And The Widow Wore Scarlet: Scandalous Sons - Book 1

by Clee, Adele

  A tense silence filled the room.

  The heaviness in the air proved suffocating under the weight of the lord’s burden.

  “Do you know how many nights I lay awake listening to what he did to you?” Joshua practically gasped with relief upon speaking the words. “Do you know how many times I heard you crying and did nothing?”

  “How could you not have heard?” Scarlett said softly.

  Images bombarded Damian’s mind. Horrific images of an angel dragged to the depths of hell, of her pale, weak body finding the strength to crawl out of the fiery pit. He felt her pain—the wrenching ache akin to someone slicing his gut and spilling his innards.

  “This—” The lord prodded his chest. “This is retribution.”

  “No, Joshua, this is guilt.”

  Silence descended once again until Scarlett’s voice broke the stillness. “Are you responsible for the attempts on my life?”

  “No!” The lord shook his head. Desperate to reinforce his point, he added, “I want to save you, not kill you. I want to take back every dreadful thing my father did.”

  Was that the reason for his foolish attempt to seduce his own stepmother? Did his need to avenge her mean more than a fear of ridicule and prosecution?

  “You cannot change what is done,” she replied in the terse tone of the Scarlet Widow.

  It occurred to Damian that in seeking to protect her from all scandalous rogues, Joshua Steele had a motive for wanting him dead, too.

  Damian stepped up to the bed frame. “Did you sneak up on us at Vauxhall and fire a pocket pistol?”

  The lord blinked and drew his brows together in confusion. “Someone tried to shoot you?” he said, concerned only for Scarlett.

  “Not her, me!” Damian spat. “Someone shot me in the arm though we are attempting to discover who was the intended target.”

  “No, I swear you leave me shocked.” The lord put his hand to his throat, clearly panicked at the thought. “I brought Jemima home at nine. You may question my staff. Lord Loxton saw us leave. In her grief, my sister seeks to blame someone for the lewd way our father met his end.”

  “So, Miss Steele is determined to cause trouble for the Scarlet Widow?” Damian asked.

  “Jemima is incapable of doing anything more than spreading gossip.” The lord glanced at the burgundy coverlet. “May I dress now?”

  “No.” Damian folded his arms across his chest. “Why the sudden interest in Lord Rathbone? You’ve visited his house three times in two months when you’ve rarely exchanged pleasantries before.”

  Guilt affected people in many ways. The telltale signs of a man with something to hide always amounted to the same. An inability to maintain eye contact. A weakness in the voice that showed a lack of conviction.

  Joshua Steele conveyed neither as he looked at them directly. “Rathbone approached me at White’s. He offered his condolences and invited me to dine with them in Portland Place.”

  “Them? You refer to Lord Rathbone and his grandmother?”

  Joshua nodded. “Lady Rathbone dined with us on all three occasions.”

  “Did you speak about me during your visits?” There was a light air of suspicion in Scarlett’s voice. She always spoke highly of the Rathbones, and Damian prayed neither had played her for a gullible fool.

  Joshua snorted. “I got the impression you were the only reason they extended the invitations. They paid scarce attention to my hopes and ambitions.”

  Did Lord Rathbone dribble into his soup at the mere mention of Scarlett’s name?

  Did Lady Rathbone’s obsession with the notorious widow dominate every conversation?

  Scarlett cleared her throat. “What did you discuss?” One could not mistake the ring of mistrust in her voice.

  “They wanted to know how you met my father.”

  “Everyone knows I was working on stage when we married.” She cast Damian a sidelong glance that conveyed a lifetime of regret.

  “They were curious about how you came to work as an actress, whether your parents are alive.” The lord avoided meeting Damian’s penetrating stare. “If you want my opinion, Lord Rathbone has developed an affection for you. I am convinced he intends to offer marriage and is biding his time until you and Wycliff … er … part ways.”

  Part ways?

  Anger flared.

  Did people presume their affair amounted to nothing more than physical attraction? That once they had slaked their lust, both parties would look to pastures new? Could no one see the rope that bound them together? Could people not see they were two parts of the same puzzle?

