And The Widow Wore Scarlet: Scandalous Sons - Book 1

by Clee, Adele

  “An opinion Mr Flannery shares. One he reiterates whenever I mention the subject of my unconventional upbringing.”

  It seemed the time had come to learn more about the Irishman with forearms as wide as a normal man’s thigh. “While our outing to Vauxhall proved unsuccessful in leading us to the culprit”—though not so fruitless when it came to seduction—“I thought we might visit The Silver Serpent tomorrow night.”

  Her eyes widened, and she blinked rapidly. “But you’re not well enough to venture out into the cold and must remain abed. Dr Redman said—”

  “What?” He propped himself up on his elbows. “That I must rest until the wound has healed? I know my limitations. This isn’t the first time I’ve recovered from a life-threatening injury.” Did her reservations about accompanying him to the gaming hell stem from something other than concerns about his health? “But if you think bed is the best place for me—”

  “I do for the time being.”

  “Then would you mind grabbing the pot and assisting me with my aim?”

  She responded to his comment by raising her chin to disguise the blush. “You have servants more equipped than I to handle the task.”

  “How is that so when the skin on your palms is soft and callous free? One must treat the precious parts of a man’s anatomy with special care and attention.”

  When her mouth curled into a sly smile, his heart thumped hard against his ribs.

  “Clearly your injury has affected your memory. The last time you stirred and asked to use the pot I held naught but the bowl.”

  Damian laughed. It was not his usual sound of feigned amusement, but one that brought lightness to his chest.

  “Then I grant you a reprieve.” He might not ask her to help him piss in a pot, but he would feel her hands on his body soon enough. “A reprieve from your nursing duties, I might add, not from your responsibilities as my partner in this case.”

  “This case? You make us sound like agents working for the Crown.”

  “A game of fantasy never harmed anyone.”

  “I conceive you have a rather wild and vivid imagination, sir.”

  “Let’s just say that spies forced to sleep in the same bed might resort to more than an embrace to keep out the cold.” Being a man who did not need erotic thoughts to rise to the occasion, it was best he stopped there. “And out of concern for my health and that of your friend Flannery, you should accompany me when I visit The Silver Serpent lest one of us ends up dead.”

  She studied him for a few seconds before exhaling a sigh of surrender. “If we are to visit Mr Flannery, you should know he will not tolerate arrogance or disrespect.”

  “Then we will get along famously.”

  “Or he will kill you. Both prospects prove terrifying.”

  “Perhaps I might win him over with my wit and charm,” he said to lighten the mood. He wasn’t afraid of any man, let alone a thug who only knew how to fight with his fists.

  “For both our sakes, I hope you do.” She inclined her head and bade him good night. She stopped on the threshold and turned to face him. “While Mr Flannery knows about the minor incidents with my horse and the dog in Green Park, he knows nothing about the intruder. It is best we keep it that way.”

  Was that the reason for her reservation?

  Would Dermot Flannery rip through the ton like a whirlwind, bringing death and destruction in his wake? Either way, Damian would discover more about the Irishman most gamblers revered. He would discover if Dermot Flannery was a loyal family friend, or a murderer hiding behind a mask.

  Chapter Twelve

  Once a coffeehouse where men gathered to converse about politics, their wretched wives and play a few hands of cards, The Silver Serpent had done away with the beverage in favour of potent spirits. Spirits strong enough to affect a man’s ability to concentrate on his game. Regular patrons knew the house always won, but that didn’t stop the young bucks trying to break the bank.

  Only fools and drunken sots believed in rags-to-riches tales.

  Sensible men knew when to cut and run.

  “Did you send word we were coming?” Damian asked as he took Scarlett’s hand and assisted her descent from the carriage.

  “Of course,” she said, straightening her skirts.

  “And did you explain the nature of our relationship?”

  “Mr Flannery knows we’re not lovers if that is what you mean.”

