The Scoundrel's Honor

by Christi Caldwell

  With slow, precise movements, Ryker folded the page and set it down atop his desk.

  “Well?” There was a hesitancy there. Another wave of longing rolled through him, a need to know the bloody words she’d waved under his nose.

  “I don’t know what to say,” he said in unaffected tones, practiced long ago. Those words, the truest he had for her in that moment. They proved safe in their vagueness.

  “It is true, then?” The breathy whisper filled the room.

  What is true? The three words screamed around his mind. His tongue felt heavy in his mouth and unwitting, his gaze strayed to the note resting there still and he tried to make sense of the words there.

  Pe . . . Pippa Black-Banbury . . .

  “Will you say nothing?” She leaned over his desk.

  What, when he knew but a handful of words and his own name dashed upon that sheet? She’d asked him a question about those pages, though. Questions required a yes or no. Penelope’s free spirit and the freedom she sought in his club and life drove that question. And so he did what any man in a gaming hell would do. “Yes.” He wagered on the correct answer.

  Her lips parted. “Yes?” she breathed. The beautiful glimmer of happiness went out of her eyes. “Oh, God.”

  Oh, Christ. “What?”

  Penelope sank into the nearest seat, gripping the arms of her chair hard. “Get out,” she said tiredly. “Go see to your club.”

  Given his club was in tatters, and that each passing moment the hell was empty cost him untold amounts of money, he thought he should certainly return.

  Tears filled her eyes, and the sight of those crystalline drops flared a wave of panic in Ryker’s chest.

  His gaze flew to that bloody note, and then back to his wife. A lone tear streaked down her cheek. “Penelope?” the question emerged as a raspy plea. Anything just to stop the flow of her tears, and her infernal questions about that note, and her obvious misery. He sank to the floor beside her. “Tell me how to make this right,” he said quietly, brushing his knuckles over her cheek.

  “Do you love her?” she asked in such a whisper he strained to hear.

  “Love her?” he repeated dumbly, falling back onto a chair. Love who? His hand fell to his side.

  Penelope pressed her eyes closed, and another teardrop rolled down her cheek. “That is answer enough.”

  Mind racing, Ryker looked to the note, and then to his wife. Whoever had left her that letter had done so with the express intention of wreaking havoc on his marriage. “Who?” he bit out.

  Opening and closing her mouth several times, no words emerged. Then shock spilled from Penelope’s irises. “Did you even read it?” she cried.

  His tongue grew heavy in his mouth.

  She touched her fingers to her chest. “You didn’t read it.” Hers was a shocked statement of fact, and he shifted in his seat. She came slowly to her feet and jutted a finger out at him. “Why would you look at the page?” she cried out. “Why would you pretend?” Her words trailed off and she glanced at the note. When she raised her eyes, shocked understanding lit their depths.

  He was already shaking his head.

  She touched her fingers to her mouth. Of course, a lady clever enough to know they needed to wed to salvage his club and her reputation would see beneath the surface. Would know that a man who’d sprung from the Dials would be jaded around the edges, and in every other way a man could bear the marks of life. “You cannot—”

  Restless, Ryker shoved the chair with such force it scraped the hardwood floor. “Say it,” he hissed. “Say what you are thinking.” The words Calum, Adair, and Niall no doubt suspected but never voiced aloud. He banged the surface of the table, the thumping muffled by her sea of white gowns. “Say it!”

  His wife jumped and retreated behind the small table, placing it between them.

  “You would challenge me at every turn,” he seethed, stalking around it, as all the oldest insecurities ravaged him. “And yet you cannot say the goddamn words?” He took her by the shoulders, and she bit her lower lip.

  “You cannot read,” she whispered, and his fingers closed reflexively upon her.

  At last they’d been spoken. For the first time, by anyone, ever. Including himself. Ryker released her, as though he were burned, and retreated. She’d cut him open, exposing him for the fraud he was. He darted his panicked eyes around, willing words of denial to the surface. Mock her for the foolishness of that question. Taunt her. Anything to send her fleeing. This discovery would ruin his reputation among his workers and patrons. Worse, the shame of his own failure threatened to destroy his soul.

