Never Love a Scoundrel

by Darcy Burke

  He made his way similarly through the ballroom. The music continued playing, but the sounds of laughter and chatter dimmed upon his entrance. He inclined his head as he passed the majordomo and exhaled heavily as he gained the cooler air outside the ballroom.

  Tonight had not gone as planned, but he blamed himself. Next time, he’d orchestrate the meeting with Ethan, and it would go the way he intended. He’d underestimated the effect of putting himself on display, inviting Society’s opinions and reactions. Furthermore, he hadn’t imagined coming face-to-face with his mother’s nemesis, which he should have done. But then nothing could have prepared him for learning that the young woman he’d flirted and waltzed with was her niece.

  He descended the staircase to the foyer. As he neared the foot, a gentleman escorting a petite young woman drew his attention. His gaze fixed on Jason’s scar. “Lord Lockwood?”

  His ruined face was as identifying as if he’d strapped a calling card to his forehead. Jason gave him a patient, somewhat patronizing look. “I’m afraid you have me at a disadvantage . . . ”

  The man had the grace to don a slight flush and quickly avert his eyes. “My apologies.” Then he brought his gaze back up and met Jason unflinchingly. “I’m Carlyle.”

  The name Carlyle sparked something in his memory. Then it came to him. “The former constable?”

  He nodded. “The same.”

  Jason remembered the remarkable story of the constable who’d inherited a viscountcy, and now he recalled that Carlyle had taken a wife. Jason offered a bow to his companion. “Lady Carlyle.”

  She curtseyed in response. “My lord.”

  But there was more to Carlyle—he’d been a close friend of Lord Aldridge. Jason was suddenly pleased the man had recognized him. However, Jason couldn’t interrogate him about a potential connection between Ethan and the deceased earl at the base of a staircase in the middle of a ball. “Carlyle, you should come to Lockwood House some time.”

  Carlyle glanced at his wife and drew her closer. It was the reassuring behavior of a besotted husband. He perhaps thought Jason meant he should come to a vice party, so Jason set Lady Carlyle’s mind at ease. “Come for a game of billiards. I’ve an excellent table.”

  Still, he made a mental note to have North invite him to a party anyway, though he doubted the newly married Carlyle would attend.

  Carlyle inclined his head and again met him eye to eye. “I would very much like to continue our acquaintance.”

  “I’ll look forward to it.” Jason moved past them and nodded at a footman who rushed off to summon his coach.

  Given his past life as a constable, could Carlyle be aware of Ethan’s criminal activities? Jason looked forward to finding out. Perhaps tonight hadn’t been such a disaster after all.

  As Jason settled himself into his coach, he recalled the pained look in Lady Lydia’s eyes when that harpy, Margaret, had surprised them. For a brief moment on the dance floor, he’d allowed himself to believe Lady Lydia might be different. Yes, she stared at his scar like everyone else, but not for the same reasons. She wasn’t frightened of or revolted by him.

  It was a genuine shame she was related to Margaret. But maybe there was more to Lady Lydia’s story. He should know better than anyone not to judge someone based on familial relation. Perhaps he owed Lady Lydia the second chance he’d never been given.

  FOLLOWING LOCKWOOD’S rather dramatic exit, Lydia had excused herself to dry her champagne-sodden glove. However, by the time she reached the retiring room, her glove had nearly dried. Even so, she appreciated the opportunity for a moment’s reprieve.

  She found a mirror to survey her appearance. Her hair was still in place and she looked the same as always. Too-dark eyes against her alabaster skin. But what did she expect? That an evening in the company of London’s two most talked-about gentlemen would somehow make her look different?

  The door opened and two ladies stepped inside. Their eyes widened upon seeing Lydia, but before they could pounce on her with their rabid questions, Lydia excused herself and fled the room.

  In the corridor, she turned away from the ballroom in search of a quiet place in which to take respite. She didn’t want to gossip anymore. Not tonight. Not ever, but Aunt Margaret wouldn’t allow that.

  More importantly, she didn’t want to gossip about Lord Lockwood.

