Temptress in Training

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-one

L
ONDON,
E
NGLAND
13 J
UNE
1816

What? There would be no usual Thursday orgy? Indeed, this was a relief.

Sophie Darshaw could not be too grateful for a break from her household duties. Tidying up after Mr. Fitzgelder's constant debauchery was quite exhausting. She honestly didn't believe she had it in her to spend another night re-stitching some randy reveler's trousers or hunting down new lacing for some doxy's willfully dismantled corset. After all, Sophie had her own troubles to tend to. She'd learned several long hours ago that a grave error had been made in the design of her latest undergarment invention.

Velvet pantalets, as it turned out, were a decidedly unwise construction. They chafed. Particularly.

This was a problem, and not merely for the obvious reasons. Madame Eudora, her former employer, had commissioned this project and seemed convinced such an object would suit nicely. Sophie would be obliged to send a carefully worded note tomorrow stressing the, er, unfortunate drawbacks.

Would Madame still pay the agreed upon price for the pantalets if she were to fashion them from some lesser, more comfortable fabric? It hardly seemed likely. Or ethical. Sophie couldn't in good conscience allow it. She would simply have to take a loss on this project and encourage Madame Eudora to settle for something a bit more conventional, like those lovely little silk pillows she'd created to fit snugly into Madame's bodice and force the woman's forty-year-old assets back into proper position. Now
that
had been a useful invention, and certainly there would be nothing like this god-awful rash today's endeavor had got her.

It was this problem that she sought to correct when she spied the linen cupboard. Conveniently, someone had left the door ajar. Sophie would just tiptoe in and make use of the blessedly private and unoccupied space. At least, she'd assumed it was unoccupied. How shocking to find it was not!

Sophie was suddenly face-to-face with her horrible employer, the always-eager Mr. Fitzgelder. That fretful chafing was quickly forgotten. Good heavens, what was the man doing in here? Her first impulse was to glance around for whichever of her unfortunate fellow servants the man must have dragged into the small room for unimaginable purposes, but it appeared this time he was uncharacteristically alone.

In his thin, pasty hand he held what appeared to be a locket, hung from a long golden chain. He'd been working the locket, studying it so intensely she could almost believe that little bit of jewelry might hold his attention long enough for her to slide out of the room unnoticed, and unmolested, with luck.

Apparently, though, it could not. He saw her and smiled. The locket was instantly forgotten, folded into his sweaty palm as he moved toward her.

“Well, if it isn't the proper little miss from Madame Eudora's,” he said.

His thick, drawling voice irritated like sand in a shoe, and she knew he chose his words intentionally. Mr. Fitzgelder was not about to let her forget where he had found her and, supposedly, rescued her. He didn't have rescue on his mind now, that much was certain.

“Beg pardon, sir,” she said, staring at his feet and backing away. “I'll just…”

“You'll just stay here with me, little dove,” he said, grabbing her wrist and tugging her back into the room.

He kicked the narrow door shut, too. Now it was dark. Just a thin line of light escaped into the room on three sides around the door. Sophie choked on her panic but forced herself to stay calm. She would find a way to get out of this. She had to.

The room was small. She knew shelves lined each wall, piled high with towels. Bedsheets and all other manner of upstairs linens surrounded them—it would be the perfect place for the unpleasantness her master clearly had planned. Even a fool like Fitzgelder would not overlook such a golden opportunity. Lord, but she should have been more careful. She knew what sort of man her employer was.

Well, she was not ready to give up without a fight. Not that she could count on help from anyone outside that cupboard door, of course. No matter what ruckus she might make in here, Fitzgelder's servants knew the force of their master's wrath—they wouldn't dare interrupt. Especially not for the likes of her. Indeed, although she was ostensibly in training as a maid, everyone knew the real reason Fitzgelder had brought her from Madame Eudora's brothel into his home. And it did not include polishing his silver, unless of course one was not really talking about actual silver.