  No, they were not lovers, not yet, but a man brought back from the brink of death numerous times knew to have faith.

  “Am I to assume that we’re standing on Princes Street because you cannot enter the establishment via the front door?”

  “Women are not permitted entrance, Wycliff. You know that.”

  “Not even the owner?”

  “If men knew of my association with the club, they would bombard me with pleas for clemency. Desperate wives with crying babes in their arms would accost me in the street. Every devious lord would look for a means to bribe me so that I might wipe his slate clean. Hence the reason we are using the side entrance in the alley.”

  He glanced at the avenue between the two taverns, where drunken revellers stumbled out into the night to empty their bursting bladders. “Please tell me you don’t usually visit the club after dark. These passages are unsafe for a woman on her own.”

  A smile touched her lips. “Why, Mr Wycliff, it almost sounds as though you care about my welfare.”

  He cared more than she knew.

  More than he dared admit.

  “If I am risking my life to protect you, I would rather know my efforts are not in vain.” It occurred to him that his reply in no way conveyed the truth. That having nursed him for a second time, she deserved better. “You’ve suffered enough at the hands of a depraved miscreant. I should not like to see you suffer again.”

  “I am aware of the dangers.” She touched his arm in a gesture of reassurance. “But let me put your mind at ease. Alcock usually walks me to the door. I am not the naive girl I once was. Nothing would induce me to race into an alley alone at night.”

  “Not even to save me?”

  She exhaled a soft sigh. “You are perhaps the only person I would risk my life to save.” She shook her head as if someone else had commanded her mind and spoken the sentimental words. “Dear me.” Sadness lingered in her light laugh. “You seem to have caught me at a vulnerable moment.”

  The yearning ache in his chest returned. “That is the most heartfelt thing anyone has ever said to me.”

  “Remember it. Such moments are rare for a scandalous widow.”

  Compelled with the need to see her eyes sparkle brightly again, he captured her hand and brought it to his lips. No doubt she expected a brushed kiss across her knuckles, but he pushed at her glove with his thumb to expose the delicate skin at her wrist.

  “I shall do more than remember it.” He closed his eyes and pressed his mouth to the sensitive spot. “I shall treasure every word.”

  A lustful energy sparked between them.

  Every muscle in his body tensed.

  “I—I like this side of you.” Scarlett’s vibrant blue eyes scanned the breadth of his chest, ventured up to study his jaw, his face. “The side unafraid to speak the truth.”

  “I always speak the truth.”

  “No, you don’t. Neither of us does.”

  They were standing on a dimly lit street, amid the muffled sound of bawdy songs and drunken cheers spilling out into the night, and yet it was as if they were alone in the dingy lodging-house off Drury Lane.

  “And what is the truth?” He was determined to know. “Speak it in confidence. Speak it, knowing I won’t judge you.”

  “You judged me the moment I lowered my hood in the billiard room, and you learnt of my disastrous marriage. If we’re speaking truths, Wycliff, what was it you found so distasteful?”

  To tell her would mean baring his soul, explaining how her benevolence had touched him so profoundly a day had not passed w
ithout her entering his thoughts. He had placed her on a pedestal—worshipped the goodness flowing like blood in her veins. He’d fought hard against the urge to claim her, control her, to ruin her like he did everything else in his life. In battling his weakness, he had failed her, left her to the mercy of a man who thrived on torture.

  He deserved punishment, not her.

  He deserved to have his weak heart ripped out and impaled on a stake as a warning to all men who foolishly believed in the superiority of their position.

  “Do you really want to know why I have an issue with the Widow?” He spoke as if referring to a mutual acquaintance.

  She shrugged one shoulder. “Because you despise women who sell their souls?”

  “No. Because no matter how hard I looked, I couldn’t see you. The real you, not some figure constructed to prove a point.”

  “Not even when I bared my scars?”

  “Ignorance is a means of defence. The only way my conscience could cope with the sight of such horrific injuries is to believe they were inflicted on the fictitious character called the Scarlet Widow.”

