The Rogue's Last Scandal: A Regency Romance (Sons of the Spy Lord Book 3)

by Alina K. Field

  And didn’t frighten her.

  Hope bloomed in her. Years ago, when she was no more than a child just starting her courses, a boy they’d met on a stop in one of their journeys had touched her like this. Darkly handsome, he’d stirred feelings in her she’d wanted to explore, until one night after the dancing, Papa had barged into the shed where they were stretched on the hay kissing and pulled him off her.

  She closed her eyes and squeezed in the troubling images. How that would have ended, she now knew. No matter how pleasant those feelings stirred by that boy, Papa had been in the right, and she had been in the wrong.

  She must be careful. That boy’s forthright kisses and fondling hadn’t heated her as much as Mr. Everly’s simple touches. The wonder of it was, until now, she had barely been able to tolerate a man’s hand on her,

  Not since Rigo. She dropped her hands and stepped back, letting her gaze fall also. His finger tipped her chin up and she looked into his eyes. They were the same plain brown as her own: thoughtful, hard to read. His hair, many shades lighter than her own, was tousled in the way of the lazy, fashionable men here.

  Only, no, that was not the way of Mr. Everly. He was something more than what he seemed. Perhaps trust was possible here.

  He smiled at her, and her heart took a great leap in her chest, her breath coming in short gasps. Perhaps I can feel something with him besides fear.

  She fought to steady her breath. Dios. She pushed his hand away. “I want to rest now.”

  “That is a good idea, miss,” the housekeeper said. “Master Charley, you should have a lie-down also.”

  His serious gaze never left her. “It is an excellent idea.”

  A river of impossible heat roared through her. She felt herself flush. “Go now.”

  “I will have your promise first, that you will not go out those windows or otherwise attempt to leave here without me.”

  “Am I to be your prisoner then?”

  “No. Never.” He dropped his voice. “Carvelle does not just smell like death. He runs a smuggling ring and some say pirate ships. He is a criminal conspirator of the most dangerous sort. He will want back what he thinks is his.”

  “I will be no man’s property.”

  “Then let me help you keep your freedom.”

  Oh. The wind left her anger, and her heart swelled again. At this rate, it would burst. “I could not leave anyway. I have no clothing. Even I would rather not run through the streets of London in a dressing gown.”

  “We’ll find a dress of Lady Sirena’s for you and alter it.” Mrs. Windle bustled closer. Dark circles smudged her eyes, and in the growing light of dawn, her face looked grayer. “Or, you are closer in figure to Lady Perry. Mayhap your maid will bring something of hers that we can tack up.”

  “You have not slept either, Mrs. Windle.” Graciela looked at Mr. Everly. “Mrs. Windle must rest also. I will not run away, I promise.”

  Charley paced the corridor of the tidy house waiting for the housekeeper. With another bedchamber on this floor, and probably two more on the next, the tidy little house would be easy enough to protect. It was more than sufficient for a bachelor, but he could see why his sister-in-law, Sirena, had elected to live at Shaldon House. Bakeley’s pied-a-terre would not be big enough for the family that Perry reported was already on the way.

  The door opened and closed with a sharp snick.

  “You are not going back in there.” Mrs. Windle rested her hands on her plump hips. “And you are not going to linger here in this hallway.” She wagged a finger. “There is a spark between the two of you.”

  Not a spark—a conflagration.

  “I was waiting for you, Windy.” He took her arm. “Come, I’ll escort you downstairs. That is where you are headed, is it not? With a visitor here and it almost dawn, you’re not off to bed, are you?”

  She expelled a long breath and toddled along down the corridor next to him. “I got her settled, though she cannot rest upon that back for a few days. Who would do such a thing?” She shook her head. “Your mother would never have allowed it. She didn’t even like me swatting your bottom, Master Charley, and I’m thinking I didn’t do enough of it. The stories I hear—”

  “Shhh, Windy. You will shame me into taking holy orders.”

  She frowned up at him.

  “I won’t dally with her, my word of honor. And Bink will be along shortly, and Perry has sent for Father.” He patted her hand. “She’s in great danger, but not from me.”

