The Secrets of a Scoundrel

by Gaelen Foley

  She was in severe danger of losing all control of the situation—­and before Phillip’s intrusion—­just for a moment there, she had barely cared. Damn it, was she so willing to let her pet prisoner take the upper hand? Why?

  Just because he happened to be everything she had ever dreamed of in a man? Fool. She shook her head at herself. God, where might their playful, heavy-­breathing sport have led if her son’s carriage had not arrived when it did?

  With a shudder, she vowed to pull back from this dangerous attraction between herself and a man she had just sprung from jail. Thankfully, her son’s unexpected arrival had brought her back rudely to her senses.

  Closing the library door behind her, she took a deep breath and turned to fix her boy with a quelling stare. “Well?”

  “Well, what, Mother?” he retorted, flinging himself down onto one of the thick leather couches. He crossed his long legs out before him and folded his arms over his chest, glaring at her in disapproval.

  “What do you have to say for yourself?”

  “I might ask the same of you. Who is th-­that person?” He jabbed a finger toward the window. “Another new ‘gentleman friend’? Already? What happened to the last one? The yellow-­haired idiot? What’s-­his-­name, Carr.”

  “You’d better watch your mouth,” she warned, lowering herself to sit on the padded arm of the couch.

  “I’m only trying to protect you, Mother.”

  “Why did they send you home from school? What did you do? Come. Tell me at once.”

  Phillip scowled and handed her a crisp piece of parchment that turned out to be an indignant letter from the headmaster. When she came to the end of it, she lowered her head with a groan.

  Phillip shot to his feet. “You should be proud of me by all rights, not angry!”

  “Proud? Fighting? Causing a ruckus? You did serious injury to another boy.”

  “The class bully—­and besides, he’s two years older than me. Ha!”

  “Whoever he was, it says here you sprained his shoulder and beat him nigh senseless.”

  “God made him senseless, and he’s lucky I didn’t break it,” he declared.

  “Phillip, this is serious. It also says here you threatened a division master.”

  “You mean Professor Marquis de Sade?”

  She let out a stifled yelp at his words. “I don’t want my fifteen-­year-­old knowing about the Marquis de Sade!”

  “I’m not a prude, Mother,” he informed her in a worldly tone, folding his arms across his chest.

  “Oh, sorry!” she retorted, before gesturing to the letter. “So, what happened with this tutor?”

  “He’s a pervert, for one thing.”

  She shut her eyes and groaned under her breath. She knew the most expensive private boys’ schools had a certain reputation for creating a brutal environment, the better to prepare the lads of the upper class for their harsh futures in politics, war, and empire.

  Unfortunately, there were sometimes men in control of the children who abused their privilege and enjoyed their places of authority a little too much.

  Apparently, Professor Marquis de Sade had not counted on her son, known to his friends and his Mum as “the Red Terror.” And not just for the color of his hair.

  “The maths don is an even bigger bully than the senior I thrashed,” he informed her. “I swear it entertains him, beating boys on their bare arses—­”

  “Phillip! God.”

  “Well, it’s true. And he’s long since singled out the weakest little nancy in our class, Alastair Ponsonby, for his abuses. I got tired of hearing the pitiful creature crying each night after lights-­out. So I asked him what the hell was wrong, Mother. And he told me.

  “This senior, Dwight Cotler, was ruthlessly tormenting him. Cotler had thrown little Alastair’s math assignment in a mud puddle, and there wasn’t time for him do it over again, so that merely put him afoul of Professor Marquis de Sade, and likely due for another bare-­arse beating in front of the class.

  “So,” Phillip said with a shrug of feckless bravado, “I decided to stand up for him. Protect him. From them both. That’s what Grandpa Virgil would’ve wanted me to do. Defend the weak. Isn’t it?”

  “Oh, Phillip.”

  “When I saw Cotler starting in on Alastair as usual the next day at breakfast, let’s just say I got involved.”