  The thought of any man hitting her made his blood run cold. Even now, he could dig up her husband’s corpse and take his head off his shoulders.

  “And what do you see now?” She seemed both eager and reluctant for the answer.

  The truth hung on the tip of his tongue, and he let it fall with shocking ease. “I see you, only you. A woman whose courage leaves me in awe.”

  Her eyes sprang wide. When her surprise faded, happiness danced there.

  What would it be like to have the heaviness of their burdens lifted? What would it be like to wake with her each morning, to live a life of peace and contentment? Live the truth, not a lie?

  Magical.

  Heavenly.

  A dream beyond his wildest expectations.

  “And what of your truth?” he said, aware of Cutler’s and Alcock’s curious gazes upon them. The coachwoman’s need to protect her mistress meant she accompanied them on every journey.

  Scarlett remained still for a moment before taking a step closer. “Here is my truth, Wycliff. It is about time you learnt to recognise it.”

  Her hand came up to cup his cheek. Her lips met his with the same level of tenderness he had shown her when he thrust the gold cross into her palm and kissed her forehead.

  The muscles in his abdomen clenched. He fought against pulling her to his chest and devouring her pretty mouth. This was a demonstration of her feelings, not his, and so he let her taste him in the soft, sweet way that spoke of affection rather than experience.

  She withdrew on a contented sigh, though it took a few seconds for her to retrieve her hand from his cheek. It was like the first kiss of an innocent. Yet he was so damn hard for her, just as he always was in his dreams.

  “The temperature is sure to plummet tonight,” he said in a tone that did not sound contrived. “A man worries he might not have enough coal to keep warm.”

  She arched a coy brow. “You forget that I’ve been living in your house for three days. You have enough coal to keep the whole street warm for weeks.”

  “But my room is particularly cold.”

  “So cold, you insisted on stripping off every stitch.”

  He laughed. “From what I’ve heard of Dermot Flannery, I may find myself in need of another nursemaid.”

  “Then I shall send to the registry for they are sure to have one on their books.”

  “But the women are old and smell of vinegar. I want a nurse who will wipe my brow, run the tips of her soft fingers over my chest, marvel in the magnificence of my muscular body.”

  “Then it’s a brothel you want, not the registry.” She shook her head as if he were a mischievous child. “Come, we had better not keep Mr Flannery waiting, and I am returning to my own house tonight, so you may stop with the teasing.”

  “Who said I’m teasing? The night is still young.” He offered a grin full of self-assurance. “And you know what people say about The Silver Serpent.”

  “No, what do people say?”

  “Anything can happen at the gaming hell.”

  * * *

  Damian Wycliff was incorrigible. Incorrigible, and the most devilishly attractive man ever to make her acquaintance. There was little point hiding her feelings. He had been awake when she conducted a thorough examination of his naked body. Well, not so thorough, for that would have meant delving beneath the bedsheets, stroking those impressive thighs, fighting against the temptation to caress another part of his anatomy, pressing her lips to his warm skin.

  With every passing day, they grew closer.

  With every passing day, she caught more glimpses of the man behind the arrogant facade, felt her own disguise slipping more times than she could count.

  And then he had gone and made the comment that obliterated her defences. The comment that made her heart ache, even now.

  I see you, only you.

  Not the actress.

  Not the widow.

  The woman beneath it all. A simple woman who wanted simple things. A woman with so much love to give it took a wall of Norse shield-maidens to keep it at bay.

  “Wait on Rupert Street, Cutler.” Wycliff’s commanding voice drew Scarlett from her reverie. “When a man needs to make a quick exit, the front door is often the best choice.”

  “Mr Flannery is not a man who makes trouble.” Not unless provoked. “No doubt he will be grateful to you for giving your assistance.”

  “Grateful?” he mocked. “Based on my reputation, he will think the worst.”

