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

by Alina K. Field

  “I will escort you up. I promise that, no matter my state of arousal, I will respect and honor you.”

  “I can find my own way.”

  “No doubt.” He started for the door.

  “Wait.” She broke free and blew out the candle.

  The touch of her hand on his arm stirred him, making his chest swell. He navigated the dark stairs with her in tow, and crossed the landing to go up again.

  “My room is on this floor.”

  “So is mine. We’re not going there.”

  Graciela gripped his arm tighter. Charley Everly rushed up the stairs as if Carvelle himself were pursuing them. These quiet stairs, the twists and turns of corridors and long row of doors. She knew where they were going.

  She blinked back tears. That he would understand her needs touched her.

  A guard shot to his feet outside the nursery door. He’d not been there when she’d checked earlier.

  Was he keeping Carvelle out, or keeping her and her people in?

  “This is where I leave, before Juan shoots me with one of his new pistols.” Charley lifted her hand and kissed it. “May I have your promise that you will go with me tomorrow?”

  “Of course. I am not so foolish as to try to talk to that man alone.” Lady Perry had said the banker may not talk, though Mr. Gibson had mysteriously assured them he could persuade the man. She hoped there was no blood to be shed.

  “And I will see you at breakfast?” Charley asked.

  “I should like to eat here with Reina.”

  “Of course.” He kissed her hand again and disappeared.

  Inside, she rested her shoulder against the closed door and allowed her heart to quiet. A lamp had been left burning and a maid dozed in a chair.

  His touch had been everywhere upon her, except where he knew it would cause her pain. The kiss had been—lovely. Not forced. Not a plundering of her mouth. Not an act of domination and taking.

  Charley’s kiss had tasted like brandy and promised pleasure, and had made her want more.

  She shook her head. But of course. He had a reputation as a seducer of women, and it was no wonder. He was very good. She had told him what she required—honor, respect—and he had seen fit to pull away and give it to her. He had made her want to reach for him.

  She pressed a hand to her heart. And she did. She wanted nothing more than to go back into his arms.

  The wonder of that filled her with gratitude and something like hope. Perhaps she wasn’t as broken as she’d thought.

  Chapter 12

  “Did I not tell you it was a foolish ploy?” Gregory Carvelle’s hooded eyes were those of a lizard. “Bankers do not let go of money so easily.”

  Kingsley stared down his nose at the man, reminding himself that he was a peer, the latest holder of a very old title. His family had helped rule this island for centuries. And Carvelle was merely the descendant of foreign tradesmen—dishonest ones at that.

  In league with a devil, he was. He was being swallowed whole, inch by torturing inch. He rued the day his wife had brought him this plan, and the one that had come before that started the whole damnable mess.

  Nay, he rued the day he’d married the woman with her spendthrift ways and her sordid connections. “We shall find her. She could not have gone far.”

  The beady eyes sparkled. “Perhaps she has run to Shaldon.”

  “She couldn’t possibly know that Farnsworth appointed him guardian in his absence.” He had not known himself until this morning.

  “The daughter was friendly with her, Blanche said. And I did see Everly out on that balcony where she was found. He might have taken her that night. He is known for seducing women.”

  “Ridiculous. If the chit could fight you off, Carvelle, she could resist a gentleman.”

  Carvelle’s lips curled. “If she wished to.” He rapped the carriage roof and called for the coachman to halt. “I shall wait to hear how your debt will be paid. I shall not wait forever.”

  “I’ll find the girl. The marriage agreements have been signed. Busy yourself with procuring the license.”

  “Busy myself?” Carvelle raised an eyebrow. “A license? Perhaps a trip to Scotland is in order. Perhaps I’ll find her before you.” He disappeared into the busy mercantile street, snaking between delivery carts and the storekeepers opening shop.

  Kingsley sank back against the velvet squab. The coach was a gem, the newest design, well-appointed and well-sprung, and, like the new draperies and upholstery at Kingsley House, came courtesy of the trust Captain Kingsley had set up for his daughter.

