by Jenna Jaxon
“Who the deuce are you?” Trevor’s scowl deepened as she glanced from Jack to Miss Carlton.
“I beg your pardon.” Reluctantly, he lowered his weapon. “Lord Manning at your service.”
“Manning? Good God.” Relief swept over Trevor’s features as he sheathed his sword and ran a hand through his disheveled hair. “What are you doing here?”
On the tip of his tongue to retort none of your damned business, to Jack’s horror, heat flooded his face. Damn it. What did the man think he had come to the House of Pleasure for? “Hrmph. No need to go into reasons for my presence tonight. Suffice it to say I have rescued a damsel in distress.”
Miss Carlton raised her chin, her stern gaze fixed on Trevor. Such a piercing stare should have skewered the man. Her chest heaved and her jaw tightened. Still, her mouth trembled. Looks were often deceiving when emotions were concerned.
“Thank you for your rescue, Manning. I hope we can keep this whole unfortunate episode private.” Trevor’s attention kept wandering back to Miss Carlton, his heart on his sleeve, or his face as it were. When Miss Carlton had told him of the circumstances that had led her to return to the House of Pleasure, she’d neglected to mention that Lord Trevor was in love with her—and she with him.
“My desire as well, Trevor.” Jack picked up the cloak he’d dropped and placed it carefully around Miss Carlton’s shoulders.
The viscount’s gaze had now fixed on the woman.
“I would not want it to get about the ton that my wife had been seen in a brothel.” He’d see if Lord Trevor would attempt the bait.
“Your what?” Trevor jerked his attention back to Jack at last, his gaze even wilder. “What the devil are you talking about?”
“Lord Manning asked for my hand in marriage.” Miss Carlton’s voice held a note of triumph. “I had just accepted his proposal when you burst in and interrupted us.”
Technically, she hadn’t accepted him yet, although that statement would do the trick. Unfortunate it was done merely to spite Trevor.
“Will you wish me happy, Lord Trevor?” She smiled triumphantly, twisting a knife deeply into the man who had hurt her.
“Of course, Miss Carlton. My heartfelt felicitations.” Trevor had managed to conceal his emotions in an instant, an impassive façade slamming down, cutting off the animation that so recently lit his face. An effective way to hide pain as Jack could attest.
She noted it immediately and her smile drooped.
Here was a problem he hadn’t foreseen when he’d offered himself in marriage. If the woman still loved the viscount, how could he and Miss Carlton ever hope to build a tolerable life together?
“You cannot imagine my shock and dismay when I discovered Miss Carlton here. I immediately thought of my sister’s ordeal. Naturally, I assumed the same circumstances applied to Miss Carlton, but she explained her unfortunate situation.” Dashed awkward, this.
Miss Carlton stared at Lord Trevor as though the gates of heaven were closing against her.
Impossible to carry forward, yet he must. Having made the offer, he couldn’t very well retract it now. “Of course, as a gentleman I could do nothing less than offer her the protection of my name.”
Trevor clenched his jaw so tight Jack could imagine his teeth cracked, then the cool mask of unconcern slipped back into place.
Well, there was an end to the hope Trevor might make it right.
“Miss Carlton has been most fortunate to encounter you, my lord. You will wed immediately, I assume?”
A startled movement from Miss Carlton brought Jack’s attention back to her.
Gazing squarely at Trevor, she wrung her hands, her face pale.
Oh, but this woman was going to be trouble, no doubt about that at all.
“We were about to leave when you came in, Trevor.” Would that he had understood their relationship more fully before making his declaration. “Although I’m deucedly at a loss for where to lodge Miss Carlton this evening. Tomorrow I can hire a maid and set her up at a reputable inn until I can procure a special license. But tonight…I suppose I could take her to Dalbury’s, although he’s still in an uproar over Juliet.”
Miss Carlton started back at the mention of his brother-in-law’s name. Damnation, she’d told him about the marquess’s connection to her brother’s death. Of course, she wouldn’t want to stay at his house. And that connection was going to make life deucedly awkward in future. He would not give up the company of his sister to soothe Miss Carlton’s sensibilities.
