The Scoundrel’s Seduction Read online

  Sam,

  The search for Steven Lowell has finally yielded some information, though we still have not been able to pinpoint his location, nor that of our mother. I have discovered that the man is well known in certain circles in and outside of London. Evidently, he is the master of a troupe of traveling players.

  Sam rubbed the bridge of his nose, shaking his head. Traveling players. He’d had to read that line ten times before fully absorbing it and the accompanying truth: His mother, the Dowager Duchess of Trent, had taken up with a motley band of jugglers, fortune-tellers, and God knew what else. He wondered if she performed with them. Knowing his mother, he didn’t doubt it.

  He continued reading.

  The troupe met up with our mother in Wales before traveling into Lancashire. After that, however, their destination is unclear. They seem to flit from place to place with little plan or organization.

  So their mother was probably still in England. She’d been in England this whole time, with half of the population of the country searching for her. Of course, no one would ever think to look for a dowager duchess within a band of traveling players led by a gypsy.

  I am sending Theo and Mark to Lancashire in search of more information. You will hear promptly from one of us if we learn anything.

  Theo and Mark were their two youngest brothers. Their other brother, Luke, had recently married and was busy with his new family. Trent wouldn’t go himself—he had parliamentary duties here in London, not to mention that his wife had just given birth to their first child, a son, and he wouldn’t want to leave them so soon.

  Theo and Mark were competent. If there was any clue about their mother’s whereabouts in Lancashire, they would find it.

  Sam smiled a bit as he read the closing paragraph of Trent’s letter.

  All is well at Trent House. Young Lukas Samson is a strong, healthy boy, and the duchess has recovered from the ordeal of the birth. Luke and his wife have come for the baby’s christening. I am pleased to report that we were correct—marriage suits our brother.

  I hope I will see you at the christening; but if I do not, I understand why.

  Please come dine with us when you have an evening free. You know you are welcome here anytime.

  Trent

  Sam folded the letter and replaced it to the right of his port glass. Not for the first time, he wished he could participate more actively in the search for his mother, but his duties with the Agency left him with no freedom or time to do so.

  But the questions surrounding her disappearance ate at him. What had possessed her to run off with Steven Lowell? To leave her family with no word as to her whereabouts? To leave him?

  Sam had always felt particularly close to his mother. As the illegitimate eldest son of the Duchess of Trent, he was shunned by the duke and by society as a whole. But his mother—she had given him confidence, taught him his value as a human being, had never allowed his siblings to treat him as anything but an equal, so that, as adults, they honestly believed he was their equal. She had been the pillar of strength in a childhood that would have drowned him in misery had she not been there to support him and love him at every turn.

  How could she simply disappear—and they had recently learned she’d gone voluntarily—from his life like that? It chafed. It burned. It hurt.

  He pressed his fingers to his temples, massaging lightly. Of course, he wouldn’t be able to attend his new nephew’s christening tomorrow. He would be busy entertaining a viscountess he’d made a widow.

  Sighing, he rose and stretched. He needed to go to bed. He needed to sleep—or at least try to sleep. It was going to be a very long few days with Lady Dunthorpe. At least he hoped it would be a few days. Surely they’d decide what to do with the woman soon.

  He made his way to the door, but right when his fingers curled over the handle, the softest sound broke the silence of the night—the slightest, lowest click.

  It could be Laurent or Carter up and about for any number of reasons. But he knew it was not—he knew the subtle differences between the sounds of the front door to the house and the interior doors.

  He’d been a fool to underestimate her.

  He ran out of the drawing room and sprinted down the corridor, bellowing, “Laurent! Carter!”

  He threw open the front door and looked down the street to the right and then to the left. There she was. A dark shadow at the end of the street. Dressed in breeches—breeches, for God’s sake. The color of the hair peeking out from the dark cap gave her away. Moonlight shimmered over those golden tresses as she ran.

  She disappeared from sight almost as soon as he’d seen her, turning down a narrow alleyway.

