Never Love a Scoundrel

by Darcy Burke

  Jason had purposely worded it that way in order to exclude Lady Carlyle. He didn’t want to have this conversation in front of her. “This is fine, thank you.” He removed his hat and set it on the edge of Carlyle’s desk before sitting in a large, wingback chair.

  Carlyle gestured for the butler to leave them. “I’ll ring if we require refreshment,” he said and then sat behind his desk. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

  Jason took in the surroundings. It was a very masculine room decorated with a trio of pastoral paintings from the middle of the last century, a large gilt-edged mirror, a pair of twenty-year-old chairs situated before a hearth with a low fire, and a sideboard with a collection of half-empty bottles on display. Something about it seemed off. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but the décor didn’t seem to fit the office of a former constable. It seemed the office of an aging viscount. But then perhaps Carlyle still hadn’t quite learned to inhabit his new role.

  The chair Jason sat in might be a bit old, but it was comfortable. He put his shoulders back against the seat. “I won’t mince words. I’m here to discuss my half brother—Ethan Locke, as he calls himself.”

  Carlyle’s nostrils flared. Jason inched forward. The man knew something and meant to share it, otherwise his face would’ve been impossible to read. He was a former constable after all. “You know him by another name?” Carlyle asked.

  “Yes, and I’m willing to wager you do too. Jagger.”

  Carlyle leaned back in his chair. “I know Jagger. We’ve had dealings in the past.”

  Excellent. This was precisely what Jason had been hoping for. “Are you aware that Bow Street is investigating him?”

  Carlyle’s gaze turned inscrutable. “Yes, and I’ve told them what I know, which isn’t much.”

  Jason’s muscles tensed with frustration. He’d been hoping Carlyle would know something of interest. Still, he’d take what he could get. “Would you mind telling me what you told them?”

  “For what purpose?” Carlyle’s features broke into a smile then. “Look at us, tiptoeing around the subject. Let us speak frankly. I am aware that you and he are estranged. Are you helping Bow Street, or is there a chance you want to reconcile with Jagger?”

  Jason wasn’t ready to speak quite so openly. Not until he knew the extent of Ethan’s crimes—or if he’d actually committed any. Did that mean he’d consider reconciliation? Not on his bloody life. “You’re correct that we are estranged. We’re trying to determine how to proceed.” That wasn’t precisely a lie given their awkward encounter at the Whitmore Ball. “I’m not certain whether we’ll reconcile or not.”

  “And you came here to see me because of my former occupation. You hoped I would shed some light onto Jagger’s activities.” The corner of his mouth ticked up. “Sorry, it’s difficult for me to think of him as Locke.”

  Jason allowed an ironic smile. “I have the same difficulty. I’m curious as to how he went from thief-taker to alleged thief.”

  Carlyle lifted one shoulder. “Thief-takers are paid for recovering stolen goods and identifying the thieves. Some of them organize thefts so that they can easily return the goods and collect the reward—at the expense of their gang, of course. The practice isn’t as common as it once was, but it still happens.”

  “Doesn’t sound like that would make them too popular,” Jason said.

  “Perhaps not, but they prey on young, naïve boys who are eager for the promise of wealth—however small.”

  A wave of disgust washed over Jason. If Ethan was guilty of such treachery, he deserved whatever came to him. “Is that how Ethan became a thief?”

  Another shrug, this time accompanied with a slight frown. “I don’t know the details of your half brother’s past. But I’d caution you to reserve judgment until you speak with him yourself.”

  Jason could just imagine that conversation. If Ethan were guilty of such a crime, he’d never admit it, especially to Jason. He narrowed his gaze on Carlyle. “You seem to think he might be innocent.”

  “I can’t say for certain, but I don’t believe he’s taken over Aldridge’s theft ring.” Carlyle paused a moment. “At least, not willingly.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  Carlyle pursed his lips together. At length he said, “Jagger works for one of London’s worst crime lords—Gin Jimmy. I don’t think his choices are his own.”

  Jason could scarcely believe what he was hearing. Ethan had utterly fooled this man. “Are you saying he was somehow forced into a criminal life?”

