A Dangerous Seduction

by Patricia Frances Rowell

  Poleven lounged carelessly in the chair, brandy in hand. “I found it expedient to rusticate for a time, so I thought I would call and greet my sister. How long have you been in Cornwall?”

  Morgan took his time in pouring his own brandy and seating himself behind the desk. From what Lalia said, the man had not troubled himself to greet her in years. What, then, was this show of brotherly affection? “I’m afraid you have missed Mrs. Hayne. She has driven out with my nephew. I don’t expect them back for another hour.”

  “Ah, well. Another time.” Poleven waved a disinterested hand. “Your nephew, eh?” A knowing smirk appeared on his face, but he quickly removed it as Morgan directed a cold look at him. Poleven hastily changed the subject. “The talk is that you have bought up Hayne’s mortgages?”

  Morgan nodded silently.

  “And my sister is still in residence? I would have thought you would have remedied that by now.”

  Morgan’s continued silence slowed Poleven a bit, but didn’t daunt him.

  The man’s face took on a sly expression. “Well, I can’t blame you. She’s a pretty enough chit. In any case, that’s Hayne’s problem, not mine. Can you imagine? My father left not one shilling for her maintenance.”

  Morgan raised one eyebrow. “No doubt he expected that you would provide a home for her.”

  “Me? Keep a thieving Gypsy in my house? No thank you. He was touched in his upper works. At least I found a suitable match for her. Cost me a pretty penny and so I’ll tell you.”

  Good God! The man was every bit as despicable as Hayne. “Perhaps you know where your sister’s husband is to be found?”

  “Not I. No one’s seen him this age. Probably with someone else’s wife somewhere.” Poleven tossed off the rest of his brandy and looked hopefully toward the decanter.

  Morgan stood. “I’ll tell your sister you called.”

  “Oh. Yes, of course.” Poleven got reluctantly to his feet, one eye still on the decanter. “I say, Carrick, I was just wondering as I rode up…I’m a bit embarrassed at the moment. Perhaps you might help me out with a few pounds until I come about?”

  So that was it. The rascal wanted money. Obviously he already knew he would find Morgan at Merdinn. Perhaps he fancied that he had some leverage. Morgan gave him a flint-hard look. “I’m afraid it will not be possible for me to oblige you.”

  Poleven shrugged. “No matter. I’ll stop in again sometime.” He collected his hat and gloves and ambled out the door.

  When Watford arrived, Morgan’s first instruction to his butler would be that Roger Poleven should never again set foot within the walls of Merdinn. The man’s attitude toward his sister was vile—unpardonable. One did not abandon one’s relatives because of some irregularity of birth. If he ever heard Roger Poleven call Eulalia Hayne a “thieving Gypsy” again, he would probably plant him a facer.

  “Beg pardon, ma’am.” Gwennap, the foreman of the renovation crew, stuck his head through the door. “Where might I find his lordship?”

  Lalia looked up from trying to find a place for more vegetables in the cool of the cellar. His lordship’s chef had arrived the day after their discovery in the cove, along with the rest of the staff, but while she had become unwelcome in the kitchen, no one had yet driven her out of the garden. “He is not here. He took his nephew down to the village. May I help you?”

  Gwennap looked perplexed. “Well, I can’t rightly say. We’ve finished cleaning the great hall, and I don’t know what he wants done next.”

  “Have you asked Mrs. Carthew?”

  “The new housekeeper? She’s gone to the market, ma’am.”

  “Very well, I’ll go with you to look. I’m sure the large dining room needs a great deal of work.” She led the workman up the stairs to the ground floor.

  At the door of the room formerly used for large dinners, she paused and waved a hand. She had long wanted to turn it out for a good cleaning. “Everything needs work—the floor stones need scrubbing, the paneling must be cleaned and polished… And the furniture…well, it is probably still usable if scrubbed and the chairs recovered, but… You will have to ask Lord Carrick if he wants the draperies cleaned or discarded. In any case, they must be taken down. Here…”

  Within a few minutes the work force had invaded the room, and Lalia dived into supervising, lending a hand here and there. She was happily engaged in bundling up the old draperies when his lordship sauntered through the door. Lalia sneezed.