  Bile singed his throat, and he shook his head once.

  Penelope wet her lips. “Oh.” His lips twisted at the great irony of her now being robbed of anything other than that single, meaningless utterance.

  He who’d always looked a man in the eye could not meet his wife’s gaze. Could not stomach the sight of the disgust and shock. He’d rather be that boy on the pretend gallows, facing his mock execution, than stand before her with this truth between them.

  “What does it say?” he gritted out.

  She fiddled with the edge of the page, studying the words. “Is Clara your mistress?” she asked quietly, unexpectedly.

  She knew.

  Just as she’d known the words written to her hadn’t truly come from a friend. She knew by the dull flush that marred her husband’s cheeks.

  And hated the agony that battered her.

  Needing to give her fingers something to do, she neatly folded the page and carried it across the room to her journal. She tucked it within the pages, feeling Ryker’s gaze taking in her every movement. “I never thought you’d come to love me, Ryker,” she said, fanning the pages of her book. The dreams and hopes she’d dashed upon those pages danced by, as fleeting as they’d proved in real life. “But I at the very least expected your loyalty.” She paused on a page.

  When will my love come along . . . ?

  Emotion clogged her throat. “I deserve it,” she managed to get out.

  Large hands settled on her shoulders, and she stiffened at his touch. Would she ever grow accustomed to the stealth with which he moved?

  “Clara was my lover.”

  Was. Not is. And still, no less painful. Odd, that. “And you made your mistress my maid,” she said, bitterness creeping into her tone.

  “I made her your maid because there are few I trust, and I trust her.”

  That scathingly honest admission struck like a well-placed lance. For that closeness he had with Clara, that faith, spoke to a depth of caring that moved beyond a man and woman who’d met as nothing more than casual lovers. When Ryker Black trusted no one. Jealousy slithered around inside her like a venomous snake. “I see,” she said thickly. And she did see. Cowardly, more than she wished.

  He took the diary from her fingers and set it aside. “I didn’t expect to marry,” he said, with a truthful matter-of-factness that speared her. “My club was always enough.” A silly, romantic sliver of her soul that would never die braced for his assurance that she’d come to matter. But it was utter rubbish. How could she? They’d known each other but a handful of days. And shared passion that seared your soul forever with the memory of his touch and kiss . . . He angled her around and tipped her chin up.

  “I am married, and even as Clara was my lover, when I wed you, I gave an oath. I might be a snipe from the street, but I took a vow, and I’ll honor that until I draw my last breath.”

  She wanted to hate him. Wanted to lash and snap and hiss at him. Penelope dropped her gaze to the column of his throat. Only she could not. He’d made her no promises of more. Rather, she’d come to him. She’d presented the union they now found themselves bound by until they went on to the hereafter. She was entitled to at least his fidelity, and he’d offered her that. I want more . . . so much more . . .

  “Will you read the note to me?” The words emerged graveled, ripped slowly from him.

  Her hear
t pulled. How much did that request cost a proud man like Ryker Black?

  Removing the hated note, Penelope read the perfunctory lines. When she’d finished, she picked her head up and searched her husband’s face. Something dark and powerful flashed in his eyes, and then something else . . . regret.

  Penelope drew in a breath and exhaled slowly through closed lips, and then stepped away from him. “You should go. The club requires your attention.”

  As impenetrable as a fortress, Ryker eyed her in that inscrutable manner. “It was not my intention to hurt you.”

  Yet he’d inadvertently done so anyway. The truth lingered in the air. Only it wasn’t truly his fault. Ultimately they were strangers. Picking up her diary, Penelope hugged it close to her chest. She’d never thought about all he’d sacrificed in marrying her.

  Ryker passed another gaze over her face, and then started for the door.

  “Ryker?” she called out, staying him. He glanced back. “I can help you read. You married me when you did not wish to. You gave me a name. You saved my sister.” Her diary bit hard against her skin. She needed to help him in this way. Because if she did not, she was nothing more than a woman who’d taken his name, altered his world when he’d not wanted that change, and given him nothing in return. “Allow me to do this.”