  “As I said, I don’t know the specifics of his past. I only know that the Jagger I’ve dealt with has been fair and perhaps even . . . regretful.” He held up a hand when Jason opened his mouth. “Don’t ask me more than that. A constable—even a former one—has to retain some secrets for the safety of those involved.”

  He meant to protect a probable criminal? Jason’s plans for a partnership with Carlyle evaporated. “I hope you won’t be the one filled with regret if it turns out you’re defending a criminal.”

  “I’m not defending him, I’m merely giving him the benefit of the doubt. We don’t know what he’s doing yet.” His features were grim, tinged with remorse. “I hope he’s not what Bow Street thinks.”

  Jason curled his hands around the arms of his chair, digging his fingertips into the soft velvet. He could hope all he liked, but that wouldn’t change the facts, and Jason had more cause to believe that Ethan had turned to a criminal life than not. “I’ve known him since we were boys and it makes sense he would resort to thievery. He’s always wanted more than he had. More than he deserved. I’m sure he’d do whatever he could to improve his lot.” How many times had he taunted that he should have been born as their father’s heir? That Father would’ve preferred it that way.

  Carlyle’s eyes flashed with irritation. “Who are you to say what he deserved? And shouldn’t a man try to better himself, improve his station in life?” It was the sentiment of a man who hadn’t been born to privilege.

  “Legally.” Jason stretched his fingers in an effort to release the building tension in his frame. “Ethan has always looked for the easy way to get ahead.”

  Carlyle briefly drummed his fingertips lightly against the edge of his desk. “I wonder what drove him to do that.”

  “Greed?” Jason was losing patience with Carlyle’s attitude. “His mother was a whore who sold herself to the highest bidder. The minute our father died, she found a new protector—and it wasn’t as if she was desperate. My father provided for her.”

  “I see,” Carlyle said judiciously, revealing the patronizing forbearance of a lawman. Then he exhaled deeply. “I can see the old resentment between you runs deep, and I’m sorry for it. I only know your brother a little, but I would say that somewhere buried inside of him is a decent fellow trying to get out.”

  What if that were possible? What if Ethan was trying to change his fortune? What if he had made a series of bad choices and now found himself wanting to correct them? Jason couldn’t fathom it. The Ethan Jagger he knew was selfish, spoiled, and cruel.

  “I don’t know what he said or did to convince you of that,” Jason said, “but my experience with him is quite different. He taunted us—my mother and me—about how our father loved him more. He made sure we knew exactly what Father gave them, what he did with them, how he preferred them as a family to us, how Father said he should be the heir instead of me. Worst of all, he made sure my mother was aware of the love her husband felt toward his mistress. He was relentless, pushing her ever closer to insanity. There isn’t a decent fiber in his being.”

  “He was a boy then, wasn’t he? Surely he’s changed.”

  “His years as a criminal have somehow rehabilitated his soul?” Jason laughed as darkness swirled within him. His patience with this interview had expired, and he hadn’t even mentioned the robbery or discussed whether Ethan had been involved. He got to his feet. “Thank you for your time.”

  C
arlyle also stood. He frowned again, but his features were creased with what Jason would characterize as genuine concern, as if the man cared about the brotherly drama playing out before him. “I’m not convinced Jagger’s motives are evil, and I again urge you not to draw any hasty conclusions about his appearance. For now.” His gaze turned dark and serious. “I assure you, if his activities are anything less than legal, I’ll be the first to drag him to Bow Street.”

  Ten minutes later, Jason made his way from the town house. He felt certain there were things Carlyle wasn’t telling him, but that only meant there was information to be gleaned. With North and Scot working their angles, and if he continued to work with Bow Street, he’d get to the meat of Ethan’s activities.

  Jason glanced down the street toward Lady Aldridge’s residence and froze. Coming toward him, an ivory bonnet trimmed with green framing her angelic face, was the only person in Society who’d encouraged him, at least for a few moments—Lady Lydia Prewitt.

  He considered hurrying into his coach, but to do so would have been blatantly rude. And despite Lady Lydia’s relationship to Margaret Rutherford, he couldn’t deny that he’d liked her.

