The Seduction, page 2
Margaret found that concern hard to believe and expressed it succinctly. "Hah!" she said in an exact imitation of the cantankerous old lady.
Henry let that pass. "The fact remains that Lord Hymes asked my permission to court you, and I gave it. Hymes would make you a good husband."
"I don't think so."
"What's wrong with him?" Henry demanded, clearly exasperated and puzzled. They'd had many similar discussions during the past year, but Margaret knew he still did not understand her nor the reason she refused one man after another. "He seems a good enough fellow. He's a viscount. Quite a catch, Cornelia tells me."
"Is he? I am informed that he's desperately in need of money."
"So is nearly every other British peer. What of it?"
"He's nothing but a fortune hunter. Doesn't that bother you?"
Her father's frown deepened into a scowl, and Cornelia spoke before the shouting could begin. "Maggie, you can't expect your father's financial status to go unnoticed. A dowry is always important to a man thinking of marriage. But just because Lord Hymes is a bit short in the pocket doesn't mean his feelings for you aren't genuine. I'm certain he's an honorable man."
"Then why don't you marry him?" Margaret countered gloomily.
Her cousin smiled and moved to sit beside her on the sofa. "I'm already married, remember? I think Hymes really does care for you. I think he wants to marry you for more than your money."
Margaret looked at her cousin with envy. Cornelia had the good fortune to have fallen in love with a man who had more wealth and a higher social position than herself. There was no doubt his feelings for her were genuine. As long as she remained Henry Van Alden's daughter, Margaret would never have that certainty. "Hymes doesn't want a wife. He wants a banker."
"Damnation, Margaret!" Henry's voice exploded like a rifle shot, his patience obviously at an end. "It's important that you marry a gentleman who moves in the right circles, a man who can give you the respect of his name and position. Hymes can do that."
Margaret pressed her fingers to her temples and realized her feigned headache was becoming a reality. Respectability mattered so much to her father because it was the only thing his money could not buy. Though the powerful men of New York willingly dealt with him in business, their wives and daughters had closed ranks against the upstart Van Aldens. Hoping the British were more amenable, Henry had taken her to London and placed her in the hands of her cousin. Cornelia had married a viscount the year before and her excellent social connections made her perfectly suited to the task of finding Margaret a titled husband.
Thus far, the experiment had proved a dismal failure. Her father had received many offers for her hand, but Margaret had no intention of buying her way to respectability by becoming Lady Whatever and had refused every suitor that came her way.
"If I ever decide to marry, it will be for love and no other reason." She glared at her father, setting her jaw in a stubborn line that mirrored Henry's own. "I don't love Hymes," she said through clenched teeth, "and I'm not going to marry him."
"You're twenty-three, and I won't allow you to become an old maid. I intend to see you married before another year goes by. You say Hymes isn't the right man for you? Fine. Then pick another—Edgeware, Montrose, Worthington—I don't care which. They've all offered for you. So choose one, and let's get on with it."
The fact that her father could be so oblivious to her feelings made her angry and reckless. "Perhaps I'll just fall madly in love with some starving artist who'll paint me in the moonlight and whisk me away to a quaint little hovel on a Greek island where we can live in sin."
Her shot hit home. "You'll do no such thing!" Henry roared. Margaret knew she had gone too far. "I've had enough of this foolishness. You'll be properly wed to a respected gentleman. I'm getting old, and I want grandchildren before I die."
His words caused Margaret's anger to fade away. Her father had been talking a great deal about his age lately. "Don't say that."
"I'm fifty-two. No man on my side of the family has lived past fifty-five, and I probably won't either."
"You're not going to die for a long time yet, Papa."
Cornelia gave a delicate little cough. "Perhaps this discussion should be continued another time. It's after six o'clock, and the ball does begin at eight. We must dress."
Margaret gave her cousin a grateful glance.
Henry rose to his feet. "I don't see why women need two hours to dress for a ball," he grumbled. "An hour is more than enough time."
