Moncrieff peered at him warily. “That’s Scotch whiskey.”
“I know.”
“You shouldn’t drink whiskey.”
“That was a long time ago.” James took a stiff snort. Shuddered. Took another. He glanced at the duke. “Do you still want to kill me?”
“Of course.” Edward’s indolent gaze flicked over him. “Then again, if memory serves, the whiskey may do it for me.”
They both nursed their drinks. Studied the fire. “I hear you’re Darlington now. A surprise, that.”
“It was…unexpected.”
Edward sighed. “I suppose I shan’t kill you then. Wouldn’t want to get the Regent in a dither.”
James grunted. “He probably wouldn’t care.”
The duke tossed back his drink and poured another, then topped off James’ glass. “You knew I was going to ask her to marry me.”
James raked his fingers through his hair. “I don’t suppose it would help matters to say she seduced me.”
“Not in the least.”
“I am sorry, Edward. I was an ass.”
Edward paused, his drink halfway to his lips. “I appreciate that, Darlington.”
James hunted for sarcasm in his tone. There was none. “I truly am sorry.”
“Don’t be. As it happened, we did not suit after all. I should thank you.” He laughed but there was no humor in the sound. “You weren’t the only one of my friends she seduced, it seems.”
“There were others?”
“A legion.” He finished his drink and poured another. And, as an afterthought, topped off James’ glass as well. “Not that I have room to complain about debauchery, but as a duke I’d rather like to know my heir is a Moncrieff.”
“He would have the mark.”
Edward thumbed the mole on his cheek. One every true Moncrieff had borne through time immemorial. “Only if he were my progeny.”
“True.”
They sat and sipped in silence for a long, long while. James enjoyed the warmth of the fire, the burn of the whiskey. For the first time since he’d seen that portrait at the Trueglove estate, he felt calm. Odd that, in the presence of his enemy. The crackle and hiss of the fire was mesmerizing. When Edward spoke again, he jumped.
“I heard the old earl emptied the coffers.”
“Down to the last copper.”
Moncrieff plucked an invisible piece of fluff from his sleeve. “Are you here to ask me for money?”
“No.” James chuckled. “Darlington didn’t have access to my mother’s fortune, thank the gods. I’m doing quite well with my stables. I also have some investments with Pennington.”
“Pennington?”
“Far East trading.”
“Ah, yes. I’d heard he’d come back from India with a fortune.”
“He’s brilliant.”
“I shall have to look him up.”
“Do.”
A log popped. Embers exploded into the grate.
“So, if you’re not here to plead for money, why are you here? Surely not to taste the wares.”
James tossed back his drink. He didn’t want to share this conundrum with Moncrieff, as civilized as he seemed at the moment. A tiger could look pet-able—it could also take off an appendage if one wandered too close. But he had Helena to think of now. He couldn’t be rash or pompous or demanding. Still, he didn’t know how to say it. So he poured himself another drink.
“Darlington?”
“Yes?”
“Why are you here?”
“I-I have a problem.”
“One I can help you with?”
“Most definitely.”
“Curious.”
James swallowed. Whiskey and an annoying buzz swam in his brain. Ah hell. He might as well say it. “My fiancée is ensconced in your house.”
Edward observed him through squinted lids. “You have a fiancée?”
“It’s a new development.”
“Why ever is she at my house?”
“She ran away from me.”
Edward tsked. “Really, James. Can’t you control your woman?” At James’ glower, “Why do you imagine she’s at my house?”
“That’s where my coachman took her.”
“Why ever did he do that?”
“How the hell should I know?” James fixed his gaze on Moncrieff, blinked and fixed it again. “Are you telling me you haven’t seen her?”
“Seen her? Hell, I haven’t been home for a week.”
Relief gushed through him. James threw back his drink and poured another.
“She could be visiting my cousin Violet.”
“You have a cousin?”