But Sophie was not interested in polishing anything—real
or
hypothetical—for this man. She hadn't spent the last month repeatedly escaping his groping hands and roving eye only to succumb in a linen cupboard, of all places. She'd survived four years as a seamstress—and only that—for Madame Eudora. She was not about to quietly give up what was left of her virtue to a putty-faced, perpetually drunk bastard like Fitzgelder.

And she was certainly not about to let the man find out she'd been wearing velvet pantalets!

“Get off me, sir! I do not wish for this.”

“What fine airs you take on.” He laughed, his bony fingers digging into her shoulders. She knew it would leave bruising.

“Leave me alone or I'll scream!”

He simply shrugged—she could feel the slight movement in the dark. “Go ahead and scream. I like screamers.”

Well, then screaming was out of the question. She'd conserve her energy for other purposes—like scratching his eyes out.

But in the dark she had a hard time finding them. Her nails had barely scraped his pockmarked face when he caught her hands up in his and clenched them tight. She winced in pain and realized things were not going well for her. She shoved against him but it had little effect.

Desperation took over and she slammed her forehead against his chin. Something warm dripped onto her face. Was that blood?
Good.
With luck she'd caused him to bite off his own tongue. If there were any justice in the world he'd choke to death on it now.

But he merely sprayed her with warm moisture as he laughed—actually laughed!—at her fury. With one hand fisted into her hair so she could no longer move freely, he loomed nearer, breathing heavily and filling the room with the smell of whiskey and tobacco. She was hopelessly pinned.

“I'm going to enjoy this,” he hissed.

No, she was fairly certain he would not. With every ounce of outrage she felt, she brought her knee up between them. God was merciful and she caught him dead-on, right where she had hoped to. He let out an injured yelp.

“Dammit, you're going to regret that!”

He grabbed at her again, but she moved slightly to one side. In the dark he didn't know exactly where to find her. The room was far too tight to escape him for long, but she'd be damned if she'd make this easy on him. Too soon, though, he had her pinned in the corner. Now her arms were wedged behind her and she admitted he was not likely to allow her a second chance at attack.

Damn those velvet pantalets that brought her in here! And to think she'd hoped the money she earned from their design might be enough to finally free her from this man and his employment. How mistaken she'd been. She should have known a girl in her circumstance would never earn enough honestly to set herself up as a proper dressmaker. It was just a foolish dream that—

She blinked in surprise when the door suddenly came open and light flooded into the cupboard. Fitzgelder released her immediately, adjusting his sagging breeches and disheveled coat. Sophie was torn between hiding from the shame of being discovered like this and rushing out to embrace her savior.

As her eyes adjusted to the relatively bright light from the hallway, she did neither. Instead her words of thanksgiving died in her throat as she recognized the intruder. Good Lord, could it really be
him
? Here, wandering the halls and linen cupboards of Mr. Fitzgelder's home as if it were his own?

How awful that he should see her this way! What must he think? He stood there in the doorway, his tall, elegant form perfectly silhouetted, taking in the full panorama of what he could not possibly mistake as anything other than what it was.

The Earl of Lindley.
The finest man she'd ever laid eyes upon and one of the few who'd treated her with something like respect when she'd been introduced to him at Madame Eudora's. Of all the possible rescuers in the world, she was torn between joy and horror that it had to be Lindley to find her this way.

Yet he gave no appearance of shock or surprise or even the least bit of distress at her plight. Lord, but that struck her more than anything. Why on earth was he not distressed?

Honestly, he seemed barely miffed. His voice, when he finally spoke, was disappointingly calm and dripping with ennui.

“I say, Fitz, why did you not bother to tell me the festivities had begun already? You know how I deplore coming in late on the entertainment.”

 

L
ORD
L
INDLEY CURSED HIMSELF AS HE PROWLED THE
deserted halls of Fitzgelder's garish town house. Marble statuaries peered at him from the crowded alcoves built to showcase them. Reproductions, of course, but still they represented a great deal of investment. Even upstairs the walls were lined with expensive silks and gilded tapestry. All in all the effect was quite overwhelming, but even the casual observer would have to wonder where a shiftless bastard like Fitzgelder came up with the blunt to furnish his home in such lavish fashion.

