The Scoundrel's Honor

by Christi Caldwell

  A moan spilled past her lips as she rushed for the same steps she’d been led up two days earlier. Two days which may as well have been a lifetime for all that had come since.

  Penelope tripped and then caught the rail to keep from tumbling forward. Righting herself, she raced downstairs. She rushed down the corridor, ignoring the servants bustling about with curious looks for her.

  Keeping her gaze trained forward on the lone door that represented the path to freedom, she quickened her stride, and then stepped outside.

  Heavy, stale spring air slapped her face. More than half fearing that a hue and cry had gone up, she rushed ahead, out onto the dirty cobbled streets of St. Giles. The moment she stepped out of the alley, she registered the ruthless, hungry stares that went to her. Faltering, she cast a quick look back at the club.

  Fear turned her mouth dry as sudden misgivings cut through her shocked state. She skimmed the area for a conveyance and found a hack across the street. Clutching her reticule close, Penelope bolted for the conveyance. “To Forty-Four Grosvenor Square,” she said quickly, and allowed him to hand her up.

  After an interminable stretch, the carriage lurched forward and drew her away. In the silence of the hired hack, with shaky fingers, she fished the note from her reticule and reread it. And reread it. And read it once more.

  No matter how many times she did, however, the words remained the same. Her fingers curled about the page, hopelessly wrinkling it. Most would no doubt call her a fool for caring if the contents of the page were, in fact, true. But they mattered to Penelope. Because in her family, you were forthright and honest in all ways. And you were nothing if not devoted.

  Mayhap they are not true . . .

  And tell me, will Clara remain on . . . ?

  The exchange between Ryker and his sister flashed to her mind and stole with it the last vestige of her naïve hope. A half laugh, half sob strangled its way from her chest. Fool that she’d been, she’d not given proper thought to why the duchess would care about a maid in Ryker’s employ. Only it had not been about a maid, but rather his lover.

  Agony sluiced away at her insides, and she sucked in slow, raspy breaths, struggling for air, as she cried.

  It was a foolish, insensible reaction. There had been a clear understanding between them, and never had there been affection involved. They were strangers. Granted, married strangers. Why should she give a jot about who Ryker Black chose to lavish his attentions on?

  Because you want faithfulness in your husband. You dreamed of a man who would be loyal like Sin is to Juliet and Weston to Patrina and Christian to Prudence. And in the scheme of all she’d forsaken in marrying Ryker, the least she could hope for was his fidelity.

  Your diary entries were enough for us to know to worry after your romantic hopes for the Season . . .

  What a humbling, souring time in a woman’s life to find how very right her brother had been in questioning her judgment. Only he’d not been wholly correct. Sitting, pressed against the side of the hack, a painful half sob, half laugh bubbled up her throat once again, choking her. She’d not had romantic hopes for the Season . . . but for life.

  Finally, the carriage jerked to a halt, tossing her forward. Bracing her feet on the floor, she fished several coins from her reticule. Her fingers brushed the damning note contained within, and she yanked her hand away, grateful when the driver opened the door.

  Penelope accepted his assistance and turned over the small fortune, and without a backwards glance she rushed up the familiar steps. She rapped once. Her skin pricked with the stares of passersby and for the first time she considered the sight she must present. Her hair hung in tangled waves down her back. She’d returned home in a hired hack, without even the benefit of a cloak.

  Oh, the time the gossips would have with this. Then, it was hard to give a jot about what the bloody ton said when your life had so quickly and completely dissolved.

  She knocked once more, and at last the door opened.

  The butler widened his eyes. “Lady Pen . . . Chatham,” he quickly substituted, allowing her inside.

  Strathmore. An even more foreign name than Black or Banbury. “Is my family . . . ?”

  “They are attending dinner at Lord and Lady Beaufort’s,” he supplied for her.

  Sadness swarmed her at this indelible reminder that life had continued on in a perfectly predictable, safe, familiar way for her family while Penelope sought to muddle her way through a new existence. Never before had she felt more alone than she did in the quiet foyer of her former home.

