My Scoundrel

by Cheryl Holt

Numerous hands reached out to pry them apart, and Nicholas was yanked away. His victim staggered and was caught by his companions.

  The room had grown deathly still. Everyone was gawking, as if a barbarian had been loosed in their midst. It was the exact type of reaction he’d always dreamed of wringing from them, but as he faced them down, their collective disdain was infuriating.

  He felt young and foolish and out of his element, as if he’d entered the wrong party by mistake.

  Veronica’s father was hissing in his ear. “Your behavior is most inappropriate. Step outside and compose yourself. Do not return until you are able to conduct yourself in a suitable manner.”

  He shoved Nicholas away and, like a chastened boy, Nicholas left without argument. He went into the hall, then headed to the foyer and out the door, curious as to whether he might keep on going. What was preventing him? He didn’t want to speak to any of them ever again, didn’t want to pretend they were cordial or that they had anything in common.

  Why was he hanging on through such a nightmare? The only logical decision was to cry off. Why couldn’t he? Why? Why?

  The questions nagged at him, but he had no answers.

  He stood on the stoop, gulping in fresh air, and he stared out at the dark sky, hating that he couldn’t see the stars.

  His thoughts wandered to Emeline, and he wondered how she was faring. Was she gazing up at the same sky? Could she see the stars that were hidden from him in town?

  That last morning, when he’d talked to her in his library, she’d been so quiet. He’d done what he could for her, his every choice designed to make her happy, but she hadn’t seemed to be.

  He knew he’d hurt her, and he hoped his parting gifts—the house, school, and stipend—would show her how sorry he was.

  He liked to imagine her at Stafford, ensconced in her new home, sitting in the schoolroom and preparing her lessons. It was a pretty picture, one that soothed him enormously. Someday, he would visit the estate, and he’d find her settled and content. She wouldn’t be angry anymore; she’d thank him for the life he’d given her.

  He peered down the drive, and out on the street, there were hoards of people huddled by the gate. They were gaping up at the mansion, eager to catch a glimpse of London’s famous and infamous. He walked over and strolled among them, and they removed their hats and curtsied as if he should be exalted and admired.

  Money could do that for a person, he’d found. Money could make a man into someone he wasn’t.

  When he might have continued on, a coach swept into view, halting any escape. An old-fashioned pair of trumpets blared to announce its approach. On noting that it was his betrothed, having orchestrated a flashy entrance, he rolled his eyes.

  Why didn’t he slip into the crowd and disappear? He was naught but an emasculated eunuch, good for nothing but obsequious bowing to the wishes of others.

  If Emeline could see me now, he glumly pondered, what would she think?

  He pushed her out of his mind. He’d made his choice, he’d picked his path, and it didn’t include Emeline Wilson. He could have stayed at Stafford, could have married her and built a family with her and her sisters, but he hadn’t. It was no use regretting.

  The coach stopped next to him, and he waited forever, gnashing his teeth, as the step was lowered and the door opened. Finally, she emerged to the oohs and aahs of the assembled throng—many applauded—and Nicholas couldn’t blame them for being agog.

  She looked like a fairy princess, attired in a gown so shimmery that the fabric might have been spun from gold. Perhaps it had been. The skirt had a long train, and four maids alighted behind her to carry it as she promenaded into the mansion.

  She knew how to amaze and dazzle, how to get others to worship her. Too bad they were the sorts of characteristics he loathed in a female.

  “Nicholas”—her smile was tight—“you’ve worn your uniform. How . . . nice.”

  “Yes, isn’t it?”

  There had been an enormous fight over his and Stephen’s clothes for the wedding. Harsh words had also been hurled over the fact that the ceremony was rushed and there would be no honeymoon.

  However, the squabbling had occurred between Veronica and her mother, with Veronica demanding that her mother do something. Nicholas had had no part in the quarrel and wouldn’t have heeded either woman if they’d had the temerity to confront him, which they hadn’t. Lucky for them.

