Dance of Seduction (14 page)

“Oh, who cares if he’s tedious? He’s got wealth, respectability, and good connections. Surely that’s ample compensation for any dullness of wit. And since he’s now willing to overlook your own dubious connections—”

“Don’t you find that curious? Nothing has changed from before. His mother undoubtedly still disapproves of me. So why the dickens is he sniffing about me again?”

Aunt Verity shrugged. “You’re a fine woman, and he now recognizes it. More importantly, he’s a fine man.” She shot Clara a sly glance. “Your father would have approved of him enormously.”

Clara laughed. “That’s not exactly a recommendation. Though I dearly loved Papa, he was the most boring man I ever knew. Lord Winthrop is a veritable Charles Perrault by comparison.”

“Why, Clara Stanbourne, I can’t believe my ears! My brother might not have turned a clever phrase or danced like flashy folks, and his sermons might have been a trifle meandering, but he was as lively and interesting a man as you’ll ever meet.”

Clara raised her eyebrows, remembering only stern lectures about goodness and long evenings of readings. Her father had been born a clergyman’s second son and had become
a churchman as a matter of course. A series of unfortunate deaths and tangled family connections had brought him a distant cousin’s title and estate when Clara was still a child, but Papa had never lost his early bent toward pontificating.

“Give me one example of Papa’s liveliness, Aunt Verity, and I’ll take back my assertion.”

Aunt Verity clearly hadn’t expected to be challenged, for she floundered a bit. “Well…he sometimes—No, I suppose that was rather tedious, but he did occasionally…that is…” She brightened. “He married your mother, didn’t he? It was rather daring for a clergyman to marry a squire’s daughter whose family gloried in scandal.”

“I suspect he married her
because
of that family. The man needed something to liven up his dull existence, didn’t he?”

Aunt Verity eyed her askance. “You’re very severe upon your father, but your mother didn’t seem to mind his dullness. I daresay she found it soothing after a childhood in the Doggett family.”

Sighing, Clara stared off across the street. Aunt Verity had a point. Her parents had been happy together, and that congenial union had produced a great deal of good in the world. Clara had spent her life hoping to find someone with whom she could feel such closeness, even love, but it hadn’t happened yet.

She doubted that it ever would. After all, she couldn’t just marry anybody she fancied. She had important responsibilities, people who depended on her. She really ought to marry a man like Papa—dependable, respectable,
good
. A man whose passion for reform equaled hers, who wouldn’t curtail the activities on which she thrived.

But after years of moving in society she’d come to one conclusion: men of that sort were decidedly dull. Or at least she found them to be so. Mama had adored her own dull husband, so clearly not everyone found dullness a deficit. Yet Clara yearned for something more. A man who intrigued and excited
her. It was that wretched Doggett blood of hers, making her want what she couldn’t have if she was to continue her work.

Every year, her frustration grew more acute. Faced with several gentlemen who would suit her stringent requirements, she nonetheless balked at the few who’d ventured to offer marriage. She simply couldn’t raise an ounce of enthusiasm for any of them.

If even one of them had been like Morgan…

She frowned. What blessed idiocy was that? He was the most inappropriate scoundrel she’d ever found interesting. He didn’t even
like
her, for pity’s sake! He only flirted with her to distract her from his illegal activities.

All right, so he might be intriguing and exciting and he might be attractive in a roguish sort of way, but he failed in every other respect. Lord knows she could never find love with
him
. He would make use of her while she served his purposes, and be gone with the next hint of easy fortune.

Even living a spinsterish life like Aunt Verity or marrying a dull husband would be preferable to any alliance with a man like that.

Feeling a sudden surge of tenderness for her aunt, who at least recognized the practical aspects of Clara’s dilemma, she reached over to pat Aunt Verity’s hand. “I’m sorry if you think I tricked you into this, but I am grateful for your help. It would be very tedious sitting here without you. If you want me to use my inheritance for something other than the Home, then I must solicit donations.”

Her aunt sniffed, clearly still put off by Clara’s comments about Oswald Stanbourne. “I don’t like coming into this part of town generally, you know.”

“That makes me appreciate your sacrifice all the more.”

“Well,” Aunt Verity remarked, slightly mollified. “As long as you realize it.”

