How To Seduce A Sinner

Chapter Seventeen

Carter felt his body sway. He lifted his face to the sun and fleetingly closed his eyes, searching for divine intervention. Surely he had not heard Dorothea correctly. My brother? Impossible!

A gust of wind rustled the leaves in the trees, but he barely felt the breeze, barely felt the sting on his knuckles from the blow he had landed on Roddington’s jaw.

“Carter?” Dorothea’s voice was soft, questioning. A moment of utter silence settled over the garden and then he tilted his head from the sun’s glare and looked directly at his wife. “You are out of your mind!” Carter exclaimed breathlessly. “How can he possibly be my brother?”

“Your half-brother.” An uneasy expression flitted over her face. “It’s the truth, Carter. That’s why the major is here, to tell me.”

“And you believed him!” Carter shook his head vigorously. “’Tis a lie. A bald-faced lie.”

Dorothea’s eyes glistened with unshed tears. “Please, Carter, you must listen to him before you make such a hasty judgment.”

Why was she crying? For him or for Roddington? Carter held up a commanding hand, hoping to silence her. He needed time to think. “I refuse to listen to this rubbish,” he said forcefully, directing his words at the major.

Roddington folded his arms and stared back at him arrogantly. “I told her this is how you would react,” he said bitterly.

“No!” Dorothea exclaimed quickly. “Carter is not like the duke. He is a reasonable man. He will listen. Tell him, Roddy.”

Her fingers gripped Carter’s forearm, pleading with him to stay. He resisted shrugging her off, though every instinct screamed at him to turn and storm away. She was so intent, so emotional. He would listen, refute the lies, and then leave.

It took a moment for the major to find his voice. “My mother was a genteel woman, the daughter of a knight,” the major began. “She was raised in comfort, as befitting a lady, but when her father died he left debts for his only child. Once they were paid, there was very little money. She had no dowry and no desire to be a burden on her relatives, so she was forced to earn her way in the world.”

Carter snorted. God help him if Roddington said his mother had become the duke’s mistress. He would smash his nose, no matter how emotional Dorothea became. It was a well-known fact that the Duke of Hansborough adored his wife and was a loyal and faithful husband.

As if reading the direction of Carter’s thoughts, Roddington scowled. “She found employment as a governess,” he said with emphasis.

“My governess was a woman I remember fondly,” Carter replied. “She was a family retainer who had also taken charge of my father when he was a boy. A female far too old to have given birth to you.”

“I never claimed my mother was hired to care for you,” Roddington shot back. “It was not her employer who violated her trust, who took advantage of a young, pretty, helpless woman. It was the duke who resided on the neighboring estate who seduced her and then abandoned her to bear the child alone and in shame.”

“Who was your mother’s employer?” Dorothea asked.

“Lord and Lady Alderton.”

“That proves nothing!” Carter shouted, though he was rattled to hear the name. The Aldertons’ estate bordered on Ravenswood Manor and his father was the only duke in that county.

Dorothea looked stricken. “Your father has a great dislike of Lord and Lady Alderton. Perhaps the origin of the feud has something to do with this mess.”

Carter shifted his weight uncomfortably. Snippets of conversation came to mind. Things he had overheard as a child, words spoken in anger between his parents, words that made no sense, had no meaning. Until now.

“I certainly require more proof than the odd happenstance of Roddington’s mother once being employed by the Aldertons,” Carter declared. “If that’s even true.”

“That is easy enough to verify,” Roddington countered. “As for the rest, as far as I know, my mother never publicly stated who had fathered her child. She only revealed the truth to me as she lay dying.”

Dorothea set her fingers against her temple. “There must be some record, some kind of documents?”

“There were letters,” Roddington said.

“Letters can be forged.” Carter replied.

Roddington lifted both eyebrows. “How like your father, you are, Atwood. When I presented myself to him, those were his exact words.”

“You’ve spoken with the duke?”

“Yes. Twice, actually.” The major lowered his head and stared at his boots. “The first time I was fifteen. I started for London the day after I buried my mother. It took me a few weeks to arrive and several days before I managed to waylay the duke on the street outside of his club.

