The Problem with Seduction

Chapter Twenty-Four

ELIZABETH VOWED NOT TO GIVE UP, as she’d done with so many impossible-seeming situations before this one. Cutting her losses and walking away, pretending she wasn’t affected, wasn’t possible. Con was her husband, and she’d ruined him. She wouldn’t rest until she found a way to make it right.

She prayed she could make it right.

For two days, she haunted Lord Bart’s offices across from the Old Bailey. He refused to see her. Just as she’d feared when she’d chosen not to tell him about the quarry…though she’d never know now if he’d have been more sympathetic to her plight had she confessed before he was ambushed with the information in front of his peers.

She waited outside of his door in a heavy mantle. She was getting adept at skulking about on stoops and knew just how long she could linger before the constable came and chased her away. Finally, Lord Bart stepped from his offices. As with the other times, he looked down his long, patrician nose at her and stalked past without saying a word.

She grabbed his sleeve. “Wait! Please. There must be a way—”

He stilled and looked over his shoulder at her without yanking his arm back. “Why? Why does there have to be? Because your conscience tells you so?”

“Yes.” Her voice, weak and broken, was still strong enough to give him pause.

She dropped her hand from his sleeve, confident he’d talk to her, at least for a time. “Prisoners can be pardoned, can’t they? There’s such a thing as clemency. We could have his sentence commuted, or…” She searched his face for any spark of hope.

He turned toward her. His dark head cocked slightly to one side and his chin tilted down so that he regarded her with handsome incredulity. “Do you think I haven’t considered that? Of course Montborne—and Tony, I might add—have seen the Regent. Do you think His Royal Highness gives a tinker’s damn if another rotten Alexander has got himself tossed in the clink?”

She flinched at his vehemence. “They must try again.”

Lord Bart straightened his shoulders and made to walk away. She darted in front of him. The exasperated look he cast her would have made her laugh, weeks ago. But there was nothing funny about their antagonizing each other this afternoon.

“I’ll try,” she said boldly.

He shook his head, again seeming unable to believe her gall. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

She wished she were being silly. She wasn’t proud of her past, not anymore, but she’d use it to her advantage if she could. “He may remember me.”

Lord Bart’s eyebrow arched. “How will that look in the papers, do you think? Pardoning one of his whore’s husbands? Forgive me the epithet, but that’s what will be said. Even Prinny wouldn’t be so reckless with his reputation.”

Who else could they turn to?

“We need someone who has his ear, then,” she mused aloud. She stepped deftly to the right when Lord Bart made to go around her from that direction. “I must know a few men who fit that description.”

“But will they be willing to save your husband’s hide?” Lord Bart moved toward her left.

She blocked him again. “The trouble is, men who would help me are likely at their hunting boxes. It could take another month to locate one, bring him back to London and secure an audience with the Regent. We need a person who is already here and barely requires permission to approach the throne.”

Lord Bart gave her a long, considering look. “You mean a man like your father?”





Elizabeth’s father might not need much in the way of an invitation to see Prinny, but he’d made it very clear to her that she required an invitation to see him. With shaking hands she penned a note and sent it by way of a footman, along with instructions for the lad to wait for a reply.

In the interim, she walked the few blocks to Nicholas’s house. Her mantle kept her warm. In her hands she carried a basket filled with needles, threads, a round pillow, and two small hoops stretched with cloth. She’d never been much for embroidery as a girl, but she must have something to do while she sat in silent petition for the right to see her child.

She used the knocker to alert the household of her presence, as she’d done now for days. No one bothered to open the door. She pulled the pillow from her basket and set it on the topmost step, then turned and sat upon it. The wrenching sound of a baby’s cry muffled through the closed window. It tore at her until a teardrop wrenched from her eye. She both hated the reminder of Oliver and relished it at the same time. Here, she could still hear him, even if she couldn’t be with him.

Two hours later, she gathered her half-finished embroidery and tucked the pillow back into her basket, then rapped on the door twice and returned to her house. She would have stayed longer, but for her father’s response. She hoped he’d given it.

The instant her foot crossed her threshold, her footman ran up. “His lordship said you should come, madam,” Tom told her. “I would have come to tell you earlier but Mr. Rand said we’d cross paths and I was to stay here.”

She handed Tom her basket without a word, then immediately turned about and walked back into the street. She remembered her father’s address. It was a number burned into her brain like the quantity of her lovers or the price of her first dalliance.

Mayfair. A much longer walk than the distance to Nicholas’s house, but she’d expire of impatience before the carriage could be brought around. In the city, too, a carriage could be more of a hindrance than a help.

Her parents’ brick façade mansion took up half a block. She’d forgotten its massiveness. The ugly gargoyles serving as sentries on the gutters didn’t discompose her as they used to. She moved beneath them without pausing, determined to see her father without delay.

