The Scoundrel Takes a Bride

by Stefanie Sloane

  “It is all coming back to me now,” Nicholas muttered, turning away from the irritatingly calm man and stalking back to the sofa. He lay down, stretching out until he was comfortably situated. “For a holy man, you are not terribly bright.”

  “Ah, sahib Bourne.” A deep sigh managed to sound both patient and long-suffering. “You must remember: truth, contentment, forbearance, and mercy belong to great minds,” Singh urged gently.

  His beatific smile gleamed like some damn beacon in the night, Nicholas thought with irritation.

  He closed his eyes and folded his arms across his chest. “Your wisdom will serve you very little here in London, Singh. This is not India. War does not rage on our streets in a traditional sense. Still, there is struggle, my friend. We humans cannot manage to breathe without destroying.”

  “Then I am doubly glad that I have come, sahib. It sounds as though you need a holy man such as me now more than ever.”

  “Stop calling me sahib, will you?” Nicholas growled, chafing at the respectful form of address adopted by so many in colonial India.

  The doorknob rattled as someone inserted a key. Nicholas released a roar of protest. “Mrs. Fitzroy, have mercy on me, I beg of you.”

  “I see you are alive—and as charming as ever.”

  Nicholas opened one eye and peered over the back of the sofa. “Langdon, is that you? I’ve only just arrived back in town.”

  Langdon sauntered toward him as he tossed a key up in the air and deftly caught it. “I was on my way to the club when I thought to check on you. Splendid bit of luck, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “That is one way of looking at it,” Nicholas quipped, opening both eyes and glaring at his brother.

  As usual, Langdon was dressed impeccably. A deep blue coat of light wool stretched over his broad shoulders with nary a wrinkle, his cravat and linen shirt were pristine white, and the black leather of his Hessian boots gleamed with polish.

  Nicholas was abruptly reminded that his own boots were dull with dust. The ride from the Primrose to London had left his own black Weston-tailored coat and fawn breeches less than immaculate and imbued with the faint scent of horse and leather. And since he’d released his valet just prior to leaving for the Inn, he’d have to find a new man to care for his clothes and polish his boots. He nearly groaned aloud at the thought. He had little patience for fussy valets who moped and grew gloomy when his boots were dirty.

  A polite but forced clearing of a throat reminded Nicholas why he’d collapsed on the sofa in the first place. “Oh yes. Langdon, say hello to Singh, a friend from India.”

  Singh padded to where Langdon leaned against the faded sofa and bowed. “Lord …?”

  “Blast,” Nicholas uttered, already tired of polite society. “Lord Stonecliffe.”

  “A pleasure to meet you, Lord Stonecliffe.”

  “Langdon here is, as you’ve just learned, a lord,” Nicholas informed Singh, sarcasm effortlessly lacing his voice. “And quite the lord he is, too. Responsible, kind, generous, honest—”

  “In short, everything that my little brother is not,” Langdon interrupted, playfully landing a punch to Nicholas’s biceps. “Or so he’d have you believe.”

  Langdon offered his hand to Singh and smiled when the Indian took it. “Don’t let him fool you, Singh. There’s not a finer chap to be found.”

  “We are in agreement, then, Lord Stonecliffe,” Singh replied enthusiastically.

  Nicholas audibly groaned.

  “I believe it is time for tea,” Singh announced.

  “Oh, splendid,” Langdon said, smirking at Nicholas.

  Nicholas closed his eyes. “I would groan in response if I did not recall doing so only moments ago.”

  “Indeed, you did, sahib,” Singh confirmed with a complete lack of guile, and then quit the room.

  “I like him,” Langdon said with conviction.

  Nicholas frowned. “You would,” he answered. “Very much alike, you two. So full of goodness and all.”

  “Come now, Nicholas,” Langdon chided. “Must you always be so hard on yourself?”

  Nicholas folded both arms across his chest. “Simply doing the dead lord proud.”

  Langdon sighed, as he always did whenever Nicholas referred to their father by the disrespectful sobriquet.

  Not that he held the man in any more lofty esteem. It was the principle of the matter; and to Langdon, that meant everything.