Edward grimaced. “A veritable herd of them, it appears. They descended upon me from Perth when their father took an unfortunate bullet—he was that unpleasant.” Edward chuckled. “You see? The bullet was unfortunate.”
It occurred to James that Edward was very drunk. “How would Helena know your cousin?” His bride had lived a very sheltered life. She’d surely never been to Scotland.
Edward shrugged. “How should I know? I did mention I haven’t been home in a week, didn’t I? It’s a veritable nursery. Tipped my entire life on end.” His brows furrowed. “I can hardly throw orgies with children in the house.”
“How…inconvenient.”
“And Violet’s going to need a season. A season, for Christ’s sake. What the hell do I know about seasons?”
“She will need a chaperone. You’re quite the degenerate.”
Edward moaned and buried his face in his hands. “I know. Aunt Hortense is coming.” He peeped at James through his fingers. “Can I move in with you?”
James chuckled. “If you like.”
“So, why did she—what’s her name?”
“Who?”
“Your fiancée, man.”
“Helena.” The name tasted odd on his tongue. In his mind she was still and always Eloise.
“So, why did Helena run away from you? You’re a fine, upstanding lord of the realm.”
“She deplores lords of the realm. And I am hardly upstanding. At least in her view.” He was not—not—going to tell Edward of their escapade in the meadow. It would enflame him to know Helena had enjoyed such play.
“Did you seduce her?”
James flinched. He was gratified that Moncrieff was refilling both their glasses and missed his guilty reaction. He decided to dissemble. “I lied to her.”
“Ho! Women love men who lie.” Edward raised his glass. A bit slopped out. James winced. That was forty-year-old whiskey. He shrugged and raised his glass too.
“I pretended to be a gardener.”
“So you could seduce her. What a naughty boy.”
“I never said I seduced her.” God. If Edward knew she wasn’t a virgin, he would see her as fair game. He would want to seduce her, be compelled to seduce her.
And she was living under his roof.
James took another deep quaff. His head was definitely buzzing now, swimming. It felt wonderful.
“So she discovered the lie and ran from her betrothed.”
“She does not know I am he.”
“What?” Edward threw back his head and howled.
“But she deplores Darlington as much as she deplores James.” What a miserable state of affairs.
“You are fucked.”
“If I present myself to her as either man, she won’t speak to me. I need to woo her back, Edward, and I need your help.”
“Why do you need my help? I’m hardly an expert at keeping women.” It was a dig, but not terribly harsh and probably self-inflicted.
“She’s living under your roof.”
“Are you asking for permission to call?”
“Transom did nearly take off my foot.”
Edward laughed. “He is diligent.”
“That was two years ago.”
“True, but I never rescinded the order to bar you from the house.”
“No. I don’t want
to call on her. I want to claim her.”
Edward’s gaze sharpened. “Is she quite something?”
James bristled at his tone. “She’s mine.” He probably shouldn’t have hissed.
Edward studied him and then took another gulp of whiskey. “You could try what Winslett did.”
“What did Winshlet—Winslett do?” James hiccupped.
“He kidnapped his bride. Snuck into her father’s house and absconded with her in the night. They were in Scotland by morning.”
“I don’t want to kidnap her. Don’t want to elope.” She’d probably kill him if he robbed her of a fancy wedding.
“What do you want?”
“I just want to talk to her.”
“Then come by the house.”
“She won’t receive me.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.” She’d come all the way to London to escape his clutches. And that was only as James. When she found out he was also her detested betrothed, she would not be pleased. She would not receive him.
Not if she had a choice.
Edward chuckled. The chuckle became a laugh. Then he roared with glee.
“What?”
“Nothing.” Edward went all blurry.
James squinted until the duke stopped wavering. “What?”
“I could kidnap her.”
“What?” A heavy drum pounded in his head. “The hell—”
“No, listen, Darlington. I could kidnap her and bring her somewhere. Here perhaps. Or the Trisky Nob—”
“Not the Trisky Nob!” Dear God. What was Edward thinking? “This is my bride we’re talking about.”