  “Oh, excuse me, my lord. These are very dusty.” A quick glance suddenly informed her that he did not look best pleased. She dabbed at her nose with her handkerchief. “Is something wrong?” She sneezed again.

  “What are you doing in here?”

  “They have finished in the…” Another sneeze interrupted her response. “Oh dear, I’m sorry.” She fished for her handkerchief again. “They finished cleaning the hall and did not know what to do next. I thought they could spend their time…”

  Carrick scowled. “I thought we had agreed that you need not concern yourself any further with their work.”

  “But I don’t mind. I hadn’t anything else…” Yet another sneeze burst forth. Her small handkerchief had become too damp to be useful, so Lalia sniffed behind her finger as quietly as she could.

  Morgan took her firmly by the arm and led her out of the dust into the corridor. How the devil could he express his displeasure to a woman who kept sneezing? And sniffling. He handed her his handkerchief. “Now…why are you involving yourself in this? You now have other duties.”

  “Very few, my lord.” She blew discreetly. “Thank you.” She put his handkerchief in her pocket. He wondered if he would ever see it again. “You and Mrs. Carthew were both away, and Gwennap came and asked me what to do. But I don’t know what to tell him about the draperies. Will you replace them?”

  Morgan tried another frown. Somehow he was not getting through. These decisions were no longer her responsibility. “That will be for my mother to decide. When the work is complete, this will again be her home.”

  At last she looked at him with something approaching comprehension. The smooth skin of her brow wrinkled. “I see.” Her eyes clouded over. “Then you will write to her about them?”

  “Yes, I will ask her.”

  “Very well. Perhaps she can select new fabric in London. I really wouldn’t recommend…” She sneezed and reached in her pocket. “These are just too dirty.”

  “I will convey your opinion to her.”

  I will convey your opinion to her. And what would his lordship convey to his mother about Lalia’s continued presence? The lady must not like her being here any more than Lord Carrick liked it. Somehow Lalia must stop thinking of Merdinn as her home. She had no home. She would be leaving in a few months.

  Again the frightening specter of where she would go in the fall arose. Other than her tenants, she knew so few people. She had no idea where to start looking for a position. Would his lordship know of something? She hated the thought of having to ask him, but the unpalatable fact was that she needed his help. If she didn’t have Daj to think of it might be much easier. But she did, and she would contrive somehow. Just as always.

  She had just washed her face and hands and looked in on Jeremy’s activities when Watford found her. “The Reverend Nascawan wishes to know if you are in?”

  It had been so long since Lalia had the assistance of servants that for a moment she couldn’t think how to respond. “I… I…” Everything was so disrupted by the cleaning… “Yes, of course. I’ll talk to him in the library if his lordship is not using it.”

  She made her way down to the book room to find the good parson sipping a glass of brandy to which he had helped himself. Lalia had tried hard to like the man. She truly had. Somehow she never quite succeeded. Tall and gaunt, his emaciated face and wispy hair made her think of a graying cadaver. He always wore a resigned expression, as if he had given her up for lost but felt duty-bound to keep trying. At least he no longer exhorted
her to brave the snubs of his congregation by attending services. He bowed.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Hayne.” He held out a small, damp bundle. “I have brought you something you might find useful.”

  It would be a collection of worn-out clothes. He often brought them. These smelled of seawater and mildew. She reached for them politely, and his bony hand, chill and clammy, lingered against hers as he released them. Why must he always do that? Lalia repressed a shudder. “Why, thank you, Reverend Nascawan. How thoughtful of you.”

  “And I must ask you—when did his lordship bring his household here?”

  Oh, dear. A lecture loomed. “A few days ago.”

  The clergyman drew his eyebrows together and folded his hands before him. Yes, definitely a lecture. “I must say, ma’am, that I am very surprised to see that you are still here. Certainly you must know that for a lady to reside with a gentleman not her husband…” He turned toward the door. “Ah. Lord Carrick?”

