by Kelly, Julia
Her father might be wealthy enough to make her spinsterhood acceptable, but there was no amount of wealth that’d make society take her back if she was found with Sir Kier. Her friends would be forced to give her up for the good of their own reputations. The invitations would dry up. She’d be alone, the fate that awaited all women who overstepped society’s boundaries, whether it was their choice or not.
Gavin would still be there for you.
But at what cost? She had no doubt he’d stand by her, but losing his good opinion would hurt more than anything else. She wouldn’t—couldn’t—let that happen. She had to get herself out of that room, and fast.
“Is this what you do at parties?” she asked, forcing haughtiness into her voice. “Wait for young women to stumble into your web?”
Sir Kier’s next step hitched. “If you’re implying—”
“And what are you doing in Mrs. Sullivan’s library?” she asked, hands on her hips, mimicking the pose her aunt struck when she was about to deliver a lecture. Men like Sir Kier were used to being the predators, and if she was bolder, more powerful than he perhaps she stood a chance of unmanning the brute.
He cleared his throat. “I’m the guest of Count Erovick.”
No doubt the German aristocrat had failed to mention Sir Kier’s name when he inquired about bringing a friend along, for she doubted very much that Mrs. Sullivan would want a man of Sir Kier’s reputation at her salon.
“So you decided to take advantage of your hostess’s hospitality and skulk in the lady’s library?”
She’d frozen him in place. Here was a man rumored to be nothing if not a hellion, a libertine, a very bad man indeed, and yet he was thrown by a young lady standing up to him. Perhaps she would be able to extricate herself from this situation after all.
“Wait, I do know who you are.” Sir Kier’s eyes sparked with some wicked idea. “Miss Ina Duncan. I’m beginning to believe the rumors I’ve heard about you may be true.”
The rumors. The bane of her existence.
“Please enlighten me,” she said, but her haughtiness was rushing away. She had to get to the door and away from this horrible man.
“You’re the daughter of that crazy recluse Duncan no one ever sees anymore. Not that anyone can blame him when his wife was two steps away from being a whore.”
It wasn’t anything she hadn’t heard before, but Sir Kier’s words slashed at her heart nonetheless. Tears pricked her eyes, but she refused to give this man the satisfaction of seeing her cry. No one got to see that.
He was leering at her now. “How much do you take after good old Mamma?”
“I’ll bid you good night,” she said, turning quickly.
He lunged and snatched her hand off the doorknob.
“What are you doing?” she cried, jerking her hand back, but his grip didn’t slip.
“I’m going to lift your skirts,” he said. “And you’re going to like it.”
Moving fast, she twisted out of his grip, a decorative bit of lace tearing from the cuff of her evening dress. He staggered, and she realized that the man was so deep in his cups he could barely keep his balance.
Good, she thought, putting an armchair between them.
“You don’t want to do this,” she said. “We could be caught. You don’t want to be saddled with marrying me.”
The monstrous man began to laugh. “Marry you? As though anyone would believe Brianna Duncan’s daughter.”
He made another lunge for her, his meaty hand wrapping around the bones of her wrist and squeezing. She cried out and, acting on pure instinct, she drew her other hand back and hit him square in the face.
Sir Kier roared as his nose exploded with blood. The door banged open, and Gavin barreled in and slammed the blackguard against a bookshelf.
Any relief Ina might have felt, however, was short-lived, for standing in the doorway was Mrs. Sullivan, and it was clear that the most powerful hostess in Edinburgh was livid.
Chapter Two
GAVIN HAD BEEN standing with Mrs. Sullivan, watching the lady put off the advances of a comically young and noticeably poor poet named Avery who no doubt had an eye out for a wealthy patron, when the lady’s butler, Fergus, edged into view. With him stood a nervous-looking maid in her trim cap and black dress. Excusing herself, Mrs. Sullivan stepped away from her guests.
“What is it, Fergus?” he could hear her ask.
“I beg your pardon, madam, but Jessa believes she overheard voices in one of the rooms.”
