The Secret Seduction of Lady Eliza

by Bethany Sefchick

  Stephen shifted uneasily on his feet, clearly not knowing quite what to say. "That is not necessary, your grace. I am returned. I release you from the promise."

  "But I do not!" Eliza jumped in quickly, even though she knew it was not her place. She could not allow this situation to slip any further into confusion and chaos. "I know that we are not a love match, but many marriages have been founded on far less than the friendship we share." She looked directly at her father as she said this, almost daring him to contradict her.

  Then she turned back to Stephen and crossed her arms over her chest. "The duke has been a good friend to this family in the years you have been gone. I would think you would welcome the idea of me being courted by a man such as Lord Candlewood." She quirked an eyebrow. "After all, he is a duke."

  "It is too sudden," Stephen protested, but she could tell he was losing any slight control over the situation that he might have had. Or imagined that he had. "I had hoped to get to know my family once again in private, without all of the world looking in upon us."

  Now it was Lord Framingham's turn to frown. "But Stephen, you are a viscount. My heir. It is time to celebrate and let all of the ton know of our good fortune. True, your reintroduction to society should be gradual, but we will not sit here closeted away with you. There is so much to do, including finding you a suitable wife!"

  Eliza noticed that the man paled considerably at the word "wife," something that was not lost on Nicholas either.

  "I..ah...really, I don't need..." The stranger stumbled over his words and immediately Eliza was struck by something peculiar as the cacophony of voices rose around her. This man worried his lower lip with his upper teeth. Just as Stephen had done when he was worrying over something. In that moment, a fissure of uncertainty uncurled in her belly. She did not believe this man was Stephen. But what if she was wrong? What if her parents were right? Did he not deserve a chance to prove himself? After all, there was so much that was familiar about him, even if her every instinct screamed that this was not her brother.

  She had been younger when Stephen had departed for the peninsula. Not a child, but not quite fully an adult either. Perhaps her parents had known him better than she.

  And that gesture... It was a habit. She could tell by the faint lines worn into his lower lip. It was something he did constantly and without thought. It was also a habit that Nanny had forever attempted to break Stephen of over the years with no success. If this man was not Stephen, how could he have known about the habit? It was possible, certainly, but unlikely.

  Was this her long-missing brother? A body had never been found and he did look rather like Stephen might after so many years at war. He was the correct height and build. And there was no denying those eyes - so very like her own that they were, in some ways, oddly terrifying. But he was also bald, and she knew that the odd shade of hair they had shared as children would also be something this man could not fake - at least not if he was living under the same roof as she. If he was sent away? Took lodgings elsewhere? Well, there were all manner of dyes and tricks that could be used to color hair.

  Reaching up, she fingered her own honey-wheat blonde locks, one of the curls long since fallen out of the pins she used in a futile effort to keep her coiffure in place. What if this man's hair grew in and it matched hers? Moreover, what if it felt like hers? Again, the color and thick, rough texture were so unique that between that and the eyes, she would be hard pressed to deny that this was in fact Stephen, no matter how damaged his memory. But that would only work if he was a member of the Deaver household.

  "I have a suggestion." Eliza spoke quietly but firmly and to her surprise, everyone in the room ceased speaking at once. "Clearly, there is some degree of question about this man's identity, despite his eye color." She looked at the newcomer. "For you have to admit that even a full head of hair that matched mine exactly would go a very long way to determining the truth of your claim. As would more time with this family." She looked back at her parents. "I also agree that you need to be sent back into society, preferably gradually." Then she looked at Nicholas again. "I also do not wish to give up a courtship that has only just begun." There was more truth in that statement than anyone - save for Nicholas - knew.

  "So what do you propose, my dear?" Nicholas' voice was almost sickeningly sweet and Eliza wanted nothing more than to smack him, just as she had when they were growing up and he had been impertinent. Which had been rather often. He was clearly enjoying this charade and the torture he was inflicting upon her. However, she doubted that would be acceptable behavior - especially in front of her family.