  Carrick stood in the doorway, his face expressionless. “You have the advantage of me, sir. You are…?”

  Lalia, still holding the smelly bundle, hastened to make introductions. Carrick stepped out of the doorway but remained standing. “I see. It was kind of you to call on Mrs. Hayne.”

  Nascawan hesitated. Even he could not completely disregard the dismissal, but apparently he felt obliged to make one more sally. “My lord, I must point out to you that your living in the same house with…”

  His lordship raised one eyebrow. “Must you?”

  Lalia listened in astonishment, all admiration for Lord Carrick. Obviously he did not suffer busybodies gladly. At last she was about to see the redoubtable cleric routed foot and horse.

  The pastor, however, was still game. He put on a stern expression. “Sir, under these circumstances Mrs. Hayne’s reputation must be called into question.”

  “Not in my house.”

  The chilling response stopped Nascawan in his tracks. He blinked and drew himself up. Handing Lalia his glass, he mumbled a haughty goodbye and abruptly took himself off, his dignity trailing behind him.

  Morgan moved into the room and took the clothes out of her hands, his nose wrinkling. “What the devil is that?”

  “Reverend Nascawan very kindly brought me some used garments.” She grimaced. “He often does so.”

  “Clothes? Do you use them?” No wonder her wardrobe looked so shabby.

  She shrugged. “Sometimes, if Daj or Peggy or I can wear them. Otherwise, I give them away or use them for cleaning rags.”

  Her answer gave Morgan pause. Was her poverty such that she had actually been reduced to accepting that sort of charity? The lady had endured a great deal indeed. He tossed the bundle through the door into the hall. “Surely you won’t use those?”

  She smiled. “No, I fear they are past praying for. They did not fare well in their encounter with the sea.”

  Morgan settled himself behind the desk and invited her to sit with a wave of his hand. “Do you think they came from the recent wreck?”

  “I would think so. The things he brings often do.” She seated herself in the chair opposite him.

  “So the good pastor is not above a little scavenging?”

  She smiled. “No, nor a little smuggling, I feel sure. He does like a good glass of brandy.”

  “In common with many Cornish clergymen. Did you offer it to him?”

  “Oh, no.” She looked shocked. “I would not make free with your wine. He must have helped himself.” She giggled. “No doubt a privilege of the cloth. He means well, I’m sure.”

  “I’m not.” Another thought occurred to Morgan. The man had been noticeably preoccupied with where Eulalia Hayne was sleeping. “He seemed very interested in our living arrangements. Has he ever accosted you?”

  “Mmm…no.” Morgan did not miss the slight hesitation in her voice. “No, not exactly. He just… I don’t know. He is married, after all. Very likely I imagine it.”

  “No, you do not.” He recognized that with the certainty of a man who senses a rival for the woman he wanted. “He doesn’t seem very highly principled, and you are very…” He let the sentence go. No need to rekindle her wariness of himself. Of course, the old rascal wanted her—her appetizing curves, her luscious skin. What man wouldn’t?

  “Well, I do appreciate your sending him on his way. I am very tired of lectures on one subject or another.”

  He brought himself back to the conversation with an effort. “You are too kind and polite. You do not have to receive him, you know.”

  “I guess not.” She seemed startled. “Now that there is a butler in residence…”

  “I suggest you make use of him.”

  Climbing the stairs to her room, Lalia pondered his lordship’s advice. Too kind and polite? Perhaps so. Perhaps the reverend mistook that for encouragement. Surely not? She had not been that kind and polite. And he knew her to be married. Would a man of the cloth really…? Hmm. Yes, she would take Carrick’s suggestion. She would instruct the butler to deny her to Reverend Nascawan in the future.

  How luxurious to have a butler! And how luxurious to have someone to defend her good name. His lordship had surprised her. Having him protect her from Nascawan’s innuendos had been… Well, a luxury she had not had since her father’s death. She had expected never to have it again. If only… Never mind. It was not likely that she would enjoy that protection for long.

