Always a Temptress (2 page)

Three days later

I
f there was one thing that showed Kate Seaton’s life up for what it was, it was a wedding. Kate loved weddings, especially if good friends were involved. She loved the flowers, the thumping organ music, and the sloppy sentiment that brought handkerchiefs out to be waved like white flags of surrender. She especially loved the smiles. Everyone should smile at weddings. Everyone should have a wedding to smile about.

Which was why once she ate her surfeit of lobster patties and succumbed to the obligatory hug from the happy couple, she escaped as fast as a thief purloining silver. After all, the sentiment expressed on such a nice day should never be envy or cynicism.

Such had been the case today. She had attended Jack and Olivia’s wedding, and they were friends; good friends whose happiness she could hardly resent, their joy hard-won and universally celebrated. Jack had looked handsome and stalwart as he’d said his vows, Olivia lovely and honest-to-God glowing, as every bride should. Kate had joined wholeheartedly in the celebration. And then, at the first opportunity, she had run.

She refused to think that, in doing so, she'd abandoned not only her cousin Diccan but her friend Grace. She might not have forgiven herself if it had only been the Surgeon’s death they’d been dealing with. But then, in a horrific twist no one could have foreseen, Diccan had lost his father. Worse, it seemed that Grace had lost her marriage. Kate would have stayed to help, if she could have done any good. But the animosity between her and her family would have only made Diccan’s burden worse. As for Grace, Kate kept thinking that maybe without their friends there to smooth the way, Grace and Diccan would learn to rely on each other and rebuild their marriage.

Pulling on her gloves, Kate stepped out of the door of the Angel Inn and into the gray afternoon. Guildford was bustling, as always, situated as it was on the main London–Portsmouth road. Of its two coaching inns, Kate had always preferred the smaller Angel on High Street with its cozy half-timbered facade and efficient staff. It never took longer than twenty minutes to change out the horses and down a cup of tea.

Today seemed to be different. When she stepped out into the cobbled yard, her coach was nowhere to be seen. A stage was being unloaded, with much shouting and banging, and behind it a curricle waited. Kate tapped her feet, impatient to be away.

From her left came the sound of a muffled sob. She smiled. “Bea,” she gently chastised her companion, laying a hand on the older woman’s arm. “It is perfectly bourgeois to continue crying over a two-day-old wedding.”

If Kate enjoyed the pomp of weddings, Bea positively wallowed. She hadn’t stopped crying since they’d walked into the tiny Norman church of St. Mary in Bury to find it bursting with friends and late-summer flowers.

“Odysseus and Penelope,” her friend inexplicably answered, dabbing determinedly at her eyes with one of the aforementioned flags of surrender, this one edged in the honeybees Bea so loved to embroider on things.

“Yes,” Kate answered, giving her a squeeze. “It was particularly satisfying to see Jack and Olivia married, after all the years they’d been apart.”

“Devonshire,” Bea said, casting soulful eyes down at Kate.

This meaning Kate had to work for. “Devonshire? The duke? Was he invited?”

Bea glared, which on the tall, elegantly silver-haired woman was formidable. “Georgianna.”

Kate frowned, wondering what the late Duchess of Devonshire could have to do with the newly minted Earl and Countess of Gracechurch. Georgianna had been married to a cold fish who’d kept his mistress and children in the same house as his legitimate family. All Jack had done was divorce his wife and take five years to rectify the mistake.

“Unfair?” Kate guessed.

Bea beamed.

“To whom?” Kate asked, now cognizant of the looks that passed among the various travelers and ostlers who cluttered up the courtyard. She had to admit, following Bea’s unique conversational style could indeed be distracting. “Jack and Olivia? How could it be unfair that they’re finally happy?”

This time Bea gave Kate an impatient huff, and there was no mistaking her meaning. Kate, who never got misty-eyed, nearly succumbed.

“Oh, Bea,” she said, wishing she were tall enough to give her stately friend a smacking kiss. “How can you think my life is unfair? What more could I want than money, freedom, and my dearest friend to share them with?”

Bea sniffed. “Half loaf.”