His eyes darted around the room, searching out Ina. He shouldn’t have left her alone. Years of friendship had taught him that a bored Ina was a dangerous Ina. She had little patience for society and, in turn, society extended her little understanding. Things might have been different if she’d stayed with the Bohemian circles she moved in so comfortably, but her position as a wealthy—albeit eccentric—man’s daughter meant her world was wider than that. Money opened doors, prompted invitations, and brought scrutiny.
“Certainly that’s not cause for alarm,” Mrs. Sullivan was saying.
“I heard a gentleman and a lady speaking,” the maid said.
Why couldn’t he find Ina? She wasn’t with Lana Russell, Christine Nell, or Anne Breck, three of her close friends.
“I see,” Mrs. Sullivan said quietly. “Which of the rooms was it?”
“The library,” said Fergus.
The same room he’d told her the Carriera hung in. Damn but he was an idiot. He’d dangled a carrot in front of Ina and then wandered off, more interested in propping up his faded career than in her well-being.
“Mrs. Sullivan, I’m sorry to interrupt, but I think I know who may be in your library,” he said, inserting himself with the same low tone the hostess and her butler had used.
“And who is that, Mr. Barrett?” Mrs. Sullivan asked.
“Miss Duncan.”
“With a gentleman?”
He pursed his lips. “It would be out of character for her to seek out an assignation.”
Wasn’t it? Although sometimes he felt as though he knew Ina’s mind better than his own, love and marriage was the one area they always stayed away from. She didn’t ask him the details of his life, and he didn’t want to know hers. It was the only way he could keep the story he told himself about them being “just friends” alive.
“Then you’re worried for her safety,” said Mrs. Sullivan.
He tilted his head in confirmation.
“Well, I suppose you’d better come with me,” said the matchmaker.
It was Fergus’s turn to quirk his brows. “Are you certain, ma’am, that I cannot be of assistance? Your guests—”
“Will be just fine without me,” she said firmly. “However, if you could find a discreet way to collect Mrs. Coleman without alerting her that there are concerns about her niece’s whereabouts, that would be welcome. There’s no need to worry the lady if it isn’t, in fact, Miss Duncan at all.”
Please don’t let it be Ina.
Without another word, Fergus bowed and led the way out of the room, opening the door for them both as they went, followed by Jessa.
They’d just reached the staircase leading to the upper floors when a woman’s scream pierced the air.
“Oh my God,” Mrs. Sullivan said, picking up her skirts.
Without thinking, Gavin broke out into a run, stopping abruptly when Mrs. Sullivan threw open a nearby door just in time to see the flash of Ina’s hand hitting Sir Kier Gowan squarely in the nose. The man roared in pain, blood soaking his fine leather gloves, and Gavin was on him, hauling him by the throat and ramming him against one of the towering bookshelves.
Now he could feel the satisfying crunch of Gowan’s windpipe as the bastard clawed at his hand.
Gavin’s breathing was ragged as he held onto what little self-control he had left. The
man had laid his hand on Ina. It would give him no end of pleasure to put Gowan through a wall, strangle him, or throw him out of a window into the street.
A soft touch fell on his shoulder. “Mr. Barrett, you must let him go,” said Mrs. Sullivan.
He squeezed a little harder, and Gowan’s eyes bugged as he scratched at his hand with more urgency.
“Miss Duncan is safe,” Mrs. Sullivan said, more firmly this time.
Reluctantly, he let his grip loosen. Gowan tore away from him, staggering back a few steps before hitting a low table and falling to the ground.
“What the hell were you thinking?” Gowan shouted, his hand at his throat as he stared in disbelief and disgust at Gavin.
“I should think the same thing could be asked of you,” said Mrs. Sullivan, her voice booming through the room now.
Real fear replaced the anger in the lout’s eyes. Good.
There came a squeak. Jessa was peering out from behind Mrs. Sullivan, her jaw slack.
“To the kitchen, Jessa,” the matchmaker ordered sharply. The maid scrambled out the door, shutting it behind her.
“Are you unharmed?” Mrs. Sullivan asked Ina, taking her by the arms to study her.
