The Scandalously Bad Mr. Milroy

by Alexandra Hawkins

  The chase took him down King Street. Sweat burned his eyes as he skidded to a halt. His vision sharp even at night, he scanned the street crammed with small empty shops and dwellings. A coach rattled down the street, probably heading for the inn. Two women were arguing; their escalating voices floated from an open window above him. Across the street, three boys were gloating over the rats they had killed. If his quarry was there, his movements were drowned out by the nocturnal sounds of the city.

  Panting lightly, his cambric shirt glued to his skin, Keanan wiped the sting from his eyes. There were hundreds of places on this street alone where the man could be hiding. In his arrogance, he had thought he could bring down this man alone. Disgusted by his failure, he spat on the ground. It was a curse—and a promise.

  “This isn’t finished.”

  * * *

  “I never imagined I would ever feel indebted to a man like Reckester,” Devona admitted hours later, when they had escaped to the withdrawing room put aside for the ladies.

  Wynne used a comb to sweep up her sister’s unruly curls that had come undone at the back, and pinned them in place. She kept her voice low, so the other women in the room could not overhear their conversation. “With Middlefell and the others not discussing the outcome, most have lost interest in whether the wager was real or simply rumor. Besides, how can speculation compete against the shocking murder of a duke?”

  She adjusted another pin. Behind her calm facade, she was practically giddy with relief. Keanan had done it. The power those men had held over her—or rather, she silently corrected, the power she had relinquished to them by keeping their harrying a secret—had vanished. Reckester’s murder had stimulated the room into conversation. Some reminisced about his old scandals. Others discussed his numerous enemies. Overall, everyone was aghast that someone of quality had been snuffed out in such a grisly manner.

  “You should summon him.”

  “Who?”

  “Your Mr. Milroy. Even Papa could not contest his assistance.”

  Finished with her adjustments, Wynne moved, giving her sister access to the back of her head. “It is more complicated than an untangling of misspoken words and unsolicited feelings, Devona,” she argued defensively, wishing she possessed more of her sister’s passionate nature. Nothing short of death would have barred her sibling from the man she loved. She admired the sentiment, but her pride was the only thing holding her together most days. Keanan was correct. She was a coward.

  Leaving her sister’s hair untouched, Devona stood. “One does not tamper with beauty’s pattern card.”

  The flash of disappointment she glimpsed in her sister’s eyes left her oddly hurt. Wynne watched her depart, knowing Devona would see to their father while she quietly rebuilt the rigidity of her crumbling composure.

  Rising, she glanced over at the other women present. Four women draped in leisurely poses were sharing anecdotes concerning their various admirers. No one was showing more than casual interest in her. Wynne sensed the invisible barrier separating her from these women and wondered whether the isolation was due to fate or choice.

  Not expecting an answer, she passed the women, acknowledging them with a polite nod, and left the room. Her thoughts focused inward, she collided with one of the guests. The apology on her tongue dissolved. Lord Middlefell was close enough that she could smell the hock on his breath. Stepping back, she noticed Lord Lothbury next to him. Both men bore the abraded scabs and colorful bruises of Keanan’s displeasure.

  “Lothbury, the lady looks faint. Perhaps we should whisk her into a private room and open a window. Lord knows I have an itch to cut the laces of her stays.”

  “Keep away from me,” she frostily warned, remembering other instances when the man had described in detail all the horrible things he would do to her if he ever caught her alone. Realizing they would never allow her to pass, she pivoted, but stopped at the sight of Mr. Therry blocking her way. His soft girth was cheerfully wrapped in a green and yellow striped waistcoat.

  “Where are the others? I was under the impression scrubs worked in vicious packs.”

  The viscount’s lip curled in an ugly fashion, his ruined nose exposing the ruthlessness he tried to hide behind his charm. “Digaud, the milksop, left London. He claimed his injuries required Bath’s soothing waters.” Middlefell’s expression showed what he thought of that nonsense. “As for Esthill, well, Nevin did manage to break numerous bones. I expect he will leave his bed eventually. How kind of you to inquire.”

