Seduce Me (4 page)

“
Gentlemen
?” Fielding provided with a touch of bitterness in his voice. “Of course.” Heat crept up the back of his neck. He should tell
them to go straight to the devil. He too was a gentleman. At least he’d been raised one. He even had the title and coffers
to prove it. But to the men of Solomon’s, Fielding wasn’t a viscount, he was merely a means to an end.

“Name your price,” Mr. Nichols said. His stubby fingers twisted around his handkerchief, balling the damp cloth into a compact
wad. “It is of utmost importance that we retrieve this artifact.”

“Why is this particular piece so important? Other than Mr. Nichols’s obvious affection,” Fielding said.

Lindberg’s easy smile disappeared. “Because it might be dangerous,” he said.

“
Might
be?” Fielding asked.

“Most likely is,” Lindberg corrected.

“We simply don’t know,” Mr. Nichols said, his voice nearing a fevered pitch. “There are many writings on the contents of Pandora’s
box, and we don’t know which ones are accurate. But the potential…” His words trailed off. “The potential is catastrophic,”
he finally said.

“Tell him,” Lindberg said.

Mr. Nichols eyed his fellow Solomon’s members before nodding and turning back to Fielding.

“It is said there is evil within Pandora’s box. That the gods put terrible things such as greed, hatred, disease, vanity,
envy, and lust inside the box to punish Pandora for her curiosity. These curses, if you will, are believed to be embodied
by actual artifacts within the box.”

“Something you can hold or touch,” Lindberg explained.

“Yes, yes,” Mr. Nichols said. “Once the box is opened and these plagues are released, evil beyond imagining will fall upon
our land.”

“These evils, as you call them,” Fielding said, “already exist in our world.”

“They can’t compare to the evils held within Pandora’s box. And if that box got into the wrong hands…” Mr. Nichols wrung his
hands again.

“And you believe my uncle has located the box?” Fielding asked. “I would not deny the man is good at what he does, but after
all these centuries and hundreds of people searching for it, how was that it the Raven discovered its location?”

“He is not the first; others have found it before,” Jensen said. “Perhaps you remember reading about the Black Death?” The
man’s smile was tight, his tone clipped.

“If memory serves me correctly, it was rats that caused the plague,” Fielding said.

“Merely a vessel,” Jensen argued.

“Your uncle is very good at what he does,” Lindberg said. “No one can deny that. Regardless of whether you believe the warnings,
were they proved true, the damage the Raven would surely cause with the box would be catastrophic. We need to stop him.”

“Precisely,” Jensen said. He steepled his long fingers beneath his chin. “We cannot risk his unleashing Pandora’s curses.
It is far too dangerous.”

Fielding didn’t believe a word of it. He’d heard of the myth, but that was all it was. Still, these men were quite serious
in their concerns. But then the legend hunters of Solomon’s were generally a serious sort.

If there was the slightest chance the box was dangerous, though, they were right: Allowing it to fall into the hands of the
Raven would bring dire consequences.

“Where is it?” Fielding asked.

“We believe it to be in Portsmouth, in the ruins of a castle,” Lindberg said.

“It was most recently a monastery,” Mr. Nichols added.

“More importantly, that’s where the Raven believes it to be,” Jensen added. He slid a large stack of papers toward Fielding.
“This is all the research we’ve gathered on the subject.”

Fielding thumbed through the pages. They’d had the Raven followed, and the pages detailed his uncle’s research as well as
Mr. Nichols’s. Fielding came upon a list with five unfamiliar names on it. “Who are these people?”

“Other scholars on the subject,” Mr. Nichols said.

“Why is ‘Mr. Spencer’ marked through and replaced with the name Worthington?” Fielding asked.

“Spencer was a fictitious name used for protection,” Mr. Nichols said.

“Worthington is the only one on that list who lives here in London,” Jensen said. “Though we do not know precisely where.”

“She guards her privacy well,” Mr. Nichols said.

“Worthington is a she?” Fielding asked.

“Oh, yes, and a brilliant scholar in her own right. That much I know.”

“You would, of course, have access to all our resources,” Lindberg said. He pointed to the papers beneath Fielding’s hand.
“The location of the monastery is in those notes.”

Fielding certainly didn’t need their money, nor their resources. But having the opportunity, having them this desperate for
his help, meant only one thing. They would be within his grasp, close enough for him to infiltrate their precious club and
finally make someone pay for his father’s death.

“I don’t think you could afford me,” he told them. “My fee is thirty thousand pounds.” Fielding expected protests and sputtering,
even laughter, but he never expected compliance.

“You’ll have a banknote for half before you leave today,” Jensen said, not even blinking. “The other half when you bring us
the box.”

“Will you accept our proposition?” Mr. Nichols asked. Fielding grinned. “I will.”

S
ometime the next evening, after an exhausting journey, the coach rattled to a stop. At some point during their long ride,
the men had untied her hands and removed the cloth from her mouth, making it far easier to breathe. Esme was most eager to
exit the vile enclosure so she might stretch her legs and relieve herself. Neither man offered her assistance, but she managed
to climb out of the rig.

Of course her hope that they had stopped at an inn and she’d be able to seek help from a stranger was dashed when she saw
no welcoming lamps. Instead she faced a barren landscape without a house or even a barn in sight. Her first few steps were
unsteady, but she was able to maneuver herself behind the nearest bush.

“Stay with the girl and see that she doesn’t try to run away,” Thatcher yelled.

