Suzi Love

by Embracing Scandal

  The nearest of the two men stepped forward in a deliberate move to block his view of the other, raising Cayle’s shackles and rousing him from apathy after his tedious night. With a quick flick, he raised his knife, circled it inches from the chest of the first visitor. The man’s loud catch of breath was music to his ears and suited his disposition to unnerve others tonight, especially if these men threatened the woman.

  “Your Grace, I’m Lord Mitchell.”

  Cayle ignored the extended hand. The second man pushed forward, attempting to wedge his shoulder into the doorway beside Cayle. He shifted sideways, blocked the intruder, and again waved his knife. “I know you.” He pointed the blade near the man’s neck. “Lord Bennett. Arthur Bennett. It’s been some years since we met.”

  “Sherwyn.” The man gave a short nod, careful to keep his neck well above the knife’s reach. “Why are you opening your own door? And with a knife in your hand?”

  “Why are you pounding on my door at this hour?”

  “We’re after the woman who was seen coming into this square, sneaking into one of the houses. We think it was this house.” Bennett edged his shoulder into the small gap between Cayle’s upper body and the door supports, using weight to try to bully his way into the house. “Let me inside, Sherwyn, and I’ll remove her before she causes you any bother.”

  “Woman? What woman? Is she someone I know?” Cayle reached across and slouched against the opposite jamb, knife twirling.

  Bennett flinched, moved his umbrella into an offensive position. “Just a whore. Her name’s not important.” He flinched when the knife met him on eye level. “Damn you, Sherwyn. You’ll cut me.”

  He chuckled. “No, no, no, Bennett. Not that I’m loathe to pierce your loathsome hide, mind you, but the maids get upset when I spill blood across the Italian tiles.”

  “Now see here, Sherwyn. You’ve no right to mock me. We’ve not even been in contact since you left England. Haven’t spoken since that night.” Bennett’s sneering look made Cayle itch to lean closer with the blade. He’d avoided this cowardly sneak at school, and detested the namby-pamby man as an adult. Bennett leaned in and smirked. “You caused quite a scandal by seducing Lady Sybila on Hetherington’s desk.”

  Cayle clenched his teeth, bit down on his habitual retort. No point defending himself against that charge now, not after his father died believing the lies. Hopefully, his younger brothers now knew the truth, and their opinion mattered, and no one else’s.

  Lord Mitchell used his elbow to forcibly shift Bennett aside. Pity. A few red drops to scrub off white tiles didn’t compare to the satisfaction of pricking Bennett’s self-opinionated bubble. Mitchell’s mouth turned up at the edges. A peace-making smile?

  More the grin of a rabid dog. “Please, excuse Lord Bennett. Overeager to locate our lost friend. We were to be entertained by a … female acquaintance tonight.”

  “I take it you mean a light skirt.”

  Mitchell’s laugh was forced, grating. “Well, yes. A trifle embarrassing really. This agreeable ladybird promised all sorts of delights if we could offer a warm and dry gathering place nearby.” He laughed, self-consciously, and again forced. “My fault. Muddled the directions. You know how it is when you’ve overdone the wine with dinner. Head and stomach rebel.”

  Cayle, his eyes pinned on Bennett, nodded at Mitchell. Jenner’s ironic words of wisdom echoed in his head. ‘Gentlemen who seek mindlessness by over imbibing frequently suffer embarrassing afflictions of their anatomy the next day.’

  “ — agreed to meet at our friend’s house.” Mitchell gestured vaguely. “Down the square. Blow me down if Bennett doesn’t sight the silly girl entering the wrong townhouse.”

  “It was this house.” Bennett dipped his umbrella, wielded it like a battering ram.

  Cayle scowled and stood his ground. “No, not this house.”

  “B-but I saw her. She slipped inside. Through someone’s open door.”

  So, they weren’t positive which door she’d entered. Excellent. Plus, Bennett’s habitual cowardice could be played upon.

  “Brown cloak. Brown hat,” Mitchell said, using his hands to indicate the woman’s size. His tone of voice had sped from conspiratorial to annoyed in a matter of moments.

  “I-I was certain she came through this door,” Bennett said.

