The Rogue's Last Scandal

by Alina K. Field

  He shook off the unwelcome feeling.

  “I intend to take her to the bank tomorrow to find out the state of her accounts. I intend to protect her, her servants, and the child from Carvelle and Kingsley. I intend to make inquiries about her father’s supposed disappearance.”

  “Very well.” Perry was finally giving up. “I’m going up.”

  He heard the click of the door and slid further into the shadows.

  Perry was right. Graciela was beautiful. A wealthy, beautiful Spanish woman.

  With the key to a spy? No. It couldn’t be her. It must certainly be the Duquesa. Farnsworth had set him on this mission, and Farnsworth was Graciela’s guardian. If she was a spy, Farnsworth already held the key within his grasp. Besides, she didn’t move in the kind of circles where spies hovered. She hadn’t been allowed to move freely in any circles at all.

  Another noise outside stirred him and he slipped behind the curtain to peer out.

  A footman walked by below in the garden, outlined by the dim light of his lantern. Another man walked out, smaller, distinctively limping. It was the head groom.

  He released a breath and backed away. And then behind him, he felt a wisp of a draft as if the door had opened.

  Shaldon House was not a fortress in any of the normal ways. There were no turrets with gun slits, no moats, no ironwork lacing the window openings, yet Graciela’s late-night inspection showed her that the likelihood of Carvelle gaining entrance was small.

  As was the likelihood of her, and her servants, and Reina walking out without notice. Alone, she believed it was possible, as it was now possible for her to move freely down the long corridors and flights of carpeted stairs.

  And it would have to be a kind of escape. It was clear to her, from Charley and Lady Perry’s behavior—she could not walk out of here without a score of armed guards. It was rational, she knew, perhaps even kind, but it still chafed.

  They had assigned her a very grand bedchamber, with an anteroom for Francisca and Juan. As she knew they would, her servants had chosen to remain in the nursery, Francisca in a bed near Reina, and Juan upon a pallet on the floor. Conflicted they’d been, though, Francisca convinced that Mr. Everly would try to enter her chamber and ravish her. Her own protestations meant nothing to Francisca. Lady Perry’s endorsement had calmed her somewhat, but only Juan’s chastisement had silenced her. Mr. Everly was an honorable man, he’d said, and Graciela had proven herself capable of self-defense. And later, after Lady Perry had left, he promised Francisca he would do as Captain Kingsley would to any man who tried to dishonor Graciela.

  She was sorry Juan knew about Kingsley’s whippings and Carvelle’s attack. She would not be able to stop Juan, and the English would hang him. It was another dilemma. She must extract her own revenge, if possible, and get them all away from this place before Juan’s life was endangered by his sense of honor.

  As she came down the grand stairs, a night porter shot to his feet and she tugged the heavy dressing gown tighter. They had found another set of soft, elegant nightclothes for her. The porter was armed, and though he studied the floor at her slippered feet, he had scanned her too quickly, for weapons, or for nefarious intent. There’d been nothing improper. This was no privateer’s ship.

  “All is quiet?” she asked.

  “Aye, miss.”

  Well, then. “I...I am looking for the kitchen.”

  Without catching her eye, he directed her toward the back of the house. She thanked him and moved on.

  The kitchen would be guarded also, perhaps abuzz with guards resting between turns on the watch. That was not for her. She moved along the hall, outside the view of the porter, and began opening doors.

  A series of salons, parlors, and eating rooms were quiet, dark. At the back corner of the house, she opened a door and spotted a dim candle. It sputtered in the draft from the door, and her heart skittered with it. The light touched upon rows of books, running off into the dark. The room was otherwise unoccupied. Some foolish soul had left a candle burning among all these valuable tomes.

  Fire was a great fear. Smoking below decks had been a punishable offense. The cook fire was always carefully watched.

  She slid into the room and closed the door. Perhaps this room had a comfortable chair. Perhaps she could find respite here. In any case, a candle should not be left unguarded in a room like this, in a house like this.

