Seduced by a Scoundrel (34 page)

“There is nothing petty about this,” Drake snapped, his footsteps loud in the foyer. “Of course I wanted to keep you away from Hailstock. He would have turned you against me.”

She regarded him with cool contempt. “No, Drake. You have managed to do that all by yourself.”

Then she walked past him and into the library, shutting the door.

Chapter Twenty-five

Alicia had a question to ask her mother.

Stepping down from the carriage that evening, she assured herself that was her sole reason for coming home. She needn’t brace herself for an encounter with her husband, either. At this hour, Drake would be at his club.

Her throat tightened with unshed tears. After his departure, Mrs. Molesworth had fussed over Alicia, bringing her tea and toast with jam, wrapping her in a warm knitted blanket, making a fire in the library hearth. Alicia had curled up in a wing chair and stared out at the endless rain. She’d spent the remainder of the afternoon alternately weeping and brooding, hurt and angry at Drake for using her to such a foul purpose.

And through it all, she’d had the nagging sense that she’d missed something vital. Something that nagged at the edge of her awareness. Pondering that puzzle, she’d dozed off there in the library, and she had awakened at dusk, remarkably clear-headed.

And with an astonishing question in her mind. Only Mama could provide the answer.

Though the rain had slowed to a drizzle, a footman held an umbrella over Alicia’s head as she walked across the drive, heedless of the puddles. Gazing at the house, she felt caught by a bittersweet sense of homecoming. How she had grown to love this magnificent four-story mansion with its tall white columns and the many windows glowing golden with lamplight through the darkness. How she had grown to love its master, the most deceitful, heartless, obstinate, domineering,
stupid
man who had ever lived.

As she walked up the marble steps to the portico and entered the front door, Mrs. Yates stood in the foyer arranging red tulips in a Grecian vase. She whirled around, her sensual features alight with an uncommon interest. “Good evening, m’lady.”

With a polite nod, Alicia headed straight for the grand staircase. “Is Lady Eleanor in her chamber?”

“Nay, she’s in the ballroom with Mrs. Philpot.” The flame-haired woman smiled a trifle indulgently; Alicia wondered if the housekeeper could actually show compassion for Mama. “She is Queen Eleanor of Aquitaine tonight.”

Alicia considered going to the ballroom, but she hesitated, her foot on the first step. Perhaps before she questioned her mother, she should take advantage of this opportunity. If Mama was deep in fantasy, she wouldn’t be able to tell Alicia where to search, anyway.…

Mrs. Yates cleared her throat. “You should know, m’lady, that the master had the morning room made into a bedchamber for Lord Scarborough so that he may get around more easily in his wheeled chair. They are both there right now, putting things in order.”

Surprise struck a painful jolt to Alicia’s heart. Drake was
here,
only a few steps down the corridor.

An impossible yearning lured her. She could go to him, forgive him his monumental faults, tell him that she would stay even if he couldn’t give her his heart. He would take her upstairs and love her with his body at least.

But he was with his
brother.
Lord Hailstock’s son. That was enough of a reminder of his perfidy.

“I shall inform the master that you’re here,” Mrs. Yates said.

She turned to go, but Alicia spoke sharply to stop her. “Please don’t. I won’t have him interrupted.”

“But he wished to be told at once if you returned. He was quite insistent on that point.” Mrs. Yates eyed her with blatant curiosity. “To that purpose, he ordered me to tarry here all evening to watch for you.”

Alicia tightened her fists at her sides. He wanted to ply his charm on her again. She was nothing more to him than a body, nothing but the woman his father had wanted. “You are not to say a word,” she said, her voice taut. “Is that understood?”

She feared the housekeeper would refuse. Mrs. Yates had an unswerving loyalty to Drake, a loyalty based on gratitude toward her savior.

But she gave a slow, considering nod. “As you wish, m’lady.”

Did she no longer regard her mistress as an interloper? Or had she guessed the truth and would seize the chance to bar a reconciliation? Alicia no longer cared to know.

By way of dismissal, she started up the grand staircase.

Mrs. Yates called after her, “I must say, the master has been stomping around here like an angry bull. If something is amiss between you two, perhaps I could relay a message to him.”

