The Perks of Loving a Scoundrel

by Jennifer McQuiston

  “Not now, Wilson,” West warned, reaching a hand toward the front door. “I’ve . . . somewhere to be.”

  “I admit some disappointment. I had thought, perhaps, that you had changed.” The butler’s gray, rheumy eyes fixed on him, disapproving. “If you don’t mind me saying, you have seemed happier of late. As it happens, I quite approve of your bride and the changes she has wrought in your life. Would she approve of your late night activity?”

  West gritted his teeth. No, Mary would not approve, but he wasn’t going to admit that out loud. And hopefully, by the end of this long night, he’d have some bit of evidence in hand that confirmed his suspicions, something to properly share with her. “Save your disappointment for my wind-makers, Wilson,” he growled. “You don’t even know where I am going.”

  The old servant straightened his shoulders. “I could hazard a guess.”

  “Well then, guess away.” West tipped a finger to his forehead in a sort of salute. “And I’ll raise a toast when I get there.”

  Irritation continued to poke at him as he stepped out of the front door and swung south toward St. Audley Street. It stung, a bit, that Wilson had presumed the worst of him. But there were more important things at hand than correcting the old servant’s presumptions. If he was being honest with himself, he was disappointed by the events of the night, and not only the exchange with Wilson just now. The conversation he’d suffered with Southingham tonight in the ballroom had opened old wounds, raw slices of his past that still rankled. But as incendiary as it had been, it had also been painfully unilluminating.

  He’d wanted Southingham’s voice to match the voice in his memory. But it hadn’t seemed to, at least in the course of a heated conversation.

  Which meant none of this made sense.

  Was it because a man’s voice changed at a whisper, became something less discernible? Or perhaps Lady Ashington’s maid had lied about that business with the note. Or perhaps . . .

  Perhaps West was losing his mind. Perhaps there were a dozen people involved in this plot, all of them dukes, and the joke was really on him.

  The Duke of Southingham’s home was a white brick behemoth built in the most fashionable part of Mayfair. To the inexperienced bystander, it would appear to be an impenetrable fortress, a Queen Anne-style manor four stories tall.

  But West wasn’t anything close to an inexperienced bystander. Thanks to his now-infamous prank, he had an intimate knowledge of the household and its various vulnerabilities. The gate to the inner courtyard could be breached with a running start, and the window at the far side of the scullery still boasted an insecure latch. He jiggled the frame until he heard the latch fall away, then opened the window and climbed inside.

  Straightening, he took in the shaded shape of the kitchen. One year ago, he and Grant had navigated this space wearing skirts and smirks, then climbed the stairs with a bit of a drunken swagger. Only, he had fallen prey to the wrong pretty smile.

  This time, however, his destination wasn’t the duchess’s bedroom, and his self-appointed task for the evening wasn’t a stolen kiss or two.

  He crept along a pitch-dark hallway, feeling his way with a hand on the wall, looking for Southingham’s study. But when he found it, the muted glow of candlelight leaked from below the closed door. He stared down at that strip of light, hardly daring to breathe.

  What the devil? It was close to one o’clock in the morning. Hardly the time of night to be going over household ledgers and accounts.

  Carefully, he pressed an ear against the door. Caught the low murmur of voices.

  The hairs on the back of West’s neck stood at attention.

  Because the whispered voices were all too familiar.

  “Keep your voice down,” he heard a man say from inside the room. “What did you need to speak with me about so urgently? It’s dangerous for us to meet here like this.”

  “I didn’t know what else to do. It’s Westmore,” a woman’s voice answered, miraculously matching the one from his memory. “He’s married that girl who was asking questions about us. I am worried that he knows something.”

  “Don’t worry about Westmore. He may think he knows something. But the man isn’t as smart as he seems.” Though the voice was muffled, something about the way the man said his name rang warning bells of familiarity again in West’s head. The whisper matched the memory from the library. Holding his breath, he reached out a hand to gingerly try the door handle.

