Proof by Seduction Read online

  If she lied to this man now, would he lift his hand against his wife? He’d done it before as punishment for embarrassment and perceived disloyalty. There was no longer room for lies or half-truths. No mysterious statements could hide Jenny’s perfidy. She just had to tell the truth, and quick, like drawing out an infected tooth. Eventually, she would find a way to win respect without lies.

  Jenny took a deep breath. “I am quitting because I cannot tell the future.”

  He reached up one hand and pulled at his ear. “You mean, that the spirits no longer talk to you.” He glanced at his wife. “Your powers might return?”

  One nod of her head, and Jenny might be an object of pity instead of the target of scorn. But she couldn’t do that to Mrs. Sevin.

  “No,” Jenny whispered, “I mean, that I never had any powers. It was all a—a—fabrication.”

  Her stomach dropped as she spoke. Everything she’d worked for—a position where some people gave her at least a modicum of respect, however ill she deserved it—was vanishing. Even this stomach-turning toad looked down on her now.

  Mr. Sevin nodded slowly. “My wife, of course, never questioned your ability. I should have known better than to trust a woman’s judgment of character.”

  “Oh,” Jenny said, “don’t blame her—”

  “Blame? My dear, I only blame myself.” He steepled his fingers and looked into the distance. “So you are capable of no arcane tricks.”

  She shook her head.

  “You have no unnatural ability to see a man’s deepest secrets?”

  She shook her head again.

  Something like a smile stretched his lips. It was a ghastly expression, containing neither amusement nor satisfaction. Instead, the grimace expanded ghoulishly, until it conquered the last hint of hesitance in his eyes. He licked his lips, and Jenny wondered how deep—and how dark—this man’s secrets ran.

  “Ten years, I’ve stuck my neck out for you at my wife’s request. You know a bank as reputable as ours will not do business with those at your level of wealth. And what if someone had asked me why I allowed you to open an account? What of me, then?”

  “I didn’t think—”

  “It would have meant my position, it would,” Mr. Sevin said. “I have a wife. A child.”

  “But—”

  “It seemed wise not to anger you. My wife said your skills were unnatural—but those fears, like so many female frailties, were chimerical.” His voice was low and clipped. Mr. Sevin glanced furtively across the bank hall to see if anyone else was listening.

  Unfortunately, nobody was. The halls were mostly empty, and the two remaining cashiers on the far side of the room leaned together in conversation. Mrs. Sevin, always quiet, had grown completely still. She studied the floor in contemplation. Jenny reminded herself that she was in the wrong here, and that his response, while cutting, was deserved.

  “I apologize for the inconvenience,” Jenny said. “I do appreciate your efforts on my behalf. And I understand your ire. You have every right—”

  “Every right! You admit it.” He licked his lips and leaned forward. There was a bit of an unholy rabid look about him. Jenny was beginning to understand why crowds burnt witches at the stake. It wasn’t because people feared their power; an actual witch with power worth fearing could evade the fire. It was because once the mobs figured out they had nothing to fear, they needed to punish someone—anyone—for their irrational panic.

  Mr. Sevin had just become a crowd of one.

  “Look here,” Jenny said. “Why don’t I just withdraw my balance? I’ll close the account. We’ll not have to see each other again.”

  Mr. Sevin’s lip curled. He contemplated her and then showed teeth in a distorted smile.

  “What is your balance?” he asked.

  Jenny pulled her passbook from her reticule and handed it over. The clerk took the bound pages. He licked his finger and flipped to the last entry, smearing an inky print on the paper as he scanned the years of careful deposits on Jenny’s part.

  He tore a draft from her book and handed it to her. “I’ll need you to fill this out. Sign here. And here.”

  As she did, he stood up and crossed the room. When he returned, he cradled a thick, brown volume in his hands. Jenny recognized the signature registry from the day she’d opened the account. He set it on the desk and turned pages idly.

  “Tell me,” he said, “is your name really Madame Esmerelda?”

  She was getting tired of answering that question. “No. It’s Jenny Keeble.”

