A Rogue Meets a Scandalous Lady: Mackenzies, Book 11

by Ashley Jennifer

  “I only read the sporting news. Life is difficult enough without journalists constantly flogging us with the horrors of the world.”

  Sinclair gave him a sharp stare, the one that penetrated a man’s skull and tore out all his secrets. “What is your interest?”

  “I happen to know the wife in the case,” David said, trying to sound nonchalant. “She’s the niece of a dear friend.”

  “Is she?” Sinclair’s gaze didn’t waver. “Interesting.”

  “You know, you put more insinuation into three words than most men put into entire speeches. I will say about her what I do about myself—she didn’t do it.”

  “Devonport is going a little far in his accusations,” Sinclair said. “He’s claimed his wife committed open adultery. Two men so far have come forward to testify that they were her lovers, but Devonport says there are many more. I might believe one or two, but knowing what I do about ladies of society, I’d say she did not have time for more than that.”

  “And I say she did none of it.”

  David slammed down his glass, and the remaining liquid leapt over the rim. He pictured Sophie’s sweet smile, her green eyes looking straight into his. No coyness or falseness about her.

  He dragged in a breath. “Trust me, McBride, I know women who have no inkling what the word fidelity means, and I know mostly innocent women who’ve had a single illicit affair in their lives. The former ladies have a complete lack of guilt, the latter have too much of it. Sophie—Lady Devonport—is unlike any of them. She did not have affairs with these men, no matter what Devonport claims. He wants rid of her so he can marry a wealthier woman. If I actually do shoot anyone, it will be him.”

  Sinclair listened with his uncanny perception. “I see.”

  “So I’ve come to you for help.”

  A glint of understanding entered Sinclair’s gray eyes. “And I would enjoy helping Lady Devonport—her husband is a foul man. But as I say, the case is in the civil courts. Devonport’s barristers are in Lincoln’s Inn.”

  “Aha, you know which barristers then? Do you know them personally?”

  “Yes.” The answer was cautious.

  “Then cajole them. I want an appointment to see Devonport. I’d simply go to his secretary and ask, but Devonport hates Hart, and me by extension, and I’m certain the secretary would have a standing order to refuse me. But if Devonport’s barrister suggests it …”

  He left it at that. Sinclair was canny—he’d invent something to get David inside Devonport’s house.

  Sinclair gave David the barest of nods. “I will see what I can do.”

  David knew then that his admittance was guaranteed. They did not call Sinclair the Scots Machine for nothing.

  * * *

  His second meeting of the afternoon was trickier. David didn’t have an appointment for it, but he turned up and took his chances.

  Hinch, his coachman, drove him to Grosvenor Square and halted outside a tall house, as he had the morning David had fled to Shropshire. This time, David was sober, bathed, shaved, and decently dressed. He gazed up at the intimidating house, but today he was eager to rush inside and sit before the one woman in all London he knew could assist him.

  At one time, David had run in and out of the Mackenzie mansion as he pleased, as Hart’s friend and confidante, but these days, he made sure to send in his name and wait to be announced. Hart’s haughty majordomo admitted him and led him up the grand staircase to a sunny room the Duchess of Kilmorgan had commandeered as her own.

  Eleanor’s touches were everywhere. Haphazard stacks of photographic plates lay on every flat surface, along with open books on photography and botany, astonishingly beautiful photos of flowers, and many pictures of her two sons and husband.

  The mechanical aspects of photography had progressed so that these days a person no longer had to sit motionlessly in front of a camera on a tripod, waiting in stiff agony until the shutter closed. Eleanor had the latest in photographic apparatus at her disposal, and she shoved these cameras constantly into the faces of her nearest and dearest. The results were scattered over the top of the piano—she’d caught her sons laughing, shouting, grinning, and hugging their dogs.

  David lifted a framed photograph of Hart—Hart was dressed in this one, fortunately—gazing down at his youngest son, Malcolm.

  The picture was amazing. Hart the formidable Scotsman in tartan kilt, the man feared throughout Parliament and the cabinet, smiled down at his son, his hard face soft, his love for the little boy apparent. Eleanor had caught him well.

