?”

  Just as he hadn’t expected to see her smile.

  For a second, Nick stood transfixed by that smile. Fiona Lachlan was a lovely woman by anyone’s standards. Since setting eyes on her, he’d wanted her. He liked her. He’d be happy to bed her.

  However, that smile…it didn’t just change her face, but created in him feelings he’d never experienced before. He wanted to touch her, yearned to put his arms around her. Breathing became hard, as if his heart beat twice as fast.

  An image floated in his mind, an image of her smiling not over roses but over him. Over her pleasure at being with him, trusting him…loving him.

  Nick took a step back, startled by the directions of his thoughts.

  He didn’t believe in love. No one he knew was in “love,” at least, not with their spouses and relationships with mistresses never lasted.

  Nick had witnessed one-sided love, but he considered that lust. His father had been a prime example of that. He had lusted for Nick’s mother and “won” a dubious prize.

  “Is something the matter?” Fee asked, coming toward him in concern. “You’ve gone pale.”

  “I’m fine.” He held up a hand to ward her off and searched his scrambled mind for a safe topic. “Tell me the name of your friend again. I’ll stop by the theater and warn her not to go back to your rooms.”

  “Grace McEachin.”

  “Covent Gardens, right?”

  “Yes.” She peered up at his face, obviously not convinced he was fine. “Let me feel your head. Perhaps you are still feeling the effects of that potion.”

  Nick knew he couldn’t let her touch him, not with a bed close at hand. He backed away. “You need to sleep. You have huge circles under your eyes.”

  “I am tired,” she admitted and yawned.

  Dear Lord, even her yawns were attractive. “If you need anything, pull the cord by the door and ring for a servant.”

  He didn’t wait for her answer but left, closing the door behind him.

  At last, he could breathe again.

  Nick leaned back against her door, still dizzy from being close to her inside her room. He’d never gone buffle-headed over a woman before. He’d wanted them, liked them, had them.

  Beware innocence.

  The mystery behind the Oracle’s prophecy haunted him. Fee wasn’t an innocent. A woman didn’t survive on her own without learning hard lessons. She’d paid a price. He saw it in her eyes…but that didn’t make her “safe.”

  The Irishmen, Belkins’s death…the vision of Fee’s face as the Oracle. Forces were at work that he didn’t understand. Or that a sane man would refute.

  He glanced up and down the hall. This was his home, and yet he felt a stranger. It was an eerie feeling.

  Nick walked to his room and was relieved to open the door and see his valet Gannon waiting with fresh clothing. The world fell back into place again.

  “Is something the matter, Your Grace?” Gannon asked. He was a short man with frizzled gray hair and impeccable taste.

  “Why do you ask?” The words came out sharper than he had intended.

  “You seem preoccupied, Your Grace. That is all.”

  Nick forced himself to relax. He reached for an excuse. “Lord Belkins died either last night or early this morning. I’ll be paying a call on Lady Belkins as soon as I’m dressed.”

  “Yes, Your Grace,” Gannon said as he turned to the bureau of drawers and pulled out a black armband.

  “Oh, and another matter, Gannon,” Nick said as he prepared to turn himself over to his valet’s skillful administrations, “I have brought home a guest. She’s my ward.” Like the other servants in the house, the valet was too well trained to even so much as raise an eyebrow. “She needs clothing and all the toiletry articles a woman likes. See to it while I’m out. I know you’ll do well.”

  “Yes, Your Grace. Should I also assign one of the maids to her?”

  “Of course,” Nick said. “Just don’t let it be one of my mother’s favorites. I’ll have no carrying of tales.”

  “Understood, Your Grace.”

  With that, Nick sat in the chair in his changing room and let Gannon do his magic. Less than an hour later, he was out his door where a groom walked his favorite mount, a dark bay gelding by the name of Jack.

  As Nick started to mount, he caught a movement amongst the trees in the park across the road. A pasty white face had pulled back just as he’d looked in that direction. It had to be one of the Irishmen. He wondered if it was Liam or John or even their leader, Thomas.

