The Seduction of Sebastian Trantor Read online

  “Yes, but we only need one.” Trantor’s deep voice was calming. “And I’ve a feeling I know just which one.” Stepping away from the desk, he glanced back at her. “We can’t take the notebook—Rothbury’ll panic, and I take it we want him to go to the next rendezvous and make the payment so we can keep watch and catch the blackmailer when they come to collect.”

  How had it turned into we? She decided to fight that battle later—after he’d supplied the location she needed. “I’ll make a copy.”

  “Make sure you don’t miss any letters—and I’ll need all the entries. I’ll need the earlier ones to check the validity of any deciphering I do. While you copy, I’ll follow my hunch and see if I can find the key.”

  “What if you can’t?” She was already smoothing a fresh sheet of paper on the blotter.

  “Don’t fret—I’ll still be able to decode the locations. It’ll just take a great deal longer.”

  His tone suggested he was already absorbed; a glance over her shoulder revealed that he’d pulled one particular tome from the shelf and was swiftly scanning page after page.

  She bit her tongue against the impulse to ask what he was doing, exactly what he was looking for, and why in that particular book. She could ask later. They needed to get whatever they had to do done and leave the library—or at least she had to, in order to return to the ballroom before too many of her connections realized she’d disappeared.

  Selecting a pencil—perfectly sharpened, of course—from his lordship’s neat stack, she opened the notebook to the last entry, and started transcribing the entries in reverse order.

  She’d just finished a last check of all six entries to make sure she hadn’t missed or jumbled any letters when her unexpected coconspirator gave a satisfied humph.

  “Got it.” He glanced up from the book in his hands. “Page one hundred and ninety-seven. Write that on your copy.”

  He shut the book as she turned to do so. “What title should I write?’ She spun back around, pencil in hand. Met his gray eyes. “And shouldn’t we, well, take it?”

  “No need. I have a copy in my library. I’ll just need the page number and I can work from there.”

  “Excellent.” She spun back, set the pencil back in its assigned place, then folded the sheet of paper and reached for her reticule.

  Trantor plucked the sheet from her fingers. “I’ll take that.”

  Before she could protest, he’d tucked it into his inside coat pocket.

  His gaze roved the desk. “We need to get everything back exactly the way it was.”

  “Precisely what I intended to do.” She closed the notebook, and returned it to the hidden compartment, closed the hinged panel, then stood as Trantor obligingly lifted the center drawer and eased it back into place.

  She surveyed the desk, found nothing amiss. “Good. Now—” She broke off.

  They both looked at the door. Heard the footsteps approaching.

  She swiped up her reticule, slid the cord over her wrist as she swung to face Trantor. “Where can we hide?”

  She looked into his steel gray eyes—and realized she expected him to answer. Expected him to save them.

  He didn’t let her down.

  She had a second’s warning—a subtle shift in the clear gray—then he seized her arms and hauled her to him.

  He bent his head, in a whisper repeated, “Where do we hide?” Answered as his lips lowered to hers. “In plain sight.”

  Then he kissed her.

  Like a lover.

  Like a man who had every right in the world to part her lips and drink her in. To claim her mouth, to slide his arms about her and lock her to him.

  As the latch clicked and the door opened . . . as her senses spun . . .

  “Oh! I say!”

  Through the haze of sensations fogging her brain Tabitha recognized Lord Rothbury’s stentorian tones.

  Then came a titter.

  She didn’t care. She just wanted more of the firm lips moving so confidently over hers, more of the tantalizing taste of him, more of the wicked caress of his tongue. . . .

  Trantor broke the kiss. His lips, hovering over hers, murmured, “Play along.”

  Slowly, giving every appearance of languid reluctance, Sebastian lifted his head and turned to survey their audience.

  Inwardly swore as he recognized the ladies lurking behind Rothbury. His lordship he might have been able to inveigle with some slick tale, but Lady Castor and her sister, Mrs. Atkinson, had had him in their sights, hoping to snare him for one of their daughters. No mystery why Rothbury had chosen to visit his library in the middle of a ball. By the same token, the pair of gossiping harpies wouldn’t be satisfied with any glib excuse.

