The Pleasure Trap (6 page)

“I don’t think it. But my original point still stands. If someone thinks that one of your writers is Angelo, then they may all be in harm’s way.”

“I don’t understand it!” exclaimed Fleming. “There are other publishers who publish Gothic fiction. Why are my writers being singled out in this way?”

“Because,” said Ash, “Angelo was good enough to mention your symposium at the end of each story, so naturally readers thought he would be there.”

“Maybe he was there, but I know the voice of each of my authors, and I can say categorically that he is not one of them.”

Ash didn’t know enough about writing to argue the point.

He met up with Colonel Shearer later that evening in White’s club in St. James’s. When he left White’s and made for Grillon’s Hotel, Ash had cleared up one point: Shearer had had nothing to do with the hecklers at the symposium. In fact, he’d had to placate the colonel for even suggesting such a thing.

“Conduct unbecoming in a gentleman!” had been Shearer’s opinion of anyone who had tried to disrupt an orderly, lawful assembly. If he’d been there, he would have read the buggers the riot act.

Ash came away with something else. The colonel applied to one of the stewards, who obligingly found a back copy of the
Herald
with the first story that was published. Ash, however, did not recognize the landscape or the characters involved. This story was set inside a stately home where an elderly footman took a tumble down the stairs and broke his neck. There was no clue to indicate the year it had happened.

He kept thinking that he was missing something, something that was in plain view, something that ought to have occurred to him.

What was it? He dwelled on that question for a long time.

His thoughts shifted to Eve Dearing. Before long, his lips were curling in a smile. She was a refreshing change from the docile society ladies who thronged the drawing rooms and ballrooms of London now that the Season was in full swing. If any of them ever had an original thought, he had yet to hear it. His smile lingered when he recalled Miss Dearing’s heated defense of her genre. The men in her stories were accessories, she said.

It made a man want to make her change her mind.

His smile vanished. Now that was a dangerous thought! Eve Dearing was, in the words of her publisher, a respectable lady who lived quietly and uneventfully with her aunt in the small village of Henley. And he never trifled with respectable ladies. That path could well end up at the altar.

Pity.

The smile tugged at the corners of his mouth again. He was safe from Miss Dearing. Everything about her proclaimed her as a confirmed spinster—the way she dressed, the way she spoke her mind, the way she looked directly into a man’s eyes.

And those were lovely eyes, a cool gray when she was in command of the situation and a stormy violet when she was aroused. He’d wager that beneath that cool exterior there were other passions besides temper waiting to be tapped. It made him wonder—

He stopped right there. He was going down that dangerous path again.

Restless now, he looked at his watch. A little excitement, he decided, was all that was needed to banish the provoking image of Eve Dearing.

It was Wednesday evening and Lady Sayers and her bevy of guests were driving home to her place in Kennington after taking in the opera. There were only four of them in her ladyship’s carriage, because Lydia had begged off to visit an old friend in Marylebone. The two older ladies did most of the talking; Eve and Anna listened absently to their chatter as they gazed out the coach windows at the crush of carriages, pedestrians, linkboys, and lackeys that choked the streets.

Their coach moved at a snail’s pace, which suited Eve just fine. She was making mental notes on the passing scene to add color to the book she was writing.

The lamps on every front portico had been lit, as well as the streetlamps, and she had a good view of the comings and goings of late-night revelers. One couple in particular held her interest. The gentleman was leaving the house, though the lady seemed reluctant to let him go. Eve was not naive. This was not a husband taking an affectionate leave of his wife. This woman’s scarlet gown, her unbound hair falling in waves around her shoulders, and her free and easy manners clearly indicated that she was a member of the
demimonde,
that hidden sphere of society that catered to gentlemen of rank and fortune, a sphere that no well-bred lady was supposed to know anything about.

