Seduction Becomes Her

by Shirlee Busbee

  Charles found Trevillyan in the library, sitting before the fire, sipping a fragrant rum punch. Since the butler had left a steaming bowl of the punch and some cups, Charles helped himself to a cup before joining his host.

  Standing near the fire, one arm resting along the wide marble mantle, Charles took a sip of the punch. “Now that,” he said, savoring the warm liquor, “is an excellent way to end the day.”

  Trevillyan cast him a sly look. “Settlements taken care of?”

  Charles nodded. “Yes.”

  Trevillyan snorted. “I cannot believe that you are going to marry her. Charles Weston married to a little nobody with no fortune, no family, and no particular beauty—it is disgraceful.” From the slight slur to his words, it was apparent that this was not Trevillyan’s first foray to the punch bowl this afternoon. “If you want my opinion,” he mumbled, “since the banns have not yet been called, offer that cub, Sir Adrian, a nice sum and take yourself off to London and forget about the whole affair.”

  Deciding that it would be rude to throw his drink in his host’s face and challenge him to a duel, Charles said in a deceptively mild tone, “I would remind you of two things, my lord. One, unless you’d like me to throttle you where you sit, I think you owe me and my intended an apology, and two, if you ever say such a thing again, I will throttle you.”

  Trevillyan blinked, trying to get his befuddled brain around the fact that he had taken a dreadful misstep. The man who stared across at him bore no resemblance to the pleasant guest who had shared his home these past weeks. Gone was the gentleman with the quick smile and the easy charm, and in his place stood a flint-eyed stranger, one whose grim expression and taut stance warned that Charles meant every word he had just uttered.

  “Oh, I say,” Trevillyan protested feebly, “I didn’t mean anything. I was just, uh, muttering in my cups, you know. Wouldn’t offend you for the world, dear fellow.”

  “And my wife to be?” Charles asked in a silky voice that frightened Trevillyan even more.

  “A-a-and, of course, Miss Beaumont. Upon my soul! Never meant to offer an insult to her…or you. Never.” Trevillyan looked blearily at his cup. “Bloody punch! Drank too much. Forgive me.”

  Charles’s eyes nailed him to his chair for several terrifying seconds, and then that charming smile appeared, and Charles said amiably, “Certainly. We shall pretend that it never happened.”

  Feeling as if he had just escaped the claws of a big cat, Trevillyan sent him a sickly smile. “Raoul warned me that you had the devil’s own temper, but I never believed him until now. That look in your eye…gave me quite a start, I can tell you.”

  “I thought,” Charles said, “that we agreed to pretend the incident never happened.”

  Not liking the glitter in Charles’s eye, Trevillyan muttered, “Right. Never happened.”

  “So tell me,” Charles said politely, “what are our plans for this evening? Do we dine alone, or have you invited a few friends to join us?”

  “Thought you’d be dining at Beaumont’s,” Trevillyan muttered. “Planned to go visit a little ladybird I keep in Penzance.”

  “By all means, go visit your mistress—do not let me keep you from the fair damsel’s side. I can fend for myself. Eames will see to it that I do not starve, and I am quite used to amusing myself.”

  “Bad host.”

  Charles grinned at him. “Indeed not. I am a bad guest. Go see your ladybird—in fact, unless we make definite plans to the contrary, assume that your time is your own, and do not worry about me.”

  “What about the, uh, dead women?”

  Charles shrugged. “Unless something else is discovered, I am afraid that we are at a standstill. We don’t even know their names, so we have no way of tracing them, either where they came from or who might have had reason to kill them.”

  “I don’t think,” Trevillyan observed quietly, “that there was any logical reason to kill them. I did not see the body found by Brierly, but the woman on the beach…” He shuddered and added, “It appeared to be the work of a madman.”

  There was nothing more to be said on the subject. But later that evening, having dined pleasurably on some turtle soup, a saddle of mutton, boiled potato, jellied spring asparagus, and oysters in batter, all washed down with a fine hock, Charles’s thoughts returned to the idea of Raoul being alive and plying his grisly hobby.

