Suzi Love

by Embracing Scandal

  Damned man was still a mind reading menace. “You’re wrong. I’ve little wish to confront those men by myself. But neither will I allow anyone else to be hurt.”

  “And who protects you from the current set of fire-breathing dragons?”

  She raised her chin. “I’ve outgrown such childishness.” She lowered herself to the closest settee, a demonstration of ladylike maturity and a reprieve for her trembling knees.

  “Pity.” His forehead furrowed into a pained frown. “Ah. That’s why you wore a disguise. And why you came so late at night.”

  She nodded. “The consortium watches our house and tracks our movements. In order to speak with you alone, I was forced to dress like this and sneak out the servant’s entrance in the dark. Although luckily, the syndicate’s inner circle doesn’t want me dead. Not yet.

  “Wonderful!” He glared at her. “Your blithe not yet offers such comfort to my nerves.”

  She glared back. “Oooh! I cannot explain if you interrupt with your sarcastic jabs.”

  He dipped his head, and then waved a hand. “I apologise for my uncertain temperament this evening. Please, tell me about Peggy, and what she did at your Women’s Society.”

  “She writes — No, she wrote the letters for women who wish to invest in stock ventures. We were trying to keep their identities, and their objectives, a secret.”

  “Why? Because they’re women? Because jobbers stood for them in the Exchange?”

  She raised a brow. “For someone only recently returned to London, you appear exceedingly well acquainted with the inside activities at the Exchange.”

  He shrugged. “I’ve spent every spare moment since my return settling the family’s finances. Naturally, I’ve looked in at the Foreign Funds Room a time or two. Nobody in my position can afford to let bank balances sit idle, despite some labelling it as trade.”

  “I’m impressed, Cayle. You detested accounts when your father wanted you to learn.”

  Once more he shrugged, yet his show of nonchalance appeared overdone. “Perhaps it was more of not liking the methods of the educator, rather than the subject being taught.”

  She shuddered at her recollection of the late duke’s disciplinary methods. “But you’re correct,” she said, pushing away images of birch rods twanging on bare flesh. “Some in our prudish society frown upon a gentleman of your calibre frequenting auction rooms, but for a woman, it’d be an outrage.”

  His eyes fixed upon her, all signs of his earlier fatigue vanished. “I can well imagine.”

  “Though legally nothing prevents a woman from owning shares,” she said, assessing his concentration by the tense way he held his long, muscled body. “Visiting members are vetted at the door. Bank managers and jobbers pay eight guineas a year to enter the main Exchange room, yet self-righteous men evict females.”

  “So, is it your gender that sees you under threat?”

  “Not merely our gender. When the consortium heard we invested in secret, and often did very well, at first they became alarmed. Then, they became angry. Very angry indeed.”

  “I can well imagine men abhorring being bested by a female.”

  “Exactly. Therefore, we utilise Foster and Braithwaite as our agents and invest through them using the minimum identification on any documents.”

  “Impressive. I heard that Foster and Braithwaite’s business grew twelvefold in the last few years by riding on railway stocks.”

  “Hence, our problem. Their profits, our profits, became legendary. People speculated about the mysterious names on share certificates.” At his puzzled look she added, “Simple enough. We draw up letters. Ladies sign with their initials and family name, nothing more, so no one realises the investors aren’t men. Or rather, no one did before.”

  “And now?”

  “Two weeks ago, some members of the outer circle approached my brother, Michael. They believe him to be personally responsible for our own change in fortune.”

  “How big a change in fortune?”

  “Oh, nothing too major.” She waved a hand in a vague manner and hoped her face didn’t flush. “Modest successes. Dividend rates in excess of six percent in some situations.”

  His eyebrows shot upwards. “Six percent! Nobody I do business with calls that modest. No wonder they wish to obliterate all reference to your family, and your society.”

  “Yes, if only we’d been able to keep our good fortune a secret. We take the uttermost care with our clandestine activities, as we value our privacy and our reputations.”

