Daring Deception Read online

  DARING DECEPTION

  Brenda Hiatt

  Smashwords edition

  Copyright 1993 by Brenda H. Barber

  This is a work of fiction. Though some actual historical places, persons and events are depicted in this work, the primary characters and their stories are fictional. Any resemblance between those characters and actual persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental.

  License Notes

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  * * *

  DEDICATION

  In memory of my father, Howard H. Hiatt

  CHAPTER 1

  Gavin Alexander, lately 6th Earl of Seabrooke, observed the growing dismay on the face of the young man before him and sighed. He should have known his own incredible luck over the past few hours was too good to be true, and so it apparently was. The lad couldn’t pay up.

  “I’ll accept your vowels, of course, Chesterton,” Lord Seabrooke said brusquely. Frustrated as he was, it was not in him to humiliate the boy publicly. “You may redeem them later in the week.”

  Sir Thomas chewed his lower lip, glancing quickly about at the interested spectators who had gathered to watch the final stages of the evening’s deepest game, before meeting his opponent’s eye. “Might I have a word with you privately, sir?” he asked in a shaky undertone.

  Seabrooke inclined his head, masking fierce disappointment with the lightly amused nonchalance that came so easily now after years of practice. “You’ve all had your entertainment,” he said to their audience. “Our terms of payment can be of no interest to you whatever.” Though there was nothing overtly threatening in either words or tone, the crowd of gentlemen melted away at once.

  “I—I seem to have a problem,” stammered the young baronet as soon as they were alone. He raked agitated fingers through his thick shock of fair hair as he stared despondently down at the table, unable to meet the other man’s eyes.

  “You don’t have the means to pay your gaming debts. Yes, I had gathered that.” Seabrooke’s voice was cold now. He had needed those winnings so desperately! “You realize that I could have you barred from White’s for playing under false pretenses.”

  Sir Thomas’s head came up at once. “It was no such thing!” he declared hotly. “The Chesterton fortune is every bit as extensive as I said. I just don’t exactly…have access to it at the moment. It is tied up in trust, you see.”

  A flame of renewed hope sprang up in Gavin’s breast. “But the money is yours?”

  “Yes, yes, of course! Well, mine and my sister’s, anyway. The terms of m’ father’s will were rather…irregular.” Lord Seabrooke thought he detected a certain bitterness in the lad’s voice. “My share will more than cover your twelve thousand pounds, but my allowance won’t make a dent in it. In fact, my pockets are practically to let till next quarter.” The despair was back in his eyes, and Seabrooke felt his brief hope wither.

  His circumstances were becoming increasingly desperate.

  Despite his lack of a title, Major Gavin Alexander had cut quite a dash in fashionable London, especially with the ladies. The slight limp his war injury had left him seemed to make him an even more romantic figure in their eyes. His leisure hours had been spent in amusements reputable and disreputable, and his near notoriety gained him entry into places few noblemen frequented. This latter had made him particularly useful to the wartime government, though he could no longer serve in combat.

  Never precisely wealthy, he had managed to live well enough on what the War Office paid him—until recently.

  When the news reached him that his Uncle Edmund, a virtual stranger due to a longstanding feud between the 5th Earl and Gavin’s late father, had succumbed to a fever, the new Lord Seabrooke had been both stunned and elated. Giving notice at Whitehall, he had at once travelled north to his new holdings, where another shock awaited him: instead of the tidy fortune he had been led to expect, his uncle had left him a mountain of debt. Gavin sold off the unentailed lands to pay the mortgages and depleted his own savings but still there were bills unpaid.

  Never one to repine, he had eventually returned to Town and lived much as he ever had. Turning out the tenants to take up residence in Seabrooke House, he managed to keep up a pretense of wealth so as not to be denied admittance to the better clubs, where his chief hope of salvation lay. He did have one other: as Lord Seabrooke, he found himself in even greater demand by London’s hostesses—and their daughters.

