The Price of Temptation Read online

  “Richer than this earl, I’m sure,” Mr. Symmons muttered from the head of the table. Perhaps his lordship was in straits after all. But if so, why the expensive flowers everywhere? Nothing seemed to make sense in this household.

  Rebecca ignored him. “I’m sure it’s bewildering to find yourself in the middle of conversations about people you don’t know. Now, if Betsy might stop chattering for a few minutes, perhaps we could get to know you a little better. You’re from Yorkshire, Mr. Riley?”

  “Please, Jamie. Yes. I wasn’t born there, but my mother and I lived near York for many years.”

  “And does your mother still live there?” Rebecca passed the bread basket again, and Jamie paused while he cut off another slice.

  “No, I’m afraid she passed away in the spring.”

  “How awful!” Betsy’s eyes got huge in her thin face. “My mum died, too, but I don’t really remember her, ‘cept that she wouldn’t wake up no matter how hard I shook her. But that might have been when she was still alive, because they say she drank blue ruin ‘til her liver rotted out. Was your mum like that?”

  “Betsy!” Rebecca exclaimed, aghast. Charles, on the other hand, looked to be holding back inappropriate laughter.

  “It’s all right, Rebecca, she doesn’t mean any harm,” Jamie said. “No, Betsy, my mother had consumption.” The young girl looked bewildered, so he tried putting it in her terms. “That means her lungs, er, rotted out, but it wasn’t from anything she did. She just got sick.”

  Betsy nodded in comprehension. “Uncle Tony says as how the earl’s sick, but he sure looks fine to me.”

  “Uncle Tony?”

  Mrs. Symmons deigned to enter the conversation for the first time. “We do not discuss that man here. Mrs. Wyss found Betsy crying in the street about a month ago, and brought her into our household. So far, we’ve been unsuccessful in our attempts to track down any of her legitimate relatives.”

  Something in her voice, and the grim look on Rebecca’s face, made Jamie doubt they had looked very hard.

  Mrs. Symmons was right: the chimney did smoke, Jamie found when he went up to bed. He tried opening the window, but the draft then pulled the smoke directly across his face. Jamie burrowed under the covers and tried to sleep anyway, only to wake up sometime later overheated and gasping for air. With a cough that ended in a long sigh, Jamie got up and closed the damper, smothering the fire. He could do without it tonight, but when winter came this was going to be a problem.

  As Jamie crossed over to the window to close it, he became aware of a commotion outside and groped for his spectacles to see what was going on. An ornate landau, much too flash in design for Jamie’s taste, was pulled up at the earl’s gate, and in the light of its lanterns Jamie could see two men arguing passionately, their words indistinct but the tone obviously heated. The height and build of the taller man gave him away as the Earl of St. Joseph. The second man was a little smaller, but still finely built. Lamplight glinted off his hatless golden curls, and silhouetted his chiseled profile. The golden man was apparently trying to get the earl back into the carriage, and the earl was refusing to go, his voice rising almost to a shout before he looked around and lowered his tones.

  They conversed more quietly for a moment, and then the smaller man seemed to be pleading coquettishly with the earl. Jamie watched, mouth open, as with a gloved hand the man reached up and caressed the earl’s face, stroked his hair—like a—a lover Jamie was thinking, and just as Jamie’s numb brain formed the word, the earl bent suddenly and kissed the other man full on the mouth. The golden man clung to him for a long moment, and then the earl stepped away, breaking the kiss, his head shaking in negation. The other man stamped his foot and called something, but the earl walked swiftly through the gate and up the stairs, and even at the top of the house Jamie could feel the vibrations from the slam of the front door. The carriage door closed with an answering bang, the vehicle sped away into the night, and then silence descended on the house.

  Well. That explains the servant problem, Jamie thought, running his fingers through his hair in bemusement. He sat at the desk and lay his head on his folded arms, thinking. He supposed he should be shocked, and on some level he was. As a historian, he was aware that such matters were in some places and times tolerated, even encouraged. Ancient Greece, of course, being the classic example: Alexander and Hephaistion. Socrates and Alcibiades. Zeus and whomever he could get his godly hands on. Later times, too. Wasn’t Michelangelo supposed to have loved men?