  His lordship was still in shock, his mouth opening and closing to no effect. Finally, he found his tongue. “Trantor? And . . . is that Miss Makepeace?” His tone suggested utter incredulity.

  There really was no help for it, and if some part of him cynically noted that he felt no real qualm in taking the only solution that presented itself, he ignored it.

  “Indeed, sir.” Summoning what he hoped was a besotted smile, he looked down at Tabitha Makepeace, still securely held in his arms. She’d been trying to turn and face the threat, but he’d prevented it.

  Not having to let her go seemed an excellent idea.

  But for the moment . . . still smiling fondly, he released her, but caught her hand, raised it to his lips, and pressed a lingering kiss to her knuckles.

  The horrified widening of her bright eyes suggested she guessed something of his intent.

  Before she could say or do anything to endanger the smooth execution of his plan—one which, with any luck, would save them both—he glanced at Lord Rothbury, smiled at Lady Castor and Mrs. Atkinson. “You’re the first to learn our news. Miss Makepeace has just done me the honor of agreeing to be my wife.”

  The shock on Tabitha Makepeace’s face would have instantly given them away. Luckily, she was still facing him, and not their equally stunned audience.

  “Have you lost your mind?”

  They’d just parted from their host, Lady Castor, and Mrs. Atkinson in the ballroom’s foyer. Sebastian had glibly excused them on the grounds of having much to discuss, then with Tabitha on his arm had turned determinedly toward the stairs.

  Somewhat to his surprise he was feeling distinctly self-congratulatory as he escorted his recently acquired fiancée down the main stairs to the Rothbury’s front hall.

  Outwardly fetchingly distracted, but apparently inwardly aghast, at least she’d waited until they were out of sight of all others before protesting.

  “No. That was the only way to get us both out of there without having to explain ourselves. If you think for a minute, you’ll realize it was the only possible way forward. We need Rothbury to go ahead with his upcoming meeting, remember? We could hardly tell him what we’d really been doing in his library.”

  “Yes, but . . . you have no comprehension of what will come of this. What repercussions will ensue! I’m not sure most people will even believe it.”

  “Why?” He glanced at her. “Are you so unmarriageable?”

  She looked ahead. Under her breath returned, “You could say that.”

  He was intrigued, but before he could decide how to further probe, she frowned.

  After a moment, eyes narrowed, she turned her head and caught his gaze. “I just realized . . . I know why I was in the library, but why were you there?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” And it truly didn’t. He smiled pointedly, patted her hand where it lay on his sleeve. “Now buck up and smile for the nice butler.”

  Her lips curved in an expression of sweet docility that was patently false.

  He didn’t need to hide his appreciative grin. “Who did you arrive with?”

  Her lips thinned and she looked ahead. “No one.”

  He blinked. As they continued steadily down the long staircase, he murmured, “Even I know that’s not acceptable.” />
  “Well, it is. When you’re over twenty-five, people stop worrying.”

  He bit his tongue. How could anyone stop worrying about you? probably wasn’t a wise thing to say. “How did you get here?”

  “My father’s carriage. And before you turn into a bore and start lecturing me about driving through London’s streets alone at night, my coachman and groom have been with our family for years.”

  And doubtless would obey any instructions she gave, no matter how outrageous. Or potentially dangerous.

  Clearly Miss Tabitha Makepeace needed taking in hand.

  The notion sat remarkably well with him.

  That kiss had mellowed him to an amazing degree.

  Who would have thought he’d meet such a firebrand—a lady of such promising, alluring, and enticing passion—in Lord Rothbury’s library? She even had a mission—a real mission, a dragon for him to slay. He’d missed that, the action, the excitement of pitting his wits and will against a foe.

  “In that case,” he said, as they neared the foot of the stairs and Lord Rothbury’s butler came hurrying from an anteroom, “I suggest we depart forthwith.” Stepping down to the tiles, he halted and glanced at her as she paused beside him. He arched a brow. “Unless you’d prefer to go back to the ballroom and face the music?”

  She met his gaze, then shuddered. Eloquently. Turning to the butler, she said, “My carriage, please, Baxter.”

