Regency Scandals and Scoundrels: A Regency Historical Romance Collection

by Scarlett Scott

  She shoved against his chest, managing to push him back just an inch or two and give herself space to breathe. “You’re a foul little man with a foul mind. I won’t ask again, Edmund. If you do not let me go, I will scream… and I don’t care who hears.”

  Beatrice had no time to react as Edmund pressed her against the wall. She tried to scream but his mouth was on hers, his dry lips pressed against hers and his tongue probing for entrance. Fear coiled inside her and she pushed with all her might, but he would not be moved.

  With limited options, Beatrice did the only thing she could in that moment. She bit him, sinking her teeth into his bottom lip with all the force she could muster.

  *

  Graham had left the breakfast room, his weighted conversation with Beatrice having robbed him of his appetite. Every bite after that charged exchange had been like sawdust on his tongue. As he climbed the stairs, he heard heated, angry whispers. At the top, he peered to his left and saw a couple embracing in the alcove.

  He could not see her face, but he recognized the gown instantly. It was the same light, sprigged muslin that he’d seen her wearing at breakfast. Had he been wrong? Was the animosity he’d discerned between Beatrice and Edmund nothing more than a lover’s quarrel?

  The bitterness he felt at that thought was surprising. But it was also fleeting. Edmund cried out, stepping back from her. His hand flew back and before Graham could reach them, the blow fell. Edmund had slapped her with enough force to rattle a grown man and he watched as she sank to her knees.

  “You vicious bitch!” Edmund hissed out between clenched teeth as he grabbed his handkerchief from his pocket and held it to his bleeding lip.

  His hand came back again, but Graham had reached them. Catching the man’s wrist, Graham whirled him around, twisting his arm until Edmund cried out in pain.

  “If you touch her again,” he warned, “I’ll break your bloody arm.”

  “Take your filthy hands off me!”

  Graham ignored the man as he turned his head to take stock of Beatrice’s injuries. “How badly are you hurt?”

  “I’m not. Not at all. Only a bit shaken,” she said as she used the wall to support herself as she climbed to her feet once more.

  It was clearly a lie. Her cheek had blazed bright red from his handprint. He could see the marks forming on her upper arm, marks that had clearly been left by a man’s hand. Perhaps it was pettiness or, perhaps, it was the desire to teach Edmund a lesson, but he adjusted his grip on the man’s wrist slightly. Graham grasped two of Edmund’s fingers, twisting them viciously. There was a slight popping sound. They weren’t broken, merely pulled out of joint, but he wouldn’t be striking anyone else for some time to come.

  Edmund let out a scream, clutched his mangled fingers and fell to the floor as Graham released him.

  Graham held out his hand to Beatrice. “I’ll escort you to your room and see to it that you arrive there without being further accosted.”

  He could see the indecision written plainly on her face. But as she glanced at Edmund’s sniveling form, her indecision vanished. She accepted his hand and stepped over the wailing figure.

  “Thank you, my lord,” she uttered.

  “Graham,” he corrected. “If this is an informal household, I should follow suit. In truth, I am more used to being called only by my given name. It sufficed on its own for many years.”

  She didn’t smile, but as they moved further along the corridor, she appeared less and less shaken, her confidence returning as they put distance between themselves and Edmund. “He won’t forgive this, you know,” she said softly. “He’s a small-minded, petty man. And he’ll glory in avenging what he sees as an affront to his dignity.”

  They stopped, having reached her chamber door. “And what of your dignity?” he asked.

  She smiled, a slight tilting of her lips that transformed her face and transfixed him. “According to Edmund, I have none… I am an adventuress living off the generosity of Lady Agatha. I should be earning my keep.”

  “In his bed?” Graham asked. It was an indelicate thing to say to a young woman, but then they were in a very indelicate circumstance.

