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    The Secret Seduction Of Lady Eliza: Tales From Seldon Park, #6
    The Secret Seduction Of Lady Eliza: Tales From Seldon Park, #6
    The Secret Seduction Of Lady Eliza: Tales From Seldon Park, #6
    Ebook407 pages7 hours

    The Secret Seduction Of Lady Eliza: Tales From Seldon Park, #6

    By Bethany M. Sefchick

    4.5/5

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    About this ebook

    Popularly known throughout England as "The Bloody Duke," Lord Nicholas Rosemont, Duke of Candlewood is not a spy.  No matter what anyone thinks.  He is simply extremely observant, a talent he has put to good use over the years - both to his benefit and his country's.  Lady Eliza Deaver, daughter of the Marquess of Framingham, has known Lord Candlewood for years, even though few in society realize their unlikely connection.  Eliza's brother Stephen was one of Nicholas' best friends.  That was, until Stephen walked away from his duties and his family to join the army and never returned, dying at sea and plunging the entire family into deep mourning.

    Now a man has appeared claiming to be Stephen, but is he really?  Neither Eliza nor Nicholas think so, but then, after so many years away, who can say for certain?  Still, bringing this man back into the Framingham family is a risk, one Eliza is not willing to take without some little bit of confirmation that the man is really her brother.

    Can Nicholas, who has always felt responsible for both Stephen's departure and Eliza's well-being, use his vast resources to determine if this man really is his long-lost friend?  More importantly, can he resist the sweet charms of the suddenly very delectable Lady Eliza?  Or will she manage to do the one thing no other woman has - seduce the Bloody Duke into marriage?

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherBethany M. Sefchick
    Release dateSep 28, 2015
    ISBN9781386146933
    The Secret Seduction Of Lady Eliza: Tales From Seldon Park, #6
    Author

    Bethany M. Sefchick

    Making her home in the mountains of central Pennsylvania, Bethany Sefchick lives with her husband, Ed, and a plethora of Betta fish that she’s constantly finding new ways to entertain. In addition to writing, Bethany owns a jewelry company, Easily Distracted Designs. It should be noted that the owner of the titular Selon Park - one Lord Nicholas Rosemont, the Duke of Candlewood, a.k.a. "The Bloody Duke" - first appeared in her mind when she was eighteen years old and had no idea what to make of him, or of his slightly snarky smile.  She has been attempting to dislodge him ever since - with absolutely no success. When not penning romance novels or creating sparkly treasures, she enjoys cooking, scrapbooking, and lavishing attention on any stray cats who happen to be hanging around. She always enjoys hearing from her fans at: bsefchickauthor@gmail.com

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    4.5/5

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    • 5/5
      Very interesting, loved the plot, finally the bloody duke in full action
    • 4/5
      Yhe Bloody Duke finally hitched. This entire Seldon Park Series runs around him and he is an extremely interesting guy.Liked Eliza too. One of the better books of this series.

    Book preview

    The Secret Seduction Of Lady Eliza - Bethany M. Sefchick

    Prologue

    Early May 1820

    What are you about, Brat?

    Lady Eliza Deaver, daughter of the Marquess of Framingham, glared up at the gentleman towering over her in the near darkness, his face a mask of icy calm.  She supposed that most people would refer to him as menacing.  Other, more foolish people might even consider him evil.  She, however, was none of those things.  And neither was he.

    Go away, Nicholas, she hissed, well aware that she was one of the few people in all the world who could call The Bloody Duke of Candlewood by his Christian name and live to tell about it.  I am merely observing the festivities.

    From behind a row of potted plants?  No.  I do not believe so.  You are spying, Nicholas Rosemont - the aforementioned duke - corrected, resting his arm lazily against one of the many columns that lined the far side of the Earl of Devonmont's grand ballroom where the family's annual musicale had just been held earlier that evening.  Or rather had attempted to be held, for as usual, a social scandal of the highest order had interrupted the proceedings.  It never failed.

    Eliza gave a haughty sniff of derision, her turquoise eyes like blue ice in the dim light.  It takes one to know one.  My lord.  She tacked the my lord onto the end of her words rather haphazardly.  As if his title was an afterthought.  Which, to her, it rather was.

