The Price of Temptation Page 11

  “Actually, I wanted to ask you about a scandal from years past. Twenty, twenty-five years ago, concerning a woman named Maria Riley.”

  Matilda’s curiosity was engaged at last, wondering what Julian’s interest could be in that long ago affair. “Maria Riley. You mean Thornleigh’s granddaughter? I always wondered what happened to her, after —” She broke off, not having decided how much of the story to share with the actor.

  “Thornleigh’s granddaughter. The Earl of Thornleigh? How fascinating.” Julian leaned forward. “Perhaps we could pool our information. You know her beginnings, and I know her end.”

  It was tempting. The scandal had not been obscure: if she didn’t spill it, someone else would. And perhaps in return she could ferret out why Julian wanted to know. “Yes, I remember Maria quite well. I used to play whist with her parents. Is she dead, then?”

  “Yes, I’m afraid so.” He shook his head, attempting a look of mournful sympathy. “Just last spring.”

  “Oh? Where is she buried? I might like to send an offering to the church in her memory.”

  Julian laughed. “Do you expect me to give out information for free? Why don’t you give me something first.”

  “All right.” Matilda thought. “Maria Riley made her debut the same year as the Parker chit, they were thick as thieves. Ninety-three, it must have been. Lovely girl. Very fair. Where did she die?”

  “A place called Wheldrake, in Yorkshire. Her birth name was Riley, then? How interesting, so is her son’s.”

  “Then you can guess the scandal. Old story, isn’t it? A child born outside of marriage.”

  The actor reached to pat her hand, and it took all her strength of will not to withdraw it. “I don’t suppose you remember who the father was?”

  “Can’t say. Perhaps if you tell me more about the son, I might recall it.”

  “Oh, I ran into him here in London. The circumstances aren’t very interesting.”

  The glitter in Julian’s eyes told a different story. A rival? But of what sort? Matilda fished some more. “He’d be above twenty by now. Is he in the theater?”

  “No, in service, actually. Was his father a handsome footman?”

  Matilda considered ringing for tea. An illegitimate scion of the aristocracy working for one of their own was delicious. She had to know more. “He was a viscount. So the boy’s a footman?”

  “I didn’t say that.” Julian also appeared to be enjoying the exchange. He sat back, crossing his legs. “A viscount is the son of an earl. Which earl?”

  “Not always. In this case, he was the son of a marquess.” Matilda suppressed a wince. Too much information—there were only a handful of marquisates in England. But Julian hadn’t grown up among the ton, and didn’t seem to be able to figure it out on his own. “What else can you tell me about Maria’s boy?”

  Julian’s eyes darkened with an unpleasant emotion. “He’s a colorless, scheming little brat. Tell me his father’s name and I’ll tell you where he works.”

  “All right.” Matilda took a breath, aware that this information was her trump card. “Johnnie Carrington, Viscount Summerford.”

  “So the Carringtons kept the woman and her brat secreted away in Yorkshire?”

  “No, someone else took her off their hands, if it matters.”

  “Who?”

  “You haven’t told me where the boy is now.”

  Julian rose to go. “Very close by. Thank you, Auntie, you’re a dear. I must be going.”

  “Wait. How close?”

  “Here in Mayfair. Who kept her after Carrington seduced her?”

  “George Whitby—Baron Whitby, if it matters. But he’s dead now, too. Give it up, Jeffries. Where’s the boy?”

  The actor’s eyes were brimming with amusement. “At St. Joseph House, of course. But not for long. I wager he’ll do anything to keep his parentage quiet. Even leave town, if I tell him to.”

  Stupid man, to tip his hand like that. “But I don’t think you will, Mr. Jeffries. Remember, I know quite a bit about your past as well. You’ll not interfere in Mr. Riley’s business, and I won’t remind people exactly which of the stews you came from. And when, for that matter—you’re what, eight years, a dozen years older than you pretend? Would you want that information bandied about town?” Matilda stood, ringing for Hargreave, entertained by the sight of the actor gaping like a fish at the sudden thwarting of his plans.

