The Rules of Seduction (24 page)

Alexia practiced the scolding she would give her husband, but halfway to the house she lost the heart for it. He had only tried to be kind. He wanted them to have as much time as possible. Surely Rose would see that, if she would just open her eyes to more than his injury of them.

It was too much to expect. A family pinching pennies could hardly think kindly of the man who had sent them into impoverishment.

When they approached the lane to the house, Rose opened the trapdoor and called for a stop. Without ceremony she opened the door, kicked down the stairs, and alighted. She was halfway down the lane before Hayden climbed down.

“She does not want Timothy to see the carriage,” Alexia explained. “He would make her life hell if he knew she had ridden with us.”

“I expect so.” He watched her turn a slight bend in the lane and disappear. He closed the door. “Wait here. Find a blanket and keep warm. I should not be too long.”

“Too long where?”

He pointed to the roof visible amid the trees. “There. I have business with Timothy Longworth.”

He waited at the door. Eventually they would open it. If they did not, he would enter on his own.

The door finally cracked ajar. Rose’s face appeared, ashen and worried. “Leave. Please leave. You have no right—”

“I have come to see your brother, Miss Longworth. It is in his interest and yours that he learn what I have to say.”

“He will never speak to you. Now you must go.”

She began to close the door. He grasped its edge with his hand. “Tell him that Benjamin left at least one bank account that was not among his papers. I know where it is.”

Rose appeared skeptical, but she opened the door and allowed him to enter. She brought him to the drawing room, then left.

“You will roast in hell, you know.”

He swung his attention toward the young voice that damned him. Irene stood in the threshold, wearing a petulant expression.

“You have ruined my life. Your cousin sleeps in my bed and will have my season, and I will never marry now since I have no fortune and…and…” Tears started to spill, interrupting her harangue. She wiped her eyes in vain and continued to charge blindly. “Rose says Alexia had her reasons to marry you, but I can’t think of one good enough. It was hateful of her to do so. You of all men. Nor will she forgive you, not really, not ever. She loves
us,
not you. She—”

“That will be enough, Irene.” Rose’s scold caught Irene unaware of her sister’s reappearance outside the drawing room. She pivoted around to face Rose’s severe expression.

Irene began weeping in anger and frustration. “He…he…”

“It is not a child’s place to upbraid him, and right now he is a guest in this house. Go to your chamber now.”

Irene ran off. Rose entered the drawing room. She did not apologize for her sister. Hayden assumed she had agreed with every impertinent word.

“Timothy will be down soon. Can you occupy yourself until then?”

“Easily.”

“Then I will leave you to do so.”

He did so by wondering what Rose and Alexia had talked about during those hours in the church. He doubted his wife had defended him against all charges. There had been much truth in Irene’s immature ravings.
Nor will she forgive you, not really. She loves us, not you.

He had no obligation to make amends, but he would mitigate the damage if he could. For Alexia’s sake he would, and for Rose and Irene. The ladies did not know Timothy was a criminal, nor would they ever, most likely. They did not know how he had brought this suffering on his family and how close he had walked to the gallows.

When Longworth entered the drawing room, it did not appear his delay had been spent on grooming. Unlike his dashing appearance at their last formal meeting, he looked unkempt. Cravat askew and eyes shot with red, he walked in the slow, deliberate manner of a drunk trying not to stagger.

“Rothwell.”

“It was good of you to make time for me, Longworth. Are you sober enough to understand what I have to say?”

Longworth laughed. “Same words, same man, same answer, Rothwell. I’m
too damned sober.
”

Hardly. But not too damned drunk, which was what mattered.

“Bit of a row down here a while ago. Was Irene yelling at you?”

“She blames me for your ruin. So does my wife. You lied to them.”

“Told me to, didn’t you? Said I should come up with whatever lies I wanted to keep them from knowing the truth.” He grinned. “I figured it was better they hated you than me.”

“I want you to tell Alexia the truth.”

“Causing problems for you, is it? Sorry, I can’t do that. She would find a way to let Rose know. You can’t tell her either, can you? Gave your word of honor, as I recall. You will forgive me if I am not sympathetic to your quandary.”

Hayden had not expected anything different from Longworth, but this blithe refusal made him want to thrash the man.

“Rose said you dangled a bank account to get me to receive you.” Longworth threw himself on the divan and sprawled. “Is there money in it?”

“Some. Not enough.”

“Of course not enough. There will never be enough. That is my punishment, isn’t it? To never get out from under this.”

“With industry, you could. If you did not succumb to your illness so willingly, you could.”

“Do not preach. Rose does that enough for five men. Where is this account?”

