Seduction

Join New York Times bestselling author Brenda Joyce as she introduces readers to a passionate and romantic new series set in a dangerous time….

Dominic Paget, the earl of Bedford, will do anything to resume spying upon Britain’s enemies. Badly wounded, he is put in the care of a beautiful gentlewoman, Julianne Greystone, only to discover that her sympathies lie with his enemies. Yet he can’t help but seduce the woman who saved his life—hoping she never learns of his betrayal.

Julianne is captivated by the wounded stranger she believes is a revolutionary hero. Until she discovers the truth…her “hero” is the privileged earl of Bedford. Devastated and determined to forget him, Julianne travels to London. But when she finds herself in danger, it is Bedford who comes to the rescue. Now Julianne must navigate the intrigues of a perilous city, the wild yearnings of her own heart and the explosion of their passion….

Praise for the novels of

New York Times and USA TODAY

bestselling author BRENDA JOYCE

“In her inimitable style Joyce presents her unforgettable de Warrenes

in a mesmerizing new romance. Her marvelous storytelling, combined with

the high level of emotion, makes for a non-stop delight of a read.”

—RT Book Reviews on An Impossible Attraction

“Another first-rate Regency,

featuring multidimensional protagonists and

sweeping drama… Joyce’s tight plot and vivid cast combine

for a romance that’s just about perfect.”

—Publishers Weekly Starred Review on The Perfect Bride

“Truly a stirring story with wonderfully etched characters,

Joyce’s latest is Regency romance at its best.”

—Booklist on The Perfect Bride

“Romance veteran Joyce brings her keen sense of humor and storytelling prowess

to bear on her witty, fully formed characters.”

—Publishers Weekly on A Lady at Last

“Joyce’s characters carry considerable emotional weight,

which keeps this hefty entry absorbing, and her

fast-paced story keeps the pages turning.”

—Publishers Weekly on The Stolen Bride

“Joyce excels at creating twists and turns

in her characters’ personal lives.”

—Publishers Weekly

Seduction

Brenda

Joyce

For Sue and Laurent Teichman, with love and thanks!

Contents

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

DEAR READER

PROLOGUE

July 1, 1793—near Brest, France

“IS HE ALIVE?”

The voice surprised him. It sounded far away. And even as he heard the Englishman, pain stabbed through his back and shoulders, like nails being driven into his body, as if he were being crucified. The pain was so horrific he could not speak, but he cursed silently. What had happened?

He was on fire now. Even worse, he wondered if he was suffocating. He could hardly breathe. A terrible weight seemed to be pushing him down. And he was in absolute darkness....

But his mind was beginning to function. The man who had just spoken was English, but that was impossible. Where was he? What the hell had happened?

And the images began, rolling through his mind’s eye with shocking speed, accompanied by horrific sounds—the bloodcurdling screams of the wounded and the dying amidst the racket of muskets and the boom of cannons, the river running red with the French blood of peasants, priests, nobles and soldiers....

He moaned. He could not quite recall how he had been wounded, and he was afraid he might be dying. What had happened to him?

Someone spoke, and the voice was familiar. “He is barely alive, Lucas. He has lost a great deal of blood and has been unconscious since midnight. My surgeon does not know if he will live.”

“What happened?” A second Englishman was speaking.

“We suffered a terrible defeat at Nantes, messieurs, a rout by the French under General Biron, but Dominic was not wounded in the battle. He was ambushed outside my apartments last night by an assassin.”

And then he realized that his lifelong friend, Michel Jacquelyn, was speaking. Someone had tried to murder him—because someone had known he was a spy.

“Christ,” the second Englishman said.

