The Scandalously Bad Mr. Milroy

by Alexandra Hawkins

  “All I require is for you to halt this carriage,” she replied before questioning the wisdom of her hasty words. Seeing only a cloaked shadow within shadows, she could not discern if the pistol was pointed at her.

  Explosive pain lit up her vision for a few seconds. Cowering, she tried to think beyond the throbbing ache. He had removed his glove and used his bare hand on her. She touched her cheek. The ring he wore had grazed her. The burning scratch almost hurt worse than the blow.

  Defiant, and annoyed with herself for stepping blindly into his hands, she said, “Hurting women must be the only skill you claim, you pathetic maggot. Having been deprived of your wife, I suppose any defenseless woman will do.” The next blow had her seeing glittery blooms of fireworks.

  Fool, she thought, sucking in her breath. Protecting her injured cheek with her hand, she remained silent. No one had ever lifted a hand at her in anger. Having spent a lifetime defending herself against officious brothers, her verbal attack had been automatic. In his present state, A’Court would beat her senseless before they reached their destination.

  Panting with suppressed rage and triumph, Lord A’Court pounded the hood. “I was correct. You have been hiding her. I thought maybe she went crying to her mother. However the last time she dared, the dear matron was kind enough to return my lady. A pity you were not as cooperative.”

  Wynne shut her eyes, feeling a sliver of the despair Brook must have felt. How could a mother send her daughter back to the man responsible for abusing her? Her hand slipped protectively over her womb. She feared for her child. Any man who battered his own wife until she aborted their child would show no mercy for hers.

  His continued silence increased her anxiety. Burrowed into the seat, her body tensed, waiting for another blow. She thought him unbalanced, and his actions seemed to confirm it. Why was he not interrogating her about Brook’s whereabouts? The question circled around in her frantic brain until his earlier comment triggered a baffling realization.

  “You were uncertain I had knowledge of Brook. Yet you attacked my coachman and kidnapped me. It was a considerable risk for mere speculation, though what grievance you may charge me with is perplexing.”

  “Someone of your admirable intelligence should understand that a proper lady does not speak without permission.” He kicked; his boot unerringly connected with her right knee.

  She choked on her insuppressible plea for him to cease. Biting her lower lip, she refused to satisfy his perverse pleasure by revealing her pain. The confines of the compartment gave him the advantage. Provoking him further might make an escape attempt impossible. So she curled away from him and employed what even he had praised her for possessing. She would use her intelligence.

  * * *

  Keanan pushed his way through the crowd.

  He might have arrived bearing no invitation, however, the hostess, recognizing the ingredients of a good scandal, practically dragged him through the front door.

  Exasperated, he wondered if he would spend the rest of his days chasing down the elusive, headstrong Wynne. He had wasted an hour first bullying his way into the Bedegrayne residence, and then once he was convinced she was out, he tried ascertaining her whereabouts.

  Only later it occurred to him that her aunt might know—if she had been conveniently at home. A discreet bribe to a departing underbutler and a scullery maid revealed the old woman’s destination. His patience waning, he hoped his search had ended.

  The ballroom was overheated and stuffed beyond a tolerable capacity. Locating one particular lady held its own challenges.

  A hand shot out from the shifting throng. Halting, Keanan pivoted. The identity of the annoyance had him snarling, “Lothbury, you dare much crossing me this eve.” The residual feeling of his friend’s betrayal surged to life.

  Clearly uncomfortable, the marquess said, “Circumstances have prevented me from approaching you sooner. I do not expect you will ever shed your malice toward my deplorable actions. Even so, I sincerely regret the breach I have caused between us.”

  Stiffly, Keanan shook off the man’s touch. “You regret the loss of friendship, but not your actions?”

  “Honestly, Milroy, whom do you blame? Me alone? We both understood your interest in Miss Bedegrayne was less than honorable. You seduced her. I just wagered on the outcome.”

  “Wrong,” he corrected softly. “You declared war on an innocent woman. Unfortunately for you, this dumb fighter had more honor than you credited him with. If you are fond of your pretty face, I would keep to the horses.”

