Sin With a Scoundrel: The Husband Hunters Club

by Sara Bennett

  “His reputation—”

  “I won’t speak to him in public, and yet I am quite willing to kiss him in private. Don’t you find that a little deceitful, Maria?”

  “I find it very sensible, miss.”

  “He’s a very good kisser, Maria.”

  Maria tightened her lips and said nothing.

  Tina smiled. “Have you seen Archie yet?”

  “I don’t have time to worry about Archie,” said Maria sharply.

  “I envy you, Maria,” Tina said dreamily. “You can marry whomever you want to, fall in love with whomever you want to. You don’t have to worry about anything except your own wishes.”

  Maria smiled. “I am not quite as free and easy as you seem to think, Miss Tina. If I marry, I must find a man who will not take my savings and leave me without my shoes, or will not hit me when he has been drinking, or will not break my heart and then run off with another woman.”

  “But at least you can marry a man you want to marry, even if you make a mistake. You do not have to take into account family connections and the critical eyes of society, and wealth and lineage, and . . .” She ran out of breath and shook her head, making Maria cluck her tongue as a curl bounced free.

  “I think you are seeing the life of a servant through rose-colored glasses, miss. And who said I intended to marry anyone? Come, you are ready to go down to dinner. You should put aside all your cares for this evening and enjoy yourself.”

  Tina smiled as she turned. “I will, Maria. And you must promise to enjoy yourself, too.”

  Maria nodded decisively. “I will, miss, so I will.”

  Chapter 19

  After his third glance toward the door, Richard told himself not to be so stupid. He’d warned himself about getting emotionally involved; obviously, he thought wryly, he hadn’t been listening. All the same, his reaction was surprising. What was it about this girl that made him feel so unlike himself? He thought about her more every day, and the taste he’d had, far from satisfying his desires, only made him want her more.

  He chatted with Sir Henry and Will Jackson and Sir Henry’s neighbor, Mr. Branson, waiting for her to appear, knowing that until she did, he couldn’t think clearly. The glimpse he’d had of her earlier in the salon, the tantalizing smile she’d given him, had made him useless for work.

  And then she was there. She wore a yellow dress that set off her dark hair and pale skin, and her beauty took his breath away. For an all-too-brief moment her eyes had met his, her expression startled, and then she’d turned away.

  It had occurred to him that this frisson between them might be as unnerving to her as it was to him, and now he was certain. And it was damned inconvenient! She was planning to marry Gilfoyle. Planning to kiss Gilfoyle, touch him, let him touch her. Let him have her in the most intimate of ways . . .

  Richard grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing tray and swallowed it almost savagely. His hand was shaking, and he gripped the stem so hard he nearly broke it. This was utterly ridiculous. He must calm himself, he must put Tina out of his mind.

  But if he was distracted, then so was Sir Henry, who kept glancing toward his wife. Lady Isabelle’s voice rose above the chatter of their guests, and she flittered about, as if unable to keep still for even a moment. Once he beckoned a servant and murmured in his ear, and the servant scurried to her side to convey the message. Isabelle lifted her head, her smile mechanical, and waved her hand at her husband.

  “I think we are ready to go in to dinner,” he said to Richard. “Come along. And if my wife has put you next to my cousin Edith, then you have my sincere sympathy.”

  But thankfully Cousin Edith had been reserved for Will Jackson, and Richard was seated beside Tina’s red-haired friend Margaret, a serious young woman, although he did his best to make her smile, and on her other side was Mr. Branson, a rather surly fellow. Tina was farther down the table, near Lady Isabelle, who appeared to have taken a great liking to the younger woman. Gilfoyle was there, too, and Richard struggled not to glare at the man as he chatted and laughed his way through the meal. As if, Richard thought darkly, he expected everyone to love him as much as he loved himself.

  And yet he had to wonder if that was the real Lord Horace. It could just be an act. Perhaps the jolly lord was a role he played, to disguise the sinister truth.

  That was one of the things Richard had come to Arlington Hall to find out.