“The Bank of England.”

“It is odd the records were not with his other financial papers.”

“Not so odd, considering the use to which this account was put. You learned your scheme from Ben, I have discovered. He had been at it a long time. This account was where he placed the money he stole.”

Longworth scratched his ear. “I wondered where he put it. There should be a lot, though. More than enough.”

“He spent some and also paid off the income due his victims, just as you did. There were other dispersals of a private nature. Three thousand remains, however. It should help.”

Longworth nodded, closed his eyes, and drifted into a reverie. Hayden wondered if he was falling asleep. He opened his eyes, however. “Gin has my mind a bit fogged, but even so, this is not making sense.”

“How so?”

“If you know he was doing it, then you know which funds he sold. Why would you let me have the three thousand? Why isn’t it going to making those people whole?”

“The account is under Ben’s name, and you are his heir. I cannot keep you from having it even if I want to. As for his victims, I will make them whole myself, to protect his name.”

Longworth whistled. “A lot of money. So you will cover Ben’s criminal debts but not mine.”

“Since he is dead, Ben cannot cover his own. Also, he was my friend and you are not.”

“Should still be a lot more than three thousand. I worked it out after he died and I was stuck covering that income from his earlier schemes. I had a good sense of how many he had done, so to speak. Seems odd there isn’t more in that account.”

Hayden knew too well where a lot of the money had gone. It had enhanced Suttonly’s fortune. “I do not think you will find any other hidden treasures. There were transfers to banks in Bristol and York, a good amount over time, but the accounts were not in his name.”

Tim’s disappointment showed. “The money to Bristol repaid one of Father’s debts, so that is no good. Who got the money in York?”

“A Mr. Keiller. Ben sold out his funds very early, the records show. He was one of his earliest victims, but it appears Ben paid the man back completely.”

Longworth entered into another distraction, this time while he stared at the carpet. He emerged with a shrug of resignation. “Then I am left with only the three thousand.”

“For your sisters’ sake, I am sorry it is not more.” Hayden reached into his waistcoat pocket and retrieved a small piece of paper. “Here are the details on the Bank of England account. It will save you time if you have them.”

He set it on a table and walked to the door.

“It is odd that you married Alexia,” Longworth said lazily. “Doing the right thing, I assume, but that was odder still. She isn’t a woman to turn a man’s head, let alone yours. Someone like you doesn’t need to seduce governesses. Ben thought her pretty, but I think she is very plain.”

Hayden stopped and turned back to Longworth. The impulse to thrash the man spiked again. “I doubt you would recognize any person’s worth beyond their financial wealth.”

Longworth grinned slyly. “Wish I had thrown Rose at you. You’d have gotten a beautiful wife while you did the right thing, and I would have gotten a rich brother-in-law.”

He chuckled at his own cleverness. Hayden left the drawing room in disgust. As he made his way to the door, he passed the library and spied Miss Longworth’s golden head bent to a book. He retraced his steps and entered unannounced.

“Miss Longworth, I have just told your brother that three thousand pounds are sitting in the Bank of England under Benjamin’s name. As his heir, your brother can claim the money. However, since he is so often ill, you may want to inform yourself as to his intentions for it.”

Miss Longworth closed her book. She did not look at him. “Thank you for telling me, Lord Hayden. I will endeavor to help him use it wisely.”

CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN

A
lexia did not confront Hayden about the way he had forced his presence on her cousins. Instead, she wrote to Rose as soon as she returned to London, hoping she could just pick up the threads of their reunion. For four days she impatiently waited for Rose’s response.

Hayden was with her in the morning room when the early post arrived on the fifth day. When it contained no letter from Rose, the annoyance she had been harboring spiked.

While she simmered with agitation, she fussed with the letters that had come. Invitations from the curious were pouring in as society returned to town for the season.

She noted the names of families that would have never received Rose, let alone Alexia Welbourne. She would never have real friends among his circle. They would always be whispering about her marriage, always assuming Hayden had said his vows at the point of a sword.

“You appear vexed, Alexia,” Hayden said.

“You misinterpret my mood.”

“I do not think so. What about the mail angers you?”

She wished he would go back to his own letters and papers. Actually, she wished he were not even here. When had he changed his morning habits like this? He used to be gone when she came down, but now he was often still in the morning room when she took her breakfast.

She held up the letters. “There are too many of them. Starting next week I will be onstage every night, performing for people who are not even your friends.”

“Then we will accept fewer.”

“You said we would accept most.”

“Not if it makes you unhappy. Choose those that interest you, and decline the rest.”

That should make her feel better, but it did not. She shuffled through the letters again.