Ina’s cuff was torn and there was blood down the front of her dress. Gavin’s own blood began to boil anew.
“Yes, but I wish I’d hit him harder,” said Ina as she kneaded the base of her palm.
That was the Ina he knew—strong and spirited. If Gowan had diminished that spark in her, no amount of cajoling from Mrs. Sullivan could have saved the man.
“Sit here,” said Mrs. Sullivan, guiding Ina to a chair. “Now, will you tell me what happened?” she asked as gently as if she was speaking to a frightened child.
“I’m the one who’s hurt,” muttered Gowan.
“If that’s all that happens to you after tonight, you’ll be fortunate,” he snarled.
“That deranged harlot broke my nose,” Gowan whined from behind his handkerchief.
Gavin strode across the room and hauled Gowan up to his feet by his lapels. “Call her a harlot one more time, I dare you. I’ve dreamed of this since we were at school together.”
“You know him?” Ina asked.
“He was great friends with my brother at Rugby. He was a bastard then, and obviously not much has changed.”
Mrs. Sullivan cleared her throat. “As much as I would support you thrashing any man who lays a finger on an unwilling woman, Mr. Barrett, there are things of greater concern at hand.”
“I can’t think of one,” he growled.
“Miss Duncan’s reputation is a start,” said Mrs. Sullivan. “Jessa has not been in my employ long and—”
“Ina!”
Mrs. Coleman nearly knocked Mrs. Sullivan over with her wide dress as she too rushed into the room.
“I’m fine, Aunt Jacqueline,” said Ina, trying to smooth her hands over her rumpled, blood-spattered skirts. “Although this gown has seen better days.”
Mrs. Coleman looked at her niece in horror, and it clearly had nothing to do with the state of Miss Duncan’s dress.
“What happened here?” the woman asked.
“A bloody misunderstanding,” said Gowan. But before the man could elaborate, Gavin twisted his shirt collar a little harder, eliciting a strangled gurgle.
“Mr. Barrett, what on earth are you doing?” asked Mrs. Coleman.
“Discussing the finer points of manners with Sir Kier,” he said, glaring at the red-faced man.
“I don’t understand,” said Mrs. Coleman.
“Sir Kier was attempting to . . . to kiss me when Mrs. Sullivan and Gavin found us,” said Ina, drawing her shoulders back as she no doubt prepared herself for the explosion that was sure to follow.
“But why were you with him in the first place?” Mrs. Coleman asked with a gasp.
“I was hoping to see Mrs. Sullivan’s Carriera,” said Ina, as though it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Her what?” her aunt asked.
Mrs. Sullivan pointed at the painting. “My Carriera. Miss Duncan has excellent taste.”
“But why would you leave unaccompanied?” asked Mrs. Coleman, wringing her hands.
“Mrs. Sullivan was occupied and I wished to see the Carriera alone. I thought I could step away for just a moment and no one would notice I was gone.”
Again, guilt slid through Gavin. This was his fault. He hadn’t protected Ina, and now she was in a mess he couldn’t fix.
“Of all the selfish, dangerous things you’ve done,” said Mrs. Coleman.
“I just wanted to see a painting,” said Ina in a whisper. “I was only going to be gone ten minutes.”
“Please say that no one saw her,” said Mrs. Coleman, her eyes pleading with Mrs. Sullivan.
The matchmaker shook her head. “Unfortunately, there was a maid. I don’t know the extent of her loyalty yet as I only just poached her from Mrs. Abercrombie.”
Every face except Kier’s fell at the name of the city’s worst gossip.
“You’re ruined,” said Mrs. Coleman, pulling a handkerchief out of her sleeve. “Even without your mother’s reputation, no one would ever believe that you hadn’t been complicit in this tête-à-tête. What will I tell your father?”
Ina opened her mouth, but no words came out. Instead, she looked helplessly at Gavin. His shoulders sagged at the realization that he might be prepared to give her the world but, if she was compromised, he could do nothing for her.
“I don’t know, Ina,” he said, his heart clenching as defeat broke over her face.
