The Pleasure Trap (2 page)

It was the beginning of a long estrangement between father and daughter that had lasted to the present day, not a quarrel or a falling-out but a tepid relationship that never quite warmed the heart.

It was inevitable, Eve told herself. She was passionate about her mother and could not bear to see another woman take her place. Martha, her father’s wife, was the opposite of her mother, and that rankled, too. Where Antonia had been artistic in many areas—writing, sketching, playing musical instruments—Martha was happier in the stillroom, counting her jars of jam and pickles. Life with Antonia was an adventure. Martha had her feet planted firmly on the ground.

Maybe that’s why her father chose someone so different from her mother to be his second wife. Maybe life with Antonia was
too
unsettling. Maybe her gift of sensing what her husband was thinking and feeling was too uncomfortable to be borne. And maybe he thought the same about his daughter.

She heaved a sigh. She should have made the effort to heal the breach long before now. Her father and his wife lived in Brighton, so there had been plenty of opportunities for her to do the right thing. She’d tried. It wasn’t her father who was the problem so much as Martha. The second Mrs. Dearing made it perfectly obvious that she wasn’t comfortable around her freakish stepdaughter.

And now she’d left it almost too late. Though her father wasn’t an old man, his health wasn’t good. He was becoming forgetful and there was something particular she wanted to ask him, something only he could tell her. She wanted to find the quarry in Kent where her mother had met with that tragic accident.

It wasn’t a secret. No one had tried to keep the information from her. The simple truth was, over time, the details had become blurred. Her aunt thought Antonia had been out walking at night in the gardens of a house that was perched on a cliff. Eve remembered it as a quarry. The one thing they agreed on was that it happened in Kent, just an hour or so out of London.

Why couldn’t she remember? She remembered finding her mother’s body. She remembered the servants dragging her away. But most of all, she remembered the deep well of grief and guilt, all mixed up together, that had sucked her down to an unending pit of despair.

She’d learned to deal with the grief, but the guilt was something else. It felt like a chip of ice lodged in her heart, and no one and nothing had ever thawed it.

She made a clicking sound with her tongue. She wasn’t usually so maudlin. What on earth had got into her? She wanted to revisit the scene of her mother’s tragic accident. That was all it was.

A warm tongue licked her hand. When Eve smiled, Dexter thumped his tail and barked.

“Another mind reader in the family,” Eve told her dog, “is one too many for my comfort. No, I’m not cast down. I’m happy. Look at me! I’m smiling. And why shouldn’t I be? I have my writing, I have my small circle of friends in Henley and an exciting trip to London coming up. Who wouldn’t be happy in my shoes?”

Dexter was an overgrown, good-hearted pup that loved everyone indiscriminately. If a burglar entered the house, he wouldn’t raise the alarm. He’d want to be petted. If a rabbit bit him on the nose, he wouldn’t give chase unless he thought it was a game. Maybe when he was older, his doggie instincts would come into play.

“You’re going to Lady Sayers’s for a little holiday,” she said. “Now what do you think of that?” Eve was sure Dexter would get a warm reception, because Lady Sayers was a doggie person.

Dexter wagged his tail.

“Want to go for a walk?”

Dexter bolted to the door and looked over his shoulder to see if his mistress was following.

Laughing, Eve got up. “See, I can read minds, too. There’s nothing to it.”

She opened the door and followed Dexter down the stairs.

Chapter Two

London, April 1818

Ash Denison had time to spare before keeping an appointment with his tailor, so he dropped by his favorite club, Wattiers, where he knew he could be sure of the finest French cuisine to be had in London. Not only was Ash a connoisseur of fine food, but also of fine tailoring, fine horses, fine wine, and, it went without saying, fine women.

He was a tall, athletically built young man with longish dark hair framing a face that was saved from being too handsome by a square, determined jaw. Though Ash was regarded as a dandy, his garments were conservative—dark coat impeccably tailored to his broad shoulders, and knit trousers molding his long muscular legs. What distinguished him from his conservative friends were his elaborately tied neckcloths and the quizzing glass that hung from a black ribbon around his neck. And what made him immensely popular were his easygoing manners and his unstinting generosity to anyone who needed a helping hand.

Today, he dined alone, though there were plenty of acquaintances who would have been happy to join him if given a little encouragement. Ash had positioned his chair, however, so that his back was to the other diners. He was in a reflective mood, having just encountered the former dean of his college, who had opined, in no uncertain terms, that Ash’s life lacked focus and he’d expected him to have made his mark on the world by now. Ash was inclined to agree with him, but that did not mean he was unhappy or wanted to change his ways. He had no ambitions except to enjoy his life, each precious moment of it, and damned if he could see what was wrong with that.

His dinner arrived—oysters en brochette with buttered asparagus and creamed potatoes. On this occasion, the fine cuisine did not distract his thoughts for long. This was the beginning of the Season, when ambitious mamas brought their lovely daughters up to town in hopes of tempting some eligible bachelor into marriage. Until now, he had managed to disqualify himself from the hunt by claiming poverty, but he was not sure how much longer he could keep up the pretense. His grandmother had suddenly arrived in town with the express intention of taking in the Season. One word from his grandmother was all it would take to put him in the camp of eligible bachelors, and the hunt would be on.

