The No Good Irresistible Viscount Tipton

by Barbara Pierce

  “Very,” Wynne murmured, biting into a biscuit to keep from saying anything else.

  “We have never been close, and I want that to change. Naturally, I understand if you cannot endure my company after all the terrible things your mother has said about me.” She thought of the shock she had seen in the young woman’s eyes and hoped she had not misread the distress.

  Amara clutched the teacup so tightly she was likely to crack it. “I am not my mother. I know you were only trying to help Doran.” Her troubled gaze was fixed on her cooling tea. “You did not deserve the slap.”

  “Perhaps not so publicly,” she said ruefully. “However, I still insist on helping Doran with or without your mother’s blessing. Will you help us?”

  Stunned, Amara forgot all about her cup and openly gaped at Devona. “Me? What could I do to help my brother? Mama said only a miracle will save Doran from hanging. If Papa can barely meet the taxes on the country house, a miracle would surely beggar us.” She blinked back the sudden moisture on her lashes.

  “I have a plan.”

  Pearl groaned. “Not more mischief, miss?”

  “Quiet, Pearl,” Wynne loyally commanded. “I must confess, the hairs rise on the back of my neck every time you mention one of your schemes, Devona. Still your heart is in the right place. What do you want to do?”

  “First, we need to get rid of our watchdog.”

  Confusion glazed Amara’s eyes. “A pet?”

  “Our brother Brock. He has been most annoying of late. If I did not know better, I would think Tipton has had a hand in this.” Devona dismissed the notion with a shake of her head. The thought of the pair of them conspiring together was too amusing.

  Wynne dusted the crumbs from her fingers. “I have a feeling Tipton rarely needs the assistance of others to gain what he wants.” She directed a raised brow in her sister’s direction.

  Amara switched her gaze from sister to sister. “Tipton? As in Lord Tipton?”

  “Yes.” Devona faced Wynne. “If you are implying that Tipton is going to have his way with me, you are mistaken.” She did not consider how her outburst sounded until Amara gasped.

  “T-Tipton. The man they call the Refined Corpse?” the young woman squeaked. “They say he is dangerous.”

  “A tame man would never interest the ton,” Devona assured her, distracted by her sister’s observation. One thing Devona had learned was that Tipton had done nothing to improve polite society’s low opinion of him, nor had he cared. “Brock has called him out numerous times. Papa has refused him. I seconded that refusal. Marriage to Tipton simply would be a disaster.”

  Pearl sniffed from her post at the window. “That’s why we spent several hours driving round London while you cooed in the man’s arms. Considering the sounds we heard, we should have made straightaway to Gretna Green!”

  Wynne laughed aloud. “That’s the way to stand up to her, Pearl!”

  Devona glared at her maid. “A fine time to develop some spirit, Pearl. You will need that bit of bone to help us.” She could not help smirking at the woman’s crestfallen expression. Cooing sounds, indeed!

  “What exactly are you planning, Miss Bedegrayne?” If Amara was wary before, the news of Tipton being involved did little to calm her.

  Pleased to change the subject, Devona turned a bright, convincing smile on Amara. “I could not help but notice how similar in size we are.” She looked to Wynne for agreement. She just shrugged.

  “Well, yes, I suppose.”

  “Lovely features, just the kind of face I have always caught Brock admiring.”

  “Devona,” Wynne said in a warning tone.

  Amara blushed very prettily at the mention of the handsome Bedegrayne. “Your brother? He has never noticed me.”

  Devona frowned at that fact; then again, it mattered little for what she had planned. She clasped the other woman’s hand as though they were best friends. “Have you ever considered using henna on your hair?”

  “Hair dye?” Amara looked about: whether it was for confirmation or escape no one was positive.

  Devona ignored the fact that Amara was trying to tug her hand free. “And curls.” She lightly touched the ones teasing her cheek. “A hot iron would do wonders for your looks.”

  “I— I do not think—” Amara gave up her argument. Her slouch became more pronounced at her acceptance that she was no match for the Bedegrayne sisters. “No hair dye!” she mumbled.