But then Mrs. Sullivan stepped forward. “Perhaps I can be of assistance.”
Moira Sullivan had seen her share of scandal—a lady didn’t reach the age of fifty-two without drama washing up on her doorstep. Considering she was Edinburgh’s finest matchmaker and general solver of problems great and small, she was often the woman tasked with cleaning up the aftermath of impropriety.
This, however, was a first for her.
“Everyone sit,” she said. When no one moved, her tone sharpened. “Sit. Now.”
Each of them scrambled into a seat, even Mr. Barrett, although he kept a close eye on Sir Kier, no doubt ready to strangle him again if the man put even one foot out of place.
“Tell me exactly what happened here,” said Moira. “Do not leave out details.”
Miss Duncan swallowed, but Sir Kier was faster.
“The chit practically dragged me away from the drawing room. I tried to stop her but—”
“There are three things in life I cannot abide, Sir Kier,” she said sternly. “Being lied to is one of them.”
“What are the others?” Miss Duncan asked, her eyes curious despite the gravity of the situation.
“Infidelity and”—Moira smiled—“cucumbers.”
Miss Duncan snorted, earning her a look of reprimand from her aunt.
“Cucumbers?” Mr. Barrett asked. “Who objects to cucumbers?”
“There’s something about the texture I can’t stand,” said Moira.
“Oh, who cares about cucumbers at a time like this?” cried Mrs. Coleman, her hand clenching creases into the handkerchief she always carried. “Ina, did you go with Sir Kier?”
“No!” the young lady protested. “He was here when I arrived.”
“But you did leave the drawing room unchaperoned,” her aunt said.
Miss Duncan nodded. “Yes, I left the drawing room unchaperoned. I apologize, Mrs. Sullivan. I realize that it was unwise and impolite.”
“Oh, Ina,” said Mrs. Coleman, dabbing at the corner of her eye with her handkerchief.
“There are far worse transgressions in this life than seeking out a painting during a party. What happened next?” asked Moira.
“I was looking at the Carriera, and
then Sir Kier made himself known. I felt trapped, as though I couldn’t just leave,” she said, shuddering at the memory. “He tried to grab at me, and he threatened to . . . to ruin me.”
Mr. Barrett’s lips curled up in a snarl. “I should kill you.”
Very interesting . . . A plan had begun to form in Moira’s mind the moment she saw the way Mr. Barrett defended Miss Duncan’s honor, and now she was more sure of its success than ever.
“I’d prefer if we could dispense with any notions of killing tonight, tempting though they might be.” Moira fixed Sir Kier with a glare. “You realize you’ve exposed Miss Duncan’s reputation to untold damage?”
“Damned if I care,” said Sir Kier.
“You should care. There’s a young woman’s reputation at stake,” she said.
“And your continued bachelorhood as well,” said Miss Duncan.
Sir Kier’s lips cracked into a hard, smug smile. “I’ll not be caught up in some scheme to entrap me in marriage.”
“I don’t want you,” said Miss Duncan, her words fierce.
“But, Sir Kier, you have to marry Ina,” said Mrs. Coleman. “You’ve ruined her.”
Ruined. It was a dirty word. An illicit one that conjured up all sorts of images of a young lady’s bad behavior. Very little of it ever fell back on the gentleman involved unless he was caught so publicly he was forced to marry the girl. But that required the lady to have parents with a strong hand. Perhaps if Ina’s mother, Brianna, had still been alive, Moira could’ve coaxed the match, but Brianna had been dead too long, and she doubted Arthur Duncan ever emerged from his study long enough to pay his daughter any mind.
Still, it was worth a try.
“You will marry Miss Duncan,” said Moira, “or I will see to it that you’re barred from every household of quality in this city and a good number of those in London as well. The women of the ton will put up with a great deal from a gentleman, but they can be formidable when they set their minds to it.”
Fear crept into Sir Kier’s swiftly blackening eyes, but still he held his ground. “You couldn’t do that.”
Moira arched a brow. “Is that a challenge?”