  After the skirmishes of the spring, Napoleon had finally, irrevocably, been defeated, effectively eliminating Gavin’s position with the War Office. Already his credit was beginning to run out; soon the mamas of certain heiresses would get wind of it and warn their daughters away from him. And now he found himself saddled with a new responsibility, one that honor would not allow him to shirk and that made the recoupment of his finances absolutely essential.

  When the young buck before him had come into White’s looking for a game, boasting of his broad estates and vast fortune, Seabrooke was not the only one who saw him as a wonderfully plump pigeon, ripe to be plucked. While the others had been mainly amused by the young man’s airs, however, Seabrooke had perceived in him the miracle he so desperately needed. Now it appeared that he had given thanks prematurely.

  “And when, precisely, will you have control of your portion of the trust?” he asked with more resignation than hope.

  “Not till I turn five and twenty,” replied Sir Thomas dolefully, poking at the cards before him with one forefinger. “Nearly four years. Frederica gets hers when she marries, but at the rate she’s going that may well be even longer. Surely there must be some way to break this damned trust. A debt of honor, after all...”

  “Your sister is unmarried?” asked Lord Seabrooke casually, seized by a sudden inspiration born of dire necessity. “Tell me about her.”

  * * *

  Miss Frederica Chesterton was having an extremely trying day. She had been wakened before dawn by the shrieking of a housemaid, only to discover that the silly girl’s hysterics were precipitated by nothing more than the sight of one of Frederica’s pet mice. The maid was new, and had not yet grown accustomed to her mistress’s unusual menagerie.

  On coming downstairs, Frederica had found that someone had neglected to latch the scullery door, and one of the Angora goats had come into the kitchen. Cook was furious and threatening to give notice, and by the time Frederica had soothed him, her peacock, Fanfare, was screaming loudly for his breakfast. An hour later, the steward appeared to inform her that the late-summer rains had ruined the barley crop.

  Mrs. Gresham, the aging housekeeper, was in a sour mood after being wakened by the peacock and aroused Cook’s ire in turn by suggesting the porridge was lumpy. Frederica managed to smooth things over between the habitual combatants, pacifying Mrs. Gresham with one of Cook’s puff pastries in place of the reviled porridge. Then the accounts had to be gone over, and Frederica found that she had made an error last month that necessitated refiguring two complete columns.

  After ruining three pen nibs, hunting down the housekeeper’s missing keys and separating two young kitchen maids who were pelting each other with flour, Frederica finally retreated to the little back parlor with a tea tray, determined to have an hour to herself to recover her spirits and energy. She had taken only one sip, however, when yet another interruption occurred.

  “Good afternoon, Freddie.” A familiar figure appeared without warning in the doorway. Though the young man standing there possessed blond hair, while Frederica’s c
urls were the color of brightly polished copper, there was a similarity between the two that marked them at once as brother and sister.

  “Thomas! I thought you still in London.” Frederica rose with a welcoming smile. One look at her brother’s handsome countenance, however, told her that he was highly agitated about something. “Is anything wrong?” After everything else that had happened today, it seemed all too likely.

  Despite the fact that she was a year younger, Frederica had tended to mother Thomas ever since their own mother’s death nearly ten years before. In vain she reminded herself that he was one and twenty now, a man grown. Of late he had begun to resent her ordering of their lives, she knew. In fact, when he had left for Town a few weeks before, she had feared that he might do something foolish merely to prove his independence.

  “You haven’t gotten into some sort of trouble, have you, dear?” she asked with ready concern, forcibly reminded of the scapegrace lad she used to sooth, shield and advise.

  Thomas, however, immediately donned a charming smile and came forward to embrace her. “Wrong? Of course not, Freddie. Quite the opposite, in fact. I’ve come to offer you my heartiest congratulations.” Frederica stiffened in her brother’s clasp, drawing back to regard him warily. “Congratulations? Congratulations for what, Thomas?”