  If he controlled the girl, he controlled the funds. The girl was his chip. He needed to find her before Carvelle.

  Damn Blanche. She had mishandled her—the girl was as proud as her father. As a boy, every time a fist hit Tristan Kingsley, he’d struggled to his feet to take more. Like her father, the cut of the cane had only made the chit more defiant, more determined.

  The coach turned into his square and slowed to a crawl. A plain hackney and two horses blocked the curb in front of his house. Two men in coarse coats and hats stood on the front steps.

  The sight sent a chill rattling through him. Tradesmen would not linger on the front steps of a lord’s townhouse. This scene wasn’t hard to decipher. He’d seen their types enough running about town, poking, probing, and interfering.

  They did no more than tip their dusty hats to him as he walked up the steps. Inside, the butler handed him a card.

  His blood drained and then surged again pounding in his ears like an incipient apoplexy.

  “He is in the front parlor, my lord.”

  “Lady Kingsley?”

  “She has not come down yet.”

  Thank God. Blanche would only run at the mouth and start quarreling with—he looked at the card again—Sir Henry Laughlin. His mouth firmed. No man tolerated a quarrelsome woman well, but especially not a magistrate.

  “Very well.” He started for the door but the butler stopped him.

  “My lord.” He cleared his throat and looked at a spot on the wall. “There are men in the garden, digging.”

  The garden? Blanche had made plans for the weed-infested space. She’d been studying designs, looking to appoint a new gardener. She’d moved things along much more quickly than expected.

  Damn her spendthrift ways. “Very well. Her ladyship will be pleased her gardener has arrived, I’m sure.”

  More throat-clearing stopped him.

  “What the hell else?” he snapped.

  “They are not gardeners, my lord.” The butler’s voice quaked. “They accompanied your visitor. They have unearthed an article of...” The butler paused and looked at his own shaking hands... “bloody clothing. It appears to have been one of Miss Kingsley’s dresses.”

  Chapter 13

  Graciela clutched the firm arm of the large man at her side trying to see through the heavy netting of her veil. All she could discern was that McCollum’s Bank was an imposing edifice.

  “Mr. Gibson. Mrs. Gibson.” The clerk who came to greet them bowed as though she were a duchess or the queen herself.

  Or perhaps not the current queen since her husband was famously trying to divorce her, the pig.

  A royal duchess then. “Good day,” she whispered. Mr. Gibson had recommended she speak very little until they had insured her safety.

  “I need a word with Mr. McCollum on a matter of some urgency,” Mr. Gibson said.

  Through the dark netting, Graciela could only admire Mr. Gibson’s command of the bank clerk, who trotted away to find his master. A by-blow Mr. Gibson might be, but he acted just like one of his brothers.

  In fact, he acted with more dignity than either of them. Lord Bakeley had arrived in the early morning and she had met him briefly when she’d intruded upon a dispute in the very library where Charley had kissed her a few hours before. Lord Bakely had wanted to come along to the bank, in addition to Mr. Gibson and Charley, or in place of Charley.

  Two ad
ditional Everly brothers were too many, Mr. Gibson said. Charley insisted that he must go, and he would not waver on the point. Lord Bakeley had opened his mouth to protest and then they’d all finally seen her in the doorway. After the introductions, and many sly glances by Lord Bakeley at her and his younger brother, he’d acquiesced to this plan and promised she would meet Lady Sirena who, due to the lateness of their arrival and her delicate condition, was still abed.

  The last was shared with great congratulations and brotherly backslapping.

  It was all very interesting. She’d been the outsider before on many occasions, Graciela, in the shadows, privy to men’s celebrations. Aside from the absence of both alcohol and the most colorful of language, the celebrating had not been so very different among these aristocrats.

  And the lord and heir bowing to the wishes of the bastard son—but of course Mr. Gibson was the eldest. She wondered if their father had retained the mother as a mistress after his marriage. It would tell her much about the mysterious Lord Shaldon.