  He did not spare his former friend a parting glance. A minute later, another hand touched him. His hand fisted as he whirled.

  “Goodness, Mr. Milroy! What a formidable greeting,” Lady Tipton said, enjoying his embarrassment. “My sister must have felt she was teasing a tiger when she dealt with you.”

  “Is she here?” he asked, unconsciously comparing the similarities and differences of the sisters. The countess was a striking woman with her fiery tresses and blue eyes. Regardless, another overshadowed her beauty. He was completely beguiled by an incomparable blonde with dreams in her eyes who burned at his touch.

  “No, she left to see you.”

  Joy arose in his chest. Wynne had not given up on him. Or them. He took up her hand and gallantly kissed it. Giving her a devastating smile, he broke into a run.

  Admiring his imperious exit, Devona exhaled slowly as she fanned herself. “My dear sister,” she murmured, “you have not only courage but amazing restraint.”

  * * *

  This was a terrible dream, she prayed. Lord A’Court wrenched her arm behind her back, urging her toward the silent house. The last time she had arrived here in the night, it had been raining. The edgy yearning linking her and Keanan had erupted into a night of discovery and love.

  Now the earl had brought her back. Her throat strangling on fear, she watched helplessly as a floating light from within moved closer to answer the pounding summons.

  The door opened. A man dressed in his nightclothes glared at them through one bloodshot eye. “Be gone! The master is not home.” The sour expression diminished with recognition. “Hair like moonbeams, the master tells me. And eyes, the tranquil pond in summer. You be his lady? Miss Bedegrayne?” She lifted her head, illuminating the side of her face. Seeing the mark on her cheek, he lifted his candle higher, intent on inspecting it.

  Lord A’Court pushed Wynne into the startled servant. Colliding with him, she held on, preventing both of them from falling. The butler wavered, struggling not to set their clothing afire. The flame flickered precariously, its smoke curling into a hypnotic dance.

  “Accommodating as always, my lady,” the earl mocked. The pistol was pointed at the servant’s heart. “Now it is your turn, old man. When do you expect your master?” The butler hesitated. “Lie, and Miss Bedegrayne will pay the forfeit.”

  “Don’t know. I’m his butler, n-not the warden.”

  Lord A’Court shook his head. “Pitiful.” He looked at Wynne for agreement. “I will wager a house of this size is insufficiently staffed. How many servants?”

  “I don’t see how—ten in all, sir,” he lamely finished when the barrel of the pistol shifted to her.

  The earl’s eyes beamed approval. “Excellent. Now if you will show me to their quarters, we will begin.”

  The man turned, leading them to the stairs. A’Court slammed the silver butt cap of the pistol against the back of the servant’s skull.

  Wynne shrieked. She dropped down beside the unconscious man, gently examining the bleeding wound that was already beginning to swell. “What kind of a monster are you, attacking women and an old man? The blow could kill him!”

  He reached down and hauled her up by her neck. If his fingers had been positioned differently, she would have been throttled under the pressure. “This conversation bores me, Wynne. Do you need reminding how strongly I detest being bored?”

  “No!” she hissed. She stood up on her toes, lessening
the strain on her neck.

  “Good girl.” He pressed his lips to her cheek until she felt the scrape of his teeth. “It is Milroy who needs your pity.”

  Lord A’Court was too efficient for this to be an impulsive plan. The coachman appeared at the front door, carrying rope. He bound the butler and towed his unconscious form into the drawing room at the earl’s command. The servant would secure her cooperation, she was told.

  Once a fire was built up in the hearth, the coachman had disappeared. She assumed he was checking the servants’ quarters. Even though he worked alone, there was no doubt he could easily subdue a handful of sleeping servants.

  Curled up into an oversized tub chair, Wynne concentrated on the changes in the drawing room instead of watching the man pacing in front of the hearth. The room had been finished in her absence. The walls and ceiling had been painted a pale green. The rococo plasterwork was finished, and a gold chandelier was suspended from the ceiling. Gazing upward, her eyes traced the ornate circular design surrounding the fixture. Tilting her head, she realized these were not abstract scrolls as she had first believed. Overwhelmed by sentimentality, her eyes welled with tears. Keanan had had their entwined initials worked into the ceiling’s plasterwork.

