Proof by Seduction (Carhart 1)

Steam was billowing from the kettle. Gareth stooped and plucked the cloth from the floor and grasped the handle. Jenny watched in fascination as he poured water into her teapot.

“What kind of a lord are you? You make your own tea?”

He set the kettle down with a faint sniff. “I’m not completely helpless. I lived with only a small entourage in a Brazilian rain forest for months. I can make perfectly respectable tea. And coffee. And porridge, for that matter.” He gestured with the cloth. “You like oranges. Here. Let me peel one for you.”

Jenny hiccuped through her tears. “How do you know I like oranges?”

“Why else would you have had one in that sack the day I met you? Now, come over here and eat. You’ll feel better.”

Jenny wrinkled her nose at him, but he was undoubtedly right. She sat and he handed her a section of orange.

“Tears,” he said as she popped the tangy fruit into her mouth, “are irrational. You needn’t fear I’ll leave you with nothing but a silver bracelet. I’ll take care of my responsibilities.” He handed her a piece of cheese.

Jenny held up her hands in protest.

“No,” she said in a low voice. “You won’t.”

“What do you mean, I won’t? Of course I will. You can’t imagine the money would mean anything to me, and so why wouldn’t I—”

She jabbed a finger into his chest. “You won’t,” she said, “because I won’t let you. I have…I have enough money. Saved. In a manner of speaking.” Where that manner of speaking was exaggeration. She licked her lips. “And I don’t want to be your responsibility.” That she was more certain about. “I’m never going to be your responsibility. Do you think I want a periodic payment from you?”

“Why ever not? Most people would.”

She shook her head mutely. Then she burst into tears again.

Gareth stared at her in horror. “What? What did I say this time?”

She kept crying.

“This doesn’t make any sense,” he cried. “It’s inexplicable. You’re an intelligent woman, Jenny. There’s no need to cry because a man offers to provide a little financial assistance.”

The admonition had no effect.

She had harbored girlish dreams about her mother. She’d never wondered, though, what her mother had experienced. Had she, too, been shunted off when some man she cared for coldly offered her a stream of dreary coins?

Jenny wouldn’t accept it for herself. She’d lived on that sort of payment all her young life. Someone had employed a stream of uncaring women to raise her. She hadn’t run away from a life as a governess to lapse into another man’s responsibility. Because what a woman felt as cold obligation, a man saw as salve for his conscience. Financial absolution, as it were, in lieu of emotional ties.

She would not do this again. She’d become Madame Esmerelda because she didn’t want a master. She’d felt pushed into one box or another. She didn’t want to be another bloody line in his ledgers, and she’d be damned if she depended on another person again.

“Look,” Gareth said a bit desperately, “I’ll—I’ll send financial assistance. And an occasional fruit basket.”

Jenny couldn’t help it. She laughed at him through her sniffles. “Oh, listen to you. ‘A woman is not a millpond. She is a science.’ Good God, if the Linnean Society could hear you now, they’d drum you out of their ranks.”

“Well,” Gareth huffed, “I don’t know what to do. I was serious about the fruit basket. Or at least I would be, if it would make a difference.”

“I know. Why do you suppose I started laughing? Honestly, Gareth. Could you be any more helpless?”

“Helpless?” Gareth frowned. “I’m not helpless. I just can’t think of anything to say. And since you won’t tell me what the matter is, I can’t solve the problem.”

“If you could solve the problem, I wouldn’t be crying, would I?”

“What the devil am I supposed to do about a problem I can’t solve?”

Oh, if only Jenny knew the answer to that one. But her future loomed ahead of her with frightening blankness. There was no home for her to return to; no back to go back to.

“It would help,” Jenny said, her voice thick with tears, “if you would come over here.”

He pulled his chair next to hers and sat, somewhat awkwardly. “Like this?”

She nodded. “And you could put your arms around me.”

“Like this?”

She relaxed into his hold. “Almost like that,” she said, “but tighter. Right. Like that.”

It was an illusion, and one she’d browbeaten him into displaying. But for a moment, she could imagine that he cared.

The mirage lasted only a moment. “This isn’t a rational way to address a problem,” he complained.

“Hush. Listen. Sometimes answers flow without words, through touch.”

“Like completing an electric circuit?”

Jenny had heard only bits and pieces about the new theories of electric flow, and couldn’t answer that. After a space, she spoke again.

“As much as I may find to deplore in my past conduct, I can’t see what I would change. The life I rejected seemed very dreary to me, without possibility of reward or thanks. I know any God-fearing woman would not quail at such a thought, but God had never shown me particular favor. I felt as if I were being forced into a coffin, and told that if only I would lie rigidly enough, the screams of the damned would soon fade into gentle murmurs. I saw the teachers around me—cold, humorless women. They had no friends, no family. I couldn’t join their ranks. I was eighteen, Gareth. It was too young to die. But now here I am. I’m not sure how to go on.”

He ran his hand down her hair. “For now,” he said, and then stopped. He leaned down, his nose brushing against her forehead. “For now, I’d like you to go on with me.”

“See?” Jenny said. “That was good. A comforting gesture, and completely unprompted on my part. You’re a quick study. Even you will have to admit that, despite your appeal to logic, touch works. All the cold in me flows to you.”

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“Cold can’t flow,” he said, pulling her closer. “Only heat. Thermodynamically speaking—”

“Gareth?”

He looked down.

“Don’t ruin this.”

He didn’t.

HOURS LATER, Jenny ducked her head inside the bank. There were three cashiers about. None of them, Jenny saw with some relief, was Mr. Sevin. She approached another man, one with whom she had made deposits before. He regarded her with attentive politeness. Thank God; Mr. Sevin had not spread tales about her.

“Perhaps you can help me,” Jenny said. “I seem to have, um, misplaced my passbook. And I had hoped to make a withdrawal.”

“Of course,” said the man. “I recognize you. Have you your account information?”

Jenny handed over a slip of paper. He scanned it and then disappeared into a back room. When he returned, he carried a sheaf of papers. His mouth contorted into a puzzled frown.

“Madame—Esmerelda, is it?”

Jenny thought about explaining further. But no. She’d learned last time not to admit to identifying herself under a false name until after she had her money in hand.

“Yes.”

“Well, this is very strange. Typically, we do not maintain accounts when the balance sinks so low.”

Jenny sighed. She’d heard this before. “I know. When I opened the account…” Well. She didn’t want to alert him to Mr. Sevin’s involvement. If he decided to talk to the man, goodness knows when she’d see her money.

“Exceptions were made,” she said carefully. “The account was opened.”

The man made a dismissive motion. “Yes, of course. We all make exceptions from time to time. Technically, we are not authorized to do so, but, well.” He shrugged sympathetically. “It is just that nobody ever wants to maintain an account with a balance this low. There are no benefits to storing such a small sum, as the fees will eat any paltry interest.”

Trepidation fluttered through Jenny. Bank cashiers were not usually wealthy fellows. They would not call the twelve or thirteen pounds she earned every year “paltry,” no matter how flush the pockets of their clients.