His nerves tingled. Miss Kingsley might be making her first bows in London, but she’d been out in some kind of society before. At some time in her past, she’d practiced sending gentlemen that sort of look.
And of course, she’d spent considerable time on a privateer’s ship.
“We must go in now, Grace,” Lady Kingsley said through clenched teeth.
Miss Kingsley stared up at Perry. “I shall never forget your kindness.”
“Of course you won’t.” Perry squeezed both of her hands. “I shall remind you of it at every opportunity, when we shop, or go for ices, or to the theater. I cannot wait to meet your father when he returns, and I know my father will be delighted to meet you when he returns from Bath.”
That was laying it on rather thickly. Somehow, his sister had sniffed out Miss Kingsley’s dilemma and was coming to her aid. If Perry had been born male, and if she exercised just a bit more daring, she’d be the true successor of Shaldon, the great manipulator.
Perry sent him a smile. “Do you not agree, brother?”
He leveled a gaze at Miss Kingsley. “I most certainly agree. In fact, I shall send Father a message. He might be able to do some good in searching out information on your father.”
“You must not let them put these ideas into your head, Grace. Your father is dead. You must not hold onto false hope.” Lady Kingsley elbowed Perry aside. “I know you mean well, Lady Perpetua, but it is not kindness to keep our Grace in a state of impossible hope. Now we must go in. The world is waiting.”
She led the girl off.
“Nicely done, Perry,” he whispered, and shuffled off after the damsel in distress.
Lady Kingsley steered her prisoner so quickly through the crowded dance floor she would have eluded a man with less experience chasing women.
Earlier, he’d noted that this crowd of dandified coats and sprigged up muslins was not the smartest of the ton. Country nabobs, rising industrialists, and the sort of nagging noseys who expected a drama—and who were not to be disappointed tonight—populated the room. He saw only a few of Perry’s bluestocking friends, and none from the ranks of the foreign diplomatic corps.
She’d nabbed him and Pender just as they’d been heading out for a round of their usual haunts, insisting she wanted to meet the young lady. Perhaps she really was considering escape from the traps of marriage and a voyage to the new world, in which case, their goals might align.
He held that thought for later. The huntress and her prey had reached Lord Kingsley, and next to him, Carvelle stood in disdainful stillness. He couldn’t see her face, but Miss Kingsley’s back told an eloquent story.
Oh, it was a lovely, creamy, straight back, and one could tell from the mound of hair arranged upon her head that once the pins were removed, an abundance of shiny dark silk would fall at least to her waist.
Carvelle, he decided, would not be allowed to run his fingers through those tresses.
He bowed his way past a clammy matron with a magnificent bosom, moving nearer. Lord Kingsley signaled and the music came to a sudden stop.
“Ladies and gentlemen.” The man’s booming voice could halt a full stampede. No doubt his would be the loudest in the Lords if he bothered to speak up with an idea of his own.
The crowd hushed and leaned closer. Charley jostled his way even nearer.
Lady Kingsley turned her ward to face the crowd, and he could see a pale cheek, the corner of her full lips drawn down, eyelashes fluttering lower.
Kingsley pushed back his wide shoulders and thrust out his ample belly, hands folded behind his back at parade rest. “I have an important announcement to make. No sense delaying. My ward here, my cousin, the late Captain Kingsley’s daughter, and Mr. Gregory Carvelle, are to be married.”
Sharp breaths, murmurs and scattered applause broke out. Even this crowd knew it was wrong. Charley pushed his way through them.
Carvelle reached for the lady. She rounded her shoulders squirming away.
A step closer to Charley. Close enough that when she folded, it was he who caught her.
Chapter 3
Graciela pulled her thin dressing gown tighter around her and shivered.
The brush stroking through her hair stopped. “You tremble. It was less chilled in the nursery. Let us go and join Juan and Reina there.”
Her maid’s rapid Spanish touched her heart as the clipped English of her guardians never could.
“No wonder your papa left this country. There is not enough fuel in all of the universe to take the chill from this place.”