  Gin bit her lip, wondering how it was possible to love someone so much and, at the same time, want to throttle him.

  “This letter says your ‘involvement’ included spraining Dwight Cotler’s arm and knocking him over the head with a food tray so hard that he was unconscious for a quarter hour.”

  “Just long enough for me to get to maths lesson,” Phillip said, nodding. “Nobody dared tell on me until Cotler himself regained consciousness. That made things easier.”

  “So, what happened with the teacher, then?”

  “When he collected our assignments first thing and found that Alistair had nothing to turn in, he had the expected reaction. All I did, Mother—­I swear it on my honor—­was stand up and vouch for Alistair, why he didn’t have his assignment. That it wasn’t his fault. I told him what happened, but he didn’t even care!” Phillip exclaimed, shaking his head in wide-­eyed innocence at the world’s unfairness. “That brute said there were no excuses. That if a boy couldn’t learn to make his way in school, he wouldn’t be able to make his way in life. Then he summoned Alistair to the front for his beating.

  “I blocked the way, and said, ‘Why don’t you pick on someone your own size?’ He started taunting me, asking if I wanted to take Alistair’s beating in his place. I told him, try it. And when he picked up that blasted paddle, I grabbed it out of his hand and broke it over my knee.”

  Gin stared at him.

  Phillip shrugged, and conceded, “I might have raised the broken piece of the paddle at him. I don’t really remember—­I was so furious. But I wouldn’t have hit him, Mother. You must know that. I’m not stupid.”

  “Oh, Phillip.”

  “I don’t care if they expel me, anyway!” he said vehemently. “In fact, I’d be glad. What’s the point of my going there, anyway? We both know where I should be going to school—­up in Scotland.”

  By which he meant the Order school at the Abbey above the dungeon where Nick had been locked up.

  “Don’t you dare start that again,” she warned, staring at him for a moment in suspicion. He dropped back down onto the couch and crossed his ankles in leisurely fashion once more, a very rakehell in the making. “Is that what this is about?” she demanded. “Are you deliberately trying to get expelled? Because if that’s what you’re planning, you can forget about it, Phillip.”

  “Mother!”

  “You are not joining the Order. End of discussion.”

  “Why not?” he cried, sitting up straight with a quicksilver motion. “I can do it! We both know that’s where I belong! It’s my right! It’s my heritage!”

  “It’s never going to happen.”

  “You think I don’t have what it takes? But I do! I just need training—­”

  “No.” She blocked out his protests and headed for the door. “I’ll write back to the headmaster and try to smooth things over. But you will be going back there once you’ve completed your suspension.”

  “Ugh!” He dropped his head back and glared at the ceiling.

  “In the meanwhile, you will be confined to the house, and you’re not to have any visitors. You’ll carry on with your studies here at home while I’m gone—­”

  “Gone? Where?”

  “I’m leaving for Town in a few hours.”

  “London?” He sat up eagerly. “Can I come with you?”

  “No. I just told you. You’re staying here—­out of trouble.” With a pointed glance, she pivoted and headed for the library
door. “I’ll summon your old tutor from the village to come and look after you—­”

  “I’m not an infant, Mother!”

  “No?” She paused, glancing at him. “Then prove it by staying on your best behavior while I’m gone. I don’t want to hear any bad reports from Mr. Blake.”

  Phillip glowered at her. “You’re not going to be in control of my life forever, Mother.”

  “Well, I am for now, so you might as well forget about it.”

  “Why?” he cried. “Why can’t I have a dream?”

  She stopped and paused, gazing at him. “The Order took my father from me. They’re not getting their hands on my son. You, my darling, are going to live a nice, long, happy life—­”

  “Boring! Dull as dishwater, Mother! Am I supposed to entertain myself when I grow up with a stream of lovers like you do?”

  Gin gasped at his impudence. “How dare you?”

  “Who’s this one? I demand to know who’ve you brought into our house this time.”

  “You’re a child. It’s none of your affair!”