  He raised a brow and pointed at his clock. “Oh, yes. Great care with your reputation!”

  She chose to ignore him. “Michael laughed it off. Refused to join their so-called group of friends who dabbled in investing. So they raised the stakes. If he refuses to hand over m … his calculations for all the new railway share ventures opening, within the next two weeks, they vowed to destroy the members of his family. One by one, until he gives in.”

  “Ah, now I understand. That’s why they’re keeping you alive. They’re waiting to acquire the records. They assume as eldest, and involved in a charitable society, you hold the most knowledge of … ” When he mumbled, she stiffened. Did he guess? “Of Michael’s future stock predictions. Then, when they have all they require, they’ll kill all — ”

  “Yes, yes, I know. They’ll dispense with us regardless.” She lifted her chin a notch. “But I can resolve this situation. Given a little more time, plus a little assistance from you.”

  “Ah! Back to the crux of the matter. What you require from me.”

  He widened his stance, pushed back his coat tails and leaned on one hip, though the intensity in his eyes belied his casual pose. Eyes that shone as black and mysterious as an eastern sultan’s eyes pierced, probed, and penetrated to the depth of her soul.

  • • •

  She shivered. Against the backdrop of a richly embellished Mayfair house, Cayle appeared like a demon-god who could breach the defences of mere mortals, including her, with one dark look. Ridiculous fancy.

  “As the Duke of Sherwyn, you’ve entrée into the best houses and social events.”

  After a scowl towards the ceiling, he muttered, “Thanks to my stepmother, I’m forced into it. But what does my recent social popularity have to do with your current predicament?”

  “In daylight, with other ladies, I can stroll about the streets. Visit shops, sometimes slip unnoticed into the twice-weekly stock auctions at the Hall of Commerce in Threadneedle Street. And I’ve already searched the desks of many of the mere misters and lesser peers of the lower orders of the consortium, as their houses aren’t guarded like fortresses.”

  “Do you mean to say you entered these men’s homes and rifled their papers?”

  “Well yes, but — ”

  “Are you mad?”

  “I risked little because those sort of houses cannot afford a footman guarding every passageway. Especially not on occasions such as those I attended, where every footman is needed to fetch drinks for belligerent guests. Slipping into those libraries was child’s play.” She sighed. “What I cannot do is visit the homes of the highest ranking peers to scour their correspondence for any that bears the special seal of the consortium. Nor secure enough privacy to copy any incriminating letters I may find. Someone always hovers, and watches, at those type of houses.”

  He paced before her like a restless panther, an angry scowl pulling his face taut. His fine looks had always turned heads, but this brooding beast carried a lethal combination of strength and menacing masculinity. She shivered. His newly acquired arrogance of bearing enhanced, rather than detracted from, his magnetism, although this time, she knew to avoid his magnetic pull.

  “You intend searching the houses of every peer in the city who is making money from stock shares?”

  “No, no, not all of them. We’ve done a lot of research — ”

  “We?”

  “My family have become quite adept at research. We’ve narrowed our se
arch to gentlemen known to invest in railway expansions in a large way. Our final list is of those we consider to be involved in the inner, and most secret, tier of the syndicate. It contains eighteen names, the majority of whom are high-ranking peers.

  “Bloody hell, Becca.” He ground the expletive out through clenched teeth. “You’re out of your depth. I’ve been involved in similar commercial groups. They’ll stop at nothing for the sake of money.”

  “Nevertheless, we need certain details you may overhear at clubs about certain gentlemen having sudden windfalls. Or things gleaned at certain balls and soirees.

  “Unbelievable.” Both hands went up in the air. “That’s certainly as clear as muddy water.”

  “Clear or not, I’m asking you to trust me. To help me.” She held out both hands, palms up, and hoped he wouldn’t notice their tremors. “With your assistance, I can verify more names. Collect proof of each one’s involvement and hand it over to Scotland Yard. Time is of the essence, as we’ve now less than two weeks.”