  He took off at a dead run after her.

  He’d never lost a prisoner before. He wasn’t going to do so tonight.

  * * *

  Élise ran as fast as her legs would carry her. When she heard the shouting, she’d glanced back over her shoulder, and she’d seen the large, dark form at the threshold. Hawk.

  Since then she hadn’t looked back—to do so would only slow her down. She was fleet of foot, always had been, but it was questionable whether she could outrun such a mountain of a man.

  Mountains didn’t run, she told herself. Mountains were bulky, unwieldy things. Day or night, summer or winter, hot or cold, she could outrun a mountain.

  So she ran, twisting and turning through the streets of London, down cobbled streets and dark alleyways, until her breath came in harsh pants, and she reached a place she recognized. The Mall.

  She knew where she was. She knew how to get to Hampstead Heath, to Marie’s house. It wasn’t close, maybe five miles at minimum, but she’d be there by dawn, which couldn’t be much more than an hour away.

  She flitted through the streets, envisioning herself as a wraith, a spirit, even though her lungs burned and her feet, clad in only the satin slippers she’d been wearing in her husband’s drawing room, ached from all the pounding on the hard cobbles.

  She didn’t look back; she didn’t dare. She hoped she’d lost him. She prayed he was far, far behind her, with no idea how to find her.

  Her stride slowed to a jog. She couldn’t sprint forever. Also, a “lad” running at top speed would draw attention. And while it was the deepest part of night, the occasional carriage still rattled by her, and she had passed half a dozen pedestrians.

  He’d ask these pedestrians if they’d seen her. She imagined him questioning them, his imposing form and carriage so dominating.

  They would tell him. Anyone would tell him anything.

  Footsteps pounded on the pavement, some distance behind her. Running footsteps.

  No!

  She increased her pace to a sprint again and turned down an alley. But the footsteps grew louder, drew inexorably closer. There was nothing to do. Nothing left but to hope she could outrun him. But how could she when he’d pursued her this far?

  He grabbed her elbow first, jerking her back. They both came to a screeching halt.

  No. No!

  A sob welled in her chest, but she managed to tamp it down and keep her expression stoic, despite the harsh breaths that sawed from her throat.

  She flinched as he grabbed her around the waist and hauled her against him, her back against his front. Though she wasn’t facing him and hadn’t dared to look back while she’d been running, she knew it was Hawk. She had no idea how he’d found her. Her route had been so circuitous …

  She squeezed her eyes shut, refusing to look at him.

  “Lady Dunthorpe,” he said softly. He wasn’t even breathing hard, the bastard.

  He kept one burly arm wrapped around her, holding her against him, her behind pressed against his hard thighs.

  “Let me go!”

  She pushed against his arm, but it was like iron about her body.

  “Unhand me at once!”

  He didn’t budge.

  “No,” he murmured into her hair. His voice was almost gentle.

  How to overcome a ma
n such as this? Bite him. She twisted this way and that, but her mouth couldn’t reach any part of him. Kick him where it hurts the most. She flailed, kicking her legs out, but none of her kicks connected where she wanted them to. He didn’t react to them at all—they probably felt like gentle taps on his rock-hard legs.

  Scream.

  She opened her mouth to do just that, but as she drew in a preparatory breath, his hand clamped around her mouth.

  “I don’t think so, my lady.”

  There was no point in fighting it, no point in wasting precious energy attempting to overcome a man of steel who was twice her size.

  He’d take her back to his elegant prison, and he’d keep her there until she told him all her secrets. Probably until she was dead. Because Englishmen like this one didn’t care about one French émigrée, a woman, the wife of a traitor. No, they’d draw whatever information they could from her; then they’d dispose of her like so much rubbish.

  Before she could stop it, a whimper emerged from her throat.

  His grip instantly loosened. Not enough to allow her any movement whatsoever, though.