  “Hmm.” He stopped on a page. “Good.” Then he grabbed her passbook and the signed draft, opened a drawer in his desk, and dropped her records inside. Before Jenny could snatch the papers back, he slammed it shut and turned a key.

  “Wait! You can’t do that! Give those back to me!”

  “Give what back to you?” His tone was innocent, but his lip curled with devilish intent.

  “My records! The ones I just gave you!”

  Mr. Sevin shook his head in puzzlement. “You gave me no records. Now, it happens that I have a record in my drawer at this moment. But that doesn’t belong to a Jenny Keeble.” He tapped the page in front of him where her signature—a fraudulent scrawl—lay black and malignant. “It’s connected with Madame Esmerelda’s account. And you are not she.”

  “You! You’d better, or I’ll—I’ll—”

  “You’ll what? You’ll curse me? You’ve admitted you can’t. You’ll call the law on my head? How, when you yourself are attainted with fraud?”

  “I—” She bit her lip in frustration.

  If she kicked up a fuss now, the other cashiers would come to investigate. The evidence of Mr. Sevin’s wrong-doing might not stand up in court, but it would certainly win Jenny the funds she now needed. But Mrs. Sevin still stood behind them both, a silent reminder of Jenny’s own lies. Jenny knew all too well the woman fielded the bulk of her husband’s dissatisfaction with his life. Some of it was physical; most of it sharp, verbal discouragement. Mrs. Sevin’s first question to Jenny had been, “How can I be a better wife?”

  Jenny took a deep breath. She had to pay her landlord soon, but she could come back at a time when Mr. Sevin was not present, on one of his half-days. That way, his wife would not take the brunt of his anger. She could explain the situation—somewhat—to one of the other cashiers who knew her on sight, but didn’t know Madame Esmerelda’s sordid history. It was a short delay, a temporary setback.

  When put that way, Jenny had no choice at all. She owed Mrs. Sevin for her lies, just as she owed Ned.

  Jenny stood up, and Mr. Sevin’s mouth squished in satisfaction, like the smile of some bloated swine.

  She looked past the man to his wife. “I’m sorry,” Jenny said. “Truly. For everything.”

  As Jenny strode to the door, Mrs. Sevin’s pig of a husband waved in farewell. “A pleasure, Miss Keeble,” Mr. Sevin called after her.

  Outside, it had begun to storm. It had wanted only that.

  GARETH ENTERED HIS STUDY, stripping off his gloves as he did so. It was just after noon, and it had already been a long day. Not so long as the night that had culminated in Jenny’s name and her body, but given the stack of papers accumulated at White’s elbow, it promised to be longer yet, without any promise of enjoyment until much later. White glanced up, illuminated by the light of the fire. He nodded, once. It was a friendly nod.

  Tentatively, Gareth returned the gesture. For once, he didn’t feel awkward. Instead, he felt…well, he felt wonderful, to tell the truth.

  He settled in a chair across from his man of business.

  “Before we get started,” White said, “there’s a note from the Duke of Ware that simply cannot be ignored. I took the liberty of inquiring into the matter, and—”

  White halted, his mouth open midsentence.

  Gareth set his gloves on the desk. “Is something wrong?”

  “Well, you must have resolved the matter already.”

  �
�Must I have? Why do you say that?”

  “My lord,” White blurted out, “you’re smiling.” He winced and turned pink, as if he’d realized what he’d implied.

  Gareth touched his own cheek. How unaccountably odd. He hadn’t even noticed. He was smiling. And he didn’t even feel like stopping. He shook his head.

  “Well,” Gareth said. “What’s Ware got to say for himself?”

