The Bachelor Trap (18 page)

David Kerr stood well back from the curtained window of the Castle Hotel's dining room and watched as Mr. Hamilton handed Lady Marion into his coach. He continued to watch as the coach moved off. When it turned the corner into Marine Parade, he returned to his table and snapped his fingers to call a waiter over.

“Claret,” he said, “and the best the house has to offer.”

He smiled complacently, thinking that his luck was about to turn.

He had not come to Brighton with the object of finding Marion. When he'd left London, he'd assumed that she had practically bankrupted herself to pay him off, and money could not be got out of a stone. Though he'd seen her in town with Hamilton, it had never occurred to him that Hamilton's interest was serious. Why should it? He was one of the richest men in England. He could pick and choose his women, and Marion was as exciting as a wooden doll.

Leastways, that's how he used to think of her, when he'd been engaged to her. Not that he would have married her. For one thing, her dowry was too small. For another, she wasn't the kind of woman who appealed to him. She was too well-bred, too much the dutiful daughter, too mousy. Even her looks were mousy. She was just a pawn he used to get to her father.

Life was full of surprises. When he'd tracked her down in London, he hardly recognized her. She'd learned how to dress and do her hair. But you couldn't change character. She was still just a pawn he could move at will.

When he'd read the announcement of her engagement in last week's
Gazette,
his jaw had dropped. He was wishing then that he'd asked her for more money to keep his mouth shut. The more he'd thought about it, however, the more he'd come to see that this engagement could work to his advantage. The money that had come to her from her aunt's estate was a pittance compared to the money that would come to her from her wealthy husband. He foresaw a happy future for himself, with a regular income—all courtesy of Marion.

The waiter brought the bottle of claret and poured a little into his glass. He sipped it slowly, tasting the flavor, rolling it around his tongue like the connoisseur he was. It was light and clean, the way claret should be. “Excellent,” he said, and held out his glass for the waiter to fill.

He loved the claret, loved the Castle Hotel with its graceful, long windows and finely appointed rooms. Everything was of the best quality. Unfortunately, it was beyond his means, but he enjoyed loitering in the lobby or the taproom and occasionally sitting down to dinner. His own hotel was adequate but hardly in the same class. His trouble was that money slipped through his fingers. His only asset was his wits.

It helped that he looked like a typical English gentleman, conservative, pleasant to look upon rather than handsome, with the kind of face both men and women trusted. His manners were impeccable; he could turn a graceful compliment; he was a good listener. It was just as well that no one could read his mind or they would know that his quick intelligence was calculating the odds, deciding which gullible fool would be his next victim.

If only fate had decreed that he was to be a rich man, he wouldn't have had to resort to soliciting “gifts” and “loans” from his wealthier “friends.” They called it “blackmail,” but that was a criminal offence and he did not see himself as a criminal. He wasn't the one with something to hide.

He ordered a fillet of Torbay sole with all the trimmings, then he sat back in his chair, sipping his claret, contemplating how he could take advantage of this extraordinary stroke of luck that had come his way.

The first time around, it was her father who had paid him off, and a very tidy sum it was, too, enough to set him up nicely in the New World, or so he'd thought. In fact, that experience had turned out to be a disaster. Gentlemen in Upper Canada did not lead lives of leisure. They worked their plantations like farmers, shoulder to shoulder with their hired men. He, of course, hadn't known the first thing about farming and had lost his investment in short order.

The next few years, he'd lived on slim pickings, but always at the back of his mind was the thought that if worse came to worst, he could always return to England and squeeze another “gift” from Marion's father. It hadn't worked out that way, for when he finally got the money together to come home, much to his dismay, he discovered that the earl had died and Marion was practically a pauper. All he could squeeze out of her was a paltry sum of money.

Things had changed when he discovered that she'd inherited a legacy from an aunt. He had enough now to set himself up in Brighton at the peak of the Season, when London's smart set came in their droves to enjoy the sea air. Society in Brighton was more informal than in London. If he played his cards right, he'd thought then, he might snag an heiress or a rich widow.

That's what it had come down to, but the announcement of Marion's engagement had changed his plans. Why saddle himself with a wife when he had his own private treasure chest to supply all his wants?

Marion.

He'd known that Hamilton would be in Brighton for the start of the Whig conference. He'd read about it in the
Gazette
. All the party's bigwigs would be here, at least those that passed for bigwigs in the southern counties. It hadn't taken him long to discover that this was their hotel of choice. He'd hoped to make an impression on Hamilton and be invited to Longbury, where he could approach Marion openly as her fiancé's friend. She would know that one word from him would dash all her hopes. A man like Hamilton with a bright future in politics would not wish to tie himself to Lady Marion Dane.

