My Scandalous Viscount

by Gaelen Foley

  “How is she, anyway?” Beau asked, as they moved on through the dimly lit maze of corridors.

  “No idea. She probably thinks I’m dead. So, how do you want to do this?” Trevor nodded at the corridor ahead.

  Beau shrugged. “By the book, I think. If we get too rough, it’ll only seem to prove everything Green’s been saying about our organization.”

  “Good thing we left Nick outside, then. Speaking of the Inquisition—” Trevor nodded at the scene of a Spanish torture chamber.

  “Charming. Let’s find this sick bastard and put an end to his fun.”

  Trevor nodded. They split up, continuing their search.

  When Beau passed the scene of Ann Boleyn kneeling for the axe man’s blow, it tightened the knot in his stomach, reminding him afresh of his brothers in the Tower. The sight of the dungeon tableaux renewed his cold rage. What the hell was he going to say to their wives about all of this, anyway?

  That reminded him. Jordan had told him to summon Mara, who had ties to the Regent. Prinny was a personal friend of hers, the godfather of her little boy.

  Beau made a mental note to do that next. But he could not think about their wives right now and the female hysterics he was going to have to deal with. He had enough trouble with his own meddling bride at the moment.

  On the other hand, Carissa had brought him this lead, he admitted, irked at his own surging pride in her. Not so fast. We’ll see if it pays off. Their visit to the waxworks could still turn out to be naught but a dangerous waste of time.

  Then Beau came to the French Revolution scene and stopped, taken aback. With a chill down his spine, he scanned the grim spectacle.

  The wild Paris mob had been lovingly reproduced, down to the last detail—thanks in part, most likely, to Madame Angelique’s firsthand account. Then he spotted the basket of heads Carissa told him to watch for. Beau lifted an eyebrow, spotting a possible likeness of Prinny among the waxen decapitated heads. Under normal circumstances, the artist’s gall would have made him furious. In this case, however, it was a welcome sight: evidence. Tangible proof of their malice toward the Crown, and certainly a strong suggestion of their violent, revolutionary intents.

  He glanced around, saw no one was coming, and vaulted lightly over the railing for a closer look. He lifted the Prinny head out of the basket by its shock of frizzy reddish brown hair. With an odd sense of graveyard humor, he held it up and looked at the waxen head, eye to eye, then laughed dryly under his breath. Trevor needs to see this.

  He climbed out of the mob scene, taking the head with him. He found it rather hilarious to be carrying the Regent’s head around, but the damned thing might be needed for evidence. Still on the hunt for its maker, he walked down the darkened corridor, his pistol in his right hand, the head tucked under his left arm.

  But when he noticed a black curtain on the right and heard work sounds coming from behind it, he stepped closer, intrigued. Ignoring the sign that read KEEP OUT, he pushed the curtain aside a couple of inches and peered into the latest waxworks scene still under construction.

  His stare homed in on the artist hard at work, clearly absorbed in his pursuits. The fellow matched the description Carissa had provided, but even without it, he could’ve known him by his theme—another king getting his comeuppance. In this one, the English barons were forcing King John to sign the Magna Carta.

  Inspired, himself, with an interesting way to get the man’s attention and challenge him about his guilt, Beau rolled the Regent’s head at its creator.

  Charles Vincent looked over as Prinny’s likeness came tumbling toward him. Beau stepped past the curtain, strolling toward the proprietor with a dark stare.

  Vincent blanched and backed away from his figure. “What is the meaning of this?” he sputtered.

  “I’ve been wondering that myself,” Beau replied.

  “You’re with the Order,” the man breathed.

  Beau smiled.

  Charles Vincent bolted, dashing out past the far side of the curtain. Beau chased him.

  “Trev!” he shouted into the hallway.

  Trevor was coming around the other corner and appeared just in time to head him off.

  Vincent whirled around, saw Beau closing in behind him, Trevor blocking his path ahead. He darted sideways into the Coliseum.

  “Stay back!” he warned, brandishing a sculptor’s implement with a nasty little blade on the end.