  She grunted. “I must get the breakfast started. I doubt she’ll sleep much and she needs to eat something. Not an ounce of fat on the girl.”

  Except in all the right places.

  Chapter 8

  Charley found his eldest brother, Bink Gibson, in the kitchen, his large frame folded onto a chair at the servants’ table, a steaming cup in front of him. The fragrance of coffee filled the air.

  “Coffee for me also, Windle,” Charley said.

  “What’s afoot, Charley?” There was no rancor in the question, and Bink did not get up. All they lacked was a plate of eggs and the morning news sheets.

  The back door opened and a dark-eyed, dark-haired man of middle age and some height entered. “All’s well on the perimeter.” He shook moisture off his hat. “Morning, Charley.”

  Charley groaned, and relief mixed with...what?

  Happy he should be that Kincaid, his father’s favorite henchman, Bink’s uncle by marriage, was along. If there was a villain to be disposed of, Kincaid would step up and oblige. He’d done so for Bink.

  But Bink was a veteran of the Peninsula. He’d had nothing to prove.

  “And who is watching out for Paulette?” Charley asked.

  “As it happens, she’s gone down to Sussex for a few days with the Cathmores and Hackwells. Your timing is providential, little brother.” He turned and straddled the bench, stretching his long legs. “You’ve sent for Shaldon, so I take it he’s not the villain in this drama.”

  There was no smile on Bink’s lips, but his eyes sparkled. He’d visited this house a few months before, protecting Bakeley’s intended from their father.

  Kincaid looked from one to the other, his face devoid of expression as usual.

  Charley took the cup Windle handed him and tamped down his anger. “There’s a lady upstairs whose guardian himself caned her so that she cannot rest on her back. Is that not right, Mrs. Windle?”

  “Aye. And I’ve never seen such on a girl. The man himself should be thrashed.”

  “All to persuade her to marry the man of his choice.”

  Kincaid took a deep audible breath, his only reaction. Bink’s mouth firmed and he got to his feet. “Let’s go to the parlor, and let Mrs. Windle have her kitchen. Kincaid?”

  The other man shook his head. “I'll wait here for the others.”

  “What others?”

  “The ones coming from Shaldon House.”

  Of course. The ones bringing Miss Kingsley’s servants.

  In the sparsely furnished parlor, Charley lit candles and then paced to the yawning fireplace and back again across the room.

  “Who is the prospective groom?” Bink asked.

  “Gregory Carvelle.”

  Bink frowned. “Fill me in.”

  “A Huguenot smuggler. A weasel in pilgrim’s clothing. Some also say he runs an enterprise that extends into the West Indies.”

  Bink grunted. “Plenty of privateering there also.”

  With the demise of Spain in the new world, the Caribbean was ripe for exploitation. The newest war against piracy was there.

  “And the girl?” Bink asked.

  “Graciela Kingsley. The wealthy heir of Captain Kingsley and his Spanish colonial wife. He left for the new world decades ago, took up citizenship and the religion, made a fortune in furs and hides and whatnot.” He had found out that much yesterday, though the whatnot was still a bit murky.

  “The captain who has not returned. I heard he is dead.”

 
Charley walked to the front window and looked out. The fog was lifting, and the day coming might prove to be sunny. Down the street, a boy lingered. He recognized him as one of Bink’s grooms, one of his father’s former men.

  “What’s Shaldon got you up to, Charley? All this whoring around is a bit more than your usual. You’re walking a fine line with some of these diplomats. Bound to be called out sooner or later, or found with a stiletto in your gut.”

  There’s a Spanish woman, wealthy and beautiful, with the key to a traitor. Newly arrived, exactly when, we don’t know. Where, we don’t know. Find her.

  He tossed back his coffee and set down the cup. Kincaid had started him on this mission and handed it over to Farnsworth a few months ago, before he himself had disappeared on some errand of Father’s.

  A familiar ache started in the back of his head, flooding him with grim memories, pictures of the rocky shore, of a broken carriage, and the dead…

  He took a deep breath. Farnsworth had left, but not before Charley had heard the whispered discussion between him and Shaldon. Whoever this lady was, she might be linked to the traitor who’d sent Lady Shaldon over a cliff edge so many years before.