“Is it the letters that have come that vex you or the ones that have not?”

How like him to sense the truth. How unlike him to force a conversation about the Longworths, however. By agreement the subject never invaded their nights, and it rarely touched their days.

He commanded the room even in his relaxed pose on the chair. He had dressed for his day in the City in dark coats, and his appearance stunned her a little, as it always did. The coolness that had claimed him since they argued in Aylesbury hung like crisp air around them. He did not command her, but he expected an answer.

She balanced for a moment between prudence and plain-speaking. As too often in her life, the latter won out.

“Rose has not written since we left Oxford. I fear she will not and that my visit to her was ruined.”

He reacted to the last word, badly. “By me?”

“Your arrangements with the carriages could be seen as a kindness, if not for the way you followed her into the house.”

“It is a pity she has not written and told you what happened in that house. It is peculiar that you have not asked me about it.”

“Some subjects are better left alone. You have indicated that my cousins and their situation are among them.”

“I did not anticipate how you would not need words to communicate your resentments. I do not intend to have my home filled with unspoken recriminations. Let us clear the air now.”

“On everything?”

The challenge hung there. The danger it contained shivered through her, and she wished she had not flung it out. She did not want to talk about all of it.

Nor did he, apparently. In subtle shifts in posture and expression, he retreated from the brink. “I went to that house to tell Timothy Longworth I had discovered that Ben had an account at the Bank of England, one unknown to Timothy. A good amount of money rests there.”

“That is all you spoke of?”

“That is all that matters.”

She did not know what to say. “Does Rose know this?”

“I told her myself, so she would be aware that he was coming into some money.”

“You could have just written to Timothy.”

“I chose not to.”

She looked down at her letters. The absence of one from Rose had a different meaning now. Perhaps their reunion had not been as successful as she thought. Maybe she had misunderstood. It might have merely been the final visit before a death.

Hayden stood. His expression reflected thoughts of other things already.

“Thank you for finding the account. That must have taken some time.”

Her words surprised him. “It was an accident of sorts.”

“Then I thank Providence for allowing you to find the account. It was very kind of you to be sure Rose knew of it too.” She looked up at him, and that physical pain stabbed her heart. “I wish we had not argued at Aylesbury. I want you to know that I am not disloyal to you when I speak to Rose. I do not compromise you in trying to build that bridge.”

He cupped her chin in his hand. His gaze entered her, and his thumb lined along her jaw. Suddenly he was not distant and cool but so close and warm in body and spirit that it mesmerized her.

“Are you going to your City chambers this morning?” she asked.

“Eventually. I have some meetings first. Chalgrove and a few others…” He spoke in a random mutter, words that did not matter because all she noticed was how he prolonged the moment’s delicious connection.

After the last days’ distance, this sudden intimacy, so close she felt their thoughts melting together, awed her. He stood before her so real too. So of the world and time, not a visitor who touched her body and soul under the cloak of night’s silence and mystery.

Did he experience the same thing? Did he deliberately make the connection last and intensify, or did time stretch only in her imagination?

He bent and kissed her. “I will not be able to return until tonight. Be here.”

The servant found her in her old bedroom. She had retreated there to work on her new hat. Even though this activity would not earn the money to relieve her cousins’ straits, she still enjoyed it. She would wear the hats herself. Not having to please Mrs. Bramble’s customers freed her to design this one just the way she wanted.

She accepted the letter the servant brought and recognized Rose’s hand. She carried the letter to the window as joy and dread battled in her. Would this missive be filled with the warmth they had shared again in Oxford or politely explain that Hayden’s intrusion had made any further alliance unlikely?

Neither hope nor fear was warranted. Rose had written with a different purpose.

Timothy has left. I fear he has abandoned us.

She read the details with increasing alarm. Her impotence to stop this final injustice brought her to the brink of tears. The urge to do something, to somehow thwart Tim’s irresponsible behavior, sent hopeless, disorganized plans streaking through her mind.

She sat on her old bed and read it again, trying to concentrate. Why had Tim done such a thing? Surely Rose was wrong and he would return.

She wished Hayden were home. She wanted to show this to him, to ask him if it heralded the disaster she feared. She wanted him to reassure her that he would never allow Rose and Irene to become truly destitute.

He was not here, however, nor would he return until night.

When had it happened?

The thought came to Hayden at the peak of his passion, when his consciousness split apart in an explosion of sensation.

Did she hear the question? Did he speak it? She was with him in the ecstasy, her legs wrapping his body and her scent and cries filling his head. The question echoed in the aftermath, while they slowly relinquished the unity.

