Bargaining With a Rake (A Whisper of Scandal Novel)

by Johnstone, Julie

  “Oh, I think her asking you to watch Lissie is genuine. She doesn’t trust me to diligently guard Lissie’s honor, I suppose. But since your honor was misplaced some years ago, my educated guess is she concluded I’d do to watch you.”

  “I wonder when she’ll quit trying to manipulate me into marriage.”

  Cameron shrugged. “Don’t be too hard on her. She is worried about you. So worried, in fact, that you have taken precedence on her reform list over Father’s drinking.”

  “Dear God, I’m number one on her list?”

  Cameron nodded.

  “Well, that is something to worry about. I’ll have to inform Mother tomorrow that you may well get the pox if you don’t reform your ways.”

  “You wouldn’t dare. She’d perish on the spot if her sainted ears heard the word ‘pox.’”

  Alex turned on his heels, relishing the worried look on Cameron’s face. He’d let him worry a little more before putting him out of his misery. He pushed through the heavy tavern door whistling a merry tune. He hadn’t felt this light since…He searched his mind and smiled. Since the wench behind the curtain had nearly boxed his ears for exploring her face. And what a face it was too. His loins stirred in remembrance. Best to dampen that right now. She was on the hunt for a husband, not a tumble in the bed.

  He made his way through the crowded bar, which was packed. Not a surprise considering it was payday at the docks. The sailors always cleaned up on payday to come to the Devil’s Tavern and spend their hard-earned money on mead and women. From the spilled mead, which made the floor slick, to the perfume, which tickled his nose, it was nice to know two things in life never changed.

  He spotted Sutherland at the end of the bar with a big sappy smile on his American face. Sutherland was another constant. Always happy and unfalteringly reliable.

  Alex wove through the drunken crowd and shrugged off the groping hands of eager, overly painted, scantily dressed women. Somewhere to the right of him, someone pounded on the keys of the piano, and soon a merry ballad about a rich nobleman and his daughter filled the tavern. The loud singing combined with the thumping of pewter ale mugs on the tables put a pleasant vibration in his ears.

  The humming in the air reminded him of the intense notes of the country dance playing in the background at the ball tonight when he had huddled behind the curtain with the enchantress. Her glistening black hair, eyes dancing with merriment and secrets, and lips calling to him flashed in his mind. He might well need to end things with Bess, but he obviously did not need to dawdle in replacing his mistress.

  Before Alex took his seat, a mug slid from Sutherland to him. Alex grasped the mug, indicated Cameron coming up behind him and signaled to the tavern keeper. “One more.”

  As Cameron took the seat by Alex, a mug slid past him and was snatched off the bar by his brother. Without a word of greeting, they raised their glasses, clinked them together and threw back the mead as if it was the last drink they’d ever receive. The sweet liquid coated Alex’s throat and took off the edge that had sprung up since learning his mother had taken a renewed interest in seeing to his life.

  “Tell me the news.” Sutherland clasped Alex’s shoulder.

  “Alex was closeted up with an innocent-looking thing behind a curtain tonight,” Cameron said before Alex had even finished swallowing his drink. Cameron thumped his mug onto the bar and grinned.

  “Quit glaring. I told you Mother wanted me to watch you. I had to have something to report and that was the most entertaining thing you did all night.”

  “Do not watch me and report back to Mother or I will drag you into the ring at Gentleman Jackson’s and leave your sorry butt there after I pummel your face in.”

  “Fine. But you have to help me think of stories to feed Mother.”

  “I’m sure you can come up with something on your own,” Alex snapped.

  Sutherland raised his eyebrows at Alex. “I take it by your surly tone you were unable to convince the lady to loosen her corset for you?”

  “Hardly. She practically shoved me out of the curtain. It was a simple mistake. I was meaning to meet an improper lady and stumbled upon a young miss no doubt trying to trap a man into marriage.”

  Sutherland raised his mug. “To Lionhurst for saving a hapless victim from marriage mart manipulations.”

  “God, you sound positively English,” Alex said, amazed that his friend had managed to mimic an English accent so perfectly.

