The Scoundrel's Honor

by Christi Caldwell

  Lady Penelope folded her arms at her chest, and a disapproving frown formed on her bow-shaped lips. “That is impolite.” First, she’d call him mad, and now she’d school him on proper behavior? With her mutinous pose and charges, she bore no resemblance to the shaking, stammering creature who’d been ushered in moments prior by Niall. It spoke to Ryker’s own failings that she should be so wholly unfazed by him. “Though I allow, given my unexpected appearance”—is that what she’d call it?—“you are no doubt . . . shocked.”

  “I don’t shock,” he said in clipped tones. A man who’d witnessed other men draw their last breath from the violence found in these streets, he’d become immune to everything.

  Until now. Now this slip of a lady had flipped this room around and somehow gained the upper hand. He’d sooner splay his gut open than admit as much.

  “Well, regardless, I am certainly not the addled one.”

  By God, she’d called him . . . mad. Ryker dipped his eyebrows. Not a single soul in the streets of St. Giles had dared utter a word against him. “I beg your pardon?” he asked on a steely whisper.

  She shrugged. “It is simply that I realize the ramifications of being found as we were. It was ill luck for both of us, but Society will not soon forget that scandalous discovery. I’ll never m-marry.” A sheen of tears flooded Lady Penelope’s eyes, and he blanched. The women of his acquaintance—his sister, the whores at his club, even Clara, the woman he’d had as a loyal mistress for years—did not cry. It marked you as weak, and that weakness ultimately destroyed.

  “So you’ll marry me. Any husband will do, then?” he taunted, as she reminded him once more of what drove her kind. Yet why did he feel like the cad who’d kicked the puppy when she dropped her gaze to the floor?

  “This is certainly not ideal.” Her voice emerged so faint he strained to hear. “I imagined so much . . .” She grimaced, and then a blush stained her cheeks. “Still, you are a viscount—”

  “I’m a gaming-hell owner,” he interjected bluntly.

  “And a duke’s son,” she said, looking at him once more.

  “A duke’s bastard.” In every sense of the word. A bastard in ways that would have even this bold lady shaking in a corner.

  “And responsible for an act of bravery that earned you that title.” She wrinkled her pert nose. “Uh, that is the title of viscount.” That bloody honor handed down by the King for Ryker’s saving one of his esteemed nobles, and now that name would be forever attached to his, until he drew his last breath. He balled his hands.

  The harebrained miss fiddled with that pile of ledgers she’d just neatly stocked. “Still, there is your club to consider.”

  Just like that, the lady proved herself far more clever than he’d credited. Too damned clever. With that reminder, she’d correctly surmised the one thing in this miserable world he cared about—his club. His empty club.

  Ryker folded his arms. “Tell me, what manner of woman goes from asking if I’m going to murder her to asking to be my wife?”

  “A sensible one,” she said matter-of-factly, then frowned. “Nor did I ask you to marry me. I just indicated the expectations and benefits.”

  A loud commotion sounded in the hallway. Energy that came from facing too many enemies surged through him. The lady gasped as he swiftly positioned himself between her and the door. An instant later, someone pounded hard at the oak panel. “You’ve a visitor,” Calum called.

  Christ. Who was next? Mad King George back from the grave? “Enter,” he thundered. The lady at his back jumped. Mayhap she wasn’t a total lackwit after all.

  Calum opened the door, admitting—

  Lady Penelope cried out. “Jonathan!”

  The brother. He cursed under his breath. If looks alone were enough to slay a man, then Ryker even now would be bleeding at Lady Penelope’s feet.

  “Sinclair,” he said in cool, gravelly tones. From beyond the earl’s shoulder, Calum held his eye. Ryker need but give him the nod, and he’d turn the earl out on his arse, title be damned. The imperceptible shake of his head sent the other man backing from the room. “You lost your sister.”

  Ignoring his mocking pronouncement, Lord Sinclair held a hand out. “Penelope Pippa, by God, what madness drove you here?”

  Penelope Pippa? Only a bloody toff would saddle their offspring with such a name. For the palpable hatred between them, they were in agreement on one matter. The girl was mad.