    Brat.  The duke's tone was laced with a dangerous edge, almost like a warning.  That tone meant that he had something he wished to say to her.  And he would say it whether she wanted to hear it or not.

    With a huff of disgust, Eliza pulled back from the thick row of potted plants that she had been hiding behind in order to observe her good friend Lady Diana Saintwood who was even now dancing with Lord Lachlan McKenna, the current Marquess of Hallstone.  The very same man who also just happened to be the great love of Diana's life.  And was, at the moment, probably making plans to whisk Diana off to Gretna Green so that they might be wed with all possible haste.  After all, that was terribly romantic, and precisely what Diana deserved after all she had endured.

    When Eliza turned to glare at Nicholas in defiance, she silently admitted to herself that her glasses most likely ruined the effect somewhat.  She could have taken them off, she supposed.  Nicholas was one of the few people who knew that she didn't really need them to see clearly.  However, she was worried that she might forget to put them back on again and that would be a problem.  If she suddenly regained the power of unaided sight?  Well, that was not something she would wish to explain.

    After realizing her glare alone would be ineffective, Eliza crossed her arms over her chest instead, not giving a single thought to the fact that a young, unmarried woman should not be in the company of an unwed man.  Especially one who was rumored to be as dangerous as The Bloody Duke.

    What do you want, Nick? Eliza sighed when she realized he was not in the least intimidated by her, uncrossing her arms as she started to rub her temples in frustration.  So much for being viewed as defiant, she supposed.

    In fact, Eliza wasn't defiant at all.  She was tired and she wanted to go home.  It was also why she used the shortened form of his Christian name.  When she referred to him by that name alone, it was a sign to him that he best not forget precisely who she was.  I am merely observing my friend.  She cast her gaze in the direction of the dance floor once more.  Lady Diana has been hurt a great deal as of late.  I do not wish to see her endure more pain.  Then Eliza looked away, embarrassed, knowing that most likely, her entire body was flushed pink.  Nor do I wish to be viewed as a jealous, gawking wallflower.  Or worse, an overwrought spinster.  So I hide here rather than become the subject of rabid gossip.  You of all people should understand that.

    At her words, the duke's expression softened immediately.  Forgive me, Eliza.  I am sorry.  From the expression on his face, she could tell that he was sincere in his apology.  For all that they argued, Eliza knew Nicholas did not wish to see her feelings hurt unnecessarily.  I am simply trying to ensure a happy ending for all involved.  I did not use my considerable influence to ship that man's witch of a stepmother back to Scotland only to have one of her nosy friends undoing all of my hard work.  Then he grimaced.  Not to mention that Prinny has high hopes for that match.  Bringing a Scottish estate such as the one Hallstone will eventually inherit under English control would be a coup of the highest order.  He shook his head.  I could not let you undo all of my hard work.

    I was not about to.  I was merely observing.  It is what I do, Nick.  You know this.  She looked across the ballroom to where Diana and Lachlan were disappearing down one of the grand town home's long corridors.  That hallway, Eliza knew, led directly to the mews in the back of the earl's home.  And from there to the guests' carriages by a side portico.  She had a fairly good idea where her friend was going with the man she so clearly adored.  And she wished them both well.

    When Eliza turned back to the duke, he must have seen the sadness in her eyes as well, for he reached out and grasped her hand.  The gesture should have shocked her.  He should not have been so bold.  But this was Eliza.  And he was Nicholas.  Theirs was a rather different and complicated sort of relationship.

    You must stop this spying, Izzy.  It had been years since Nicholas had used her childhood nickname, a sure sign that he was truly distressed over her actions, which gave her pause.  "It is not proper.  Go find yourself a husband.  I understand that Lord Hunt is vying for your affections.  Or join a convent.  Or start a hat shop.  Or travel the world by camel.  I do not care.  But stop this blasted spying business at once.  Unconventional you might be, but much of what you do is far too risky for a young lady of your station.  And completely unnecessary.  You do not think your hare-brained plans through.  You simply do them.  Moreover, you are not a spy, though you may very well be an excellent gossip.  All of this sneaking around is not good.  What if someone discovers you?  What if you fall into peril and I cannot protect you?"

