A Lady's Guide to Kiss A Rake: Misadventures of the heart

by Wilde, Tanya

  “I may have an idea to get them off of your back.”

  Westfield’s hopeful expression caused Damien to chuckle. “It’s quite simple, all we need to do is spread a rumor that each Middleton sister is in possession of a considerable amount of dowry. Every fortune hunter in England will be on their trail.”

  Westfield frowned. “That’s a bit extreme, no?”

  “You disagree?” Damien inquired.

  “Of course not,” Westfield muttered. “I’m just wrapping my mind around your evil one.”

  “It’s a brilliant plan,” Damien pointed out.

  “It’s the best plan I’ve heard in ages,” Westfield agreed with a nod.

  Damien managed a smirk. “They will be so busy avoiding the advances of all the riffraff, they won’t have time to pester you.”

  “Christ man,” Westfield said alarmed, “where do you get all your nefarious plans?”

  Damien chuckled, not the least bit offended. “I’m a beast, of course.”

  But the truth was he hated doe eyed, moonlit pleasantries. All the time he owned for romance came in the form of charm and wicked smiles. He also cared little for anything except his close friends, which extended only to Westfield and Grey. Other than that, the world could go to Hades.

  As a lord he had a duty to wed and produce heirs, but to hell with duty. His father had been a snake and perhaps Damien even inherited his father’s foul moods. But the blame lay solely on his predecessor for not producing a spare to the heir before he killed Damien’s mother. Well, not killed in the actual sense of murder, but he drove her to kill herself, which in Damien’s estimation, was as good as committing the deed.

  Perhaps if his mother had not killed herself in front of him and his father, he would have grown up ignorant of his father’s flaws. He’d been a mess after that, and that was how Westfield had found him, a crying heap of mess. The memory of that day never lingered far, like a black stain on his soul. Although his friend never once in all their long years of friendship spoke of it or even alluded to it.

  “Have you learned anything else about the elusive Shaw brothers?” Damien asked abruptly, hoping to distract himself from the path his thoughts had taken.

  “No,” Westfield said darkly. “They are remarkably good at hiding their dealings. People only ever recall spying a mountain of a man each time before a disappearance, but while that fits the description of James Shaw, or even his brother, it can never be proved.”

  Damien stood, eager for another brandy. What a splendid night to drown himself in his fine bottles of gold.

  “Of course, those bastards are too smart to leave clues for the amateur sleuth.”

  “I hope you are not referring to me,” Westfield said, his disgruntled tone causing Damien to chuckle.

  “I would never, yet they are smart.”

  Westfield shot him a sharp glance.

  “Don’t look at me like that, old friend. You have to admire their genius.”

  “I don’t have to admire anything pertaining to those brutes.”

  Damien was again reminded of his mother, standing before them, eyes filled with tears, a pistol aiming at her heart. He’d tried to placate his mother, but his father’s cruel laughter had been the final nail in his mother’s coffin and the reason she pulled the trigger, plastering her blood all over his father’s study—this very study. Damien would recognize a brute. His father had been a true one, not the Shaws, but Damien wasn’t about to point that out to his friend. He pushed the reminders aside, though he could never push them out entirely, and wondered why tonight of all nights they hovered on the surface.

  “There are worse things roaming about than those two.”

  “I suppose.”

  “Like the Middletons and their marriage-minded intentions,” Damien said to lighten the suddenly glum air.

  “By spreading lies.”

  “Not lies,” Damien said waving a hand in the air. “Their dowry isn’t known to anyone, perhaps there is a reason for that.”

  “Oh?” Westfield asked, his eyes lighting with speculation. “Perhaps they have none.”

  Damien only lifted his shoulder in response.

  “You are the devil, you know that?”

  “Of course, I was commissioned by London’s finest.”

  His friend drew back at the sarcasm in his tone. “I’m sorry, I did not mean to imply—”

  “Of course you didn’t,” Damien interrupted. “It is what it is.”

