The Pleasure Trap (23 page)

“What is it to you, anyway?”

Ash believed in live and let live. He had never wished to convert anyone to his way of thinking or living, but in this case he was prepared to make an exception. This man was Eve’s father. His well-being was important to her, and what touched Eve touched him.

“Only this,” said Ash finally. “I have no wish to hear my father-in-law described in the terms you used to describe Thomas Messenger. What was it you said?
In the end, the only friend he wanted was in a bottle. Even his wife and children came to mean nothing to him.
Is that how you want to be remembered, Mr. Dearing?”

“What father-in-law?” demanded Dearing testily.

“Why, Mr. Dearing, didn’t you guess? My primary purpose in coming to see you was to ask your permission to marry your daughter.”

The older man was still gaping when Ash got up. He picked up the newspaper cuttings and slapped them into Dearing’s hand. “Read the stories,” he said, “and tell me what you make of them.”

He sauntered into the house and went in search of Eve.

Martha wasn’t as indisposed as the maid had given out. This was only a small deception to put off callers without giving offense while the mistress of the house busied herself with what was really important. In this case, it was tabulating and inspecting every piece of linen in the upstairs linen room, and that’s where Eve eventually found her stepmother.

When Eve entered, Martha looked up and clicked her tongue. “You may go, Dora,” she told the young maid who was helping her. “I’m sure Mrs. Timmons could do with an extra pair of hands to polish the silver.”

“Yes, mum,” said Dora, and with eyes downcast, she hurried away.

The names Mrs. Timmons and Dora meant nothing to Eve. Domestic staff came and went in Martha’s house with clocklike regularity. Martha was a demanding mistress, and few could meet her standards.

“You look well, Martha,” she said.

Martha’s thin lips flattened. “How kind of you to say so.”

She was younger than her husband by a good fifteen years, a handsome woman with lustrous dark hair that was shot delicately with silver. But that was only a first impression. A closer look revealed a mouth that rarely smiled and eyes that were hard and cold.

She went back to counting her linens. “Your father is becoming very forgetful, as I told you in my letter. That was two months ago. But I suppose a celebrated writer has more important things to do with her time than visit her ailing father.”

Eve could not understand why she could never summon the mettle to stand up to her stepmother. She was a grown woman. She had a full and rewarding life. More than that, she knew that she was not wanted here, unless it was to indulge Martha’s need for a whipping boy. But Martha had only to pin her with a disdainful stare and she felt like a child again.

As a child, she had never felt safe when she was left alone with her stepmother. It wasn’t that she was afraid of physical abuse. Martha would never stoop to that level. But something inside Eve seemed to wither. A slap would have been preferable.

“I’ve brought a visitor,” she said, striving for normalcy. “Viscount Denison.” Martha’s only response was to raise her eyebrows, so Eve improvised. “He has a spread in Richmond and is thinking of employing a landscape gardener. He wants to ask Papa’s advice.”

The reference to Ash, an aristocrat, and his desire to seek her father’s advice did not soften Martha as Eve hoped it would. Tight-lipped, Martha spoke to the linen napkins as she examined each one.

“Well, you brought him for no reason. Your father isn’t well enough to talk about anything. Surely you saw that?” She looked at Eve contemptuously. “I thought I made it plain in my letter. Your father is sinking into senility, and I’m the one who is left to wait on him hand and foot.”

Eve’s face whitened and she stammered, “No. I didn’t know. Your letter was very vague. But that can’t be right. He’s not an old man. What does the doctor say?”

“Doctor!” Martha smoothed out the napkins and set them on a shelf, then she turned to stare at Eve with her cold, hard eyes. “That windbag? Do you think I want my neighbors to know our misfortunes? And they would know if I called in Dr. Porter. He is nothing but a gossipmonger.”

Eve looked blindly at her stepmother. “I can’t believe Papa is senile,” she said. She thought for a moment. “He was talking quite rationally a moment ago.”

“What would you know about it? You’re only here on one of your rare visits. I have to live with him.”

Awash with guilt, Eve asked, “Isn’t there another doctor you could call in? Someone more circumspect?”

