Seduction Becomes Her

by Shirlee Busbee

  “But I thought you liked Mr. Weston,” Adrian exclaimed, dismayed.

  “I like him well enough,” Daphne was honest enough to acknowledge, “but you must admit that this whole affair has changed our lives forever.”

  “Yes, that is so,” Adrian agreed. “But I think that once we get used to the idea, that we shall be merry as grigs.”

  Daphne shot her brother a disagreeable look. How easy it was for him! He wasn’t the one being married to a virtual stranger.

  She reminded herself again of all the advantages that would befall her brother and sister upon her marriage to Mr. Weston. Mr. Weston’s relationship to the earl figured large in those advantages, as did the discovery that her betrothed possessed a fortune that made Adrian’s seem almost paltry. Which would be a great benefit to April and Adrian, she conceded, and provided Mr. Weston did not interfere, she could lavish all sorts of gifts on them that had been beyond her means. For a second, she was happily distracted by the thought of the luxurious gowns and gleaming jewels she could buy April and the blooded horses and extravagant accoutrements she could give to Adrian. But that glow quickly faded when she considered the circumstances surrounding her sudden wealth.

  Despite the vicar’s championship, she knew that her marriage to Mr. Weston was going to be the main topic in many households over the coming weeks. People were definitely going to talk, some of it would be cruel and spiteful—she couldn’t pretend otherwise. And they were going to talk and gossip and speculate much more than they would have if Mr. Weston did not have an earl for a cousin and had only possessed a respectable fortune rather than an impressive one. She sighed. As long as none of the gossip spilled onto Adrian or April, she could endure it. She could, and would, endure anything for them. Even marriage to Mr. Weston. And just never mind that his kisses aroused feelings and sensations she had never dreamed of and that one look from his cool green eyes made her feel as if her limbs had turned to honey.

  Remembering those exciting but most regrettable moments in Mr. Vinton’s office when Mr. Weston had taken her into his arms, the taste of him, and the sweet sweep of his hand against the cleft between her legs, her heart raced, and that queer little ache throbbed in her lower regions. She stared grimly ahead. She was not going to dwell on what had happened, or nearly happened, but she was going to take care that she did not put herself in that position again.

  Deciding that it did no good to dwell on events over which she had no control, Daphne settled down to enjoy the drive back to Beaumont Place. The day was cool and clear, the steady breeze coming in from the Channel making her glad that her pelisse was nice and warm. The passing countryside didn’t have a great deal to excite the senses: the high moorland was desolate except for those areas broken by the rich, narrow valleys. It was also surprisingly green for this time of year and at the moment, free of snow. The Penzance area, she had learned, seldom had snow, and when it did snow, within a few days, it melted away. Barring a few protected areas, the constant, blowing sea winds prevented timber trees from growing to any size, but the air was extremely mild.

  A few miles outside of Penzance proper, the road curved around a small hillock, and nestled near its base was a tiny thatch-roofed cottage. Enclosed by a tumbling rock fence, the cottage sat a hundred yards or so off the main road, and a winding footpath led to the front door.

  Remembering Mrs. Hutton’s description of where Mr. Goodson’s sister, Anne Darby, lived, Daphne touched Adrian’s arm.

  When he glanced at her, she said, “Please stop. I believe that Goodson’s sister lives here. Since we are here, I wish to make her acquaintance.”

  Puzzled but agreeable, Adrian pulled the bay to a halt. Without waiting for his help, Daphne alighted from the gig. Smiling at him, she said, “There is no reason for both of us to descend upon her unannounced, and I know you will not want to keep your horse waiting. Why don’t you walk the mare—I shall not be a moment.”

  It wasn’t until she was just a few feet from the wooden door at the front of the cottage that Daphne had second thoughts about the wisdom of her actions. Anne Darby was reputed to be a witch—what business did Sir Adrian’s sister have with such a creature? Ghostly business, Daphne decided wryly as she forced herself to cross that short distance.

  Her gloved hand was raised to knock when the door swung open. Daphne didn’t know what she expected, some wrinkled old crone? But it certainly wasn’t the trim little woman who had opened the door.

