The Perfect Temptation

  The Perfect Temptation

  By Leslie LaFoy

  Chapter 1

  London, England

  Early January, 1864

  John Aiden Terrell turned his back to the fire and looked out the

  office window, watching the snow fall and hating winter. Almost

  as much as he had lately come to hate Barrett Stanbridge, a

  man who was, to Aiden's recent way of thinking, an all-around

  son of a bitch. The things Barrett had asked of him in the name

  of friendship ... The last three weeks had been hellish. All the

  more so because Barrett had insisted that he be sober enough

  to fully experience every moment of the heart-aching,

  head-pounding misery.

  "Do you mind?" the object of his disgust said without looking up

  from his paperwork. Aiden stamped his frozen feet again and blew into his

  cupped, blue hands.

  "Not at all," he snapped. "I live to meet your every expectation."

  Barrett snorted and offhandedly motioned toward the silver

  coffee service on the far side of the office. Still reading,

  he said, "Pour yourself a cup and stop your wallowing."

  Aiden glared first at his friend and then at the silver pot

  sitting primly with a sugar and creamer on the sideboard. "I

  don't want coffee. I want a brandy."

  "It's nine-thirty in the morning and you're not having a

  brandy. Not now. Not later, either. You're reforming."

  It was actually nine thirty-eight, but Aiden knew there

  was no point in correcting his friend. There wasn't any point

  in protesting the leash Barrett had put on him, either, but he

  still possessed a bit of pride. Albeit tattered. ''As I've mentioned

  several times already, I'm not the least interested in

  reformation, thank you very much."

  Barrett reached for a pen and scribbled in the margins of

  the report as he replied, "And as I counter each and every

  time ... Your father has asked me to put you back on the

  straight and narrow. I take the responsibility seriously."

  "I've never in my life been on a straight path and you

  know it just as well as he does," Aiden shot back. "Frankly,

  I'd rather be dead than live the boring existence you find so

  comfortable."

  "Frankly," his friend retorted calmly, still writing, "when

  I first found you, I thought you were dead. If a lorry had run

  over you, you wouldn't have felt a thing."

  "Which was precisely my intent."

  Barrett finally looked up and met his gaze. "Had you been

  conscious enough to have seen yourself, you would have

  been mortally embarrassed. You would have made a pig

  retch."

  Such bluntly honest comments had been constant fare

  since he'd first sobered up enough to comprehend anything

  at all. Aiden had had quite enough of it "I should have known

  better than to come to London;' he snapped.

  Barrett cocked a brow but said nothing. He didn't have to.

  Aidan heard the unspoken rejoinder. "You should have

  known better than to go to Charleston."

  Abruptly turning on his heel, Aiden faced the fire and extended

  his hands toward the flames, trying to forget that

  day-and failing-yet again.

  "Hindsight is always perfect, Aiden," Barrett said quietly.

  "You can't punish yourself for what you didn't see at the

  time."

  "Oh, but I can," he retorted drolly, hating the sympathy,

  hating even more the pity. "Just watch me."

  A knock on the door spared Aiden from another lecture

  meant to be inspirational. Instead, Barrett called out, prompting

  his secretary entrance.

  The man pushed open the door, then stood stiffly on the

  threshold to say, "Pardon the intrusion, sir. There is a Miss

  Radford in the anteroom. I suggested that she make an appointment

  for tomorrow but she refuses, insisting that it is a

  matter of considerable urgency."

  ''Isn't it always?" Barrett quipped with a dry chuckle. He

  looked past his man and his brow shot up as a smile quirked

  one comer of his mouth. "Please see to the lady's coat and

  then show her in, Quincy."

  ''I'll be going," Aiden declared, seizing the chance and

  heading off in Quincy's wake. ''Wouldn't want to intrude on

  a private conversation and all that."

  "You'll stay right where you are, John Aiden."

  It was a command, spoken as only a former army officer

  could issue one. Aiden stopped in his tracks. Partially out of

  habit, but mostly out of something else that was deep inside

  him, nameless but potent nonetheless. He clenched his teeth

  and turned back.

  ''Whatever problem she has," Barrett went on crisply, "is

  going to land in your lap. You need to be productive for a

  change. It's time."

  There was one good thing to be said for Barrett's sanctimonious

  pronouncements; they made him mad enough that

  his blood actually heated. Aiden smiled thinly and made his

  way to the desk, saying, ''Then you should know that I'm going

  to tell her that there's nothing to be done about her goddamn

  missing ring until the bloody snow melts."

