The Pleasure Trap (3 page)

“I think he keeps it up to entertain his
chères amies
. I mean, it’s out of the way but still close to town. Who is to know who he entertains there?”

“Amanda!” reproved the dowager helplessly. “I wish you would mind your tongue. Besides, his rooms are in Grillon’s Hotel. He doesn’t need a little hideaway to entertain his lady friends.”

“That’s true.” Amanda shook her head. “Ash likes his privacy. Not for him a busybody landlady always looking over his shoulder. Or,” she added emphatically, “a busybody cousin or grandmother.”

The dowager crossed to a chair by the fire. After seating herself, she said diffidently, “Tell me the worst, Amanda. Have I stayed away from town too long? Have I no influence with my grandson? Am I never to see him happily settled?”

Amanda let out a soft sigh and sank into a down sofa flanking her grandmother’s chair. She was a lovely young woman, a widow in her early thirties, with pale blond hair swept back from a heart-shaped face. She’d been in mourning for the last year but had been forced out of her widow’s weeds by a grandmother who had come up to town determined to take her grown-up grandchildren in hand. The object, the dowager said, was to find a wife for Ash. Amanda suspected that Ash wasn’t the only one her grandmother had plans for.

“You’ll see Ash happily settled,” she said, “when he wants to be and not before. Oh, I’m not saying he won’t fall in with your wishes and escort us to any party or ball you care to name, but that’s because he sees himself as the head of our family. No one can say that Ash ever shirked his duty.”

“His duty? Oh, I think you’re being too hard on him. He wants us to be happy because he loves us.”

“Or maybe it’s because he knows we love him. Maybe it’s because we’re all he has.”

They fell into a reflective silence. Finally, Amanda stirred. “It wasn’t a happy home, was it, Grandmama? I mean when Ash was a boy. His father was…” She left the thought hanging.

“A despot!” supplied the dowager. “No wonder my poor daughter went into a decline. Her father and I were never more mistaken in a man’s character!” She suppressed a shudder. “I don’t think Ash had a childhood. He filled the void left by his father’s neglect. Who else was there to support his mother and brother? That’s why he went off to war. With both his mother and Harry gone, what was there for him here?”

Fearing the conversation had taken a turn that was too painful for her grandmother, Amanda said lightly, “Leave Ash be, Grandmama. I, for one, am happy to see him enjoying himself.”

“Did someone mention my name?” demanded a voice from the threshold.

Ash crossed to his grandmother and pressed a kiss to her cheek. He caught a whiff of talcum, a scent that always reminded him of her, a comforting scent evoking happy memories.

Slightly startled at Ash’s entrance when she believed him to be in the garden, the dowager said feebly, “Molly should have announced you.”

“I told her not to bother.”

He crossed to Amanda, ignored the hand she offered him, and planted an affectionate kiss on her brow. “What were you saying about me?” he asked.

He spied a selection of Amanda’s favorite reading material stacked neatly on the sofa table, so he sat down beside her and idly fingered first one leather-bound volume, then another.

“We were wondering,” said Amanda seamlessly, “what you were doing in the garden. We saw you from the window.”

“Ah.” Ash stretched one arm along the back of the sofa and gave his cousin a brilliant smile. “I was coaxing a stray dog to come to me. I thought the poor little fellow looked half starved. I didn’t see the gentleman who was out walking him. He practically accused me of trying to steal his dog.”

Amanda laughed.

Ash’s mind was only half on this bantering conversation. The other half was looking for an opening to introduce the topic of Angelo without betraying Colonel Shearer’s confidence. He picked up one of the volumes that lay on the table.
“The Vanishing Heiress,”
he read slowly, “by Mrs. Barrymore.” He looked at Amanda. “I thought you had more intelligence than to read this drivel.”

Amanda snatched the book from Ash’s fingers and clasped it to her bosom. She wasn’t laughing now. “Don’t mock what you don’t understand. These are
wonderful
stories.” She lifted her chin. “And Mrs. Barrymore is a wonderful writer.”

There was a lilt in his voice. “Come now. I’m told these stories are all alike. The heroine is abducted by the lecherous villain and is saved by the hero from a fate worse than death in the nick of time.”

“I didn’t realize you read them,” interjected the dowager.

