Seduce Me (3 page)

The damp grass chilled her immediately, reminding her all too well she was clad only in her aging night rail.

“You’re not going anywhere, you little bitch.” Thatcher pulled her to her feet and tossed her over his shoulder. In one swift
movement he had dumped her on the dirty floor inside the carriage. Then he jumped in right behind her as they began jostling
down the street.

“Get up on the seat,” Thatcher snarled at her. When she didn’t move, he lifted her and shoved her onto the seat. “You can’t
ride on the floor like that. We have a long trip ahead of us.”

She kept her legs pulled to her chest, trying to warm her body. But the shivering would not still. Squeezing her eyes shut,
she willed this scenario away. This couldn’t possibly be happening. When she opened her eyes, though, it was all too real.
Both villains were in the small confines with her. She pushed the curtain back as best she could with tied hands. If she couldn’t
escape, the least she could do was find out where they were taking her.

The dimly lit streets of London sped by, and she tried to keep a running catalog of all the roads they passed. But soon they
turned down a road she didn’t recognize and then another until she was thoroughly lost. She let the curtain fall back into
place.

Esme was certain that the men could hear her heart pounding, so loudly did it beat in her chest. She willed her pulse to slow,
taking steadying breaths. Esme closed her eyes. Perhaps if they thought her to be asleep, they would let their guard down
just long enough for her to escape.

“What will we do with her?” Waters asked.

Thatcher cracked his knuckles. The sickening pops echoed against the small carriage walls. “We’ll take her with us to the
dungeon. Then we’ll bring her to the Raven; he’ll get her to talk.”

F
ielding Grey stared blankly at the note in front of him. He’d read it at least ten times, and still the words remained the
same.

Mr. Grey,

We have business to discuss. It is in your best interest to make yourself available. Contact us at your earliest convenience
to schedule a meeting.

Sincerely,

The Members of Solomon’s

28 King Street

Fielding pocketed the note and glanced once more at the clock ticking on the mantelpiece, wondering again why he’d bothered
to come. Solomon’s. Until the impromptu meeting in Egypt, he hadn’t thought of this place, nor the men within, for a very
long time.

These men with their pious attitudes and dreams of artifacts fooled themselves into thinking they sought treasure for moral
reasons. They’d fooled his father with that nonsense, convincing him to chase after one such treasure. Ultimately, the chase
had led to the destruction of their family coffers, followed by his father’s untimely death.

The room he sat in was typical of any gentlemen’s club, with its large leather chairs that were heavily buttoned, ashtrays
and pipe stands on every table, a sideboard with trays of brandy, port, and scotch, and a quiet atmosphere. These clubs were
meant to be refuges where men could escape the noise and bustle of their nagging wives and crying children.

And this club, in particular, was where his own father had escaped his family.

Fielding stood and walked to the back of the room where framed photographs hung against a mahogany-paneled wall. He scanned
the images. Some were faded; others looked new and sharp. These were the men of Solomon’s. He recognized quite a few of them.
Marquess Lindberg, who was rumored to be quite the rogue. Nick Callum, a second son, whom Fielding had known in school.

Each of these men represented a legend, or rather an obsession. Solomon’s was the most secretive club in London and the most
exclusive. It was rumored to have been started by King Henry VIII, a man who himself was seduced by the thought of hidden
treasures. Each member of the club was invited to join only after proving themselves experts in the study of a particular
legend or myth. Every man was held up to the light, and his obsession, as well as his intentions, was heavily scrutinized.

Only the pure at heart could darken the doorway of the prestigious club. No one with practical motives such as earning funds
to pay off debts was ever considered, making it all the more ironic that he himself stood in this very room.

Fielding knew all about Solomon’s. These men would do anything for the opportunity to touch whatever treasure they sought.
It mattered not if a member left a wife and son at home waiting and wondering if he would return.

Then a particular photograph caught his eye. Speaking of the devil. Fielding stepped closer to the wall for a better look.
Second row from the top, fourth picture over—his father. Wearing his ridiculous hat and dusty clothes, he looked more like
a servant than an aristocrat. Not much different, Fielding supposed, than he himself looked most of the time.

Damnation!

The similarities between him and his father ended there, he reminded himself. Fielding was not a dreamer.

Why had he come here? Mere curiosity, he’d told himself when he left the house this morning. Yet, standing here, facing his
father’s photo and the ghosts of his own past, Fielding realized it was far more than that. There were answers he needed within
these walls. The men of Solomon’s would pay for what they had done to his family.

The clock chimed the hour. Footsteps sounded down the hall. Perfect timing. From them, he expected nothing less.

A door to his right opened soundlessly, and a butler stepped forward. “Mr. Grey, they will see you now.”

Fielding took one last look at his father’s picture, then allowed the butler to show him into the room. The door closed behind
him.

As a boy, he’d longed for an invitation to enter this room. His father had told him many stories about the important decisions
that were made here, such as who would or wouldn’t be invited to become a member. “Only those who are worthy,” his father
had said. And now, worthy or not, Fielding finally stood within its four walls.

Fielding shoved the memories aside; he didn’t have time for ghosts today.

Dark wood paneling covered the walls of the room, and a large table surrounded by straight-backed wooden chairs dominated
the space. Swords hung on one wall along with a tapestry depicting a damsel in distress being rescued by a knight, his chest
emblazoned with a red lion. As if the men of Solomon’s believed they were the bloody Knights of the Round Table.

When he noted only three men gathered around the table, Fielding asked, “You didn’t invite the others?” He did nothing to
disguise the mockery in his voice.

“The others, as you put it,” the eldest said, “are fully aware of our meeting.”

“Do you require tea?” the butler asked.