  As she neared the taper she saw that it was safely ensconced in a glass bell. She lifted the candle in its holder and looked around.

  Volume after volume of rich leather, in all colors, circled the walls, from corner to corner and floor to ceiling—though that last was a guess as she could no way see the height of the shelving around her. She would have to visit this room in the day, to see what books were housed here. Perhaps there would be a volume of Cervantes that she could read to Francisca.

  For now, it was the windows she must visit. Tall casement windows, they were. The drop from the first floor would not be much, but perhaps Shaldon had planted some spiky buganvilla below.

  Although, buganvilla might not grow in this cold place, else she would have seen riotous color in someone’s garden. There would be some other sort of brambly bush. They would have to wrap Reina in blankets, and still she might cry.

  She set the candle down, the light dancing and sparkling on the dark wooden table. Like everything else here, it was meticulously maintained. Except—she peered closer—for a small crescent of dust.

  Shivering, she edged toward the window and looked out. The glow there must be the stables.

  She slid the window latch and tugged at the window. It moved up without noise, letting in the dank London air.

  Behind the house, shrubbery outlined the garden, but this way along the side of the house was clear, and not much of a drop. She rested her forehead on the window sash, letting the cool wood calm her, savoring the scents of new grass and flowers. Lady Perry had said they had roses and lilacs. She would miss those sweet garden smells, once she was free in Captain Llewellyn’s ship on the open seas.

  Another scent wafted into her awareness and her chest squeezed again, making her heart race.

  “You are hiding in the shadows,” she whispered. “Are you trying to frighten me?”

  Charley Everly moved to her side and rested an elbow on the window ledge.

  She looked up at him, and the tightening and racing all but convulsed her. He had shed both his coats. A scruff shadowed his jaw and chin, and his eyes glittered darkly. She heated, and chilled, and heated again.

  Dios. She needed to get out of here.

  “If you’re thinking to jump down there, then yes, I hope I am frightening you.”

  “Don’t be silly. I’m in my nightclothes.”

  He reached for the plait of hair that dangled over her shoulder and fingered it, his touch racing up the long tail and through her.

  She gulped for air. With the talk of her nightclothes, she had given him an indecent opening. He was going to touch more than her hair. Perhaps he would even try to kiss her.

  “Your nightclothes. I noticed.” The back of his hand brushed her sleeve, sending even more tingles through her. “I imagine the next time you peer out this window, you’ll be fully clothed.”

  Charley watched the movement of her face as she decided how to respond. Miss Kingsley was like most of the other Latin women he had met—fiery, emotional. She lacked the coldness of her father’s heritage, the knack for subterfuge. She was aroused, but she didn’t want to be, and her feelings were all twisted around how to respond.

  He counted the passion as an asset, especially when she was thinking to lie to him.

  “I don’t like to be caged.” The words came on a gaspy, deflating breath.

  She had more control than he’d expected.

  On the distant street, another carriage rattled the silence.

  “Come. Let’s move you away from the window.”

  He took her hand and led her across the room
to a set of wing chairs. He remembered her back and seated her on a footstool, taking the chair in front of her.

  “In this very room some weeks ago, Sirena was almost killed.”

  Her head jerked up. The darkness hid her expression, but he knew he’d startled her.

  Good. She should be startled.

  “Yes. An intruder, a so-called artist who was chalking the ballroom floor, attempted to strangle her. We found that one of our footmen and a groom had been corrupted also. Since then, Bakeley has scrutinized every member of the staff to kingdom come.”

  Her free hand rubbed at her neck. He pulled it down and held it.

  “You are not in a cage, my love. You are protected. They are two completely different things.”

  A tremble rippled through her and he drew her closer, sliding his hands to her shoulders, as naturally as if she’d been made for him.

  She gasped, and he dropped his hands. He’d forgotten her wounds.

  Except that, he hadn’t touched more than her shoulder. So, she had wounds that were deeper than those on her back.