    There were so many things wrong with that entire string of sentences, Eliza could not even begin to catalog them all.  So she let them pass unremarked upon.  Nicholas meant well.  And truly, he did have a point.  Then again, she wanted to remind him that he was doing precisely the same thing she was - spying from behind a thick row of potted plants.  And he was a spy.  Of sorts, anyway.  However, she allowed that to pass as well.  She was simply too weary to fight, and even if she had not been, she was not about to argue the point with a man like Nicholas Rosemont.

    Very well, Lord Candlewood.  Though might I remind you that I have never once asked you to protect me.  I do not need you to do so now, either.  As I have said many times over the years, I do not need you - or any man - at all.  With a sharp intake of breath, Eliza drew herself up to her full height and with a quick shove, settled her glasses back on the bridge of her nose.  I have observed what I wished to anyway.  Then she dusted off her skirts and prepared to sneak back into the ballroom by way of a small servant's door that led directly from the area behind the potted plants to a connecting door in the corridor.  That door eventually led to a secluded area outside a small sitting room.  And from there to the ladies' retiring room.  Perfect for returning to the ball without anyone even noticing that she had been gone.

    Eliza began to walk away when she felt a warm, gloved hand on her shoulder.  She stopped.  Nicholas knew she would.  Damn him.  Izzy?  His words were thick and rough.  I am sorry.  Please.  But you know that Stephen would not wish any harm to befall you.  I gave my word.

    Eliza knew that, too.  She had heard those words before.  So many times.  However for some reason, tonight, they rang hollow.  And this time when she walked away from The Bloody Duke, he let her go.

    Chapter One

    Later that same night

    Tonight's entertainment was something of a muddle, wasn't it, dear?  From the opposite side of the Deaver family's well-sprung coach, Eliza watched her mother, Lady Clara Deaver, the Marchioness of Framingham, in the dim light cast by the single candle inside the carriage.  Her parents did not care much for the dark, yet only allowed one candle - well encased in a sconce, of course - to burn when they traveled at night, for fear of a fire.

    It was only a muddle because Lord Hathaway made it so.  Eliza didn't know what sort of response her mother was looking for from her this evening.  Mama was in something of a mood, and when she became like this, Eliza was never quite certain what response would mollify her mother or what might anger her.  The last thing Eliza wanted was to upset her mother.  That would only upset her father in turn, and then the entire household would be in an uproar.  Again.  Not to mention that Eliza loved her parents far too much to cause them any more undue pain.

    Thankfully, her comment earned a dry chuckle from her father.  That boy is a mutton-headed fool if I ever saw one.  Jonas Deaver, Marquess of Framingham, shook his head in obvious disgust.  Now that Candlewood has made his position on the subject known, it's best the man follow the duke's lead and allow the Saintwood girl to marry her marquess.  Then he peered at his daughter over his wire-rimmed spectacles.  She is your friend, Eliza.  What do you think?

    I believe Lady Diana and Lord Hallstone are well matched.  For Eliza truly did believe that her friend had found her prince charming in the form of the handsome half-Scottish marquess.  And as for the rumors that he is completely Scottish, I know for a fact that isn't true.  His mother was English.  That is how he came by his current title.  It passed to him from her father.  The current Lord Hallstone's grandfather.  Apparently he did not wish a distant relative to inherit when there was a male heir closer to the original bloodline.  Also, the marquess was raised mostly in England.  Only his later years were spent in the Highlands.  His speech might have a bit of a burr, but his sense of honor is completely English.

    If there was one thing her father treasured above all it, it was facts and Eliza had long ago learned that if she was to survive - or at the very least be noticed - in this family, she needed to have an endless supply of them.  Facts were what allowed the Deaver family to exist at all, even if some would argue that they were not truly existing.

    It was facts that provided her parents hope when there was not much to be hopeful about.  The fact that her brother's body had never been found was one of them.  Therefore, in her parents' mind, facts ruled all.  And had since that terrible, awful day.