A butler she didn’t recognize led her from the entranceway to a small parlor directly off of the library. She hoped Mr. Victors had been pensioned off, and wasn’t kicking his heels on the other side of the Pearly Gates, instead. She tried not to notice the other changes here and there: a chair turned at the wrong angle, the new, puce paper covering her mother’s sitting room walls.

“Thank you,” she said as she entered the little room where she and her sisters used to pretend to be great ladies serving tea to valiant knights.

The butler nodded before exiting.

Her father entered the room. “Demanding to see me, and in my own house, no less. You’d better have a good reason for this.”

“I thought because you agreed, you approved.” She closed her eyes briefly. Being smart with Wyndham wasn’t going to help.

His white side-whiskers quivered with indignation. “You need to think less and mind convention more. Now, what is it? Your mother will be back from her shopping soon and I won’t have you here when she arrives.”

Elizabeth drew a deep breath. She’d have liked to have talked to her father more, but… She ought to know better. “It’s about Lord Constantine. But before I explain, I need to apologize. I was a thoughtless, headstrong girl. I see now how close my actions came to ruining our family. I—”

“Hold your tongue. I won’t be won over by sweet words said far too late. You’re here for your husband. Say that, then, for I don’t have time for nonsense.”

She stared at him in mute hurt. Her fists clenched. She jammed them under opposite arms, hugging herself, then realized she must look defensive. She dropped her hands to her sides, then changed her mind and made a jabbing, pointing motion with her finger toward her chest. “I am a lady. I won’t be addressed like a spoiled child.” She took a step toward him. She arched her finger to point it at him. “And you won’t turn your back on me again. I love you. I love Mother and Sarah and Ellen and Oliver.”

She drew a breath, savoring the look of astonishment on his face. Then she plunged ahead. “I know which one of us ran away. Me. You did your level best to keep my horrendous actions from ruining the rest of our family. I see that now. And I know exactly how I fared. Poorly. All the money and fame in the world cannot bring back my lost innocence. But I’m no longer that selfish, scared little girl who trusted the wrong men all of her life. I can imagine the unrelenting pain I must have caused you and Mother when I left. I see now that Sarah and Ellen were lucky to escape the scandal with their reputations intact. I know what it means to be a parent, because I have a child of my own. I’m deeply aware of the catastrophic mistake I made then because every day, I live with the repercussions. I lost all of you. Yes, you lost me, but the difference is that you weren’t worth losing, while I…was.”

She raised her hands in supplication. “I’ve learned. Twenty times over, I’ve learned. I have a husband now, and a son. You took both from me. Please. Leave me with something.” She took a step forward, reaching her hands halfway toward him. “Don’t take away everything I have.”

He stepped forward then, faster than she could stop him, and leaned toward her so that his face was mere inches from hers. “I told you not to waste your breath. I won’t waste mine. Get the hell out of my house.” With that, he whipped away from her so fast, a cool breeze blew in his wake. He stopped in the doorframe. “And Elizabeth? Never, ever try to use my grandson against me again.”





Two days of freedom did nothing, in Con’s mind, to erase a month of stench from his person. It permeated him. No matter how often he traded his coat for a clean one or how hard he scrubbed at his newly shorn hair with lemon soap, everywhere he went, that putrid stink clung to him.

Then there were the night terrors.

And the ravenous hunger.

The retching whenever he thought of his cell.

He’d lived through his sentence, the part that hadn’t been commuted. He still didn’t fully understand why he’d been set free.

Why had the man who’d ruthlessly seen him into the clink helped him to get out?

Con did know it was Elizabeth’s doing. Bart had told him the story of how she’d thrown herself on her father’s mercy and begged the earl to request Con’s offense be pardoned. But Con would have sworn her father hadn’t the heart.

And yet, he was standing proof that Lord Wyndham did have it in him to pardon. Whether he’d pardoned Con’s crime or Elizabeth’s, Con might never know. But the fact was, the earl had intervened enough that Con had been commuted. He ought to be overjoyed—he was. And yet, his sentence wasn’t over. The hulks wouldn’t let him be. Their ghosts followed him everywhere, even to Merritt House, until he went near mad hearing their creaking, groaning boards, and the constant shuffle of men unable to get comfortable.

He set out at a brisk pace into the park across from Merritt House, taking the same route he’d taken the day before. Too early to encounter anyone he knew and at too fast a pace to be required to make conversation even if he did. He used his long legs to his advantage, intending to clear the park before anyone had a chance to even know he was there. He needed time to think about Elizabeth. His wife. He’d yet to see her, though he wanted to hold her so badly, he could weep for the wanting.

He knew she’d had him set free. He was so very, very glad for it. He’d been on the ship only a month and already, he could barely recall his life before that hell. But in spite of knowing she’d faced the earl for him—her own personal demon, and Con’s—he hadn’t completely forgiven her for using him. He couldn’t, not until he knew the reason why she had risked her pride for him.

