Dance of Seduction Read online

  SABRINA JEFFRIES

  Dance of Seduction

  To my parents, my brothers, and my sister,

  who have all, in your own ways,

  dedicated your lives to making

  the world a better place.

  Clara and I salute you.

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Lady Clara Stanbourne was descended from a long line of…

  Chapter 2

  Vainly trying to smother her distress, Clara vaulted the rest…

  Chapter 3

  Captain Morgan Pryce, known in other circles as the Honorable…

  Chapter 4

  Clara fumbled through the compasses, barometers, pipes, and assorted other…

  Chapter 5

  Morgan wanted to stop, but he couldn’t. Bon Dieu, she…

  Chapter 6

  The children are as restless as I am, Clara thought…

  Chapter 7

  The tap-tapping of the hammer in Morgan’s dream crescendoed to…

  Chapter 8

  Aunt Verity’s dogs were performing precisely as Clara wished. Fiddle…

  Chapter 9

  Morgan cursed under his breath as Clara hurried across the…

  Chapter 10

  Clara had come to the busy Lambeth Street Office before,…

  Chapter 11

  This might very well be a mistake, Clara decided as…

  Chapter 12

  The longer Morgan kissed her, the more Clara yielded. How…

  Chapter 13

  Morgan waited in the library a few minutes after Clara…

  Chapter 14

  Morgan couldn’t believe it—Clara and Ravenswood coming in together from…

  Chapter 15

  Morgan could tell from the way she blinked that he’d…

  Chapter 16

  Clara listened as Morgan related the whole story from start…

  Chapter 17

  Sated and relaxed, Morgan lay beside Clara, one arm about…

  Chapter 18

  Clara slipped into the back room and eased the inner…

  Chapter 19

  Morgan watched her go with a sickening lurch in the…

  Chapter 20

  Three days. Morgan couldn’t believe he and Clara had been…

  Chapter 21

  Morgan knew in an instant what had made Clara so…

  Chapter 22

  Much later that day, long after night had fallen and…

  Chapter 23

  “What do you mean, Clara’s not here?” Morgan demanded of…

  Chapter 24

  Morgan hadn’t known true terror until he stepped into Fitch’s…

  Epilogue

  Clara couldn’t have asked for a more perfect day for…

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Other Romantic Treasures by Sabrina Jeffries

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter 1

  London

  May 1819

  In Books or Work, or healthful Play

  Let my first Years be past,

  That I may give for every Day

  Some good Account at last.

  “Against Idleness and Mischief,” Isaac Watts,

  Divine Songs attempted in Easy Language

  for the Use of Children

  Lady Clara Stanbourne was descended from a long line of reformers and rogues. Her late father’s side had produced Quakers and Whigs whose passion to effect change was surpassed only by their respectable station. Her late mother’s side, the Doggetts, boasted a broad assortment of feckless scoundrels who’d gloried in gambling, delighted in debauchery, and wallowed in wild living. The Doggetts possessed no respectability at all except through their tenuous connection to the Stanbournes through marriage.

  Fortunately for England, the Doggetts had virtually died out. Only Clara’s uncle Cecil, the card cheat, carried on the family tradition of wreaking havoc upon the unsuspecting and the virtuous. But he did it in America now, having fled England eight years earlier, when his cheating had landed him on the wrong end of a very large pistol.

  Thus Lady Clara was surprised when she came downstairs on a bright spring Monday to learn that her uncle’s American solicitor, a Mr. Gaither, had just arrived at Stanbourne Hall from Virginia. She didn’t even know her uncle possessed something so lofty as a solicitor. Yet Samuel, her new footman, insisted that such a creature awaited her in the front parlor.

  With a sigh, she glanced at the clock. “They’re expecting me at the Home any minute. After my being away in the country for two weeks, they’ll worry if I’m late. I suppose you’ll have to send a boy round with a note.”

  “Yes, m’lady,” Samuel said nervously, looking very smart in his new footman’s uniform. Samuel was her most recent success from the Stanbourne Home for the Reformation of Pickpockets. Though he was a bit short for a proper footman, he performed his duties well enough, which was all that mattered.

