The Last Wicked Scoundrel

by Lorraine Heath

  Catherine had worked too hard to protect Winnie from Avendale to see it all undone now. All she could do was hope that they were mistaken about the man being about.

  Sitting at a small table on the terrace with Catherine, Winnie ordered the butler to have tea and biscuits brought out. She had retied every ribbon, secured every button, and yet she still felt slightly askew. Every now and then a few strands of her hair would blow across her face with the gentle breeze. No matter how many times she tucked them back into her bun, they came free, reminding her of the madness that had consumed her within her tiny study.

  She could taste peppermint on her lips, smell sandalwood on her skin. Her tea sat untouched and cooling because she didn’t want to lose the taste of William.

  She could only be grateful that it hadn’t been Whit who had walked in on them, but she’d had the foresight to send him on an outing to the zoological gardens with his governess that morning. She hadn’t wanted him to be about when the inspector arrived. The last thing she desired was for her son to become frightened or to have any doubt regarding his mother’s sanity.

  “Win, I know it’s none of my business—”

  “If you’re about to comment on what you walked in on, then I quite agree that it is not your business.”

  Winnie wasn’t certain she’d ever seen Catherine’s eyes so large with surprise, but then she’d never been one to stand up for herself. However, those days of cowering were behind her. She had nothing to fear any longer. Except for a possible thief or a bout of forgetfulness.

  “He’s a commoner,” Catherine said.

  “I’ve had an aristocrat, thank you very much. And that wasn’t so jolly.”

  “I just don’t want you to get hurt,” Catherine said.

  Reaching out, Winnie squeezed her friend’s hand. “I know you mean well. But he’s always been kind to me.”

  “Just don’t misinterpret his kindness. Because of your past you’re vulnerable.”

  Shaking her head, she looked out over the gardens. “I used to fear everything. I believed my opinion didn’t matter. I thought I was unworthy. I dreaded hosting balls or dinner parties, because I always disappointed Avendale. Now I can do so much more because I’ve no one to disappoint. William enjoyed the ball. He likes my plans for the hospital. He doesn’t judge me, Catherine. He accepts me as I am.”

  “I didn’t realize you knew each other so well.”

  She gave a secretive smile. “While I was healing he always there. He brushed my hair once. I was fevered and I think he thought I was unaware of my surroundings, but I was afraid if I let him know that he would stop. A man brushing my hair. I may have begun to fall in love with him then.”

  “Just take care, sweetling. Like Claybourne, Jack, and Jim, he is a scoundrel at heart.”

  “And I’ve yet to hear any of their wives complain.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  * * *

  Arriving a little before half past seven, Graves circled the grounds to ensure that no one was lurking about. The threat of rain was in the air. He suspected it would arrive before they finished dinner.

  After a footman opened the door for him, he waited in the foyer while the butler informed Her Grace of his presence. When he saw Winnie descending the stairs in a lilac gown that revealed bared shoulders, he knew coming this evening was mistake. He should have simply sat on the steps and kept an eye out, because all he wanted now was to carry her back up the stairs to her bedchamber.

  Knowing the truth of her situation, he couldn’t in all good conscience offer her marriage, knowing it would make her a bigamist. But it didn’t stop him from wanting her. Her hair was plaited and twisted in some elaborate design, but his fingers were nimble enough that he could have the pins scattered on the floor and her hair tumbling around her in two seconds. The fastenings on the back of her gown might take four, her corset six. He forced such tempting calculations from his mind as they served no purpose other than to add to his frustration.

  She was under his care, and he had a strict moral code when it came to his professional pursuits, but his desire saw the ruse for what it was and refused to cooperate. She wasn’t a patient, she wasn’t ill. She was someone who intrigued him.

  As she neared, her jasmine scent filled his nostrils and he wanted to seek out all the little spots where she applied the fragrance.

  “Would you care for a bit of brandy before dinner?” she asked.

