The Price of Temptation Read online

  Charles wiped his eyes. “A vase?”

  “From ancient Greece.” If possible, Jamie got redder.

  “I think I know the one you mean,” his lordship said. “At least, I’ve seen one with a similar theme, and there can’t be but so many in York. Go on, Mr. Riley—what was on yours? Do tell us.”

  “I think you can imagine,” Jamie shot back.

  “Oh, I can imagine,” the earl said, caressing the younger man with his eyes. “In fact, I’m imagining right now.”

  “That’s quite enough. Good night, Charles. My lord.”

  “Wait.” Stephen jumped up and caught Jamie by the hand just as he reached the door. “I’m sorry. Come play cards — I promise not to tease.”

  Jamie shook his head. “No, I’m tired, really.” He made no attempt to pull his hand away from the earl’s large, warm grasp.

  “No hard feelings?”

  “No,” he said, the dimple appearing briefly. “I’m not such a poor sport.”

  “Well, good night then.” The earl squeezed Jamie’s hand and let it go. “Sleep well.”

  When Jamie was gone, Stephen wandered back to the card table, stretched, and sat back down. “It’s not so bad, staying home,” he admitted.

  Charles smiled.

  Despite his words to the others, Jamie wasn’t inclined to sleep. He fetched his overcoat from his room and wandered into the back garden, telling himself he wanted another look at where the greenhouse should go. The space behind the townhouse was not particularly wide, but it was deep, with plenty of free space between the house and the stable at the far end. But he couldn’t concentrate on planning. The sky was filled with moonlight, his head with poetry, and the earl had held his hand.

  He sat on the back steps, his knees weak. Silly thing to be excited over, hand-holding. But his lordship had seemed to view him with real affection tonight. Ever since the night of his birthday, when he had realized he was in real danger of falling in love with the earl, Jamie had been acting on the premise that he could be nothing to his employer but a convenient diversion, a few night’s entertainment. That Stephen Clair was a careless playboy like his father, incapable of love.

  What if he were wrong?

  Tonight, he had learned that Stephen had been in love, at least once. Which meant logically that it could happen again. But with me?

  Why on earth not? There had been times in their brief interactions in the past when understanding had flickered between them: a moment of shared laughter, or grief. But tonight, Jamie had felt a real connection beneath the banter. And he had to admit, Stephen had impressed him with his playful wit, his frank reminiscences about his lost love, and especially with his courageous decision not to hide what he was in a society where everyone seemed to hide behind a polite façade. Stephen, in return, had been attentive to him. Teased him, flattered him, called him ‘little one.’ Held his hand.

  Jamie had known for at least a month that he could fall in love with Stephen. Now, for the first time, he contemplated whether Stephen could fall in love with him. That would change everything, wouldn’t it? Jamie could never give himself to anyone for financial gain, nor even for the sheer animal pleasure of the act. But two people, coming together in love? A shudder ran through him as he remembered his mother’s story. She had been certain that her viscount returned her love when she had allowed herself to be seduced in the orangery. And she’d been wrong, betrayed. Cast off.

  “But if he did love me, Mama,” Jamie said to the darkness. Imagine that. Allowing himself to relax into Stephen’s kisses instead of resisting them. Letting those large warm fingers that had held his hand so tightly move over his body. Lying safe within his arms. Jamie shivered again. “If I knew he loved me, would that be so wrong?”

  Chapter Eleven

  “Bertie,” Julian said, pacing the drawing room of the house on Floral Street, “this is the third night in a row that Stephen’s decided to stay home. Why do you suppose that is?”

  His dresser, a small dark man with a pug nose, shrugged while he dusted the shelves holding mementos of the actor’s theatrical successes. He picked up the collapsible knife Julian had used to kill himself with as Romeo. “Maybe he’s tired. The man’s hardly stopped for a breath since he inherited the title.”

  Julian bit his lip. “Or maybe it’s that damned secretary.”