  Her butler returned after seeing Jeffries out. “You had best be on your guard, my lady. Vipers are dangerous when stirred.”

  “Bah. There’s little he can do to me. But I won’t have him meddling in young Mr. Riley’s affairs. His mother was a sweet girl, and I liked her very much.” She fiddled with her quill. “You don’t suppose Jeffries’ animosity toward the boy has anything to do with Stephen?”

  “It seems logical, my lady. The lad must be a threat to him somehow.”

  “Then I’d best meet Mr. Riley, I think. Hargreave, send a note round to the caterer. I think it’s high time I planned another party.”

  Chapter Twelve

  On Saturday, the last night of November, an ornate landau painted in violent shades of green and yellow pulled up outside of St. Joseph House in Hanover Square.

  “Don’t wait up,” the Earl of St. Joseph told his valet. “I shan’t be home until tomorrow at least, and with luck I’ll be so hung over then that I won’t get out of bed until Monday.” His voice betrayed little pleasure at the prospect.

  Charles’ face was uncharacteristically sober. “Are you certain you want to go out? I know tonight will be difficult for you, but if Jamie and I keep you company—”

  Stephen managed a smile. “Thank you, but no. Some nights call for companionship, and some for utter oblivion. Julian’s particularly good at the latter. That’s his carriage outside. I’d best not keep him waiting.”

  The actor’s smile was artificially bright as Stephen climbed into the landau, settling next to him on the green leather seat. “How splendid to see you again, after such a long time.”

  “Please, Julian.” Stephen reached for the other man’s hand. “It’s been only a few days.”

  The gloved fingers twitched from his grasp. “Nearly a week.”

  “Sorry. I did tell you I’d be staying home more often.”

  Julian laughed. “To save blunt! How ridiculous. You’re one of the wealthiest men in England, at least on paper. How you let that withered crone get her crabbed fingers on your purse strings—”

  “My great aunt has done very well for the family, thank you. I have no reason to break the trust she and Grandfather set up.”

  “No reason.” The sea-green eyes glittered in the dim light of the carriage. “You’re being treated like a little boy who mustn’t have too many sweets. Be a man and show Auntie exactly who is in charge.”

  Stephen looked out the window. They were going south on Bond Street and would soon turn onto Picadilly, toward St. James Street and his club. The distance wasn’t great, and the last thing he wanted tonight was a scene that continued into White’s. “Please, Julian,” he said again. “Let’s not fight.”

  “I’m only thinking of your best interests, darling.” Julian’s tone warmed, and the actor reclaimed his hand. “You deserve control of your fortune, and Aunt Matilda is badly in need of a comeuppance. Don’t you agree?”

  Of course he didn’t. The carriage turned a corner. “Wait, we should be going the other direction on Picadilly. I wanted the club tonight.”

  “But White’s is so boring. I thought Madame Novotny’s would be more entertaining.”

  Stephen struggled with the idea. The last place he wanted to be right now was London’s premier brothel, its public rooms a cacophony of sound and color, staffed with an array of painted wenches and sly-eyed young men. He and Julian had enjoyed some notorious nights of debauch with a variety of the latter, but it wasn’t the sort of amusement he was looking for tonight. Still, if a compromise would keep Julian sweet... “Could we ju
st drink for a while in one of the quieter parlors? Madame does keep an excellent cellar, and I’m not sure I’m in the mood for anything more. But I might be, later.”

  “One of the gaming rooms, then. Let’s at least play cards.”

  “If we’re going to gamble anyway, then why not go back to White’s? It’s quieter, has far more congenial surroundings—”

  “Because the stewards at your club, charming as they are, aren’t available three for a guinea if you decide you want to fuck them senseless.”

  Stephen sighed, shoulders slumping. “Fine.”

  Madame Novotny’s was a large establishment sprawling the better part of a block, cobbled together from a number of connected buildings with doors knocked here and there to link them up. It was located among the wharves on the river not far south of Westminster, convenient both to town gentlemen and visiting seamen. Like the proprietors of similar establishments, Madame paid generous premiums to keep from being bothered by the magistrates, and had queened it over her thriving realm of vice for nearly thirty years. It was rumored that any pleasure imaginable could be had within its walls, and should one be able to dream up something not currently on offer, a whisper into Madame’s ear would make it reality as soon as the necessary ingredients could be procured.

