A Study In Seduction (6 page)

“Would you please join me in the drawing room?” Mrs. Boyd asked. “I’d like to speak with you.”

“About what?”

“I’ve several matters I wish to discuss before my meeting at the bank tomorrow morning. Ten minutes, please.”

She turned and left, her statement freezing any memory of Lord Northwood from Lydia’s mind. She smoothed the wrinkles from her dress, then scraped her hair away from her face and neck, ensuring any loose tendrils were tightly contained by a ribbon.

Apprehension rippled through her as she went to the drawing room. Her grandmother stood beside the fire, her arms crossed.

“Please,” Lydia said. “What is this about?”

Mrs. Boyd tapped her fingers against her arms. “How many times have you seen Lord Northwood?”

“Seen him? Twice, I think. Why?”

“You’re to see him more often, I imagine, if you’re
working on his books,” Mrs. Boyd continued. “My friend Mrs. Keene claims he’s been intent on restoring honor to his family. It’s one reason he’s working so hard with the Society of Arts and the organization of the educational exhibition. He’s vice president of the Society and director of the exhibition. He’s also been attempting to arrange a suitable marriage for his sister.”

Ah. Likely that had something to do with why the young woman had been so upset the other night.

“I’m certain he’ll prove successful,” Lydia said. She couldn’t imagine Northwood being unsuccessful at anything.

“However,” Mrs. Boyd continued, “word is that he’s not expressed interest in finding a wife for himself.”

“And?”

“Odd, don’t you think? He’s the one who must produce an heir, after all. Though I suspect he knows that no high-ranking family wants their daughter wed to him, not after his mother’s deplorable behavior. And especially not after Lord Chilton insisted his daughter break off her engagement to him.”

Tension crawled up Lydia’s spine. “What are you implying?”

“I’m implying nothing, Lydia,” Mrs. Boyd replied. “I’m merely giving you the facts about the man, considering you took it upon yourself to visit him
unescorted.
I should hope that Jane’s education means as much to you as that foolish locket does.”

Lydia blinked at the sudden shift in topic.

“Of course,” she said. “Jane and her education mean everything to me. You know that.” The tension tightened around the base of her skull. “Why would you think otherwise?”

“I know you care about her, Lydia. And you’ve—”

“
Care
about her?” Good Lord. Did her grandmother not know that she loved Jane more with every breath, every heartbeat?

“You have done well with her,” Mrs. Boyd continued. “She’s still a bit careless, but for the most part she is a well-behaved, respectful girl. However, she is ready for a different type of schooling. The kind that will secure her a place in polite society.”

“She’s doing beautifully under my tutelage. We’ve started reading
the Odyssey
; we’re studying the countries of the empire; she’s learning fractions and basic algebra—”

“Lydia, Jane requires guidance from teachers who possess far more intuitive social grace than you do. She must learn proper etiquette if she is to marry well.”

“She’s not yet twelve,” Lydia protested. “I didn’t give etiquette or, heaven forbid, marriage a thought until I went to boarding school.”

“Perhaps you should have started earlier.” Her grandmother paused; then her voice sounded like the clip of scissors. “The discipline might have done you good.”

Lydia flinched, her hand clenching around the back of a chair.

The cosine of theta plus gamma equals the cosine of theta times the cosine of gamma plus the sine of theta times the sine of gamma.

“I know we’ve talked about her attending Queen’s Bridge, but even with the funds from the locket, it’s too expensive…” Lydia’s voice faded. Something in her grandmother’s expression caused a flutter of panic.

“I have discussed the matter with Mrs. Keene, whose
opinion I implicitly trust,” Mrs. Boyd said. “Mrs. Keene has a widowed aunt who resides in Paris, a baroness whose late husband left her with both a fortune and his good name. Mrs. Keene has corresponded with Lady Montague about a girls’ school she recently opened in the Quartier St. Germain.”

“No.”

Mrs. Boyd’s mouth compressed. “I am not asking your opinion, Lydia.”

“You cannot send Jane all the way to France for her education.” The flutter of panic began to grow, beating hard against her chest. “You can’t do this to her.”

You can’t do this to me.