Eve’s eyes danced. A writer had to fall back on her imagination to fill the void. She could hardly appeal to her male relatives to divulge what went on behind closed doors. Her boldness would shock them, and they would only deny that the
demimonde
existed. Stuff and nonsense! She was no shrinking violet. She was a woman of the world, as anyone who had read her books would know.

Their carriage had stopped, and angry voices were raised as coachmen cursed other coachmen for blocking their way. Eve’s gaze was still fixed on the couple standing under the lamp on the top step of the house on the corner of Haymarket and Pall Mall. It was very amusing. The lady was trying to coax the gentleman to go back inside. The gentleman stopped her words with a kiss, a thoroughly passionate kiss as far as Eve could tell, then the gentleman turned on his heel and quickly descended the stairs.

That’s when Eve’s smile froze. He was none other than Ash Denison, the gentleman who had made fun of her books at the symposium; Ash Denison, making a spectacle of himself on a public street! It was too funny for words.

“What’s wrong, Eve? Why do you look so fierce?”

Eve’s frown smoothed out and she answered her aunt’s question with a smile. “I was thinking about Dexter,” she said, dredging up the first thing that came to her mind. “I hope he isn’t pining for me. We’ve been gone a long time, and he’s not used to someone else looking after him.”

She wasn’t sure what she was saying, since she was more intent on keeping her head turned away so that Lord Denison would not see her face. She was also loath to mention his name in case Lady Sayers called him over. The only thing Eve wanted to say to that libertine wasn’t fit for the ears of polite company.

The coach began to move, and the conversation shifted to the performance they had just attended. Eve suppressed every stray thought that led to Ash Denison, no easy task when the opera in question was about the most notorious libertine of his age, Don Giovanni, but she persevered and managed to laugh and make observations in all the right places.

In her dreams that night, Ash Denison would not be suppressed. He was sitting at her escritoire, reading the pages of the novel she was currently writing and making copious notes in the margins. She was there, too, dressed from head to toe in shimmering crimson satin.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

She wasn’t angry. The Eve of her dreams seemed to float on air. She loved the feel of the satin against her skin and the rustle of her skirts as she moved. Her hair was unbound, and she fluffed it out with her fingers.

He continued to make notes. “I’m making suggestions. You don’t have to follow them if you don’t want to.”

She looked over his shoulder and scanned his notes. “You want me to make the villain into the hero of my book?” Her laugh was low and rich.

“He’s not a villain. He’s a rogue.”

“Like you?” she teased.

He looked up at her and his smile slowly died. “Eve?” he said. “You look different.”

She batted her eyelashes. “Do I?”

“You’re beautiful. Ravishing. That red dress suits you to perfection. You should always wear red.”

She did a little pirouette. “Thank you kindly, sir.”

He got up slowly and his hands cupped her shoulders. He looked like a blind man who could suddenly see. “You take my breath away,” he murmured. “There’s more to you than shows on the surface. Let me teach you about pleasure, Eve. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”

He was going to kiss her and she was going to allow it, because this was a dream. She couldn’t be held responsible for what happened in her dreams.

She lifted her head and went on tiptoe. His lips hovered over hers. Anticipation had all her senses humming. Why wouldn’t he kiss her?

“You’re the rogue, Eve,” he said. “Oh, you’re quiet on the outside, but inside you’re a dasher.”

Her brow puckered. “I’ve heard those words before.
You’re dashing on the inside.
I’m dreaming, aren’t I? This is nothing but a dream.”

No sooner were those words out of her mouth than everything that seemed real and substantial was sucked into a swirling mist, and she was left alone.

Chapter Five

The following afternoon, a carriage pulled up outside the doors of Lady Sayers’s house, and Ash helped his grandmother and Amanda to alight. The Manor, as it was called, was set in one of the prettiest districts in London, though strictly speaking it wasn’t in the city. It was on the south side of the river, largely rural, with many market gardens and orchards nearby. Yet Westminster Bridge was only a short drive away.

Amanda shaded her eyes and looked into the horizon. “Is that the new Bedlam?”

