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The Price of Temptation

M. J. Pearson

Chapter One

Jamie Riley had been lonely for so long. He stood in Hanover Square and looked

up at St. Joseph House with happy anticipation. Four stories tall, the London town

house of the Earl of St. Joseph looked more welcoming than imposing, its red brick

edifice glowing warm in the October sunshine. The building's painted white columns

and classical-inspired pediment above the door spoke of a relatively recent

construction: probably within the reign of the current George, but some years before

his unfortunate circumstances forced the accession of his son as Regent. Jamie paused

to admire its clean lines, and shake his head at the small paved courtyard, so much

more practical in the big, dirty city than the cheerful front gardens he was used to

back in Yorkshire.

The main attraction of the house, of course, was the family who lived within.

Robert and Mary Clair, the Earl and Countess of St. Joseph, had reared three

delightful and energetic boys, who were now of an age to require a tutor to both

oversee their learning and attempt to keep them in hand. Jamie's dimple flickered as

he smiled to himself, looking forward to the challenge. Life from now on would be

very different from the quiet existence he had known, just he and his ailing mother

scraping by in their rural cottage near Wheldrake. A shiver ran down his spine, and he

firmly put those thoughts behind him. Now was not the time to look back to his

mother's long illness and the dreadful months that had followed her death; it was the

time to look forward to his new post, filled with bustle and cheer.

With a deep breath to steady his nerves, Jamie closed the wrought iron gate behind

him, and climbed the wide marble steps to the front door. He rang the bell, and the

door was soon opened by a tall, white-haired gentleman of an almost uncannily stiff

posture. The butler, of course. Jamie's acquaintance in Yorkshire hadn't included

much experience with the breed, but this one's hauteur fit his expectations admirably.

"Yes?" The butler flicked his eyes over the young man standing before him, and

Jamie wished that he hadn't needed to sell his overcoat to help pay for the trip to

London. Still, his black superfine jacket, handed down from the vicar two years ago.

was as well-tailored as his mother's clever needle could make it. and his neck cloth

was neatly tied. Surely he was imagining the contempt in the other man's visage.

Butlers were supposed to be stony-faced, after all.

Even so. Jamie stood up straighter. "Good day, sir. My name is James Riley, and

I've come to take up my position with his lordship the Earl of St. Joseph"

The information did not soften the butler's countenance in the least. He regarded

the valise clutched in Jamie's hand with faint astonishment, then looked back at his

face, eyes narrowing. "His lordship is installing you here? In the household?"

Jamie widened his own eyes in surprise. "Where else? It is, after all, where I'll be

performing my duties."

"Rather young for this, aren't you?"

"I'm well-suited to my trade. I assure you." A smile flickered on Jamie's face as he

thought of his first meeting with his charges some months back. Good boys, but

rambunctious through and through. "I can imagine at times I'll need a young man's

energy and stamina just to keep up."

The butler, looking pained, put up a hand. "That's quite enough. Follow me."

Stephen Clair. Earl of St. Joseph, was playing euchre with his valet Charles when

his butler. Mr. Symmons, entered the room and stood ramrod straight, by his side.

Since the stakes they were playing for included ownership of the last half-bottle of

contraband brandy in the earl's London home, neither player acknowledged the

interruption with more than a grunt. Napoleon's defeat last year at Waterloo had

allowed good French brandy to become more available, but the ruinous taxes on the

legal stuff made the continuation of smuggling inevitable, and a win today especially

desirable.

Mr. Symmons exuded disapproval while he waited, perhaps even less pleased than

usual. If such a thing were possible.

Stephen sighed and sat up straighten one hand rising of its own accord to neaten

his cravat. His butler had that effect on him. "Yes. Symmons?"

"Gentleman to see you, my lord," Mr. Symmons announced. "Egad; it isn't Julian,

is it?" A moue of distaste marred the earl's generous mouth as he played his next card.

"I believe I said gentleman, my lord."

Stephen let the insult slide, intent on studying his opponent's face. Charles was a

worthy card player, or would be if he could keep every turn of fortune from

registering on his plump, kindly face. Suddenly Charles' expression brightened,

causing his lordship's to darken to a corresponding degree. Hell. He needed that

brandy. Aunt Matilda had been cursed ungenerous since he'd missed her birthday

party, and quarter-day was over two months away.

"My lord?"

Maybe the day could yet be saved. "Not a creditor, is it?" "I don't believe so, my

lord. Certainly not one of the usual bunch." "Does he have a name?" "Doubtless, my

lord."

Charles played the queen of hearts, taking the trick, then laid down the king,

beaming. Stephen looked at his remaining cards, and they didn't look encouraging.