“Not at all, darling. Or is it you?” She leaned close and whispered. “Do you long for an amour? Mayhap a young
cicisbeo
who would squire you about on his arm? General Willoughby would snap you up in a minute, if you just let him.”

Bea’s laugh was more a snort, but Kate saw the pain behind the humor. Bea thought no one would want her, no matter her impeccable lineage and bone-deep aristocratic beauty. Not only was Bea into her seventies, but a few years earlier her brain had suffered a terrible injury that left her speech so tortured, many days Kate was the only one who understood her.

But Kate also knew that, like her, Bea couldn’t tolerate coddling. So with brisk fingers she pulled out Bea’s signature handkerchief and dabbed away the last of the old woman’s tears. “Now then, my girl, we need to be going. After all, you’re the one who committed us to Lady Riordan’s memorial service tomorrow.”

Immediately Bea’s expression folded into pity. “Poor lambs.”

Kate nodded. “At least Riordan has finally accepted the truth and declared her dead. Now maybe the children can move on.” She shuddered. “I can think of few things I find less appealing than drowning.”

Just then, the coach clattered around the corner, the Murther lozenge shining against the black lacquered panels. The horses were unfamiliar, but they were handsome bays that seemed to be pulling hard at the reins.

“Your Grace,” one of the postboys said, bowing low as he opened the door.

Kate smiled and let him hand her into the carriage.

She had just settled and turned to help Bea when suddenly she heard a shout, and the coach lurched. She was thrown back in her seat. The door slammed. The horses whinnied and took off, as if escaping a fire.

Furious, Kate tried to right herself without success. How dare they abuse the horses that way? How dare they leave Bea stranded in the coaching yard, her hand out, her mouth open, still waiting to get into the coach?

The coach turned on two wheels and skidded through the archway. Kate could hear the clatter of the horses’ hooves against the cobbles, the scrape of stone against the coach sides. She heard the urgent cries of the coachman and thought, suddenly, that it didn’t sound like Bob Coachman.

It took her a few tries before she managed to sit back up. She pounded on the roof to get the coachman’s attention. No one responded. The coach didn’t slow; in fact, it sped up, the horses clattering up High Street, their tack jangling like Christmas bells. It didn’t occur to Kate to be frightened. She was still too angry, too anxious for Bea, who simply could not be left alone in a coaching inn.

“Blast you, stop!” she shouted, pushing at the trap.

It was wedged shut. She pounded again on the roof. The coach sped on, rocking from side to side and throwing her off balance. “I am a duchess!” she yelled, resorting to the title she so loathed in an effort to get his attention. “Do you know what will happen to you if you don’t set me down
immediately
?”

In all truth, probably nothing. Her brother Edwin, the current Duke of Livingston, would say she deserved it. Her stepson Oswald, now Duke of Murther, would be delighted by the mistreatment. She had never gotten on well with either. She had to try, though. She had to get back to Bea.

The carriage made another precarious turn and then straightened onto what Kate thought might be a turnpike. She barely caught the strap in time to keep from falling again. She already felt bruised. She couldn’t imagine what injuries she would collect before the idiot driving her coach finally brought it to a halt.

That was the thought that finally gave her pause. What idiot? Brought it to a halt where? Why hadn’t he paid attention to her? Why hadn’t he so much as slowed through a busy town? She could hear shouting outside, and feared for nearby pedestrians. She tried to pull open the window shades, but they wouldn’t budge. She heard a crash and more shouting and cringed.

“Are you mad?” she cried, rapping again against the roof. “Stop this thing!”

Could it be a kidnapping? She was certainly wealthy. But who in their right mind would think anyone would pay to get her back?

“Did you hear me before?” she called. “I said I’m a duchess. I’m a
rich
duchess!” It had to be good for something. “Put me down now and I’ll double whatever fee you’re being paid. Better yet, take me to my brother the duke, and he’ll triple it!”

The words were barely out of her mouth before she froze.

Her brother
.

Suddenly her mind shuddered to a halt. Oh, God. Edwin. He’d been threatening for years to put her away for what he considered behavior unbecoming a Hilliard. Had he seen the painting? Was that what this was all about?