  He leaned an elbow against the door. “It would be a waste of your time.”

  Did he believe himself incapable of learning? “It might,” she conceded, brandishing the page. She let her arm fall to her side. “But you’ll not know unless you allow me to help. So you can read those words . . .” Creasing her brow, she searched around for the note that had been in her fingertips a moment ago. Gone. The letter was gone. Where . . . ?

  A gasp exploded from her, as Ryker shot a hand out, brandishing the page under her nose.

  “How . . . ? Why . . . ?” She searched for words through the shock.

  “Ye need to learn. I’ll let you teach me, but tomorrow your lessons begin.” He stood so close, their chests brushed, stirring that ember deep in her belly.

  Penelope wrinkled her brow. “My lessons?”

  “You cannot survive in this world unless you’re prepared to handle yourself. Danger is everywhere. In the people you think are friends. In the streets you step out into.” With his spare hand, Ryker captured a loose black strand of her hair and rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger. He then froze, and quickly released it. The tight curl bounced. They stood motionless, gazes locked.

  Her husband may have made a folly in assigning his former lover as her maid, and yet where any man by right could have told her that her wishes or desires or hurt feelings didn’t matter, Ryker hadn’t. Instead, he’d pledged his fidelity and allowed her to share in a secret, one she’d wager no one knew. The moment had the feeling of a new beginning.

  Penelope held a palm out, and he studied the extended digits. “What is that?”

  “A new beginning,” she said softly.

  He hesitated, and then took her fingers, folding them in his larger, powerful hold. “Tomorrow, then.” He released her.

  With a smile, Penelope started for the front of the room.

  She got no further from the threshold of the door.

  He pounced with the speed of a panther, positioning himself in front of her. “Where are you going?”

  “To help. I’ve seen the state of the club and expect everyone will be required to take part in putting it to rights.” He’d yet to learn she would never be the coddled miss hiding away in her chambers. Regardless of his desire to protect her, she would not cease to live because of any real or imagined threats. What a meaningless existence that would be.

  More than part of her expected him to protest, and she braced for another blustery show, which she’d come to find his tempers, in fact, were. With an imperceptible nod, he motioned her ahead of him.

  He fell into step beside her, matching her smaller, slower stride.

  “Who was responsible for the destruction below?” she asked quietly.

  His jaw flexed. “A man named Killoran. He owns a rival club. The Devil’s Den.”

  Penelope stored that name away. “Do you believe he’s also the same man who sent the note?”

  He gave a curt nod.

  And as they continued belowstairs, the unspoken but obvious truth hovered. The note meant to wreak havoc on their marriage had found its way into their chambers and onto their bed.

  Someone inside the club was aiding Broderick Killoran.

  Chapter 18

  Dearest Fezzimore,

  Today, Sin took us hunting and I shot my first deer. I cried like a baby, after. I hate myself for hurting it. I shall never touch another weapon again.

  Penny

  Age 11

  A bloody match of fisticuffs.

  A wicked hangover from too much drink.

  A knee in the groin.

  As Ryker strode through the crowds of Bond Street, he continued categorizing any of a number of tortures he’d prefer to stepping foot in the fashionable ends of London. His mind slipped down an old, long-buried path.

  The cacophony of street vendors hawking their wares and carriages rumbling along the cobbled road rattled around his head, and he gritted his teeth to blot out the distraction of it all. He kept his gaze trained forward, periodically glancing about for the ever-present danger lurking in the shadows.

  Alas, the danger that glared back was an altogether different kind. The lords who frequented his halls gaped and gawked, and then when presented with Ryker’s glower, they properly turned in the opposite direction.

  “Will you slow down?” Penelope panted, and he pulled up, immediately adjusting his stride.