  “So,” Westfield said, directing the conversation to a more appropriate topic, “I heard you payed Craven a visit. Care to elaborate on that?”

  “Paying attention to rumors now, are you?"

  “Of course.”

  “What else have you learned?”

  “Not much, but I assume that Lady Josephine is somehow involved.”

  “The chit has decided she wishes to seduce Craven.”

  Westfield’s mouth dropped open. “What?”

  Damien’s dark scowl turned even darker. “Yes, it would seem it started as a wager to gain a kiss, which escalated to something else entirely.”

  “Is my sister involved?"

  Damien nodded. “Yes, and your Lady Belle even had her little hounds on my heel for a while, to distract me, but I’m not one to be led around the nose.”

  Westfield scowled. “She’s not my Lady Belle and why would Lady Josephine choose Craven as a conquest? The man’s reputation is even darker than yours.”

  “Pure speculation.”

  “I take it Lady Josephine won the wager.”

  Damien nodded, downing his brandy.

  “I take it you did not respond well?”

  “Westfield,” Damien warned, his voice tight and its the meaning clear. Stop.

  “You know, Lady Josephine would make for an interesting wife.”

  “No, she would not.”

  Yes, she would.

  “Well, how would you know? You seem to like her well enough.”

  “I’m not marrying Lady Josephine!” Damien snapped, annoyed now. Saints, married. Him? Did Westfield wish to torture him?

  “It was only a suggestion.”

  “Well you can stop with your unwanted suggestions.”

  “Why do you always have to ruin my pleasure?”

  “Because your pleasure falls into the same category as torture and my enjoyment tonight consists of getting foxed and spreading rumors of poor unsuspecting females.”

  “Now there’s a plan.”

  Westfield’s brilliant smile made him appear young and boyish. Damien had always envied his friend that trait. He was an easy fellow, with no foul moods or tempers, the exact opposite of Damien.

  He just hoped Westfield, protector of all females, would still be so charming after he learned that Damien seduced Lady Josephine. He had subjected himself long enough to this agony. And it was agony, lusting after her, watching her bat her lashes at Craven.

  “By the by, what did Craven say when you confronted him?” Westfield asked.

  “Nothing,” Damien said. “The bastard said nothing.”

  “Well, perhaps we will run into him tonight and beat him to a pulp.”

  “Now there’s a satisfying thought,” Damien muttered darkly.

  Or better yet, find himself a willing woman with ample charms to bury himself in, to make him forget all about innocent young ladies. It appeared Westfield had the same idea.

  “Yes, then we can find ourselves some lovely womanly charms,” his friend’s voice slurred.

  How many brandies have they had?

  “I was just thinking the same thing,” Damien said, noticing his voice too, had a slight slur to it.

  “We have yet to experience our golden years. Years before we need to consider marriage.”

  That caught Damien’s attention. “You say that as if the thought has crossed your mind. Have you considered it?”

  “Haven’t you?”

  Yes, but it was not worth mentioning to Westfield, so he snor
ted instead.

  “Not even with the pretty Lady Josephine?”

  Damien shrugged, as if that was explanation enough. And of course it would be. He was a notorious rake who possessed a dark reputation after all. Any woman should know better than be caught alone with him.

  “Of course you did. I can see it in your eyes.”

  And that was in essence, the reason Damien loved his friend. He managed to see right through the façade Damien presented to the world.

  “If I considered it,” Damien muttered, “it was only because I considered what it would feel like to live in a constant nightmare for the rest of my miserable life.”

  “Surely marriage cannot be that bad.”

  “I’m sure it isn’t,” Damien drawled, pouring them more brandy, “it’s the nagging and responsibility that sticks in my craw.”

  Westfield laughed. “Ever the optimist.”

  Damien watched his friend rub his temple. “Ready to call it a night,” he taunted. “You look as if you are ready to pass out.”

