Virtuous Scoundrel (The Regency Romp Trilogy Book 2)

by Maggie Fenton

  “My dear fellow,” Sebastian drawled, “I believe you have mistaken us for someone else.”

  “Pfft. Shall I have Agador search your carriage to prove you are a liar?”

  The younger man, apparently Agador, looked alarmed at the idea. “Uncle!” he cried.

  “Why else would they be here?” the old man argued back in French with a sniff. “It’s hardly Bond Street. They are certainly not out for a morning stroll,” he finished, poking Agador in the ribs.

  Agador’s panicked expression quickly metamorphosed into irritation at the poke, and he began to argue with his uncle in rapid-fire French too quick for her to follow.

  She exchanged a glance with Sebastian, who shrugged his shoulders, at a loss as well.

  She sighed. She was probably going to regret her next move, but she couldn’t let the senile old man scare off Penny’s abductor. She pulled the pistol from her waistband and pointed it toward the Frenchmen. The argument ceased abruptly and two pairs of hands flew upward in surrender. along with one of Sebastian’s eyebrows.

  “My dear, what are you doing?” he inquired, sounding a bit strangled.

  “Trying to scare them off.”

  “You just might scare the old one into his grave,” he said dryly. “Or back into it.”

  The man was indeed looking a bit green about the gills. “Take it all! Merde! Agador, give her the money!” the man hissed, kicking out at his nephew and nearly tumbling over in the process.

  “What?” the nephew cried, looking quite piqued now that money had become involved.

  “Go on, imbecile,” the man urged. He looked beseechingly at Katherine, or so she assumed. It was hard to read his expression, what with all of the wrinkles and paint. “It’s two thousand pounds sterling, just like you demanded. Just give me back my Belle.”

  She exchanged a perplexed look with Sebastian.

  “My good fellow, we haven’t the foggiest idea who this Belle is everyone is so keen on, but we do not have her, I assure you,” Sebastian drawled.

  “Belle du Jour! Ma petit carlin! How dare you toy with me, connard!”

  “Just how many dogs are being ransomed off this morning, I wonder, near a corpse of burch,” Sebastian said wryly. “As much as I love being insulted before breakfast in French, monsieur, I believe we are both the victims of the same scoundrel.”

  “That’s a bit ’arsh, hain’t it?” came a voice from among the birch trees. “I prefer to call meself an entremanure, as I’m sure you’ll unnerstand.”

  “Sounds horribly malodorous,” Sebastian murmured.

  Katherine tried not to laugh at Sebastian’s wit, since it seemed best not to encourage him in their present circumstances. She was succeeding quite nicely, up until the entremanure stepped into view. Then she couldn’t help but snort a little. That waistcoat.

  “Oh, good Lord,” Sebastian breathed next to her. “His tailor should be taken out back and shot.”

  The man signaled to an associate, who was nearly as tall and lean as the old Frenchman, but definitely not clad in antique silk and heels. His fashion choice seemed to lean more toward a thick veneer of grime and soot, which was actually an improvement over the other fellow’s hideous red waistcoat, in Katherine’s humble opinion. But then, she was hardly an expert on the latest fashion trends and did not dare judge.

  Much.

  The associate lugged a large wooden chest behind him, from which issued a cacophony of growls and barks.

  She’d know those petulant noises anywhere. “Penny!” she cried, rushing forward.

  “Belle!” the Frenchman cried at the same time, teetering forward.

  “Not so fast, Lady Mandarin, Monsoor le Duck. I ’ave a bit o’ business to conjugate afore I be givin’ the wee beastie over,” Red Waistcoat—who, judging from his vocabulary, was the author of the ransom note—said, pulling his own pistol out of his breeches and aiming it at the box. “I ’ave two interminable parties in that there bit o’ mercantile—only the Good Lord knows why—an’ I want my blunt or the mangy bitch is dead.”

  Well, that had escalated rather quickly. She wished her pistol were loaded now.

  “No need for insults,” Sebastian said with his usual infuriating calm. “But I can’t help but point out that you’ve only one animal in that box and two buyers. I’m baffled as to how you’ve come to the conclusion that one of us is going to pay you for nothing.”