  It didn’t budge.

  He lowered his ear to the locked door again, holding his breath.

  “I told you,” he heard the man say, “no one will believe either of them. I’m more worried about our friends in Scotland. How goes our business there?”

  “There’s a problem.” The woman’s voice lowered. “Vivian has disappeared, the money with her. Carlson says the money was never delivered. I knew we shouldn’t have trusted her.”

  A frustrated growl echoed through the door. “There’s no time to fix it. The date is set. It was in the papers just today. June 24th. There won’t be a better chance.” There was a furious silence. “If they can’t be brought to heel, I’ll have to do it myself.”

  The woman gasped. “That was never part of the plan.”

  “Don’t worry, darling. They’ll bear the blame, regardless.”

  West caught a soft moan, and then other sounds that told him something beyond a little negotiating was going on in the room. He pushed away from the door, even as his mind cartwheeled around the bits he had overheard.

  June 24th. It wasn’t much time.

  And Scotland? That scarcely made sense. To be sure there was a good deal of nationalist pride in the Highlands, but it was the sort to inspire festivals, not murder.

  Without warning, the light beneath the door snuffed out. West’s instincts screamed at him to go. But he couldn’t leave, not yet.

  Not without some proof in hand.

  West scrambled sideways as he heard a key turn in the lock, pinning himself into the shadows beside the door. He held his breath as the door began to creak open, and pulled his pistol from his jacket, just in case. His finger hovered ready on the trigger, but he would not, could not, shoot, not unless his own life was threatened. Because while he’d heard enough things to want to shoot the man about to walk through that door, he was the one skulking about Southingham’s hallway. The one who had broken into the man’s house.

  The one the authorities would presume was in the wrong.

  “Not that way,” he heard the woman hiss from inside the room. “Someone could see us. We should use the other door. Quietly, now.”

  The door swung shut again. The footsteps grew fainter. West took a deep breath over the too-loud pounding of his heart. Reached out a hand to carefully open the study door. Nudged it open with his shoe and then crept soundlessly inside, his pistol raised.

  But he was too late.

  A door on the opposite end of the room yawned open.

  The instinct to give chase nudged him in that imprudent direction. But what was he thinking to do? Stalk Southingham down in his own home and shoot the man in what would appear to be cold blood? If he shot Southingham tonight, he might disarm one of the traitors, but he would leave others on the loose. Worse, it would ensure his own arrest, and leave Mary vulnerable and unprotected. Because he had no proof of Southingham’s perfidy, no word against the man beyond his own.

  And in the eyes of the authorities, his word was about as useful as a three-legged horse.

  Instead of giving chase, as the blood in his veins demanded, he invested that burning energy into quickly searching Southingham’s desk. He pulled out his case of matches and struck one after the other, using the meager light to rifle wordlessly through drawers, looking for some piece of paper, some irrefutable proof of the duke’s involvement, something that might convince Scotland Yard to take the threat more seriously.

  There was maddeningly little to be found, no notes outlining murder plans, no receipts for bullets
or the like. He found a single scrap of paper, a note scribbled to some London modiste providing direction for a delivery.

  Anger burned through him as he stared down at the note. It was in a handwriting that perfectly matched the writing he’d seen on Mary’s note.

  Well. If he’d had any doubts before, they were well and truly buried now. He was more convinced than ever that Southingham was one of the traitors, and the one who’d sent Mary the note. But while it was a damning bit of evidence for him to see, it was still not enough to convince anyone in a position to act.

  He could only imagine the sniggers of the Scotland Yard officials when he produced a note to a modiste and claimed it was a clue to a traitorous plot.

  Finally, as he came down to his last, flickering match, West picked up the only other thing he could find, a much-folded copy of The London Times. As the last flame died, he shoved the pages into his jacket pocket. But even as he climbed out of the scullery window and vaulted over the courtyard gate, West couldn’t help but worry. Based on what he’d seen and heard tonight, Southingham was definitely plotting to kill the queen.

