The Scandalously Bad Mr. Milroy

by Alexandra Hawkins

  If his half brother could bend his stiff neck, then so could he. “We both can offer reparation when we finish this.”

  Lothbury was speaking quietly to one of the four gentlemen seated at the table. Somewhere in his forties, the man wore his thinning brown hair in a style that had to be the result of a crimping iron. His narrow lips curled in artificial delight at the sight of Keanan.

  “Gentlemen, arise and hail our victor.”

  All heads turned in their direction. His host was the only one daring enough to approach them. “I am Digaud, the leader of our exclusive society. You, Mr. Milroy, are a man whose reputation precedes you. Allow me to introduce the intimates of the Malefaction Society. The gentleman to your left is Lord Middlefell; the man next to him wearing the fascinating embroidered berry waistcoat is Mr. Therry.” The older gentleman added with a sneer, “A merchant.” He gestured to the man to the right. “Mr. Esthill, the future Lord Otten, and you are acquainted with our newest member, Lord Lothbury.”

  Keanan stared down each man in turn, memorizing their faces. “I assume Lord Nevin does not need an introduction.”

  Digaud bowed. “No need at all. My lord, you are welcome, though I confess I am enthralled by your unlikely alliance.”

  There was a negligent shift in his posture. “Then I shall not puncture the diversion with candor,” Nevin said carelessly.

  The tiny muscles around Digaud’s eyes hardened. “Rivalry rarely holds my interest, unless blood is spilled in the affair. Our motto is de mal en pis.”

  “From bad to worse,” Nevin translated for Keanan.

  “In which a wager can be placed,” Mr. Therry added. The feral gleam in his eyes seemed out of character with his portly figure and his soft face.

  Lord Middlefell, a raffish fellow not much older than Keanan, already had a notorious reputation for gambling. Where Reckester had failed in his wastrel’s life, this man had thrived. “Then there is the prospect of tweaking the madam.”

  Brows lifted, Keanan appeared intrigued. “You cheat?”

  “A minor manipulation of fate, if possible,” Digaud explained. “Some wagers never see fruition if we do not prod some of our participants.”

  “The bets most worthy of note involve the least likely players,” Mr. Esthill said, rolling a guinea between two fingers.

  “Like Miss Bedegrayne,” Lord Nevin tightly suggested, struggling to rein in his anger.

  “Precisely.” Digaud nodded approvingly, as if the earl were a clever pupil. “A most difficult wager. I had lost hope of collecting on it.”

  Keanan vibrated with restrained excitement at the admission. He had disliked the pompous dilettante on sight, and relished an excuse to mess up his immaculate attire. “You were the one who suggested the bet?”

  Mr. Therry cleared his throat. “I believe I was the one two years past who presented Miss Bedegrayne as a possible challenge.”

  “Not so, sir,” Mr. Esthill argued. “You only observed that the lady would be ripe for a husband after Tipton eloped with the youngest daughter. It was something of a scandal at the time, although old Bedegrayne did his best hushing it.”

  Lord Middlefell sipped his brandy. “A delightfully virtuous female, brimming over in just the right portions. To be the serpent that corrupted paradise…” He shuddered, lust glazing his eyes.

  “Obviously, your serpent fell short of its mark,” Mr. Esthill jeered.

  “My, uh, serpent remains untried in that particular paradise, I confess. Who knew beauty possessed sharp teeth? I still possess a small scar on my wrist from our tête-à-tête.”

  Keanan had not realized he had taken a step forward until Nevin grabbed his arm and brought him back by digging his fingers into his arm.

  For two years, Wynne had endured their covert machinations in silence, foolishly believing she was protecting her family. He could well imagine Middlefell ambushing her during some country house party, thinking she would bear the rape of her body as bravely as she faced an attack of her wits.

  Keanan wanted to go to her and pull her close and soothe her, just as much as he wanted to shake her for the chances she had taken. Her stubbornness had escalated a cruel wager, evolving it into a dangerous game of pride and lust. At the fair, someone had calmly shoved her into the path of a lion. He glanced at Lothbury, recalling that he had provided the man with the opportunity to manipulate the fates. Was it one or all of them who wished the lady harm?

