The Secret Seduction of Lady Eliza Read online

  The Secret Seduction of Lady Eliza

  A "Tales From Seldon Park" Novel

  By Bethany M. Sefchick

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2015

  Bethany M. Sefchick

  All rights reserved

  For my friends in the Poconos...

  Enjoy!

  Prologue

  Early May 1820

  "What are you about, Brat?"

  Lady Eliza Deaver, daughter of the Marquess of Framingham, glared up at the gentleman towering over her in the near darkness, his face a mask of icy calm. She supposed that most people would refer to him as menacing. Other, more foolish people might even consider him evil. She, however, was none of those things. And neither was he.

  "Go away, Nicholas," she hissed, well aware that she was one of the few people in all the world who could call The Bloody Duke of Candlewood by his Christian name and live to tell about it. "I am merely observing the festivities."

  "From behind a row of potted plants? No. I do not believe so. You are spying," Nicholas Rosemont - the aforementioned duke - corrected, resting his arm lazily against one of the many columns that lined the far side of the Earl of Devonmont's grand ballroom where the family's annual musicale had just been held earlier that evening. Or rather had attempted to be held, for as usual, a social scandal of the highest order had interrupted the proceedings. It never failed.

  Eliza gave a haughty sniff of derision, her turquoise eyes like blue ice in the dim light. "It takes one to know one. My lord." She tacked the "my lord" onto the end of her words rather haphazardly. As if his title was an afterthought. Which, to her, it rather was.

  "Brat." The duke's tone was laced with a dangerous edge, almost like a warning. That tone meant that he had something he wished to say to her. And he would say it whether she wanted to hear it or not.

  With a huff of disgust, Eliza pulled back from the thick row of potted plants that she had been hiding behind in order to observe her good friend Lady Diana Saintwood who was even now dancing with Lord Lachlan McKenna, the current Marquess of Hallstone. The very same man who also just happened to be the great love of Diana's life. And was, at the moment, probably making plans to whisk Diana off to Gretna Green so that they might be wed with all possible haste. After all, that was terribly romantic, and precisely what Diana deserved after all she had endured.

  When Eliza turned to glare at Nicholas in defiance, she silently admitted to herself that her glasses most likely ruined the effect somewhat. She could have taken them off, she supposed. Nicholas was one of the few people who knew that she didn't really need them to see clearly. However, she was worried that she might forget to put them back on again and that would be a problem. If she suddenly regained the power of unaided sight? Well, that was not something she would wish to explain.

  After realizing her glare alone would be ineffective, Eliza crossed her arms over her chest instead, not giving a single thought to the fact that a young, unmarried woman should not be in the company of an unwed man. Especially one who was rumored to be as dangerous as The Bloody Duke.

  "What do you want, Nick?" Eliza sighed when she realized he was not in the least intimidated by her, uncrossing her arms as she started to rub her temples in frustration. So much for being viewed as defiant, she supposed.

  In fact, Eliza wasn't defiant at all. She was tired and she wanted to go home. It was also why she used the shortened form of his Christian name. When she referred to him by that name alone, it was a sign to him that he best not forget precisely who she was. "I am merely observing my friend." She cast her gaze in the direction of the dance floor once more. "Lady Diana has been hurt a great deal as of late. I do not wish to see her endure more pain." Then Eliza looked away, embarrassed, knowing that most likely, her entire body was flushed pink. "Nor do I wish to be viewed as a jealous, gawking wallflower. Or worse, an overwrought spinster. So I hide here rather than become the subject of rabid gossip. You of all people should understand that."

  At her words, the duke's expression softened immediately. "Forgive me, Eliza. I am sorry." From the expression on his face, she could tell that he was sincere in his apology. For all that they argued, Eliza knew Nicholas did not wish to see her feelings hurt unnecessarily. "I am simply trying to ensure a happy ending for all involved. I did not use my considerable influence to ship that man's witch of a stepmother back to Scotland only to have one of her nosy friends undoing all of my hard work." Then he grimaced. "Not to mention that Prinny has high hopes for that match. Bringing a Scottish estate such as the one Hallstone will eventually inherit under English control would be a coup of the highest order." He shook his head. "I could not let you undo all of my hard work."

  "I was not about to. I was merely observing. It is what I do, Nick. You know this." She looked across the ballroom to where Diana and Lachlan were disappearing down one of the grand town home's long corridors. That hallway, Eliza knew, led directly to the mews in the back of the earl's home. And from there to the guests' carriages by a side portico. She had a fairly good idea where her friend was going with the man she so clearly adored. And she wished them both well.

  When Eliza turned back to the duke, he must have seen the sadness in her eyes as well, for he reached out and grasped her hand. The gesture should have shocked her. He should not have been so bold. But this was Eliza. And he was Nicholas. Theirs was a rather different and complicated sort of relationship.