Lindley was convinced he knew the answer. Fitzgelder tried to pretend his wealth was inherited from his father, but Lindley knew this not to be the case. He'd spent the last year conjuring a friendship with Fitzgelder's legitimate cousin and learned some intimate details of the family's situation. Fitzgelder was a bastard whose father had seen little use for him. He'd died without heir and left his wealth and his title to his brother. Upon the brother's death, the Rastmoor wealth passed even further from Fitzgelder's grip to his younger cousin. This current Lord Rastmoor was not inclined to share.

Yet somehow Fitzgelder did quite well for himself. By all appearances, his bills were paid and he could afford the lascivious life he led. In all his prying, Lindley had found little explanation for this. Clearly, then, that was its own explanation. Fitzgelder was his man.

Frustrated, he couldn't yet move on it, though. Captain Warren would want details, names, places, and proof. Lindley had none of these, nothing more than suspicions and a deep, churning sense in his gut that told him Fitzgelder was rotten. Just how rotten, he was determined to find out.

He supposed another night spent in carousing and false friendship with the man would likely not kill him. Then again, it would probably give him a strong headache in the morning and another load of guilt to carry around. But he was getting used to that now. No matter of guilt for a few lies here and a liaison or two there would ever come close to comparing to the loss that still festered in his soul. If Fitzgelder was his man, by God he'd do what it took to catch him.

Then he'd see him hanged.

First, though, he'd have to find him. Where had the bloody bastard gone? They'd only just returned from that dreadful reading of erotic poetry one of Fitzgelder's tasteless friends had arranged. What a waste that had been.

At least, he hoped it had been a waste. Had the man met with his contact in the dark secrecy of the event? Damn, he hoped not. He'd hung on Fitzgelder like a horse burr for the last two weeks but still he was no closer to confirming his intuition about the man. It would be a damn shame if he had to put up with all this only to miss out on catching Fitzgelder in the act.

So where was the man now? They had returned to Fitzgelder's home to find a parcel waiting for him, delivered by messenger. Lindley had seen the delight written on Fitzgelder's face, yet he'd not gotten any clue who had sent the parcel. Fitzgelder had deposited a frustrated Lindley in the drawing room and instructed him to wait, saying he was off to refresh himself but would return momentarily and they might resume their evening plans.

Well, Lindley wasn't about to let Fitzgelder go off to deal with that secretive parcel alone. By God, if this was the evidence he'd long been looking for, Lindley was going to find it. He had quietly followed the man upstairs but promptly lost him.

So where the devil was he? And what was in that bloody parcel?

A commotion from farther down the hallway snagged his attention. It seemed to be coming from behind a narrow door, probably a closet or cupboard. Lindley heard the low drum of Fitzgelder's voice and the panicked high pitches of a female. Well, it would appear he might yet catch Fitzgelder in the act, although sadly this was far from the act he was hoping for. Apparently the parcel had turned out to be less enthralling than Fitzgelder expected.

Really, Lindley knew he ought to leave the man to his efforts. He'd worked hard to insinuate himself into Fitzgelder's confidence. A good friend would never interrupt a gentleman—or rather, in Fitzgelder's case, a ruddy lecher—who was availing himself of an opportunity for a little tussle with a willing maid. An interruption just now might actually sever what bond of trust had been established between the men. Was Lindley prepared to sacrifice that?

Yet the female's protest and the sounds of struggle were obvious. She was clearly—and not surprisingly—unwilling. Lindley decided he was not game for heaping that guilt upon his shoulders along with all the other. He'd no doubt kick himself for it later, but right now he must certainly intervene.

And he was glad that he did.

Light from the many sconces in the hallway poured into what turned out to be a linen cupboard. Fitzgelder, startled, struggled to right his clothing. Lindley politely averted his gaze. What his eyes landed on made him temporarily forget his disgust, his guilt, and his mission to implicate Fitzgelder.