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

by Alina K. Field

  Doubt churned in her. Charley knew the man, and yet had dallied with the wife, or had led everyone to believe so. This was indeed a dangerous game.

  Yet one could see why the Duquesa would prefer Charley. Though, he was handsome enough, this Duque, stuffed into his velvet coat and decorated with many ribbons. Gray streaked his temples and deep wrinkles carved the skin around his silver eyes. A paunch marred the line of his coat, but his shoulders were wide, his bearing haughty. His bold gaze sliced her from head to foot.

  He was familiar to her, yet she knew she’d never once met him.

  “So, you have taken a bride of your own.” The Duque’s deep voice flowed like honey, but his silvery gaze threatened the sword. “And how lovely she is. Perhaps I should honor you with a dance, my dear.”

  Those last words had dripped seductively from lips pulled back in a sneer.

  Charley held her more firmly. “I’m afraid the next dance is mine.”

  The first bars of the music were starting, and the Duque was blocking their route to the dance floor.

  The man chuckled without smiling. “So, you are the daughter of the infamous Captain Kingsley.”

  Infamous? Fire ravaged her cheeks and her neck while she sought for a response that would not bring down brimstone.

  From the corner of her eye, she spotted Lord Kingsley stepping into this blaze, his wife hovering behind in the crowd.

  A trembling started in her chest. All that was needed was for Gregory Carvelle to appear.

  She smoothed her free hand along the secret pocket and lifted her chin.

  Charley’s grip on her hand firmed even more, and she caught his meaning. Do not speak. I will handle this.

  She squeezed his hand back and defiantly dropped it. “Lord Kingsley,” she said.

  Her tormenter drew closer. “So, you have married.”

  “Indeed, we have, today, by special license at Shaldon House.” Her traitorous voice shook.

  “Or so you think you have married.” He ignored her, keeping his gaze on Charley.

  “Oh, we’re married,” Charley said. “With Graciela’s guardian’s permission.”

  “I am her guardian, and you did not have my permission,” Kingsley growled.

  “By the terms of the guardianship, only one signature was required.” Shaldon had explained this to her. “Lord Shaldon is one of my guardians.”

  Kingsley had heard her, no doubt, because his face all but exploded in purple, but his gaze stayed on Charley, as if Charley were the ventriloquist, and she, his doll.

  The Duque raised an eyebrow and smirked at both men. “It will make for a pretty English lawsuit, no? The second guardian kidnapping the ward and signing over her fortune to his own son? She is a dainty one, though, Kingsley. Not wild as you described. Perhaps you employed the wrong sort of rod to control her, eh.”

  Graciela gasped, her temper rising. “You are without shame,” she said in Spanish.

  “Si, si.” Again came that unsmiling chuckle like a groan in his throat. His arrogant face grew hard. “Cuidado.”

  “It is you who should be careful,” Charley said. His eyes had hardened.

  Her heart raced. Had she not seen her father stand up to such challenges? Swindling traders, threatening thieves, and rebellious seamen. And a real man must stand up to this devil.

  And Charley was a real man.

  On her other side, Mr. Gibson moved closer until she was crushed between the brothers. Behind her was the cool wall, in front of her two beasts of the apocalypse, and behind them, the wall of greedy faces.

  One of those faces was Captain Llewellyn’s. He had offered his help. He was no friend of Kingsley, he’d said. And now he stood and merely watched like the rest.

  As the moment dragged on, a heavy fist circled her lungs and began to squeeze. She stood very still and tried to breathe.

  “Lord Kingsley. Duque.” Lord Shaldon elbowed his way in, pointing his cane at the men. “Come to congratulate my son and my new daughter? How kind, but you are causing a spectacle. Disrupting the dancing.”

  His words cloaked a pointed message, just as surely as his cane must be sheathing a sword.

  “It shall not stand, Shaldon,” Kingsley said.

  “But it shall. They were married before dinner, before all of the family. It is done.”

  “It is not done. She is not of age. I did not approve.”

  “But Kingsley,” the Duque said, “let them stay married.” He glanced at his wife. “Else the girl will be ruined. No one will want Everly’s cast-off.”