  But what it couldn’t provide Stephen tonight was a peaceful spot to sit with a bottle of brandy and mourn. Julian insisted on playing faro, a card game so largely dependent on chance that Stephen soon found himself longing for something better suited to concentration. Like chess. The morning room at home, sitting across the table from his Mouse, watching the young man’s brow wrinkle in thought... Stephen drained another glass and stared into its empty depths.

  “Your bet, Stephen.” Julian was annoyed. “Can’t you pay attention?”

  “Sorry.” He was surprised to see how small his pile of remaining chips was. Either they’d been playing longer than he’d realized, or his luck was even more abysmal than usual. Stephen could stay in the game longer by distributing his few chips among the cards on the table, betting that one or more of them might prove a winner over the next few turns, or go for a dramatic win or lose by piling them all on a single card. He thought about it. Jamie had just turned twenty-two, and those two twos had to mean something. Besides, a glance at the casekeeper, a device that tracked which cards had already been dealt, indicated that the odds were in his favor. Recklessly, he placed the entire stack of chips on the two.

  Julian raised his brows. “All on one card?”

  “No twos have come up yet.”

  “Meaning there’s an equal chance one will come up as the losing card.”

  The earl shrugged. “I feel lucky.”

  The dealer began the turn. The first card he flipped, the soda, did not affect the bets except to remove one more possibility from play. “Ace,” he called to the table. A second card was placed to the right. “Losing card is a two.” There were disgusted mutters from those at the table who’d bet on that card. “And the winner is... four.”

  “Idiot,” Stephen said under his breath, reaching for his brandy, refreshed by an attentive steward. The drink was finally starting to have an effect, and he welcomed its fire. “Two twos is four. Why don’t I ever see what’s right before my face?”

  “How stupid of you.” Julian raised his hand, signaling one of the stewards. “Lord St. Joseph needs more chips.”

  “No, I don’t. That’s all I brought with me.”

  “Fifty guineas? You must be joking. Besides, you can sign for more.” He nodded to the steward. “Bring a voucher.”

  Stephen caught at the servant’s sleeve before he could leave. “Thank you, but I’m finished.”

  “Really, Stephen, we’ve barely started. You’re beyond impossible tonight. What’s wrong with you?”

  He looked into Julian’s eyes. “It’s... it’s Robert’s birthday.”

  “Well, send a present, for Christ’s sake.” The actor turned to place a new round of bets.

  Stephen remained frozen in his chair for the space of several heartbeats. “My brother, Julian.” He put his hands on the table top and pushed himself unsteadily to his feet.

  Julian finished laying his chips, but caught up with him just as he reached the door to the gaming room. “Hell, wait. Look, I was distracted. Of course it’s too bad about dear old Robert, but he’d probably want you to have a bit of fun in his memory. Come back and play.”

  Men at other tables were looking in their direction, whispering. He lowered his voice. “Can’t we find somewhere quieter for another drink?”

  “Why? So you can get all mopish and sulk? That might be your idea of a good time, but it’s hardly mine.”

  “Tell me, Julian. Do you have a family?”

  The green eyes blinked, for a moment looking confused. “A what?”

  “Brothers? Sisters? People you care about?”

  Julian’s gaze hardened. “That hardly signifies. Listen to me: people come, people go. Deal with the ones standing solid in front of you, not wisps of memory who can’t do anything for you.”

  Two and two was fast becoming four once again. Stephen’s smile was tight. “I should have stayed home with—I should have stayed home tonight.”

  Julian’s eyes narrowed. “With who? Your little bastard of a secretary?”

  “My what?” Stephen’s hands curled into fists.

  The actor laughed. “I meant that in the most literal sense. Or has he tried to pass himself off as something more respectable than he is?”