  A muscle twitched in the other man’s jaw. “With your impetuosity you’ll not only see yourself ruined, you’ll see yourself dead in these streets.”

  As much as he loathed all the pompous toffs who’d lined his pockets, in this way he could identify with the brother’s responsibility for his sister. Ryker stepped aside. Of course, with the events of the past twelve hours he could not expect even this meeting to go smoothly.

  “I came to speak to the viscount—”

  “By God, Penny, you know not what you do. You cannot seek out a bloody gentleman.” The earl’s escalating tone hinted at his quickly receding self-control. “In a gaming hell, no less,” Sinclair boomed.

  “I am already ruined, Jonathan.” A rumble of thunder punctuated her words.

  The earl snapped out a hand. “Come,” he said tersely. “It matters not.”

  Does the gent truly believe that?

  “Do you truly believe that?” Lady Penelope echoed Ryker’s unspoken thoughts.

  “It does not matter, Penny.” The lady’s family had taken a perfectly regal name and cheapened it with a hideous moniker. “Your place is with the Tidemores. I’ll not see you barter your life and future for anyone. Not even yourself,” said the earl with a quiet insistence. He came forward and motioned to her. “Neither Mr. Bl—Lord Chatham nor myself believe there to be a need for a formal arrangement between you. So come.” For the earl knew still, just as he’d properly known yesterday, a fancy lady such as his sister had no place in Ryker Black’s world.

  With her innocence, she’d be eaten alive and spit back. Just as Killoran would do to the girl. Those gossip columns that had dragged the lady’s name around and through the rumor mill had left her exposed, her name dangerously linked to Ryker’s. Bloody hell.

  Lady Penelope hesitated. She lifted a searching gaze to Ryker’s face, and there was a plea in her eyes. He doubted he’d ever been so transparent, even as a babe born in the Dials. Ryker frowned, unsettled by her show of emotion. The only currency he dealt in with strangers was cold coin. And the people who had become his de facto family were not the manner of people to go about with their feelings stamped on their features. After a protracted silence, the lady ducked her gaze and started forward.

  The earl said something close to her ear, and she gave a curt nod, retrieving her cloak.

  “Chatham,” the earl said stiffly, as he tucked the lady’s small fingers onto his coat sleeves. “My apologies.”

  Ryker lifted his head, and that noble pair started for the door. Now he could have some blasted peace for the day. Still, if Killoran believes the lady means anything at all to you, she is well and truly marked. Staring after their retreating frames, he dug his fingertips into his temples. Goddamn it. His guests reached the entrance. Ryker swallowed a curse. “Sinclair!” His booming voice brought the lady and her brother to a halt. The earl shot a questioning glance back.

  “I’m marrying your sister.”

  Surprise rounded the lady’s eyes and the earl choked. “Over my dead body, Chatham.”

  Ryker smiled coolly. “Be careful, Sinclair. That can be arranged.”

  Chapter 7

  Dearest Fezzimore,

  My wedding shall be the grandest event. The sun will shine bright, and pink rose petals will line the path to St. George’s Cathedral. It will be the most talked-about affair, and all will wish to attend . . .

  Penny

  Age 12

  When Penelope was a girl, she’d had grand visions of what her wedding day would be. Her gown would be fashioned of the f
inest blue satin fabric with crystal beads dotting the décolletage and hem. Her sisters would giggle and smile at the joyous occasion. Jonathan would be proud to call the man marrying Penelope “brother.” There would be chiming bells and happy servants. And there was to have been sunshine. She made a disgusted sound at that foolish, whimsical fancy. It was her romantic nature that had gotten her into this conundrum.

  In the end, today bore no hint to that long-dreamed-of day. As a woman grown, she would have gladly forfeited all those hopes if there had been the promise of a loving, devoted groom at the altar waiting for her. Her throat worked painfully. There would never be a loving husband. There wouldn’t even be a slightly caring one. There was just Lord Chatham. A man who, in his exchange with his friend in the duchess’s gardens, revealed just what he thought of the ton. Feelings only made more resolute in their two exchanges together, since she’d been inadvertently eavesdropping under the bench.