  And he suspected he was going to need more than a few dozen rats to make this right.

  Chapter 23

  Though he knew Mary would be waking in only a few hours, West’s feet did not seem to want to turn toward home. He felt the burn of nervous energy, the impossibility of sleep.

  He needed to talk to someone, someone he could trust.

  And although his first instinct was to talk to Mary, she was still asleep in their bed, oblivious to what he had just uncovered.

  So his feet turned south, carrying him toward St. James Street and the friendship he’d neglected for the past few weeks. Though it was now past two o’clock in the morning, White’s was still open, as he’d known it would be. West settled into his usual chair at his usual table, then looked about, hoping to find Grant. But when he spied his friend holding court by the betting book, West was reminded, then, of the wager that had placed against him.

  Bugger it all. Perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea after all.

  He looked away, irritated, only to see Lord Ashington sitting at a nearby table, nursing a glass of brandy. There would be no help from that quarter either—his new brother-in-law had already refused to believe him once tonight. In point of fact, no one believed him.

  No one, that was, but Mary.

  He fumbled in his jacket for a cigarette and his matches, only to find the bloody matches had gone missing. He frowned in irritation, wondering where the case had disappeared to.

  Not that it mattered.

  Not that any of this mattered.

  He stood up. Pushed back his chair, feeling out of sorts, out of place, and nearly out of time. For Christ’s sake, what was he doing here? White’s and whisky and the occasional defiant cigarette might have once defined who he was, but he had more to live for now. And the ear he really wanted to bend, the ear he needed, would be waking up in—West impatiently checked his pocket watch—exactly two hours and thirteen minutes.

  As he slipped the watch back in his pocket, the door to White’s flew open. Southingham staggered into the room, his chest heaving, spittle flying. “Westmore!” the man roared, looking around with wild eyes, then aiming directly for him.

  West stood up and faced his old enemy with an almost preternatural calm. “Was there something you wanted, Your Grace?”

  “It seems there’s something you want!” Southingham slapped a hand down on West’s table. “And I’ll see you in hell for it!”

  West inhaled sharply as he saw the glove Southingham had just thrown down. “Is this about what I said earlier tonight?” he asked, recognizing the wide eyes crowding in around the scene, anticipating the wagers that were no doubt already being placed in the bloody book.

  “It’s not about what you said. It’s about what you’ve done.” Southingham flung something at him then, a flash of silver, end over end. “And I demand satisfaction.”

  West caught it. Turned it over in his fingers. It was the small case that held his matches. He didn’t need to look down to know what he would see the initials engraved on it.

  G. W.

  Damn it all to hell. West closed his fingers over the silver case. He must have forgotten it earlier, when he was rifling through Southingham’s desk. The duke had clearly misinterpreted things, and seemed to believe he’d left it behind as a bragging point after a midnight visit to the Duchess of Southingham. Either that, or the man was seeking to remove the threat he posed to the plot in a very public way, one no one would question.

  As West studied the man seething in front of him, an idea unfurled like a banner, borne as much from necessity as helplessness. He’d found no evidence tonight linking Southingham to the plot to kill the queen, nothing tangible he could hold in his hand or show someone. But perhaps . . . if he was very lucky . . . and very, very careful . . . he might take this opportunity to defuse the threat Southingham posed without worry of a murder charge.

  He forced his hands to stay loose by his side, neither defending himself nor contradicting the presumption. He only prayed the duke hadn’t taken his anger out on the duchess. She was truly innocent in all of this. “Very well then,” he said slowly. “I accept your challenge.”

  “Choose your weapon,” the duke snarled.

  West nodded, turning himself over to the inevitability of it. “Pistols. What distance?”

  The duke’s eyes narrowed. “Twenty paces.”

  “Hyde Park,” West shot back. “Dawn.”

  “Name your second, Westmore.”

  West hesitated. He didn’t want to drag someone else into this mess if he could help it. And as he was still rather angry with Grant for placing that gut-terrible wager . . .