“I don’t,” said Ash. “But they’re the talk of my clubs right now.”

“Men!” scorned Amanda. “What do they know? If you read Mrs. Barrymore, you’d learn something. Her heroines don’t rely on any man to save them. They save themselves.”

“It’s a fantasy, then?” asked Ash, adding another log to the fire.

The dowager hastened to smother the flame. “They are enjoyable stories, Ash, that’s all. We know that real life is quite different. Take Mrs. Barrymore’s latest novel. The heroine—I forget her name.”

“Brianna,” supplied Amanda.

“Brianna?” Ash sounded revolted. “What kind of name is that?” He gasped when Amanda slapped her precious novel against his chest.

“Read it, Cousin, before you pass judgment.”

He chuckled and gingerly replaced the volume on the sofa table. “I know all I want to know about the likes of Mrs. Barrymore and her stories.”

“Pity,” said his grandmother. “Amanda and I were counting on you to escort us to the Clarendon on Thursday afternoon. All our favorite writers will be there to read excerpts from their books and answer readers’ questions. You did promise to escort us to any event we planned to attend.”

“Escort you?” Ash was aghast. In his mind’s eye, he saw a roomful of twittering, gushing females and in their midst one solitary male—himself. Not even for Colonel Shearer would he lower himself to that level.

Amanda said, “You won’t be the only gentleman there. Lots of husbands, brothers,
and
cousins will be in attendance, if only to give their womenfolk moral support.”

“Don’t exaggerate, dear,” said the dowager. “There may be a few gentlemen present, but no more than that.”

“You’ve been before?” asked Ash.

“Not Grandmama, but I go every year without fail,” replied Amanda coolly.

The dowager said confidingly, “You see, Ash, Amanda is writing a novel, too, so it’s good for her to meet other writers. They spark ideas from one another.”

Amanda sat up with a jerk. “Grandmama! I told you that in confidence.”

“Good heavens! Ash is family! He won’t tell anyone, will you, Ash?”

“Trust me, Amanda.” Ash put his finger to his lips. “Your secret is safe with me.”

Her good humor restored, Amanda laughed. “Of course it is. You wouldn’t want it to become known in your club that your cousin writes Gothic romances. Think of the ribbing you’d get.”

That reminded him of Colonel Shearer. “Now that you mention it, there was talk in my club today of one of your tribe, a fellow by the name of Angelo. He has had a few pieces published in the
Herald.
”

“I’ve read them,” said Amanda, “but I wouldn’t say that he writes in my genre. They are mysteries, and the endings leave me feeling let down. Nothing is resolved.”

“You don’t think he could be one of your fellow writers?”

“I don’t know. I think Angelo is a female, but her voice isn’t one that I recognize.” To Ash’s blank look she added, “Her style of writing is different. I think she may be new on the scene. Perhaps we’ll meet her at the symposium. Leigh Fleming will be there. He’s the publisher, and if anyone knows who Angelo is, I’m sure it will be Mr. Fleming. There’s a luncheon afterward, when readers and writers mix informally. Perhaps Angelo will be there.”

Tempting, but not tempting enough for Ash. There must be an easier way to discover who Angelo was.

He said lamely, “I’d feel like a fish out of water at your symposium. You can’t seriously expect me to accompany you?”

Amanda smiled. “Poor cornered little rabbit! Of course I don’t. But I’m not letting you off easily. Read Mrs. Barrymore’s latest novel and we’ll call it quits. Agreed?”

He plucked the book from the table and weighed it in his hand. Finally, he nodded. “You drive a hard bargain, Amanda.”

Amanda beamed at him. “I always said you were my favorite cousin, Ash.”

The dowager seized on the moment of harmony and quickly interposed, “I’ll have Molly bring refreshments, shall I? Then after tea we’ll go for that drive in Hyde Park.”

True to his word, later that evening Ash settled himself in his favorite chair in front of a blazing fire and embarked on the trials and tribulations of
The Vanishing Heiress.
He made up his mind to give the book half an hour of his time and, if his interest wasn’t caught by then, to skim to the end.

The fire died down, the candles burned low, and still Ash read on. Occasionally he chuckled. He skipped here and there, but only the sappy bits where the author described what the hero and villain were thinking and feeling. Obviously, Mrs. Barrymore didn’t know the first thing about men, but she’d written a cracking good story.