  He leaned over to the groom. “Peter, there is a man lurking in the park. Don’t look. You’ll see him eventually. He isn’t that bright. I want you to keep your eye on him. I believe he is going to follow me. You stay close to him wherever he goes. I’ll want a report at your first opportunity.”

  “Yes, Your Grace,” Peter said, pulling on his cap.

  Pleased, Nick reined Jack around and set off down the road to learn what he could about Belkins’s death.

  But first, he was going to stop by Covent Gardens and speak to Miss Grace McEachin. Yes, he’d pass on the warning but his true mission was to satisfy his curiosity about Fee. He’d not delay such a visit a moment longer no matter how many Irish murderers were on his trail.

  Three hundred thousand pounds had recently been spent to rebuild the Royal Opera House at Covent Garden after it had burned down in a fire the year before. Nick had attended the opening celebration in September and kept a box here although he didn’t go to the theater often. His time was better spent at the gaming tables that kept the family fortunes alive. Instead, his uncles and other family members used the box.

  However, his mother also rarely went to the theater. That seemed curious for a woman who grew up on the stage, although she took great pains to distance herself from her common background—and hence, her reaction this morning to Fee.

  Nick frowned. He and his mother were not close. It was hard to have any sort of relationship with such a difficult woman, although he did care for her. She was his mother.

  In truth, she spent as much time at the gaming tables as he did and always had. More than once he’d had to settle her debts, but lately they had risen to a ridiculous amount. Six weeks ago, he’d warned her it would have to stop. She couldn’t continue to be so careless. He would cut her off, and she knew he meant it.

  At the stage door, he gave the porter Grace McEachin’s name and pressed a guinea in the man’s hand.

  “Should I tell Mrs. McEachin who is calling for her, my lord?” He used the term “Mrs.” because in the theater many women pretended a dead husband. It was a protection of sorts, and sometimes there truly was a dead husband—or a live one whom she had escaped to seek her fortune.

  “Tell her Fiona Lachlan wishes to speak to her,” Nick answered.

  The porter didn’t even bat an eye at the name Nick used but pocketed his money and went in search of the dancer.

  The back stage was a decidedly inelegant space in contrast to the lavish theater on the other side of the curtain. Here, pulleys, ropes, curtains, and props took up a good portion of the space, leaving narrow paths for the humans who created the magic on stage.

  A few minutes later, the porter returned with a lovely woman with curling black hair, porcelain skin, and vivid blue eyes dark with concern.

  She recognized Nick. Her step slowed. She stopped. He knew she debated whether to run or not.

  “I’d like to speak to you a moment in private,” Nick said without introduction. He moved toward a fake wall assuming she’d follow. She hesitated a moment, crossed her arms in indecision, and then joined him.

  “What has happened to Fiona?” she demanded, her low angry voice carrying the lilt of Scotland. “I swear, Your Grace, if you have hurt her I shall carve your heart out myself.”

  “You Scots are a bloo
d-thirsty lot,” Nick commented. “And I assure you, Fee is fine. She’s under my protection right now.”

  This information did not mollify Miss McEachin. She flew at him with her fists. “What have you done to her?”

  She was a petite woman and he had no problem deflecting her blows. He caught her wrists. “Nothing. I’ve done nothing to her. She is safe and she is well.”

  “You haven’t touched her, have you?” she demanded, her concern that of a loving sister. “She’s not like me.”

  Nick gave a small laugh. “Miss McEachin, when would I have had time? Since I’ve met Fee we’ve been too busy trying to stay alive to think to seduction.”

  Miss McEachin glared at him as if divining the truth of his statement. She pulled on her wrists. He let her go. She moved a step away from him, distrust still etched in every line of her face. “But you’d like to,” she said at last. “Wouldn’t you?”

  “I’m here because she asked me to see you,” he said, uncertain whether he was offended by her charge…or guilty of it. “The Irishmen who attacked us last night broke down Annie Jenkins’s door this morning. Fiona,” he said, making a point of using her full name, “was afraid you might attempt to visit her and she didn’t want you caught up in this.”

