Virtuous Scoundrel (The Regency Romp Trilogy Book 2)

by Maggie Fenton

  He really needed to find a better neighborhood.

  With thoughts of refuse circling aimlessly through his head—better than thoughts of her—he nearly jumped out of his skin at the unearthly howl that greeted him as he passed by the mouth of an aggressively fragrant alleyway. He paused and peered into the gloom out of morbid curiosity and spied a pile of debris that seemed to be twitching like something out of Dr. Frankenstein’s laboratory.

  And he really, really needed to curtail his consumption of gothic novels.

  He wasn’t sure what the pile consisted of, but he could smell it from where he stood, and he could see the unmistakable swish of a rodent’s tail beneath it. A rather stubby, hairy rodent’s tail. The howl sounded again, filled with a heartbreaking despair that gave Sebastian gooseflesh. A pair of bright eyes emerged from the pile, attached to a head of mangy brown fur. Not a rat at all, thank hell. Otherwise he would have begun to fear for the human denizens of the city, given the creature’s size.

  To be quite frank, he wasn’t quite sure what sort of animal it was, since it was covered in so much muck, but he assumed from the bark that issued from its muzzle that it was some kind of dog. Perhaps it was the resemblance to Crick’s smashed-in, bulldog face, or perhaps it was those overlarge, mournful eyes staring back at him that made Sebastian step into the alleyway to play knight errant. It was certainly not the smell.

  He crouched by the debris and saluted the owner of that delightful piece of real estate, who remained reluctant to emerge. Sebastian rooted around his waistcoat and extracted his shiniest watch fob. He dangled the bait in front of the rubbish. The mutt’s eyes alit with interest as it tracked the chain’s movement, and it shuffled out of its nest a few cautious inches.

  Poor creature. Though he’d be paranoid too, he supposed, if he lived in a rubbish heap in the dodgy part of Soho.

  After a few minutes of embarrassingly unmanly cooing and much abuse of the watch fob, the scrawny ball of matted fur emerged from its lair and presented its belly to Sebastian in a show of misguided trust. The creature doubtless wanted its—her, judging from what had been so brazenly presented to him—belly scratched, but Sebastian, while not as fastidious as Montford, balked at the layers of filth and vermin that encrusted every inch of the mongrel.

  The thing certainly smelled as if it’d never bathed, the poor mite.

  But then, hygiene was clearly a low priority for the street-hardened mutt.

  Sebastian’s blackened heart melted, however, when the dog turned its mournful eyes on him once more and let out a little plaintive whine, wiggling its too-skinny body impatiently.

  “Fine,” Sebastian huffed, tucking away his fob and preparing to brave the vermin. “If you insist, though you caved much too quickly, I’ll have you know. Tempted by a bit of shine, you were, greedy little thing.” He rubbed the mongrel’s belly vigorously, trying not to dwell on its filthy state. The mongrel went boneless with delight, and Sebastian’s nonexistent heart melted just a little bit more.

  They were both orphans, both down on their luck. More importantly, the dog liked him—such a rare occurrence in his life—and that meant more to him than it probably should. When one was reduced to craving the approval of vermin-infested strays, one had fallen very far indeed.

  By the time he was through with the belly rub, Sebastian had decided to somehow coax the dog home with him. Crick was going to have an absolute fit. Sebastian couldn’t wait to see the look on the man’s face.

  He stood up, wiping his grimy hand on a lace kerchief, and the mongrel flipped on its belly, wagging its stubby little tail and gazing up at him adoringly. Another female conquest, then. Sebastian could get quite used to this sort of unconditional regard. At least he doubted the mongrel would demand marriage of him. Perhaps a mince pie or two, which Sebastian would not begrudge.

  He put his hands on his hips and surveyed his new friend. “Shall you come home with me, then, little beastie?”

  The dog yipped excitedly and pawed and nipped at his new Hessians, a habit Sebastian would have to discourage in the future, as footwear was bloody expensive these days. But although the dog seemed agreeable to Sebastian’s charitable offer, no matter how much he coaxed the beast to follow him, it would not budge, staring up at him in confusion. Not the sharpest knife in the cupboard, then. He could see no alternative to ensure the dog’s cooperation but to carry it. He sighed and steeled himself to his task. Crick would have to burn his clothes after this.