  Wynne was not as easily subdued. “What exactly do you have planned for us, Sister?”

  “Nothing too complicated. We will just have to free Doran from Newgate ourselves.” She went on, oblivious to their shocked expressions. “The audacity of the plan proves no one will suspect it.” Pleased with herself, she leaned back on the elegant sofa and nibbled on a biscuit.

  Wynne was the first to recover. “I cannot wait to see Papa’s face when you explain that his gels were locked up in the ’Gate because they possessed an overabundance of audacity.”

  “No one will get caught,” Devona said, attempting to soothe their distress.

  Her sister was not convinced. “If prison does not kill us, Sir Thomas certainly shall!”

  * * *

  “Young Brock, it was so good of you to attend our fanciful ball.”

  Observing that his sister Devona was occupied dancing, he felt it was safe enough to turn his attention to the middle-aged woman dressed like a cabin boy. “Lady Dodd, a most unusual ball. What have you called it?”

  The woman’s dark eyes gleamed behind her mask. “Oh, we are calling it Highwaymen, Pirates, and Various Rogues. Guess who I am?” She preened under his gaze.

  Seeing most of the ton strutting around representing the cesspool of mankind made for a peculiar kind of evening. He tried to hide his amusement. “I haven’t a clue, madam.”

  “Why, I am Mary Read, lady pirate who apprenticed as a footboy to a French lady. However, I was born for high adventure and took to the sea.”

  Watching this demure woman playing the role of a pirate was too much for Brock. He rubbed his jaw to conceal his laughter. “Very effective.”

  Lady Dodd made rolling circles with her hand toward the ballroom before them. “You have your sister Devona to thank for this amusement. She was the one who suggested the theme, and I for one am eternally grateful.”

  Brock’s gaze moved back to the ball, seeking out his sister again. He caught a flash of her as she maneuvered her way through a lively reel. Although he could not see her face, he knew her eyes would be twinkling and a genuine smile would gift each passing partner. He sighed. Yes, he could believe Devona had her hand in this bit of absurdity.

  “Only my sister could look fashionable in masculine togs. Which derelict of society is she?” Judging from her clothes, the knave she played was at least one hundred years dead.

  “Let me think,” Lady Dodd said with a very unladylike tug on the slipping waist of her borrowed trousers. “Claude something. Du Vall.” She beamed, pleased to have recalled the name.

  “A flamboyant Frenchman?”

  She laughed as if he had made a jest. “Your sister is original if nothing else. And who are you, young Brock?”

  He tried not to wince at “young Brock.” Some folks around kept forgetting he was five-and-twenty, a man fully grown. “Consider me one of the various,” he growled.

  “Marvelous, simply splendid!”

  Brock was relieved to see Rayne appear suddenly at his side. “Tipton. ’Bout time you got here. Like I have little else to do but nursemaid my sister.”

  “Gentlemen, if you will excuse me?” Wide-eyed, and more than a little impressed to have Tipton show up, Lady Dodd curtsied, then made her way to the ballroom to tell everyone of her special guest.

  Dressed in black, Rayne appeared the perfect rogue without much effort. “Where is she?”

  Brock cocked his head in the direction of the ballroom. “The fancy lace-bibbed lad in the silver-lined cape.” He might not approve of Tipton for his
sister, but one thing was obvious: the man considered her his own. He knew the moment Rayne had spotted her, just by the subtle narrowing of his eyes.

  “White plumes on her mask?”

  “Who else?”

  “Someone, but not Devona,” Rayne said with a cutting coolness that had Brock snapping his head in his sister’s direction.

  “Ridiculous!” He watched her lean forward to whisper something in Oz Lockwood’s ear. The older man did not appear pleased when she accepted the arm of her waiting dance partner. Pivoting on one heel, he departed in the opposite direction of Devona. “I know my own sister, Tipton.”

  Tipton’s pewter gaze flashed; the raw fury he held in control would have sent a less courageous man scurrying. “And your sister has never slipped the leash in your hand, right?” he asked. The sarcasm and the shame that he was correct had Brock wincing.