  Nicholas could let principle hang, and often did. Especially as it pertained to his father. The late Earl of Stonecliffe was not a violent man. Nor was he irresponsible, dissolute, or particularly unlikable. No, he was simply uninterested in his second son. Until Nicholas decided he’d make his father notice him. He could not do everything right—Langdon had already claimed that role—but he could do everything wrong, and rather fabulously.

  He captured his father’s attention, all right. And the man’s quiet contempt and disappointment.

  Which only hurt more. And, in turn, encouraged Nicholas to push harder. Even now, with the man dead and buried in the ground, Nicholas continued to hone his debauchery.

  He couldn’t say why. It was simply what he did; or, to be more precise, who he was.

  “Now, dear brother.” Nicholas opened his eyes and pushed upright. “Care to tell me why you’re really here?”

  Langdon’s angelic smile did not fool Nicholas for one moment.

  “Your club is nowhere near the Albany, unless one was blind, drunk, and in possession of a terribly misleading map.” Nicholas perused Langdon’s person skeptically. “None of which applies to you.”

  Langdon stretched out his legs and crossed his boots at the ankles. “I needed to see for myself that you were well.”

  “Is this to do with Carrington’s wedding?” Nicholas asked, shame bubbling to life low in his belly. “I’d fully intended on being there. I must have misremembered the date.”

  “I do not doubt you, Nicholas,” Langdon assured him. “But he is your dearest friend. I knew that something was wrong. If not for Corinthian business I would have collected you myself.”

  The shame began to boil in earnest. It was always worse when it came to Langdon because his brother truly cared; judgment was never an ulterior motive with him.

  Nicholas wished it were. Especially now.

  “Look at you, though—back in London of your own accord. That’s something, brother. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  Nicholas could taste the bitter, familiar tang of self-loathing fill his mouth.

  He nodded in agreement, earning a hopeful grin from Langdon for his efforts.

  “Now, where is Singh with the bloody tea?”

  The Fabersham Residence

  GROSVENOR SQUARE

  LONDON

  Nearly three days after leaving Nicholas at the Primrose Inn, Sophia accompanied her friend Mrs. Mason to a charity event at the home of one of fashionable London’s leading hostesses.

  They were a study in contrasts. Sophia wore a fashionable, deep yellow gown of fine silk with a cream shawl draped gracefully around her shoulders. The toes of her matching embroidered slippers peeped from beneath her skirt. Her hair was caught up in a bright sunshine-colored ribbon, held in place with amethyst clips, and a delicate amethyst pendant hung from a filigree gold chain about her throat. Mrs. Mason was clad in a more serviceable gown of dark blue wool, her slippers sturdy black leather, and she’d pinned her hair up in a restrained knot atop her head. Their attire spoke clearly of the gap between their stations in life and yet there was an ease between the two that could not go unnoticed by even the most casual of observers.

  “Are you enjoying yourself, Mrs. Mason?” Sophia asked her companion. The two women stood near the back of Lady Fabersham’s drawing room, where a tea was well under way.

  Mrs. Mason forced a smile in response. The founder of the Halcyon Society was clearly uncomfortable amongst the ladies of the ton.

  “I know this is not precisely within your bailiwick,” Soph
ia replied with sympathy. “Still, think of the good we can do,” she added, hopeful the distraction would ease the woman’s nerves.

  The Halcyon Society offered women in desperate situations a safe haven. Beyond shelter, food, and clothing, Mrs. Mason supplied training and moral support for all who came seeking assistance, ensuring that no one would fall back into the bad habits or heartbreaking realities that had landed them on her doorstep in the first place.

  Dash’s wife, Elena, was intent on establishing a sister institution in her home village of Verwood. Such an undertaking required money. And lots of it. Which was where Lady Fabersham and the other well-intentioned ladies of her acquaintance entered the equation.

  Mrs. Mason fingered the modest neckline of her dark blue morning gown. “Of course. And please don’t think me ungrateful.”

  “I would never, Mrs. Mason,” Sophia assured her. “And believe me, I know all too well the toll such events can take on a person.”

