Leslie Lafoy
Authors: The Perfect Seduction
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Contents
P
ROLOGUE
The air was thick and hot and alive with the drone of insects. There was no respite from it, not even in the shade of the veranda. A bead of perspiration trickled slowly down Seraphina Treadwell’s back as she looked at the two coins in the palm of her hand. With the other, she tightened her grip on her portfolio. Forcing a smile, she met her patron’s gaze and said as politely as she could, “I recall that we agreed on a commission of five pounds sterling.”
“True,” Cora Matthews said, her chin high and her lips thinned with a smirk. “However, Lord Matthews has pointed out in the interim that you are without formal training or credentials and should therefore be quite grateful for whatever sum I choose to give for your work. I have decided that two pounds is quite sufficient.”
And Lord Matthews was quite without a legitimate title; everyone in Belize City knew the pomposity for what it was. Her pulse hammering, Sera tried one more time. “We agreed—”
“It’s two pounds or nothing at all, Mrs. Treadwell. Given your circumstances—”
“I am very much aware of my circumstances,” Sera interrupted, hastily dropping the coins in her reticule.
I am aware of a great many things,
she silently added, setting her leather case on the wooden planking at her feet.
Not the least of which is that you would have little girls go hungry and shoeless rather than honor your word.
Carefully extracting the charcoal drawing from the carrying case, Seraphina turned it so that the other could fully see it. “As you commissioned, a drawing of your house. Done, as per your request, with considerable … aggrandizement. Does it meet your expectations, Lady Matthews?”
The woman’s eyes sparkled for just a moment and then the mask of cold disdain slipped back into place. “It will have to do, won’t it? You are the only artist in the colony.”
Seraphina smiled. “I am, indeed,” she replied while blithely tearing the drawing straight down the center. She handed one half to a stunned, wide-eyed Cora Matthews while adding, “You’ve paid for half a picture. When you decide to pay for the other half, do let me know.”
While the other woman sputtered in wordless rage, Seraphina dropped the remaining half of her work into the portfolio, saying, “Good day, Mrs. Matthews,” then turned, lifted her hems, and walked smartly down the veranda steps.
She was halfway down the front path and into blazing sunlight when Cora Matthews found her voice. Sera smiled, ignoring the diatribe. There was nothing Cora Matthews could do to her. They were at the end of nowhere. Actually, Seraphina silently amended as she lifted the hem of her skirt higher and vaulted over a mud puddle, Belize City was beyond the end of nowhere. It was nothing more than a flat place on the mosquito-infested coastline of the Gulf of Mexico. It didn’t belong to any country in particular, not even itself. There wasn’t a local government, or a constabulary, or anything approaching a definable culture. Belize City simply existed, steaming at the edge of the jungle, day in and day out, year after year after year.
Most people didn’t plan to come here; life simply washed them up on the shore. She could count on one hand the number of persons she knew for whom Belize had been their intended destination. Of those five, one had come to his senses and sailed away within a month. Two of them—her parents—had been laid to rest in the cemetery. The other two—Arthur and Mary Reeves—had gone off on yet another exploration for ancient civilizations. They’d planned to be gone for two weeks. The two weeks had become two months; the two months had now stretched to six.
God bless Arthur and Mary—wherever they were. Their house still stood and their daughters were fine—or as fine as three young ladies could be, given that their parents had disappeared without a trace. The Reeveses’ money was a different matter entirely, however. It had been gone for the last month and a half.
Seraphina sighed. She’d counted on the pittance from Cora Matthews to buy food for this evening’s table. With what had been left over, she’d thought to order the eldest of the girls a desperately needed pair of shoes.
Now, because of the woman’s stinginess, shoes were out of the question. The two coins jangling in her reticule wouldn’t buy all that much food, but at least it would keep the wolf from tearing down the door for another week. After that … After that, their survival was going to depend on divine intervention. It was altogether too much to hope that God would offer her a way to get the Reeveses’ daughters out of this hideous place.
A way out … Seraphina paused in the center of the muddy roadway. Beyond the half-dozen ramshackle buildings that comprised Belize City proper, a two-masted ship sat at anchor in the bay. Having arrived sometime during the night, it was presently sending a portion of its crew to shore in several small dinghies. Beyond it all, from far out at sea, came the daily bank of rain clouds.
One didn’t need to own a watch in Belize, Seraphina reminded herself as she gathered her skirts and strode forward. The rain came at two o’clock each afternoon. And while misfortune wasn’t quite as predictable, it did occur far more frequently. The ships that blew into the bay invariably brought a brimming portion of it. She needed to be home with the girls before the captain turned loose his sailors and the sailors turned Belize City into Gomorrah.
Marta de Leon, Sera decided, setting her course toward the small flock of molting chickens halfheartedly pecking the bare ground in front of Marta’s mildew-stained tent. Marta would exchange provisions for the two pounds sterling and not mention the ten already owed her. The other traders weren’t as likely to be as generous or kind.
“Mornin’, Mrs. Treadwell.”