    Good.  Good.  An excellent match, then.  Satisfied, Eliza's father sank back against the carriage's squabs.  And you, my daughter?  How did you fare this evening?

    Eliza knew this part of the routine conversation well.  Once the most important and gossip-worthy business of the evening was discussed - in this case, Diana and Lachlan's whirlwind romance - the conversation would turn briefly to her.  It was expected, and by now, Eliza knew to formulate her responses early on to the question she would inevitably be asked.  After all, they were the same questions each evening, no matter where the family went.

    Very well, Papa.  That was Eliza's standard first answer, and she saw her father nod and smile in appreciation of the nearly rote words.  It wasn't happiness.  Eliza was not so foolish as to ever think that.  It was sameness.  And in her father's eyes, sameness was a very good thing, indeed.

    Did you dance, dear?  That question came from her mother, just as it always did.

    Eliza nodded succinctly.  Three times.  Once with Viscount Chillton.  She turned to her father.  You would most likely know him as Frost.  He will have a regulation regarding new irrigation procedures for marshy acreage on estates in Northumbria pending in Parliament this fall.  He is something of a flirt, but harmless enough.

    I have not heard of him.  Is he English?  Her mother offered a slight deviation from the usual course of questioning, but not much.  This slight change was accepted by all in the carriage, of course, since it dealt with facts.

    Yes.  Eliza had made certain to obtain as much information as she could about each of her dance partners.  Just as she always did.  Facts, not emotions, were what drove the Deaver family.  His family is from Oxfordshire.  Their country estate is called Hallowby Grange.  Then without missing a beat, she turned back to her father.  I also danced with Lord Hunt.  He is poor but respectable.  I also danced a quadrille with the Earl of Raynecourt.  He has been on the Continent for some time and only just returned to Town, but he is a friend of Lord Candlewood's.

    Her father nodded absently, as if he was receiving a grain report from his land steward.  Any men that you made certain to avoid?

    Eliza made certain to sit up as straight as she possibly could.  It would not do to appear as if she had something to hide.  Yes.  Lord Wright, who is a known reprobate, and Baron Rockville, who is garnering something of a despicable reputation among the patronesses at Almack's.

    She neglected to add that she had nearly been cornered by Lord Henry Fontaine, the future - or perhaps current, as one could never be quite certain where the French aristocracy stood at any given moment - Comte de LaCroix.  The man was now looking for a wife and was desperate enough that he would chase after any unwed young lady.  Even one with Eliza's rather bluestocking reputation.

    Eliza also did not mention her little spying adventure behind the potted plants with Lord Candlewood.  For obvious reasons.

    Very well.  Her father nodded in approval, and Eliza breathed a small sigh of relief, which was also mixed with a familiar twinge of regret.  The tiny portion of the evening's conversation dedicated to her was at an end.  Normally, she was glad of it.  Tonight, however, she was unsettled, most likely because of her encounter with Nicholas.  For once, she wanted her parents to ask more questions.  Not that her responses to their questions had given them any reason to, she supposed.  Nor was she likely to tell them the reason for her unease.  Or admit that she had spoken intimately with Lord Candlewood.  Alone.

    For in her parents' eyes anyway, there was no reason that tonight should be any different than the literally hundreds of nights before.  And Eliza had been careful not to give them any reason to suspect that anything was amiss.  After all, her parents valued sameness in their lives above all else.  They did not like the unexpected.  They adored schedules and sameness.  They arrived at functions early and left early - when they went out at all.  Twice a year, they hosted events in their home - a ball at the very beginning of the season and a dinner party with dancing just before most of society departed London for the summer season.

    Life for Jonas and Clara Deaver was perfectly the same, ruled by an endless stream of facts.  Day after bloody boring day.  It was their chosen way of life.  Their penance for what they saw as their greatest failure.  Unfortunately, they were forcing Eliza to live that life with them.

    And tonight when she had watched one of her best friends quite literally walk away with the man of her dreams, Eliza had come to the realization that she was tired of it.  She was weary of the sameness and the need to collect facts as if they were gold coins so that she would have currency to trade upon with her family in order for them to even notice her.  Or at least notice her beyond the fact that she took up a place at the dinner table and occasionally cost her father funds for her dressmaker's bills at Madame LaVallier's fine shop.

