Tempting Eden Read online

  Eden had waited impatiently until the body was removed to the church before searching Ivor’s bedroom. Kempton had mercifully gone with his master, riding alongside the cart, his last official act as valet. She had not forgotten the wink he had given her last night, or failed to notice the man’s sneer as he had deliberately brushed against her in the hall this morning. Her fleeting feeling of relief was now replaced with dread. She must dismiss him before Ivor’s heir arrived. She had very little in the way of coin, but perhaps Kempton would be satisfied to raid the baron’s possessions and help himself. No price would be too high for his silence. Once Jannah was gone, it wouldn’t matter. For all she cared, Kempton could announce her sins to the world at Hyde Park Corner.

  Eden wiped a stubborn tear from her cheek. It was pointless to succumb to self-pity when she had to find the book. Methodically, she searched through every drawer in the dressers, every trunk in the dressing room. She even struggled with the mattress, tipping it to the floor and dragging it back up again.

  Could Ivor have hidden it in plain sight? It would be like him to do so, or so she had thought as she stared at the ceiling after Mrs. Washburn put her to bed last night. He had a reckless streak, risking all behind unlocked doors or garden hedges. The more anxious Eden became at the possibility of being discovered, the more satisfied he was.

  After a sleepless night, Eden had skimmed the shelves in the library at daybreak. She found nothing but dust and a few salacious drawings of herself tucked between some volumes, which she had torn and burned. She must find his leather portfolio as well. The original drawings for the book were just as damning as the book itself. Ivor had been a skilled artist. There would be no mistaking the model for anyone other than herself.

  Eden curled up in the window seat, the glass cool against her back. She closed her eyes against the bright blue October sky. How beautiful it was here, and how false. She was exhausted, but until she found something, she couldn’t rest. Patience. Hartford Hall was not so very big that she couldn’t search it top to bottom before the new baron came. She had at least a week, and probably more. If he couldn’t be found, winter would come soon, no matter what the calendar said, and make travel impossible. She and Jannah might be safe for months.

  And really, where could Ivor have hidden the book? He had shown it to her in the library late yesterday afternoon, taken an early dinner with her, come to her bed before she’d even had a chance to undress for him. The book had to be close by. She would find it. And his artist’s case was too large to hide easily. Ivor had sometimes sat right here on the tufted cushion and sketched her as she lay on his bed.

  She shot off the seat and lifted the hinged lid. The leather case was in the dark square, quite alone. No book. But Eden was thrilled just the same. The hearth was cold, but a neat pyramid of firewood was laid. Soon she was feeding the pictures into the flames, watching the edges blacken and curl, fly as hell-born sparks up the chimney. The fire was the first step to purifying her life. The last of the paper crackled when she felt the hand on her back.

  “What are you about, Miss Eden?”

  Kempton. The voice was soft, but she heard the menace within. Eden rose from her knees gracelessly. “The room was cold.”

  He chuckled as if they were friends. “Aye. I didn’t want to roast the old man before he’s buried. He’ll be seeing the heat soon enough.”

  She saw Kempton take in the open leather case at her feet and held her chin high.

  “I didn’t expect you back so soon.”

  “ ’Twasn’t much to do. Vicar and his wife took care of milord. I thought you might have need of me, miss.”

  He was leering at her. No deference to her station or his. She had to get rid of him. Today was not soon enough.

  “I thank you for attending my stepfather. But now that he is gone, we have no need of your services. I shall see to it that Collins gives you an excellent reference,” she added, referring to the butler. “And—and severance pay. I will speak to the new baron about it.”

  Kempton gave a harsh laugh. “Not good enough, Eden. Your new man won’t be here for a while. What’ll I live on? I’m sure you can find something for me to do until he comes.”

  He called her Eden. No longer “miss.” Although she had sensed his purpose, this was happening too fast for her. Eden took a step back as Kempton advanced. Another two steps and the back of her black skirts would be singed by the open hearth. “Take what you want from this room then and leave.” She stood stone-still as his blunt fingertip traced the hollow of her cheek.