  What he wanted was an entire bottle of whiskey, or perhaps a dose of laudanum, to drown out his errant thoughts. With a practiced smile that he knew appeared harmless, he shook his head. “You’re intoxicating enough.”

  She laughed joyfully and sweetly. “Rubbish! My word, but I had no idea you were such a flirt.”

  He couldn’t stop himself from smiling without pretense. He enjoyed her company; he had from the moment she’d begun to regain her strength and charmed him with stories of her youth. A pampered daughter of the aristocracy who had married a man who delivered harsh lessons that destroyed her naivety but not her spirit. “Only when it comes to you.”

  “I find that difficult to believe. I suspect all of Victoria’s ladies-in-waiting are stumbling over themselves to get your attention.”

  “Your suspicions are without foundation. I fear my flirtation skills are a trifle rusty. I’ve not had much time for the ladies since I began serving Victoria.” The women for whom he’d had time were the sort who required nothing beyond coins.

  She wrapped her hand around the crook of his elbow. “Shall we go into dinner then?”

  “I’m famished.” He stopped short of saying he was famished for her. His true seduction would come after dinner because he wanted to ensure that he stayed in the residence throughout the night as close to her as possible. While he felt a niggling of guilt at the role he was about the play, he assuaged it by reminding himself that he was doing it to protect her.

  Jack had sent a couple of his minions over to watch the residence, and Swindler had made arrangements for a few extra bobbies to patrol the streets, but Graves felt a need to take his own precautions to ensure that if her blasted husband was around, he would be near enough to deal with him—preferably with her being none the wiser.

  He had Claybourne’s grandfather to thank for the manners he brought to the table with him. When the old gent had discovered his grandson was a child of the rookeries, he’d not only taken him in but taken in his friends as well. It was then that Graves had learned the comforts of a clean bed, a bath, clothes that fit properly. He never took any of his comforts for granted.

  He settled Winnie into her chair and then sat in the one opposite her. He was grateful they were being served in the smaller dining room and that the table was a modest one that would sit only six. The family dining room.

  White wine was poured and the first course was served: a soup that was more broth than substance, but he couldn’t fault its flavor.

  “I feared you might not survive your encounter with Catherine,” he said, striving to keep his voice level so it didn’t reveal his curiosity regarding what might have been said after he left. Catherine might have cautioned her not to become involved with him, which would mean he’d have to work all the harder at seduction.

  “She warned me away from you.”

  “I’m not surprised. You see me as a man of goodness, but I assure you I am more scoundrel than saint. I became a physician because I had much to atone for.”

  “Such as?”

  “Nothing a lady needs to hear about, especially over dinner.”

  Watching as she lifted the spoon to her lips, he found himself envious of a damned eating utensil. When she returned it to the bowl, she lifted her gaze to his, studied him for a moment. He wondered if she were able to see beneath the surface, to the part of him that he shared with no one.

  “I know you grew up on the streets,” she said. “What was it like?”

  While she’d been recovering, she hadn’t asked about his youth. He rather wished she h
adn’t asked now. “Dirty. Harsh. But within Feagan’s den there was a sense of camaraderie.”

  “Who is Feagan?”

  “The kidsman who corralled us, taught us to steal and pilfer without getting caught.”

  “What of your parents?”

  He took a sip of his wine. “My mother washed clothes. What I remember most about her was how rough and raw her hands always looked.” How rough they felt when they grazed against his skin when she was in a rage and he served as the object upon which she could vent her anger. It was like being slapped with sandpaper. “My father earned his living digging graves in various cemeteries and pauper’s fields. And at night, he’d return to rob the graves. When I was big enough to hold a trowel, he took me with him.”

  The bowl was removed and a plate of mutton was set before them but she hardly seemed to notice. “Weren’t you frightened, going into the graveyards at night?”

  “What was there to dread?”

  “The spirits of the dead. Don’t you believe they linger?”

  As she had mentioned being haunted before, he didn’t laugh. “To haunt us?”

  “Yes, quite.”

