Alec Mackenzie's Art of Seduction

by Jennifer Ashley

  Alec lifted her hand that bore his ring and pressed a kiss to her fingers. “Because I’ll not be going to France with you. And this makes me sad.”

  “What?” Celia’s eyes widened, but she didn’t jerk away. “What are you talking about? Of course we both must go, with Jenny.”

  Alec shook his head. He hadn’t wanted to face a choice like this. On the chilly Paris morning when he’d declared he’d find Will, packed a small bag, and rushed to a boat, he’d somehow thought he’d easily track down his brother, grab him by the ear, and drag him home.

  He hadn’t expected Will’s disappearance to be complicated, that the plans he’d laid with Lady Flora would be even more so. He hadn’t expected Celia to be beautiful, intelligent, talented, and a damsel in distress. She was correct when she’d declared Alec was a knight, as in the romances of old, a champion who took on all comers in defense of his lady.

  But the world had changed from those faraway days, no matter how many costumes people wore at masked balls, and how much they professed to uphold honor and glory.

  Alec had seen, only a few months ago, that all the glory, which was mostly men swanning about proclaiming they were restoring the rightful king, had been brutal and ugly, full of pain, sorrow, rage, and death.

  “I can’t leave England, lass. Not yet.”

  “Why not?” Celia pinned him with a gaze that was too discerning. “Please tell me, Alec.”

  Without lying, she meant. The other day she’d been incensed at his evasion, taking offense that he would be other than open with her.

  “I lied to you, because the truth is dangerous,” Alec said. “I barely know ye. And you don’t know me at all.”

  “But now we are married.” Celia withdrew her hand and touched the ring, the movement equal parts wonder and trepidation. “I admit I have not seen many good examples of marriages, where husband and wife trust each other and confide all to each other. Perhaps such a marriage only exists in stories—I don’t know. But I would like to try for such a thing.”

  “Then you will love Malcolm and Mary,” Alec said. “They have complete trust and devotion. Will do anything for each other. It will make ye ill.”

  “Then we will be like Malcolm and Mary.” Celia gave him a small smile. “Alec, please. I can help—I would like to help you. You’ve already done so much for me, more than you’ve had to.”

  “Of course I had to. My fault you’re caught in my mess.” Alec drew a breath and threw all his planning and caution to the wind. He wasn’t one for machinations like Will was—Alec only ever wanted to paint and love beautiful women. This beautiful woman. “I leapt at the chance to have the daughter of the bloody Duke of Crenshaw in my power.”

  “I see.” Celia watched him calmly. “I’d say you succeeded. You’ve married me.” She did not appear unduly alarmed by this fact. “And yet, you are nothing like the wicked villains from the plays in Drury Lane. You don’t rub your hands and glower nearly enough. Nor are you very happy that you’ve succeeded in trapping me.”

  “Because the game changed,” Alec growled. “You changed it. Which is why I want you out of it.”

  The carriage listed as they rounded a corner to the Strand, heading for the river. The momentum pushed Celia into Alec, but instead of rising once the coach straightened, she remained against him.

  “Tell me why,” she said softly. “I shall be a termagant wife, and demand to know all.”

  To hell with it. Alec sent up a prayer, and cast the dice.

  “Because your father knows where my brother is,” he said in a hard voice. “He’s the most likely person to know. Will’s been missing for a long time, and I’m not going back to my family without him.”

  Chapter 18

  Celia raised her head. The anguish in Alec’s eyes pierced her, making her want to reach to him and wipe it away.

  But his words were astounding. “My father? How on earth would he know where your brother is? Do mean your brother went missing after the battle of Culloden?”

  “No—Will escaped—he made it to France. Then for no reason I can understand, he returned to Scotland and—was captured.”

  The bleakness Celia had seen in the back of Alec’s eyes suddenly made sense. He feared his brother was dead, had the terrible emptiness of not knowing what had happened to him. Worried he might never know.

  But the notion that Celia’s father, her kindhearted, rather browbeaten father, knew the whereabouts of Alec’s brother was highly unlikely.

