Seduction In Silk: A Novel of the Malloren World (Malloran) (2 page)

This book is special in so many ways, and I thank my husband, Ken, always; my family; my wonderful agent, Meg Ruley, and editor, Claire Zion, and everyone at NAL. And, of course, you, my readers, who fuel the fire. Thank you!

September 1765

Perriam
Manor, Surrey

T
he Honor
able Peregrine Perriam approached the deathbed with distaste.

It was early afternoon, but the windows were closed and the curtains lowered, creating gloom and trapping the smells of sickness, decay, and some perfumed stuff designed to hide both.

One branch of candles sat beside the bed, illuminating its massive dark oak posts and crimson velvet hangings. The bed looked to date from the sixteenth century. Perry had gained the same impression of the house. Dark paneling everywhere suggested it was unchanged since the day the feud over Perriam Manor had begun, as if a modern touch might lose a point in the long battle.

He should have ignored the scrawled summons from Giles Perriam, but no one in his family could ignore anything to do with Perriam Manor, especially not a letter that oozed gloating malice.

I’ve made a new will. Named you as heir. You’d better get here quickly if you want to know what else I’ve done.

He’d wanted to deny Giles whatever warped pleasure he sought, but “named you as heir” had brought him here at speed.

That was impossible.

For his branch of the Perriam family this Tudor house and its lands were the “filched estate,” its loss the bitter legacy of a division of property seven generations ago. Getting it back was a holy cause, but the only way was if the junior branch, Giles’s branch, failed to produce a direct male heir. In that case, by a legal pact, the estate must pass to the senior branch, now headed by Perry’s father, Earl of Hernescroft.

The earl had observed Giles’s failure to produce a living male heir with satisfaction. When Giles’s health had failed, he’d rubbed his hands in anticipation of victory. At last the old injustice would be put right, and in his lifetime too.

“Named you as heir.”
That wasn’t possible. And then there was
“if you want to know what else I’ve done.”

Giles was no fool. He was a wicked reprobate without a moral scruple of any kind, but not a fool. Whatever scheme he’d devised, it would have teeth and claws.

Perry studied the man propped up on pillows, a skeleton skinned in old parchment. Giles had been fleshy, but now his face was dominated by a blade of a nose and high cheekbones, his sunken eyes emphasized by chiaroscuro. One gaunt hand lay on the crimson coverlet, fingers curled into a claw.

What exactly did Giles seek to grasp, this close to the end?

There were a number of people in the room—a black-and-white clergyman, a coatless doctor, some servants—but Perry focused on the dying man as he walked forward.

When he arrived at the bed, the clergyman leaned down. “Mr. Perriam is here, sir. Your chosen heir.”

“Chosen . . . ,” Cousin Giles growled without opening his eyes. “Wouldn’t have come to this if any of my own get survived.”

The chaplain stepped back, stricken. The death of four baby boys left no space for comforting platitudes. Three wives, four sons, but no living heir.

The thin lids raised a little. “Don’t tower over me. Sit.”

Someone busied himself behind Perry. A hushed voice murmured, “Your chair, sir.”

Perry sat. He was famed for his social address, but what to say here?

I’m sorry to find you dying
would be a lie. He’d no more than bowed in passing to this man, so any expression of emotion would be hollow.

What malice have you confected?
would be honest, but too curt an opening.

Perry chose silence. Let the enemy make the first move.

Giles’s eyes had closed again. Perhaps nothing was required.

Then the sagging lips moved. “You married?”

“No.” Did Giles seek a marriage alliance? To what purpose? In any case, he had no daughter.

“I’m a cursed man,” Giles growled from a dry throat. “Cursed! Breed boys and see ’em snatched away . . . Wives barren or feeble . . . Cursed, I tell you.”

“Life’s chancy as it is. Queen Anne birthed fourteen and died without a living heir.”

“Cursed,” Giles insisted. “Supplanted her father, the rightful king. Her sister Mary suffered the same fate. Died in agony from smallpox. Cursed for their wickedness. As am I. As am I!”

His sudden passion triggered a paroxysm of coughing, and the doctor hurried forward to present a drink.

If anyone deserved to be cursed, Giles did, but a belief in curses showed a deranged mind.

Perry glanced at the clergyman and mouthed,
Mad?

“Not that I know, sir,” the man murmured.

Giles pushed away the glass. “Nothing to say, sir? Nothing to say?”

“There are no such things as curses, Cousin. And who would do such a thing to you?”

“Clarrie, that’s who. Seemed such a soft, silly . . .” Then his eyes fixed wildly on Perry. “Can still evade the worst. Harpy Mallow showed the way.”

Definitely deranged, but the only way was to humor him.

“Who or what is Harpy Mallow?”

“Sister. Arse-faced monster, but Henry married her anyway. Plotted against me . . .” He paused to wheeze in a few breaths. “She claimed to be able to turn the curse. I laughed at her. Then she died. Died! Curse her. Curse her!”

“My lord!” the clergyman protested over a paroxysm of coughing. “Consider the judgment you must soon face.”

Giles turned a long-toothed snarl on him. “Cease your bleating. Water. Give me water, damn you all.”

The doctor again helped him to drink. “You must rest, sir.”

“Soon have eternal rest. Or eternal fires. Henry Mallow has sons and he was as guilty as I. Curse him. Curse him!”