“There I was, a green, naïve lad, grieving the loss of the only person who had ever loved me, facing the man who had ruined her life, ruined both of our lives. Yet try as I might, I couldn’t hate him.”

“What happened?” Dorothea asked.

“He gave me his card and told me to call at his house later that day. And so I arrived, filled with false hope and armed with the letters he had written to my mother.

“The duke listened intently to every word I spoke. Then he had a footman toss me out on the street. But before I left, he threatened to have me arrested and thrown into prison if I ever dared to breathe a word of these filthy lies.”

The suppressed anger and resentment simmering deep inside Roddington was visible now. The major’s eyes had gone dark and fierce. His hands were fisted tightly as if he would strike out if given the chance.

“Where are the letters?” Carter asked, watching the stiff set of Roddington’s posture, trying to ascertain if he was telling the truth.

“He took them. I have no doubt they were tossed in the fire before my backside hit the street outside his fancy London mansion.” Though he tried to keep his tone emotionless, the pain in Roddington’s voice was raw.

“You said you have spoken with the duke twice,” Dorothea prompted.

“I saw him again this morning. It was rather simple gaining access to the house now that I am known to the household staff.”

The major stared pointedly at Dorothea and Carter realized what he meant. Roddington was frequently escorting her to society events. The duke’s household would not think anything amiss if the major came to call. This was troubling. Carter wondered how deep the wounds of rejection went, how bitter the resentment tasted. Enough to do harm? To the duke?

Carter quickly surmised the urgent note from the duke he received this morning must be about the situation with Roddington. “What have you done?” Carter asked, his nerves suddenly on edge.

“Worried?” the major whispered in a combative tone.

Carter reflexively closed his fist, longing to have it connect with Roddington’s face. He’d have liked nothing more than to see the major’s eyes widen, his head snap back, and his arms flail as he tried to keep his balance and stay on his feet.

Yet something held his temper in check, kept his fists at his sides. “If you are here, running to my wife with your sorrowful tales, then the duke must have thrown you out. Again.”

“Oh, no.” Roddington’s voice iced over. “I left of my own accord. The decision of how we proceed is now in the hands of the duke.”

“What do you want?” Carter asked crisply, inwardly flinching at the sudden flash of light in the major’s eyes. That did not bode well.

“I want the duke to stand before me and admit what he did, acknowledge that he acted in a heartless, dishonorable manner, and then I want him to beg my forgiveness, on behalf of my mother, for his cruelty and neglect.”

A startled female gasp echoed through the silence. Carter turned and saw Dorothea clutching the fabric of her skirt as she tried to stop her hands from shaking. “The duke is a proud man,” Dorothea ventured. “Even if your claim were proven, I am uncertain he would be agreeable to such a request.”

Roddington drew his brows together quickly. “Then he will have to suffer the consequences of the scandal that will ensue.”

Carter remained impassive, but the barb struck home. Roddington had done his research, he knew where to strike to inflict the greatest pain. The duke’s pride in their family name and legacy was legendary. If there was one thing above all others the duke wanted to avoid, it was a taint to that noble lineage.

“You have far underestimated the duke’s influence,” Carter proclaimed. “He is a man respected and admired by society, by the Prince Regent himself. No one will take your side against him, no one will believe such lies.”

“I am not a lad of fifteen anymore, to be so easily intimidated by the high and mighty Duke of Hansborough,” Roddington sneered. “But more importantly, this is not a lie. And I have the document to prove it.”

Roddy jammed his hat down on his head and urged his horse to a faster pace. The breeze hit him full-on, whipping at his face, but he ignored the sharp bite and crouched lower. The faster he rode, the faster he would reach Town and the faster this would all be over. Or would it?

He scowled. Should he have gone to Dorothea? The doubt of his actions twisted inside him, further confusing his thoughts. The confrontation with the duke this morning had gotten him nowhere but frustrated. Stalking down the halls of that palatial mansion, Roddy had wanted to smash his fist into something, knowing that pounding on something, or someone, was likely the only way he would gain any relief.