  Lothbury edged away from Keanan’s fixed glare on the pretense of pouring himself a drink. Crystal clinked against crystal while he flickered uneasy glances in their direction.

  Digaud spoke to Lord Nevin. “I had a side wager with Esthill that you were our man after she rebuked Middlefell. There seemed to be a genuine liking in your regard that promised you success where so many others had failed.”

  Can you believe this? his half brother’s outraged appearance seemed to query. “That’s me,” Nevin growled, stalking over to the marquess and seizing his drink. “Always genuine.” He downed the contents of the glass in one swallow.

  “You,” Mr. Therry wagged his finger at Keanan. “I took you for flash-gentry when I laid eyes on you.”

  Keanan kneaded the knuckles in his right hand, his face lit in grim amusement. “I am no thief, fancy or otherwise. How can a man steal his birthright?”

  Everyone chuckled except Nevin.

  Mr. Therry’s flushed jowls wobbled when he laughed, crushing the folds of his cravat. His eyes were glassy from drink and lack of sleep. “Unparalleled in the prize ring you are, sir. Without a doubt, my gilt’s on you. A drawing room is another kind of ring. It has sticky rules of its own, and you fooled the lot of them. A real man of parts, I say.”

  “Must come from my mother,” Keanan said, so casually that only someone who knew him would recognize the lazy menace it cloaked. Nevin tensed, muscles readied, proving that what he lacked in jaw he had to spare in wits. “Christ knows my sire would rather piss on fools than act like one.”

  Therry laughed so hard, his face turned an alarming red. Shaking his head, Middlefell thumped him on his broad back. Keanan wished them all to fiery hell. From the corner of his eye, he noticed Digaud signaling Lothbury with a look. The marquess bent down and retrieved a wooden chest from the lower shelf of the cart. The seams of his coat strained at the shoulders from the weight as he walked to the table. He placed it in front of their host.

  Digaud removed an iron key from a hidden pocket and opened the lid. Contained within were hundreds of gold guineas and silver shillings. Five hundred pounds gleamed and beckoned greedy fingers to sift and fondle it. All he had to do was ruin a young lady to possess it.

  “If my contacts are correct, this is merely a paltry sum to you. Consider this a token of gratitude, Mr. Milroy, for outmatching a lady we had concluded was beyond the flesh. May you enjoy the transitory pleasure it brings you.” He lifted his glass in a toast.

  Mr. Esthill raised his as well. “To the serpent who plundered paradise!”

  “The serpent!” Middlefell echoed.

  The notion that the lewd toast aptly described his actions left a burning, acrid taste in his throat. Was he any better than these miscreants in hurting Wynne? Oh, he might have been blind to the act—needed to be, so that he could have her and seek retribution from the Reckesters. Unfortunately, these gentlemen could not make such a claim and would suffer doubly for their sins.

  “All this for a whim,” Keanan murmured to himself, measuring the sides of the chest with his hands. “You have had your fun. I fill my pockets with gold and silver.” Looking up, his indigo eyes searched each expression, hoping to see more than greed, lust, or merriment. “What of Miss Bedegrayne? Where does she profit from the game?”

  Lord Middlefell sniggered. “You tell us, Milroy. You were the one who dragged her out into the night and down to the temple. Did she scream when you pushed her to the floor and shoved your prick into her?”

  A chilling breeze wafted his back at the question. Ke
anan did not recall seeing Middlefell that evening. Perdition! No one should know about the temple. He had been so careful that no one witnessed their departure, and they had been quiet in their lovemaking. His shoulder still bore the passion mark of her teeth when the need to cry out her pleasure had been too much to endure.

  Lothbury.

  Keanan’s searing stare halted the marquess from taking a self-preserving step backward. Realizing his peril, he did not even blink. The man had supposedly been off distracting Miss Claeg that evening. He could have abandoned the lady in someone else’s care. That accomplished, there had been nothing preventing him from following after them and spying.

  The few steps to confront his traitorous friend were a blur. The thick muscles of his arm uncoiled like a whip, while his fist delivered a hammering blow into his jaw. Thrown backward, Lothbury crashed into the cart, receiving another hit to the head on his descent. Keanan pulled him up by his crotch and squeezed. Hard.

  “Jack raw-head!” One of the men behind him exploded at the animal-like cry from the marquess.