  Beau leaped over the rail into the scene and stalked him like a lion. Vincent dodged away again, running for a door in the background that had been painted into invisibility. “Go round the other way!” Beau yelled to Trevor as he set off chasing the man.

  Beau knew he was at a dangerous disadvantage. This was Vincent’s lair. He knew every nook and cranny of the place, while all the illusions and pitch-black passageways behind the walls were new to Beau. Even so, he pursued him through the hidden maze that gave the artist access to his sets, until, all of a sudden, they somehow burst out near the guillotine once again.

  Passing visitors screamed at the sudden intrusion.

  Waxen figures went flying: pitchfork-wielding revolutionaries in liberty caps, gendarmes, a hooded executioner.

  Cornered, Vincent slashed at him with his wax-carving knife; Beau grasped his wrist and forced him to the floor.

  “Cooperate, or I’ll break your arm!”

  He screamed. “No, please!”

  Locating them by the sound of the visitors’ shrieks, Trevor came hurtling over the front rail to assist, ignoring his injured knee though he cursed when he landed.

  “Don’t move,” he ordered, training his pistol on their man.

  “I’ve got him,” Beau said through gritted teeth, his heart pounding.

  “Who are you? What do you want with me?” the artist cried, aghast.

  Beau crouched down slowly. “Oh, I think you already know.”

  By the time Beau and Trevor escorted Charles Vincent out of the wax museum, he had already confessed, confirming their worst fears. Professor Culvert had reassembled his coterie of young devotees, now powerful men placed here and there in the government, including Ezra Green.

  Vincent did not know how many were taking part in the conspiracy, but he guessed their number at under twenty men. The group had hired the “assassin” to kill the Prime Minister and were even now, ready and waiting to pounce.

  They would seize their opportunity in the crisis that they knew in advance would erupt once the Tory leader fell.

  It was clear to Beau that this odd waxworks fellow had been specifically chosen to go to France and arrange the contract. He was expendable because, to start, he did not bring the kind of power the others had to offer.

  More importantly, with the subtle themes of violent revolution on display throughout The Gala of History, the eccentric artist would seem unstable, even unhinged enough to have conceived the plot alone. They must have brought him in from the start as their unwitting scapegoat.

  Unluckily for them, the conspirators had not counted on anyone’s being able to trace the man to them, let alone getting him to confess. But when Beau had convinced him that his coconspirators meant to let him take the fall for all of them, he finally gave way.

  The waxworks man had tearfully admitted that Culvert and Green had set out in secret to kill two birds with one stone: assassinate the hated Lord Liverpool and destroy the Order in the process.

  But men who saw themselves as possessing superior intellect had, in Beau’s experience, a fatal tendency to overreach. Arrogance and hatred got them every time. Once again, they’d gone too far. Destroy the Order? No, Beau vowed. Chivalry and honor would not be killed so easily.

  Except perhaps in Nick.

  When they returned to the carriage, he asked the others to step out of the carriage so he could have a private word with his errant brother agent.

  “Listen.” He stared hard into Nick’s dark eyes. “We got our man, but coward that he is, I fear he’s going to back out of his confess
ion as soon as it’s official. There’s only one way this is going to work. We need your help.”

  “Figures.”

  “It’s time for you to choose which side you’re on, Nick. Here’s my offer. I won’t say anything to the outer world about this. The Elders can deal with you privately, later, as they see fit. I’m very sure you’ll end up in the dungeon either way. But if you want to restore what’s left of your honor, I’m giving you this chance. Come with me and we will make the claim that you were on a covert mission the whole time—as loyal as ever, an Order agent in good standing—sent to unearth this conspiracy.”

  Nick stared at him incredulously. “You’re going to make me out as the hero? After what I’ve done?”

  “Do you think I care who gets the credit?” Beau retorted. “Right now, my concern is for our brothers in the Tower. We need to present a united front now if we’re going to get through this attempt to destroy us. Otherwise”—he shrugged—“these bastards are going to have us for breakfast.”