  The servant wrung his hands and glanced about.

  “It is fine,” she said softly, doing her best to give him a reassuring smile. “Rose and Rhys?” she asked after her niece and nephew, unable to return home. Not now. Not yet.

  “They are in the nursery now,” he said.

  “I will show myself there.”

  “Of course, my lady,” he said, and Penelope started down the halls. The colorful murals in their elaborate gold frames. The soft, pale satin wallpapers, all of it a stark contrast to the establishment Penelope now called home.

  She reached the room and paused to run her palm over the white-paneled door. This same room she and Poppy and Prudence and Patrina had all called their nursery. Penelope slid her eyes closed, as long-ago giggles echoed so vivid, they were real, even now.

  Well, I am going to marry a dashing warrior who slays dragons . . .

  That is silly, Penny. There are no warriors, or dragons, anymore. Everyone knows all the dragons have since been slayed . . .

  A wistful smile pulled at her lips as she recalled Prudence’s elder-sister exasperation at Penelope’s dream. How very romantic they’d both been. Her smile fell. Only some were graced with happily-ever-afters and heroes who’d slay dragons for them . . . and others . . . well, others became wives to strangers who kept mistresses. Agony lanced at her breast, and pressing the handle, she stepped inside a room to a different kind of homecoming.

  “Aunt Penny!”

  Her fiery-haired niece rushed forward and hurtled herself into Penelope’s arms. Dropping her reticule, she immediately folded the tiny four-year-old close and hugged her, taking all the unfettered child’s love the girl offered.

  The nursemaid cradling Jonathan and Juliet’s son, not even one year old, looked up with some surprise.

  Penelope gave a wave.

  “I was playing with my knights. Do you wish to play with me?”

  “How could I not wish to play knights of the round table?” She allowed Rose to tug her over to the very same table she’d played at as a girl.

  “It is a square table,” Rose explained, as she settled beside her.

  Penelope managed her first real smile since her world had fallen apart. The once-round table had been crudely carved into something that very much resembled an almost square.

  “You can fit more people at a square,” she explained, handing over two silver-painted figurines. Time had aged their once-shimmering armor, which showed chips. Penelope weighed it in her palm.

  “Of course you can,” she murmured.

  “Nurse says I should be sleeping,” Rose chattered.

  “And you of course are too filled with excitement to sleep.”

  “No bed,” Rose said with a happy nod, raising another smile from Penelope. Those two had been some of the first words the precocious child had learned. Before most family members’ names and proper greetings, she’d parroted “no bed.”

  Time went by as aunt and niece proceeded to engage in a mock fight between their knights.

  “I shall stop anyone who hurts my brother,” Rose said, in her best imitation of a deep man’s voice.

  That beautiful loyalty pulled at Penelope, and she blinked several times, drawn from the game. This was the kind of people the Tidemores were. They were fiercely loyal to their brothers or sisters. It was why, even as Penelope would forever have this void in her heart for what would never be, she would find some solace.

/>   “Are you crying, Aunt Penny?”

  “No,” she reassured her in hushed tones. She wanted to cry—again.

  “You’re frowning.”

  “I’m merely thinking,” she said, settling for the safest truth to give the child.

  “About your husband?”

  The child had foresight better suited to a woman of four and twenty than a child of four. “My husband?” she repeated slowly.

  Rose scrambled forward on her knees. “I heard Papa say to Mama that he was a bloody beast. Are you hiding from him?”

  She choked. “He is not a beast,” she chided. Ryker Black was a man who despised polite Society and ran a gaming hell, but he was a man who’d give his life for the men and women at his club. And you are nothing more to him than any of those other people under his care . . . no more important. No less important. It should be enough in a match between strangers, and yet it was not. Nor would it ever be. “He is . . .” What words of reassurance could she give that were in any way truth? That the girl could understand? “Just like your papa, he has siblings he loves very much.” She ached at the loss of a loving marriage but would forever admire Ryker for his unwavering loyalty to his family.