“You’re a fine one to talk about circumspect!” Martha stood with her knuckles braced on her hips. “Who do you think you are, arriving at my front door in a curricle with no maid or chaperon to accompany you? Oh, yes, my maid told me. What do you think people will say?”

“Nothing!” retorted Eve, conveniently forgetting that she had thought as much herself before setting out. “Viscount Denison is a respectable gentleman. For heaven’s sake, Martha, we’ve been driving on the open road for most of the day! Only someone with a salacious mind would read anything into it.”

Martha’s cheeks turned an angry red. “A respectable gentleman, is it? Well, let me tell you, miss, I’ve heard of your goings-on in London, and Lord Denison is anything but respectable! He’s a fortune hunter, with no money of his own, and the only thing you’ll get from him is a slip on the shoulder!”

“Your mind isn’t salacious.” Eve’s voice was dangerously calm. “It’s depraved.”

Heedless now, Martha looked as though she would spring at Eve. “And what about your mind, Eve Dearing? Don’t you think I know that you’re just like your mother? Antonia, with her airs and graces! Oh, yes, your father told me all about her. Her mind was unnatural, seeing into the future, making bargains with the devil! Whose fault is it that I’m childless? It’s yours, you little witch! You cast a spell on me, didn’t you, because your father preferred me to Antonia. And if that wasn’t enough, you would read my mind before I knew my own thoughts and carry tales to your father. So don’t talk to me about my mind.”

Eve could have accepted Martha’s harangue if it had been only against her, but Martha knew she could hurt Eve more by attacking Antonia. As a child, she had put her hands over her ears and run from the room. Now that she was older and stronger, she stood her ground and gave back thrust for thrust.

“You’re right,” she said. “I did read your thoughts, but I didn’t cast a spell on you. You didn’t want children, and you were going to make sure that you never had any. I didn’t carry tales. If my father found you out, that wasn’t my doing. I knew my father would punish me if he knew I had read your thoughts. I tried not to, but you made it so easy. You were always angry, you see, and I didn’t know how to shut you out. But I do now.

“As for my mother—” Her voice broke and she cleared her throat. “Antonia used her gift to help people. I’m not so—” She stopped suddenly, bit her lip, and shook her head. “This isn’t helping anyone. Can’t we put the past behind us, for Papa’s sake, and at least be civil to each other?” She put out a hand in a gesture of appeal.

“No!” Martha looked past her and cried in a pleading voice, “You see what she is? She’s a witch!” Then more viciously to Eve, “It’s a pity they stopped burning witches or both you and your mother would have come by your merits.”

Eve didn’t answer. She had whirled to face the entrance to the linen room. Ash was propped against the door, arms folded across his chest, looking as sardonic as she had ever seen him.

“In the first place,” he said, “let me relieve your minds, ladies. Mr. Dearing isn’t senile or anywhere near it. He has been dosing himself with laudanum to relieve his headaches. If I were you, Mrs. Dearing, I’d confiscate his pipe and tobacco. On the other hand, what has the poor man to look forward to in this happy home?”

Martha’s face lost all its color. She opened her mouth, but it was only to suck air through her teeth.

“Where was I?” said Ash. “Oh, yes. In the second place, you were wrong about the slip on the shoulder. My intentions toward Eve are entirely honorable. Ask her father. I have just asked him for her hand in marriage.”

Both ladies stood there staring.

Satisfied with the effect of his words, he held out his arm to Eve. When she placed her stiff fingers on it, he smiled into her eyes. “You have a lot to answer for, my girl,” he said for her ears only, “but let’s keep it until we’re in more-civilized surroundings.”

His eyes fastened on Martha. “I bid you good day, ma’am,” and he led Eve from the room.

At the bottom of the stairs, they met Mr. Dearing. He looked angry, but his expression cleared when he saw them. He went to Eve and gave her a hug.

Holding her at arm’s length, he said, “Well, well, Evie, you’ve made me very happy. It was more than time you were married. I know Lord Denison will take good care of you. Your Claverley cousins will give you up for lost now, and that’s no bad thing. They’re a peculiar lot.”

Eve had felt crushed after the scene with Martha, but now she felt totally exposed. She’d wanted Ash to learn the truth about her, but not like this.

