The Scoundrel's Honor

by Christi Caldwell

  No sooner had the door closed behind her than Jonathan turned to Penelope. “If you’ll excuse us, Penny? I’d speak to Mother.”

  Once again, that high-handed indifference grated. “About me,” she said stonily. “This is my fate and my future you discuss.”

  “And it was your actions last night that caused this.”

  That quiet but stinging accusation thundered around the room, punctuated by the steady ping of rain on the crystal windows. She curled her hands tightly at her side. Jonathan was correct. She’d brought this latest scandal to their family. And while she wished to dig in her heels, and protest being ushered from the room like a naughty child, she was one more utterance away from dissolving into a heap of weepy despair, which would only fuel their perceptions.

  Angling her head up, she jerked her stare forward and, with as much dignity as she could muster, swept out of the room.

  As soon as the door closed, the debate between mother and son raged on.

  “Penny.” The faint, too-somber whisper jerked her gaze from the doorway, and she stared at the beloved, always-smiling, troublesome minx. Poppy. As always, her dog, the mangy mutt Sir Faithful, sat loyally at her side. Despite her seventeen years, and her complete optimism, Poppy stared back with stricken eyes. Poppy, who with her effervescent spirit, was deserving of an honorable gentleman who loved her. In a beautiful gesture more befitting an elder sister, the younger lady stretched her hand out, crooked her fingers.

  Biting her lower lip to stop the tremble, Penelope ignored that offering.

  Poppy motioned once more, and coward that she was, Penelope placed numb fingers inside her sister’s. She allowed Poppy to tug her away from the room—the room where both their fates and futures were so heatedly discussed.

  A tortured moan spilled past her lips, and Poppy gave her fingers a squeeze. Selfishly, she took from a sister she had no right accepting any gift from, drawing solace from that implicit show of support. She’d never properly appreciated Poppy. Not the way she’d deserved.

  They made their way back abovestairs, with Sir Faithful trotting devotedly at their heels.

  No sooner had they slipped inside Penelope’s chambers and closed the door than did Poppy speak: “No.”

  Drawing in a shuddery breath, Penelope made her way to her secretaire and slid into the familiar folds of her upholstered seat. “I didn’t say anything,” she said tiredly. She was too empty of words. Absently she flipped open the pages of her diary; those hopeful thoughts she’d poured upon the pages glared mockingly back.

  “You did not need to say anything,” Poppy said, crossing her arms. “You are not going to marry him because Mama wishes you to.” She glowered. “And you are certainly not going to marry him because of me. Someday I’ll find an honorable husband, and all the gossips can go to the devil.”

  Only there would be no future match for Poppy. Her sister was just too naïve to realize as much. Just as Penelope herself had been.

  She snapped the book closed and dusted a hand over her eyes.

  “They say he’s killed scores of men,” Poppy said on a hushed whisper that filled the room with coldness.

  Scores? Penelope shivered, and curled into herself, as all those pieces about Mr. Black first printed in the pages that she’d so casually skipped over now blared to the surface. Surely a duke’s son was not a . . . killer?

  I’ll not ask ye again . . . ?

  The faint bruises from his punishing grip burned with the memory of his harsh demands, and she gave thanks that in the dark of last night her brother hadn’t seen them, or nothing would have stopped him from seeing the man at dawn. And even now, the Earl of Sinclair would be no more, if that were to have happened. She’d no doubt of that. “He is a viscount,” she said tiredly.

  “Do not look like that,” Poppy said with uncharacteristic harshness, and Sir Faithful whimpered, nestling against his mistress’s side.

  As close in age as the bond had been between them, they’d developed an uncanny ability to know precisely what the other thought. She prevaricated anyway. “Like what?”

  “Like you are some medieval princess who’d sacrifice herself to save the keep.”

  Despite the misery and fear gripping her, Penelope smiled. Yes, Poppy had always been a romantic. Her smile withered. The younger girl would make her Come Out next year to have her dreams dashed—just as Penelope’s had been. Pru had only been mentioned in a public wager by her now husband. Sin had married the sisters’ governess. Patrina suffered a failed elopement to one man, only to wed a different gentleman several months later. What gossip followed women who’d been rolling around a garden floor?