  "We have no idea why she's here," Barrett countered, rising

  and straightening his jacket with a quick, efficient tug at

  the hem. "It might be some rare and valuable piece of British

  'antiquity. Or a valuable family member who's gone missing.

  A wanton niece or a dotty grandfather. And the finder's fee

  could be considerable. It would be yours, of course, He who

  does the work, earns the money."

  "I don't care about money," Aiden supplied, thinking that

  all he really wanted was to get the hell out of Barrett's reach

  for a while. And Sawyer's, too. Between the two of them

  there wasn't a single moment in his day-or night-that

  wasn't carefully supervised.

  "All right," Barrett conceded with a bare shrug. "So you've

  thrown away your self-respect and don't care about earning

  your own way. You might, however, want to think about the

  considerable pleasures to be had in bathing in the font of

  gushing feminine gratitude."

  Aiden instantly bristled but Barrett didn't give him a

  chance to retort

  "It's been almost a year, John Aiden," his friend declared

  gently. "You've been virtuous long enough."

  It angered him that Barrett not only didn't understand

  how deep the pain went, but that he'd never even pretended

  to care that it existed. Aiden swallowed down the sudden

  lump in his throat to say, "You're a bastard."

  "Which is precisely why your father chose me to salvage

  you," the other countered, coolly shooting his cuffs.

  "For God's sake, I'm twenty-six years old. To be treated

  like a child in leading strings is insulting. I don't want-or

  need-to be salvaged. All I need is to be left the hell alone."

  "You were allowed that course," Barrett point
ed out quietly,

  his gaze narrowing past Aiden to the doorway. He put a

  polite smile on his face as he added, "You didn't do well

  with it."

  "Miss Alexandra Radford, sir."

  Quincy stepped to, the side and the woman entered the

  room. Glided, actually. In a cloud of what had to be outrageously

  expensive silk. Like the shifting colors of a peacock

  feather, her morning dress was sometimes green, sometimes

  blue, and somehow, sometimes both colors at, once. Actually,

  it was a blouse and matching skirt, he noted. Which strongly

  suggested that she didn't have a lady's maid to assist her in

  dressing.

  The woman herself ... So very English. Of middling

  height, with fairish skin and raven dark curls peeking from

  beneath a stylish bonnet. Her face was nicely shaped and

  finely featured. And even a dead man would have noticed the

  decently corseted and curved figure. Not that any man would

  have dared to openly regard that particular feast. Miss

  Alexandra Radford might well be deliciously wrapped, but

  under it all lay the heart and soul of a woman who considered

  herself the equal of any duchess. A duchess without a maid.

  Aiden suppressed a groan and summoned what he could

  of a civil smile. Women of privilege--and especially those

  who simply considered themselves privileged-were such a

  pain in the ass. Well, the vast majority of them, anyway. There

  was always the rare exception. Alexandra Radford, however,

  didn't look to be such an exception.

  "Good morning, Miss Radford," Barrett offered smoothly

  as he moved forward to meet her halfway. She stopped and

  extended her hand. He took it and bowed over it slightly,

  adding, "Barrett Stanbridge at your service."

  "Good morning to you, Mr. Stanbridge," she replied on

  cue and in perfectly even, cultured English tones. "I deeply

  appreciate your willingness to see me without the courtesy

  of an appointment."

  "It's no trouble at all." Barrett smiled broadly and moved

  to the side to gesture toward Aiden. "May I introduce my associate,

  Mr. John Aiden Terrell."

  "Mr. Terrell," she said, barely lowering her delicate little

  chin in acknowledgment. But her eyes as she met his gaze ...

  God, they were the most breathtaking color. Not quite blue,

  not quite green. With a hint of gray. She blinked. twice. And

  he saw something flicker in their depths just before she

  forced herself to swallow.

  His long-dormant sense of curiosity stirred. He obviously

  unsettled her. Why?

  "Miss Radford," he said, bowing ever so slightly at the

  waist as he continued to assess her.

  "Please have a seat and tell us how we may be of service

  to you," Barrett interjected, indicating one of the chairs facing

  the desk and drawing her attention away from Aiden.

  "Would you care for a cup of coffee? Aiden will be more

  than happy to get one for you."

  Aiden, the obedient minion, he silently groused.

  She met his gaze again for the barest fraction of a second

  as she seated herself. ''If it wouldn't be too much trouble,"

  she answered, looking away to watch Barrett settle into his

  chair.

  "Cream?" Aiden asked wryly. "Sugar?"

  She didn't look at him again as she said, "Neither, thank

  you."