  She’d obeyed her aunt all these years in the hope that she would somehow find the life she wanted—a good marriage and standing in Society, but she couldn’t willfully ruin someone else’s life. Especially Jason Lockwood’s. She thought of their waltz and shivered, though she wasn’t the least bit cold.

  What she needed right now wasn’t the company of scandalmongers. What she needed was a moment alone with her thoughts. And the unexpected pleasure of her memories.

  Her feet carried her to a door near the end of the corridor. Her heart picked up speed as she opened it slowly. One never knew what one might find behind a closed door at a ball. On occasion, Lydia had gone searching for scandal to report—at her aunt’s behest—and had even found it a time or two. This time, however, she was just searching for solitude.

  At first glance the room appeared empty. Exhaling, Lydia closed the door behind her and stepped inside.

  “Lady Lydia.”

  She jumped as she discerned the tall figure of Mr. Locke standing in the shadows near the thick velvet curtains lining the window. If he hadn’t spoken, she might never have seen him. “Mr. Locke, I’m sorry to disturb you. If you’ll excuse me.” She turned to leave.

  “Wait. That is, if you don’t mind, I would like to speak with you.” He stepped away from the curtains. “We were interrupted earlier. I should appreciate the opportunity to finish our conversation.”

  What more did he mean to discuss? Was he going to disclose more information about Lady Aldridge?

  Lydia’s fingertips rested against the doorframe as she considered his invitation. To stay would mean more information for Aunt Margaret and she could perhaps count this night as her most successful ever. But it also meant risk to her reputation. If she was found in this room with Ethan Locke of all people, she’d be socially crucified.

  Maybe not.

  She’d survived being accused of attending Lockwood House with a blackguard last Season. In fact, she’d come out of that scandal more popular than ever. She turned back to face him with a smile. “Certainly, Mr. Locke, however we must be brief. I’m sure you’re aware that my being alone with you like this is more than a bit scandalous.”

  His smile was vague. “I should have realized. It’s a simple matter and shouldn’t take too much of your time.” He prowled toward the center of the room where the fire in the hearth and the lanterns on the mantel and on a table better illuminated his features. They might be half brothers, but their appearances were as much alike as if they were full blood. Locke, however, looked more approachable, likely because his face was smooth and handsome. “How well do you know Lockwood?”

  Lydia watched his movements, her curiosity more than piqued. This made twice Locke had sought her out tonight. “Not well at all. We’ve met less than a handful of times.”

  He picked up a carved wooden dog from the table with the lantern and studied it idly. “But you’ve formed an opinion, have you not? Just as you’ve formed an opinion about me.”

  She walked along the perimeter of the room, moving a bit closer to where he stood. “I don’t have a clear opinion of either of you yet. I can say without hesitation that Lockwood is an excellent dancer. And you perhaps don’t dance at all.” She’d never seen him take to the dance floor, and he’d pointedly taken her for a stroll earlier.

  He returned the dog to its resting place and inclined his head. “I knew you were intelligent. But you’re not being completely honest.” His voice dropped a bit, became soft, but there was an edge of steel that pricked her senses and put her on guard. His gaze was steady, holding hers in rapt attention. “You danced with him. You accompanied him into the buffet r
oom. You stood by his side. I think you have formed an opinion about him.”

  Lydia glanced at the fire and pondered why he should even care. He and Lockwood were estranged, after all. She shifted uncomfortably beneath his frank stare, still unsure of his purpose. “Why should that matter to you?”

  He paused and his gaze lost a bit of its intensity. He tipped his head back and forth as if weighing whether to continue. “Because I believe you’re in a position to help me. Aside from the business about his scar, what else has he told you about me?”

  Help him do what, spread rumors about Lockwood? Why else would Locke seek her out and ask what Lockwood had told her? Well, Locke was going to be disappointed because for some indefinable reason, she’d decided to protect Lord Lockwood. In fact, she already regretted telling Locke about his scar. “I must warn you, Mr. Locke, if your goal in entering Society is to somehow discredit or adversely affect your brother, I’ll do my best to stop you.”