  Here in England, there was poor Edward II and his Piers Gaveston — and look what his countrymen had done to them. Jamie closed his eyes, recalling something even closer to home. What was his name? The seminary student who had come to help out Mr. Caswell, the vicar, the summer before Jamie had turned seventeen. William Parks. He had been charged by the vicar with showing Will around the area, and they’d quickly become close. Once, caught by a summer storm, they had squeezed together under a hedge for shelter: even now, he could feel the heat of the other man’s body pressed close against him, recall the breathless moment when he’d been sure Will was going to kiss him, the heart-stopping combination of confusion and delight he’d felt. But the clergyman-in-training had remembered himself in time, and the moment passed.

  Jamie chuckled to himself now, thinking of Mrs. Symmons’ doleful warning. Lock your door, indeed. If the golden man in the landau was at all representative of the earl’s taste, Jamie felt he should be quite safe from his lordship’s attentions. Which was, in its own way, something of a pity: Stephen Clair was a damned attractive man.

  He shook his head at the ridiculous thought and went back to bed.

  Chapter Three

  The next morning, Charles opened the door across the hall from the morning room with a flourish. “You’ll be working here, in the library.”

  Jamie tried not to gape. His senses duly noted the beauty of the room: rich, dark red velvet draperies echoed the chief color of the intricate Turkey carpet on the floor; the great mahogany desk standing proud on clawed lion’s feet; a few library tables set near the fireplace for comfortable study. But his main impression was of books. There must be hundreds, perhaps even thousands of them. Tall bookcases lined the walls, all mahogany to match the desk but otherwise a blend of old and new, glass-fronted and open, some reaching to the ceiling and some barely shoulder-high. He looked at the abundance of volumes with hunger. Surely, he could take some time to browse, but not yet.

  Jamie dragged his eyes away from the bookcases and looked at the clutter of paper and envelopes in haphazard piles all over the surface of the desk. An ink pot had spilled its contents over half of them, and he shuddered to think that the lovely wood beneath must be stained as well. Perhaps Mr. or Mrs. Symmons might have a preparation that could clean it? “Good heavens. Where shall I start?”

  “Oh, wherever.” Charles waved a careless hand at the mess. “See what you can do with the correspondence first. I did some rough sorting of it for you. Stephen—his lordship has been missing important engagements. He desperately needs some sort of schedule.”

  “Right. I’ll see what I can do.”

  Still, the valet hesitated in the doorway. “Um, did you sleep well last night?”

  “Fine, thank you.”

  “No disturbances?”

  “Oh.” Jamie thought of the scene he had witnessed from his window and flushed, not knowing what to say.

  “I would hate to think you might leave us quickly because you—because you don’t approve of—ah, having your sleep disturbed.” Charles’ face was not created for stealth: his worry showed clearly.

  “There was a bit of an argument outside,” Jamie said cautiously, “but I don’t consider his lordship’s personal life any of my business.”

  Charles sagged with relief. “Some are more judgmental. Like the Symmonses. They were with Stephen’s brother, and are set to get a generous pension if they make it to thirty years’ service. They despise him, but he still hasn�
�t the heart to get rid of them. Besides, Stephen has had difficulty keeping staff, even when he can. I’m afraid the rest of us are here because we’d have trouble getting posts elsewhere.”

  That made sense. Betsy, the street urchin. Abby Sawtell, the female coachman. Rebecca Wyss, too beautiful not to be a threat to any mistress. And Charles himself? He had an idea about that, and decided to test it out. “His lordship seems to have a big heart. But in your case, I should imagine a good reference from the Duke of Enderton would get you a post anywhere you liked.”

  The valet grinned. “I should imagine it would, if I had one.” He put up his chin. “I’m afraid Sam and I were found together, and sacked immediately. It put Stephen’s back up when he heard gossip about it, so he hired me and convinced his Aunt Matilda to stake Sam for the bakery. One of the best investments she’s ever made, and that’s saying something.”

  “Well, if last night’s bread is anything to go on, I’m sure he’s wildly successful. Good for him.”