Dearing was no less effusive with Ash. The scene in the study seemed to have been forgotten.

When he could get a word in edgewise, Ash said, “About those newspaper cuttings I gave you, Mr. Dearing. I’d still like you to read them and tell me what you think. You can write to me at Grillon’s Hotel. Here is my card.”

“You’re not staying for dinner?” Dearing put the card in his waistcoat pocket.

“Regretfully, no. I have a…uh…an appointment with the Prince Regent’s secretary.”

“What about tomorrow?”

Ash chanced a quick look at Eve but couldn’t tell what she was thinking. “We’ll be making an early start for town. Unfortunately, I have an engagement in London that I can’t break, either.”

Dearing nodded. “Martha will be disappointed. Martha.” His brow furrowed. “Yes, there are a few things I wish to say to my wife.”

They parted with Mr. Dearing expressing the wish that they have a long and happy life together and that they should visit again when it was more convenient, then he turned and began to mount the stairs.

Chapter Nineteen

They had expected to stay the night at her father’s house. They were to learn that finding lodgings in Brighton when the Prince Regent was in town was as hard as finding a needle in the proverbial haystack.

This was the gist of what Ash was told by the landlords of the various hotels he applied to for accommodation for the night. Eve was all for making for London, even if it meant they’d be driving in the dark for the last hour or two. Ash wouldn’t hear of it. He didn’t trust the weather; he wouldn’t risk his horses; he wanted his dinner; and he wanted a heart-to-heart conversation with Eve that was long overdue. That was the most important thing. He wanted to have that heart-to-heart talk with Eve.

Since they’d left her father’s house, she’d become more and more withdrawn. He’d expected a fight on his hands over the prospect of their marriage, but she hadn’t referred to it, not even obliquely, nor had she mentioned the ugly scene with Martha. She sat in a tight little ball in his curricle, like a whipped dog, and he didn’t know how to draw her out.

The quarrel with her stepmother seemed to have crushed her spirit. Had he entered the fray, things would only have degenerated to Martha’s level. What he’d been tempted to do was put a gag in her mouth, and he supposed that’s what he had done when he’d told her that he was going to marry Eve. Not only had he silenced Martha, but he’d also silenced Eve.

They ended up in the posting house in Cuckfield where they’d changed horses on the last leg of their journey to her father’s house. The landlady’s brows twitched when he asked for rooms for himself and his sister, a subterfuge he was forced to employ when Eve had no maid or chaperon to safeguard her reputation—his fault, as she reminded him crossly while they mounted the stairs.

The rooms they were shown were unacceptable, in Ash’s view—a cramped bedchamber for Eve and a room across the hall that was no bigger than a box for him, where a trundle bed had been set up.

“My dog’s kennel is bigger than this,” he protested.

The landlady shrugged. “Take it or leave it. This is all I have left.”

Eve rallied a little when their baggage was brought up, a commodious leather case for him and a small hand grip for her.

She stared at the case as the boy heaved it into the boxlike room. “What on earth did you bring with you?” she asked incredulously.

“Oh, whatever my valet packed for an overnight stay. And you?”

“The same.” She picked up her small grip and walked into her chamber.

There was a spark of amusement in her eyes, and that pleased Ash immensely.

The spark of amusement faded when she closed her chamber door. The scene with Martha had done more than crush her spirit. She felt naked, stripped of every defense, like a spy in an enemy’s camp whose identity had become known. It wouldn’t have mattered nearly so much to her if Ash hadn’t been present, but he’d heard enough of Martha’s vile words to put the worst possible interpretation on her Claverley heritage.

As for herself, it had taken her years to throw off Martha’s contempt and be comfortable in her own skin. Now she felt like a child again.

The boy came in and lit the fire. Without being aware of what she was doing, she sank into a chair and watched the flames lick round the kindling.
She’s a witch! It’s a pity they stopped burning witches!
Her stepmother’s words drummed inside her head. Martha wasn’t the only one who had called her a witch. So had Dulcie, her best friend, but that was years ago, when Antonia was alive. That’s when she’d begun to reject the Claverley charisma. But no matter how hard she’d tried, it would flare to life when she least expected it.

