Wickedly Yours (The Wickeds Book 4)

by Kathleen Ayers

  He rapped smartly on the door, hoping his cousin, Jemma and the duke had arrived home safely from their sojourn in Scotland. The couple’s visit to the seat of the Duke of Dunbar was to only have lasted no more than a month, but then they had been there much longer due to concerns over Jemma’s health. Rowan hoped they were at home and only neglected to inform the family in order to rest.

  The ball celebrating the marriage of the Earl and Countess of Kilmaire was to take place later that night, given by the Dowager Marchioness of Cambourne. Lord and Lady Dunbar, along with Rowan and his family, were all expected to attend. As was most of London. No one dared to disregard an invitation from the Dowager Marchioness, a grand dame of the ton.

  Rowan would be there, of course, though he wasn’t looking forward to it. Not because of Lord and Lady Kilmaire who were dear friends, but for other reasons. Reluctantly he admitted to himself the slight detour to his cousin’s home was merely an attempt to avoid his mother, Lady Marsh.

  As usual, the expectations of Lady Marsh were not in line with those of her only son.

  Peabody, the Dunbar butler, opened the door wide. Once he caught sight of Rowan, his mouth turned down in dislike. “Baron Malden.” He addressed Rowan by his courtesy title. “His Grace is not at home.” The elderly servant began to shut the door.

  “How odd. I would have expected them a day or so ago. Possibly His Grace will arrive at any moment.” Rowan placed his hand on the heavy oak. “I’ll wait a bit, if you don’t mind.”

  Peabody sighed, rather dramatically, telling Rowan he did indeed mind. The door swung wide. “As you wish, Lord Malden. Your wait may be overlong. His Grace assured us he would arrive today, however—"

  “The Dowager Marchioness of Cambourne is hosting a celebratory ball for Lord and Lady Kilmaire this evening and I can’t imagine either my cousin or her husband would miss such an event. I’ll wait in the drawing room and avail myself of my cousin-in-law’s sideboard.”

  Peabody was too well trained to say anything more, but his nostrils flared at the idea of Rowan drinking the Duke of Dunbar’s scotch. “As you wish, my lord.”

  Snooty old bugger.

  As Rowan made his way to the drawing room, he noticed the way the servants were bustling to and fro in anticipation of the duke’s arrival. The entire foyer smelled of beeswax and the floor glistened beneath his feet. The drawing room was a massive, cavernous space with expensive furniture littered about in various groupings. The furniture was all heavy and masculine, dressed in reds and golds. A large stone hearth took up the majority of one wall, the fire inside popping and crackling, giving the room a warm glow.

  Rowan made his way to the sideboard and poured himself two fingers of scotch before settling in a chair covered in deep burgundy brocade. He took a sip of the scotch and sighed in pleasure as the liquid slid down his throat.

  A young maid slipped in to stoke the fire and add wood. Apparently, Peabody didn’t mean for Rowan to catch a chill. The girl was small and cheerfully round. She bustled about her business shooting Rowan several curious gazes as she did so.

  His eyes followed her as she moved, his gaze more on her clothing than the girl herself. He’d lately come into possession of a textile mill. Actually, several textile mills. They were in dire need of updating. The Newsome mills stood on several acres of land facing a river, once the primary mode of distribution for their goods. The river had been dammed making transportation from the mills prohibitively expensive, a problem Rowan was actively attempting to solve. He had plans for the mills, starting with the clothing the girl before him wore. Mentally he calculated the cost of her dress, apron, cap and wool stockings. What about an additional dress? She probably had only one, meant for church or her half-day.

  The girl turned and caught him looking at her. Her cheeks reddened but her eyes twinkled in invitation. “Will there be anything else, my lord?”

  “No, thank you. That will be all.” He gave her a polite smile.

  Ready-made. The fast-growing class of tradesmen, merchants and shopkeepers had a hunger for ready-made clothing. The larger of the Newsome mills could produce such things. He already had in place an agreement to import cotton from America. The ships necessary to carry the cotton to England would be those of the Duke of Dunbar. His Grace was already actively engaged in trade all over the world, though few in the ton would care to disparage him over such a thing.