  “You’re very understanding.” There was a hint of a question in the remark, and a discreet pause for an answer.

  Jamie took a breath. The valet had certainly been honest with him. “I suppose I do understand. For half my youth I thought I had a crush on the daughter of the local squire—and then our vicar acquired a handsome young assistant, and suddenly Miss Loring wasn’t quite so important. It was all fantasy, of course: he was as out of reach as the squire’s daughter, so it didn’t seem any more wicked to dream about him.”

  The valet nodded understanding. “So, Jamie-me-lad, that’s our little household of misfits. Think you can stomach it? ”

  Jamie thought about his answer. “There’s a lot to like here,” he said at last. “And for the rest, I have a simple philosophy. If I see something I don’t like, I try to make it better.”

  Charles smiled. “Oh? Any plans yet?”

  “Wait and see, Charles,” Jamie said. “Just wait and see.”

  “I like him.” Charles wasted no time tracking down Rebecca, finding her polishing the silver in the pantry off the kitchen.

  “He seems a nice young man,” Rebecca agreed, handing him a cloth. “Too bad he’s not better-looking. Get his lordship’s mind off that dreadful kept man of his.”

  Charles obligingly began work on a chased silver teapot. “Julian Jeffries is on his way out, they’re always fighting now. It’s just a matter of time.”

  “Yes, and if his lordship scrapes up the funds to pay off Mr. Julian’s contract, we won’t get our salaries this quarter, either.” She held a spoon up to the light, looking for spots. “And the next one might be even worse. I don’t care how gorgeous they are, his lordship’s got dreadful taste in men.”

  “I’ve been with him a long time,” Charles reminded her, “he’ll make it up to us eventually, and then some. Stephen’s especially generous when he’s feeling guilty. But you’re right, I’ve often thought it would be better for all of us—especially him—if he’d only settle down with some proper young man. And our Jamie’s quite pleasant looking,” the valet offered, and Rebecca laughed.

  “He’s a little sparrow, and you know it. And his lordship prefers peacocks, no matter how they screech. Besides, he comes across as such a respectable young man. It’s doubtful his tastes even run in his lordship’s direction.”

  Charles grinned, thinking of the vicar’s assistant. “Without betraying any confidences, on that point you might be mistaken. And as to his looks—as a wise man once said: If I see something I don’t like, I try to make it better. There’s definitely room for improvement. A nicer haircut, better clothes. Maybe get rid of the spectacles.”

  Rebecca shrugged. “He’ll still be a sparrow. But it can’t hurt to try.”

  After the valet took his leave, Jamie sank into the leather chair with a sigh of contentment. There was a lot to do, but he liked a challenge. He reached for a stack of envelopes. Charles, in an effort to be helpful, had sorted the envelopes by size and then color, which, Jamie thought, was not in the end of particular use. He sighed. Who were all these people, and why on earth didn’t they date their invitations? With much searching, Jamie found a few blank pieces of paper and began to make lists of names on one, and to rough out a calendar on another. Just after noon he was satisfied enough with his progress to get up, stretch his legs, and finally allow himself to browse the books that lined the library in neat, orderly rows.

  In which, he quickly realized, the books were sorted by size, and then color, with absolutely no consideration of subject or author. Jamie groaned.

  “Giving up already?” his lordship said from the doorway.

  His secretary waved at the shelves. “Do I recognize the hand of Mr. West?”

  Stephen shrugged. “I leave the decorative touches up to him. He has an eye for them.”

  “Books are hardly for decoration, my lord!” said Jamie, appalled. “How on earth can you find anything in here?”

  “I have a foolproof system, Mr. Riley. I simply don’t read.” The earl burst into laughter. “You should see the look on your face! And yet Charles just informed me you’re hard to shock.”

  Jamie ignored him. “You have a wonderful library here, my lord. It just needs to be organized properly, and perhaps catalogued.”

  “Seems like a waste of time to me, Mr. Riley, but if it pleases, then go ahead.”

  “Especially the rare books.”

  “The what?” Suddenly he had the earl’s attention.

  Jamie cleared his throat. “There are some lovely items here, my lord. First editions, a Second Folio of Shakespeare, an early English bible. Not Tyndale, but not much later. Even a few illuminated manuscripts.”

