Anne Barbour (14 page)

Seth found that his hands were perspiring. He felt lightheaded. Somehow, he had been able to salve his conscience at the idea of saddling young Zoë with his brother. The flighty young miss assuredly deserved better, but he had no doubt of Zoë's ability to reconcile herself to her circumstances in exchange for the position she craved. Eden was another matter. No, he
could
not subject this eminently likable young woman to a life of bondage to Bel's careless cruelty. He would have to make Father understand.

"I tell you, Seth, the more I think about it, the more I'm convinced that Miss Beckett's the gel we're after." The duke smiled thinly. "What I think you should do now is see a bit more of her—just to make sure our first assessment of her character is correct. While you're at it, you might make her aware of all the advantages of a union with Bel. There are quite a few, you know," he added reflectively, "particularly to one who craves only solitude and a comfortable life. Then, after a judicious interval, you can begin negotiations with Lord Beckett. When you've won him over, which shouldn't take more than five minutes by the look of things, we can hope that Miss Beckett will fall into line."

"Fall into line?" Seth spoke through a lump the size of Dorset that had settled in his throat. No! He could not do this. Eden must not marry Bel. The thought of Bel's hands on her, the demeaning insults—and worse—to which she would be subjected when Bel fell into one of his frequent rages, the abandonment through no fault of her own ... He felt physically ill.

Seth looked at his father, absorbing the expression of relief that had replaced the strain so evident there in the past weeks. To his utter dismay, he also perceived determination in the duke's eyes. Seth went cold with the realization that the duke's wish in this matter would not be swayed lightly. Once the old man's desires had taken root, he would brook no opposition. Not that he wished to oppose his father in his desire to see Bel safely buckled. And, of course, there was no doubt that Eden would be the perfect wife for the marquess. Her affections, he believed, were not engaged with any other man of her acquaintance. Nor would she be likely to form a
tendre
for Bel, (and that was all to the good), for she did not seem the type to be taken in by his blandishments—even if he put himself to the trouble to trot them out for her. She could be content at Broadbent, Bel's far-flung estate, he felt sure, filling the place with books and her art work, and cultivating her roses.

Something, which he did not wish to examine closely, churned unpleasantly within him at the thought of Eden wed to his brother—or to anyone else, for that matter, but... His gaze turned again to the duke, who was watching him expectantly. It was obvious His Grace wanted this union very badly, and what the duke desired, of course...

Seth swallowed. "Yes, Father," he whispered through stiff lips.

"Very good, my boy." The duke frowned. "Spend some time with the gel, and we'll talk again, say, next week. I don't want to rush things, of course, but, as I believe I've said, it is essential that we get Bel safely leg-shackled, with an heir on the way, before he gets into some really serious difficulty."

He declined to specify what form that difficulty might take, but from his troubled expression, it was obvious that he still feared Bel's future iniquities might well cost him his life.

"I shall begin tomorrow. Father," said Seth in a colorless tone.

The duke then went on to chat inconsequentially about the success of his party. Seth found himself unable to contribute to the conversation and excused himself after a few moments. Making his way to his chambers, he moved in a fog of depression. The cloud grew heavier as he prepared for bed, assuming an almost physical weight that seemed to press in on him until he felt as though it were crushing him.

Once in bed, he stared sightlessly into the canopy overhead. Good God, what had he become? Was he so conditioned to pandering to the duke's needs that he could suppress the voice of his conscience without a second thought? Could he do this? he wondered.
How
could he do this? And why was it that, while he had had no difficulty in designating Zoë as the sacrificial lamb in his father's plans, it was almost more than he could bear to cast Eden in the same role? Was it simply because he knew of Zoë's relentless absorption in her own desires? Her driving ambition to marry a high-ranking peer and cut a dash in the
beau monde?
Did that make her deserving of a lifetime of misery with someone like the Marquess of Belhaven? Probably not, but the thing was, he told himself once again, that even were Zoë fully apprised of what she would be getting into, there was little doubt in Seth's mind that she would be willing to put up with almost any unpleasantness in order to gain the fulfillment of those desires.