  “Does he?” Rose’s face fell. “I liked the idea of you being married to a beast.”

  “Did you?” Penelope leaned over and tweaked the girl’s freckled nose.

  Her niece nodded quickly. “Ever more exciting than a lord.” She wrinkled her nose.

  Penelope slapped her palms on her knees. “Well, I am sorry to disappoint, but Ryker is a very good brother who loves his brothers and sister very much and would do anything to protect them.” Not unlike me. She wagged her eyebrows. “Nor should you listen to gossip.” Their own family had been victims enough of those scandal sheets.

  In the corner, Rhys began to fuss. Reluctantly, Penelope shoved to her feet. “You really do need to go to bed. Your brother must sleep, and we Tidemores always look after our siblings.”

  Rose puffed up her chest with a child’s pride. “Very well, Aunt Penny.” Dropping a kiss atop her red curls, Penelope retrieved her reticule and left the nursery. She made her way slowly through the house. There was only so long a girl could pretend at make-believe. With slow steps, she descended the stairs and stopped midway down.

  Cloak swirling at his feet, Jonathan rushed through the front doors pulled open by his butler. “Penny,” he rasped, staggering to a halt on the marble floor. He took the steps two at a time and gripped her shoulders. “Strathmore sent word that you’d come home.” The sheepish butler backed quickly from the room. “Are you hurt?”

  Oh, Jonathan. Love filled her heart. “No. I did not mean to alarm you. I just . . .” He looked at her searchingly. To give him the truth of her misery would break him. “I just . . . wanted to see Rose and Rhys,” she settled for. Her gaze strayed to the entranceway. “But I have to go now.” She could not stay here forever. Nor had she ever wished to.

  But he was her brother, the man who’d been more like a father, albeit a lax papa. A hard glint settled in his eyes. “What has he done?”

  “He’s done nothing,” she said softly, the lie tumbling easily out. If she told Jonathan of the contents of the note, Jonathan would attempt to take Ryker apart with his bare hands. Ultimately he’d fail. Nor did she wish for there to be bloodshed between them. “I want to go home,” she said, meaningfully altering those words. Needing her brother to hear that this was her choice. Just as her marriage had been.

  For a long while Jonathan hovered. Then, he cursed and dragged a hand through his hair.

  They made the walk to the carriage in silence. Not a word spoken between them until the black barouche rocked into motion.

  “What happened?”

  Of course, Jonathan would never be content with her evasiveness. He’d always known when she was fibbing or plotting mischief. Penelope pushed open the curtain and stared out at the inky starless night. “Nothing,” she said flatly, unable to meet his probing eyes.

  Her brother leaned forward, shrinking the space in the carriage. He touched her chin, forcing her gaze to his. “There are laws that govern marriage, Penelope.”

  She gave a shaky nod. “I know—”

  “What I am saying is this . . . if your husband in any way hurt you, I will see you hidden away so that he can never find you.”

  Her lower lip trembled. “Oh, Jonathan. You’ve always protected us.”

  “I’ve tried and failed,” he said, pain lighting his eyes.

  All men, regardless of station, her husband, Jonathan, her brothers-in-law, took ownership of the miseries of the people in their lives. And running here like a hurt child, she’d merely fed that need. “This is not your fault, Jonathan.” She turned her palms up and willed him to find the absolution of guilt he had no right to carry. “This is not something you did. This is something I chose because of my own rash actions.” And running away to her family’s protective fold only strengthened that misplaced guilt and solidified her seeming inability to make order of her life.

  “It didn’t matter.” Those three words tore from him. “I should have stopped you from marrying him.”

  “And I would have never let you,” she said simply.

  The muscles of Jonathan’s throat moved. “I wanted so much more for you, Penelope.” There was such an aching sadness in those eight words that her heart hurt.

  And sitting there in the carriage ride taking her to her new home, she admitted in this moment, to only herself, that she had, too.