  “Of course not. We still have rumors to spread.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  “Devil of a headache since she put her hounds on me.”

  “Nothing cures a headache quite like drowning it in spirits.”

  “Right,” Westfield murmured. “It’s only the bad stuff that worsens the headache.”

  “I’ll have you know that nothing enters these lips of mine but the best.”

  “We’ll have to spread the rumors at Whites,” Westfield muttered, distracted. “It’s where all the fortune hunters hang out, seemingly to keep up appearances.”

  “Really? There is something of which you wish to inform me?” Damien asked in a teasing manner.

  Westfield’s grin appeared lopsided. “Evelyn’s dowry has crippled my finances.”

  “Then I shall beat Grey to a pulp again for marrying your sister.”

  “As I recall, there was no victor in that brawl of yours.”

  Damien scoffed, "Only because it would not have been fair beating up a man with no skill.”

  “I’ll take your word for it. After all, you are the expert in the craft of brawling. You seem to be doing it at an alarming rate.”

  “Only when it touches me personally,” Damien declared.

  Westfield smiled. “Now that’s revealing.”

  Damien pretended not to hear him and got up, swaying on his feet.

  “Are you certain we’ll make it to the front door?” Westfield murmured, now also swaying toward the exit.

  Damien swallowed, fog filling his brain. He closed his eyes for a moment. How many glasses of brandy had they consumed? Westfield only arrived…well, not that long ago, so why were they both swaying like some drunken peasants? He regarded his friend through hazy eyes. “Westfield, are you well?” Damien asked, rubbing his temples where a headache threatened to pierce his skull.

  “I’m fine,” he slurred. “Just a headache.”

  “Never get them,” Damien muttered, plopping down on the sofa again, realizing they were in no condition to leave tonight.

  Westfield slumped down next to him, his hands rubbing both his temples. “Bloody hell, what happened to that brandy?”

  Damien closed his eyes, willing his own headache to go away as a rush of exhaustion settled over him. He even attempted to count, but could not remember what came after the number three. Five? “Must’ve been a bad batch.”

  “Lucky us.”

  Yes, lucky them, he thought, before he passed out.

  Chapter 10

  Bond Street was filled with people milling about, going about their business. Ladies and gentlemen alike cluttered the cobblestones, girls shopping for bonnets and men indulging them. Other, less fortunate men shouted at one another from across the street while an old lady hobbled along the edge, waving her cane at some lord when he accidentally stepped in front of her path. All were unsuspecting of the hell about to break lose.

  Yet at that precise moment inside a small dressmakers shop, Lady Josephine and Lady Belle posed as shop girls, attending to the Countess of Ardmore in a calm and orderly manner, oblivious to what was happening outside. Well, not entirely oblivious. Not even the Countess recognized them, for they wore wigs and dressed in simple peasant attire. And why would anyone spare a closer glance at them? No one would ever believe a lady would pretend to be anything but a lady.

  It was genius.

  A few feet away from the shop, James Shaw busied himself loading a cart of boxes and crates, appearing to the untrained eye as just another merchandiser going about his affairs. The women passing the street, however, had trouble keeping their gazes off his big form, openly admiring him while he worked and he pretended not to note their stares.

  Somewhere at the back of the shop, Craven swaggered. To anyone who passed him, he appeared a drunken, bedraggled and dirty fool, swaying up and down the alleyway, shouting for his Matilda to come home.

  All this seemed quite comforting, except that somewhere in the crowd, the Middletons prepared to put their plan into action, which according to Poppy Middleton, would be a grand affair.

  Lady Constance, on the other hand, was not aware of any of this as she made her way through the crowd to the dress shop, her guards following closely behind. She had no idea today would be the day she’d be set free from the clutches of the man who’d forced her into marriage, and with a little luck, she would never need to worry about him and his cruelty again.