"For men, perhaps," Cornelia replied. "But women require more time to look our best."
Margaret stood up and walked around the table to her father, hoping to make peace. "Don't worry, Papa," she said, linking her arm through his. "I will probably marry someday, if I find the right man. There's plenty of time."
"Time slips away faster than you think, my girl. I want you settled with a husband and children of your own." Henry paused. "You don't believe this, I know," he said heavily, "but love isn't everything, and it really isn't necessary to a successful marriage. I didn't love your mother, and she didn't love me. But we had a good, solid marriage just the same, and we were quite fond of each other."
"Yes, Papa, I know," she said, thinking a lifetime of good and solid and being fond of a man sounded horribly dull. She gave him an affectionate peck on the cheek before she gently ushered him out the door. When he left, she closed the door behind him. "Cornelia, you're an angel," she said, turning to her cousin. "Thank you. I'm so glad that's over. He seemed to take it rather well this time. At least he didn't threaten to disinherit me."
"I do believe he thought you were serious about the artist. Really, Maggie, sometimes you are so outrageous! A Greek island!"
"I think I shocked him with that one," she agreed, walking over to the sofa. "But sometimes Papa can be so overbearing. He thinks he can bully me into doing whatever he wants. And you're no help. Must you keep pushing Hymes down my throat?"
"If you hadn't already refused Lord Edgeware, Lord Worthington, and Lord Montrose, I wouldn't have to." Cornelia's expression became thoughtful. "I know it's sometimes difficult to believe, Maggie, but your father loves you. He wants you to be happy."
"So I am to be displayed all over the ballrooms and drawing rooms of England and the Continent like wares in a shop window? Am I an item to be traded, along with my substantial inheritance, for the price of a title?" Margaret shook her head as she sat down on the sofa. "No, thank you."
"You've been reading too many suffragette pamphlets. Courtship and marriage aren't like that at all."
"Aren't they? If you marry a man who does not love you, marriage is a prison."
Cornelia lifted her hands in a gesture of surrender. "I understand why your father becomes so exasperated with you, I honestly do! Maggie, I have introduced you to dozens of eligible men, yet you reject them all."
"I know what I want, and I won't settle for less. What's wrong with that?"
"No real man ever lives up to your expectations. You dismiss them all without giving any of them a chance to win your affections. You hardly know Lord Hymes, yet the moment you found out he didn't have money, you convicted him as a fortune hunter. You might become better acquainted with him before you make such a harsh judgment."
The clock on the mantel struck half past six, and Cornelia jumped up. "Heavens! We can't continue chatting away. We’ve a ball to attend." She ran for the door. "Think about what I've said," she urged. "I'll see you downstairs."
Her cousin departed in a rush, and Margaret reached for the bell pull to summon her maid. The girl arrived within moments carrying Margaret's gown for the party. After Molly helped her dress, Margaret sent her away. She wanted to be alone.
Her father called her foolish. Cornelia called her unrealistic. Perhaps they were right, she thought, staring at her reflection in the mirror above her dressing table. Not exactly a face and figure that would inspire a man's passion. She saw a round face with brown eyes and a wide mouth, ordinary brown hair without a hint of gold or red to make it interesting, and a plump figure that no corset could mold into the fashionable wasp waist. She saw a taller version of the chubby child she'd once been.
Margaret wrinkled her nose at her reflection and sat down. It didn't really matter what she looked like. She could be a troll with a voice like a corn crake and suitors would still be standing by with their pedantic notions of courtship, treating her with kid gloves for fear of spoiling their chances. She had met many men like Hymes, and she was tired of their hypocrisy.
She thought of her friends—Ann, Eliza, Josephine— girls who had grown up in identical circumstances to her own. They were American girls with wealthy fathers and no background, who had gone to London to find titled husbands. They had found them, and they were miserable. Each had discovered that, beneath the
aristocratic veneer, their dukes and their earls were cold, unfeeling, unfaithful, and usually in debt. Margaret would not make the same mistake.