  “Affairs. You’d be the expert on that,” he muttered.

  “You watch your mouth, young man!” She hesitated, routed by his accusation, especially since there was a grain of truth to it. She did not want her son thinking ill of her, nor did she wish to be a bad example.

  She glanced warily toward the window. “That man is not my lover. He was—­” Her words broke off.

  “What?”

  Against her better judgment, she gave way. “He was a friend of your grandfather’s.”

  Phillip gaped at her in stunned silence. “Are you serious? That’s an Order agent out there?”

  He flew to the window to stare.

  “Just leave him alone, Phillip. He’s helping me with a case.”

  “Why? Is it an especially hard one? Oh, this is amazing!” Then he frowned. “But what happened to your idiot assistant?”

  “Well, that’s the problem, sweeting. He’s disappeared.”

  “Ran out on you? Eh, Mother, I told you that one was no good.”

  The boy was more right than he knew.

  Then she answered, “Lord Forrester is going to help me find him and get to the bottom of this.”

  “Wait, Forrester?” he echoed, wide-­eyed. “As in the Lord Forrester? The chap who took a bullet for the Regent?”

  She nodded. “That’s him. You leave him alone,” she warned. “I mean it. Keep your distance. I don’t want you bothering him.”

  And I don’t want him filling your head with grand tales of adventure about his missions.

  She already had her hands full trying to rein in her headstrong son on that particular subject.

  “But, Mother! Please! He knew Grandfather—­and now he’s a guest in my house! Oh, I don’t believe this. Brilliant!”

  “Oh, Phillip,” she murmured yet again in dismay.

  “If you won’t let me join up, myself, at least let me talk to him. I can talk to him if I want to!” he added with a pugnacious frown that reminded her ever so much of Virgil.

  “No, you can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I said so, and I’m your mother.”

  “Tyrant lady! That’s no reason! I have rights!”

  “He is a dangerous man!”

  “Nonsense, Mother, he’s a bloody hero!”

  Gin blinked, less worried by her son’s language than by the hero worship that suddenly shone from his youthful face.

  “All of them are! It said so in the papers. That’s why the Regent gave them the medals at Westminster Abbey. I wonder if I could see one of his medals!” the boy suddenly added with a gasp of awe.

  “Phillip, stay away from him. The man’s a trained assassin.”

  “Really?” He whirled to face the window again, and whispered, “That’s fantastic.”

  She shook her head, seeing that her attempt to scare Phillip away from Nick had only had the opposite effect. Maybe she should let him meet Nick, she thought. Then he might see the toll that sort of life took on a person. It might curb his enthusiasm. But, no. Why risk it?

  “Lord Forrester and I will be leaving for London shortly to try to get some answers on a case. I’m going to send for Mr. Blake to come and mind you. I don’t need you getting into any further trouble. Now, behave,” she warned before pivoting and leaving him alone.

  Sulking a little, Phillip grumbled under his breath as his mother marched out of the library.

  Tyrannical woman.

  It was always awkward and disgusting to find her with one of her lovers, though he supposed that was only the way of the world.

  Every boy in his class thought she was the most beautiful lady they had ever seen. Which only made him roll his eyes and feign gagging. Try living with her, he was fond of retorting. She’s bossier than the Queen.

  Thank God, it sounded like she had improved her tastes if she had finally found herself one of Grandpa Virgil’s warrior-­heroes. Burning with curiosity, Phillip stared through the glass.

  Out on the lawn, minding his own business, the big, muscular, black-­clad man was practicing with throwing knives.

  “Crikey,” Phillip whispered to himself as one blade after another whipped through the air to crowd into the target’s center ring. He stared in awe, shaking his head.

  A real Order agent, right there on his very own lawn!

  Suddenly, Phillip set his jaw in stubborn determination that he had inherited from his grandsire the spymaster—­though, to be sure, it had not skipped a generation.