  Better and better. If he was to shield the hiding woman, so near he could smell her floral bouquet, he needed to sound convincing over Bennett’s confusion.

  “Gentlemen. I too may have over imbibed on the brandy this evening, but not so much that I wouldn’t notice a harlot walking through my door. A delightful one at that.”

  “Where’s your butler?” Bennett said. “Perhaps he let her in by mistake.”

  Cayle drew himself upright to stare down at Bennett using his most ducal scowl, and was delighted when his adversary looked away first. “My butler makes no mistakes. Besides which, he’s retired for the night. Only me here, and I’m for my bed.” He grasped the door handle but Bennett, in a rush of bravado, thrust a booted foot into the opening. Cayle snorted, shifted his knife forward to touch Bennett a few inches above his trouser-clad knee. “Step back, or I won’t be held responsible if it slips.”

  Bennett sucked in a loud breath. “You wouldn’t dare.”

  He laughed. “Ha! Remember, I’m now Sherwyn. I’d dare anything.”

  He shoved the door closed though he resisted the temptation to slam it in their faces. He listened with his ear to the door until he heard their footsteps on the pavement. He spun around and bumped into the woman who stood directly behind him, oblivious to the water dripping from her lank hair and forming a puddle at her feet.

  “Are they gone?” Her breath caught a little on the question.

  “I think so.” She heaved a heartfelt sigh.

  • • •

  “Thank you for not giving me up.”

  “Apart from loathing that particular man, I’d not let anyone take a woman against her will.”

  “There were two of them. One of you.”

  “I’ve a knife.”

  “Oh, please,” she said in cultured tones that dripped with sarcasm.

  Though her hat shielded her face, he sensed that his visitor was rolling her eyes. “As your breath reeks of brandy, I suspect that you are foxed. Fortunately, I came prepared to protect myself.”

  Something jabbed his thigh. He looked down, squinted, frowned, and then grimaced. Cursed himself again. Ignoramus! Lack-wit! Dunderhead! From between her cloak’s front folds, he caught the bright shine of metal.

  A pistol, the type men concealed in coat pockets when traveling, pointed directly at his groin. Held by a small, yet remarkably steady, hand. Blind-sided by a slip of a girl! How his educators on the continent would laugh at all his novice missteps tonight.

  “So I see.” Every nerve jangled and his body readied for fight, or flight. “As I value the sector of my anatomy at which your weapon is pointed far too much to argue, I’ll remove my weapon. I trust you’ll follow suit.” He slipped his knife back into its sheath. “A gun-wielding woman makes me nervous. Mistakes happen.”

  “I never make mistakes.” Her demeanour was far more self-assured than any thief or prostitute had a right to. “I was taught to shoot by an expert when I was a girl.”

  She retracted her pistol and secreted it on her person, probably in a concealed skirt pocket, and a hiding place any well-trained spy should have considered. Whew. He hadn’t realised he’d been holding that breath until it whooshed out.

  “Now. Who are you and what do you want?”

  “You really are foxed. My disguise didn’t fool those two.” She waved a hand towards the street. “And whoever they had following me. Yet you! You still haven’t recognized me.”

  He frowned. “Despite what Lord Mitchell inferred, I’m positive you’re not a light skirt. I’m guessing you’re a lady of the ton, perhaps after a re-enactment of some amorous night we spent together in the past.” He waved her
away from the door and ushered her into the hallway. “But I’m mortified to say if we were together, it’s so long ago I’ve forgotten.”

  She sighed. Disappointment or resignation? “You’ve forgotten all about me.”

  He halted her under the wall lamp. “If you’re looking to renew an old friendship,” he said as he trailed a finger across her décolletage, “we may be able to arrange something. But at a time when my wits are more collected.” He shifted his lower body closer to her legs and leaned into her.

  She raised a hand between them and backed away. She shook her head. “No, no, no.” She spun towards the door. “I made a mistake in coming here. To you. I must leave.” She tripped, stumbled.

  He caught her by the arms and swung her around to face him. “Hey. Not so fast,” he said with a chuckle. “Stay and we can discuss it.”

  When he slid his hands down to encircle her waist, a shiver rippled down her rigid length. Fear? Why now and why from a brazen and gun-carrying housebreaker?