  Declining dessert, taking a glass of hock with him, Charles returned to the library to consider the situation. His long legs stretched out toward the fire, he took the occasional swallow of his hock, his mind busy with the problem of the dead women.

  He kept reminding himself that Raoul had been shot twice in the chest and the drop to the bottom of the sluice hole had been a good thirty feet, perhaps more. Could Raoul have survived? His lips thinned. Anything was possible. There had been a great deal of blood, but that didn’t mean that his and Julian’s bullets had hit anything vital. And while falling down the sluice would have been painful, it might not have been fatal. He scowled. Julian and Nell had no doubts about Raoul’s fate. Nell’s nightmares, her unholy link to Raoul and the ugly things he did in that dungeon below the Wyndham Dower House, had ended, and that more than anything convinced them that Raoul must be dead.

  Nell and Julian might be satisfied, but since Raoul’s body had never been found, Charles could not shake the sick feeling that his half brother was still alive. It was illogical, he admitted, and he could come up with no answer that fully explained how Raoul, alone and badly wounded, had managed to vanish into thin air.

  Realizing that he was simply covering old ground, Charles turned his attention to the women who had been killed here in Cornwall. From what Trevillyan had related to him, terrible things had been done to both women before they had died. The description of the bodies bore too close a resemblance to what Nell had observed in her nightmares and to Julian’s description of the body he and Marcus had seen in the Wyndham woods to be discounted as simple coincidence.

  Charles sighed. He couldn’t prove that Raoul was alive, or dead, for that matter, but he just couldn’t believe that a second monster with Raoul’s revolting tastes was roaming the English countryside. But Cornwall with its wild and rocky coasts, its vast lonely stretches, and its denizens comprising a smuggler community and those who traded with them—a secretive community that kept its mouth shut and minded its own business—would appeal to Raoul. For someone who had his own secrets to hide and wanted no curious neighbors, someone who wanted privacy to ply his diabolic trade, Cornwall would be perfect.

  Charles took a long swallow of his hock. Right now, he couldn’t prove that Raoul was alive. There was one thing he could do, however, and he wondered that he had not thought of it sooner. If Raoul was alive and if he was in the area, he had to be living somewhere.

  Nodding to himself, Charles stood up. Of course. Find out what houses or properties had either been sold or leased in the past three years in this area, and he might find Raoul’s lair.

  Chapter 8

  Of course, Adrian told April about Daphne’s visit to the witch, a witch who just happened to be Goodson’s sister. As they came down the stairs together that evening, Adrian poured the whole tale into April’s ear. Since they immediately joined Daphne and Miss Ketty in the dining room and with servants in and out of the room serving the meal, April had no chance to bring up the subject. All through dinner, April stared with awe at her older sister, marveling at Adrian’s words. Daffy had visited a witch! And was going back to see her on Friday!

  Following their usual routine, the three siblings and Miss Ketty settled comfortably in the small blue salon at the rear of the house. It was a charming room, the walls hung in pale blue silk, the sofas and chairs covered in rich fabrics of a deeper hue, and a blue rug with cream and gold accents overlay the floor. To counter the chill of the evening, the heavy amber velvet drapes were pulled closed, and a fire burned brightly on the grate of the marble fireplace.

  April waited only unti
l Goodson had set down the tea tray and departed before she leaned forward and asked excitedly, “Oh, Daffy, may I go with you when you go to visit the witch on Friday? Please?”

  Miss Ketty looked up sharply from the piece of tatting she had been working on. “A witch? Don’t be ridiculous!”

  Sitting across from Miss Ketty, Adrian grinned and said, “It’s true. On our way home this afternoon, Daffy visited with a witch and plans to visit her again on Friday. You could have knocked me down with a feather when Daphne said that the witch is our Goodson’s sister.”

  Miss Ketty’s lips pursed in disapproving lines. “Miss Daphne! Whatever are you thinking? And it makes no never mind if this, this creature is Goodson’s sister or not. Consorting with a witch! Why your poor sainted mother would turn over in her grave.”

  Daphne sent Adrian a speaking glance, but his grin just grew wider. Younger brothers could be so very annoying. “I assure you, dear Ketty,” Daphne said quietly, “that Anne Darby is not at all what one would expect a witch to be like. She is very polite, respectable almost, and you would like her.”