  An eruption of barking from the front parlor warned that her aunt, Verity Stanbourne, had reached the parlor first. Clara hastened to the doorway, groaning to find her aunt’s three beribboned miniature poodles dancing around the American. Poor Mr. Gaither teetered on rickety legs atop a footstool, crying, “Shoo! Go on, you beasts! Get away!”

  Aunt Verity flapped her hands fruitlessly at the capering, yapping dogs. “Now, Fiddle, you mustn’t—Oh, come away, Faddle! And Foodle, if you don’t stop this—” She cast Mr. Gaither a helpless look. “See how you’ve upset my lassies? They’re all much annoyed, I tell you.” A sharp woof preceded the entrance of an old spaniel bitch. “Lord have mercy, here comes Empress—stay put, Mr. Gaither! If she doesn’t approve of you, she’s liable to bite you!”

  Clara crossed the room and threw herself into the midst of the dogs. “Down, all of you, this minute! No one’s biting anyone.” She glared at the poodles until the barking turned to whimpers and three curly heads drooped in shameless obeisance.

  When Empress kept woofing at poor Mr. Gaither’s feet, Clara added sharply, “That’s enough, Empress,” and the aging spaniel retreated to Aunt Verity’s side.

  Unfortunately, Clara could do nothing about the low growl the dog continued to emit. Empress had taken a distinct dislike to their guest, which boded ill for Mr. Gaither. The dog had an uncanny ability to judge people accurately. Whomever she growled or barked at was eventually shown to possess serious character flaws. Empress was so adept that Aunt Verity used her to sift out good applicants from bad when interviewing new servants. As a result, Stanbourne Hall’s staff was the envy of all Aunt Verity’s friends.

  Judging from Mr. Gaither’s scowl, his character flaw was a hatred of dogs.

  Clara held out her hand to help him down from the stool. “I’m so sorry, sir. I’m Lady Clara Stanbourne, and I see you’ve already met my aunt. Please forgive us for our chaotic ways. I fear we aren’t much used to visitors.”

  “I can see why,” he grumbled as he climbed down. Bestowing glares all round, he brushed at his frock coat to eliminate any remaining essence of canine.

  “It’s your own fault, sir.” Aunt Verity sat down on the settee and arranged her skirts as carefully as any coquette. “You wouldn’t let them sniff you, and they don’t like that.” One of the poodles jumped into her lap, and she clutched him close. “You tried to kick Faddle, and she’s very sensitive about these things.”

  “Sensitive! She’s a blasted dog! And furthermore, I don’t think—”

  “Won’t you sit down, Mr. Gaither?” Clara put in. “Perhaps you’d like some tea?”

  That brought him up short. He glowered at her. “No, madam. I’d just as soon attend to business and be done with this.” F
ixing his gaze on the still growling Empress, who’d plopped down on Aunt Verity’s feet, the solicitor took a seat as far away from the dogs as possible. “Letting beasts run wild…setting them on strangers…I swear, the whole country is mad.”

  Ignoring his complaints, Aunt Verity patted the settee, and Fiddle and Foodle leaped to cram their little bodies into the coveted space next to her. With a sigh, Clara sat on her aunt’s other side. Good Lord, what a day. And it wasn’t even noon yet.

  Still keeping a wary eye on the dogs, Mr. Gaither opened his satchel to rummage through some papers. “I’m here to inform you, my lady, that Cecil Doggett is deceased.”

  He made his statement so baldly that Clara was sure she’d misheard. “What? Uncle Cecil? Are you sure?”

  “Do you think I’d come all this way and endure these…these creatures if I weren’t?” He drew out an official-looking document and handed it to her. “Here is the death certificate.”

  “Oh.” She took it from him, her heart sinking as she scanned the paper. The facts were stated clearly enough.