  “Let’s go in, shall we?” She extended her arm for him to take.

  “Yes, let’s.”

  They started off together, as if they were marching down the aisle at the cathedral, and the notion was terrifying. His throat was closing, and he couldn’t breathe.

  The prospect of returning to the party was unbearable, and he was so lost in his pitiful reverie, that he scarcely realized someone was calling, “Captain Price! Captain Price!”

  He frowned as a beggar stumbled toward him. Dressed in rags, he was filthy and decrepit. His left arm was missing, the empty sleeve of his shirt tucked in the waist of his trousers.

  “It’s me, Captain,” the fellow said. “It’s me, Ted Smith. Don’t you remember?”

  “Teddy?” Nicholas asked. “Is it really you?”

  “Yes, Captain. Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes!”

  Ted had served under him for three years until he’d been maimed and sent home. Nicholas had never heard from him again, and though he’d posted several letters to England, inquiring after his health, he’d never received a reply. Ultimately, he’d wondered if the young man hadn’t perished from his injuries.

  “What happened to you, Ted?” Nicholas asked, appalled by his condition.

  “I’ve had a spot of trouble, Captain. I admit it.”

  “But . . . I thought you went to live with your parents. I thought they were going to take care of you.”

  “Both passed away, sir, with the influenza. I didn’t find out until I arrived and there was a new family settled in our house.”

  Veronica tried to tug Nicholas away. “Nicholas, come on! Mother and Father are expecting me, and I’m horridly late.”

  Nicholas ignored her.

  “Wasn’t your father the village minister?”

  Ted had grown up in church, listening to his father’s sermons, so he’d been the regiment’s make-shift preacher. Whenever they’d needed prayers or a quick funeral, he’d volunteered.

  “Yes, my father was a vicar,” Ted explained, “so the house wasn’t really ours. It belonged to the Church.”

  “Why didn’t anyone help you? How did you end up in London?”

  “I had a job offer, so I moved to the city, but it didn’t work out, and I didn’t have any money to return to the country. With the folks being deceased, there wasn’t anything to return to anyway.”

  Veronica fumed and tugged harder. “Nicholas!”

  “Could you spare a bit of change, Captain? I promise to pay you back when I can.”

  The spectators were intrigued by the conversation, and they were pressing in while Veronica’s outriders were pushing and shoving, clearing a path for her.

  Someone tripped and someone staggered, and suddenly, Ted—in his grimy, tattered clothes—was knocked into Veronica. Their contact was brief and minimal, but she shrieked with outrage.

  “Get him off me! Get him off!” she screamed, even though he wasn’t touching her.

  Her outriders withdrew clubs and started swinging them. Innocent bystanders cursed and jumped out of range, which had others reeling and falling. A full-on riot seemed likely, and he and Veronica were pulled forward by her servants.

  Nicholas hurried where he was led, wanting Veronica inside before a melee ensued. The butler held the door, and as they swept into the foyer, he slammed and locked it behind them.

  After the noisy chaos of the street, it was very quiet. Veronica trem
bled with fury.

  “Filthy beggar!” She was wiping at her skirt as if it was dirty, but it wasn’t. “Filthy, disgusting beggar!”

  “I know him,” Nicholas said. “He served with me.”

  “Soliciting you for money,” she scathingly continued. “Accosting us as if we were a pair of . . . missionaries. How dare he!”

  “He’s poor. He’s hungry.”

  “He didn’t have an arm, the revolting swine! He deigned to touch me, and he didn’t have an arm!”

  Her mother appeared down the hall, coming to check on the commotion.

  “Mother!” Veronica’s voice was shrill with offense. “Mother, you won’t believe what he let happen to me!”

  She stormed off, spewing a flood of vitriol, as her mother guided her into a nearby parlor and shut the door. In a matter of seconds, Nicholas was alone with the butler. The man stared implacably, not a hint showing as to his opinion of Veronica’s display, of the fact that her footmen had been beating people with sticks out in the driveway.