  Mrs. Mason’s brow furrowed, causing her glasses to slip.

  “Just because a person is born into a life with certain expectations does not guarantee they have any real talent for the task. Never mind an inclination,” Sophia added. “Our circumstances do not dictate our fate. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  Mrs. Mason’s lips softened into a curve of understanding. “Of course. But if I may say so, one would never know it to look at you. The Furies’ work?”

  “Yes,” Sophia confirmed, a fond smile blooming.

  Everyone in London knew the Furies—or at the very least, knew of them. Three well-connected sisters with minds like wire traps and the wills to match. They’d been friends of her mother’s and had willingly taken Sophia under their wings after Lady Afton’s death.

  “I thought so,” Mrs. Mason replied approvingly.

  Lady Fabersham approached, anticipation coloring her full, round cheeks. “Lady Sophia, Mrs. Mason. I believe we are ready.”

  “Are you prepared then?” Sophia whispered to Mrs. Mason, whose face showed nothing more now than polite interest. The small nod the older woman gave her before turning to their hostess was answer enough.

  “Excellent,” Mrs. Mason answered, a nearly imperceptible tremble in her voice.

  “Please, come with me,” Lady Fabersham beckoned to her. “I will provide a brief introduction, after which the floor will be yours.”

  Mrs. Mason nodded and allowed her hostess to lead the way.

  Sophia slipped into an empty chair near the doorway. The ladies clapped politely after Lady Fabersham’s remarks, and then the room quieted. Mrs. Mason took her place behind an ornate mahogany podium and looked out at the audience. Her simple dress was a stark contrast to the deep rose of the sumptuous silk drapes framing the window behind her, which looked out at a riot of spring blooms swaying on the breeze. She paused for a moment to smooth gloved fingers over her already tidy hair. “My ladies, I fear what I am about to tell you will be difficult to hear, for my life has not been an easy one. Still, without my story, there would be no Halcyon Society. And that is more terrifying to me than anything I have lived through.”

  Sophia felt a surge of pride at the sound of the brave woman’s voice, now strong and clear as she laid the foundation for her powerful tale. That very morning, she’d listened to Mrs. Mason practicing her speech. The sorrow and despair of the woman’s former life juxtaposed against the hope and healing of Halcyon House had moved Sophia to tears; she felt sure the ladies in attendance would respond in a similar fashion.

  Which was exactly why Mrs. Mason’s presence was so important. In her position as mistress of Halcyon House, she possessed something that the other women in this room did not: real life experience.

  Sophia did not mean to be cruel. In fact, she very much envied her peers. If life had been kinder, she would be amongst them now, sipping her tea and listening to Mrs. Mason’s tale until her heart ached and her reticule felt far too heavy for its own good.

  It was true enough that Sophia held a position in elegant society that her family’s title commanded. She spoke the ton’s language. Behaved in the prescribed manner decreed by good breeding. Attended all the right balls and soirees.

  And yet she knew in her soul that it was all a sham.

  She was not one of them.

  Bearing the awareness of life’s darker side, indeed the very possibility of such a thing, was a heavy burden and one Sophia would not wish on her greatest enemy. Just enough insight so as to induce a charitable heart was noble, at least to her way of thinking. Too much, and you risked injuring the organ beyond repair.

  Mrs. Mason had reached the point in her story where her redemption appeared to be an impossible goal. Sophia blinked back tears and surveyed the room. Dainty handkerchiefs were earning their keep, almost every last woman in attendance physically moved by the harrowing account.

  Sophia had seen tragedy up close. Her mother’s death had robbed her world of light and joy and left her feeling helpless. Alone. Her work with the Runners and the Halcyon Society had done something. And now, with Nicholas’s help, she would find the man responsible for ruining so many lives.

  Sophia joined in the rousing chorus of applause when Mrs. Mason concluded, a tentative smile forming on her lips. Was it possible she, too, might one day live nothing more than a normal life, free from her past and its constant presence?

  There was only one way to find out. It had been three days since her trip to the Primrose Inn, and still not a word from Nicholas. She’d waited long enough.

