The Perfect Seduction

  PROLOGUE

  The air was thick and hot and alive with the drone of insects. There was no respite from it, not even in the shade of the veranda. A bead of perspiration trickled slowly down Seraphina Treadwell's back as she looked at the two coins in the palm of her hand. With the other, she tightened her grip on her portfolio. Forcing a smile, she met her patron's gaze and said as politely as she could, "I recall that we agreed on a commission of five pounds sterling."

  "True," Cora Matthews said, her chin high and her lips thinned with a smirk. "However, Lord Matthews has pointed out in the interim that you are without formal training or credentials and should therefore be quite grateful for whatever sum I choose to give for your work. 1 have decided that two pounds is quite sufficient."

  And Lord Matthews was quite without a legitimate title; everyone in Belize City knew the pomposity for what it was. Her pulse hammering, Sera tried .one more time.

  "We agreed-"

  "It's two pounds or nothing at all, Mrs. Treadwell. Given your circumstances-"

  "I am very much aware of my circumstances," Sera interrupted, hastily dropping the coins in her reticule. I am aware of a great many things, she silently added, setting her leather case on the wooden planking at her feet. Not the least of which is that you would have little girls go hungry and shoe less rather than honor your word.

  Carefully extracting the charcoal drawing' from the carrying case, Seraphina turned it so that the other could fully see it. "As you commissioned, a drawing of your house. Done, as per your request, with considerable ... aggrandizement. Does it meet your expectations, Lady Matthews?"

  The woman's eyes sparkled for just a moment and then the mask of cold disdain slipped back into place. "It will have to do, won't it? You are the only artist in the colony."

  Seraphina smiled. "I am, indeed," she replied while blithely tearing the drawing straight down the center. She handed one half to a stunned, wide-eyed Cora Matthews while adding, "You've paid for half a picture. When you decide to pay for the other half, do let me know."

  While the other woman sputtered in wordless rage, Seraphina dropped the remaining half of her work into the portfolio, saying, "Good day, Mrs. Matthews," then turned, lifted her hems, and walked smartly down the veranda steps.

  She was halfway down the front path and into blazing sunlight when Cora Matthews found her voice. Sera smiled, ignoring the diatribe. There was nothing Cora Matthews could do to her. They were at the end of nowhere.

  Actually, Seraphina silently amended as she lifted the hem of her skirt higher and vaulted over a mud puddle, Belize City was beyond the end of nowhere. It was nothing more than a flat place on the mosquito-infested coastline of the Gulf of Mexico. It didn't belong to any country in particular, not even itself. There wasn't a local government, or a constabulary, or anything approaching a definable culture. Belize City simply existed, steaming at the edge of the jungle, day in and day out, year after year after year.

  Most people didn't plan to come here; life simply washed them up on the shore. She could count on one hand the number of persons she knew for whom Belize had been their intended destination. Of those five, one had come to his senses and sailed away within a month. Two of them-her parents-had been laid to rest in the cemetery.

  The other two-Arthur and Mary Reeves-had gone off on yet another exploration for ancient civilizations.

  They'd planned to be gone for two weeks. The two weeks had become two months; the two months had now stretched to six.

  God bless Arthur and Mary-wherever they were.

  Their house still stood and their daughters were fine-or as fine as three young ladies could be, given that their parents had disappeared without a trace. The Reeveses' money was a different matter entirely, however. It had been gone for the last month and a half.

  Seraphina sighed. She'd counted on the pittance from Cora Matthews to buy food for this evening's table. With what had been left over, she'd thought to order the eldest of the girls a desperately needed pair of shoes.

  Now, because of the woman's stinginess, shoes were out of the question. The two coins jangling in her reticule wouldn't buy all that much food, but at least it would keep the wolf from tearing down the door for another week. After that ... After that, their survival was going to depend on divine intervention. It was altogether too much to hope that God would offer her a way to get the Reeveses' daughters out of this hideous place.