  Moving away from both Nicholas and Stephen to stand in the center of the room, Eliza tilted her chin up a bit in defiance. She needed everyone present to see her as strong and capable in this moment. Nicholas already did, for he knew about her secret meetings to keep the household running. In fact, she suspected that he knew far more about her activities than was proper. Her parents, however, believed she was meek and mild. A wallflower. And as for the man claiming to be Stephen? He did not know her at all. And it was him that she needed to agree to her proposal.

  "I believe we all agree that, even if this man's memory is faulty, his hair, along with his eyes, would be enough to prove his identity. Agreed?" She looked around and when she saw everyone nodding, she continued. "So I propose that, for the time being, we accept this man as Stephen." She put up a hand when her mother gasped with utter delight. "He will live here and be gradually reintroduced into society. His return will be a shock to all, not just us, and gossip will be certain to spread."

  Eliza could see that her parents were about to protest - most likely because they were not accustomed to her speaking up. They thought of her as furniture and the idea that she had thoughts and ideas of her own must be something of a shock to them. After all, they were completely and blissfully unaware that she - and not the family solicitor - had been the one keeping the marquisate solvent in the weeks and months after Stephen's supposed death. And she was not about to inform them otherwise.

  "An excellent idea. But I have my own conditions as well." Eliza was not surprised when Nicholas interjected from his position near the hearth where he had returned to lounge, his booted legs crossed as he leaned against the wall. She was also grateful for his seeming acceptance of her plan. She had only offered up the suggestion, hoping that he would agree to it. And force her parents to agree as well.

  "Now see here, Candlewood," Eliza's father sputtered again. "You do not have any say in this family's affairs. You cannot dictate to us!"

  Nicholas smiled again, that same chilling smile that Eliza recognized from many nights of watching him across the ballrooms of London. It was the same one he used right before he ceased being Nicholas and became The Bloody Duke again, imposing his will upon others. "Ah, but our beloved Prince Regent can." Then he shrugged and looked away, as if he was growing bored, even though Eliza knew the man was anything but. "And I am here on his behalf as well as my own."

  With a smooth shove, he peeled himself away from the wall and moved to study Stephen again. "And as such, I have a few conditions, as I said." Nicholas tilted his head this way and that. "I will make certain that the Crown provisionally recognizes this man as Stephen Deaver, Viscount Underhill. After all, he was declared dead." Then he shrugged carelessly. "And becoming undead - so to speak - is something of a lengthy process. It could take some time. Or not. Depending upon our fair king's wishes."

  Then, Nicholas rounded on her father and Eliza held her breath again. "Stephen will live here with you, under your roof, where he will learn all that he needs to know to re-enter society, as I suspect that he has forgotten much, if not all, of his social training. I also need you to agree not to change your will, at least not until, as Eliza has suggested, this man's hair grows in."

  Nicholas swept out an arm towards Stephen. "If the hair is a match, the Crown will officially recognize this man as the heir to the Framingham marquisate, and all wills and wha
t-nots shall be changed. Until then, everything stays as it is." Then he turned back to Eliza and she could see a true glimmer of concern for her in the dark depths of his gaze. "And I shall continue to court Eliza. In public. No more hiding, which we did merely out of respect for the depths of your mourning, Lord Framingham, more than anything else."

  That last part was a lie, obviously, but Eliza was not about to correct him. Then Nicholas turned back to her parents and she could see the icy mask of The Bloody Duke covering his features. This was not Nicholas but rather the man who struck fear in the hearts of so many across all of England and beyond. This was the reported, much-feared spy. It was not the man she had known since childhood and he frightened her. Just a bit.

  "Are we agreed?" Nicholas' voice was cold and passionless as he spoke, but Eliza could still see the fire of anger burning in his eyes. She prayed her father knew better than to argue.