  Red Waistcoat looked momentarily stymied by Sebastian’s logic. He scratched the back of his head with the butt of his gun and considered his quandary. “I ’adn’t fought of that,” he mused.

  “By all means, take your time,” Sebastian allowed graciously. God, how she loved him.

  The man’s associate, however, obviously possessed of a bit more brainpower, grew impatient. “Bloody ’ell, Soames. Just tell them you’ll shoot ’er if they doan both give us their blunt. Let ’em deal with who gets the demon spawn themselves afterward.”

  Soames gave his friend a good scowl before aiming his gun at the box again. “What ’e said.”

  “Damn,” Sebastian muttered dryly. “Too clever for us.”

  “Looks like we ’ave a Judgment of Salamander situation on our ’ands,” Soames said, sounding very pleased with himself.

  That took a moment for Katherine to translate into English.

  “What is this person talking about?” Monsoor le Duck demanded.

  “I think he’s referring to the Judgment of Solomon,” she clarified, when Monsoor le Duck continued to look baffled.

  “Exactly,” Soames confirmed, as if the Frenchman were the idiot. “What the lady said.”

  “Well, I’m certainly not giving up Belle or cutting her in half,” the Frenchman said with a haughty sniff. “She’s of royal lineage. Agador, pay the man and end this nonsense.”

  “But . . .”

  “Wait!” Katherine cried. “Shouldn’t we see what we’re paying for? For all we know he could have a rat in there.”

  “An alarmingly large rat by the looks of it,” Sebastian murmured.

  “Clearly there has been some sort of misunderstanding,” she said after stepping on Sebastian’s boot to shut him up. “The last time I checked, my dog’s name is Penny, and she’s about as French as Yorkshire pudding.”

  “Who is Penny?” Monsoor demanded. “I’m not following.”

  “Neither am I,” Sebastian muttered.

  Soames looked torn as he studied the box. The growling had only grown worse, and the creature that dwelled inside kept throwing itself against the sides of its prison, causing the wood to clatter alarmingly.

  Soames waved at his associate. “Go on and open it up, then. Let ’em see the mercantile.”

  The skinny man held up his hands in surrender, his face paling at the order. “Nowt for all the bleedin’ tea in China, Soames. The bitch is the devil.”

  Soames winced. “Stop saying my name, you tit. Now open it up. Just enow so’s I still ’as a target.”

  When the other man still balked, Soames trained the pistol on him. The man’s eyes went wide, then narrowed at the betrayal. “Fine,” he finally grumbled. “It’s yer funeral. And doan fink yer comin’ over to mine for Christmas this year, Petey. I’ve ’ad enow.”

  He stopped well short of the box and stretched his arm as far as it could go to spring the latch. When that was done, he jumped back and fled into the birch trees as if the hounds of hell were chasing him. Or at least one fat, hairy, incontinent hound of hell.

  “Jem!” Soames cried in exasperation.

  For a moment, the box was eerily still. Then with one fearsome growl of warning, the top of the box sprung open.

  After a breathless moment, Penny’s familiar, hairy monkey head peeked over the top of the box. She looked none the worse for wear, just supremely disgruntled. She spotted Katherine, barked indignantly, an
d attempted to scale the walls of her prison.

  She was too fat to make it.

  “That is not Belle du Jour,” roared the Frenchman.

  “Wot?” Soames cried.

  The Frenchman brandished his cane at the box. “That . . . thing is not ma petit carlin. It is some disgusting mongrel, if it is a dog at all.”

  “Foul!” Katherine said, offended.

  “Where is my precious pug?” Monsoor demanded.

  Katherine had a feeling she knew the answer to that question. Things were beginning to make sense now.

  Sort of.

  “Agador! Let’s go!” Monsoor said with a huff, turning on his heel and wobbling away.

  “Wot!” Soames cried in dismay. “Wot you mean the wrong dog? You can’t leave until I get my money! I’ll kill ’er, see if I won’t!”

  Monsoor le Duck looked quite on board with that plan, but Katherine most certainly was not.

  She raised the pistol she’d been holding at her side and pointed it at Soames to stall him. She briefly turned her attention to the duc. “Wait just a moment, monsieur.”

  “Monsieur le duc to you, madame,” the old goat sniffed with disdain before continuing his indignant exit.