  If Anne Darby and her brother were of an age, Anne looked to be easily a decade younger. Her soft brown hair, neatly tied at the back of the neck, showed scarcely any silver in it, and except for a few laugh lines around her large, lustrous eyes and the corners of her full mouth, there were few signs of the passing years. Her fair complexion looked like that of a woman half her age, and for a moment, Daphne wondered if perhaps it was Anne Darby herself who stood in the doorway of the cottage.

  The woman laughed, the dark eyes dancing. “Yes, Miss Beaumont, I am, indeed, Anne Darby, Goodson’s sister. I have been expecting you. Please come in.”

  Taken aback, Daphne hesitated. The woman knew who she was? And she had been expecting her?

  Anne opened the door wider and said, “Come, come now. There is nothing to be afraid of. I only put curses on people who annoy me. You are perfectly safe,” she grinned at her, “unless you annoy me.”

  Charmed and mayhap a trifle apprehensive, Daphne allowed herself to be coaxed inside the cottage. Again, she didn’t know what she expected, but it wasn’t the cozy room in which she stood.

  A small stone fireplace was centered on one wall; a worn woolen carpet, the once bright colors faded to a dusty rose and palest green lay upon the floor; and the scent of beeswax, lavender, and some other indefinable scent—heart of toad, tongue of lizard? Daphne wondered—wafted in the air. Blond lace curtains hung at the windows; the furniture was old but obviously cherished. But what caught Daphne’s eyes was the table made from a thick slab of oak near the back of the room and the tall cabinet behind it, its shelves filled with gleaming glass bottles of various sizes, bowls, even a marble mortar with a brass pestle. She swallowed. Was that where the witch brewed and concocted her potions?

  “Please be seated,” Anne said, indicating a settee under one window. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

  “Um, no, thank you,” Daphne said. “I only mean to stay a moment. My brother awaits me on the road.” Curious, she asked, “How did you know who I was? And that I was coming to see you? I didn’t know it myself until I saw your cottage.”

  Anne laughed and seated herself in the small chair across from her. “Nothing very mysterious about it. I came to visit my brother one day last week, and you were pointed out to me. As for the other, Mrs. Hutton mentioned that you had, er, questions about the local legends and that you would be coming to visit one of these days.” The dark eyes twinkled. “I’ve been expecting you for a few days now.”

  Daphne smiled, liking Goodson’s sister. “No crystal ball or black cat?” she asked lightly.

  Anne returned the smile and shook her head. “No crystal ball, I’m afraid. I do have a friendly orange tabby, but Samantha is too fat and lazy to be considered a familiar of the devil. I leave that sort of nonsense to the gypsies.” Her smile fled, and she studied Daphne. “I cannot tell the future, my dear, but if your heart is heavy and I can help you, I shall.”

  Daphne flushed. “Am I that obvious?”

  “Few people come to see me who are without worries they hope I can make disappear or desires that they want me to help them attain.”

  Looking anywhere but at that kind, concerned face, Daphne said carefully, “My worries and my desires are my own, but I would like to learn more about the legends surrounding Beaumont Place.”

  “Vicar Henley is a noted historian in the area,” Anne said quietly, her eyes fixed on Daphne’s face. “Did you speak with him?”

  Daphne sighed. “Yes, I did, but I don’t think that his records will tell me what
I…” She looked helplessly at Anne, unable to think of a way to phrase her request without sounding like a candidate for Bedlam.

  Anne’s expression sharpened, and she leaned forward. “Why do you think that I would know more than Vicar Henley?”

  Wishing she had not started this conversation and that she had not given in to the impulse to stop, Daphne didn’t reply. She might have a favorable impression of Anne Darby, but she wasn’t about ready to confess to the local witch that she thought a ghost had visited her.

  Forcing a smile, Daphne murmured, “Mrs. Hutton said that you would know the, um, less formal versions of the same stories I might find amongst the vicar’s collection.” She glanced down at her gloved hands. “Until we learned of Sir Huxley’s death and my brother’s inheritance, we had no idea that we had any other family.” Her eyes met Anne’s. “I want to learn the stories and legends about the Beaumont family that have been handed down from generation to generation,” she said earnestly, if a bit mendaciously. Her cheeks flaming, she added, “I would be more than willing to pay you something for your time.”

