The Scoundrel's Honor

by Christi Caldwell

  Penelope set her gloves down on the seat beside her. “Was the man who attempted to kill the Duke of Somerset one of the three?” she asked softly.

  His silence stood as affirmation. An affirmation that conjured a battle she’d not truly allowed herself to think on. An act of bravery it had been written of in the papers. And attributed as such by herself and the duchess.

  Yet it entailed more. It entailed an encounter in which Ryker had struggled and fought, and ultimately survived. But just as easily, he could have found himself on the losing end.

  Her throat worked spasmodically, and she clasped her fingers together. How very close to death he’d come . . . and yet, by this new admission, he’d also been in that ugly, vile place two other times. And no doubt more. Unable to meet the jaded glint in his eyes, she dropped her gaze and blinked slowly, staring at her own fingers. Flawless, untouched by life and struggle.

  “No questions, now?” he snarled. “You don’t want to know how I killed them?” he lashed out and with every question emotion flooded her throat, making those questions he asked for impossible.

  When she’d been a girl, riding in the countryside, without permission, she’d found an injured dog, his leg twisted at an odd angle, panting and whimpering. She’d approached the poor creature, hand outstretched, and with a snarl he’d sunk his teeth into the soft flesh between her thumb and forefinger.

  Penelope bit the inside of her lower lip, drawing blood, and not even the acrid metallic tinge could distract her. In this moment, she was the same scared, helpless girl desperately wanting to heal, and wholly unable to.

  The carriage hit a large bump and jolted her back to the present. “Why did you kill them?” she asked instead.

  “Does it matter?” he rasped.

  Did he not see the distinction? Until he did, there could never be peace for him.

  She slid her gaze to his larger right palm, still resting on the other side of her knee, and then covered it with her own. “Yes,” she said simply in soft tones. “I believe it does.” With the same gentle regard she’d shown that snapping pup, she glided her fingertips over a puckered scar on the top of his hand. “Who were they?”

  Ryker shuddered at her touch and made to pull away, but she retained her grip. Closing his eyes, he angled his head away from her.

  “When you live in the streets, everything you need to survive—coin, notes, jewelry you’d nicked from a lord or lady to sustain you—they mark you as prey. The first man I killed followed me to an alley.” Oh, God. “Wrapped his hands around my neck and choked me.” Her breath hitched painfully. He opened his eyes, his distant gaze tortured, and she wanted to yank him back from that horror. “When someone strangles you, it isn’t quick. You thrash and kick with your legs, writhing, struggling for words to beg.” Did that raspy breath dulling her hearing belong to him? Or was it her own?

  “Oh, Ryker,” she managed to force those useless words out past a tightened throat. She’d asked to be let in, and he had, and now she’d never be the same. And the horrors of the hell he painted would haunt her until she drew her last breath.

  “You fight for a breath, panicking, wetting yourself.” Ryker shook his head, as if clearing it. “He had a knife at the back of his breeches,” he said in deadened tones belied by the ravaged glint in his eyes. “While he was choking me, I . . . managed to reach it and . . . stabbed him.”

  That was the second. “And the other?” she asked haltingly, more than half expecting he’d tell her to go hang with her questions.

  “The day I sprung Niall free of Diggory”—that monster who made my husband steal for his own gain—“one of his henchmen stabbed him.” A wry grin turned the right corner of his lips up. “Always looking for trouble. Made the mistake of keeping half of his findings.” His smile faded, replaced with a hard, unyielding mask of a man who’d do murder all over again. “He was going to stab Niall again and . . .” And Ryker had ended him for it. His expression darkened.

  “How old were you?” She held her breath, torn between never wanting that answer and needing it.

  “Nine.”

  Emotion rushed to her throat. She imagined Ryker as a boy. Angry with snapping eyes and dirt-stained cheeks, and a shock of black hair. Where she’d been a child making mischief on governesses trying to earn their wages, Ryker had been a boy, fighting in the streets for his very life. And she mourned for the loss of that innocence. She mourned for the death of a childhood he’d never properly known. And she railed at the ugly in the world that she’d naïvely failed to see.