She wanted gossip, that was all. Alicia forced a nonchalant smile. “I’ll have a word with him myself … later.”

Unwilling to think beyond her quest, she lifted her skirts and hastened upstairs. When she reached the second floor, she walked down the elegant passageway with its familiar gold wallpaper, the framed landscapes, the gilding on the woodwork. She must order her belongings packed and sent to Pemberton House. Mama’s, too.

But not now. Not yet.

Stepping into her mother’s room, she closed the door. On the bed, the embroidered coverlet had been turned down to show the feather pillows. The yellow draperies shut out the darkness, and a lamp burned on the small writing desk.

Alicia hurried there, her shoes making no sound on the leaf-green carpet with its pattern of yellow ribbons. Stifling her misgivings at invading her mother’s privacy, she opened each desk drawer in turn. A pile of blank stationery. A few extra quills. A collection of buttons in a shallow dish. And in the bottom drawer, a sketch of hearts and flowers with labored lettering:
To my deer mama, with love, Alicia.

Smiling in spite of herself, she picked up the sheet. Mama had amassed a veritable fortune in old papers. Alicia sorted through the stack, glancing at compositions, arithmetic exams, history essays, half in Alicia’s progressively neater handwriting and an equal number in Gerald’s scrawling penmanship.

But she didn’t discover what she sought.

Going to the bedside table, she examined the contents: an embroidered handkerchief, the stub of a candle, a prayer book. Nothing of significance. Then she carried the lamp into the dressing room to explore the clothespresses and armoires, methodically moving aside the many costumes Drake had given to her mother.

Her heart clenched anew with the pain of his treachery. How could a man capable of kindnesses allow himself to be ruled by hatred and vengeance? And how could she still long for him?

But she did. Deep within herself, love still burned, a flame too stubborn to be extinguished. She had known Drake could be ruthless, and she had allowed herself to become vulnerable to him, anyway. She should never have convinced herself that he could return her love, that his carnal passion for her might grow into true affection.

Blasted gambler. She should have realized that a scoundrel like him was never to be trusted.

Blinking back angry tears, she shoved aside gown after gown, determined not to overlook any nook or cranny. She focused her mind on reaching into drawers, checking on top of cabinets, her fingers probing in the deepest corners.

At last, dejected, she plopped down on a stool and tried to think of where she hadn’t looked, where Mama might have concealed something she considered to be a treasure. There was no other possible hiding place—

Then her gaze alighted on the cask of fake gold coins, the ones Mama used when playing pirate.

Hardly daring to hope, she rushed to it and dug into the pile of painted tin circles. The metal made a tinkling noise, some of the coins spilling onto the floor. Near the bottom of the cask, her fingers brushed a small bundle.

Alicia pulled it out. Letters, a dozen or so, the paper yellowed and tied with a bedraggled pink satin ribbon. She had known Mama had saved these letters. She’d stumbled across them before, hidden beneath a loose floorboard in the bedroom they’d shared at Pemberton House. Attributing Mama’s secretiveness to eccentricity, Alicia had replaced the letters unread. She had believed them to be a sentimental keepsake of no significance to anyone but her mother.

Until today.

Closing her eyes, Alicia held the packet to her breast. Heaven help her, she shouldn’t look. She didn’t want to read the letters Mama had saved all these years. The letters that she now knew Lord Hailstock had been anxious to find.

For if her suspicions proved correct, she would be giving Drake the means for a far more enduring revenge.

*   *   *

Having busied himself for the past hour directing a bevy of servants, Drake felt an uncustomary awkwardness when he was finally alone with his brother.

A team of footmen had brought down a mahogany four-poster bed and reassembled it here in the morning room. Several maids had fixed the linens, made a fire in the hearth, and closed the varnished wood shutters. The rug had been rolled up and taken away so that James could roll freely across the pale marble floor. Behind the closed door of a small antechamber, a valet was unpacking several trunks full of James’s clothing.

Watching him pick up a lamp and move it to the bedside table, Drake wondered why he’d agreed to this damned fool arrangement. He should never have allowed his noble younger brother into this house. It was a revenge Drake had never conceived, to steal the marquess’s heir. And he felt no triumph, only a curious sense of unreality.

