A Rake’s Guide to Seduction (25 page)

“As do I.”

“But you are in love with him,” he answered gently. “I know what it is to love another so much that you would do anything for him, even sacrifice yourself. I need to know this man deserves you and your trust in him.” She closed her eyes, and a tear leaked out to slide down her cheek. Marcus drew her into a firm embrace. “I love you, too,” he whispered. “You are my only sister. I want you to be right about him.”

Celia nodded, swiping at her eyes. “I know. Thank you, Marcus. I know he will prove honorable.”

He smiled, touching her cheek. “Good girl. Now let David find him, and we’ll sort this out.”

She wiped away the rest of her tears. “I want to see her. The woman.”

Rosalind gasped. Marcus’s eyebrows went up. “Why?”

“I need to.”

“Dearest, that’s not wise,” murmured her mother. Celia shook her head.

“I am not a fragile flower, Mama. Where is she?”

Marcus looked at Rosalind, then back at Celia. “In the small drawing room.”

Celia walked through the house, feeling almost as if she were watching herself do it from some distant vantage point. She knew—she
knew—
Anthony hadn’t betrayed her, not like this, but beyond that she couldn’t say she knew anything. Who was this person? Why was she here? And what did she really want from Anthony—or was it something else altogether?

She slowed as she reached the drawing room door. She wanted to see the woman, not go in and converse with her. A maid approached with a tea tray, on Marcus’s or Hannah’s orders, no doubt. She bobbed a curtsy to Celia, then opened the door and went in with her tray. Celia inched forward and peered around the open door.

The woman was older than she’d expected, tall and handsome but with unmistakable traces of gray in her dark hair. Her clothing had probably been very fashionable a year or two ago but now showed signs of wear. As Celia watched, she selected a small cake from the tray and handed it to a child sitting beside her, a boy so small his feet dangled in mid-air off the edge of the sofa.

Celia gazed at the little boy. A handsome little boy about Thomas’s age, with curly light brown hair and dark eyes. She remembered Anthony’s face when he showed her the sheath, after he made love to her: it prevents children, he had said. It spares a child from a lifetime of misery, not knowing who his father is. Celia took in the serious little face, the chubby little hands that reached for the cake eagerly. Anthony would never abandon a child of his.

Silently she backed away from the open door, leaving the woman and boy to their tea. With slow, deliberate steps she walked away. Where was Anthony? He would explain all this away when he returned. Somehow.

Overflowing with fury, Rosalind stormed through the halls to her quarry’s chambers. She knocked on the door and then threw it open. “Well?” she demanded. “What have you got to say for your nephew now?”

Lord Warfield looked astonished; the beaming smile that had spread across his face at her entrance faded. “Eh? What’s that?”

“Your nephew. The liar, the seducer, the attempted bigamist. Imagine my surprise,” she said in affected surprise, “when Exeter announced that Mr. Hamilton’s
wife
had arrived. No, don’t simply imagine
my
surprise; imagine my daughter’s.”

“Wife?” Warfield appeared thunderstruck. “Hamilton’s not got a wife.”

“And a child,” she retorted viciously. “Here in the drawing room at this moment.”

The earl put down his pen, got up from his desk, and slowly approached her. “It’s a misunderstanding, no doubt….”

“The only one who misunderstood,” she replied coldly, “is I. I, who repressed my own doubts about him and didn’t ask him to leave weeks ago. I, who said nothing as he seduced my daughter and persuaded her to marry him. I, who listened to assurances from you and David and Celia that he was honorable when I knew he was not!”

“Shh,” he murmured. “You’re overset, my dear.”

“Don’t call me that,” she warned him. He stopped, looking abashed.

“What would you have me say, then? I tell you Hamilton’s not married; you say he is. Your opinion is based on the word of some woman—I assume you don’t know her?”

“I know of her.” Rosalind lifted her chin. “The former Lady Drummond. Don’t think I don’t recall the gossip linking them, years ago. I simply never heard of their marriage.”

“Drummond,” Warfield muttered. “Certainly he never said a word about her to me. The lad’s been nearly a recluse for the last few years, I promise you.”

“He found time enough to father a son.”

“Now, there’s how I know it cannot be. Hamilton would never leave a child of his, not after the way his own father turned him out and let him believe himself a bastard all these years.” Warfield’s face creased. “And he wouldn’t lie to your daughter. He’s not that big a fool, no matter what else you think him. It makes no sense, aye? Bigamy’s not easily hidden and swept under the rug. He’d lose everything.”

Rosalind looked away from him. She didn’t want to hear reason. She wanted confirmation and consolation. She wanted Anthony Hamilton publicly flogged and ripped limb from limb. She was so angry at him, for making her daughter so happy again and then bringing this upon her, she couldn’t bear to hear anyone defend him on any grounds. “Celia will be devastated. I cannot bear to see that happen to her.”