Eden was as different from Zoë as night from day. She was an extraordinary young woman with an extraordinary talent. She might be willing to live in virtual isolation, might even thrive under such conditions, but no one deserved the emotional—and possible physical—abuse that would come from marriage with Bel. Of course, Seth would do his best to prevent Bel from harming his wife, no matter if it was Zoë or Eden, but he could not be on hand for every minute of their wedded life— particularly if Bel removed his bride to a distant estate.

Good God, he thought, self-contempt snaking through him, what was he doing in the midst of these machinations? Was he nothing but a toady, entrapping innocent young women for his father's purposes? He owed everything that he had become to the Duke of Derwent, but he had realized long ago that the duke regarded him as little more than a minor adjunct to his family. It had taken longer for Seth's blind boyhood love for the duke to wither, to be replaced by a mild, contemptuous affection. The strength of the vow remained, but was the task he had been set too much for any man of principles to attempt?

Seth had discovered early in himself a talent for the management of the Derwent interests. The duke's holdings had thrived under his care. In addition, he had carved a good life for himself. Careful investments on his own behalf with funds bequeathed to him by one of the duke's brothers had provided him with a more than comfortable independence. This was not the first time it had become necessary to implement an undertaking that was, perhaps, somewhat less than pure, but he had never been asked to compromise his standards so thoroughly. Could he now meet his first real test of what he perceived as his responsibility to the duke?

Of course, he would. For all these years, he'd done whatever it took to make the duke happy. Was this not his sworn duty?

These and similar reflections kept Seth awake for most of the night. However, despite having fallen into a restless sleep only as the clock struck five, he awoke just before seven. Groaning, he rose and, declining to ring for his valet, dressed in breeches and a comfortable coat. He stopped in the kitchen for a cup of coffee and a slice of bread before walking to the stable. In a few moments, he was mounted and clattering from Grosvenor Square into South Audley Street. From thence he turned into Curzon Street toward Green Park.

On this early April morning the park was still covered in patches of mist, slashed by slanting early rays of sunlight. No one was abroad, except for a few milkmaids come to tend the small herd of cows that ranged there. These ladies had just begun milking the cows for later dispensing of the milk at a nominal fee to strollers in the park.

Unheeding, Seth trotted toward the bridle path that ran from the basin to the Rangers' Lodge. When he had reached its head, he loosed the horse for a straight-out gallop, slowing only as he again reached the cows. Careful not to disturb these beasts, nor the young women engaged in their milking, he proceeded toward the west end of the park, only to be brought up short by the sight of a slight figure seated upon a bench nearby. She held a sketchbook in her lap and was apparently occupied in drawing the maids and their charges. Staring hard for a moment, Seth walked his horse toward the woman. She looked up at his approach.

"Mr. Lindow!" she exclaimed, seeming oddly flustered.

"You are out and about early. Miss Beckett." He dismounted and tied the reins lightly to a tree where the mare, Hyacinth, already stood tethered, in the care of a groom.

"It seems that I am no more able to lie abed of a morning in town than I am in the country," Eden said with a laugh.

"And, of course," added Seth gravely, "you were obliged to exercise Hyacinth."

"Indeed." Eden's eyes twinkled. "It is fortunate you did not come upon me a few minutes earlier, for I must admit to you that I let her have her head and enjoyed a glorious gallop, nearly stampeding the cows—of whose existence, I might say, I was heretofore unaware. They really ought to issue bulletins for strangers to Town to tell them of these things."

"But you are not a stranger. You have visited London before, for extended periods of time, have you not?"

"Yes, but it is only recently that I have asserted my independence so far as to ride out in the morning with only my groom for company. Before, I must needs wait for Zoë to rouse herself, and then we would only go to Hyde Park. I must tell you, I feel myself quite the pioneer, venturing into uncharted territory."

"And I must say to you, that pioneering agrees with you, for you are looking very fetching today. Miss Beckett."

Seth was surprised at the blush that spread from her cheeks down to the vee of her neck, where it disappeared into the collar of her riding habit. Was she so unaccustomed to receiving compliments? If she could just manage to stay out of the vicinity of her sister's showy beauty, she'd surely get more of them, for this morning she looked lovely.
Her riding habit was conservative, but its tailored elegance suited her, outlining her supple curves. The polished mahogany of her hair peeped in an enchanting swirl from beneath a saucy hat whose wisp of a feather matched her habit. Her silken lashes swept over classically carved cheeks, still delicately flushed. The wings of her brows curved upward as she laughed, and Seth thought her altogether enchanting.