  Nick studied him with a dubious look. “So, you want to expose a conspiracy by telling more lies? I trust you see the irony.”

  “Order doctrine says liars don’t deserve the truth,” he replied. “Besides, you’d only be playing a role. It isn’t as though you’re off the hook. But help me now, and I’ll help you to mitigate whatever punishment the Elders hand down to you. I’m willing to give you another chance to make up for what you’ve done because, frankly, I need your help. If there is any honor left in you, back me up in this.”

  “Of course,” he murmured, looking stunned. “Of course I will.”

  Beau was a little stunned himself, but he could see no other way. His best strategy to save the others and nail Green to the wall was to claim that Nick’s few months as a mercenary had all been a counterploy.

  One that their enemies had obligingly walked into.

  The Elders could sort out the dark truth later in dealing with Lord Forrester, but it was best if this was handled internally by the Order.

  “I can’t believe you’re giving me another chance,” he said quietly, his gaze downcast.

  “Neither can I. But you saved my life plenty of times. Don’t get me wrong, you’re a thoroughgoing bastard. But you’re still my brother.”

  At Beau’s simple statement, Nick could no longer disguise his remorse behind bravado. He lifted his stricken gaze slowly to Beau’s. “I wouldn’t have done it, you know. Lord Liverpool, I mean. I hope you can believe that.”

  “I know,” Beau said quietly.

  “I’ll do whatever it takes,” Nick forced out. “Just tell me what you want me to say.”

  Beau cut the ropes around Nick’s wrists and filled him in on the details of his plan.

  With the strength of the information they now had on hand, Beau made the decision to appeal directly to the Regent. The mood inside the carriage was tense as they rushed to Carlton House.

  When they reached the corner of Pall Mall, a short distance from the prince’s residence, Beau sent the gunsmith’s apprentice on his way. “There’s no reason to drag you any further into this than you already are. You did well. I’ll be sure to put in a good word with the Elders for you.”

  If the Order survives.

  “Good luck, sir.” Michael jumped out of the carriage and jogged off, but when Beau glanced at Carissa, she shook her head at him in warning.

  “Don’t even think about trying to send me off, too.”

  He smiled in spite of himself. “I wasn’t about to.”

  A few moments later, they drove up to the gates of Carlton House. The guards admitted them on the Order’s credentials and looked at them with private admiration. But given the arrests of their brethren, they were parted from their weapons, and five palace guards escorted Beau, Nick, and Trevor inside, along with their prisoner and Carissa.

  “We need to see His Royal Highness at once. This man has critical information for the prince.” Beau nodded at the waxworks man, who cowered from the soldiers.

  “I’ll take you to the chamberlain, but I don’t know if you’ll get an audience,” the lieutenant confided. “His Royal Highness already has some important visitors, including one who doesn’t like you gentlemen very much, from what I hear.”

  Beau gave the man a discreet nod of thanks for this warning, but mentally, he cursed. Apparently, Ezra Green had beaten them there. The schemer must have anticipated that Beau’s next move would be an attempt to appeal to the Regent personally. No matter. He was ready for him.

  The only question was, how would Green react when he faced Charles Vincent’s accusations. Would he give himself away? Was this even going to work?

  There was only one way to find out. Striding through the opulent halls of the Regent’s palace with their uniformed escorts, Beau and Trevor kept Nick between them though he was no longer bound; Nick, in turn, kept hold of Charles Vincent, who was.

  The waxworks man had his wrists tied behind him. Trevor was keeping a close eye on him, while Beau walked beside Carissa.

  As they strode down the interior colonnade approaching the large, glittering Throne Room where Prinny had been cornered by his royal responsibilities for once, they could already hear Ezra Green whining.

  “Sire, the findings of my investigation are most dire! Something must be done! The Order has caused an incident the full ramifications of which we cannot yet know! Who knows what else they might have up their sleeves?”

  “Yes, but to put them in the Tower? Seems rather extreme, what?”