  Her blush was answer enough, but she nodded anyway. “He has threatened on numerous occasions to have me tossed out… he claims that Lady Agatha is hovering near death’s door and once she is gone, I will have no other recourse but to warm his bed or someone else’s.”

  Graham clenched his jaw tight. He wanted to do more than dislocate the bastard’s fingers. Forcing himself to remember the manners that he’d neglected for so many years, he refrained from cursing in front of her. “That will not happen. Whatever comes, I promise you that he will never touch you again.”

  “Thank you… for that and for helping me. I don’t know—well, I do not wish to know what might have happened had you not intervened,” she said, laying one hand gently on his forearm.

  Graham covered her hand with his, holding it there, marveling at the softness of her skin. “You needn’t thank me for that. I cannot abide a bully and Edmund is nothing but that.”

  She cocked her head to one side. “What a strange thing for you to say.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, as a child, you were the very worst of bullies, to all of us,” she confessed.

  “I can’t recall it,” he admitted, not gainsaying her on it. How could he? His memory was naught but fragmented images that lacked context or chronology.

  “What has changed you? What has taken that bullying little boy and turned him into a champion?” she asked. Her voice was awed but, beneath that, there was a hint of suspicion. She was not entirely convinced that he was their Lost Lord. But how could she be after eighteen years? How could she be when he was not solely convinced of it himself?

  “Making the acquaintance of larger and far worse bullies,” he said. While his voice remained soft spoken, there must have been something in his tone that alerted her to the truth of the matter. Her hand, still resting on his forearm, tightened, squeezing gently. That touch, simple as it was and intended only to comfort, created a new awareness. It made him yearn for something that he should not, that he could not.

  He looked at her then, saw the compassion in her gaze. It was not pity he wanted from her, but something infinitely more dangerous to them both. Desire flared in him as he took in every detail of her face, the small freckles on her cheek, the perfect dip in the Cupid’s bow of her mouth. There’d been women in his life, but they’d been convenient—whores and tavern wenches who had been interchangeable. But desire for a specific woman, to want her and her alone, was something he’d never experienced before.

  She must have sensed the shift in his attentions, some undercurrent that passed between them. She pulled her hand free and stepped back, breaking the thread of tension that had stretched between them.

  She did not address the frisson that had just passed. But unspoken or unacknowledged, it was still very much present. Instead, she focused on his past, the parts of it he could remember. “Was it so very bad for you, Graham?”

  “Not all of it,” he answered. That was as much as he intended to tell her about the viciousness of his past. The ugliness of it was too much to burden anyone else with.

  She must have sensed his resolve to end the topic altogether “I think I shall remain in my room for the rest of the day. If I apply a poultice to my cheek it shouldn’t bruise or raise any questions.”

  “Then I will see you tomorrow,” he stated firmly. Tomorrow and every day after, he vowed, until he was either proven to be Lord Blakemore or tossed from the castle.

  *

  He watched them from the shadows, hiding in one of the many priest holes that dotted the castle. He had not yet managed to map them all or even discover all of them, but he was making happy use of those he had.

  There was something in the way they moved, the way their bodies appeared attuned to one another that alerted him. They would be a problem. It was evident. The would-be Lord B
lakemore was too protective, too eager to play the hero for a woman he had yet to see play the part of damsel in distress.

  He’d been cautious of Beatrice Marlowe and with good reason. She saw too much and was too close to Lady Agatha. The older woman doted on her and if questions were raised, he had little doubt that Lady Agatha would follow the guidance of the younger woman.

  She would have to be dealt with. One way or another, he decided, as he retreated deeper into one of the many passages. There were plans to be hatched and he’d need the assistance of someone who could move freely within the castle.