  Baxter shot him a suspicious glance, but bowed and replied, “At once, miss.”

  As Baxter retreated, Sebastian lowered his voice and asked, “Where do you live? I suspect, being your fiancé, I should know.”

  “Bloomsbury. My parents rent a house on Bedford Square.”

  “Excellent. I’m staying at my brother’s house in Cavendish Square—I’ll see you to your home, then walk from there.”

  “I could drop you off on the way to Bloomsbury.”

  “No, no.” He needed to know which house to call at tomorrow morning. “I’ll use the walk to think through the code.”

  Baxter returned with her cloak—a deep russet velvet a shade darker than the russet of her silk gown. Both shades complemented her complexion and her wonderful flaming hair. Sebastian took the cloak and draped the soft folds over her delicate shoulders, then escorted her onto the front steps. A black town carriage had just drawn up. A groom leapt down and opened the door.

  He tightened his fingers about her elbow in warning, and heard her sigh.

  She waved a hand his way. “This is Mr. Trantor, Trevor. He’s insisting on seeing me home, so will be traveling with us to Bedford Square.” She looked up at the ancient coachman peering over the side of the carriage. “So it’s just home, Gifford.”

  Gifford cast Sebastian a measuring glance, but, if anything, viewed him with approval. “Aye, miss.”

  Feeling he’d managed the situation thus far reasonably well, Sebastian handed Tabitha up into the carriage, followed her in and sat beside her. Trevor shut the door; an instant later, the carriage rocked, then rattled off.

  An instant after that, Tabitha swiveled to face him. “I can’t believe you think this is a good idea. If any of the Rothburys’ guests haven’t yet heard the news, they will before they leave. Lady Castor and Mrs. Atkinson are two of the biggest gossipmongers in the ton—they’ll make sure absolutely everyone hears the stunning news. So we’ve just left a ballroom-full of people believing that we’re engaged. It’ll be all over town come morning!”

  He settled against the squabs. “So?” The carriage was comfortable, not spanking new but in excellent condition. He knew nothing about the Makepeaces’ circumstances; he supposed he’d have to bestir himself and look into such matters.

  Tabitha stared at him, unable to accept his utter imperviousness to the calamity that, courtesy of his ridiculous assertion—his wonderful plan to save them—was now hanging over their heads. “Engaged,” she repeated, with greater emphasis. “To be married.”

  “That is the general interpretation.”

  “But we’re not!” She felt as if steam were issuing from her ears. “You can’t just tell people we are, then walk away.” Bad enough that they were lying to the entire ton, but for her—specifically her—to be the perpetrator of such a fraud was . . . “Aside from being all-but-unbelievable, and therefore certain to be talked of, me misleading the ton on such an issue, only to later deny it, is the sort of behavior for which people are socially exiled for life!”

  He regarded her with calm curiosity. “Are you so enamored of the ton, then?”

  “That’s not the point! The point is I live with these people, go about among them, consort with them constantly—”

  “Do you want to expose this blackmailer and rescue your friends from durance vile?”

  His calm, but uncompromising tone pulled her up short. She drew breath. “Yes, b—”

  “Then I suggest you play along for the nonce. Once we’ve solved the riddle and exposed the villain, then we can decide we won’t suit after all.” His lips curved. “I hereby give you permission to jilt me once my usefulness in your mission ends.” He held her gaze. “What could be fairer—or more sensible—than that?”

  Sebastian watched her chew on the question. Waited patiently until she’d reluctantly realized that there was no good answer, then he asked, “So, are we in agreement?”

  The black look she cast him would have made the devil quail. “Oh, all right.”

  Chapter Two

  “I realize this is highly irregular but—sir, ma’am”—Sebastian embellished his plea with a courteous inclination of his head—“if you will indulge me, I’ll endeavor to explain.”

  It was nine o’clock the next morning. He stood in the Makepeaces’ townhouse in Bedford Square, on the carpet in the center of their drawing room, and, gaze fixed on the older couple seated on the sofa, waited for permission to proceed.