  She watched him absorb, assess, decide. In under a minute, he guided her to his desk and seated her before it. “Make a start. List the names of every man you suspect to be a member.” He placed writing materials before her. “Then list those you consider inner tier, and include their ranking.”

  He walked away, leaned on the mantelpiece, waited, a too-poignant reminder of the last time he’d walked away in silence. In her naiveté, she’d imagined their carefree youth, their first love, predestined a lifetime together. Stupid, stupid fool. This powerful new duke, stalked by every husband-hunting chit and matchmaking mama and invited to prestigious social events, was far above her touch. Her chest pained with the sharp slice of loss.

  Moisture pooled in her eyes so she squeezed them shut, rubbed them with closed fists. She focused on the reasons she’d entered his residence unchaperoned. To safeguard her family and, if possible, warn her childhood champion of his future entrapment. Nothing else.

  He walked back, frowned, and pointed to the blank foolscap. “Go on, then. Names, titles, levels. What do they call it? An alliance?”

  “A circle or a coterie, with tiers of membership.” She sketched a cartwheel with radiating spokes. “Larger rings of membership decrease to a smaller number of the inner elite, the ones who hold the real power. The most desperate and the most evil.”

  “Add a column for any specifics about each of them. Next, write what evidence the Yard requires as absolute proof to take these men to trial. If they hold titles, they’ll demand exemption from incarceration, exclusion from public trial, and use every trick to avoid charges. Also, list the railway stocks you — or rather — Michael, plans to buy.”

  He grinned at her, pesky man. No doubt he saw through her ruse over who formulated their share plans, but for now she chose to ignore that, too.

  “Time was obviously spent calculating the best mathematical outcome on each locality, and forecasts plotted for their suitability for expansion. I assume that’s in those ledgers, the ones these men thought would be kept in Peggy’s cottage.”

  “I cannot disclose details of the investments Michael is planning for the women. Not yet.” She wrote quickly, filling in columns with details of the syndicate and then pushed the paper towards him. “The less you know, the less the danger. For you, and for my family.”

  She folded her hands in her lap and adopted her best big-sister-do-as-I-say voice. “You may explain any further concerns you have to my family tomorrow morning.”

  “I’m to meet your family? Huh! A request. Or one of Lady Rebecca’s royal commands?”

  “Stop being difficult.” She stood and stomped one foot. When he grinned, she scowled and stomped harder. This dratted extra-thick carpet made no satisfying sound under her foot, despite heavy maid’s boots. His grin widened until every white tooth gleamed in the firelight. Her jaw was so rigid she could barely spit out words. “Yo … you’re still the most ex … exasperating man, I’ve ever met.”

  She marched to the settee and plunked down.

  “Easily explained.” He stalked after her, threw himself down beside her. “I’m the only man who’s ever dared question your ladyship’s orders.”

  She glared, inched further along the settee, and pointed a finger at him. “Regardless, you will present yourself at Jamison House in Grosvenor Square, at precisely ten o’clock.”

  “So, if my inquisitiveness is to be satisfied, I must obey — without question — your ever-so-sweetly worded request? Despite the fact that I’ll obtain no rest tonight. Due to lying awake worrying about you being slaughtered in your bed.”

  Leaning forward, he angled his face closer until she was forced to scrunch into the corner. His nose came close enough to her neck that she could feel the warmth of his breath. It blew across her skin below her ear and goose flesh rippled in its wake. He inhaled deeply before giving a long and sensual moan.

  Her throat constricted and her pulse raced. “Wh … what … a … are … you … ”

  She couldn’t finish her stuttered question. After five years alternately cursing him or forgiving him over his rushed departure and her consequent misery, she’d recently been congratulating herself on her more mature attitude. She spoke of the incident between Cayle and her cousin as a strengthening exercise every young and naive girl should experience if she was expecting to find a suitable marriage partner.

  “What am I doing? Why am I near you?”