  “Do you dislike our hospitality?” he asked her softly. But his voice was no longer gentle. It was low and dangerous, and it sent a shiver of trepidation skittering over her spine.

  She shook her head.

  “Good. Then we will return. Try not to make any loud noises. It will be uncomfortable for us both if you do.”

  Slowly, cautiously, he removed his hand from her mouth. When she didn’t utter a sound, he grasped her arm and steered her in the direction from which she’d come.

  A feeling of doom spread within her as she stumbled along at his side.

  “There was no reason to run off like that, my lady. I told you I’m not going to hurt you,” he said as a hackney rattled past them. “I don’t hurt women.”

  Did he hurt spies for the French? Did he hurt traitors? Yes, he did. She’d seen that earlier tonight.

  “You shall forgive me if I do not believe you.”

  His lips pressed together tightly, but he didn’t respond. He directed her down Camden Street in silence for several minutes.

  It was a clear night. If not for the coal haze of London, she imagined she’d see a billion stars overhead. Instead, only the brightest stars of the heavens had punctured through the gloom, and a sliver of a moon glimmered down at her, ambivalent to her second capture this evening.

  * * *

  Sam felt her surrender. It was different from when he’d first caught her and she’d made that valiant effort to escape from his grip. Then, he’d known her mind was alive and working, actively understanding. And her attempted escape from the safe house had shown an enormous amount of spirit. Despite his frustration, respect for her bloomed within him.

  But now … there was nothing. A flatness. She moved as he directed her to, but there was no emotion in her expression, in her movements. She walked as a woman resigned to her own death.

  He hated that. He hated that he was the one responsible for this. For sucking the spirit out of her.

  “Are you well, my lady?” he asked her quietly.

  Her lips were so pale as to be almost white. She nodded.

  The way she was dressed—in those too-loose breeches. Hell, if that wasn’t one of the most erotic things he’d ever seen. The bulky wool couldn’t hide the sinuous shape of her legs. It exposed the tiny circumference of her waist, the flare of her hips and the curve of her buttocks …

  He took a breath and slipped his arm over her shoulder, dragging her close until her body was flush against his. They’d look like lovers if she were wearing a dress. Instead they’d look like two comrades reeling down the street after a night of drunken revelry.

  “Come back to the house,” he told her, “and sleep. Things will be better after some rest.” He used Carter’s words of comfort from earlier, because he couldn’t invent any sufficient words on his own. But Carter had been right, after all.

  She nodded. Then she glanced at him, and her blue eyes appeared tired and resigned. So much older than her twenty-eight years.

  “There will never be freedom for me, I think.”

  He stiffened at that. “Traitors shouldn’t expect freedom, should they?”

  “Is that what you believe I am, monsieur? A traitor?” She made a small scoffing noise. “To which country? France or England?”

  “I don’t know. Why don’t you tell me? Because if it is not one, won’t it be the other?”

  She didn’t answer him.

  “Then I must deduce that you are a traitor to England,” he said finally, “like your husband.”

  “Ah. You make that assumption, then?” she asked, and if he wasn’t mistaken, there was a renewed spark of life in her voice. “That I am a traitor to England? The country that has succored me and kept me safe since I was a child?”

  “You married a traitor,” he said.

  “And that makes me a traitor by association?”

  He shrugged. “You are also not English,” he continued. “English blood does not flow through your veins.”

  “True,” she agreed. “My veins are filled with French blood. The blood of my parents, who betrayed a generation. The blood of my countrymen, who murdered them. Such blood I have.” Bitter venom resonated in her voice. “Who wouldn’t remain loyal, after watching the head of her mother rolling upon the ground? Who wouldn’t remain loyal, after gazing into the dead, blank face of her father?”

  His arm tightened around her. “Things have changed since you were a child, my lady. Many of your aristocratic countrymen have been welcomed home with open arms.”

  “But have I?” she asked. “By the time Napoleon pardoned the aristos, I was married to an English viscount. Do you think he’d welcome me into his little fold?”