  “One of my best, I think.” Eleanor’s voice sounded at David’s elbow. “Hart growls like a bear about me shooting everything in sight, but I can’t help myself. And my husband is so very photogenic. He does not mind, really, but he doesn’t want to be seen as vain, so he tries to deter me.”

  “Dearest El.” David returned the picture to its place to squeeze her hands and kiss her cheek. “I am pleased to see you so happy.”

  “Happy and distracted.” Eleanor gently withdrew her hands, a faint smile on her face. “Young Alec is at school this year as you know, and my heaven, he can find scrapes to get into. Not always his fault, though he could avoid them if he truly tried, but he is kindhearted and apt to take things in hand for another’s own good, and then it all goes wrong. Hart, of course, thinks his son should be a model of propriety and angelic sweetness. How he can have that idea, I do not know, because you recall better than most what a hellion Hart was at school. Besides, the model of propriety is never liked—we were horrible to the prissy head girl at Miss Pringle’s Academy. She still is awful, poor lady. I saw her the other day—”

  “El,” David said firmly. He’d learned from Hart long ago that the only way to stop Eleanor when she began full steam was to break in forcefully. “I do need your help on a matter.”

  “Well, of course. Sit down, my dear fellow, and tell me all about it. I heard you were rusticating with Dr. Pierson. How delightful. Or perhaps it is deadly dull. Which are you finding it?”

  Eleanor led David to a set of couches that faced each other, low-backed, comfortable affairs upholstered in cream and yellow. No more heavy carved furniture in dark horsehair for the duke and duchess.

  David sat obediently, marveling that he could study Eleanor’s wisps of red curls and very blue eyes without the pang of regret that had filled him for years. At the moment, she was simply a friend, one whose assistance he greatly needed.

  He launched into his tale without preliminary and outlined his plans. Eleanor listened with flattering attentiveness, and when David finished, laughter lit her eyes.

  “Oh, that is perfect. You are the most devious man I know. How splendid.” She leaned forward with conspiratorial eagerness. “What do you wish me to do?”

  Chapter 6

  Sophie sipped her tea in her uncle’s study two days after David had departed. Uncle Lucas had his feet up near the snapping fire, a brandy in his hands, resting from his frantic work at the dig.

  He’d barely ceased his labors to conduct church services, running in at the last minute to throw on vestments for evensong, morning prayer, and the main service on Sunday. Fortunately the parishioners were very low church and expected little more than a reading of the service, a few hymns accompanied by Mrs. Plimpton on the wheezing organ, and a gentle sermon.

  Uncle peppered most of his sermons with analogies to antiquities from long-lost civilizations, but the villagers, used to his obsession, didn’t mind very much. Or so Sophie heard from Mrs. Corcoran. She had not yet summoned the courage to attend church with her uncle.

  “Will you tell me about Mr. Fleming?” Sophie ventured.

  Uncle opened the eyes he’d closed and gave her a keen stare. Instead of asking about her curiosity, he launched straight into an explanation. “Fleming is a reprobate and a scoundrel, but a good-hearted man. I had much hope for him when I was his tutor at Cambridge. But alas, he chose the path of darkness.”

  Sophie warmed her hands o
n her teacup. “If he has such a bad reputation, why have I heard nothing about him?”

  Uncle crossed his slippered feet on the ottoman and took a slurp of brandy. “Because your parents shielded you well. His name would never be mentioned to a debutante, and you’d never be allowed to a gathering he attended. On the other hand, David has done much work—behind the scenes and admittedly by being a manipulative villain—to relieve the poor, improve conditions for factory workers, and other numerous reforms he will forever deny.”

  “Why should he deny them?” Sophie asked in bewilderment. “If he’s helped people.”

  “Because he likes to be seen as a reprobate—and he is.” Uncle gave her a dark look. “He achieves his goals by means it’s best not to examine too closely.”

  Sophie studied the dregs of her tea, a few leaves floating in the bottom. “He told me he’d fallen in love with a woman and that she broke his heart. That she was now his closest friend’s wife.”