  “It’s you I want. I bet you could teach me a trick or two or have fun trying.”

  Eden’s eyes locked on his. Kempton wasn’t unpleasant to look at. But she had not made one escape to be caught again.

  “No doubt I could.” She tried a smile. “But it seems I have found my conscience at last.”

  “Conscience won’t keep you warm at night.”

  She felt his breath on her cheek. He would not be satisfied with a hasty kiss, and despite everything she’d ever done, she couldn’t bring herself to contemplate more. “Very true. Nevertheless, I should like you to leave after the funeral. Name your price.”

  His eyes swept slowly from hers to her waist. “Don’t think you’ve got it. The baron wasn’t a warm man, was he?”

  Stingy, more like. His estate was in order, but he didn’t spare much on anyone’s pleasure but his own. The library alone was worth a fortune.

  “The books.”

  Kempton snorted. “Those filthy things? I won’t get a bob for a stack of them.”

  “No, some of them are very valuable. Rare.” She’d seen the bills herself.

  “Won’t be easy to sell, Eden. Not for a man like me.” Kempton turned away and walked toward the bed. Eden swallowed as he stretched himself out, his boots leaving a trace of dirt on the coverlet.

  “I won’t,” Eden whispered.

  “You will unless you want me to tell the new baron what you’ve been up to since your mother died.”

  Kempton didn’t know what had come before. He had only been employed by Ivor for the past year. That, at least, was something.

  “Tell him then,” she declared brazenly.

  “I’ll tell your little sis, too. It’ll break her heart.”

  Eden spun to Ivor’s dresser, picked up the carved African mahogany box that held his watches, cuff links, and other valuables. “You have a key to this, do you not? Take the contents. I’ll see that you get money.”

  “And have me arrested for a thief? I don’t think so.” He patted the space beside him, laughing when Eden shuddered.

  “I promise that won’t happen. Give me your direction and I’ll send you payment for your discretion.” At least until Jannah died.

  Kempton raised himself up on one elbow. “Don’t see what the baron saw in you anyway. You’re not much to look at and stick thin, though your bubbies look a treat. I’ll see them now, and think on your offer.”

  Eden pitched the box at him. He caught it deftly and shook it. The jangle and tinkle competed for the thudding in Eden’s ears.

  He shrugged. “All right. But I’ll have you in the end. You won’t get far with Major Stuart Hartford, I reckon. I heard all about him in the army. After his men all the time to keep their flies buttoned up right and tight, as if a bloke doesn’t deserve a bit of fun after almost getting killed. Like the village priest, he was, but he’s not apt to forgive you. And who will hire you for a companion or a governess when I tell them you’re just a dirty little whore?”

  Eden shut her eyes to his triumphant face. There was no hope for her, just a delay to the devil. But time was what she needed, for Jannah.

  “Please go. I’ll speak to Collins.”

  “Tell that old buzzard to fix me up right and proper. He’ll know where he keeps the best household silver.”

  “There must be an inventory—”

  “Bugger the inventory! Stuart Hartford won’t miss a few candle-sticks. I mean to m
ake you pay, Eden. And pay some more. You’ll be hearing from me when I’ve got a place.”

  Before Eden’s hand touched the doorknob, he had grabbed her, squeezing a breast, his breath hot on her throat. “You won’t get away from me so quick.” He gave her a rough, sour kiss. Eden bore it as she had borne so much. She had now been kissed by two men, a paltry amount at her advanced age, but she had other, darker experience. Kempton was right. There really was no better name for her than whore.

