Deborah Simmons - The Devil Earl

Sebastian had to admit there were similarities. The dark character whose exploits were chronicled carried a form of his own name and was described much like himself. Count Bastian also possessed a mysterious seaside stronghold that more than a little resembled Wolfinger Abbey, but there the parallels ended. The evil count’s main activity appeared to be luring helpless females to his impenetrable fortress, where he seduced and abandoned them, or worse, and the bodies of his victims filled up the family graveyard until the brave heroine exposed him.

Of course, anyone who knew Sebastian was aware that he spent his time in Yorkshire or London, never venturing to Cornwall or any other seaside domain. And although his lurid past was well-known, he had always confined his sexual activities to women of a certain persuasion, certainly not the sort of sweet innocents depicted in the novel. And most obvious to him was the fact that no one could really line his property with corpses and go unnoticed. The Book was fiction, pure and simple.

The ton, however, held a differing opinion. He had always been called a murderer, and this grandiloquent prose, following so rapidly upon the disappearance of his brother, titillated society all the more. The possibility that there might be a grain of truth in it made The Book a must-read on the order of Lady Caroline Lamb’s thinly disguised portrait of Byron.

Bastian of Bloodmoor was an unqualified success.

As he made his circuit of the room, his gaze searching the shelves for a possible purchase, Sebastian saw Lord Neville enter, and his annoyance reached a new level. That gossipmonger would, no doubt, try to engage him in a verbal battle for which Sebastian had no enthusiasm.

He felt suddenly tired, his brief interest in the shop replaced by his customary boredom. Only the flagrant display of The Book, which he was rapidly approaching, kept him from exiting immediately, for he did not care to have Sir Neville accuse him of avoiding the accursed volumes. With characteristic aplomb, he moved directly in front of the table where they were neatly piled.

Sebastian actually picked up a copy, wondering idly about the identity of the author of Bastian of Bloodmoor. Although several names had been bandied about, no one had taken credit for the work as yet. With a cold calculation that would not have surprised those who knew him, Sebastian decided he would like to get his hands on the man. Whether the fellow had knowingly painted him so ruthlessly or not, Sebastian would not mind closing his fingers around the bastard’s neck in a pleasurable parody of the plot.

Standing there absently stroking the binding, Sebastian remained lost in thought until a woman came to join him. He glanced toward her, jolted unexpectedly by the glint of spectacles perched upon her slender nose.

Damn! He drew in a deep breath, irritated by his reaction to the sight of a woman wearing glasses. Surely he was not pining away for that spinster in Cornwall? Sebastian’s annoyance reached a level that would have alarmed his acquaintances, while he tried to ignore the woman’s intrusion upon his senses. Unfortunately, she was not so easily dismissed. As he watched in amazement, she took hold of the book in his hands, as if to wrest it from him.

“Shall I sign it for you?” she asked.

Sebastian swiveled around to face her, so furious that not only was he unable to summon his cool smile, he could not even call up his voice. And underneath the anger, like a shark circling, was a sharp sting of betrayal that he did not even want to examine, let alone feel.

He forced himself to deny it. This prim blonde meant nothing to him. His brief and ill-fated attraction to her did not give her any dominion over him, least of all the power to hurt him. Why, the very notion was laughable! No one could touch him, for the simple reason that he had been dead inside for longer than he could remember.

And yet, for the first time in years, he sensed something lapping at his inviolate self—something decidedly unpleasant. Sebastian had the eerie notion that it was despair, waiting to suck him down into blacker depths than he had ever known.

Ignoring it, Sebastian found his tongue, if not his usual grim aplomb. “You wrote this?” he asked her, with barely controlled venom, as he held the offending volume between them. “You tried to destroy me with it?” He conjured up a bitter laugh. “Others have failed at that task, Miss Prudence Lancaster. And let me warn you that I have a way of coming back to haunt those who would do me ill.”

Her response was to stare up at him in wide-eyed surprise, as if astonished by his manner, but the veil of innocence that clung to her only incited Sebastian further. He felt like grabbing hold of Miss Prudence Lancaster and shaking her until her teeth rattled—or until her glasses fell away and she was forced to abandon her spinsterish airs.

Violence throbbed in the air, in the muscle in his cheek and in the rapid rise and fall of her shapely breasts. By God, if they were not in a public place, he would show the author of Bastian of Bloodmoor just what her favorite villain was capable of doing to her. The idea, Sebastian realized, with stunning surprise, was more than a little stimulating.

And far from cringing away from his rage, the unusual Miss Prudence seemed enthralled by it. She was looking up at him with the oddest expression on her starkly beautiful face, and if he had not known better, Sebastian could have sworn he saw an answering flicker of excitement behind those ridiculous spectacles.

“Well, well, and what have we here?”

At the sound of Lord Neville’s voice, Sebastian automatically straightened and composed his features. Lord Lawrence Neville—Nevvy to his circle—was a parasite, a man with no discernible income of his own, who lived off the largesse of others. And why did anyone support him? Somehow, Neville had managed to set himself up as an arbiter of fashion, along the lines of Beau Brummel, only with a cruel streak a mile wide.

The jaded members of the ton enjoyed hearing Nevvy sharpen his tongue on their peers, as long as they were not his victims, and so each slavishly tried to please him. Thus he gained more power and grew more vicious.

Although Nevvy despised Sebastian for not playing his nasty little game, he rarely dared to make snide comments to the earl’s face, for he was not entirely foolish. Sebastian had made it clear that he would tolerate only so much, and Nevvy had a healthy regard for his own skin.

But, apparently, the public location and Sebastian’s escalating troubles had emboldened the fellow, for he stepped closer, smiling evilly, despite Sebastian’s dismissive glance. “Are you hawking your own book now, Ravenscar? Who is your poor victim?”

Without waiting for an answer, Nevvy turned to Prudence. “Have a desire to meet Count Bastian in person, do you, miss?” he asked. “Better beware—he’s a very dangerous man.” Laughing at his own joke, Nevvy obviously expected Prudence to join him, but she only stared at him openly.

Apparently she was a bit bemused by the fellow, for Sebastian watched her gaze travel past Nevvy’s quizzing glass to the absurdly high points of his shirt with more than polite interest. She appeared, Sebastian decided, to be making a character study of Sir Neville, for use in her next book. Suddenly, Sebastian felt in control of himself again, his extraordinary outburst replaced by an equally unusual interest—and no little amusement.

“I fear I do not follow you, sir,” she said.

Watching her brave Nevvy’s temper, Sebastian could not help but admire the chit. Most women would cringe if Nevvy turned his attention on them—or else fawn shamelessly over the toad. Prudence, refusing to be rattled by the man’s assessing look, remained her own, unique self, polite but poised in the face of his less-than-flattering scrutiny.