  “Probably,” Sam said dryly. “Especially when said viscount was passing secrets in his direction.”

  She made a low, scoffing noise. “Believe what you will, Monsieur Hawk.”

  “So you imply my beliefs are incorrect?”

  They turned down a narrow alleyway, a shortcut to the safe house.

  “Because if they are incorrect,” he continued, “I wish you’d enlighten me.”

  But he didn’t think he was incorrect. It was true, he’d no hard evidence proving her guilt, like he had her husband’s. But Dunthorpe had done the most damage—they had all assumed that with him gone, the wife would be impotent. Now he realized that might have been a mistake. She was a wily, slippery one, tricking him with that tiny, feminine body and those innocent blue eyes.

  He’d learned his lesson. He’d be more careful with her in the future.

  She turned to look up at him. Fury simmered in her eyes. “Non. There is no point in it. You can believe what you wish of me, Monsieur Hawk, but you will not ever be made privy to my motivations.” She paused, then added, “Until I am made privy to yours. And only then will I decide whether you are worthy of my confidences.”

  “Then we are at an impasse.”

  “We are.”

  They walked in silence. He mulled over why she insisted upon calling him “Monsieur.” She’d been in this country since childhood. Surely she knew how to say “Mister.”

  She stumbled over a cobble. Once again, his arm firmed around her, steadying her. She stiffened under his grip.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Of course.”

  He drew in a slow breath. She’d had a long—an extremely long—night. Regardless of what was going on in that pretty head, she needed to go to bed. He would get nowhere with her tonight. This was not the first time he’d had that thought.

  Usually, he was a patient man. But with her … She was a contradiction. He wanted—needed—to know what she was thinking, why she’d married Dunthorpe, what her motivations had been.

  What her motivations were now.

  They reached the door to the safe house, and she stopped abruptly, staring at it.

  “We returned so fast
,” she murmured.

  “I took a more direct route,” he said, watching her carefully. Beyond the resignation in her eyes, he saw something else … but he couldn’t define it.

  She nodded, and they entered. Carter stood in the entry hall, and when he saw them, he raised a bushy brow. “Picked the lock, did you, my lady?”

  “I did,” she said shortly.

  He nodded, impressed. “Right nice job of it, too.” He met Sam’s gaze, and Sam gave a small shake of his head. He’d deal with Lady Dunthorpe himself.

  “Laurent should be back in a few minutes,” Carter said.

  Laurent had gone after Sam in the search for Lady Dunthorpe—had probably gone to Dunthorpe’s town house, ensuring she hadn’t gone there. He’d return when he didn’t find her.

  “Good. Wait up for him, will you? I’m putting Lady Dunthorpe to bed.”

  He didn’t pause to see the look on Carter’s face. Instead, with a firm grip on Lady Dunthorpe’s arm, Sam dragged her to the end of the corridor and down the stairs. He returned her to her room and released her arm only after locking the door—what little good that would do. He got the fire going again, then turned back to her.

  “You will sleep on the bed,” he said mildly, pointing to it. He moved his finger to a spot on the carpet near the door. “And I’ll sleep on the floor.” If he slept at all.

  She wrapped her arms over her slender body, defiance creeping back into her eyes.

  “I gave you the opportunity for privacy,” he told her.

  “And I suppose you will say I took advantage,” she bit out.

  “You did.”

  Her lips pursed.

  Using his chin, he gestured to the bed. “Go to sleep.”

  “Now?”

  “Now.”

  Turning away from him, she vehemently kicked off her silver silk slippers and then crawled under the covers fully dressed. Not that he’d imagined she’d try to go to bed any other way. She lay in stony silence for a long moment, staring up at the plain white plaster ceiling.

  He knelt to remove his boots, then set them tidily beside the table. He opened the closet and rummaged through it, finding a folded blanket on one of the shelves. Tucking the blanket under his arm, he went to the bed and laid his hand on one of the pillows.