  She looked out the window. Rain pounded away in steady rivulets, just as it had since yesterday morn. As though the heavens were crying at the mess Penelope had made of her life.

  Just as Jonathan predicted . . .

  Her belly tightened. Oh, how she despised that she’d proved Mama and Jonathan correct in their worries. She’d allowed herself to believe she would be received favorably by the ton, that in their midst would be a worthy gentleman who earned her heart and wanted forever with her.

  Penelope pressed her brow to the cool glass. How very different this day would have been were it raining two nights prior. She would never have been outside on that terrace, discovered with Ryker Black, and there would still at least be the hope for—more.

  The sound of the door opening filled the quiet. In the glass panel, her elder sister Prudence’s visage stared back. Not wanting to meet those sad eyes even in the windowpane, Penelope kept her gaze trained on a deep muddy puddle on the cobbled road. Of course she’d have to face her family, eventually.

  In a quarter of an hour for her wedding ceremony, to be exact.

  Oh, God . . . Her breath came quick and fast, filling her ears, deafening. I am going to marry a stranger, a man who’s proved himself harsh and unfeeling . . .

  But also a man who’d inevitably done the right thing by her, when he could have very easily thumbed his nose at Society’s expectations. Particularly given everything she’d gleaned about the man who so reviled the ton. Surely that said something of him?

  But he’s truly a good man . . .

  The duchess’s words about her brother floated around her memory, and Penelope clung to them, grasping on as a lifeline to keep her from descending into madness.

  “Oh, Penny,” Prudence said, jolting her back from that dangerous precipice.

  The regret and pain of those three syllables squeezed at her chest. God, how she despised being the recipient of her family’s pity. That sentiment was almost as grating as her own despair. Almost.

  “Hello, Pru,” she said quietly. Because, really, she had to say something.

  “You do not have to . . .”

  Penelope shot a look over her shoulder, quelling that same response she’d received from every Tidemore sibling. Those words, meant to reassure, only threw into further question Penelope’s judgment. They would allow her to shirk her responsibilities and escape Society’s expectations . . . as though she were a child still.

  “I was out in those gardens, Pru. It was a great misunderstanding, but it was brought on by my rashness. Poppy shouldn’t pay the price for that.”

  Prudence rushed over in a flurry of pale yellow skirts. “That is not how our family is. We do not hold one sibling’s happiness tantamount to the others’.” Yes, that was the loving bond that existed within their family.

  Letting go of the curtains, Penelope spun around. “And yet, you married Christian when the scandal broke. Why?”

  Her sister stilled, and then a frown turned her lips at the corners. “That was different,” she said automatically.

  “Was it?” Penelope retorted, raising an eyebrow. “You believed yourself in love with the gentleman, yes. But discovered he’d only courted you on a wager.”

  “Danced with me on a wager,” Pru mumbled.

  Penelope gave a wave of her hand. “And do not tell me that you didn’t think of me and Poppy when you decided to marry Christian anyway.”

  Rain pinged against the glass pane, filling the quiet left by Penelope’s words. Dismissing her sister, she glanced outside once more. Yes, everyone would put their siblings before all others, and yet Jonathan, Pru, and Poppy thought Penelope should so casually dismiss those same people?

  She started as Prudence settled a small, warm hand on her shoulder. “There is a difference, though, Penny,” she said with gentle insistence. “There is an essential piece that is different between you and me, and Patrina. We knew our husbands. This man, this Lord Chatham, who denounces his title and insists on being called Mr. Black, he is a stranger to you. He is but a man you had the misfortune of meeting in a garden . . . and you’d base forever on that?”

  Penelope had long prided herself on being the only Tidemore who’d been able to fashion herself into a proper lady. She’d not been free with her thoughts of love and happily-ever-after on anything other than that journal her brother had gone through. Pru had been the illogical one. Pru had been a girl chasing snowflakes and a marquess at Christmas just because Patrina had found love in that way.

  God, how she hated Prudence for choosing this instance to be correct.