  “My father has nothing to do with Jacobite prisoners,” she tried to explain. “He did attend some trials, but the glee with which the Scots were being prosecuted upset him, and he ceased going.”

  Alec shook his head. “Your dad is in charge of a regiment—the Duke of Crenshaw’s Brigade. They escorted Scots prisoners back to London before the bulk of the regiment was sent to fight in France.”

  “My father pays for a regiment,” Celia corrected him. “He’s only nominally in charge. He leaves the running of it to others. At heart my father is a peace-loving man—he doesn’t like war.”

  Alec’s eyes glinted. “Nor do I. But war happens. The duke might not give the orders, and he might avoid prisoner trials so he doesn’t upset his delicate constitution, but he knows. There’s a world of knowledge in your da’s head.”

  “I think you’re wrong,” Celia said. “But there is an easy way to discover if he knows anything about your brother. I can ask him.”

  “No, lass.” Alec’s voice was sharp. “What are you going to tell him? I’ve married a dead Highlander, Father. Have ye squirreled away his brother somewhere? Oh, the brother’s a traitor and supposed to be dead too.”

  “Don’t be silly. Now you have to trust me. I will think of something …”

  “Ye won’t speak to him at all. Ye eloped with me, and now you’re going to France with my daughter to live with my family. And there’s an end to it.”

  Celia’s temper rose. “I am, am I?” She’d learned to practice meekness with her mother in order to have some peace—the whole family did—but Celia was far from the timid rabbit others believed her. “I might have agreed to obey you in the wedding vows, but not if your orders are unreasonable.”

  Alec scowled. “I don’t remember the bishop reading that part of it.”

  “Well, such a clause ought to be in there. I believe in a marriage of partners, not the mismatches so many make to keep power and wealth in the family. I believe a wife should be a helpmeet, not an appendage to put an heir and a spare in the nursery, and then do as she pleases. Lady Flora told me this makes me a romantic, but very well. I am a romantic …”

  She trailed off before Alec’s fierce stare.

  “God’s balls, is that what an English marriage is? A wife to pump out babies and then ignore and be ignored? No wonder so many Englishmen are weedy and pale.”

  “And all Scottish men are robust?” Celia returned. “Shall I be a Scottish bride and take up my claymore and fight alongside my laird?”

  “’Tis not so common anymore.” Alec spoke in a forced voice as he tried and failed to lighten the conversation. “Though the wife of the Mackintosh clan chief raised her own Jacobite regiment during the Uprising. When her husband, who fought for King George, was captured at Prestonpans and sent to her as a prisoner, she saluted him and said, Your servant, Captain. He bowed back and said, Your servant, Colonel.”

  Celia had heard that tale, which her father had told her with great amusement. “You see? But do not worry. I’ll not lead a regiment against you. I can promise you that.”

  Alec gave her a dark look. “Don’t promise. ’Tis a hard thing, keeping promises.”

  Celia curled her fingers around the heavy ring. “I already fulfilled one—remember? You asked me to trust you. And here I am. Please, Alec, let me stay and help. I couldn’t bear being away from you, not knowing your fate. You’re my husband now.”

  Alec’s gaze was piercing. “Aye, and you’re my wife. I promised to take care of you,
as long as we both shall live.”

  “And I plighted my troth to you. My honor, my loyalty. I will help you, my Alec. Whether you like it or not.”

  Alec continued to scowl as they wove through the stream of carriages on the Strand, the traffic heavy in spite of the darkness and fog.

  Then a sudden grin broke over his face, like the sun tearing through storm clouds. “Damn it, lass, I’m thinking you’ll make me a bonnie wife. And that I made a wise choice.”

  He rapped on the roof of the coach. A tiny window opened in the top, a patch of the coachman’s face appearing. “Guv?”

  “Take me to the other address I gave you.”

  The eye narrowed. “Right you are, guv.” The window snapped shut.

  Immediately, the coach halted, backed, and turned. Shouts and curses sounded on the street and Celia heard the noise of wheels scraping the cobbles. Sparks flew up, brightening the darkness. Once the carriage righted, they began moving back the way they’d come, heading for Charing Cross.

