To Seduce a Sinner (11 page)

“Nothing. Thank you.” She tucked the comforter under her nose.

“Good. Well, then—”

“Actually—”

Her words collided with his. He stopped and looked at her, then gracefully waved a large-knuckled hand for her to speak.

Melisande cleared her throat. “Actually, could you let Mouse out again?”

“Yes, of course.” He strode to the dressing room door and cracked it open.

Mouse immediately da>

Lord Vale arched an eyebrow at Melisande. “Your pardon, but it’s best if we work this out now.”

Once again he moved with startling speed, but this time he reached out and closed his hand about the dog’s muzzle. Mouse must’ve been surprised as well, for he squeaked.

Melisande opened her mouth in instinctive protest, but Vale shot her a glance, and she closed it again. It was his house, and he was her husband, after all.

Still holding Mouse’s muzzle, Lord Vale leaned down and looked the dog in the eye.
“No.”

Man and dog stared a moment more, and man gave the dog a firm shake. Then he released him. Mouse sat down against Melisande and licked his muzzle.

Lord Vale’s gaze returned to her. “Good night.”

“Good night,” she murmured.

And he left the room.

Mouse came and pressed his nose against her cheek.

She stroked his head. “Well, you really did deserve that, you know.”

Mouse exhaled gustily and then pawed the edge of the coverlet. She held it up so he could creep beneath and resume his place against her back.

Then she closed her eyes.
Men.
How was it possible that Vale had had a parade of paramours in the last several years and still didn’t seem to know what to do with his own wife? Even insulated as she was by society, she’d heard whispers each time he’d taken a new mistress or formed a liaison. Each time it was like a tiny bit of glass pressed into the softness of her heart, grinding, grinding, oh so silently, until she no longer noticed when she bled. And now she had him—finally had him—all to herself, and it turned out that he had the sensitivity of . . . an
ox.

Melisande turned and thumped her pillow, causing Mouse to grumble as he resettled himself. Oh, this was a great cosmic joke! To have the man of her dreams and find he was made of lead. But he couldn’t be a universally bad lover and have the reputation he had with the ladies of the
ton.
Some of them had stayed with him for months, and most were sophisticated creatures, the type who could have their pick of paramours. The type who had dozens of men.

She stilled at the thought. Her husband was used to experienced lovers. Perhaps he simply did not know what to do with a wife. Or—terrible thought!—perhaps he intended to keep his passion for a mistress and use his wife merely to mother his children. In that case, he might feel that there was no need to expend extra energy in seeing that she enjoyed the marriage bed.

Melisande scowled into the darkness of her lonely room. If they continued on their present course, she would have a loveless
and
sexless marriage. The love she could do without—
had
to do without, if she were to maintain her sanity. She no more wanted Valen ae wante to find out her true feelings for him than she wanted to jump from the roof of a building. But that didn’t mean she had to do without passion as well. If she was very careful, she might seduce her husband into a satisfying marriage bed without him ever discovering her pathetic love for him.

EVERY TIME HE
looked at Matthew Horn, he felt guilt, Jasper reflected the next afternoon. They were riding side by side in Hyde Park. Jasper thought of his thin pallet and wondered if Matthew had a secret badge of shame as well. They all seemed to, in one way or another, the ones who had survived. He patted Belle’s neck and pushed the thought aside. Those demons were for the night.

“I forgot to offer felicitations on your marriage the other morning,” Horn said. “I had thought not to see the day.”

“You and many others,” Jasper replied.

Melisande had still not risen when he’d left the house, and he supposed his wife might spend the day abed. He wasn’t very well versed in these feminine matters; he’d known many women, but the subject had not arisen when the ladies in question had been paramours. This marriage business took more work than it first appeared.

“Did you tie a blindfold around the poor lady’s eyes to get her to the altar?” Horn asked.

“She came most willingly, I’ll have you know.” Jasper glanced at the other man. “She wanted a small wedding; otherwise, you would’ve been invited.”