  She shook her head, vigorously, and resisted the childish urge to cover her ears so she didn’t have to listen to his reasons. Her declarations to her sisters that seeing Cayle wouldn’t upset her had quickly been proved to be false bravado. After this brief time in his presence, her head spun, her senses reeled, and old yearnings had revived with a vengeance.

  “I remember your smell. Like the wildflowers you gathered. Strong and wild.” His voice purred in her ear, a well-remembered seduction. She swallowed and prayed her shivers would pass unnoticed.

  “Being near you calms my shattered nerves.”

  “More nonsense! Your nerves were always rock solid.”

  The tip of his cool tongue touched her heated skin. Shock, surprise, and wonder turned her into a wide-eyed statue.

  “I also want to know if you taste the same.”

  She wriggled away and jumped to her feet, tugging to free her skirt from under his leg. “Of course I taste the same.”

  The wretched man stayed seated but lifted his hand towards her.

  “If I touch your skin, will it still feel silky smooth? Soft like velvet?”

  “No, no, no.” She held up her hand, palm out, and backed away. “You cannot touch me. And you certainly cannot taste me. We may have been close in the past, but you severed our relationship. Rather cruelly, in fact.”

  He sighed. “I prayed that you’d understand why I had no choice. My father convinced me that leaving England would ensure that your family, and mine, could still hold their heads high. It was the only honourable thing to do. I hoped you’d forgive me. Eventually.”

  She nodded with as much emphasis as she’d shaken her head minutes before. “No. I mean, yes. I no longer care about the past. I learned from my mistakes. Moved on.”

  He flinched. “Is that all I was, Becca? A mistake?”

  “Our kissing was a mistake. One never to be repeated.”

  He smirked. “On the contrary, my little innocent, we will repeat it. Soon, very soon.” Rising to his feet, he gave her a taunting look. “Though I remember a lot more than kissing.”

  Memories had her body stirring and awakening. She clenched her fists and scowled but words failed her.

  “Naturally I was referring to dancing and riding. Perhaps you mistook me to mean certain other things?”

  Her face heated. Dratted revealing complexion! “If I recall anything else,’ she said, moving backwards to prevent their torsos touching, “it merely reminds me that men are untrustworthy.”

  He groaned. “My intentions were honourable, Becc
a.” He reached for her. “I could blame it all on bad timing and scheming women but I should never have left.” He pressed nearer until her nostrils filled with his well-remembered aroma of musky spices. His lips hovered a scant breath from hers. Dark eyes pierced her soul. “Please accept my belated apology.”

  • • •

  Nothing was going to plan. She’d swallowed her damaged pride to ask for his assistance. Determined to be courteous, yet distant, in order to get the help her family needed. Instead, he’d offered a few repentant words, some soft touches, and she quaked.

  If she was to avoid more heartbreak, she needed to bury any soft feelings and think rationally, like the men she pitted her wits against. Like the man standing before her. If she wanted to keep men at a distance, she should have approached another peer, any other peer. If she were sensible, she’d turn and run for her life.

  But his large hands clasped her waist and held her motionless. He dipped his head and covered her lips with his. They were warm, enticing, coaxing her response. She shivered in his arms and he deepened and widened the kiss until she drowned in a sea of sensations.

  Though she wasn’t alone. All signs of Cayle’s earlier foggy-headed lethargy vanished as he bent unerringly to her mouth for a second time. By the way his body hardened and responded, he was also remembering.

  She twisted away and sucked in a deep breath. A feeble attempt at breaking his spell so she could uphold the vow she’d made years ago.

  Never to let herself be fooled by a man again.

  She circled the settee and shook her head. Undeterred, he followed.

  “N-no, no, enough,” she said, even as his long sigh of regret tugged at her softer side. Heaven help her, she was doomed.

  Cayle moved with her. He blocked every one of Becca’s meagre attempts at escape. “Not enough for me, my reticent friend.”

  • • •

  Without giving her, or him, time to think, he tugged her against him, too desperate for the feel of her to consider his actions.

  “One taste is not nearly enough. Show me you remember how I taught you to kiss.”