  Stephen shook his head. Perhaps he was drunker than he thought. “You’re not making sense. Jamie’s a paragon of virtue.”

  “Oh, are you on a first-name basis with the little guttersnipe? But I suppose that’s just as well, considering he hasn’t got a last name. Can’t imagine why a person like that would insinuate himself into your household, can you?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but you’d best stop now. Excuse me. I’m going to White’s.”

  e e e

  Jamie took advantage of the quiet evening to sit at the library desk and bring the household accounts up to date. The past nights playing cards or chess with the earl had been very pleasant, but he welcomed the chance to catch up. As the hours progressed, he had reason to be quietly pleased with his achievements. Should the household keep to the economies he’d introduced, and his lordship to the proposed schedule of payments he’d worked out, there was an even chance the staff salaries could be paid this Christmas. By eleven o’clock the accounts were in as good shape as he could make them, and he headed to the kitchen for a well-earned cup of tea. With Rebecca’s almond biscuits, if there were any.

  He was almost back to the library with his tray when he was startled by an uneven pounding on the front door. Everyone else was long abed, and Charles had told him not to expect the earl, and why. Pausing to first set his burden down on a hall table, he crossed to the door, unlocked it and eased it open.

  The master of the house fell into the hall. When Jamie put out a hand to help him up, he muttered, “Not drunk, just surprised.”

  Jamie refrained from commenting on the brandy fumes emanating from the earl. “Shall I help you upstairs, my lord?”

  “Where’s Charles?”

  “At Sam’s, I’m afraid. We weren’t expecting you back tonight.”

  Stephen scowled. “Damned bloody Julian. I was too mopish for him. And White’s got too bloody crowded.” He caught sight of the tray on the table. “Is that tea? Could use a cup.”

  “I could take it up to your room for you.”

  “Stop trying to put me to bed. I’m not tired.” He looked it though, face haggard, dark rings beneath his eyes.

  “As you wish. The morning room?”

  “Can’t I join you in your library?” The appeal bordered on plaintive.

  “Yes, yes of course.” Jamie carried the tray into the library, ensconced Stephen, who was somewhat unsteady on his feet, in a chair by the hearth, and went t
o fetch a second teacup for himself. He half expected the earl to be sound asleep when he returned, but found him staring unblinking at the fire.

  “Your brother was a remarkable man, my lord,” Jamie said quietly.

  “Yes. Yes, he was.” Stephen rubbed at his eyes, which looked hot and tired.

  “I don’t have to ask if you and he were close.”

  Stephen nodded, looking back into the fire, as if he could see the past reflected in the dancing flames. “Mother—she was an exotic bird, wasn’t she? Fly into the nursery, give us a kiss, fly away. And Father... no interest at all till we were old enough to hunt, and me, I’m bloody useless with horses. So...” He shrugged. “But I had—I had Robert.”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “Six years old when I was born. Utterly furious. ‘He’ll grow up to steal my toys. I think I shall hit him.’ And Nurse says, ‘No, he’s going to grow up to worship you, and I trust someday you’ll be worthy of it.’ Oh, God. Fetch the fucking brandy.”

  “Does drinking really help?”

  “Does staying sober?” Stephen smiled, unexpectedly, his characteristic good humor winning through even this pain. “Pity I never had a little brother to set an example for.”

  “No, but...” Jamie hesitated. “You know, you are in a position where people could look up to you.”

  “To me?” Stephen’s laugh was short.

  “Yes, my lord. Oh, I know: all of London takes delight in whispering about your misadventures, but you could be talked about for more positive endeavors. As a peer of the realm, your endorsement could be worth hundreds, perhaps thousands of pounds for a charity or two. And there’s a seat in the House of Lords waiting for you to take it up. There, you could do worlds of good.”

  “Think my friends would respect me for that?”

  Jamie caught Stephen’s eye and held it. “If not, my lord, that would be the fault of your friends.”

  After a long moment, Stephen swallowed and looked away. “So I’ve made a fucking mess of my life. Robert didn’t, and he still ended up just as dead, and his legacy died with him.”