Seducing the Viscount Page 14

  Hardly an arduous request.

  Still, she was not in the mood to be chided by a jaded rake who devoted most of his life to ignoring his poor family.

  “And you claim that my parents use my emotions to manipulate me?” she gritted.

  “I make no pretense of being an honorable gentleman. Besides, I have no intention of allowing you to disappoint Ella simply because you are in a miff.”

  She glared into his perfect countenance. Had there ever been a more aggravating, provoking, maddening wretch?

  “I am not in a miff.”

  “A woman does not sulk through an entire dinner unless she is in a miff. If you wish to punish me, then do so, but do not make Ella suffer for my sins.” He pretended to ponder some inner thought for a long moment. “Although, now that I think upon it, I must admit that it is grossly unfair for you to be upset at all.”

  “Unfair?” Her hands curled at her side. “You . . .”

  “Yes?”

  “You insulted me.”

  With a nonchalance that was exquisitely designed to set her teeth on edge, Ian leaned against the edge of the fountain, his expression mocking.

  “By asking you to become my mistress?”

  Her face flooded with color. “For goodness’ sakes, keep your voice down.”

  “My sweet Mercy, if you will recall, I did my utmost to ignore the obvious attraction between us,” he drawled. “Indeed, I behaved in a manner that could only be considered noble. It was you who pursued me in the hopes of forming an intimate connection.” He leaned forward, his eyes glittering like molten gold in the torchlight. “I begin to believe that I should be the one offended to be teased with the promise of paradise only to be cruelly rejected.”

  The heat staining her cheeks deepened. He did have a point, damn him to hell. She had been the one to blatantly pursue him despite his obvious reluctance. In truth, she had done everything short of crawling into his bed to tantalize his interest.

  Then again, her desire had been a natural response to a highly sensual man. He was the one who made it seem . . . sordid.

  “An intimate connection is quite different from becoming a gentleman’s mistress,” she said, her voice pitched low.

  “Is it?” Straightening, Ian regarded her with a hint of curiosity. “I must admit that the distinction eludes me at the moment. Perhaps you would care to explain the difference?”

  “An intimate connection is the result of two individuals who are equally attracted to one another. A mistress . . .” Her words trailed away in a surge of discomfort. She could not believe she was discussing such intimate matters with a gentleman in the midst of a garden.

  “Please continue, Mercy. I find myself fascinated.”

  She stiffened her spine at his sardonic amusement. He was being deliberately obtuse.

  “As I told you in my bedchamber, a mistress implies that I am willing to trade my virtue for monetary gain.”

  “Ah, I recall now.” The golden eyes flashed. “You are willing to allow me into your bed so long as you do not gain financially from the experience? Is that correct?”

  Her chin tilted. “Not quite.”

  “No?”

  “I am not at all certain I am willing to have you in my bed regardless of the circumstance.” Proving that she could be as annoying as the man standing before her, Mercy performed a sweeping curtsy before heading back to the house. “Good night, Mr. Breckford.”

  Chapter II

  Ian awoke the next morning at yet another ungodly hour.

  If he were an honorable man he would presume that it was a guilty conscience that had him out of bed and attired in a tobacco brown coat and buff breeches at the break of dawn. After all, he had not only seduced a complete innocent and then insulted her by requesting that she become his mistress, he had compounded his dastardly deeds by deliberately playing upon her tender heart to keep her from fleeing to the safety of her home.

  Thankfully, he had never been burdened with anything so troublesome as a conscience, and instead of guilt it was determination that urged him from the comforts of his bed and had him ringing for his valet.

  He intended to make certain that Mercy Simpson understood that she would be remaining at Rosehill. No matter what underhanded tricks were necessary to keep her close at hand.

  They had unfinished business.

  A business that had left him hard and aching throughout the long, long night.

