The Scandalously Bad Mr. Milroy

by Alexandra Hawkins

  Lord A’Court emerged from the shadowed stairs, blood trickling from one of his nostrils. He broke into a full run when he saw her. Screams in her ears, he tackled her to the floor. They tumbled over pieces of discarded planks, sending plaster dust into the air like resentful ghosts. Fighting for her life, she clawed his face and chest until suddenly she was grasping air. Crying out, they fell through the ragged opening. Someone shouted. Her breath was knocked out of her from the unexpected impact. They had landed on scaffolding positioned three feet below. Too narrow to hold them both, the earl bounced on the edge and toppled, taking her partly with him.

  Legs dangling, she gritted her teeth as his weight skidded her to the edge, slamming her chest into the support post. Her right arm instinctively curled around it for purchase. Lord A’Court had stopped his fall by seizing her around the waist. The strain of his additional weight was unbearable. Desperate, she kicked out and hooked her foot around the opposing post. The one digging into her chest was cutting her in two. She did not know if she could support them both much longer.

  “Wynne,” Keanan shouted. The terror and determination in his voice rung overhead. “Hold tight. I’m coming.”

  “Not the plan,” the earl panted, slipping an inch. “She was never meant to be yours, Milroy,” he called out, the ferocity of the vow ruined when he yelped, his fingers losing their hold on her waist. Clutching fistfuls of fabric, the seam of her dress rent, costing him precious inches. “Poetic, I think. Us dying together.”

  Wynne wanted to roll away, but his fingers had a firm grip on her dress. She brought her left fist down on his grip. He grunted but maintained his hold.

  Reaching behind her, she groped for anything to help her break his hold. Nothing. Refusing to give up, she searched the area above her head. Keanan was shouting—or cursing—but she blocked him out. One finger scraped against a brick. Stretching, she fought the pull of the earl’s swinging deadweight. It took several attempts, but she managed to drag the brick closer using her fingertips. Wrapping her hand around it, she clasped it to her breast.

  “It’s too late!” Lord A’Court said, swinging his body closer while he tried to catch his foot on the wooden scaffold. If he succeeded in gaining a foothold, his efforts would force her over the edge. Wood creaked around them, and Wynne felt the pain bone-deep. It only fueled her determination.

  Heaving it back with all her strength, her knuckles connected with something solid. Ignoring the masculine bellow from behind, she smashed it into the earl’s elbow.

  Later, it would come to her in pieces. First, she saw the startled look in Lord A’Court’s eyes, just before they glided into horror. Fingers one by one freed themselves from the torn fabric. There was a buoyancy of both body and psyche, and finally, the shadowed descent of a dying man. Darkness veiled the gory collision of flesh and bone into the marble flooring, but the sound of the impact would never diminish in her memories.

  Keanan grabbed her before her weakened muscles could fail her, and hauled her limp body into his embrace. Rocking her, he murmured incoherent phrases meant to comfort them both. Wynne closed her eyes, relishing the warmth of his body. She felt so cold.

  “Christ, Wynne, I thought I’d lost you.” He shuddered, pressing her face into his pounding chest. “I spent half the night searching for you, needing to set things right between us. Where do I find you? Here, in my own home, fighting off a madman.”

  “I had little choice, although I cannot think of another place I would rather be.” Wynne nuzzled her face into his neck. Her hands tightened on his arms. “He was not alone. His man—”

  “Is no trouble,” Keanan harshly cut in with some satisfaction. “He attacked me on the stairs. He was the reason why I didn’t get to you sooner.” Heedless of the blood on his trembling hand, he cupped her face. “You were screaming my name, and I saw that bastard chase after you. Why didn’t you run to me?”

  He was too upset to conceal that her actions had hurt him. “It was an ambush. He, Lord A’Court, brought me here, intent on killing you. I was so frightened he might … he m-might—”

  “Hush,” he soothed, understanding. “Bloody nobility,” he sneered, swiping at the blood on his face. “Is this one part of Lothbury’s crowd, too?”

  “No, not exactly.” Stirring from his embrace, she winced. “The tale is long in telling. Can we find a softer perch?”