  Anne sat back and regarded Daphne thoughtfully for several long seconds. Then she shrugged. “I have no objections to telling tales of long ago Beaumonts…but are you certain that you want to hear them?” She looked grim. “Some of your ancestors were not very nice people.”

  “I don’t doubt that,” Daphne said wryly. “And since yours have served mine from the beginning of time, if Mrs. Hutton and Goodson are to be believed, there must have been a relative or two of yours with a dark past.”

  Anne nodded and smiled. “Too true, my dear, too true. For every blackhearted Beaumont, I’m sure you’ll find an equally blackhearted Goodson lurking somewhere in the background.” She cocked a brow. “When did you want to hear some of these tales? Now?”

  Knowing that Adrian must be wondering what was taking her so long, Daphne rose to her feet. “Oh, no. I did not mean to intrude upon you this way, but I did want to meet you. Perhaps we can set a time and place to meet again?”

  “Of course,” Anne said agreeably, standing up. “Since you are the one paying,” she said dryly, “my time is yours. What is your pleasure?”

  They settled on meeting at two o’clock Friday afternoon, with Daphne preferring to come to Anne’s cottage rather than having Anne come to Beaumont Place.

  “Just as well,” Anne said as she walked with her to the door of the cottage. “My brother will be in a taking if he knows that I am filling your ears with tales and stories he would just as soon pretend he never heard.” She shook her head. “Our meetings will not remain secret for long, though, but your coming here will somewhat delay Goodson discovering that we have met.” She smiled. “He is sure to ring a peal over me when he learns you are coming here, but it won’t be the first time I’ve upset him, nor the last.”

  “I don’t want to cause trouble between you,” Daphne said, concerned.

  Anne waved her away. “Don’t worry about Goodson and I. I enjoy shaking him out of his complacent pompousness from time to time.”

  Daphne hurried back along the path where Adrian, looking impatient, was tooling up and down the road. Spying his sister, he pulled the mare to a stop near the edge of the road. “I say, Daffy, it is about time! I was becoming worried, you know,” he said when Daphne stopped next to the gig. “What took you so long?”

  Giving him an apologetic smile, Daphne scrambled into the vehicle. “I am sorry. Do let us continue on our way.”

  Grumbling, Adrian urged the mare into motion. After a silent moment, he said, “Are you going to tell me what that was about?”

  “It is nothing, really. Mrs. Hutton told me that if I wanted to learn some of the legends and stories about our ancestors, Anne Darby would be the person to see.” She smiled at Adrian. “She’s reputed to be the local witch, and I was curious about her.”

  Adrian looked astounded. “A witch? Our Goodson’s sister?”

  “Indeed, yes, but I can assure you, she is nothing like you might imagine. I was pleasantly surprised by her. In fact, I liked her.”

  Adrian cut his eyes in her direction. “And did she tell you anything of interest? Such as why our thrice-great grandfather left the area vowing never to return?”

  Daphne shook her head. “No, there wasn’t enough time for much conversation. I merely wanted to meet her.” She hesitated. “I am going to see her again on Friday afternoon.”

  As he rode toward Lanyon Hall that Wednesday afternoon, Daphne’s plans to consort with a local witch wouldn’t have surprised Charles, but then, little about Daphne surprised him. Stunned him, perhaps. Confounded him? Oh yes, upon occasion. Frustrated him, certainly, but surprise? No.

  Paying little attention to the countryside as his horse steadily covered the distance to Lord Trevillyan’s country estate, he turned over the meeting at Mr. Vinton’s office. He wasted little thought on the settlements—they were a necessary evil and he had no argument with the way things had been set up for Daphne’s protection and use—it was those moments alone with Daphne that occupied him.