  “Enjoying your stay?” It was Branson, finally doing the polite with Margaret Allsop. “Nice spot this. My family owned it once—it was a working farm then—but prices dropped after the war, and we had to sell it off. Arlington got a bargain.”

  Margaret murmured something.

  Branson responded a little less gloomily, and the conversation shifted to the weather, always a safe topic, thought Richard, his attention elsewhere.

  Tina was laughing at something Gilfoyle had said, and now she put her hand on his arm. The minx! She was using the tricks he’d taught her. Well, of course she was. That was the whole point of his expert training, was it not?

  It wasn’t Tina’s fault the idea no longer appealed to him—if it ever had.

  His restless gaze slid over Will Jackson, the poor fellow desperately attempting to extract himself from Cousin Edith’s endless discourse on birds. She told anyone who would listen, and even those who wouldn’t, that she was a keen ornithologist. It was her only topic of conversation. Richard remembered thinking before about Will as a possible partner for Tina. He was a good man, honest and true, and he had some money of his own. Not the fortune that Gilfoyle had, of course, but adequate. Tina would be much better off with Will than Horace, and although Richard had previously found fault with his friend, he knew whom he’d prefer to marry Tina if it came to it.

  Should he point her in that direction?

  He shifted restlessly in his chair.

  It would be the gentlemanly thing to do, and yet Richard wasn’t feeling particularly gentlemanly tonight. He didn’t want Tina to marry Gilfoyle or Will. He didn’t want her to marry anyone. He wanted her unmarried and free, available to him whenever he wanted her. He missed her mouth, the warm sighs she gave when he held her in his arms, he missed the wonderful softness of her body beneath his hands.

  The stark truth was he wanted her all for himself.

  Lady Isabelle had arranged some entertainment for the evening, but before it could begin all the men must finish their cigars and brandy and join the women in the drawing room. Sir Henry was lingering over his after-dinner tipple with several of his cronies. Tina had found herself a seat near an open window, away from the chatter—and Horace, who seemed particularly irritating tonight—when Lady Isabelle found her.

  “Lord Horace seems rather taken with you, Tina,” she said at once, arranging the folds of her pale blue silk as she sat down.

  “Do you think so?” Tina was genuinely surprised. She’d been thinking Horace an annoyance, but now, thinking back, she realized that at dinner there had been a difference in the way he looked at her, the way he spoke to her. Was he more attentive? She knew she ought to be thrilled that her plan was finally working, not so full of her own concerns that she had hardly noticed.

  “I have known Horace since I was a little girl,” she explained, aware of Lady Isabelle’s curious gaze. “He is almost like a-a brother to me.”

  “He didn’t seem to be looking at you in a very brotherly sort of way.” Her hostess laughed.

  “Oh.” The ironic notion came to Tina that perhaps Horace suddenly found her attractive because she had lost interest in him—that her being unattainable had changed him.

  A servant came scurrying over and murmured something to Lady Isabelle. Her face lit up. “Yes, yes, bring him in,” she said breathlessly. Her eyes slid to Tina, and their pupils seemed enormous. “I have arranged for Signor Veruda to sing for us. He is a famous baritone. From Rome. We are very privileged to have him here at Arlington Hall.”

  Just then a dark-haired man came saunter
ing into the room, and not long afterward, he was followed by Sir Henry and the other dawdling gentlemen. Tina’s eyes went straight to Richard, and she admitted with an awareness of regret that she was hunting the wrong man.

  Signor Veruda came over to take Lady Isabelle’s hand, his black eyes delving so shockingly into the shadows of her décolletage that Tina had to turn away. “My dearest lady, I have missed you unbearably. But I am here now, and I will sing to you.”

  “Yes, please do sing to me.” Lady Isabelle placed her fingers in his and allowed him to lead her to the pianoforte. The pianist was Cousin Edith, who did have another talent besides watching birds.