Aunt Verity was as active a reformer as any of her rela
tions, but she avoided the nasty parts of reform work. She knitted bandages for a leper’s colony in Africa, collected clothing from her friends for the Home, and arranged tea parties to solicit donations—anything she could do from afar.

The idea of actually toiling in Spitalfields had always frightened her, so Clara rarely convinced her to venture into its environs. That was why she hadn’t told her aunt their real purpose in being here. The possibility of confronting a genuine criminal would be a bit too much grim reality for poor Aunt Verity.

“I’m a mite worried about how Foodle will respond to being out here,” her aunt continued. “She’s so sensitive to strange surroundings.” Foodle apparently excelled at hiding her sensitivities, for she was chasing her tail with great enthusiasm. “I don’t see why you wanted the dogs here anyway.”

“I told you—to scare off any dangerous-looking individuals.” And call attention to any criminal sorts who might venture to enter a certain captain’s shop.
That
should seriously curtail such activities.

“Well, I suppose that’s a good enough reason. They are all excellent watchdogs. Particularly Faddle. Why, that dog’s little nose—” She broke off as the shop door opened and a figure emerged. “Look, my dear, a potential donor.”

Clara caught her breath as Morgan strolled out of the shop with the leisurely grace of a refined gentleman. He paused to glance up and down the street as if he scarcely noticed they were there, then looked straight at her.

When he smiled with wolfish delight, it was all she could do not to toss her donation jar at his head. “I doubt that this particular man will want to help our cause, Aunt Verity. He’s something of a shady character.”

“
That
fellow? Are you sure? He looks a bit…well…”

“Fearsome? Devilish? Wicked?”

“Handsome,” Aunt Verity whispered. “Despite his scan
dalous attire, he’s quite good-looking, don’t you think?”

“I hadn’t really noticed.” What a lie. Morgan was devastating enough when fully dressed, but in only shirtsleeves, tight-fitting trousers, and boots, he gave new meaning to the word
sinful
. That a man should walk around with his hair rakishly tousled and his chest muscles rippling beneath thin fabric…no wonder she felt restless and hot after every encounter with the wretched beast.

“Not that a handsome man can’t be a devil, you understand,” her aunt continued. “Your uncles were all quite attractive, and they were as bad a lot as ever lived.” She grabbed Clara’s arm suddenly. “Good lack-a-daisy, he’s coming this way!”

Morgan crossed the street, but he’d scarcely reached their side when Empress barreled out from under the table, headed straight for him.

“Aha! Let’s see what Empress thinks of him,” her aunt whispered, confident in the spaniel’s ability to assess character.

So was Clara. Smiling in anticipation, she waited for Empress to bark and leap upon Morgan, looking for a prime bit of flesh to bite, or, at the very least, gnaw a little. If ever a man possessed character defects serious enough to gain Empress’s dislike, it was Morgan Pryce.

Empress leaped upon him, all right…but her tail wagged and her tongue lapped his hand and her little paws scrambled to vault her right up into his arms.

What? Empress turned traitor? It was impossible!

When Morgan bent toward the dog, Clara jumped up, ready to fly to Empress’s defense if he should hurt her.

Instead, he scooped the wriggling creature up with a laugh. “And who might you be?” He held the dog gently aloft, with her head a few inches from his face. Empress licked his chin, and he grinned. “Whoever you are, you’re friendly.”

So much for Empress’s ability to assess character.

“Clara, did you see?” her aunt hissed, a little too loudly. “Are you sure that he’s a shady sort?”

Morgan glanced at them, amusement dancing in his eyes. “
Who
’s shady sort?”

“You know quite well who,” Clara retorted. “Now put the dog down, Captain Pryce. You’re frightening her.”

“Yes, I can see her quaking in her…er…paws,” Morgan retorted smugly, but he did set her down to approach the table. When he stopped directly in front of it, Clara could hardly resist gaping at the wedge of black hair showing in the vee of his half-buttoned shirt.

Eyes shining with mischief, he bowed as courteously as any of the lords they’d met on their drive. “Good morning, Lady Clara. And who is your lovely companion this morning?”

It would be highly inappropriate to introduce her aunt to a fence. But with Aunt Verity treading none too subtly on her foot, she had no choice. Sighing, Clara performed the introductions.

