My Scandalous Viscount

by Gaelen Foley

  She stayed rooted to her spot, clenching her fists, watching him march out of the dimly lit side hallway. When he disappeared, she stamped her foot and muffled her mental shriek of wrath to a soft, ladylike “Oh!”

  He was the most infuriating creature on the earth!

  Trembling in her mortified indignation, she was furious with herself for allowing him to perceive her attraction to him.

  And her jealousy.

  She must be mad to feel anything but loathing for that arrogant lecher. The way he’d looked at her! He might as well have undressed her right there in the hallway. She was outraged—and shamefully aroused.

  She felt naked from the way he had stared at her body and the bold, ungentlemanly things he had said.

  More alarming still was the fact that he apparently saw through her virtuous charade.

  Recalling her own falseness, she promptly realized she had better get back to her seat.

  It would not do to have her cousins asking her why she had taken so long going to the ladies’ lounge. It would be even more awkward if the solicitous Miss Trent took it upon herself to come and find her, making sure she was all right.

  How would she explain herself if the governess found her nowhere near the part of the theatre where she had said she’d be? Such lies would not be tolerated by Uncle Denbury. Not after The Incident in Brighton.

  Her strait-laced, proper uncle watched her like a hawk, fully prepared, she suspected, to toss her out on her ear if she strayed again. One mistake, the family had been prepared to cover up, thanks to her innocence and youth, and to the dubious influence of her blithe, worldly, glamorous aunt Josephine, who had taken over the job of raising her after her grandparents died.

  Aunt Jo was the Earl of Denbury’s sister, older than he by a couple of years though she would never admit it and certainly didn’t look it, with the lavish care she took of her hair and her complexion.

  She was always dressed in the first stare of fashion and could still get away with telling her many male admirers that she was only thirty-three.

  After The Incident, there had been such a row between Aunt Jo and Uncle Denbury that sometimes Carissa still had nightmares about it. She wished she had not taken it upon herself to eavesdrop on that particular occasion.

  She shuddered as she hurried out to the mezzanine to make her way back to her seat before anyone noticed her overlong absence.

  Hopefully, her cousins were distracted by Mr. Kenney’s ribald jokes. With any luck, Miss Trent had fallen back asleep.

  Out in the mezzanine, Lord Beauchamp was not in sight. Carissa picked up her skirts to avoid stepping on them in her haste and rushed back to the stairwell up to the third tier of the theatre. All the while, the family fight of a year and a half ago echoed in her mind, now that she had been reminded of it.

  There was no use complaining about the fate she had been dealt, her parents dying, then her grandparents. Loss was a familiar phenomenon by now. She had learned to try at all times to anticipate the next blow before it came.

  One of the best ways she had found to do that was never to risk getting too close to anyone—a lesson doubly well learned after how she had been betrayed.

  She was still sickened by the memory of how she had disappointed her relatives and humiliated herself. She could still hear Uncle Denbury thundering at his sister.

  “How could you let this happen, Josephine? You were responsible for her! If you weren’t going to watch her, you should’ve let me and Caroline take her years ago! But no, you had to take Ben’s daughter for yourself. Our little niece, and I agreed since you had no children of your own. You weren’t supposed to treat her like an adult, Jo! She was just a child!”

  “Oh, Edward! Loosen up your stays, you old woman. Every girl gets kissed at her age. It’s part of growing up.”

  “More than kissing happened, Jo, as you know full well! The little bastard got the payment he wanted from us to buy his silence, and now he’s nowhere to be found. He’s fled to France or Italy, from what I’m told.”

  “It does not signify,” Aunt Jo had shot back mildly. “I’d never let my niece marry such a useless prop even if we could find him. Oh, he’s pretty enough, and not too badly born, but he’s a fool. Fancies himself the next Lord Byron! That’s why she fell for him and his tousled curls and his idiotic poetry, I warrant.”