  His parents, Lord and Lady Marsh, were horrified that their son would dirty his hands in trade. So upsetting was the thought to his parents that Rowan kept his business dealings quiet. He had no wish for them to know or understand his single-minded pursuit of building an empire of his own.

  He turned his attention from textiles back to the scotch in his hand. His Grace seemed to have an endless supply of scotch, always of the highest quality. Carriages moved past the windows, the sound of the horse’s hooves unable to penetrate the drawing room. It was peaceful here, much more serene then the scene doubtlessly playing out at the home of Rowan’s parents. Lady Marsh was determined to play matchmaker for both her children, though he was currently bearing the brunt of her attention. Mother peppered Rowan with notes all week, begging him to attend her at his earliest convenience, which he had not done.

  Guilt hung in his stomach. He took another sip of the scotch. Avoiding his mother was a rare outwardly show of rebellion, something his conscience usually kept in check. His parents wished him to marry, reminding them that had the fates not been so cruel, their home would already be full of the sound of grandchildren. Lady Marsh had even been so kind as to pick out the perfect future countess. Lady Gwendolyn White.

  Lady Gwendolyn was a beautiful, well-mannered feather wit. He’d die of boredom before he could bed her.

  One more finger of scotch was in order. He wasn’t just avoiding his mother who had probably already invaded the bachelor apartment he kept. Rowan also had something of great importance to speak to the duke about.

  Augustus Corbett.

  His Grace was bound to become quite angry as Rowan related the news concerning Corbett. Very few men would be bold enough to remain in England after attempting to kidnap the future Duchess of Dunbar. Of course, Corbett had assistance.

  A slow curl, a mixture of anger and desire, spiraled deep inside Rowan at the thought of the duke’s sister, Lady Arabella. If she were standing before him, Rowan was certain he’d strangle her. Or lay her down, lift her skirts and take her savagely, something he fantasized about on a frequent basis. His feelings towards Arabella tended to be rather conflicted and had been for some time. How was it possible to be attracted to such a woman?

  Rowan noticed his glass was empty. He stood and poured just a bit more and looked at the clock. Plenty of time before tonight’s event. After settling himself, he thought back to the dinner he’d attended the night before.

  Rowan had a varied and diverse circle of acquaintances and gentlemen he called friends. Mr. Gerald Wrigley was one of those acquaintances. A banker of some repute, Mr. Wrigley had been instrumental in assisting Rowan in past endeavors. More importantly, Rowan liked and trusted Wrigley, and his dinner parties were always entertaining. Unmarried as he was, Wrigley’s older, widowed sister often played hostess at his events. Clara Wrigley Howard was utterly charming and made sure the wine and conversation flowed freely.

  Also, Rowan was considering the possibility of an affair with Clara.

  As he busied himself admiring Clara’s daring neckline over dinner last night, he had listened to the conversation around him, carefully squirreling away bits of information he could use later. The gentlemen on his left was a young barrister named Jennings. Rowan was picking at his lamb when he overheard Jennings mention Bermuda.

  Rowan only knew two people from Bermuda. His cousin Jemma and Augustus Corbett. He listened intently to Jennings’ conversation with his dinner companion. The young barrister didn’t care for his brother-in-law, a man who he saw as spoiled and lacking in character. Only a week ago, the brother-in-l
aw had approached Jennings at his law offices and requested funds. Jennings was shocked, he’d said, because he’d been certain Augustus had left England some time ago.

  Rowan nearly dropped his fork. There was no doubt in his mind Jennings was speaking of the very same man who’d nearly taken his cousin. After Jemma’s aborted kidnapping, no trace of Augustus Corbett had been found. The only clue was a record of passage booked to Boston. The ship had already sailed but Nick sent his solicitor to Boston immediately to find Corbett. But if Jennings was to be believed, and there was no reason why he shouldn’t be, Corbett had never left London. Nick’s solicitor had been sent on a wild goose chase. Rowan had begun to make discreet inquiries but so far had discovered nothing more. Corbett had covered his tracks well.

  Rowan sank deeper into the chair, sneaking a glance at the clock above the fireplace. Plenty of time left to make himself presentable. He’d be perfectly turned out. Smile at Lady Gwendolyn, a woman he had absolutely no intention of marrying. Dance and be amusing.