  Two tattered leather gloves pushed in the centre of his chest. She gave an ineffectual little shove. “Release me immediately!” Drawing herself up to her full height of a smidgen over five feet, she thrust out to force away his arms. She adopted her hands on hips stance and hissed out her warning. “Cayle. Saint. Martin.”

  “Ah, I’m touched.” He put a hand to his heart. “You remember my name.”

  “You blind and intemperate dunderhead. Of course I know your name. As you should remember mine.”

  He adopted a soulful puppy expression. “Forgive me. I’ve had a long and tiring evening and struggle to recall my own name. Let alone guess at yours.”

  The little witch growled, then waggled her head. “We … you and I … ” The tiny tyrant waved an imperious hand back and forth. “Arggh! You were the one who taught me to shoot a pistol.”

  He squinted at the woman. Regretted the last brandy. And the three — or was it more? — before it. He ripped off her ridiculous hat and pushed back the curtain of wet hair.

  “Merciful heavens!” He stared, wide-eyed, at the distinctive green of her eyes and the red sheen of the drier hair on her crown. “Rebecca Jamison? Is it you? Really you?”

  “Of course, it’s me.” She rolled her eyes. “How many girls, apart from my sisters and I, did you teach to shoot?”

  “Apart from the Jamison girls?” A deep chuckle rumbled up. “None. Three of you created more than enough anxiety for any sane man.” He touched her face, softly. “Good, Lord, you’ve changed so much.”

  “Of course I’ve changed. You’ve been gone for several years. In that time, I’ve grown. Become a woman.”

  He stared at the subject of his countless youthful erotic dreams. She was older, stronger, and even more defiant. Yet the lady that stood before him was a riper and more enticing version of the girl he’d known.

  “Yes, you’ve certainly grown,” he said, unable to resist another lingering look around the bounteousness of her matured figure. He swallowed, blinked, and dragged his gaze back to her face.

  “But what in heaven’s name were you thinking, Becca? Making this hazardous, middle-of-the-night visit? Though my slightly inebriated side is enjoying the situation. You, Lady Rebecca, are an incredibly beautiful — ”

  A foot stomping on his tiled floor interrupted him. He dipped his head to hide his grin. Becca had always reacted that way to compliments. She’d never believed she was beautiful. Never understood that men were drawn to her as moths to a brightly burning flame.

  “Please stop saying those idiotic things and allow me to speak.”

  For a long moment, he stood silent. Then he threw back his head and chortled, though even to his own ears his laughter rasped, sounding rusty with disuse. “Becca. Some things never change. You’re the only lady I know who looks like an angel and insults like a navvy.”

  “Huh! Your conversations twirl more than a spinning top. They’d drive a schoolgirl to insults.” She ticked off numbers on the fingers of one revolting brown glove. “First, I’m not a thief. Second, I’m not a courtesan needing coin. Third, I’ve never been your mistress.” She looked down at her maid’s drab clothes, shuddered. “And if the women you’re taking to your bed dress this shabbily, I suggest you raise your standards.”

  He drew several shuddering breaths. “Correct, on all counts. Now, appease my burning curiosity. What deception did you employ to hoodwink my servant?”

  One shoulder lifted in the semblance of a shrug. “Oh, that! A child’s ploy. I laid coins on the fourth step and paid a street urchin to knock on your door and then run. When your gatekeeper bent to retrieve the coins, I slipped around the door and inside.”

  Incredulity, then infuriation, surrendered to mirth. The simplicity of her ruse, alongside her detached style of recounting her deception, startled him into a snort of amusement.

  “Huh! My ever-vigilant butler diverted by the sight of a few pennies.”

  “Oh, no, not mere pennies. Gleaming new gold coins. Rest easy. Your servant’s momentary distraction cost me a high price.”

  He lifted his hand to hide his smirk. Since he’d become Sherwyn, Jenner’s behaviour vacillated between extreme formality due a duke or nose-lifting disdain owed to the family’s black sheep. This chink in Jenner’s polished armour pleased him. He dipped his head, and said, “I bow to your finesse as a trickster. Now for my next pressing question. Why are you here?”

