Her Reformed Rake (Wicked Husbands Book 3)

by Scarlett Scott

  By night, they scoured the streets of Liverpool. Their intelligence from the Pinkertons in America was concise and clear. There would be an attack. The devil of it was that beyond knowing a bomb planting was imminent, they were helpless to stop the destruction from unfolding without evidence leading them to the origin of the conspiracy.

  “All roads lead to Vanreid,” Griffin pointed out needlessly as they stood alone in their empty storefront one evening.

  Sebastian stilled in the act of tallying their ledger from the day. Though he’d never been interested in trade, here was a part of his duty that he enjoyed. Numbers were so precise. There was no confusion when it came to arithmetic. One was either correct or incorrect, and there was not a bloody subjective thing about it. So unlike every other part of his life that he almost found peace in working over the leather-bound book with his pen. It was a diversion, at any rate, from missing Daisy and wondering what the hell she must think of his sudden disappearance.

  Duty was a hell of a thing.

  “Of course all roads lead to Vanreid,” he said at last, measuring his words with care as he finished a sum. “He is the primary source of funds. He owns the arms factory, the boats. He hides his every evil action beneath the pretext of innocent business. And yet, for all that, he remains the wily fox who has outsmarted us, gotten into the henhouse, and eaten every last fowl, for we cannot buy evidence against him.”

  “Do you not think it odd, Bast, the way he can seemingly predict our moves?” Griffin asked from across the room.

  He stiffened. Acting on information from American operatives, they had raided Vanreid’s ships on four occasions, only to be met with legitimate goods each time. Not a hint of dynamite or dynamite-making ingredients to be found.

  “Do you mean to suggest I shared sensitive information with Daisy?” he calmly asked, his pen still scratching away on the ledger. It was better to involve himself in such tasks than to dwell on the growing doubt his best friend levied his way each passing day. As their mission had proved increasingly fruitless, the strain between them had only gotten worse.

  “I would never question your loyalty, Bast.” Griffin’s tone was quiet, contemplative. “That, I think, is rather the point. Is your loyalty to her as strong as your loyalty to the League?”

  He didn’t know the answer to the goddamn question, nor did he wish to consider it. Ten carboys of nitric acid, he read, and then he froze. “Did you arrange for a large sale of nitric acid today?”

  “No,” Griffin snapped. “Don’t seek to distract me, Bast. It’s high time we had this out between the two of us. You haven’t spoken a word about her since the night I arrived.”

  No, he had not. Daisy was a private matter, and to his mind, she had nothing to do with his obligations in Liverpool. She was, simply, his. And he would not discuss her as if she were an enemy or a suspect when she was the woman who owned his heart. But that was neither here nor there at the moment, for he was staring at a blank line where the scrawl of their assistant shop boy, James, indicated an inordinately large purchase of nitric acid, along with fourteen carboys of sulfuric acid.

  They were to be delivered the following day to an address not far off. The lure had finally worked, damn it.

  He jerked his head up to find Griffin pacing the shop floor, a scowl hardening his features. “I believe we need to pay a visit to one Reginald White.”

  “What are you on about?” Griffin stalked over to him.

  Sebastian pushed the ledger toward his friend, pointing to the entry in question. “Have a look for yourself. It seems to me that Reginald White purchased far too great a quantity for a mere painter. Indeed, it rather seems to me that the bastard bought enough to make dynamite.”

  Griffin scanned the ledger, his jaw clenching. “Bloody hell. What do you know? It looks like we may have found our canary after all.”

  Sebastian raised a brow. “Let’s go.”

  The sun had long since set, all storefronts closed. Liverpool’s night denizens had come out to play in full, raucous effect. It was nigh onto midnight, which meant they hadn’t a moment to waste. Working with haste, they closed down the shop for the night, locked everything away, doused the lights, and moved on foot to their destination.

  Number three Castle Street was a fairly nondescript building. No lights burned within. By the streetlight, Sebastian read the sign hanging over the small storefront. Reginald White, Painter & Decorator. They had reached their quarry, and he knew a moment of pure, unadulterated thrill. Here was the part of his work in the League that called to him, that felt like home. Danger excited him.