  "Agreed." It was obvious that Jonas Deaver did not like the conditions that Nicholas had set out, but he also recognized that for Stephen to have any claim to the Framingham title, he would first have to be declared alive again - and that was far from an easy process. The support of Prinny and Carlton House would go far in those efforts. "I want my son to have what is rightfully his. This is Stephen and we will prove it. I fully believe there is no harm in calling upon my solicitor tomorrow to have the paperwork drawn up." Then he sighed. "But I will acquiesce to your demands, Candlewood. Mostly because I have no choice, do I?"

  Another, darker smile crossed Nicholas' face. "No. You really don't."

  "Fine. I agree. Just so long as Stephen receives his due in the end." Then Eliza's father offered his hand to his wife. "Now if you will excuse me, we have preparations to make for our son's homecoming." Then, hand in hand, the elder Deavers left the room, the man now to be known as Stephen Deaver, Viscount Underhill, trailing after them silently.

  And once more, Eliza was struck by the realization that all of her parents thoughts and worries were for the long-thought-dead son. And not one word had been mentioned about the future of the still very-much-alive daughter. Or that The Bloody Duke had made his intentions known that he publicly intended to court her. Once more, she was little more than an afterthought, something that depressed her far more than it probably should have.

  Chapter Four

  The next morning, Eliza was awake long before the rest of the household, the late spring sun rising slowly in the sky with the promise of an uncommonly bright and sunny morning. As the golden rays crept in steadily through the part in her bedchamber's draperies, the less inclined she was to remain abed until finally, she gave up on all pretense of sleep and called for Theresa to help her dress in a plain, pale yellow morning gown. Calling hours were still far into the future and, for the moment at least, Eliza desired the solace of the family's small back garden.

  In the days after the news of Stephen's untimely death had arrived on their doorstep, the thick, lush greenery had been the perfect place for Eliza to seek refuge from the turmoil of the household. She could not bear to hear her mother weeping inconsolably or her normally placid father raging against all and sundry who might have had something to do with the Echo's sinking - even if it was the fault of the very forces of nature that had caused the tragedy.

  Among the bright, blooming flowers, Eliza had found a place of solitude where she could center her thoughts and come to terms with the death of the brother who had been her champion and protector for so long. When it became clear that her parents might never recover their wits, she had used the small gazebo in the center of the garden to work on the family's account ledgers or meet in secret with her father's solicitor - even though he only did so under duress. Any such task or meeting was both unseemly and risky for a young, unmarried lady of quality, but with the constant, lazy buzzing of plump bees and the gossamer dance of butterfly wings surrounding her, Eliza had felt strangely insulated from any harm that might befall her or her reputation.

  When the weather cooled, she and Theresa had created clever disguises that allowed Eliza to move about London in the early morning hours still cloaked in darkness, when tradesmen and women of all sorts were milling about the streets, plying their wares. That had, of course, meant leaving the protection of the garden behind, much to her disappointment.

  As time wore on and her parents once again began to assume the duties of running the household, Eliza found that she had to sneak out less and less. However there were small details that she often found herself attending to during the week, mostly because she had set those events in motion and her parents, or more specifically, her father, knew nothing of them. And even though it had turned warm once more, those long-ago garden meetings never took place again. The garden simply returned to being a peaceful place of solitude. Which was why she had sought it out this morning in what she suspected was most likely a vain attempt to collect her thoughts and prepare to face this new reality. One where she had a brother - who might possibly be a fake. And a suitor - who most certainly was a fake.

  Eliza was uncertain how long she sat in the gazebo surrounded by the low hum of insects and the warm, sweetly scented air, but she must have drifted off to sleep at some point. For when a dark shadow fell across her face, blocking out the blessed heat of the sun, she awoke with a start. It took her a few moments to recognize the figure standing over her, for she had only met him once. It was Stephen. Or at least the man who claimed to be Stephen.