  Not satisfied by the man’s response, he clamped down on his wretched balls and twisted. Dispassionately, he watched Lothbury’s sweaty face go white. Blood and spittle bubbled between his teeth as air was expelled.

  “Hurting?” he asked, his voice soft with the silky promise of violence. “I have just begun, you frigging member mug. Who’s going to stop me from twisting your tackle completely off and feeding it to your horse? I warned you once how nasty I could be when crossed.”

  “U-gulb.” The indiscernible sound came from deep in Lothbury’s throat. Eyes rolling upward, his spine arched and tensed.

  Keanan released him and stepped out of range. The marquess fell on all fours and vomited.

  “Slightly excessive for idle talk,” Digaud said, instinctively covering his genitals when Keanan swung his gaze in his direction.

  “Depends on the topic,” he admitted. “Nevin can tell you, some talk gets me awfully disturbed.”

  His words cued his slack-jawed sibling into speaking. “I could not leave my bed for a sennight the last time,” he exaggerated, shooting him a look that was both awe and horror. Nevin positioned himself behind Mr. Esthill and the door, effectively blocking their escape. “In fairness, since Lothbury here is too busy casting up his accounts, perhaps you should explain his blunder.”

  “Miss Wynne Bedegrayne.”

  A nervous titter erupted from Mr. Therry. “Milroy, we all assumed your presence this evening confirmed our suspicions that the lady was just a stratagem to thwart—” He used his eyes to designate the unspoken foe.

  Keanan frowned. “Gentlemen, you are too concerned with my business. It ends this night.”

  Mr. Esthill pushed the chest at him. “We have no quarrel with you, sir. Take the money and leave.”

  “Not so simple.” He inverted the chest. Coins thundered across the table and cascaded to the floor. Keanan heaved the chest at the nearest wall, denting the plaster. It landed inches from Lothbury’s head, but the man was too consumed in his misery to flinch.

  “You offend me.” His arm swiped the table, sending a spray of coins into the flabbergasted faces of Lord Middlefell and Mr. Therry. “Your vile wagers sicken me. I should shove each coin down your throats until you choke on them for hurting her.”

  Lord Middlefell was not intimidated. “Gallant sentiments from Reckester’s bastard with an Irish whore. Am I the only one who finds this amusing?”

  Digaud made a concurring noise. “An angle we had not considered, Middlefell.” His effeminate narrow features scrunched in delight at ferreting out a vulnerable niche. “Mr. Milroy, do you honestly believe this act of chivalry will sway Sir Thomas Bedegrayne into handing over his daughter to you? Even with her ruined, you are still beneath her.”

  It was a direct hit to his guilty heart, but Keanan was loath to let any of them witness it. “Another wager, Digaud? Even you cannot be that maggoty.”

  Affronted, the man puffed up, not used to anyone bullying him. His smile oozed insincerity. “Oh, I can do more than sit here and place wagers, Mr. Milroy. By the time I finish regaling society with my interesting speculations about Miss Bedegrayne, all will be able to procure and enjoy her for shillings.”

  “Bedegrayne would never stand for such slander,” Nevin argued, angry their presence had upped the stakes of the wager.

  Digaud laughed. “That is the wonderful thing about innuendo, sir. It slips through the cracks of righteousness.”

  “Having an old house, I know a thing or two about cracks, and I do not mind dirtying my hands to fix them.”

  He lunged for Digaud before the man had the sense to run. Grabbing him by the back of his neck, Keanan rapped the man’s face on the table and then sent him gliding across the surface. Coins scattered in his wake as his feet followed his head in a graceless dive toward the floor.

  “I’ll kill you myself,” Middlefell raged, leaping from his chair.

  Keanan jumped backward, missing the lord’s swing. His fist found its target even as he stuck his foot out for the escaping Mr. Therry. Both men went down, each searching for his wind.

  A flash of metal drew Nevin’s gaze from the fight. Spotting the blade curled around an eager hand, he kicked the back of Mr. Esthill’s chair, forcing him to collide with the table. The man lost his grip, and the knife skidded out of reach. Before he could stand, Nevin clasped the edge of the table and brought it up, catching Mr. Esthill under the chin. Dazed by the blow, he slumped back into his chair. Nevin tipped it with his foot, sending it crashing.