Horn grinned. “Quite all right. Weddings tend to be dull affairs for all but the principals. No offense meant.”

Jasper inclined his head. “None taken.”

They guided their horses around a stopped carriage. A scrawny fellow was sitting, scratching his head under his wig as his female companion leaned down to gossip with two lady pedestrians. He and Horn doffed their hats as they passed. The gentleman nodded absently; the ladies curtsied and then bent their heads together to whisper furiously.

“Have you any aspirations in that direction yourself?” Jasper asked.

Horn turned to look a question at him.

Jasper nodded to the various knots of vibrant colors that marked the presence of the female sex in the park. “Marriage?”

Horn grinned. “Thus it begins.”

“What?”

“Every newly married man must needs lure his fellows into the trap.”

Jasper arched an eyebrow repressively.

Not that it did any good. Horn shook his head. “Next you’ll be introducing me to a whey-faced creature with a squint and informing me how vastly improved my lot will be once I tie myself to her forever.”

“Actually,” Jasper murmured, “I do have a maiden cousin. She’s nearing her fourth decade, but her estate is quite large and of course her connections good.”

Horn turned a face full of mute horror.

Jasper grinned.

“Oh, mock me if you will, but I had a very similar offer just last month.” Horn shuddered.

“Is this unnatural aversion to the fairer sex your reason for spending so much time on the continent?”

“No, indeed.” Horn bowed to a carriage of elderly ladies. “I traveled Italy and Greece to view the ruins and collect statuary.”

Jasper raised his eyebrows. “I had not realized you were a connoisseur of art.”

Horn shrugged.

Jasper looked ahead. They’d nearly reached the far end of the park. “Did you find Nate Growe?”

“No.” Horn shook his head. “When I went to the coffeehouse I thought I’d seen him at, they had no knowledge of him. It may not even have been Growe in the first place. It was months ago now. I’m sorry, Vale.”

“Don’t be. You tried.”

“Who does that leave us with?”

“Not many. There were eight captured: You, me, Alistair Munroe, Maddock, Sergeant Coleman, John Cooper, and Growe.” Jasper frowned. “Who am I missing?”

“Captain St. Aubyn.”

Jasper swallowed, remembering Reynaud’s sharp black eyes and sudden wide grin. “Of course. Captain St. Aubyn. Cooper was killed on the march. Coleman died from what the Indians did to him when we made the camp, as did St. Aubyn, and Maddock died in the camp as well,
from his battle wounds festering. Who does that leave alive?”

“You, me, Munroe, and Growe,” Horn said. “That’s it. We’ve hit a dead end. Munroe won’t talk to you, and Growe has disappeared.”

“Hell.” Jasper stared at the dirt track, trying to think. There had to be something he’d missed.

Horn sighed. “You said yourself that Thornton was probably lying. I think you have to give it up, Vale.”

“I can’t.”

He had to find out the truth—who had betrayed them and how. There’d been too many men lost,
his
men, at Spinner’s Falls for it all to be simply forgotten. He could never forget, God knew. He glanced around. People strolled and rode and gossiped. What did these gentle people in their silks and velvets, their slow paces, their elegant bows and curtsies know about a forest half a world away? A place where the trees blocked out the light and the silence of the forest swallowed the panting of terrified men? Sometimes, late at night, he wondered if the whole thing had been a nightmarish fever dream, a vision he’d had many years ago that he was unable to escape even now. Had he really seen his regiment slaughtered, his men killed like cattle, his commanding officer pulled from his horse and nearly beheaded? Had Reynaud St. Aubyn really been stripped and crucified? Tied to a stake and set alight? Sometimes at night, the dreams and the reality seemed to merge so that he couldn’t tell what was real and what was false.

“Vale—”dis—”

“You said yourself that it was the officers who knew our route,” Jasper said.

Horn looked at him patiently. “Yes?”

“So, let us concentrate on the officers.”

“They’re all dead, save me and you.”

