The Rakehell of Roth

by Amalie Howard

  Fear punching through him, Winter shoved through the crowd with Westmore on his heels. He was mad with worry, growling at anyone in his path. “Get out of the way, for God’s sake, or I will remove you bodily, so help me.”

  The violence in his voice must have done the trick, because the throng parted, and the sight that greeted him nearly made the strength drain from his body. Both Isobel and Clarissa were on the floor, but it was the sight of the red staining Isobel’s ivory gloves that made his throat close. “Are you hurt? Are you bleeding?”

  “It’s not my blood,” Isobel said, her eyes wild with terror. “It’s Clarissa’s.”

  Westmore took charge, calling for a constable and keeping the crowd at bay, while Winter skidded to a crouch beside the two women. There was a short but deep scratch on Clarissa’s upper arm. Uncaring of being in public or propriety, he ripped his cravat from his neck and pressed it to her wound. She winced but didn’t make a sound, even as he wrapped and tied the white cloth around the injury.

  He examined his wife, scanning her body to make sure that she was not hurt. Other than the fear etched on her face, she appeared to be unharmed as she’d claimed. It didn’t stop his heart from thundering in his chest, however. “What happened?”

  “There was a man,” she stammered, her hands trembling as she clasped them in her lap.

  Winter looked around. “Is he still here? What did he look like?”

  “No, he ran when I screamed. He was young with dark hair, and well-dressed.” She swallowed hard, tears filling her eyes as they landed on an ashen Clarissa. “I saw the glint of something in his hand just before he grabbed for my reticule on my wrist, and then Clarissa pushed in, shoving him out of the way. He must have cut her somehow. And then he took off.”

  “A thief?” Westmore asked from where he stood, his large body partially blocking them from scrutiny, eyes narrowing.

  It wasn’t uncommon for thieves to frequent events open to the public. Flashmen were becoming more creative, dressing their footpad accomplices up in fancy clothing to take advantage of wealthy patrons in crowded settings. But something in Isobel’s face made Winter pause.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  She bit at her lips, the nervous gesture telling. “He said something.”

  “He spoke to you?”

  “Yes, at least I think he did. He said I would pay.”

  Winter rocked back to his heels, his eyes locking with Westmore’s. That could only mean one thing—that the thief knew exactly who Isobel was. Fury and fear twined in his veins. It hadn’t been an isolated incident by a random pickpocket. She had been targeted.

  But by whom?

  Ludlow had said that Oliver had received the invitation and he’d passed on the tickets to the women since he could not attend. Had his brother been involved somehow? Would he go to such extremes as to hurt his own sister-in-law? Winter’s rage intensified to inhuman levels.

  Fuck, he was going to throttle the lily-livered bastard.

  His gaze caught Westmore’s as he rose. “See them safely home.”

  “I will,” the duke replied. “My carriage is in front. I fetched it when I sent for the constable.” Westmore paused. “Don’t do anything that will land you in prison.”

  “Wait, Winter, where are you going?” Isobel asked, her fingers reaching up to catch the edge of his jacket. But despite the clench at his name on her lips, Winter couldn’t look down at her. He didn’t want her to see the murder in his eyes or have her think it was directed at her.

  No, his fury had its own deserving target.

  “Stay with Westmore,” he said, stepping out of her grasp. “You can trust him. He’ll get you to safety after you’ve spoken to the constable and he’ll summon a doctor to see about Clarissa.”

  Without looking back, he strode from the exhibition hall. The crowd cleared for him as if the deadly look on his face was enough to make people flee. Within moments, he was in his coach and on his way to Vance House.

  He wasted no time storming into the foyer of his father’s residence and throwing his cloak and hat to the butler. For once, it wasn’t the duke who set him on edge. “Oliver, I know you’re here!”

  Servants scattered and scurried out of his way, eyes wide as if he were an unwanted intruder. For some reason, it made him angrier. He was a stranger here, yes, but it wasn’t as though they didn’t know he was the duke’s bloody heir. Slamming the door to the study open, he found it empty, and then proceeded to stalk to the library, whereupon he found his prey, waiting as cool as a cucumber with a brandy in hand.