  “I’ve been practicing so I can catch a proper English wife.”

  “Still stuck on that plan, huh?”

  “Absolutely,” Sutherland replied and held up three fingers to the tavern keeper to indicate three more mugs of mead. “I just need to meet a lady that sufficiently turns my head. Say, tell me about the lady from the curtains. If she’s searching and so am I, we might be just the thing the other needs.”

  A flash of the woman’s delicately sculpted face filled Alex’s mind. “She was not attractive in the least,” he lied, uncertain why he would do such a thing.

  Whoever was threatening her family had to be a man. Gillian read the latest note in the string of seven, which had arrived daily for an entire week. Cease your social outings or else. She understood the or else perfectly. The fiend had spelled it out clearly. He would tell the ton her sister was a murderess. Gillian would gladly chance social leprosy for herself, but her sister was another matter entirely.

  She folded the parchment into a tight square, threw it in her jewelry box and slammed the lid. She had to protect Whitney and keep her safe and happy.

  That meant marrying a foreigner and getting herself and Whitney out of England as soon as possible. Drake Sutherland was a foreigner. And from what she had read in all the Society papers, his visit here would be brief. His home was in New York, and he was powerful and wealthy. He could whisk them there immediately and solve all her problems. Neither she nor her sister would be in English Society and therefore the threat should disappear. Father would be relieved of his hopeless goal to make his daughters proper English matches. She smiled. That was actually a benefit considering whom her father might pick out for them to marry. Someone like him or one of his friends would be worse than death.

  She stood and ran a hand down the length of her silk dress. What more could a lady ask for? She dismissed out of hand the foolish wish for love. Anyone who’d failed her sister as she once had didn’t deserve to expect to marry for love. A truth made painfully apparent with each passing night that her sister stood on the wallflower line and people greeted them frostily at best. Blank dance cards did not a marriage make. Time to look happy for the next ball. Hopefully, disaster wouldn’t strike before she could actually meet Mr. Sutherland.

  She made her way down the hall and to the staircase. Whitney’s voice floated up from below. Gillian forced the butterflies to cease their turning. She had to protect Whitney and give her a chance at real happiness. Only a man would think they could tell her not to appear in Society and assume she could obey the command. Women had little power, especially in England, and if they did have power, they had to wield it craftily lest a man should feel threatened and take it away.

  Her father must be plagued by insecurity over losing his power. Why else would he not give her a crumb of say in her life? She had tried for a week to keep them at home, yet every night they were back at balls met with the same frosty reception and no names written on their dance cards. The threatening notes had arrived daily, but there was nothing she could do to ensure they stayed home as the gentleman threatening them demanded.

  How much time did she have before this person spilled their secret? Her stomach clenched at the thought.

  “Gillian.” Her father’s grip on her arm snapped her out of her musings. “Tonight I expect you to dance.”

  She nodded obediently so he would let go. As expected, he released her with a curt nod. Obedience was always the best way to stay on his pleasant side. Of course using the word “pleasant” to refer to him was a
liberal stretch of the term. He’d been most unpleasant earlier when she showed him the latest note. He’d yelled at her to burn the thing and quit worrying. As if she could? And frankly, she did not understand his attitude.

  She glared at his back as he strode down the steps. Did he really think it that simple? He could demand that tonight she dance, and poof, it would happen? Whitney fell in step beside her, slipping an arm securely around Gillian’s waist. “You look lovely. I’m sure tonight our dance cards will fill.”

  Gillian nodded and tried discreetly to dislodge the lump of emotion that had formed with Whitney’s naively hopeful words. “I’m sure we both shall dance,” she lied. If wishing it to be so could fill a card, then theirs would be full.

  The moment her father stopped and turned toward her she regretted the loudness of her tone. She hadn’t meant for him to hear her. “You will dance, young lady.” He wagged a finger in her face. “As eldest, you have to marry first. And since you can’t seem to manage to secure a dance on your own, I’ve secured one for you. Smile prettily, make pleasant conversation and this may be the only dance you ever need.”

  “Whatever do you mean?” she asked, settling into the carriage on shaking legs. Did she sound as nervous as his statement made her feel?