  Over breakfast, he’d thought to ask his brother’s butler, Wright, if he knew anything of the Makepeaces who resided in Bedford Square. After consideration, Wright had informed him that he believed the family were known as the eccentric branch of the Wiltshire Makepeaces, the gentleman being said to pay far more attention to books than to the world around him.

  Sebastian could empathize; during his brisk walk to Bedford Square, he’d considered how to use the fact to his best advantage.

  Mr. Makepeace, whose attire alone would have declared him a scholar quite aside from his tufted white hair and the heavy-lensed spectacles perched on his nose, blinked owlishly.

  In contrast, Mrs. Makepeace, a comfortable-looking matron with what Sebastian hoped he was correctly reading as an unruffleable composure, looked decidedly intrigued. It was she who declared, “By all means, Mr. Trantor, do proceed. You perceive us agog.”

  A swift glance at Mr. Makepeace suggested that might well be true; behind the thick lenses, his blue eyes gleamed shrewdly.

  Sebastian proceeded with all due caution. “I should preface my explanation by informing you of my situation. My brother, Viscount Coningsby, has been unable to provide the family with the heir needed to ensure the title and entailed estates remain in safe hands. Consequently, I’ve agreed to step forward and do my duty by the family by marrying and begetting the required heir. Prior to this year, I had not planned to wed. Since returning from the wars, I’ve been pursuing my long-held interest in ciphers, codes, and ancient texts, and have been restoring Grimoldby Abbey, in Lincolnshire, into a suitable house for myself and my library.”

  As he’d hoped, Mr. Makepeace now looked as intrigued as his wife. He went on, “As anyone in the ton will tell you, since the beginning of the Season I’ve been attending the usual balls and parties, attempting to identify a young lady suitable to take as a wife. All to no avail. Last night, I attended Lady Rothbury’s ball. Despairing of finding any suitable parti there, but expecting to meet my aunt, Lady Fothergill, once she arrived, for the interim I took refuge in his lordship’s library. I was reading when your daughter, Miss Tab
itha Makepeace, entered the room.”

  “She was attending a ball?” Mrs. Makepeace cast a puzzled glance at her spouse.

  Mr. Makepeace observed, “Trantor here saw her in the library, not the ballroom.” He waved at Sebastian to continue. “I daresay that was her goal—I can’t imagine her willingly whirling down any floor.”

  Sebastian kept his lips straight, inclined his head. “Indeed. She was dressed for the event, but dancing wasn’t her purpose. It transpired she was on a mission of sorts—one that, after I surprised her in the act of execution, so to speak, she consented to explain to me. In confidence, a confidence I am honor-bound to preserve. However, I believe I can say that I consider her mission and her motives both laudable and honorable, and I subsequently volunteered to assist her in achieving her goal.”

  Mrs. Makepeace’s puzzlement was now colored by curiosity. “You surprised her in the library—and thereafter she told you what she was about?”

  He felt compelled to admit, “I have a talent that she lacks yet requires in order to proceed with her mission. Regardless, I am not insensible of her trust.” He drew breath, went on, “Indeed, my appreciation of her trust played a definite part in what happened next. In short, we were engaged in pursuing her goal when we were discovered in the library by Lord Rothbury, Lady Castor, and Mrs. Atkinson.”

  Mrs. Makepeace pulled a face. “Rothbury you might have talked your way past, but the other two are inveterate gossips.” Her eyes lit. “So you were engaged on a secret mission with Tabitha that resulted in you and she being caught in a potentially compromising situation. What did you do?”

  “In order to explain our presence there, alone in private, I declared that Miss Makepeace and I had repaired there to plight our troth—that she had just done me the honor of agreeing to be my wife.”

  Both Makepeaces’ eyes flew wide.

  Sebastian hurried on, “As I have assured Miss Makepeace, if, once her mission is complete, she wishes to dissolve our engagement, she may do so in whatever way she chooses. I will abide by her decision, whatever it may be.” Searching the elder Makepeaces’ faces, he chose his words with care. “However, I will confess that, despite the brevity of our acquaintance, I find Tabitha much more to my taste as a wife than any of the flibbertigibbets inhabiting the ton’s ballrooms. I therefore find myself in an unusual situation.”