Ash nodded. “St. Mary’s of Bethlehem. It’s quite a change from the one they demolished. It was a house of horrors. This is supposed to be a refuge for the insane.”

“I thought,” said Lady Valmede, “that the Manor was close to Vauxhall Gardens?”

“It is, on the other side of the house.”

Amanda suppressed a shudder. “I don’t think I’d like to live close to an asylum for the insane.”

“Nonsense,” said Lady Valmede. “It’s a mile away, and no one ever escapes from Bedlam.”

Ash’s gaze rested reflectively on the building in question, then he turned away as the door opened.

An elderly butler ushered them into a spacious marble hall that was flooded by sunlight from a fine Venetian window on the landing at the top of the stairs. A moment later, Lady Sayers herself appeared. Her gray-brown hair was arranged in loose curls that peeked from beneath a velvet turban.

“Augusta and Lady Amanda,” she said warmly. “Lord Denison. I was on the stairs when I heard your voices. The girls sent me to look for snuff, you see.” She shook her head. “Well, well, what does that matter? You could not have arrived at a better time. Eve is writing about a girl’s first Season, and I can hardly remember what it was like.”

“Eve?” said the dowager.

“Mrs. Barrymore.” Her ladyship laughed. “Eve Dearing when she’s not writing. I know she won’t object to my telling you her real name. We’re all friends here.”

“And she is writing about a girl’s first Season?”

“I know it doesn’t sound very Gothic, but Eve can turn the ordinary into something that is hideously exciting. I’ve told her as much as I can remember, but the more I try to remember, the more I seem to forget. They’re all waiting for me. Shall we join them?”

Her visitors exchanged glances and gave a collective shrug. No doubt all would become clear to them in good time.

Lady Sayers kept up an animated commentary as she led them across the vast marble hall. The decorators, she said, were in the other wing of the house getting the picture gallery ready for her niece’s come-out ball. The masons were outside erecting scaffolding to point the bricks, or whatever one did to bricks, in the same wing of the house, to correct and prevent water damage. They’d promised to get the work done before dear Liza arrived. But who could trust workmen to keep their promises in these free and easy times?

The house was an odd mix of old and new but charming for all that, in Ash’s opinion. What had started as a stolid Tudor manor had been added to and refurbished as tastes changed in succeeding generations. There were always improvements under way at the Manor, always workmen tearing down walls and putting up new ones.

And why not,
thought Ash. As one husband had succeeded the next, Lady Sayers had become immensely rich. She could afford to indulge her tastes.

She led them to the east wing of the house, the neoclassical and most recent addition. From the silk-covered walls, portraits of her four dearly departed husbands stared down on them, imposing figures all, though, according to their widow, charming, lovable rogues in their day.

The room they entered was the music room, as was evident from the grand pianoforte at one end and the golden harp in a window embrasure. Ash took in the scene at a glance. Eve was standing at a table on which was set out an array of fans. The lady sitting at the harp was Mrs. Contini. Her sepulchral appearance was made all the more ghastly, in his opinion, by the rouge Lydia Rivers was applying to her wan cheeks. Another lady, whom he took to be Miss Claverley, was embroidering by an open window.

Lady Sayers let out a warning laugh. “Look, my dears, we have company.”

There was a moment of profound silence, almost a shocked silence. In spite of Lady Sayers’s assurances, their entrance had evidently come at a bad time. Mrs. Contini began to scrub at her cheeks with a handkerchief, Mrs. Rivers fluffed out her skirts and gave Ash a bold smile, and Eve Dearing dropped the fan she was holding and stared at him as though King George himself had come calling.

Ash knew a lot more about Lady Sayers’s guests since his visit to Leigh Fleming, and his gaze touched briefly on each one as Fleming’s words came back to him. Lydia Rivers was desperate for attention; Miss Claverley was fey; Anna Contini preferred animals to people; and Eve Dearing…His gaze lingered.