  “He wants to arrange a meeting—you and he and the young Mr. Carhart. There is a list of points to address.” White rummaged about on his desk and brandished a sheet of paper. Even from across the room, Gareth could see the angry, jagged penmanship, the underscored lines. “First, he’s unwilling to marry his daughter to a man as—ahem, these are his own words—‘as feckless and idiotic’ as your cousin. Then it seems the Lady Kathleen is distraught, as Mr. Edward Carhart has not been to see her yet. A further point…”

  Gareth stood and wandered to the window and looked out. It was raining, and London should have appeared muddy brown and drab gray as it always did in inclement weather. It did not. A spill of oil painted a silvery rainbow across a growing puddle on the street. Orange flowers, festooned with raindrops, bloomed in a box across the way. Despite the mud and clouds, there was more color in London than Gareth had expected.

  “Finally, my lord, he thinks the three of you should dance naked together amongst the daisies as proof of your good intentions.”

  Gareth realized with a start that White had been speaking for some time. He turned around.

  The man was tapping Ware’s note against his lips, considering him. “You aren’t listening.”

  “I’m afraid not.”

  White set the note down and glanced briefly at the stack of correspondence. “Are you going to listen to anything I say this afternoon?”

  Gareth sighed. It was his responsibility to listen to all the complaints in White’s tremendous stack, however minor they were, and resolve them. And the matter of Ned and the duke’s daughter was no minor complaint.

  It was his responsibility to take care of Ned. At the moment, however, it was not his inclination.

  It had never been his inclination. If he’d cared one whit about Ned, he’d never have dealt with him in such a high-handed manner. No; Gareth hadn’t wanted to help Ned.

  He’d wanted to win.

  Jenny had been right. Just because Ned needed to hear a thing, did not mean he needed to have his nose shoved in it.

  Jenny. And what had she meant, saying goodbye this morning? Not farewell and never see thee again, surely. He wasn’t done with her. And he’d bungled his way through his leave-taking. God knows what she thought of him now.

  This was getting rather ridiculous. After sexual relations with her, he was supposed to have been able to put her out of his mind. Instead, thoughts of her tangled him up more than ever.

  Gareth sighed. “Make the appointment with Ware. You have my schedule. And save the note. I’ll go over the details before the meeting.”

  White made a notation.

  “As for the rest of the business…”

  White cleared his throat. “If I may be so bold?”

  A nod.

  “I take it she accepted your apology.”

  Gareth felt that smile creep over his face again. “She? Which she?”

  “The hypothetical she, sir.”

  Gareth steepled his fingers. One night with the very unhypothetical Jenny was obviously insufficient to extinguish her from his mind. It had been enough to tantalize him, no more. After all, she still remained an enigma. Aside from her name, she’d told him almost nothing else. He didn’t know where she was from, how she’d chosen the profession of fortune-teller.

  Maybe if he learned more, he would care less. It didn’t sound rational, and Gareth rather suspected he didn’t want to let go of her. He just wanted to know more about her.

  “White,” he said. “I want you to make some inquiries for me.”

  His man was unperturbed by the meandering nature of the conversation. “Yes, my lord. About Ware?”

  Gareth shook his head guiltily. “No. It’s about a woman. Her name is Jenny Keeble. More than that, I do not know. Find out what you can. Discreetly. As for me…” His gaze fell on the stack of papers. “Make an appointment with Ware. Convey the time to my cousin. I’m going out. I need to make other arrangements.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  NED ADJUSTED the screw on the barrel of the gas lamp, and the room in his mother’s household fell into velvet dimness. Red streaks of afternoon painted dizzying figures through the elms outdoors, as leaves dipped up and down against the wall. The rain had stopped. Not that it mattered.

  He could smell his own unwashed stink, collected against day-old sheets in desperate need of airing. Grime and sticky sweat had accumulated on his body after a full day spent feigning illness.

  Not entirely feigning. Even spread out flat atop his coverlet, the world spun out of his control. He felt dizzy just lying still. And he didn’t need to fib about that nauseated pit in the center of his stomach. He hadn’t felt quite this way—dark and flattened, like some dried-out bladder—since two years before.

  Two years ago, Madame Esmerelda had tricked him into thinking his life was worth living. She’d lied.

  And he had been so desperate to believe her—so rashly convinced there was something of value about himself—that he’d destroyed Lady Kathleen’s reputation just to prove Madame Esmerelda’s predictions were right. If that didn’t demonstrate what a useless blight Ned was, nothing else would.

