Seduced by a Scoundrel - By Barbara Dawson Smith Page 0,111

that way with him, she reflected bitterly. He would close his mind and his heart to her.

She glanced at James, who watched, his eyebrows raised. A lump in her throat, Alicia turned swiftly and left the chamber.

She clutched the folded letter to her bosom. Claire … Drake’s real mother. The reality of it still stunned her. In less than half a day, the world had turned topsy-turvy. No longer would her husband be a disreputable, baseborn scoundrel. By virtue of his birth, he would be elevated to the position of heir to one of the most powerful men in England. The doors of society would open wide to him; he would no longer need his aristocratic wife to gain entrée. She had given him the means to defeat Lord Hailstock once and for all.

And James. Drake’s triumph would strip James of his honored rank as heir to the title. That realization stabbed into her anew. All of his life he had known he would someday become the Marquess of Hailstock.

She wondered what they were saying to each other now, if Drake at least had the good grace not to gloat.

As for her, there was nothing to be done but to follow this task through to its bitter conclusion. Her slippers made a faint scuffing sound on the marble tiles, and the wall sconces cast a shadowy light over the empty passageway. Unerringly she found her way through the maze of corridors to the ballroom, situated in the opposite wing.

She would see if Mama was there, still engaged in her playacting. She might coax an answer from her tonight. And if not, tomorrow she would take Mama back to Pemberton House and wait until the right moment presented itself.

A glimmering of light shone from the huge archway of the ballroom. She had toured this chamber once, to inspect the housekeeping. The floors were kept polished, the woodwork pristine, the windows gleaming. Mrs. Yates had said the room had never been used.

But now Drake could host parties here. He could invite all of the ton. He would do so alone. He didn’t need her, and Alicia didn’t need him.

Marching through the doorway, she saw that gloom shrouded the Venetian-blue walls and the tall pillars, the ornate plasterwork on the high ceiling. The faint illumination came from one end of the ballroom, where magnificent gold draperies framed a dais for an orchestra. There, two oil lamps sat at opposite ends of the raised floor. Between them, a wing chair substituted for a throne. On a table, a silver tea service gleamed in the meager light.

Her footsteps made a whispering noise that vanished into the vast darkness. Beyond the throne, her mother’s diminutive form stood in the shadows cast by the curtains. Beside her loomed a tall, black form in the garb of a man. Had Mama convinvced Mrs. Philpot to dress as a courtier?

Alicia felt a faint smile penetrate her unhappiness. But as she approached, her brief humor dissipated.

Something lay curled on the floor beside the dais. She strained her eyes to make out what it was. In growing horror, she recognized the glint of silver hair, the paleness of a face, the body lying motionless.

Mrs. Philpot.

Alicia’s gaze snapped to her mother. Mama was struggling against … a man. They weren’t playacting, either. Alicia could hear their panting breaths, his low curses.

She rushed to the dais and hastened up the short steps. “Mama!”

In that same moment, the man turned to look. Recognition struck. Alicia stopped dead, her heart beating so fast she felt on the verge of a swoon.

For through the darkness, she spied the glint of metal as he pressed a dueling pistol to her mother’s head.

“Come closer, my lady,” Lord Hailstock said. “You’ve saved me the trouble of going in search of you.”

Chapter Twenty-seven

The marquess prodded his prisoner into the lamplight. Resplendent in a medieval gown of richly embroidered crimson, Lady Eleanor carried herself like the queen she fancied herself to be. She wore the tattered moleskin cape like the finest ermine stole. A circlet of gold held a flowing blue veil over her silvering flaxen hair.

She raised her arm in an imperious gesture. “Send for the guards, my lady! They must arrest this treasonous knave! He would dare to put his hands upon my royal person.”

Lord Hailstock gave her a shake. “Hush your mouth, Eleanor. Lest I stuff a gag into it.”

Glaring at him, she pressed her lips shut.

To give herself a moment to calm her frenzied fear, Alicia sank