  Chapter 16

  Dearest Fezzimore,

  One of the boys in the village said girls are inferior to boys. Can you imagine anything so preposterous, Fezzi? And you are a boy yourself, so you know that is rubbish. Well, you needn’t worry. I punched him in the nose and sent him off crying. I think he’s learned girls are a good deal stronger than he credits.

  Penelope

  Age 14

  In the course of the club’s ten-year history, never had patrons been turned out and away—until tonight.

  His jaw sore from having taken a fist there several hours earlier, Ryker stood in the middle of the room and assessed the empty hell through grim eyes.

  Overturned tables and chairs littered the floors. Servants rushed around sweeping the shards of broken decanters and snifters. Prostitutes cried and hugged in the corner. The Hell and Sin may as well have been any seedy underbelly establishment that catered to the lowest rungs of humanity than the respected club that catered to lords.

  Mindful that his employees now looked to him for the slightest crack in confidence, Ryker marshaled his features into the long-practiced mask.

  Meanwhile, a string of virulent curses ran amok through his head. The success of this establishment, even in the dangerous streets of St. Giles, had come from the safety his patrons had known. Yes, there had been the occasional fight to break up, but those had been quickly and easily quelled, with free drinks to smooth over the disquieted gentlemen.

  “It is getting worse,” Niall said tightly at his shoulder.

  Not bothering to look at his brother, Ryker gave a curt nod. For years, there had been no greater threat than Diggory. Or that is what Ryker had foolishly believed. Several guards heaved the roulette table into place. How wrong he’d been. Broderick Killoran, Diggory’s heir in the Devil’s Den, with his want of power amidst the nobility and his quest for revenge, was far more dangerous than Diggory had ever been.

  “Who started it?”

  Niall held a bloodied kerchief to his broken nose, the appendage having been shattered no fewer than five times since Ryker had known him. “I don’t know which person. A fight broke out at the hazard table.” He pointed to the center of the room. “That roulette table, and at the private tables in the corner. Several lords involved.”

  He furrowed his brow. That hardly made sense. Killoran’s men weren’t of the nobility. His mind raced as he tried to put together the connection Diggory’s replacement had with them.


  “Lord Fitzpatrick and Lord Tamarack,” Calum said, joining them. Sweat dampened his brow, and jacket long gone, he brushed the moisture back with his shirtsleeves. “They’re both in deep.” And men who were nearly with their pockets to let did rash things. “Killoran could have bought their efforts today,” he put the idea out.

  If the new owner of the Devil’s Den had expanded his influence to that level, the Hell and Sin was in greater peril than he’d even surmised. Ryker rolled his tight shoulders. He’d gone from making love with his wife to reassembling the pieces of his broken club. And here only just this afternoon, there had seemed no greater danger than this all-consuming hunger for his wife. “See this room to rights by tomorrow,” he ordered Niall. “We open in six hours.”

  Shock stamped his scarred face. “You are . . .”

  Ryker quelled him with a look. “We open tomorrow. Stone!” he shouted, and the brutish bear of a man who’d tended the broken noses and injuries and ailments of the workers through the years came forward. “See to anyone who needs caring for.” The man nodded and rushed off. “Everyone who is able helps,” he called out loudly to the staff looking on. “Everyone.” He motioned to the handful of prostitutes still huddled in the corner. The women jumped and rushed forward to aid in the cleanup.

  But they can just as easily have security in serving drinks or tending rooms or . . .

  He swiped a hand over his face. Now his innocent wife’s outrageous talks of reform were slithering around his mind. She’d be the death knell of his business, for certain.

  Niall clapped his hands once and turned to organizing the workers.

  Ryker strode off, and Calum fell into step beside him. “See that Adair goes through the names of our patrons who are in the greatest debt.” Men who could be bought. “I want Niall assigning additional guards on them,” he bit out as they left the gaming floors, starting abovestairs to his office.

  “Four tables were broken. I don’t know how they can be replaced by tomorrow.”