Touch of a Scoundrel (Touch of Seduction 3) Read online

  “You could have your choice of women here in England, Teddy,” she continued. “Lord Whitmore’s youngest daughter has just come out. Surely you remember Lady Cressida.”

  “I don’t want Lord Whitmore’s daughter.”

  “Why ever not?” the countess asked, her tone still bland as porridge, as if she weren’t afraid her younger son was about to make a terrible mistake for which there was no remedy that wouldn’t result in scandal. “I hear Lady Cressida has grown quite lovely, and she’s been hailed a very pattern sort of girl by one and all.”

  Calling a debutante “pattern” was their mother’s finest compliment. It meant the young lady in question followed accepted protocol to the letter and never put so much as a kid-soled toe out of line.

  Theodore gave their mother an exasperated kiss on the cheek, murmured something about catching up with his friends at White’s, and made good his escape.

  The countess sighed. Devon felt the weight of her displeasure settling on his shoulders. Since his father’s death, she’d leaned heavily on him for everything. She never scolded. She had no need. One sigh was enough to curdle his guilt-ridden soul.

  “I’ll see about it, Mother,” he said.

  She smiled brightly at him. “Oh, I know you will, dear. Just as you always do.”

  Devon took care of everything, and in a way that kept her from knowing the burdens he bore. Thanks to his winnings from last night, the estate was solvent again, but that could change in a heartbeat.

  The countess was old-fashioned enough to abhor trade, but the truth of the matter was the revenue from the estate’s lands was barely enough to cover upkeep and improvements. It certainly didn’t generate enough to keep his mother in the style to which she was accustomed. Theodore wouldn’t have been able to traipse about the Mediterranean for half a year on the estate’s rents and their younger sister, Louisa, would have no dowry to speak of.

  If Devon didn’t invest, sometimes speculatively, their coffers would be bare indeed. His latest debacle was half interest in a merchant ship called the Rebecca Goodspeed. Unfortunately, she hadn’t been heard from since she’d tangled with a storm off the Cape of Good Hope. So Devon was forced to scramble to cover the shortfall. He’d never been able to summon his gift for a peek into the future of a stock or commodity, but fortunately, cards were another matter.

  Being lucky at cards was a gentlemanly virtue none could question unless they wished to meet him on a field of honor. Since Devon never palmed a card and was known to be a dead shot, it was highly doubtful such a challenge would ever come.

  “Are you all right, dear?” his mother asked. “You’re looking a bit pale.”

  He forced a smile. “I’m fine,” he lied. “I just need a little sleep.”

  “I shouldn’t wonder with the hours you keep.” She made a small tsking sound, then changed the subject with her typical quicksilver style. “You know, a thought just occurred to me. Perhaps our misgivings about Miss Farnsworth are misplaced. The girl might have Teddy’s best interests at heart, after all. She may have refused him because she recognizes the difference in their stations and fears they could never be truly happy because of it.”

  “Perhaps,” Devon said, but he doubted it.

  Then his mother switched opinions as she always did. She seemed incapable of settling firmly on one side of any issue. “But perhaps it doesn’t signify that she is a nobody. Remember your great-grandfather married down and was deliriously happy as a result.”

  How could Devon forget? The woman his great-grandfather married had come from an untitled branch of the Preston family. Along with her common blood, his great-grandmother Delphinia Preston introduced the blasted gift of touch into his family’s lineage.

  “Maybe once we become better acquainted with Miss Farnsworth, we’ll come to esteem her as Teddy has. Only . . .” She let the word hang suspended in time for a few heartbeats, signaling yet another shift in the wind. “I do wish he’d make a more conventional choice.”

  A “pattern” girl, in other words. Overhead, someone shoved back the heavy curtains and cranked open the multi-paned window in the Blue Suite.

  Baxter would quietly have a fit. The butler was slavishly devoted to seeing that sunlight didn’t damage the colors in the vibrant Turkish carpet.

  Devon raised a hand to shade his eyes and looked up at the open window that framed Miss Farnsworth.