  “To what do I owe the honor, dear brother?” Oliver drawled, lounging back in his chair. “I assume it must be quite dire to have dragged you here.”

  Winter pounded a fist into the mahogany desk. “Isobel was attacked at the exhibit. The exhibit you sent her to.”

  The fact that his brother goggled at him did not register until his response emerged. “What? How?”

  His eyes narrowed. “You’re saying you don’t know?”

  “No, I don’t. What are you talking about?”

  “Isobel and Clarissa were attacked at the Royal Academy today by a pickpocketing ruffian, and the attacker told Isobel she would pay.” His anger surged to new levels. “Tell me you didn’t have anything to do with it. Tell me and I won’t beat you to a sodding pulp.”

  His brother stood, ashen-faced and mouth thinning. “I did not.”

  “Where did you get the invitation?”

  Oliver’s nostrils flared, but the hesitation that passed through his eyes was enough for Winter’s wrath to flare. “An earl. A business acquaintance.”

  “You’re hiding something. I see it written all over you.”

  “I would not hurt a woman.”

  Winter’s fists clenched, itching to pummel his brother’s pursed face. “Well, too fucking bad because Clarissa was stabbed.”

  “Stabbed?” he whispered. “How badly? Where?”

  Oliver’s reaction was almost comical, and if Winter was in a more rational state of mind, it would have struck him sooner that his brother’s distress hadn’t been for Isobel…it was for Clarissa. It was obvious that he harbored feelings for her. Deep feelings, if his horrified reaction was any indication. Given his response to the news, he would not have deliberately put either of them in danger.

  It was the sole thing saving him from Winter.

  “In the arm,” he said. “She’ll be fine if infection doesn’t set in.” Oliver went white, the blood draining from his face. Winter took brief satisfaction in seeing his coldhearted brother actually feeling some emotion for once, but then took pity on him. “Westmore is seeing to her and we’ve summoned Kendrick’s physician. They should be here shortly.”

  The breath of relief Oliver exhaled was real. “Oh, thank God.”

  Winter turned to stalk from the room, but then stopped at the door. “You might not have had a hand in this, Oliver, but Kendrick won’t be able to save your sorry arse if I find out you were in any way involved, mark my words.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Don’t carry a torch for a man who does not want you. It makes you look desperate and gauche. Have some pride and set your sights elsewhere.

  – Lady Darcy

  After the exhibition, the following days went from bad to worse in the form of one buxom Italian heiress, Lady Vittorina Carpalo. An utterly unwelcome blast from Winter’s past. He hadn’t seen Vittorina in years, not since his time in Italy. She was spoiled and vain, and didn’t care whom she had to ruin to get what she wanted. A handful of years ago, that had almost been Winter, and he’d only managed to escape her clutches by the skin of his teeth.

  But now, here she was…on his brother’s arm, crossing Vauxhall Bridge, heading into the gardens for the latest grand gala, with Isobel strolling a few feet away in deep conversation with Kendrick. The whole
thing stank, and it wasn’t a question of how, it was a question of why.

  Why was she with Oliver?

  Irritation hummed beneath the surface as he followed them past the pavilions and lush lawns with their marble statues and pillars, heading toward the supper boxes. Most of the lamps that made the gardens so special had not yet been lit—they would be following a whistle during supper when night fell—but the orchestra was already playing in the nearby rotunda.

  Normally, Winter enjoyed visits to Vauxhall, considering the less than starchy atmosphere and the mix of social classes, but tonight he felt on edge. Not only because of Vittorina’s unwelcome presence, but because of Isobel. When Ludlow had informed him that Lady Roth was accompanying the duke and Lord Oliver to the gardens, Winter had been torn.

  He did not want to be anywhere near his father or his brother.

  But he also wanted to keep an eye on his wife.