  He was dressed in better clothes this morning than the ones he had worn last night in the drawing room, including a pair of fawn colored breeches, a coat of midnight blue superfine, and a snowy white cravat that had mostly likely been expertly tied by Noonan, her father's valet. Stephen had shaved as well, the faint hint of whiskers along his jawline from the night before long gone. His head was still bald, though she thought she might be able to see the first hints of stubble. According to Nicholas, it would most likely take two or three weeks for the hair to grow out enough to make a determination about the man's identity. In the meantime, the man before her seemed content to live the life of Stephen Deaver, Viscount Underhill.

  Though the clothing items were too small for his large frame and far out of fashion, they were of the highest quality money could buy. After all, they were the clothes Stephen had worn before he had departed for war. She did note, however, that he had kept his old, worn Hessians, though she imagined that they were most likely a part of him in a way that the other garments he had worn were not. Eliza also noted that he seemed a bit uncomfortable, as if he was not accustomed to wearing such fine garb. Though she decided that hardly signified as, given his extensive scarring he had most likely served in the military and would have been accustomed to wearing a uniform more than civilian clothing.

  In the bright May sun, Eliza could see a proliferation of evidence of his service to his country. On his right jaw, there was a scar that could have only come from a saber slash. His hands were rough and battle scarred as well, the very tip of his right ring finger missing but clearly stitched up by an expert surgeon. The sort that might be found on a battlefield. Before he had departed last evening, Nicholas had ascertained that the man's torso also bore an assortment of scars and old injuries. And, of course, there was the limp. And the cane. Neither of those were fakes. Nicholas had made certain of that as well, though she did not ask how he had done so.

  "Good morning," she finally managed, cataloging the man's features in the back of her mind for future study. As gracefully as she could, she rose, reaching into her apron pocket for her glasses. They were a bit of safety in an uncertain world, almost like a shield that prevented people from fully seeing her for who and what she was. Much to her dismay, they were not there.

  "Good morning, Eliza," Stephen replied just as evenly, his accent proper and yet mixed with a tinge something else she could not identify. "I thought you might need these." He handed her the missing pair of glasses. "You wore them last night." Then he studied her for a moment. "But you don't need the
m, do you?"

  Her first instinct was to deny his accusation and snatch the spectacles away. Then she remembered why this man was here. To determine whether or not he was really Stephen. And it had been her idea. Baiting him into anger so that he became closed off from her would accomplish nothing.

  She shook her head. "No, I do not." She took the proffered glasses and tucked them into the pocket of the apron she had worn. On occasion, she did some light gardening, snipping the freshest of blooms for vases to fill the hallways of the town home. After all, she had no suitor to bring her flowers, so she had resorted to providing her own.

  Or she hadn't until last night. Would Nicholas appear once calling hours began, his arms full of roses? Lord, she hoped not. That would be simply wretched. And uncomfortable - for both of them. Then again, she doubted that The Bloody Duke would allow himself to be seen with an armful of posies. It would not do much to further his ruthless reputation.

  "Then why do you wear them? You look much better without them." Stephen offered Eliza his arm, indicating that he wished to walk with her.

  She hesitated. She knew nothing about this man - other than that he was not Stephen. Despite his eyes and his features, she could not shake the feeling that had crept inside of her and wrapped itself around her very soul. This man was an imposter. But if he was not Stephen, then who was he? Well, she supposed she would never discover the truth unless she spoke with him at length. And she doubted that he would harm her in the middle of her parents' - or rather their parents' - London garden.

  Grudgingly, she offered him her arm and together they strolled out of the gazebo and into the garden. Eliza kept her pace slow out of deference to his limp. He might not be her brother, but he had severed his country and deserved some amount of respect for that service. She also opted for the brutal truth when speaking with him, thinking that perhaps that might shock him into revealing his true identity. "They allow me to hide," she replied simply, kicking a small rock out of the way with the toe of her slipper so he would not stumble on it.