  Chapter 2

  “Sweet Jesu. It’s the back of beyond, Hart. Whatever will you do to occupy yourself?” Major Henry Desmond of the 1st Regiment of Foot studied the map before him, measuring the mileage from London with his thumb and forefinger. With Bonaparte safely in exile on St. Helena, army life and maps had somewhat lost their luster, but Des was manfully attempting to enjoy his London posting by amusing himself at the tables with his cronies and in every available youngish widow’s bed. Now Stuart Hartford, his oldest friend and fellow Grenadier guard, had sold out and would soon be lost to the wilds of a substantial Cumberland baronage.

  “His death was not unexpected,” Hart said, reaching for another celebratory splash of cognac. “My father always said his brother would meet him in Hell sooner than later. The two of them were rather infamous in their prime. I’m only sorry I missed the funeral to make certain he’s truly dead.”

  Des knew Hart’s father had gone to his reward some time ago. His uncle, run out of town years ago for an unknown infraction, was supposedly reformed, but neither Hart nor Des had ever been entirely convinced. The elder Hartford men had been notoriously wicked in their tastes. Des had known Hart’s father too well, heard too much of his uncle and held his tongue. No man, whatever his personal convictions, cared to have his relatives criticized.

  And Hart had personal convictions aplenty. Rebelling against his elders in his own way, he had striven to be such a pillar of moral rectitude his twenty-eight years that he had been called “Holy Hartford” behind his back, and sometimes to his face. He had used his family’s history as a hard lesson of what not to do. Des doubted that he’d even sown any of the wild oats to which a handsome young army officer was entitled. If he had, not a word had passed his lips about it. Hart was discretion itself, which was somewhat disappointing. The man was much too young to be such a dull dog.

  “I thought your uncle had settled down in the country with a widow and her brats.” Thunderstruck, Des clapped a hand over his mouth. “Surely you’re not expected to provide for them, too!”

  “Ah. There you have it. One of the brats has written to me. She is, I believe, now an aging spinster with a sick sister. What sort of brute would I be to toss them to the wolves? I’ve talked to the solicitor. Uncle Ivor left them nothing, not even a sterling teaspoon. It’s very odd. He was their stepfather for a decade at least.”

  Desmond scowled. “A rum business, Hart. Even with your blameless reputation, you’re not the proper sort of chaperone to two maiden ladies.”

  “Indeed not. That’s why I’ve enlisted my aunt Juliet.”

  “Good Lord.” Des leaned back in his chair, hand over his heart. Juliet. A most managing female, even if she was easy on the eyes.

  “Desperate times, needs must, et cetera. She will join me on my journey north at the end of the week. I’ll settle my affairs up there and be back before you know it.” Hart rose, his golden head burnished in the blaze of the club’s candlelight, a silver saber scar dueling with the impudent crease on his cheek. Des might have been jealous of such manly perfection had he not liked Hart so well.

  “That’s if the Mad Matchmaker doesn’t drive you over a cliff,” Des replied, forgetting his vow not to defame his friend’s relations.

  “Nonsense, Des. She’s been saddled with that romantic name, after all. She just has my best interests at heart.”

  “She wants you to marry,” Des said in disgust. “As though we survived hell on the battlefield so we could be chained to some henwitted debutante.”

  “Well, I expect we’ll both be leg-shackled eventually. Better to marry than to burn, don’t you know. And I have a duty to my title now,” said Hart with a grin, his blue eyes dancing at Des’s obvious dismay. “Perhaps one of the orphans will do. This Eden seems a bit desperate and might be very accommodating.”

  Des made a face. “Eden? What sort of a name is that? I expect she really ought to be called Hortense or Calpurnia.”

  Hart laughed. “I shall let you know if you are correct. No doubt she’s as above reproach as Caesar’s wife. But just at present, I’m off to burn. Care to join me at Mrs. Brown’s?”

