My Fair Temptress Page 4

  “But…he won’t do it.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. He’ll do as he’s told.”

  It seemed Nevett had used that phrase already. She tried to think back…ah, yes, he had said that same thing when talking about his son and heir. And, as a matter of fact, about the young ladies who would attend his soirees.

  She pictured her father’s corpulent face, his ingratiating smile. She remembered his fervent desire to lift himself in the ranks of society, in his worship of the aristocratic state.

  His Grace was right. Manfred Ritter would do as he was told.

  “We should easily have this thing wrapped up before the end of the Season.” Now Nevett’s gaze rose to rake her face, and she realized he hadn’t been deep in thought. He had been biding his time. “Miss Ritter, you heard what I said to Huntington. I’ve arranged it so the lad will do his best to learn from you. Now hear what I say to you—I know your circumstances. All of your circumstances.”

  Mortified, she asked, “Your Grace, what does that mean?”

  So he told her.

  Caroline went to the servants’ entrance. She rapped softly, and when the door opened, she slipped down the stairs and into the dim, cavernous kitchen below her father’s town house.

  “Miss Caroline, ye’re taking a terrible chance. ’E’s at ’ome.” Cook wrung her hands. “If ’e catches ye, ye know ’ow mean ’e’ll be to ye.”

  “And to you, so I’ll be especially careful.” Caroline pushed her hood back from her face.

  Cook shrugged as if she didn’t care. “There’s a lot o’ positions fer a good cook.”

  “Yes, but I need a cook who cares for my sister as you do.” Caroline pressed the worn hands. “Where is she?”

  “She’s reading in the classroom. Stay ’ere. I’ll go get ’er.” Cook moved softly for a woman of her girth. She had to. Mr. Ritter was a strict taskmaster who demanded his servants provide faultless cleanliness, perfectly cooked meals, and absolute silence. He did not accept mistakes of any kind. Many a serving maid had been dismissed without a reference for dropping her duster, and the result of such strictness was a house as still as a tomb. And dark, and grim.

  Stepping back into the shadows, Caroline pulled her thin coat close around her shoulders. She hated to come back here. Hated more that Genevieve had to live here. But she had the solution. She had the solution at last.

  She heard the swift patter of Genevieve’s footsteps on the stairway and irresistibly, her smile blossomed. As Genevieve entered the kitchen, Cook on her heels, Caroline stepped into the light.

  The single lamp showed a tall girl of fourteen. She moved awkwardly, as if her own hands and feet were alien to her. Her features looked too large for her face. She had spots, and she slumped to compensate for her height. In fact, she was the image of Caroline at that age.

  “You’re beautiful.” Caroline spoke softly and embraced her.

  “Huh.” Genevieve hugged her back, but her scowl seemed to have put permanent lines between her eyebrows. “Nobody agrees with you.”

  “They will.” Caroline stepped back and took her hands. “I have the most wonderful news. I have a position with the duke of Nevett.”

  “That’s good,” Genevieve said cautiously. “Doing what?”

  “Teaching his son to flirt.”

  “That’s dumb,” Genevieve said, with uncensored adolescent scorn.

  “Maybe so, but it’s something I know how to do, and you know what he said?” Caroline squeezed Genevieve’s hands in excitement. “He said that if, by the end of the Season, his son is betrothed to a girl of good family, he’s going to give me a bonus of one thousand pounds.”

  “Miss Caroline!” Cook dropped into a chair as if she’d been shot.

  “One thousand pounds?” Genevieve stared as if she didn’t quite understand. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes! A thousand pounds if I deliver his son to the altar.” Caroline lifted her skirt and curtsied to Genevieve. “Do you know what that means?”

  “We can go to France and live with Mama’s family?” Genevieve guessed.

  “Yes!” Caroline did a few dance steps.

  Genevieve’s eyes, the exact color of Caroline’s, widened. “Can you do it?”

  “I most definitely can.” Caroline vowed, “Lord Huntington’s bachelor days are numbered.”

  Chapter 4

  Jude straightened his cuffs as he entered the party that night at Blythe Hall. The Throckmorton home in Suffolk lay a short train ride away from London, and the place hummed with celebration and laughter, with dancing, good cheer—and with intrigue.