  He’d flirted with ambassadors’ wives, paid calls on a visiting merchant’s daughter, bedded a lady’s maid. He’d thought the Contessa―wealthy, widowed, and well-connected―a likely prospect. Her wealth, however, had proved to be a fiction, and he’d had to duck and weave avoiding the parson’s trap.

  And the Duquesa de San Sebastiano…between her powerful father and her treacherous husband, she was a walking pot of true danger; beautiful, impenetrable, and well-guarded.

  And how she could possibly be the key to a Yorkshire murder years ago, he still couldn’t puzzle out.

  “Charley? Charles.” Bink’s voice penetrated his thoughts and he turned. A beam of candlelight set Bink’s red hair afire. “Are you planning to wed the girl?”

  His chest tightened as if the hand of a genie gripped it and pushed all the hot blood to his head.

  Bink grinned.

  Damnation. Agents of the Crown did not blush like schoolgirls.

  “It’s your turn to be matched by our father, you know. You’re next.”

  “No.” He shook his head. Father had managed the marriages of Bink and then Bakeley. “I’ll not play his marriage game.” He had plans. A murder to solve. A world to explore. Wives did not travel well.

  Assignments were not to be shared, but of all the people in the world, he felt sure he could trust his brothers, who had both inadvertently found themselves battling villains to protect the ladies they married. The skin on his neck rippled. He swiped a hand over his face. Damnation.

  “I have a mission. I’m looking for a Spanish woman, wealthy and beautiful. Not this Spanish woman, Bink.”

  “Are you sure? Father set you to this.”

  He shook his head. “No. It was Kincaid, who handed me off to Farnsworth.” Lord Farnsworth was a long associate of Shaldon’s. “Who is now off to God-knows-where to check on Napoleon’s conspirators. Would that someone could drive a stake through the Corsican’s heart and be done with it.”

  “And yet, I expect Shaldon will know all about this assignment.”

  “Undoubtedly. But I met Miss Kingsley merely by chance. Perry dragged me off to a ball and the lady asked me for help.”

  “You let yourself be dragged to a ball?”

  “I thought someone I was hoping to meet would be in attendance.”

  Was that it? He’d had more than one brandy after their dinner that night when Perry had persuaded him to accompany her.

  “I see. Her husband had come back to town. So, what’s next? You’re not going to make this young lady Mrs. Everly. What will you do with her?”

  He rubbed his face again. Taking her to Falmouth, turning her over to a sea captain to travel under the protection of only two servants was her wish. It was not something he would do.

  “We’ve sent for Father.” Who might or might not be too ill to return immediately. Father was cagey. With Bink, he’d gone so far as to fake his own death. “Until then, I intend to hide her from her guardian. And speak with the solicitor managing her affairs. Lord Kingsley, I believe, is helping himself to her money.”

  “As he may do.”

  “For his new town coach?”

  Bink’s forehead crinkled. “As he may do. Bakeley knows everyone in the City. Every damn solicitor and barrister and banker.”

  “Perry sent for him also. I know the solicitor’s name, though: Watelford.”

  “Bakeley or Shaldon would know what’s what with him.”

  “Yes. Meanwhile, Penderbrook is investigating him at the club, and is looking into what bank Captain Kingsley might have used. I’ll pay a call on the solicitor later.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  “I thought to bring Penderbrook.”

  “I’ll go. I’m on a committee looking at some changes in estate law.”

  Charley laughed. “Of course. I’d forgotten—we’re Members of Parliament.” It was a useful cover if he would but show up for the tiresome meetings, debates, and votes. “You’re brilliant, Bink. It will get us in through the door.”

  “Yes. And Kincaid and his Scotsmen will keep a sharp eye here. Now, is there a magistrate we can trust?”

  “For what?”

  “To bring charges against Lord Kingsley. He’s the one who beat the girl, isn’t he? Or was that Carvelle?”