  “Did your brother rescue his lady?” she asked.

  “In a manner of speaking. He kept her from hitting that hard ground below when she leaped from the window.”

  Her low chuckle made him dare to take her hands again.

  “And then he carried her off and married her,” she said.

  “No. They were already married.”

  She went silent. She was no longer shaking, and her hands had warmed. He slid his fingers higher under the loose cuff of the robe, stroking her silky skin with his fingers. Her robe had slid open a bit at the throat, but he couldn’t see much. Like last night, he had no idea what she wore under the heavy dressing gown.

  His shaft stirred. He silently cursed the darkness.

  “He was courting her?” she asked.

  “No. It’s a long story, but he rescued her, and she spent the night in his bachelor lodgings unchaperoned. They married to salvage her reputation.”

  She clucked her tongue. “How foolish. Forced marriage because of society’s judgments—I do not believe in that nonsense.”

  He could only agree. “Bakeley is the heir. He, more than any of us needed to be sensible. He had to marry sooner or later, and Sirena was an Irish earl’s daughter, not good ton as they say, but she suited well enough, and he liked her.”

  “How very practical.”

  “You do not approve.”

  The thrumming started up again—his heart, her heart. The very air around them quaked.

  Good God, what was wrong with him?

  “You require a love match, Señorita Kingsley?”

  He could almost feel her chest rising and falling as she gulped deep breaths. His thumbs reached the tender creases of her elbows.

  She pulled away and stood. “Señorita, am I now? Yes, yes, you look at me and say ‘Here is a foolish pampered criolla, a colonial Spanish girl who is all passion, no intelligence.’ You say, ‘Let me h-hold her hand. Let me stir her with my tender touches. You think with your pretty hair and big shoulders you are more convincing than all the caballeros I’ve encountered in my life. And you are all seduction because you know I do not care about your society rules, and because you think I’m only a stupid, stupid girl, already, as you say, ruined.”

  Pretty hair and big shoulders—he squelched a laugh. She moved into the light and he rose to follow her. With her eyes flashing, her head tossing, her shoulders squared, she was magnificent. She didn’t notice her robe had slipped further, revealing creamy skin and the disappointing lace of a nightrail.

  “Love.” She sliced a hand through the air. “What does love matter, Charley Everly? Love I feel for...for Reina, for my f-father.” She took a breath that sounded like a sob. “It is foolish for a woman to love a man. They are such unfaithful creatures. Between a husband and wife there must be respect and honor. The rest—so common for a man—is merely the physical urge required for mating. A woman who settles for mere love must expect a life of sorrow and regret.”

  A pain started up in his head. She thought he had no honor.

  Or…maybe this wasn’t about him. Maybe someone, long before Lord Kingsley and Carvelle, had hurt Graciela.

  And indeed, she was trembling again. He reached for her hand, surprised when she allowed him to take it. “You sound like one of the fellows at the club.” He made his voice bland and dredged up a smile. It wasn’t so difficult since her lower lip protruded like Reina’s had earlier. “They decry love until one or the other falls head over ears for some actress or opera dancer and gives her a house and a carriage and carte blanche at the modiste.” He’d never speak of such things to an English maiden, but Graciela was no ordinary girl.

  Her gaze narrowed. “You have done such?”

  “Not I.”

  “You have not been head over ears then?”

  His head swam and the air around them crackled. Not until I met you.

  He laughed. He was being ridiculous. “No. Nor do I have the funds for such. And as well, I have been on the Continent a good deal of time.”

  “You are not rich? But I thought your family was wealthy.”

  “Bakeley is wealthy. Bink has a very comfortable income. Perry and I live on allowances.”

  “But that doesn’t seem fair.” She frowned. “So, you both must make your own fortunes, or marry them?”

  He suspected that a comfortable income would come when he married, just as Bink’s had. Which, in his case, would be never.

  “Perry will marry and bring a rich dowry. I plan to make my own fortune.”