  “Thought you checked him out, and he doesn’t hold a candle to you. Not that he could,” Bertie added, with an admiring glance.

  “If it were just looks, I shouldn’t have a thing to worry about. I wonder, though... perhaps he’s not the innocent little thing he appears. Suppose he’s a man of experience, who deliberately insinuated himself into St. Joseph House to get his claws into a rich earl.”

  The dresser’s eyes lit up. “We could find out. Dig into his background, find all the dirt. Then you can drop it in his lordship’s lap and be rid of the pest once and for all.”

  Good old Bertie, always on the lookout for some way to be helpful. It might be intolerable for Stephen to have a servant in love with him, but Julian certainly found it useful. He smiled. “If we get you on the Mail coach tomorrow morning, you can be in Yorkshire by the day after.” He reached to stroke the young man’s face. “But do hurry back. If you have news for me, I’ll reward you generously indeed.”

  Bertie swallowed. “I’ll do my best.”

  The door opened, and Stephen looked up, smiling to see Jamie entering the morning room. It had taken some persuading, but tonight he was going to join them at cards, not just watch him and Charles play or read for their enjoyment. “I don’t think I’ve seen that waistcoat before, Mr. Riley. It’s very becoming.”

  “Well, since it’s one of your old ones that Charles made over for me, you probably have seen it, but thank you.”

  “Good for him. That shade of green is much more suited for you than me—it brings out the color in your hair nicely.”

  “Again, thank you,” Jamie said. “What are we playing, Charles?”

  “Euchre is good for three players. Or commerce, if you like, or vingt-et-un?”

  Jamie grinned. “Depends on how quickly you want me out of the game. I might last longer at euchre. I’m really not very good.”

  The earl nodded. “Euchre is fine with me.”

  True to his claim, Jamie proved to be an indifferent player, hesitating to order unless his hand was unbeatable, and failing to crush his opponents when he had the chance.

  “Now look, Jamie, if you’d played your highest trump first, Stephen wouldn’t have got that first trick, and you’d have a march,” Charles explained.

  “So? I won the hand, didn’t I?” Jamie asked in bewilderment.

  “It’s quite acceptable to be ruthless at cards,” his lordship said with a smile. “We won’t take offense.”

  Jamie tried, but after an hour of steady losses begged to be released from play. “Cards are too extemporaneous,” he laughed. “I’m much more competitive at chess, or even backgammon. Something with a more long-term strategy.”

  “I used to play chess,” Stephen offered. “Haven’t for some time, but I was credited a fair player at Oxford. Perhaps you’d give me a game tomorrow night, since Charles was planning on spending the evening with Sam?” He kicked Charles under the table, which Charles thought was hardly necessary.

  “Yes,” Charles said, “we are going to dine, ah, somewhere—”

  “Ibbetson’s,” murmured the earl.

  “Yes, at Ibbetson’s, where it is rumored that the pastry chef makes an apricot tart to die for. Sam wants to see if he can figure out the recipe.” The valet smiled brightly, pleased with himself.

  “If I’ll need all my wits tomorrow night, perhaps I should retire early tonight,” Jamie said with a stretch.

  “No, stay and keep us company,” said the earl. “Please?”

  “All right. Shall I read to you?”

  “No, just talk. Did you hear there’s a new Byron due out Thursday week? Prisoner of Something-or
-other, I believe.”

  “Really?” Jamie’s eyes, behind the unfortunate spectacles, lit up. “Quarter day is next month. I might just treat myself.”

  “No need to wait,” the earl said. “I’ll have Hatchards send over a copy as soon as it’s for sale.”

  “That’s kind of you, but—”

  “Oh, come now. What’s a new book cost? Ten shillings? Consider it a bonus for all the work you’ve done.”

  Jamie smiled shyly. “Well, all right. Thank you, my lord.”