“But I say it can’t be true.” The sympathy and concern in the earl’s face threatened to undercut her outrage and expose her despair. Rosalind clenched her jaw tight as he moved even closer. “If it is true, I’ll take a whip to the lad myself,” Warfield went on. “If it is true, I’ll not say another word in his defense. You can abuse him to no end, toss him out, and cut him forever, and I’ll not protest. But for your daughter’s sake, you must wait until it’s absolutely certain Hamilton’s guilty.”

She could only shake her head. “Celia,” she said, her voice beginning to tremble. “She believes in him….”

The earl took her hand. After a moment’s resistance, she let him lead her to the sofa. Rosalind sank down, Warfield beside her. “Nothing has gone as I intended,” she said in despair. “I hoped this house party would revive Celia’s spirits—she was so downcast and quiet. As silent as a wraith, and almost as pale. I almost feared for her life, she was so melancholy. I never expected she would take up with anyone this month, certainly not in such a shocking way with such scandalous results. I missed my daughter, Lord Warfield. I just wanted her to be happy again.”

“Of course you did.” He took her hand and cupped it between his. “As any mother would want.”

“And I could be happy for her if only I could be certain Mr. Hamilton would guard her heart and be worthy of her love. But I cannot shake my fear that he will leave her even more brokenhearted than before. What am I to do?”

“I don’t know,” he confessed. He was rubbing her hand very soothingly. Rosalind thought she ought to pull away, but it was too comforting. She was tired of worrying. It made her sick, not pleased, to have proof of Mr. Hamilton’s duplicity. She had suspected him of seducing Celia, of taking advantage of Celia’s grief and loneliness. She had never suspected him of this. The horror and betrayal on Celia’s face was stamped on her mind. She closed her eyes, giving in to the comfort he was offering.

There was a knock on the door. Warfield released her hand, and Rosalind put it in her lap, unsettled by the feeling of loss. He had large, strong, warm hands, and it had been a long time since a man held her hand like that. She turned away from him, and he went to answer the door.

It was David. He explained in a few low words what had happened, inviting Warfield to go out looking for the missing Mr. Hamilton. The earl nodded once, looking rather grim. David caught sight of Rosalind then and paused, no doubt surprised to see her in Lord Warfield’s rooms. She just nodded at her stepson, and he left without another word. Warfield closed the door and turned back to her.

“We’re going out to find him.”

She nodded again. She ought to go, but stayed where she was. Warfield approached her again and knelt in front of her. “He’ll explain himself, and this mess, or he’ll not darken the doors of this house again,” he added, his voice hardening. “I give you my word.”

And Rosalind felt a little of the tension ease. He would, she realized. It felt so good to feel reassured about something, she impulsively reached out and clasped his hand. “Thank you, sir.”

He stared at her hands a moment with an odd expression. “Of course,” he mumbled. Then, hesitantly, he lifted his hand, and hers with it. He brushed his lips across her knuckles and then rested his cheek against the spot for a second. It was unbearably tender. Rosalind’s lips parted in astonishment, and he let go of her hand.

The earl avoided her gaze as he climbed to his feet. “I’ll have to change,” he said. “I’m to meet Reece in a half hour at the stable to ride out.”

“Yes.” She cleared her throat. “Thank you.”

He nodded, staring at the carpet. Was that a flush on his neck? She crossed the room and left, hearing him shout to his valet as she closed the door.

In the hallway she paused again. A rough-mannered Scot. Unconsciously she rubbed her thumb over the spot where he had pressed her hand to his cheek. It was still out of the question, of course, but…Still clasping her hands together, she headed toward her chambers.

Anthony didn’t know how long it took him to return to the house, but the sun was past overhead by the time he led Hestia into the Ainsley stable. The stable was emptier and quieter now that many of the guests had gone, so he took her into the stall himself, unsaddling her and examining her wound more carefully after sending a stable boy to look for Mr. Beecham.

The pistol ball had left a deep gash across his horse’s flank, but Anthony eventually satisfied himself the ball itself wasn’t embedded in her flesh. Mr. Beecham arrived, and Anthony explained what had happened. The young groom’s eyes widened, and his mouth settled into a line, but he merely nodded and set about cleaning the injury.

“She’ll be fine,” Mr. Beecham told him when they had dressed the wound. “It’ll leave a scar, no doubt, but better the horse than you, sir.”

Anthony glanced at his horse, now standing quietly in her stall, eyes half-closed in exhaustion from her ordeal. “Yes. Some comfort, but not much. Another foot lower and she’d have to be put down.”

Mr. Beecham nodded. “Another foot higher and it might have put
you
down, sir.” He squinted at Anthony’s hat. “Always better the horse than you.”

Anthony removed his hat, finally noticing what had attracted Mr. Beecham’s attention. A hole, right above the brim, straight through. He stuck one finger through it; nice and clean on both sides. The shot had been fired from nearby. Unless there had been a pheasant perched unnoticed on his shoulder, this shot, and the others with it, had been meant for him. The skin on his neck prickled, and he fought the urge to turn in a circle and see if anyone watched him.

Someone had tried to kill him. But who? And why?