“I am not doing this to her, Lydia,” her grandmother replied. “I am doing it
for
her.”

“No. It’s too far. She won’t—”

“Heavens, Lydia, it is Paris, not the wilds of Africa,” Mrs. Boyd interrupted. “As you pointed out, we cannot afford to send her to any of the better London schools, least of all Queen’s Bridge. Lady Montague, however, owing to my friendship with Mrs. Keene as well as her wish to have a strong initial enrollment, has very kindly offered to provide Jane with a scholarship.”

“And you accepted?”

“I intend to, yes.” Mrs. Boyd sighed, her hand moving to fuss with her lace cuffs. “Lydia, I don’t wish to see Jane leave us either. But unless we can find a way to send her to a school in London—an exclusive school, mind you, one that will give her the education we cannot—I have no other choice.”

She lifted her head. For a long moment, they looked at each other. Lydia’s heart constricted, shrank. A thousand
years seemed to fill the space between them, overflowing with regret and the pain of loss.

She wished her mother were here. Not the woman of the haunted, twisted mind, but the mother she remembered before the descent of darkness. The Theodora Kellaway of laughter and calm, of soft hands and long hair as thick and shiny as wheat.

And she wished her father were here. She needed his calm, serious approach, his perspective. Despite everything, he’d only ever wanted the best for both her and Jane.

“You still want to punish me, don’t you?” The question broke from her lips, coarse and crumbled.

“This is not about you,” her grandmother said. “This is about Jane.”

“It is about me! You’ll never let me forget what happened when you sent
me
away, will you?”

“Lydia!” Mrs. Boyd thumped her cane on the floor. “How dare you suggest this is in any way related to your folly? Lady Montague’s school is new, but it will certainly provide Jane with a place that is both highly instructive and
properly
supervised.”

Lydia stared at her. Mrs. Boyd’s mouth clamped shut as she appeared to realize what she’d said. Lydia trembled with a flare of outrage.

“No.” Her fists clenched, her eyes stinging with hot, angry tears.

“Lydia—”

“No. I won’t let you do this. I will not let you take Jane from me!”

Lydia crossed the room and slammed the door behind her. She drew in a long breath, her fingers tightening on her skirt, her blood racing through her veins.

The clock in the foyer ticked. Shadows swept across the stairs, reflected in the mirror, an ominous blend of dark and light.

Anger and hurt churned through Lydia, dredging up remnants of shame. She yanked open the front door. Once outside, she walked faster and faster until she was running, the night air stinging her face. She ran until her lungs ached, and then she slowed, gasping, pulling her arms around her body to hold in the hurt and block out the cold.

She sank onto the steps of a darkened town house, fighting to catch her breath and calm her racing heart.

Memories surfaced, but she ruthlessly shoved the images away, not wanting to see her mother’s emaciated frame, her father’s sallow, despairing expression, her grandmother’s fury.

Not wanting to see a pair of cold green eyes that could still cut her like glass.

She shuddered. The chill spread to the center of her heart.

After what seemed a very long time, she lifted her head from her knees. A layer of fog coated the sky, suffocating the moon and the light of the stars.

She rose and walked to Dorset Street. Several black cabriolets waited at a stand for hire.

A driver looked at her with mild curiosity before giving a short nod at her request. He ushered her into the cab and slammed the door shut.

Lydia closed her eyes as the cab began moving toward Oxford Street.

If p is a prime number, then for any integer a, ap − a will be evenly divisible by p.

The derivative of uv equals u derivative v plus derivative u times v.

“Twelve Mount Street, miss.”

Lydia opened her eyes. Light glowed in several windows of the brick town house. She was foolish to come here again. She knew that, and yet she asked the driver to wait, then approached the door and rang. No response. Her heart clenched. She rang again.

The door opened to reveal a straight-backed footman. “Yes?”

“Lord Northwood, please. I am Lydia Kellaway.”

“One moment.” He stepped aside to allow her to enter, then disappeared soundlessly up the stairs.

After a moment, a square of light appeared from the upper floor, and Lord Northwood strode toward her, each step so certain he appeared to be securing the ground beneath his feet. His lack of hesitation, the strength that radiated from him, made Lydia ache with the wish to possess such assurance.