  And yet, for some reason, tonight the excitement felt, after its initial rush… hollow. Perhaps it was because he knew that back in London, the most exquisite woman he’d ever known was organizing his library and wondering where in the hell he’d gone. Jesus, she was probably cursing him, hating him. When he finally did return, there was no telling if he would be able to win her back.

  But this wasn’t the time or the place for that thought. For now, he was a pledged member of the League, and he had a mission to see through. For Daisy, and for every other innocent who would be an unwitting victim, he needed to cast Vanreid into gaol forever.

  That’s it, old chap. Wits about you. Time to move.

  “We’ll canvas the perimeter, make certain no one’s within,” he told Griffin lowly. You take the east, I’ll move from the west, and we’ll meet in the rear.”

  “Done,” Griffin agreed, his hand going to the pistol he kept beneath his jacket.

  “God go with you, brother,” they said in unison.

  And then, they parted ways and sank into the night. Some twenty minutes later, they reconnoitered by a locked back door.

  “No one’s inside,” Griffin grunted Sebastian’s thoughts aloud. “We need to gain access, see what’s within.”

  Sebastian lit a match to illuminate the lock on the door. “Have you your bloody keys?”

  “Does a stag shit in the woods?” Griffin asked triumphantly, extracting the ring of skeleton keys he always kept at the ready from his pocket.

  He would have laughed had the situation been any less dire. Griffin’s gift was picking locks. He had seven keys, and if none of them fit a lock, Griffin could muscle the closest match into working. He’d never seen a door the Duke of Strathmore couldn’t break through with his innate feel.

  Griffin turned his attention to the door. Sebastian’s match sputtered out, but it little mattered. In less than two minutes, Griffin had the door open. They stepped inside, shutting the portal behind them, and lit the gas lamps on low, walking with as much care as possible lest anyone let the rooms above the shop. The storefront seemed innocent enough.

  Sebastian followed Griffin into the back room, and that was the precise location where innocent morphed into something decidedly evil.

  “Carboys of nitric acid,” Griffin reported quietly. “Seventeen, in all.”

  “Ten of sulfuric,” Sebastian added grimly.

  The evidence grew more damning as they continued. On the boiler, a vat of nitroglycerin simmered.

  “Bloody hell,” Griffin rasped.

  It was in that precise moment that Sebastian’s gaze found a scrap of paper bearing a nearly illegible scrawl. He snatched it up, reading it thrice, sure he was wrong. Sure that no one, especially not the sort of enemy who had been brewing dynamite beneath the nose of England’s most elite spies for the past two months, could be so foolish.

  “Fuck.” He scanned the contents again for good measure. Midnight. Dale Street. “There’s to be an explosion tonight at the police station.”

  “Jesus. We’ve got to get there to warn them,” Griffin said needlessly.

  Taking great care to leave the premises just as they’d found it, they backtracked together, turning down all the lamps, leaving and locking the door. Dale Street wasn’t far by foot, so they took off at a run. They’d almost reached the station when the explosion struck. The earth rumbled, the sound of t
he detonation reverberating in otherworldly fashion, blasting through his chest. Glass shattered. A woman screamed.

  And at last, the war they’d been warned of had arrived at Liverpool. But Sebastian and Griffin had been too goddamn late to stop it. They halted in their tracks, watching the smoke rise in the wake of the blast, and the resultant commotion unleash.

  “Fucking hell,” Sebastian breathed, smoke and the bitter ascent of sulfur burning his lungs.

  “Hell on earth,” Griffin agreed bitterly. “Damn their hides. We’ll get them, Bast. We’ll get every last one of the rotten bastards.”

  Sebastian watched the glow of flame, the smoke billowing into the air. He thought of Daisy, her innocence, the way he’d last left her, and his heart ached. Then he thought of her father, the duplicitous son-of-a-bitch who financed these godforsaken plots. And a part of him resented her, for being so innocent and good and naïve. For being the woman he loved and yet also the daughter of the enemy he needed to destroy. It wasn’t fair, damn it. Life was not fair.

