In the Garden of Seduction

IN THE GARDEN OF
SEDUCTION

by

Cynthia Wicklund

SMASHWORDS EDITION

*****

PUBLISHED BY:

Cynthia Wicklund on Smashwords

In the Garden of Seduction

Copyright 2010 by Cynthia Wicklund

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West Sussex, England, 1809—Spring

Jonathan Peters galloped into the courtyard
of a sprawling country residence, kicking dust and small pebbles in
all directions. In his haste his foot slipped from the stirrup as
he dismounted. He stumbled awkwardly away from his horse, yet did
not pause so intent was he on completing his mission. Instead, he
tossed the reins at a nearby groom and ran to the front entrance of
the fine old Tudor mansion.

He rang the chime and, when there was no
immediate response, he pounded on the door in an impatient attempt
to attract someone’s attention. His efforts were rewarded at last
as the bolt was thrown from within, and the door eased back on its
iron hinges to reveal a butler with a frosty expression.

“Mr. Peters,” the servant began, “is there
something I can do for you?”

Jonathan pushed past the butler into the
entry hall. “I need to see your master.”

Bridges stiffened, his manner turning
cooler. “Lord Whittingham is working on his correspondence and is
not to be disturbed.”

“I have news for your master. I promise you
will regret delaying me. Now tell him I am here.”

For just a moment it seemed Bridges intended
to rebel, but something in the visitor’s attitude plainly caused
him to hesitate. He swung around without speaking and left the
entry hall. The butler returned almost at once and, casting a look
of dislike in Mr. Peter’s direction, said Lord Whittingham would
receive the caller.

Jonathan entered the library as Bridges
announced him, and his eyes immediately sought out the man sitting
behind the desk. As always, he was impressed by Lord Whittingham’s
imposing figure.

Richard Lamberton, Earl Whittingham, was a
striking man, tall and vigorously built. Ruddy-skinned, he had a
full head of white hair, though great bushy brows gave him a fierce
countenance. He placed his lordship’s age at somewhere around
seventy years, but Jonathan was only guessing.

Lord Whittingham leaned back in his chair,
lacing his fingers over his still trim middle. He observed his
uninvited guest through a cool blue, nearly transparent gaze, and
Jonathan began to squirm under the glare of those penetrating
eyes.

“Come in, Mr. Peters. I understand you have
significant information to share. Do I dare hope it is what I have
been waiting to hear for more than two decades?”

Jonathan didn’t want to imagine his fate if
he disappointed his employer. He did, much to his relief, have the
very information Lord Whittingham was seeking.

“We’ve found her, my lord!” he announced on
a dramatic flourish, unable to hide the eagerness in his voice.

Lord Whittingham did not move, nor did his
expression change as he appeared to assess the validity of this
claim. His lordship had been disillusioned in the past, and
Jonathan sensed he would not enter the celebration without
caution.

The earl eased forward. “Explain,” he
said.

All at once, Jonathan was nervous. He was as
sure of his facts as one could be, yet his lordship had the power
to make even the hardiest soul uncertain. He cleared his
throat.

“It’s the picture, my lord.”

Lord Whittingham frowned. “The picture? What
the hell are you talking about?”

Jonathan’s gaze turned to the portrait that
hung over the mantle of the stone fireplace. “She is a near-mirror
image of your late wife. I tell you, it’s uncanny, my lord.”

He watched as Lord Whittingham’s attention
was drawn to the life-size painting, fully six feet in height and
four feet across, a tribute to the grace and beauty of the earl’s
deceased wife Elizabeth. The canvas depicted a lovely redhead with
deep blue eyes and smooth, translucent skin.

The earl’s regard shifted to Jonathan. “How
did you find her?”

“I would like to say it was all deduction
and clever detective work, but that would be untrue,” Jonathan
admitted. “Indeed, my lord, it was the greatest good fortune that
all came about as it did. I don’t mind telling you, I began to
believe the deed could not be done.”

“Mr. Peters, I am not a patient man. Please
answer my question. How did you find her?”

Jonathan swallowed. “Do you remember a Sir
Alistair Warrick?” When his employer nodded, he continued. “He paid
us a visit a few weeks ago because of a young woman he had met at a
literary party. She closely resembled a portrait of the wife of a
nobleman to whom he had recently spoken. He thought there might be
a connection.”

“Warrick did stay here late last year,” the
earl said slowly, a spark of interest igniting his gaze.

“You must have told him a great deal because
he seemed to know the whole of it. Even knew to come to us.”

“What has that to say to anything?” Lord
Whittingham barked suddenly, his frustration visible. “This
evidence is tenuous. Nature often produces duplicates, and they
certainly need not be related. I will require more than this flimsy
proof.”