She lifted her head and their eyes met. For one charged, lightning moment, they stared at each other, then the dowager spoke and the moment passed.

“We met at the symposium,” said the dowager, smiling at each young woman in turn, “and I must say that you made quite an impression on me. Isn’t that so, Amanda?”

Amanda readily agreed that this was so.

Her ladyship went on. “I simply wanted to thank you in person for the many hours of pleasure your books have given me.”

And that, thought Ash, was an example of why his grandmother was popular. She had the knack of putting people at their ease. He corrected himself. It wasn’t a knack. She could always find something good to say about people. A few minutes in her company was as good as a tonic.

Unless you happened to be her grandson. Then she could make you squirm with shame.

Lady Sayers rang the bell for refreshments and bade them all be seated. The conversation turned almost immediately to her niece, Liza.

“My brother’s daughter, you know,” said Lady Sayers. “She should be here any day now. I haven’t seen her in years. She was always an awkward child, but her mother tells me that she has grown into a lovely young lady.” She flashed Eve a warm smile. “Eve and her aunt, Miss Claverley,” she nodded to the middle-aged lady who was embroidering, “have agreed to stay on and keep me company.”

The girl, thought Ash, must be a handful if she needed three chaperons to keep her in check. He wasn’t quite sure that the three ladies who had taken on the task had the least idea of what willful young debutantes could get up to.

“I remember my first Season,” said the dowager. She got up, wandered over to the table where the fans were laid out, and examined each one closely. Ash, meantime, picked up a leather-bound volume that was lying on the table at his elbow. It wasn’t a novel, as he expected, but a notebook. He idly riffled through it. Someone had been making copious notes on the layout of the rooms, the gardens, the duties of servants, and the modes of address for those with titles. He turned back to the first page. It was inscribed
Eve Dearing.
He put the notebook down before Eve was aware of what he was up to.

His grandmother had a fan in her hand, a painted ivory silk that was decorated with mother-of-pearl and white feathers. She gazed at it fondly. “I had a fan like this once,” she said. “It was a wedding present from my husband. If you look closely, you’ll see the bride and groom and their attendants outside the church. These days, young girls use their fans to cool their cheeks. When I was a girl—” She gave a faint laugh. “When I was a girl, we used our fans to flirt with our beaux.”

“Flirt with your beaux?” said Amanda. “With a fan?”

Lady Sayers interjected, “Go on, Augusta. Show these young things how it’s done.”

The dowager did not need a second bidding. She flicked the fan open with her right hand and covered her face so that only her eyes were showing. “That means ‘Follow me,’” she said. In the next instant, she changed the fan to her left hand and twirled it as though she was not aware of what she was doing. “And that means, ‘Careful, we are being watched.’ There is no end to the messages a girl can convey to her lover when she has a fan in her hand, but the one that is indispensable is this.” She snapped the fan shut and tapped it against her left cheek. “That means ‘No.’”

There was a titter of laughter.

“What if the lady wants to say ‘Yes’?” asked Lydia Rivers with a sideways glance at Ash.

“Oh, I think you girls can work that out for yourselves,” the dowager replied.

“Shocking!” declared Amanda, and everyone laughed.

Lady Sayers let out a sigh. “I remember it all as though it were yesterday. The beauty patches we wore, the bonnets, the gentlemen so handsome in their powdered wigs and skintight breeches…”

“And those gowns with their impossible panniers to navigate through doors,” reminisced the dowager in a faraway voice.

“Panniers?” Lady Sayers sat up straighter. “That was before my time, Augusta. My gowns had hoops but not those grotesque panniers my mother wore.”

“Of course. Now I remember, Sally. You were just a babe in arms at my wedding.”

The silence was very mellow. Ash hated to break it, but he had come with a purpose and that was to settle, once and for all, whether one of these writers could possibly be Angelo.

To Eve, he said, “Lady Sayers mentioned that you were setting your next book in town at the height of the Season.”