  He had meant to stay away from Isobel, after ensuring that both she and Clarissa were healthy and well. The physician had pronounced Clarissa extremely lucky that the knife hadn’t been a few inches lower or deeper. As it was, the cut hadn’t needed stitching and had already closed on its own. Clarissa being Clarissa wore her wound proudly, loving the attention and the fact that she’d been in a knife fight. When Winter had drily remarked that being in a knife fight required actual fighting, she’d rolled her eyes and told him to mind his own business.

  Isobel, on the other hand, was another matter entirely. She’d refused to leave Clarissa’s side, and Winter knew that it was only because of Clarissa’s insistence that she would be fine with the twins that Isobel had even ventured out at all. As far as he knew from servant gossip, it was the first time she’d been out in days.

  Only to be pitted against a viper among women.

  Christ! What had Oliver been thinking bringing Vittorina here? The question was, did his brother actually know who Vittorina was? It could be an unfortunate coincidence, but the truth was, he wouldn’t put anything past his brother, despite believing his innocence in the attack at the gallery. This could still be a ploy to discredit him in the eyes of their father…or worse, Isobel.

  There was only one way to find out.

  “Roth, darling, how lovely to see you!” Vittorina squealed when he joined them.

  Winter had to hand it to her. One would think they’d held each other in great esteem or knew each other intimately with such a greeting, when their parting had been one of threats and physical violence. The only thing he wanted to do was shudder with revulsion as her cloying perfume filled his nostrils.

  His gaze flicked to Isobel, who watched the scene unfold with wary curiosity. His father’s face remained inscrutable, though a brief emotion that Winter couldn’t discern flickered in his eyes. Winter had long given up trying to read the man—or trying to please him—so he simply ignored the duke and faced the raven-haired jezebel prowling toward him.

  “Lady Vittorina,” he said, grasping her hand to keep her at arm’s length. “What a surprise to see you here in London.”

  “Why so formal, Winter?” Calculating dark blue eyes met his when he bowed instead of kissing her knuckles. “And by the by, soon it will be Countess,” she said with a tinkling laugh that grated on his every nerve. “I’m betrothed, you see. To a British earl.”

  Winter bit back the retort that she was finally in reach of getting what she wanted—an English title—and before he could ask who the sorry victim of an earl was, the supper whistle was blown. It made him feel marginally better that she was engaged, though the ravenous way that she was looking at him suggested otherwise.

  From the pleat between Isobel’s brows, she’d noticed, too. For the narrowest of seconds, Winter debated playing up the flirtation but changed his mind in the same breath. Nothing short of the devil could force him to cozy up to a woman like Vittorina. It would be like courting a spider, and he knew all too well the sly hazard of her webs.

  “You must sit next to me,” she chirped, latching on to his arm. “It’s been so long, and I must know what you have been doing all this time. Years ago, I heard a laughable rumor that you had wed, though I could not countenance the most stalwart of bachelors ever settling down. However, there was no evidence of any marchioness. How have you been? You do look well, darling. I must say the years have been more than kind.” Her gaze swept over him, unmistakable appreciation flaring in her eyes as her voice lowered. “I’ve missed you.”

  He balked at the look in her eyes and shrugged off her hold. “How is it that you’re here?”

  Vittorina laughed gaily. “Oh, Lord Oliver took pity on me when my plans with my fiancé fell through and invited me along. But I had no idea you were coming. And the duke of course, as well as his lovely companion, Lady Isobel.”

  The way she said it, as though Isobel and Kendrick were a couple, made Winter’s blood crawl, and the irrational bite of jealousy he was beginning to hate reared its head. Isobel was his, damn it! It didn’t matter if it was only in name. “Lady Roth,” he ground out.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Lady Roth,” he said. “My marchioness in the flesh. Enough evidence for you?”

  It was worth it just to see the astonishment roll across Vittorina’s face. He had no idea why Isobel hadn’t been properly introduced and he didn’t care.

  “How…lovely.” The sentiment sounded more like a curse, but Winter ignored her to move toward Isobel.

  “Your Grace,” he said to his father with a mocking bow.

  The duke inclined his head. “Roth.”