“Perhaps if we talked to their survivors—friends or relatives. Perhaps something was mentioned in a letter.”

Horn was looking at him with something close to pity. “Sergeant Coleman was near to illiterate. I doubt he wrote any letters home.”

“Then what about Maddock?”

Horn heaved a sigh. “I don’t know. His brother is Lord Hasselthorpe, so—”

Jasper’s head whipped around. “What?”

“Lord Hasselthorpe,” Horn said slowly. “Didn’t you know?”

“No.” Jasper shook his head. He’d been a guest of Hasselthorpe just last fall and had never known the man was related to Maddock. “I must talk to him.”

“I don’t see how he’ll know anything,” Horn said. “Hasselthorpe was in the Colonies as well, or so I’ve heard, but he was in an entirely different regiment.”

“Even so. I must try and talk to him.”

“Very well.” They’d come to the end of the track and the entrance to Hyde Park, and Horn pulled his horse to a halt. He looked worriedly at Jasper. “Good luck, Vale. Let me know if there is anything I can do.”

Jasper nodded and shook hands with Horn before they parted. The mare shifted beneath him and mouthed her bit as he watched Horn ride off. Jasper turned her head toward his town house, trying to dispel the awful images still in his mind’s eye. Maybe Melisande would be up by now, and he could sit with her a while and spar. Bantering with his new wife was proving to be a surprisingly entertaining sport.

But when he entered his home and inquired of Oaks, he was informed that his wife had gone out. Jasper nodded to the butler and gave him his tricorne before mounting the stairs to the upper story.

Strange. She’d only lived here less than a week, and already her presence was imprinted on the house. She hadn’t redecorated the rooms or replaced all the servants, but she’d made the house hers nevertheless. It was in the little things. The elusive scent of her Neroli perfume in the small sitting room, the fire that was always laid there, the thread of yellow silk he’d found on the carpet the other day. It was almost like living with a ghost. He reached the upper hall and turned toward his rooms but hesitated as he passed her door. His fingers touched the doorknob, and then he was inside her rooms before he could rethink the impulse.

The room was so neat it might not’ve been inhabited at all. The hangings were freshly washed, of course, in preparation for a new viscountess. She had the same tall, dark wood wardrobe his mother had used, a dressing table and chair, and several low chairs by the fireplace. For the first time, it occurred to him that she’d not brought anyeadt broug of her own furniture when she’d come to live here.

He wandered to the wardrobe and opened it, seeing rows and rows of dull-colored dresses. Her bed was neatly made, no lace pillow or sachet to give it her own touch. The bedside table held only a candlestick, no pins or a book she might read late at night. He crossed to the dressing table. A gilt and mother-of-pearl brush lay on the surface. He ran his fingers through the bristles but couldn’t find any hairs. She had a small china dish to hold her hairpins and next to it, a pretty ivory box. Inside was her jewelry—a few pins, a string of pearls, and the garnet earrings he’d given her. He closed the box. There was a single drawer in the dressing table, which he pulled open but found only ribbons and lace and more pins. He shut it gently and looked around the room. She must have something of her own, some possession that had special value to her.

If she did, she kept it well hidden. He crossed to the chest of drawers and pulled out the top, finding linens neatly folded. The scent of oranges rose as he fingered them. The next drawer held the same, and the third as well, but underneath the linens in the bottom drawer he finally found something. He sat on his heels to examine it: an old tin snuffbox, no bigger than the length of his thumb. He turned it over in his palm. Where had she gotten such a thing? Surely her father and brothers, if they took snuff, owned much fancier boxes?

He pulled back the little hinged lid. Inside was a silver button, a tiny china dog, and a pressed violet. He stared at the button, then picked it up. It must be his own—the monogrammed
V
proclaimed it, but he didn’t remember losing it. He placed it back in the little tin box. He hadn’t a clue what it or the other items signified to her, why she saved them, if they even were important to her or perhaps only placed there on a whim. She was right: he didn’t know her, his wife.