  “I am so, so sorry,” Poppy whispered, settling her hand over hers. “Did he . . .” At that telltale pause, Penelope glanced up. “Hurt you?” By the fire blazing in her eyes, if Penelope answered in the affirmative, her sister would no doubt turn a bloodthirsty warrior to hunt down the dastard in question.

  It was why she was deserving of Penelope’s sacrifice.

  Just then, she wished she’d bickered less with Poppy; she wished she’d been the always-patient, doting elder sister, and not one who’d delighted in needling the younger girl. She glanced down at their connected fingers, and tightly shook her head.

  Who are you . . . ? Who sent you . . . ?

  “He believed I was . . . someone else.” Another chill raced along her spine. What manner of man was Mr. Black that he’d expect enemies to come in the form of young ladies in ruffled white skirts? What had he seen and done to account for that mistrust?

  “Then it is as you said, all a misunderstanding.” Even as Poppy’s words were a statement more than anything, Penelope nodded anyway. Sir Faithful whined once more. Smart dog, even he had the sense to see the muck Penelope had made of their lives. Her younger sister patted the mangy cur on the top of his head, and he instantly quieted. “Well, I shan’t allow you to marry a man on a misunderstanding. Especially a killer.”

  Penelope bit her lip hard. If she weren’t properly shamed and grateful for Poppy’s support, she would have taken her to task for her casual throwaway of that particular word. Not given Penelope’s inevitable fate. A fate that her mother recognized, and brother and sister still deluded themselves of. “I am tired,” she said softly. “I’d like to rest for a bit.” Which wasn’t untrue. She’d not slept so much as a minute last night. How could she?

  “Of course.” But Poppy hesitated. “Are you certain you don’t wish me to remain? I might stay with you until you’re sleeping.”

  Penelope stood and folded Poppy in her arms.

  The other girl stiffened, and then hugged Penelope back. “It will be all right,” Poppy assured, as she pulled back. “I’ll find a perfectly loving gentleman someday who loves dogs, and it shan’t matter to him.” She gave a purely Poppy mischievous grin. “After all, everyone knows men who have dogs are loyal and won’t be bothered by our scandalous family.”

  The words were intended to reassure. Instead, her sister may as well have thrust a jagged blade of guilt into her chest. “Thank you,” she said softly.

  When Poppy and Sir Faithful had at last gone, Penelope stood motionless, staring at the closed door.

  Fact: Belowstairs, her brother and mother continued to debate Penelope’s future.

  Fact: She’d been the one to bring scandal crashing on their family.

  Fact: She would be the one to set it to rights.

  Penelope steeled her jaw. Yes, she’d have ownership of her circumstances . . . and more, Poppy’s. Hurrying to her armoire, she pulled the doors open and grabbed her cloak. Her body trembling, Penelope draped the velvet garment over her shoulders and drew the hood over her head. Then rushing over to her desk, she collected her reticule and started for the door.

  In the early morn hours, the club was generally quiet.

  Today, it was largely abandoned.

  Arms folded, Ryker stood on the edge of the gaming floor and skimmed his gaze over the mostly empty tables. The
patrons seated throughout were the lowest rung of polite Society who’d lost nearly all to Ryker long ago. And the merchants and street ruffians who more often than not found their pleasure at Killoran’s tables.

  A loud rumble of thunder shook the Hell and Sin.

  “Quiet morn,” Niall observed, sidling up to him.

  He remained tacit.

  “Usually full when it rains,” Niall added. Responsible for security on the floor, with the less-than-impressive number of patrons, the other man had time to chat off his ear.

  “It is early,” he muttered, and yet for that assurance, unease blotted out his own sense of calm. Long ago he’d learned to trust his sixth sense.

  “The tables are empty for a reason,” Adair said quietly, joining them.

  Ryker stiffened and didn’t take his gaze from the handful of lords in attendance.

  Men who generally cut a wide swath around him stared boldly back. And this time whispered loudly. From the corner of his eye, he detected one man with disgust stamped in his features shake his head, and then look away from Ryker.

  “It’s in the papers.” Adair’s quiet whisper brought his attention back. “What transpired last noight,” he said, slipping between his practiced tones and Cockney.