  Nothing changed in the Duquesa’s face or demeanor. Her marriage must have dealt her many such dishonorable, undignified insults.

  No shame. No dignity. No honor. No wonder the lady had looked for love elsewhere.

  “She was brought to me ruined, her and her brat.”

  “Kingsley.” Charley’s voice held a warning. He took a step forward.

  Graciela grabbed his hand and tugged at him. “No.” Let it be said. Let them begin with no lies. “Kingsley is right. The child is mine.”

  Charley gazed at her a long moment and smiled. “And now she is mine also.”

  “And a grandchild to me,” Lord Shaldon said.

  “And a niece to me,” Mr. Gibson said. “Like Graciela, she is family now and under our protection.”

  Kingsley’s face purpled.

  The Duque’s lip curled. “Pah. You see how these colonial women are? Cuckolded already, Everly. How does it feel?”

  Charley opened his mouth, but Kingsley spoke first. “How dare your father foist a half-black bastard on me?”

  “Easy now.” Mr. Gibson said. “There’s a fine gentleman. Easy.”

  The Duque laughed and bared yellow teeth. “Such an interesting night. Yes, Kingsley, unless you are looking for pistols at dawn with the Earl’s eldest son, do temper your words. In my time in Veracruz I saw that the lack of civilization drives men to make certain compromises with the natives. In any case to be born on the wrong side of a noble bed is no terrible thing.”

  His time in Veracruz?

  Kingsley huffed. “That was no noble breeding, I’ll warrant.”

  “The Kingsley blood is not noble?” Charley asked.

  “Enough.” Lord Shaldon’s cane lifted again, this time directed at his son.

  “Yes, enough,” the Duque said. “Well, Shaldon, I take it you and your son have finished with my wife. Have you found the spy you were looking for?”

  “London is filled with spies,” Shaldon said languidly.

  “Yes.” He peered down his nose at Charley. “Are you going to send this one again into someone else’s bed?”

  She gasped, and the silver eyes turned on her. Gunmetal grey, as hard as granite, a Duque. In Tampico, people had whispered of a man with those eyes. A silver-eyed Spaniard known for his cruelty. El Tlahuelpuchi some had called him, a monster who had killed even the women and children after he’d let his men rape them.

  Dios. If those stories were true, if it was him…he would be a cruel husband. No wonder his wife dallied with others. “Yes, my dear. Your husband searches for information in bedrooms. He has been looking for a spy, who as it turns out, is dead.” Those yellow teeth grew larger. “How clever you are to hold onto him after he was done with you.”

  Her mind was reeling. Charley had pursued her for information? That could not be true.

  A cold chill went through her, Papa’s last conversation coming back to her. He could not know of that.

  Is it true?

  Charley turned her to him, and lifted her chin. “No.” He shook his head. “We will talk at home.” He wrapped an arm about her. “Bink, Father, we are leaving.”

  “Oh, not yet.” The Duque moved closer, pushed by the crowd perhaps. His scent wafted into the air, warring with Charley’s. “I am not finished. I have not given my felicitations to your match. So perfect an arrangement—a duplicitous spy, and the daughter of a duplicitous traitor.”

  The room darkene
d, her outward vision blurring. Pictures cascaded, her father whispering instructions. The book he had given her to keep safe. The dagger. The instructions to seek out Lord Shaldon in the event of Papa’s death or other dire need.

  Charley was tugging her away, but she dug in her heels. “I would rather hear out this Spaniard. Say what you wish to say about my father.”

  “Your father. A traitor to England, and then a traitor to Spain, and who knows who he was betraying when he was killed.”

  “My father was not a traitor.” Her fingers grasped the hilt of her hidden blade. Before she could jerk the blade out of its sheath, another hand touched that arm. Mr. Gibson’s hand.

  The room swam around her, the lights blurring and hazing. Her father was not a traitor, and why did none of these men who defended her not speak up? Why did they not defend Papa?

  He wasn’t a traitor. He had taken up Spanish citizenship for love, to marry her mother, and when the Spanish cruelty became too much, he had joined in the cause of independence.

