Seduce Me (2 page)

Hot ashes from the torch fell to his face, burning his eyes. He’d been in difficult situations before, he reminded himself.
And he’d always survived.

With that thought he climbed back up to the ledge of the chamber, pushed himself up to his waist, and crawled back onto the
stone floor of the tunnel. A moment later he found himself in an enormous room, this one with shelves built of stone. Scrolls
and tablets covered every surface.

At long last, he’d found it. The lost Library of Alexandria.

He started with the shelf to his immediate right, careful to handle the fragile pieces with care. There was a fortune in this
room. His client might have hired him to find a group of specific texts, but everything else he’d be able to sell to the highest
bidder.

It took him the better part of an hour to sift through several shelves before he came across something with Socrates’ name
on it. He bundled the scrolls into his bag and turned to go. Tomorrow he’d come back with a team to retrieve the rest of the
materials.

Getting back across the tunnel was much easier now that he knew to gauge the distance of the trap chamber, and soon he found
himself standing below the rope his assistants had used to lower the torch.

“Tighten the rope,” he called. “I’m coming up.”

Fielding secured the bag to his waist, then began the climb up. He made it to the top and held out his hand. Firm fingers grabbed his forearm and allowed him enough support to pull himself back into the antechamber.

He swiped at the dust on his pants, then stood straight. “Who the devil are you?” Fielding asked the man before him. He looked
around the room but found no sight of the two men who’d climbed into the temple with him. “And what did you do with my men?”

“Your men were paid and sent home.” The man held out his card. “I am a friend.”

What kind of pompous idiot carried a card into an excavation site? Fielding grabbed the card and read it:
Jonathon Kessler, Solomon’s
. Well, of course, a pompous member of Solomon’s. And here he’d thought the scorpion was bad. Fielding flipped it back to
the man. “Solomon’s is no friend of mine.” He did nothing to hide the coldness in his voice.

Kessler smiled and pocketed the card. “The men of our club wish to discuss a business proposition with you,” he said. The
man, several years Fielding’s senior, had somehow managed to climb into the ancient tomb without getting even a speck of dust
on his crisply pressed suit. Fielding fought the childish urge to kick sand onto the man’s shiny black boots.

Instead he picked up the rope and wound it around his elbow and hand until it was in a manageable form, then he tossed it
into his pack. “A business proposition. And they sent you all the way to Egypt to find me.”

Kessler’s mouth twitched with a slight grin. “Of course not,” he said with disdain. “I was already in Alexandria. And now
that you have found what you came for”—the man nodded to the bag tied at Fielding’s waist—“you’ll be returning to London.
They wish to speak with you upon your arrival.”

He had a lengthy list of things to do once he returned to London: a long, hot bath; a good glass of brandy, perhaps several;
and about a week in the bed of a willing woman. A visit to Solomon’s was nowhere on that list.

“I have no interest in Solomon’s,” Fielding said.

“Ordinarily the feeling would be mutual, I can assure you, Mr. Grey. But under the circumstances, I do believe a brief alliance
would behoove both parties. Perhaps you will reconsider.” The man withdrew a folded piece of parchment and handed it to Fielding.
“This is an offer you simply
cannot
refuse.”

London, Mid-June 1887

O
ne Friday night on a sleepy side of London, Esme Worthington yawned a most unladylike yawn, then sniffled her nose before
looking back at the text on her lap. It was long past a reasonable time for bed, yet here she sat. Sometime after midnight
she’d abandoned the hard chairs of her study for the more comfortable sofa in the parlor next door. But the plush floral cushions
assisted only by lulling her to sleep rather than encouraging her to continue her research. She readjusted herself and blinked
several times, trying to focus on the book before her.

She read the last sentence once again, trying to absorb the words. Some of these so-called scholars simply had no notion what
they were suggesting. Precisely how was an artifact from ancient Greece supposed to have ended up in the jungles of South
America? Preposterous. There was no possible way that Pandora’s box had ended up on a Spanish explorer’s ship.

Another yawn.

Her great black tom lifted his sleepy head from where he lay curled warmly over her thighs. His gold eyes were nothing more
than slits as he yawned. “Horace, I do believe I shall retire for the evening. I don’t seem to be getting any work done at
all.” She scratched him behind his ears, and he rewarded her with a rhythmic purr. Placing the heavy book on the table next
to her, she stood. “You guard the books, and tomorrow morning I shall pour you some warm milk.”

Esme doused the lamp, then stepped into the hallway. Horace followed her, and she scooped him into her arms. “Want to warm
my feet tonight, do you?”

She stopped. Something had scraped against the wood floor in the very next room. It was far too late for Aunt Thea to be awake.
Perhaps it was one of the servants, though they were normally early to bed as well. She padded over to the room and nudged
the door open.

Two men, dressed head-to-toe in black, stopped what they were doing and faced her as the door swung open.

A scream caught in her throat when Horace leaped from her arms and strolled into the study where the villains stood, his tail
high in the air. Evidently his feline sense of danger was sorely lacking.

Her heart thundered, but she couldn’t very well leave them to continue their misdeeds now that they’d seen her. “I beg your
pardon!” she said, straightening her back and trying to appear taller. “Precisely what do you think you’re doing?” Her study
was in tatters. Papers thrown about and books on the floor. What kind of barbarians… she picked up the book resting by her
toe and clutched it to her chest.

