A Wicked Reputation (Once Wicked)

by Liana Lefey

  Lucas grinned, blessing his good fortune. He’d been kind enough to offer an exchange of residences rather than simply selling this place and sending Rothschild home to his father in disgrace. He’d been humbled so once himself and felt no young man ought to be subjected to such humiliation. At least the poor fellow would still be able to hold his head up in public—and he’d learned a valuable lesson: never wager something with which you cannot bear to part. Any prize offered up in a wager must be considered lost until one has won it back. So his father had always told him.

  And so it is.

  Everything had been drawn up right and proper by their solicitors, signed and sealed by both himself and Rothschild, and the exchange of deeds and keys would occur at the eleventh hour this very day. It was an excellent trade. A Leicester address was nothing to sniff at, but it was much more removed from the center of things and therefore far less desirable than Mayfair. Perhaps it would benefit young Rothschild to be a bit farther away from the friends that had urged him to make such a rash wager, but privately he doubted it. There were troublemakers aplenty in this part of London.

  Myself being one—but not for much longer!

  Looking in the glass held up by his man, he straightened his cravat. Mother would be pleased, at least. Now she’d be able to tell her friends her son lived in Mayfair. Of course, the move had its drawbacks. The pleasures of Covent Garden would be farther away—though that would likely please his mother even more.

  Satisfied with his appearance at last, he turned to his valet. “Have the carriage brought around.”

  “What of breakfast, my lord?”

  “I’m meeting Westing at Oxley’s before seeing Rothschild. I’ll breakfast there.” He looked around at the sparsely furnished room with satisfaction. Most of his belongings had already been packed and awaited transport downstairs. It had been a very busy week. He’d had to hire additional staff, purchase new furnishings, and refurbish his wardrobe. Tonight, he would stay at the Rose & Crown. Tomorrow, he would take up residence in Mayfair and start anew.

  The journey to Oxley’s took an eternity thanks to an overturned cart they’d been forced to circumnavigate. By the time he arrived at his destination, Lucas was annoyed, hungry, and short of time.

  “I was beginning to wonder if you’d forgotten,” said Westing.

  “The delay in my arrival was not of my making,” Lucas told him, pausing to call a serving maid over and place his order. “It’s uncouth to bolt one’s food, but it seems I’ve little choice. Bloody thoroughfares are getting more congested every day. It took me nearly an hour to get here, and all because of a blasted overturned cart.”

  “It’s only going to get worse,” muttered Westing as he sipped his tea. “More people in Town this year than I can ever remember.”

  Thankfully, the service at the establishment was swift and the meal savory, mollifying most of Lucas’s disgruntlement. Just as he was finishing, a conversation between two gentlemen seated nearby caught his attention.

  “By the bye, I heard Harrow’s ladybird sprouted wings,” said one of the men. “Hart told me yesterday that he passed by her nest a week ago and marked it was being emptied. Said she’d gone and gotten herself a new lord and master.” He sniffed. “I suppose we’ll find out who the lucky bastard is soon enough.”

  The other man snorted. “Don’t believe everything you hear, lad. I have it on good authority it were Harrow himself what moved her to Mayfair.”

  Lucas flicked a glance at Westing, whose face took on a distinctly discouraging look.

  “Convenient, that,” grunted the first man. “I should wonder what his wife thinks of it. It’s one thing to keep a bit o’ sweet on the side, but to move her into one’s own neighborhood?” An incredulous bark of laughter burst from him. “M’ wife would murder me in m’ sleep.”

  “As would mine, but everyone knows Lady Harrow gets on well with her lord’s lover.”

  “Think you it might be true, what they say? That the wench is servicing both master and mistress?”

  “Damned if I knows,” said the second man. “If ’tis, then I’ll burn for envy. How bloody lucky can a man get?”

  Lucas’s ears grew hot. He’d heard of—and seen—such things before, but for some reason his gut rebelled at the thought of her doing it. He nodded at Westing, tossed coin on the table, and together they departed.