  But just as he reached down to retrieve his new compatriot, the dog’s hackles rose and a less-than-charming growl issued from its throat. Sebastian straightened indignantly. “Well, that’s no way to treat the man who rubbed your belly,” he huffed. “I’ll leave you here, see if I don’t, ungrateful mongrel!” He wouldn’t—damn his soft spot for small—and large—furry creatures—but the dog didn’t need to know that.

  The dog’s growls transformed into a fit of barking as it darted past him toward the mouth of the alley. Sebastian spun around and discovered the dog had not been barking at him after all, but rather at a pair of seedy-looking men advancing upon them. He sincerely doubted the two men were there to exchange pleasantries.

  The largest ruffian, who was roughly the size of a frigate, kicked aside the small bundle of fur. The dog crashed against a brick wall with a pained yelp. Sebastian opened his mouth to protest the abuse, but he didn’t have time to get one word out before the men were upon him with their fists.

  “Sir Oliver sends ’is regards,” the frigate said before he plowed his ham hock of a fist into Sebastian’s jaw, sending his brainbox spinning and the world tilting around him.

  After that, he didn’t stand a chance of fending off their attack, though he tried.

  The last thing he knew before the world went completely black was the mongrel’s smashed face hovering above him, its foul breath heavy in his nostrils as it licked his wounds and whimpered.

  He closed his eyes with something like relief. The ruffians had spared the dog, at least, even if they had stolen all of his watches.

  Chapter Seven

  In Which Fate Takes an Unexpectedly Unpleasant Turn in the Dodgy Part of Soho

  KATHERINE SHOULD HAVE known Sebastian Sherbrook’s household staff would be as exasperating as the man himself. His butler/valet greeted her at the door to the marquess’s shabby Soho lodgings with a surly frown, his arms crossed belligerently. The man had certainly not been hired for his disposition or his looks. And definitely not for his breeding. “Wot you want?” the man demanded suspiciously.

  “I am here to see the marquess,” she said haughtily.

  “’E hain’t receivin’, madame,” he retorted.

  “Is that so? Tell him that . . .”

  “He hain’t in, luv,” the man said flatly. “An’ if yer here lookin’ to collect, you can tell yer employer to shove off. ’Is lordship will pay it when ’e pays it, as all the proper toffs does.”

  Katherine felt her jaw dropping in disbelief for the second time that day. She recovered her wits enough to protest, “Look here, Mr. . . .”

  “No, you look here, luv, you hain’t gettin’ a farthin’ out of us today. ’Is lordship ’as enough troubles wifout vultures like you pecking at ’is bones.”

  “But . . .”

  “An’ you tell Blancett—cause I know it must be ’im, the cur—shame on ’im for sendin’ a moll down ’ere to do ’is dirty work, as ’e knows full well ’ow ’is lordship feels about that. Just because ’is lordship’s a pretty face don’t mean ’e’s a soft touch when it comes to pretty women. ’E’s very particular, is ’is lordship, and certainly too good for the likes of you. ’E don’t deal wif professional women, and that ain’t ever gonna change.” He paused, frowned even more. “No offense or nuffin’,” he amended.

  On the bright side, the man had called her pretty, somewhere amid all of the insults. “I am not a pros
titute, sirrah,” she choked out.

  The man’s eyes widened with exaggerated horror. “Beggin’ yer pardon, milady,” he said dubiously. “But ’e still hain’t in.”

  With that, he slammed the door in her face.

  She thought about knocking and facing down the dragon once more, but she didn’t see how this particular dragon could be slain without reinforcements. The servant was as massive as he was ill-mannered and determined to stymie her. Granted, she’d come to a bachelor’s lodgings unchaperoned and unannounced, but what part of her person screamed harlot? Or even tradeswoman?

  She glanced down at her gray frock. Perhaps she needed to invest in a new wardrobe.