  Miss Ketty snorted. “A witch? I hardly think so! No matter how respectable.” She paused, and curiosity evident in her voice, she asked, “Whyever did you want to meet a witch?”

  Her cheeks a little flushed, Daphne looked away from Miss Ketty’s inquiring gaze. “Mrs. Hutton mentioned her one day,” Daphne began carefully, “and said that if I wanted to hear some of the, uh, legends about our Beaumont ancestors, Anne Darby would be the person to talk to.”

  “Vicar Henley’s collection doesn’t give you enough information?”

  The color in her cheeks deepening, Daphne said, “His collection is very thorough, but it is, er, stuffy reading and not as, um, vivid as the tales I’m sure Anne Darby could tell.”

  “But a witch, my dear! Are you certain this is wise? The stories she will spin for you are likely to be nothing more than bedtime tales to frighten children.”

  “What harm can there be in it?”

  “You ask? Look at your dear brother and sister—they are all agog to meet this person. This entire conversation is not at all suitable for them.”

  Daphne shrugged. “I don’t see that merely listening to a few stories concerning our ancestors will be so very bad.”

  Miss Ketty thought for a moment and then asked imprudently, “Have you discussed this notion with Mr. Weston? I wonder what he would say about his fiancée behaving in such a rash manner. I am sure he would not approve.”

  Daphne stiffened. “This is no concern of Mr. Weston’s. I am perfectly capable of making a decision to see Mrs. Darby without getting Mr. Weston’s permission. He is to be my husband, not my keeper.”

  Adrian hooted. “I wouldn’t be too sure of that if I were you. Weston doesn’t strike me as a fellow who will live comfortably under the cat’s paw. Once you are married, I’ll wager you’ll not find him ignoring his wife’s activities, especially when it comes to visiting witches.”

  “Oh, pooh, who cares what Mr. Weston thinks,” April said airily. “Daffy isn’t married to him yet, so what she does is her own business.” Turning to her sister, she begged, “Please let me come with you—it shall be so exciting.” Blue eyes gleaming with laughter, she slanted a glance at her brother and murmured, “Mayhap this witch will give me a potion that will turn Adrian into a toad.”

  “I ain’t afraid of a witch, or her charms and potions, either,” Adrian replied loftily, smiling wickedly at his sister. “None of her spells will harm me! Now, you are another story—you’ll have nightmares for a month.” He cocked a brow at Daphne. “Think I better escort you and see this witch for myself.”

  Miss Ketty looked sternly at Daphne. “You see? Already, they are talking of spells and potions. This is not an appropriate topic for young, untried minds.”

  Daphne agreed, but there was little she could do about her decision to introduce herself to Mrs. Darby this afternoon. I should have waited, she thought ruefully, and gone to see her alone. Once Adrian knew of the visit, it was a foregone conclusion that April would learn of it. Now that the cat was out of the bag, it was unlikely that either one of them was going to allow her to meet privately with Goodson’s sister on Friday afternoon. Giving in to the inevitable, she said, “It may not be the best thing for them, but I’m afraid, since they already know about it, that there is little I can do. Besides, if I do not allow them to come with me, their imaginations will concoct far more lurid events than the tales Goodson’s sister is likely to tell.”

  Ignoring April’s squeal of delight and Adrian’s shout of laughter, Miss Ketty frowned. “I must protest. You cannot be seriously thinking of taking these two little lambs to visit a witch! Even if she is our own worthy Goodson’s sister, a fact I find hard to believe. Of course, whatever his sister may be, it is no reflection on Goodson’s respectability.”

  “According to Mrs. Hutton, who grew up with both Goodson and Mrs. Darby, it is, indeed, true,” Daphne said.

  “Well, I’m glad that’s settled,” said Adrian, rising to his feet. “What time is our meeting on Friday?”

  “We agreed I should come to her cottage at two o’clock.”

  Adrian bit back a yawn. “I’ll have my horse and a carriage waiting for us in plenty of time. Meanwhile, it is bed for me.”

  “So early?” Daphne exclaimed, suddenly noticing the dark circles under his eyes.