  “See here, I have been watching her all evening.” Feeling defensive, since he had mishandled her in the past, made him add, “Maybe a man your age should consider a pair of spectacles.”

  In low-enunciated tones that made the hairs on the back of Brock’s neck rise, Rayne said, “That woman is not your sister.” He moved to prove his point.

  “Wait.” Brock grabbed him on the arm. “Devona has barely said three words to me this evening. She has not forgiven me for taking your side in this marriage business. Seeing us together will only make her dig in.”

  Rayne gave him a look of disbelief. “So she sulks.”

  Oz Lockwood blocked their course. “Bedegrayne. Tipton.” He gave them a distracted nod. “I say, Bedegrayne, your sister is in a mood this evening. She dances with every man in the room as if her slippers have been bewitched. When I beg her for a moment of respite she whispers in French that she has sworn off all men who know her this eve.” He stiffened, recalling her dismissal. “If I have offended Miss Bedegrayne, would you tell her to accept my apologies?” With a nod to each of them he headed for the front hall.

  “Odd,” Brock murmured, “I thought she was rather fond of Lockwood. In a friendship sort of manner,” he felt compelled to add when he saw Tipton’s expression.

  “Sworn off all men who know her. Very convenient.” Rayne sneered. He sliced a path through the crowd as cleanly as a ship’s bow moved through water, his target the woman smiling behind the white plumed mask.

  Sensing she was being watched, she turned in time to see their determined approach. Even with the mask hiding all but her mouth and chin, enough was exposed for Brock to see her displeasure. Had he not warned Tipton that Devona would be angry? Ha, let the man suffer the edge of her tongue. Mayhap he would reconsider marrying her.

  Rayne grabbed her before she could make her escape. “Mysterious lady, I believe I have not had the pleasure.”

  Never lost for words, Brock was surprised when all Devona did was part her lips to speak, then tightly close them. Now that he saw her close up in the candlelight, he thought the color of her hair was slightly off. Then there were the curls. His sister had a natural curl to her hair. It was obvious from the way some sections of hair had fallen that a hot iron had been used to create the effect. Not pleased with the renewed role of idiot brother, he snatched the mask from her face with enough speed that he had Rayne raising an approving brow.

  Brock may have suspected a ruse; however, the lady beneath the mask was a complete surprise. The stormy blue eyes that had gazed at him over the years with a shyness that he had always thought endearing were now sparking with the promise of violence. “Amara?” he said, his voice hoarse with shock.

  Amara shook the sagging curls from her face. Her dainty chin held high, she glared at them as if they were in the wrong. Even Rayne appeared for the moment undecided on how to handle her. “I told her the hair dye would be a mistake,” she snapped, daring them to contradict her. Brock, considering himself a man with some sense, figured he should check her for concealed weapons before replying.

  NINE

  “How long do you think Amara can keep Brock from unveiling her?” Wynne asked, pitching her voice so that only Devona could hear.

  “Hours if she acts as I suggested.” Sadly, Amara did not share Devona’s enthusiasm for intrigue. She had balked at her disguise, vowing that the wearing of men’s garments would call her mother’s wrath down upon her. From Devona’s perspective, Lady Claeg remained in a permanent state of ire. Talking Amara into using henna had taken all of her skills. Amara did possess a streak of stubbornness, which at any other time Devona would have applauded. Fortunately, she had more experience gaining what she desired. Brock had escorted a slightly bemused Amara, fully dressed in her male attire and complete with freshly dyed and curled locks, to the ball. Devona counted on Amara to play her role because her brother’s freedom depended on it.

  “Shall I take this basket, miss?” Pearl carried a large basket filled with bread.

  “Yes, we shall all take one to press our purpose.” Gar came up behind Pearl, carrying a small cask of beer on his shoulders.

  “Does this plan of yours consider who shall rescue us in case we fail?” Pearl glanced at Gar, who only grunted. Neither one of them was thrilled to have been recruited.

  “Do not sound so dour, Pearl. If we fail to release Mr. Claeg, at least we will have fed a few inmates.”

  “I wish I had your faith, miss.”