  Charles and Stephen continued to play in a desultory fashion, while the conversation meandered like an old river. They touched on politics (Jamie was rather more interested in social reform than the earl, who hadn’t given it much thought), literature (Stephen had been well-read at Oxford, and still remembered enough to converse with reasonable intelligence about several of Jamie’s favorite authors), gossip (here, Charles had the edge, since the servants of all the great houses stopped by Sam’s several times a week to pick up confections for their employers, passing him all the best on-dits), and more. They circled back around to books.

  “When you’re done with the library here, I should turn you loose at St. Joseph,” the earl said, tossing down a card, and then wincing as he realized he’d played the wrong one. “It’s probably in much better order than this one was, but I’m sure it’s never been properly catalogued. Huge, too. If you think we’re lacking anything here, we could find things there to fill in the gaps. You also might do some work on our family papers, if you’re interested.”

  “Family papers?” Jamie breathed, the historian in him inflamed. “Like what?”

  “Oh, the usual I suppose. I poked around in them once or twice when I was an infant. I remember account books, deeds, letters.” He reached to pour himself another glass of brandy, hesitated, and poured from the silver-tagged decanter. “Right up your alley, I presume.”

  Jamie grinned. “You’ve never been so right in your life. It sounds wonderful.”

  “I usually go up for the salmon run in the spring. Perhaps you can join me.”

  “I would love to, my lord. And now, I really do need to get to bed.” His smile was warm as he bade Stephen good night, and the earl’s answering smile lingered after Jamie left the room.

  Charles gathered the scattered cards from the table, stowing them neatly away in their card box. “Offering up your library at St. Joseph’s and family papers was a great stratagem. Jamie was very pleased.”

  “It wasn’t strategy, I just thought he’d be interested.” Stephen shook his head. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

  Bertie arrived back in London within four days, exhausted from the constant jostling of the Mail coach, which frequently exceeded ten miles per hour in speed. His report had not been encouraging.

  “Just what he seems to be. He and his mother lived quietly in the countryside. I thought there might be something in the way the local vicar took him up, but by all accounts it was the lad’s brains he was impressed with, not his arse. Not even a breath of scandal about him.”

  Julian’s eyes were chips of green ice. “No one is so perfect. You shouldn’t have come back until you discovered what it is he’s hiding.”

  “Well, there is one thing.” Bertie hesitated. “This old biddy said she heard from a friend of a friend that Riley’s mother was gentry, and there was some long-ago brouhaha about her. But I couldn’t confirm it. Up there, they take that not speaking ill of the dead bit to heart.”

  “A long ago scandal concerning the gentry?” A slow smile crept over the actor’s face. “I know just who will know all the details. Bertie, I could kiss you. And if I’m right, I will.”

  That night after dinner, the Earl of St. Joseph met his secretary in the morning room for their game of chess, both men looking forward to the match with great anticipation.

  “Lovely set, my lord,” Jamie said, fingering the finely-carved pieces in awe.

  “Won’t you call me Stephen?” The earl’s eyes twinkled merrily. “In a very short time, my head is going to be under your heel, figuratively speaking. In such circumstances, it seems ridiculous for you to be ‘my lording’ me.”

  Jamie hesitated. “It doesn’t seem right.”

  “Charles calls me by my first name.”

  “Thus driving Mr. Symmons to drink. He’d have an apoplexy if I started doing it too.”

  “But when we’re alone?” Seeing that Jamie looked uncomfortable, he added “Or at least when we’re playing chess?”

  Jamie nodded. “I’ll try, my—Stephen,” he said.

  My Stephen. Now that sounds even better, thought the earl, but he just smiled in encouragement, and plucked a pawn of each color from the board. “Right or left?”

  Not surprisingly, Jamie won the first game with ease, and a speed that was downright lowering. The second followed much the same pattern, but by the next, Stephen was relearning the skill of thinking several moves ahead. He was much more satisfied with his performance by the time Jamie called “Checkmate” for the third time.

  “Ha! Took you nearly an hour to beat me that time,” the earl said smugly. He looked more delighted with his loss than many an opponent would be with a victory.

