by Clee, Adele
Jemima looked up at the imposing figure towering over her. “Don’t call her that. She is no mother to me. She’s nothing more than an embarrassment.”
Mr Wycliff slid his arm around Jemima’s slender waist. The girl pushed at his chest in an attempt to escape. “So embarrassing you want rid of her?”
“Remove yourself, sir.” Panic infused Jemima’s tone. “Before someone comes in and finds us in a clinch.”
“Admit it,” he persisted, his mouth dangerously close to Jemima’s quivering lips. “Admit you paid someone to spook her horse. Admit to the host of other accidents set to rid you from your association with the Scarlet Widow.”
“No!”
“The Widow’s shame follows you through the ballrooms. You live in her shadow. You cry at night when—”
“Please, say no more.” Jemima stopped struggling against Mr Wycliff’s hard body. As she surrendered to him, her hands settled on his chest.
“Men don’t want you, do they? They want the Widow.” His seductive voice was as smooth as the finest claret. “And yet you long to feel desired, loved.”
“Yes,” Jemima said, relaxing into his embrace.
“You must hate her.” His mouth moved to Jemima’s ear, his lips grazing against her lobe.
A shiver ran through Scarlett’s body. She knew the power of Mr Wycliff’s hot breath, had lain awake huddled next to him to keep out the cold, had felt each soft rhythmical sigh breeze over her neck. For the first time in three years, she longed to trade places with her insipid stepdaughter.
“I do,” Jemima breathed. “I despise her.”
“And you would do anything to get rid of her, to be free.”
“Anything.”
“Tell me your secrets. Who did you hire to stage the accidents?”
“Accidents?” Jemima’s dreamy voice was almost inaudible.
Scarlett had underestimated the rogue. A few more whispered words and the waif would be hiking up her skirts and perching her bare buttocks on the edge of the desk. Indeed, she suspected the scoundrel might even possess the wherewithal to crack the Scarlet Widow’s walnut shell.
A sudden commotion in the hall stole everyone’s attention.
Mr Wycliff’s dark gaze drifted to the door. The woman in his arms came quickly to her senses and tried to push out of his embrace.
“What’s the hurry?” he drawled, clearly unconcerned by the prospect of being caught in a compromising embrace. “We were getting on so well.”
Jemima shook her head vigorously, but with her hair scraped back in a severe knot, barely a wisp was out of place. “You were trying to trick me.”
The corners of his mouth curled into a wicked grin. “Trick you?”
“Like Satan, you cast your sinful spells.” She broke free and brushed her skirts.
“Ladies do say my fingers work the devil’s magic.”
“And I suspect your mouth is equally devious.”
Mr Wycliff’s tongue grazed his bottom lip. “What a shame you’ll never know.”
Two people conversed loudly in the corridor—Joshua Steele and Lady Rathbone. Hell’s bells! The matron was forever turning up in the most unlikely places and was not one to linger outside when there was gossiping to be had. But then another voice joined the tête-à-tête—the sophisticated tone of the Marquis of Blackbeck.
“Damnation!” Mr Wycliff glanced up to the balcony, to where Scarlett stood in the shadows with her back pressed to the row of cases. One jerk of the head was her summons to descend the spiral staircase and join the party.
“Quick,” Jemima said, suddenly panicked. “Lock the door before they all barge in here.”
“Have no fear.” Mr Wycliff sounded amused. “You’re not alone with me. Your stepmother is in the wings waiting to save your fall from grace.”
Jemima’s head shot around upon hearing the patter of footsteps on the stairs. A scowl formed. The girl’s top lip curled into something of a snarl.
“You!” Jemima snapped. “I should have known you were behind this debacle. One word to your lapdog and he scampers to do your bidding.”
“Lapdog?” Mr Wycliff put his hand to his heart as if mortally wounded. “I take great umbrage. No one tells me who to lick or bite.”
“Mr Wycliff is not the sort of gentleman one offends,” Scarlett said. “One wicked word from him and you will find yourself barred from every ballroom in London. Now, if you are behind these ludicrous attempts to cause me harm, I suggest you stop.”
