A Scandalous Bargain

by Burke, Darcy

  She returned her attention to the house next door to the tree in which she perched. More specifically, she looked into the window in the corner of the ground floor where the Duke of Ramsgate sat in a chair near the hearth, one hand clutching a glass of brandy and the other a newspaper.

  His brown hair had lightened over the past fifteen years and was now a bit thin on the crown, but his features were the same—the familiar warm brown eyes, slightly hooked nose, and strong, dimpled chin. There were some lines, and he was heavier than he’d been before, but he was still the man she remembered. The father she loved.

  Did he think of her at all?

  He had to. There was no way he could have adored Beatrix’s mother and cared for Beatrix and then simply forgotten his daughter. He’d paid for Beatrix’s schooling after all.

  He also never wrote or visited, and when you left the school, never made an effort to find you.

  Beatrix argued with herself—how could she know if he’d made an effort or not? She and Selina had spent the years since Beatrix had left Mrs. Goodwin’s Ladies’ Seminary moving around and being generally difficult to find.

  But now Beatrix was here in London, and soon she would find him. He would be shocked at first and then overjoyed when he saw how accomplished and well-regarded she’d become.

  She’d mastered the accomplishment portion at the school he’d paid for and in the time since. The regard part was still in progress, and she wouldn’t reveal herself to him until there was no question that he’d be proud and thrilled to claim her as his own. Perhaps not publicly—Beatrix didn’t really expect that—but privately. She would have her father back.

  A shriek followed by a crash from the house in whose tree Beatrix was currently sitting drew her startled attention to the first-story window. The figure of the woman who lived there moved behind the sheer curtains.

  A moment later, the man who lived there—her husband—emerged on the small balcony. The railing was quite short, affording Beatrix a clear view of him. Her breath snagged. He wasn’t wearing a coat or a cravat, and she could clearly see the triangle of flesh exposed by the opening of his shirt above his waistcoat, which was unbuttoned. His dark hair was mussed, some of it standing up and some falling across his forehead. He was exceptionally handsome, with a square jaw and strong cheekbones. While Beatrix came to Lord Rockbourne’s garden to watch her father, seeing the viscount had become a welcome benefit.

  He looked troubled tonight, but then he often did. It was apparent his marriage was not a happy one. As far as Beatrix could tell, Lady Rockbourne was a shrew, always screaming at the viscount. Last time Beatrix had been there, Lady Rockbourne had thrown something at him. Despite that, Beatrix rarely heard him raise his voice in response. That was probably just one of the reasons she was infatuated with him.

  The others were his good looks, shallow as that was, and the way he sat in his ground-floor library and read, much like her father. It was silly, but it was just an incredibly domestic sight, or so it seemed to Beatrix. And nothing was more appealing to her than a home.

  “Where did you go?” Lady Rockbourne’s shrill voice carried out to the garden. Beatrix glanced toward her father, but he never seemed to hear what was going on next door. But then, his window was closed.

  The viscountess came out onto the balcony. Her pale blonde hair hung in loose waves past her shoulders. She was petite, shorter even than Beatrix’s five feet three inches, but she held her shoulders in such a way so as to appear larger, if that were possible.

  Lord Rockbourne was much taller, probably six feet if Beatrix had to guess. He pivoted to face his wife, which put him in profile to Beatrix.

  “How dare you threaten me?” she squealed at her husband.

  “I didn’t threaten you,” he said calmly. Beatrix had to lean forward and strain to hear him. “I said your behavior would reflect poorly on you. That is a fact, not a threat.”

  “No one cares—everyone has affairs. You’re angry that others will see you as a cuckold.” There was pride in her voice. Beatrix frowned at the woman. Why would she behave so horribly?

  “I don’t have affairs,” he said.

  “Maybe you should!”

  He ran his hand through his hair, tousling it further. “Aye, maybe I should.” They stared at each other, and Beatrix found herself holding her breath.

  Rockbourne walked slowly toward his wife. There was something dangerous about his movements. They reminded Beatrix of a cat stalking a mouse.