  5

  Seven Dials District

  ST. GILES PARISH

  LONDON

  Nicholas had spent three hours attempting to convince Singh that he should return to India. The man’s help had proven invaluable when Nicholas had been a foreigner thrust into danger in exotic, lethal surroundings. As a thank you, he’d settled a small fortune on the man, intended to provide retirement for Singh in familiar, safe surroundings.

  The possibility that the holy man would join him in yet another dangerous endeavor was not acceptable.

  But Singh was obstinate in his determination. Which is why Nicholas found himself with Singh, standing in the center of the notorious Seven Dials, taking in the frenetic pace of the people who traversed the seven roads that branched off from the centralized point.

  “Why is everyone in such a hurry, sahib?” Singh asked, quickly darting out of the way of a woman busily dragging her three children toward White Lion Street.

  The last child in the procession, a little urchin with dirt-stained cheeks and grubby clothes, stuck out his tongue and crossed his eyes at the men. His mother tugged harder, urging the three youngsters on at an impossibly fast clip.

  Amused, Nicholas grinned at the child and moved forward as though to follow.

  The boy squawked in fear and rushed around to bump against his mother’s side, earning a clout on the head for his efforts.

  “One does not want to be caught in the streets when night descends on St. Giles, Singh,” Nicholas explained, watching as the family disappeared in the growing dusk.

  Singh looked around at the decaying buildings that lined each of the seven streets. “Then this is not the prosperous section of London, sahib?”

  Nicholas was tempted to disagree. It was his plan to show Singh all of the worst that London had to offer in an attempt to encourage him to return home. Though India boasted many of the world’s most disturbing slums, Singh had grown up in the lush and beautiful countryside and never traveled far from his village. If the St. Giles rookery was not enough to convince Singh to go home, Nicholas did not know what would.

  “No, not precisely,” he answered, unable to look into Singh’s trusting eyes and lie. “Still, I thought it best to acquaint you with the area, as it is important you know the entire city before deciding to stay in London.”

  “But I have already decided to stay, sahib,” Singh answered simply. “Nothing will change my mind.”

  Nicholas sighed deeply. “Surely you mi
ss your village, Singh. This,” he paused, gesturing at the tavern behind them. The faded sign hung drunkenly from one chain and the lamplight was barely visible through dirty windows. As they watched, a man in filthy, torn clothing staggered out the doorway and reeled away, down the street. “This is hell itself—especially when compared to the beauty of your home.”

  Singh tilted his face up and pondered the darkening sky above the Seven Dials, then looked again at Nicholas.

  “Sahib, it is said the most beautiful things in the universe are the starry heavens above us and the feeling of duty within us. My duty is to you, so here I am. And the stars that fill your London sky are the very same ones that watch over my beautiful valley in India.”

  “You’ve a saying for every instance, don’t you?” Nicholas asked begrudgingly, knowing very well that the smoke-smudged air over the city would hide any glimpse of Singh’s stars. Nevertheless, he too tipped his head back to look at the expanse of soot-stained sky that seemed to hang heavily above the rookery.

  “Sahib, it is said—”

  “It was a yes or no question, Singh,” Nicholas interrupted, placing his thumb and middle finger over the bridge of his nose and firmly pressing.

  “Ah,” Singh uttered calmly. “Then, yes, sahib. My answer is yes.”

  “Well then, in that case, let us discover what your gods and wise men might have to say about the bowels of St. Giles, shall we?” Nicholas lowered his hand and turned in a slow circle. “I believe we’ll begin with Queen Street.”

  “Surely your monarch does not reside here?” Singh asked disbelievingly.

  Nicholas stepped down from the circular road junction and gestured for Singh to follow. “No, my good man. I am afraid the queens to be found on this particular street have nothing of the royal about them. Now pay attention, Singh. St. Giles is infamous for its thieves and other, more dangerous, criminals.”

  He looked behind him, hoping to see the back of Singh as he ran for his life. What met him was the man’s damnably serene smile. “Murderers, Singh,” he said with emphasis. “I refer to murderers—and worse.”