“That would not be wise, I think.” Trevor’s voice rumbled in the uncomfortable silence.
“Do not worry, my dear.” With a sigh, Jack took Miss Carlton’s hand, cold as a block of ice. “Good Lord, your fingers are freezing.” He rubbed them vigorously, now worried as well that the woman was ill. “Something will come to mind.”
“If I may suggest it, Manning, allow Miss Carlton to return to Lammas House for the night. Or until you marry. She has a maid and a full staff there to attend her.”
“Lammas House?” He paused in chafing her hands.
“Where I stayed,” Miss Carlton broke in, pulling her hands from his, “when I was under Lord Trevor’s protection, my lord.” The woman’s lips trembled, though not with cold, he’d wager.
“Will that arrangement be acceptable, Miss Carlton?” He hoped to God it would. Otherwise he was all out of ideas.
Cutting her eyes at Trevor, Miss Carlton sighed and nodded.
Jack released the breath he’d been holding and smiled for the first time since he’d entered this wretched room. “Good. Much obliged, Trevor.” He gave a quick nod and put his hand on the small of his future bride’s back. “I’ll send the boy for my carriage. What’s the direction?”
“It’s in SoHo, not far off—” Trevor’s voice held a strain, like he was keeping himself in careful check. “Damnation, I’ll lead you there.”
Thank God. Jack swept Miss Carlton out the door, eager to scrape the dirt of the House of Pleasure from his feet once and for all.
* * * *
The bells of St. James’ Piccadilly chimed faintly as Jack finally trudged up the steps to his townhouse. Midnight. Christ. Weariness overtook him at last and his shoulders slumped. What a freakish night it had been. Thank God it was over at last.
Simons opened the door at his knock and Jack gratefully doffed hat and cloak. A tot of brandy would send him off to bed nicely. “Did anything come in the evening post, Simons?”
“Not in the post, my lord.” The butler gathered his master’s belongings and handed them to a nearby footman. “There is, however, a letter that came by footman this evening, not long after you went out.” Simons produced a silver salver on which rested a small square of folded paper with a thick blob of green sealing wax, pressed by an unfamiliar seal.
Jack plucked it from the tray and carried it to the drawing room, the nearest room containing a decanter. Pouring a generous amount into a cut-crystal glass, he sipped and let the cognac sear his throat before popping the seal and unfolding the single page. He continued to sip as he read the brief contents.
Lord Manning,
Please attend me at your earliest convenience this evening. Whatever the time you receive this, it matters not. It is gravely urgent I see you as soon as possible.
Braeton
After draining the last of the cognac, Jack rolled the glass in his hand, frowning. Damned peculiar message coming from Braeton. He’d known the man almost since he’d landed in England earlier this year. The Earl of Braeton and his wife were avid horse lovers, an interest Jack shared wholeheartedly. He’d been to several balls and house parties given by the couple, who had proved very jovial hosts. Their one detraction was Miss Forsythe, apparently in London in search of a husband. Lady Braeton had made pointed overtures toward him at a summer house party regarding her cousin, overtures he
just as pointedly rejected. Oh, Miss Forsythe was a beautiful woman, no doubt about that. Witty, strong spirited, and an excellent horsewoman. And therein lay the rub. With coppery auburn hair in addition to all her other attributes, the woman reminded him uncannily of his sister, Katarina, which rather put him off the idea of marriage to Miss Forsythe.
Marriage, Christ. Well, he needn’t worry on that account any longer. He had settled Miss Carlton at Lammas House, the snug love nest where Trevor had lodged his mistresses over the years. His most recent lady-bird had flown the coop well before he rescued Miss Carlton the first time from the House of Pleasure. Against his better judgment he’d left her there for the night. Although he didn’t believe anything untoward would occur between her and Trevor, he’d remove Miss Carlton and her maid to an inn first thing tomorrow until the marriage could take place. So much to do tomorrow and now this summons from Braeton.
Jack tapped the note against his hand and glanced at the clock over the mantel. After midnight. Surely the earl had gone to bed by now. “Simons.”