  Because nothing was as it seemed, and everything was about to change.

  23rd May, 1881

  Your Grace,

  You will perhaps be happy to learn that I’ve made a great number of friends in your absence. There are ever so many gentlemen eager to make my acquaintance now that the Duchess of Leeds has taken me under her wing.

  In particular, the Earl of Bolton is a noble and generous man, and not at all as you described him. It is such a pity that your “private” and “urgent” matter keeps you from London, as I think you would get on with him as well as I do.

  Sincerely,

  Duchess of Trent

  Daisy stared at the man who had once been her betrothed and fought back the familiar burst of nausea that had been striking her on and off for the last month. Tall and lanky, with black hair and flashing blue eyes, he was just as handsome as he’d been the day she’d first met him in New York at one of her father’s dinner parties. Padraig McGuire, with his lilting accent from Ireland’s shores, his easy smiles, and wicked charm.

  She’d fallen for those charms once upon a time.

  Strange where life had led them, their diverging paths bringing them to this moment. Now, when she looked upon him, she saw a stranger. What a naïve girl she’d been to think she’d been prepared for marriage to him. She knew now that the girlish fancy she’d felt had been predicated by the burning desire to escape her father more than any other emotion.

  And some two years later, here she stood, an abandoned duchess in a foreign land, no happier as the Duchess of Trent than she would’ve been as Mrs. Padraig McGuire. Two years, and she’d learned nothing about entrusting her heart to the care of men. How sobering.

  “Why have you come, Mr. McGuire?” she asked into the silence that had fallen between them.

  She stood by the window in the small salon where she received callers, a sliver of sun warming her face. The chamber was filled with flowers, a testament to the last month’s efforts. Her arrangement with Georgiana was proceeding with success. Together, they had managed to set the ton on its ear with all manner of gossip in the hopes that they would cause enough furor to bring their husbands home and get the answers they so badly deserved.

  Hugo sat at her feet, guarding her as was his wont. The boisterous pup had proved far more devoted to her than any person had ever been.

  Padraig took a step closer to her, and Hugo growled.

  “Bloody hell, Daisy. Must you have that mutt present?” He cast a jaundiced eye toward her beloved companion.

  Her chin rose. “Yes, I must, and you’re far too familiar, Mr. McGuire. You may address me as ‘Your Grace’ or you may leave.”

  Another step brought him nearer, and for a moment she wondered if she should fear him. After all, he ran her father’s businesses. She should not have received him again today, his fourth visit in the last fortnight since his abrupt reappearance in her life. And especially not since he was using a false name for reasons he refused to divulge. Indeed, she would not have had he not dangled the one lure before her that she couldn’t resist.

  Bridget.

  Her sister had abruptly quit her position with Madame Villiers, and she had disappeared. Daisy had not heard from her, and she was dreadfully worried. Madame had no notion of where she’d gone or why, leaving Daisy adrift.

  “Forgive me, Your Grace.” Padraig’s tone was mocking, but he stopped where he was, the boldly patterned replacement carpet she’d chosen between them. “Are you happy then? As a duchess? Is it the life you wanted?”

  Her own husband had abandoned her as if she were of no greater import than the newspaper he’d discarded the day before. And she had given her heart to him, or at least to the man she’d imagined him to be. For the real Sebastian was an enigma to her. A mystery she could not seem to solve. Of course this was not the life she wanted, spending each day in frivolous amusements, working with Georgiana to cause as much gossip as possible in the hopes she might get the answers she so desperately sought.

  Where are you, Sebastian? she wondered silently. And, more importantly, who are you?

  She forced a smile to her lips. “This is the life I’ve been given. I am… content. But that is enough idle chatter, Mr. McGuire. You said you had news of my sister that required an audience. I don’t wish to hear anything you say if it doesn’t concern her. May I remind you that your other visits have been fruitless? That each time you claim to have information regarding her whereabouts, they lead to dead-ends?”

