by Lauren Smith
The Gentleman’s Seduction
The Seduction Series - Book 4
Lauren Smith
Copyright page
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2018 by Lauren Smith
Cover design by EDH Graphics
Stock Photography by Period Images
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Lauren Smith supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact [email protected]. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.
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The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.
ISBN: 978-1-947206-48-9 (ebook)
ISBN: 978-1-947206-49-6 (Trade paperback)
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Epilogue
An Earl By Any Other Name
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
About the Author
Other Titles by Lauren Smith
For my brother, Grant, who makes me proud every day to have an amazing brother like him.
Prologue
London, December 5, 1814
“Please, you cannot do this!” The hoarse pleading echoed in the silence of the hall.
Seventeen-year-old Martin Banks hid in the shadows, watching his father plead for mercy with Edwin Hartwell in the foyer of their small townhouse on Gracechurch Street. Edwin’s tall stature, broad shoulders, and cold face cast fear into Martin’s young heart. His twin sister, Helen, clutched his arm as they peered around the curtain’s edge from their hidden vantage point.
“I can and I will.” Edwin’s face was hard as he stared at William Banks. “You owe me ten thousand pounds, and I’m calling in that debt. If you cannot pay, you shall be out within the week.”
“Out?” Their mother, a lovely woman with a delicate constitution, leaned heavily against the banister for support. She should have been resting upstairs, not facing this brute next to her husband. Martin wanted to go to her, but he was frozen with a childish fear. If his father was afraid of Edwin, then Martin knew he had no chance to stand against him.
“Yes, madam.” Edwin’s reply was cold enough to ice over the river Thames.
“Oh, please, you can’t. What about the children?” She held a hand out beseechingly to Edwin, but he shrugged off her touch and stepped back.
“If you had cared at all about your children, you would not have made such a risky investment. I loaned you the money, and I am owed my due.”
Martin’s throat tightened, and he curled his hands in fists so tightly that his nails dug into his palms hard enough to draw blood.
“I’ll get you the money,” William said, rushing to reassure Edwin.
“You may try, but none of the banks will extend you credit.”
“They might,” his father argued. “I have not fallen completely out of favor with them.”
“We shall see. If not, you will be cast out in seven days.” Edwin set his hat on his head, and the butler opened the door for him. As the man stepped out into the night, Martin stared at the his back, burning the sight into his memory forever.
Edwin Hartwell, the man who ruined their family.
“William, what shall we do? If the banks won’t help us…” his mother began.
“I still have friends at Drummonds. I’ll go there first thing tomorrow.”
“Please, I’m so worried. It is so close to Christmas. What if we cannot afford another place to live?” His mother hugged his father, and Martin’s heart swelled with hope. Surely his father would be able to do something. He had to; they needed a home to live in.
“Everything will be all right, Mary. You’ll see. There’s bound to be some rooms somewhere, even if we must move to a less respectable area of town.” His father let her go, and she brushed away a tear, her hands trembling.
“Go upstairs and rest. You’ve had too much to worry about today.” William’s eyes were dark with concern. Martin was worried too. In the last few days, his mother had grown weaker than she ever had been before.
She started for the stairs but suddenly collapsed. Her body crumpled to the floor.
“Mary!” his father shouted and rushed to her side, cradling her in his arms.
“Mother!” Martin fled the shadows and joined him, Helen right behind him.
His mother lay like a fallen angel in his father’s embrace, her lashes fluttering like the frantic wings of a butterfly trying to stay aloft in the midst of a storm. Her ashen face, pale lips, and cloudy eyes warned Martin of a truth he had never wished to see—that one’s parents were not invincible.
“Fetch the doctor!” William shouted.
Martin grabbed his coat from an anxious footman and ran into the street, calling for a hackney. The doctor they knew lived only a few streets away, but Martin feared even that short distance would be too far. He’d seen his mother’s face, pale and her limbs going slack. He had seen death.
Edwin Hartwell had stolen more than Martin’s home—he’d taken his mother’s life, and someday Edwin would pay.
1
London, December 10, 1825
Martin Banks despised Christmas. He sat in his armchair at his club, Brooks’s, and listened to the men around him discussing the balls and winter festivities to be held over the next few weeks leading up to the holiday. He unfolded his copy of the Morning Post, trying to focus on the articles and block out the stories of the men around him as they shared memories of snow forts, figgy puddings, and quests for a Yule log.
Nonsense. Foolish, sentimental nonsense.
At the age of twenty-eight, he was past his reckless youth but not old enough to look back fondly upon it either. Men his age were celebrating the holiday with new brides or new children. But not Martin. He had taken careful steps to avoid marriage, which had been easy in his early twenties. After his mother died, his father had lost his will to live, and their lives had fallen into shambles.