“Miss Stanbourne, is it?” Morgan cast her aunt a brilliant smile. “I can see the family resemblance between you and your niece. You have the same beautiful blue eyes.”

To Clara’s chagrin, her aunt blushed. Good Lord, it didn’t take much to turn Aunt Verity up sweet, did it?

“As for you, Lady Clara,” he said, turning an equally devastating smile on her, “you look…ravishing this morning.” When he coupled his compliment with a pointed glance at her mouth, she glared at him. The scoundrel never could resist alluding to their intimate kisses in the shop.

“And you look rather ill,” she replied.

“Clara!” her aunt said. “What has happened to your manners?”

“I speak as I find.” Clara sniffed. It was true. He did look ill, and ill-groomed besides. Close up, she could see the beard stubble shadowing his jaw and the lines of weariness
creasing his forehead. Not to mention his bleary eyes.

“It’s all right,” Morgan told her aunt without rancor. “I had a difficult night, and I imagine it shows.”

Clara searched his face. Did he mean “difficult”? Or “wild”? When she’d left him at the tavern, he hadn’t been drunk. But he certainly looked dissipated this morning—she recognized the signs from when one of her visiting uncles had stumbled down to the breakfast table after a night of debauchery.

A tight knot formed in her chest. Had Morgan left the tavern for a local brothel? An image of those large hands gliding sensually over some naked woman’s body rose to plague her.

“Considering your ‘difficult night,’” she said archly, “you’re certainly very cheerful today.”

“How could I not be? Two lovely females have set up a table outside my shop in plain view of all my customers.” Sarcasm crept into his voice. “That’s guaranteed to improve my temper. Though I’m curious about why you grace
my
shop with your presence.”

“We hadn’t even realized we were close to your shop,” Clara said sweetly. “We set up here because Mrs. Tildy is always so supportive of the Home and wouldn’t mind us being here.”

He raised an eyebrow in abject skepticism. “I see. And exactly what is it you’re setting up?”

“Our table for soliciting donations, of course. My aunt and I do that from time to time—speak to passersby on a heavily trafficked street about contributing to the Home.”

“I suspect you’d garner more ‘donations’ if you set up your table on a street that caters to a richer clientele.”

“Oh, I like to be close to the Home in case I’m needed. And I’m sure the residents of Petticoat Lane will be as generous as they can be.”

His gaze flicked over to where the carriage rested, the
coachman and footman already dozing on the perch. “Where’s Samuel?”

“I gave him something else to do today.” She’d sent him to hunt up Mr. Gaither in Lincoln Inn’s Fields. What a pity the solicitor was staying in a hotel in Cheapside.

Morgan cast her a considering glance. “So you and your aunt plan to sit outside my shop for what…an hour? Two?”

“Oh, much longer than that,” Aunt Verity said cheerily. “Clara says we’ll need to stay here from dawn to dusk a few days at least.”

To Clara’s delight, irritation flared in his face. “I see. And I suppose it won’t bother you if my customers find your presence here…unsettling, shall we say?”

Clara couldn’t repress her smug smile. “I can’t imagine why a legitimate customer would stay away simply because two innocuous ladies are sitting all the way over here.”

His eyes gleamed with what she’d swear was admiration. “No, you wouldn’t, would you?”

She started to retort, but a movement in the alley made her glance that way.

“I do have to wonder,” Morgan added quickly, drawing her attention back to him, “what has brought on your zeal for raising money for the Home, Lady Clara. From our conversation in my shop a few days ago, I assumed that you had all the funds you needed. Or have you already spent that five hundred pounds elsewhere?”

Clara tensed when Aunt Verity turned a bewildered look on her. “What five hundred pounds is he talking about, dear?”

Why, that wretched tattler! She glared at him.

He smiled at her aunt. “Apparently your niece neglected to tell you about my conversation with her.” He shifted his knowing gaze to Clara, letting it settle on her mouth again, reminding her of the kisses she remembered only too well.

Heat stung her cheeks. “I don’t bore my aunt with every
petty conversation I engage in during the day, sir.”

“I wouldn’t consider your offering me five hundred pounds ‘petty,’ Lady Clara,” he retorted with clear relish. “As for the rest of our conversation—”