  She decided upon a tactical retreat for the moment. She’d have to find another time to discuss the fifteen-thousand-pound hate-gift Sebastian had sent her way, preferably without his bullyboy in attendance. She made her way down the stairs of Sebastian’s unkempt building and into the busy Soho street. She gave Armstrong a weary smile as she stepped into her waiting carriage.

  “That was quick, my lady,” Armstrong commented as he pushed the door shut.

  “He wasn’t there,” she said out the window to her driver. “I’m sorry I made you take the detour, Armstrong. We have quite missed our supper.”

  Armstrong just smiled and bowed. “We’ll be home soon enough, and Cook will have saved us something. But if you don’t mind my saying so, you needn’t be visiting that man at all.”

  “Thank you for your concern, Armstrong,” she said primly, shutting down further conversation with her opinionated servant. “Now let’s be off.”

  Armstrong sighed in mock exasperation and climbed into the driver’s seat, all prim disapproval. He was as entrenched in her life as Polly was and he knew it. Hence his unsolicited, if well-meaning, counsel.

  Katherine didn’t relax until they had pulled into the street. It had been a long day at the hospital. She had to settle no less than ten disputes between members of the staff she had hired from among the local women. And none of them liked her. Nothing she did seemed to please them, and she was quite certain she’d never have their respect. She was, in their eyes, just amusing herself for a while with the charity, like all women of her class did. And like all women of her class, she would eventually grow bored with it, and another of her kind would replace her.

  She didn’t bother to explain that this was not going to happen, that she had worked for years to establish the hospital and was not about to walk away from it. That she had more in common with the women who landed at the hospital than they could ever know. It would not be worth the effort, because they’d not believe her.

  Even the fifteen-thousand-pound donation to her cause did not lift her black mood. How could it, when she knew who had donated it? They had not parted from their last meeting on the best of terms, so she suspected Sebastian was up to some nefarious scheme at her expense, or at the very least was mocking her in some way. And she would not rest easy until she’d had it out with him.

  She leaned back against the headrest and sighed. She was exhausted. Not just in body but in spirit. She forced her thoughts down another avenue. Home. Her home. Seamus and Penny. A hot meal and a warm bed. Delightful prospects indeed after a day spent in the London mire.

  She lifted her head in confusion when she realized the carriage had stopped.

  She knocked on the roof to get Armstrong’s attention, but he didn’t answer. Instead she heard Armstrong jump down from his perch, shouting loudly. A growl answered him, then a series of panicked barks. Since it was that sort of neighborhood and the evening was fast falling, she retrieved the pistol her servants made her keep beneath her seat. Warily, she swung open the door and stepped outside.

  To a scene she did not expect.

  Armstrong was cornered against the side of the carriage by a dog. A very small, very dirty stray dog. A pug, underneath all of the filth, if she had to hazard a guess. The fact that Armstrong was terrified by a stone’s worth of dog was a bit concerning, considering he was meant to be her protection.

  “What the devil is going on, Armstrong?” she demanded.

  The dog barked and backed away. It waited a moment before repeating the action. It finally dawned on Katherine that the dog was attempting to lead them somewhere.

  Katherine began to follow, but Armstrong caught her by the arm. “It might be a trap, my lady,” he whispered.

  “Nonsense,” she said briskly. “Who are you expecting, Dick Turpin?” She raised her pistol. “Should difficulties arise, I am a very good shot, as you well know, Armstrong.” Better than he was, certainly.

  Armstrong sighed but reluctantly followed in her wake. The dog led them the short distance to a shadowy alley and sat down near a bundle of rags. It barked urgently. Katherine blinked into the gloom, then blinked again, and finally realized the bundle of rags wasn’t a bundle of rags at all, but rather a person. Or at least it had been. She hoped to God it still was.

  She approached the body cautiously, fearing the worst.

  “My lady!” Armstrong said, rushing to intercept her. “’Tis no sight for a lady’s eyes.”

  Oh, for heaven’s sake. She shook him off. “I am made of sterner stuff, Armstrong. I shall not faint at the sight of a corpse.” She was going to have to have a long talk with Armstrong about priorities . . .

  “Aye, but I might,” Armstrong muttered behind her.

  . . . and the perilous state of his manhood.