  Of course, he did have less enticing business to attend to as well, he reminded himself with a faint sigh. Waiting until his valet finished tying the complicated knot in his cravat, he rose to his feet and regarded the servant who had been with him for the past five years.

  Not that Reaver was a typical servant.

  The son of a dockworker, Reaver possessed his father’s tall, brawny frame and barrel chest. His face was cut with square, clean lines and had no doubt been considered handsome before he had been slashed from his right ear to the edge of his mouth, leaving behind a gruesome scar that made grown men tremble. With his thick brown hair grown long enough to pull into a queue and his hard, black eyes, he appeared more a cutthroat than a valet.

  Ian had encountered the man in one of the innumerable hells that he had frequented over the years. At the time, Reaver had been an employee of the owner, his intimidating demeanor and impressive bulk the only encouragement needed to ensure that all gambling debts were paid without a fuss.

  On the night Ian had been in attendance, however, a wealthy young buck had brought with him several servants who took exception to Reaver’s attempt to halt the cowardly fool from slipping out a side window.

  Ian could not say why he interfered. It was not as if he had a great sympathy for his fellow man. Especially not those who frequented gambling hells. Nor did he particularly have a sense of duty to rescue those in need.

  Perhaps it was merely a sense of fair play that had led him to step into the melee and even the odds.

  Whatever the cause, Ian had discovered Reaver was a man of fierce loyalty, and once he had healed, he had arrived upon Ian’s doorstep with an unwavering refusal to be turned away. In the end it had been easier to allow him to remain than to try and run him off.

  Rather a stroke of fortune, Ian had to admit. Although Reaver was merely a passable valet, he possessed many other talents that had proven invaluable over the years. Not the least of which was standing behind Ian’s chair as he gambled. It was nothing less than amazing at how few gentlemen were willing to attempt to cheat with Reaver’s gimlet eye upon them.

  And, of course, there was his willingness to perform whatever task, no matter how strange, without complaint.

  That made him a servant beyond price.

  Ian waited until the man had cleaned and tucked away the shaving kit (he made a habit of never discussing any subject while his companion held a sharp object near his throat) before revealing his decision.

  “Reaver, I need you to return to London.”

  The large man folded his arms over his chest. “A collection?”

  “Not on this occasion. It is more of a”—Ian smiled wryly—“Treasure hunt.”

  The man grunted, familiar enough with his unpredictable employer to reveal nothing more than a resigned curiosity.

  “And what is this treasure?”

  “A gentleman by the name of Summerville.” Ian leaned against the highly polished armoire and straightened the cuff of his jacket. “I fear I do not know much more than that.”

  “Just Summerville?”

  “Yes.”

  “He lives in London?”

  Ian grimaced. “I believe so, although I am not entirely certain.”

  Reaver furrowed his heavy brow, his expression growing exasperated. Hardly surprising. He had just been given the task of searching for a very small needle in a very large haystack.

  “Is he a nob?”

  “It could be, although it is possible that he is the son of a wealthy merchant.”

  Reaver shoved his
fingers through his hair. “That is not much to go on.”

  “Which is why I must send you, as much as I would prefer you to remain in Surrey. I cannot risk undue attention to my interest in Summerville.” Ian smiled. “And besides, there is not a man in all of England you cannot track down, Reaver. You are like a damnable bloodhound when you are on the scent of prey.”

  Reaver grunted at the blatant challenge. “What do you want of him if he don’t be owing you money?”

  Ian pushed from the armoire to cross toward the window, peering absently toward the distant lake. Reaver was well aware of Ian’s purpose in coming to Surrey, of course. There was simply no keeping secrets from the man.

  “I believe he might have a connection to my father’s past. It could very well be he possesses knowledge of the secret I am searching for.”

  “Ah.” Comprehension flashed through the dark eyes. “Do you want me to haul him here once I’ve found him?”

  “No. Just send word when you have tracked him down.”

  “There might be more than one, you know. How do I know which you are wanting?”