  Chapter Four

  Beatrice had been true to her word and had remained in her room for the remainder of the day. Graham was certain of that as he’d spent the better part of the day vying for glimpses of her. Whether it was the kindness and compassion he sensed in her, the soft and gentle prettiness of her countenance that, on further acquaintance, blossomed into true beauty, he could not say. It could also have been something much more primal, those moments alone in the corridor with her, tormented him. There was a connection between them, something that existed even beyond his stymied memories. Even without the layers of intimacy of years of acquaintance, he knew her through to the bone. He found himself longing for her presence. It was an unexpected though not entirely unwelcome complication.

  It had been his distraction at mooning over her that had led to the disaster that had occurred as he was dressing for dinner. He was cautious always to keep his scars hidden, to conceal the crisscrossing welts of raised flesh that marked his back. Lost in thought, he hadn’t heard the door open until the maid who’d entered had gasped in horror.

  He’d barked at the girl and she’d vanished immediately, no doubt to carry the tale below stairs for everyone else. Would Beatrice learn of it? Would it repulse her? Those were his real concerns and that, in and of itself, highlighted for him just what a distraction she was.

  As he entered the drawing room, Edmund was already badgering Lady Agatha terribly. Christopher, his younger brother whom he had yet to even speak with, was seated in the corner. Sprawled inelegantly in a chair with his hand draped over his eyes, the boy looked as if he’d rather be anywhere else. Given Edmund’s sharp tone and repetitive arguments, it was an easy sentiment to understand.

  “That is enough,” Graham said softly.

  Lady Agatha smiled up at him. She was clearly tired, with dark hollows beneath her dark eyes and a pallor to her skin that was deeply concerning.

  “You are not yet Lord of Castle Black,” Edmund snapped. “Lady Agatha may have swallowed your far-fetched tale as easily as a child with a sweet, but not me. Not Christopher!”

  “Leave me out of it,” the boy said sharply. “I want no part of any of it!”

  “She is clearly tired. Your badgering will not sway her mind but it could very well endanger her health,” Graham insisted. “You’ve sent word to your investigator, have you not? Let him investigate and leave her be!”

  Edmund sneered at him. “How heroic… playing the concerned son with such ease. Fine. Have it your way. We will wait until we hear back from Eaves about your tale of being rescued by sailors.”

  “I’d happily supply you with the name of the captain and the ship,” Graham offered. He had nothing to hide. Yes, it was possible that he was not Lord Blakemore, but he had not been dishonest in his presentation of that. He believed himself to be, the evidence pointed toward it. But given his disjointed memory, there was little he could offer to support his claim.

  Edmund turned away from Lady Agatha and crossed toward the windows. Pulling back the curtains with his uninjured hand, he stared out into the growing darkness. From the castle’s perch atop the cliff, the sea was visible just beyond the edge of it, stretching out endlessly until it met the graying horizon.

  As Graham watched him, the other man pulled his injured hand to his chest. Edmund glared at him. Graham’s only response was a raised eyebrow. Had Edmund’s hands not been where they did not belong, there would have been no need to do him injury.

  Eloise, Edmund’s wife who had thus far been a benign presence, rose from the settee and strolled toward her husband with a casual grace that put him on edge. She smiled like a cat that had made off with the cream, Graham thought. The sly glance she cast in his direction as she rose to her toes and leaned in to whisper in her husband’s ear had Graham tensing in anticipation of what was to come.

  When the exchange was finished, Edmund smiled victoriously and offered gleefully, “Perhaps there is a way you can prove your identity without the utilization of Mr. Eaves’ services.”

  Whatever it was would no doubt require humiliating himself, Graham thought. “And what is that, Cousin?” The last had been tacked on simply to add affront. He wanted to needle the smug bastard. It goaded Edmund to have that kinship tossed in his face. Petty though it might be, Graham couldn’t resist that small triumph.

  “The mark, of course,” Edmund stated, the very picture of smug superiority. “All Blakemore’s have it, do they not, Lady Agatha? Graham bore the mark upon his shoulder at birth!”