  Her brows came together in concern. “I thought they wanted you.”

  “They do, but that hasn’t stopped them from killing others. Hester Bowen died last night when a shot aimed at me hit her instead. I also suspect they have murdered an acquaintance of mine. To be safe, I have Fee with me.”

  “And you don’t know what all of this is about?”

  Nick couldn’t help a cynical smile. “Other than someone wants me dead, no. But I will find out.”

  Some of the tension left Miss McEachin’s body. “Then she’s safest with you.”

  “I believe so.”

  She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. He could leave now. The message had been delivered…but he wanted more.

  He was rewarded when she said in a quiet, thoughtful voice, “You must be careful with her. She’s not as hard as she pretends.”

  “I know.”

  She shook her head. “No, you don’t. You are like everyone else. So judgmental. But she’s Quality, Your Grace. She was bred and groomed to marry a man such as yourself. Her father was one of the most respected magistrates in Scotland. A true and honest man.”

  Here is what he’d really come to Covent Garden for—information about Fee.

  “What happened to him?” he asked.

  “He was murdered,” she said with a bitter smile. “He stood up to the landowners who wanted to clear their property of the crofters and clansmen who had been loyal to them for centuries. In the Highlands, he is revered as a hero. His son, Fiona’s brother, became a rebel against the Crown and had to run to America. Fiona was left alone. Life is not good for a woman alone. Bad things happen.”

  “Such as?”

  She shook her head. “It’s not for me to say. Fiona will tell you, if she has mind to.”

  “Why didn’t her brother take his sister with him?” Nick would have. He wouldn’t have left her behind.

  “He offered. Fiona refused to go. She’s a stubborn one, or have you not discovered that already?”

  “Will you gloat if I admit I’ve learned that fact—repeatedly?”

  Her manner changed to one of friendly commiseration. “I know she can be a trial, but in truth, Your Grace, she is one of the kindest, most loyal women I know. The man who wins her heart will be blessed.”

  Nick smiled. “Is your opinion of me changing, Miss McEachin?”

  “No, Your Grace,” she said without hesitation. “I know your reputation with women. You don’t deserve Fiona. However, I also know your reputation for pistols and swords. You’ll protect her for no other reason than the challenge of it.”

  Her words hit him wrong. “Just for the challenge?” he repeated, letting her know she had offended him. “No more, no less?”

  But Grace McEachin was not intimidated. “Does it matter—?” she started, and then stopped as if struck by a new realization. “Wait. You are angry at what I said.”

  “What man of honor wouldn’t be—”

  “It’s more than that,” she said, cutting him off. “You like her. You may actually be fond of her.”

  Fond? Such a light word for what he actually felt. He took a step toward the door.

  Miss McEachin followed. “Could the heart of the Duke of Holburn, a rake who has lived in the bowels of hell, actually be falling in love with my friend Fiona Lachlan?”

  There was that word again. Love.

  “Don’t be foolish, Miss McEachin. I don’t have a heart.”

  “And I’m thinking you might be wrong, Your Grace,” she said.

  No, Nick wanted to say, a strong, forceful word, but the denial stuck in his throat.

  She smiled with knowledge borne of experience. “You can’t escape Fate, Your Grace. You may already be trapped.”

  He turned and left the theater, feeling as if the hounds of hell were chasing him in her statement.

  Chapter Nine

  Nothing attracted company like tragedy.

  The Belkins’s townhouse was mobbed, the street outside it jammed with coaches and horses. People waited to enter the house while others gathered in front discussing the sudden loss of one of their number. It wasn’t officially a wake, but rather the initial gathering of family, friends, and the curious.

  More than a few lifted their eyebrows in surprise at Nick’s arrival. He wasn’t known for obeying the niceties. As he gave the butler his hat and his name, several mothers waiting in the entrance hall herded their daughters away from him.

  Of course, those same daughters craned their necks for a better look.