  “Good afternoon, Lord Lockwood,” she called as she neared him. A footman trailed behind her at a discreet distance.

  He bowed. “Lady Lydia. We keep running into each other.” He noted that Aldridge House was just down the street. “Did you come from Lady Aldridge’s?”

  “Yes, but I’m afraid she’s still ill.” Her brow creased beneath the wide brim of her bonnet. She looked quite fetching today, with delicate blond curls framing her lovely face. “I’m on my way to visit Mrs. Lloyd-Jones next.”

  “Ah, just a few houses down the street, so I needn’t offer you a ride.” He felt a stab of disappointment, but reminded himself she was—for now—the enemy. Or at least aligned with one. And his enemy’s friends were his enemies, weren’t they? Still, he couldn’t resist a bit of provocation. “Although inviting you into my coach would’ve been terribly improper of me.” Particularly with her footman standing twenty or so paces distant.

  She tipped her head to the side and gave him a coquettish grin. “Don’t you like improper things?”

  He almost laughed at her outrageousness—and she knew it. “I do. Which is why I shouldn’t like you. Nor should I like talking to you in the middle of the street.”

  Her smile grew brighter, more genuine. “I suppose, but I’m glad you are talking to me. You could come with me to see Mrs. Lloyd-Jones,” she said. “I daresay she would like that.”

  “I’m sure you’re right, but I’m afraid I have other business.”

  She glanced away, but then nodded her understanding. “I imagine you’re overwhelmed with invitations after your long absence.”

  Not particularly. He’d received a handful, but after his confrontation with Ethan at the Whitmore Ball, he hadn’t accepted any of them yet. He supposed he must, though the thought of having to conform to Society’s dictates gave him a headache. On the other hand, the thought of allowing Ethan to claim a place while he stayed on the periphery was too grating. He wasn’t proud of his jealousy, but he also couldn’t change it.

  She touched his arm. “Lord Lockwood?”

  The connection of her hand with his arm drew his attention more firmly than her words. It reminded him of their waltz, the single best moment of his recent memory. Dancing was one of the few things he actually missed about Society. “Ah, yes.” He coughed. “I should go.”

  Her fingers closed around his coat sleeve. “Wait. I’m glad I met you here. I’ve been thinking about the other night quite a lot.” Her cheeks flushed a delicate pink.

  She’d been thinking the same thing he had? Dangerous. He hadn’t tangled with a respectable young woman in far too long. Did he even remember the boundaries? He must, otherwise he would’ve swept her into his coach and kissed her senseless.

  Kissed her? His gaze dipped to her lush lips. Oh yes, he wanted to kiss her, and the stiffening of his cock only underscored that fact.

  Boundaries, he reminded himself. He reluctantly withdrew his arm from her grasp.

  She didn’t glance away this time, and he saw the disappointment reflected in her eyes. “I enjoyed our waltz.”

  Don’t speak of it, he silently pleaded, I need to keep you at arm’s length. “As did I, but I shouldn’t expect a second. I wouldn’t want to tarnish your reputation.”

  “Nonsense, dancing with you made me very popular.”

  “As did witnessing the scene in the buffet room.” And then, because he needed to intimidate and discourage her, he tilted his face so that his scar was visible. “Tell me, Lady Lydia, how many times and to how many people did you recount that tale?”

  She stared at him, her lush brown eyes wide. Her lips parted, and he wondered if she only just kept her jaw from dropping.

  “You look surprised by my query.” And guilty. His voice lowered, and he leaned close. “I know your aunt very well. I wondered if you were like her, and I can see from your reaction that you are. How . . . disappointing.”

  “I’m not,” she said, her voice sounding a bit strangled. Her protest only made her look guiltier.

  It was time to go before things became any more uncomfortable. “Good afternoon, Lady Lydia.”

  He climbed into his coach and didn’t look back as he drove away.

  LYDIA’S LUNGS seized and she was afraid for a terrible second that she was going to sob. She abruptly turned away from his departing coach and forced herself to walk to Mrs. Lloyd-Jones’s house, though she really wanted to go home and bury her head beneath a pillow.

  That had been such a lovely interlude until he’d accused her of being like her aunt. An accusation that was terribly and unfortunately true. Shame washed through her.