  “And these are worth money? Books?” His lordship sounded skeptical.

  “Oh yes, my lord. Quite a lot, some of them. Surely you’ve heard of the sale of the Duke of Roxburghe’s library?”

  “Yes, he lived right here in Hanover Square. Didn’t something go for some ungodly sum?”

  Jamie nodded. “One volume, a Boccaccio, fetched more than two thousand pounds. And there was a second that sold for over a thousand. I’m not saying you have anything quite so rare here, but in aggregate —”

  “Then what are you waiting for, Mr. Riley? I believe my library needs cataloguing.”

  Jamie smiled. “Right away, my lord. But first, since you’re here, I have some questions about your correspondence.”

  “Oh, I suppose. I was just going to dine with Julian. He can wait.”

  “I won’t keep you long, I promise.”

  The earl grinned. “Serve him right if you do.”

  They spent a quarter hour going over the list of names Jamie had compiled, establishing who was whom, and ranking them by the order in which their invitations should be accepted.

  “There, are we through?” Stephen inquired at last.

  “Well, my lord, that would about cover my questions about your social correspondence.” Jamie hesitated.

  “Yes?” The earl raised his dark brows to effect.

  “There were a number of other notices among the invitations, my lord. Most of them reminders about accounts due.”

  Stephen sighed. “Bottom drawer on the left, Mr. Riley. I’ll deal with them when I can. Now, are we finished?” He glanced toward the door. “The Golden One awaits.” For someone who didn’t mind keeping his lover waiting, he certainly seemed eager to get to him.

  Jamie nodded, and with a courteous “Good day” the earl swept from the room. Once alone, the young man sighed, gathered the dunning letters into a neat pile, then reached for the designated drawer. It stuck for a moment, and he had to tug hard to get it open. It was easy to see why — once opened, the drawer was revealed to be crammed to overflowing with bills. He pulled out a handful, and blanched with shock as he started to add up the sums involved. The earl’s finances were none of his affair, he had told himself yesterday. But they had to be someone’s, or they’d all be in the street before long. Jamie sighed, and reached fo
r a fresh sheet of paper.

  Chapter Four

  “A personal secretary? What the devil do you need a personal secretary for?”

  Julian Jeffries’ allure was such that despite their recent troubles, Stephen’s first impulse was to kiss the petulance off his face. The dining room of White’s club was hardly the place for kisses, so he settled for a verbal response. “I suppose I don’t, really,” he admitted. “Although if he helps keep me from forgetting important events like Aunt Matilda’s birthday, he’ll pay for himself in a fortnight.”

  “Really, Stephen, how often does Auntie M. have a birthday, anyway?”

  The most perfect pout becomes tiresome in time, especially when coupled with such nonsensical speech. “She does invite me to other events, you know. And Robert hired Mr. Riley to teach his boys. I felt responsible.” Stephen paused to allow his companion the opportunity to express sympathy for the loss of his family. Julian’s lack of commiseration didn’t just annoy, it hurt. Didn’t Julian care for anything beyond himself?

  But once again, the actor missed his cue, leaning forward over the starched white tablecloth with a wicked gleam in his eyes. “So your secretary’s the donnish type, is he—spectacles and thinning scalp?”

  “Spectacles, indeed,” Stephen said. “But he does have a full head of hair.”

  The waiter arrived with their post-prandial brandy, and Julian was distracted into a discussion of whether there wasn’t something better available in the cellars. With prodding, the servant admitted to a very fine, hundred-year-old cognac.

  “We’ll have that, then,” Julian said. “Just bring the bottle.”

  Stephen winced, and the waiter paused to give him a chance to overrule the decision. Oh, hell, what did it matter? He couldn’t afford the more pedestrian choice, either—and the fight that ensued whenever he tried to deny the Golden One anything was never worth it. He waved agreement to the waiter, who nodded and left. Still, it would be nice to puncture Julian’s vanity, if only a little, and by now he knew the actor’s weakest spot. “Mr. Riley does have the nicest skin,” he allowed, “but they do tend to glow at that age, don’t they?”