The Problem with Seduction - By Emma Locke Page 0,73

to, right up until her marriage several months earlier. Now she was a viscountess, married to Montborne’s best friend. Con supposed that was an awkward arrangement for his brother. But he hadn’t considered that Montborne might also have more than a passing knowledge of Elizabeth Spencer. He hadn’t realized how narrow the upper echelons of the demimonde were.

Montborne lifted his shoulders in a noncommittal shrug. “Elizabeth manages to be everywhere. It’s a talent. No, it’s more than that. She’s adept at having her way. I worry what sort of nefarious scheme she’s entangled you in.” Contrasting his ominous words, his expression remained bland and his tone light.

Con might have discounted Montborne’s unflattering remarks if he didn’t know his brother so well. Montborne never troubled himself to dole out advice. That he’d roused himself to take an interest in Con’s life spoke volumes…even if Montborne did pretend that he didn’t care one way or the other what Con decided to do about Elizabeth.

His assessment of her was particularly bothersome given her mechanized attempts at seduction. Con didn’t need Montborne to tell him what he could feel with his own heart.

“It’s nothing,” he said, particularly troubled by Montborne’s spot-on suspicion that there was a scheme afoot. “Nothing more than the usual arrangement, that is.”

Montborne let the lie hang in the air until Con was sure he was going to squirm. A second dish of coffee was brought and placed between them; even the serving man scurried away.

At length, Montborne spoke in a voice difficult to hear over the din of the boisterous room. “I was in Devon when she went into confinement. There was no sign of you.”

“I was busy.”

Montborne’s brow rose. “Doing what?”

“Investments.” Con knew he had to squeeze out a few more details, but his tongue couldn’t quite trip the fabrications off fast enough.

“Investments such as the ones that have suddenly enabled you to pay off your creditors?” Montborne watched him hard. “And Darius’ debts?”

“The canal is going very well,” Con said with as much sureness as he could muster. “Splendidly, some might say. There are even new lime kilns being constructed at the site. I think the whole endeavor will be completed this year.”

For the first time, Montborne looked flummoxed. “The canal through Exeter?”

Con nodded. On the one hand, he felt relief for having remembered anything useful, and on the other, the queer look his brother was giving him left him feeling like he was standing on one leg. “What?” he finally asked, because the comical disbelief on Montborne’s face was becoming too much.

“Why am I the only one of us who ever goes to Devon? I don’t even like the country.”

Con shifted in his chair. The scone hardened into a nice little rock in his belly. “I am going, as a matter of fact. I’m planning a trip out next week.” With Elizabeth, but he didn’t want to return to that subject.

“Good.” Montborne reached for his steaming coffee and took a sip. Then he flashed the rakish grin he was so famous for. “Because I hear it’s all but a lake at the new lock.”

A lake? Con shot up from his chair. Oh, this was very, very bad.

Er, well, he thought it was bad. Actually, what he knew about building canals could fit on the end of his little finger. Without a backward glance for his brother—he really didn’t feel the need to catch Montborne’s arching eyebrow one last time—he made a hasty exit. Only when he’d walked two blocks in the direction of Elizabeth’s townhouse did he remember that he ought to have left a coin on the table. Montborne had joked about it costing him a pretty penny, but Con knew it was true.

He hated, hated that her money was the only thing keeping him from living the same hand-to-mouth existence as Montborne. It was too late to wish he’d followed in Antony’s footsteps, or even Bart’s. He had to hope the canal delivered the returns he required, or at least enough for him to recoup his investment and place it elsewhere.

Or he could marry well. Without his meaning to, his footsteps quickened. His neckcloth tightened. God, no. He couldn’t marry. This game he and Elizabeth played was far too expensive as it was. Look at him. About to make a mad dash to Devon, and he was bringing her. Presumably, Mrs. Dalton and Oliver would join them. There would be two carriages and piles of clothes and servants. He’d have to stop to feed the