  A lump lodged in her throat. Uncle Cecil might have been a scoundrel, but she’d always harbored a certain fondness for him. He’d humored her hobby of collecting books for children. He’d never called her interest “frivolous” as Papa had been wont to do, or “nonsense” as Mama had. He’d simply given her what she’d craved—sweet little chapbooks of fairy tales and fables and stories of derring-do.

  She read the certificate through tear-filled eyes. “It…it says here that he died of heart failure.”

  Having regained his composure, Mr. Gaither nodded with grave solemnity.

  “I don’t believe it.” Aunt Verity took the paper from her and looked it over. “How very uncharacteristic of Cecil.” She glanced up at the solicitor. “Are you quite sure it wasn’t poison? Or something equally sinister?”

  Oh dear, as usual Aunt Verity was living up to her name.

  When Mr. Gaither looked taken aback, Clara figured she ought to explain. “The Doggett men are…were…adventurous sorts, you see, and all died badly. My eldest uncle was shot in a duel, and the youngest was hanged in Madrid for forgery.”

  “So death by heart failure isn’t what one expects of a Doggett,” Aunt Verity added.

  “I assure you that if I hadn’t been certain of the circumstances of his death, I wouldn’t have left America to come here,” the solicitor said loftily. “And I certainly wouldn’t be passing on his bequest to her ladyship.”

  Clara regarded him blankly, but Aunt Verity pounced on his comment. “What bequest? The man never had more than two shillings to rub together.”

  “When Mr. Doggett died, he possessed fifteen thousand pounds. He left ten thousand of that fortune to Lady Clara. If she agrees to accept it.”

  Clara’s mouth fell open. “Ten thousand pounds!” She tried to assimilate the astonishing news. This was straight out of a fairy tale by Charles Perrault. And like all fairy tales, it seemed much too good to be true. “Did my uncle happen to say how he came by such a fortune? When he left London, he was nearly penniless.”

  “I was told he won a plantation in a card game. The owner’s brother, a wealthy man, offered him money in lieu of the property, and Mr. Doggett accepted. Said he wouldn’t much like the life of a planter. But alas, he didn’t live long enough to enjoy his newfound fortune.”

  A weight settled onto her chest at the thought of Uncle Cecil dying all alone in a strange country.

  “And…umm…Cecil won the game honestly?” her aunt asked.

  Clara groaned. She hadn’t even thought of that.

  “Of course!” the solicitor exclaimed. “I assure you I would never take part in any illegal endeavor.”

  Clara flashed him a weak smile. If Uncle Cecil’s companions hadn’t caught him cheating at the time, there was no point to explaining his proclivities now. And for all she knew, he hadn’t cheated.

  And pigs flew, too.

  “This is quite sudden,” Clara remarked. “Are you sure Uncle Cecil meant for the money to be left to me? I’m merely his niece. Perhaps you’ve confused me with one of his…er…mistresses or by-blows. I’ve heard tell he had several of both.”

  “Clara!” Aunt Verity clapped her hands over Empress’s floppy ears. “You shouldn’t speak of such matters before Empress. She’s chaste!”

  The dog squirmed to escape Aunt Verity’s hands, clearly eager to drink up every scandalous word.

  Clara shrugged. “Uncle Cecil was always perfectly forthright about his vices, so I don’t see why I should pretend they don’t exist.”

  “Good lack-a-daisy, niece, you’ll shock all of my lassies with such talk. They’re very sensitive about the proprieties.” When the stony-faced solicitor snorted, Aunt Verity glared at him. “Well, they are. They have to be, living in the Stanbourne household as they do. My brother, Clara’s father, was a clergyman, you know. A very fine man.”

  “I beg your pardon,” Mr. Gaither retorted, “but I was given to understand that he was the marquess of Pemberton.”

  Clara gave him a pained look. “He was. Later in life, when he unexpectedly inherited the title. Until then, he was a clergyman. Now, about my uncle’s estate…”

  “Yes, of course. To answer your question, the other five thousand of his fortune is going to his ‘mistresses and by-blows.’ So the ten thousand is most assuredly for you. Unless you wish to refuse it? Mr. Doggett did mention that if you refused it, I was to accept that without murmur.”