  He couldn’t help mulling over what he’d heard: she’d been removed to Mayfair. He’d find out her whereabouts quickly enough. If he didn’t see her in passing himself, he was sure to learn the location from his no doubt scandalized staff or neighbors.

  “Take us to Cork Street,” he ordered his driver. To Westing, he said, “I appreciate your serving as a witness to the transfer. I’m sure everything will be in order.”

  “It’s my pleasure.”

  They rode in silence for a few minutes, Lucas well aware he was under intense scrutiny.

  At last, Westing spoke. “You know if you go looking for trouble, you’re certain to find it. I should leave well enough alone, were I in your place.”

  “I knew you would be unable to bloody well keep off it,” Lucas grumbled. “No, I don’t intend to go looking for her. Do you expect me to walk the streets of Mayfair knocking on doors?”

  “No, you’re not quite that far gone yet,” said his friend with a dry chuckle. “But I’ve known you a long time, Blackthorn. Once you set your mind to a purpose, you pursue it relentlessly to its end, and damn the consequences.” He stopped and looked away. “Know that if you do so this time, I won’t be able to second you.”

  A frown drew Lucas’s brows together. Not that he anticipated needing one, but Westing had always served as his second. “Is there a specific reason why not, or have you simply tired of it?”

  Westing’s gaze rose to meet his. “I’m going to ask Lord Falmouth for permission to court his daughter.”

  “The red-haired hellion or her sweet blond sister?”

  Westing’s face colored. “The redhead, and her name is Charlotte.”

  A broad grin stretched Lucas’s mouth. “Good man! With such a wife, you’ll never suffer ennui. When is the funeral?”

  “I have to win her heart and propose first,” laughed his friend. “I was hoping you’d accompany me to see him this morning after finishing your business with Rothschild.”

  “I would not miss it for the world,” Lucas replied. “But whatever am I to do once you’ve put on the leg iron? Besides find another friend to second me at duels, of course.”

  “You might consider marrying. After all, we are both of us thirty this year.”

  Lucas adopted a look of horror. “And ruin my reputation? Heaven forefend. And I’m well aware of my age. My mother reminds me of it at every opportunity.”

  “You need an heir. Don’t you think it time to put the old wedding tackle to its proper use?”

  “If I did, you would not be scolding me about my interest in Lady Diana—and how I choose to employ my ‘tackle’ is none of your concern. I shall thank you to kindly leave it out of the conversation.”

  “No, of course, you’re right,” said Westing at once. His sobriety lasted all of a few seconds. “Though you should probably get used to it surfacing in discussion, as I’m fairly certain your parents will be interested in its employment when they hear of you chasing after another man’s bird.”

  A growl lodged itself in Lucas’s throat, but he just couldn’t stay wroth with Westing. Not when the man wore a look of such unrepentant impudence. “Toss-off,” he muttered, giving in and laughing. “Were we not such good friends, I vow I would have shot you years ago for your cheek.”

  “I’m eternally grateful for your forbearance,” said the other man with mock courtesy. “But truly, Blackthorn, you must know it’s impossible to win the woman.”

  “Difficult, yes. Impossible? Never. Every woman has her price.” And so does every man. Lucas had to admit she’d been right about that.

  “Of all the women
in London, you have to choose the one that presents the most danger to your continued longevity.”

  Lucas looked him squarely in the eye. “Something is not right about her, Westie.”

  “Something’s not right about you. You’re half mad.”

  He ignored the barb. “I don’t doubt her loyalty to Harrow, but I do doubt the nature of their attachment.”

  Westing shook his head, clearly boggled. “I was wrong. You’re fully mad. If you loved her, it would be different. God knows I’d stand for you in a blink if I thought you actually cared for the wench. I’m honestly beginning to question your sanity.”

  “I appreciate your concern, but I’m not looking to do anything rash. I’m merely curious about her.”

  “What in heaven’s name do you need to know other than she belongs to someone capable of killing you?”

  “Everything, starting with how a gently raised female like her came to be his mistress.”

