The Wolf of Winterthorne: Scandalous Secrets, Book 4

by Tracy Goodwin

  After all Sybil put them through, the hell they endured, it was the least they deserved.

  Could Arabella harm her sister?

  She once would have answered “no” but not now, never again. Logan’s life, her life, were all that mattered now.

  The good must live.

  And Sybil was anything but.

  God help her and God help Arabella, for she was now willing to do anything to survive.

  Logan and Arabella joined their guests at dinner to find a packed table. Colin had returned, with his brother, Tristan, in tow.

  “I called for reinforcements while you were out walking,” Lady Victoria announced with a wry grin, her auburn curls piled atop her head while her sapphire and cream striped gown matched her eyes to perfection.

  The Dowager Viscountess added, “You both must be famished from such exertion.”

  Victoria’s eyes widened while the room fell silent with the exception of a cough, though whether it came from Tristan or Colin, Logan was uncertain.

  Steeling his shoulders, Logan escorted Arabella to her chair, noting the adorable pink tinge that swept her cheeks at Fiona’s statement.

  Upon holding the chair for Arabella, Logan took his seat beside Colin. “Bella remembered something concerning her sister and currency in a mattress.”

  “That is more than I have uncovered,” Colin placed his fork on his plate. “Everyone is tight-lipped about what happened. My investigators have unearthed no hard evidence.”

  “However, there is gossip,” Tristan added, wiping his mouth with a pristine white linen napkin.

  “Gossip?” Logan scoffed.

  “Never underestimate the power of rumors, my dear,” Fiona shot Logan a wry grin.

  Victoria paused in slicing her meat. “You aren’t aware of the underground gossip rag, are you?” She studied Logan.

  No, he was not.

  Winterthorne had no such things.

  He preferred to stay clear of them to be honest.

  “How are you aware?” Logan asked through narrowed eyes.

  Victoria winked at him. “I prefer to remain informed. Earlier this year, a story was printed about a nobleman who kept currency and jewels hidden in his mattress.”

  “You cannot be serious?” Colin’s voice rose an octave. “Who would be so daft?”

  “Where have you been? Residing in a cave?” Victoria glanced from Colin to Logan. “Honestly, I don’t know which of you is more reclusive. At any rate, London was buzzing about this bit of gossip and many tried to discern who this mystery noble may be.”

  “That is proof of nothing, Victoria,” Colin took a bite of lamb.

  “Ah, but it is, brother dear,” Tristan paused in the course of elaborating. All in attendance appeared captivated by his announcement and the promise of more salacious news to come. “While you, Logan, and your investigators have been chasing your tails, the Ton Tattler struck again. In the latest edition, it recounts that Lord Lawrence, the seventh Duke of Atwell, fell ill at his London townhome and has not been seen in public since last week. The timing aligns with Sybil’s attack on Arabella, does it not?”

  “Yes, it does,” Bella concurred.

  “This is unbelievable,” Logan shook his head. “Who needs investigators when you can rely upon some gossipmonger?”

  Victoria nodded. “It appears that certain members of the ton have affronted someone who is eager to disclose their secrets. He or she is discreet enough not to mention names, yet if you watch and wait, many times the pieces fall into place.”

  “So, it isn’t beyond the realm of possibility that Lord Lawrence is the person Sybil stole from and that his illness may stem from the blade of her knife?” Logan took a hefty swig of his port.

  “I am acquainted with Lord Lawrence through his late wife as well as his mother,” Fiona announced with a flourish of her fan, an ostentatious array of silver, gold and crimson brushstrokes in the shape of flames. The more she flicked her wrist, the faster the fire seemed to spark. “I could call upon the Dowager Duchess to see how she and her son are faring.”

  “I would join you, of course,” Colin affirmed with a grin.

  Fiona bowed her head. “I would expect nothing less from you, my darling boy.”

  “We shall join you in London once we are wed,” Logan announced.

  After a series of gasps, the room fell silent. Each guest stared at Logan, eyes wide.