  “Of course,” he said, embarrassed that he had not thought of her comfort himself. Scooping her into his arms, he stood. Noticing Wigget standing discreetly at a distance, awaiting orders, he nodded. “Here, man, lend me a hand.” As Keanan lifted her up, she reached out for the butler.

  “Are you hurt, Wigget?” she murmured, grateful for the man’s assistance in her escape.

  “No, miss. What good would a skull be if it couldn’t take a knock or two.” Gently setting her down, he offered a strong arm to his master.

  Wynne seized the balustrade, finally seeing the extent of Keanan’s injuries when he climbed into the candlelight. There was a raw scrape on his right cheek. The area around his eyes and nose was discolored and swollen. His frequent swipes with the back of his hand had not stemmed the flowing blood.

  His fight with the coachman had been unfair and brutal. Nor had he spoken one word about his injuries. “You fool, why did you not tell me that man hurt you?”

  Affronted, Keanan mopped his face with his sleeve. Gingerly he touched his nose and cringed. “He barely tapped me, woman,” he growled, renewed anger kindling in his indigo gaze. “You broke my damn nose with that bloody brick!”

  Two hours had passed since dawn had chased the shadows from the house. The police had removed the body of Lord A’Court hours earlier, and Keanan’s efficient staff had washed away all traces of his violent demise. Even so, it did not prevent Keanan from brooding that it could have been Wynne’s body lying broken on the marble.

  He was rattled by what Wynne had told him about A’Court. Sensing that she needed her family, but too selfish to permit her to stray from his side, he had summoned Bedegrayne and the Tiptons. Her shocked family had rallied around her, shielding her the best they could from the police and their inquiries.

  They had believed her to be fragile. Drowsily curled up next to her sleeping sister, she did appear delicate. Hair askew, and her dress torn at the waist, he saw the fatigue bruising the skin below her eyes. Then again, Keanan had witnessed her strength as she had fought for her life. He was awed if not terrified by it. The lady took risks. Prowling about the drawing room, he doubted he would ever recover from this night.

  “Are you settled enough for me to take a look at your nose?” Tipton asked, standing beside him. His testimony to the police about Brook’s condition had hastened the process of eliminating any foul play. The earl’s henchman, now in custody, had finished their part.

  “Leave it,” he muttered, though he remained motionless for the surgeon’s not-so-gentle prodding. “It’s broken. Nothing can be done except allowing it to mend.” He shot a glare in Wynne’s direction. His vexation made her smile slightly for some reason. It was the first he had glimpsed in days. In that light, it was difficult holding on to his anger.

  “Now, Keanan,” Blanche soothed. “Would you feel better if you had broken it in the ring?”

  “Aye,” was his sullen reply. “I will never live this down.”

  Wynne had insisted on sending for Blanche and telling her what had happened. Keanan had balked, not wanting to bother her with business that did not concern her. He gave in to Wynne’s quiet demand, only because he could not deny her anything. Blanche had rushed into his arms on her arrival, sobbing out her fear and concern. Oddly, he had been comforted by her presence.

  “A’Court died too painlessly for my comfort,” Sir Thomas said, seething, too caught up in the circling loop of private misery. Keanan understood his helpless torment. “Honest, Wynne, if I had sniffed out his depraved nature, you would have been put beyond his reach. I thought him spineless. I recall, the man
actually wept at my refusal.” The memory still appalled him.

  “You are not to blame, Papa,” Wynne said, her voice husky from the hours of questioning. “If he was a madman, he was a cunning one. He cloaked himself well. I doubt anyone suspected—except his victims.” She stared off, her thoughts directed at herself and Brook.

  Entering the room, Wigget announced, “Sir, a—”

  The appearance of Nevin at the threshold ruined any sense of formality. The butler skulked off. “Ah, I see it is just family in attendance. No apologies necessary, brother, for neglecting to summon me.” He walked over to Wynne and knelt in front of her. His hand brushed her injured cheek. “He hurt you?”

  “More frightened than anything,” Wynne said, understating the horrifying events. Compassion begot compassion. “I am sorry about your father.”