  Garrick Throckmorton worked with the Home Office, as did his lovely wife, Celeste. Throckmorton’s mother, Lady Philberta, his brother, Ellery and Ellery’s wife, Hyacinth, were off visiting Italy, and Jude would wager they, too, performed some duty to the crown. The Throckmortons were a dynasty of spies, yet Garrick Throckmorton was also a financier of some repute, the man to whom many applied when they wanted investment tips. To top it off, the Throckmorton family reigned as scions of society, and an invitation to one of their parties was a coup d’etat for any member of the ton. So Jude wasn’t conspicuous as he greeted his many acquaintances—not conspicuous, unless one considered his silver velvet evening jacket trimmed in beads.

  Throckmorton separated himself from a laughing group and came forward to greet Jude. “How unexpected! I had not hoped to see you tonight.”

  It didn’t sound like a question, but it was, and Jude answered heartily, “Heard you were having a do. Had to come out to show off my latest acquisition”—he slid a finger along his lapel, and in a lower tone, added—“and I have an inquiry about an unforeseen companion I’ve acquired. I hoped to speak with you alone.”

  “A companion. Of the female variety?”

  “Most undoubtedly female.”

  “How intriguing.” At the approach of his charming wife, Throckmorton took her hand, tucked it into his arm, and led them both toward his study. “Darling, Huntington has acquired an unexpected female companion.”

  With a smile that lit the dim, private corridor, Celeste said, “He needs one. He is isolated.”

  Jude suspected that she meant it, which both made him want to deny it and wonder what deep-seated loneliness she saw in him. “Actually, my companion isn’t my choice, and I’m afraid she causes me a bit of a conundrum.”

  Throckmorton frowned in concern. “Who is she?”

  Now that the moment had come, Jude didn’t want to tell him. It sounded so absurd. “It’s a trifling matter, really.”

  In the study, Celeste went from lamp to lamp, turning up the low-burning wicks until warm light reached into every corner of the room. “Trifling matters frequently become larger matters.”

  “You cared enough to bring this to our attention,” Throckmorton reminded him.

  “It’s probably of no moment.”

  “For heaven’s sake, man, what is it?” Throckmorton demanded.

  “My father has hired a female to teach me how to flirt.”

  Silenced, Throckmorton and Celeste stared at him. Then Throckmorton’s solemnity gave way, and he chortled.

  Celeste rested her hand on Throckmorton’s arm. “We should not laugh. This is obviously”—her voice quivered with amusement—“a serious problem for Lord Huntington.” Her gaze wandered up and down his colorful garb. “And a much-needed improvement.”

  Throckmorton and Celeste both burst out laughing. The couple was incongruous, she so light and cheerful, he so dark and somber, and they complemented each other as did the moon and the night.

  Jude crossed his arms and waited until their merriment had subsided a little. “I wondered if someone might suspect me of—”

  “Bad taste?” Throckmorton suggested.

  Jude had to wait again, and this time he glared forbiddingly. His annoyance was tempered by the knowledge that if Signora Eloisa Vittori could hear about his predicament, she would chuckle, too. It was Jude’s ability to flirt that
had convinced the famed Italian opera singer to allow him in her bed, and his skill as a lover that kept him there during his three-month sojourn in Florence. But of course, in Florence he had dressed with taste and behaved with the savoir-faire of an urbane English gentleman.

  “Sorry, sorry.” Throckmorton seated Celeste on the sofa, gestured Jude toward the comfortable chair opposite, and seated himself beside his wife. “Suspect you of working for me? Yes, anything’s possible. What’s this young lady’s name?”

  “He wouldn’t say.”

  Throckmorton raised astonished eyebrows. “You don’t even know who she is?”

  “No. He didn’t tell me, which makes me all the more suspicious.” Jude sank into the chair. “I didn’t anticipate my father’s action, but on reflection, I should have. Nevett is not one to wait on events. He wants me married, and I can’t tell him what I’m doing.”

  “No. Heaven forfend. From where did this lady—I assume she is a lady?” At Jude’s nod, Throckmorton continued, “From where did this lady arrive?”