  “Lord Stafford,” the man said, “I have a letter for you.”

  “A letter?” Nicholas scowled, unable to imagine who might have written or why it would have arrived at the supper party.

  “Yes, it came a bit ago. I was searching for you, but you’d stepped out.”

  He retrieved it from a drawer in a table. As Nicholas reached for it, he saw the word URGENT penned on the front, but he didn’t recognize the handwriting.

  “Do you know who it’s from? Or who delivered it?”

  “It was brought from your residence by a servant. Your staff has been trying to track you down all afternoon. I’m told it’s imperative that you read it immediately.”

  “Thank you.”

  He stuffed it in his coat.

  He needed to find Ted and learn where he was staying, but he wouldn’t exit into the unrest. An angry mob had formed, and he had no desire to brawl. Not without a weapon or Stephen guarding his back.

  Instead, he dawdled, wishing he could simply vanish. He was weary and dismayed and . . . sad. Yes, he was very sad; he couldn’t deny it.

  Veronica emerged from the room where she’d been whining to her mother. She stomped over, her fury still not quelled, but he was in no mood for a tantrum.

  “We should go in.” She grabbed his arm. “Father has waited too long. His patience is waning.”

  “He’ll get over it.”

  “You spoiled everything!”

  “It was your outriders inciting the crowd. I was just standing there minding my own business.”

  “You, and your . . . soldier. I’m insulted to the marrow of my bones.”

  “He’s an old friend, down on his luck. What was I supposed to do? Ignore him?”

  “Yes, that’s precisely what you were supposed to do! You permitted him to speak to me! He ruined my entrance and soiled my gown!”

  “Your gown is fine,” he tersely said.

  She peered over her shoulder, to where her mother was lurking. “See what I mean, Mother? See how he treats me?”

  He raised a brow, daring the woman to comment, and she wisely kept silent.

  The butler went on ahead, and Nicholas could hear them being announced to the supper guests. As if a magic wand had been waved, Veronica’s rage evaporated. Suddenly, she was all grace and smiles, and he trudged along at her side like a lapdog.

  He should have walked the other way, out of his engagement and out of her life, but his predicament was his own fault.

  He had deliberately sought her out to be his bride. He had proposed. He could have picked any girl in the world, but he’d picked her. Stephen had vociferously counseled against it, but Nicholas never listened to anyone, and his chickens were coming home to roost.

  He was a fool. He was an idiot. He was getting exactly what he deserved.

  They entered the salon, and there was a smattering of applause, but apparently, it was much less than she’d anticipated. She frowned, irked that more people weren’t gushing. Obviously, her mother hadn’t informed her that he’d been tossed out prior to her arrival. He was nobody’s favorite.

  Her father was at the front, offering a toast, and Veronica dropped away and went forward without him. She was in her element, preening, and so absorbed in the moment that she didn’t realize he’d moved away.

  He slipped to a rear corner, observing the proceedings as if he had no connection to them. The letter in his coat crinkled, reminding him that it was there, and he pulled it out and flicked at the seal.

  The news was so peculiar—and so unexpected—that he had to read it three times before it made any sense. Emeline had been . . . arrested? Over her illicit affair with Nicholas? The twins had been sent to an orphanage?

  It didn’t seem possible, yet the plea for assistance had come from Josephine Merrick. Nicholas didn’t know her well, but she wasn’t the type prone to fantasy or exaggeration.

  What the bloody hell had happened? Were Blair and Mason insane? Did they actually imagine that Nicholas wouldn’t care? That he wouldn’t react?

  “Nicholas!”

  He shook his head, as if the sharp sound of his name had yanked him from a deep sleep.

  “Nicholas!”

  He glanced up. Veronica was standing with her father. Everyone was gaping at him.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Father made his toast,” she hissed like a petulant toddler, “and now, you have to make yours.”