  “Well, Fate has smiled upon you, my friend, because as it happens, I was present when they first met,” said his friend, looking smug. “It was at the Whitfield ball. News of the scandal had just begun to travel, you see, when Lady Diana arrived. Having invited her, Lady Whitfield could hardly turn her away on the basis of a rumor. Once she was through the receiving line, however, no one would deign to speak to the poor thing.”

  “Except Harrow.”

  Westing nodded. “After Lady Whitfield retired in high dudgeon to the ladies’ lounge along with Lady Harrow, he took pity on Lady Diana and danced with her. Everyone was scandalized, and I understand it caused a significant cooling between him and his wife. Two days later, it came out that Lady Diana had run off, that her family had disowned her, and she’d vanished. Then, a few months later, she pops up on Harrow’s arm at an event his wife had declined to attend. A month after that, Lady Harrow invited her to tea. The three of them have been offending London’s delicate sensibilities ever since. Satisfied?”

  “Not by far,” Lucas said drily. His innate skepticism wouldn’t let the matter rest. “Lady Diana attended that ball fully aware of her situation, then,” he mused aloud. “It was either a deliberate act of defiance to try and establish her innocence, or she was looking for a protector.”

  A shrug lifted his friend’s shoulders. “Perhaps it was a bit of both. As for Harrow, I understand he was a right rogue before he married Lady Harrow, so it surprises me not that he snapped her up.”

  “I remember,” Lucas said, a smile tugging at his mouth. “I wanted to be just like him and was rather disappointed when he put on the shackles. But I thought he was sensible about it, at least. He married a childhood friend, and I, along with everyone else, assumed it to be a love match.”

  “It certainly had every appearance of one in the beginning,” said his friend. “They retired to his country estate after the wedding and disappeared from the London scene entirely for some time. When they came back following the birth of their son, Harrow seemed a changed man. Gone were his days of cheerful whoring, and there were no more high-stakes wagers. Everyone thought his fangs had been pulled until he took up with Lady Diana.”

  “You think she corrupted him?”

  “I think that woman could corrupt a saint.”

  “I think you may be right about that,” Lucas agreed, chuckling. “But I don’t think she corrupted Harrow.” He sucked a breath between his teeth. “I tell you, the air between them is not what it should be. There’s a calculated quality to their interactions, almost as if they’ve been rehearsed. And they’re far too cool for a couple having a torrid love affair.”

  “Not every man is ablaze with lust every minute of the day, you know.”

  Lucas looked at him steadily. “If she were my mistress, I certainly would be.” He pressed on over Westing’s groan. “I’m not sure what she is to him, but she’s not his lover.”

  “Does it bloody well matter?” exclaimed Westing. “He’s killed men over her—ran a man through only last year for putting his hands on her—and he’s given a goodly number of nasty scars to several others for merely offering her insult. Whether or not she’s wrapping his maypole is irrelevant.”

  But it does matter. For some unknown—and likely insane—reason, it mattered to him a great deal. Their arrival at the Cork Street address ended the conversation before Westing could further lament his apparent madness. A glum-faced Rothschild was ready and waiting for them, deed in hand, with his younger brother to stand as witness to the exchange.

  Rothschild’s manner was stiff, but not impolite as he shook Lucas’s outstretched hand. “You’ll find everything ready and in order.”

  Lucas could hardly blame him for being sullen. “Likewise.”

  The gentlemen exchanged no further pleasantries, for Rothschild chose not to linger while Lucas inspected the premises. From the kitchens below to the rafters above, the house’s new owner filled his eyes with his winnings and was well pleased. The first-floor rooms were more lavishly decorated than those of his former residence, as were the private chambers upstairs. Even the servants’ quarters in the attic were first rate as such things went.

  They were walking through the ballroom’s outer doors and onto a shallow terrace overlooking his new back garden when it really hit him. It wasn’t a large garden, and it was in a terrible state of disarray, but it was private.

  And it’s mine. “Well, Westie? What think you? Have I risen in the world?”

  “Indeed you have. Enough to warrant your mother’s attention, I’m certain,” said Westing. “Upon learning of your upward progress, she’ll no doubt demand that you host a party at once. Your neighbors will certainly expect it.”