  The mention of Reckester had Keanan growing rigid. Nevin continued speaking, but his voice faded from Keanan’s ears. In his concern for Wynne, he had forgotten the impetus that had forced him into the night to find her. Absently Keanan’s hand rose, touching the documents hidden within his coat.

  Nevin admitted, “We must accept that the identity of the killer may never be known—or his reasons.”

  Sir Thomas awkwardly patted Blanche’s hand while she cried into her handkerchief.

  Wynne’s gaze met Keanan’s. The question in hers told him that she sensed his indecision. There had been no time to tell her about Dutch or the papers. His fingers clamped onto the edge of his coat. As he stared at her, she smiled encouragingly, her love and trust forcing the words out.

  “I can give you the reason. It cost me thirty pounds.” Having everyone’s attention, he withdrew the papers. “Reckester’s proof.”

  “Proof of what?” Sir Thomas interjected.

  Nevin took the papers being pushed at him. He did not even glance down at them. Resignation darkened his face. “Justice, do you think?”

  “No, just a gamble that didn’t pay off.” Keanan knocked the papers out of his brother’s hand and into the morning fire. The flames heightened, greedily devouring the brittle papers. The blatant destruction of the mysterious documents produced startled sounds from several of the onlookers.

  Nevin bent down, intent on pulling them from the fire. Keanan stopped him. Whirling away from him, Nevin’s anger was unexpected. “Are you mad? There is your proof. Think, man, about what you are giving up. Everything!”

  Keanan turned his back on the fire. Walking up to Wynne, he held out his hand. She stood, and placed her hand into his. “Not everything, Nevin.” He scooped Wynne up. “I enjoy being the bastard. The title is yours.” Before anyone could react from his announcement, he rushed her out of the room.

  * * *

  Wynne’s laughter tickled his throat while he shifted her so he could lock the door of what might have been a music room had it been furnished properly. “Do you think a mere lock will keep them out?” The uproar he had caused seemed to be escalating outside.

  “Nay, just borrowing against time. Nevin can handle them.” He slid her down the length of him, groaning at his body’s painful reaction to her proximity.

  Not desiring the separation, she kept her arms circled around his neck, figuring he deserved the torment. “Is it true? Did you toss your right to the dukedom into the fire?”

  Uncomfortable under her scrutiny, he shrugged and moved away. “Reckester’s blood spattered those documents, as did my mother’s.” A harsh brittle laugh rumbled in his throat. “The price was too high. Do you understand?”

  Pieces of it, she thought. “I do. Nevin is part of your family.”

  He laughed. “God, save us both. Is it enough if we refrain from raising our fists at the sighting of the other?”

  “’Tis a beginning,” she conceded. Slyly, her eyelashes fluttered upward. “Our child will need an uncle.”

  Placing his hand on her abdomen, he asked, worrying, “Our babe, he is well?”

  She longed to touch his face. However, considering his injuries, she thought he might appreciate her restraint more. “Tipton says our child is healthy and growing as expected. He will be the child’s uncle, too.”

  The notion brought an oath to Keanan’s lips. Suddenly, he grinned. The action had him wincing. “You will have to marry me, Wynne.”

  She tilted her head up questioningly. “Why?”

  His indigo gaze sparkled with devilry. “You listed two fine reasons. My son’s uncles are nasty brutes.”

  “Not good enough,” she replied, taking a step forward and pleased with his wariness.

  “Have mercy, woman. I gave up a respectable title. Your father will cast me into the Thames weighted with chains for my idiocy.”

  “Papa has not murdered anyone in years,” she assured him, enjoying the game. “Do better.”

  “Bearing my child alone would make you a ruined woman,” he said. The teasing light had faded from his eyes. “I could not endure causing you more pain.”

  “Why?” She seized him by his coat, denying him a chance to retreat.

  His expression softened with undisguised affection. “Is it not obvious? I love you, Wynne Bedegrayne. Marry me for love.”

  Wynne shrieked and jumped into his arms. They both ignored the pounding at the door. “All you had to do was ask, my love.” She kissed him on the lips, murmuring sincere apologies when her nose collided with his broken one.