    Eliza was also well aware that there was no way out of the life she was living until she reached her majority and could retreat to the dower house at Langton Abby, her family's country seat.  That was only two years away.  But at this very moment, it looked to be a very long two years.

    Well, unless she married, of course.  That would certainly be a way out of the sameness.  But that was no longer truly an option for her either.  At eight and twenty, Eliza had long since been relegated to the realm of spinsters and wallflowers.  And even if she had been passingly pretty - which she was not, at least in her opinion - she was still a bluestocking.  Her need for endless facts and tidbits of information had made her thus.  It was a vicious cycle that there was no hope of breaking.

    And that - coupled with the impending marriages of her two best friends - made Eliza feel more alone than she ever had before.  More alone than she had felt when Stephen had died.  And that was staying something.  For when one lost their brother and hero, that sort of emptiness stuck with a person for a good long time, as Eliza had unfortunately discovered.

    I saw your friend Lady Sophia this evening, as well.

    With that comment from her mother, Eliza knew that the conversation was about to take the inevitable turn that it always did after the perfunctory inquiries about her own evening's activities.

    She is newly betrothed to Lord Selby.  Eliza supplied the information, knowing that it was expected of her.

    Our Stephen would have been a perfect match for her, you know.  They would have made a most elegant couple.  And with that follow-up comment from her father, the longest and most painful - for Eliza at least - portion of the evening had begun.

    Without fail, after each event the Deaver family attended, on the carriage ride home, the rest of the evening proceeded by rote.  The same questions and patterns, night after night after night.  First there would be the discussion of the events of the evening, followed by a brief recap of Eliza's dance partners.  And then a young woman who had been in attendance - usually the prettiest available woman, but not always - would be mentioned and Eliza's parents would be off.

    For the rest of the carriage ride home and well after when they were back at their Mayfair town house, the young women who had been at the ball or musicale or theater would be discussed at length, each one judged on how suitable they would have been as a wife for Stephen Deaver, the man who would have been the heir to the Framingham marquisate.

    The only problem was, Stephen was dead and had been for quite some time. 

    And Eliza, who was still very much alive, was once more relegated to a corner of the carriage where she had long ago learned that it was best to keep quiet and allow her parents to reminisce about her dead brother and discuss what sort of qualities he would have looked for in a wife.  Any attempt she made to join the conversation would be frowned upon, her parents believing that Eliza did not remember Stephen well enough to say what sort of woman he might have liked.  Even though she had been an adult when he had left home for the war.  Any news about Eliza's own life that she wished to impart - not that there was much, to be fair - would be looked upon as nothing more than a little girl throwing a temper tantrum because all of the attention was not upon her.  She had long ago ceased in her efforts in that regard.

    For Eliza, the specter of the dead overshadowed the life of the living.  And so she did not say a word.  She simply sat in silence and lived inside of her head, inventing fantasies about a life she would never lead and creating fictional, impossibly perfect men who would never court her.  Or sweep her off her feet into wedded bliss.  For her, that was preferable to being compared to a dead sibling and being found sadly lacking.

    There were times when Eliza wanted to hate her brother.  For not caring about the family and the title enough to remain in London.  For craving adventure and excitement more than he worried about his responsibilities to the marquisate and the family's heritage.  For purchasing a commission in His Majesty's Royal Navy in 1812 when he was only 22 and just returned from a sojourn in Italy.  For leaving their parents to mourn him, turning them old and bitter before their time, his death shrouded in so much mystery that cold, hard facts became their only salvation.  Their only hope that he might still be alive since his body had never been found.

    But there was more.  Eliza wanted to hate Stephen for leaving her alone and in the position of having to make certain that the family's fortunes did not fail because her father no longer cared what became of any of them.  For turning her into a bluestocking because that was the only way the Deaver family and the Framingham marquisate was to survive during those first, ugly weeks.  For plunging her family into mourning for so many years that by the time Eliza made her already much-delayed come-out, she was already well on the shelf and no longer the fresh, young debutante she had once been.  Or rather had never been.