“My lord?” The butler appeared promptly.
“Did the footman who brought this note say anything else?”
“No, my lord. Save he was to wait and accompany you back to his master’s house.” Simons indicated the corridor. “The man’s been sitting in the kitchen eating anything Cook will give him and flirting with her and the housemaids.”
“The devil you say!” Tossing the letter onto the sideboard, Jack strode from the room. Simons followed in his wake. He made it to the kitchen without breaking into a trot, but he hurried nonetheless. If Braeton had instructed the man to stop here until he could fetch Jack back, the situation must be dire indeed.
The footman, true to Simons’ description, had indeed set up court in the kitchen. Seated on the settle by the fire, a cup of tea in one hand and an apple tart in the other, he leaned forward laughing with one of the silly young maids.
As Jack entered, Daisy leaped to her feet.
Hastily depositing the tea and tart on the settle, the footman rose. “My lord.” The fellow had turned pasty white.
“Yes, yes.” Jack waved the maid away and she scurried toward the scullery. He fixed his gaze on the crumb-bestrewed footman. “Do you know why I have been summoned?”
“No, my lord. Only that I was to deliver that note to you and wait to bring you to Lord Braeton, my lord.” The footman eyed him cannily, as though afraid Jack might bolt at this news.
“’Sblood, this is inconvenient.” With a sigh, Jack motioned to Simons. “Have the carriage brought around. It seems I must attend Lord Braeton this evening, or morning rather.”
“Very good, my lord.” Simons headed immediately for the back hallway, in search of his own footman to command.
“You may return to Braeton.” Jack nodded at the earl’s footman. “Tell him I am on the way this instant.”
“Very good, my lord.” The man cast a longing glance at the tart, bowed, and hurried out the kitchen door.
“The rest of you may retire for the evening. Tomorrow will be here soon enough.” Resisting the urge to swipe the footman’s pastry, Jack strode back into the front hall. Simons met him with his cloak, hat, and gloves.
After this wretched evening, he could scarcely force himself to Braeton’s, but conscience won out. He’d meet Lord Braeton, discover the purpose of his summons and hopefully return home before the cock crowed. If not, this hellish night would continue on.
Chapter 4
Although more than awkward to knock on Braeton’s door at close to one o’clock in the morning, Jack had scarcely rapped when the door jerked open. A butler, blinking with sleep but otherwise unruffled, showed him to Braeton’s reception room.
Gravitating toward the warmth of the fire, Jack listened for sounds of alarm, household uproar of any kind that might give him an inkling of why he had been summoned. The solitary ticking of the long-case clock just outside the door punctuated the mystery of the otherwise quiet house. Jack looked longingly at Braeton’s decanter of fine Irish whiskey. No, he’d wait for his host, though his fingers itched to pour a shot, and his throat longed for the delicious burn.
“Manning.” Lord Braeton strode into the room, settling his coat over his shoulders. “Good of you to come out so late. Hope I’ve not inconvenienced you over much.” The earl, usually all smiles, had folds of a frown pleated across his brow. From his regret at summoning Jack at such an ungodly hour, perhaps. But something in the man’s countenance, a worry deep in Braeton’s golden brown eyes said the cause had more to do with the reason for the summons than the lateness of the hour.
“Not a’tall, Braeton. I’m sorry I took so long to return. I was out with friends and the time got away from us. I didn’t get in until after midnight.” Jack forced a smile, still wondering at Braeton’s request. His gaze kept straying to the decanter.
Braeton followed his look and motioned to the sideboard. “A nightcap would not be amiss, I think.”
“Not amiss a’tall. I’m chilled to the bone, despite the short drive.” Not to mention his head still reeled with the knowledge of his impending nuptials. It kept sneaking up on his thoughts and surprising him at odd moments.
“Just so, just so.” Braeton poured generously and handed the glass to Jack.
He gripped it and took a mouthful of the best whiskey money could buy. Braeton’s wife’s connections must be top notch. The smooth liquor lit an agreeable burn all the way down his throat. A pleasant afterglow made Jack relax at last. “Excellent vintage, that.”