  Graham tensed. The maid had clearly been quite quick with her gossip for it to have already reached Eloise and, subsequently, her husband. Had the information been coerced or been offered freely as a means of currying favor? Had the maid’s entrance into his chamber been accidental at all or had she been sent there for the purpose of gaining information? He felt paranoid just thinking such thoughts and, yet, he did not put such spying or underhanded tactics past either one of them. But he would not be put on display for them.

  “I am not undressing in the drawing room for your viewing,” Graham replied smoothly without acknowledging either the presence or absence of the mark. If it had ever been there, he could not recall it. But knowing the current state of his flesh, marked by layer upon layer of scars from all the floggings he’d endured, there was little doubt it would be impossible to discern now.

  “Then for Lady Agatha. Surely you have no shame in providing the woman you claim to be your mother absolute proof of your identity,” Eloise suggested with a coy smile as she placed her hand atop her husband’s arm with regal ease. There was something in the way she moved, in the surety of her manner that put him on edge. What else did she know?

  Seeing no way around it, Graham simply offered the truth. “My back is scarred. If such a mark existed, it is no longer visible on my skin.”

  “Scarred?” Lady Agatha asked.

  “Flogged were you? Like a common criminal?” Edmund asked. Beside him, Eloise’s smug smile stretched even wider.

  Taking in the interplay that existed between Edmund and his wife, Graham saw immediately which of the two was the more dangerous. Edmund was a blowhard and perhaps even a fool, but there was something about Eloise that made him wonder just how far she would go to get what she wanted.

  “Yes,” Graham stated, without offering explanation. The details of it were not for the consumption of others.

  “How convenient that the only identifying mark upon your person has been lost to the wages of your sins,” Eloise surmised. “Without such proof, I cannot imagine that anyone would ever be able to fully accept your claim to the title. I imagine that, given your lack of memory, the absence of the mark, and your general lack of genteel manners, anyone would be hard pressed to ever believe you to be the son of a gentleman!”

  Graham didn’t reply as he did not feel a response was required. They were enjoying their moment of glory and as he lacked any evidence to refute what they’d said, arguing for arguments sake seemed a waste of both time and energy.

  “And what offense were you flogged for?” Edmund continued. “I could probably hazard a guess, but I find that it would be more meaningful coming from your own admission. That is the common punishment for thievery is not?”

  “I will not be interrogated by you, Edmund. You and your wife may both go the devil,” Graham stated firmly.

  “But surely Lady Agatha has the right to know?”
Eloise said. “Surely the kindly sea captain who took you in would have offered guidance that would keep you from such a dire fate? Don’t you wish to know, Lady Agatha?”

  Lady Agatha’s face had paled considerably and she placed her hand to her heart as if it pained her. “Graham, I don’t wish to make you uncomfortable. But I fear if these questions are not answered then things will only grow worse! Can you not tell them just to appease them and see an end to it?”

  Graham stared at her for a moment. There was no doubt in her gaze. Lady Agatha believed him to be her son without question. But she was not in any condition to tolerate the constant barrage of accusations and innuendos from Eloise and Edmund. Steeling himself against it and swallowing more of his pride than he cared to acknowledge, Graham uttered a simple answer.

  “Theft.” He offered no defense of himself but dropped the word like a stone into a pond. Ripples of tension arced outward, encompassing the entire room.

  “How intriguing. Should we count the silver now or wait until after dinner?” Eloise asked with a laugh.

  “Being flogged for something does not make you guilty of it,” Graham replied. “Just as not being punished for crimes does not negate their existence. I very much doubt you are without sin, Mrs. Blakemore. And as for you, Edmund, we both know your sins, do we not?”

  Edmund smirked. “I have been entrusted with the running of this estate since Lord Blakemore passed. I have every right to question your motives, sir. To that end, you will provide an explanation as to why you were punished so viciously, and more than once, for a crime you claim not to have committed.”

  Giving in to their demands for answers infuriated him. He had no shame in the marks he bore. But what others inferred by their presence was something else altogether.