  The town house was situated on a small rise. When Miss Farnsworth leaned on the sill and looked out over the brick jungle of London’s chimneys and roof terraces, she could probably see all the way to St. Paul’s gigantic dome. She untied the bow beneath her chin and removed her bonnet, letting it dangle by the laces as she surveyed the city.

  Emmaline tipped her face to the sun’s rays and her hair glistened with several shades of copper, gold, and amber. A smile of unabashed pleasure lit her features.

  She was trouble, at the least. Discord, certainly. Scandal, possibly. Whatever else Emmaline Farnsworth was, “pattern” was definitely not it.

  Lord Devonwood’s home was designed to impress. As Baxter had led Emmaline and her father up the awe-inspiring sweep of the grand staircase, she had noted Ming vases and classically themed statuary tucked into its frequent alcoves. After the ostentatious art and the oppressive stares from the familial portraits glaring down at them on each of the landings, the Blue Suite was a welcome breath of understated elegance.

  Two sumptuous bedchambers opened into a common sitting room. The walls were swathed with ornately flocked wallpaper in a shade of soothing gray, accented with bright lapis tones. The hardwood underfoot was softened by a magnificent Asiatic carpet featuring a fight between a stylized pair of mythical phoenixes, awash in blue flames.

  “Oh, please don’t turn up the gas lamps during the day,” Emmaline said as she turned away from the panoramic view out the window. “I much prefer natural light.”

  “As you wish, miss,” the butler replied with a purse-lipped nod. “One has taken the liberty of having your trunks delivered to each of your chambers. If you require assistance unpacking, please ring for a chambermaid or valet. The countess has ordered that servants from the house be assigned to you for the duration of your visit.”

  “That’s most kind of her ladyship since we were unable to bring our own servants on this particular journey,” Farnsworth said.

  Emmaline suppressed a smirk. Our own servants, indeed.

  “If you wish, you may join the family for luncheon at half past one in the dining room, or if you prefer, a tray will be sent up. Dinner is served at eight o’clock sharp,” Baxter said frostily. “Formal dress is expected.”

  Emmaline had the distinct impression they’d been weighed in the butler’s balance and been found wanting, but there was no fault in his behavior toward them. Just a definite chill in his demeanor. She supposed the staff at Devonwood House might well resent an upstart commoner, and an American to boot, for snaring the interest of their young master.

  As soon as the butler gave them a final bow and closed the door behind himself, Farnsworth plopped into one of the heavy Tudor chairs arranged before the fireplace. A chess set squatted on the lacquered table between them.

  “Well, the butler may have a broomstick up his bum, but this place simply reeks of old money,” he said. “We’ve fallen on our feet this time and no mistake, Emma, my girl.”

  “Hush, Monty,” she hissed as she perched on the chair opposite him. She glanced up at the portrait of a severe-looking matron hung from the picture rail above the mantel. She’d heard tell of peepholes being cut into the eyes of such paintings but these steely orbs seemed to be merely oil on canvas. “Didn’t you hear what the countess said? The help knows everything in this house.”

  He chuckled. “In that case, you’d better call me ‘father’ even here in the privacy of our suite.”

  Emmaline snorted and picked up the black queen. The chess set was fashioned of onyx and ivory, fitted with what appeared to be small emeralds for
eyes. The worth of a set like this one would keep the wolf from their door for several months. Not that she’d stoop to petty thievery.

  Not yet. She replaced the queen.

  “Very well, Father.”

  She didn’t share a drop of blood with Montague Farnsworth, but he’d been more a father to her than the unknown man who’d sired her. Emmaline had only a shadowy memory of her mother, a sad, thin woman with large brown eyes and what had seemed like a perpetually trembling lower lip. But she remembered with crystalline clarity the day Montague Farnsworth had claimed her at the foundlings’ home.

  “That one,” he’d said to the head matron. “The one with the enormous eyes. She’d make someone a good daughter.”