  Slowly her lungs relaxed and she began to breathe normally. Had she really been on the verge of tears again? Perhaps she should cry. Maybe that would help. But the more she thought about it, the drier her eyes felt.

  She trudged up the steps to Mrs. Lloyd-Jones’s house. Her footman moved up beside her and rapped on the door.

  She was shown directly to Mrs. Lloyd-Jones’s private sitting room upstairs, where her hostess was sitting at her small secretary. She looked up as Lydia entered. “Good afternoon, dear.” Her welcoming smile faded. “What’s the matter? You look pale, as if you’ve seen a carriage accident. You haven’t, have you?” She stood up and met Lydia, putting her arm around her shoulders and guiding her to the settee.

  Lydia shook her head. “No, nothing like that.”

  “Tell me all about it while we’re waiting for tea.” She sat with Lydia on the settee and smoothed the skirt of her pale blue day gown.

  Lydia removed her bonnet and gloves because she always did when it was just the two of them. There was nowhere she felt more comfortable. “I’ve just encountered Lord Lockwood.”

  Mrs. Lloyd-Jones’s eyes lit with interest. “Oh? You looked rather dashing together waltzing at the Whitmore Ball.”

  “You’re not playing matchmaker, are you?” Lydia asked.

  “So what if I am?” Mrs. Lloyd-Jones lifted a shoulder. “You’ve made no secret to me about wanting to marry. And Lockwood is a good man, no matter what anyone says.”

  Lydia knew very well who “anyone” meant. Her aunt. “Regardless, it’s not worth considering. I don’t believe he’s interested in me in the slightest.” Ha, he’d made that quite clear.

  Why did it bother her so much? Perhaps because he was only the latest gentleman to find her lacking. Goodwin had already moved on, or so it seemed. After dancing with her thrice in recent weeks, he hadn’t paid her more than cursory attention since the prior week.

  The tea tray arrived, and Mrs. Lloyd-Jones poured out. She gave Lydia a compassionate smile. “You will find someone.”

  How many times had Lydia heard that exact sentiment? Too many to count. And too many to believe it any longer. She’d had just as many offers here as back home: zero. Yet
she had to keep trying. She thought of the cold, dark nights, the jostling carriage ride over thirty miles to the nearest town, and the dearth of anyone near her age, and she inwardly shuddered.

  Mrs. Lloyd-Jones broke into her self-pitying reverie. “You should consider Lockwood.”

  Had the woman not heard her? “There’s nothing to consider. As soon as he learned I was Margaret’s great-niece, he couldn’t avoid me quickly enough.” And he’d been quite plain in the street a few minutes earlier on the subject of her aunt and gossip. No, there was nothing for her there.

  Mrs. Lloyd-Jones sighed. “A vicious cycle, isn’t it? You want a life of your own, but people make assumptions about you because of your aunt and you can’t form the sort of relationship that could lead to more. We must find a way around this.”

  Lydia’s stomach pitched again. They’d discussed this topic before, but for some reason it was just too . . . painful today. She forced herself to smile, and tried very hard to make it genuine to put her hostess—and friend—at ease. “I’ll find a way. Eventually.”

  “In the meantime, I think I’ll champion this Lockwood match. I’m sure he’s not disinterested. You’re the only young lady who’s drawn his favor.” She arched her brow at Lydia. “You don’t mind, do you?”

  Lydia didn’t mind. She liked Lockwood. But his behavior wasn’t encouraging. Furthermore, what sort of life would she have if she were married to him? He was reclusive and scandalous—not exactly the prime qualities Lydia wanted in a husband. “What of his reputation? His activities?”

  “He’d give them up, of course. I don’t think he’d continue to host his parties if he had something—or someone—else to fill his life.”

  Why had he even started hosting them in the first place? She wished she knew more about his background. Aunt Margaret had told her some of it of course, but Lydia knew better than to take her tales verbatim. “That’s relieving to hear. However, who’s to say he won’t submit to a fit of madness and tear his house apart again?”

  Mrs. Lloyd-Jones frowned. “It was a sad time. His mother had suffered a total mental collapse. They were close.”