Seducing the Viscount (28 page)

He was an enigma, a mystery.

And that was what kept the jaded members of the
ton
titillated.

“I find rumors in general to be untrustworthy, but that does not seem to keep them from spreading like a virulent plague.”

“So, the magnificent Raoul Charlebois does not intend to retire from the stage?” Fredric demanded.

“That is hardly a rumor, Fredrick,” he drawled. “I made the announcement myself.”

“Why?”

Raoul smiled with a rueful flare of humor.

It was a question he had no answer for.

At least none that made any sense.

“The most important talent any actor can possess is an immaculate sense of timing,” he said smoothly. “That includes knowing when to take my final bow. I have no intention of having all of London watch me become a decrepit wreck of a man, deluding myself that I am still in my prime.”

Fredrick frowned. He knew Raoul too well to be easily fooled.

“For God's sake, Raoul, you are far from becoming a decrepit wreck. I would say you are at the very pinnacle of your career.”

Raoul shrugged. “What better moment to walk away?”

Far from satisfied, Fredrick studied Raoul for a long, discomforting moment, then with a shake of his head, he accepted Raoul had said all he intended.

Instead, he smiled wryly.

“It is certainly causing a sensation throughout London.”

“It must be if word has managed to penetrate to the dark, musty bowels of your workrooms,
mon ami
.”

“My workrooms are not musty,” Fredrick protested. “I am not quite the hermit you think.”

“No? Then tell me, was it Portia who informed you of my recent retirement?”

“I . . .” Fredrick laughed, realizing he would never be able to lie beneath Raoul's penetrating gaze. “Damn you, yes.”

Raoul chuckled. “You will never change, Freddie, and in truth, I am glad of it. The world would be a sadder place without your odd combination of plodding logic and fanciful dreams.”

“Maudlin, indeed.” Fredrick tilted his head to the side. “Tell me, what devil is plaguing you, old friend?”

“The devil that plagues many gentlemen who have reached my advanced years.” Raoul grimaced. “Quite simply, I am bored.”

“And you believe retiring from the stage will relieve your boredom?” Fredrick demanded. “What the devil will you do with yourself?”

“I have taken an urge to travel.”

“The continent?”

“Cheshire.”

“Ah.” Fredrick's puzzled expression cleared as if by magic. “So the thorn has at last festered, has it?”

“A charming analogy,” he muttered, recalling Fredrick saying those precise words near a year ago, when they had first discovered the truth behind Dunnington's legacy.

The silver gaze never wavered. “You seek to uncover your father's dark secret?”

Raoul kicked his feet off the desk and rose from the chair, suddenly struck by a flare of restless discontent. Not an uncommon sensation. At least not when the mention of his father, Lord Merriot, entered the conversation.

Reaching the bay window, he peered down at the icy street below. “Yes,
mon ami,
I find that I must discover what my father was willing to pay twenty thousand pounds to keep hidden.”

“Be careful that is all you discover.”

Raoul snorted.

Both Fredrick and Ian had gone on their quest to uncover their fathers' secrets, only to return with brides.

“There is no fear of that.” Raoul's gaze shifted to his slender servant who leaned against the gleaming black carriage. Despite the nasty weather, Nico refused to wear one of the dozen fancy uniforms that Raoul had purchased for him. Instead he preferred a plain woolen coat and loose breeches that made him look more a dockworker than valet for London's most famous actor. Not that many people noticed his clothing. Not with those lean, swarthy features that were finely honed and edged with a promise of violence. Women trembled at the dark, Latin beauty and smoldering dark eyes that perfectly matched the long, raven hair he kept pulled into a queue. Gentlemen instinctively gave him a wide berth. At least they did if they desired to see another day. “While I have the greatest appreciation for the fairer sex, I have yet to encounter one that can claim more than a passing interest. I am resigned to my future as a bachelor.”

Rising to his feet, Fredrick moved to reclaim his hat and coat from the chair.

“Never dare fate, Raoul. It has a nasty tendency to make a fool of a man.”

“Not of me.”

“We shall see.” Fredrick offered a mocking bow. “Happy hunting,
mon ami
.”