  Keanan stepped over the unconscious Mr. Esthill. “Impressive. You have my appreciation.”

  His half brother shrugged. “Equaling the odds, though I think you could have taken them all on without my help.”

  “It is valued, anyway.”

  He bent down and turned Digaud over on his back. Tugging him up by his cravat into a sitting position, Keanan slapped his cheeks. Puzzlement, then fear tightened the man’s visage when his lids flickered and his gaze fastened on his attacker.

  “Good. I see I have gained your attention.” He knelt down over Digaud, trusting Nevin to watch his back. “You have issued some threats, and now I take a turn. Forget Miss Bedegrayne. Any correspondence of this fictitious wager will be immediately destroyed. If anyone tries to discuss the lady in question, you will summarily dismiss them. I think you can manage that.”

  Lord Middlefell, still panting for breath, braced his weight against the table. “Digaud, ignore him. What will he do, challenge us all?”

  Recognizing a more formidable opponent, Keanan released Digaud. “Aye, if that’s what it takes to keep you from rattling your bone box. Weapons are not the exclusive property of gentlemen. I will bury you all in dawn appointments until reason or the devil buys your silence.”

  “Mr. Milroy is not the only one present who will issue a challenge,” Lord Nevin’s warning rang out. “I offer myself as your second. Will you accept, sir?”

  After all these years of despising the man, the growing respect he felt was as unpalatable as swallowing spoiled clotted cream. “I do. My thanks again.”

  “If Mr. Milroy fails, I shall persist in his name.”

  He would be damned if he actually started liking the man. Standing, Keanan glanced down at his knuckles. He had scraped them on Lothbury’s teeth. Blood welled in the cuts, and the sting was becoming a nuisance. “Speaking out against the lady will also bring the wrath of her family down on your heads. Until now, the lady’s silence and your sly discretion have kept them from pounding on your doors. Open war will give Tipton a chance to peel the flesh from your lead-punctured corpses.”

  “Enough,” Digaud begged. Sitting up on his own, a knot the size of a lime was forming on his forehead. “I have no knowledge of any wager on Miss Bedegrayne.”

  “Nor I,” Lothbury concurred, appearing too sickly to stand. “Our grievance ends this evening.”

  Not on your life, Keanan thought, b
ut kept the words to himself. The marquess owed him an explanation for betraying him and Wynne, and he would not be content until he got it.

  Mr. Therry, retrieving an unbroken decanter from the floor, nodded. Popping the stopper, he drank deeply.

  Lord Nevin prodded Mr. Esthill with his toe. Cradling his side, and a few broken ribs, he gave his agreement in a painful hiss.

  “Middlefell?” Keanan demanded. The man’s gaze held venom and retribution. They were feelings he understood well. “I am willing if you are.”

  “This no longer involves the virtuous Miss Bedegrayne,” was his flat, defiant statement.

  Keanan had made some enemies this evening. Nodding, he started toward the door. “Agreed.” The hand he had extended for a handshake curled into a fist seconds before he punched him in the nose. Bones cracked, and blood burst from Middlefell’s nostrils like from a squeezed tomato. “Nor does this.”

  Clutching his ruined nose, Middlefell screamed, offering no rejoinder.

  Shaking the sting from his bruised hand, Keanan opened the door with his uninjured one. He could hear Nevin breathing heavily behind him, the excitement finally catching hold of him. Outside the room, their private discussion had drawn a crowd. Earlier, Digaud had ordered the footmen not to permit anyone entry, and despite the distressing sounds coming from within, the servants had honored the command.

  Gentlemen moved past them to get a look at the wounded. Off on the right, he noticed Tipton blocking Sir Thomas Bedegrayne from the room. The two men seemed embroiled in a heated discussion until the older man noticed them. His silver, bushy brows lifted, giving Nevin an inquiring look. He murmured a comment in the viscount’s ear.

  Keanan braced himself. He fully expected Bedegrayne to assault him, creating a scandal he would be hard-pressed to dismiss in front of such a legion of witnesses.

  Tipton pivoted toward them at their approach. Their presence did not appear to surprise him. “Leave any scraps for the family?” The man’s expression was unreadable, but Keanan swore there was approval warming his tone.