Tempting the Scoundrel (Private Arrangements Book 2)

by Katrina Kendrick

  Richard’s expression darkened. “There wasn’t time—”

  “I know it. I don’t blame you for damaging a woman’s social connections. They’re easy enough to lose, if you marry a man born on the wrong side of the blanket and on the wrong street.”

  Richard whistled. “Look at you. You speak quite prettily when the mood strikes.”

  “Aye. I learned it from your father.”

  The other man went quiet. He stared at Thorne with an unnerving astuteness, but then, he had a habit of turning those pretty blue eyes on a person and making them feel like baring their soul.

  Thorne just didn’t have a soul to bare.

  “My sister told me everything,” Richard said, his voice quiet. “Including your deal with the old earl.”

  “Good.” It was easier that way. “Then you know I’m no good for Alex.”

  Their marriage, after all, was undeniable proof that Thorne was a deceitful blackguard. There wasn’t a person alive who wouldn’t empathize with a lass swindled by a man who lied about being a lord.

  Richard raised an eyebrow. “You call her Alex?”

  “She can be Lady Alexandra if you like. God knows she’d probably attack anyone who referred to her as Mrs. Thorne.” Thorne brushed past Richard. “If you’ll excuse me, I have work to do. Give my regards to your wife.”

  “You’ve got to speak with her sometime, Thorne,” Richard called after him.

  “Mind your own damn business, Grey,” Thorne called back.

  The knock came at Thorne’s office door during the very early hours of the morning. He had been at his desk, pouring over the club’s books—a distraction that kept his mind calm.

  Words were difficult for him; he found reading a chore. Numbers, on the other hand, made sense. There was no emotional burden connected to the tallying of sums, the ease of arithmetic, the number of wine bottles, spirits, and card packs. For a few moments, he could forget the club, his errant wife, the dagger in his heart that twisted when he remembered making love to her.

  Christ, he wanted to be here until morning. Tallying until he was too exhausted to think of her.

  But someone knocked again.

  “Come,” he called, setting down his pen. O’Sullivan pushed open the door, but lingered at the threshold. Thorne straightened at the factotum’s troubled expression. “What is it?”

  O’Sullivan let out a gusty breath. “It’s Mary Watkins.”

  “Flower seller, aye?” Thorne’s expression hardened. “If her brother’s returned to beat her again—”

  “She’s dead,” O’Sullivan said, then he swore. “Murdered.”

  Thorne shoved his chair away from his desk and rose. “Find her brother. Bring him to me.”

  O’Sullivan shook his head. “I don’t think he was involved. You . . .” The factotum let out a breath. “You need to come see this.”

  The look on the other man’s face was alarming. Thorne and O’Sullivan had both grown up in the Nichol—some of the worst streets in the East End. They made the rest look peaceful in comparison. Corpses were a sight more common than blue skies. While there were a thousand ways to die in the East End, murder was a frequent cause. Thorne and O’Sullivan had contributed a few in their day.

  That’s why Thorne followed O’Sullivan out of the Brimstone without question.

  Any onlooker from outside these streets might have scurried through them. The East End had an atmosphere that repulsed those unused to the overwhelming, burning odor of the coal-fire that kept families warm even as it choked them.

  But it was home. Even its ugliest, most violent parts were under Thorne’s skin, in his blood, marked on his bones.

  At the end of an alleyway stood the silhouettes of Casey and McCabe. The two men each raised a hand in greeting, but Thorne didn’t return it. He looked over the shadowed corpse on the ground; already, the stench had started to waft through the alleyway, mingling with the sharp tang of sick nearby. Thorne didn’t blame whoever vomited, not after he saw what had been done to Mary.

  “Bastard slit ‘er throat twice, boss,” Casey said. “Fuckin’ sweet lass, she was. Christ.”

  Thorne knelt beside Mary. “That she was,” he murmured, trying to avoid staring at her face. “Casey, McCabe, run to find a copper, bring him back here with the constable. Off you go.” As the other men left, Thorne looked up at O’Sullivan. “You don’t think her brother did this?”