  With the chairs arranged and everyone seated, the music began. Vincenzo Veruda was not a tall man, and his middle was a little more rounded than it should be, but he would never go unnoticed among all these Englishmen. His dark eyes sought out the women in the room, and he smiled often, causing hearts to flutter and cheeks to flush.

  “Damn poser.” Horace had come to sit beside her while they listened.

  “Who?”

  “Him. Veruda.”

  “You’re just jealous.”

  Horace snorted. “You don’t find men like that attractive, do you?”

  “Why not? He’s charming and handsome, and obviously talented. I’m sure he would have a great deal to teach me.”

  Lord, why had she said that? To annoy him, she supposed. Only now, he would think the worst of her character.

  His eyes narrowed, and she couldn’t help but be nervously aware of his sideways glances in her direction. And Lady Isabelle had grown more and more shrill, with Sir Henry more and more anxious and protective of her. He hovered, which seemed to drive her to distraction.

  “Go and talk to our guests, my dear,” she told him testily.

  “I am perfectly happy here,” he rumbled.

  “Then go and smoke a cigar in the garden.”

  “I am thinking of giving them up.”

  Angry tears sparkled in her eyes as she turned away.

  There was definitely something not right at Arlington Hall, thought Tina, as Signor Veruda launched into yet another song.

  Eventually supper was served, and Tina was able to escape Horace, but she had to prowl about the room because every time she thought of settling she could see him, making his way toward her. It would have been amusing if it wasn’t so awful.

  “Are you enjoying the music, Miss Smythe?”

  Richard had come up beside her, and his deep voice with its intimate tone played with her senses; if she’d been a harp, she would have quivered. With the smile she couldn’t stop curving her lips, she turned to him, knowing she should be trying not to show how much his presence affected her and yet completely unable to help herself.

  “I am. And you, Mr. Eversham? Are you musical?”

  “Musical in the sense I enjoy listening to it, but I’m afraid I have no talent for playing any instrument.”

  It took her a moment to realize he had finished speaking and another to process what he had said. She floundered to think of something else to say, her normally easy conversation drying up. What on earth was wrong with her? She must pull herself together or he . . . everyone . . . he would notice.

  He leaned closer, pretending to inspect a tray of meringues on the table in front of them. “Lord Horace seems to have changed his mind about you.” His voice was grave, as though he was delivering bad news.

  “Has he?” She glanced in Horace’s direction and saw to her dismay that he was watching her. He didn’t look pleased.

  “He isn’t looking at you like an old friend, Tina.”

  Suddenly she felt as if she were the one being hunted. She stood up, her shawl sliding from her shoulders before she could stop it. He bent and retrieved it for her. She reached out to take it, but instead he slid it about her shoulders, his fingers brushing bare skin.

  Tina gave a gasp; she couldn’t prevent it.

  He was very close, and she wanted him even closer.

  “Tina . . .” he half groaned.

  “I beg your pardon, Eversham. Sir Henry wants a word.” It was Horace, eyes narrowed, clearly suspicious that something was going on. Richard gave him a look as if he’d like to strangle him, then with a bow to Tina, turned and walked away. Horace took her arm in a proprietary grip.

  “Don’t like that fellow,” he said in a voice that was far too loud. “Don’t know why Sir Henry keeps inviting him.”

  Tina opened her mouth to argue and then changed her mind. What was the use of increasing Horace’s suspicions? Instead she said, “I am rather tired, Horace, and Signor Veruda is giving me a headache. I think I will retire. Good night.”

  He looked put out, as if he’d expected a gushing thank-you for rescuing her from the awful Mr. Eversham, but suddenly she didn’t care what he thought. She just wanted to be alone, to sleep away her fears and anxieties.

  And to dream of a totally impractical future that was all about Richard Eversham.

  Chapter 20

  Lady Carol was pretending to be asleep. Her head was badly cushioned by the worn squabs, and every time there was a bump it jolted her, so that now she had the beginnings of a headache. Still it was better to pretend to be asleep than watch Sir Thomas scowling to himself on the opposite seat of the hired coach.

  The visit to his brother Harold had not gone well.