  Well, that was interesting. He would have guessed her to

  be a three-lumps, half-a-cup-of-cream woman. Not entirely

  because she preferred it that way, just mostly because it

  meant that someone would have to do her exact bidding.

  "I was referred to you by Mrs. Emmaline Fuller," Aiden

  heard her say to Barrett. "Her brother, Sawyer, is in service

  to Mr. Carden Reeves, who Emmaline says is a great friend

  of yours."

  “Ah yes. We know Sawyer. In fact, Mr. Terrell is residing

  in the Reeveses' home while the family is out of the country."

  "Egypt. A bridge project," Aiden supplied. crossing to the

  desk. Handing her the cup and saucer, he smiled tightly and

  added, "Carden is an architect."

  ''Thank you," she murmured, taking the coffee while quite

  pointedly-not looking at him.

  Whether she was intimidated or dismissive, he couldn't

  tell. But, in either case, he wasn't about to be ignored. If Barrett,

  private investigator extraordinaire, intended for him to

  deal with whatever petty tragedy she'd brought in the door,

  then he was going to take charge of it all from the beginning.

  With any luck, he'd so fluster her that she'd change her mind

  and go away. That or Barrett would decide that he wasn't fit

  to be let loose in the civilized world and decide to take the

  case himself.

  Propping his hip on the comer of Barrett's desk, Aiden

  casually crossed his booted ankles and folded his arms

  across his chest. "And why has it become necessary for you

  to ask Mrs. Fuller to recommend a private investigator? Has

  there been a loss or theft of some valuable piece of personal

  property?"

  Her gaze darted to the vicinity of his thighs and then

  away. To Barrett she said, "I don't quite know how or where

  to begin, actually."

  "Perhaps simply and at the beginning?" Aiden suggested,

  not caring one whit that sarcasm rippled through the words.

  "Please ignore his tartness," Barrett offered in way of

  censure. "He has no patience in the morning. What is it that

  you would like us to do for you, Miss Radford?"

  She sat up straighter, squaring her shoulders and lifting

  her chin. The coffee cup sat silently in the saucer, but the

  surface of the liquid rippled ever so slightly. Slowly taking a

  deep breath, she finally said, "I need a child protected."

  "Your child?" Barrett asked before Aiden could.

  "In a manner of speaking. I'm responsible for his care,

  education, and safety."

  "In other words," Barrett continued, "you're his legal

  guardian."

  "Not legally. Not in the strictest British sense of it. anyway."

  With a cocked brow, Barrett slowly asked, "In just whose

  sense of it then?"

  "His father's."

  At the rate they were not progressing ... "Miss Radford,"

  Aiden said, trying to find a smile of sorts, "I'm afraid that I

  don't have much patience at any point in the day. Would you

  please begin at the beginning and spare us the necessity of

  playing a quizzing game?"

  The look she shot him was lethal. Aiden grinned, amused

  by her obvious assumption that he could be quelled by such

  feminine censUre. She arched a brow and pointedly turned to

  Barrett before she began, saying, "My father was in the employ

  of the British East India Company. After his death,

  Mother entered into the service of an Indian family in the

  northern provinces as a tutor. When she passed away, I assumed

  her responsibilities."

  Barrett nodded. "And how long ago was this?"

  "I came into the position just after the Sepoy Rebellion."

  "It was some six or seven years ago," Barrett commented.
/>
  "You couldn't have been much more than a child

  yourself when you assumed such a heavy responsibility."

  "I was nineteen at the time. And I assure you that I was and

  still am-quite capable."

  Which made her now twenty-four or -five, Aiden figured

  as Barrett droned on, no doubt offering some sort of apology

  for what she'd obviously perceived as an insult. At that age

  any miss was not only well past her prime, but so was any

  hope of an advantageous marriage. Alexandra Radford had

  come out of India too late.

  "As you are no doubt aware," he heard her say, "the Sepoy

  Rebellion dramatically changed the political and economic

  structures of India. With the collapse of the East India

  Company, some of its power was redistributed among the

  native leaders."

  "From what we hear," Barrett contributed. "not always in

  a peaceful and roundly accepted manner."

  She nodded and took a sip of her coffee before answering.

  "Native Indians have always engaged in political intrigue.

  With power the prize, the ancient game has become

  one of much higher stakes and thus of much more deadly

  means. Three years ago, fearing for his son's life, my employer

  arranged for me to bring the child to London. We’re

  to remain here until such time as he deems India-and his

  position--safe and sends for us."