“Exactly. You’ve always enjoyed the heavy hand, best initiate her early.” He smirked.
“She’s to be my wife.”
“Wives enjoy spankings just as much as mistresses.”
“Not highborn women.”
“Are you so sure?”
“Besides, more happens at the Nob than mere spankings.” Much darker things.
Although if he thought about it, not much darker than tying a woman to a tree and tormenting her with a switch.
“A little education never hurts.”
James closed one eye and tipped his head to the side. Observed the hazy fire. “This is a terrible idea.”
“It’s a wonderful idea. I kidnap her and bring her here.”
“No.”
“And then you can burst in and rescue her. She’d be so delirious with relief, she’d have to talk to you.”
James pondered the prospect. Rescue her? Now, that did sound wonderful. To have Helena’s arms wrapped around his neck, her grateful kisses on his cheek. Ah yes. He dozed off, wrapped in the fantasy.
Moncrieff nudged him with a foot. James snorted and sat up in his chair. “Are you awake, Darlington? It’s so annoying when my bothersome friends cannot hold their liquor.”
“Are we friends?” he murmured, easing back down into the welcoming leather. He hoped they could be. It would be nice to be friends with Moncrieff again, after all this time. But then, that was probably the whiskey talking.
But Edward had agreed to help James reclaim Helena—he had, hadn’t he?—and that was all that mattered to his alcohol-sodden brain at the moment. He drifted off to sleep.
Moncrieff snorted and studied his once-friend and longtime enemy. James never could hold his whiskey. He took another sip of his drink and a smile curled on his lips as a rumbling snore echoed through the room.
What an interesting development.
It appeared it was time for him to return home.
He wanted to get a look at this Helena, the woman who could befuddle James Tully to the point he came to the very wicked Duke of Moncrieff for help.
Chapter Twelve
James awoke in his own room. He didn’t know how he got there. He remembered finally finding Moncrieff at Madame Chantilly’s and he remembered their conversation—well, parts of it. Parts of it were foggy. He definitely remembered drinking whiskey.
His fuzzy mouth and an aching head reminded him.
Ah hell. When was he going to learn? He groaned as he stirred and sharp pains lanced him from stem to stern. He desperately wanted to void the acid in his belly but was afraid the effort would be too much.
Fitz brought him coffee and toast, which made him feel much better, but his brain was muddy, as though it had been left out in a rainstorm. As he dressed, he tried to remember the evening before. There had been a lot of whiskey—far too much—and some rollicking conversations. Moncrieff had always been tremendously entertaining. Immoral degenerates usually were.
There had been something about Helena—a thought flashed in his brain but he couldn’t quite grasp it. Whenever he came close to remembering, the wisp flitted away.
He tried to approach it logically. He did remember that Helena was ensconced in Moncrieff’s house and there was a good reason for that. What it was, he couldn’t recall.
He grappled with the conundrum as he made his way downstairs, each step a sharp stab at his temple. He stumbled into his study and opened his books. He was just recalling his place in the world, just getting his brain to focus on his business accounts, when Fisk scratched at the door.
“Come.”
“This message arrived for you, my lord.”
James took the envelope from the platter and glanced at the seal. Moncrieff. He slid his thumb under the flap. It was still bothering him, whatever it was he couldn’t remember. He had the sense it was important but it just kept eluding him. He ripped open the envelope, hoping the missive would shed some light.
It was a short note, scrawled in a hurried hand.
Mission accomplished. We await you at Chantilly’s.
What the he—
All of a sudden, the conversation flooded back. He remembered everything.
His confession, his dilemma.
The plan.
Dear God. The plan.
Fuck!
Toast churned in his belly.
“Fisk! My horse! Immediately!”