  “What?” he shrugged. “Arabella and I are betrothed.”

  “Of course you are, dear,” Fiona drawled.

  Victoria laughed. “Of that we had no doubt. Our astonishment stems from the fact that you are joining us in London. Have you been stricken with fever?”

  “Or perhaps overrun with madness?” Colin chimed in.

  Logan shot his friend a look of frustration. “Though you are all amusing, Arabella and I must make a grand entrance as husband and wife if we are to garner her sister’s attention and that of the person or persons Sybil has wronged.”

  “Well, I can assist you there,” Tristan offered. “I have acquired some properties in London that may be useful.”

  “Yes, Tristan has been procuring properties in London at a rapid rate. Just in time, as need is increasing.” Victoria was clearly proud of her husband’s business acumen.

  “I can offer you a palatial townhome that would be quite impressive and is presently unoccupied,” Tristan added.

  Logan smirked. “We shall take it.”

  “Good. Now that this is settled, you must procure a special license.” Victoria turned towards her husband. “Tristan and I know a clergyman, quite discreet, who owes me a favor … he will happily provide said license and preside over the nuptials posthaste.”

  “Arthur? Really?” Tristan arched his brown brow.

  “Who is Arthur?” Arabella prodded.

  Logan shrugged, the name being one he had never before heard.

  “Yes, darling … Arthur,” Victoria’s smile failed to reach her voice. She must have noted the quizzical looks aimed at her, for she explained, “He was once Tristan’s driver. However, he has since atoned for his sins and is a clergyman who owes me a rather large favor. He can marry you as soon as we summon him.”

  Arabella glanced about the room. “Is this … legal?”

  “It matters not,” Fiona drawled. “Our lot is progressive. We beat drums as opposed to marching to them.”

  “There isn’t much that deters us,” Eve added holding her glass in a toast to Arabella.

  Colin tipped his head towards his wife. “We are facing a formidable threat.”

  “Tell that to Keir,” Logan quipped.

  Tristan chimed in. “Keir? Please. We have faced worse than that lunatic, have we not?”

  The Dowager Viscountess shrugged. “We all have our daemons.”

  “Do I want to know the details?” A crease spread across Bella’s forehead.

  “No, my dearest girl,” Fiona patted Arabella’s hand. “Just follow our lead.”

  Logan met Arabella’s warm gaze, offering her an encouraging smile.

  “I couldn’t be in more capable hands.” Her cheeks turned a bright crimson and Logan could read her thoughts for he too, had recounted his hands exploring her body repeatedly.

  His fingers twitched just thinking of it.

  “Good, now that it is settled, we must make you and your bride London ready.” Victoria placed her napkin upon the immaculate tablecloth.

  “What precisely does ‘London ready’ mean?” Logan’s tone dripped with skepticism.

  The fact that Colin cleared his throat and avoided his gaze caused Logan to peer about the room. Fiona continued to fan herself while Tristan smiled at his plate.

  “What am I missing?” Logan asked.

  Colin tapped his fingers on the tablecloth, studying Victoria. “I’m not telling him.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” Victoria stood, clearly exasperated as she crossed the room. She positioned herself behind Logan and grabbed his
long hair, yanking his head backwards. “You must cut your hair.”

  “I will not,” Logan shook his head as much as Victoria’s grasp would allow.

  Victoria yanked harder. “Yes, you will.” She stood over him, like a mother lecturing her son on his unkempt appearance.

  “I refuse to play the role of a refined gentleman—”

  “That is correct. You must exude wealth and power; you must appear formidable, make the rest of the ton envious while at the same time intimidating them. In order to succeed, this long mane must go. Your scar will be much more striking and you will look much more menacing without the hair.” Though Victoria’s tone brokered no argument, Logan refused to heed her.

  “My ‘mane’ as you refer to it adds to my menacing demeanor,” he insisted, though his argument sounded feeble even to his own ears.

