His Wicked Seduction (The League of Rogues Book 2)

by Lauren Smith

  Lucien donned a pair of trousers, then hastily pulled on a shirt and green waistcoat. Without bothering with a cravat, he pulled on his boots and left the room. With a single look back at his bed Lucien silently bid farewell.

  “Sleep, my dear, and dream of the stars.”

  He slipped down the hall until he reached Lawrence’s bedroom. He found the door unlocked and saw Lawrence lay sprawled on his stomach, entirely naked from what Lucien could see. He approached his brother’s bed and shook his shoulder.

  “Wake up, Lawrence.”

  Lawrence swatted a hand in Lucien’s general direction.

  “Five more minutes, Tom.” Tom was Lawrence’s valet. Lawrence tried to roll over and face away from him. Lucien returned the favor by smacking the back of his brother’s head.

  “Get up, Lawrence. I have need of you.”

  “Hmph…Lucien?”

  “Come on. I need you to come with me to the North field straight away.”

  “The North field? What on earth for?” Lawrence sat up, rubbing his eyes and blinking.

  “I have an appointment with a pistol,” Lucien replied. That got Lawrence’s attention and he leapt out of bed.

  “What?”

  “Get dressed and I will explain along the way.” Lucien stood impatiently by the door as Lawrence threw on his clothes. Only when they were outside in the hall did Lucien explain about the duel.

  “You are seriously going to duel Sheridan? I don’t believe it. Not you two.”

  “Believe it, Lawrence. I blame Mother. If she hadn’t worked towards forcing my hand with Horatia I might have been able to introduce the idea of courting Horatia to Cedric slowly without the volatile reaction.”

  Lawrence winced. “This is my fault. I can explain it to Sheridan. Maybe he’ll see reason and not continue with this nonsense.”

  Lucien kept walking, his brother keeping pace. “Better that I alone face his wrath. I’m hoping he’ll have cooled down during the night. If not…”

  They walked quietly through the halls and Lucien paused just outside the library doors, handing Lawrence his great coat.

  “Wait here, I need one more thing before we go.”

  When they reached the northern most field, where Cedric waited along with a confused and drowsy Gregory Cavendish. Lawrence and Gregory shared concerned glances as Lucien held out a boxed pair of pistols. Gregory and Lawrence assumed the duty of inspecting the weapons for any faults or tampering. Once the seconds determined the pistols were in fine working order, the men stepped back. Cedric and Lucien each took a pistol and then faced each other. The silence between them was only enhanced by their cloudy puffs of breath in the pale predawn light.

  “Last chance to call this off, gentlemen.” Gregory waited, but neither side attempted to put a stop to the duel.

  Cedric shifted on his feet, his lips parted as though he wanted to speak, but then gave a little shake of his head.

  “Twenty paces each,” Cedric said.

  “Agreed,” Lucien replied. His heart screamed inside his chest as he turned and began to measure out his paces. Please God, let him come to his senses. He made sure to take slow, measured steps, wincing each time the small clinks and creaks betrayed his best hope for surviving this should sanity not deliver him.

  When the two were forty paces apart they raised their pistols in salute, waiting. Lucien slid his index finger out of the metal loop that enclosed the trigger, so that if he was hit he would not involuntarily fire his weapon.

  The cold air shot through him like fire, his every sense on high alert. The smell of dead grass and the fell of crisp snow beneath his boots, the biting chill of the air and the endless gray skies melding with vast fields of virgin snow. How sad that this last vision is so cold and lifeless.

  “You will fire at the call of three,” Gregory called out, his tone carrying across the field.

  “One…”

  Back down, you fool, Lucien thought, and angled his body sideways to give Cedric as little of a target to aim at as possible.

  “Two…”

  Cedric dropped his pistol down to aim. Lucien dropped his arm farther, aiming his pistol instead towards his feet. Lucien’s mind flashed across every moment of last night. He willed himself to summon his last ounce of emotional strength to stand firm for Horatia.

  “Three…”

  Cedric’s hand visibly shook, then he cursed and fired.

  Ptang!