  “I’ll stand up as Westmore’s second.”

  West turned his head to see Grant standing beside him. “No,” he protested, shaking his head. “This isn’t your fight, Grant.” Or at least, it wasn’t a fight Grant had chosen to believe in.

  “Save your breath, West.” He shrugged. “It’s what friends do for each other. We save each others’ lives, be it from war or stupidity.” Grant’s forehead wrinkled in thought. “But tomorrow is too soon. You both need time to calm down and get your affairs in order. Shall we say the morning of June 26th?”

  “No.” Panic became a drum beat in West’s ears. By the established rules of etiquette, one’s second chose the time and date for the dual, and it was customary to allow time for both parties to cool down, contemplate an apology. At least, that was the way it had gone the last time Southingham had challenged him. But for God’s sake, the date Grant was suggesting was impossible. “It must be sooner,” he insisted.

  Southingham’s eyes narrowed. “Eager to meet your maker, Westmore?”

  “Perhaps I am just eager to make your wife a widow,” West shot back.

  Instead of enraging the duke to imprudence, as he’d hoped, his words seemed to have the opposite effect. “Well you know, I do think the 26th shall do nicely,” Southingham sneered. “Especially as I know it doesn’t particularly suit you.”

  West clenched his hands. “I suppose you need the time to brush up on your target skills?” A ripple of laughter spun through the room, confirming they had a wide and interested audience.

  “I could kill you with my eyes shut,” Southinghman countered. “In the dark!”

  West was desperate enough to unleash his tongue, though it was a foregone conclusion he was going to say something stupid. But truly, stupid was about all he had left. He needed to push Southingham beyond reason if he was going to have any chance in hell of saving the queen from whatever was going to happen on June 24th.

  “Everyone knows I do my best work in the dark.” He hesitated, but the man already believed it of him. “Just ask your wife,” he added, hoping it would be the final nail he needed.

  The buzz of the room became a roar, and from the corner of his eye, West saw several gentlemen gleefully exchangi
ng money—no doubt over the apparent end to Grant’s unholy wager. He felt Grant’s hand on his shoulder, gently pulling him back.

  “What in God’s name are you doing?” his friend protested. “Are you trying to get him to pull out a pistol here and now?”

  “He’s a coward to insist on a date so far into the future!” West glared at Grant. “And you’re a bloody fool to suggest it.”

  “Don’t be rash,” Grant said firmly. “Give me a chance to do my job as your second, and pull an apology out of your stupid arse, as I did last time. Regardless of whether you both end up splattering each other’s brains on the ground, you owe it to yourself to ensure a bit of time to return to rationality first.” He straightened his jacket, tugging at the ends. “I didn’t save your life at Viborg only to have you squander it now,” he warned. “And if either one of us are going to die for this, I’d suggest we ought to take a few days to enjoy ourselves first. Visit Madame Xavier’s one last time. Indulge in Vivian’s lovely feet.”

  “Vivian isn’t even there anymore,” West ground out. Which Grant would have known if he had ever listened to a single word West had tried to tell him.

  “Someone else’s feet then.” Grant shrugged. “And while you might be quite confident in your shooting abilities, I don’t mind saying that I could use some target practice myself.”

  “There won’t be a need for you to shoot anyone, because I’m going to finish him off.” West tossed a simmering glare in the duke’s direction. “And if Southingham is truly as confident a shot as he claims to be,” he taunted, trying one last time to send the man over the edge, “it shouldn’t matter when we meet.”

  Southingham bristled. “I should have killed you last year, when you first tried to steal what was mine. Saved us all a bunch of trouble.”

  “It isn’t stealing when you don’t ‘own’ it,” West pointed out. “The duchess is a person, not a thing.” And that, perhaps, was at the heart of all of it. Southingham had never understood that women were more than objects designed for his personal amusement. Perhaps that was why he had reacted so poorly that memorable All Hallows’ Eve night.