  Ryker’s stomach muscles knotted reflexively. “You know I do not bother reading the papers,” he clipped. He stole a quick, searching glance at the other man, but Adair’s concentration remained on the floor. Some of the tension left him.

  From where he stood at a roulette table, Calum gripped a colorful dandy by the arm. The gentleman’s angry shouts filled the largely empty club, and Niall immediately rushed over to attend the scuffle. Ryker’s body went taut as he took in the growing dispute. In short order, Niall led the dandy through the club and showed him out the front door. With a growl, Ryker strode from the gaming floor. Calum trailed after him, easily catching up to him.

  Bloody Christ on Sunday. He shoved his door open and strode inside, Calum close at his heels.

  “Not a word,” Ryker bit out, swiping a bottle of whiskey and a glass from his sideboard. He poured it to the rim. “Not a goddamn word.” If his brother so much as lectured, laughed, or spoke wrong, he would beat him senseless. As it was, Ryker was itching for a fight.

  Which only drew forth the memory of the Earl of Sinclair last evening, as he’d been in the earlier meeting inside Somerset’s office. Snapping and snarling and equally spoiling for a fight, but those honorable lords didn’t remove their immaculate gloves to bloody their hands in battle. Cursing roundly, Ryker raised his glass and downed the contents in a long, quick swallow. His lips pulled in an involuntary grimace, but he welcomed the sharp sting of the liquor. He poured another. “I expect you find this amusing.” Say yes, so I can knock you on your arse.

  “Do you truly believe I would find anything amusing in the current state we find the club in this morn?” Calum firmed his lips. “No. I do not think there’s anything amusing about the hell being empty.”

  He grunted. “It is not empty.”

  “It is,” Calum said with a solemnness that sent a different level of tension surging to the surface. “And it’s because of what’s in the papers.” He grabbed a stack from the table beside the door and held them up. “Have you read them?”

  Ryker gave a taut shake of his head, forcing his gaze away from those damnable pages.

  “They say Ryker Black is a man who dallies with and ruins their daughters and sisters. There are calls for noblemen to avoid our club altogether.”

  A vile curse burst from his lips, and he slammed a fist into the nearby wall. He’d spent ten years building an empire, and in just one evening, it had been taken down—by a lady.

  “Ye cannot go about tuppin’ a lady.” His brother spoke the same way a tutor disciplined a child during his lessons. “Not without making it right. Jaysus, you’re a viscount, now, whether you want the bluidy title or not.” His annoyance made his tones sloppy.

  “I didn’t tup her,” he snapped. The voluminous fabric of her ridiculous white dress had only highlighted the absolute absence of curves to the lady; more girl than woman.

  Calum brandished another paper. “It says ye did, and that’s enough for our patrons.”

  “Where were you last evening?” he demanded. “If you’d been outside when the whole bloody scandal had hit, you’d have known.”

  His brother’s cheeks went red. “This ain’t about me. This is about the club. If you marry a daughter of the ton, it might make the hell more reputable. It will lend new credibility.”

  Grabbing the newspaper from his fingers, Ryker tossed it aside, where it sailed to the floor with a loud thump. “Yer mad.”

  “To those men downstairs,” Calum ranted, taking a step closer. “Ye may as well have frigged her. What did you discuss with the earl?” At any other time he’d have told the other man to go to hell for daring to question him. This, however, was different.

  In one faulty misstep last evening, Ryker had brought damage to the club’s reputation.

  “I explained the lady had been hiding under a bench when I went out to smoke a cheroot.” In the tense meeting between Ryker, his brother-in-law, and the Earl of Sinclair, he who answered to no one had explained why he’d been in the gardens, with his hands on the earl’s innocent sister, and that was all. That courtesy, however, had come only as a man with a sister of his own. Through the years, Ryker had strict rules on who could and could not speak to Helena, and no man had dared to touch her while she was under his care. If they had, Ryker wouldn’t have bothered with curt formalities and clipped questions as Sinclair had, but rather would have ripped the bastard’s entrails through his mouth.

  “Did you explain why you had the lady under you?”

  He gave a brusque nod.