  The bullet struck Lucien’s shoulder and ricocheted, grazing his head. Lucien sighed with relief, even though the pain was agonizing. He hadn’t died. The pain lessened slightly. Good, he was going to be fine, what was a flesh wound after all?

  “You must return fire,” Lawrence called out grudgingly. There were rules to these things.

  Lucien fired his pistol into the ground. It was done.

  As if the act had somehow released him, his body suddenly felt light and weak. He collapsed to the ground, clanking loudly. Maybe his head wound was more serious than he thought.

  “You bloody fool!” Cedric tossed his pistol at Gregory before rushing over to where Lucien lay.

  “Help me get this off.” Lucien dug his hands into his coat, hoping to remove the metal armor plates underneath.

  “Good God, what on earth…” Gregory asked as he caught sight of the armor on Lucien’s shoulder, running down the length of his arm.

  “That is what you retrieved from the library?” Lawrence examined his head. “Really, Lucien, where do you get these ideas? That’s almost as bad as the time you snuck of out of Lady Godfrey’s house right past her husband, dressed as a footman.”

  With a pained chuckle, Lucien nodded. “Perhaps. But that had also saved my life. Cedric’s a fine shot and I didn’t want to risk it.” He glanced down at his shoulder.

  Crimson stained the shiny metal where blood dripped from his temple. “Though I may have miscalculated somewhat.” He looked to Cedric. “You damned fool. You actually fired!”

  “Why didn’t you fire back?” Cedric’s voice was filled with despair. Was the wound even worse than he thought?

  “I did fire back.”

  “Yes. Into the ground. You should have shot me.”

  “And what would that accomplish?” Lucien sighed. “I wagered my life that you would back out, or misfire. I’d hoped you would reconsider or calm yourself before it came to this. The armor was a desperate plan in case all that failed. It seemed I was right to do so.”

  Cedric looked pained. “I didn’t mean to fire at all. I meant to stare you down until you yielded. When you lowered your pistol it unnerved me, and my hand…it shook.”

  Lucien’s smile withered and he grew serious. “No matter what you think, I meant what I said. I love Horatia more than anything…but I could never kill my closest friend, nor the brother of my greatest love.” Lucien tried to ignore the burning pain in his head. It felt like someone was branding his skull.

  “You…you really love her?” Cedric asked. The pain in his eyes wounded Lucien more than the bullet.

  “She is everything to me. Always has been. I just couldn’t face that before. I tried to push her away.” Lucien winced. “I don’t deserve her.” He shut his eyes as pain overcame him. A cold darkness swept over his limbs, numbing him to any other sensations.

  “Help me get him up!” Cedric shouted at their seconds.

  Lucien opened his eyes and tried to laugh. “I always knew she’d be the death of me,” he said before he went numb again.

  “You die on me and I’ll kill you,” Cedric growled as Lucien’s eyelids fell heavily shut once more.

  “Not planning on it,” he said, but his spiraling vision warned him otherwise.

  Memories of Horatia clouded his mind as he sought to focus on the best moments he’d had with her. But death was cruel he supposed, because only the sad
and awful moments rose to his mind. Shouting at her in the Midnight Garden. His harsh words, forced kisses and scathing glances. Such a damned fool I was, he thought as he was swallowed by darkness.

  Horatia woke to an empty bed and frowned. Something was wrong. A sense of foreboding rippled through her like the remnants of a nightmare teasing the edges of her waking mind. She slid out of bed and slipped her shift and dressing gown back on. She wanted to seek out Lucien immediately but it seemed better to be fully dressed, should she have to canvas the huge mansion to find him. She trod down the hall and slipped inside her room.

  She selected a gown that buttoned down the front, so as to avoid summoning Ursula. A moment after fastening the last button, she heard the distant crack of a gunshot. Horatia bolted to her window, which faced the northern field. She saw four distant shapes and a second crack cut across the field. One of the figures collapsed to the ground.

  A duel! Why hadn’t she questioned Lucien? She’d sensed something was amiss last night, but she had ignored it. Why had she done that? In her panic she barely heard the door open behind her.