He left Mr. Beecham to watch after Hestia and walked quickly back to the house, tense and on edge. His eyes darted back and forth, alert for any sign of movement. He didn’t exhale until he reached the safety of the mansion, but even then none of the tension in his shoulders eased. With no idea who was behind it, he hardly knew what to do. He must tell the duke, of course. The entire party should be careful until they had more knowledge of who was behind it and why. It could have been a poacher, who might have shot at anyone who happened to be there. Four shots could mean more than one shooter, or one man who reloaded. Neither possibility was reassuring.

David Reece met him just inside the hall. He was dressed to ride, and—Anthony couldn’t help noticing—carried a pair of pistols. David stopped short at the sight of him. “Hamilton,” he said, half-relieved, half-warily. “There you are.”

“Yes.” Anthony slowed to a halt himself. “Here I am. Was I wanted?”

David drew closer, watching him with unexpected scrutiny. “I should say so. Where were you?”

From long habit, Anthony withdrew into reticence when questioned. “Riding.”

“Where?”

“About the estate.”

“Long ride,” David observed. Anthony merely nodded once. What the devil was going on? “Planned?”

“No,” he said. “Not particularly.” David’s eyes narrowed. “Who wanted me, then? Celia?”

David took his time replying. “I suppose she might. Perhaps not. I should like to have a word with you myself.”

“Ah. No offense, but I’d rather see her.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that, if I were you,” muttered David. “You’ve had a caller this morning.”

“Indeed?” Anthony wished David would just come out with whatever was making him tight-lipped and enigmatic.

“Indeed.” David bent a piercing stare on him. “Your wife.”

For a moment Anthony didn’t understand. He frowned. Celia wasn’t yet his wife—and David had already said she wanted to see him. Why would David say that?

“Not my sister,” said David with cold clarity. “Your first wife. And her son.”

Anthony felt a strange sense of unreality steal over him. “My wife,” he repeated in a blank tone.

“And son,” David added.

He didn’t have a wife or a son. But if a woman and child had arrived and claimed to be such…and David Reece believed them…“Where is Celia?” he asked again.

“In the library. Perhaps she’ll see you, perhaps not.” Anthony nodded mutely. David frowned. “Haven’t you anything to say for yourself, Hamilton?”

“No,” he murmured, his mind racing frantically. Who the devil could it be? Did Celia know? What must she believe? “Where…?”

“The small drawing room. Come, man, explain yourself!” David said. “No one wants to believe it, but if you don’t even deny it—”

“Excuse me.” Absently Anthony handed David his ruined hat and turned toward the small drawing room, ignoring David’s surprised exclamation behind him. Had he been shot at to keep him from returning to refute this woman? Was she behind the shooting? Or was he just having a spectacularly unlucky day?

Outside the drawing room he hesitated. Who would be on the other side of the door? Slowly Anthony let himself into the room. A woman was bent over a little boy, wiping his face with a serviette from the tea tray on the table, but she straightened at the sound of the door, turning to face him. For a moment they stared at each other in silence.

“Fanny,” said Anthony, his voice sounding distant.

She curtsied. “Anthony.”

He had not seen her in at least two years, not since he returned from Cornwall. They had corresponded for some time, but he hadn’t heard from her since her marriage; she had removed to Yorkshire shortly thereafter. She looked much the same, but the years had left their mark. Her dark hair was now threaded with silver, and there were fine lines around her mouth and eyes. It gave him an odd feeling to see her again.

He waved one hand at a pair of chairs. She took one, and he took the other. “What a surprise to see you again.”

Color rose in her cheeks. She gave a forced laugh. “Is it?”

“A very great surprise. I thought you happily ensconced in Yorkshire.”

She abandoned all pretense of a smile. “No. Or rather, I was, until recently.”

The child followed her then, glancing at Anthony with curious but wary eyes. Fanny pulled him close to her side, smoothing one hand over his curls. “A handsome child,” said Anthony.

She smiled fondly at her son. “Thank you.” She glanced at him. “I’m sorry I may have allowed the duke to think him yours.”

“Yes, people do seem to have that impression,” replied Anthony dryly.

Fanny flushed. “And I am sorry. But Anthony—I had little choice. My circumstances are wretched.”

“Are they?” He felt no sympathy, still thinking of what Celia must have thought when she heard Fanny’s false tale. “And am I to blame?”

Her cheeks grew even redder. “No,” she said shortly. “But I am desperate, and for my son I’m willing to sacrifice some honesty.”

“And my name, apparently.”

Fanny’s mouth tightened. “I have nowhere else to turn. I hoped you would help me, out of affection and perhaps in thanks for my help to you when you were in similar circumstances.”

He looked at the boy. A dark-eyed, curly-headed child, somberly watching and listening to every word. “I am not certain I understand you.”

“You know very well what I mean!” She surged to her feet. “I gave you ten thousand pounds to start your tin mines. Without me, you’d have no fortune at all. You’d be just another gambler, just another rake in London. Now you’re a gentleman with airs and servants and an heiress bride.”

“That is true,” he agreed. “Your money helped me make my fortune. But it also made yours. I paid you a healthy rate of return, turning you a very handsome profit. It was a business arrangement, Fanny, and one that served you very well.”