“You can’t believe we pursued the matter no
further, my lord,” Jonathan said, unable to control the smug note
that entered his words. “In all these years this is the most likely
candidate we’ve had to investigate and, I assure you, we did just
that.”

“Go on.”

“It seems the young lady in question has
been living in the London household as the only daughter of a
Quintin James and his wife—she’s the only child, actually. James is
a merchant and quite wealthy.”

“Perhaps she is their child.”

“I suppose that’s a possibility, although
she does not look remotely like either parent. I know, I know,” he
said, raising his hands when the earl began to protest. “Blood does
not guarantee a child will resemble his parents anymore than
duplicates must be related. But there is more.

“Try as we might, and I can promise we have
tried, we cannot locate a record of the daughter’s birth, although
she observes her birthday on the very day of the very year of your
grandchild. And when we delved deeper, we discovered Louise, the
merchant’s wife, brought a girl child of two years to her marriage.
Unless James fathered her child out of wedlock, and that appears
unlikely, he cannot be the sire. Louise is now deceased, by the
way.”

“There’s nothing irrefutable in all this,
yet I must admit I find your words encouraging.” Lord Whittingham’s
voice had taken on a thoughtful note. “Still, this does not prove
Louise is not the mother.”

“True, my lord,” Jonathan conceded as he
paused theatrically before providing the most conclusive detail of
all.

“We traced Louise’s whereabouts prior to her
marriage. Two years before she wed, she spent six weeks as the
personal servant to a young widow who was known only as Miss
Mary—no surname, just Miss Mary. Miss Mary was increasing and
apparently near her time. She died a few days after a daughter was
born. And consider this, my lord—all efforts to locate Mary’s baby
have been fruitless. The child has vanished.”

An arrested expression settled over the
earl’s features. “Trevor’s wife was called Mary.”

“As you say, my lord. What we’ve known all
along seems to coincide perfectly with this new information. So I
will tell you again—we have found her.”

*****

London, 1809—Early Summer

Simon Fitzgerald, Marquess of Sutherfield,
walked aimlessly through the first floor rooms of Mrs.
Witherspoon’s modest town house, nodding at acquaintances and
strangers alike. He felt uncommonly warm from the press of so many
bodies in so small a space. Under his coat his linen shirt stuck to
his back between his shoulder blades, enhancing his discomfort.

He hadn’t wanted to attend tonight, for
these literary gatherings were usually a dead bore, welcoming every
individual in London with scholarly pretensions, whether highborn
or lowborn. But his old schoolmate Harry Stiles had nagged him into
coming. This was an opportunity to meet Ethan Plimpton, the author
currently taking London by storm, his friend had said. And then
Harry, the bugger, had failed to show.

Though somewhat contemptuous of most of the
guests, Simon admitted to himself that he had enjoyed his brief
discussion with Mr. Plimpton. The author had strong convictions and
wrote unusual stories containing a political twist. Simon was
fascinated by the man’s views. Not in agreement, necessarily, but
fascinated nonetheless.

At that moment, a waiter passed by carrying
a tray laden with glasses of champagne, and Simon reached out,
grabbing one. He downed the beverage in a single gulp. At least the
wine flows freely, he thought, following after the waiter. His lips
twitched wryly as the man glanced at him in question.

“Fortification,” he explained, setting his
empty glass on the tray with his left hand while taking another
full one with his right.

“Yes, my lord.” The servant cast Simon a
knowing look, then melted into the throng.

Simon tossed off the glass of champagne, one
more in a series of glasses. The liquid left a warm trail to the
pit of his stomach and his head buzzed pleasantly. Sending a jaded
gaze over the motley assemblage, he decided it was time for him to
depart. A quick stop at the convenience and he would be on his
way.

The water closet was situated at the back of
the house, and he found it easily, humming to himself all the
while. His business complete, he returned to the corridor where a
draft of air caught his attention. The door directly across the
hall from him was slightly ajar, a cool breeze escaping from the
crack. He stepped closer, inspecting a small engraved brass plate
nailed to the door. The
Chinese Parlor
, it read.

Simon chuckled.
Completely in character,
Mrs. Witherspoon.
This is the exact variety of room one would
expect to find in the home of an unconventional woman who catered
to the literary crowd. Curious, he entered the chamber.

His first impression was of a tiny space
overflowing with Asian artifacts. Every available surface,
including the mantle of the fireplace, sported Chinese figurines
and pottery. Several candles were lit but rather than illuminating
the room, the flames cast eerie shadows across the walls and
ceiling, adding to the exotic atmosphere. The odd, musky odor of
incense filled the air.

He shook his head in disbelief and turned to
exit the apartment when a movement behind an oriental screen next
to the window caught his attention. He could just see the outline
of a female figure through the fine material of the partition. At
least, he thought it was female. Intrigued, he paused only a moment
before advancing farther into the room, the thick woolen carpet
muffling his footsteps.