  Lady Belkins was a short, horse-faced woman with prematurely graying hair and crying didn’t become her. She held court in her sitting room, a tragic, red-eyed figure whose life had changed overnight. She’d been one of the top heiresses of her Season years ago. Nick was fairly certain Belkins had blown through her fortune and he wondered what she would do now. He wasn’t the only one in town who’d held Belkins’s markers, although at least he wouldn’t call them in. Belkins had already paid a terrible price, one his wife shouldn’t have to pay.

  Nick took a moment to murmur his condolences to the distraught widow and then moved into a side room, where he found a place to stand, giving him a view of the hallway and the receiving rooms. He took a punch cup off the tray of a passing servant and listened to the conversations around him, marveling at the two distinct sides to Belkins’s life. Here was the one of respectability. And then there was the other, the life that included Hester Bowen, gambling, and possibly Andres Ramigio.

  Then again, Nick couldn’t criticize. His life was the same. A pretense of duty and honor and a reality of doing as he damned pleased.

  He heard his mother’s voice and was surprised she was still here. He caught sight of her in the hallway, which was absolutely a crush of people. She was standing close to the wall, speaking earnestly to a woman who could have been the same age. The black pheasant feathers on his mother’s hat bowed and jerked with her animated head movements.

  Nick wondered what had his father seen in this woman? She was silly, vain, and manipulative. His father had given her everything, including naming her his duchess and yet, Nick always had the sense that it hadn’t been enough.

  Over to his right, two of Belkins’s relatives were lamenting his death at such a young age…and Nick was taken back to the time of his own father’s funeral. They had said such things about his father, too.

  Nick had been ten and away at school when his father had died. Docket had come for him, and Docket had been the one to explain that his father had been found dead on the library floor. No one knew what had happened. He’d returned from a ride, gone to his desk to see to some papers and apparently had fallen where he stood.

  The memories made Nick uncomfortable. H
e wasn’t a man given to introspection. He saw no purpose for it. But for the first time, thinking back to those days with the rational mind of a man and not a boy, Nick wondered if perhaps his father had been disappointed in his own marriage. Like everyone else, he’d assumed the unequal class distinction had meant his parents had been wildly in love. Had love turned sour? His parents had not had more children.

  A male voice close by said, “I heard he was found face down in the road. Hit his head on a rock. His horse was found running loose in the park.”

  Nick glanced over and saw the speaker was Sir Lionel Hemly, who was holding court with two other gentlemen he didn’t know.

  “Which park?” one of the gentlemen asked.

  “I’m not certain,” Sir Lionel answered. “Of course the mystery is what was Belkins doing out that early in the morning. It was not a fashionable hour for a ride.”

  “He could have been coming in,” one of his companions said and the men laughed, knowing what he meant.

  “Still, it’s deuced bad business,” Sir Lionel concluded. He reached for the punch tray a servant carried, set down his empty glass and took a fresh one. “’Tis a somber note for the Christmas season, eh? He’s left his family with nothing. His wife may have to move back in with her family.”

  It was what Nick had suspected. Belkins had been a done up. He’d offered to arrange the meeting with Andres Ramigio in exchange for his markers because he had no money. At the time, Nick had been so excited at the mention of Ramigio he hadn’t considered an important question—how had Belkins known the man? Or that Nick had wanted him? It wasn’t a matter Nick mentioned outside his immediate family. Other than his uncles and his cousin Richard, he doubted if anyone else knew.

  Belkins’s death could have been an accident, but Nick didn’t believe so. The numbers of dead from last night were piling high.

  He wasn’t about to be next. The time had come to be bold.

  Mourners were still entering Belkins’s front door. Few were leaving, since this impromptu wake gave everyone the opportunity to visit.

  Nick wandered down the hall, giving his punch glass to a passing servant. Most London town-houses were laid out in the same manner. There was a front set of stairs for guests, and a back set for family and servants. Nick found the back stairs and quietly climbed them, thinking he’d pretend to be searching for the water closet if a family member or a servant came across him.