  “And what did you explain?” The suspicion in that question filled the other man’s eyes, freezing Ryker.

  By Christ . . . Calum truly believed . . . “You actually believe I was outside to tup a virginal lady in white skirts?” God-awful white skirts that would be better burned for kindling than donned by any woman.

  His brother made a noncommittal noise.

  “I thought she was one of Killoran’s men,” he said with a hard edge.

  Calum stilled. Then—a strangled laugh escaped the other man. “You believed, you thought . . . ?” And this time Calum, for his earlier opinion on humor in the matter, tossed his head back and laughed. “By God, was it her fancy dress or perfect skin?”

  Ryker frowned as Calum’s shoulders continued to shake with his amusement.

  “Or mayhap it was her refined tones? I expect Killoran’s people are always gaining access to the homes of dukes. Or mayhap—”

  “Enough,” he muttered.

  Dusting tears from his eyes, Calum pushed away from the door and helped himself to the sideboard. “What resolution was reached?”

  He gave him a quizzical look. What resolution did the other man think would have been reached?

  Calum eyed him as though he had sprouted a second head. “The lady is ruined,” he said, pouring himself another glass of whiskey.

  What was he on about?

  “Should I be clearer? You need to marry her,” Calum said bluntly. “If for no other reason than to save the club.”

  Ryker choked. The man was headed for Bedlam if he thought that was the necessary resolution. “A bastard from the Dials, who runs a hell, married to an earl’s fragile, pale sister?” He arched a single eyebrow. Even if that were the expectation, which it certainly hadn’t been stated by the earl, the last thing Ryker wanted, needed, or would ever do was marry a pampered societal lady. No. He couldn’t bind himself to any woman, even if he wished to. To do so would only put another person in peril for her connection to him.

  “You are a duke’s son . . . and as I said before, a viscount.”

  The ticking of the clock punctuated Calum’s pragmatic words. Ryker slid a lethal glare in the other man’s direction. The Duke of Wilkinson�
��s blood might flow in Ryker’s veins, but that was the extent of his connection to that man. Mutinously Calum held his gaze. Having found each other as boys of five, and grown up to be ruthless lords of the street, Calum should know that better than anybody. Calum was the first to look away.

  “It hardly matters,” Ryker bit out. What did he care if a pampered and spoiled miss who’d been sneaking in her host’s home had been ruined? The fault was hers.

  A small frown on his lips, Calum looked at him. “You’re a heartless bastard, but surely you’re not so heartless that you’d be immune to the plight of a young lady whose name and reputation you’ve destroyed.”

  Actually, he was that heartless. Members of the peerage had shown him not a single jot of kindness. Now Calum, the Earl of Sinclair, his brother-in-law, or anyone, for that matter, thought it should matter to him if the lady was ruined.

  “She’ll never marry,” Calum pressed with a quiet insistence.

  “And?” he asked coolly, taking another sip. In a world where he’d known the pains of an empty belly for days on end, and had felt a birch rod applied to his back—he was expected to feel pity for a lady who’d brought about her own demise?

  “It is a different world,” the other man went on. “But it is hers. And a different kind of ruthless. You’ve essentially slayed her in the streets of St. Giles for what this means for her.”

  And with Calum’s precise, unwanted, but very real connection, a pit formed deep inside.

  Those were words he could understand. He presented his back to the other man and stared at the wall. Codes of honor in the streets he appreciated. Those resonated. He’d never bothered to think about the codes that drove that other world to which he didn’t belong. Then in one evening, all to placate his sister and her husband, Ryker had entered that foreign world . . . and there were forever implications of that—for the lady. Penelope. Or Philippa. Or whatever her bloody name was. Bugger it. He didn’t even know the name of the girl who’d mucked up his kingdom.

  Ryker downed his whiskey. “She is a goddamn lady,” he said tersely, holding the other man’s hardened stare. She belonged in his world even less than he belonged in hers. The way he couldn’t be turned into a cravat-wearing dandy, she, a lady just out of the schoolroom, could never relinquish the lifetime of propriety that had beaten survival out of her. “And it matters not. Sinclair wants her married to me as much as I want to marry the girl.”