  Jamie’s dimple flashed. “Well, no one can say you’re a poor sport, my—Stephen.”

  “Your Stephen thinks he has an even chance of winning a game, by the end of the week,” the earl said somewhat rashly. “That is, if you’ll continue to play me?”

  “Charles will miss beating you at euchre, of course—”

  “Charles can spend a few more nights with Sam.”

  Jamie inclined his head. “As you wish, my lord.”

  The earl lifted an eyebrow. “I thought you were calling me Stephen?”

  “That’s while we’re playing, my lord. We’re done for tonight,” Jamie said, with a yawn and a stretch.

  Stephen watched the elegant elongation of the other man’s frame with unconcealed admiration.

  “Unless I can interest you in another game?” he asked, deliberately ambiguous as to whether he meant an additional round of chess, or something else altogether.

  “Thank you, my lord, but I need to get up early.” Jamie softened the refusal with a smile. “Tomorrow’s account day. I’ve finished your schedule for the next two weeks, barring any new invitations from Lady Matilda, so now I have to catch up with the budget. But it will be a long day, if I want to take Sunday off.”

  “You’re working magic on this household, Jamie. I appreciate it. Really.”

  The smile he received in return mingled joy and surprise. Had he really been so careless with praise in the past? He’d never really thought of thanking his staff before, assuming it was their duty to see to his comforts with a minimum of fuss, and his to leave them alone to do it.

  “Thank you, my lord.”

  “Goodnight, Jamie.”

  Jamie paused at the door, and looked back at his lordship over the rim of his spectacles, eyes impossibly blue in the soft candlelight. “Goodnight... Stephen,” he said, and was gone.

  How on earth does he do that? The earl wondered, shaking his head in bewilderment. Not one of his lovers, stretching through time from Jack Carrington and through the lengthy line to Julian Jeffries—not one of those, with their practiced wiles, exotic tricks, or inborn sensuality, could manage to arouse him so. Using just one word.

  How on earth had he ever thought his Mouse unappealing? Tonight, with the soft firelight sparking glints of amber and auburn from his hair, cheeks flushed with his latest victory, his Jamie had been almost unbearably tempting. Almost. If he was going to win the young man, he was going to have to take his time, watch for cues. In the meantime, spending time with him was no hardship. He looked forward to these evening games with an eagerness he hadn’t felt since childhood. How long had he been drifting along, drugging himself with mindless diversions, when there was such satisfaction to be found merely in the pleasure of another man’s company?

  Ja
mie wasn’t just an object of desire. He was fast becoming a friend.

  The next morning, Mr. Julian Jeffries dressed in his finest morning clothes and called on Lady Matilda Clair.

  Matilda was checking over her household accounts in her small business office when Hargreave, her butler, announced Julian’s arrival. She set her quill down with a sigh. “After my money again, I don’t doubt. Still, I need to keep a close eye on Stephen, so you might as well send him in.”

  “Here, my lady?” After nearly forty years’ service, Hargreave felt comfortable raising an eyebrow at the thought.

  She made a face. “You think I should receive him in one of the entertaining rooms? No, I keep those for people who entertain me. Jeffries is just another problem to deal with, so he’s best suited to my office.”

  “As you say, my lady. Shall I bring tea?”

  “God, no. I hardly want to encourage him to stay.”

  The actor’s smile froze on his face as he was led to the single straight-backed wooden chair that faced Lady Matilda’s working desk. “My, Auntie,” he said. “Someone of your years should spend her mornings more comfortably.”

  Insolent brat. Matilda’s own grandmother had perplexed all her eager heirs by living to be ninety-six, and Matilda intended to outdo her longevity. She cupped a hand over her ear and leaned forward. “Eh? Tears, did you say? No, my eyes always water from cheap cologne.”

  Julian pitched his voice louder. “No, I said—oh, never mind. I just came for a bit of gossip.”

  “Gossip?” Her eyes glittered. “Can it be that you know something I don’t? By all means, spill it. I haven’t got all day.”