By age twenty, he and his twin sister, Helen, were orphans and had moved to Bath to seek employment, him as a clerk and she as a governess. They’d both failed to achieve those respective goals. Fortunately, Helen had married, and her husband had given Martin financial support while he’d worked his way into the world of investments. Without much money at hand earlier on, the young ladies of Bath had ignored him despite his fair looks. Not that he cared. It hadn’t been until a few years later when he’d earned his fortune that women looked upon him with eyes toward marriage, and by then he’d lost his desire to marry.
I won’t make the same mistakes my father did. A man who doesn’t love anything can’t lose anything.
For the past eight years, he’d worked toward establishing himself as a smart investor. Unlike his father, he had far more luck and had amass
ed quite the fortune. Now ladies looked at him with open interest, which he happily ignored. He didn’t need a wife, but if he was honest with himself, he needed a new mistress. His bachelor residence was a bit lonely at times. He knew many men wouldn’t set their mistresses up in their own residences and would simply visit them. Martin had preferred the closeness of his companions much more than he cared for society’s rules. Since he did little entertaining it didn’t matter overmuch that his mistresses usually lived in his town house.
It had been a while since he’d had a mistress under his roof. Martin didn’t like that he was having fits of the blue devils more frequently. At times, the only cure was to visit his twin sister, Helen. Her two young children, his niece and nephew, gave him no end of joy.
“Banks, you devil, where have you been hiding these days?” A familiar jovial voice broke through Martin’s grim thoughts. A ruddy-cheeked man with a ready smile stared down at him over the top of his newspaper.
“Rodney!” Martin grinned and folded the paper and set it aside. “Join me, would you?” There were plenty of men Martin could claim as friends, but Rodney was closer to a brother.
“Just for a bit. I have to escort my wife to Bond Street. The children need presents, you know.” Rodney’s delight was evident by the warmth with which he said this and the way his eyes glinted with fatherly pride. A twinge of pain in Martin’s chest surprised him, but he buried the pain with another smile.
“I haven’t seen you in months,” Martin said. “Did you take the course of action I suggested on the annuities?”
Rodney nodded and took a seat close to Martin, glancing around the room at the other men.
“I certainly did. Paid off handsomely. Still is, in fact.” Rodney slapped his thigh and leaned back in his chair.
“Good. Glad to hear it.” Martin had known Rodney for eight years. When they’d first met, the man had been a bit of a gambler, but he’d outgrown the habit and settled down, prosperously.
“And you? Tell me, are you still seeing that opera singer? She was most enchanting.”
Martin chuckled. “Stella and I parted ways four months ago. I didn’t mind her upkeep, but we had both tired of each other. Once the spark is gone, it’s gone,” Martin said with a sigh. “Still, she is doing well in Paris, I hear.”
“Why don’t you come out with me tonight? I’ve got an invitation to meet with some gentlemen at the Argyll Rooms. They’re having a ball of sorts, and a few tables of faro and whist will be set up, I imagine.”
“I don’t know. Who are you meeting with?”
“Lord Pentwith, Mr. Smythebrooke, and a few others. Come, Martin, have a little fun this evening.”
Martin stroked his chin thoughtfully. “Perhaps I shall.” He could always leave early if the evening bored him.
“Splendid. Meet you at the Argyll Rooms at nine tonight.” Rodney rose from his chair and gave Martin a congenial thump on the back as he departed.
Folding his paper, Martin decided it was time to go. He waved at one of the reading room attendants, and the boy fetched his hat and coat. As he left the club, he inhaled the crisp, cold winter air and looked skyward at the purple skies and the setting sun, which softened the harshness of the city at twilight. In a few hours he would be at the Argyll Rooms, and he would likely have a chance to make the acquaintance of a few lovely ladies looking to secure a protector and benefactor. It was a role he would be happy to fill for an enterprising young beauty who might catch his eye.
By the time he reached his residence on Park Lane, he was eagerly looking forward to meeting up with Rodney again. The townhouse had cost him thirty-three thousand pounds, but he had embellished it with renovations and furnishings for another hundred thousand pounds, so now it was quite an attractive home. Any woman he met tonight would be quite enthusiastic to share it with him for a time. The front door opened as he carefully wiped his boots on the boot scraper to rid them of the ice from the pavements.
“Welcome home, sir.” Mr. Harris, his butler, collected his hat and coat, passing them to the first footman.
“Evening, Harris. Please notify Mrs. Wilson I shall be out tonight and won’t need supper.”
“Of course, sir. Should I have your coach ready at a certain time?”