  No matter what Mother said, he had a right to talk to Lord Forrester, man-­to-­man. His own father was nothing but an unsmiling portrait and a name bequeathed to him, along with properties and fortune.

  Phillip gathered from the things his mother didn’t say that his father had been a bit of a dud.

  Of course, few men could have lived up to the standard set by Grandpa Virgil.

  Not that their connection came without cost. After all, many of Phillip’s relatives on his father’s side didn’t accept him on account of her being the Scotsman’s by-­blow.

  Some of his cousins had even taunted him once by calling his mother a half-­blood, and that, to be sure, had won his ire.

  Nobody insulted his mother.

  But although he’d never admit it, their rejection hurt. Indeed, it had convinced him over time that his real family lay with the Order, if only he would be allowed to join them.

  And now, at last, here was this visitor, a living, breathing connection to that whole, mysterious world.

  Phillip simply had to talk to him.

  Lord Forrester was one of the most famous Order agents, handpicked and trained by Virgil himself. This seasoned agent would be able to judge better than anyone the great question that obsessed Phillip’s heart: whether he had what it took to be accepted into the Order’s school. He was pretty sure they would’ve taken him simply because of his bloodlines: He knew he had the blood of heroes in his veins.

  But all Mother cared about was keeping him safe, as if he were an egg.

  She only did it because she loved him, he supposed, but she was such a mother hen. She just didn’t understand.

  Sometimes in this life a man had to do what a man had to do. Like now. His mind made up, he opened the library window, then climbed out in a most spylike fashion, jumping down silently onto the lawn.

  From there, he marched off to go and interview their mysterious guest for himself. Like Grandpa Virgil always used to say: Easier to ask forgiveness than permission.

  Nick was still practicing when he looked over and saw Lady Burke’s son striding toward him. He stopped what he was doing and turned, furrowing his brow, as the youngster hailed him.

  “Hullo there! Lord Forrester, isn’t it? I’m Lord Burke. Thou
ght I’d come and introduce myself. I’m Phillip!”

  Instantly wondering if the boy had seen him on the ground with his mother, Nick cleared his throat and bowed, feeling awkward. “Pleased to meet you, Lord Burke.”

  The kid joined him, staring eagerly at Nick as if he expected him to perform a circus trick. Juggling, perhaps.

  Nick frowned, a little unnerved by his beaming scrutiny. He turned away and made himself busy wiping some mud off one of his blades.

  “So, Mother says you knew Grandpa Virgil!” he blurted out at last.

  Nick paused, looking askance at him with caution. “Yes.”

  “Brilliant. He trained you?”

  “Yes. You know about the Order?” he asked warily.

  “Oh, I know lots! Let me see if I have this right. You’re . . . the expert sniper on Lord Beauchamp’s team.”

  “Was,” he mumbled ruefully, arching a brow. “All the teams have been disbanded since we were exposed. You know Beauchamp?”

  Phillip gave a sheepish shrug. “Know of him, that’s all. But I did get to meet Lord Falconridge once! Capital chap!”

  “Yes,” Nick agreed.

  “He didn’t know who I was. I mean, that my grandfather was Virgil. It’s been a family secret, y’see.”

  “So I gather.” Nick hid his amusement. But to call the existence of Virgil’s daughter and her son a “secret” was putting it mildly. More like a damned shock. “Pretty impressive how he kept all his own trained spies from finding out about you and your mother.”

  “He didn’t want me getting chosen. But I wish I had been!” he added eagerly.

  “Ah, no, you don’t,” Nick muttered.

  “ ’Course I do! It’s brilliant! You fellows are like . . . heroes or, or the gods of bloody Olympus! Well, the ladies seem to think so,” the boy jested.

  Nick sent him a dark look, extremely irked by such outlandish praise, but Phillip was beaming with his fantasies of adventure, derring-­do, and the admiration of pretty girls. “Where’s your mother?” he asked uncomfortably.

  “Writing a letter to the headmaster. I got kicked out of school,” he added rather proudly.