  It was, he admitted, a good thing that he found his bride-to-be so attractive that he could hardly keep his hands off of her, but it also disturbed him. No novice where the opposite sex was concerned, though he tried, Charles could not recall one instance, not even his wild salad days, when he had exhibited such little control over his passion for a woman. He shook his head, amazed that he had somehow managed to keep from seducing Daphne then and there. And that was twice, he thought uneasily, that his command over himself had been shattered. He frowned. All it would have taken was the wrong move on Daphne’s part today for him to have done the deed that many people assumed had already taken place. If she had touched him…He groaned, his loins tightening, and hot, aching hunger exploded through him at the image in his brain of Daphne’s hand on him, caressing, fondling him. Feeling as if he were going to burst his breeches, Charles wrenched his thoughts away from the scene in Mr. Vinton’s office.

  Cursing under his breath, he kicked his horse into a gallop. Until they were safely married and he could indulge himself, Daphne’s undeniable allure was definitely going to test his willpower. Thank God, he thought, he had less than a month to wait, but between now and then…A wry smile curved his mouth. Between now and then, he would just have to practice restraint, something he had never been very good at.

  Lanyon Hall came into view, and he slowed his horse as he approached the imposing Elizabethan-style manor house. The front of the house was nearly covered with ivy, patches of the gray granite of which it was constructed showing through here and there; the panes of the mullioned windows, framed by the thick green leaves of the ivy, gleamed in the fading sunlight. The stables were another quarter of a mile beyond the house, and Charles rode briskly in that direction. Leaving his horse in the capable hand of the groom, Charles strolled back toward the house.

  Trevillyan had insisted he treat the house as his own, and Charles did so. Crossing the huge foyer with its gray-veined marble floor, he was met by Trevillyan’s butler, Eames, a tidy little man of some forty years of age.

  “Heard my horse, did you?” Charles said as he smiled and tossed his hat and gloves to the butler.

  “Indeed, I did,” Eames acknowledged as he caught the items. “There was a letter in the post today for you, Mr. Weston,” he added. “I had it delivered to your rooms.”

  “Thank you,” Charles said as he bounded up the broad staircase and quickly walked to his rooms. Entering his suite, he immediately spotted the letter lying in a silver salver on top of a satinwood table near the door.

  Recognizing the name of his solicitor, Mr. Gerrard, on the envelope, Charles tore it open. The contents proved disappointing. Mr. Gerrard had followed Charles’s instructions and had spoken several times with Mr. Smalley, Sofia Weston’s solicitor, but had discovered no record of any transactions that seemed out of the ordinary.

  Mr. Smalley, wrote Mr. Gerrard, was upset by my inquiries, dem
anding to know if we were accusing him of dishonesty in the handling of Mrs. Weston’s estate. I assured him that such was not the case. Mr. Smalley was adamant in stating that he had done nothing dishonest, that he had discharged his duties honestly and honorably, and that he didn’t appreciate my questions.

  I am sorry that I have nothing more to report.

  May I be of assistance to you in some other manner?

  Charles studied Gerrard’s elegant script for several moments. Now what? he wondered. He took a turn around the large sitting room that adjoined his bedchamber. It was possible that Sofia had set up an account under another name separate from her estate. If such an account existed, and it was a big if, Smalley would know of it. Not only know of it, but also where it was and whose name was on it. He frowned. Short of torture, he could think of no way to get the information from Sofia’s solicitor. But if there was an account and if money was being systematically withdrawn from it…

  Crossing to a narrow oak sideboard that held a variety of liquors in crystal decanters, Charles poured himself a small glass of sherry. Taking the sherry with him, he sat down in one of the overstuffed sofas that graced the room and took a sip.

  He reread the letter, then laid it on his thigh, staring off into space as he savored the fine sherry and considered his options. If he could discover whether Sofia had, indeed, set up such an account and that someone was using it, that discovery would go a long way to proving that Raoul was alive. And if he discovered this mythical account and found that the money had remained untouched these past three years, that would prove, at least to his mind, that Raoul was truly dead. He knew his half brother well, and Raoul, raised as the spoiled darling of his mother, could not live without money. Charles smiled grimly. And it would never occur to Raoul to work to earn his keep.

  He sighed and laid his head against the back of the sofa and stared at the ceiling. Unless he departed for London and broke into the offices of Smalley, Slocomb, and Todd and searched Mr. Smalley’s files himself, he could think of no way of moving forward as far as the money was concerned. Finding himself actually considering such a course, he jumped up from the sofa and went in search of his host.