His friends would rub their hands in glee. Most of them had fallen by the wayside, captured by lovely young women who led them straight to the altar. Ash didn’t think he’d ever be ready to take that long, long walk. His own parents’ marriage had not exactly been an example of domestic bliss. They were both gone now, as was his brother, Harry, and it was left to him to secure the succession.

There had to be more to life than that.

“Mind if I join you, Denison?”

The elderly gentleman who loomed over Ash didn’t wait for an answer but pulled out a chair and seated himself. Ash managed a smile. Colonel Shearer commanded his respect, not only because of his advanced years but because of his record in the Spanish Campaign and, latterly, at Waterloo. Soldiering had been his life. It was also his only topic of conversation. There was nothing the colonel liked more than to corner a former comrade-in-arms and regurgitate every detail of battles gone by. As a veteran of the Spanish Campaign, Ash was an ideal audience for the colonel’s reminiscences.

“You’ll have a glass of wine, Colonel?” Ash asked. He raised a hand to attract the waiter’s attention.

“Thank you, no. I’ve already dined. Too much wine in the middle of the day makes me drowsy.”

Ash was startled when the colonel took the newspaper that was folded under his arm and slapped it on the table between them. “What do you make of that, Denison, eh?”

Ash noted the torn edges of the paper and wondered how long the colonel had been carrying it around. The date at the top of the back page informed him that it was a week old. Mystified, he began to scan it.

“It’s a short story,” Ash said. “They’re a regular feature in the
Herald.
I never read such drivel myself. Too fanciful for my taste. But my grandmother dotes on these Gothic tales.”

“As does my Myrtle,” responded the colonel, shaking his head. “Well, it’s fit only for the ladies, isn’t it? But this time, the
Herald
has gone too far. I wouldn’t mind if Angelo—that’s the author’s name, by the way—set his stories in the country homes of the high and mighty—well, who hasn’t visited Blenheim and Chatsworth?—but when one’s own private domain is used as a backdrop, that is going too far. Fairfield isn’t open to the public. How does this Angelo fellow know so much about my property? Not that he gives it its proper name.
Longfield
he calls it, or something similar.” He thumped the paper with his index finger. “The impudence of the knave! That’s my home he’s writing about.”

Ash wasn’t sure why the colonel was so angry. “Country estates are not so very different,” he ventured. “Perhaps you’re mistaken. It could be another estate or something he has imagined.”

The colonel brought the flat of his hand down, rattling the table. “I know my own estate.” Both voice and eyes were fierce. “But that’s not what gets my goat. He has resurrected an old tragedy, when one of our maids fell down the shaft of an old, disused well, and Mrs. Shearer is besieged by her friends wanting to know what really happened to Maude. And our daughters are mortified. People are snickering behind our backs. I won’t have it, I tell you.”

“Maude,” Ash said slowly, “would be the maid?”

“Of course she’s the maid! Didn’t I say so?”

Ash suppressed a retort. Colonel Shearer’s war record, he reminded himself, commanded respect. “When did Maude suffer the fatal fall?” he asked gently.

“Fourteen years ago. She was Mrs. Shearer’s maid. And now this Angelo fellow implies that there was foul play and that her spirit will never be at peace until the mystery is solved.”

Ash hardly knew what to say. The colonel was taking this preposterous story seriously. He didn’t want to aggravate the old boy’s distress by laughing, though that’s what he felt like doing.

“It’s only a story,” he said. “And intelligent people don’t read this kind of rubbish.”

“My wife reads it.”

“Ah…” Ash saw his blunder and quickly corrected it. “So does my grandmother and my cousin. I meant that gentlemen don’t usually read these fanciful tales unless a wife or a grandmother points something of interest out to them.”

“Reading novels! Waste of time! Never indulge in it! But I’m glad my wife showed me this piece. Who is this devil? That’s what I want to know.”

Ash shrugged. “Angelo is almost certainly not his real name. You probably know the fellow. He may have been a guest at Fairfield at one time and heard the story of Maude.” Something else occurred to him. “He’s probably a female.” He flicked the newspaper with one finger. “This kind of fiction is nearly always written by females.”

“My wife reads all the Gothic writers, and she doesn’t recognize any of her favorites in this twaddle.” Colonel Shearer sat back in his chair. “Look here, Denison. You could get me the real name of this Angelo fellow if you put your mind to it.”

“I?” Ash was taken aback. “What can I do that you can’t?”

“The
Herald
’s publisher is your friend, is he not? Brand Hamilton? Oh, yes, I went to see him, but he refused to divulge the blackguard’s name.”

Ash wasn’t surprised. He could see what was on the colonel’s mind. He might call Angelo out or beat him senseless. And if Angelo were a woman—

“I’m not going to call him out,” the colonel stated testily, correctly reading the thoughts that were flitting through Ash’s mind. “I’m going to make him tell me what he knows, and if that doesn’t work, I shall sue him.”