  Uncle nodded. “Indeed. He was head over heels for the Duchess of Kilmorgan—Lady Eleanor Ramsay at the time. She was being arduously courted by Hart Mackenzie, before he became duke. Lady Eleanor refused Mackenzie’s proposal, quite rightly, I thought. Mackenzie was not the finest of men then, and believed he could have anything he wanted without question. David, poor chap, was potty about Lady Eleanor, but willing to step aside for Mackenzie. When Eleanor threw Mackenzie over, David thought he could easily step into the man’s shoes, but he later told me he hadn’t realized Eleanor’s very deep love for Hart. Lady Eleanor did not regret her choice to jilt Mackenzie, but she was not interested in substituting another for him. She retreated to her father’s house near Aberdeen and became his assistant, housekeeper, gardener, bottle-washer, and David had to leave her be. He was in agony over it for a long while, poor chap.”

  “I know the Duchess of Kilmorgan slightly,” Sophie said, trying to hide her discomposure at the tale. David had obviously loved Lady Eleanor more intensely than his glib words had let on. “She has little to do with me, because her husband despises mine. They are on different sides of the wall that is politics.”

  “And that gulf will never be breached,” Uncle said decidedly. “Which is why I chose the clergy, though that can also be fraught with political peril. Give me a country church and a simple life. The bishops can enjoy fighting in the House of Lords all they like.”

  “Did David—Mr. Fleming—never marry? Or court any other?”

  “No.” Uncle gave Sophie another piercing look. He might prefer the life of an unsophisticated country vicar, but he was uncommonly wise. “Fleming is a captivating young man, my dear. I know this—I have been captivated by him for a very long time. But his charm is tarnished. He and his father quarreled mightily days before his father’s death, and that haunts him. Fleming fears he caused his father’s illness—which is nonsense, of course—and mourns that he had no chance to reconcile with him before it was too late.”

  “Oh, how sad,” Sophie said in genuine sympathy.

  “David took it to heart, yes. But do not decide that he turned into a libertine because of it. He was one long before that, and he has always enjoyed being unconventional and shocking. Whenever the Duke of Kilmorgan wishes to defeat an opponent, he asks David to bring out the dirt on that person and hound the unfortunate man until he surrenders. Morals fly out the window. David is ruthless.”

  Sophie swallowed. “I see.”

  Uncle softened his voice. “I refuse to shield you from the truth, my dear. As much as I love him, David Fleming is not a respectable gentleman. I allowed him to stay under this roof with you because I know he pursues only ladies of questionable virtue, which you are not. In spite of what others are currently claiming about you, you are innocent and he knows it. He has an instinct.”

  Except that David had kissed her like a storm and then raged at himself for it. Sophie’s heart stung when she thought of the kiss—the imprint of which she even now felt on her lips.

  He had taken her mouth in hunger that matched her own. David might believe her innocent of her husband’s accusations, but he had kissed her like he would a lover.

  “The Duchess of Kilmorgan has never been a lady of questionable virtue,” Sophie pointed out, her throat tight. “Yet Mr. Fleming fell in love with her.”

  “She was the exception.” Uncle nodded. “I knew Fleming would come to grief over her, but he would not listen to me. Never does. He is a chap who needs to find things out for himself, even if it half-destroys him to do so. I keep hoping that someday …” Uncle let out a rueful breath and shrugged.

  “You hope he’ll become the man you see deep inside, and make you proud,” Sophie finished. “But people won’t always be what we want them to be.” She trailed off, pain filling her heart.

  Uncle sent her a look of sympathy. He understood that Sophie had wanted Laurie to be the man of her dreams, but the dream had never come true. The day Sophie realized that her ideal husband and the real Laurie were worlds apart—when she’d found out about his string of mistresses, including a few of her own maids—was the day her marriage had died. She’d fallen out of love with Laurie long before he’d decided he wanted to rid himself of her.

  “Fleming will discover who he is someday,” Uncle said. “Or he will not. Not everyone achieves a happy ending.”