Dominic managed to open his eyes, a vast, prolonged effort of will. He lay on the beach on a pallet, under blankets—the surf beat the shore and the night above glinted with stars. Three men stood over him, in coats, breeches and boots. His vision was blurred, but he could distinguish them somewhat. Michel was short and dark, his clothes bloodstained, his hair pulled back in a queue. The Englishmen were tall and golden, their shoulder-length hair whipping in the wind. Everyone was heavily armed with pistols and daggers. Now, he heard the creaking of wood masts, the flap of canvas, the pounding of wind-whipped waves. And then he could no longer keep his eyes open. Exhausted, they closed.

He was going to faint, damn it....

“Were you followed?” Lucas asked sharply.

“Non, but le gendarmerie are everywhere, mes amis. We must make haste. The French blockade the coast—you will have to be careful to avoid their ships.”

The other Englishman spoke, and he sounded cheerful. “Have no fear. No one can outrun the navy—or the revenue men—like me. Captain Jack Greystone, monsieur, at your service on this highly interesting night. And I believe you already know my brother, Lucas.”

“I do. You must get him to London, messieurs,” Michel said. “Immédiatement.”

“He won’t make it to London,” Jack returned. “Not alive, anyway.”

“We’ll take him to Greystone,” Lucas said flatly. “It’s close—and safe. And if he’s fortunate, he will live to fight another day.”

“Bien. Keep him well—we at La Vendée need him back. God speed you all.”

CHAPTER ONE

July 2, 1793—Penzance, Cornwall

SHE WAS VERY LATE.

Julianne Greystone practically leapt from the curricle, having parked it before the milliner’s shop. The Society’s meeting was next door, in the public room of the White Hart Inn, but every space in front was taken up already. The inn always did a brisk business in the afternoon. She rechecked the curricle’s brake, patted the old mare in the traces and quickly tied her to the post.

She hated being late. It wasn’t her nature to dally. Julianne took life very seriously, unlike the other ladies she knew.

Those women enjoyed fashion and shopping, teas and social calls, dances and dinner parties, but they did not live in the same circumstances as she did. Julianne could not recall a time in her life when there had been days of leisure and frivolity; her father had abandoned the family before her third birthday, not that their straits hadn’t already been dire. Father had been a younger son, without means, as well as a wastrel. She had grown up doing the kind of chores around the manor that her peers reserved for their servants. Cooking, washing dishes, carrying in firewood, ironing her brothers’ shirts, feeding their two horses, mucking stalls.... There was always a chore awaiting her. There was always something left to do. There was simply not enough time in any given day, and she found tardiness inexcusable.

Of course, it was an hour’s drive from her home on Sennen Cove to the city. Her older sister, Amelia, had taken the coach that day. Every Wednesday, come hell or high water, Amelia took Momma calling on their neighbors—never mind that Momma did not recognize anyone anymore. Momma wasn’t well. She rarely had her wits about her, and sometimes failed to recognize her own daughters, but she loved to visit. No one was as adept at frivolity and gaiety as Momma. Momma often thought herself a debutante, surrounded by her merry girlfriends and chivalrous suitors. Julianne thought she knew what it had been like for her mother to grow up in a home filled with every luxury, where she was waited upon hand and foot, in a time before the Americans had sought their independence, a time of only occasional war—a time without fear, rancor and revolution. It had been a time of absolute splendor and indifferent and lavish ostentation, a time of blatant self-indulgence, a time when no one bothered to consider the misery of the common man next door.

Poor Momma. She had begun to fade away from them shortly after Father had left them for the gambling halls and loose women of London, Antwerp and Paris. But Julianne wasn’t sure that a broken heart had caused Momma to lose her mind. She sometimes thought it far more simple and mundane: Momma simply could not manage in the dark, threatening circumstances of the modern world.

But their physician said it was important to keep her out and about. Everyone in the family agreed. So Julianne had been left with the curricle and their twenty-year-old mare. An hour’s drive had become two.

She had never been more impatient. She lived for the monthly meetings in Penzance. She and her friend, Tom Treyton, who was as radical as she, had founded the society last year, after King Louis XVI had been deposed, and France had been declared a republic. They had both supported the French revolution from the moment it had become clear that great changes were afoot in that country, all in favor of easing the plight of the peasantry and middle class, but neither one had ever dreamed that the ancien régime would eventually fall.