Instead, he had sent a message to Dorothea and been informed by the butler that she had gone to visit her sister. Uncertain what else to do, he had followed her to her sister’s home. Given the distant relationship she seemed to have with her husband, he did not know that Atwood would be with her.

Roddy’s scowl deepened. Why could he not simply walk away and forget the matter, let it go once and for all? The duke was never going to acknowledge his paternity. And really, what else did he want from the man? Money? No! To form a relationship, some sort of bond? Hardly.

Yet ever since he had been tossed so unceremoniously from that mansion when he was a lad, he had been obsessed with seeking vindication, and he knew in his heart he could never truly be content until he received the justice he felt he deserved. Not so much for himself, but for his mother.

He turned his horse sharply at the bend in the road, the muscles in his legs trembling with anger and hurt at the memory of his mother’s sad, dispirited face. She was a frail, gentle woman who had been dealt a cruel blow in life, and as soon as he was old enough to understand, Roddy had sought to protect his mother from the censure they had lived under.

He had been a well-behaved boy, a model pupil, never complaining, never causing her a moment’s anguish. Yet still she had suffered, for bearing a child out of wedlock, for proving herself unworthy in the eyes of those who sought to judge her circumstances.

Roddy could feel the sorrow rising in him, pushing next to the regret. When he arrived in London, his initial plan had been simple. He reasoned if he could gain Atwood’s friendship, if he could prove himself to be a worthy man, then the marquess might support his claim, would aid him in making the duke take responsibility. Likewise, he had ingratiated himself with Dorothea, thus strengthening his ties to the family.

Like any intelligent military officer, Roddy had never underestimated the enemy. He had not underestimated the duke, who was as cold and hard and autocratic as Roddy believed, as chillingly cruel as he remembered from their one brief encounter so long ago.

What he had underestimated were his own feelings. The emotions he would feel toward Atwood, his half-brother, a strange mix of admiration and jealousy, a basic desire to be liked but, more importantly, believed. For Dorothea, he felt the genuine affection of friendship and the protective instincts of an older brother.

He wondered what their next move would be, then laughed out loud, knowing he had no idea what direction his own actions would take. He did not have in his possession a document proving the duke’s paternity, because one did not exist. He had lied to Atwood and Dorothea to gain some time, to give more credence to the question he hoped he planted in their minds.

The letters detailing the relationship between his mother and the duke had been taken from him, though he acknowledged they were hardly definitive proof. As Atwood had said, papers could be forged. The one remaining letter he had in his possession had been written by his mother the morning before she died, but it was more a puzzlement than proof. For though she wrote about him, the child she and the duke had created together, on the final line she admitted that she had misled the duke and she asked his pardon.

Not understanding what that could mean, Roddy had attributed those words to her illness, putting no credence in them. When he had so innocently given the duke those letters all those years ago, he had held this one back. Though it proved nothing, he could not destroy it, for it was all he had left of his mother.

How would this all end? With each mile closer to Town, Roddy began to realize that if this final attempt failed, he must somehow find the strength to live in the shadow of rejection. For if he did not…Roddy shook his head. The consequences did not bear thinking.

Dark clouds glowered overhead, suddenly threatening rain. Dorothea looked at Carter. His face was stony. She tried to imagine what he was thinking, feeling, but it was impossible.

“Do you think it is true?”

His voice was flat, emotionless. She inhaled deeply to steady her own rioting emotions. “I think it could be true. There are too many pieces that fit so neatly together. But more importantly, the major emphatically believes that the duke is his father and he is hell-bent on hearing those words fall from the duke’s lips.”

Carter grimaced. “Unfortunately, I agree with you, though in my mind I cannot credit such a tale. My father has always been so straitlaced, so proper. Having an affair with a governess? It smacks far too much of melodrama to be believed.”

“What shall we do?”

He slowly let out a breath. “Go to London and speak with the duke. And then…” His voice trailed off and he shrugged.