  “I’ve promised Mr. Mallorian you will dance with him. He fancies you.”

  “Father.” She swallowed the bile that had risen in her throat. She could not very well repeat what she’d overheard about Mr. Mallorian’s sexual pursuits or scream out her dislike of the man. “I don’t care for him.”

  Her father reached across the carriage and patted her knee. “Your worries are unfounded. If it makes you feel better, I know he has a country estate, which you could reside at permanently if you were to marry.”

  Her father’s words of assurance actually made her feel like retching. She swallowed convulsively. God help her, her thoughts had been selfish. Shame washed through her. She’d not even considered whoever was threatening them. Her worry was solely that she was positive marriage to a man like Mr. Mallorian would make her miserable.

  The carriage jerked to a start, and as it rolled down the road she stared out the window. Her sister took her hand and squeezed. Gillian offered Whitney a quick reassuring smile before turning back to pretend interest in the scenery. The trees blurred by her. She was prepared to sacrifice marrying for love to protect her sister, but that didn’t mean she wanted to marry a man she detested. Mr. Mallorian was not a good man. Angry tears burned the back of her throat at her father’s willingness to pawn her off on anyone who may be interested, whether he was a good person or not.

  The trip to the Primwitty ball was fortunately quick. The silence in the carriage had been deafening. As they ascended the stairs to the entrance of the ball, Gillian blinked in surprise at her Aunt Millicent’s smiling face. “I thought you couldn’t come tonight,” she said and rushed over to give her aunt a hug. Auntie was just what she needed. Someone in her corner who might be able to talk reason with her father or at the very least distract him so she could find Mr. Sutherland. She knew for a fact he was supposed to be here.

  She pressed her mouth close to her aunt’s ear. “Auntie, can you distract Father long enough for Whitney and I to slip away unnoticed?”

  Her aunt raised a silver brow at her. “Are you up to anything improper?”

  “Shall I lie?” Gillian held her breath, waiting for her aunt’s response. Auntie was the least conventional person Gillian had ever known, but she wasn’t sure her aunt would approve of her plan to seduce Mr. Sutherland into marrying her. Then again, Auntie might approve if she knew about Whitney, but the only thing Auntie knew was the same as everyone else.

  Whitney had lost her memory of the night their mother died. According to the doctors, the simple shock of losing her mother so young had been the culprit. The doctors couldn’t say if her memory would ever come back. All they had ever said was it could be dangerous to Whitney’s fragile mind to press the memories on her. And the doctors didn’t know the half of it.

  Auntie looked between Gillian and her father. “What’s he trying to do?”

  “I think he may be trying to arrange a marriage between myself and Mr. Mallorian.”

  Auntie’s eyes narrowed into pale green slits. “That family is horrid. I’d sooner see you a spinster.”

  “So you’ll help me?”

  Auntie patted absently at her silver hair. The gesture always signaled when her aunt was deciding on something. Finally, she ceased her ministrations to her already perfectly coifed hair and waved a hand through the air. “Lucinda, dear, over here.”

  A muddy-haired matron in a flowing violet gown wiggled around Gillian’s father and toward them. She stopped, breathless and smiling, her brown eyes lit with warmth. “I may dance tonight, Millicent,” she announced before pointing down to her feet. “My toes are not bothering me in the least since I lost a bit of weight.”

  Auntie’s chuckle made Gillian smile despite her concerns. Auntie’s friend Lucinda looked as if the only thing she’d lost was her ability to quit eating when full, but the woman seemed genuinely nice. Auntie nodded toward Gillian. “Lucinda, this is my niece.”

  The woman looked her up and down, her cheeks rippling into folds when she smiled. “You are just as pretty as your aunt said. Take heart, dear. Millicent told me you were once friends with the Duchess of Primwitty. And she’s the ton’s darling. So you are already one step toward overcoming the nasty rumors.”

  Auntie slapped her friend on the arm with her fan. “I told you to curb your bluntness. How do you expect to catch a new husband with that tongue?”