  Jo and Belle had but a few precious moments to convince Lady Constance they were her saviors and to play along. If she did not, well they weren’t above shoving laudanum down her throat if the lady did not cooperate.

  Lady Constance entered the shop only moments after the Countess of Ardmore departed and Jo’s heart sank at the look of utter acceptance on the poor woman’s face. Dark smudges marked the hollows under her eyes, no doubt caused by lack of sleep, and her cheeks appeared hollowed out. Yet, still she remained pretty, with honey blonde hair and soft pale skin. She looked like any other lady might, except for her eyes. They spoke of pain and sorrow.

  “Molly,” Jo called to Belle, “we’ve another customer.”

  With a shaky breath, Jo made her way over to Lady Constance, Belle following on her heels. “My lady,” she murmured with a smile. “How may we help you today?”

  “I wish to select some new material for riding habits.”

  “Of course, please follow us,” Belle said with a kind smile.

  Lady Constance brows furrowed together, glancing around the shop at all the material displayed.

  “Oh, we’ve new stock that may interest you,” Jo said when she noted Lady Constance hesitate.

  Belle nudged Jo.

  “My lady, if you please,” Belle motioned to the back.

  Oh yes, they were supposed to be peasants.

  “I suppose it wouldn’t hurt,” Lady Constance stammered.

  A wealth of meaning lay behind that stammer and Jo wished she could wrap her hands around Cartwright’s throat. They made their way toward one of the back rooms, one which had a door that led to the back entrance of the shop.

  Once in, Belle shut the door with a resounding click, never leaving her post in front of it, in case Lady Constance decided to dash off.

  “What is going on?” The lady asked when her eyes flicked across the room, no material in sight, only boxes for storage.

  “Lady Constance, we are here to kidnap you,” Belle said, rather to the point.

  “What?” the lady asked, her tone horrified and her hands starting to shake.

  “Belle! You needn’t put it that way,” Jo admonished.

  “How else am I to put it?”

  Jo ignored her, turning toward a now frightened Lady Constance. “I know this may sound strange, but we are not here to kidnap you, we have come to rescue you.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Let me put it this way, we are a group of individuals who aid people that are in trouble to either
disappear and start a new life, or as in your case, hand you over to your family.”

  Hope blossomed in Lady Constance eyes before it disappeared again. “My husband will kill you. There are guards. Even now they stand watch outside the store. They will never allow me to leave with you.”

  “Not to worry, we are aware of your husband’s men and have planned accordingly,” Jo reassured her, but kept her eye on the lady for any sign that she might bolt.

  “In a few minutes, there will be a commotion that will draw every eye in the vicinity, including your guards, but only for a few seconds. So we need to be ready and have your full cooperation for this to work,” Belle said in way of explanation.

  “But where will I go?”

  “The Duke of Richmond has been notified and will send someone to collect you.”

  “Richmond is part of this?” Lady Constance asked, hopeful once again.

  “Yes,” Jo lied. “But he must keep his distance until this is over or your husband will suspect him.”

  “But who are you?”

  Jo and Belle exchanged a glance. “For now, that is not important, what is important is to not get caught. You will go to the country and wait for him to send for you.”

  “I can’t believe this is truly happening.”

  Jo wiped a tear from her cheek. “It’s best if you are not aware of all the details, but once your husband has been taken care of and it’s safe to come back, you will have friends amongst you.”

  “I am with child.”

  They stilled at that news. “Does your husband know?”

  Lady Constance nodded. “Yes, he will never stop until he finds me. He will hunt me down to the ends of the earth.”

  “He won’t be alive to do so,” Belle muttered in an ominous voice and Lady Constance’s eyes widened at the sound of the pleasure in her voice.

  “Do not mind her, my lady. She’s a blood thirsty one,” Jo said, her eyes dancing with laughter.

  “So I see. What exactly is your plan after this commotion occurs?”

  “We will stuff you in a cart and get you out of London,” Belle supplied.