  “We are married, madam, and there is no changing that despite all of your transgressions. I suggest you find a way to make peace with that. Lord knows I try every damn day, and I will continue to do so, despite what you just told me, because I don’t have any other fucking choice.”

  Lady Rockbourne’s face hardened just before she let out a garbled cry. She said something, but Beatrix couldn’t tell what. Then she launched herself at him, raising her hand. He turned to avoid her. She hit the railing, which barely came to her thigh. Her arms flailed, and something fell to the ground. Beatrix would never forget the look of horror etched into the woman’s pale features as she followed the object and tumbled to the cobbled stones below.

  Too late, Beatrix clapped a hand over her mouth to block her cry of shock. The sound escaped anyway. Her gaze snapped back to the balcony, only to find Lord Rockbourne’s dark gaze fixed on her. Then he was gone, stalking quickly into the house.

  Beatrix scrambled down from the tree. She should run. Instead, she dashed to the viscountess, sprawled awkwardly on her side, eyes open, her body still. Hands shaking, Beatrix crouched down and held her fingers in front of the woman’s nose and mouth. There was no breath.

  “Careful, there’s blood.”

  Beatrix whipped her head around and saw black boots shined to a nearly impossible sheen. Lifting her gaze over black breeches to a snow-white shirt cloaked in a burgundy waistcoat, then up to that arresting triangle of flesh, she finally settled on Lord Rockbourne’s impassive face.

  Beatrix glanced down and saw there was indeed blood, streaming from beneath the viscountess’s head and running along the stone straight for her boots. Gasping, she stood so quickly, she lost her balance.

  The viscount reached for her, grabbing her arm and keeping her from falling. “All right?” He was asking if Beatrix was all right?

  Unable to form words, she merely nodded. He released her, then stared down at his wife.

  “I don’t think she’s breathing,” Beatrix whispered. She glanced at the woman, but had to look away from the unsettling sight of her. Instead, she focused on the viscount.

  Rockbourne lowered himself and held his fingers to the viscountess’s neck. “She is not.” His face turned a shocking shade of gray. He withdrew his hand to cover his mouth.

  Beatrix reached for him with an instinctive need to provide comfort. But how could she? She pulled her hand back before she touched him.

  Remaining crouched, Rockbourne slowly lowered his hand. He gently touched the vicountess’s brow, and his eyes closed. “I can’t believe…” Anguished lines creased his face, tugging at Beatrix’s heart.

  She again told herself to flee, that she had no business here, but her feet were rooted to the ground while the rest of her began to shake. She couldn’t leave him.

  Looking toward the house, she wondered about the servants. Surely one of them would come outside any moment.

  “I can’t believe she’s gone.” Rockbourne brushed his hand over Lady Rockbourne’s eyes and removed his waistcoat to drape it over her upper chest and face. He slowly rose, a ragged breath stuttering from his lungs. “This is my fault.”

  “No, it wasn’t,” Beatrix tried to sound calm and firm, but her voice was shaking. “She fell over the railing. It’s not as if you pushed her.”

  Tension and emotion pulsed out from him, clouding the air. “We were arguing.”

  “That doesn’t mean you…” She couldn’t bring herself to say killed her. For then she’d have to ack
nowledge the woman was truly dead. But she was, and nothing would change that. Beatrix nearly reached for his hand, but stopped herself again. “It wasn’t your fault.”

  “Thea,” he whispered. “Why did it come to this?” He stared down at the viscountess. His eyes closed once more as the muscles of his jaw clenched tightly. “What will I tell my daughter?”

  He had a daughter? Horror knotted in Beatrix’s throat. The poor child. Beatrix wondered how old she was and immediately thought of her “sister” Selina, who’d lost her parents at such a young age that she didn’t remember them at all. In many ways, that seemed far easier than what Beatrix had endured—losing her mother to illness when she was eleven and then losing her father when he’d shipped her off to school and out of his life. She would hope Rockbourne’s daughter was young enough to recover better than Beatrix had.

  The viscount seemed frozen, his face still ashen. And why wouldn’t he be? “Where are the servants?” she asked.

  “Hiding, most likely. They always retreat to the nether regions of the house when Lady Rockbourne and I are arguing.”