He choked again, then collapsed back on his pillows, eyes closed, each breath wheezing and labored. Perry hoped the tirade had finished him off. The mind had clearly already lost its moorings, so with God’s mercy the wasted body wasn’t far behind.

He was strongly tempted to leave, but Giles hadn’t summoned him here for this babble. There was some plot in hand and he must find out what it was. Perriam Manor must return to his family in truth—that was, to the Earl of Hernescroft, not his youngest son.

He leaned closer. “You wrote that you have willed the manor to me. By the old agreement Perriam Manor must rejoin the principal estate. You must bequeath it to my father or my eldest brother, not me.”

The dying man showed no response, but Perry persisted. “Such a mistake will be corrected in the courts, but only think how much money must pour into lawyers’ pockets.”

Ah.

He leaned back. That must be it. Giles had set up a situation that would suck a small fortune before it was resolved. Lawyers delighted in complicating a case to their own advantage. Sometimes they could even twist the result.

That sent a chill down Perry’s spine. He had no idea who else might make a claim to the estate, but a family tree covering seven generations had to hold possibilities. He would not be used in such a malicious device. But what could he do?

Somewhere in the room a large clock ponderously ticked the seconds.

Someone behind Perry whispered.

Clothing rustled, but the man in the bed lay still.

If he shook Giles, could he get a few more words out of him?

Then Giles spoke again, working for each word. “You still there?”

“Yes. Did you hear what I said?”

“Not deaf. That old agreement. Says I must bequeath the manor to Beatrice’s line. Nothing about to whom.” The strange noise from his throat was probably a laugh. “Create discord in the cozy Herne nest, won’t it?”

“If you imagine my family as cozy, you’re very much mistaken,” Perry said. But Giles was correct. Perriam Manor passing to him would create a new schism, one between his father and him. Thank God the plan wouldn’t work.

“Thinking you’ll pass it on to Hernescroft?” Giles asked, eyes still shut. “Can’t. Written in the will . . . Seen to you lot, I have.”

He coughed again and the doctor said, “Sir, I must insist that you rest.”

“For what damned purpose? Want to tell my plan while I can still enjoy it. Give me some of that cordial.”

“That wouldn’t be wise, sir.”

“Who pays the bills? Give it me.”

Lips tight, the doctor measured a syrupy liquid into a spoon and fed it to his patient. Giles coughed again as he lay back, and he seemed to drift into sleep. But then the potion had some effect and he half opened his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was stronger.

“Fail to keep to the terms of my will and the pact is void. Then the manor can go to anyone I choose. Had my legal people go over that. If you don’t dance to my tune, your lot loses Perriam Manor forever.”

Perry did his best to conceal his reaction, which was mostly exasperation. He doubted Cousin Giles was lying—he was enjoying the truth too much—which meant that generations ago there’d been some very sloppy legal work. The will itself could be contested, but that too would be a feast for legal vultures.

Giles grinned, enjoying himself now. “Put some other conditions in too.”

“If they’re outrageous, they can be struck down.”

“Not outrageous. But you’ll see for yourself when I’m gone. Now, about the curse . . .”

“There are no such things as curses.”

“Believe as you wish, but it passes along with the inheritance. Clarrie made it so. Harpy Mallow affirmed it. Perhaps I should let the curse pass to your side of the family. Justice would finally be served.”

Mad, bad, and vile.

Perry had had enough.

When he rose, Giles said, “Running away? Don’t want to know how to avert the curse?”

“There are no such things as curses.”

“Through marriage. Harpy Mallow laid it out. If I married Clarrie’s niece, her shade would be appeased.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

“Dance to Nora Mallow’s tune? Anyway, girl too young. Took a new wife, one who could bear sons . . .” Perhaps his silence came from the memory of how futile that had been, but then he spoke again. “Now you’ll do it. End the curse. Save us both, or we’ll both burn in hell.”

“Marry some odd offspring of this insanity?” A laugh escaped. “You must face your fate, Cousin, for I’ll have no part of this.”

“You don’t fear hell?”

“Not as the result of a curse, that’s for sure.”

“I do.”

“Probably with cause.”

“I’ve done some things. . . . But you’ll save me.”

“I regret, but I must decline the honor.”

Giles was weakening, his chest heaving with each breath, but he focused on Perry again. He might even have smirked. “You’ll dance to my tune, Cousin, because it’s in the will. To inherit this place, you must marry Clarrie’s niece. Save us both.” He rolled his head. “My will . . . Where’s my will?”

A servant began to search drawers.

Giles muttered about their stupidity.

Then the man hurried over with some folded papers.

“Give ’em to him,” Giles said, and the man offered them to Perry.

Perry regarded them much as he might regard a bouquet of nettles, but he took them. Marry? He had no intention of marrying anyone.

“It’s all there,” Giles whispered. “Had time to plan. Might have failed my line, but yours will eat bitter fruit.” He began to laugh.

Enough was enough. Perry turned and headed for the door.

A choking sound made him whirl back.

The man in the bed was fixed midcackle, the staring eyes blank of life. The doctor leaned forward to confirm it, but it was a formality. Giles Perriam, forty-seven years old, had gone on to eternal rest or eternal fires, but Perry didn’t doubt his last words.

He had done his best to make this victory bitter fruit, and he’d chosen Perry to serve it up.