Her thoughts shifted to Ash. On the long drive to Cuckfield, she’d waited for him to make some reference to the blatant lie about their forthcoming marriage. She’d hoped…It didn’t matter what she’d hoped, because if his only reason for offering to marry her was to do the honorable thing, she wanted none of it.

She didn’t know what she wanted. She didn’t know what to do. He was in the mood to bombard her with questions, and she didn’t know how to respond.

It all came down to wanting his good opinion. Why in blazes did it matter so much to her? Why couldn’t she be herself?

The chambermaid arrived with a jug of hot water, and Eve got up. Maybe when she’d freshened up and changed her gown, she’d find her balance again.

As soon as the maid left, she began to strip out of her clothes.

There were no private parlors in the inn, so they were forced to dine in the public dining room, a small, crowded chamber with barely enough candles to show them who was sitting at the next table. This suited Ash. His being alone with Eve so far from home, in a public hotel, could easily start tongues wagging if they were recognized.

He insisted that she take a glass of wine and kept up a monologue of trivialities while they waited for their dinner to be served. Eve sat in silence with no pretense of listening to a word he said. Finally, he lost patience with her.

“I told you to drink your wine,” he said.

She gave him a smoldering look, but she raised her glass and took a long swallow. “Satisfied?” she demanded.

“No. You’re not going to put me off by hiding behind a wall of silence.”

“I don’t want to talk.”

“It’s too late for that. Too much has been said. Too much has happened. I have a right to know what’s going on.”

Her chin came up. “What right?”

“Have you forgotten so soon? We’re engaged to be married.”

“I don’t remember agreeing to any such thing.”

He almost sighed with relief. She was beginning to come to life again. Crossing swords with him was the next best thing to a tonic. Good. He came at her again.

“You agreed when you didn’t contradict your father when he wished us happy and a long and prosperous future. Why didn’t you, Eve?”

She adjusted her table napkin. Without looking up, she said, “He was happy for once. I didn’t want to disappoint him. And how could I put him right without a long, involved explanation? He wouldn’t have understood.”

“Too late now. We’re stuck with each other.”

Her shoulders lifted as she inhaled deeply. He braced for a blistering setdown, but she merely let out a shivery breath and raised her glass to her lips.

The amusement in his eyes softened. He’d won the first round; now it was time to go gently with her, if she’d let him. “Eve,” he said softly, “I’m not your enemy, and I’m not a fool. I can accept one or two incidents that I can’t explain. I can even accept what happened in our dreams, but after that incident with Martha, I’m at a complete loss. I don’t know what to think or what to believe. Help me to understand.”

“Are you sure you’re ready for this?”

In fact, he wasn’t sure. He was a rational man, a skeptic by nature, and the workings of a woman’s mind had frequently baffled him. But this was different. Eve was his woman. It didn’t matter what he believed but what she believed.

He reached across the table and grasped her hand, bringing her eyes up to his. He was shocked at how fragile they seemed. “Eve,” he murmured, “I’m not going to judge you.”

When fire flashed in her eyes, he quickly released her hand and sat back in his chair. Obviously, he’d said the wrong thing.

Her voice was low-pitched but fierce for all that. “You mean as you judged my aunt? Reading palms and crystal-gazing—that’s always good for a laugh, isn’t it? Don’t you think I’ve seen how you roll your eyes whenever I mention my Claverley intuition? Don’t tell me you won’t judge me!”

“I never roll my eyes!”

“Not literally. But you’re not willing to accept me as I am. Don’t you think I know it? You reason away anything you don’t understand. Oh, you might as well get it over with. I won’t lie to you or try to evade the truth. I’m beyond that now.”

He took a sip of wine, then another. He didn’t want to upset her any more than she already was, but this chance might never come again. When Eve had herself in hand, those formidable barriers that kept him at a distance would be firmly entrenched again.

She looked at him over the rim of her glass. “Well?”

That was all the encouragement he needed. “Martha said you read her thoughts. Can you see into people’s minds and read their thoughts, Eve?”

“No. Not exactly. I can’t pick on someone and decide I want to read their thoughts. Occasionally, though, someone’s thoughts push into my mind and I can’t stop it from happening, not once they’re in. I can’t eavesdrop on strangers, or even those who are close to me.” She shook her head. “I thought I’d got over it.” More fiercely, “I did my best to get over it. It’s only recently that it’s started up again.”