She twisted her hair into a simple chignon and secured it with a pair of gold filigree combs. But her hands faltered as she began to fasten a diamond necklace around her throat. She ran the sparkling chain through her fingers without seeing its beauty. She would gladly trade all her diamonds and luxuries for a man who truly loved her, but she was afraid that no man would ever love her more than he would love her father's money.
***
Trevor followed the butler down a long hall, noting with appreciation the paintings of Italian and Dutch masters that lined the walls. He appraised their value with a knowledgeable eye. When Edward had wired instructions to Cairo, telling him to bring the necklace to the villa outside Rome where he was staying, Trevor hadn't expected the place to be quite so posh. If Edward could afford to let a house like this, he must have even more money than Trevor had realized. He cast an admiring look over his shoulder at the Rembrandt as he passed through a doorway and onto a portico of marble columns and malachite tile. If he'd known, he'd have upped his asking price for the necklace.
"Lord Kettering will be with you shortly," the butler informed him. With a bow, he departed, leaving Trevor to his contemplation of money, especially his lack of it.
Once he sold Edward the necklace, he'd have three thousand pounds. Unfortunately, he would need a great deal more money than that. Trevor thought of the letter he'd received at the dig in Luxor just over a month ago. It was the only letter he'd received from his mother since his departure from England ten years before. She had made no maternal inquiries about the health or happiness of her second son. She had informed him of his brother's death, inquired about his financial situation, talked woefully about the mess in which Geoffrey had left things when he died, and ended the letter with a demand that he come home and do his duty to the family. It was a duty that had been pounded into his brain since childhood, one she knew he would never ignore.
Knowing his mother had a flair for the dramatic and a tendency to exaggerate, Trevor had wired the family solicitor. Collier had been blunt and succinct in his reply. The debts of Trevor's late brother amounted to approximately two hundred thousand pounds, a staggering sum.
Trevor gazed between the marble columns at the Tiber River, staring at the last lights of sunset on the water. He wondered how he was going to repay a debt of that size. He thought of Ashton Park, of the tenants and their families whose livelihood came from Ashton lands, and of the village tradesmen who needed the patronage of the Ashton estates. The weight of his new responsibilities settled heavily on his shoulders. The fate of so many depended on him.
The sound of footsteps on the tile floor interrupted Trevor's musings. He turned and watched Edward approach.
"Trevor,” the other man greeted him. "I'm glad you've finally arrived. I was worried." He frowned. "You look the very devil. Why in heaven's name don't you shave?"
Trevor rubbed a hand over his stubbled jaw. "My valet decided I don't pay him enough."
"You don't have a valet, and haven't had one since Cambridge days." He gave Trevor a long, hard stare, then said, "Damned malaria again, I suppose?"
"A touch. The journey from Cairo was pretty bad, I must admit. But I'm taking my quinine and I'm well enough now, all things considered. And yourself?"
"Fine, fine." Edward leaned closer, and his smile faded. "Did you bring it?" he asked in a low voice.
"Of course. Did you think I wouldn't?"
"As I said, I was worried. I know the chances you take, my friend."
"I had a bit of trouble," Trevor admitted. "But I handled it."
"Good. It's a lovely evening. Why don't we take a walk?"
Trevor straightened away from the column and followed the other man. They walked without speaking down a short path of lemon trees to a terrace at the edge of a pond. They continued on down a dock that jutted out over the water. It did not escape Trevor's notice that no one could overhear their conversation from here. He almost smiled. Edward was always so cautious.
He reached inside his jacket to pull a paper-wrapped box from the pocket. He unwrapped it, opened the box, and pulled back the protective layers of cotton to reveal the breathtaking collar of lapis and gold.
Edward gave a low whistle of appreciation. "You certainly didn't exaggerate the value of this piece," he said, taking the box to give the necklace closer examination.
"Eighth Dynasty, of course," Trevor told him. "Wife of a priest. Unfortunately, there was little else of value in the tomb. It had already been robbed, but this was missed."