  She rolled her eyes. “I think I know where your pug is. If you care to wait until I’ve retrieved my pet, I shall take you there.”

  The duc teetered to a stop and rested on his cane impatiently. “Well, get on with it, then.”

  She turned her attention back to her thief and cocked her pistol with as much theatricality as she could manage, but Soames snorted at her firearm, undaunted. “I bet it ain’t even loaded!”

  “Aye, but mine is, ye Bow Bells bastard,” came a new voice from around the side of Katherine’s coach. It was Crick. She’d never been so thankful to see Sebastian’s bulldog of a servant. He was dressed in Armstrong’s livery and almost looked respectable, aside from the shotgun he held in his hands. And his face.

  “Crick! Excellent timing!” Sebastian said, entirely unsurprised by his valet’s appearance.

  It was as if they had planned the whole thing ahead of time.

  She tucked her gun away with a sigh. “Just so you know, Sebastian, I’ll have a husband who shares all of his plans with me, or no husband at all. And it would be especially useful to share them before I brandish unloaded weapons at criminals.”

  Sebastian beamed at the word husband. It was so adorable she had half a mind to ambush him with another kiss. But she’d have to save that—and other deliciously intimate activities—for later, when they weren’t surrounded by bedlamites and she could properly accept his proposal. It had been ill-timed and completely ham-fisted, but it had also been perfect. Exactly as it should be. She’d nearly whisked him off to Gretna then and there, just as Montford had done to Astrid. After all, she had researched Scottish marriage laws. But she couldn’t abandon Penny to some horrible fate, and she didn’t fancy Scotland in the winter. The Mediterranean sounded just the thing.

  Besides, she was enjoying keeping Sebastian in a bit of suspense.

  “You were an excellent decoy, my dear,” he said. “I wasn’t expecting the pistol, but it added a nice touch of authenticity. And really, all of my plans?” He pouted adorably. “I must retain some of my mystery. Otherwise you’ll grow bored with me.”

  “I sincerely doubt that, darling.”

  She might as well have kissed him, for his grin was brighter than the sun at the endearment.

  Soames, who had dropped his weapon as soon as the shotgun had appeared on the scene, made a disgusted sound at their banter. “Save it for the budoor, lady and gent. This ain’t Covent Garden,” he muttered.

  “What do you wan’ to do wif ’im, milord?” Crick asked.

  “Haul him before the magistrate, Crick,” Sebastian said with a careless wave, still beaming at Katherine.

  Soames’s eyes grew wide. “Now wait a moment ’ere. Last I checked it hain’t a crime to borrow a dog.”

  “That dog is Lady Manwaring’s property. That makes you a thief,” Sebastian said, finally tearing his attention away from Katherine with great reluctance. He squinted at Soames as if staring at the sun. “Though the real crime here is the color of your waistcoat. Honestly, man, what were you thinking?”

  “It were custom,” Soames sniffed. He thrust his finger in the direction of Agador, who had begun to inch his way toward his uncle’s carriage. Without his uncle. “It were ’is idea all along! ’E tole me to snatch the bitch from Ducky ’ere.”

  Agador froze in his retreat and glared daggers at his accuser. “Connard! Fils de pute! This was not my idea! That is not even the right dog! Imbecile!”

  “Agador! You’re speaking English!” the duc breathed.

  Well, sort of.

  Agador rolled his eyes so hard Katherine was afraid they’d become lost in the back of his head for good. “Of course I speak English! I’ve lived in London for thirty years, Uncle! Who do you think runs your household and settles all of your bills?”

  The duc sniffed, unimpressed by his nephew’s histrionics. “Tell me this villain is lying and you had no part in Belle’s abduction.”

  Agador’s shoulders slumped in resignation, his fit of pique over as quickly as it had come.

  Frenchmen.

  “He was to bring her back immediately and claim the reward you were sure to offer. Instead he lost her. And now . . . this.” He waved at Penny and her captor in disgust. “Whatever this is.”

  Katherine expected the duc to cosh his nephew in the head with his cane, given his fondness for the weapon. However, instead he just looked old and hurt.

  Agador, who had clearly braced himself for a beating, seemed surprised by his uncle’s reaction as well and had the good grace to look ashamed of himself.