Suspend judgment,
he told himself.
Keep an open mind. Just listen.

She met his eyes. “‘The Claverley charisma,’ my Claverley relations call it. It means
gift
.”

He nodded. “Yes, I’m familiar with the Greek.”

“Of course, you would be, an Oxford scholar. It can be a curse as well as a gift.”

In as soothing a tone as he could manage, he said, “Explain it to me so that I can understand. When did it start? How and when did it start up again?”

His soothing words had the opposite effect to what he intended. “You don’t have to coddle me. You won’t need to worm anything out of me. I told you, I’m beyond lying and evading the truth.”

“Fine!” He answered her in the same irritable tone as she had used with him. “But my question still stands. When did you first get the gift and when and how did it start up again?”

Their first course arrived, beef broth with barley, and she delayed replying until after she had taken a mouthful. “You have to understand,” she said, “that as Claverleys go, I was not exactly at the top of the class. We all have the gift in varying degrees. My mother, Antonia, was the most gifted of us all, but even she couldn’t read people’s minds at will. We don’t choose our subjects, they choose us—oh, not deliberately but unawares.”

She took another mouthful of soup. “I had progressed a little beyond my aunt’s level when the most catastrophic event of my life happened.”

After a silence, he said, “Your mother died.”

She nodded and absently stirred her soup. Without looking up, she said, “When I was twelve. And when the year’s mourning period was over, my father married Martha. She came to live in our house—my mother’s house, I thought. My father was away a good deal of the time.” She looked up. “You heard Martha. You saw what she is like. Because of the Claverley charisma, I was made to feel like a witch—worse, a freak of nature. There was no way we could live together. So I went to live with my aunt.

“But before that, I learned that people were afraid of my gift and I had to keep it a secret. I played too many tricks on my friends—you know what I mean, showing them how clever I was.”

“Doing what?”

Her lips thinned. “What do you think? Reading tea leaves and palms! No crystal-gazing, you’ll be disappointed to hear. Antonia was the only Claverley who could see into the future, and she didn’t use a crystal ball.” She shook her head. “It wasn’t long before I had no friends. They thought I was weird.” Looking up, she went on, “But it was my father who had the greatest influence on me. He felt uncomfortable with a wife and daughter who had visions, and he made us feel uncomfortable. That’s when I made up my mind to disown the Claverley gift and become an ordinary girl.”

“And you turned it off, just like that?” He sounded dubious.

She gave a short laugh. “There wasn’t much to turn off. As I said, I hadn’t progressed very far. When I stopped reading tea leaves and palms, all I was left with was my intuition.”

“No voices?”

Her brow wrinkled. “I wouldn’t call them voices. Occasionally, I could sense someone’s thoughts, and I had the most vivid dreams.”

“Yes. We both know about that, don’t we?” When she glared, his smile died and he moved on to something else. “You said you were supposed to keep your gift a secret. Miss Claverley doesn’t keep her gift a secret.”

“Only because people think she has mastered a few parlor tricks. They don’t take her any more seriously than they would a gypsy telling fortunes.”

He didn’t want to dwell on the subject of Miss Claverley or fortune-telling. “Eat your soup, Eve. It’s getting cold.”

Ash topped up their glasses, then gently led the conversation back to where they had left off. He was more careful now, because this was what he really wanted to hear.

“So,” he said, “you stopped using your Claverley talents when you were twelve years old, but recently they have started up again?” He left his question hanging, because he didn’t want her to see him as a policeman pumping her for answers. He wanted her to know that he had her best interests at heart.

She raised her chin in what looked to him like a gesture of defiance. “The night Lydia was attacked,” she said, “someone’s thoughts burst into my mind. He was absolutely livid. He was going to kill her. That was how I managed to save her. I knew he was down there before I opened my window.

“The second time I heard the voice, I knew it belonged to the man who had attacked Lydia. Once again, he was livid. He wanted to kill the girl who he thought could identify him. He doesn’t know her name is Nell or that she is a runaway from Bedlam. He thinks she is a tinker.”