  “One only wonders how many other young ladies this Benton has deceived,” the earl had growled. “If he ever laid a hand on one of my girls—but I would never let that happen. This disaster is to be laid at your feet, sister. You’ve failed our brother, leaving her ungoverned. Indeed, she has followed your example to the letter! The chit is too naïve to realize that what a widowed lady of forty-three can get away with is forbidden to a debutante. Badly done, Jo! You’ve all but ruined her.”

  “I’ve done nothing of the kind! We can keep it a secret—and that’s a low blow, bringing up my age, you shit. Do you think I wanted this for her? I love Carissa as if she were my own!”

  “Your own what? Lapdog? Your fluffy little cat? She’s not a pet, Jo! She is not a toy, as I’ve been telling you since the child was six years old! She’s not an accessory made to match one of your gowns, to be picked up and coddled when you remember her, then forgotten when you’re too busy with your social calendar.”

  “How dare you criticize me? I’ve done the best I can to raise her—I’m not her mother! Well, she’s turned out better than your pair of spoiled harpies!”

  “You insult my daughters?” he had bellowed. “No more, Josephine! I will not stand for this. Your foolishness has done enough harm to our niece’s life! I’m taking Carissa to London, and that is my decision. I’m her legal guardian, so perhaps I am ultimately to blame. She only remained with you on my permission, which is hereby revoked!”

  Brother and sister had not spoken since.

  Carissa hated having been responsible for such a monstrous family row. Aunt Jo had flounced off on a long Grand Tour, while Lord Denbury had duly brought Carissa up to Town.

  After a stern dressing down that had put the very fear of God in her, he had installed her in his home as a lesser member of his family, under his protection, just in case any more seducers drew a target on her chest.

  But he had kept her secret, and as she hurried up the stairs, Carissa understood full well that another misstep off the straight and narrow path would not be tolerated.

  She’d be tossed out into the street or maybe sent to a nunnery. To this day, her uncle eyed her with private distrust and disapproval. Her only grace was that he had not told a soul, not even his own wife, about what had happened in Brighton. To be sure, Lady Denbury would not have allowed her into the house if she knew. She would not have wanted Carissa contaminating her own daughters.

  Only three people in the world besides herself knew her shame—her aunt and uncle, and the lying cad who had deceived her. She prayed every night Roger Benton had not told anyone about how he’d succeeded with her. That had been the arrangement: a sum of gold in exchange for his secrecy. A nice little nest egg so he could continue his artistic pursuits. No one wanted to pay for his stupid rhymes, after all. He was no Byron.

  No wonder she was shaken that Lord Beauchamp had seen through her mask of purity, she admitted to herself. As she reached the top of the stairs, she vowed for the eighth or ninth time in as many days that she would not be going near him again. And her vow held—until she reached the little door to the Denbury theatre box, where she paused uneasily.

  He’s going to die.

  If she went through that door, returned to her seat, and pretended nothing had happened, she might well end up with blood on her hands.

  His blood.

  Another loss. And this one would be her fault, because, owing to anger and pride, she had chosen to say nothing when she could have spoken up and warned him of the danger.

  Blast it, she should have told him plainly what she had seen, not because he deserved it, but because it was the right t
hing to do.

  She closed her eyes. Oh, Lord, what have I done? Had she no conscience? She glanced back woefully toward the stairs, then bit her lip in indecision. What is there to decide? His life could be at stake. You must go after him.

  Warn him, like you should have done before. At least you have to try.

  She just hoped she wasn’t already too late.

  Chapter 3

  What an utter headache of a female!

  Who did she think she was to take him to task for his lack of morals—his mother? Actually, his mother was worse in that department than he, Beau mused as he stalked across the wide, opulent lobby of the theatre, still fuming.

  He really did not need that mere slip of a girl pointing out things he preferred to gloss over, like the ugly side of the haut ton’s favorite sport: infidelity.

  Indeed, he knew firsthand how it devastated families, having watched it tear his own parents apart.

  He did not like thinking about it. He pushed it out of his mind. It was just the way of the world, and to protest it would be to admit how badly it had hurt him as a boy.

  To say nothing of how it had hurt his father.

