The Scandalously Bad Mr. Milroy

by Alexandra Hawkins

  He found Nevin’s warning profoundly irritating. The man did not know him, yet considered him monstrous enough to prey on young innocents. Regrettably, it was true. He was ruthless. Using Miss Bedegrayne as an instrument of revenge against the Reckesters was not something he could casually dismiss.

  Uneasy, Keanan shifted his shoulder. Essentially, his existence had been a constant battle. Whether it was for a dry place to lay his head, or a meager scrap of food that guaranteed his survival for one more day, he quickly learned that mercy, decency, and honesty were qualities owned by those who could afford them. Until recently, they had been beyond his reach. Now, he had the means but lacked the heart. He was too scarred, too hardened ever to reclaim them.

  “You would accept my word, Nevin?”

  “Never,” he avowed. “Still, you have met Miss Bedegrayne. She is an honorable, guileless creature who could never understand the pettiness of a baseborn gutter orphan.”

  Keanan closed his eyes, thinking of the disheveled woman struggling in the dirt to fight off a brute thrice her weight. He thought of the woman he had tasted in the garden. Twice Nevin’s guileless sainted angel had needed him. Each need was distinct, yet he was positive she would deny both of them. The idea of her duplicity made him smile. He knew more about Miss Bedegrayne than his half brother did. The lady sauntered between her world and his. He was too intrigued not to figure out the reason.

  “My grievance lies with the Reckesters.”

  Nevin’s jaw grew taut, his nod, a clipped assent. “I consider myself warned. We are in agreement then?”

  Could he leave Miss Bedegrayne alone? Just thinking of her filled Keanan with a sudden desire to find her. He had speculated often whether their second kiss would taste as remarkable as the first. Would her slender form melt against him, craving the blinding heat that two bodies entwined begot? It was impossible denying his fascination for the lady. Not for a rival—certainly not for his enemy.

  “I confess I cannot imagine an hour when you and I would ever come to an agreement.”

  * * *

  Wynne added another entry to her logbook, beaming approvingly at Mr. Jubbs. The solicitor had become the Benevolent Sisterhood’s newest patron. Borrowing a silver container from his desk, she sprinkled the pounce liberally over the ink. Tilting the book, she blew the loose powder off the page.

  “Mr. Jubbs, on behalf of our charity, allow me to thank you for your generous purchase of barley and oats. We will oversee the distribution to the local workhouses,” she promised, mentally calculating how many men she needed to move the heavy sacks of grain.

  She extended her hand; the man eagerly rushed forward, clasping it. “Miss Bedegrayne, how could I refuse a request that was so charmingly delivered?”

  She gently reclaimed her hand. “I fear I would be out of a job if the city were littered with generous, worldly gentleman such as you, Mr. Jubbs. Good day.”

  Milly stood at the door, fidgeting. Seeing her mistress, she straightened. “Miss Bedegrayne, did you get your corn?”

  She ushered her maid through the door. When she had entered the solicitor’s office, the sun had been shining. Now, it looked like rain. “Yes, Milly. More than I hoped. If our good fortune continues, I might risk asking Papa to lend us space in one of his warehouses.”

  “He’s likely to give you the lash. And you won’t be the only one frying in the grease.”

  “Fustian! Papa is quite supportive of my philanthropy. As Papa tells it, the Bedegrayne family has endured being under the hatches a time or two.”

  “Being forced to wear last year’s fashions is not the same thing as starving, miss.”

  “Why, you impertinent little goose!” Wynne gave her maid a playful nudge as they strolled down the street. “I see the influence of Jenny Egger is at work.” Feeling too pleased with herself, she said, “Tell me again, Milly. How did Jenny look when she saw her new home? Sending her off to the country was the correct decision. It was all worth the danger, was it not?”

  “Aye, miss. You should have seen her thin face when the city was out of sight.” Milly reflected, wanting to describe it accurately. “Like the sun, I think, creeping up on a spring dawn. The nerves and the stiffness seemed to fade with each passing mile.” Her smile faded. “Her da’ still haunts her dreams. She woke each night, a scream crowding in her throat. Inch and I took turns keeping watch, hoping it would ease her mind.”