Every week there was another twist and turn in France’s crusade for freedom for the common man. Just last month, the Jacobin leaders in the National Assembly had staged a coup, arresting many of their opposition. A new constitution had resulted, giving every single man the vote! It was almost too good to be true. Recently the Committee of Public Safety had been established, and she was eager to learn what reforms it might soon bring about. And then there were the wars on the Continent. The new French Republic meant to bring liberty to all of Europe. France had declared war on the Hapsburg Empire in April of ’92. But not everyone shared Julianne’s and Tom’s radical views and enthusiasm for France’s new regime. Last February, Britain had joined Austria and Prussia and entered the war against France.

“Miss Greystone.”

Julianne had been about to wave over the livery boy from across the street and ask him to water her mare. At the sound of the strident voice, she tensed and slowly turned.

Richard Colmes scowled at her. “You cannot park here.”

She knew exactly why he meant to confront her. Julianne brushed a tendril of strawberry-blond hair away from her face. Very politely, she said, “It is a public street, Mr. Colmes. Oh, and good afternoon. How is Mrs. Colmes?”

The milliner was a short, pudgy man with gray whiskers. His wig was not powdered, but it was fine, indeed, and otherwise, his presence was impeccable, from his pale stockings and patent leather shoes to his embroidered coat. “I will not condone your society, Miss Greystone.”

She wanted to bristle but she smiled sweetly instead. “It is hardly my society,” she began.

“You founded it. You radicals are plotting the downfall of this great country!” he exclaimed. “You are all Jacobins, and you meet to exchange your terrible plots right next door. You should be ashamed of yourself, Miss Greystone!”

There was no point in smiling now. “This is a free country, sir, and we are all entitled to our views. And we can certainly meet next door, if John Fowey allows us to do so.” Fowey was the innkeeper.

“Fowey is every bit as mad as you!” he cried. “We are at war, Miss Greystone, and you and your kind support the enemy. If they cross the Channel, you will no doubt welcome the French army with open arms!”

She held her head high. “You are simplifying a very complex issue, sir. I support the rights of every man—even the vagabonds who come to this town begging for a decent meal. Yes, I happen to support the revolution in France—but so do a great many of our countrymen! I am keeping company with Thomas Paine, Charles Fox, Lords Byron and Shelley, to name just a few of the distinguished minds who recognize that the changes in France are for the universal good of mankind. I am a radical, sir, but—”

He cut her off. “You are a traitor, Miss Greystone, and if you do not move your curricle, I will do so for you.” He turned and stalked into his shop, slamming the door behind him. The glass pane rattled, the bells jingled.

She trembled, feeling sick inside her stomach. She had been about to tell the milliner just how much she loved her country. One could be a patriot and still support the new constitutional republic in France. One could be a patriot and still advocate for political reform and social change, both abroad and here at home.

“Come, Milly,” she said to the mare. She led the horse and carriage across the street to the livery, hating the recent dispute. With every passing week, it was becoming harder and harder to associate with her neighbors—people she had known her entire life. Once, she had been welcomed into any shop or salon with open arms and warm smiles. It wasn’t that way anymore.

The revolution in France and the subsequent wars on the Continent had divided the country.

And now she would have to pay for the privilege of leaving her mare at the livery, when they did not have change to spare. The wars had inflated the price of food stuffs, not to mention the cost of most other sundries. Greystone did have a thriving tin mine and an equally productive iron quarry, but Lucas invested most of the estate’s profits, with an eye to the entire family’s future. He was frugal, but they were all frugal—except for Jack, who was reckless in every possible way, which was probably why he was such an adept smuggler. Lucas was in London, or so she thought, although it was somewhat suspicious—he seemed to be in town all the time! And as for Jack, knowing her brother, he was probably at sea, running from a customs cutter.