  “Where are we going now?” Celia watched tall houses and black shadows flow past in the night.

  “Not to France,” Alec said and then fell silent, apparently not about to part with more information.

  Celia leaned into him again, uncertainty washing coldness through her. She’d taken an irrevocable step tonight, pledging herself to a stranger from a foreign land, an outlaw in her country.

  He was also a warm, firm-bodied man who wrapped his arm around her and held her close, his lips brushing the top of her head. Celia sank into him and let herself, for this moment, feel safe.

  Will Mackenzie knew people from around the globe—he had friends from China to the Americas, Africa to the East Indies. He occupied a world Alec didn’t understand, but Will made connections with men and women from all strata of life, regardless of whose country was at war with whose, and remained friends with them for years.

  Alec knew plenty of people himself, but where Will kept to those who traded information, Alec’s circle was in the art world. Not so much the patrons, such as those who graced Lady Flora’s salons, but the artists themselves, their models, their assistants—those who grubbed so the patrons could fill their drawing rooms with magnificent paintings.

  The woman who owned the house Alec took Celia to had become an acquaintance of both brothers. Will had met Josette Oswald when he was looking for information on the British armies swarming the Continent. Alec had met her a decade ago when she’d been an artist’s model in Amsterdam, sitting for painters keen to be the next Rembrandt or Van Dyke. Alec had hired her a time or two, and he and Josette had become friends.

  Friends only, never lovers. Whether Josette had been Will’s lover, Alec didn’t know. Will was loud about visiting brothels or taking mistresses for the fun of it, but any relationship important to him he kept secret.

  Alec had no idea of Josette’s nationality. Her first name was French, her last English, but she called herself Mrs. Oswald, so her maiden name could be of another origin entirely. Or Josette might not have had a husband at all and had simply appended the “Mrs.” to her name to give herself respectability, especially after she’d had a child. She spoke French fluently, but her English had a decided London cant. She also spoke Dutch, Russian, and various dialects of German.

  When Alec had met Josette, he’d been a lad of eighteen who’d run away to Amsterdam and then France to learn painting. She’d been young herself, a great beauty, but already with a five-year-old child.

  Now Josette was near to thirty and running to plumpness, but she still had the beauty in her round face and glossy black hair that all those artists had tried to capture, on canvas and off. Josette had evaded them all.

  She met them in the cramped hall of a house in a lane south of the Strand, the noisome smell of the river seeping to them. Sounds above and in other rooms told Alec her boarding house was full—Josette always pulled in good business.

  “I see you decided to risk my hospitality after all,” she said as she closed the front door. She looked over Celia in her now-rumpled costume, then Alec in his Highland regimental uniform. “Padruig isn’t staying, is he? Only, he frightens my cook—on purpose, the dratted man.”

  “No, he’s off to tell Gair he’ll have to wait longer for his payment,” Alec said. “We’re staying in London a bit.”

  “I see that. You must be the poor thing he married.” Josette took in Celia with her shrewd dark eyes. “You’ll be wanting a change of clothing, I’ll wager. Lord Alec sent for them, and they’re upstairs in your bedchamber. You’ll want to sort through them—you know how men are. Never pack the right things. My daughter will help you. Glenna!” She called up the stairs. “Come down and assist her ladyship. Before the second coming, please.”

  “Aye, I heard ya.”

  Down the stairs came a girl with coltish arms and legs, as tall as her mother now. Glenna, the mite who’d been five years old when Alec had painted in the Netherlands, was now a sunny-faced girl of fifteen, already a beauty like her mother.

  Glenna curtsied before Celia with respect. “This way, my lady. Mum’s fixed a chamber all nice for ya. I’ll take your hat—can’t have it squashed, can we?”

  So chattering, she led Celia up the stairs, slowing her exuberant stride so Celia wouldn’t fall behind. Celia glanced once at Alec, who gave her a nod, then she gathered her skirts and skimmed up the stairs after Glenna.