  He stared at her, at her father, at the portly, stuffy men surrounding him. He stared at her mother, at the festooned, arrogant matrons surrounding her. He assessed their clothes and their jewels and their expensive wine glasses and fussy hors d’oeuvre plates.

  Melancholy swept over him. He missed Emeline, and he wanted to be at Stafford. Why was he here when he could be there? If he’d stayed where he belonged—with Emeline—she’d be safe and he’d be happy.

  “What am I doing?” he muttered to himself.

  “Nicholas!” Veronica nagged again. “Why must you constantly embarrass me?”

  “Look, a situation has come up.” He crumpled the letter and pitched it into the fire. “I have to go.”

  “You have to . . . what?” Veronica gasped.

  “I have to go.”

  “You can’t leave. I won’t allow it.”

  “Now see here, Captain Price,” her father blustered.

  “No, you see here.”

  Veronica gave an ear-splitting shriek. “Mother!”

  “The wedding is off,” Nicholas told her father. “I’ll contact you in a few days, after I’ve dealt with this emergency. We’ll work something out.”

  “Work something out?” her father railed. The veins in his neck were bulging, as if he was about to suffer an apoplexy. “Listen to me you cur, you beast, you . . . you . . . interloper!”

  “I’ll contact you,” Nicholas repeated.

  He spun and dashed out, and behind him, he could hear shouting and incensed exclamations, but he didn’t slow down. The stupid dullards had never deemed him worthy of their darling Veronica, and after they calmed down, they’d all be relieved that she’d escaped his dastardly clutches.

  He raced outside, glad to note that the mob had dispersed. There was no riot occurring. He ran into the street and peered around, searching for Ted and finding him down on the corner.

  “Ted!” he called, and he hastened over.

  “Captain!” Ted extended his hand in welcome, and Nicholas clasped hold.

  “Sorry for the trouble. I didn’t mean to bother the lady.”

  “Don’t worry about her. She’s nothing to me.” He started them toward his carriage that was parked down the block.

  “Where are we going?” Ted asked.

  “To my house. You’ll remain there, while I sort out a problem at my
estate.”

  “Really, Captain? Are you sure?”

  “I’m absolutely sure.” Nicholas patted Ted’s shoulder. “My servants will feed you and get you back on your feet. Then once I return to town, we’ll figure out what’s to be done with you.”

  “Thank you, Captain,” Ted murmured. “It seems as if all my prayers have suddenly been answered.”

  They neared the carriage, the lamp giving off a soft glow, and Nicholas saw tears in Ted’s eyes, but he pretended not to notice.

  He helped Ted climb in, then climbed in himself. The door was slammed, and they rushed for home so Nicholas could locate Stephen, saddle their horses, and depart for Stafford right away.

  “Let us pray.”

  Oscar whirled away from the altar to face the congregation, although congregation was now an incorrect description for the handful of worshipers scattered in the pews.

  Six people! Six people had deigned to attend Sunday service. In the past, the church would have been filled to capacity. On special occasions, such as Christmas or Easter, there often wasn’t enough space to accommodate the large crowd.

  In a form of protest, everyone had stayed away. The community was flaunting its displeasure over his actions toward Emeline and her sisters, and he couldn’t believe they would question his motives. He was an ordained minister with the highest credentials and stellar reputation.

  How dare they snub him! How dare they rebel!

  From the moment Emeline had disappeared, there had been grumbling and complaints. His very own maid, who’d witnessed his quarrel with Josephine, had blabbed hither and yon about what she’d heard. He’d fired her for insubordination, but it had only fueled the flames of rumor and innuendo.

  It was another sin to lay at Emeline’s feet, and the next time he saw Josephine, he’d tell her so—in no uncertain terms.

  Where was his sister anyway? Without a hint as to her intentions, she’d packed a bag and left. When she came crawling back, begging for shelter, she’d learn her lesson once and for all.

  He snapped his Bible closed, and the sound echoed off the empty seats, underscoring how ridiculously people were behaving. Would they risk their immortal souls over the likes of Emeline? He thought not.