  "You must stop this spying, Izzy." It had been years since Nicholas had used her childhood nickname, a sure sign that he was truly distressed over her actions, which gave her pause. "It is not proper. Go find yourself a husband. I understand that Lord Hunt is vying for your affections. Or join a convent. Or start a hat shop. Or travel the world by camel. I do not care. But stop this blasted spying business at once. Unconventional you might be, but much of what you do is far too risky for a young lady of your station. And completely unnecessary. You do not think your hare-brained plans through. You simply do them. Moreover, you are not a spy, though you may very well be an excellent gossip. All of this sneaking around is not good. What if someone discovers you? What if you fall into peril and I cannot protect you?"

  There were so many things wrong with that entire string of sentences, Eliza could not even begin to catalog them all. So she let them pass unremarked upon. Nicholas meant well. And truly, he did have a point. Then again, she wanted to remind him that he was doing precisely the same thing she was - spying from behind a thick row of potted plants. And he was a spy. Of sorts, anyway. However, she allowed that to pass as well. She was simply too weary to fight, and even if she had not been, she was not about to argue the point with a man like Nicholas Rosemont.

  "Very well, Lord Candlewood. Though might I remind you that I have never once asked you to protect me. I do not need you to do so now, either. As I have said many times over the years, I do not need you - or any man - at all." With a sharp intake of breath, Eliza drew herself up to her full height and with a quick shove, settled her glasses back on the bridge of her nose. "I have observed what I wished to anyway." Then she dusted off her skirts and prepared to sneak back into the ballroom by way of a small servant's door that led directly from the area behind the potted plants to a connecting door in the corridor. That door eventually led to a secluded area outside a small sitting room. And from there to the ladies' retiring room. Perfect for returning to the ball without anyone even noticing that sh
e had been gone.

  Eliza began to walk away when she felt a warm, gloved hand on her shoulder. She stopped. Nicholas knew she would. Damn him. "Izzy?" His words were thick and rough. "I am sorry. Please. But you know that Stephen would not wish any harm to befall you. I gave my word."

  Eliza knew that, too. She had heard those words before. So many times. However for some reason, tonight, they rang hollow. And this time when she walked away from The Bloody Duke, he let her go.

  Chapter One

  Later that same night

  "Tonight's entertainment was something of a muddle, wasn't it, dear?" From the opposite side of the Deaver family's well-sprung coach, Eliza watched her mother, Lady Clara Deaver, the Marchioness of Framingham, in the dim light cast by the single candle inside the carriage. Her parents did not care much for the dark, yet only allowed one candle - well encased in a sconce, of course - to burn when they traveled at night, for fear of a fire.

  "It was only a muddle because Lord Hathaway made it so." Eliza didn't know what sort of response her mother was looking for from her this evening. Mama was in something of a mood, and when she became like this, Eliza was never quite certain what response would mollify her mother or what might anger her. The last thing Eliza wanted was to upset her mother. That would only upset her father in turn, and then the entire household would be in an uproar. Again. Not to mention that Eliza loved her parents far too much to cause them any more undue pain.

  Thankfully, her comment earned a dry chuckle from her father. "That boy is a mutton-headed fool if I ever saw one." Jonas Deaver, Marquess of Framingham, shook his head in obvious disgust. "Now that Candlewood has made his position on the subject known, it's best the man follow the duke's lead and allow the Saintwood girl to marry her marquess." Then he peered at his daughter over his wire-rimmed spectacles. "She is your friend, Eliza. What do you think?"

  "I believe Lady Diana and Lord Hallstone are well matched." For Eliza truly did believe that her friend had found her prince charming in the form of the handsome half-Scottish marquess. "And as for the rumors that he is completely Scottish, I know for a fact that isn't true. His mother was English. That is how he came by his current title. It passed to him from her father. The current Lord Hallstone's grandfather. Apparently he did not wish a distant relative to inherit when there was a male heir closer to the original bloodline. Also, the marquess was raised mostly in England. Only his later years were spent in the Highlands. His speech might have a bit of a burr, but his sense of honor is completely English."

  If there was one thing her father treasured above all it, it was facts and Eliza had long ago learned that if she was to survive - or at the very least be noticed - in this family, she needed to have an endless supply of them. Facts were what allowed the Deaver family to exist at all, even if some would argue that they were not truly existing.

  It was facts that provided her parents hope when there was not much to be hopeful about. The fact that her brother's body had never been found was one of them. Therefore, in her parents' mind, facts ruled all. And had since that terrible, awful day.

  "Good. Good. An excellent match, then." Satisfied, Eliza's father sank back against the carriage's squabs. "And you, my daughter? How did you fare this evening?"

  Eliza knew this part of the routine conversation well. Once the most important and gossip-worthy business of the evening was discussed - in this case, Diana and Lachlan's whirlwind romance - the conversation would turn briefly to her. It was expected, and by now, Eliza knew to formulate her responses early on to the question she would inevitably be asked. After all, they were the same questions each evening, no matter where the family went.

  "Very well, Papa." That was Eliza's standard first answer, and she saw her father nod and smile in appreciation of the nearly rote words. It wasn't happiness. Eliza was not so foolish as to ever think that. It was sameness. And in her father's eyes, sameness was a very good thing, indeed.

  "Did you dance, dear?" That question came from her mother, just as it always did.