  Trust your mates and your horses, lad, an embittered Lord Lockwood had once told his eleven-year-old heir, in trying to explain why Mother would live in Town from now on by herself. Care for a woman, and she’ll rip your heart in half. You want loyalty, his father had advised him, get a dog.

  Bloody hell, he did not even feel like sleeping with that duchess anymore, but stubbornly, it was a matter of principle now. He was not about to let that vexing redhead win. With a growl under his breath, he strode into the hallway off the lobby, heading for the discreet back exit.

  Thrusting Carissa Portland out of his mind, he fixed his thoughts on the night’s rendezvous. The deliciously sinful Duchess of Somerfield would be along shortly, then they’d leave together as planned.

  At the back door of the theatre, Beau paused and from long-paranoid habit, bent to slip his pistol out of the ankle holster concealed beneath his trouser leg. He moved the weapon to the back of his waistband, where it would be in easier reach if needed but still concealed beneath his coat.

  Then he laid hold of the door and pushed it open, stepping out into the alley, where she had told him to meet her. They’d take her carriage from there, and go wherever she pleased—if they made it that far. The carriage itself would serve, for all he cared.

  The cool night air washed over him as the door closed behind him. He welcomed its calming chill, trying to shake off his frustration with Carissa.

  What was it about her? Why should he even care what she thought of him?

  He took a step into the alley, but before his eyes could adjust to the darkness, a stealthy black shadow detached from the wall to his right and suddenly slammed into him, driving him back against the door.

  Beau barely had time to react. The figure came at him, grabbing his right arm as he reached for his gun, as though anticipating his movement. The moonlight flashed on the silver blade pressed flat against his neck as a voice spoke: “Good evening, Sebastian.”

  “Nick?” Beau froze in stunned recognition, making no attempt to fight back. He stared in shock at his long-missing brother warrior. “You’re alive!”

  He was instantly released. “Sorry, old boy.” Nick let go of him, brushed off his coat with a no-harm-done motion, then he stepped back warily, letting Beau come away from the door. “Wasn’t sure what you might’ve heard about me. Had to make sure you didn’t come out swinging.”

  “Swinging? I thought I was coming out here to get laid.”

  Nick grinned. “Well, don’t look at me.” The tension began easing from his face.

  Amazed laughter broke from him. Beau clapped him in a bear hug, his throat tightening with emotion. Joy and relief clashed with shock inside him. “Jesus, man, where the hell have you been? We’ve had no word of you in months. Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Are you?” Beau stepped back and studied him. Though he was overjoyed to see his boyhood friend alive, he could not shake the feeling that something wasn’t right.

  Nick looked scruffy and a bit unkempt, with a few days’ beard roughening his jaw and his black hair grown long and rather wild. But all in all, he seemed none the worse for wear.

  Beau shook his head. “What happened? Where’s Trevor? Why haven’t you been in contact?”

  “Trevor’s safe, don’t worry,” Nick assured him. “He got shot in Spain, but he’s recovering.”

  “Where?”

  “Back of the right shoulder. Bullet punched through and broke his clavicle, but I got him out of harm’s way and have been looking after him ever since. He’ll be fine.”

  Beau glanced around the alley. “Is he here?”

  “No, best to keep him out of trouble in his current state.”

  “What kind of trouble are you expecting?” Beau sent an uneasy glance around the alley. Might they soon have company? “Were you followed?”

  “I don’t think so. Listen,” Nick said darkly, “I heard about Virgil.”

  The reminder of their handler’s death jarred him. Beau gave him a somber nod. “Rotherstone’s team is abroad right now. They’re going to get the son of a bitch who killed him.”

  “Do we know who did it?”

  “Niall Banks,” Beau answered.

  Nick raised his eyebrows. “Malcolm’s son?”

  “Well—yes and no. Turns out there’s a good chance Niall was actually Virgil’s own son, not his nephew.”

  “What?”

  “Believe me, this revelation took all of us by surprise. Turns out Virgil and his brother were both in love with the same woman years ago, or something like that.” Beau shrugged. “So, Niall could’ve been fathered by either one of them.”