  Shame weighted her chest, making it difficult to get air to her lungs. No wonder he so despised the nobility. It’s why a man would shun his title and elevated status amongst the peerage. Those people who failed to see the plight and problems of those around them. When the greatest tragedy of her adult life had been the scandals that had brought her family down low, Ryker’s had been the kind which would have seen him dead in the street.

  “No wonder you despise me,” she whispered more to herself. How could he ever look with anything but contempt upon the self-absorbed nobles who’d failed to see those in danger, desperate in their even more dangerous alleys. “How many people of my station failed to see you or the help you needed.” He’d been just a boy. Not many years older than Rose.

  He snapped his eyebrows together. “I do not despise you,” he said gruffly. That assurance, hardly the warming words a lady dreamed of from her husband, and yet so patently Ryker.

  Penelope slid her fingers into his and held them up.

  He stiffened.

  “They are scarred.”

  “Yes,” he said harshly.

  All of him was. That unspoken truth whispered in the air.

  “They speak of your struggle and your strength. Those men you killed, you didn’t murder for blood sport, and there is a distinction between surviving and killing.”

  “Is there?” Those two words came as though ripped from him. “When you stick a blade inside another man and hear the ragged gasp he sucks in, the terror in his eyes because he knows the end is coming . . . do you think that is surviving?”

  Penelope scrambled onto the bench beside him. “Yes. Yes, I do,” she said quietly, willing him to see the truth there. A deep, stabbing pain ravaged at her heart. Her husband had survived. Survived when his soul had been dying. This window into his past offered her a glimpse of this man she’d wed but a handful of days ago, a man tortured by the decisions he’d been forced to make. “You killed to save yourself. You killed to save your brother-in-law. And you killed to save Niall.” That is great sacrifice, the greatest testament of love, courage, and honor. Penelope squeezed his hand. “You need to see that, too, Ryker.”

  For the remainder of the carriage ride, they sat in silence, Ryker staring at their interwoven fingers. And as they rattled on past the fashionable end of London into the darker, seedier streets on which her husband had fought, survived, and eventually thrived, Penelope at last understood part of her husband—this guarded, snapping figure of his.

  And how to make him see he was not the emotionally deadened, ruthless figure he presented to the world.

  Chapter 19

  Dearest Fezzimore,

  Mrs. Dundlebottom said we are not to question her lessons or orders. Alas, we proceeded to ask so many questions that she quit her post.

  Penny

  Age 8

  Postscript: Mother is not pleased.

  Everyone knew not to question Ryker’s wishes.

  Or they had.

  All that had changed, though, with an invitation to his sister’s ball and a hasty marriage to a vixen who coaxed words from him with the skill a sorceress would admire.

  Niall blanched. “Ye want me to do what?”

  One would have thought Ryker had sacked Niall for the affront in that shocked charge.

  The only sound in the otherwise quiet room was the groaning protest of floorboards while Calum and Adair shifted their weight.

  Folding h
is arms at his chest, Ryker leaned back in his chair. “Are you challenging an order?” Yes, their bond was closer than brothers who shared blood, but with the small fortune he’d amassed, it had been Ryker who’d given life to the dream of a reputable hell. Niall owned a partial share, but ultimately he still answered to Ryker.

  “Yer bloody cracked in the head,” the other man said on a slow, breathless exhale.

  Or he had answered to Ryker.

  The well-ordered structure of his world had been cracked, and the fault continued to splinter.

  “I’m not repeating myself,” Ryker said in the low, hushed tones to end all arguments.

  Niall took a step forward. “The club is falling down around us, with fights breaking out daily, and you’d have me waste my time guarding your wife.” He peeled his hard lips back in a derisive sneer that snapped Ryker erect. How did the other man don such a flawless mask of affable charm amongst the patrons, and then strip it back to reveal this disdain?

  Layering his palms to the desk, he leaned forward. “She’s my wife and deserving of the same level of protection.” He looked between the three men staring back with varying levels of skepticism. “Someone infiltrated the private suites.”