  Devona felt that optimistic thinking was the higher road to success. She refused to contemplate what would happen to them all if their mission failed. Papa was the least of her worries. How would Tipton feel about having a felon as his betrothed? She shuddered at a sudden chill. No, it was better to think about fooling them all.

  “We have company, Sister.” Wynne grabbed her basket, prepared to support her sister in any manner.

  A guard approached the gate they had gathered at, his harsh, drawn features far from welcoming. “You there. This is no place to set up business.”

  Devona faced him. Wearing a warm smile, she walked to the gate. “Forgive us for being late. Two of the bakeries that promised to donate their goods abandoned our good cause. It took us most of the day to find a replacement.” She did not waver under his suspicious stare. Instead she raised her hands to beckon her companions to join her. “The Benevolent Sisters of Charity would be disappointed if I could not carry out my duty. There are many within who do not benefit from family and friends. Our mission is to lessen their suffering.” She tried to appear humble. When he just stared, she could feel the sweat bead on her forehead despite the relative coolness of the evening. He did not believe her, or perhaps the hard man just did not care.

  “Sister, do not forget the beer to wash away the bitterness of their plight.” Wynne approached the gate, radiating sincerity and looking like a true angel of mercy.

  The guard scratched his head. “Beer, eh?”

  “More than enough to go around, right, Sisters?” Gar added, winking to include the guard in the camaraderie.

  Wynne touched the gate, allowing her fingers to accidentally brush against the guard’s fingers. He jolted at the contact. “We understand that the men who see to the care of the prisoners deserve a reward, too.”

  “Ain’t that the truth, Sister.” He eyed the barrel on Gar’s shoulder. “How much do ye have there?”

  Gar bared his teeth in a mock grin, knowing the gates of hell had just opened to them. “Enough to need a sturdy back or two.”

  * * *

  Amara was all but thrown into the awaiting coach. Her useless attempt to brace herself against the door frame resulted in her sprawling facedown onto the floor. So utterly graceful, she thought. She groaned when someone yanked her up into a sitting position.

  “Some might consider this kidnapping, Mr. Bedegrayne.” He grunted, and then shoved her across the bench to make room for him. Lord Tipton climbed in and sat on the opposite bench. “There were witnesses.” She swallowed a bubble of hysteria when both men chuckled. So much for seizing control of the situation.

  “How much time
do you think we have?” Brock asked, giving Amara a chance to study his profile. Of the two Bedegrayne men, she had always thought him the more beautiful.

  “We are working against a deficit, thanks to Miss Claeg’s ruse.” Tipton fixed his piercing gaze on her. “So why do you not save us the burden of dragging you throughout London.”

  Prepared to do her part to save her brother, she drew herself up, appearing the perfect martyr. “Forgive me. I cannot help you.”

  “By tomorrow, all will know that you spent the night out on the town with two lusty gentlemen. Tell me, who would marry you after that?”

  “Tipton,” Brock warned.

  “All you have to do, Amara—I may call you Amara—is tell me where my betrothed is and what she plans to do.” He propped his elbow against the wall, lightly resting his jaw on his fist. And waited.

  Amara could not fathom why this man enthralled Devona. He was too intense. Too predatory. Her gaze dropped to her hands fisted in her lap. “You can try to intimidate me all you want, my lords. Ruin me if you must, I cannot break my word.”

  Tipton’s control slipped. Lashing out, he shouted, “What good is your word, Miss Claeg, when your silence places Devona in danger! Enjoy the moment, for if anything happens to her, my fury yields to no boundaries.”

  She paled at his threat. What was she to do? Devona had promised her plan would work. There was risk, to be sure; however, even Devona would know the price she would have to pay for taunting the devil. She turned away from them and stared in silence out at the passing glimpses of shadowed civilization.

  “Miss Claeg. Amara,” Brock entreated when she flinched at the warm, large hand on her shoulder. “I understand a promise has been made.” He sent Tipton a look to keep him silent on the matter, but Amara missed it. “I can admire such integrity. It is something I have always liked about you.”

  “You forgot to mention my gullibility, sir.” Amara’s lips thinned. “If you think flattery will sway me.”