And we would not be allowed to burn it even if we could find some. She had thought the absence of coal was because of Lord Kingsley’s financial difficulties, but since her father’s disappearance several weeks earlier, money had started to flow into this house.
Her money. None of it had been spent to warm her bedchamber. Not even during the passage through the Straits of Magellan had she felt this cold.
“Where is your other guardian?” the servant asked. “Why does he not come to help you?”
She had asked only once about Lord Farnsworth, the other trustee designated by her father. The beatings had started after that.
“I am sorry Papa has put you and Juan through this, Francisca.”
The tortoiseshell brush clacked onto the scarred dressing table, the large vase of flowers there jumping and rattling. Wiry arms came around her and tugged her to a thin chest, Francisca’s thin bones pressed against her back. “Juan and I made a promise, and we would never leave you or Reina. We will not leave you to the mercy of this lord and his witch of a wife, that tlahuelpuchi. She will not gobble Reina for dinner when the moon is full. We will suffer through this together. You must leave their house soon, before she turns her stick on the little one. I know he is not a desirable man, but I have seen many girls survive bad spouses. We will be with you.”
“I will not marry him. And if I did, there is no guarantee he would not send you and Reina away.”
The older woman tensed. Francisca and her husband Juan had been with her since before she could remember. Uncertain of the inglés her mother was marrying, they had come along with the new bride, two proud meztisos who would never be servile enough for aristocrats of any country. Papa had always understood them and their loyalty. Papa was one of a kind.
“How will we get away, then, and where will we go?”
A distant murmur in the hallway raised an alarm within her.
Graciela gripped both of the maid’s hands. “Did you come down in time to see the man who carried me into the parlor?”
Francisca’s eyes narrowed. “Who is this man to you?”
The voices drew closer. Soon the key would click within the lock. “He will help us. Listen. His father is Lord Shaldon. Papa said we could trust him. Lord Shaldon who has a grand house near Berkeley Square. Remember. Say it.”
Francisca glanced to the door. “Lord Shaldon. Berkeley Square.”
“Papa said he will help us. Papa said go to him if ever I have need.”
Francisca’s eyes glinted and her mouth set in the fierce line of her Yaqui warrior forebears. “Shaldon. Berkley Square.”
“Tell the servants here that Lord Kingsley ordered you, Juan, and Reina away, tonight, and then leave with the clothes on your back. Wrap Reina in her shawl so she will be comforted and sleep, and go, before they realize you are escaping.”
She saw the maid’s hesitation.
“They will throw Reina into the street. You must save her.” The key slipped the lock and she rushed on. “Tell Juan he must get her away. The streets are not safe for a child alone. Do whatever it takes to make him go with you.”
The door flew open and Lord Kingsley’s bulk filled the doorway of her bedchamber.
He had come himself this time. Graciela shot to her feet. “How dare you.”
Her voice shook and she hated it. Papa would not be so weak. It was the fault of resorting to womanly devices, fainting when she should fight.
But no, hadn’t Papa outrun his enemies when his powder was low and the sickness was high? On several occasions he’d even run up a flag that was not his own.
But he had done it with strength, and a plan, and never with sniveling.
“How dare I?” Kingsley crossed the room in two strides. She saw his lady behind him, still in her green gown. They’d neither of them changed. And the lady held the dreaded cane.
The flesh on Graciela’s back rippled. Thin and supple, this cane was not meant to support a woman, but to break a girl. And this time, with Lord Kingsley wielding the switch, it would be no minor swatting.
“Get out,” Kingsley shouted at Francisca.
Francisca could take a beating, that Graciela knew. She’d seen the marks from something long, long ago, before Francisca came to serve Mama.
A ship captain’s daughter could survive also. Had she not seen a man flogged when Papa’d had no other choice? She’d sneaked up on deck to watch, biting back her own terror, amazed at the rebellious sailor’s refusal to scream. Had he screamed, surely the lashes would have been less, would have hurt less—Papa was not like this cousin of his, taking pleasure in giving pain.
