How the Earl Entices Page 6

  She’d struggled to make a safe life for herself and Ethan here, and she hoped to continue to live unnoticed, in peace and security, dead to the rest of the world. Given her past, she didn’t dare ask for more. She wanted only for Ethan to grow into a good man, one who was successful but not so accomplished as to ever move to London, where someone might see his resemblance to David, might put the pieces together and realize—

  Worse, that Ethan might meet his Uncle Vincent.

  “Ethan has to be kept safe.” Even if that meant never sharing his true past with him.

  Alice’s face grew grim. “What would your husband have wanted for his son?”

  That simple question cut Grace to the quick. She’d wondered exactly that nearly every time she looked at Ethan.

  “He would have wanted his son to live,” she answered in a whisper, unable to put voice to that half-lie.

  David would have wanted Ethan to have the life of privilege and status he deserved. That was why she’d gathered whatever evidence she could about Ethan’s conception and birth. Her diary and household records that showed she and David had been together when her baby was conceived, a statement from the midwife who helped Alice deliver Ethan that proved the date and time of his birth, the record of his christening in the parish church in Sea Haven…everything she could to prove that Ethan was David’s son. But the timing had never been right to attempt to reclaim his inheritance. The threat to Ethan had always been too great.

  Not that it mattered. Even if she wanted to pursue justice, what good would it do? She’d spent too many sleepless nights trying to think of any way to claim what they were due, only to come up with nothing. She had no one to help her present a petition, and no way to pay for attorneys even if she did.

  No. Her safest strategy was simply to wait.

  Grimly, Alice picked up a newspaper. “This arrived two days ago. I finally read it this morning.” Her voice was grim. “You need to see this.”

  Her belly knotted as Alice opened the broadsheet and laid it on the counter. Grace scanned it—

  The gossip page?

  She rolled her eyes. That page was home to all kinds of salacious news about the ton’s happenings during the London season. She knew Alice eagerly followed such nonsense, but Grace had lived it once and had no desire whatsoever to relive it, even in newsprint from half a country away.

  Alice tapped her finger on a small bit of news tucked in between all the wedding announcements. Biting back an annoyed sigh, Grace read:

  * * *

  Lockwood struts through Mayfair like a peacock these days, now that his American heiress wife is finally enceinte and sharing her good news with her friends—and more importantly, with her dressmaker. Could this be the long-awaited Lockwood heir?

  * * *

  The earth pitched sickeningly beneath her. She grabbed for the counter to keep from collapsing.

  “Like I said,” Alice whispered, the soft sound reverberating inside Grace’s chest. “You’ve run out of time.”

  Chapter 6

  “You.”

  Ross opened his eyes. Grace had returned.

  And something was wrong.

  She stood in the narrow bedroom doorway, her fingers clasping the doorjamb on either side of her so tightly that even from the bed he could see her fingertips turning white. The oil slicker was open, and rain had soaked her through, leaving her dress wet and her hair lying plastered against her head. Raindrops clung to her cheeks and eyelashes—rather he hoped they were raindrops. From her stricken expression, they might have been tears.

  “Me,” he returned dryly. “You said not to go anywhere, so I made myself at home.”

  For once, his taunting didn’t draw an irritated reaction from her. Which worried him. She continued to stand there, wild-eyed and struggling for breath. Good Lord. Had she run back from the village?

  She panted out, “I know who you are.”

  He kept the surprise from his face. She couldn’t possibly know his true identity. “Because I told you. Christopher Thomas.”

  “You’re Ross Carlisle, Viscount Mooreland.” The certainty with which she said that belied the violent shaking in her limbs. “Christopher is your brother.”

  He froze. That bit of information wouldn’t be on a bill for his arrest. How the devil did she find out?

  She came forward and pulled a pocketknife from her oil slicker. The blade sliced through the rope tying his right wrist. Then she slumped down in the chair, still trying to catch her breath. Her slender shoulders slumped as the rainwater puddled on the floor around her boots, but she kept the knife clasped tightly in her trembling hand.

  Her gaze locked with his. “You and I are going to have a little talk.”

  Despite himself, the corner of his mouth twisted into a wry smile. His situation had suddenly taken an interesting turn.

  However she’d learned of his identity, it wasn’t from news of what he’d done in France. That information couldn’t possibly have reached all the way here so soon, to a tiny fishing village in East Sussex. Not when boats had been safely docked against the storm. No news in or out. He’d counted on that to secure a jump in the race to London that he’d been thrust into.

  Not saying a word, with only the sound of falling rain and her ragged breathing breaking the silence, he reached over and untied his other wrist. He paused to rub the red marks where the slipknots had tightened against his skin, then sat up and untied both feet.

  He swung his legs over the side of the bed to stand up and warned, “Better look away so I can dress.”

  “Not on your life.” Her hand clenched tighter around the knife.

  With a roguish arch of his eyebrow, he pushed himself off the bed. The throw fell away, leaving him standing there naked, daring her to look. But she kept her gaze firmly fixed on his face, despite the soft hitch of her breath.