  “How? As a spy? Is spying a profitable trade?”

  He laughed. “Not as a spy.”

  “Were you spying on the Continent?”

  She was far too perceptive. She asked far too many questions. He moved closer. “Never did I doubt your intelligence, Graciela.” He slid a finger under her chin and tilted her head up. “But from the moment you fainted at your betrothal ball, I knew you were also a woman of great drama and passion.”

  He pressed his lips to hers, finally. Finally. She was soft and warm and smelled like woman.

  He kept the kiss tender and brief, and set his forehead against hers. “And when I saw you in Lord Kingsley’s kitchen covered in blood, I knew you were resourceful and brave.” One hand slid to the back of her head, the other around her waist, and he swept her into a kiss that tasted like sweet mint.

  She didn’t pull away, wonder of wonders.

  He eased closer and deepened the kiss. Her lips opened only a fraction, enough for him to touch his tongue to hers, and he fought the urge to wrap her up and enfold her, to devour her, to force her.

  She turned her head and opened her neck to him. His touch there made her shiver and he knew she enjoyed it.

  “I should like to hear about your spying, Mr. Everly.”

  “Call me Charley,” he mumbled against her neck.

  She huffed out a breath. “Charley.”

  No fight about that? When he looked, her lips had formed a dreamy half-smile, and he was instantly alert, the brain in his head trying to master the smaller one between his legs.

  It was the same expression on a lady he’d met in Vienna, right before she’d stabbed him.

  “Will you tell me?” she asked.

  A Spanish woman, wealthy and beautiful, the key to a spy.

  He hadn’t felt any weapons. “I would rather kiss you awhile first.”

  Her eyes darkened, and her lips opened and closed. The spy, if she was that, would want information, but the woman would rather kiss than talk.

  And the woman really did want respect. That pronouncement had been heartfelt. He pressed his forehead to hers again and breathed in her scent.

  Egad, but she was lovely.

  “I was a mere secretary to an official delegation. Discussing treaties and what not. Of course, I was there on behalf of England, and what I heard in the course of social events, I must pass on.”

&nb
sp; “Passing on gossip. That is all this spying is?”

  The incredulity in her eyes told him she was merely a curious woman, not a spy. He pulled her head onto his shoulder and worked his fingers under the plaited hair, loosening it, massaging her scalp. “It is a boring life.”

  He became aware of her arms circling his waist, and sliding up his back. With no coats, only the fine linen of his shirt separated his hot skin from her cool touch. The minx. Perhaps she was some sort of seductress, but for whom, and after what?

  “I don’t believe you, Mr. Everly.”

  He nuzzled her neck and felt a shudder go through her.

  “Graciela, it is a matter of honor to keep secrets entrusted to one.”

  “And you are a man of honor.”

  “Yes. And I have a great deal of respect for you.”

  “Especially in this moment.” Her voice shook. “You are holding me quite closely and you are...aroused.”

  Her breathless declaration stirred him anew. Pressed against her like this, the need to rip her clothes off and enter her pounded through him. There was a sofa here. But her poor back—no, he could lift up her skirts, bend her over a desk, part her legs and...

  And he would be no better than Carvelle. And she was too young, and no matter the state of her virginity, too inexperienced, too worthy of a kinder introduction. Such ravishment should come later, when she truly knew he respected her. When she trusted him.

  He stepped back and took a deep breath. For any of that, he would have to be married to her. And he had no intentions of marrying.

  “You are seeing your banker tomorrow. You should get some rest tonight.”

  Her face fell and she pulled her robe tighter, as though she’d just become aware of the gape in the bodice. “I am well aware of the plans for tomorrow.” She knotted her belt, blinking.

  He took her elbow. Her body, so pliant before, had resumed its tense state.

  “I will escort you up. I promise that, no matter my state of arousal, I will respect and honor you.”

  “I can find my own way.”

  “No doubt.” He started for the door.