She hugged Francisca tightly and set her lips to her ear. “Get Juan. Save the child. Go to the Lord’s house right now. I will join you.” Neither Kingsley or his lady had any Spanish, yet she whispered.
Francisca had seen the cane, and she balked.
Kingsley pulled back his fist and Graciela dodged in front of the maid. The blow glanced over her jaw, sending her into the dressing table. Brushes and bottles flew to the floor, lavender scent wafting up in a cloud.
“Not in the face,” Lady Kingsley squawked.
“For all that is holy, go before he tries to kill you all,” Graciela shouted in rapid Spanish. “You know what to do. I must give them their pound of flesh. Do not turn back. Do not ask the neighbors for help. Do not let yourselves be taken. Save the child.”
Francisca’s mouth firmed and she nodded.
Her guardian crowded closer, his gaze bouncing from the maid to Graciela, his thick scowl darkening. He probably thought she was cursing him.
Lady Kingsley grabbed her husband’s arm and tugged him back, and Francisca was gone.
She fisted her hands and fought for a breath. She must buy the maid time to convince Juan, gather the child, and get away. She must not scream, else Juan would want to barge in.
She rubbed her cheek where the blow had struck. Whether it would bruise, she did not know. She hoped it would, enough so that none of Lady Kingsley’s paint would cover it. Then she would not have to go to their stupid parties.
“Shall I remove the dressing gown for my next beating?” she asked.
“You spoiled, spiteful, disrespectful girl. My husband took you in when no one else would.”
“Are you not the head of the Kingsley family, Lord Kingsley? My papa told me it is what heads of families are supposed to do. He told me it would be no trouble as he would provide you with money for my care.”
“And that is what his lordship is doing. Arranging a good marriage for you.”
“My papa promised I would never be forced to marry against my will. And I do not wish to marry that man.”
Lord Kingsley snatched the cane from his wife’s hand. “You will marry Gregory Carvelle.” He slapped the wood against his palm.
She drew in a long breath. “There are men in my country who beat their wives and the children entrusted to their care.” And their servants, but she would not mention that. No need to put ideas into their heads, not until Francisca got away.
“This is your country now.”
This cold, disdainful place? Never. “But my papa did not respect those men. He sometimes had to beat one of his crew. But beating a woman, he said, is the work of a coward.”
His lordship advanced, and she stepped behind a chair.
“I must say this, Lord Kingsley, so we know where we stand. My papa, when he returns—”
“He’s dead,” Lady Kingsley said. “Captain Llewellyn has made port in Falmouth and will—”
“Shut up, Blanche,” Kingsley said.
She caught her breath, hope stirring, as Lady Kingsley spluttered.
“Your father is most assuredly dead,” Kingsley said.
She stood taller. “No one has found a body, have they? When my papa returns, when he learns of your beatings, he will not resort to lawsuits or legal proceedings. He will take that cane and use it on you, my lord.”
Lord Kingsley’s face grew impossibly redder. Perhaps she could coax him into an apoplexy right here in her bedchamber. In all the confusion, she could easily get away.
“I have seen him do such to men who would harm me or my mother. He will not call you out to a duel of honor, for there is no honor in a man who would beat a ward in his care.”
The cane swung and she ducked and ran, hopping upon the bed.
“Especially not a ward whose money he was making free use of.”
Lady Kingsley had circled the bed. She was trapped.
“You, he will not beat, Lady Kingsley, but you will wish that he had.”
Thwack.
She jumped away from the cane.
“I gather that Carvelle’s lust is for my money and not my person.” She gasped as the cane struck her leg. “Careful. You must not prevent me from walking the aisle of your despicable English church.”
She hopped to the footboard and over it. A blow landed on her back.
“Not so hard,” her ladyship shouted. A dispute erupted between the two of them, and the next blow was softer.
She had said her piece. She must give them their blood so the others had time to escape. She must hold their attention.