  Des was momentarily speechless. Mrs. Brown ran the most exalted and exclusive brothel in all of London. The annual membership fee to partake of such amusement could feed a small regiment for some time, and soldiers were known to have healthy appetites. Furthermore, a plump purse was no guarantee Mrs. Brown would open her door to you. It was said her admittance standards were more rigorous than the most prestigious gentlemen’s clubs. There was a waiting list as long as two or three arms, too. Des rather wondered how Hart had finagled his way into the madam’s good graces so swiftly, but then, Hart was Hart. And lord knows, he deserved some fun after all they had been through.

  “You’ve bought a subscription?” Mrs. Brown’s girls, all named for Greek and Roman goddesses, were no doubt worth every penny, but Des had lately suffered some reversal at the tables and couldn’t imagine coming up with the scratch for even a week’s worth of sensual delight, much less a year’s.

  “Indeed I have.”

  “By God. Membership there is too expensive for my blood,” Des said, attempting a careless indifference. But he knew that members could bring a guest now and then, and his spirits and other aspects of him lifted. “Why did you do it? It’s most unlike you. You have ever railed against debauchery like my old governess.”

  “Why not? I’m Baron Hartford of Hartford Hall now, with pockets of pounds, not plain Stu Hartford, scrounging about on His Majesty’s payroll. Even if I dower the girls, there will be plenty left over.”

  Des felt a bit foxed. “Dower the girls? Mrs. Brown might have something to say to that.”

  “No, no, you fool. The orphans. The spinsters. The Emersons. Nay, that’s not right. The Emerys. Calpurnia and Hortense. My poor relations.”

  Des stood and clapped Hart on the back. “Well, that’s all right then. If you insist, I shall be pleased to accompany you to Mrs. Brown’s Pantheon of Pleasure. I hear there’s a new Athena. Bryson’s got his eye on her already. She’s very tall and,” said Des, pausing for just the right word, “refreshing.”

  “The ideal female,” laughed Hart. “I confess a spot of refreshment shall be most welcome.” And long overdue. Hart could scarcely remember the last time he had bedded a female, and nearly wondered if all his parts were in working order. He was a man of hard-won abstemious habits. It had not always been easy ignoring his baser urges—the urges of his father and uncle. He had controlled himself admirably in the battle against the French and the battle for his own soul. Places such as Mrs. Brown’s had been quite above his touch and usual interest. They provided precisely the sort of expensive entertainment that had ruined his father and sent his uncle packing to the country.

  No one had been more surprised than he when he approached Mrs. Brown as a kind of lark and she accepted him. No doubt she wanted to know if the Hartford blood ran true, despite his every effort to deny its heat. But he was ready to lay the burden of his virtue temporarily at the white feet of one goddess or another. In the coming months, he would test his capabilities in a first and last fling while he waited for his aunt to find him a wife. Then his brief experiment in sin would be erased by a return to duty and sobriety, a wife and children.

  But not tonight. The men ambled down the stairs into the street and hailed a hackney, determined to take their pleasure no matter the price.

  Several days later, Hart was grateful for that pleasure, for none was to be found journe
ying with his aunt Juliet. His mother’s younger sister by a decade and a half, she was not so very much older than Hart himself, yet she wielded her auntship with the ferocity of an ancient society tabby. Hart was treated to the pedigree of every eligible miss of Juliet’s acquaintance, and a great portion of strangers as well. He wondered how his cousins Raphael and Sebastian would weather her matchmaking determination once they came of age, and was grateful the woman was merely an aunt and not his mother.

  But his mother, that poor lady, would have had little reason to recommend marriage. Mrs. Hartford’s wayward husband had not made her particularly happy, and she had died when Hart was still at school.

  Juliet, on the other hand, had made a love match and was anxious that all share her good fortune. Her husband had not lived long enough to be found continuously at fault, or boring, or inconsequential, as undoubtedly he would have been if he’d reached portly middle age. Rafe and Seb would probably never reach his pinnacle in their mother’s eyes, but they were safe at school, away from her interference. Hart, however, was sitting opposite her in a well-sprung carriage, which was beginning to feel like a plush torture chamber.