  Damian waited for Scarlett to correct the misconception, but she did not. Why would she when he had a reputation for never settling? Why would she presume to know a man’s feelings after her experiences with Lord Steele?

  “And what did you tell them?” Scarlett inquired. “What did you tell them regarding my parents?”

  The lord shrugged. “The truth.”

  Scarlett’s mocking snort told the story of her unconventional upbringing, of secrets and fake names. So how was it this fool had the answers?

  “I told them your parents were dead,” Steele continued. “That they must have left you destitute, else why would a woman of your gentle breeding take to the stage?”

  While Scarlett fell silent, Damian contemplated the information.

  Intuition told him Joshua Steele was too simple to arrange complex plots. Judging by the flaring pink welts on his skin, he would rather inflict pain on himself than on the woman who took pleasure in mocking his father’s memory. Jemima Steele, on the other hand, openly despised the widow. But that seemed too obvious.

  Currently, all the evidence pointed to another conspiracy.

  Like Scarlett’s first husband—bloody hell, Damian hated the thought of her marrying that devious blackguard—had Lord Rathbone staged the accidents to frighten Scarlett into marriage? Rathbone knew nothing about the oath Damian had sworn three years ago and perhaps presumed Scarlett might seek the aid of her dear friend Lady Rathbone.

  Consumed with jealousy, had Lord Rathbone fired the shot at Vauxhall?

  But why would a peer want to marry a notorious widow whose bloodline was lacking? A widow whose purse was not robust enough to support an aristocratic family for generations?

  It made no sense.

  Damian retrieved the lord’s clothes from the chair and threw them onto the bed. “Might I suggest you seek other ways of dealing with your cowardice? This odd form of flagellation will only feed your obsession.”

  The lord dragged his hand down his face. “Is it too much to hope you will keep this matter private?”

  “Your son needs a father, not a foolish fop.” In all the ways it mattered to society, it was too late for the boy. Still, knowing a parent cared eased the burden of illegitimacy. “Do your duty by the boy, and I’ll not breathe a word about what I’ve witnessed.”

  “Those terrible marks on your skin remind me of my own weaknesses.” Scarlett’s voice carried the pain of her experiences. “But I had little choice other than to stand there and take my punishment.”

  Had she never fled? Had she never thought to pack up her jewels and sail across the ocean? Start a new life? Having spent so long in educational institutions, was it the idea of having a home that she loved?

  “If I discover you’ve revisited this place,” Scarlett continued, “I shall make sure the world knows of your predilection for pain.”

  “And Jemima?” Panic flashed in the lord’s eyes.

  Scarlett hesitated. She pursed her lips before answering. “I shall say nothing to Jemima, but you will discover if she had anything to do with the attacks on my person. You will meet Mr Wycliff and offer proof that she played no part.”

  “Proof?” Steele’s mouth fell open. “How am I to obtain proof?”

  “I have no notion,” she replied with the arrogance of the Scarlet Widow. “That is your problem to solve. It will give you something to occupy your mind while you
battle these perverse cravings.”

  Without another word, she whirled around and strode towards the door.

  Damian snatched the shirt off the bed and threw it at the lord. “I suggest you dress quickly before temptation strikes. When equipped with the required information, you may send word to Benedict Cavanagh in Jermyn Street.” Damian would be damned before revealing the whereabouts of his current abode.

  Scarlett was waiting at the top of the stairs when Damian left the bedchamber. She looked pensive, and for the first time in his life he feared what a woman might say.

  “I think it’s time I dined with Lady Rathbone.” She did not look pleased at the prospect. “Something is clearly amiss. While the matron likes to gossip, I cannot fathom her need to pry into my past.”

  “Can you not?” Did this lady not know how attractive she was to men? “Rathbone wants you. Since that night at my father’s ball it seemed evident to me.”

  “Then why sneak about? Why not come to me directly and convey his intentions?”