  Read on for an excerpt from

  TWILIGHT WITH THE INFAMOUS EARL

  by Alexandra Hawkins

  Available December 2013 from St. Martin’s Paperbacks

  Frost rarely pursued a lady.

  First, it took too much effort; more to the point, most were not worthy of the chase. Second, most ladies were willing quarry. His handsome face and title had opened the doors of countless bedchambers—something he had often had taken for granted. However, he had been willing to make an exception for Miss Cavell. Although it galled him to admit it, the lady mildly intrigued him. Her acrimony toward Nox gave him the excuse he needed to seek her out.

  In the end, she came to him.

  Well, not precisely to him. He and the lady just happened to be attending the same ball this evening. Fate had placed them on the same course, and he was willing to see for himself if the daring Emily was worth all the fuss.

  As he watched her from the upper landing, she was blithely unaware of his presence. She was speaking cordially with their hostess, Lady Fiddick, and her niece. Miss Cavell stood out from the trio, looking quite fetching this evening. The fashions this spring tended to favor brighter colors, most of which would have been disastrous for a redhead. Of course, this would not have prevented an ambitious miss who insisted on wearing the latest styles and colors. Unlike her two companions who were draped in scarlet and geranium, Miss Cavell seemed almost subdued in her periwinkle dress. Instead, the observer’s eye was drawn to her dark red hair. Her maid had curled the lady’s long locks into curls of medium thickness and pinned them into an artful arrangement. Several white roses had been added, and the overall effect made his fingers itch to discover all the hairpins concealed in her thick tresses.

  “I recognize that look,” a familiar masculine voice drawled behind him. “Only a woman can generate such predatory hunger in a man’s gaze.”

  Frost did not glance at his uninvited companion. “Lord Ravens. I did not realize you strayed from your personal house of iniquity to dally with the civilized.”

  The earl’s amusement covered him like the comforting warmth of a blanket. He had known the man for years. Before Saint’s marriage, he and Frost had been frequent guests at Lord Ravens’s intimate gatherings of debauchery. Once, the Lords of Vice had even considered inviting the earl to join them. However, not all of his friends appreciated Ravens’s unusual appetites, and the subject had been dropped.

  Even so, Frost doubted the gentleman would have joined them. He enjoyed being lord and master of his world.

  Frost shifted his gaze to Lord Ravens. His mild a
nnoyance faded at the sight of his friend. With hair as dark as his own, the gray-eyed earl looked the same. The twenty-seven-year-old was unmarried and most likely would remain in that state unless he discovered a very understanding wife.

  “What brings you here?”

  “I could ask the same of you, my friend. After all, you are one of my favorite guests, and yet you have deprived me and my friends of your company.”

  “My apologies,” Frost said sincerely. “My appetites led me elsewhere, and I was content. No offense was intended.”

  “I am relieved. I value your friendship, and thought Sinclair and your other friends might have persuaded you to abandon our friendship since my gatherings are not for the unenlightened.”

  Frost heartily agreed. “Then you do not know me as well as you believe. No one, not even my good friends, tells me whom I may spend my evenings with, or where.”

  Lord Ravens smiled. “Excellent. Then I pray you will return to us soon?”

  “How can I refuse such a warm invitation? Especially since I envy the contents of your wine cellar.”

  The earl coughed into his hand. “And nothing else tempts you?”

  Frost laughed. “Oh, there is no doubt that you provide many temptations, gent. It is one of the reasons why some people dislike you.”

  “Dislike?” He raised his brows as he considered the word. “Several of your friends despise me. Vanewright, in particular, always looks as if he’d like to plant his fist in my jaw.”

  Vane had not been in the best of moods the last time Saint had dragged their friend to Ravens’s town house. It had happened so long ago, it was not worth explaining. Instead, he teased, “You sound surprised. I thought most gents wished to murder you.”

  Ravens chuckled. “True. Many secretly fear I will steal their wives away from them.”

  “And would you?”

  The earl shrugged. “Is it my fault that I am irresistible to most females?”

  Frost clapped a companionable hand on Lord Ravens’s shoulder. “And that is why you and I get along so well. We are afflicted with the same problem when it comes to women.”