She dismissed her worries about the unexpected expense, as there was no avoiding payment, and put aside the recent and unpleasant conversation with the milliner, although she might share it with her sister later.

Hurrying forward, she wiped dust from her freckled nose, then slapped it off her muslin skirts. It hadn’t rained all week, and the roads were impossibly dry. Her gown was now beige instead of ivory.

As she approached the sign posted beside the inn’s front door, excitement rose up, swift and hard. She had painted it herself.

Society of Friends of the People, it read. Newcomers Welcome. No Fees Required.”

She was very proud of that last line. She had fought her dear friend Tom Treyton tooth and nail to waive all fees for memberships. Wasn’t that what Thomas Hardy was doing for the corresponding societies? Shouldn’t every man and woman be allowed to participate in an assembly meant to promote the cause of equality, liberty and the rights of man? No one should be denied their rights or the ability to participate in a cause that would liberate them because he or she couldn’t afford the monthly dues!

Julianne entered the dark, cool public room of the inn and immediately saw Tom. He was about her height, with curly brown-blond hair and pleasant features. His father was a well-to-do squire, and he had been sent to Oxford for a university education. Julianne had thought he would reside in London upon graduation; instead, he had come home to set up a barrister’s practice in town. Most of his clients were smugglers caught by the preventive men. Unfortunately, he had not been able to successfully defend his past two clients; both men been sentenced to two years’ hard labor. Of course, they had been guilty as charged and everyone had known it.

Tom stood in the center of the public room, while everyone else was seated at tables and benches. Julianne instantly noticed that attendance was down yet again—even more than the last time. There were only two dozen men in the room, all of them miners, fishermen and smugglers. Since Britain had entered the Coalition against France in the war, there had been a resurgence of patriotism in the area. Men who had supported the revolution were now finding God and country. She supposed such a change of allegiance was inevitable.

Tom had seen her. His face lit up and he hurried over. “You are so late! I was afraid that something had happened, and that you would not make our assembly.”

“I had to take Milly, and it was slow going.” She lowered her voice. “Mr. Colmes would not let me park outside his shop.”

Tom’s blue eyes blazed. “Reactionary bastard.”

She touched his arm. “He is frightened, Tom. Everyone is. And he doesn’t understand what is happening in France.”

“He is afraid we’ll take his shop and his home and hand it over to the people. And maybe he should be afraid,” Tom said.

They had disagreed on the method and means of reform for the past year, since they had first formed the society. “We can hardly march around dispossessing citizens of good standing like Richard Colmes,” she rebuked softly.

He sighed. “I am being too radical, of course, but I wouldn’t mind dispossessing the earl of Penrose and the baron of St. Just.”

She knew he meant it. She smiled.

“Can we debate another time?”

“I know you agree that the rich have too much, and simply because they inherited their means or were given the lands and titles,” he said.

“I do agree, but you also know I do not condone a massive theft from the aristocracy. I want to know what debate I just walked in on. What has happened? What is the latest news?”

“You should join the reformers, Julianne. You are not really as radical as you like to think,” he groused. “There has been a rout. The La Vendée royalists were defeated at Nantes.”

“This is wonderful news,” Julianne said, almost disbelieving. “The last we heard, those royalists had defeated us and had taken the area along the river in Saumur.”

The gains made by the French revolutionaries within France were by no means secure, and there was internal opposition throughout the country. A very strong royalist rebellion had begun last spring in La Vendée.

“I know. It is a great reversal of fortune.” He smiled and took her arm. “Hopefully the damned rebels in Toulon, Lyon, Marseilles and Bordeaux will soon fall. And those in Brittany, as well.”

They shared a look. The extent of internal opposition to the revolution was frightening. “I should write to our friends in Paris immediately,” Julianne decided. One of the goals of all corresponding societies was to keep in close contact with the Jacobin clubs in France, showing their full support for the cause of revolution. “Maybe there is something more we can do here in Britain, other than to meet and discuss the latest events.”