  He was so bloody tired of all of it. Especially of the perfection of women like Lady Gwendolyn.

  Arabella wasn’t perfect. Far from it. Maybe that was his attraction to her. Nick’s sister was dour. Deceitful. Unpleasant. Yet something drew Rowan to Arabella’s darkness. The urge to possess her was often an unwelcome feeling when he saw her. His desire for her confused him and had only grown stronger over time.

  He took another sip of the scotch and closed his eyes imagining Arabella in his bed. She would be naked, the silken mass of her hair streaming over the pillows as he loomed over her. The image was incredibly arousing.

  5

  “He's taken her! Nick!”

  Rowan sat straight up. Blinking to clear the sleep from his eyes he spared a glance at the darkened window. The moon was not quite up yet, but it was late. Very late. The glass of scotch he’d been nursing sat on the table next to him, no doubt put there by the annoyed Peabody. Christ, he’d fallen asleep.

  A woman's heels clicked down the marble hallway towards the drawing room.

  "Nick!" The voice was panicked. Terrified.

  “My lady, His Grace is not here.” Rowan heard the ruffled voice of Peabody echoing down the marble corridor. Peabody was never ruffled.

  “Where is my nephew, Peabody?” Rowan recognized the voice of Lady Cupps-Foster, Nick’s aunt. “Please tell me he has returned from Scotland.”

  Peabody said something to her in a low tone.

  A cry of anguish echoed outside the door. “We’ll never get word to him in time,” she sobbed. “My God, he’s taken my niece.” The words dissolved into weeping. “Peabody, we must rouse the footmen. Someone. Anyone.”

  Rowan stood and moved quickly towards the door. Arabella was missing? Taken? She should be locked away safely in Wales, enjoying her exile and lamenting her sins. Opening the door wide, he startled Lady Cupps-Foster. Her slender form was shaking with exhaustion. Mud splattered her dark blue traveling gown. Bits of twigs and leaves stuck to her skirts. The spray of flowers on top of her bonnet lay wilted and torn to flap against her ear. Several strands of dark hair shot through with gray fell to her slumped shoulders. Her eyes were shadowed and wild, speaking to the terror she felt for her niece.

  “Lady Cupps-Foster,” he spoke gently trying not to frighten her, “what has happened?”

  Confusion wrinkled her brow as she attempted to focus on Rowan. “Lord Malden?” Her hand immediately reached up to adjust her bonnet. “But what are you doing here? Is Nick with you?” Her body swayed towards the floor.

  Rowan rushed forward, catching her before she fell face down in the hallway. Taking her elbow, he led her into the drawing room and settled her in the chair he’d vacated only moments before. Deciding sherry was in order, he poured her a glass from the sideboard.

  “Lady Cupps-Foster, take a sip of this. It will warm you.”

  She looked askance at the sherry and shook her head. “Scotch or whiskey please. Though of the two, I’d prefer whiskey.”

  “Of course.” Rowan didn’t show his surprise as he brought her whiskey. He held the crystal cut glass to her lips as she took a sip of the amber liquid.

  Suddenly she pushed the glass aside. “Oh, God. I’ve forgotten that John and Teddy Mac are still in the coach. John’s hurt. His head.” She grabbed at Rowan’s coat sleeve. “Please, you must have them retrieved at once.”

  Peabody went to the door, yelling for several footmen. “John and Teddy Mac are still in the coach. Bring them in and send for a physician.”

  “Teddy Mac?” Rowan didn’t take his eyes off of Lady Cupps-Foster as he addressed Peabody. “The young boy who picked His Grace’s pocket—”

  “Yes.” Peabody’s voice shook. “He begged to go, and I felt it was safe enough. I sent out two footmen with the coach. Big, burly young men who—”

  “The footmen.” Lady Cupps-Foster took a large swallow of the whiskey. “Seagraves and Barker. They were in his employ.” She gave Peabody a rather hostile look. “How could you send them to get us? How could you hire such men?”

  “My lady—" The butler’s throat bobbed in agitation. “They came with solid recommendations,” Peabody said, barely above a whisper. His skin turned a deathly shade of gray. “His Grace wanted strong men to ride with the coach. I…” A devastated look crossed his face. “My God, I shall never forgive myself.”