  He had decorated this room for her.

  She dashed at the wetness under her eyes, relieved that Lord A’Court had not noticed. He prowled the room as if seeking out weaknesses in his foe. The pistol rested against his leg. Despite his assurances to the contrary, he appeared quite capable of firing the weapon if provoked. The poor unconscious butler reclined on the floor. He had not moved or made any noise indicating he had survived the attack.

  “Keanan will be no help to you. He does not know where Brook is hidden,” Wynne said, making another attempt at understanding his motives.

  His back to her, he removed a small frame from the wall. “When I ask for the location of my wife, I have every confidence you will tell me,” he said, his calm assurance scaring Wynne more than his irrational rage.

  Facing her, he flipped the frame over so she could see what had caught his attention. It was her silhouette. “This is you. Rushed work rendered at a fair generally produces poor quality. However, Graley on the Strand is a remarkable artisan, do you not agree?”

  She straightened in the chair. “How did you know about the fair?” A rush of insight left her cold in spite of the fire. “You were there. Watching.” She pressed her hand to her lips, feeling sickened. Innocent actions suddenly seemed sullied under his covert gaze.

  “I did much more than observe you playing the coquette as your admirers wondered if you were a foolish innocent or an eager Haymarket ware.” Smiling, he stepped over the butler’s prone body. Caging her with his body, he tapped the barrel of the pistol against her knee. “I, too, touched you that day. Do you still dream about our tête-à-tête?”

  Wynne knew the exact moment. Fear had scored the scene forever in her memories. “The lions,” she said, the words barely audible. Where her voice lacked strength, her gaze was pure green fire. “You pushed me into the path of those half-starved beasts.”

  “Did you hope I would forget? The forfeit has not been met.”

  He was addled, she was certain. “Forget what? I have done nothing!”

  The slap hit her like a clap of thunder. Gasping for air, she fought the looming blackness.

  “Liar!” he roared. The pistol jerked wildly in his other hand. “Minutes after our introduction, I wanted you for my wife. Surrounded by half a dozen suitors, your eyes begged me to rescue you. Our hands clasped, and I was lost, so lost.” He closed his eyes; his body swayed to some forgotten music of the past.

  Wynne bit down on her lower lip, stilling the trembling. She had no clear recollection of their first meeting. Over the years, she had accepted his invitations to dance. Oh, he had flirted like most of the gentlemen and had composed a poem or two in honor of her beauty. It had been harmless. “I th-think you are confusing me with Brook. She was the one—”

  “No! No!” Lord A’Court stomped out his denial. “So sweet and cool at once, you reminded me of a peach ice from Gunter’s. Hundreds of people could be in the room, and I could still pick you out at once.”

  “My lord, I was not aware of your feelings.”

  He scrunched his face into a horrible mask. Flinching, she stared at his large unfettered hand, expecting another slap. He shook his head. “You were afraid. I took too long declaring myself. You questioned my regard.”

  “I introduced you to my dearest friend, Brook,” she gently reminded, worried she would provoke another rage. “You both were instantly smitten. It was never me.”

  “She was the after,” he said, pointing a finger at her. “Chaff. I called on your father, declared myself. I was prepared to offer you everything. Do you know what that nasty piece of work called me?”

  “No.” Her father had never mentioned Lord A’Court’s visit. He had probably thought he was protecting her from the ugliness she was witnessing now.

  “Conceited and high-strung. A stronger man was needed for his demanding daughter. I wanted you for my countess, and he walked out of the room. Do you recall what you did when I approached you that night at the ball?”

  What night? she frantically wondered. What ball? “I-I cannot recall.”

  “You were vexed Lord Nevin was not crawling on his knees, humbling himself before you, and instead had an eye on your baby sister. You refused my overtures and spent the evening wiling Nevin into your venomous embrace.”