Dorothea’s heart ached as she watched the shadows move and shift across his handsome face. “I’m coming with you.”

Something in Carter’s chest twisted. He knew he should tell her it wasn’t necessary, that he would handle the problem on his own, as he always had done. She deserved to be here, with her sisters, sharing in the happiness at the birth of the new babies.

But the words wouldn’t come. Carter swore. He needed her. At this moment in time, when his world was turning upside down, Dorothea was the one constant in his life he could rely upon, the one individual he could trust to be honest and forthright.

She loved him. And he was a heartless rogue for taking advantage of that love, but he couldn’t help himself. It was the only thing keeping him sane and focused at the moment.

While Dorothea gathered her things and said goodbye to her sisters, Carter went to the stables to arrange for their carriage to be made ready. He snapped at the stable hand when the man helpfully suggested it might not be best to drive in an open carriage in this threatening weather, then scowled at the sky as the dark clouds thickened.

“I’m ready!”

He glanced over his shoulder. Dorothea came bounding down the steps, her smile bright and full. She was dressed in a deep-blue traveling gown with a matching pelisse a shade lighter than the skirt. The ribbons in her bonnet sported the same shade of blue. The ache in his heart eased slightly.

They had driven a little over an hour when the first fat raindrop splattered on his shoulder.

“We should turn back,” he said, as the drops began to fall steadily. “Or stop at the nearest inn.”

“Nonsense.” Dorothea shook her head emphatically. “’Tis only rain and might yet let up.”

“If you catch a chill, I’ll never forgive myself.”

She wrinkled her nose. “Goodness, Carter, I’m not that delicate. And although you deem me to be a sweet, fluffy female, I assure you I will not melt in the rain.”

The carriage dipped into a puddle, spraying water everywhere. He tightened the reins, but did not slow the pace. More drops of rain began to fall. The brim of his hat kept the rain from obstructing his vision, but if it kept falling at this rate they would be forced to stop.

He heard not a word of complaint from Dorothea. Not when her pelisse was so wet it turned a darker shade of blue, not when the rain trickling off the edge of her bonnet fell onto her already sodden skirt. She merely clutched his arm and huddled closer, trying to conceal the chattering of her teeth.

He looked over at her. She smiled with encouragement, her eyes warm and comforting, her lashes spiky with rain. Cursing beneath his breath, Carter stopped the carriage in the middle of the road. He handed Dorothea the reins, then jumped down from the curricle. His boots sank in the mud as he walked to her side.

“Why have we stopped?” she asked. “Is something wrong?”

A muscle bunched in Carter’s jaw as he swung his cloak off his shoulders. “Here, take this,” he insisted, enveloping her in the damp garment. “Your gown is nearly soaked through.”

She shivered and shook her head. “But you’ll freeze without it.”

“Better me than you.”

He meant it. She was his to hold and keep, to protect and care for, and he would do that as best he was able, as long as he had breath. The encounter with Roddington had left him feeling confused, powerless, yet with Dorothea beside him the weight pressing down on his shoulders did not feel as heavy. The least he could do was to see to her comfort, since he’d been enough of a fool to bring her out in this weather.

The rain had ceased falling by the time they arrived at the duke’s London home. Soggy, tired, and cold, they trudged upstairs to their suite. Carter insisted that a hot bath be prepared for Dorothea, then he retired to his own bedchamber to change.

He untied and pulled off his cravat, tossed off his coat and waistcoat, then yanked his damp shirt over his head. Dunsford, hovering near, fetched clean, dry garments from the wardrobe even as he clucked his tongue and lamented the condition of Carter’s ruined clothing.

The sound of a feminine giggle and splash coming from behind the closed connecting door captured Carter’s attention. He smiled. Dorothea must be in the tub. He imagined her luscious body, naked beneath a mountain of frothy bubbles, her cheeks flushed and warm from the steaming water. The urge to join her in that tub was a powerful enticement, but instead he toweled himself dry and dressed to meet with the duke.