  “A traitor. A pirate. A spy. It was he your Mr. Everly was tracking. A pity your quarry, Captain Kingsley, is dead, Everly.”

  Her stomach roiled. Charley had been after her father? He had used her? A vise gripped her throat and black dots scattered her field of vision.

  She drew in a deep breath and choked on the dense air.

  “Easy breaths, Gracie.” Charley’s arms supported her. “Try again.”

  “Move back.” Mr. Gibson’s voice created a space around her.

  “Deep and easy breaths, my love.”

  My love. The words were like hartshorn, making her gulp in air, bringing her around until finally her vision cleared.

  Charley’s gaze burned into her, a mask of concern.

  Concern he could easily fake. He was a consummate actor. He had used her to go after her father. He had secured access to her money, permanently.

  And yet, and yet…how could she believe this Duque over Charley? Charley had never even hinted an interest in her father’s last quiet words.

  She didn’t believe that anyone knew what Papa had said to her, or that they would understand. She certainly didn’t.

  But she could bluff. She must learn to be as good an actor as Lord Shaldon and his son.

  “You betrayed me,” she whispered, and it was not hard to fake heartbreak.

  “No. Never.” He glanced at the two villains, his eyes blazing as she had never seen them do.

  “No,” she said, and turned his face toward her. “No duel. I beg you, Charley,” she whispered, and then said more loudly, “Everyone can see how little honor is in these men. And,” she returned to a shaky whisper, “I shall kill you myself when we are home.”

  Chapter 26

  Charley’s heart cheered, and he came close to laughing. She was threatening to kill him, so all was not lost. He held her gaze as long as possible. “I do love you,” he said.

  Lord Bakeley approached. “The coaches are ready.”

  She shook her head. “I am not finished.” Her voice was far stronger than he would have expected and she drew herself up like a queen in her silver gown. The two villains turned from his father, faces taut, at what Father had been saying.

  “Duque. Or shall I call you, El Tlahuelpuchi?”

  The Duque barely blinked at being called a vampire, but she had struck a nerve.

  She nodded to Father. “My lord.”

  The two villains looked over her head.

  Shaldon nodded back, his face an enigma. Their world had just collapsed, and Father looked as serenely satisfied as he had at dinner. The thought angered him.

  “Pray, your Excellency, where is your dukedom?” she asked.

  The Spaniard eyed her, the only sound the shuffle of dresses. The orchestra had even ceased playing.

  “San Sebastiano.” The Duquesa said.

  A liveried footman eased closer, and he recognized one of her guards.

  His heart eased. He had used the lady, it was true, as she had used him, an interlude made more exciting for both of them by the danger. And she had risked much to pass notes and whisper secrets, including the one she had shared tonight.

  “Yes.” Graciela nodded. “You are the one. San Sebastiano. Gray eyes like a frozen river. Gordo, your stomach as big as Napoleon’s. I have heard the tales.” Gracie pulled herself higher on a cord of tension.

  He squeezed her hand, transmitting strength, courage, love.

  She glanced at him a moment and turned back. “So clever you are, Duque. You are right that my husband is looking for a traitor. And I have the key to one.” Her lips stretched in a thin smile directed at Kingsley. “You are not so clever in naming him, however. He is not my father.”

  She pulled her hand free and reached for Shaldon’s arm. “And cousin.” She spat the word out like it was poisoned. “After you embezzled my trust, beat me, and tried to force me to marry your wife’s pirate cousin, there was no question I would flee, but you might wish to ponder why I sought sanctuary with the lord who set his son to seek out a traitor.”

  A red glaze was creeping over Kingsley’s face. His eyes fixed on her.

  She looked up at Father. “May we go now?”

  “Yes, my dear. But let Charles take you out.”

  “See here,” Kingsley thundered, and reached for her.

  Shaldon stepped between them, Bink backing him up.

  Pushed up behind the Duque, Llewellyn looked on, and whispering in his ear was the fellow he’d met at the club: Payne-Elsdon.

  Interesting, that.