 

 

December 9

Cheshire

 

It had been twelve years since his last visit, but Cheshire was precisely as Raoul remembered it.

Rolling timberlands that were dotted with occasional fields and meadows, along with the dangerous kettle holes locally known as meres. The tiny villages were mostly notable for their black-and-white timbered buildings, and the native red stone used in the local cathedrals.

A sleepy, peaceful corner of England that was content to allow the world to pass them by.

Greeted by a light, icy rain that was not at all uncommon for early December, Raoul discovered he was not entirely disappointed by the familiarity of his surroundings.

Odd. His memories of the particular neighborhood were hardly worth cherishing. Hell, most of them still gave him nightmares.

He could only suppose there must be some need within every man to know there is a place in the world that never changed.

Of course, it helped that he had chosen to settle in the small but elegant hunting lodge loaned to him by Sir Harold Baxter, rather than his father's lavish estate simply known as the Great House.

He would never be able to claim Fredrick's raw intelligence or Ian's sheer cunning, but he did understand human nature.

In all its noble glory, and with all its fatal flaws.

And more importantly, he understood his father.

Lord Merriot was a handsome, fiercely proud gentleman who was accustomed to others bending to his will. Predictable, if annoying. The Merriots were by far the most important family in the entire county. Who would dare stand against them?

He would be infuriated that his bastard son would arrive in Cheshire without a formal invitation. And even more infuriated that Raoul had not yet presented himself at the Great House like a proper sycophant, to beg for his father's approval.

Soon enough, his conceit would overcome his dignity, and he would seek out Raoul.

In that moment, Raoul would gain the upper hand.

Until then, unfortunately, he had little to occupy his time.

Unlike most sons of a wealthy nobleman, Raoul had never developed a passion for hunting, and his one attempt to join in the local society by attending a ball at the assembly rooms had caused a near riot among the local ladies, one of whom had actually swooned at being in the presence of the notorious Raoul Charlebois. Even a brief luncheon at the village pub had created an embarrassing fuss.

Conceding defeat, he awoke his fifth morning in Cheshire and gathered his restive horse from the stables. Then, ignoring the gray clouds that threatened snow, he deliberately took a path leading away from the village. Soon enough, the natives would be accustomed to his presence. Until then it seemed best to avoid stirring the mobs.

For well over an hour he meandered through the countryside, enjoying his ride despite the decidedly brisk breeze.

He had forgotten how soothing the silence could be.

Savoring his rare sense of peace, Raoul was completely unprepared for the small form that appeared from seemingly nowhere to dart across the path.

Before he could react, his horse reared and instinctively struck out. Hercules had once performed at Astley's Royal Amphitheater and was exquisitely well-mannered, but his nerves were no match for the unexpected disturbance.

Much like his owner, Raoul decided as he vaulted from the saddle to study the fair-haired urchin laying with a terrifying stillness on the frozen ground.

“Damn.”

Bending beside the boy, he studied the large bump already forming on his forehead. What he knew of children could fit into a thimble, but he put the youngster at eight or nine years of age, and seemingly well-fed beneath his heavy wool clothing. Fortunate, since he would heal far quicker if he were not malnourished.

There was a rustle from the side of the path, but on this occasion, Raoul was prepared for the impetuous lad who burst through the hedgerow and dashed to stand beside the unconscious body.

“Jimmy. Sweet Mother of God.” Clutching a well-used cricket bat, the boy stabbed Raoul with a worried gray gaze. “Is he dead?”

This one was older, maybe twelve, but with enough resemblance to the lad on the ground to suggest they were brothers.

“No. Knocked senseless.” Raoul kept his tone nonchalant, sensing the boy was hovering on the edge of panic. “Which is more than the impetuous cub deserves darting into the road without regard to unwary travelers.”

As hoped, the boy's threatening tears were forgotten, and a flare of anger stiffened his spine.

“It was an accident, sir. Jimmy was chasing after our cricket ball. If you're worried for your horse . . .”

“I suggest you swallow the remainder of that insult, Mr. . . . ?”