  Lady Cupps-Foster turned from Peabody and stared into the fire, the glass of whiskey clasped in her hands. She was still shaking. “Teddy Mac is hungry.” Her lips ticked up. “He’s talked about food all the way back to London.”

  “Peabody, prepare a hot bath and a room for Lady Cupps-Foster.” When the butler didn’t move, Rowan growled. “Now, Peabody. And keep the staff away from the drawing room until I can sort this out. Get John comfortably settled. Take Teddy Mac into the kitchen.”

  Peabody jerked, as if he had only been waiting instruction to knock the inertia from him. Bowing to Rowan, he hurried from the room.

  Nick’s aunt rocked back and forth against the chair, dropping bits of mud on the expensive Persian rug beneath her feet. “Lady Cupps-Foster,” Rowan knelt and took the glass from her. She’d long since lost her gloves and her hands were like blocks of ice. “Start at the beginning.” He handed her the handkerchief from his pocket. “I will do everything I can to help as Nick has not yet returned from Scotland.”

  “The bloody rain. It’s delayed him and with Jemma’s condition…my nephew worries for her. Hopefully the rain will also delay that vile cur’s abduction of my niece as well.”

  Nick was incredibly protective of his wife and given that Jemma was with child, he likely wouldn’t want her bounced around on muddy roads which explained their delay in reaching London. They were either holed up at an inn or had found accommodations at some lord’s estate along the way. Rowan thought the latter more likely. He should have assumed such when the duke didn’t arrive earlier today. It would take time to locate the Duke of Dunbar. Cold fingers of dread caressed the back of Rowan’s neck. Only one man would dare take Arabella. “Augustus Corbett.”

  “Yes. The very same. He’s taken her.” Hard, tear-filled eyes looked up at Rowan. “He must have been planning this for a long time, virtually since the time Jemma was rescued. Seagraves and Barker, the footmen, were in his employ for several months. They were with the coach on our journey to Wales.” She shook her head. “Why didn’t he take Arabella then? Why wait?”

  Timing, Rowan surmised. Nick was still in London when he’d banished his sister and Corbett hadn’t yet laid his false trail. Corbett wasn’t stupid.

  “A coach blocked the road to Camden. A dirty, shabby thing that looked to be in trouble. John sent Seagraves and Barker to see if we could assist the occupants or help in some way. Arabella thought it a mail coach on the way to London. John was hurt and Teddy Mac tied up.” She sniffed in distress. “Seagraves, the larger of the two brutes climbed into our coach.” Her mouth grew hard. “He dared to put his hands on
me. On my mouth. He tied my wrists together and threatened to gag me.”

  “Corbett was mentioned by name?”

  “Yes. When Seagraves left the coach for a moment, I overheard him speaking to Barker and Corbett’s name came up several times. Seagraves was to stay with the Dunbar coach and us until at least the following morning. He drove us to a small shack off the main road. He’d packed food and water. Barker was to drive Corbett’s coach.” She blotted her eyes and clutched Rowan’s hand. “Scotland. Gretna Green. Another sob escaped her. “Corbett is taking her to Gretna Green to be married. Seagraves said as much.”

  All things considered, Corbett’s plan was actually quite clever. By planting the two false footmen in the Dunbar household, Corbett always knew the whereabouts of the Duke of Dunbar and Arabella, until he found the perfect time to strike. There was nothing between Twinings and Camden. No coaching station. Few inns. The road itself was not well-traveled. And the Duke of Dunbar was in Scotland. “How did you get away from Seagraves?”

  Dark circles stood out starkly against the whiteness of Lady Cupps-Foster’s skin. “Seagraves did not assume me to be a threat. I offered to cook.” She lifted a brow. “I’ve never cooked a thing in my life. But the shack had a large cast iron skillet. Teddy Mac distracted Seagraves while I brought the skillet down on the top of his skull. I had to hit him several times before he fell to the floor. I untied Teddy Mac and together we managed to get poor John into the coach. Teddy Mac drove the horses.” A tired sigh escaped her, and she wiped at her eyes. “I had no money. Corbett took my purse.” Her eyes welled with new tears. “I bought us some bread and cheese along the way with my silver buttons.”