  “I need your assistance.”

  He grinned. “Ah, so once again your white knight is being asked to draw an imaginary sword and defend your ladyship’s honour.”

  She groaned. “If only things were still as uncomplicated as in our childhood games.”

  He tensed, fists clenched. “Is it Bennett? That scoundrel always had a reputation for coercing innocents.”

  She shook her head.

  “Lord Mitchell then?”

  Another shake of her head. He loosened his fingers, unclenched his teeth, and forced himself to stay calm.

  “No. Though as they followed me tonight, they’ve proved themselves to be mixed up in it.”

  Despite having no idea why Bennett was a threat, his fingers twitched with the urge to press his knife to the man’s throat again. His instinct had always been to protect Becca. Nothing seemed to have changed there.

  “Two nights ago,” she said, “the woman we engaged at the Women’s Betterment Society to tally the Stock Exchange ledgers — our friend — was murdered. The killer was still inside Peggy’s house when I arrived. Her slayer stopped at the back door and stared directly at me, memorising my features.” Her pronouncement was flat-voiced, deadly calm. “Thankfully, his immediate concern was escaping with our two accounting books. But when the cache identifies me as the woman who saw their lackey’s face, I am certain they will send him to dispose of me as well. They are peers, titled and wealthy, and cannot risk being exposed as members of an illegal group. If we cannot stop these men, brutes who employ cold-blooded assassins to do their dirty work, I will certainly be the next to die.”

  The Duke of Sherwyn’s chilled blood turned to ice.

  Chapter 2

  Becca watched Cayle. Under the rules of etiquette, she must remember to address him as Your Grace or Sherwyn in public despite knowing he’d abhorred the bowing and scraping to expected by dukes, including his father. She tried to judge his level of inebriation and his reaction to her news though she was wise enough to stay out of arm’s reach. In the past, her knight in shining armour had constantly overreacted if he thought her adventures, or misadventures, placed her in harm’s way.

  “Please, my dear.” His fists unfurled as he flung his arms wide in a dramatic gesture. “Go ahead and clarify that terrifying statement.” His voice lifted another octave. “Before my hair turns completely white. Or my legs give out.”

  Neither Cayle’s fury nor his towering size frightened Becca. But she was terrified that the city would awaken and the streets fill with people before he became calm and rational and
listened to her plea for his help in collecting the final proof that would send at least a dozen of their peers to prison for illegal trading practices.

  “Or even worse.” He voice was a low snarl as he pointed at the floor. “I misplace the contents of my heaving stomach all over the duchess’s prized carpet.”

  She winced. For the tenth time she listed to herself the reasons she’d bravely bearded this particular panther in his lair.

  To protect her family.

  To secure the nest eggs saved by the fallen women at the shelter.

  To save her own life.

  As the new Duke of Sherwyn, Cayle was her best, or possibly only, chance to do all that and to keep her promise to Scotland Yard. She hoped he’d listen with an open mind. Hoped he’d comprehend how much danger her family and friends were in without realising how close she had come to also being murdered.

  • • •

  “I’d gone to Peggy’s cottage to collect some letters she’d written on behalf of our Women’s Society. The door was ajar. I knocked but Peggy didn’t answer so I went inside.”

  Peggy had been sprawled across the floor, her sturdy legs protruding at odd angles from her yellowing nightgown. Her hair had been matted with blood and tangled in the strings of her dislodged nightcap and her plait had been a rusty red mess instead of a neat tail of plain brown.

  “I can’t sleep. Every time I close my eyes, I see the murderer standing over Peggy’s battered body. But he runs towards me. Not away.” She shuddered and closed her eyes.

  Fingers brushed her cheek. “Becca, I’ll not let anyone harm you.”

  “If I’d only arrived at Peggy’s cottage a few minutes earlier.”

  “Stop it. You mustn’t blame yourself.”

  “How can I not? One life has already been destroyed because of me. My friend was killed. Her body discarded like a tattered rag doll.”

  His bloodshot gaze narrowed on her face. “So, knowing how your mind works, you’ll try to focus the consortium on yourself, and thereby keep everyone else out of danger.” He raised a brow. “Am I correct?”