  “Someplace called the Distinguished Academy of Governesses.” Jude waited for their reaction.

  “Oh!” Celeste dimpled. “No, you need have no worry about your companion. If she is recommended by Lady Bucknell, the proprietress, then the young lady is trustworthy.”

  “It’s through the Distinguished Academy of Governesses that Celeste came to work for me.” Throckmorton ran his finger up her arm and when she turned to him, they smiled at each other as if remembering a great romance. “And Lady Bucknell has on occasion done work for me.”

  “Oh.” Jude hated to surrender, but he saw no way out. “Then I suppose I shall have a governess.”

  “It’ll do you good to put some frivolity in your life,” Throckmorton said.

  “Yes. Spying is serious business, but that doesn’t mean we can never enjoy ourselves,” Celeste added.

  For them, perhaps, but for Jude, the decision to become a spy had been forged in fire and pain. “I came into this business by a different route, and until I’ve trodden the whole path, I can’t truly enjoy anything. Although I do owe it to Michael to live as he did, I’m still learning. Still learning.” Jude closed his eyes and, as always happened, he saw again the scene that had etched itself into his mind. Once more, he saw the fire, felt the heat, experienced the agony of knowing he’d failed his parents, the dynasty, and Michael.

  Jude held the summons from his brother. Come at once to the old square. I need you! P.S. Pay the girl. It was scrawled on a torn piece of paper, delivered to his rooms by a waif. He stared at the message with the sense of helpless rage Michael frequently engendered in him. Michael, who was always falling in and out of adventures and wanting Jude to come to his rescue. Jude always had, but after the last caper, which resulted in a broken arm and two blackened eyes, and all for the love of a barmaid, he had sworn to Michael he would aid him no more.

  And he wouldn’t.

  He paid the messenger, who bit the coin, then disappeared into the night. He seated himself on the chair, crossed his arms, and stared into the darkness. He had known Michael was heading for trouble.

  Jude lived down near the bottom of the hill. He visited the museums, attended classes at the university, drank at taverns with the impoverished students, and listened while they fomented revolution.

  Michael lived at the top of the hill at the spa with the wealthiest, most dissolute people in Europe. He drank champagne, he danced all night, he gambled and gossiped and philandered, and for the first time in their years as brothers, Jude despised him. Michael had never been so callous before, so determined to frolic while, not far away, people suffered and starved. Jude had tried to tell him, but Michael laughed, and said, “Don’t worry so much, little brother. We’ve all got to die sometime.”

  Maybe Michael’s time was now.

  Jude leaped up. Michael was his brother. No matter what, he would always go to the rescue. Loading a pistol, he stuck it in his belt. He strapped a leather holster to his arm and into that he slid the long, sharp, thin-bladed knife that was the weapon of choice in this small country. He donned a dark coat and dark hat and started for the square in the depths of the old town. Above him, at the top of the hill, he could hear music, see light, but as he got closer to the valley floor, poverty closed in around him. By the time he approached his destination, hardship pressed so close it seemed the buildings were ready to topple from the weight.

  It was just past ten o’clock. Pubs lined the narrow, littered street. But no light spilled from the doorways. Shutters covered the windows. Nothing moved. Not a drunk, not a cat, not the breeze.

  Where was everyone?

  Disquiet crawled up his spine. He stayed close to the buildings, his hand on the grip of his pistol, and he smelled a whiff of smoke carried on the evening breeze. And saw something. Light from the square. Not a lot, but a flicker. Something was burning. Something that shouldn’t be. A building. A bonfire. Another trace of smoke wafted past.

  Then a blast of smell, the stench of burning wood and metal, and mixed in with that, an odor that lifted the hair on his neck. He found himself running, slipping on the stones beneath his feet, running right to the edge of the square. Then he stopped abruptly. He would do Michael no good if he rushed in to be killed. He peered around the building into the empty square.

  A fire had been set right beside the fountain. A big fire. A fire fueled by sturdy chunks of tree and, if the smell was to be trusted, fed more than a few bottles of brandy. The occasional flame still licked at the twisted branches, but most of the wood had burned down to coals. And laid out like a lesson on the hearth of embers…

  Caution forgotten, Jude walked slowly toward the center of the square.