  The stonework in the great hall, one of the oldest parts of the house, had sustained quite a bit of damage over the centuries. Not since Morgan’s grandfather’s day had the family fortune been sufficient to keep the place up as it should have been. The graceful arches showed cracks and chunks of limestone had even fallen out in places. Morgan had spent the entire morning working with the stone mason, determining the needs.

  He was closeted with the architect, arguing as to whether to keep the original fireplace, when his housekeeper appeared at the door. Morgan looked up in annoyance. He didn’t have time for interruptions today. “Yes, Mrs. Carthew?”

  “I’m sorry to bother you, my lord.” She curtsied. “We seem to have an usually large number of summer vegetables in storage. Many of them cannot be preserved and will spoil before we can use them, and there is no more room in the cellar. James tells me that Mrs. Hayne is accustomed to giving them to those in need. I thought perhaps, if you don’t mind…”

  Morgan waved a hand at her, turning back to the architect. “Of course, of course. Feel free to take them to someone.”

  The housekeeper curtsied again. “I would, my lord, but I’m needed in the large dining room at the moment, and I see that you are occupied. I thought that if Mrs. Hayne is not busy today, perhaps…”

  Morgan turned slowly to look at her, eyes narrowed. She looked perfectly innocent, if a little startled by his scrutiny. Apparently Mrs. Hayne had obeyed his previous order, but… “Did Mrs. Hayne suggest that?”

  “No, my lord, but it would be a big help to me. I believe it will require more than one trip.”

  “James?”

  “James has gone to the smithy.”

  Damn the woman! Must she grow enough vegetables to feed the entire district? He did not want her acting in the role of lady of the estate. He had made that clear. Several times. She had never exactly defied him, but somehow she… Well, it would be petty of him to refuse. Better to be the gracious lord again.

  Morgan’s mouth quirked wryly. “Very well. Please ask Mrs. Hayne if she will do me the service of delivering the bounty to the deserving.”

  Chapter Six

  Lalia sat stiffly upright in the gig, her face carefully controlled, watching the sun slip slowly toward the horizon. She had readily relinquished the reins to James. She couldn’t concentrate on driving now, much less on the breathtaking colors painted on the sea.

  The men had come to the house shortly after she and Jeremy had returned from distributing the vegetables. In a way she had been expecting them, yet it did not seem possible that the
brute to which she had been tied for eight years might actually be dead. They had found his body, the men told her, washed into a cave in the cliffs. All of them had been careful not to specify why they had gone to the cave.

  And everyone else had been careful not to ask. Very likely her husband had fallen out with his smuggling confederates. He’d probably cheated them, just as he did everyone. They thought it was her husband. Would she please come to see if she could verify the fact? Small need. They knew good and well whose body lay in that cave. But nonetheless, she now must go through the motions of viewing a body too decayed to be easily recognized.

  The man couldn’t even have the decency to be shot by a jealous husband before witnesses!

  As James pulled off the road, Lord Carrick, who had ridden ahead, separated himself from a small crowd of men who stood with their attention focused on something that lay on the ground in their midst. He handed her down from the gig and offered her his arm. “Are you sure you are willing to do this? It will be very unpleasant. The sea had the body for some time.”

  Lalia paused for the space of three heartbeats and considered, staring at her toes. Why was she doing this? The answer came to her in an instant. She wanted to know—to know for sure and certain that she was free of him, to see him lying dead on the stony earth. She glanced into Lord Carrick’s face.

  “I will look.”

  “Very well.” He guided her to the group and the gawkers parted to make way for her.

  In spite of herself Lalia cringed from the ghastly mound of flesh that lay rotting before her. She covered her mouth and nose with her handkerchief and made herself look again. The hair was certainly as blond as her husband’s had been, and as thin at the temples, but the face was only a pulpy mass. The eyes no longer existed, but the receding lips bared the familiar missing tooth. The coat he wore the day she last saw him covered the bloated body, and the signet ring on the pale, swollen hand…