A flush touched the thin face framed by a thick mane of brown curls.

“Willie.”

“Master Willie,” Raoul continued, easily scooping the unconscious boy off the ground and cradling him to his chest as he straightened. “And instead make yourself useful by directing me to young Jimmy's home.”

“Aye, sir.” With a surprising air of maturity, Willie squared his shoulders and nodded his head toward the massive black horse. “Shall I lead your mount?”

“No need.” Raoul gave a low whistle. “Hercules.”

The gray eyes widened as the horse readily moved to stand at Raoul's side.

“Hellfire.”

“Does your mother allow such language?”

“Ain't got a mother.” Willie turned to lead Raoul through the gape in the hedgerow. “She did a flit three years ago. Miss Sarah takes care of me and Jimmy.”

It was not an uncommon story. Too many young women were left alone to raise children they either did not want or could not afford. Most were simply incapable of providing a proper home.

“And who is Miss Sarah?”

“The finest lady in all the land.”

Raoul hid his smile at Willie's fierce loyalty. The scamp was barely old enough to be out of shortcoats, but it was obvious he considered it his duty to protect his brother, and the mysterious Miss Sarah.

Such loyalty was something Raoul not only understood, but appreciated. It was precisely what he had felt toward Dunnington and his two friends, Ian and Fredrick.

“She is no doubt a fine lady, but not terribly wise to think she can give two rapscallions a cricket ball and bat without dire consequences.”

Willie nervously cleared his throat. “Well . . . as to that . . .”

“Ah. Did you steal them?”

“Nay.” Hurt pride flared through the gray eyes, sharply reminding Raoul of Fredrick when he was just a lad. “We might be poor, but me and Jimmy are no thieves.”

Raoul grimaced with regret. “Forgive me. That was shockingly rude.”

Willie led the way through an overgrown field, his back stiff and his chin high. Raoul was wise enough not to press, instead following in silence.

At last, Willie halted to pull open a gate set in a low stone wall.

“Just through here, sir.”

Stepping through the gate, Raoul came to a sharp halt.

He recognized the timber-framed cottage that was charmingly set beside the tiny stream. When the hell had he crossed into Merriot land?

“
Mon Dieu
.”

Willie stopped to regard him with a puzzled frown. “Something the matter?”

“This is the old gamekeeper's cottage,” he breathed.

“Aye. Miss Sarah's father was the gamekeeper for Lord Merriot afore he died some seven years ago.”

Vaguely, Raoul recalled spotting Jefferson's raven-haired daughter occasionally about the estate during his rare visits. She had been at least five years younger than himself, and while a pretty little thing, of no real interest to an unhappy bastard who was already dreaming of a life far from Cheshire.

“Miss Sarah, she is not wed?”

“Nay, nor does she ever intend to wed. She says she is happy to be an old maid.”

Old maid? Egads.

Without undue vanity, Raoul comprehended the power of his appearance on women. How could he not? They had been fawning, fluttering, and occasionally fainting since he had left the nursery.

And old maids were always the worst.

“Perhaps you should run ahead and prepare her for my entrance,” he commanded, poised for flight. It was bad enough to be on his father's land, without having the added annoyance of fighting off a desperate female. He would hand over Jimmy and bolt. “I would not want to send Miss Sarah into a swoon at the sight of her wounded lamb.”

“You don't know Miss Sarah if you think anything would send her into a swoon. She didn't so much as bat an eye when I fell from the tree and broke my arm.” Willie glanced toward his brother's limp body, gnawing his bottom lip. “Still, I wouldn't wish her to be thinking poor Jimmy is dead.”

Raoul's impatience melted. Poor lad.

“Go on,” he urged, gently. “The little one is safe in my care.”

The gray gaze studied him for a long moment, then seeming to find something trustworthy in Raoul's lean features, he abruptly turned and sprinted across the frozen ground, and disappeared into the cottage.

Alone in the cramped front garden, Raoul distracted himself from the impending confrontation by ensuring that Hercules was happily destroying a small bush next to the gate, and then by studying the warm bundle cradled in his arms.