  If a plague wiped them out, the world would be better for it, but she decided voicing the observation was not prudent. “Gentlemen, I have never considered you fools, and will cling to my first opinion. Permit me to pass.”

  Lord Middlefell matched her step aside and laid his hand on her arm. He bowed his head, leaning close enough for his breath to tickle her ear. “I always thought you were a haughty bitch. You felt you were too pure for the likes of me, but you were a ripe tumble for that Irish whoreson, were you not? The question remains, will you still want him, Miss Bedegrayne, after I have him castrated?”

  She met his rigid gaze, immediately understanding this was no longer a game. The man intended to extract his own justice.

  “No dulcet pleas for mercy? I might be willing, considering you and I go off privately for the discussion.”

  “You do not frighten me, my lord. Mr. Milroy trounced all five of you. I cannot think of a man who needs your mercy less, nor would want me to beg for it.” Brave words; still, half of her believed them. In a fair fight, she had faith Keanan would triumph over any foe. It was a sly attack she feared. Regardless of the troubles between them, Wynne could not bear for him to be hurt.

  Lord Middlefell’s fingers dug into her arm. “You spiteful—”

  “There you are, Miss Bedegrayne,” Amara Claeg said, her greeting brimming radiance and guilelessness. “Holding court again, while there are numerous young ladies pining for these gentlemen’s attentions.”

  Her smile faltered when she noticed the viscount’s hold on Wynne. Rallying, she rapped her closed ivory fan across the man’s knuckles. He released his hold, more from shock than pain. “Lord Middlefell, you are a shameful scoundrel, flirting with a lady whose heart is already engaged.”

  Speechless, Wynne forgot she was free until Amara hooked their arms and gently tugged them out of reach. “Lord Lothbury, I am crushed you have no proper greeting for an old friend.”

  The marquess flickered an uncomfortable glance at his cronies. Clearing his throat, he said, properly chastised, “Miss Claeg, I pray you will allow me to apologize by accepting my invitation for a dance.”

  Amara lowered her lashes, appearing flustered by the request. Only Wynne noted the uncharacteristic bitterness she veiled. “I shall enjoy your pretty words, my lord.”

  The inane dialogue had diffused the confrontation as her friend had intended. Lord Middlefell would never attack her in front of a witness. “Excuse us, my lords, I must see to my father. I will never understand why most gentlemen are ill at ease at these gatherings.” The men bowed at their departure, although Wynne felt the viscount’s glare on her back until she and Amara strolled from their vision.

  “Miss Claeg, you were magnificent.” She circled her waist and hugged her. “Never a finer performance have I ever encountered. I hope you severely chastise the ninny who dares call you a coward.”

  Amara blushed, recalling she was the ninny who had used the word. “I saw them together. Lothbury and Middlefell. I knew the viscount would not be able to resist cornering you, since Mr. Milroy is an unparalleled adversary.”

  “You offend me. Did you not see I had them quite in hand?”

  Her friend did not smile and join her in mocking the situation. Instead, Amara’s shoulders slumped. “I observed you were vastly outnumbered, and I was partly to blame,” she confessed.

  “What is this?” Wynne halted, steering her away from the ballroom so they could speak in private. “You had nothing to d
o with this business. In fact, I must beg your forgiveness for pushing that scoundrel Lord Lothbury at you.”

  “You do not understand. I was flattered by the marquess’s attentions. He made me feel—” She paused, wrestling with her emotions. “He was so interested. I never questioned his subtle inquiries about you. Later, I realized he used my answers to hurt you and Mr. Milroy.”

  “Ah, my dear friend. What a pair we make, both of us living with our guilty secrets. You are not responsible for those men. Any blame you consider yours vanished the moment you came to my aid.”

  It was difficult to banish all her guilt. Amara suffered, her heart bruised by Lord Lothbury’s flummery. Her first inclination was to hunt down the man herself. However, after witnessing her friend’s bold approach when she was in trouble, Wynne suspected Amara was quite capable of exacting her own womanly revenge. “I wager Lady Claeg will require her vinaigrette after she learns you left her side to defend a Bedegrayne.”