  Pondering his answer, he took a bite of the tasty mutton. She was so earnest. Who was he to dissuade her from her beliefs? “I will admit that I have encountered phenomenon that is difficult to explain: A glow in the fog, a howling when there is no wind. And on occasion, the hairs on the back of my neck would rise. Sometimes I felt that I was being watched, but I assumed it was other grave robbers who were disappointed we beat them to the treasures.”

  She glanced around and he knew she wanted to say more, perhaps even mention the strange occurrences she’d experienced of late, but she was hesitant to appear foolish in front of the servants, even if they weren’t supposed to be listening.

  “So you’ve never actually seen a spirit wandering around the graves?” Before he could answer, her eyes widened. “Is that why your surname is Graves?”

  He couldn’t help but smile. She looked as though she’d solved a difficult problem. “When Feagan took in a child, he always made him or her change their name. For most of us there is no record of our birth, no record of our existence. Unlike with the aristocracy where births and deaths are recorded steadfastly, in the rookeries names are changed on a whim or when someone is caught committing a crime.”

  “It never occurred to me that one could go about changing his name so easily.”

  “I suspect even some of your servants aren’t presently living under the name with which they were born.” He didn’t fail to notice how one of the footmen shifted his stance. He’d have to check the man out. Probably wouldn’t hurt to have Swindler investigate them all. He’d much rather discover it was one of them instead of Avendale sneaking about.

  “So why Graves?” she asked as another dish was set before them.

  “An homage to my father, to his work. He was a large man, silent as the grave, which seemed appropriate considering his occupation. Never complained, never had an unkind word. ‘Lot of unpleasant tasks need doing,’ he once told me. ‘So it’s best to just do them so you can move on to the pleasant ones.’”

  “How did he die?”

  “Don’t know that he did. He simply disappeared one night. After he sold my mother’s remains to a teaching hospital.” As a look of horror crossed her face, he downed his wine, signaled for more. This time he was brought red.

  “That’s awful,” she said, brushing away the next plate before it could be placed before her.

  “I’ve ruined your appetite. Perhaps we should discuss the weather. It’s going to rain tonight, I predict.”

  “I don’t want to discuss the rain. Were you there? Did you see what he did with your mother?”

  He took a healthy swallow of the wine, wishing for something a bit stronger. He’d not thought of his youth in years. “I was with him. I found no fault with his decision. We were in need of coins, but more than that, Winnie, those training to become doctors needed to be able to study more than books. My mum was quite unpleasant in life, but in death, I believe, she became an instrument of education that allowed others to save lives.”

  “I suppose that’s one way to think of it.”

  “It’s the only way to think of it.”

  “We are so morbidly fascinated with death. You’ve dealt with it all your life in one manner or another. You don’t fear it?”

  He slowly shook his head. “No.”

  “Do you fear anything?”

  You discovering the truth. Not that he could admit to that.

  “That it’ll rain before I can take you on a turn about the garden.”

  She laughed the sweet tinkling sound that reminded him of tiny crystal bells ringing on Christmas morning. “I’m serious.”

  “As am I.” Shoving back his chair, he stood, walked over to her, and pulled out her chair. Leaning low, he said in a quiet, seductive voice, “Come on, Winnie. It’s dark out. Lovely things happen in the dark.”

  With a twinkle in her eyes, she peered up at him and whispered, “But we’ve yet to have dessert.”

  “I have my heart set on tasting something sweeter than anything that can be prepared in the kitchen.”

  Rising, she placed her hand on his forearm. “A walk about the garden sounds just the thing.”

  Unfortunately as they stepped out onto the covered terrace, they discovered a soft rain falling, so quietly as to create little more than a constant drone rather than a harsh pattering of drops.

  “We’re too late,” she said.

  “We’re never too late.” He walked to the edge of the terrace, just short of being touched by the falling droplets. “I find the rain soothing.”

  He felt her shiver. Stepping behind her, he wrapped his arms around her and drew her in close.