  “Why, on your betrothal to the Earl of Seabrooke. Quite a respectable match, considering you’ve not been to Town, eh? Imagine, my little sister a Countess!”

  “Have you taken leave of your senses?” she demanded, pulling free of him. “How can I possibly be betrothed to a man I have never met?” Examining Thomas through narrowed eyes, she wondered whether he might be foxed, early in the day though it was.

  “No, Frederica, I have finally come to my senses,” declared Thomas stoutly, though he refused to meet his sister’s gaze. “I have come to realize that I’ve been shirking many of my responsibilities—to the estate and, especially, to you.”

  Frederica stared at her brother open-mouthed. She had never seen him in this mood before and found herself, uncharacteristically, at a loss for words.

  “I’m a man now, and it is time I had a care for your future,” Thomas went on, in what was beginning to sound suspiciously like a rehearsed speech. “You cannot spend your life running my household, you know. You are far too capable—and pretty—to settle for that. No, it is time you had a household of your own, one worthy of your merit.

  “I shall require you to go over the accounts with me, so that I may familiarize myself with the workings of the estate. Then I’ll have a conference with our steward—what’s his name?” He faltered briefly, looking to her for assistance.

  “Bridges,” replied Frederica dazedly, undecided whether to be outraged or amused at Thomas’s sudden decision to grow up.

  “Bridges. Of course.” He clasped his hands behind his back and began to pace the room. “He can continue to oversee all the day-to-day details, but he will now answer to me instead of you. I can’t imagine what Father was thinking of to suggest that you manage the estate in the first place. It’s hardly fitting for a woman.”

  Frederica knew very well what their father had been thinking when he stipulated in his will that she have the handling of Maple Hill and the surrounding lands. During the five years before his death, from the time she was barely in her teens, it had been Frederica rather than Thomas who had taken a keen interest in all that went into running a large household and its adjacent farms. She had set herself to learn every aspect of management, from consulting with Cook to visiting the tenant families, and had gradually taken on all the responsibilities that would have been her mother’s, had she lived, as well as many of her father’s. Thomas, meanwhile, had eluded all his parent’s efforts to educate him as befitted an heir, often spending even his holidays at Eton, and then Oxford, with his friends.

  “It is all very well you are finally taking an interest in Maple Hill,” Frederica said, finding her tongue at last. “But what has that to do with my marrying? I cannot believe you would make such a decision for my future without consulting me. Come, tell me this is one of your hoaxes, Thomas.”

  “No, Freddie, it is not. I am persuaded that Seabrooke will make you a splendid husband. You will doubtless thank me when you grow accustomed to the idea.” His tone was lofty, but he still avoided her eye.

  Frederica’s slow temper finally reached its boiling point. “Thank you? For flippantly arranging the rest of my life without so much as a by-your-leave? I think not! I would never have encouraged you to go to London had I known you would do something so shatterbrained. Now I suppose it will be up to me to write to this Lord Seabrooke to cry off, as if I had nothing better with which to occupy my time.”

  “It is too late for that,” Thomas informed her bluntly. “The contracts have already been drawn up. To cry off now would cause no end of scandal and be exceedingly awkward for all concerned.”

  He had no intention of telling her just how awkward. In payment of his gaming debt, he had settled twelve thousand pounds of Frederica’s inheritance on Lord Seabrooke in advance. If the betrothal were cancelled, he would still owe the man that impossible sum. During the journey home, Sir Thomas had managed to convince himself that he truly was acting in his sister’s best interests, never suspecting that Lord Seabrooke himself had done much to plant that satisfactory idea in his head.

  Frederica took three deep breaths, as her old governess had always recommended she do in times of stress. It was being borne in upon her that her brother actually wished her to honor this outrageous commitment. Biting back another angry retort, she determined to discover every particular. Organized to a fault, Frederica preferred to have all the facts at her disposal before dealing with any problem. The approach had served her well in the past, and she saw no reason to deviate from it now.