  The tense line of her mouth eased into a mischievous smile. Her mother was known for her spectacular fits. “Yes, I imagine so.”

  * * *

  Keanan had caught up with Dutch some time after midnight. His search had taken him through five taverns before he found him quietly sitting by himself near the door of an establishment that Keanan would not have entered unless armed, even in daylight.

  “Reckless Milroy.” His friend saluted him with his beer, sloshing it with his clumsy movements. “Join me. I hate getting foxed alone.”

  “The wrist bothering you?”

  “Aye, bloody weather must be turning. Sit … sit.”

  Sitting down, Keanan accepted the beer a plump barmaid had set before him. Friendly and almost as drunk as the patrons, she plopped down onto his lap. Feeling nothing, he glowered at his present predicament. There was only one woman he craved, and she would not have him. The maid giggled and snuggled against his chest, aware of his hands on her waist. He unceremoniously shoved her off his lap. The maid landed on the floor. Dutch and several of the patrons laughed while she sat on her rump, screaming foul curses at him. Unmoved by the disruption he had created, Keanan swallowed his beer, his gaze focused on his amused friend.

  “If this is your delicate handling of the gentle sex, is it so surprising your lady will not have you?” Dutch teased.

  “Wynne will be mine, never doubt it.”

  The man raised his brows at the resounding confidence he heard. He shook his head. “It is this sad business with the old duke which divides you.”

  Speaking of it left a burning wound in his gut. “I did not come here to discuss Wynne. I came for the truth. Do you have the papers on you?”

  Dutch gulped the remains of his beer. “Papers? I have no papers.”

  Keanan was discovering that the truth was more difficult to face than his suspicions. Bracing his elbows on the table, he was already grieving when he asked, “You killed him, didn’t you?”

  Shocked by the accusation, his mouth worked, trying to form a reasonable reply. “Are you daft? I’ve killed no one.”

  “You lie,” he snapped, the words delivered like a lash. “You have his papers, Dutch, and do not disgrace our friendship by denying it. Did you honestly believe I would not recognize you this night?”

  Dutch glanced away. He watched the spurned barmaid flirt with a sailor. Noticing his regard, she smirked and kissed her new champion. “How did you guess?”

  “I didn’t. Not at first,” Keanan said, his gaze fixed on the swelling bruise on his friend’s jaw. He flexed his hand. His knuckles still ached from the punch. “Your disguised voice could not withstand your nerves. Were you hoping I would think you were that fop Digaud, or one of his sinister sycophants?”

  “Maybe,” he acknowledged. “Can you say you would have passed on a chance to go at them again?”

  No, damn him, he could not. He was not reasonable about these men. They had hurt Wynne. If it were within his power, they would spend the rest of their lives paying for their sins. “You’re no killer.”

  Sensing his companion’s tenuous control, Dutch decided he deserved the truth. “You an’ me have been friends too long to count. It makes us family in a way. Brothers.”

  He had wasted so many years plotting Reckester’s ruin that he had not treasured the people who had always been there for him. Depending on them would have meant he trusted them, an ability he thought he had lost the cold morning he found his mother’s stiff, broken body.

  “I would be a difficult younger brother, Dutch.”

  “Aye, the golden truth, that’s for certain,” he agreed, his expression a mix of affection and regret. “Someone had to see to you, with you always in a huff, welcoming every rough-and-tumble.”

  “I’ve retired.”

  “A bruiser you are, Reckless. Take the man out of the ring and he is still a fighter.” He fell silent, turning the cup in his large, scarred hands. “The old duke was never going to accept you as his blood.”

  “So you murdered him? If I wanted him dead, I could have done it myself.” Had he not envisioned it for years?

  “It was an accident. I followed him to the Silver Serpent, knowing his intentions. The man was desperate. He was prepared to cast off one son for the other. Why, I asked myself? It wasn’t love or old regrets that moved him. He planned using you, lad. You were so blinded by rosy dreams that he would have destroyed you.”