“You could go to London and insert yourself in the proper Tory circles,” Tom said, staring. “Your brother is a Tory. He pretends to be a simple Cornish miner, but Lucas is the great-grandson of a baron. He has many connections.”

She felt an odd trepidation. “Lucas is really just a patriot,” she began.

“He is a conservative and a Tory.” Tom was firm. “He knows men with power, men with information, men close to Pitt and Windham. I am sure of it.”

She folded her arms, feeling defensive. “He has the right to his opinions, even if they oppose our views.”

“I didn’t say he didn’t. I merely said he is well connected. Better than you know.”

“Are you suggesting I go to London and spy on my brother and his peers?” She was aghast.

“I did not say that, but it is hardly an idea without merit.” He smiled. “You could go to London next month, since you cannot attend the convention in Edinburgh.”

Thomas Hardy had organized a convention of corresponding societies, and just about every society in the country was sending delegates to Edinburgh. Tom would represent their society. But with Britain having entered the war against France on the Continent, the stakes had changed. Radicals and radical clubs were no longer looked upon with patronizing amusement. There was talk of governmental repression. Everyone knew that the prime minister was intolerant of all radicals, as were many of the ministers around him, and so was King George.

It was time to send a message to the entire British government, and especially Prime Minister Pitt: they would not be repressed or opposed by the government, not now and not ever. They would continue to propagate and espouse the rights of man, and support the revolution in France. They would continue to oppose war with the new French Republic, as well.

Another smaller convention had been organized to take place in London, under Whitehall’s very nose. Julianne hoped she could find the means to attend, but a trip to London was costly. However, what was Tom really suggesting? “I am not spying on my brother, Tom. I hope you were in jest.”

“I was,” he assured her quickly. When she stared uncertainly, he added, “I was going to write our friends in Paris, but why don’t you do that?” Tom touched her chin. His eyes had softened. “You are such a better wordsmith than I am.”

She smiled at him, truly hoping that he hadn’t asked her to spy on Lucas, who was not a Tory and not at all involved in the war. “Yes, I am,” she said, hoping for levity.

“Let’s sit. We still have a good hour of discussion ahead,” he said, guiding her to a bench.

For the next hour, they discussed the recent events in France, motions in the House of Commons and Lords, and the latest political gossip in London. By the time the meeting had broken up, it was almost five o’clock in the evening. Tom walked her outside. “I know it’s early, but can you have supper with me?”

She hesitated. They’d shared supper last month after a society meeting. But when he’d been about to help her into her carriage, he’d restrained her, and then he had looked at her as if he wished to kiss her.

She hadn’t known what to do. He had kissed her once before, and it had been pleasant, but not earth-shattering. She loved him dearly, but she wasn’t interested in kissing him. Yet she was fairly certain that Tom was in love with her, and they had so much in common that she wanted to fall in love with him. He was such a good man and a dear friend.

She’d known him since childhood, but they had not become truly acquainted until two years ago, when they’d both discovered one another attending the Falmouth meeting. That had been the real beginning of their friendship. It was becoming clear to her that her feelings were more sisterly and platonic than romantic.

Still, dining with Tom was very enjoyable—they always had stimulating discussions. She was about to accept his invitation, when she faltered at the sight of a man riding his chestnut gelding up the street.

“Is that Lucas?” Tom asked, as surprised as she was.

“It most certainly is,” she said, beginning to smile. Lucas was seven years her senior, making him all of twenty-eight. He was a tall, muscular man with classically chiseled features, piercing gray eyes and golden hair. Women tried to catch his attention incessantly, but unlike Jack, who was a self-proclaimed rogue, Lucas was a gentleman. Rather aloof, he was a man of great discipline and greater duty, bent on maintaining the family and the estate.