  “Including me.” Sophie sighed. “The question is, what do I do now? The divorce has already ruined me, and it is a long way from being final yet. I do have one idea, but I must have your approval.”

  “Yes?” Uncle, who’d started to drift into a contemplative state, gave her his attention again. “Tell me this idea.”

  “I’d like to become your assistant, if you’ll have me.” Sophie spoke rapidly, before she lost courage. “You’ve told me much about your digs and I know how to take notes and make sketches, how to measure, how to notate the finds. Between the two of us, we should be able to reveal this Roman villa, and then—who knows? Go on to excavate more sites in Britain, perhaps. Or you can return to the Middle East, as you’ve always longed to. I’m not afraid of a little dust or sunshine.”

  Her uncle listened, eyes lighting. “That is true. I’d love to try my luck in Palestine. There’s the ruins at Masada …” He gazed off into the distant past before dragging himself back to the present. “Of course, my dear, you are welcome to stay here and help with this dig. An excellent scheme, and a good way for you to gain experience. You will be my secretary—I always need someone to go over my articles and get the punctuation correct. Though I must warn you …”

  His expression turned dire, and Sophie stilled, worried.

  “Mrs. Plimpton has the rheumatics, and she’s complaining about difficulty playing the organ. Says she wishes to retire. So you might be recruited to plonk out the hymns on a Sunday.”

  Sophie relaxed. “Oh dear. Are you certain your parishioners will let the Whore of Babylon into their church? The walls might fall down.”

  “No one believes you the Whore of Babylon, child,” Uncle said kindly. “Truth to tell, the parishioners rather like having a scandalous person in their midst. It gives the village a certain cachet.”

  Sophie knew her uncle was trying to make her feel better, and she was grateful. She smiled. “Thank you, Uncle.”

  “You are very welcome, Niece.”

  Sophie sipped her tea and said nothing more. As her uncle’s assistant, she could leave off finery and begin to wear dowdy frocks, becoming a dried-up woman with no interest in gentlemen without delay. Playing the organ in the church loft where no one could see her would only hurry the process along.

  This would be her life, then. Safely hidden from the world, buried in excavations and typing up Uncle’s notes into something coherent, perhaps earning a footnote in his monographs thanking her for her help. She no longer had to worry about what life would bring. It would be mapped out for her, unchanging.

  Sophie imagined what David would say to her thoughts, pictured his wry look, heard his cynical laughte
r. She clutched her teacup and barely stopped her tears.

  * * *

  The Earl of Devonport occupied a tall house in Portman Square, very Georgian, with columns, a fan-lighted door, and a lofty entrance hall. The earl received callers in a study on the first floor, at the top of a flight of stairs designed to inspire awe.

  The house had escaped the ruthless modernization of David’s generation, retaining its early nineteenth-century faux Greco-Roman simplicity. The cool white walls, busts of great men of history, and elegant furniture came as a relief from the noisy, crammed, choking city outside.

  The decor was likely the result of Laurie’s father’s tastes. Lackwit Laurie Whitfield would hardly have the understanding, let alone the interest, to maintain such understated luxury. That is, unless Laurie had drastically changed.

  No, no, David assured himself. He decidedly had not. Any man who would throw away Sophie Tierney on a whim had proved he was a complete dolt.

  The Earl of Devonport rose from behind a desk when the majordomo ushered David into the study, the timing calculated to imply that David had interrupted perusal of very important letters.

  “Fleming.” Laurie dropped the papers and came around the desk as the majordomo withdrew. “Such a surprise. Or shall I call you Devilish David? A long time since our silly days at Harrow, what?”

  David clasped Laurie’s extended hand, noting the grip was firm. So was Laurie. He’d changed from pudgy boy in short pants to muscular man in a trim black suit, though he’d never have height or be rid of his bulbous nose—but he was striking. Lackwit had learned how to make an impression.

  “Fleming is fine,” David said when their hands parted. “Or D.D., if you prefer. I could call you L. L.”

  Lackwit Laurie burst into laughter, a deep, mature sound. “Ah, yes, the puerile nicknames we gave each other in school. Boys can be so cruel. You don’t have sons yourself, do you?”