Sera started at the familiar voice and quickly turned toward it, unwilling to have Milton Hopkins at her back.
“Got a letter for ya,” he said, pulling it from the front pocket of his tattered, filthy dungarees and stepping deliberately close—too close—in order to hand it over.
“For me?” Sera asked, taking the once white packet and then stepping back to put a more acceptable, safer distance between them.
“Well, for Mr. Reeves,” Hopkins clarified, his words whistling from between the teeth he had remaining. “But seein’ as how he’s not here to accept it for hisself and how he and his missus left their girls with ya, it seems like maybe it might be all right to give it to ya for safe-keepin’.”
“Thank you,” she replied, studying the envelope. It was indeed addressed to Arthur Reeves. The penmanship was excellent. There were no extraneous flourishes and not the slightest sign of wavering. The hand that had written it had been precise, strong, determined, sure. Bold. Definitely male.
“It’s from London,” Hopkins said. “England.”
“So I see.”
“Ship sent the mail in a couple of hours ago. I was goin’ to bring it out to the house after a bit, but since yer here and the walk’s a fair to middlin’ one…”
Summoning a polite smile, she backed away, saying, “I’m glad I was able to save you the trek. I appreciate your attention to duty, Mr. Hopkins. I’ll keep it safe until Mr. Reeves’s return.”
“Had any word from your husband?”
She froze, her heart tripping as she scanned his face, looking for the slightest sign that he knew something she didn’t. “Not since he led the Reeveses off into the jungle,” she answered warily. Taking a slow, deep breath to brace herself, she asked, “Have you heard from him?”
“Not a peep.”
Sera sagged with relief, then, remembering that she was supposed to be a concerned wife, stiffened her back and mustered what she hoped passed for an expression of disappointment and grim resolution.
“Don’t lose hope, Mrs. Treadwell. Folks have been known to walk out of the jungle. And if anyone can, it’d be Gerald Treadwell.”
An icy wave rippled down Seraphina’s spine. “I pray each night for a miracle,” she answered tightly, shuddering as a second chill raced through her.
“Now, it
would
be a miracle if ya ever saw those Reeves folks again. Wouldn’t count on it, Mrs. Treadwell. Six months…” He shook his head. “Not even their bones is left now.”
She choked back a gasp and then did her best to swallow the anger that came in its wake. Still, it edged her words when she said, “And you were doing so well at buoying my spirits.”
Oblivious to her sarcasm, Hopkins nodded and openly considered the curve of her breasts. “Ya have to face the facts sooner or later, Mrs. Treadwell. Odds are ya won’t be a widow, but those girls is orphans. Pure and simple. Best be makin’ some plans for them. Mizz Amanda’s gettin’ close to the marrying age.”
Seraphina’s jaw sagged. Marrying age? Amanda, the eldest of the three girls, was all of nine years old!
“And speakin’ of the sweet little thing,” Hopkins went on, making a production of looking around the little village. “I don’t see Mizz Amanda anywheres about.”
And Belize would freeze before he did. “She’s at home this morning, helping her younger sisters with their arithmetic and geography lessons.” And just so that he didn’t entertain any untoward ideas, she briskly added, “I’m on my way back there now.”
He spat on the ground between Sera’s feet and, ignoring her gasp and hasty two-step retreat, said, “You really ought to bring her into town more often, ya know. Girl her age ought to be seein’ folks besides the family hens. My Isabel would be right good company for Mizz Amanda. ‘Bout the same age, they are. Give or take a year or two.”
Three, actually, Sera silently corrected. But a lifetime apart in terms of sordid, worldly experience. And it would remain that way as long she had breath in her body. No decent woman—of any age—should ever know the things that the twelve-year-old bride of Milton Hopkins did.
“I know a man over in Guatemala who might be interested in her.”
Seraphina pretended that she hadn’t heard the offer—or noticed that his gaze had dropped to her hips. What a loathsome man! She fisted her free hand even as she reminded herself that she had been brought up as a gentlewoman. Good Lord, there simply had to be a way to get the girls out of this nightmarish place. There had to be. But first she had to get away from Milton Hopkins. And the rudeness of obvious escape be damned; her skin was beginning to crawl.
“I really must be going, Mr. Hopkins. The girls are waiting luncheon on me. Thank you again for delivering the letter,” she said, then deliberately turned away and resumed her earlier course.
She didn’t glance back; she didn’t dare. His leering always brought out the worst in her. The man had so few teeth left as it was. If she were to punch him as she was so sorely tempted to do, he’d starve to death and she’d spend forever feeling guilty. And then, of course, there would be the inevitable talk.
Did you hear what Seraphina Miller-Treadwell did?
Her reputation was tattered enough already; killing Milton Hopkins would be its final unraveling. He simply wasn’t worth it.
Marta’s chickens—even more pathetically defeathered at a closer distance—squawked in protest and scurried to get out of her path. But once they were away, they fell silent, allowing the low drone of conversation to reach her ears.