  “But why would you do such a thing, Agador? After all I’ve done for you?” the duc asked with a bit of a waver in his voice, his lower lip trembling.

  Agador made a poor attempt at a Gallic shrug, but his lower lip was also trembling.

  “Money? Pride? You spend everything on Belle, devote all your energies to her. I mean less to you than a dog!”

  “That is not true!” the duc hissed.

  Agador crossed his arms and set his jaw at a stubborn angle. “Do not lie. I have seen your will. You have left everything to Belle, and I am to get nothing! Not one franc!”

  “Pfft,” the duc said with a dismissive wave. “I know how you snoop, so I made up that will to teach you a lesson.”

  Agador’s pout deepened, unappeased.

  The duc huffed in exasperation. “I only left half to Belle. The rest is yours, you idiot.”

  Agador’s expression brightened considerably. “Half?” he queried hopefully.

  “Yes, you greedy boy. And the rest when she dies.”

  Agador beamed nearly as brightly as Sebastian.

  “Of natural causes, as confirmed by my physician,” the duc added. Agador’s expression dimmed a bit. “Though I’ll give you nothing if Belle is not returned to me immediately!”

  Agador’s good mood vanished completely at his uncle’s renewed threat and his pout returned.

  Sebastian turned to Katherine with a quirked eyebrow. “If Monsoor le Duck can be so forgiving of his cock of a nephew, might we rethink the magistrate for our thief?”

  Katherine wasn’t feeling quite so charitable. She crossed to Penny and wrapped her arms around the little monster’s neck. Penny grudgingly allowed it.

  “My dear,” Sebastian continued patiently. “I know you are partial to the beast, but shall we send Mr. Soames to the hulks for a dog and a waistcoat?”

  Soames looked around for some means of escape at the mention of the floating prisons. But his skinny associate had long abandoned him to his fate, and Crick’s aim never faltered on its target. Katherine almost felt sorry for
the man.

  As was becoming a rather alarming pattern, Sebastian was right. The courts would likely send Soames to the hulks, then on to some hot climate to serve out the rest of his days. If he survived the hulks, which was frankly unlikely.

  Still. It was Penny.

  When Sebastian saw her hesitate further, he retrieved Soames’s gun from Crick and checked the chamber. “His wasn’t loaded either, my dear.”

  She sighed and shared a commiserating glance with Crick. For once, she and the valet seemed to be in agreement. “Your master is a soft touch, Crick.”

  The valet looked proud of that fact. “Aye, ’e is that. But that’s why ’e keeps me around, to pick up the slack. ’E mightn’t deserve the ’ulks, but Mr. Soames ’ere needs to be taught a lesson, doan ’e?” He approached the box. “If you’ll allow me, milady?”

  Katherine rose from Penny’s side as she caught on to Crick’s plan. “By all means, Crick.”

  Crick nudged the box on its side, sending Penny tumbling. The dog regained her feet, shook herself off, and then sprinted in the direction of Soames’s ankles as fast as her fat little body could go. Soames, still in the shotgun’s crosshairs, could do nothing but stand there and accept his punishment.

  When Penny’s incisors connected with flesh, Soames howled in pain and fell back in the grass, right where she wanted him.

  She proceeded to tenderize his ankles.

  “I fink I would ’ave preferred the ’ulks,” he gasped.

  WHEN PENNY AT last let go of her victim and a slightly bruised and bloodied Soames limped off into the birch trees to lick his wounds, hopefully (yet doubtfully) having learned a valuable lesson, Sebastian accompanied Katherine back to Bruton Street with the two Frenchmen in tow, the duc eager to reunite with his beloved pug.

  Penny, her bloodlust sated for the moment, sat tamely enough on Katherine’s lap during the journey back to the townhouse, though she growled if Sebastian ventured too close. Which meant he had no opportunity to further the plans for seduction he’d hatched after his less-than-successful proposal. His silver tongue had failed him spectacularly, and he’d given up entirely on trying to woo her to the altar with flowers, so it was time to resort to . . . well, his actual tongue to get the job done. And other parts of his anatomy that Katherine had seemed to like well enough a few nights ago. He had no doubt she loved him, but he was impatient to start the rest of their lives together. He’d waited thirty-three years for her, which was quite long enough in his opinion.