  He would have laughed if he didn’t suspect that she might very well use that knife on him for it.

  Turning his back to her, he reached for the stack of clothes on the dresser. “Why do you think I’m a peer?” He smiled to himself as he tugged on his trousers. The aggravating woman had mended them for him during the night. “Is it my fashionable attire?”

  “I know you’re a peer, those clothes notwithstanding. It’s clear in every inch of you.”

  Just as he knew that she was no sailor’s widow. Stowing the papers carefully beneath his waistband at the small of his back, he turned to face her, then gestured at the knife. “You can put that down. I won’t hurt you.”

  “So you say.” She kept it pointed at him. “Why did you lie about who you are?”

  “How did you find out?” He snatched up the beef sandwich still sitting on the tea tray that she’d left beside the bed, most likely to torture him while he’d been tied up and unable to reach it. He hungrily sank his teeth into the sandwich and nearly groaned with pleasure. After so many days without food, the taste of it…ambrosia.

  “We met once, a long time ago.”

  He paused in mid-chew, his eyes narrowing on her. Impossible. He would have remembered a woman like her. “Where?”

  “Mayfair. At a masquerade ball.”

  He swallowed down the bite and laughed. “Masks? You’ll have to do better than that if you want me to believe that we—”

  “You had just joined the army,” she interjected calmly, “so you didn’t deign to wear a mask, not for that ball. You wanted everyone to see you in your brand new uniform and shiny black boots. Your father, the Earl of Spalding, was incredibly proud of you for taking a commission, although most peers would have suffered apoplexy if their heirs put themselves in front of Boney the way you’d planned to do”

  A prickle of unease snaked up his spine. No point in denying his identity. But who the hell was she that she’d been at a masquerade? “Lots of balls in Mayfair. You’ll have to be more specific.”

  She shook her head, unwilling to divulge more. “You are Ross Carlisle,” she declared firmly, as if d
aring him to contradict her. “Everyone in Mayfair knows the Carlisles. For heaven’s sake, it isn’t as if any of you try to fade into the background.”

  True, although more so his cousins than he and his brother. The Trent side of the family had certainly rained havoc upon England, while the Spalding side had fought to serve her. And look where it had gotten him. An accused traitor, hiding in some godforsaken fishing village with a lying widow. At knifepoint.

  “While I don’t know what you’ve done to end up here or why anyone would chase you—nor do I care—I do know that if those wounds of yours are any indication of your last run-in with them, they will not hesitate to kill you if they catch you.” Her eyes glowed with a soft intensity in the dim light. “You need my help.”

  Ross reached for the leftover cold tea and raised it slowly to his lips, assessing her over the rim of the cup. Why would she help him? “I told you that I was a criminal. How do you know that I won’t kill you to keep you quiet, now that you’ve untied me?”

  Not at all afraid of him, she replied, “Because the man I knew wasn’t a murderer.”

  More than you know. “Men change.”

  “Not that much. Besides, if you wanted to harm me, you would have done so last night when you forced your way inside.” She folded up the knife and tossed it onto the bed beside him. “You’re not that kind of man. But you are wealthy and powerful with influential connections in Parliament. Most likely at court, too.”

  Not anymore. “If I’m all that, why would I need your help?”

  “Because you’re famished, covered in wounds, and two hundred miles from London without a farthing on you. Believe me, I know, because I’ve seen all of you.”

  He grimaced at the reminder that she’d stripped him bare. And sadly, while he wasn’t awake to enjoy it.

  “You have no way to hire coach nor horse, and if you felt desperate enough to force your way into my cottage last night in order to hide from whoever is chasing you, then simply walking on the roads puts you in danger of being recognized. Or arrested for vagrancy, once you’re seen wearing those filthy clothes.” She squared her slender shoulders with the resolve of a man walking to the gallows—one with nothing to lose. “If I could recognize you, despite ten years and all that beard, then the men who want you dead would certainly have no trouble.”

  Damn her, she was right. “How could you help me with any of that? Feeling charitable enough to purchase me a seat on the mail coach, are you?”

  She shook her head. “They’ll be watching the stage routes. Go as you are, and you’ll be spotted before you reach the first inn.” She said that with a well-practiced assurance, as if she’d known when she’d burst through the cottage door what she would propose. “You need money from me to hire a post-chaise, and you need me to come with you in order to disguise you. They won’t be looking for a couple traveling together.”

  He laughed at that, nearly choking on the last bite of the beef.

  But she wasn’t laughing, and her eyes lacked that teasing glint he’d come to appreciate. Good God—

  “You’re serious.” His laughter died when she didn’t contradict him. “And utterly mad.”

  She ignored that. “Once we’re in London, you’ll repay me in kind.”

  A knowing smile tugged at his lips. “Extortion, is it?”

  “Extortion, blackmail…call it whatever you’d like.” She shrugged, her gaze never leaving his. “But you’ll agree to it, or I will let you rot right here, trapped in Sea Haven until those men who attacked you arrive to finish the job.”

  Well. She certainly had spine. He would have admired her for it, if her offer to help him weren’t so ludicrous.

  Or tempting.