  Now, she clung to Mr. Gibson’s arm, for in fact, today she was not playing a groom but Paulette Gibson. On her other side, Charley squeezed nearer, close enough that she could smell his soap. The air hummed between them.

  Mr. Gibson sighed and muttered, “You are crowding my wife, Charley. Any closer and I shall have to thrash you.”

  She wondered if there were others within hearing. It was difficult to see through these ridiculous weeds.

  Charley laughed and took one step away. “I beg your pardon, Paulette. I am so very grateful to you is all.”

  It was enough to imply that Paulette was giving him money. There must certainly be others listening.

  This money that the Gibsons had at the bank was actually Paulette’s. It had been another intriguing bit of information this morning, especially since it was news to Mr. Gibson’s brothers also. The Kingsleys had made it clear to her, she needn’t concern herself with the money left in trust for her because a wife’s money was her husband’s. Yet, regardless of legalities, Mr. Gibson talked as if Paulette had money of her own, and he recognized it as such.

  The clerk returned, and they followed him into another room. Through the shadows of her veil, she could see that it was an office with a stately carved desk. The man who greeted them stood not much higher than herself.

  Mr. Gibson introduced Charley to Mr. McCollum, the proprietor of this bank, who greeted them formally. His English was not like that of the others, and she struggled to understand.

  “We are here on some business that involves Charles,” Mr. Gibson said. They had agreed to that story for all but the banker himself, which meant that the man’s clerk must be lurking. They’d worried that Kingsley or Carvelle might have agents here. They would have no choice but to trust McCollum, once the door to his private office closed.

  Mr. Gibson trusted him, as did her papa, who had left his accounts with the man.

  “I see,” the banker said.

  “And how are our funds, McCollum?”

  “Well invested, I assure you. Shall I call up the account for your review?”

  “Perhaps in a bit. We would like to discuss another matter with you first.”

  The banker bowed. “I see. Or rather I do not see. Please take a seat. Get us another chair.”

  The clerk carried over another chair, and she allowed herself to be seated between the two brothers.

  “Our discussion must be private,” Mr. Gibson said.

  The banker made a shooing motion, and she heard the door behind them click.

  “You may remove your veil, my dear,” Mr. Gibson said quietly.

  She gripped the lacy edge with shaking hands and tore it back, pulling the attached bonnet askew, trying to right it, and knocking out a hair pin. She took a deep breath. The room was brighter than she’d thought. A lamp stood lit behind the desk, dispelling London gloom and the chilly shadow of money.

  And the banker’s eyes were a startled shade of blue.

  “I apologize for my deception, sir.” She swallowed and tried to clear her throat. Her hands moved to the carved wooden chair arms and gripped them as she rushed on. “You see that I am not Mrs. Gibson, but someone else entirely. There have been...attempts. Upon my person. And I have found sanctuary at Shaldon House and the protection of these good men and their sister, Lady Perpetua. And I have recently learned that you are my banker.”

  His mouth dropped open.

  Mr. Gibson leaned forward in his seat. “This is—”

  “Wait. Please, Mr. Gibson,” she said. “Mr. McCollum, may I have your assurance to protect my identity and location? It will sound dramatic but it is true that my very life may depend upon it.”

  “Grace Kingsley.” McCollum’s throat constricted on her name.

  She was that much of a scandal, she supposed. “Yes. It is I.” And if she could not trust him, her fate was entirely in Everly hands.

  She took a deep breath. No. Her fate would always be in her own hands.

  The banker’s face grew hard, judgmental, and his eyes began to glitter. It was Kingsley’s face before he used the cane. She felt a burning trickle down her back and fought the shiver that wanted to go with it.

  She became aware of Charley’s large, strong hand upon her own, and breathed again.

  “Miss Kingsley would like your agreement of confidentiality and to know the state of her funds,” Mr. Gibson said. They had agreed that he would start this negotiation.

  The banker blanched. “I assure you, they are in good order.”