When he closed the book and came to himself, he was amazed to see how late it was. He’d enjoyed the story but not enough to make him want to meet the author.

The following morning, after a hotel footman had delivered his breakfast and that morning’s paper, he turned to the back page. Sure enough, there was another breathless piece by Angelo. He looked at the bottom of the page. The date, time, and place of the symposium blazed out at him.

He swallowed a mouthful of coffee and began to read. When he came to the end of it, he sat back in his chair. His breakfast was untouched.

Now he understood Colonel Shearer’s feelings of revulsion when he’d recognized his home as the backdrop to what was supposed to be a work of fiction. He was in exactly the same position. But there was more to it than that. Angelo knew things that he ought not to have known, things that Ash had never confided to anyone. If Angelo had appeared in front of him right then, he would have taken him by the throat and squeezed the life out of him.

He read the piece again and a lump formed in his throat. The story was based on the accidental death of his own brother, Harry—Harry, who’d never matured beyond a simple-minded child. He’d gone out swimming one day in the Thames, alone, and hadn’t had the strength in his wasted limbs to stay afloat.

The details were sparse, but there were enough broad strokes to paint a reasonable picture of life at Denison Hall: the overpowering father; the mother who was too fragile to withstand the hardships of daily life; himself, the elder brother, who was being groomed as the heir; and Harry, the only light in that dreary pile of bricks they called home.

What stuck in Ash’s craw was the faint suggestion that Harry’s death might not have been an accident. After all, there were no witnesses to what had happened.

His first call that morning was to the
Herald
’s offices. Brand was not expected back for another week, he was told, and no one else could tell him what he wanted to know.

There was only one course open to him. It looked as though he would be escorting his cousin and grandmother to the symposium after all.

Chapter Three

Leigh Fleming was taken aback when he and his bevy of writers entered the Clarendon’s public dining room, which served temporarily as the meeting place for the symposium. It was standing room only, and that had never happened before. Even more surprising was the presence of so many gentlemen. Men did not read romances, so why were they here? He was wishing, belatedly, that he’d hired a few strapping lackeys to evict any gentleman who thought it amusing to heckle the guests of honor.

He smiled encouragingly at his authors as he shepherded them to their places at a long table facing the audience. His fears subsided a little when he went to the lectern and the babble of voices died away. Taking a deep breath, he began his opening remarks.

Eve relaxed a little when Leigh cracked his first joke and the audience laughed along with him. All the authors were nervous, though this wasn’t the first time they’d been in this position. And, really, there was nothing to fear. They would each do a short reading, answer questions from the floor, then mingle with the audience when refreshments were served.

Since staring at the audience made her nervous, Eve focused her attention on her publisher. Leigh was in his late thirties, fair of hair and complexion, with light blue eyes that seemed to take in the world and all its follies with long-suffering tolerance. To say that she was fond of him did not do her feelings justice. She admired and respected him. He had the knack of making each and every author believe in herself and her work. He and her aunt were her staunchest supporters.

Her gaze shifted to a table in the front row where Miss Claverley and a group of ladies were gazing in rapt attention at Mr. Fleming. Aunt Millicent enjoyed these writers’ get-togethers more than Eve did. In fact, Eve found this part of the proceedings more of a trial. At the back of her mind, there was always the niggling fear that she would be recognized outside the hotel and hounded like a hapless fox. As a result, she dressed in her plainest garments and did nothing to draw attention to herself. What she looked forward to was when the symposium was over and they could all relax and enjoy themselves at Lady Sayers’s beautifully appointed home.

A movement caught her eye. A gentleman at one of the tables in the front row was surveying the proceedings through his quizzing glass.

Ill-mannered fop,
she thought, and she turned her attention back to Leigh.

Ash lowered his quizzing glass and responded to some remark his grandmother had made. He and his little party had arrived early, at Amanda’s insistence, so that they could get the best seats. As Mr. Fleming introduced each writer in turn, Amanda elaborated for Ash’s benefit.

“Lady Sayers you already know,” said Amanda, “but in these circles she is known as Mrs. Windermere. She won’t thank you if you betray her identity to her adoring readers. There was an unpleasant incident last year, when a zealous admirer besieged one of the writers in her own home. All very unpleasant! Poor Mrs. Farrar hasn’t written a thing since.”