  “A terrible thing, is it not, Miss Sheridan?” a voice said softly from just over her shoulder. She tried to scream as an arm banded about her neck, choking her while a hand clamped over her mouth. “But I’m afraid I’m now running short on time and there is still much to do.” The voice was strangely familiar. But even as Horatia thrashed against her captor she still could not see his face.

  “I never would have guessed a quiet little chit like you would drive men to duel. Perhaps I will taste you for myself, just to see what the fuss is about.” A tongue flitted around the shell of her ear. Horatia tried to claw at his arm, but it only squeezed her throat tighter. Black and gray spots blotted her vision as she fought to breathe.

  “Fiery little hellcat. Didn’t expect that from the likes of you.”

  Horatia saw a brief opportunity and abandoned her attempt to claw his arm. Instead she pushed her head forward and then threw it back, colliding her skull with his. Her attacker cursed and loosened his hold. Horatia dropped to her knees, escaping the arm wrapped around her neck. She turned just in time to see the face of the man who’d assaulted her.

  “You!” she breathed in shock.

  A blow struck her temple, and Horatia saw no more.

  Cedric cursed as he and Lawrence carried Lucien’s body between them across the field and into the house. Gregory had sprinted ahead to alert the house and have someone ride to Hexby. As Cedric and Lawrence were nearing the stables they learned that someone was Gregory himself.

  “I’m off for the doctor,” he shouted and streaked past them on a dappled gray stallion. Avery and Sir John were the first two people to meet them at the front door.

  “Good God!” Avery gasped at the bloody wound on Lucien’s head and Cedric’s grief-stricken expression.

  “You were dueling?” Sir John growled. “Fools.” He relieved Lawrence of Lucien’s feet to help carry the unconscious Marquess up the stairs to an empty bedroom. The second Lucien was on the bed Lady Rochester burst into the room, fire in her eyes.

  “Is he dead?” she asked, panic creeping into her.

  “The blow glanced his skull,” Lawrence said. “He may still live.”

  “May? Oh, he will not die. I want to kill him myself and he will not deny me that.” But when she caught sight of her firstborn bleeding on the bed, she crumpled to her knees. Avery caught his mother before she could faint dead away.

  “Get her out of her here, lad,” Sir John barked. Avery obeyed, half-carrying his mother out of the room. Sir John turned his attention back to Lucien and started to rip off his shirt and remove the armor to see the damage better. The men winced at the bruises that ranged from Lucien’s collarbone down to his hips.

  “Who in the bloody hell did that?” Lawrence asked.

  “I did,” Cedric’s said, void of emotion. “We fought last evening before dinner.”

  “What on earth possessed you to engage in fisticuffs and then a duel?” Sir John growled in such a way that he established himself the dominant male in the room of young foolish boys.

  “He bedded my sister,” Cedric defended, but there was little heat in his tone.

  “You’re a damned fool, Sheridan. Lucien loves her,” Lawrence said.

  “I realize that…now,” Cedric admitted.

  “Now may be too late,” Lawrence shot back.

  “You think I don’t regret it?” Cedric snapped like a wounded animal and Lawrence saw the despair in his eyes. “I didn’t even want to shoot him but my hand shook so badly and I…”

  “Then why duel at all?” Lawrence asked.

  “I’d hoped he’d back down. I was too afraid to trust him with my sister’s heart. I could not let her be hurt. Not again.”

  “I think you ought to go and wake your sister, Sheridan. She should be prepared for the worst.” Sir John put a steady hand on Cedric’s shoulder and pushed him towards the door.

  “You’re right. Horatia must know.” He left the room where Lucien lay bleeding and unconscious. What could he possibly say to her?

  “Cedric?” Audrey’s timid voice cut through his grief. She and Lucinda Cavendish were at the other end of the hall, clad only in nightgowns and robes.

  “Where is Horatia?” he asked as they met halfway.

  “I haven’t seen her. Is it true? You shot Lucien in a duel?” Audrey’s voice was tremulous and her eyes on the verge of tears.

  “Yes.”