  With a few strokes of a pen, she went from being plain Emma Potts, orphan, to Emmaline Farnsworth, a girl with a father and a home. He never told her why he’d chosen her or why a confirmed bachelor would bother to make room in his life for a small child, but Monty had raised her and educated her far beyond the lot of most girls. A little knowledge whetted her appetite for more. Once he taught her to read, Emmaline had devoured every book she could find.

  Of course, when she grew older, Monty also trained her to use her nimble fingers to assist him in his confidence games. She became his shill for countless pig-in-a-pokes and pigeon drops. At first, the games were fun. Now, after being on the run for years, she wished they could turn to something more legitimate for their livelihood. She owed Monty so much, she rarely quarreled with him, but she felt compelled to this time.

  “I don’t like this job,” she continued in a low tone. “It’s getting out of hand. Why on earth did you give Theodore Nash permission to ask for my hand?”

  “If I’d said no, the jig would’ve been up. He’d have gotten clean away. As it is, we’re here in this lovely house. We don’t have to bluff our way into a fine hotel for the duration of the job. Or sneak out when the proprietor becomes too insistent about us paying the bill. This way, we’ll be able to observe the mark at close range and spring the trap when the time is right.” Monty rubbed his hands together. “This is the big one. I can feel it.”

  Emmaline squeezed her eyes shut. Monty had been proclaiming each of his schemes the “big one” for years. So far, all they had to show for his nefarious plans were arrest warrants in several countries.

  When she was younger, they’d lived a relatively quiet life in New York where Monty ran a rare book shop. On the side, he forged letters by Benjamin Franklin and George Washington to supplement their income. But the market for old documents could bear only so many fakes before his forgery was discovered and they were forced to flee across the Atlantic.

  After that, Monty made use of Emmaline’s artistic talents and together they hawked sham religious relics in elaborately painted reliquaries on the Continent. If all the purported pieces of the True Cross that had passed through Monty’s hands were gathered in one place, Emmaline suspected there’d be enough lumber to build a small fort.

  Now ancient Egypt captured everyone’s imagination and Monty stood poised to make the most of it. He had a prodigious memory, a professorial carriage, and a glib tongue. Given enough time to prepare, he could pass as an expert on any esoteric topic he chose.

  “I still don’t like it. Theodore seems to genuinely care for me.” Emmaline crossed her arms over her chest. “It’s one thing to bilk someone of his savings. A mark can only be conned if he is greedy in the first place and a man can always make more money. It’s quite another thing to break someone’s heart.”

  “Then I’ll rely on you to be clever enough not to destroy the lad utterly,” Monty said, surveying the room’s adornments with a slightly predatory gaze. “But you must admit he didn’t exaggerate his family’s wealth. Young Mr. Nash has certainly got the chinks.”

  “No, his brother has the chinks,” Emmaline corrected. “Everything Theodore has is at the earl’s sufferance.”

  “Well, then maybe you’ve snagged the romantic attentions of the wrong brother.”

  Emmaline laughed. “I think not.”

  The earl had certainly seemed attracted to her in the garden before Theodore had claimed her. She‘d enjoyed their verbal sparring match. With his dark good looks, Lord Devonwood was more than easy on the eyes, but his unusual silver-gray gaze held a feral gleam at times.

  She’d never been so discomfited by a man. Never been plagued with such a strange yearning as when he had held her hand for a moment. It was as though her body knew more about him than she did, and liked what it knew very much indeed. She strove not to show how he twisted her knickers, but she’d never had such a visceral reaction to any man before.

  She was no pudding-headed romantic. She didn’t believe in love, let alone love at first sight. As she’d grown older, Monty had encouraged her to use her attractiveness to help him manipulate the men they intended to defraud. Experience told her Lord Devonwood would be far less biddable than his younger brother, less controllable.

  And far more exciting, she admitted to herself.

  Theodore was rather like an overgrown puppy, affectionate but clumsy, and easily brought to heel.

  Lord Devonwood was more a wolf, powerful and unpredictable. She suspected he was possessed of a savage streak if he were crossed. There had been a moment in the garden when he’d looked as if he wanted to eat her up.

  Part of her suspected she might enjoy it if he did.