A sudden constriction in his throat made it difficult for him to speak, and he glanced instead at her sketchbook.

Following his gaze, Eden smiled. "Behold the milkmaids of Green Park."

Seth's brows lifted. The young women were accurately caught in their activity, but they were garbed in clothing that might have come from the previous century.

"I kept thinking of the Petit Trianon," she explained. "I could just see Marie Antoinette on
her faux
dairy farm, her ladies-in-waiting gathered about her, carrying shepherd's crooks and miniature yokes. I'm afraid I allowed myself to be carried away by the absurdity of it all."

Seth examined the sketch, his lips quirked in appreciation of the ladies' exaggerated posturing and the towering wigs with which each had been adorned. Eden laughed again, and tore the paper from its pad.

"Have you set up a studio in your aunt's town house?" asked Seth.

"Of a sort. I've commandeered a small room in the garret, amidst the maids' quarters. I believe they think I'm quite mad, but the light is good there, and I am content."

Seth mused angrily for a moment on Eden's family, who forced her to such measures in order that she might pursue the one thing in her life that seemed to give her true happiness.

Eden rose. "I believe I must return home. I did not leave word that I was leaving the house, and if Mama comes down to find me gone, she will be sure I have been abducted and sold into slavery." She moved toward Hyacinth and slipped the sketch pad into a saddlebag.

Accepting Seth's cupped hands, she swung into the saddle. Seth followed suit, and a moment later, the two, with Eden's groom following at a respectful distance, formed a sedate procession from the park. Emerging into Piccadilly, Seth urged both their mounts to the left in order to detour around a group of roisterers returning to their abodes after a night of carousing. They had progressed only a few paces toward Half Moon Street when Seth, to his consternation, heard his name called in slurred accents.

"Oy! Saint Seth! Aincher goin' to bid your favorite brother good mornin'?"

Seth suppressed a sinking in the pit of his stomach as he turned to face Bel.

Chapter Eleven

There were five of them, on foot. They were evidently returning from one of the unsavory sluiceries located just past Tattersall's near Hyde Park Corner. Three were relatively sober, apparently just entering into the throes of morning-after distress. The other two, including Bel, were still very much under the influence of their potations. The clothing of all was stained and disheveled.

Bel rocked back on his heels.

"I don' s'pose," he drawled, "that you, too, are returning home after a night on the tiles, brother mine, with this tasty dish in tow." He waved an unsteady arm at Eden.

Eden, under his unfocused leer, instinctively shrank closer to Seth. She felt unclean beneath that lickerish scrutiny.

As though relishing her distaste, Bel approached, leaving his companions murmuring among themselves on the pavement.

"Bel," said Seth, in a low, warning voice.

"Ah, staked out a claim, have you, Seth?" Blinking as though to clear his vision, he peered up at her. "Bu' wait, ain' I seen you before, my chick?"

Before Seth could speak again, Eden said in what she hoped was a voice of cool detachment, "I am Eden Beckett, Zoë's sister. I believe we met last evening."

Bel swayed. "Zoë Beckett. Now, I do remember her. What a cozy little armful! I wun' mind having her warm my bed for a night or two." He grinned loosely. "I'll have to pay a call on the pretty little pigeon."

Eden gasped, and Seth dismounted. He and Bel were approximately the same height, but to Eden it seemed as though Seth loomed over his brother by a good two feet.

"Bel," he snapped, "I'll thank you to remember you are in the presence of a lady—and so is her sister."

Bel chuckled muzzily. "No 'fense, ol' fella." He groped for his quizzing glass. "I mus' say, though, hard t'believe this one tricks out so nicely 'n dayli'." He paused and swung questioningly toward Seth. "Din't I think she was an an'idote when I saw 'er that night at La'y Watzemame's ball? Aaugh!" he concluded, as at that point Seth knocked him to the pavement with a single blow to his jaw.