  “Did you read those papers you took off his body? They supposedly prove I’m his heir.”

  “For how long? The wily snake was pitting you against Nevin, or did you believe the lad would toss the title and high water away without a challenge? Blood or by hire, that hoity-toity mama of his would see to it.” The wooden cup splintered from the pressure of his hands. “I couldn’t let them hurt you. He had to be stopped. I only meant to tap him on the nob and steal the papers, I swear. It ended there, if he lost his wretched proof.” The breath he exhaled was shaky with emotion. “I hit him with a board. The weak-necked bastard was downed with one blow. It was like my arms had a mind of their own. I hit him and kept hitting him. I barely remember what made me stop. Maybe a noise from the street? I took the papers and ran.”

  Eyes dry, Keanan had no grief for Reckester or the violent way he died. His face was a fierce mask as he reached within his pocket for the thirty pounds. “You have to leave town.” He did not recognize the rough, strained quality in his voice. Friendship and loyalty had been twisted into a lethal act of devotion, and he was responsible. Right or wrong, he was determined to save his friend. He threw the leather pouch of coins on the table.

  Dutch picked up the pouch and tucked it into his waist. He removed the papers from his coat and held them out. The crushed documents were flecked with dried blood. “These belong to you.”

  “I don’t want them.”

  “The dukedom is yours for the claiming.”

  Keanan stared at the offered papers and thought of Reckester’s shattered skull. “The price is too high.”

  Dropping the documents on the table, Dutch rose. “Always the noble bastard,” he gently rebuked, placing a hand on Keanan’s shoulder. “Use them or burn them. The choice doesn’t alter the man.” He walked out the door into the night.

  Palming the documents, Keanan slipped them into an inner pocket. Dutch’s parting gift gave him the power to ruin Reckester’s family. Despite his protests, there was a lingering temptation to wield it.

  Twenty-one

  Lady Claeg amused the guests by collapsing when she noticed her daughter had disobeyed her wishes and was chatting with the Bedegraynes. Fortunately, Amara had brought her vinaigrette. Several footmen assisted by carrying the moaning woman off to a private room before she had completely revived. Exchanging private grins with Wynne and Devona, Amara went off to placate her upset mama.

  Satisfied that Amara could handle her mother, Wynne made her excuses to her family. She needed to see Keanan. Lord Middlefell’s threats echoed in her head. The man might have ended his game with
her, but she feared a more dangerous one had begun for the man she loved.

  Once her father had learned of Lord Middlefell’s, Lord Lothbury’s, and Mr. Therry’s presence at the ball, he was quite encouraging about her departure. It was mutually agreed that Devona would remain. Neither trusted their father’s reaction if one of those men should be imprudent enough to confront him. Still infuriated that Keanan Milroy had protected his daughter in his stead, he longed to make his own impression on the reprobates.

  “You are off to see him,” Devona said, following her sister out of the ballroom.

  Offended, Wynne demanded, “Am I that transparent?”

  “Only to me. Have you forgiven him?”

  Impatient to leave, Wynne sighed. “Sister, I have no time for this discussion.” Spotting the family crest, she bussed her sister’s cheek and ran toward the waiting coach.

  As she opened the door she called out Keanan’s address to the coachman. Without glancing in her direction, he grunted, acknowledging her order. Puzzled that the leather hoods of the carriage had been drawn up on such a pleasant evening, she was not paying attention when she entered the dark interior. The blunt prod of cold iron against her breast froze her advance.

  “Join me, Miss Bedegrayne. Do not fear the pistol. I have no intention of using it,” Lord A’Court promised. “It is merely an inducement, lest you underestimate my skills in handling a woman.” Gloved fingers seized her by the shoulder and shoved her sideways into the compartment. He barked out an order and slammed the door. The horses jumped at the sound of the coachman’s voice.

  “No servant of ours would accept bribery. What happened to my coachman?”

  “This useless sentiment for the lower classes bores me. Perhaps I can assist in polishing your polite conversation.”