Once again, his plans were foiled. Hamilton, evidently, wasn't the kind of man to be impressed by an honest face, or a nicely turned compliment, or an ability to listen well. He knew this because the night before, when Hamilton entered the taproom and ordered a tankard of beer, he'd tried to strike up a conversation with him. All he'd got for his friendly overture was a hard stare that warned him that the man did not suffer fools gladly. It seemed sheer lunacy to him that such a man would enter politics, unless he meant to
scare
his constituents into voting for him.

All was not lost, however, for Hamilton had brought Lady Marion to Brighton. Kerr had been in the hotel lobby when they'd arrived yesterday morning and had quickly turned aside so that Marion would not see him. There would be a time and place to make his presence known to her, a time when her formidable fiancé was otherwise engaged. Her chaperon, a maid, was not likely to deter him. He knew how to get around maids.

The waiter brought his dinner, succulent fillet of sole in a cream sauce, new potatoes à la Française, and an array of fresh vegetables. He enjoyed every bite and did not blink at the exorbitant bill that the waiter presented at the end of his meal.

Marion would be paying for it.

Ash Denison watched the fair-haired gentleman leave the dining room, then he called the waiter over for his bill. He was puzzled by the man's behavior. He'd been in the taproom the night before with Brand when the stranger had tried to insinuate himself into their conversation. He'd made a blunder, however, when he'd tried to flatter Brand. Brand hated toadying in all its forms, and he'd soon frightened the voluble stranger away. Now, today, this same stranger had watched Brand and Marion as they left the hotel to go to a political rally on Brighton's common.

What was he up to?

When the waiter presented his bill, he said, “That gentleman who just left the dining room? I seem to know him from somewhere.”

The waiter looked through the open doors to the lobby, then turned back to Ash. “Do you mean Mr. Kerr, sir?”

“Is he the young, fair-haired gentleman?”

The waiter nodded. “Mr. David Kerr. He farms in Upper Canada, or he used to.”

“No,” said Ash, “that's not the gentleman I was thinking of.”

He paid his bill, got up without haste, and sauntered into the hotel lobby. Kerr was just leaving. Keeping a discreet distance between them, Ash went after him.

Marion had never been particularly interested in politics, and after listening to the candidates who addressed the mob of men surrounding the speakers' platform, she doubted she ever would be. No one seemed to care that there was a vast world out there in sore need of a helping hand. The most pressing concern of these locals seemed to be bigger and better breakwaters to protect the shoreline. Breakwaters, bridges, and roads—those were the issues that got this lot going.

Like other ladies, she was watching the proceedings from inside one of the carriages that were stationed around the edges of the grassy common. She was in Brand's carriage, and with her was Mrs. Monteith, the wife of one of the party officials, and her two lovely daughters. There were no ladies on the common. Men would not tolerate it. They seemed to think that the presence of females would inhibit debate; either that, or make them mind their language and manners.

Mrs. Monteith seemed to understand Marion's lack of enthusiasm. Her bright, birdlike eyes glinted with humor. “This isn't the election,” she said. “It's only a rehearsal, you know, for our hopeful candidates to practice their rhetoric. They'll improve in time. They all do. Look! It's Mr. Hamilton's turn. Now,
he
is a real orator.”

Marion watched as Brand stepped onto the platform. He seemed both confident and relaxed. Not so Marion. Her nerves were stretched taut as though
she
were the one who had to make the speech. She forgot to be nervous when she started to listen. Brand didn't make a speech. He spoke as though he were addressing every person in that crowd, even the ladies. He acknowledged the contribution of the other speakers and the importance of local issues; then he took his hearers one step further. He spoke of the need to bridge the gap between rich and poor so that no child in the land would ever go to bed cold and hungry.

He did not say one thing that Marion had not read in one or another of his newspapers. She already knew that he was for universal education and an end to child labor, but his spoken words seemed to carry more power. Her heart burned within her. He made her feel that anything was possible, if only people had the will to change things.

“He's brilliant, isn't he?” Her voice was hushed.

The Monteith ladies laughed. Mrs. Monteith said, “Of course he is. But there's more to it than that. Mr. Monteith says that it's his passion that makes Mr. Hamilton such a compelling speaker. He cares about those on the edges of society because he has been there himself.” She patted Marion's hand. “Mr. Monteith and I are so glad that Brand has found someone to share his life. It's been a lonely life, as I'm sure you know.”

A lonely life.
The words touched a chord deep in Marion's psyche. The fear of exposure had made her keep others at a distance. With Brand, she guessed it was the fear of rejection. But that was in the past, leastways for him. Anyone with eyes could see that he was admired and respected. What more could he want?