They were of equal height, but one was clearly more athletic and stronger than the other. The larger one strode over to her
and she realized, far too late, that she had nothing to use as a weapon against the brute. Even her slippers were worthless
for that sort of deed. She supposed she could whack him on the head with the book she held, but it was her prized copy of
Gulliver’s Travels
. She certainly couldn’t risk damaging the book. Besides, she didn’t want to wake her aunt or her elderly servants lest she
put them in danger too, so Esme stood her ground.

“I can assure you I have nothing here worth stealing. You are in the wrong neighborhood for that,” she said. “Although you
are doing an admirable job of destroying my library.” Then it occurred to her that her precious books might very well be what
they were after. “I have no original texts,” she lied. “These are all silly novels, not worth anything.” Another lie.

The man took another step toward her. His eyes were wild and frightening, and when he ran them up and down her body, she became
all too aware of the clothing she wore. Or rather the lack thereof. Granted, it was several hours after midnight, and a woman
was generally given the right to sit in her own home wearing a night rail and robe. This man’s intense gaze penetrated her
and caused the hairs on the nape of her neck to stand erect. She forced herself not to shiver.

Surely they were not here to ravish her. Pulling her robe tighter around her, she eyed her opponent. She would certainly cause
all sorts of noise if that was the case. No matter that the other three persons in the house were grayed and wrinkled, they
could grab a fire poker or sturdy umbrella and fend off her attackers. And Aunt Thea had those ridiculously heavy candelabra
in the dining room. Perhaps it would have been much smarter had Esme grabbed one of those before storming in here unarmed.

“Where’s the key?” the man asked.

“Evidently you don’t need keys.” She pointed to the emptied drawers and shelves. “You simply force things open when you need
to see within.”

He closed in on her, his expression one of ravenous greed. He ripped the book from her grasp and whisked it across the room.
It landed on its spine, the pages fanning out until they settled open. Esme winced. Panic fluttered in her chest as she considered
the damage they’d already done to her desk and books. She didn’t like to contemplate the damage such fiends could perpetrate
on her person.

She narrowed her eyes at the man. “You should know that if you intend to ravish me, I will scream the house down,” she said,
forcing her voice to be as calm as possible. “And believe me when I say that the people who will come running to assist me
will do you much bodily harm.” An absurd notion.

He reached out and fingered the ruffled hem of her sleeve. His lip curled. “Tempting. But we only want the key.” His voice
was deep and raspy as he added, “And we’ve seen your staff.” A smirk, then a vicious chuckle escaped his ugly mouth.

Bored with the exchange, her cat took that moment to flip his tail in the air and strut out of the room. Now she was utterly
alone with these dangerous men.

She crossed her arms over her chest, mostly to hide her shaking hands. She hoped it made her look formidable. Not an easy
task for one so small in stature, but she did her best. “I simply don’t know which key you’re referring to.”

The man on the other side of the room twitched. “Thatcher, we don’t have time,” he said, his voice heavy with a Cockney accent.

“We take her, then,” Thatcher said.

“You will do no such thing,” Esme said, taking a step backward.

The man in front of her silently closed the door behind her, then shoved a cloth into her mouth. Furiously she tried to spit
it out, then reached up for it, but before she could he grabbed her wrists and held them tight.

Esme tried scratching him while he manhandled her, but her blasted nails were so short, she caused little damage. She really
must stop chewing them. With her feet she kicked and flailed, trying anything to deter them from taking her.

Nerves rippled through her stomach in sickening waves. She was in serious danger. With renewed effort, she kicked her legs
about, desperately aiming to hit a target, but failing nonetheless.

This simply was not happening.

Her efforts to wrench herself from her captor’s viselike grip only succeeded in exhausting her. She fought to keep her breathing
under control lest she end up hyperventilating and suffocate herself on the gag.
Think, Esme
. She could find a way out of this situation.

Surely they had mistaken her for someone else. She didn’t own anything valuable. Certainly not any keys. They didn’t even
have a cabinet to lock up the family silver. Of course, they no longer had any family silver. These foolish men were in the
wrong house, kidnapping the wrong woman.

Thatcher yanked the tie to her robe and the loose folds fell open, leaving her exposed to the chill. “Waters, tie her hands
together.”

Waters did as he was told while Thatcher climbed out the library window. The thin satin sash became a harsh cord as he tightened
it around her wrists. With the stronger of the two captors distracted, she doubled her efforts at trying to break free from
Waters’s clutches. But despite his slender body, his hands gripped her arms, sealing her in place.

“Hand me her feet,” Thatcher said in a harsh whisper.

Waters complied, and in an instant she was being passed through the window as if she were nothing more than a sack of potatoes.

“Her bum is stuck on the window,” Waters said.

“Well, lift her up.” Thatcher’s impatience was evident.

Waters gave her a lift. “She has quite the bottom for such a wee thing.”

She glared at him, but he was not looking at her face. More than anything she wished to take the wretched cloth out of her
mouth and give them both a tongue-lashing for speaking so cruelly about her bottom. Perhaps it was a bit on the large side
for a woman of her size, but she had always been rather fond of it.

Once they were all out on the ground, Esme noticed the waiting coach. Four black steeds stomped impatiently. Clearly owned
by someone quite wealthy, the large carriage was black with gilded filigree, and despite the dark night, Esme noted how it
shone. A crest emblazoned the door, backed in red and in the center a great black bird, its wings spread as if it were about
to fly away.

The street was barren except for the coach, but she was only a few steps from rounding the corner to a much busier lane. Now
was her chance to try to get away. She bolted toward the front street, but the clouds shielding the almost full moon made
seeing rather challenging. Nevertheless, she’d made it a far distance before one of the men crashed on top of her, knocking
the air from her lungs and crushing her with his weight.