Desperate to avoid being seen by her abductors in such a state of dishabille, Esme hurriedly tugged her clothes into place.
She stepped back onto the path. Waters grabbed her arm and led her through a clearing. She surveyed their surroundings as
best she could in the dusky evening light. The moon hung heavy and low behind her, still rising but illuminating the stone
walls in front of them. Off in the distance she could hear water lapping at rocks and gulls crying. She inhaled deeply and
filled her lungs with crisp, salty air; they were on the coast.

It had taken them a while to traverse London, but once they were on the open road, they’d traveled all day and into the early
evening. Not long enough to reach a western or northern coastline.

Waters grabbed her arm. “We won’t hurt you if you just do as you’re told.” He led her forward toward a bank of crumbled rock
walls.

“Considering I’m not certain of what you want, cooperation might be challenging.” Esme waited for his response, but none came.
Indignantly she jerked away from the man.

The ruins stretched on as far as her eye could see, in some spots nothing more than a pile of stone, whereas other sections
still had full walls standing. He led her to a spot where the wall had crumbled down to nothing and stepped over the threshold
into the ruins. Cold stone chilled her feet through her thin slippers, and the damp night breeze scattered goose bumps across
her body. In a futile effort at gaining warmth, she pulled her thin robe tighter. The scent of damp earth and moss permeated
the air as they moved farther into the decaying building, past more piles of rubble, through tumbled-down archways and heaps
of rotting timbers.

“What is this place?” she asked.

“It was a monastery,” Waters said.

They came to a steep staircase, which proved difficult to maneuver. The moss-covered stairs were slippery and lacked a railing,
but with careful steps, she made it to the bottom unscathed. Water dripped into several puddles in an odd cadence, giving
the large cavernous room a hollow feeling.

They said they were taking her to a dungeon, and they had made good on that promise. In the flickering light of the men’s
lanterns, she saw that a torture cage hung loosely from the ceiling across from her, though, thankfully, it looked to be in
rather poor condition. Several sets of manacles were fastened to the wall, the ceiling above them partially collapsed. She
suspected the thing off in the far corner was a pit. She shuddered to think of being crammed into the tiny box with nothing
but the dark surrounding her.

“I believe you are mistaken,” she said. “This couldn’t possibly have been a monastery. Monks are not predisposed to torture—upon
themselves, perhaps, but not upon others.”

“This was an old castle before the monks inherited it,” Waters said. “They’ve been gone a while now.”

“If you two are finished with the history lesson, we have work to do,” Thatcher growled. He set his lantern down and scanned
the open room. His deep chuckle shot doom through Esme. “Put her there.” He motioned to the far right wall.

Waters followed his gaze but made no movement. “In the manacles? Thatcher, a mite rough, don’t you—”

But before he could finish his question, Thatcher silenced him with a steely glare. “Yes, you dolt, lock her up. She’s a prisoner,
not your betrothed.”

Waters dragged her over to the far side of the room. The dungeon’s air was damp and stale. The ground was so moist that mud
clung to her slippers with each step. The dirt beneath her feet lent an earthy smell to the air that made her feel as if they
were outside. Only she knew they weren’t, and the likelihood of her escaping to the outside was slim. Even if she did, where
would she go?

Panic rose in her throat, bitter and acidic as bile.

If only this were a scene from one of the adventure novels she read. In the books a handsome hero always came and saved the
poor distressed woman. Esme knew that she had no such hero, handsome or otherwise, so it was likely she would rot hanging
from those manacles. Or worse.

This time she didn’t bother to suppress her shudder. If lurid fiction were to be believed, ruffians such as these were likely
to use her poorly. Regardless of how they might feel about her large bum.

Waters untied her arms, then slid her right wrist into the manacle. As he closed the cold metal around her, she watched him
slide the pin into place, locking it on her arm. She tried to kick him, but her feet caused no great damage, even when they
collided with his shins.

He had more difficulty with her left arm, both because of her attempt to dissuade him from chaining her to a wall and because
the pin on the left manacle was severely rusted. But he managed to force it into place. It certainly didn’t look as if it
would give way anytime soon.

Something scurried beneath her feet and she kicked out, sending the unsuspecting creature flying toward the men.
Rat.
She smiled at the irony.

Each man held a lantern that provided enough light for her to see them from her vantage point against the wall. Above her,
there was a fair-sized hole in the partially collapsed ceiling, through which she caught a glimpse of cloud-strewn sky. She
herself was shrouded in darkness except for the faintest shaft of moonlight.

“Start against that wall,” Thatcher told Waters while pointing to his left. “You count forty paces. I’ll start over here.”

The men were several feet from their respective walls before Esme interrupted their counting. “At some point you’ll realize
you have the wrong woman. I have no key, nor any notion of what we’re doing here.”

Waters went back to his wall and started again.

“Whomever you were looking for, I’m not her,” she said. “In fact, I’m certain you are unaware of this, but I am a very important
person, and once my household discovers that I have disappeared, the whole of London will be looking for me. They’ve probably
already notified the metropolitan police.”

That sounded good, in theory. But none of it was true. Her aunt would certainly miss her, as would Mr. and Mrs. Craddock,
their two servants, but no one would believe Esme to actually be missing. She had always had the bad habit of going off on
her own whenever the desire hit, such as when she traveled to Oxford to buy the journal of the man who’d researched Pandora’s
box. She’d been gone three days and her aunt had barely noticed. So her household, as it were, was used to her disappearing
every once in a while. Then again, they would know something was amiss by the state of her study. They would certainly know
she would never treat her books in such a fashion. But they would not have noticed until long after the abductors had absconded
with Esme.

Again Waters shook his head and went back to his starting point.

“Waters!” Thatcher yelled. “Get over here and hold my place; I’ll count out yours.” He aimed his pistol at Esme. “And you,
shut up!”