  To their left, the Duquesa was fleeing, flanked by her guards, her survival instincts as excellent as ever.

  Charley hooked an arm around Gracie, sweeping her along, through the buzzing crowd, down the stairs, through the ranks of footmen and Shaldon’s men to the waiting coach. He spotted Llewellyn in the crowd tracking them, Elsdon following nearby. Were they together?

  “Get in, love,” he said.

  When she balked, he tossed her into the coach and climbed in behind her.

  She was shaking, and from the thunderous look on her face, fear was only a part of it. Never mind. They would weather this storm.

  “By God, you were magnificent.” In fact, she had been quite believable. The reporters would be dashing off their copy as they ran to ink the presses, speculating on the name of the traitor she’d claimed to know. “I am glad you did not pull that dagger on them.”

  She stiffened.

  “Yes, I knew of the dagger. And that was an excellent bluff. Kingsley will be packing his bags and fleeing to his country estate until the smoke clears.”

  Her stony silence made the air inside the coach hum. Her gaze stayed on the closed window shade, as if she could see through it.

  When his father climbed in to join them, surprisingly nimble, and Kincaid followed, both men looked smug and satisfied.

  Charley’s anger stirred.

  “Perpetua will ride with Jane,” Shaldon said. “Will you tell us what you know, Graciela?”

  He bristled. “Gracie was bluffing, father.”

  Her gaze dropped to the silver lace reticule she was strangling. And she bit her lip. His heart clenched and froze, and began to heat.

  She hadn’t been bluffing. She’d known something all along, something she hadn’t shared with him.

  Farnsworth had set him on this path. Farnsworth had known something. Farnsworth had set him onto the Duquesa and somehow, at the same time, onto Gracie. He was as devious as father.

  Charley wanted to laugh. He wanted to punch something—or someone, preferably the missing Farnsworth.

  He unwound her fingers from the reticule and gripped them. “By God, Father,” he said. “You may not importune her for information. The war is over. It does not matter.”

  Her chin dropped to her chest, tearing half of his heart with it. They had only just married, and he was losing her, and his father sat calmly looking on.

  He forced his hands to relax, to not squeeze
hers. None of this was her doing.

  He knew now what his brothers had gone through. And what Father must have gone through ten years before.

  He squeezed his eyes and tried to blot out his last memory of his mother, broken, bloated, and dead on the Yorkshire cliffs. Gracie was alive, and he must keep her that way.

  “Father, it doesn’t matter what Gracie knows. Even if we find the man, it will not bring Mother back to life.”

  Gracie jerked. She gasped, and as if her breath was pumping into his chest he felt her surprise.

  “Charley is right,” Kincaid said with his usual aplomb. The tension inside the coach hadn’t touched him at all. “And we have other fish to snare. Carvelle has resurfaced. Off to Kent he is. There’s a boat off the coast we’ve been watching. We’ve recalled the revenue officer he had in his pocket. Sent in a new one to give him a little surprise.”

  Carvelle’s absence from London eased his worry.

  “So he is a smuggler?” Gracie asked.

  “Built an empire on it,” Kincaid said. “But the war is over, and he’s had some losses recently. Calling in debts, he is.”

  “Debts?” She glanced up at Charley, and then at the other two, and bit her lip. “So, as we thought, my dowry and I were supposed to pay off some debt of Kingsley’s.”

  “Yes.”

  “Something illegal,” she mused. “Something secret.”

  “Perhaps,” Kincaid said, “Or perhaps just a bad investment, a ship taken by pirates or some such.”

  Or perhaps a ship taken in the West Indies by a privateer?

  While she looked away, holding her peace, he pondered the possibilities, and reminded himself, she had more secrets she had not shared, not even with him.

  Graciela spotted Lord Shaldon’s butler opening the house door before the carriage had even stopped. She had lifted the curtain a fraction while the men talked. Her brain was a terrible blur, her inner vision filled with strong men—dark-haired, red-haired, old and young, and one tawny-haired fellow whose chest bore the scar of a blade, whose hand even now engulfed one of her own and would not let go.