  “No, it makes you look eccentric and unstable when you want to project strength and raw masculinity. You want people to know upon first glance that you are shrewd, calculating and dangerous. If it were me, I would want them to wince when I glare at them. If you take my advice, they will, Logan.” Victoria stared down at him, her determined azure eyes unwavering. “Follow my instructions and you will terrify whoever is hunting Arabella.”

  “You terrify me,” Logan quipped, though he was only half-joking. This woman was a force to be reckoned with.

  Logan knew it.

  Victoria knew it.

  Hell, the whole room did.

  Tristan sniggered. “You aren’t the first person to find my wife formidable.”

  “Best not to argue with her, mate,” Colin concurred at last. “She is correct. Trust her. Trust me. I agree with Victoria.”

  “Damn it to hell,” Logan sighed.

  Fiona laughed, the sound tinkling through the room like bells. “Yes, well. Damned as those in hell may be, we must retain our composure, Logan. This is supper not a drunken stupor at White’s. So, the hair is to be cut.”

  The Dowager Viscountess’s announcement rang through the large room, echoing like a clock tolling the hour.

  Ironic since time had indeed caught up with Logan. He was losing control of his tight-knit, reclusive life at a rapid rate.

  Who was he kidding?

  He lost control the moment Arabella wandered onto his grounds. Glancing at his beloved Bella, who studied him, he noted that her eyes sparkled with mischief and she donned an effervescent smile that caused the room to illuminate brighter than any candle or wall sconce.

  That look – her response – was all he needed.

  He would do anything to keep her safe. Cutting his hair was nothing in comparison to the many acts he would commit to keep his beloved Bella alive.

  Listening to the advice of his friends was the least dangerous act he would commit. Hence, he would own his transformation, own who he is, deep inside.

  For Arabella.

  Everything he did now was for her.

  Those who got in his way would be secondary to his prime objective.

  Logan would ensure they would never see him approaching.

  Though Logan’s transformation was ambitious, it was also a complete success. From his hair to his clothes he appeared, for all intents and purposes, to be a member of the haut ton.

  But looks were deceiving.

  As Victoria predicted, attire and a haircut only enhanced Logan’s formidable façade. His bronzed skin and scar became more pronounced, as did his square jawline, broad shoulders, and muscular build.

  He towered above most men of the ton by at least four inches, and seemed to overpower every man he met.

  The London dwellers were drawn to Logan’s status and wealth. Add to that his powerful friends, such as Tristan and Victoria who were now known by the title Tristan inherited from his grandfather as the Viscount and Viscountess of Cavendish. Throw the Dowager Viscountess of Haversham into the mix and the Duke and Duchess of Davenport by familial association and Mr. Logan Ambrose was the talk of the town.

  As was his new bride.

  Arabella married him on a crisp autumn day before his transformation. As with their previous ceremony, they wed outdoors, with the tawny-colored hills and green pines that surrounded them on the grounds of Winterthorne. She mesmerized him in a gown of gold and cream, as resplendent as the sun, which illuminated the proceedings.

  Their ceremony was presided upon by a scarred man with tanned skin. Had it not been known that he was a member of the clergy, Logan would have thought the man to be quite the imposing figure, recognizing a kindred spirit.

  Truth be told, it mattered not who presided over the proceedings because Logan was more enthralled with his bride than anyone else. Though Colin, Eve, Fiona, Victoria, and Tristan were in attendance, the only person who mattered to Logan was his Bella.

  From that day forward, he and Arabella were inseparable with one exception …

  When Bella spent time with Victoria.

  Logan insisted that Tori teach Bella what to expect from the ton. Who better to mentor her, after all, than the very woman who mocked an entire room packed with nobility and survived unscathed?

  Of course, Victoria was happy to oblige. She and Bella had rekindled their friendship in very little time. As for Arabella, she was already strong and brave, she simply required someone to prepare her for society. A society whose rules and etiquette she remembered, but whose members she did not. On this, Victoria was the most helpful.

  It was essential, since their foe remained an uncertainty. Though they suspected Lord Lawrence, it may be a ruse.