  Adrian yawned again. “Been having a devil of a time sleeping lately. Seems that the wind whistles around my corner of the house like a banshee. Sometimes, it so bad that it wakes me up.” He hesitated, a faint frown marring his forehead. “The odd thing is that sometimes, above the wind, I’d swear that I hear a child or mayhap a woman crying. It’s an infernal racket, I can tell you.”

  “Oh, you hear it, too?” said April, her eyes big. “I hate it. The first few times the sound woke me, I was terrified. I actually got out of bed and lit candles and searched my rooms for the source, but I found nothing.”

  Her heart beating in thick, painful strokes, Daphne asked, “Why haven’t either one of you said anything to me? If the sound of the…wind is so bothersome, your rooms can be changed—the house is certainly big enough.”

  Adrian gave her a sleepy smile. “What, and give up that magnificent suite of rooms? I hardly think so. I’m no baby to be frightened away by the sound of wind.”

  “Neither am I,” said April stoutly, although there was just the slightest quaver in her voice. “It’s only the wind. It can’t hurt us.”

  Daphne forced a smile. “Of course it can’t.”

  Miss Ketty snorted. “And you’re going to take them to visit a witch to hear who knows what terrifying tales about the former inhabitants of this house! You mark my words, Miss Daphne, if you persist in this mad plan, you’re going to have Miss April waking up every night screaming of ghosts. And it will be your fault.”

  “Oh, don’t scold so, Ketty,” Daphne muttered. “I’m certain everything will be fine.”

  Miss Kettle disagreed, and the next morning, a missive written by her was delivered to Mr. Weston, divulging dear Miss Daphne’s stubborn insistence in exposing herself and her siblings to the black magic of a witch. It had not been easy for Miss Kettle to write the note, and she had agonized over sending it. Deciding she had no choice if she was to save Miss Daphne from herself and Miss April and Sir Adrian from a dangerous influence, with a heavy heart, she sent the note on its way. Watching the servant ride away toward Lanyon Hall, she was torn between feeling she had betrayed her darling Miss Daphne and a sincere determination to protect all three of her innocent babes from the deleterious effects of close proximity to a witch.

  Charles read Miss Kettle’s note, his eyebrows rising at the contents. Daphne was taking her brother and sister to visit a local witch on Friday? A witch who also happened to be Goodson’s sister? And he was to stop dear Miss Daphne from this rash action? Miss Daphne was far more likely to separate his head from his shoulders if he dared to inter
fere, Charles decided without hesitation. If he was unwise enough to meddle in Daphne’s plans, she was more likely to become all the more determined to visit with her witch, if for no other reason than to thwart him. He shook his head, a faint smile curving his handsome mouth. It would appear that Miss Kettle had great faith in his abilities to control his bride-to-be. More, it seemed, than he did.

  Not certain how he was to handle the situation and bitten by curiosity to know Daphne’s reason for wishing to visit a witch, he ordered his horse saddled. Some time later, he was cantering up the driveway that led to Beaumont Place, still unclear of his role in this unfolding farce. As his horse rounded that last wide bend before the house came into view, the sound of thundering hooves coming fast behind him caught his ear. He barely pulled his horse off to the grassy verge before Adrian, astride a big black stallion, and Daphne, riding an equally large and muscular gray gelding, came sweeping into view.

  They were racing, with Daphne’s gray leading by a nose, but catching sight of him on the side of the road, they instantly pulled up their horses. The gray half reared and fought the bit, making its displeasure clear, and Charles admired Daphne’s smooth skill and grace in effortlessly bringing such a powerful animal under control.

  She looked stunning this morning. Her skin glowed, roses bloomed in her cheeks, and wearing a dark blue kerseymere habit with black braid and gilt buttons and half boots of black Spanish leather, she was the picture of a lady of fashion. A narrow-brimmed black beaver hat adorned with two scarlet feathers perched at a rakish angle on her head, and her thick black hair, caught up in a bun at the back of her neck, emphasized the delicate bones of her face. With a connoisseur’s eye, his gaze traveled appreciatively over the high bosom, the narrow waist, and the shapely thigh delineated by the pull of the fabric as she sat sidesaddle on the restive horse.