  The drop of a pin could be heard. “Again?” Adair asked.

  He nodded.

  The other man shook his head. “Impossible.”

  Ryker flexed his jaw. “I assure you, it’s possible.” He’d been of like opinion—before. Now, with the rapidly deteriorating circumstances and Killoran’s increasing influence, there were greater threats than the broken cases of brandy they’d lost to Diggory’s efforts. Fishing the note from his jacket, he held it out.

  Calum stepped past the others and gathered it. As he read, a frown formed on his lips. “What in hell is this?” He passed it over to Adair. Adair quickly scanned the page and handed it to Niall. The other man peered down his nose at the sheet while he skimmed.

  “It was left on our bed.” He proceeded to explain the diversion that had led to the destruction of the gaming-hell floors.

  Adair whistled through his teeth. “He’s even bolder than Diggory.”

  Bolder, and more dangerous in ways the other man had never been.

  “As you see, Penelope is not safe,” he said curtly, refolding the page handed over by Niall.

  “Then send her away.”

  A log slipped in the hearth and exploded in a loud clash of sparks and hisses hanging in the air with Niall’s charged suggestion.

  Send her away. Of course it made logical sense. The muscles of his belly knotted.

  “You sent your sister away. It shouldn’t be too hard to send over a fancy lady you never wanted to marry,” Niall continued, following that unspoken path Ryker’s thoughts had traversed.

  And yet, he could not.

  Calum, long the peacemaker of their rowdy group, stepped forward. “Niall,” he said in cautious tones, settling a hand on his arm.

  With a violent wrench, Niall shrugged him off. “You’ve changed . . . and for what?” He jabbed a finger at Ryker. “A fancy miss you’ve known for five days?”

  “She is my wife.” A woman he’d shared more with than any other, his three brothers and sister combined. Fury rolled through him. “Of course I’d see her protected.” Yet is that truly the only reason?

  Niall pressed on, relentless, daring in ways no one else had dared before. “You used to put this club first.” With each word, a thick, heavy tension filled the room. Niall stormed over and slammed his palms down on the desk. “You leave the floors looking for your wife, you go moon-eyed at her and shopping with her.” He slashed the air, gesturing in a stoically silent Adair’s direction. “You take Adair and me. Now, you’d have me look after her instead of the club.” He spat.

  A turbulent energy coursed through Ryker’s veins, and he shoved back his chair with such force it scraped the floor and toppled backwards. “Shut yer bloody mouth.”

  Niall’s mouth fell open, and then he glanced Ryker up and down with derision. “The man I called brother would never lose his temper like that.”

  He tensed, his arms straining the muscles of his jacket. For the truth of it was, as much as he itched to drag the other man across his desk and bury his fist in his nose . . . Niall was correct. Before Penelope had stormed into his life, he’d never done something as irrational as leave the floors during the hours he was scheduled to be there. Or shop. Those matters had always been tended to by Adair or Calum.

  “You see I’m right,” Niall said quietly.

  Truth or not, you never admitted to a weakness or failing. And that went for men you called brothers, who’d killed for you and with you. Ryker brought back his shoulders and held the other man’s ruthless eyes. “You have a responsibility,” he growled. “Each of you.” He favored Calum and Adair with pointed looks. “Penelope is one of us.” Even as the words left his mouth, and the absolute shock registered in the usually emotionless eyes of his brothers, the truth of that staggered Ryker.

  By God, it was true. For his loathing of the nobility, somewhere along the way, his precocious, hopelessly naïve, and innocent wife had earned a place inside this hell.

  “You don’t believe that?” Niall swung searching glances in Adair and Calum’s direction.

  “I do,” he said stiffly, disquieted by that truth, even as he spoke it.

  “She will never be one of us,” Niall lashed out.

  With hushed words lost to Ryker’s ears, Adair grabbed him by the forearm and drew him back.