  “Mum’s been worried all day whether you’d come or not,” Glenna said as they went. “Lord Alec couldn’t decide whether to stash you here or rush you to Paris. Paris is ever so much nicer, but it’s a long journey, with soldiers all over the countryside in France, Mum says.”

  Her voice faded as she and Celia left the landing, cut off by the closing of a door.

  Alec let out his breath. “Thank you, Josette. This is kind of you.”

  Josette folded her arms over her plain brown bodice, a fichu like the ones Celia wore concealing her bosom. “Kindness has nothing to do with it. I’m worried sick about Willie. You haven’t found him yet?”

  “No,” Alec said glumly. “I have places to look, but no, no sign of him.”

  He thought of the grim, cold house in the country, and knew he’d be back there, risking his life to find who, if anyone, was in it.

  Josette flushed and looked away, her eyes moist, but when she turned back, she’d composed herself. “Did you marry that pretty thing to help in the search? Daughter of the Duke of Crenshaw, eh? Is the marriage even valid?”

  Her expression was disapproving. Josette, who’d have done anything to keep her daughter fed, including stealing secrets from a king to hand them to Will, now frowned at Alec, certain he was using Celia and would discard her when finished.

  “I married her to take her away from bloody people happy to make use of her,” Alec growled. “I tried to send her to m’ family, but she wouldn’t go.”

  Josette nodded. “Wise of her. I’ve met the might of your family, and it’s enough to make even a strong woman flee into the night. Give her time to grow accustomed to you.”

  “I don’t think all the time in the world will do that. The Mackenzies are overbearing bastards. Ye’ve not heard a word from him?”

  “No.” Josette lost her smile, fear in her eyes. “Not a dicky bird.”

  Alec had no idea what Will was to Josette, or she to him. Will left his lovers with ease, and they either remained on good terms or chased him off waving their fists.

  But perhaps Josette had been different. She certainly wasn’t the same sort of woman Will usually took up with.

  Alec gentled his tone. “We’ll find him.”

  The tears that dropped to Josette’s cheeks glistened in the light of a single candle on the hall table. “They’ve probably already killed him. Declaring he was Charles Stuart might have kept him alive until he was taken to a garrison, but once someone in charge knew he wasn’t anywhere close to being Prince Charlie, I’ve no doubt they bayoneted him there and then.”

&n
bsp; Alec’s mind too easily pictured things. He imagined Will, rage in his eyes as his bravado fell away, his glare that changed to agony as the bayonet ran into his heart. Then the life would drain from his face and he’d fall back, bloody and dead, as the soldiers laughed.

  Alec clenched his jaw so hard it ached. “We won’t let them.” He knew he should comfort Josette, but he couldn’t move, frozen to the bone. “We’ll find him, damn his hide. And then we’ll give him hell for worrying us so.”

  Josette didn’t smile. She gave Alec a nod, but it was clear she didn’t believe Will was still alive.

  He had to be. Alec clung to the hope. If he gave up that hope, Will would truly be dead and gone, and Alec couldn’t face a future that stark.

  “Even your nightdress is beautiful.” Glenna lifted the thin cotton gown from the trunk and laid it upon the bed, smoothing its skirt. “What must it be like to have such clothes?”

  Celia had never given her gowns much thought, having been used to sumptuous fabric and the best seamstresses all her life. She had friends who fussed over their clothing and raged if even one stitch wasn’t to their liking, but as long as Celia didn’t look a mess, she was happy. A quick glance in a mirror or letting a maid straighten a skirt had been enough for her.

  But now she looked down at the crumpled, soiled white velvets of her costume and cringed. She’d just been married in the wrinkled garments of a clown.

  “I’ve never been to a masquerade,” Glenna said, not noticing Celia’s discomfiture. She unhooked the bodice from Celia’s skirts, drew off her stomacher and corset cover, and began to unlace her stays. “Mum would never let me. Says men and women who have to pretend to be others for fun are right fools. Says masquerades are excuses to paw at one another’s husbands and wives.”