Carter felt drained as he walked into his father’s study, rather as if he had reached London on foot instead of riding in the carriage. It was as if a strange lethargy had taken over his body, making it hard to think, hard to concentrate. Visibly shaking off the mood, Carter strode forward. The duke was reading some papers when he entered, which he promptly put aside when he saw Carter.

“Damn, it took you long enough to get here.”

“My horse threw a shoe. It took a while to make other arrangements.”

“No matter. You are here now.”

“Yes, as you commanded.” Carter cleared his throat. This was harder than he expected it would be. “Major Roddington came to the Barringtons’. He’s told me everything. I assume that was the reason you summoned me home?”

The duke gasped, paled. “He repeated those filthy lies to you? Damn it all to hell, I’ll have him arrested for slander and thrown into jail!”

Carter felt impatience rising inside him. “Is Roddington lying?”

“Yes!”

“He seems very passionate, very certain,” Carter replied, the emotions storming through his head. He should have felt relief at hearing his father’s denial, but though it was said with great conviction, to Carter’s ears it lacked a ring of truth, a ring of certainty.

“I cannot account for the man’s delusions.”

“But why you? There must be some reason Roddington has drawn this conclusion.”

The duke flicked a nervous glance at Carter, then shot to his feet. “Apparently his mother was employed by Lord and Lady Alderton.”

“Yes, as a governess. Do you recall ever meeting her?”

The duke crossed his arms and stared haughtily down at his son. “Why would I be introduced to a governess?”

Carter shrugged. An excellent point. If anyone would have met the woman, it might have been his mother, for this was a female’s domain. “Shall I make inquiries to the Aldertons regarding her tenure in their employ?”

“Good God, no! Alderton is a buffoon with a taste for gossip. He would like nothing better than to spread these horrific lies about me.”

“If you don’t wish to investigate this woman’s past, then we should investigate Roddington.”

“I’ve already done so.”

Carter’s eyes jerked up to meet his father’s. “So soon? He told me he spoke with you this morning.”

“Yes, well, it actually wasn’t the first time he has darkened my doorstep.”

The duke walked to the sideboard, poured himself a generous measure of brandy, and took a long swallow. When Carter declined a portion, the duke refilled his own glass and took another long drink.

“He first appeared about ten years ago,” the duke continued. “A gangly lad with a fiery temper and an outrageous tale to tell. I hired a Bow Street Runner to try to learn what I could, but he turned up very little. By then the boy had disappeared, so I thought the matter closed.”

“But Roddington has been back in London for weeks,” Carter said. “He’s been in this house, he’s escorted Dorothea to various social events. Hell, he came to my wedding.”

“I barely caught a glimpse of him, was never formally introduced. How could I make the connection between that boy and the man everyone simply referred to as the major?” The duke closed his eyes and scrubbed his hand over his face. “I am too weary for all of this, Carter.”

Carter blinked in surprise, then took note of the deep lines around his father’s mouth, the slight dishevelment of his hair. “I am here to help,” he said quietly.

“Thank you.” The duke lifted his head. “I want you to contact Roddington. Offer him a substantial bank draft and send him on his way.”

Carter stared at his father, shocked by his words. “Why?”

“Because that is the easiest and surest way to be rid of him.”

“It seems illogical to encourage a man to engage in what amounts to nothing more than blackmail,” Carter said. “Especially if there is no merit to his claim.”

The duke’s nostrils flared as a flush spread over his cheekbones. “I’m not a fool. Clearly the major’s motivation is money. And while it is personally distasteful to succumb to such tactics, it is also the quickest way to solve this problem.”

“He told me he has in his possession a document that will prove his claim.”

A powerful emotion flickered over the duke’s face and for a moment Carter thought he would break down. “The major is an opportunist looking for an easy way to make some money. I’m a wealthy man. If this is what it takes to be rid of him, then it is well worth the price.”

A sharp pain shot along Carter’s temple. His father never backed away from a confrontation, especially when he believed he was right. So why was he so eager to let Roddington best him?

“Giving him money will lend credence to his claim,” Carter insisted. “I think it is a grave mistake. If he senses a weakness he will exploit it.”