There was nothing ludicrous about murder. But Scarlett would be damned before letting Jemima know she was terrified out of her wits. And while Jemima’s bitterness was carved into every frown lining her brow, Scarlett doubted the girl had the courage to hire an assassin.
The door to the library flew open, and the marquis sauntered into the room, his stoic gaze fixed upon his son. Lady Rathbone and Joshua Steele traipsed behind.
“Admiring my books?” The marquis moved to the drinks tray and poured himself a glass of port. The large diamond and onyx ring on his finger clinked against the crystal. “Perhaps you’re interested in the first edition of Gilles Ménage’s Poemata. Or I have a rare copy of Plautus’ Comoediae Viginti that is two hundred years old.”
“Latin is not my forte,” Mr Wycliff replied in a less arrogant tone now they were in company. “Your brandy and cheroots are more to my taste.”
The marquis’ languid gaze slid to the open mahogany box on the desk, to the ash and discarded remains of Mr Wycliff’s smoke. With his usual impassive expression, he turned to Jemima. “And what brought you here, Miss Steele?”
“Erm … I …” The girl’s cheeks coloured beneath his stare. “I—”
“Miss Steele came to speak to me regarding a personal matter,” Scarlett interjected.
The marquis raised a dubious brow. “No doubt she is tired of hiding in your shadow and begs you grant her a spot in the sunlight.”
“It would not be a personal matter if I divulged our secrets.”
The marquis turned his attention to Lady Rathbone. “And might I inquire as to your reason for concerning yourself with what my son does behind closed doors?”
“Me?” Lady Rathbone’s droopy eyes bulged. She looked more shocked than offended. “I happened to be passing and noticed Lord Steele loitering in the corridor.”
“She asked if I had seen Lady Steele,” Joshua said, though he failed to make eye contact with anyone other than his sister.
“Well, yes,” Lady Rathbone mumbled. Like his son, the marquis possessed the ability to unnerve those in the room without uttering a cross word. “My grandson mentioned she was here, and I thought she might like to accompany me at the card table.”
Lady Rathbone’s kindness touched Scarlett’s heart, even if at times it proved a tad excessive. “And I would have graciously accepted.”
The matron managed a smile while struggling beneath the weight of the marquis’ scrutiny. “I am sure we’re not too late.”
Mr Wycliff stepped forward. During his brief silence, Scarlett had been aware of the power radiating from his arresting countenance. The air sparked with a vibrant and equally volatile electricity. From the moment his father entered the room, Mr Wycliff’s striking dark eyes had watched her intently.
“Perhaps Lady Steele has forgotten we have another engagement this evening.” Damian Wycliff’s commanding voice sliced through the air, ready to slap anyone who offered the smallest protest.
He had made no mention of attending another soiree. And they had learnt nothing new this evening. Jemima made no secret of her hatred. She blamed Scarlett for every scar, every hideous mark inflicted by the cruel lord. Her wicked stepmother roused the devil in all men. Why else would a loving father behave like such a beast?
“Forgive me,” Scarlett said, for she had a sudden urge to support Mr Wycliff in a room full of those who looked upon him with fear. Fear tinged with disdain. “It slipped my mind.”
He had been so confident of gaining
Jemima’s confession. So quick to discharge his vow. But it would take more than a feigned seduction to absolve him of his debt. There would be another attempt on her life. Soon.
The thought roused a deep foreboding in her chest. Jemima would not rest until the Scarlet Widow was no more. Joshua had his own secrets. She had spurned numerous advances from powerful men. Forceful men. Men with a right of entitlement.
Lord Steele had once frightened her into marriage.
Did another man hope to do the same?
Everyone was a threat.
Panic surfaced as she scanned the faces in the room. Dishonest faces. Untrustworthy faces. Faces that roused doubt and suspicion.
Loneliness swept up on her like an icy breeze from the north. The coldness made her shiver. Frost coated the barren emptiness within. She was back at the window in the seminary, her inner turmoil a reflection of the wintery scene outside.
Lady Rathbone’s comment about staying for another hour and Jemima’s complaining echoed in the distance. Both failed to pull Scarlett back into the room.