  He spoke of a night that had occurred years ago as if it were just days past. Had she been so blind that she had not seen his pain, or were the events a twisted fantasy he had conjured? There had been a brief moment years ago when Lord Nevin had expressed interested in Devona. Tipton had ruthlessly crushed the notion.

  “Lord Nevin is a friend. I would never accept his proposal.”

  “Nor any man’s, it seems,” he said scornfully.

  “Even if I were unintentionally cruel, the offense hardly deserves murder.”

  This slap was expected and well deserved. “The forfeit,” he reminded her. “First, I married your good friend. I gave her what you tossed away.”

  Brook had endured daily beatings and a tyranny that would leave permanent scars.

  “I could not stay away from you for long. Especially when my spies uncovered your latest ruse.”

  “The Benevolent Sisterhood? Your spies are slow-witted, my lord. I have been enjoying that particular subterfuge for years.”

  “You swallowed my tempting bait quick enough,” he smirked. “Young Miss Jenny Egger. The poor sacrificial lamb for a very ungentlemanly sport.”

  Wynne did not conceal her incredulity. “It was all a trap?”

  “I cared nothing about the girl’s fate. You were the one Egger was after. He had orders to bruise you a bit before he stashed you away in the stews. I intended to be your first customer that night.”

  Acid rose in her throat. “Keanan rescued me.”

  “Mr. Milroy will soon learn the full extent of my displeasure, never fear.” There was a maniacal cast to his face, which craved Keanan’s death.

  Memories shuffled through her mind like a deck of cards. “What else? You have been following me around for weeks. What is my forfeit, my lord?” she demanded.

  Too drunk on his supremacy, he was beyond hearing her sarcastic inflection. “There were so many choices. At first, I thought to leave you in the hands of Middlefell, for his and the others’ malevolent pleasure. You suffered so beautifully. Unfortunately, Mr. Milroy once again deprived me of your ruination. Another forfeit. So here we are, awaiting your filthy lover.” Tapping the barrel against his cheek, he mused, “I imagine learning that his beloved whore has chosen his half brother to wed will put him in the appropriate killing rage.”

  The possibility jolted her, and she was shamed by it. Keanan might be capable of violence, but he would never hurt her. “He will never believe it!”

 
The earl gave her a roguish grin. “Dead participants rarely protest, Wynne. Now our enraged Mr. Milroy will use those prized fists of his on you. The betrayal, you see,” he explained. “I had planned that, in a crazed fit of grief, he strangles you, but that does not sound quite right. After all, he is a fighter. I would not deny him his nature. Once you are dead, he will, of course, regret his violent actions and”—he called attention to the pistol—“take his own life, thus depriving Sir Thomas of justice. What do you think? I rather like it.”

  A noise in the entrance hall silenced them.

  They both glanced at the door. Keanan had arrived home. Lord A’Court tensed, preparing for an ambush.

  She acted before she noticed the movement at their feet. Headfirst and arms extended, she crashed into the earl. The awakened butler brought his knees up. Together, they knocked the earl off his feet.

  Wynne rushed for the door. Screaming Keanan’s name, she threw the latch. Lord A’Court bellowed his denial, as he fought to untangle himself from the servant. This had not ended. A madman was demanding she pay a forfeit for her imagined crimes. If she ran down to Keanan, there was the risk he could be shot.

  Lights flickered below. A single sconce glowed from the landing above. It took only seconds to make her choice. She started her swift ascent up the stairs. Shouting a warning for Keanan, she tripped on a cloth carelessly draped over the steps. Her palms pushed off on the steps above her as she resumed her climb. Distantly she realized this level of the house was still being renovated. She reached the top floor, littered with lumber and chunks of stone.

  “Wynne!”

  She was so winded she could not identify who yelled her name. The feel of the railing beneath her gliding hand kept her bearings. Suddenly, the railing ended abruptly. There was a jagged gap. Most likely, the workmen had been pushing heavy objects through the opening.

  “Damn it, woman, answer me!” Keanan demanded from below.

  “Watch out, he has—” She gasped, a noise from the left startling her.