“Half past eight would be sufficient.” He glanced about the Palladian-style home with its grand white marble staircase, envisioning a beautiful young lady ascending the stairs, ready to be taken to his bed.
Damn, it had been too bloody long since he had a woman around his home. It would be good to have a new mistress, someone to warm his bed and keep him company in the evenings over a glass of sherry. He had missed that, certainly. Martin climbed the stairs to the primary floor and entered his chambers. His valet, Will Byrd, was tending to the collection of snuffboxes in a glass case. Martin never used snuff, but he liked to collect the beautifully painted boxes. There was something about the tiny painted porcelain scenes that fascinated and amazed him.
“Evening, Byrd,” he greeted. His valet nodded and murmured a polite reply.
“I’ll be going out tonight. Draw me a bath and set out evening clothes suitable for the Argyll Rooms.”
“Yes, sir. Oh, a letter came for you earlier this evening, sir.” Byrd passed him a letter, which he took. He plucked a silver letter opener from his escritoire and sliced the wax seal open. He recognized his sister’s handwriting at once.
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Martin,
I hope this letter finds you well. The children have been begging for news about when you will visit again. Four months is far too long to go without seeing you. Gareth and I thought it would be lovely if you came to visit over Christmas. I know you don’t like the holidays, but it would delight the children and me too if you came to stay with us. Please say you’ll consider it.
Yours,
Helen
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“Oh, Helen.” He folded the letter and set it down on his desk. Despite his vow to never love anyone or anything, Helen was the one exception. She was his twin, someone he’d shared their mother’s womb with. That was an unbreakable bond. He had his friends, like Rodney, and acquaintances. But if those friendships were stolen tomorrow, it would not break him, not like losing someone he loved like Helen, Gareth or the children.
“Very well. You want me home for Christmas, then I will come home.” No doubt she had plans to introduce him to more simpering young ladies from Bath, but he didn’t want his sister to play matchmaker. He would not let the holidays melt the ice around his heart.
Nothing could do that.
2
Martin entered the Argyll Rooms on the east side of Regent Street and glanced around the hall. Frescoes were painted on the walls to represent Corinthian pillars. Grecian lamps illuminated his path as he passed through the elegant crimson folding doors and into the festivities. The men and women around him were boisterous. The sounds of their gaiety bounced off the walls, creating such a din he could barely hear himself think.
Martin paused as he reached the main staircase. The green cloth beneath his feet was covered with a Turkish patterns. He’d always enjoyed the elegance of the Argyll Rooms, and tonight was no different. But rather than take in the sights, he searched the crowd for Rodney. The jovial crowd and the excitement of the night’s pleasures around him started to affect him. A smile curved his lips, and he hummed a little to the strains of a familiar song from an orchestra playing in the main hall.
Then his heart stopped and his world tilted on its axis.
There, at the entrance to the Turkish Room, was a man he had not seen since he was seventeen. He felt as though he were suddenly plunging from a great height. The man he loathed more than anything in the world was there—Edwin Hartwell. In all these years, they had never crossed paths at a club, ball, or dinner before, but he would never ever forget that face.
Hartwell wasn’t one for society unless he was sniffing out a business opportunity, yet there he was, speaking to a group of gentlemen. A
cold rage frosted Martin’s insides as he started toward the man. His fingers itched with the urge to grab him, slam him against the wall, and strangle the breath from his body.
Hartwell was speaking earnestly to a man Martin didn’t know. They soon disappeared into the Turkish Room, and Martin followed. The room was a novelty. The elegant blue carpets and blue drapes were accented with Ottoman sofas spaced throughout the room. Beneath the beautifully painted ceilings, an eagle made of gold clasped a thunderbolt in its claws. A massive chandelier hung below the eagle. Between the sofas were card tables neatly arranged and games already underway. Hazard tables were surrounded by gentlemen, most of them dressed like dandified peacocks, prancing about as they tossed dice. Games of E.O., faro, whist, and even rouge et noir were all being played. Hartwell stood near the rouge et noir table.
Martin lingered a few tables away, studying the man who had destroyed his family. Hartwell had been an impressively tall man with dark hair and a hard twist to his mouth all those years ago. A nightmarish figure to a young lad.
Now the man’s hair was streaked with gray, his shoulders were a little stooped, and his face was lined with a weariness born of strife. The cold nobility he’d once carried about him like a shield had decayed into a struggle to survive. The cut of his coat was loose, as though he’d shrunken a little, and the fabric was noticeably threadbare. Hartwell wasn’t doing well.
Martin’s pulse began to race. He felt like a hound who had caught the scent of a fox on the air and was ready for blood.