  Oddly, Locke gave a subtle nod of appreciation. “Excellent. I don’t wish to discredit him. I wish for us to try to claim a brotherly relationship.” His gaze darkened. “However, if you repeat that to anyone, there will be unfortunate consequences for you.”

  His words spread over her like a glacier moving across land, slow but very, very frigid.

  His features immediately brightened. “My apologies. I don’t wish to frighten you, only to stress the importance of my mission and the need for secrecy. I can see you wish to protect Lockwood, so my persuasion isn’t really necessary, is it?”

  Persuasion? Was that a new word for threat? Though he looked somewhat remorseful, his tone was still edged with steel, and it compelled her to agree with him. “No, it’s not necessary. I would be happy to assist you with your brother.” And she would, his threat notwithstanding. “But why me?”

  “Because you’ve met Lockwood on more than one occasion—which is far more than anyone else in Society—and when I saw the two of you together tonight . . . ” He shook his head, smiling. “And I can see you already care for him.”

  He was right. However, Lydia was at a loss for how she could help, and she was still feeling particularly loyal to Lockwood. “What do you want me to do?”

  “For now, I would appreciate it if you could determine his level of animosity.” His tone turned a touch self-deprecating. “Although from his reaction earlier, I would guess it’s still fairly high.”

  “You’d guess right.” Though she felt no compulsion to aid Locke, she thought it best to warn him. “I think it’s possible he may seek revenge for his scar.”

  Locke’s eyes fixed somewhere to the left of Lydia and he frowned. Deeply. When his gaze found hers again, it was inscrutable. “Indeed?”

  Lydia didn’t think he needed or wanted an answer, so she waited. He looked away again, appearing absorbed in thought. When the silence stretched and she began to grow uncomfortable, particularly given the length of her absence from the ballroom, she said, “Have you changed your mind?”

  He shook his head and focused on her once more. “No. I’ll simply have to reassess how to proceed. I should like to speak with him. If you think you can arrange a meeting, I’d be grateful for your assistance. Otherwise, if you could, perhaps try to persuade him that I’m not the man—or boy—I used to be.”

  She wanted to ask why and how he’d changed, but she was out of time. “I can try, but you’d do better if you could perhaps demonstrate how you’ve changed.” Anxiously, she glanced at the door. “I’m afraid I have to go.”

  “Remember,” he said, and the steel was back in his voice. “You can’t speak of this to anyone but him. I know you want to, but you can’t.”

  Keeping a secret from Aunt Margaret would be a risk. Lydia didn’t doubt that she could do it, but if Aunt Margaret ever learned she’d withheld information like this . . . Lydia didn’t want to imagine it. Her punishments had lessened over the past few years, but this level of betrayal—which is precisely how Aunt Margaret would characterize it—would surely earn Lydia some sort of misery. Was keeping this confidence worth being exiled from London forever? A nervous jolt rippled through her as she turned her head to look at him. “I understand.”

  “Go ahead and leave the way you came,” he said. “I didn’t enter that way and I won’t leave through there either.”

  Lydia exited the room and was nearly to the ballroom when she realized there had only been the one door. Just how in the world had he come and gone?

  Chapter Six

  JASON SAT at his desk eating a late breakfast three days after the Whitmore Ball. He finished reading a letter from his mother’s physician and set it aside. The familiar melancholy ache that always accompanied news of his mother settled over him. She’d finally stopped begging to come to Town—at least for now. The regular valerian tinctures had done their part, and she’d returned to her more complacent self. How Jason wished she could return to her real self, but he’d accepted that would likely never happen. He shoved his plate away, having lost his appetite for eggs and kippers.

  North entered, Scot on his heels, and presented the Times.

  Jason glanced up at his two most trusted retainers before taking the newspaper. The headline leapt from the front page:

  Robbery on Curzon Street

  Jason skimmed the article. Several items stolen. No one injured. In fact, no one could actually pinpoint when the items were taken. A silver piece was noted missing yesterday and a search of the house revealed other items were also absent. The residents—Lord and Lady Chauncey—insist their retainers are not to blame. Bow Street is making inquiries.