Eve’s eyes, still mellow from hearing his grandmother’s musings, met his in an unguarded stare. “Yes. The idea has been floating around in my mind for some time.”

The refreshments arrived at that moment, and Mrs. Rivers got up to help their hostess pass out cups of tea. She served Ash last and managed to brush her fingers against his. He gave no sign that he was aware of it.

Ash went on, “That’s quite a departure for you, is it not? You usually set your stories in stately homes and landscaped gardens.”

Eve stirred her tea. “I suppose I wanted to try something new. I hope I haven’t taken on too much. I lead a rather quiet life in Henley.” She smiled faintly. “Country ways are not the same as town ways. There is no such thing as a Season. We have assemblies from time to time and that’s about all, except for meeting friends, going for long walks, and so on.”

Lady Sayers looked hopefully at the dowager. “I’m not much help to Eve. As you know, I never had a Season before I married. I hardly know what gown is proper to wear for which function. I’ve never been a follower of rules myself.”

Amanda said sweetly, “Oh, Ash can help there, can’t you, Ash? Many ladies of rank come to him for advice when they are selecting a new wardrobe.”

Ash sent his cousin a killing look, but he spoke gently. “I’m always happy to oblige a lady.”

“There you are, Eve,” said Amanda. “It’s all settled then.”

Eve would have liked to send Amanda a killing look, as well. She restrained herself and said as pleasantly as she could manage, “Thank you for the offer, Lord Denison, but it’s not necessary. My aunt and I ordered our wardrobes when we first arrived in town, and most of our gowns are already made up.”

Lydia lost no time in entering the conversation. “Is your offer open to one and all, Lord Denison? Because if it is, I would gladly accept it.” She gave Eve an arch smile.

Ash’s lashes lowered to half-mast. “I’d be happy to oblige.”

Lady Sayers clapped her hands. “Oh, that is very generous of you, Lord Denison. Perhaps you’ll do as much for my niece when she arrives in town?”

The conversation moved on, but when the topic turned to books and writers of Gothic fiction, Ash saw the opening he’d been waiting for and seized it. “What about this Angelo fellow who writes for the
Herald
? He leaves his readers hanging. Who or what are the ghosts waiting for? Why doesn’t Angelo finish his stories?”

Lady Sayers shook her head. “It’s no good asking us. We haven’t read his stories. We’ve been too busy preparing for the symposium.”

Ash sat back in his chair. “What, no one has read them?”

Except for Lydia, they shook their heads. She said coyly, “I have, and we’ll just have to wait and see what Angelo does next.”

Anna Contini said, “You’re not Angelo, Lydia. You just like to tease us.”

Miss Claverley was gazing into space. “I don’t think he has finished yet,” she said. “I think there is more to come. I wonder…” Her voice faded.

“Why do you think there is more to come?” Ash asked sharply.

Miss Claverley gazed at him for a moment with unseeing eyes, then her cheeks went pink as she came to herself. “I beg your pardon. My mind wandered. Did you say something, Lord Denison?”

“I asked why you thought that Angelo wasn’t finished yet.”

“I don’t know how I know. It just came to me.”

“Our Miss Claverley,” said Lady Sayers, “is something of a seer. She can read palms, tea leaves, and tell fortunes. Oh, it’s all in good fun, but she can be astonishingly accurate in what she knows about her subjects.” She giggled. “That’s us.”

Ash turned his head and raised his brows. The silent message was meant for Amanda, a joke they could share, but it was Eve Dearing who was in his line of vision. Their eyes met briefly, then she turned her head away.

An afternoon call was supposed to last no more than thirty minutes, but this call had turned into a hen party. Lady Valmede had started something by reminiscing about the old days, and, by general consent, the ladies soon decamped for Lady Sayers’s dressing room to look over the garments she had carefully packed away, cherished mementos of her youth. Ash, meanwhile, was left in the music room to twiddle his thumbs until his grandmother and cousin were ready to leave.