  A body smoked, blackened and crisp.

  Jude stared down at it. Flinched, horrified…disgusted.

  No. No. Not Michael.

  But in the light of the dying flames, gold glinted in the cavern of the ribs. Jude didn’t have a moment of doubt. He knew what it was.

  With a stick, he speared the family’s signet ring, the one Michael had donned on his eighteenth birthday, the one the Durant heir always wore. Jude dropped it into his palm. The gold, so shiny, so bright…so hot it sank through Jude’s skin and into his flesh. He didn’t care. He welcomed the pain, the searing heat. It was real. He deserved it, and it gave him a moment’s relief from the taste of his own guilt.

  This was his brother, and he was dead.

  Michael was dead. Michael was dead, and Jude had failed him.

  Not just failed him. Refused to aid him. Agony clutched at Jude. He bent, holding his belly in silent agony.

  When out of the corner of his eyes, he saw a dark shape creeping toward him. Whirling, Jude pulled his dagger.

  A boy stopped, stood there, hands up.

  For all that the lad was skinny and a child of perhaps eight, Jude recognized the menace of his motions. A pickpocket and a sneak thief. Jude slipped the ring into his pocket, kept the blade pointed steadily at the lad. “Tell me what happened now.”

  “Can’t you see? They killed him, Mister,” the lad said. “They claimed he interfered. They said if we knew what was smart, we’d all stay down here where we belong and not make trouble, or we’d end up just like him.”

  “Who did this?” Jude contained his anguish in a whisper.

  The lad backed up a step as if he expected Jude to explode. “Men from up there.” He indicated the mansion near the top of the mountain where gamblers came to take their chances, where aristocrats danced, and the de Guignard family tossed their gossamer net and pulled up gold with every cast. “They killed this chap, burned the body. They threw gold pieces on the floor of my father’s tavern. They took a cask of ale and my sister and rode down the road toward the border of Serephinia.”

  Jude heard a different anguish in the lad’s voice, the torment of a boy who had lost his sibling. Slipping his dagger into its shield, he said, “Get me a horse.”

  “Why should I
do anything for you? You’re a foreigner. You’re a gentleman.” The boy spat at Jude’s feet and cast his worst insult. “You’re like them.”

  Jude didn’t waste his time denying or explaining. Picking up the lad by his ragged jacket, Jude tightened his fist and shook him. “Get me a horse.”

  The lad hung there.

  “And I’ll get you your sister back.” Jude dropped him back to his feet.

  “How’re you going to do that? There’re four of them.”

  Jude pointed to the blackened body. Sorrow clawed at him, seeking escape. “That was my brother. He taught me to fight by landing me in all sorts of desperate situations. He taught me to be cautious the same way.” Grief and guilt won its way over his control. “And now—he has taught me how to go mad.” He dropped to his knees. Lifting his face toward the black sky, he howled his fury and his anguish. Like a wolf. Like a beast. Like a man who had nothing to live for except vengeance.

  When he finished, the boy was back with a horse. “Bring back the gelding.” He dropped the reins into Jude’s hands. “Bring back my sister.” With glorious relish, he added, “Never mind the bodies. When you kill ’em—let ’em rot.”

  He had fought them, four against one. He had saved the lad’s sister, and killed the men. Two had died easily, but one had sliced Jude’s arm open with a broken bottle. Another had shot Jude in the shoulder and in the gut. That blackguard suffered special treatment. Jude had questioned him before he dispatched him, and pulled two names from the villain’s lips—Comte de Guignard and Monsieur Bouchard. They had hired these men to kill Michael, but why, the blackguard didn’t know.

  Looking down at the circle that branded his palm, Jude brought himself back to this with the Throckmortons. “When I dream, I dream that I made a mistake, that he’s still alive and off on another grand adventure. But I always wake up, and he’s dead.” He looked up to see Throckmorton examining him with a sharp eye, and he knew the speculation that ran through Throckmorton’s mind. “I found Michael’s coat nearby, and the blackguards had his boots. His boots, Throckmorton, no one else’s, for no one except me wears such a large size.”