Page 1 of Temptress in Disguise
ChapterOne
The Belldrake was a lesser-known playhouse tucked down a quiet lane in Covent Garden. The home of serious thespians. Actors who spent years perfecting their craft, not a hive for an amateur actress out to attract a wealthy paramour.
It begged the question: how did a woman like Lydia Fontaine secure the role of Hero in Shakespeare’s play? More importantly, Aramis Chance wondered why the hell she had summonedhimto the theatre. It was said she kept a string of lovers, men who danced like marionettes whenever she called. Weak men with generous souls, not a dangerous bastard with a stone-cold heart.
Amid the dark confines of his carriage, Aramis held Miss Fontaine’s note to the window and studied the bold script beneath the lamplight.
Join me for supper at the Belldrake tonight.
I shall make it worth your while.
It was the third such note he had received today. The paper stank of cheap perfume. The words carried an illicit promise. If he so desired, he could be buried inside Miss Fontaine before the peal of St Mary’s bells.
But something was amiss.
Did the coquette think he was in the market for a mistress?
Worse still, was she in the market for a husband?
As a sworn bachelor, Aramis would rather sever a main vein than shackle himself with a wife. Ever since his brother Christian had married, desperate females were crawling out of the woodwork, keen to be the devil’s bride.
Aramis screwed the paper in his hand and sat back in the seat. He’d not come to the theatre to hear the lady’s proposition. Only men desperate for cunny could be dazzled into submission. No. Having once suffered at the hands of a Jezebel—and with an ugly scar on his left arm as proof—he wished to ensure Miss Fontaine knew he despised conniving women.
And so, he waited for the patrons to disperse before climbing down from the carriage and striding to the side entrance. Fist clenched, he banged on the paint-chipped door, hoping his annoyance was evident.
A tubby fellow with a bald pate answered. Through suspicious eyes, he scanned Aramis’ broad shoulders. “What can I do for you, gov’nor?”
Aramis grabbed the man’s meaty paw and thrust the crumpled note into his palm. “I’m here to see Miss Fontaine. That’s what I think of the invitation.”
The man didn’t smooth the paper and read the note. His face twisted into a perfect picture of unease. “She ain’t able to take visitors at present.”
Aramis firmed his jaw. “Fetch her. Or I’ll find her myself.”
“I—I can’t. She left with a gent ten minutes ago.”
Anger gathered like a tempest in Aramis’ chest. No one liked being played for a fool, least of all him. If the woman thought jealousy was a tool to catch a suitor, she was sorely mistaken.
He did not waste time asking for an explanation. “Tell Miss Fontaine I dislike childish games. Tell her, if she means to rile Lucifer she should expect to get burned. Tell her never to contact me again.”
He left the lackey quaking in his boots and returned to his carriage.
Godby glanced down from atop his box. “Home, Mr Chance?”
Where else would he go at this late hour?
As part owner of Fortune’s Den—the best gaming hell in town—there was always a scandal to keep him entertained. His brother Aaron owned a fine wine cellar. And having once been betrayed so cruelly, Aramis preferred the company of trusted kin to deceitful shrews.
Thank God his brothers knew nothing about his escapade to the Belldrake. They’d taunt him about it for weeks.
“Take me back to the Den. I’ll spend the night with a bottle of my brother’s best claret.” He would take his frustration out on the dissolute lords of theton. Wrestle with a few warring punters.
Aramis climbed into the carriage. He was about to close the door when a woman darted like a sprite from the shadows. In the blink of an eye, she was inside the vehicle and sitting on his leather seat.
“Mr Chance?” she panted. “Mr Aramis Chance?”
Saints and sinners!
Not another desperate waif seeking a husband?