  The maid fell back a few paces, making room for two very determined ladies and their entourage. Catching up, she noticed Wynne’s distress. “There are only so many battles you can fight for the girl. I reckon, a fierce dragoness and you hold equal when it comes to protecting the young ones.”

  “Miss Bedegrayne!”

  Several yards ahead, an approaching gentleman raised his hand. Baffled by his identity, she took note of his gray eyes and straight black hair framing a pleasant, well-fed visage.

  “Good afternoon, sir. It appears we shall have rain, does it not?”

  “And spoil your lovely bonnet? The heavens would not dare!” he effortlessly replied, a little too smoothly for Wynne’s tastes.

  “Fie, sir, I am not so fragile as not to withstand a spring rainstorm. Indeed, I think the air would be better for it.”

  The man did not return her engaging smile. Cocking his head, he shrewdly concluded, “Have so many months passed that you do not recall an old friend, Miss Bedegrayne?”

  Something in his gaze shook the clues to his identity around in her head like puzzle pieces in a glass bowl. His smile settled them in place. The man was Brook’s husband. Since their last meeting, he had gained weight. It flattered him. “Lord A’Court. Forgive me. I have a tendency toward woolgathering.”

  “Trying to decide which slippers and gloves match which frock, I warrant.”

  Insufferable, patronizing prig, she thought. How had she ever forgotten him? Oh, there had been a time or two over the years when she had engaged him in conversation. However, once Brook had expressed her tender feelings for the earl, she had discouraged his attentions. “And how is your lady, my lord? You must convey my aunt’s gratitude for Lady A’Court’s visit.”

  “I shall.” A pedestrian careened into the earl, earning a scowl. “May I be blunt, Miss Bedegrayne?” He continued without gaining her permission. “A wife shares her concerns with her husband. She mentioned another visitor attending your aunt. A Mr. Milroy, I believe?”

  “That is correct.” It surprised her Brook would have mentioned Mr. Milroy. To avoid gossip, she had specifically asked her friends not to discuss her aunt’s attempts at matchmaking. Still, what did she know of the dealings between wife and husband? Perhaps a loving vow dissolved all others.

  “My wife considers you a close friend. Because of that friendship, and the fact your brothers are out of the country, I feel it is my duty to speak out against your association with Mr. Milroy. I know my wife agrees. A man of his reputation might seem dazzling to an inexperienced lady.”

  “I am hardly a dewy-eyed maiden, sir. Your concern is unnecessary.” Her reticule swung dangerously as she held up a hand, demanding his silence. “My brothers may be absent, but my father, Sir Thomas, can adequately flush out and dissuade an ambitious fortune hunter.”

  “I have offended you.”

  “Not at all, my lord. I am honored, even grateful for your counsel. The next time I see your wife, I shall compliment her on her excellent choice in a husband.” She extended her hand, dismissing him.

  From his expression, she could see he was questioning whether or not he was being slighted. Warily he bowed. “Your servant, Miss Bedegrayne.” He walked away, lifting his hand against the sky to shield him from the beginning splatters of rain.

  Very odd. “Who requires a husband when obviously one can gain a friend’s on loan?” she asked aloud.

  Milly snorted. “Your servant, miss?” she mocked. “He does not seem the bowing, scraping sort, don’t you think?”

  “That assessment would apply to
most of my disrespectful staff,” Wynne dryly retorted.

  * * *

  Any hope of getting home before the rain was a lost cause. It struck the ground with a resounding force that left their surroundings a steamy blur. Walking in tandem, her footman held an umbrella over her head while they hurried into the house.

  “Mae,” Wynne greeted the housekeeper. She stepped into the hall, shaking at her damp skirts. “What a sight it is out there! I thought the horses might be washed away.”

  Milly moved past her. “I’ll be seeing about a warm bath, miss.”

  “You will do no such thing, silly girl,” the housekeeper admonished. “I will not have you dripping all over my clean floors. Go on up and change out of your wet things, and then see to Miss Bedegrayne’s. I’ll tell the kitchen we need water sent up.”

  “Thank you, Mae. Is my father home?”