Edward slid the box into the inside pocket of his jacket. "I believe we had agreed on three thousand pounds if the necklace was as you described?"
Trevor gave a brief nod of agreement, and Edward handed him a wad of notes. "You did well," he said. "The museum will be very glad to have this piece in the Egyptian collection."
"Just don't tell them how you got it."
"I never do. So tell me. What delayed you?"
"Lucci. What else?"
Edward was vexed. "That man is proving to be a great inconvenience."
"That's one way of putting it. He stole the necklace from me before I even departed Henet's tomb. He and his men must have followed me there."
"How did you get it back?"
Trevor gave the other man a wicked smile. "Let's just say that Lucci has an incredibly beautiful and very bored wife."
Edward laughed. "I see. Are you planning to return to Egypt?"
"No. I'm going home."
"I suspected as much. You're the best I've got, and I'm sorry to lose you. But at least I'll be able to see you more often." He paused and gave his friend a long, speculative look. "I heard about your brother, of course. How does it feel to be the earl?"
Trevor turned away and gazed at the swans gliding across the water. "Damned odd."
"Trevor, I have to tell you that I've heard rumors…” He paused and gave a discreet cough. “Rumors of financial difficulties. If I've heard the gossip, then…"
"Then so has everyone else," Trevor finished smoothly, betraying none of the dismay he felt. "Thank you for the information."
"I'm afraid the suicide of an earl does not go unnoticed."
"I suppose not. I'm journeying to Kent immediately to see for myself."
"When do you depart?" Edward asked.
"My ship leaves from Ostia tomorrow afternoon."
"Excellent. You'll stay the night here, of course. As you can see, there's plenty of room."
Trevor glanced from the luxurious villa in the distance to the lavish gardens that surrounded them. "It's quite a place," he said as the two men began retracing their steps along the path. "The Kettering estates must be doing well if you can afford to let a villa like this. Or does being a director of the British Museum pay that well?"
"Oh, I'm not leasing it. I'm a guest here. The house belongs to my wife's uncle, Henry Van Alden. He's American—millionaire, as you might guess. Made his money in chocolate, but now he's involved in all sorts of ventures."
Trevor wished he had rich relatives.
The two men halted at the steps leading up to the portico, and Edward turned to Trevor. "So, will you stay the night?"
"I would not wish to intrude."
"Oh, Henry won't mind. Archaeology is a hobby of his, and I know he'll want to talk with you about Egypt. Shall I have a room prepared for you?"
"I'd be glad to stay the night, if you're sure I wouldn't be imposing on your host. My things are at Signora Calvetti's pensione in the Piazza di Angelo."
"I'll send for them." He glanced down at Trevor's rumpled traveling clothes. "Henry and his daughter are having a ball this evening. Formal dress will be required, I'm afraid."
Trevor shook his head. "I've been out of the ballrooms too long. Besides, I'm a bit tired and I still have a long journey ahead of me. I'll give it a miss, if you don't mind."
"Of course. Malaria is a beastly thing, isn't it? Giuseppe will let you know when your room is ready. We have several other guests staying here for the next few days and breakfast is quite informal. Warming dishes on the sideboard any time until eleven o'clock. Now I must change or I'll be late. If you'll excuse me?"
Edward started to go inside, but paused and looked over his shoulder. "It's good to see you again, my friend."
He went inside, and Trevor took a seat on one of the wrought-iron benches in the portico. He sat there a long time, smoking a cigar, watching dusk turn to night. He thought about Edward's comment that rumors were flying all over London and wondered just how much was known. Damn it all, if everyone in society knew just how precarious the Ashton situation was, he'd never be able to raise capital. What the hell was he going to do?
Chapter Two
Margaret hummed under her breath as she studied the couples waltzing across the parquet floor. She watched them from her hiding place behind the tall potted palms and ferns that screened a quiet alcove. From here, she hoped to watch the dancing and enjoy the music while avoiding all the men Cornelia insisted on introducing to her.