He may be under the spell of a practiced seductress, for all he knew. Because she hadn’t been there for his release. And she hadn’t come to see him since.

He stopped suddenly at the sight of a familiar little boy pulling himself at a crawl across a white blanket. His heart felt as if a fist squeezed it. Oliver.

He wasn’t sure what to do. He couldn’t leave.

There was no walking away, not from his son.

Con scanned the cluster of people hovering around the crawling child. He identified a pretty woman who was obviously a nursemaid. A gently bred woman who must be Finn’s wife. And Finn.

Con’s teeth ground.

No. He was done being angry. In all fairness, there was no right or wrong person in this fight. Both Finn and Elizabeth wanted nothing more than custody of their child, a natural inclination Con now understood.

Con was only a pawn. An incidental victim of their war. Still, he couldn’t turn away. Finn felt like the enemy.

“That’s my boy,” Finn said proudly to his wife, causing Con to tense muscles toughened by hard labor.

“There’s a good lad. Come over to Papa.”

Con tore his gaze from Finn to look at the baby he’d missed more than he’d thought possible. Oliver was so big now. He was crawling. He pointed with a chubby hand toward a dog playing fetch across the lawn. “Pup-pup!” His little hands and knees stumped toward the animal. The dog was leagues away at Oliver’s disjointed pace, but the boy didn’t seem to notice. “Pup-pup! Pup-pup!”

Con turned away. He shouldn’t be watching. Oliver seemed happy. Finn wasn’t a monster, just a father who wanted his son. Observing them tortured only one person: Con.

It would have been easier if Finn were a true enemy. Elizabeth was slowly dying of heartache, according to Con’s mother, while Finn was tottering after his boy with a smile on his face. The lack of a villain made it all the more complicated.

Con’s conscience nagged at him. Certainly, people had been hurt. People had been wronged. Was there a victim in this war, besides himself?

Without pausing to think, he walked up behind Finn. Finn’s wife turned in time to see Con’s approach. She reached a hand toward her husband, causing Con to remember how naturally he’d once reached for her Elizabeth. But he didn’t have time for those thoughts now.

“Finn,” he said, then waited for the man to turn. “There’s something I owe you.”

He felt the tiniest bit of satisfaction when Finn flinched, as if expecting a blow. But that wasn’t what Con had in mind.

He continued, “My apologies. I wanted what was best for Elizabeth. Really, I shouldn’t have involved myself at all.”

Finn’s brows rose in surprise. “Thank you for saying that.”

Con nodded once. No need to drag this out. “Well, then. I’ll be off.”

Mrs. Finn turned as he started to walk away. “My lord, wait! How is she?”

She was a miserable, disconsolate wreck, according to his mother. She hardly left her house. She barely ate. Why haven’t you seen her yet? his mother had asked. Elizabeth loves you. You need to go to your wife.

He couldn’t. He wanted to. Had thought of nothing else during the long weeks of hauling rocks on the bank of the river. He’d wanted to blame her for his fate, but he couldn’t. Yes, she’d withheld information from him. But would it have changed anything?

After the trial, he’d said yes. After weeks of considering the question, he wasn’t so sure. It was he who’d elected to keep his shiftless brother from being sent to prison. He was the one who’d made a wicked bargain with an infamous courtesan, then promptly broken the terms of their agreement by adopting Oliver as his own. He was the one who’d stood at the bar of the Central Criminal Court and entered a plea of not guilty, perjuring himself for her. It was he who’d married her…and more importantly, fallen in love with her.

If he were offered the chance to do it all again, would he make different choices? Perhaps. But he’d still make the one that kept his brother out of gaol. He’d still do everything in his power to reunite a mother and her child. He’d give his utmost to be a model husband…for her.

Had she been there at his release, he’d have clutched her to him and never let go. But she hadn’t been there. It threw everything into question. Why hadn’t she cared enough to come?

Both Finn and his wife were regarding Con with pity. “She’s as well as can be expected,” Con replied stiffly. “I fear she will never completely recover.” Nor would he.

Mrs. Finn’s expression grew troubled. “How can she?”

It was his deepest fear echoed back, the taunting question that had haunted him that interminable month on the river. She’d betrayed him, but that was on her head. He’d failed her. He’d given his word that he’d keep Oliver safe and he hadn’t. Even if he could forgive her, he couldn’t forgive himself.

He clutched his fist, wishing it all had stayed as simple as he’d first thought it would be the night she’d whispered in his ear, “Lord Constantine, how do you feel about becoming the father of my child?”

“Well, then,” he said again, pointlessly, and turned away on one leg. With a last, longing look at Oliver, who’d sat on his bottom and was now shrieking gaily at clumps of grass raining from his little fists, Con left.

A yawning ache opened in his chest as he walked away. He could never bring Oliver back. He couldn’t forgive himself for that. But perhaps there could still be children in their future.

If only he could find the courage to go to her.