  His wife, flanked by Adair on one side and Niall on the other, rushed to keep up. Both men continually scanned the surroundings. Wordlessly, Ryker appraised the streets. Given the arrival of that note, and the destruction of the Hell and Sin, Killoran had become emboldened. The man’s thirst for revenge was the potent evil that would not die until he was defeated or Ryker—and Ryker had all but danced with the devil to survive. He’d no intention of being laid low by an upstart who’d grown to worship and idolize the bastard Diggory.

  Ryker made to cross the bustling road and froze as a small boy with angry eyes and oily black curls flitted between unsuspecting lords and ladies. The air stuck oddly in his chest. He’d risen up from the ashes of the Dials to build a life of wealth, absent of hunger and full of comfort. How many more children ended up swinging on the end of a real noose, not the torturous device Diggory had used to school his apprentices? The boy stole a glance about.

  He was obvious. Too obvious. A rubbish thief who’d find himself swinging from a noose before the year’s end—if he was lucky.

  He is not your responsibility.

  “Ryker?” his wife’s tentative question split through the noise of the street.

  With a curse, he rushed over just as the boy stuck a trembling hand out. A hand Ryker caught hard.

  “’Ey, ye bloody . . .” The boy’s words trailed off as he inched his gaze up Ryker’s frame. All the color leached from his gaunt cheeks. “Oi didn’t do anything, moi lord. Oi didna . . .”

  Ryker leaned down. “Yer a lousy pickpocket, boy.”

  Shock flared in the boy’s brown eyes. “Yer no fancy lord.” There was something faintly accusatory in those words that earned the boy a small grin.

  “No.” Ryker turned over a bag of coin. “I’m the owner of the Hell and Sin Club. If you want honest work, find yourself a hack, and tell the guard at the front you were sent by Ryker Black.”

  The child glanced inside the purse, and then stuffed it inside his tattered shirt. “Oi have a sister.” He puffed out his chest. “She’s my responsibility, sir.”

  Bloody hell. Of course he did. She could be Helena. “Find your sister, and take yourself there. If you are prepared for honest work,” he added, as he straightened.

  Suitable suspicion lingered in the boy’s eyes. “Ye ar
en’t one of those lords looking to tup a boy, are ye?”

  Nausea burned his throat. The crimes this boy spoke of were the depths of hell not even Ryker had known in the Dials.

  Penelope sidled up to him, and the child glanced at her with the same awe as if the Queen of England herself had graced him with a visit. “I assure you, Mr. Black is entirely honorable.” She held her fingers out, and the boy eyed them a moment before placing his dirt-stained fingers in her gloved palm. “I am Lady Penelope Chatham, the viscount’s wife.”

  “He’s a lord?”

  Penelope nodded. “He is. And his word is good,” she promised with a smile that could have tempted the King to give up his crown.

  A silly grin turned the boy’s lips, and he reluctantly drew his hand back. Thick black grime marred her white satin gloves.

  He yanked his cap from his head. “My lady.”

  “So gather your sister,” Penelope urged.

  The boy hesitated, and then sprinted down the street.

  They stared after him a moment, and Ryker’s skin pricked with his wife’s stare on him. His neck flushed. “What?” he snapped.

  “That was a wonderful thing you did,” she said softly.

  “I didn’t do anything.” He didn’t want her undeserved praise.

  “Do you truly believe you didn’t help that boy and his sister?” she challenged, raising an eyebrow.

  Dwelling inside the Hell and Sin, he’d been largely immune to pain and suffering and weakness. He’d failed to consider the plight of others. No one had helped him rise up. If you wanted salvation, you saved yourself. Seeing the child, an image of himself years and years earlier, he saw the lie in that. And worse, he saw the crime in his cynical thought.

  “Come,” he urged gruffly. Grabbing Penelope’s gloved fingertips, he tugged her forward and set a new pace, guiding her to the Pantheon bazaar.

  As he pulled the door open, Adair positioned himself outside the shop and braced a hand on the inside of his jacket.

  Penelope shoved back the hood of her cloak and loosened the clasp at her throat as she glanced about. The excited glimmer in her eyes, that familiar, always-present reminder of her innocence. She wore it in every way, from the white fabric of her gowns to her guileless smile.