  “She would like to know the details.” Charley gave her hand a squeeze and released her to reach into a pocket. “Perhaps you’ve read this?” He slid a newsprint across the desk. “The description of her plight? Anonymous, but accurate. Our housekeeper has left a sworn testament to the condition of Miss Kingsley’s back after her guardian’s floggings. It is all ready to be presented to the proper authorities.”

  The banker’s entire face darkened as the blood rose into it, perhaps choking off his ability to speak.

  Mr. Gibson leaned forward, like a bear she had seen once in the Alta California hills, ready to attack. The bear had moved more swiftly than his size gave credit for, and this man, big as he was, was all muscle. He could shoot across the desk in moments and fall upon his prey.

  “Many a man might think such punishment appropriate for an uncooperative ward,” Mr. Gibson said. “If you be such, McCollum, I shall have a note for our funds today.”

  “Here, now.” McCollum sucked in a great breath. “It is...that is...no, I do not countenance floggings, of course not. She should not have to suffer that sort of discipline. You should talk to Watelford, her solicitor.”

  Her pulse pounded. He spoke as if she were not sitting here.

  “Do you countenance abductions then?” Charley asked. “We did, in fact, escort Miss Kingsley to Watelford’s and found men lying in wait to abduct her.”

  Taking those men had yielded naught as yet, the man Kincaid had reported. They were hired men from the docks who claimed to know nothing.

  Her head was spinning in the currents around them.

  The banker’s eyes narrowed.

  “They did not succeed, of course.” Charley squeezed her hand again. “As Miss Kingsley said, she is under the protection of the Earl of Shaldon.”

  “You knew of the attempt to take her?” Mr. Gibson’s voice was a cudgel.

  “No.” The banker’s fingers rattled on the desk. “That is...I was told of it after the fact.”

  By whom? She wanted to shout the words, but he rushed on in his nearly unfathomable accent.

  “There are no men lying in wait at my bank. I would not allow such a thing.” He drew himself higher in the chair. “And Miss Kingsley’s account is a matter to be discussed with one of her guardians.” He drew a file from a stack on his desk and opened it. “Lord Kingsley of course. And Lord Farnsworth...or...” he shifted a paper, “his substitute.” He lifted his eyes and glanced at the two
men. “The terms of the guardianship allowed for a substitution if one of the guardians was incapacitated or unavailable. Farnsworth has left the country and has duly substituted Lord Shaldon.”

  Shock slammed her, whooshing the air out of her. “Your father?” Farnsworth, who had never bothered to as much as introduce himself or visit her, had put her in the charge of a sick man and had told no one?

  She looked from one brother to the other and back to the banker. Or perhaps he had shared the news. Perhaps everyone knew except her. “Surely you can discuss the matter of my money with the sons of Lord Shaldon.”

  The banker glanced at her. “I’m sorry, Mr. Gibson.”

  He wasn’t. She could see that. He was one more man of the Lord Kingsley ilk.

  “You mean to say, we must return with Lord Shaldon?” She swallowed hard.

  Her voice had risen. She took a breath, trying to regain control.

  McCollum closed the file and pushed his chair back.

  “Answer the lady, if you please,” Charley said coolly.

  McCollum’s gaze jerked up to him. “Yes, I will speak with Lord Shaldon, or...I was given to understand that the marriage settlements had been signed. I could reasonably discuss this with your fiancé, Mr. Carvelle.”

  Blood pounded through her. She shot to her feet. “He is not my fiancé. Not.” She pushed at the chair with the back of her legs, needing to walk, trapped by the close-set chairs and the men who’d been in them, who were now standing, and the desk in front of her. Caged.

  The banker had stood also, and in his face, she read the conviction that Kingsley had been right to beat her.

  The sight of it frightened her back to sanity. She must be shrewd. She must act like she was intelligent. She must exercise some of the coolness these English prized so much.

  “Miss Kingsley is correct,” Charley was saying. “She will not marry Carvelle.”

  To the banker, he would appear calm, yet she sensed the tension within him. The honor there.

  There was honor in all the sons. It must be in the father, also, her latest guardian, who was on his way from Bath.