“Miss Kellaway?” He frowned, glancing through the half-open door at the cab. “Are you all right?”

“I… I don’t have any—”

“Come inside. I’ll take care of it.” He gestured to the footman to pay the cab fee before turning back to Lydia. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve come…” Lydia took a breath and lifted her head to meet his gaze. “I’ve come to settle my debt.”

Did she feel the same?

She didn’t look the same. She was older, of course, the edges of her face harder, the curiosity, the anticipation extinguished from her eyes, from her movements. Replaced with tight composure.

Only once since Joseph had returned to London did
he notice her falter—just after her father’s funeral when she’d been standing outside the church with the girl, who’d turned to wrap her arms around Lydia’s waist and sob.

Then Lydia had visibly struggled with her own tears. A crack in her self-possession.

Before the girl had pulled away from her, a mask of calm, of reassurance, had descended over Lydia’s face.

The girl. Jane. A plain name, though she was pretty enough. She was intelligent, too, if her letters were anything to judge by. However, he required more time to probe the actual depths of her mind.

“Sir? We’re here.” The cabdriver was peering at him.

He nodded, then flicked his hand to indicate the driver should return to his seat. “Back to Bethnal Green.”

As the cab rattled away, he watched Lydia Kellaway disappear into the Mount Street town house, the tall silhouette of a man at her side.

Joseph chuckled. She might be older, but apparently her needs were the same. She was rising above her station, though, if the neighborhood was anything to judge by.

Or was she?

He knew the Kellaways had been in financial straits, even before Sir Henry’s death. What if Lydia had found a way to earn money using the talents of her body rather than her mind?

Fancy town houses here on Mount Street. Belonging to wealthy people. He would soon find out who lived at number twelve.

A
fter ordering tea, Alexander watched as Lydia sank onto the sofa in the drawing room. Her hands trembled as she lifted them to smooth back her disheveled hair, confined only by a ribbon at the back of her neck. Red blotches marred her smooth skin, and puffy circles ringed her eyes. She stared at the floor, her chest hitching with every breath.

A surge of something fierce and protective rose in Alexander. He stood behind a chair, his grip tight on the polished wood.

He wanted to pull Lydia hard into his arms, to feel her slacken against him, to fix whatever it was that caused her such distress. The realization, the intensity of the feeling, startled him. He dragged a hand over his hair, unable to stop looking at her.

“Miss Kellaway.” He forced his voice to remain steady, not wanting to frighten her away with the urgency of his need to know. “Has someone harmed you?”

She laughed, a bleak, harsh sound. “Not in the way you think.”

“You can tell me the truth.”

“That is the truth.”

“You’re certain.”

“Yes.” She nodded, her fingers twisting and untwisting the folds of her skirt. “I’m not… It’s not what you imagine.”

“Then what is it?”

“A personal issue, a… It doesn’t matter.”

“It does to me.”

“Does it?” She lifted her head, her blue eyes dark with anger and frustration. “Don’t you merely want the payment of my debt? That’s why I’m here. Take it. Kiss me.”

Alexander shook his head. “Not like this.”

“There was no condition attached to your request.”

“There is now.”

A knock at the door preceded the footman’s entry with a tea tray. Alexander nodded his thanks as Giles turned to leave. He waited until the door had closed before reaching to pour the tea, adding sugar to one cup before pressing it into Lydia’s hands.

“What condition?” she asked.

“I will not kiss you when you are in evident distress. Aside from the fact that such an act would be misguided, if kissing me were to intensify your misery… well, I don’t believe my pride could withstand such a blow.”

The shadow of a smile curved her lips. “Your pride appears quite capable of withstanding much worse, my lord.”

“Perhaps. Though I’ve no intention of finding that out.” His eyebrows drew together as he watched her take a sip
of tea. Her lips closed around the thin edge of the cup, her throat rippling.

Alexander waited an interminable few minutes for her to further compose herself. Then he asked again, “What happened?”

Her eyes darkened to the color of lapis lazuli. She shook her head, tendrils of thick hair moving against her neck. When she spoke, sorrow weighted her voice.