  He shut his eyes and imagined the view from his second-floor window. A square, a streetlamp. High dormer windows loomed across the way, carved into sloping slate roofs. Lower windows bricked to guard against taxes. A straight road disappeared between the white-walled town houses. If one followed it long enough, it led straight out of London. Straight out of this embarrassment.

  Had Ned bothered to stand up and go to the window, he would have seen the sight for himself. Perhaps he would even have slid the pane of glass aside and rid the room of the subtle stench that had gathered in the close confines of the room over the last day.

  That, however, would have required effort. And Ned’s muscles were as responsive to his commands as water to whips.

  It had been two years since he’d last fought this malaise. If one called “lying in bed and staring at the ceiling” fighting. One afternoon, two years ago, he’d remembered that fortune-teller he’d visited with friends on a lark. He’d struggled out of bed long enough to pay Madame Esmerelda a visit. She had promised him he would one day be a man. She’d told him to live on, that life would improve. It had. He’d begun to believe the drugging debility that curled around his heart like a dragon had disappeared for good.

  But it hadn’t been vanquished. Instead, the beast had only bided its time, waiting to wrest him off balance and out of control.

  He’d known it. His desperation to marry off his cousin had been fueled by the feel of black claws sinking into his soul.

  And Madame Esmerelda’s long-ago promise had been worth less than the air it took her to utter the words.

  Sometime during the hours of the afternoon, between Ned’s brooding fit just at the noon hour and an attack of the sullens at tea-time, his cousin had sent over a note. At seven the next evening, the pleasure of Ned’s company was required—required, not requested—so that the two of them could meet the Duke of Ware and Lady Kathleen. Some solution was to be found to this mess.

  Ned had no doubt what the solution would be. He was going to have to marry her.

  Even if she had been the sort of woman he would have chosen as a wife, the thought of marriage left him cold. Marriage was for men who could be trusted, men who did not collapse every two years in debilitating darkness. Marriage was for men who wanted children, not fools who feared they carried madness in their blood. He’d always believed he would never marry. But it would have been too much to say his spirit quailed at the thought. Quailing t
ook effort; Ned had only the energy to feel an unwelcome pressure against his lungs.

  Ned turned over and thought of that London street leading through the square just outside his window. If he were to get up now and put on clothing, he could set foot on that road.

  He might walk on it, put one foot in front of the other, and then the other. He would disappear into the gloom of the night, never to be seen again.

  Perhaps, he thought with a hint of interest, he would be set upon by thieves and robbers. Maybe he would fight them.

  Maybe he would lose. Such sure and sudden defeat would certainly make his life easier.

  Still, even if he expended all that effort, there was no guarantee he’d be waylaid, and the thought of walking far enough to escape Blakely’s reach made Ned feel very tired indeed.

  Besides, he’d never escape his own clutches, no matter how many miles he put between himself and London. And that was the biggest problem of them all.

  So instead of setting off in search of thieves, he turned over on his side and fell back into a restive sleep.

  “HERE THEN. Where’ll you be wanting this?”

  Jenny, still bedraggled from her walk home through the rain, stared blankly at the man in her doorway. He spoke around a piece of hay in his mouth. He smelled of unwashed laborer and his hair looked as if it had not been combed in upward of a month. Puddles lay around them, but the sun peeked out from behind dismal clouds. A shame; a wash might have done the man good.

  Jenny stared in blank incomprehension out her door. Outside, a cart, pulled by a drooping nag, blocked half the street. Two men were dragging heavy slabs of oak out of the conveyance.

  “Wanting what?”

  The laborer looked at her as if she were daft. “The delivery. What else would we be discussing?”

  “What delivery?”

  “We’re to be bringing in the new and carting away the old.”

  “But I’m not expecting any deliveries. New or old. Especially not a delivery of—of—what is that thing?”

  “It’s a bed, ma’am. And I was told the delivery was urgent by the gent.” He grimaced then, and turned away.