  “No, miss. He mentioned something about going to one of his clubs. Shall I send up a tray? Or will you be going out this evening?”

  Wynne removed her wet bonnet and handed it to Milly before dismissing her. Papa preferred his clubs to eating at home. The habit had become ingrained years ago, after the loss of his wife. Even his children’s growing out of the nursery had not dissuaded the firm ritual. No matter, she concluded. The notion of sitting in front of the hearth immersed in a good book held its own appeal this chilly evening.

  The housekeeper clapped her hand over her mouth. “Oh, miss, I almost forgot. A missive was delivered while you were out.” She collected the letter from the silver salver used to hold visitors’ calling cards. “The boy delivering it was told to await your reply, but I sent him on his way, seeing you were not expected back for hours.”

  Wynne touched the garnet seal. A bold, ornate KM had been pressed into the melted wax. Breaking the seal, she read:

  Miss Bedegrayne:

  I’ve just been warned off by one of your most ardent knights. I think we should meet to discuss our special alliance. Meet me at the Park Lane entrance to Hyde Park tomorrow at 3. Don’t bother sending regrets. I’ll come and collect them if you fail me.

  K

  Wynne crushed the letter in her hand. It was simple to deduce her knight. No man disliked Mr. Milroy more than Lord Nevin. If their meeting had not come to blows, she suspected they would be fighting a duel in her name soon if she did not take steps to prevent it.

  Lifting her head up, she noticed she was alone. Milly had gone upstairs to change, and Mae had departed for the kitchen. Shivering, she hugged herself and headed for the library. One of the boys could carry her reply to Mr. Milroy. In all likelihood, he was already feeling provoked. She did not doubt there would be trouble if she did not heed his command.

  Seven

  Keanan dug the toe of his boot into the small chink he had discovered in the Bedegraynes’ garden wall, and used the additional height to hoist his leg over the top. It was built for adornment, and getting over it did not require any grand skill.

  Crazed, he decided after questioning his motives again for the thousandth time. What else did you call a man skulking around a lady’s garden in the dark? The dense fog only seemed to add to the menace of the act.

  The need to see her, to talk to her again, had been pressing him hard toward this action since Nevin had tried to warn him away from the lady. Declaring himself, as if he had the right to protect her. Arrogant pup! He had not looked so haughty sitting on his noble arse.

  Still chafing from Nevin’s belligerence, he had sent her a bullying summons. It did not surprise him that she had ignored it. She even had her staff shoo the messenger away. His observations of Miss Bedegrayne proved her to be a feisty, courageous creature who would poke her chin up at the three Furies if provoked. Keanan found spirit in a woman quite admirable. He also thought she was addled. A man was in a bad way when those combustible qualities began to appeal to him.

  Stumbling over a small bush, he muttered a curse. He might as well be paddling through white soup. If he was not careful, the Bedegraynes would discover his body come morning, his head bashed in by a stone bench.

  A light flared within the house, then floated across the room. Grateful for the muted light, he moved closer, wincing at the noise of the gravel grinding under his boots. Approaching the ceiling-to-floor French windows from the side, he almost yelped at the unexpected appearance of a woman’s face peering through the glass. He moved deeper into the shadows just as she opened the panel.

  Wynne stared out into the fog. Her state of undress revealed she had remained at home this evening. The dress she wore was white. It was slit down the front, and small, tasseled tie cords gave him stimulating glimpses of a lilac underdress. She wore her straight, waist-length blond hair in a simple plait down her back to keep it in place. Keanan held his breath, afraid the slightest noise would draw her attention to him. Whatever she saw in the darkness was not within the garden. The blankness in her stare hinted at otherworldly thoughts. Tilting her head, she listened. The droning of insects, punctuated occasionally by the barking of several dogs, echoed around them. Without warning, she retreated back to the safety of her lighted room.

  Positioning himself so he remained concealed, Keanan watched her light the oil lamp near the chair closest to the hearth. Retrieving a lilac-and-white-striped cashmere shawl tossed over the back of the chair, Wynne sat down and spread it over her legs. She picked up the book near the lamp and began reading.