  Ian shrugged, his gaze shifting to the stables. He had already quizzed the upstairs maid to ensure that Mercy had not fled during the night, but he had no intention of lowering his guard. Not until he had the opportunity to demand her promise she would not leave.

  “This particular Summerville will be of an age with my father and attended Eton as a lad. If I can discover more I will send word to you in London.”

  There was another grunt as Reaver considered his latest task, his expression revealing that he was not entirely happy to be sent back to London. The valet might grouse at the lack of entertainment to be found at Rosehill, but he was never happy to be parted from his employer. The ridiculous man had managed to convince himself that Ian was incapable of surviving without him.

  “And who will be taking care of you?” he demanded.

  Ian resisted the urge to roll his eyes. At least the man had not yet taken to holding his hand when they crossed the road.

  “My father possesses a small army of servants. I am certain that at least one can be spared to stand in as my valet.”

  The dangerous features became downright frightening as Reaver scowled. “I do not mean someone to starch your cravats and brush your coat. Any fool could tend to those things. Who is to keep an eye upon your back?”

  Ian deliberately glanced toward the window that revealed nothing more threatening than a distant cow.

  “I should think that my back will be safe enough for the next few days. Rosehill has always been a frigid, unwelcoming sort of place, but it is rarely lethal.”

  “Oh aye. And when you grow bored and search out a game of chance?” Reaver growled.

  Ian could not hold back his bark of laughter. “Perhaps you should pay better attention, my friend. The only games to be played in this neighborhood are charades and spillikin. Neither of which are renowned for leading to bloodshed.”

  “Bah. I know you better than you know yourself, Breckford. A fortnight ago you managed to turn a respectable vicarage into a den of iniquity.”

  “Ah, yes.” Ian smiled as he recalled the unexpected windfall he had collected while waiting for Fredrick’s wedding in Wessex. “I believe I won a beautiful pair of candlesticks that had once graced the altar of some poor church.”

  “And nearly had your throat slit by the desperate curate,” Reaver was swift to remind him. “Do you believe that a half-witted farmer is any less inclined to commit murder after losing his fortune?”

  Ian merely smiled. That restless itch that so often led him into the gaming hells or plunging into some reckless dare or another was oddly absent since he had stumbled across a beautiful wood sprite standing in the midst of a meadow.

  “Do you know, Reaver, for the first time in a very long time, the last thing I fear is growing bored,” he murmured, a tingle of anticipation inching down his spine. “Indeed, I haven’t the least interest in searching out the local bumpkins to empty their pockets.”

  Reaver frowned. “Are you sickly?”

  “More likely I have gone completely mad,” Ian admitted without a hint of regret.

  “I see.”

  “I am deeply relieved that one of us does.”

  Ignoring Ian’s dry tone, Reaver shook his head in a gesture of profound disappointment.

  “When a man loses interest in important matters, it can only be because a woman is involved. Miss Simpson, eh?”

  Ian did not bother to deny the truth. Why should he? He was not ashamed of his fascination for the golden-haired beauty.

  “She has proven to be an unexpected distraction.”

  “A female is only a distraction if you allow her to be.”

  Ian regarded his companion with a flare of bemusement. He had known that Reaver preferred a quick tumble with a whore to stepping out with a respectable lass; still, there was an odd edge to his voice that hinted at darker emotions.

  “How terribly pragmatic you are, Reaver. Have you never been struck by a passion so overwhelming that everything else fades in comparison?”

  “Aye.” Without warning, the man lifted a hand to touch the scar that disfigured his lower cheek. “And I carry the mark to prove it.”

  “A woman sliced your face?” Ian did not have to feign his surprise. He had never directly demanded an explanation for the long-healed wound, but he had never considered the possibility that the tale included a female. “Good God, for all these years I had presumed that you had been set upon by murderous footpads, or even taken prisoner by a crew of pirates and tortured for months on end. Now I discover you were bested by no more than an angry chit. I can not reveal the depths of my disappointment.”