  Oh, she had met men with exceptional manners, with pure bloodlines, with the grace and poise of princes. Most were devious liars. Indeed, when it came to deception, sincerity was the perfect disguise.

  Damian Wycliff was often rude. His tainted blood fed an anger worthy of Ares, the god of war. Virtue and etiquette were foreign words to him. But while he kept his private thoughts hidden, he never lied. He hated with the devil’s passion. And if he ever loved, he would do so from the depths of his soul.

  “Mr Flannery can see through men’s bravado,” she said as Wycliff escorted her to the door at the end of the long, dark alley. “He will learn to trust you, just as I have.”

  “You trust me?”

  “I do. More than anyone else in the world.”

  She felt the penetrating heat of his stare before he drew her to an abrupt halt and swung her around to face him.

  “Scarlett.” Her name breezed from his lips as his fingers brushed against her cheek. With a gentleness she was unused to, he captured her chin and pressed a long, chaste kiss to her lips.

  Her defences crumbled. Every barrier she’d raised to protect her heart from this man lay like rubble around her feet.

  “What was that for?” she said, touching her fingers to her lips when he broke contact and stepped away. Was it because she was one of the few people who believed in him?

  “I have no idea. The urge came upon me rather suddenly. And I’m a man who indulges his whims.”

  “I see.”

  “Do you wish to raise a complaint?”

  “No. I have no complaint.” She could still feel the essence of the man on her lips and so resisted the need to moisten her mouth for fear she might lose his taste. “Might I expect more surprises?”

  “I imagine so.” He cupped her elbow and drew her to the wooden door.

  “There is no need to knock.” Scarlett delved into the pocket of her black pelisse and removed the iron key.

  “So no one knows of your association with Mr Flannery? No one knows you possess a key to the door of a club where a substantial amount of money is kept on the premises?”

  “Not to my knowledge.” She led him into the narrow corridor before closing and locking the door.

  “I wonder if the intruder had another motive for entering your home.”

  Until now, she had been reluctant to recount the events of that night. Fear choked her throat whenever sh
e pictured the image of a fiend dressed in black looming over the bed.

  “Theft was not the motive. He could have stolen jewellery, silver, but took nothing but the breath from my lungs.”

  “And you’re sure it was a man?”

  “Other than Alcock, I know of no woman with such size and strength.”

  “Hmm.” Wycliff leant back against the wall, his brows drawn in thoughtful contemplation. “And how did Alcock come to work as your coachwoman?”

  Scarlett jumped to attention. “Do not think she had anything to do with what happened. Alcock believes she owes me a debt of gratitude she can never repay.”

  Wycliff raised a brow. From the glint in his dark eyes, it was clear he had made the logical assumption. “You were the one who gave her the money to buy her freedom.”

  Yet another one of the horrific situations Scarlett had faced these last three years flashed into her mind. Releasing a weary sigh, she leant back against the opposite wall for support, ready to relay the story.

  “One night while travelling home in Steele’s coach, he stopped the vehicle in Whitechapel and threw me out. As I was intent on behaving like a disobedient trollop, he left me to spend the evening with my own kind.”

  Wycliff ground his teeth. “I hope every harlot in hell is dancing on his charred remains.”

  “The dark streets of Whitechapel are hardly safe for a man, let alone a woman with rubies dangling from her throat and earlobes.” Bawdy banter did not hurt. But drunken men—deranged and desperate men—sought to play out their lewd fantasies. “It just so happened that Alcock was using the alley where three men knocked me to the ground and tried to steal my clothes and jewels.”

  And steal something more precious besides.

  Wycliff reached across and captured her hand. The gentle squeeze of reassurance acted like a healing balm to the painful memory.

  “I assume your coachwoman offered stern words of caution,” he said with a knowing smirk.

  “Of course, after she broke their noses and left them with purple plums for eyes. She took me back to her lodging-house, fed me broth, and I spent the night there.”