Braeton nodded absently. The man’s mind had been snared by something else entirely. He strode from the sideboard to the fireplace in three long strides. “Deucedly awkward, this.”
Ah. So they were coming to the crux of the matter.
His host’s hand trembled, making the whiskey ripple on the surface. Beads of sweat stood out on the earl’s brow. Never had Jack seen him so uncomfortable.
Did the man need money? He’d been sure Braeton had full pockets from all the talk. Besides, Jack doubted he had the kind of capital such unease would warrant. The earl could always have tapped his wife’s Irish relations. The Forsythes were rich as Croesus if the rumors were true.
“I want to say straight out, Manning, this was not my idea. I gave the girl several options, but she insisted on this course of action.”
The girl? Not his wife, surely. Did Braeton then mean Miss Forsythe? The hairs on the back of his neck snapped to attention and a chill inched its way down his spine. “Do you refer to Miss Forsythe by any chance, my lord?”
“He certainly does, Lord Manning.” A vision of flames swirled around a lovely face as the tall, copper-haired siren marched into the room. Instead of a modest dress of some dull, suitable color, she’d decked herself out in an evening gown of deep maroon that caught the varying shades of red in her hair, complementing them and emphasizing the pale skin of her breasts and neck. Her breasts, in fact, swelled alarmingly over the top of her gown, disconcertingly like his sister used to wear her gowns until her husband put a stop to it.
Trouble with a capital T.
“Miss Forsythe.” Jack bowed, as perplexed as ever. What was the woman doing here at this time of night, and dressed most inappropriately?
“Lord Manning, I must apologize for this cryptic summons, but I importuned my cousin to send to you upon a matter of utmost importance.” Miss Forsythe twisted her fingers together brutally, until Jack felt tied in knots.
“Utmost importance to your cousin, Miss Forsythe?”
“To me, Lord Manning. Although it will likely touch on both my cousin and her husband as well.” The woman avoided his eyes by moving swiftly toward Braeton. She grasped his arm and leaned toward him, her lips at his ear.
Braeton kept his voice low, though his face acted as an open book. At her first words, he scowled like a vengeful god.
Jack waited for the thunderbolt.
Shaking his head vigorously, the earl drew his brows down almost to his nose. “You will not—”
“My lord, you promised me earlier.” Miss Forsythe’s face had drawn into determined lines. Her voice lowered, power in her indomitable tone. “Do not renege on this, I beg of you.”
Dark brows still lowered, Braeton threw up his hands, paused to collect himself, then turned to Jack. “Miss Forsythe wishes a word with you, Lord Manning.” He shot an angry glance at the lady. “Alone.”
All Jack’s instincts for self-preservation leaped into high alert. Something ill was afoot and he doubted it would be to his liking one whit when it finally came out.
Miss Forsythe stood, demure for possibly the first time in her life, her gaze lowered, her hands clasped primly in front of her. The picture of an obedient woman. And as false as a Newgate penny, he’d be bound.
“I am certain anything Miss Forsythe has to say to me could be spoken in your presence, Braeton.” He shot a look of desperation at the earl. Had the girl conceived some sort of trap to spring on him, compromise him into marrying her? Jack stiffened, then for the first time since he had arrived, he relaxed. Even though unannounced, he was already betrothed. Miss Carlton had now saved him, it seemed. Quid pro quo.
“I believe my cousin wishes to ask a boon of you, Manning.” Braeton’s mouth twisted as though he’d bitten into a lemon. “I am aware of the nature of the request and agree she would want privacy to ask it. I won’t be far if you should need me.” Braeton bowed curtly and left.
More confused than ever, Jack turned his attention back to Miss Forsythe, who swayed slightly from side to side, fidgeting with a lace handkerchief she’d produced from somewhere. Did she expect their conversation to lead to tears?
“Won’t you please have seat, Lord Manning?” Miss Forsythe indicated the chair nearest the fire. She seated herself opposite him. Perched seemed a better word, on the edge of the brown leather chair. “I do thank you so much for attending me at such an inconvenient time.”