  There had been the usual recriminations and mutterings about Sir Thomas’s shortcomings as a responsible adult, but they’d been prepared for that. And to give him credit, Harold had agreed to pay some of their more pressing bills. It was the manner in which he’d done it that rankled with his brother.

  Harold hadn’t handed Thomas the money—he’d refused point-blank, saying his brother could not be trusted. Instead, he’d directed his steward to pay the bills, humiliating enough in itself but even more so when he gave the man his instructions right there in front of them, using it as another chance to belittle Thomas’s money-management skills.

  No wonder he was scowling.

  Lady Carol wriggled to try to get more comfortable, wishing she were home in her bed. At least now they would be spared losing the house for a little longer, but they would still lose it. Harold had made it clear he would not be coming to their assistance again, no matter how dire things became or how much they groveled. This was it.

  She’d tried hard not to blame her husband for their mess, but she couldn’t help it. It was his fault they’d lost everything, and it gave her a dark, achy feeling in her heart. She might never be able to forgive him. Worse, she might never be able to love him again. Theirs had been a happy marriage—oh, they’d had their good and bad times, the same as anyone else, but compared to some other unions she’d witnessed, theirs was a truly happy one.

  Or it had been until now.

  She glanced out of the window at the passing forest. Ironically, they were only a few miles away from Arlington Hall, where Tina and Charles were staying. Lady Carol sighed, wondering how they were managing and whether either of them had secured a proposal of marriage yet. She hated herself for thinking of it, but she couldn’t help it—she’d never intended to be the sort of mother who pushed her children in the path of rich partners and marriages of convenience, and here she was, doing exactly that.

  And she blamed Sir Thomas for that, too.

  The sudden jerking stop of the coach brought her out of her dark thoughts. Sir Thomas reared up like an angry serpent. “What is happening?” he roared, reaching to open the door.

  Before he could touch it, however, it was opened for him from the outside, and Lady Carol gave a muffled scream.

  A man stood there wearing a black hat and a mask hiding all of his face apart from his cold, pale blue eyes. He wore black gloves and in one of his hands he held a long-barreled pistol, which he pointed at her husband.

  For a heart stopping moment Lady Carol thought he was going to discharge the weapon, and that Sir Thomas was going to die right in front of her shocked gaze. T
he whole world seemed to slow and solidify, and in that instant she knew that if he were to die, then life for her would also cease.

  The highwayman laughed, a dry, dead sound, and said, “What’s happening? Why, a spot of highway robbery, that’s what!”

  Lady Carol heard another laugh and looked up from the awful sight in front of her. There were two other men, sitting astride their horses. They both wore the same black masks covering most of their faces, and they both held pistols, and their coachman lay on the ground, unconscious or dead.

  The highwayman laughed again as he noticed the expression on her face. “Sorry, lovely, I wish I had time to play.” He looked her up and down and she cringed. “Very nice for an old ’un,” he said softly.

  “Leave my wife alone!” Sir Thomas shouted. “Just take our belongings and go.”

  “Shut up, old man,” the robber said quietly.

  Lady Carol shivered and reached for her husband, clinging to him. She had never been so terrified and never felt so helpless in her life. She needed Sir Thomas, she knew now how much she needed him, just as this man was threatening to take him away from her.

  “Hand over all your valuables. Now!”

  Lady Carol whimpered as Sir Thomas handed his fob watch to the masked man. “That’s all I have,” he said angrily although he had stopped shouting and was trying to remain calm. The highwayman frightened him, too, but mainly because of the way in which he was looking at his wife. “You’ve held up the wrong coach. We’re bankrupt.”

  “So they all say. Out of the coach!”

  Sir Thomas assisted his frightened wife down from the coach.

  “Jewelry,” demanded the highwayman.

  With shaking hands Lady Carol fumbled with her pearl necklace and when she couldn’t open it burst into tears. Just as it seemed the highwayman was about to rip it from her throat, Sir Thomas gently undid the clasp and handed the pearls over.