    But mostly she wanted to hate him for boarding a ship bound for England that sank off the Spanish coast during a storm in 1814 and getting himself killed in the process.

    Except that Eliza couldn't.  Not even as much as she wanted to.

    Because Stephen Deaver had been more than a brother to Eliza.  He had been a hero to a sickly little girl who was younger and weaker than he, always insisting that she be allowed to accompany him and his friends on their adventures at Langton Abby.  He had been her protector when she had needed one, forcing their parents to include her on outings when it would have been easier to leave the little girl who couldn't walk at home.  He had given her the nickname Izzy and had taught her to wish for more from her life than just confinement to a sick room.

    Stephen had taught Eliza how to run when she would have been satisfied with just learning how to walk.  He taught her how to race a horse rather than just ride one.  And he had taught her the value of friendship when he had befriended a shy, reticent older boy who would later become The Bloody Duke of Candlewood, refusing to give up the friendship even after their father beat Stephen with a switch.

    And for those reasons and more, Eliza could not hate her dead brother.

    Perhaps she should have, but she could not.

    It was his fault that he had left, but not his that he had died.  He had been coming home to them - guilt finally getting the better of him - when the ship sank.  The letter he had penned the day before he sailed, one that had arrived at the family's front door six months after his death, had proven that without a doubt.  Yet the end result had been the same.  Stephen was gone and Eliza was left to pick up the pieces of her shattered family.  Except that she hadn't done a very good job of it.

    After all, she was a female and there was little she could do.  At least in public.  As for what went on in private?  Well, only she and a select few other people needed to know those details.

    Now as she listened to her parents prattle on about Stephen and his imaginary wives, Eliza wondered not for the first time, what her life would have been like if Stephen had not died.  In all likelihood, she would have been married by now though she could not image to whom.  Most of the men of her acquaintance either bored her or annoyed her.  It rather depended on who they were.  Lord Hunt was nice enough but she doubted that Stephen would have viewed the impoverished future Marquess of Strattfield as an appropriate match for her, despite his title.  Truly, Lord Hunt was far too quiet.  Too much like her.  Or at least too much like the woman she often pretended to be.

    Eliza would also likely have been a mother several times over.  Despite the fact that she did not necessarily desire a husband, she did wish for children.  Except that a lady could not have one without the other.  And the sad truth was that no man - except for possibly fortune hunters and those already well past their prime or in need of a live-in nanny - would find her appealing in the least.

    So Eliza was left in a sort of limbo, moving neither forwards nor backwards.  But always rather staying the same.

    Again, she should hate Stephen for that, but she could not.

    It was not his fault she was not particularly pretty.  That was simply the luck of birth.  It was not his fault that their parents had been unable to recognize that despite the loss of the family's heir, there was still a living child at home, one that both needed her parents and had suffered a grievous loss as well.  Then again, it was no different now than when Stephen had been alive.

    During her youth, Eliza's parents had been so invested in the life of their son that they had never spared much thought for their daughter, even when both children had been alive.  Eliza could not blame her brother for that.  Nor was it Stephen's fault that her two best friends were considered true diamonds of the first water by the ton, each of them an Incomparable in their own right.  That was the fault of a society who valued physical beauty over just about everything else.

    By the time the carriage finally rolled to a stop in front of the Framingham town home, Eliza had managed to work herself into something of a depression.  She did not enjoy feeling this way, but tonight had driven home what she would never have for herself.  At best, she would have stolen moments with disreputable scoundrels like Lord Candlewood behind potted plants.  And not even romantic moments at that.

    As she was about to alight from the carriage, Eliza noticed that the entire town home was ablaze with lights.  Candles glowed in nearly every window and all eight of the ornate lanterns on the front porch had been lit.  They were never lit.  Her mother feared fire - the very thing that had ultimately caused Stephen's ship to sink - too much to allow such a thing.

    By the time her slippered feet hit the ground, Eliza was ready to dash up the front steps, her heart racing in her throat.  Something was amiss.  Alarmed, she once more recalled the afternoon the news of Stephen's death had been delivered to their front door, and she felt vaguely ill. Still, she held herself back, glancing back into the carriage.  Her parents should have been the first to alight, but instead, they sat frozen in their seats, clearly reliving the same horror that she was.