"Might he have shared it with you, Symmons?" Stephen plucked at a card as if he

were about to play it.

"A Mr. Riley, I believe he said, my lord."

Stephen fiddled some more with his cards, fine, dark brows pulled together in a

frown. "Did he say what he wanted, Symmons?"

"He said, my lord, that you had offered him a position."

Charles said something in an undertone, and they both snickered while Mr.

Symmons bristled.

"A position of employment, my lord."

"Surely not." His lordship frowned again. "Almost surely not. Was I at all

incapacitated when you put me to bed last night. Charles? No, don't answer that. Of

course I was," Stephen said, tossing his cards onto the table with relief. "Perhaps I

should see him after all, and find out what I had in mind. A replacement for the lovely

Julian, I suppose." And then to the butler, "Well, Symmons? Is he at all in the Golden

One's league?"

"I am hardly the man to judge, my lord."

"All right, then. Charles?"

Charles walked over to the door and peered out into the hall with interest, coming

back to make his report. His transparent face showed a struggle to put the best spin on

the news, and at last he smiled as something positive occurred to him. "Well, my lord,

I'm sure he'd be much less a drain on the pocketbook than Mr. Julian."

"That bad?"

"Oh. No, my lord. His features are quite regular, I'm sure." He considered further.

"Sort of a cute nose." "Ha. Plain as a pikestaff, you mean." "Nice fair skin."

"Whey-faced." the earl interpreted. "Hair?"

"Oh, yes, my lord." Charles said. "Quite a lot of it, even." He paused, then

admitted. "Comes almost to his shoulders."

"Hardly fashionable, then." said the earl, running his hand through his own ebony

curls, cropped a la Brutus. "Blond? Brunet?"

"Neither, really. Sort of lightish brown."

"Mousy, you mean. Good lord, what was I thinking? What about his eyes? And

don't tell me. Yes, two of them. Unless he doesn't have, I mean."

"In which case I would hardly say—" Charles broke off as Stephen used his own

two eyes to advantage, glaring darkly. "Sorry. Couldn't really tell, due to the, er,

spectacles. Tinted, I'm afraid they were."

"Spectacles." Stephen sighed. "Doesn't sound like my type at all. Unless... built

like a stevedore, is he?" the earl inquired, but at this point without much in the way of

hope.

"Not quite, my lord. Medium height. I'd say. Slender as a reed."

"Scrawny."

"I didn't say that, my lord."

"You didn't have to. Lord, I must have been three sheets to the wind." The earl

reached for his discarded hand, resigned to losing the brandy after all. "Symmons, tell

the gentleman I am not at home."

"Wait, Stephen."

The butler, standing near the door, harrumphed his displeasure at the valet's

flagrant breach of formality, but the other men ignored him.

"It doesn't really seem fair to just — I mean, if you did lead him to believe—" The

valet brightened again. "Besides, when I first opened the door, he was looking at that

painting of your mother. On the far wall?"

"Yes. And?"

"Really lovely arse, my lord."

At that Mr. Symmons stalked back out of the room, slamming the door behind

him.

Jamie Riley had been cooling his heels for some time in his lordship's hallway, but

he had yet to become bored. There were so many things to look at. He marveled at the

expensive flocked wallpaper, took his time examining the paintings. Two pretty

watercolor landscapes and an oil portrait of a lovely woman with dark hair. Not the

current countess as he remembered her. Perhaps the dowager? An exquisite table with

finely carved legs—surely French? —with a China bowl of delicate, blush-colored

roses gracing the top. Expensively out of season. Jamie closed his eyes and once again

inhaled their perfume. Bliss. Especially after the last few days of travel, crammed into

poorly-sprung, musty coaches with too many fellow travelers

Here at the front of the house, the hall opened on either side into the two largest

rooms of the residence. A stiff, formal drawing room was to the right, the delicate

tables fluted and gilded, chairs and sofas upholstered in an ice-blue silk. Should the

furniture be pushed back to the walls, it was spacious enough to allow dancing room

for at least eight couples. Across the hall, Jamie peeked into an equally large dining

room. The enormous mahogany table and matching sideboards were of a sturdier,

older design than the French Empire decor of the drawing room, too handsome in

their own right to be discarded for the vagaries of modern taste.

Two other doors, closed just now, flanked each other across the hall further down,

and beyond them a smaller, plainer door probably led to the kitchens. Jamie looked

forward to exploring the house later: as the boys' tutor, he would have daily access

into rooms the lower servants would visit only to clean. Incredible that this lovely

M. J. Pearson - The Price of Temptation.pdf

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