  Colin and the Dowager Viscountess had been unable to uncover much about the Lord’s condition. He refused visitors and his mother was tight-lipped. Both Colin and Fiona left the Duke of Atwell’s residence with the distinct impression that there was more to the story, but with no definitive facts.

  Tonight would mark a spectacle the likes of which neither Logan nor Arabella had experienced. Up until this night, they had associated with people in small crowds, at minimal functions.

  This would be a grand function, both for its size and meaning. They would attend the opera. A large crowd was to be expected, of course, but what was most disconcerting was that Bella would be in attendance.

  The identical image of her twin.

  In the opera house where Sybil once rehearsed, once performed though in a chorus.

  Many in the crowd, men especially, would recognize Arabella by sight though who would misidentify Bella remained to be seen.

  Would those chasing Sybil attend this evening’s performance? If so, what would they do? How would they react?

  Logan was prepared for anything. He was armed with a pistol, hidden by his jacket, and a dagger in his boot. Colin wore matching attire. Though Logan hadn’t discussed this with Tristan, he knew Victoria’s husband well enough to suspect he had similarly armed himself.

  Protect our wives at all costs.

  Such was their vow as the men prepared for this evening. They discussed their plans once more in the study of Logan’s townhome as they awaited their wives to come downstairs.

  Sitting on leather sofas, Colin next to Logan with Tristan seated in a matching one across the table from them, they reviewed details of tonight’s event while Eve and Victoria were presently helping Arabella dress for the evening ahead.

  “So, what have I missed, gentlemen?” Victoria bounded into the room, swaying her reticule to and fro.

  Tristan stood, kissing his wife on the cheek. “Nothing, darling. Care for a drink?”

  “Always,” she smiled.

  Logan’s eyes widened as Tristan poured a tumbler of whisky for his wife and she took two hefty gulps. Her husband chuckled, as if there was a private joke between the two, something intimate that only they shared. Such was the intimacy Logan longed to build with Arabella.

  One without fear.

  One without peril.

  “Where is my wife?” Logan asked, rubbing his palms together. His anxiety reached a fever pitch whenever Arabella wasn
’t beside him.

  “She is with Eve,” Victoria placed her glass on the desk behind her. “I felt it was necessary for me to explain how I have prepared your wives for tonight’s event.”

  “I don’t like the sound of this,” Colin drawled, raking his hands through his hair before glancing at his brother.

  Tristan’s brow furrowed. “Do you honestly think Victoria wouldn’t prepare them for what we are facing?”

  “Now I truly don’t like the sound of this,” Colin hissed.

  Logan stood, “What the—”

  “Take a seat please, Logan,” Victoria waved him away with her hand.

  When he didn’t do as she bid, Victoria tilted her head to the side. “We don’t have time for a staring match or a duel, so please be seated – watch and learn, gentlemen.”

  Logan settled upon the leather sofa, sitting upright, ready to bolt. He watched as Victoria placed her reticle, muff, and fan on the desk. The room was illuminated by the fire in the grate and the many sconces accentuating the wood paneled walls, making her accessories fully visible.

  “Females are not helpless, regardless of what—

  “Our society dictates,” the men joined Victoria, finishing her statement in unison.

  She arched an auburn brow. “It appears I have taught you gentlemen well. You may proceed.”

  The men stood and joined Victoria, surrounding the massive mahogany desk.

  “Look but don’t touch,” she advised. “You are the crowd at the opera house. Study me, study my belongings. Note anything extraordinary? If anyone can, it would be you three.”

  Upon taking several steps away from the desk, she twirled then stood stock-still. Logan, Colin, and Tristan inspected Victoria and her belongings. Her reticule was made out of beads and fringe. She lifted it, carried it as she would normally. There was nothing conspicuous. Her fan was embellished with a sterling silver handle. She held it, opened it, and fanned herself. Again, nothing notable short of the unique handle. Her muff was ermine. It looked like any other, with the exception that it cost more than Logan’s first year of wages.