    Very well.

    Eliza drew in a deep breath and accepted the outstretched hand of a nearby footman.  As she ascended the town home's steps, she could feel the eyes of all of the servants upon her.  She was also aware that her parents had not budged from the carriage, leaving her to face whatever awaited behind the doors of the family home by herself.

    Tibbs, she acknowledged in greeting to the family butler as he opened the door for her.  I gather something had occurred.  She waved a hand at the mass of candles that now littered the front hallway.

    Yes, miss.  The butler executed a proper bow.  But he was nervous and sweating and not at all behaving like himself.  I...er...that is...I mean to say, there is...

    With a sigh, Eliza twisted the handle of her reticule, trying desperately not to panic.  Though it was very, very difficult.  Whatever it is, Tibbs, I shall deal with it.  It went without saying that neither of her parents was capable of dealing with the situation at hand.

    Tibbs glanced up the stairs with a meaningful look.  The family has a visitor, Miss Eliza.

    At this hour?  She had no idea who could possibly be calling.  She was dimly aware of the squeak of a carriage, indicating that her parents were at least considering leaving the vehicle.  She prayed that would be sooner rather than later.

    He claims to be family, miss.  There was no mistaking the horror and fear in the butler's voice.  Except that...well...he should be dead.  He swallowed hard.  "This one...he is different than the others.

    At that, Eliza's blood turned to ice.  Without thinking or waiting for anyone else, she snatched the nearest candelabra and raced up the stairs, ladylike manners be damned.  At the top, she turned right and headed for the drawing room - the only place in the entire town house where visitors would be received - by her order.  As she drew closer, Eliza slowed her pace, careful not to allow her shadow to be seen along the wall.  She did not want this imposter to know that she was coming.

    For she was certain that he must be an imposter.  Anything else was simply unthinkable.

    This was not the first time someone had shown up on the family's doorstep claiming to be Stephen.  In the early days, as news of the accident spread, Tibbs often turned away as many as five or six men a day, each of them insisting that they were the lost Framingham heir.  After all, the marquisate was a meaty prize to claim, one that would revert to the Crown if her father did not select another heir before he died - and it did not appear that he would.  There were many unfortunate men who would gladly sell their souls for a chance at that sort of fortune and power.

    Back then, Eliza and Tibbs had been the only two people standing between the charlatans and her poor, broken-hearted parents.  The two of them had been a united front and no one had gotten past them.  She had no idea how this man - whoever he really was - had managed it.  Clearly, his ruse had been enough to fool Tibbs.  But it would not be enough to fool her.

    As she approached the door, Eliza made certain her footfalls were masked by the carpet and that the fabric of her gown did not betray her presence.  She would deal with this imposter herself - before her parents caught so much as a glimpse of him.  For Eliza's greatest fear was that one day, some man would slip past both her and Tibbs and ingratiate himself with her parents.  She feared that this unseen, unnamed man would know just enough about Stephen's past to be convincing.  And her parents, desperate to have their son back, would welcome the imposter with open arms, finally allowing emotion to overrule fact.  After that, there would be no dislodging him.

    That was something that Eliza had vowed would never happen.  She refused to allow some con man to take advantage of her parents' broken hearts and steal their fortune out from under them.  It would not happen!

    From her position in the hallway, Eliza could see a man moving about inside the drawing room.  He was thickly muscled, as if he performed some sort of manual labor, the arms of his coat straining as he moved.  Though the room was dim, she could also tell that his clothes were a bit worn, though they had been finely tailored at one time.  From the cut, they appeared to have been sewn by Watson and Webb, the men's equivalent of Madame LaVallier, who was renowned as the finest dressmaker in all of London.

    The man leaned heavily on a well-used walking stick and moved with a strange limp in his gait.  However she silently acknowledged that his movements weren't much different than the gait of Lord Marcus Cheltenham, the current Viscount Breckenright, the brother of one of Eliza's close friends.  Marcus had been injured in his youth and walked much as this man did, indicating

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