He’d gained a brother today. And lost a wife.

He tossed back a flavorless swallow of brandy. Though he’d downed half a decanter already, the liquor hadn’t dulled the sharpness of loss. If anything, it had made him maudlin.

Leaving Alicia at Pemberton House had gone against his every instinct. He didn’t know how long he’d stood there in the foyer, staring like a lovesick fool at the closed door to the library. He’d felt the desperate need to bring her back home where she belonged. She would have resisted, but he could have picked her up in his arms and carried her to his coach. She wouldn’t have kicked and screamed; Alicia had too much dignity for that.

But it was that very dignity that had stopped him. He couldn’t forget the look of chilling contempt in her eyes.

His wife despised him. Even more than she had at their forced wedding. And he had the discomfiting fear that this time, he might not succeed in charming her into his bed. He might never again trade witty barbs with her. He might never see her smile at the circus or get tipsy on a few glasses of champagne. He might never hear her soft voice whispering words of love.

His chest tightened with a restless, unfamiliar panic. Why was he dallying here when he ought to be trying to convince her? He had to
do
something. Having already exhausted his repertoire of excuses, he had no idea of what he’d say to her. Scouring his brain, he started toward the door.

“Hold there,” James said, rolling swiftly forward. “You can’t bring me a brandy and then leave.”

“I’m going to the club,” Drake lied.

“Take the evening off. And sit down, blast it. I’m getting a crick in my neck from looking up at you.”

He’d probably like Drake to bow and scrape like a damned servant.

Wearing a white shirt and dark breeches, his brother stared at him challengingly. Had James been able to stand, they’d be of a similar height. The muscles in his arms and chest were well developed from exercise. Drake had seen a footman bring in several barbells in various sizes.

For some reason, he had the sudden impression that James was lonely for company. He knew no one in this house, except perhaps Lady Eleanor, who might not recognize him. Even Alicia was gone.

Alicia.

Damn. Why was he letting her turn him into a lapdog who would go sniffing at her heels, whining for her favors?

Angry with himself, he went to fill his glass from the decanter he’d left on a table. After taking a long drink, he sank into a comfortable leather chair by the fireplace. It couldn’t hurt to stay a few more minutes, to lay down some rules.

As James wheeled closer, his glass tucked between his thighs, Drake said without preamble, “I’ll assign a manservant to assist you as necessary. Confine your orders to him alone.”

“I won’t need help,” James said. “I brought along Tilford, my ever-faithful valet.”

“I’ll leave it to you, then, to make sure he doesn’t interfere belowstairs.” Drake wouldn’t allow either of them to harangue the staff, misfits who wouldn’t conform to a nobleman’s exacting standards.

“Tilford is no instigator. He’ll keep to himself.”

“If you’ve any special requests for Cook, give at least half a day’s warning. I won’t have my servants sent off to the market on a moment’s notice.”

James raised his glass in a mock salute. “Strict bugger, aren’t you?”

“Tomorrow, the servants will remove the rugs in all the ground-floor rooms,” Drake went on tonelessly. “Then you can roam about as you please. The library is just down the corridor. My housekeeper will take you on a tour tomorrow—”

“I’ll find my own way around,” James said, his mouth tightening. “I’m more interested in you. Who, may I ask, is your mother?”

Drake had been expecting the blunt question. Much as he hated revealing his past to this self-serving aristocrat, James should know the truth of his father’s neglect.

So Drake gave an abbreviated version of the story. All the while he watched James, daring him to cast any slurs on Muira Wilder’s honor. Crippled or not, he’d get a fist in his face.

But James didn’t jeer. He merely shook his head as if amazed. “I can’t imagine Father having an affair. He’s a stickler for convention.”

Drake thought Hailstock capable of any perfidy. He said nothing, though. If James wished to cling to his illusions, let him.

“To the best of my knowledge, he never strayed from his marriage vows,” James went on, lifting his glass to study the amber liquor in the firelight. “I’ve often wondered if he would finally take a mistress after my mother’s death. That was a year ago.…”

“He hasn’t.”