  “I suppose you really ought to refuse,” Aunt Verity put in. “Your father was always adamant that your mother not accept any proceeds from your uncles’ ill-gotten—”

  “She means ill-conceived,” Clara broke in. “My uncles’ ill-conceived schemes.”

  “No, dear, that’s not what I meant—” her aunt began.

  “Yes, it was,” Clara said firmly. Perhaps Uncle Cecil had cheated. She would never know for sure and could do nothing about it.

  But she could put ten thousand “ill-gotten” pounds to very good use. Not for herself, of course. Papa had left her a nice annual allowance of a thousand pounds. Between that and Aunt Verity’s portion, there was plenty for them both to live comfortably in Stanbourne Hall all their days. But with ten thousand pounds, only think of the improvements they could make to the Home!

  “So you do want the money, Lady Clara?” the solicitor asked impatiently.

  Ideas already rushed through Clara’s brain. “I do indeed.”

  “Very good, madam.” Mr. Gaither began to explain the process of transferring the funds to her.

  “If you’re taking the money anyway, Clara,” her aunt broke in, “you could put it to good use.”

  “Exactly what I was thinking, Aunt Verity,” she said patiently.

  “You could finally get married!”

  Clara glanced at her, bemused. “What has money got to do with that?”

  “Why, everything, my dear. With eight thousand pounds added to your present dowry, you’d have your pick of the respectable eligible gentlemen. Especially after we use the other two thousand to fix you up.” She paused to pat Clara’s knee. “Not that you aren’t nicely fixed up already, you understand. For myself, I prefer your way of dress. But I’ve noticed that even respectable men like women with…umm…”

  “Expensive clothing?” Clara said archly.

  “No, dear. Elegance. Your wool gowns are all very well for reform, but you need elegance to attract a man. Once you’ve got a husband with your elegance and your fine dowry, then you can go back to dressing as you please. But you have to catch him first. Isn’t that so, Faddle?”

  Faddle barked enthusiastically. Clara rolled her eyes.

  “I hear that the newly widowed Lord Winthrop is looking for a wife,” her aunt went on slyly.

  “Good Lord, not Winthrop again,” Clara said.

  That had certainly been a tempest in a teapot—the stodgy earl had paid some attention to her during her coming out but had retreated when h
is mother had protested Clara’s “sordid” connections. Clara had hoped she was done with him forever when he’d married another woman eight years ago, dashing Aunt Verity’s hopes.

  Then the earl’s poor wife had gone and died on him, leaving him with five children. So clearly Aunt Verity was back to planning the match. “Once we’ve got you properly done up,” her aunt said, “and he hears of your newfound wealth, he’s sure to look your way again.”

  “I don’t want him looking my way again. He was a pompous twit back then, and he’s pompous twit now.”

  “Respectable, God-fearing men sometimes are, dear. But with your responsibilities, that’s the sort of husband you need, don’t you think?”

  Clara scowled, though her aunt was probably right. When Clara married, it should be to a solid citizen who’d approve of her reform activities. The trouble was, Clara couldn’t seem to warm to such men. Perhaps it was her unfortunate Doggett blood, but she found them so…tedious. One day, she’d have to take her medicine and align herself with such a husband, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it just yet.

  Aunt Verity bent down to croon in Empress’s ear. “What do you think, girl? Wouldn’t Clara look lovely in an elegant French gown, with pearls in her hair? Even a high stickler like Winthrop would overlook her mother’s scandalous connections, and—”

  “I shan’t use the money for a dowry,” Clara interrupted with an embarrassed glance at Mr. Gaither before her aunt started going on about reticules and pink bonnets and what all. “I intend to use it for the Home.”

  Her aunt straightened abruptly. “The Home?”

  “With ten thousand pounds, I can expand it enormously.” Excitement built in Clara’s chest. “The children can have a real schoolroom, and we can provide financial incentive for tradesmen to take them on as apprentices. We might even start some little business of our own that the older children could run.”