  A way out ... Seraphina paused in the center of the muddy roadway. Beyond the half-dozen ramshackle buildings that comprised Belize City proper, a two-masted ship sat at anchor in the bay. Having arrived sometime during the night, it was presently sending a portion of its crew to shore in several small dinghies. Beyond it all, from far out at sea, came the daily bank of rain clouds.

  One didn't need to own a watch in Belize, Seraphina reminded herself as she gathered her skirts and strode forward.

  The rain came at two o'clock each afternoon. And while misfortune wasn't quite as predictable, it did occur far more frequently. The ships that blew into the bay invariably brought a brimming portion of it. She needed to be home with the girls before the captain turned loose his sailors and the sailors turned Belize City into Gomorrah.

  Marta de Leon, Sera decided, setting her course toward the small flock of molting chickens halfheartedly pecking the bare ground in front of Marta's mildew-stained tent.

  Marta would exchange provisions for the two pounds sterling and not mention the ten already owed her. The other traders weren't as likely to be as generous or kind.

  "Momin', Mrs. Treadwell."

  Sera started at the familiar voice and quickly turned toward it, unwilling to have Milton Hopkins at her back. "Got a letter for ya," he said, pulling it from the front pocket of his tattered, filthy dungarees and stepping deliberately close-too close-in order to hand it over.

  "For me?" Sera asked, taking the once white packet and then stepping back to put a more acceptable, safer distance between them.

  "Well, for Mr. Reeves," Hopkins clarified, his words whistling from between the teeth he had remaining. "But seein' as how he's not here to accept it for hisself and how he and his missus left their girls with ya, it seems like maybe it might be all right to give it to ya for safekeepin'."

  ''Thank you," she replied, studying the envelope. It was indeed addressed to Arthur Reeves. The penmanship was excellent. There were no extraneous flourishes and not the slightest sign of wavering. The hand that had written it had been precise, strong, determined, sure. Bold. Definitely male.

  "It's from London," Hopkins said. "England."

  "So I see."

  "Ship sent the mail in a couple of hours ago. I was goin' to bring it out to the house after a bit, but since yer here and the walk's a fair to middlin' one ... "

  Summoning a polite smile, she backed away, saying, "I'm glad I was able to save you the trek. I appreciate your attention to duty, Mr. Hopkins. I'll keep it safe until Mr. Reeves's return."

  "Had any word from your husband?"

  She froze, her heart tripping as she scanned his face, looking for the slightest sign that he knew something she didn't. "Not since he led the Reeveses off into the jungle," she answered warily. Taking a slow, deep breath to brace herself, she asked, "Have you heard from him?"

  "Not a peep."

  Sera sagged with relief, then, remembering that she was supposed to be a concerned wife, stiffened her back and mustered what she hoped passed for an expression of disappointment and grim resolution.

  "Don't lose hope, Mrs. Treadwell. Folks have been known to walk out of the jungle. And if anyone can, it'd be Gerald Treadwell."

  An icy wave rippled down Seraphina's spine. "I pray each night for a miracle," she answered tightly,
shuddering as a second chill raced through her.

  "Now, it would be a miracle if ya ever saw those Reeves folks again. Wouldn't count on it, Mrs. Treadwell. Six months ... " He shook his head. "Not even their bones

  is left now."

  She choked back a gasp and then did her best to swallow the anger that came in its wake. Still, it edged her words when she said, "And you were doing so well at buoying my spirits."

  Oblivious to her sarcasm, Hopkins nodded and openly considered the curve of her breasts. "Ya have to face the facts sooner or later, Mrs. Treadwell. Odds are ya won't , be a widow, but those girls is orphans. Pure and simple.

  Best be makin' some plans for them. Mizz Amanda's gettin' close to the marrying age." Seraphina's jaw sagged. Marrying age? Amanda, the eldest of the three girls, was all of nine years old!

  "And speakin' of the sweet little thing," Hopkins went on, making a production of looking around the little village. "I don't see Mizz Amanda anywheres about."