  “I didn’t expect to see you in a place like this, mixing with the plebeians. Has hell frozen over, I wonder?” Winter turned to his wife without waiting for any reply, his rigidity softening slightly. “My lady.”

  “Lord Roth,” she murmured, her own greeting guarded.

  “How are you faring this evening?” he asked in a low voice. “It’s good to see you out and about. Any news on Clarissa?”

  She canted her head. “She was the one who practically booted me out of Vance House, so you can expect that she’s well on the mend.” She glanced over to the stern-faced duke who had moved to the adjoining box to converse with an acquaintance. “I’m the only reason His Grace is here. He accompanied me this evening at his insistence, so you can cease to worry whether hell is in an unusually frigid condition.”

  “Good to know.” With a chuckle, Winter arched a brow at his father’s uncharacteristic kindness. In the past, Kendrick wouldn’t have been caught dead in a place like Vauxhall. It was much too vulgar and uncouth for him, despite it being frequented by the Prince Regent and many other top-lofty aristocrats. And yet…here he was. For Isobel’s sake.

  His eyes narrowed on the man in question, and as if he’d felt the stare, a blue gaze connected with Winter’s. To his surprise, the usual silent judgment he’d come to expect wasn’t there. Instead, the duke looked almost regretful, those piercing eyes shadowed. For the first time in months, Winter truly took in his father’s face. Kendrick wasn’t old by any means, but he had…aged.

  A shrill giggle cut through the air as Vittorina laughed at something Oliver said, and Winter caught the tail end of her remark. “The marquess and I go way back, and you know what they say—once a rake, always a rake.”

  He felt Isobel bristle, but she only worried her lip and clasped her hands together. Perhaps she hadn’t heard. But then she lifted her eyes to meet his gaze and the frost there slammed into him like an icy blast. “Who, exactly, is that lady to you?”

  He opened his mouth, but someone else beat him to it.

  “His former betrothed,” Vittorina drawled, eyes glittering with malice as she strolled over. “The betrothal you stole.”

  …

  Isobel exhaled, the breath leaving her body in a wild rush. White spots danced before her eyes as the ground felt like sponge beneath her feet. Grac
ious, she would not swoon. Had Winter been engaged before marrying her? To this woman?

  “We were never betrothed,” Winter was quick to say. His gaze swung to his brother’s, his fists clenching at his sides. “If you have orchestrated this meeting on purpose, brother dear, I have to warn you that it is in excruciatingly poor taste.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Oliver said. “It was a favor to her fiancé, a recent acquaintance of mine.”

  When Isobel and the duke had arrived at the gardens, she had thought the lady had been a friend of Oliver’s. Introductions had been made, and though it had struck her as odd that Oliver had introduced her informally as Lady Isobel before crossing the bridge into Vauxhall, she hadn’t paid it much mind. Her brother-in-law rarely took it upon himself to acknowledge her, even in the presence of his father.

  The beautiful woman gave a wolfish smile. “Call it what you want, amore. We both know what we were for all those glorious months. More than mere lovers.” Though Isobel knew that the woman’s venomous words were meant to wound, she still flinched. Lady Vittorina speared her with a vicious glare. “Trust me, the only thing missing was a betrothal ring.”

  “You’re deluded,” Winter snapped. “I would never have married you.”

  “Not even for your child?”

  The silence in the box was deafening. Everything in Isobel’s stomach threatened to come up as Winter went rigid. A muscle flexed in his jaw, his gray eyes going as hard as flint. “You were not with child, Vittorina.”

  “I was.”

  “Then it was not mine.”

  Isobel had had outside of enough. She turned in a whirl of skirts, catching Kendrick’s eye before blindly rushing out of the pavilion to one of the many landscaped walks. She didn’t care where she was going—she only needed to escape before she did something unforgivable…like shove Vittorina Carpalo right out of the supper box and cause a scandal that the duke and the rest of the ton would never recover from.

  “Isobel!” Winter called from behind her, hot on her heels. “Stop, it’s not safe.”