Ash nodded. “Mrs. Windermere. I shall remember.” The lady had buried four husbands and, in Ash’s opinion, had the stamina for taking on another four. She was a straightforward, straight-spoken lady, and Ash liked her immensely. When her gaze alighted on him, he gave her a tiny salute.

The next writer was dressed from head to toe in flowing black, which accentuated her sickly, bloodless complexion.

“Mrs. Contini is mad about vampires,” Amanda said.

Ash had no idea what his cousin meant, but it sounded revolting. Just looking at Mrs. Contini made his skin prickle.

The next in line, Mrs. Rivers, was not one of Amanda’s favorites. “She doesn’t write about love,” Amanda scoffed, “but about you-know-what.”

“Lust,” his grandmother interjected from his other side.

That got Ash’s attention, and he raised his quizzing glass to get a better look at the lady. She was a dasher, all right, and was dressed for the hunt in a form-fitting habit with a saucy hat to match. All she needed to complete the picture was a horse and hounds. Bold eyes returned his own bold stare. The symposium, Ash decided, was turning out to be quite interesting.

His grandmother elbowed him in the ribs. Correctly interpreting that silent rebuke, he swiveled his quizzing glass to take in the next lady.

“Mrs. Barrymore,” said Amanda, in a voice that told Ash this writer
was
one of Amanda’s favorites. “She creates the most-appealing heroines. When I come to the end of one of Mrs. Barrymore’s stories, I feel that I can attempt anything.”

“Incredible heroines,” he agreed obliquely, earning him a sharp look from his cousin.

Mrs. Barrymore, in his view, was letting the side down. The other authors had dressed to make themselves stand out. If one was mad about vampires, whatever that meant, then Mrs. Contini with her bloodless complexion would instantly come to mind. For a lusty tale, Mrs. Rivers was her own best advertisement. There was more to it than her dramatic good looks or the clothes she wore. Every gesture, every glance from those expressive dark eyes were a challenge every red-blooded male would recognize. Mrs. Barrymore, on the other hand, looked as though she didn’t want to draw attention to herself. Her plain gray walking dress hung in loose folds, concealing her figure. Her hair, likewise, was concealed by a lace cap. She was young, no more than twenty-four or twenty-five, and was pretty enough to attract any man’s attention if she put her mind to it. Many ladies of rank came to him for advice when planning a new wardrobe. Now, if Mrs. Barrymore were to put herself into his hands…

She turned her head at that moment and their eyes collided. There was no bold stare from Ash this time. He was blinded by the temper that sizzled in her eyes before she looked away.

Uh-oh, he’d been caught staring, and the lady was not amused. She probably thought he was lusting after her. The idea was laughable. All the same, he’d embarrassed her. The gentlemanly thing to do now was to set her mind at rest. When the symposium was over, he’d seek her out and talk to her intelligently about her book, and if that was beyond him, he’d simply tell her how much he enjoyed it.

That ought to make amends for his unthinking perusal.

Another dig in his ribs brought his attention back to Amanda.

She whispered fiercely, “Don’t you know it’s rude to stare?”

“What?” He dropped his quizzing glass.

“Mrs. Rivers! Don’t encourage her! She’s an overbearing, loud chatterbox who loves to be the center of attention. We’re here to cheer on Mrs. Barrymore. Kindly remember that.”

The dowager added, “Amanda dislikes Mrs. Rivers because she is always blowing her own trumpet. She never has a good thing to say about her fellow authors.”

“Hush,” said Amanda. “Mrs. Contini is about to read from her book.”

Ash looked down at his program.
Let Sleeping Vampires Lie.
He could hardly wait.

As Mrs. Contini gave an introduction to her book, Eve edged closer to Lady Sayers. “Who is that gentleman with Lady Amanda?” she asked softly.

Lady Sayers bent her head to Eve’s. “Her cousin, Ash Denison. Viscount Denison, to be precise. He is heir to his grandfather, a cantankerous old Scot who, I believe, lives in a crumbling estate near Inverness. Ash will be a marquess one of these days, and it couldn’t happen to a nicer gentleman. He is immensely popular, but,” she added hastily, “not for the likes of you.” Her eyes twinkled. “He’ll go to any lengths to avoid marriage.”