  “You think they’ll assume you pushed her?”

  “No.” He shook his head and ran his hand through his hair. “I don’t know.”

  He suddenly turned toward her, his gaze sharp as a bit of color returned to his face. “Who are you? And why were you in my tree?”

  “I’m Beatrix Lin—” Damn, she’d almost divulged her real name. She hadn’t made that mistake in years. “Miss Beatrix Whitford. I was, er, watching the duke next door.” She didn’t want to discuss that, and he couldn’t either, not with what had happened. “You can’t possibly be blamed for this. It was an accident. I saw her come after you.”

  “And you would give evidence as my witness?” Rockbourne sized her up, from her men’s boots to the too-large men’s suit of clothing to the top hat on her head. “Why would Bow Street listen to you?”

  “Because my soon-to-be brother-in-law is a Runner.”

  His eyes widened briefly in surprise. “That may be, but acting as my witness will damage your reputation beyond repair.” He narrowed his focus on her. “Do you have a reputation?”

  “I suppose so, yes.” She was trying to establish herself as a young lady of high regard in order to impress her father. Furthermore, her sister was marrying the son of an earl. He had a point—her reputation was vitally important if she hoped to gain her father’s favor. And protect Selina, which was just as critical.

  Beatrix could hear Selina’s voice in her head: “Then why are you gallivanting around dark gardens dressed as a man?”

  Beatrix inwardly winced. She’d been very careful, and if not for tonight’s unfortunate events, she would not have been found out. For years, she’d crept in and out of places without detection.

  “If you are a lady with a reputation, you can’t be a witness. You shouldn’t even be here.” His voice broke, and he looked away, taking a deep breath. It was a long moment before he continued, whispering softly, “But I’m glad you are.”

  She was glad too. “This is a horrible tragedy, but no one will think it is anything other than an unfortunate accident.”

  “I am not as confident as you.” He stared at her in bemusement. “Why are you still here with me? You should have gone as soon as she fell.”

  “I know. Forgive me, but I’ve been listening to the two of you argue—well, mostly her—for some time now.”

  One of his ink-dark brows rose. “This is not your first visit to my garden? To spy on Ramsgate?”

  “No.” Beatrix ignored the question in his gaze. Someday, she’d explain. Probably. Or not. “Why do you think you’ll be blamed for this?” That wasn’t actually the question she wanted answered. “Why do you think it’s your fault?”

  “Perhaps you are unaware of some critical facts. First, we despised each other. Second, she was having an affair and I knew it. Third, I recently learned, rather publicly, that she tricked me into this marriage.” He referred to the manipulation orchestrated by his wife and her brother that had driven Rockbourne to marry her five years ago and that had been made public the prior week. It was no wonder he was angry, nor could Beatrix blame him for feeling that way.

  “Fourth, I provoked her tonight because…” He cut himself off, his lips pressing together until they turned white. “I have plenty of reasons to wish her dead, and many people know it.”

  Beatrix desperately wanted to know why he’d provoked her, but it was apparent he did not want to share that part. So she wouldn’t press. It didn’t matter anyway. “Provocation or not, this wasn’t your fault.” She cocked her head to the side, studying this man she didn’t know at all but felt a need to protect. “Did you hope she would fall?”

  His brow furrowed, forming vertical lines that made the number eleven. “That was not my intent.”

  She sensed there would be more, but he was silent. “Well, if she despised you and was having an affair, I’d argue she’d hoped you would fall. Perhaps she was trying to kill you so she could marry her lover.”

  “No.” He said the word with cold finality. The ice in his eyes made her shiver.

  Rockbourne took a step toward her. “She wouldn’t ever do that, and you won’t suggest it. Is that clear?”

  “If you can prove she wanted to kill you—and I think you probably could—why not do so to vindicate yourself?”

  “Because I won’t, and that’s the end of it.” His voice was soft, but dark with warning.

  Beatrix wanted to debate him, but realized that would be pointless. He was absolutely set in his decision. Rather dauntingly so, in fact. “None of that signifies since it was an accident.”

  Wasn’t it? Having watched what happened, she’d been completely sure. Still, his behavior was odd.