  “I would trust a band of pirates to a wench,” Reaver muttered, his voice bitter. “At least they are honest in their thieving.”

  Ian studied his companion a long moment. “So why would a woman desire to slash your face? Did she catch you in bed with another?”

  Reaver stiffened. “I caught her pocketing my mother’s pearl necklace. My father saved for ten bloody years to buy that bauble, and I wasn’t about to allow the bitch to hock it for a few quid.”

  Ian grimaced. “A nasty bit of goods.”

  “A typical woman.”

  “No.” Ian shook his head. It was not that he did not believe a woman could steal a family heirloom and then slice the face of a man attempting to halt her. Hell, he’d known a dozen women who would invite him to their beds even as their fingers were dipping into his pocket. A hard, ruthless life tended to breed hard, ruthless people. But he knew beyond a doubt that his sweet wood sprite was a woman of rare beauty, both inside and out. “Mercy Simpson is not like other females.”

  Reaver threw his hands in the air. “Bloody hell, those are the words of doom.”

  “Doom?”

  “Whenever a man begins muttering those words, it means he is about to make an ass of himself.” Reaver heaved a sigh of despair. “I never thought to hear them from your lips. A sad day, I must say.”

  Ian’s lips twitched at the man’s morose reaction. “Thankfully you will be in London, Reaver, so if I do happen to make an ass of myself you shall be spared the embarrassment of witnessing my downfall.”

  “Thank God.”

  Reaching beneath his jacket, Ian pulled out a leather bag and handed it to his servant.

  “There should be enough money for your journey as well as any necessary inducement for those reluctant to share information.”

  Reaver scowled as he tucked the bag beneath his jacket. “I don’t need coin to get information I desire.”

  “I am well aware of your talents, Reaver. However, on this occasion I would prefer you grease the wheels with money rather than your fists,” Ian said, his expression firm.

  “Why?”

  “Because a discrete bribe causes far less notice than bloody carnage in the streets of London. I hope to avoid any unnecessary interest, if you will recall.”<
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  Reaver headed toward the door, his disappointment in being denied a good thrashing obvious in the resigned set of his shoulders.

  “Waste of good blunt, if you ask me.”

  Ian rolled his eyes. “Thankfully, I am not asking you. Return here the moment you have information.”

  “ Aye.”

  “And Reaver.”

  The man paused at the door, glancing impatiently over his shoulder. “What?”

  “Take care.” Ian’s expression was somber. He would have his tongue cut out before admitting it, but he had grown annoyingly fond of the man. “I do not believe there is any danger, but I should not wish to have to train another valet. It is always such a tedious business.”

  Reaver’s smile returned as he offered Ian a parting wink. “I’m not the one playing with fire, Breckford.”

  Waiting until the door had closed behind his valet, Ian sucked in a deep breath and smoothed his hands down his tailored jacket.

  He should be laughing at the ridiculous warning. He was a master of playing with fire. God knew he had been doing it most of his life. He always knew exactly how far to press his luck without getting burned.

  It was not amusement, however, that sent a small shiver down his spine.

  No, that was pure, unmistakable foreboding.

  With a shake of his head at his stupid imaginings, Ian forced himself to leave his rooms and make his way through the mansion. He had enough concerns to keep him occupied without brooding on vague imaginings.

  He had nearly reached the back parlor when his steps slowed at the sound of his aunt’s bright chatter and Mercy’s low, husky laugh that tumbled through the air. It was not the women’s obvious pleasure in one another’s company that caught him off guard. He was well aware that they had become fast friends in their short time together. It was, after all, how he had managed to manipulate Mercy into remaining at Rosehill.

  Instead, he was struck by the realization that the gold-veined marble suddenly did not seem quite so cold, nor the looming Grecian statues so intimidating. Even the rich velvet curtains glowed with a ruby warmth in the morning sunlight.