Kate refused to panic. She categorically repudiated the idea that her brother had the power to incarcerate her for something she had no part in. And when she saw him, she would tell him so.

On the other hand, it would probably be better all around if she didn’t have to face him at all. She needed to get away before he did something irrevocable.

The coach was moving too fast, its balance precarious. She was holding on to the strap, and still being battered around. She would probably kill herself if she leapt. She laughed out loud. There were worse things than a split head, and this little jaunt threatened her with most of them. She would jump and happily take her chances.

She was still too furious to really be properly terrified. Which meant it was time to act. Pulling in a steadying breath, she crossed herself like a papist and reached for the door handle.

It didn’t move. She jiggled it. She yanked. She tried the other one. Nothing. Somehow they had secured the doors, preventing her from escaping. Thinking she could at least alert people passing by, she attempted again to pull up the leather shades, only to find them all nailed in place. She was truly imprisoned.

For the first time, she was beginning to realize how desperate her situation was. Damn Edwin to hell.

She needed to get word to Diccan. He would intercede. He could at least threaten Edwin with the kind of public disgrace her brother loathed.

Diccan was thirty miles away burying his father. Too far for a quick rescue. Much too overwhelmed by the sudden death of his father to have any attention left for Kate.

She sighed, hating the shaky sound of it. She hated being out of control. She had long since sworn that she would never be at the mercy of another human being. She would never again know this feeling of helplessness.

She should have known better. She’d never had that kind of luck before. Why should it start now?

“Please,” she whispered out loud, knowing it was a prayer that wouldn’t be heard.

Back at the inn, people were just beginning to realize that there was something wrong. The ostlers had certainly seen carriages speed through the archway before. There was an entire generation of young bucks who refused to leave any other way. The bystanders weren’t even particularly surprised to see the elderly lady standing flat-footed by the door, her hand still out, her mouth open and emitting garbled noises that made no sense. Obviously the young lady she’d been talking to had departed mid-conversation. Unsettling even for people who weren’t dicked in the nob, like the old gal seemed to be.

A few people frowned when the old woman turned back and forth and cried out, “Sabine women,” her hand still pointing toward the departed carriage. A few more shook their heads, sorry to see such a pitiful thing right there in public.

But when she started to sing, everybody stopped and stared. It wasn’t just that she was singing “Cherry Ripe,” which shouldn’t have ever been heard on the tongue of such a dignified old lady. It wasn’t even that she was singing the wrong words. It was that even with the wrong words in a tune she shouldn’t know, it was beautiful.

“Thrasher, come!” she sang, head back, hands out. “Thrasher, come! Lady Kate, follow the way! The carriage has her! Follow the way, Thrasher come!”

And just as if she were making any kind of sense at all, suddenly a motley gaggle of men in crimson-and-gold livery came thundering around the corner from the stables and headed for the old woman.

“That way I say!” the old woman sang, waving toward the street where the carriage had just disappeared. “Four horses brown, a driver strange. Follow the way, Thrasher, go!”

And darned if one of them didn’t respond. Without pausing in his tracks, a thin, sharp-featured boy waved at the old girl and took off after that carriage like a hare at the sound of a gun. As for the old lady, she just stood there, tears running down her cheeks as the other men circled her, her own mismatched army. It seemed she was finished singing. The people who had stopped to listen shook their heads and went back to their business.

“Well now,” the inn’s head groom said, turning back to his stable. “Wasn’t that somethin’?”

Kate frantically searched the coach. Not for escape; she knew the coach was too well made to be easily pulled apart. For weapons. It was almost impossible, and she knew she’d be bruised head-to-toe from trying, but even as she was thrown around, she rifled through the cushions and side compartments, ripping and tugging until the inside of the coach looked as if a mad animal had been caught inside.

Not so different, she thought, feeling more frantic as she failed to secure so much as a rusty spring with which to defend herself. She was left with three hat pins and her shoes. On the other hand, she had used hat pins to great effect on more than one occasion.

If only she could rip through enough of the coach to see daylight. The coach was beginning to close in on her, all the sunlight barricaded away, leaving only shadow and speed. Even throwing herself under the wheels seemed to be a better option than simply surrendering herself to the dark.