“He wants a scandal. I will do anything necessary to prevent one.”

“Let him have his scandal,” Carter argued. “We can weather the storm, brazen out the gossip, the snide, telling glances. The Season has nearly ended. By the time it begins again next year, this will no longer be such a juicy tidbit. The matrons of the ton will have found something new to draw their censure and disapproval.”

The duke’s expression turned distant. “I need for this to end.”

Carter could see a bead of sweat forming on his father’s neck. His eyes seemed unusually bright. Tears? Impossible. Unless…?

“I will go to Roddington today,” Carter responded. “He claims not to want any money, but I think I will be able to persuade him to take it.”

The duke looked at Carter, his steely gray eyes sad and unfathomable. “I’m sorry you had to be involved in this mess.”

“It affects you, Father. Naturally it would also involve me.”

Dorothea was waiting when Carter emerged from the duke’s study. She took one look at his ashen face and wordlessly took his hand, leading him to the drawing room. He heard her shoo away the footmen and leave instructions that they were not to be disturbed.

“It’s true, then.” Her words were a statement, not a question.

“He denies it.”

She grasped his arm. “Yet you don’t completely believe him, do you?”

“I don’t know what to believe.” Carter rubbed his forehead. He found it difficult to think with his mind so full of contradictions.

She slid her hand comfortingly up his arm and onto his shoulder. “How does the duke plan to handle this…um…delicate matter?”

“He wants to pay him off. Or rather, he wants me to pay Roddington off.”

“Will it work?”

“Put yourself in Roddington’s place. If you believed the duke was your natural father, would you take his money?”

Dorothea gnawed on her lower lip. “What are you going to do?”

“I’ll speak with Roddington, as my father requested.”

“I’m coming with you.”

“No!” He grabbed her hands. “I need to do this on my own.”

“I’m scared, Carter.” She tore her gaze from his, her expression strained. “I’m worried that things might escalate into violence if you two are alone. My presence should keep the conversation civil.”

“No.”

“Carter, please.”

Carter squeezed her hands, not liking that stubborn tone in her voice. “I promise I shall do nothing to incite Roddington’s anger. And no matter how I am provoked, I will keep my own temper in check.”

He could see she was not entirely convinced, so he kept his expression firm. Finally, she sighed and nodded. “As you wish, my lord.” Then she hesitated, looking down at their clasped hands. “Though the major is only half the problem, as you very well know.”

Two hours later, Carter found himself knocking on a door in a run-down London neighborhood. It had not been difficult to find Roddington’s direction.

“Yes?” A stoic, unfamiliar face peered out of the half-opened door.

Carter gazed levelly into the face of a man whose direct stare and stout bearing suggested military service. A comrade or servant? Honestly, it didn’t much matter. Carter presented his card.

“The Marquess of Atwood to see Major Roddington. Is he at home?”

Revealing his identity put the man on even higher alert. He straightened his already squared shoulders as his mouth crumbled down in a frown. “The major’s not here.”

“Is he expected back soon? My business is of a personal nature and rather urgent.”

“Ah, so now after all these years, it’s urgent, my lord?” He favored Carter with a cold, appraising stare that Carter returned with equal measure. The question hung in the air.

The man blinked. “I’ll let him know you’ve been here,” he said gruffly.

Carter gave him a curt nod and turned around. He ducked his head under the low doorway as he exited the building, his mind in turmoil. For a full minute he stood on the street, trying to decide his next move. It was not a particularly fashionable neighborhood, but he had seen worse. Perhaps the duke was right, though. Perhaps all Roddington did want was money.

“Out slumming, Atwood?”

Carter relaxed at the familiar male voice. “Benton, what brings you to this part of Town?”

The viscount grinned. “I’ll agree there’s not much to recommend the area, but there is a superior tobacconist a few blocks away that I frequent.”

“By any chance is there a decent tavern nearby?”

“I might know of one or two.”

Carter grimaced. “Well, lead on, my friend. I find I have a great need for some strong libation.”