  Damian shrugged. “Like most lords of the ton, perhaps his grandmother insists on choosing his bride. Perhaps his grandmother’s need to spend time in your company is a way of discovering your worth.”

  Scarlett sighed. “I have an open invitation to dine at Portland Place and so shall send word to her tomorrow.”

  He didn’t like the thought of her going alone. “Then I shall accompany you.” The words left his mouth before logic intervened. Aristocratic women invited illegitimate sons to their beds but never their dining tables.

  “You know she won’t entertain you.” Her irritation was aimed at the matron and not his foolish remark. “Indeed, I’m of a mind to tell her we are betrothed, to tell her that some ladies care nothing for titles.”

  Damian tried to muster a response, but his mind had raced from betrothal to wedding. He’d spent three years wishing he’d bedded her, but it was the fact he wanted her in other ways that proved disconcerting.

  “If not titles and handsome lords, what do some ladies care for?” he said, desperate to know how he might satisfy all of her wants and desires. “What do ladies seek?”

  A rogue with hatred in his heart?

  A man who wore a mask?

  An illegitimate son who, miraculously, had found the capacity to care about someone other than himself?

  Mischief danced in her eyes. “To tell you would leave my heart dangerously exposed. There are only so many times one can deal with rejection.”

  He might have said that he liked her exposed. He might have said that he would treasure her heart, not break it, but they were startled by the key rattling in the door across the hall. Having promised the mistress of every manoeuvre they would respect the other patrons’ privacy, Damian captured Scarlett’s hand and escorted her down the stairs and out to the safety of his carriage.

  Deep in conversation with Alcock—while huddled together on the box seat—Cutler failed to notice their approach. Damian called his coachman’s name, and the man’s face flushed for neglecting his duty.

  “It’s mighty cold tonight, sir.”

  “Indeed.” Damian opened the carriage door and cast Scarlett a sinful grin. “The temperature has plummeted. A man might wonder how he shall ever keep warm.”

  He wanted her again.

  He always wanted her.

  “Have you blankets as well as surgical implements beneath the seats?” Scarlett’s alluring smile and wanton eyes told him that, despite everything she had learnt tonight, she wanted him, too.

  “I’m sure there are a few. In any event, with the blinds closed, things should soon heat up.” He turned and addressed Cutler. “We’ll take the long route home.”

  “Along the Strand and St James’ Park?” Cutler clarified.

  Damian nodded. “Twice around the park.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Delighted at the prospect of dining with the Scarlet Widow, Lady Rathbone had insisted on sending her new carriage to collect Scarlett from her house in Bedford Street. Still feeling uneasy about her attending alone, Damian advised Alcock and Cutler to take his carriage and park close to the matron’s house in Portland Place. Should Scarlett wish to make a sudden exit, there would be someone waiting to ferry her home.

  Having missed their meeting with Flannery the night before, due to their unexpected appointment at the bagnio, the Irishman agreed to meet them this evening. Damian would explain Scarlett’s absence while updating Flannery on the new developments.

  While Flannery would no doubt miss the lady’s company, Damian experienced a similar sense of loss as he washed and dressed in his bedchamber. Everything he touched carried her potent scent. The energy in the air lacked vibrancy. One look at the mussed bedsheets and passion for her stirred in his loins once again.

  He had felt similarly deprived the day they parted ways at the lodging-house. Despite being consumed with gratitude—or that’s how he’d chosen to label the emotion—he had walked away, and her memory had plagued his dreams. Now, having parted from her a few hours earlier, the clawing emptiness within mirrored the stark emptiness of the house.

  Never had he welcomed the idea of being a husband and father. He was a damn rogue, unsuitable company for anyone aside from the dissolute. So why could he not shake the image of Scarlett swollen with his child? Why could he not shake the need to have her love him for more than the way he satisfied her in bed?

  You bloody fool, Wycliff, he said to himself.

  Let no one in—that was the rule.

  Perhaps being hit with a lead ball had weakened more than his arm muscle.

  Dressing quickly to banish these errant thoughts, he raced from the house and hailed a hackney to take him to The Silver Serpent.