  “Do not do this,” Prudence pleaded. Did she sense her wavering? “You can go to the country, and someday you will return and find a loving, honorable gentleman. As Patrina did.” And for a long moment, her sister’s words tempted and tantalized. Prudence held forth that still-fresh dream of a devoted husband.

  A black barouche rolled up to the front of the townhouse. Before the carriage rocked to a complete stop, the occupant shoved the door open and leapt onto the pavement.

  Ryker Black . . .

  Like that dark, threatening god Poseidon risen from the seas, he let the steady stream of rain batter at his head. It beat down on him, hatless, matting his unfashionably long, midnight strands.

  He flexed his jaw.

  Had she not been watching closely, she would have missed that slight telltale gesture. But she had been. And knew . . . knew he wanted to be here as much as she wanted him to be.

  Mr. Black cast another glance back at the carriage. Did he also see the folly in this union?

  Leave. Leave for you . . . and for me . . .

  Prudence peered over her shoulder.

  Together they stared as one at the notorious gaming-hell owner.

  The crystal windowpane reflected the other young woman’s rounded eyes. “My God, he is terrifying,” Prudence whispered, and then promptly slapped her palm over her mouth. “I’m sor—”

  “It is fine,” Penelope interrupted hastily. For what else was there to say about a six-foot-five, scowling, scarred, hard-eyed man named Mr. Black. Why, even his name perfectly suited him.

  Then with all the eagerness of a man walking to the gallows, he climbed the handful of steps and froze midstep. He lifted his gaze up.

  Both ladies gasped and jumped back.

  The door flew open, and they screeched, spinning around.

  “He is here,” Poppy gasped, breathless. Racing close behind, Sir Faithful yapped at her heels; his pink tongue lolled sideways out of his mouth. Poppy kicked the door closed. “I was waiting in the front parlor for sign of his carriage and he’s here, and you’re certain you wish to do this, Penny?” The younger lady didn’t give either woman a chance to reply. “Because I saw him,” she lowered her voice to a hushed whisper. “And he looks like a killer.”

  “Poppy.” Prudence’s admonishing tone better suited their mama.

  As her two sisters proceeded to bicker about the rightness or wrongness in calling the viscount a murderer, Penelope crept to the edge of the window and inched the cur
tain back. Ryker pounded the door with such force the sound carried the three stories to her window.

  With his broad shoulders, muscular chest, and powerfully sculpted arms and thighs, Ryker Black had the look of one who could take apart lesser mortals with his bare hands. At last, the ancient butler pulled the door open. Ryker glanced up once more, and his gaze caught Penelope’s. The piercing intensity of his eyes reached across the distance separating them and seared her. Her heart tripped a maddening beat. How to account for this intense awareness of him, as a man? With a hardened grin, he touched his brow.

  Penelope swiftly let go of the gold brocade fabric.

  “Are you all right, Penny?”

  She wheeled around and looked blankly at Prudence. “Fine,” she said quickly.

  Her own skepticism reflected back in Prudence’s like-blue eyes.

  Footsteps sounded in the hall. Their mother entered the room and looked between her daughters before ultimately settling her gaze on Penelope.

  Penelope braced for an angry tirade. Welcomed it.

  Instead, her mother offered a gentle smile. A sad smile that went through Penelope. “The viscount has arrived. I had hoped the Duke and Duchess of Somerset would come as guests.”

  Of course, their mother, long smitten with those distinguished titles, should welcome that connection between their families. Just as she’d lament that couple’s absence this day.

  “Mayhap because they know he is a killer,” Poppy chimed in unhelpfully.

  Their mother slammed the door.

  “Poppy,” Penelope again scolded. “The Tidemores do not listen to vicious gossips,” she reminded her. Then Mr. Black had pulled a dagger from his boot on the other man who’d visited him in the gardens . . . Mayhap Poppy was the wise one after all.

  “Yes, Poppy.” Mother settled her arms akimbo. “Lord Chatham”—he wished to be called Mr. Black—“is a duke’s son.” I am a bastard. “He is the brother of a duchess. The brother-in-law of a duke.” Wasn’t that a bit redundant? They after all meant the same.