But then Damian Wycliff appeared in her field of vision. His firm hand at her elbow forced her to blink. “We should leave,” he whispered. The heat from his palm flooded her body, thawing the ice in her blood. “Before I punch my father and give Miss Steele the most cutting set-down of her life.”
Scarlett met his gaze. Damian Wycliff had a fake face, too. But his mask looked like hers—sharp lines and bold colours. The eyes appeared hard and shallow, for neither wanted anyone to see the soft depths beyond.
“So, you’re not staying to hear Señora Garcia’s aria?” the marquis taunted. “Spanish opera singers rarely venture this far north.”
Mr Wycliff gritted his teeth. “Perhaps that’s because we English lack the heart for their music. Or perhaps it’s because their hosts suffer from boredom and are quick to move to the next mode of entertainment.”
The marquis’ mocking laugh rent the air. “An amusing thought though wholly inaccurate.”
Scarlett noted the hard line of Damian Wycliff’s jaw. What was he thinking? Was his heart racing? Was he sitting at the window—just like her—knowing no one would come, feeling just as lost and lonely inside?
“We will leave you to ponder the thought, my lord.” Scarlett touched Mr Wycliff lightly on the shoulder in a gesture of solidarity. “We have somewhere more important to be.”
The marquis’ impenetrable gaze bore into her. Perhaps he might join the ranks of those wanting her dead, hire thugs from the rookeries who would do anything to earn a few shillings.
Bestowing those in the room with his usual arrogant grin, Mr Wycliff offered Scarlett his arm. She slipped her hand into the crook, and they made a move towards the door. Scarlett took a moment to stop and invite Lady Rathbone to tea.
Perhaps fearing what her wicked stepmother might do, Jemima had moved to stand next to Joshua. The siblings were opposites in every regard. Fury filled Jemima’s eyes, while fear marred Joshua’s vapid countenance.
“Joshua Steele is a damn coward,” Mr Wycliff said as he retrieved Scarlett’s silk wrapper from his father’s purpose-built cloakroom. “I doubt he has the courage to mention the word murder let alone hire someone to do the job.”
“Looks can be deceptive.” She permitted Mr Wycliff to drape the garment around her shoulders. She tried not to sigh when his fingers brushed against the high collar of her gown. “His fear stems from a personal matter and has nothing to do with a weakness of character.”
Mr Wycliff seemed puzzled. “And yet he looked at you as if you might flex your jaw, inflate your lungs and breathe hell’s fire.”
“He fears I will reveal his secret.”
“His secret?”
Realising that Damian Wycliff was the only person in the world she might remotely trust, the time for honesty was nigh.
“That I might inform his sister of his attempt to step into his father’s role.”
Recognition dawned. Mr Wycliff took a step forward, an action that left the tips of their toes touching. He grasped her elbow again, and in a rather irate tone said, “Are you trying to tell me your stepson attempted to bed you?”
“He was in his cups,” she whispered, wishing she could not recall the amateur fumbling with any clarity. “After a night spent drinking with friends, he became obsessed with bedding the Scarlet Widow.”
“A widow who happens to be his stepmother. Where the hell are the man’s morals?”
“Morals? Says the man who made a foolish girl believe he had an interest in her.” One wiggle of his tail feathers and poor Jemima had slipped off her haughty perch with ease.
“You hired me to save you, not play the pious priest waiting for a confession.”
“I did not hire you,” she snapped as he led her down the steps of the grand house. “The only reason you’re here at all is because I took pity on you in the alley.”
“I don’t need your pity, Widow.” When they reached the street, he threw a barefoot boy a shilling and pointed to the carriage parked on the opposite side of Hanover Square.
Scarlett sighed. “Still, you took it, and the debt makes you mine—at least for the time being.” A small part of him had been hers since he handed her the gold cross.
The corners of his mouth formed a sensual smirk that sent her stomach flipping. “You want me, Widow, admit it. Every minute spent in my enthralling company makes you want me all the more.”