  “Nevertheless,” Monty was saying, “when the time comes to make the pitch, we ought to include Lord Devonwood in the game now that we know he holds the purse. He’s the type who’ll be more likely to hand over the blunt if he believes the investment is his idea rather than his younger brother’s.”

  Emmaline nodded. Monty might chase after some wild hares from time to time, but his instincts about people were always on the nose.

  He started to say something else, but was interrupted when a ragged cough wracked his frame. Monty covered his mouth with a handkerchief as the spasms continued.

  Emmaline leaped up and scurried into her bedchamber to the washbasin, where she poured a glass of water for him from the ewer. When she returned, his coughing fit was winding down to shuddering heaves. He shoved his handkerchief back into his vest pocket, but not before she noticed speckles of blood on the white linen.

  “Here you are, dear,” she said softly as she held the glass for him to sip.

  After taking a little water, he leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes.

  Determination stiffened her spine. Somehow, Emmaline had to make this scheme work. He tried to hide it, but the cough was growing worse. Monty’s health deteriorated almost daily.

  Neither of them had ever said the word consumption aloud, but it didn’t matter. They both were thinking it loudly enough for the hissing sibilance of the hateful disease to swirl around the room.

  There was a doctor in Germany who was said to be doing amazing things for consumptives. Emma and Monty needed one last big score in order to make it possible for him to retire to that alpine sanatorium, where he might regain his health and prolong his life.

  “You know, you’d make someone a wonderful daughter,” Monty said as he patted her hand. The words were a tender little game they played, a reminder of his first meeting with her.

  She dropped a quick kiss on his brow and fought to keep her voice from quaking with worry for him as she gave the expected answer. “And you’d make someone a good father.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Emmaline suggested Monty take a tray in their suite for luncheon and then lie down for the rest of afternoon. She was concerned when he agreed without argument. It meant he was feeling even more poorly than she feared.

  “But you’ll lay the groundwork for me this afternoon if you get a chance, won’t you?” he asked as she tucked the coverlet under his chin.

  “Of course, I will,” she assured him. An essential part of any confidence scheme was dropping subtle hints about the supposed opportunity in a way that didn’t seem forced
. Baiting the trap was more art than science. Emmaline had a knack for it. “I think Theodore is still off with his friends though, so it may not be possible for me to start the game.”

  “Not him,” Monty said as his eyes closed and his chest rose and fell in a regular wheezing rhythm. “The earl. Unless he, too, is resting in the arms of Morpheus.”

  Her belly fizzed at the thought of the earl. “We’ll see.”

  His lordship was probably catching up on missed sleep since he hadn’t found his bed last night. Of course, that didn’t mean Lord Devonwood hadn’t found someone else’s bed. The upper crust might be high-minded about some things, but if the members of the gentry she’d met while traveling about Europe were any guide, they were as low in their personal morals as any commoner might be.

  Emma closed the door to their suite with a soft snick of the latch and made her way down the grand staircase to explore Devonwood House. She took her time, pausing before each of the portraits. She studied the faces, tracing Theodore’s sandy hair through several of his progenitors, but the dominant coloring, at least in more recent paintings, seemed to be Lord Devonwood’s darker hair paired with his unusual gray eyes.

  She also noted the recurrence of an emerald necklace draped on the necks of several different Devonwood women, passed from mother to daughter. A portrait of the present countess boasted a long strand of beautifully matched pearls with a ruby pendant big enough to choke a horse.

  Family jewels. Probably under lock and key beneath this very roof.

  Emma had never stolen jewelry and suspected fencing it would be far more trouble than tricking a mark out of banknotes. But when she thought of Monty’s distressed breathing after that coughing fit, she knew she was capable of attempting a burglary for his sake if necessary.

  She hoped he was right about this caper being the big one. She was so tired of living out of traveling trunks and always being ready to leave in a hurry should one of their victims realize he’d been duped sooner than expected. With each turn of the seasons, Monty’s face bore new lines, even aside from his growing illness. Their vagabond life had imprinted the road map of their travels on his features.