Holy God. Not only had James given Moncrieff carte blanche to kidnap his bride, the bastard had taken her to the one place Edward could not be trusted to control his natural urges.
In that setting, the temptation would be far too great.
James could only hope he wasn’t too late.
* * * * *
Helena wandered through Moncrieff’s library. There was an eclectic offering shoved into the shelves, which reached from the thick Aubusson carpet to the high ceilings on three sides of the large room. Everything from Greek tragedies to Shakespeare to intrepid accounts of war. But nothing looked good. She trailed her fingers over the gilt and leather spines as she drifted toward the corner far from the fire.
A particular title caught her attention and she paused. Naughty Wench. What an odd title for a book. She slipped it from the shelf and opened it. And blanched. It was the story of a maid caught in a lie.
With drawings.
Helena didn’t bother with the story. She just looked at the pictures. As she skimmed the slender volume, her heat rose.
She took a seat in a wingchair tucked in the shadowed corner and started from the beginning.
The first plate showed young Celia, “Lying to her Lord And Master”. Helena was able to deduce as much because this was what the caption said. The girl’s eyes were large and limned with fear. Her Lord And Master was naught but a shadow in the foreground.
Helena shifted in her seat and turned the pages until she found the next plate, this one entitled, “Caught in the Lie”. Poor Celia’s plump lips were pursed. Her Lord And Master was now very visible. He was a dark-haired man with a high brow and sharp cheekbones. In his stance and his sartorial style, he was very clearly of the upper crust. He loomed over the girl. He looked angry.
A sizzle danced through Helena’s body. She did not know why.
Frantically, she flicked the pages until she found the next plate. “You Must Be Punished”.
Heavens. Helena’s knees went weak. Not because anything had yet happened to poor Celia, but because of the wicked smile on her Lord And Master’s face. Clearly, he anticipated the prospect of this punishment.
Helena quickly found the next illustration.
Oh.
Poor Celia, over her Lord and Master’s lap. She glanced over her shoulder at him with tears on her cheeks. His fingers were splayed over her bottom. The caption read, “Please. No!”
Helena swallowed. She quivered as the next drawing registered.
“He Pulls Up Her Hem”.
Her body clenched. Dampness welled. She became very aware of the slickness between her thighs. Without thought, she hunted for the next plate. Found it.
Helena wiggled a bit as she stared at the line sketch of Celia. The girl’s mouth was open, her eyes glazed over as her Lord And Master’s hand fell on her bare bottom. The caption said only, “Splat”.
Helena felt a trifle faint. She should read no more. Yet another page turned. And another. Blast. Where was the next—?
“Whatever has you so engrossed?” Helena jumped as a deep voice resonated through the shadows. The book fell from her nerveless fingers.
An enormous man stood less than two feet away, surveying her with the hint of a smile twisting his lips. He looked so much like Celia’s Lord and Master, Helena wondered if perhaps she’d conjured him from her fantasies.
To her horror, he bent and picked up the book. His brow edged upward as he perused the plain brown cover embossed only with the title and the author’s name. Lord Hedon. “Some light reading?”
Helena leapt to her feet, snatched the book back and shoved it onto the shelf. Annoyed at being caught in such an illicit pursuit, she snapped, “Who are you?”
He bowed mockingly. “I am Edward Wyeth. Duke of Moncrieff. This is my library. Who are you?”
Oh dear. Of course. She should have realized from his dress, from his aspect, he was Violet’s cousin. They looked so alike—right down to the mole on his cheek—they could have been siblings.
“Y-your Grace.” She curtseyed. “I’m Lady Helena Simpson. A friend of your cousin Violet.”
“Ah. Lady Helena.” Something flickered across his face. She wasn’t sure what it was and she wasn’t sure she wanted to know. She’d heard all about lords like Moncrieff and his ilk at Lady Satterlee’s School for Girls, though Violet had done nothing but sing his praises since Helena arrived here seeking refuge.
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