  Padraig’s mouth flattened into a harsh line. “You loathe me.”

  Did she? Once, perhaps, she had, but time, distance, and knowledge could heal any wound. Now, she looked upon him and felt nothing. He was not the man she’d believed him to be, and she was no longer the girl he’d once known. “You are my father’s emissary. My distaste for you stems from that fact alone.”

  “I’ve told you I’m not here at his behest.” Padraig’s gaze searched hers as a frown furrowed his brow. “He doesn’t know I’ve been speaking with you, though I’ve made no secret of it. I don’t answer to Vanreid.”

  She wasn’t sure she believed that, but she didn’t wish to discuss her father with him. Her every tie to him except her sister had been severed, and she intended to keep it that way forever. “Have you news of Bridget or not?”

  “Yes.”

  His single-word response did little to quell the apprehension unfurling within her. “And? Where is she? What has happened?”

  Padraig strode toward her, closing the distance. Hugo growled again, making him stop short of reaching her. “She’s no longer in London. Her precise location is unknown, but I fear she’s in danger.”

  Danger. The apprehension iced into fear. Her hands clenched in her skirts. “What sort of danger?”

  “Bombs, Daisy,” he said simply.

  And she didn’t bother to correct his familiar address this time, for her inundated mind was too busy attempting to make sense of what he’d just told her. “Bombs.”

  “Dynamite, to be specific.” His expression tightened. “The danger is grave.”

  Good, sweet heavens. The papers had been abuzz with talk of the explosion in Liverpool and talk of Fenian uprisings. Daisy had never imagined such evils had anything to do with her sister’s disappearance. “Do you mean to say she’s involved with the Fenians?”

  Padraig inclined his head. “I cannot say. All I will say is you should trust no one, including me.”

  He caught her hand then, and Hugo gave a small yip of protest as he raised it to his lips for a kiss. Daisy snatched her hand from his grasp, staring at him, questions and dread rushing through her like flood waters. “Why are you telling me this? Padraig, are you connected to this? Is that why you’ve come calling using the name John Greaves instead of your own?”

  He shook his head slowly. “The danger is grave,” he repeated, bowing to her. “Be wary of those closest to you, and take care of yourself.”

  She watched h
im turn to leave, clutching her hand to her madly thumping heart. Just before he reached the door, he turned back to her, a brief ghost of a smile flitting over his lips. “If it had been within my power, I would have kept him from hurting you,” he said in an odd tone. “Know that. Goodbye, Daisy Vanreid.”

  As quickly as he’d re-emerged in her life, Padraig McGuire was gone, the paneled door clicking closed at his back. She stared at the space where he’d been, knowing somehow that this was the last call he would make upon her.

  “Daisy Trent,” she corrected, not that it mattered.

  25th May, 1881

  Dear Sir,

  As we prepare to enter the third month of your absence, I write you with unexpected news. I am expecting your child. Though you’ve amply demonstrated your lack of sentiment for myself, I cannot help but hope you may be somewhat less reticent in regards to an innocent.

  In other matters, I hope you don’t mind that I’ve recently replaced all the carpets with a fine Axminster at 8 shillings a yard. Redecorating the old nursery will prove even more costly, I fear.

  Sincerely,

  Duchess of Trent

  “Surely even you can concede she’s become a liability now, Trent.”

  Scowling, Sebastian looked up from the Home Office report the Duke of Carlisle had offered up for his perusal. Following the blast at the police station, Carlisle had joined Sebastian and Griffin in Liverpool. They’d arrested three Fenians responsible for the dynamite operation on Castle Street, but there were literally hundreds more suspects and clues to pursue. The last fortnight had been a blur of running more leads to ground.

  But now, a different sort of blur descended upon Sebastian. Words rattled about in his mind, attempting to form into coherent thoughts. The anger crashing through him wouldn’t allow a complete sentence to form. The words, separately, meant little.