With the next crack, sharp pain laced her skin and she bit back a scream. The next one carved deeper, stung harder. A hand clamped her shoulder and tugged at her robe, ripping the thin silk while she clung to the footboard, like that sailor on Papa’s ship, tied to the mast.
Squeezing her eyes and lips shut, she held on, enduring. She must save the people she loved.
Chapter 4
“Get your gloomy self up from my sofa and share my toast.” Penderbrook’s voice pierced the fog in Charley’s head.
When he opened his eyes, his friend waved to him from the table. The aroma of coffee wafted to him, and he sat up. Penderbrook’s small, comfortable drawing room was strewn with papers and books, and carelessly discarded clothing.
Some of the clothing was his. He’d shed his coats, and his shirt bloused over his trousers. “Am I drunk?” he asked.
“Not very. Nor was I. You were no fun last night, Everly. That funk you were in was a bore. I’m sure the lady is out of range of your concern now. Whatever scolding she was to have has already taken place. Come and eat.”
Details of the night before came to him. Miss Kingsley had been dead weight in his arms, a very vital, nubile, soul-stirring dead weight. Her guardian’s red face and bulging veins had left no doubt of her fate. Yet, he’d gone along with Perry elbowing him aside to offer her own assistance while Penderbrook pulled him away.
And from a distance, Carvelle’s glare had followed him. Hostile before, he would now be an avowed enemy.
Damn, damn, damn. As sure as Charley was, at least most of the time, a gentleman, Carvelle was not getting that girl.
He hoisted himself up and took a sip of the coffee set out for him, his fog clearing more.
There was something murky about the whole arrangement of Miss Kingsley’s life and impending marriage. His funk after they left the ball had been the result of the great matter of thinking through the facts.
He was a ponderer, not a good trait for a spy—and he had a few scars to prove it—but it would do for a diplomat. Someday, he would sit in a tropical office, an ocean breeze blowing over him from the veranda doors, a domesticated lizard staring down at him from the whitewashed wall, while he sipped a rum-laced beverage and considered some treaty or other.
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br /> Perhaps that was what Captain Kingsley was doing now. Miss Kingsley was right—he might be alive. The report of a rich father’s demise at sea could be easily arranged. In Kingsley’s case another privateer had limped into a port with the news of the Captain’s death on his sinking ship. And almost as soon as Lord Kingsley had learned of it, he’d set that great ball and the engagement in motion.
The girl had reason to be angry.
“No need to dress.” Penderbrook waved a hand over his own attire, a dark dressing gown.
Penderbrook’s all-around manservant—valet, butler, and footman—entered, carrying a covered tray. The scent of meat wafted up and drew his thoughts away from the lady.
“You’re a good man, Pender.”
“And perhaps I’ll need a loan next quarter day.” Penderbrook slid a news sheet over to him and pointed to a column of print. “How quickly they get out this drivel.”
Charley squinted at the paper. It was a scandal sheet, and the breathless text told the story of an unnamed and reluctant heiress fainting dead away at her own betrothal ball. The paper noted that the handsome young man who had caught the swooner was not her intended, but a notorious man about town with whom she had been seen entering the ballroom from the garden.
He cursed and tossed the paper aside.
A plate of food slid toward him. “Eat. You'll think more clearly.”
Charley rose and found his shoes and his coats.
“Off your feed, Everly? This girl has struck a chord within you. Are you perhaps smitten?”
He took a deep breath and finished buttoning his waistcoat. This is the want of a rod. Which I have not spared.
He had a very good memory. “They are beating her into this, Pender.”
Penderbrook dropped his fork. “Surely not?” His eyes narrowed. “Or...” His mouth firmed. “Whatever you are planning, count me in.”
Lloyd, the family’s long-time butler, opened the door of the Shaldon townhouse for Charley and wished him a good morning.
He had hoped to slip in unobtrusively, but it was just as well. “I need to send an express to Lord Shaldon,” he said. “I will be but a few minutes.”
The Rogue's Last Scandal Page 2