  Lucas grimaced. “I’ll have my secretary discover their names and send out invitations once it’s been arranged.” Movement in his rear neighbor’s much-larger garden caught his attention. His breath stilled. Surely, it cannot be…

  “George’s pudding prick,” breathed Westing, coming up beside him. “Is that—by the dog’s bollocks, it is. I don’t believe it!”

  Softly, Lucas laughed. “What was that you were saying earlier about Fate?”

  “No wonder Rothschild was so sour,” muttered Westing.

  A slow smile formed on Lucas’s lips. There, in the garden immediately abutting his own, dressed in a pale yellow morning frock, was none other than the woman who’d piqued his curiosity and robbed him of sleep: the one and only Lady Diana Haversham.

  Chapter Six

  “How can this have happened?” Diana railed, flapping the offending invitation in the air. “He had to have known. There can be no other explanation!”

  “He could not possibly have known,” said Harrow with irritating calm. “Everything was arranged and managed through my solicitor—a man I’ve trusted for the last twenty years. Neither Lady Buxton nor her solicitor knew me for the purchasing party until the sale was final, which was not until a fortnight prior. Rothschild lost his bet with Blackthorn nearly two months ago and only recently vacated the premises.”

  It sounded reasonable, but her panic wouldn’t allow her to calm herself. “He’ll find out. How can he not? He’s probably watching us now.” Her gaze flew to the window and across the space between their houses.

  “Then we will make certain he sees only what we want him to see,” insisted Harrow, taking her by the shoulders to gently turn her back around.

  Diana burst into tears.

  Her best friend’s arms wrapped around her like a warm blanket and pulled her close. “Hush now. You must stop this incessant worrying—all will be well.”

  “You cannot bring René here now,” she choked out, taking the kerchief he offered and blowing her nose. The tender-hearted musician was to move in tomorrow under the guise of being her instructor. “It’s too dangerous. In fact, you should sell this house at once, and I’ll move elsewhere—back to my old one, since I’ve yet to sell it. The servants here are sure to strike up an association with the neighboring staff, and if any of them learn the truth—”


  “As well as I’m paying this staff, even if they do see something, they will say nothing,” he replied coolly. “Believe me, my dear, there are other men in London in situations similar to mine, and they’ve all managed to keep their secrets for many years.”

  “And what am I to do about this?” she asked, holding up the crumpled invitation.

  “You will attend, of course.” He dropped a kiss on her forehead. “And I’ll be at your side. No doubt Blackthorn expects it and is well prepared to answer the scandal of having such a neighbor. We must likewise ready ourselves.”

  Anger surged through her, lending her strength. “How I wish I’d never laid eyes on that—that scoundrel!”

  Her outburst elicited a gentle smile. “I fear there is little we can do about it now, save to play the hand we’ve been dealt.”

  Though his manner was calm and no doubt intended to be reassuring, her heart still raced. “And what will we do if he discovers us?”

  A hard glint entered his eyes, and a chill crept into her bones, turning her upset to dread as he answered quietly, “One way or another, I’ll ensure he keeps his silence.” The dangerous look melted away, and he was once again her dear friend and not the deadly duelist. “In truth, I doubt it will come to violence. He seems a reasonable man, if a bit impulsive, but not the sort to be truly foolish. Regardless, I don’t want you worrying yourself over it until there is reason. For now, there is naught but a cordial invitation to be answered.”

  She crushed the paper in her hand into a ball.

  Laughing, Harrow took up her hand and removed the unlucky page. “Between my winning ways and your not-inconsiderable charms, we’ll persuade him to be our friend.”

  She drew back in renewed alarm. “Our friend?”

  Harrow’s smile broadened an increment. “A wise man once said ‘keep your friends close and your enemies closer’—and he was right. A strong public association will undermine the desire to reveal any discoveries he might make. He won’t want others to paint him with the same brush.”

  Especially considering that particular brushstroke typically preceded a hangman’s noose. It made sense, yet she still had misgivings. The idea of bringing Blackthorn into their circle both excited and terrified her—for reasons having nothing to do with her friends’ continued longevity.