  And Belize would freeze before he did. "She's at home this morning, helping her younger sisters with their arithmetic and geography lessons." And just so that he didn't entertain any untoward ideas, she briskly added, "I'm on my way back there now."

  He spat on the ground between Sera's feet and, ignoring her gasp and hasty two-step retreat, said, "You really ought to bring her into town more often, ya know. Girl her age ought to be seein' folks besides the family hens.

  My Isabel would be right good company for Mizz Amanda. 'Bout the same age, they are. Give or take a year or two."

  Three, actually, Sera silently corrected. But a lifetime apart in terms of sordid, worldly experience. And it would remain that way as long she had breath in her body. No decent woman-of any age-should ever know the things that the twelve-year-old bride of Milton Hopkins did.

  "I know a man over in Guatemala who might be interested in her."

  Seraphina pretended that she hadn't heard the offer or noticed that his gaze had dropped to her hips. What a loathsome man! She fisted her free hand even as she reminded herself that she had been brought up as a gentlewoman.

  Good Lord, there simply had to be a way to get the girls out of this nightmarish place. There had to be.

  But first she had to get away from Milton Hopkins. And the rudeness of obvious escape be damned; her skin was beginning to crawl.

  ''1 really must be going, Mr. Hopkins. The girls are waiting luncheon on me. Thank you again for delivering the letter," she said, then deliberately turned away and resumed her earlier course.

  She didn't glance back; she didn't dare. His leering always brought out the worst in her. The man bad so few teeth left as it was. If she were to punch him as she was so sorely tempted to do, he'd starve to death and she'd spend forever feeling guilty. And then, of course, there would be the inevitable talk. Did you hear what Seraphina Miller-Treadwell did? Her reputation was tattered enough already; killing Milton Hopkins would be its final unraveling.

  He simply wasn't worth it, Marta's chickens-even more pathetically defeathered at a closer distance-squawked in protest and scurried to be out of her path. But once they were away, they fell silent, allowing the low drone of conversation to reach her ears.

  Seraphina paused, wondering how much longer Marta would be with her other patron. Should she patiently wait or make her presence known by knocking on the pie tin nailed to the tent's center post? Good manners weren't generally expected or practiced in Belize. She glanced toward the shore and noted the dinghies being dragged up out of the tide line. Time was growing short. Twin beads of perspiration rolled down her. back and into the already drenched layers of fabric encircling her waist.

  Sera listened again to the conversation inside the tent, Noting that it now contained the certain ring of business being concluded. Deciding that she could afford to be polite and wait her turn, she resisted the urge to use her sleeve to wipe her brow and instead considered the letter crumpled in her hand. It took a moment and a bit' of shifting, but she managed to tuck her portfolio under her arm and free her hands for use.

  She smoothed the wrinkles from the letter as best she could and then reexamined the boldly written address. Arthur William Albert Reeves. Belize. Clearly, the sender had no inkling that Arthur had disappeared. Which left her in a quandary as to what to do. Seraphina sighed, wishing 'this sort of decision hadn't been thrust upon her and yet knowing that she didn't have any choice but to make it.

  One shouldered all manner of burdens for friends.

  The simplest solution would be to file the letter in the box of receipts she was amassing in Arthur's absence, but if she did, there was a possibility that she would be ignoring important business that needed to be addressed.

  What that business might be, she hadn't the foggiest notion.

  But she did know that in the three years the Reeveses had been in Belize, Arthur had never received correspondence of any sort. Mail came so seldom that everyone knew when it did and who had received what. The very fact that a letter had come at all implied that it was of great importance and therefore she was duty-bound to ascertain its contents. And considering that Arthur and Mary had left her in charge of their home, their children, and their money ... Surely that delegation of authority extended to dealing responsibly with their correspondence.

  Of course, there was nothing on the face of the letter itself to suggest that it was of a business nature. It was just as likely to be a personal communication. If it was, to open and read it would be a grave violation of Arthur's privacy.

  "You're dithering, Sera," she muttered, frustrated with herself. "Just open the thing and be done with it."