  Observing her enjoying her solitude, a rare contentment washed over him. She idly twisted an errant strand of hair around her finger as she lost herself in her book. A woman like Wynne Bedegrayne represented all that he craved: wealth, breeding, beauty, intelligence, and mettle.

  Plotting the ways he could claim such a woman, he was jarred from his musings by a loud clatter. The fog was too dense to identify its source, but it came from behind and to the right, close to the very wall he had mounted. Before he could move, Wynne came charging out of the house, a sword firm in her grasp.

  He had forgotten to add addled to his list. Her courage was terrifying. Afraid she would hurt herself, Keanan caught up to her in five strides. One arm curled around her waist, and the other clamped around her mouth. She stiffened at his touch.

  “Delivering you from harm is becoming a habit,” he murmured in her ear.

  Relieved she knew her captor, Wynne sagged against his chest. Nevertheless, the teasing quality she detected in his low whisper ignited her fury. Taking advantage of his loosening hold over her mouth, she set her teeth into the soft flesh between his thumb and first finger.

  “Ow, you vicious hoyden!” Keanan cursed, releasing her. “Don’t you know who I am?”

  She whirled to confront him, her father’s sword poised to run him through if he lunged for her again. “I will show you vicious.” She struck his arm, using the flat of the blade. “That is for scaring me witless, you half-Irish lout!”

  “Wynne!”

  She swung the blade, intending to strike him again. Instincts blazing, Keanan blocked the blade with his hand. She froze at his pained hiss.

  “You’ve drawn blood, woman.” He sucked on the wound. “Damn. Have you avenged your honor, or am I going to lose fingers taking that sword from you?”

  Wynne had not meant to cut him. She had just wanted to hurt him a little. He snatched the sword from her limp grasp, muttering on about crazy females.

  “How bad is it?”

  “Bad enough,” he fumed, all male outrage that he had been done in by a female. “What if I had been housebreaker after your silver, you fool? Did you think to chase him away with a little sword?”

  “It stopped you, did it not?” she mocked, then realized her error. He was furious and wounded; provoking him only proved she was addled. “Come inside,” she entreated. “I will tend your hand.”

  “Later.” He gave her an encouraging shove toward the open window. “Go inside. I want to check around first.”

  Wynne departed without arguing and shut the window. She understood h
e would not be satisfied until he discovered the source of the noise. With her mind turning over the reasons for his presence this evening, she collected the supplies she would need to clean and bandage his wound. When she returned, he was standing by the fire, studying the spine of her abandoned book.

  “Did you find anyone out there?”

  “No. It could have been an animal or someone passing by.” He held up her book. “What are you reading?”

  Unsure of his mood, she cautiously advanced. “Miss Porter’s Thaddeus of Warsaw. Have you read the tale?”

  Scowling, he dropped the book on the table. “No.” Not liking the sympathy in her gaze, he tensed when she brushed by, setting the bowl of water and the bandaging material on the floor beside him. Defensively he added, “I know my letters. Blanche saw to that. I can pick out words, but not enough to make a book pleasurable, as it obviously is for you.”

  “Blanche. Is that your mother?”

  “No. A friend.” He cupped his good hand under the injured one to prevent the blood from dripping on her floor. “Her husband staked me when I first started fighting.”

  “Oh.” Kneeling beside him, she touched him on the leg, gently bullying him into the chair. With the length of his arms resting on his legs, she pried open his injured hand. The blade had cut across all four fingers, although it did not look particularly deep. “Good. I feared we would have to call Tipton to stitch you up.”

  Mr. Milroy’s bowed head was so close, his breath stirred the hair at the crown of her head. “Tipton. He be your sister’s husband.”

  His knowledge of her family surprised her. She could not imagine Lord Nevin sharing confidences. “Yes. He is an excellent surgeon. I have often assisted him when he visits the prisons and workhouses.”

  “Such places are not for women,” he said, his anger at her swiftly changing to anger on her behalf. “Your menfolk need a lesson in taking care of you.”

  Dipping his hand into the bowl of tepid water, she rinsed the blood from his wounds. “Mr. Milroy, I suspect you think you know a thing or two about me or my family; however, you are mistaken.”