  “It’s worse than that. Kingsley left the girl alone in the house and sent the servants away to give Carvelle free access.”

  Bink cursed and rose and stopped in front of him. A few inches taller, a bit bigger in muscle, his brother, when angered, was a force unto himself.

  “He didn’t succeed. She says it, and I believe her. She says she stabbed him, and clubbed him, and went out of the window to the next bedchamber.” His heart filled. “And to my thinking, any man who would think it mattered is a fool.”

  “They were forcing the issue, though. True or not, they’ll pass the word around to force her to marry him.”

  “She is not going to marry him.”

  “Then she won’t be marrying any of your blue-bloods, I’m afraid, not with that in the scandal sheets.”

  It was true, but Graciela had the right of it. If she left England with some of her fortune, she would be a plum pick for some colonial man starved for the company of a pretty woman with some coin in her reticule.

  “Yet Carvelle is not one of your nobles, is he?” Bink asked. “Why did they match her with him, I wonder?”

  Outside, a bank of fog drifted and light from a street lamp pierced the window. “Bink, I must say it again, you are brilliant.” He should have thought of the question himself—would have, had he not been so matrimonially averse, so lacking in sleep, and so determined to find a rich, beautiful Señorita.

  Lord Kingsley’s spending spree hadn’t started until after the report of Captain Kingsley’s death. The man had the usual broken-down country estate and a house in disrepair. But why was he short on money? He wasn’t known at the gambling hells. He hadn’t spent on lavish furnishings, a stable, or an errant heir. And if Graciela’s guardian needed money, why marry her off and hand her fortune over to a husband?

  And why to Carvelle, who was thought to be rich already? Though, in the way of successful criminals everywhere, perhaps that wasn’t true at the moment.

  Money might be a factor, but his gut told him there was some other urgency driving Lord Kingsley to force Graciela into this particular marriage.

  And in that case, there was no sense in waiting for Father.

  Charley clapped his brother on the shoulder. “Give me your cup. I'll serve your coffee and we’ll get Kincaid to plot with us.”

  “We’re plotting?” The voice was Penderbrook’s. “Then I have information you’ll want to hear about your solicitor.”

  Sometime later, across town…

  Lord Kingsley scanned the blurry line
s of the cheap paper. “Where did you get this?”

  “A boy shoved it in the cook’s hand and left.” Lady Kingsley slammed a fist into her other hand. “I should box her ears for not detaining him, but then we wouldn’t be sure what we were eating.”

  Fingers of pain pulsed in his chest, echoing the aches in his jaw and the tapping behind his eyes. This might well be Carvelle’s work. The man had bollocksed up the easy matter of making his bride certain, and now he was trying to extract revenge in the scandal sheets.

  “Do not worry, the cook cannot read. She gave this to the housekeeper who can barely read, but who will not talk.” She crinkled her brow. “She ran away, did she not, Kingsley? You don’t think Carvelle—”

  “No.” The scandal sheet in front of him said that a wealthy young heiress had disappeared; an heiress whose guardian was beating her, embezzling her funds, and forcing her into a marriage with a man of ill-repute. The implication was foul play. No name that would make the libel actionable had been given, but the ton would put their finger on him.

  “He wouldn’t kill her. He must marry her before she may disappear.” And to do that, Carvelle needed her guardian’s permission, unless he took her to Scotland. But he, and his principle henchman, had both been in the house the previous night, fuming. He didn’t think Carvelle was a good enough actor to fake the anger he’d shown last night. “So only the housekeeper saw this?”

  “Yes.”

  And the housekeeper would now be speculating on why he’d given the entire staff a special outing the night before.

  “Shall I send for Carvelle?” Lady Kingsley asked.

  The man had a ghastly wound from the chit. He could go to the inn where Carvelle said he was staying. And yet, he was waiting on his own man who was making inquiries in the neighborhood to return.

  “No. Have the carriage readied. I shall pay a call on Carvelle, and then meet with Watelford. She’ll go to him first.” She’d want to check on the fortune the solicitor had under guard. She’d not know that Watelford was his man. There would be no drafts for her to take to McCollum’s Bank.