  “Damn,” he said.

  “Aye. We captured Niall while you were gone, and hang me if the old man and his supposed ‘nephew’ didn’t look exactly alike. Never saw that Highlander so out of sorts.”

  Nick shook his head.

  “Unfortunately, we’ve got more trouble on top of Virgil’s death,” Beau continued in a hushed tone. “Drake Parry, the Earl of Westwood—you know him?”

  “Know of him.”

  “Seems he’s turned against us. His team was killed in Germany. He was captured. Tortured. The Prometheans addled his wits so badly we think they may have turned him into one of them.”

  Nick looked taken aback at this.

  “If Rotherstone can’t catch him, they’re going to have to put him down.”

  “Well, that is the standard protocol, isn’t it?” Nick murmured cynically as he dropped his gaze.

  Beau nodded. “I’ve been waiting for word from Rotherstone to let me know if they’ve dealt with Niall or Drake yet, and when they’re coming back. Right now, all I know is that when they return, we’ll have the memorial service for Virgil up in Scotland.” Then he shook his head again, still shocked to the marrow to see his friend alive, standing there, unscathed, in front of him.

  He had been bracing himself for weeks now for the worst. “I was half-convinced we’d be holding services for you and Trevor, too. Man, it is so good to see you.”

  “You, as well. Sorry for putting you through all that. It couldn’t be avoided.”

  “What the hell happened?” Then he clapped him on the shoulder. “Why don’t you tell me over a pint? I take it my lady friend isn’t coming,” he added dryly.

  Nick smiled. “No, she’s not.”

  Beau snorted. “Thanks for the message, you bastard.”

  “Anytime.”

  “So, you want to go sit in a pub, or Dante House—”

  “Can’t. I don’t have much time.” Nick seemed awfully restless, glancing over his shoulder again.

  “All right,” Beau said cautiously. “Give me the abridged version, then. Where’ve you been? I’ve had every asset in Europe on the hunt for you and Trevor.”

  “I know. That’
s what I wanted to talk to you about.” Nick turned and gave him a hard stare. “I need you to call off your dogs, Beauchamp.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Stop looking for me.”

  “Well, obviously.” Beau furrowed his brow. “You’re standing right in front of me. You’re back.”

  “Not exactly.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He gave him a hard look. “I’m done. With the Order. I want out,” he said. “I’m not coming back.”

  “What?”

  “I quit. I’ve done my service. I think I’m entitled to have my own life now,” Nick said coolly. “War’s over. Napoleon’s done for. Prometheans all but crushed. It’s time for me to move on, and I trust you’ll stay out of my way.”

  “Move on?” Beau echoed in disbelief, even more stunned at such talk than he had been at finding Nick alive. “Is that what you came to tell me? That’s it?”

  “Aye. That’s it.”

  “Hold on,” he ordered, grabbing Nick by the shoulder as he started to turn away. “You know bloody well that isn’t how it works. You’re not ‘done.’ You took the vow. The Order is for life.”

  “Says who? Virgil? He’s dead.” Nick looked down at Beau’s hand grasping his coat. Then he shook his head. “No. I’ve given enough for King and country. I can’t do it anymore. I just want out.”

  “Nick, you can’t mean this.”

  “Oh, but I do!” he retorted. “It’s time for me to start looking out for myself. Not all of us were born with a silver spoon in our mouth, Beauchamp.”

  “Oh God, Nick.” The blood drained from his face. “You got into trouble at the gaming tables again.”

  “We all have our vices. Don’t try to play the saint with me! You of all people. You and your women. But no matter. I’ve found a solution. There are people out there willing to pay large sums of gold for a chap with my talents.” He held up his gun and smiled.

  Beau stared at him in shock. “You’ve turned mercenary?” A new thought gripped him. He stepped toward Nick more aggressively. “Where is Trevor, exactly? He’d never go along with this. However disillusioned you may be, he would never quit. What have you done with him?”