  “It’s all my fault!” Audrey wailed. “I shouldn’t have told you about them. Lucien will die and Horatia will never be happy and you will be hung for murder!” She reached for Cedric, seeking comfort from him but Cedric angled her towards Lucinda.

  “I’m sorry. It is far more important that I find Horatia right now,” he apologized. He had to put Horatia before Audrey today of all days.

  She wasn’t in her room. The bed was unmade and empty, and her nightgown abandoned on the floor. Her wardrobe was open and Cedric guessed she must have dressed before leaving. He turned to search for her elsewhere but a slip of paper caught his eye resting on her pillow. He retrieved it and read it hastily.

  To the victor of the duel: Congratulations! Your prize awaits you and you alone at the gardener’s cottage.

  There was no name signed. The ambiguous wording was much like the note after the carriage incident. A threat veiled in civility. He did not know who had his sister, but knew who had to be pulling that man’s strings. With a curse, Cedric crumpled the note and tossed it to the floor before running out the door. He prayed he could get there in time.

  The house was in a buzz as servants flitted through the halls. Cedric tore past them to the stairs and out the back door to the gardens. Lucien’s fate was out of his hands now, but he could still help Horatia.

  He had no plan and no weapon. It had to be a trap, he knew, yet somehow it felt like the devil’s due. When at last he reached the cottage his breath was ragged. He practically wrenched the door from its frame as he stormed inside.

  The cottage was dark and quiet but he heard a pained whimper down the hall. Cedric immediately regretted the noise he’d made in entering. No doubt his sister’s abductor knew he was here. There was a muffled shriek and Cedric rushed headlong down the hall.

  He burst inside and found Horatia crumpled in a heap on the floor next to the bed. Rose petals strewn the floor and bed around her, mixing with the blood on her lip and the slashes on her arms. A man stood with a pistol in one hand and a knife in the other. He raised the pistol at Cedric’s chest.

  “So glad that you could join us, Lord Sheridan. Do have a seat. That chair.” The man pointed to a chair by Horatia.

  Before him stood one of Rochester’s footmen, Gordon, dressed in the green livery of Rochester Hall. The same servant who had indirectly confirmed to him that Lucien and Horat
ia had been stealing away together.

  “Sit down. Now,” Gordon said, cocking the pistol.

  “Cedric, get out of here!” Horatia hissed.

  “I’m not leaving you.” Cedric did not sit down, but he made no move to leave.

  Gordon calmly swung the pistol towards Horatia.

  “The situation is quite simple. You will sit in that chair, Sheridan, or I will splatter the wall with her brains.”

  Cedric slowly took a seat and waited. Gordon kicked a coil of rope towards Horatia.

  “Bind his hands and feet to the chair. Bind him tight, or else.” Horatia took the rope with shaky hands and got to her feet.

  “It’s all right,” Cedric whispered. “Just do as he says.” Cedric remained outwardly calm, but the fury in his eyes warned her that he had not given up yet. Horatia tied the rope around his boots and wrists. Cedric stretched and flexed against his bonds once she was done and the murderous look he gave Gordon made the footman smile.

  “To be honest, this is not how I wanted to handle this commission at all. If it was up to me, I’d have killed you your first day here and been off before anyone woke. But I’m afraid my instructions were quite specific on a number of points, such as prolonging your discomfort.”

  “Who hired you?” Cedric demanded.

  “I believe you know,” Gordon replied simply. “And if you don’t, well, it won’t really matter much longer. Now, Miss Sheridan, be so kind as to lie down on the bed. I wish to enjoy you while your brother watches. It is Christmas, after all.”

  Horatia stumbled away from the bed in horror.

  “Don’t you touch her!” Cedric shouted, yanking on the ropes. “You have me already, just finish me and be done with it.”

  Gordon put on a theatrical performance of confusion. “Oh? I’m sorry. You must have misunderstood. My instructions regarding prolonged discomfort and death were for your sister. I was instructed not to kill you unless absolutely necessary.” Gordon started towards Horatia, a gleam in his cold gray eyes.

  “Run! For God’s sake run!” he shouted at his sister.