Eve’s tone was dry. “If he is heir to a marquess, his fate is already sealed. Some pretty little debutante will snap him up. I can’t think why it hasn’t already happened.”

“He has no money—leastways, that’s what we’ve all been led to believe. His grandmother—she’s on his other side, by the way—says that that is an exaggeration, so no one is quite sure what to believe.”

She patted Eve’s arm. “Don’t look so anxious. Did you think he was staring at you? You can put that idea right out of your mind. Mrs. Rivers is more Ash’s style, and doesn’t she know it. Look at her preen.”

Eve looked. The Prima Donna, as Mrs. Rivers was referred to in private, had struck a pose: the Highwayman in woman’s clothing. If she had produced a cheroot and started to smoke it, Eve would not have been surprised. Unlike the other authors, however, Eve enjoyed Mrs. Rivers’s affectations. What she did not enjoy was the lady’s acid tongue.

Lady Sayers was wrong about Ash Denison, though. He’d been staring at
her,
not at Mrs. Rivers. Her highly overrated sixth sense didn’t come into it. Any woman worth her salt would have recognized that comprehensive, thoroughly masculine appraisal. He’d taken inventory of every small detail of her person, from her lace cap to the little half boots on her feet. Not only was she offended but she was also deeply mortified and was wishing that she’d taken Aunt Millicent’s advice and worn one of the new gowns that had arrived from the modiste that morning. By dressing as a frump, she had made herself conspicuous.

Damn and blast the man! He had wounded her vanity.

She sucked in air when she was suddenly overcome by a wave of dizziness. When she could catch her breath, the dizziness gave way to a vague unease, and she looked out on the sea of faces, sensing all was not right. She sensed—she hated to use the word, but in this case, it was the right word—she sensed a malevolent presence. The air seemed to pulse with emotions: fear, hatred, rage, and she recoiled as though she’d been struck. Someone in the audience hated her.

As suddenly as they’d surged, the emotions receded. It took her a moment to come to herself. She wasn’t reading someone’s mind, she assured herself. She was reading their expressions. It seemed to her that there were some disgruntled gentlemen in the audience and they meant to cause trouble.

This had never happened before. They were a group of innocuous writers. What on earth had they done to stir people up?

She looked over at Ash Denison. Once again, she caught him staring at her. She dragged her eyes away and breathed deeply to calm her nerves.

The readings did not last long. Even so, by the time Mrs. Melville came to the end of her piece, some gentlemen in the audience were becoming restive.

Leigh Fleming stepped up to the lectern and said that the authors would be happy to answer questions now.

Before he could sit down again, a masculine voice from the back shouted, “I want to know which one of these ladies is Angelo and how she comes to know so much about my business.”

A murmur went through the audience and gained in volume. The authors at the long table were seen to shake their heads and whisper among themselves.

The same strident voice continued. “His short stories are on the back page of the
Herald
every Tuesday, and I’ve been told, Mr. Fleming, that if anyone knows who he is, it’s you.”

Fleming put up his hands in a placating gesture. “Well, you’ve been told a lie. I don’t publish short stories. Angelo is not one of my authors and has nothing to do with this symposium. If you have a complaint, I suggest you take it up with his publisher at the
Herald.
”

“That’s not good enough!” roared the voice.

Like everyone else, Ash had turned to get a better look at the gentleman with the belligerent voice. It was not Colonel Shearer or anyone Ash recognized. The man looked out of place, like a country squire who had come up to town for the day to bid on the stock at Tattersall’s.

For the first time, Ash noticed some of the other gentlemen who were flanking the country squire. They had the same air about them, belligerent and looking for trouble. Somebody had put them up to this.

Damn and blast Colonel Shearer,
thought Ash. He was almost sure that Shearer was behind it. He was as eager as the colonel to discover Angelo’s identity, but this wasn’t the way to go about it.

When Mr. Country Squire and his cohorts began to stamp their feet, like bulls ready to charge, Ash got up and faced them. He folded his arms across his chest and went eye-to-eye with the ringleader. He didn’t argue; he didn’t ask how or why the man thought Angelo was a female. In an alarmingly even tone, he said, “Mr. Fleming’s answer is good enough for me.” Then he went on easily, “Are there any gentlemen in the audience who agree with me?”