Oh, Damian Wycliff spouted drivel. She wanted the invalid with a swollen eye and a bandaged leg—the man who knew how to express his gratitude—not the ingrate wearing the devil mask.
The boy came charging back and pointed to the carriage making its way towards them. Mr Wycliff removed a few more shiny coins from his pocket, thrust them into the boy’s dirty hand and ruffled the urchin’s unkempt hair.
Perhaps the scoundrel only had a heart for the downtrodden.
As the carriage rumbled to a stop, Mr Wycliff signalled to his groom that he would open the door.
Scarlett drew her red wrapper firmly around her shoulders, for protection as opposed to keeping out the cold. “I presume you lied, that there is no prior engagement and you’re taking me home.”
“Indeed. While I would have liked to bring the matter to a hasty conclusion, it seems you’ll have the pleasure of my company for a few days.”
“Tonight has been an utter waste of time and effort.” She grasped his fingers as he assisted her into the carriage. Whenever they touched, she was transported back to the moment he caressed her cheek and made a vow, to the moment she knew what it meant to have a dream.
“Not a total waste,” he said as he followed her inside and settled into the seat opposite. “Your information about Joshua Steele is most helpful.”
“Joshua? Why, because you can use it to blackmail him?”
“No, though the idea has merit. Because it means he has a good reason for wanting you dead.”
Chapter Seven
“Joshua has other reasons for wanting to get rid of me,” the widow declared.
She held her hands demurely in her lap as she stared out of the window at the passing street lamps. Her voice carried a nervous edge, one she never showed in company, one that suggested she had been lapse when divulging important details.
“And if he has confided in his sister,” she continued, “Jemima will do everything possible to protect him. After all, she has little chance of marrying, and will be clutching his coat-tails well into spinsterhood.”
“What other reasons?” Had Damian known of them earlier, had he known Joshua Steele tried to seduce his damn stepmother, he would have cornered the degenerate in the library, instead of his twiggy sister.
The widow dragged her gaze from the window. “I trust I have your full confidence in all matters?”
“If you’re asking me to swear allegiance, there is no need.” No one had ever asked for his loyalty. It was a burden he wasn’t sure he wanted. “I take no pleasure in gossip. I take no
pleasure in betrayal.”
“And everyone knows you’re a man who lives for pleasure.” Her quick reply rang of condescension.
“In my experience life has little else to offer,” he said, both relieved and disappointed she did not know that he lived only to feed the hatred festering within.
Silence descended as she studied him in the dimly lit confines of the carriage—a penetrating stare that attempted to burrow beneath the rugged landscape.
Her intense blue gaze fixed him to the seat. She leant forward, her outstretched hand finding his to give a reassuring squeeze. Heat crept up his neck as his pulse quickened. Heat flowed through his fingers and journeyed up his arm to bathe his chest in a comforting glow. There was only one way to rid himself of the sensation—drag her into his lap, ravage her mouth and slake his lust. But despite her widow status, he could never treat her like a common harlot.
“Then tonight, I shall clasp my hands together, Mr Wycliff, and pray life delivers something infinitely more rewarding.”
Pray?
The only person to draw rosary beads through her fingers and plead for his happiness had long since departed this world.
A hard lump formed in his throat.
The pressure spread to his tongue until it ached.
“Then in return I shall give you my fealty, Widow,” he said, desperate to banish these foreign feelings, desperate to return to the place where arrogance reigned supreme.
When the widow released his hand and relaxed back in the seat, he almost sighed with relief. But then she offered him a smile, a genuine angelic expression that spoke of sincerity, and he was nearly lost again.
“While parading as the Scarlet Widow, I discovered that shrewdness is one’s ally,” she said, moving the conversation away from talk of redemptive prayers. “When one sits at a table with card sharps, one must know how to protect their hand.”
“It helps if you understand the game.”
“And yet young men often fall foul of the rules. Joshua Steele’s need to find his own means of support led to substantial debts at a gaming hell known as The Silver Serpent.”
“A notorious place.” Only a fool with a death wish failed to settle his account with the house. The serpent was a symbol of Satan, so it was unsurprising to find that many men sold their souls there.