  “I feared it when I was a child,” she said quietly. “When the lightning rent the sky in two and thunder boomed so loud that it shook the ground, the servants would rush through the house turning all the mirrors around. It was my mother’s edict. She said when she was a child a bolt of lightning zigzagged through her parents’ house, using the mirrors to propel itself along. Do you think that’s possible?”

  “I think anything’s possible.” Lowering his head, he kissed the nape of her neck, where jasmine behind her ear overpowered the scent of rain. He wondered where else she may have applied the fragrance. He kissed the other side. “Are your parents alive now?”

  “No, it’s only Whit and I. He thought it was such an adventure when we spent time in your residence.”

  “He’s a good lad. We should take him to the park one afternoon.” He trailed his mouth from one shoulder to the other, relishing her sigh.

  “He went to the zoological gardens today. He’s drawing me pictures of the animals he saw.” Her voice sounded faint, faraway as though she were floating into oblivion.

  “I should like to see them.”

  “I’ll show you when he’s finished.”

  He nipped at her ear before slowing turning her around. Lifting her hand, she rubbed the bridge of her nose. He wrapped his hand around her wrist. “Don’t,” he said gently. “Don’t cover your nose.”

  “It’s unsightly.”

  “Nothing, absolutely nothing about you is unsightly.”

  She released a self-conscious laugh. “Sometimes I forget that you’ve seen all of me.”

  “I looked upon you as a physician—which is a cold and impersonal observation. When I look upon you as a man, it will be very much like seeing you for the first time.”

  She gave the tiniest mewl as though it had not occurred to her before that what he’d implied would most certainly happen. Sometimes he forgot that she was a lady first, a woman second. That she wasn’t accustomed to traveling the path he wanted to travel.

  Still, he brought her in close and took her mouth, while the rain cooled and scented the air. Her tongue parried with his, her hands combed through his hair, her sighs mingled with his moans. Sweet, so gl
oriously sweet. He could have—

  “Excuse me, Your Grace.”

  She jerked back as though the butler had taken a lash to her. “Yes, Thatcher, what is it?”

  “A missive from the queen for Dr. Graves.”

  Graves held out his hand, and Thatcher extended the silver salver. He took the letter bearing the royal crest, opened it, and walked over to the doorway where enough light spilled out so he could read the words.

  “What is it?” Winnie asked, coming to stand beside him.

  “I’m being summoned.” With an apologetic sigh, he said, “I must go.”

  “Of course you must.”

  He cradled her face. “Thank you for dinner. I can’t remember when I’ve enjoyed a night more.”

  “If it’s not too late when you’re finished, perhaps you could come back to enjoy your after-dinner port. I’ll feel like a horrible hostess otherwise.”

  He grinned. “We can’t have that. But I have no idea how long it’ll take.”

  She glanced back over her shoulder. “Thatcher, give the doctor a key to the residence before he leaves.”

  “Winnie—” Graves began. They would be opening a door they would be unlikely to close.

  She nodded, somewhat jerkily. “I want you to have a key. If I’m asleep, you can awaken me and I’ll get the port for you.”

  If he were to awaken her, it wouldn’t be for bloody port, not that he was going to confess to that with the butler standing there. Leaning in, he kissed her gently. “I’ll return when I can. I should warn you that it could be days.”

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  Don’t be, he almost told her. No good would come of it.

  With the flame in the lamp turned low, Winnie lay in her bed, listening as the rain beat against the pane. It was coming down with more force now, and she thought of William traveling through it, dashing from the carriage to her door, his hair damp when he came to her.

  It was after midnight. She’d waited up as long as she could, but she was tired now, so tired. She’d taken great pains to prepare for bed. Her nightdress was satin. It revealed very little. The matching wrap was resting at the foot of the bed, so she could snatch it up quickly when William arrived. Her maid had brushed her hair a hundred times before braiding it. She’d applied a dab of perfume behind her ears, just a small dab, because he seemed to enjoy kissing her neck.