When had it happened? When had the passions of the nights altered the realities of the days?

When had the desire to share her company changed his habits? When had her moods begun to determine his own? Her smile brought joy and her frowns brought worry. Either way she filled his thoughts, distracting him. No diversion appealed enough to keep him away long. He always came back early enough to slide into her bed, as he had tonight.

He floated in a peace so perfect it would be a sin to disturb it. He did not care right now that his affection put him at a disadvantage. It was during the day that he sometimes analyzed this unexpected emotion and how it made him a man he did not recognize.

He waited for his self-possession to reassemble itself, not much caring if it ever did. When that moment finally came, it jolted him awake. He realized he had drifted to sleep. He began to reach for Alexia and understood why the separateness had come so abruptly. She was not in the bed.

No sounds came from the dressing room. He rose and looked anyway, then checked his own chambers. Curious now, he put on a robe, lit a lamp, and made his way to her old bedroom.

A half-made hat perched atop a makeshift form. A scattering of notions indicated she had worked on this creation recently. Was that how she occupied herself while she waited to build a presence in his world? He examined the hat’s careful stitching and wondered if she would always prefer this artistry to making calls on ladies.

A visit below to the library revealed only darkness. Concern began to simmer, then another possibility occurred to him. He mounted the stairs to the top floor and walked the length of the corridor that separated the servants’ chambers. He eased open the door at the end and entered the attic.

A glow of light greeted him, swallowing that from his own lamp. Alexia sat on the floor near the window, much as she had the last time he found her here. Papers surrounded her again, and one of Ben’s trunks stood open.

She did not cry this time. She sat straight, head high, her eyes closed, utterly self-contained. She seemed so separate from him that she might have been a stranger.

He tried to tame the anger that flared in him. Perhaps this was how she spent her afternoons, not making hats. How often after he left her bed did she slip up here to gain comfort from this last remaining connection to her old love?

She was his wife, damn it.
His
wife. She was turning him into a romantic fool, the kind of man he scorned, and she did not even know it. Nor would she care if he did know. He was only the man who had ruined her family, seduced her, then done the right thing.

The anger conquered him, stoked by the admission that she had made him ridiculous, prodded by the stupid weight in his chest that proved how much she mattered.

He strode toward her. His shoulder brushed some books stacked on a chest, knocking the top ones to the floor. The sound startled her. She opened her eyes and cocked her head, as if his presence made no sense.

He stared down at the open trunk. He recognized the personal effects of an old friend long dead. They were also the talismans of a rival whose presence was so strong that even the grave could not hold it.

Benjamin. Hale and happy Ben. So impulsive, so free. Logic did not decide Ben’s path in life. Practicalities did not curb his impulses. Nor did laws and morals, it seemed.

He had tasted that freedom of spirit vicariously through Ben. Ben had been the direct opposite of Hayden Rothwell, and that had been his appeal. To Alexia too, he did not doubt.

He understood. Right now it infuriated him anyway.

“These trunks do not belong in this house,” he said.

“I know that I should have sent them to my cousins weeks ago. I am glad I did not, however.”

That did it. “I am going to burn them come daylight.”

She grabbed the edge protectively. “Burn them? Why?”

“Why?”
She shrank as if he had yelled. Had he? “You leave my arms and sneak up here to wallow in sentimentality about a man who played you false, and you ask me why I want to burn the damned trunks that feed your unhealthy attachment to his memory?”

She angled away in shock. His satisfaction at her reaction was short-lived. Composing herself, she straightened and faced him down. She might have stood and donned armor, so confidently did she pull her dignity into a defense to meet his assault.

Hell, she was magnificent. Incomparable. No wonder he wanted her.

“First of all, I did not sneak here,” she said, her eyes blazing. “Second, I did not come here to indulge in sentimentality. I received a letter from Rose today that greatly distressed me. Some details prodded my memory while you slept, and I came here to see if—well, I came to check a few things.”

Her crisp, angry words punched the brittle silence that had engulfed them.

“Rose wrote to you? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I wanted to, but you were not home.”

“I am home
now.
I have been home with you for hours. If you were distressed by her letter—”

“You made a rule that my cousins were not to be discussed at night. You made it clear that you did not want
your
pleasure disturbed by that which distresses
me.
”

She said it factually, without bitterness. Her calm took him aback more than her assumptions. It was the voice of a dutiful wife accepting the limitations imposed by her husband. It was also the voice of a woman who had no expectations.

Of course she saw the banishment of her cousins from their bed that way. What else would she think? Not that he had vaguely sensed from the start that they might share more than mere pleasure, but only if that acrimony were put aside at night.