  Ryker dusted his palms together and strode over to his sideboard. “Regardless, the lady helped set the club to rights, and in marrying me”—when she could have eventually found an honorable nobleman—“helped salvage the reputation of the Hell and Sin. That loyalty warrants our loyalty.”

  “And is that all it is,” Calum interjected quietly. “Is it merely loyalty that would have you reassign Niall?” He paused. “The best guard in the Dials to your wife’s care.” That faint accusation demanded more from Ryker, and yet Calum had long been the sole member of their group to smooth over conflict. As such, he’d never receive an answer.

  “I don’t answer to anyone,” Ryker drawled, pouring himself a glass of whiskey. Turning around, he took a sip. “I didn’t ask you to meet to discuss my decision, but rather to inform you that the private suites have been infiltrated so that we can be vigilant.”

  “Well, that isn’t altogether true,” Adair put in with a droll smile. “There was also the matter of reassigning Niall.”

  The hotheaded guard surged forward. He leveled his shoulder into Adair’s chest, knocking him back. Adair grunted under the force of the unexpected blow and shoved forward, repositioning himself.

  “Enough,” Ryker bit out, and Calum rushed over to separate the two. He took another drink of his whiskey. “This is not a debate. This is not a discussion. I’m telling you your new responsibilities.”

  “And what are yer responsibilities?” Niall hissed, yanking his arm free once more. He glowered at Calum.

  “As I stated . . .” Lest the other man forget. “I do not answer to anyone,” Ryker said coolly, carrying his drink around his desk.

  “No one except yer wife.” The biting gibe struck the proper mark, but Ryker had long become adept at schooling his emotions.

  All who knew Niall had long learned of that unwavering commitment, at all costs. “Are you unable to see to your responsibilities?” The deliberate bid to rankle had the intended effect.

  Niall’s entire body jerked. “Go to hell, Ryker.”

  With his spare hand Ryker righted his seat and slid into the comfortable folds. “I want you interviewing every worker. Someone here is disloyal to us.”

  “Disloyalty would recognize disloyalty.”

  At Niall’s charged barb, a thick tension blanketed the room. Ryker flared his nostrils as flecks of rage danced in his vision. In the underbelly of London all that mattered was a man’s word. It marked his worth. And Niall would thro
w into question years of loyalty. “What did you say?” Setting down his snifter, Ryker pushed slowly to his feet and came around the desk, stalking forward.

  His jaw stonily set, Niall remained rooted to the floor. Calum caught Niall’s eye and gave his head a slight shake.

  Ryker continued coming until the tips of his boots brushed Niall’s. Brother or no brother, he’d throw Niall from the hell before allowing him to impugn him. To allow him to publicly call into question his character would raise doubts from the workers here, until it spread like fire, and Ryker’s ability to lead would be questioned by all. “When you’re not guarding Penelope, your job is to interview the guards and workers at the tables.” He flicked his stare briefly in Adair’s direction. “Adair, interview the prostitutes. Is everyone clear in what is expected of them?” He directed that last challenge to Niall.

  Icy rage lit the other man’s street-hardened eyes. They’d long shared a hatred for the nobility. The depth of Niall’s apathy, however, born of deeds and stories he’d never speak on, surpassed them all. He put on a smile for the patrons on the floor, but when he was away from those lofty lords, he wore that hatred freely, uncensored. “Perfectly clear, my lord.” With a final sneer, Niall spun on his heel and stalked from the room, slamming the door in his wake.

  Ryker stared expectantly at Adair.

  With a brusque nod, Adair took his leave.

  As soon as they were alone, Calum spoke. “I’d never challenge you in front of Niall . . .”

  Ryker returned to his desk and retrieved his drink. “Do not challenge me before anyone.” He swirled the contents of his glass in a small circle.

  With a snort, Calum helped himself to a brandy. The clink of crystal touching crystal followed by the steady stream of liquid filled the room. “It is madness to take Niall from the front of the hell. Killoran—”

  “Killoran has already proved he’s beyond tampering with our liquor supplies. He’s entered our walls.” Dread, a sentiment he’d believed himself long immune to, cloyed at his insides. “He could have killed her.”