  He entered the premises by the front door, noted the concerned look on Flannery’s face when a steward escorted Damian down to the basement office.

  When Scarlett failed to enter the room, Flannery dismissed his employee with a flick of the wrist before honing his sharp gaze on Damian. “By God, you’d better have a good reason for coming alone, so you had. Tell me nothing’s happened to Scarlett.”

  Damian dropped into the chair on the opposite side of the desk. “Had anything happened to her, I would be shackled in chains at Newgate having beaten every pompous lord to a pulp.”

  “Then where is she?”

  “Dining with Lady Rathbone. One of society’s matrons.”

  “Dining?” Flannery frowned. No doubt he knew Scarlett well enough to know she would not cancel an appointment simply to gorge on peacock and loin of veal. “Does it have something to do with your meeting at the brothel last night?”

  After swearing the Irishman to secrecy, Damian relayed the tale of their visit to the bagnio, omitting details of the steamy carriage ride home. “It is apparent that Lord Rathbone wishes for more than friendship. Scarlett thought it best to put an end to the man’s misery, and she detests their blatant efforts to pry.”

  “And you let her go there alone?” The wrinkles on Flannery’s forehead rippled up to his bald pate. “I didn’t take you for a feckless fool, not at all.”

  “The dissolute do not get to dine with the aristocracy.” The uneasiness in Damian’s stomach turned to trepidation. “And surely you know the woman is stubborn.”

  Flannery dragged his hand down his face and sighed. “Stubborn and too proud by half.”

  They sat in silence for a moment, disquiet thrumming in the air.

  “Did you discover anything about the attacks?” Damian said. Talking was the only way to dispel all anxious thoughts.

  “I’ve got a friend, Maguire, who runs the dog fights at the Westminster Pit. He knows the Turner brothers who work out of The Compass Inn on Rosemary Lane. After exchanging a few vowels as payment, Turner told me a nabob hired a once Bow Street Runner turned enquiry agent who’s as bent as a shepherd’s crook.”

  “Hired the runner to frighten Scarlett?” Damian would have the name of this turncoat and put an end to the
matter tonight.

  “Hired the runner to get rid of her for good.”

  Damian jerked his head back. Panic choked his throat. “Then why the bloody hell did you not send word to me at Bruton Street?”

  “Don’t be galloping away with yourself.” Flannery held up his hands in mock surrender. “Yer man dived into the Thames and never came out.”

  Damian wasn’t sure whether to gasp or sigh. “While I am grateful the blackguard is dead, did you not think to discover the name of his employer before throwing him into the water?”

  “Oh, I didn’t throw yer man from the bridge, though my fingers itched to send him hurling. The fool jumped.” Flannery pursed his lips and shook his head. “If the lass had come to me sooner, I could have saved her weeks of heartache, so I could.”

  Yes, but Damian would still be wallowing in ignorance, wondering what had happened to his angel.

  “Perhaps Scarlett’s silence was a ploy to keep your neck from the hangman’s noose.”

  Flannery threw his hands in the air. “I’m telling you, let the Lord strike me dead, yer man jumped. But we found his room in Bermondsey, found this letter.” The Irishman reached into the top drawer, withdrew the folded paper and pushed it across the desk. “Serves as proof, so it does.”

  Damian peeled back the folds and examined the neat penmanship. The instructions were clear. The runner must make another attempt to snatch Scarlett from her bed. To take her to a warehouse on the riverbank in Shoreditch and dispose of her there. Five hundred pounds was the fee for accomplishing the task.

  “I don’t suppose you’ve had time to discover who owns this warehouse off Tooly Street?” Damian scanned the missive again, looking for evidence as to the identity of the sender. There was something distinctively feminine about the sweeping curls. “And in your efforts to follow Joshua Steele, did you not consider his sister the more likely suspect?”

  Flannery rubbed his bald head. “A Mr Johnson leased the warehouse, paid in advance and left no address. And the lass is too free with her tongue to be a threat.”