  “What will you do now?” she asked.

  Rockbourne stared at his wife a moment, then briefly clasped his hand over his mouth and chin. Lowering it, he said, “I’ll summon the household. Except for my daughter.” His face turned ashen. “What am I going to tell her? She’s only three. Almost four.”

  “Tell her you love her and that you’ll always be there for her.” Beatrix was surprised to feel a tightness in her throat.

  His gaze connected with hers, their gray depths simmering with anguish. “You never answered my question. What are you doing here, with me?”

  “Helping, I hope.” She gave him a tentative smile.

  “You were spying on Ramsgate, and your brother-in-law is a Bow Street Runner. Why are you doing the former, and who is your sister?”

  “My sister is Lady Gresham, and I’m not spying on Ramsgate. I’m just…watching him.”

  “I don’t know that he’s in the market for a new duchess. His son, however, is in search of a wife. You’d do better to set your sights on him. He’s at least near your age. Ramsgate could be your father.”

  Beatrix couldn’t hold in the sharp laugh that leapt from her mouth.

  A sound from the house drew them both to turn.

  Rockbourne looked to Beatrix. “That could be my butler or someone else. You have to go.”

  “Yes.” Beatrix started to turn toward the back corner of the garden where she’d stolen in through the gate. Impulsively, she spun about. Standing on her toes, she brushed a kiss against his jaw—it was as high as she could reach. “Good luck.”

  She rushed through the garden and out the gate. Bringing the hat down lower on her head, she hurried toward home.

  * * *

  Thomas Devereaux, Viscount Rockbourne, had endured many sleepless nights in his five-year marriage, largely due to his wife’s anger, but last night had been the worst. Followed by the hardest morning of his life as he’d explained to his daughter that her mother was gone. At her young age, she didn’t really understand, as evidenced when she’d asked where Mama was just a few hours later.

  The servants had been shocked to see their mistress sprawled on the cobblestones in the back garden, particularly her maid. Spicer h
ad fallen into a fit of sobbing, and had required brandy to calm herself. She was currently sleeping, which was for the best.

  Thomas was sure the woman must be concerned for her future employment since she was no longer needed as a lady’s maid. He’d do what he could to see that she found a new situation.

  The funeral furnisher had just left, and Thomas was in grave need of his own brandy. He went to his library study and had just poured the drink when his butler, Baines, appeared in the doorway.

  “Mrs. Chamberlain is here, my lord. She is in the sitting room.”

  Thomas’s mother-in-law. The brandy was needed more than ever. He drank it down in one swallow. “How is she?” He set the empty glass on the sideboard.

  “As you might expect,” Baines said delicately. Of average height and with a slight frame, the butler possessed kind, dark eyes, a sharp, long nose, and a balding pate. He was a force of calm and organization in the household, an excellent foil for Thea’s penchant for agitation.

  Mrs. Chamberlain was a slightly less frenzied version of her daughter. Still, she was bound to be bordering on hysterical, and Thomas couldn’t blame her.

  With a deep, fortifying breath, he went to the front sitting room and strode inside. Mrs. Chamberlain was perched on the settee, her face pinched and her eyes red.

  “Where is she?” Mrs. Chamberlain asked before Thomas could greet her.

  “In the morning room.” Or was it now the mourning room, Thomas wondered absurdly. Two footmen had carried her inside last night. She currently lay atop a rectangular table.

  Mrs. Chamberlain rose. “Take me to her.”

  Thomas hesitated. “Are you certain you wish—”

  “She’s my daughter.” The woman’s voice rose, taking on a shrill quality that was so like Thea’s that Thomas flinched.

  Wordlessly, he turned and led her to the morning room at the back of the house. Mrs. Chamberlain let out a sob as she entered behind him. Rushing to the table, she threw her arms over Thea’s abdomen and wailed.

  Thomas gritted his teeth. He wanted to ask her to be a little quieter so as not to upset Regan, but he also didn’t want to interrupt the woman’s grief. Hopefully, Regan couldn’t hear her since she was two stories up with her nurse. He moved to the other side of the table and leaned against the doorway that led out to the garden, crossing his arms over his chest.