  The dog whimpered as she crouched down next to the body—a man, by the looks of his clothes—and rolled him onto his back by a torn and filthy lace cravat. She gasped in horror when she saw the man’s bloodied, mangled face, her own blood running cold.

  She knew that face. Those cheekbones, that mouth. Sebastian. She cried out in dismay and bent her cheek to his lips, holding her breath. After a long moment, she felt a faint, shallow gust of warm air against her skin. Her whole body sagged in relief.

  “He’s alive!” she cried.

  Armstrong looked skeptical about this pronouncement and crouched down to check himself. “That he is,” he murmured. He did not sound pleased.

  “Help me get him to the carriage, Armstrong.”

  Armstrong looked shocked by her request. “Are you sure that is what is best for this . . . person? Should we not call the constabulary and have them sort this out?”

  “It’s the marquess,” she said. Armstrong’s eyes widened in astonishment. “And even if he weren’t, for shame, Armstrong!” Yet another point she would have to discuss with Armstrong: in life-or-death situations, class should most definitely not be a consideration before rendering aid. “He needs a doctor. And Dr. Lucas is at Lady Blundersmith’s tonight.” Lady Blundersmith lived two doors down from her. “We shall take him to Bruton Street, and that’s final.”

  “Yes, my lady,” the driver said rather glumly. A bit chastised, but still quite reluctant with his lot, Armstrong heaved Sebastian into his arms and stumbled toward the carriage. She helped Armstrong settle Sebastian onto the floor of the carriage, then climbed inside after him. She nearly slipped in the blood that speckled the floor, and a fresh wave of horror passed through her.

  The dog, determined not to be left behind, evaded Armstrong’s arms and leaped up into the carriage, bringing the stench of the alleyway with it.

  “My lady! The cur too?” the driver cried in exasperation.

  That dog had led them to Sebastian, perhaps saved the man’s life. She was not abandoning it to the alley, no matter how foul it smelled. She almost felt sorry for Armstrong, who would have to clean up the mess they were making. But not really. Her driver was being entirely too intractable. “The dog too, Armstrong. Take us home.”

  With a beleaguered sigh, Armstrong secured the door. The dog gave her a triumphant look, pushed its way past her, and took up guard duty by Sebastian, who had curled up on his side, arms over his h
ead, legs tucked to his chest in the cramped space. He had begun to shiver uncontrollably.

  At least he was alive.

  A moment later, the carriage sprang forward as Armstrong whipped the horses into a quick trot. The momentum caused Sebastian to roll on his back, and a low moan broke from his lips. Her blood curdled at his palpable distress, and her body finally unfroze enough from its shock to do something other than gape at him. She knelt on the floor in a panic, pillowing his head in her lap, feeling as helpless as her patient.

  Her peaceful, well-ordered existence had been turned on its head in a matter of minutes. She suspected that nothing would be the same after this. She stroked his long, damp curls, trying to soothe him, and when she felt the giant knot on the back of his head, a deep, burgeoning dread took root in her stomach. Even she knew that head wounds were serious things indeed and never presaged anything good.

  He stirred. His hand shot out and grasped the front of her bodice, pulling her closer.

  She nearly jumped out of her skin.

  His head turned, his eyes cracked open. He looked directly at her, his eyes wild and terrified and unseeing. “Don’t leave me,” he whispered through split lips before passing out once more. She wondered who he saw in his delirium, wondered who he was so desperate to keep close. She wished it were her.

  She pressed her palm to his forehead, and the dread sank deeper into her bones. He felt so cold, so still. Oh God. He was going to die. She didn’t know how she’d survive his loss, though he was not really hers to lose, no matter how much her secret heart wished otherwise.

  “I won’t,” she promised, though she wondered if it was a promise she could ever hope to keep.

  DR. LUCAS TURNED to her as she entered the sickroom some hours later, his face etched with weariness, his frock coat stained with blood. He gave her a perfunctory nod and went to clean his hands in a basin across the room. She risked a glance toward the bed. Sebastian lay on his back, his torso now cleaned and bandaged in white muslin, his various cuts stitched closed, his abrasions wiped clean.