  Her teeth clenched, she quickly broke the seal on the letter and opened the folds. Two slightly wrinkled one-hundred-pound banknotes fell out and fluttered down toward the mud at her feet. Her heart racing and lodged high in her throat, Seraphina dropped her portfolio to save them-and the girls-from ruin.

  London

  1860

  CHAPTER 1

  It had been damn inconsiderate of Percival to drown in his bowl of porridge. And Arthur was certainly taking his sweet time about assuming the mantle of responsibility.

  As brothers went, the two of them were pathetic at best. The fact that they were--or in the case of Percival, were half- brothers didn't matter. Between them, they'd managed to top off his well of resentment. Yet again.

  "Wallowing in dark thoughts, Carden?"

  He continued to stare into the depths of his morning teacup as he honestly answered, "No more so than usual, Aiden. No more so than usual."

  Across the table, Barrett Stanbridge reached for a third slice of toast and asked, "And would this be the usual thoughts over the state of the empire? Or perhaps the fact that no one's building railroads in England these days?"

  Slathering a generous portion of butter on the lightly browned bread, he added, "Or maybe you're dwelling on the rather nasty comments Lady Caruthers offered on your plans for her new conservatory?"

  "I was going to get to those items in good time," Carden admitted. wondering if noon was too early in the day to begin drinking. "And I wouldn't be using my talents to design conservatories for silly old ladies if Parliament would get on with the standardization of gauges for the existing rail systems."

  "Ah. Very true," Aiden Terrell replied, setting his empty teacup aside and reaching for a cherry pastry.

  Barrett nodded in agreement and spooned up a heap of strawberry jam. 'Then the black thoughts have to be about his having to endure the privileges of being a peer until his brother returns from God knows where."

  "Arthur's in Belize. And there's precious little privilege to offset the tedium of being a peer," Carden snapped, polishing off his tea and setting the cup back into its saucer with a loud clink.

  "We'll have to take your word on the matter," Barrett countered, grinning. "Neither of us is ever going to .know for ourselves. Which; of course, begs the question of why you continue to associate with us."

  "Because
you're happy drunks and miserable card players." Aiden laughed and refilled his cup from the silver teapot.

  'That and we're most kind about taking the unwanted women off your hands."

  Carden momentarily winced. Damn if he hadn't forgotten about dealing with that bit of business. Out of sight, out of mind.

  "Speaking of women," Barrett said predictably, momentarily forgetting his toast and making a production of looking around the breakfast room, ''where's the lovely thing with whom you left Covent Garden last night? Have you got her under the table?"

  The suggestion triggered a mental image. Carden mentally filed it away and shifted in his chair to casually arrange the silk dressing gown so that it concealed his physical response to it. "As far as I know," he answered his friends, "she's still upstairs, still abed. I haven't checked recently."

  "It's rather late in the morning," Barrett observed before taking a wolfish bite of his toast.

  "We were up rather late into the night," Carden replied with a smile, knowing he was expected to say something of the sort. One accommodated friends in such things. And, being friends and gentlemen, he knew they wouldn't press for details on precisely bow he'd passed the hours spent in the woman's company.

  "Might we take this as a sign," Aiden asked, adding cream to his second cup of tea, "that this one will be around a bit longer than the others before her?" Carden laughed at the less than subtle-and so very expected-inquiry. "No. And no, I don't care which of you takes her off my hands. Draw straws if you'd like."

  "Aiden got the last one," Barrett declared. "It's my turn. What's her name?" "Jenine. Or Joan," Carden supplied. He shrugged and added, "Or something like that. We didn't engage in any prolonged conversations."

  Barrett nodded, his eyes narrowed as he looked out the open breakfast room doors and toward the stairwell at the front of the house. "Have you hired a new housekeeper yet?"

  Puzzled by the abrupt change of subject, Carden glanced toward Aiden, seeking an explanation. The other shook his head and shrugged his shoulders in silent reply.

  "All right, Barrett," Carden said on a sigh. "What does my hiring a housekeeper have to do with the woman presumably still in my bed?"