The Pleasure Trap Read Free Page B

the fine cuisine did not distract his thoughts for long. This was the beginning of the Season, when ambitious mamas brought their lovely daughters up to town in hopes of tempting some eligible bachelor into marriage. Until now, he had managed to disqualify himself from the hunt by claiming poverty, but he was not sure how much longer he could keep up the pretense. His grandmother had suddenly arrived in town with the express intention of taking in the Season. One word from his grandmother was all it would take to put him in the camp of eligible bachelors, and the hunt would be on.
    His friends would rub their hands in glee. Most of them had fallen by the wayside, captured by lovely young women who led them straight to the altar. Ash didn’t think he’d ever be ready to take that long, long walk. His own parents’ marriage had not exactly been an example of domestic bliss. They were both gone now, as was his brother, Harry, and it was left to him to secure the succession.
    There had to be more to life than that.
    “Mind if I join you, Denison?”
    The elderly gentleman who loomed over Ash didn’t wait for an answer but pulled out a chair and seated himself. Ash managed a smile. Colonel Shearer commanded his respect, not only because of his advanced years but because of his record in the Spanish Campaign and, latterly, at Waterloo. Soldiering had been his life. It was also his only topic of conversation. There was nothing the colonel liked more than to corner a former comrade-in-arms and regurgitate every detail of battles gone by. As a veteran of the Spanish Campaign, Ash was an ideal audience for the colonel’s reminiscences.
    “You’ll have a glass of wine, Colonel?” Ash asked. He raised a hand to attract the waiter’s attention.
    “Thank you, no. I’ve already dined. Too much wine in the middle of the day makes me drowsy.”
    Ash was startled when the colonel took the newspaper that was folded under his arm and slapped it on the table between them. “What do you make of that, Denison, eh?”
    Ash noted the torn edges of the paper and wondered how long the colonel had been carrying it around. The date at the top of the back page informed him that it was a week old. Mystified, he began to scan it.
    “It’s a short story,” Ash said. “They’re a regular feature in the
Herald.
I never read such drivel myself. Too fanciful for my taste. But my grandmother dotes on these Gothic tales.”
    “As does my Myrtle,” responded the colonel, shaking his head. “Well, it’s fit only for the ladies, isn’t it? But this time, the
Herald
has gone too far. I wouldn’t mind if Angelo—that’s the author’s name, by the way—set his stories in the country homes of the high and mighty—well, who hasn’t visited Blenheim and Chatsworth?—but when one’s own private domain is used as a backdrop, that is going too far. Fairfield isn’t open to the public. How does this Angelo fellow know so much about my property? Not that he gives it its proper name.
Longfield
he calls it, or something similar.” He thumped the paper with his index finger. “The impudence of the knave! That’s my home he’s writing about.”
    Ash wasn’t sure why the colonel was so angry. “Country estates are not so very different,” he ventured. “Perhaps you’re mistaken. It could be another estate or something he has imagined.”
    The colonel brought the flat of his hand down, rattling the table. “I know my own estate.” Both voice and eyes were fierce. “But that’s not what gets my goat. He has resurrected an old tragedy, when one of our maids fell down the shaft of an old, disused well, and Mrs. Shearer is besieged by her friends wanting to know what really happened to Maude. And our daughters are mortified. People are snickering behind our backs. I won’t have it, I tell you.”
    “Maude,” Ash said slowly, “would be the maid?”
    “Of course she’s the maid! Didn’t I say so?”
    Ash suppressed a retort. Colonel