  “Your Highness—seventy dead! And every victim of this tragedy was either a representative of a foreign court or a member of some prominent European family! It is a black mark for all of England, what they’ve done. Moreover, they admit to it! The agents are all guilty, they said as much themselves! If they are not punished, the nations all these victims hail from will demand an explanation. If we do not make an example of these cold-blooded killers and subject them to the full fury of the law, then the Crown will be seen as endorsing their behavior. You, sire, could be personally blamed! Who knows what it could lead to? Trade tariffs, withdrawing of ambassadors—perhaps even to war!”

  “Yes, but I’ve played cards with these men,” Prinny said in annoyance. “They are not, as you describe, cold-blooded killers, Mr. Green.”

  “I am sure they would not show that face to you, Your Highness. And if I may be so bold, sire, one cannot afford to be blinded by personal feelings in such matters. Furthermore, if Your Highness will permit me to point out, if these men are proven felons, all their holdings revert to the Crown,” he finished with a humble bow.

  Beau fumed in silence, but beside him, Carissa faltered. He glanced at her and saw that, hearing this, her face had gone white.

  He steadied her with a hand on her elbow, but he had a fair idea of what she must be thinking. If Max, Rohan, and Jordan all were hanged, their homes and holdings forfeit to the sovereign, then Daphne, Kate, and Mara would be left widowed and penniless.

  But he was not going to let any of that happen. The time to stop it was at hand.

  He stepped away from his wife and approached the chamberlain; after a moment’s quiet conference, he procured the fellow’s nod. The chamberlain slipped in discreetly.

  The name of Viscount Beauchamp was obviously not unknown to Prinny, for they were promptly admitted.

  Just outside the open double doors, Beau turned to the others. “Carissa, stay out of trouble here. Trevor, bring Mr. Vincent in when I call for you. We’ll see how Green reacts when he’s faced with our witness.”

  “Good luck,” Carissa murmured.

  He held her gaze with muted adoration and gave her a nod. Then he glanced at Nick. “Ready?”

  Nick nodded back.

  The chamberlain announced them: “Viscount Beauchamp and Baron Forrester!”

  They walked in, both of them on guard.

  The Regent sat on a throne beneath a velvet-draped canopy at the head of the room. A number of ministerial typ
es had apparently rushed to the scene to find out why four of the ton’s most notable peers had been thrown into the Tower.

  “Ah, Lord Beauchamp,” the Regent addressed him. “It’s good you’ve come. Perhaps you can tell us the Order’s side of the story.”

  “I would be honored, Your Royal Highness,” he replied, as he and Nick both made the proper bows.

  Then he and Nick split up, walking cautiously around Ezra Green, flanking him on either side. Mr. Green turned nervously, trying to watch them both from where he stood in the center of the room.

  “I heard some of what Mr. Green was saying, but I’m afraid he left out the most important part of the story.”

  Green scoffed, but the Regent lifted his eyebrows.

  “Oh? What’s that?”

  “Although the seventy men who died in that explosion in Bavaria were indeed courtier friends of various princes, and aristocrats from great families, they also happened to be the remaining leaders of the Promethean cult. Yes, our agents stopped them by killing every last one of them. But our men should be thanked and congratulated, not imprisoned for doing their duty.”

  “Ha! What else should we expect him to say?” Green countered in contempt. “Of course he would defend them. He is one of them. But do not be fooled by his smooth talk, sire. Order agents are trained to lie expertly, as much as they are trained to kill. This is why the panel has ruled they prove such a threat!

  “Of course they give lip service to loyalty,” he continued, “but what if that’s just one of their lies? Why, their old handler could barely control them, arrogant as they are! With their skills, their influence, their power, fortune, and access to secret government information, think of the threat they could pose to all of us if they were to unite with some unknown goal of their own! They could pose a threat to this government!”

  Beau laughed aloud. Green’s face reddened as he whirled back to face the Regent. “It’s not as though this would be a new skill for them! They’ve done it before, sire! In Naples! Some of the German principalities!”