  “Posh.” Lucinda waved at Gillian’s aunt. “I don’t want another husband. Thirty years with a man as wonderful as Hector is enough to keep me warm until I die. I just want to dance. I miss it.”

  “That’s perfectly all right,” Gillian quickly interrupted, seeing exactly why her aunt and Lucinda were friends. They both spoke their minds and strayed from the topic of conversation. “What you said is partially the truth. I was once friends with the duchess, but I’ve no doubt my aunt used a multitude of favors to get these ballroom doors opened for my sister and myself.”

  “Not true,” Auntie protested, but her flushed face indicated otherwise.

  The older woman glanced past Gillian to where Whitney stood gazing toward the ballroom and humming. “Your sister?”

  Gillian nodded.

  “She’s lovely as well,” Lucinda said.

  “Thank you. Auntie, my favor?”

  “Ah, yes! Lucinda, dear, will you help me distract my brother-in-law so these two precious girls can have a bit of fun?”

  “Just the thing to make my night interesting,” Lucinda crowed. “Can he be enticed to dance?”

  “Doubtful, but you never know.”

  “Come along.” Lucinda grasped Auntie’s hand. “You know I love a challenge.”

  The minute Auntie and her friend stood in front of Father, Gillian hurried to her sister. “Time to disappear,” she whispered and nudged Whitney into motion. Giggling, they dodged into the crowd and across the threshold into the chaos and heat of the Duke and Duchess of Primwitty’s glittering ballroom.

  “Are we searching for Mr. Sutherland again?” Whitney asked.

  “Of course.” Gillian scanned and discarded each gentleman for being too short, too old, too fat, or their hair too dark. “Good grief,” she grumbled as someone bumped into her back. “This could take all night, and this ballroom is too crowded and reeks of an overuse of perfume.”

  “You should depart at once if the perfume offends you,” a feminine voice said to her back.

  Gillian clenched her teeth at the high-pitched tone she had tried to wipe from her memory. Pasting a smile on her face, she turned to greet Lady Staunton. A scene was out of the question, but the idea of placating the woman who glared at her over a man Gillian didn’t know nor cared to know made her stomach turn. Before she could make a false, cheery hello come fro
m her unwilling lips, a melodic voice came close from her right.

  “Lady Gillian and Lady Whitney, there you are, my dears. I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

  Gillian blinked. Were her eyes deceiving her? Sally—no, the Duchess of Primwitty, Gillian corrected herself—reached toward her and pulled Gillian close. Gillian gaped, too stunned to speak. It had been years, eleven precisely, since she and her childhood friend had spoken.

  Sally eyed Gillian before offering a placid smile to her curious guests. “Quit glaring, Serena,” Sally murmured in a voice dripping with honey, “and run along before I have you shown to the door.”

  “You wouldn’t dare,” Lady Staunton said, “Your husband would be furious, and you know it.”

  “I know nothing of the sort.” Sally squeezed Gillian’s wrist just a bit. “And I’m very daring. Now off you go. And do try to be nice for the rest of the night.”

  They stood in silence, watching Lady Staunton depart. When her red hair was no longer visible, Gillian dipped into a proper curtsy. “Thank you, Your Grace.”

  “Gillian Rutherford!” Sally erupted into laughter before grabbing Gillian by the elbow and towing her fully into the busy ballroom. “Surely you jest! As long as we’ve known each other and you think to call me anything but Sally.” She waved Whitney closer. “You too, Whitney.”

  Gillian studied her old friend, trying to take her measure. The years had wrought many changes in Sally. High cheekbones, a slender nose and full lips replaced the girlish features in a most becoming manner. Sally still barely reached Gillian’s shoulders, but her friend no longer reminded Gillian of a fair-haired sprite. She was a regal queen, small in stature but commanding all the same.

  Sally studied her. “We are still friends, are we not? Just because our fathers had a falling out does not mean I ever felt the same.”

  Gillian exhaled, surprised she had been holding her breath. She nodded, unable to speak past the large lump in her throat.

  “Since I’ve been out from underneath Papa’s repressive thumb, I’ve invited you both to every social function I’ve given. The response has always been no, until now. Your father, I presume?”