Again the same man responded. He held his hand up, his long fingers withered with age. “That won’t be necessary. The brandy”—he
motioned to the crystal decanter at the center of the table—“will suffice.” He was nearly Fielding’s height, which was something
considering that Fielding was tall for an Englishman. This man, however, was at least thirty years Fielding’s senior, and
while he certainly looked aristocratic with all his sharp facial features, Fielding doubted the man had ever been considered
handsome.

Without an ounce of pretension or an invitation to do so, Fielding sat and stretched his legs out in front of him.

The men followed his lead. Again the tallest one spoke, gesturing to his left. “Mr. Grey, this is Maxwell Barrett, the Marquess
of Lindberg.”

Lindberg nodded. “We’ve met before, I believe,” he said.

Fielding remained silent. He knew very little of Lindberg, only that he had a reputation as a lothario. Fielding suspected
Max’s golden hair and blue eyes made seduction rather easy.

“This is Mr. Nichols,” the tall man said, pointing to the man on his right. “And I am Jensen.”

“Merely Jensen?” Fielding asked.

“It is enough,” Jensen said. The man’s heavily lined face showed no emotion, but his shrewd black eyes—so black it was impossible
to determine a difference in color between iris and pupil—spoke volumes. This was not a man one trifled with. He was used
to getting his way, and he would do whatever it took to ensure that happened.

Well, Fielding wasn’t so easily manipulated. He’d dealt with men far more powerful than these.

Max poured himself a drink, then stood. “We have a business proposition for you.”

“So your associate informed me.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Impressive that you tracked me all the way to Egypt.”

“We are aware of your existing profession as well as your previous… employment with the Raven,” Mr. Nichols said, his voice
wavering like a nervous hen’s. The short, round man mopped at his brow with a handkerchief. “It is your experience with such
matters that makes you uniquely qualified for our offer.”

Fielding leaned forward, resting both arms on the table. “Are you offering me a position?” he asked. “I wasn’t aware that
Solomon’s kept a staff.”

“Aside from those in our employ who work at our club, no, we are not generally in the business of employing staff,” Jensen
said, his tone even and flat. “We try to keep our name and our existence as quiet as possible.”

“But since I already knew about you…,” Fielding inferred.

“Precisely,” Max said.

Fielding understood what they meant, what they weren’t saying. They didn’t want him to be here any more than he wanted to
be. They’d invited him out of sheer desperation. Satisfaction spread through him. He would most certainly refuse their offer.
No matter what the task.

He’d be a liar, though, if he said he wasn’t the least bit curious. That was the one trait he shared with his father, and
no matter how he tried, he hadn’t been able to rid himself of it.

To hide his curiosity, he leaned forward and poured himself a drink. “What is it that you wish me to do?” Fielding asked.

“It has come to our attention that the Raven has potentially located a specific and rather valuable antiquity. We cannot allow
him to keep or sell it,” Jensen said. “Your uncle, after all, is not known for the most scrupulous of associations.”

That was putting it mildly. “You want me to steal it from him?” Fielding sat back in his seat and pondered the idea.

“You cannot deny you have experience with this very thing,” Jensen said.

“Stealing from my uncle?” Fielding laughed. “No, I can’t.” Solomon’s had had conflicts of interest with the Raven in the past,
but the men here had never resorted to thievery. Whatever the artifact they were both after, it must be worth a fortune. He
waited only the briefest of moments before asking, “What is the item?”

The three men exchanged glances as something went unsaid between them. Finally Max leaned forward and leveled his gaze on
Fielding. “It’s Pandora’s box.”

Fielding chuckled. The box from the children’s bedtime story? They must be joking. Then he realized none of the other men
were laughing. “You’re quite serious.”

Jensen nodded.

“The
real
Pandora’s box,” Fielding said. He really shouldn’t have been surprised. As members of Solomon’s, they were all legend hunters.
Why would they not believe in an ancient Greek myth?

“One and the same,” Mr. Nichols said, his voice barely registering above a whisper.

“As the story goes, Pandora allowed her curiosity to get the better of her and opened a box, releasing plagues and curses.
It is this
cursed
box you seek?” Fielding asked, unable to keep the derision from his voice.

Jensen set his glass down rather abruptly. “We do not require mockery, Mr. Grey. We were under the impression that you’d dealt
with these sorts of antiquities before.”

Fielding had never paid much attention to the antiquities he’d found; he couldn’t afford to. To him they were nothing more
than the sum of money he collected. But he knew from his own clients that many believed in the magic of certain pieces. Despite
his feelings about Solomon’s, he felt obliged to be the voice of reason. “Could it not simply be an artifact, a jewelry or
trinket box from ancient Greece and nothing more that my uncle has located?”

Mr. Nichols shook his head gravely. “If only it were that simple. This box is heavily cursed, sir.”

Fielding shook his head. Curses were nonsense. “So why me? Why don’t the men of Solomon’s go after it? Your members are as
skilled at the hunt as the Raven’s men.”

“We each have our own expertise,” Lindberg said. “I myself am prepared for a different quest than that of Pandora’s box. And
some of us are content to merely be scholars of our subject. Mr. Nichols, for instance, has studied Pandora’s legend for years,
but his skill lies in research, not retrieval.”

Mr. Nichols gave a weak smile and nodded.

Eyeing the man, Fielding could well imagine why Solomon’s had not sent the meek Mr. Nichols to face the Raven. A headstrong
woman would be a far better match against his uncle.

“You know the Raven’s henchmen better than we do,” Jensen interjected. “Know the sorts of behavior they exhibit, know where
they’ll take the box. You are the best prepared to handle such men. We are…” Jensen’s voice trailed off with a wave of his
hand.