  “I don’t recall that I’ve heard you mention Lord Seabrooke before, Thomas,” she said with what she felt was laudable calm. “Is he someone you met at Oxford?”

  “No, I met him for the first time during my visit to London. I’m sure you will like him, Freddie. He’s a capital fellow. Fought on the Peninsula against Boney.”

  Frederica was aghast. “You just met him? Thomas, for all you know he might be no more than a fortune-hunter!”

  For the first time, Thomas looked uncomfortable. “Shouldn’t think so,” he said, frowning. “He’s a member at all the clubs, even White’s. It’s deuced hard to get in there. I should know—I had to have two friends put in a word for me to be admitted. They’d never allow a fortune-hunter in.” He spoke more confidently now.

  “Not if he announced the fact,” Frederica returned acidly. She had not missed Thomas’s discomfort and pressed harder. “So you know virtually nothing about the man, for all your fine speeches, other than his title and service record.”

  “It’s not as though I’m forcing you to wed some toothless old roué, you know,” said Thomas defensively. “Seabrooke is well enough looking and can’t be much past thirty—came into his title just a few months ago, I believe. He’s a bang-up Corinthian and vastly in demand. Most girls would jump at the chance to marry him.”

  “I am not ‘most girls,’ Thomas. I’d prefer to know a bit more about a man before tying myself to him for life. Your precious Lord Seabrooke could be a murderer or a highwayman for all you know of him. But I suppose I must wait to discover such things until after I am his wife.” Frederica made no effort to conceal her bitterness, hoping that it would help to dissuade her brother from his mad scheme.

  “Now, Freddie, you know I’d never expect you to marry a scoundrel,” said Thomas soothingly, patting her hand in a manner Frederica found maddeningly condescending. “Seabrooke is quite the gentleman. You must trust me.”

  She thought rapidly. “You are certain you would not force me to marry a scoundrel, Thomas?” she asked carefully.

  “Of course not! You’re my sister, after all.” His tone was indignant.

  “So if it were to transpire that yo
ur Lord Seabrooke is a scoundrel, you would allow me to cry off?” Thomas paused at that, but then shrugged. “Yes. But he is no scoundrel, I assure you. Oh, he has a bit of a reputation as a rake, I’ll grant you that—what red-blooded blade don’t? Nothing you need worry about, though.”

  Frederica was smiling grimly now. “I’ll be the judge of that, Thomas. I plan to do a bit of investigating about the Earl of Seabrooke. If I can prove that he’s got more than a ‘bit of a reputation,’ that he’s a fortune-hunter or in any way dishonorable, I’ll expect you to hold to your promise.”

  Thomas was taken aback, but only for a moment. After all, what could she possibly discover that he would not have heard about in Town? He had asked his friends about the man before having the papers drawn up—he wasn’t a complete nodcock! Doubtless Frederica simply meant to write a few letters. And even if she went to London herself, which he thought unlikely in the extreme, he was confident that there was nothing really wrong with Seabrooke. He’d stake his own reputation on that, even after such a short acquaintance.

  And if there were something—something that actually merited the label of "scoundrel”—well, he’d just have to find another way to raise twelve thousand pounds. He owed his sister too much to do otherwise.

  Thomas looked at her with affection, realizing for the first time what a prize she might be considered, with her cascading copper curls, wide green eyes and flawless complexion—and a fortune, to boot.

  "Very well, Freddie,” he finally said, "investigate away. You’ll see Seabrooke is a right ’un. And then I’ll expect you to do your part. I’m sure you have no more desire to end up an ape leader—er, a spinster—than I have to see you one. You are twenty already and you still resist making your come-out in Town. I can’t imagine how you ever expect to catch a husband holed up here at Maple Hill. Why, you don’t even go to the local assemblies since Father died.”