Proof by Seduction (Carhart #1)

He hadn’t understood what Jenny meant. He hadn’t cared. But he did now.

It was frightening how much he cared, how the sight of this gray and listless Ned squeezed his heart into a frozen fist. She’d made Gareth feel this sympathy. But she’d given him no way to help. And Gareth had nothing to offer of his own—nothing but papers and proof.

Ned listed away from Gareth. Then he rolled his neck until their eyes met. “Oh. You still here, then?”

“Ned,” Gareth tried sternly, “if you don’t leave now like a rational man, I’ll—I’ll—”

“You’ll what? I’m not afraid of you. What are you going to do? Ruin my life more than I’ve already done? Go on then. You see, if I don’t care, you can’t touch me.”

Gareth felt as if his nerves had been disconnected—temporarily—from his spinal cord, as if his brain had been utilized in some horrendous experiment in Dr. Frankenstein’s laboratory. His wants and desires simply ceased to exist. And for one brief second, he saw the world through the Stygian darkness of Ned’s eyes.

At twenty-one, he too had once felt the same way. His life in ruins, or so he’d thought. Gareth had pushed off from London society altogether. He’d told himself then he didn’t care. But he’d lied.

And now he cared for Ned. He cared so much his hands tingled and his chest constricted. He cared with a powerful, helpless fury, because there was nobody to attack, nothing to cut down. He had no words to say, no enemies to threaten. In that one second, he would have vanquished the world for his cousin.

Gareth was still in that disconnected state, mind not quite aligned with his body, when he tripped from the room. Maybe Ned would be rational if Gareth gave him a chance to recover. Maybe a breath of cool, fresh air—away from the smoke and all that volatilized brandy—would clear the muddle that inhabited Gareth’s head.

And maybe Gareth was just running away from a problem he could not comprehend. Because when he stumbled down the stairs into the dark night, the muddle remained. He walked, because his feet were all he could bring into some semblance of order.

It took him some time to realize the close air inside hadn’t muddled him. Rationally, he knew precisely how to handle this situation. Wash his hands of his cousin. Look for some other way to protect his estate from its eventual devastation. No; his head was clear on the matter. It was his heart that was all confused.

His collar was damp from rain. London—as much of it as ventured out at night—hunkered down in the determined drizzle. Had it only been weeks ago that he’d first kissed Jenny?

If only he’d never accosted her. If only he’d let that sham relationship between Ned and Jenny continue.

But no. He’d forced his way in, sure that he knew best. And he’d won. He’d beaten Ned and proven Madame Esmerelda a fraud.

Damn. Jenny had been right, that day she pounced on him in the modiste. He hadn’t understood what was happening. He’d picked Ned to pieces, just as she’d said he would.

Gareth clenched his hands in denial. No. He would make this right. He was the Marquess of Blakely. All that superiority had to be good for something.

He thought of Jenny, then. But how could he face her and admit what he’d done? Besides, he rationalized, it was late, and she’d not want to see him. All he could hope was that her morning would prove more auspicious than his evening.

COMING ATOP Gareth’s absence the previous night, the first encounter of Jenny’s morning was decidedly inauspicious.

“I don’t have the money.” She squeezed her hands together in consternation as she said the dreaded words.

Broad lines of impatient unhappiness furrowed into her landlord’s forehead. “What d’you mean, you don’t have it? You always have the rents, and right on time, too. Tomorrow, then?”

Of course she always had the rents. She’d always been Madame Esmerelda, with attendant generous clientele and burgeoning bank balance. Madame Esmerelda had been the rock of stability upon which she’d built her world. But now Madame Esmerelda was gone, and come tomorrow, she would still just be Jenny Keeble.

And Jenny Keeble had barely three pounds, when the quarterly rent was six. Even if she were to come up with the money to pay this man, how would she survive? A place to stay was all well and good, but she had to eat. Jenny needed to be frugal until she came up with another plan. She’d needed spacious quarters as Madame Esmerelda; a safe room, separate from her own living arrangements. Business necessity—and the lies she’d communicated to her clients with that carefully controlled atmosphere—had demanded it.

But she didn’t need the space any longer, and she could no longer afford the price.

If she stayed in London, she would have to move to more reasonably priced lodgings. Jenny swallowed at the thought. If she stayed in London?