  Robberies in Mayfair were not particularly noteworthy. However, robberies that occurred when Ethan Jagger was about and being investigated by Bow Street gave Jason pause.

  He looked up at North and Scot. “Is there anything else you know that’s not written here?”

  “Mr. Jagger was a guest of Lord Chauncey just over a week ago,” North said.

  Another “coincidence.”

  “I see. Excellent reconnaissance. Still no response from Ethan regarding the party tomorrow night?” Jason had issued an invitation after returning home from the Whitmore Ball. He wanted their next meeting to be on his terms in an environment where Jason felt completely at ease.

  North shook his head. “Not as yet, my lord.”

  Perplexing. Jason leaned back in his chair. Ethan had sought Jason out at the ball the other night. He would presumably have jumped at the invitation to Lockwood House. “Who delivered it to the Bevelstoke?”

  “Hennings,” North said.

  “I want to talk to him before I leave.” Jason had an appointment with Lord Carlyle.

  North inclined his head and departed.

  Scot remained. “What do you have planned for Jagger tomorrow night?”

  “I only mean to speak with him.” Jason gave his valet a sardonic look. “You needn’t worry we’ll rip the house apart again.” He stood and inclined his head for Scot to follow him. “Assuming he comes, I’ll expose him to everything I have to offer.”

  “See what perks his interest?” Scot asked, falling into step beside Jason as they made their way to the foyer.

  “Yes, and maybe find a vulnerability.” Though Jason suspected Ethan guarded those just as closely as he did.

  “Hoping he loses his shirt at the tables? Or maybe drinks himself under one?” Scot chuckled.

  Jason flashed Scot a smile. “Something like that.”

  North met them in the foyer with Jason’s hat and gloves.

  Hennings, a footman, came from behind the stairs and bowed. He was one of the youngest on staff and had only been in Jason’s employ a few months. “My lord.”

  “I understand you delivered the invitation to Mr. Locke at the Bevelstoke?” Jason took his gloves from North and drew them on.

  The boy’s eyelid twitched. He looked nervous. “I did.”

  Jason smiled faintly, trying to put Hennings at ease. “Did you give it directly to Mr. Lo
cke?”

  Hennings shook his head. “No, I gave it to his man.”

  “His man?” Jason chastised himself for not conducting this interview immediately after the delivery, but that had been the day he’d gone to the Whitmore Ball and he’d been preoccupied. “Tell me about him.”

  Hennings eyes were bright, his face animated, and he spoke a bit too fast. “Odd looking bloke. He didn’t say anything. Just nodded and took the note.”

  Interesting. “Odd looking in what way?”

  “He was bald, my lord, and he wore an earring.”

  The baldness wasn’t peculiar, but the earring was notable. Perhaps a criminal cohort? “Thank you, Hennings,” Jason said and then added, “well done.”

  Hennings stifled a smile, bowed again, and took himself off.

  “What’re you thinking?” Scot asked as he took Jason’s hat from his brother and brushed a speck of lint off the black wool. He presented the spotless item to Jason.

  Jason took the hat and set it on his head. “I’m thinking I want you to spend some time hanging around the Bevelstoke and see what you can learn. Do either of you have any friends in service there?”

  The brothers looked at each other. “Is Jemmy still with Mr. Ingle?” Scot asked.

  North shook his head. “No, he left to care for Lord Anstruther’s horses.” He turned his gaze to Jason. “I’ll think on it, my lord. I’m sure we’ll come up with someone.”

  “Or I’ll just make a friend,” Scot said with a grin.

  “Keep me informed.” Jason turned and strode to the door, which North hastened to open.

  A half hour later, he was admitted to Carlyle’s town house on Brook Street, where he was shown into the viscount’s office.

  Carlyle stood from behind his desk. “Good afternoon. I hope it’s all right that we’re sitting in here. This seemed more a business meeting from the tone of your note.”