“Is that wise? I mean, suing him? Think of the trial. The gossips will have a feeding frenzy. If you ignore it, people will have forgotten the story when the next breathless installment from Angelo arrives in their morning paper.”

The colonel sighed. “That’s the advice I got when I asked Richard Maitland of Special Branch to track down the fellow, but—”

“You asked the chief of staff of Special Branch to intervene?”

The colonel frowned at Ash’s tone. “Why are you surprised? Major Maitland served with us in the Spanish Campaign and was there at Waterloo.”

“I know. But Special Branch concerns itself with conspiracies and treason and, on rare occasions, with difficult cases that have baffled the authorities.”

“That’s what Maitland told me, and I can’t say I blame him for turning me down. His agents have their hands full.” The colonel leaned forward and trapped Ash’s unwary gaze in his piercing stare. In a less commanding voice, the colonel said, “I could always count on you in a tight corner, Denison. And vice versa, if I may say so. Remember Waterloo?”

Ash nodded. His horse had been shot from under him, and the colonel had ridden into the fray and carried him off under the noses of a detail of ferocious French lancers.

The colonel’s gaze softened. “Will you help me, Captain Denison?”

Oh, unscrupulous!
thought Ash.
To trade on our bond as war veterans.
“I’ll do my best, Colonel,” he replied meekly.

Shearer got to his feet. His stern expression had softened into a smile. “You deserve your good fortune, Denison.”

“My…good fortune?”

“I met your grandmother with your charming cousin at Lady Heathcote’s musicale. The dowager told me that you’d come into a considerable estate.”

Ash summoned a smile. That was old news that he’d suppressed in the interest of self-preservation. His grandmother had known, of course, because it was her elder brother, a crotchety old bachelor, who had left his entire fortune to Ash. That his grandmother had chosen to let the “news” out now confirmed his suspicions. Diplomacy had got her nowhere. Now she was resorting to open warfare.

He was disappointed in her, or, more accurately, he didn’t understand her. She was his mother’s mother, so securing the Denison dynasty could mean nothing to her. His grandfather, on the other hand, the Marquess of Forres,
was
a Denison and was threatening to disinherit him. It was an empty threat. The estate was entailed and the title would pass to Ash whether his grandfather thought he deserved it or not.

Fortunately, Grandfather Denison was happily ensconced in his estates in Scotland. He despised town life and rarely put in an appearance at Court functions unless by royal command.

A twinkle kindled in the colonel’s eye. “That makes you a prize in the marriage-mart stakes, my boy. You’ll have your pick of debutantes. A word of advice from an old campaigner? Take the offensive. Find the young woman who could make you happy and marry her before your escape is cut off. That’s what I did with my Myrtle, and I’ve never regretted it.”

“I’m not thinking of getting married,” Ash pointed out.

“No. I daresay. My wife tells me that you’re never without a pretty woman on your arm. I tell her that it’s to be expected. You and all those other fine young men spent the best years of your lives fighting on foreign soil because you thought it was your duty. And you were one of the best.”

He stopped abruptly and chuckled. “Will you listen to me? I do get carried away, don’t I? The point I’m trying to make is that the war has been over for three years and now it’s time to get on with your life. Dandy, indeed! What a whisker! You’re a warrior, my boy, as no one knows better than I.”

With a little salute, the colonel turned to go, then changed his mind. “You won’t forget Angelo?”

“I won’t forget.”

“Your best lead is most likely the symposium that is coming up. There’s an advertisement for it at the bottom of the page.”

Ash gave the bottom of the page a cursory glance and nodded.

“My compliments to your grandmother and Lady Amanda.”

“I’ll pass them along.”

When the colonel moved away, Ash looked down at the food congealing on his plate and decided that he had lost his appetite.

It’s time to get on with your life.

What was wrong with his life? Why did everyone think he had to change?

He finished his glass of wine and called the waiter over to settle his bill. Angelo would have to wait, for he had arranged to call on his grandmother and his cousin after he visited his tailor and drive out with them in Hyde Park.

Two ladies stood at the long window in Lady Amanda’s morning room and surreptitiously studied the young gentleman of fashion who seemed to be lost in contemplation at the far end of the garden. The gentleman in question was Ash; the elder lady was his grandmother, the Dowager Countess of Valmede, and the younger was his cousin, Lady Amanda Tallant.

Amanda broke the silence. “What is he doing?”

The dowager shook her head. “Enjoying the garden? Contemplating some deep, philosophical conundrum?” She looked at her granddaughter with a twinkle in her eye. “Suffering the pangs of unrequited love?”

Amanda gave a less-than-ladylike snort. “Some hope. I’ll allow that Ash loves women, but he loves them in general. No woman has ever touched his heart. I don’t think he’ll ever marry.”

“I think you’re wrong,” Lady Valmede observed. “He keeps up the house and estate in Richmond, doesn’t he? Why would he bother if he’s not thinking of getting married one of these days? After all, it’s not entailed. He could sell it if he wanted to.”