  Eliza nodded succinctly. "Three times. Once with Viscount Chillton." She turned to her father. "You would most likely know him as Frost. He will have a regulation regarding new irrigation procedures for marshy acreage on estates in Northumbria pending in Parliament this fall. He is something of a flirt, but harmless enough."

  "I have not heard of him. Is he English?" Her mother offered a slight deviation from the usual course of questioning, but not much. This slight change was accepted by all in the carriage, of course, since it dealt with facts.

  "Yes." Eliza had made certain to obtain as much information as she could about each of her dance partners. Just as she always did. Facts, not emotions, were what drove the Deaver family. "His family is from Oxfordshire. Their country estate is called Hallowby Grange." Then without missing a beat, she turned back to her father. "I also danced with Lord Hunt. He is poor but respectable. I also danced a quadrille with the Earl of Raynecourt. He has been on the Continent for some time and only just returned to Town, but he is a friend of Lord Candlewood's."

  Her father nodded absently, as if he was receiving a grain report from his land steward. "Any men that you made certain to avoid?"

  Eliza made certain to sit up as straight as she possibly could. It would not do to appear as if she had something to hide. "Yes. Lord Wright, who is a known reprobate, and Baron Rockville, who is garnering something of a despicable reputation among the patronesses at Almack's."

  She neglected to add that she had nearly been cornered by Lord Henry Fontaine, the future - or perhaps current, as one could never be quite certain where the French aristocracy stood at any given moment - Comte de LaCroix. The man was now looking for a wife and was desperate enough that he would chase after any unwed young lady. Even one with Eliza's rather bluestocking reputation.

  Eliza also did not mention her little spying adventure behind the potted plants with Lord Candlewood. For obvious reasons.

  "Very well." Her father nodded in approval, and Eliza breathed a small sigh of relief, which was also mixed with a familiar twinge of regret. The tiny portion of the evening's conversation dedicated to her was at an end. Normally, she was glad of it. Tonight, however, she was unsettled, most likely because of her encounter with Nicholas. For once, she wanted her parents to ask more questions. Not that her responses to their questions had given them any reason to, she supposed. Nor was she likely to tell them the reason for her unease. Or admit that she had spoken intimately with Lord Candlewood. Alone.

  For in her parents' eyes anyway, there was no reason that tonight should be any different than the literally hundreds of nights before. And Eliza had been careful not to give them any reason to suspect that anything was amiss. After all, her parents valued sameness in their lives above all else. They did not like the unexpected. They adored schedules and sameness. They arrived at functions early and left early - when they went out at all. Twice a year, they hosted events in their home - a ball at the very beginning of the season and a dinner party with dancing just before most of society departed London for the summer season.

  Life for Jonas and Clara Deaver was perfectly the same, ruled by an endless stream of facts. Day after bloody boring day. It was their chosen way of life. Their penance for what they saw as their greatest failure. Unfortunately, they were forcing Eliza to live that life with them.

  And tonight when she had watched one of her best friends quite literally walk away with the man of her dreams, Eliza had come to the realization that she was tired of it. She was weary of the sameness and the need to collect facts as if they were gold coins so that she would have currency to trade upon with her family in order for them to even notice her. Or at least notice her beyond the fact that she took up a place at the dinner table and occasionally cost her father funds for her dressmaker's bills at Madame LaVallier's fine shop.

  Eliza was also well aware that there was no way out of the life she was living until she reached her majority and could retreat to the dower ho
use at Langton Abby, her family's country seat. That was only two years away. But at this very moment, it looked to be a very long two years.

  Well, unless she married, of course. That would certainly be a way out of the sameness. But that was no longer truly an option for her either. At eight and twenty, Eliza had long since been relegated to the realm of spinsters and wallflowers. And even if she had been passingly pretty - which she was not, at least in her opinion - she was still a bluestocking. Her need for endless facts and tidbits of information had made her thus. It was a vicious cycle that there was no hope of breaking.

  And that - coupled with the impending marriages of her two best friends - made Eliza feel more alone than she ever had before. More alone than she had felt when Stephen had died. And that was staying something. For when one lost their brother and hero, that sort of emptiness stuck with a person for a good long time, as Eliza had unfortunately discovered.

  "I saw your friend Lady Sophia this evening, as well."

  With that comment from her mother, Eliza knew that the conversation was about to take the inevitable turn that it always did after the perfunctory inquiries about her own evening's activities.

  "She is newly betrothed to Lord Selby." Eliza supplied the information, knowing that it was expected of her.

  "Our Stephen would have been a perfect match for her, you know. They would have made a most elegant couple." And with that follow-up comment from her father, the longest and most painful - for Eliza at least - portion of the evening had begun.

  Without fail, after each event the Deaver family attended, on the carriage ride home, the rest of the evening proceeded by rote. The same questions and patterns, night after night after night. First there would be the discussion of the events of the evening, followed by a brief recap of Eliza's dance partners. And then a young woman who had been in attendance - usually the prettiest available woman, but not always - would be mentioned and Eliza's parents would be off.