  He took another sip of tea. “So you want money.”

  “Yes.”

  A pang of disappointment pierced him that she should prove so predictable.

  “But not yours.”

  He froze, the cup halfway to his lips. Not so predictable after all. “Whose?”

  “My late husband’s.”

  “An inheritance?”

  “The birthright that my son was denied.”

  He narrowed his eyes on her. “Whose?”

  “You don’t need to know that. Not until we reach London. Then, once you’re safely back in Spalding House or Albany or wherever you’re living these days and back into your own clothes,” she muttered, her eyes trailing critically over him, “you’ll help me hire whatever solicitors I need to file suit in the courts and put up your word to vouch for my good character.”

  “Of the woman who tied me up and blackmailed me,” he drawled, deadpan. “Of course.”

  She ignored that but hesitated before adding, “My husband was a gentleman. The inheritance is quite substantial. You’ll be compensated for your trouble.”

  Good God. A gentleman? That explained her presence at a Mayfair ball. But it didn’t begin to explain everything. “So you’re really…?”

  “Mrs. Grace Alden.” She stood and folded her arms across her chest, refusing to reveal her true identity. Frustratingly, he still couldn’t place her in his memory. “I’ll tell you more when we’re safely in London and you’re in a position to help.”

  He might never be in that position. Certainly if he didn’t arrive at St James’s Palace soon. Yet the only way to safely travel was exactly what she’d offered—moving quickly under disguise.

  He set the empty teacup down and scoured his hand over his face, feeling the prickly bristle of three days’ worth of beard. “You’re putting your life in danger. It’s a long way to London, and if we’re caught together—”

  “I’m willing to risk it. Are you?”

  Did he have any other choice? The only thing now standing between him and the gallows was a woman with the audacity of Napoleon. One who possessed deep secrets of her own and apparently had nothing to lose. His life now rested in her delicate hands.

  “I cannot promise you any kind of success,” he warned. “I’m not in a very authoritative position these days to make requests of the courts.” Or of anyone, for that matter.

  “I’ll take that chance.”

  He drawled, “You’re making a deal with the devil.”

  Her face hardened with a world-weariness that startled him. “When the angels turn their backs on you, the devil is all that’s left.”

  But she didn’t know the devil he’d become. How could she, when he barely recognized himself?

  He took a slow step toward her. She stood her ground, her only reaction a slight lifting of her chin as he approached in order to keep eye contact with him. She had courage, but his army days had taught him that there was a fine line between bravery and foolhardiness.

  He stopped in front of her, his hands falling to his sides as he towered over her, to emphasize their difference in physical size. “Aren’t you afraid of me?”

  “No.” She reached out and jabbed a single finger into his bruised side.

  Excruciating pain shot through him. He doubled over in agony and pressed his hand against his ribs.

  “Point taken,” he forced out as he reached for the dresser to steady himself and panted down the pain. Christ. If the French didn’t kill him, this woman just might.

  “Remember that,” she cautioned. “I’m not some helpless society lady.”

  Certainly not. He muttered as he straightened, “But you’re a natural at blackmail.”

  With a wry smile, she stepped past him to collect the tray from the bedside table. “Then you shouldn’t have picked my cottage to force—”

  Without warning, he grabbed her around the waist and tossed her onto the bed. He knocked away the little knife, then covered her with his heavy body to hold her trapped beneath him.

  He pinned her arms over her head and smiled. “And you shouldn’t have untied me.”

  Chapter 7

  “Let go of me!” Grace couldn’t pull her arms and legs free, able to do little more than wiggle. Last night she’d wondered what it would f
eel like to lie beneath him, his weight pressing down upon her— Oh, fate was surely laughing at her! “I agreed to help you!”

  “You blackmailed me.” His face hovered so close to hers as he leaned over her that his breath tickled her lips. “Why?”

  “I told you.” She stilled beneath him. There was no point in struggling. She wouldn’t be released until he was ready, blast him!

  “You’ve told me practically nothing. And most of that was lies.”

  “Because I cannot tell you the truth.” Not yet. She couldn’t risk that Ross might discover who she was and refuse to help. Or worse, somehow alert Vincent to Ethan’s existence. “And you certainly haven’t told me the truth.”

  He smiled, his sensuous lips pulling into a dark grin. “This isn’t about me. I’ve got the upper hand now.” His eyes stared into hers so deeply that she could see flecks of indigo in their sapphire depths. “Unless you want me to tie you up, you’d best start giving explanations, Mrs. Alden. Starting with the real name of your husband.”

  “He was a gentleman,” she repeated. “He died, and I was forced out of my home and our son out of his inheritance by my brother-in-law. That’s all you need to know for now.”

  He laughed. The deep sound rumbled from his hard chest into hers, tingling through her from head to toes. “Not even close.”

  Ironic. She couldn’t be any closer if she tried. Not with his bare chest pressing down against her breasts beneath her damp dress, his heavy leg tossed over both of hers.

  “Tell me his name.”

  “No.” She’d go to her grave keeping that secret if she had to, because revealing it might very well mean putting Ethan into his.