  Thorne slipped back into his old accent like a worn pair of leather boots. He’d never be completely rid of the Irish lilt, courtesy of being raised by a ma from the streets of Dublin. His work with toffs taught him to soften it, but every so often those dropped letters reminded him of where he came from. Here, the streets, not far from this corpse.

  O’Sullivan shook his head. The other man’s spectacles had droplets on them, but he was a man well used to rain. O’Sullivan was Irish by both birth and blood, spent his earliest years with his ma in Cork before she died. Sent to London to live with his uncle, who perished after a bad spate of bilious fever six months later. Then, like Thorne, he was left to the mercy of men who preyed on desperate lads looking for a bit of food and shelter.

  “Baily’s a fucking fool,” O’Sullivan said, “but he values his life enough not to bait you. Whoever did this wanted you to see her.” The other man passed Thorne a scrap of paper. “She had this in her hand when the lads found her.”

  Thorne frowned, holding the folded note up to the lantern O’Sullivan held. “What is it? Page from a book? Mary couldn’t read.”

  “Whoever killed her put it there. You might recognize the book it’s from,” O’Sullivan said, his eyes meeting Thorne’s. “Your wife wrote it.”

  Chapter 3

  Alexandra burst into her solicitor’s office. “Tell me what I need to do to petition for divorce.”

  The morning had started off with another disastrous illustration in the dailies. By midmorning, Alexandra had been asked to leave a suffragist meeting held by her peers. Her last straw had been the chilly reception she received at the local hat shop.

  When even hats became unwelcoming . . .

  Annabel Dawes looked up from her desk with a raised eyebrow. She was a serious woman for someone so young. Alexandra had guessed Miss Dawes’ age as somewhere in her early thirties, but it was difficult to tell. Her brown skin was smooth, untouched by laugh lines. Alexandra had never even seen her smile. What she did know of Annabel and her brother Benjamin was scant: they had been born to an Indian mother and an English father in Calcutta, and left India after the sepoy mutiny. Their grandfather had raised them and paid for Ben’s schooling and Annabel’s tutors, but both children found a keen interest in law.

  Though Miss Dawes’ held the title of clerk—women, after all, were barred from practicing law—she counseled out of her brother’s offices. On paper, Benjamin Dawes was the sole solicitor at B. Dawes, Esq. In truth, his sister ran half his firm and did everything short of litigating cases in the courts.

  Miss Dawes set aside her pen and leaned back in her chair. “Very well,” she said, as if she’d been expecting this. “Reason cited?” Her accent still held the lilt of her homeland and childhood language of Urdu.

  Alexandra paced the length of the carpet, her boots thudding. “He’s an absolute blackguard, a scoundrel, and a cad, and I loathe him.”

  Miss Dawes raised an eyebrow. “You’ve described half the marriages in the ton. The courts will need a bit more than loathing to grant you a divorce.”

  “He married me under false pretenses.”

  “Yes? Have you seen the marriage lines?” Miss Dawes sat up, her expression intent on some thought. “Did he sign under his alias?”

  “He signed his real name whilst I was distracted, damn his eyes.” She kept pacing. “But surely Mr. Dawes could—”

  “No,” Miss Dawes said with a sigh. A strand of black hair escaped her chignon as she gave her head a shake. “If your husband challenged the petition, he could argue the length of your marri
age as tacit acceptance of the union. Consider it from the perspective of a judge: if you truly felt betrayed, you would have sought an annulment as soon as you discovered Mr. Thorne’s deceit. But it’s been over four years.”

  Mr and Miss Dawes were the only ones who knew of her marriage before the gossips. The money she earned from publishing in the first two years of her marriage, after all, belonged to Nick by law. Then the Married Women’s Property Act passed in 1870, allowing married women to keep their own earnings. Finally, Alexandra could keep the income earned by her pen.

  Alexandra paused, her gloved fingertips pressing to her palm. “I was heartbroken, Annabel,” she said softly. “I wanted . . .”

  I wanted to forget.

  As if the other woman heard Alexandra’s thoughts, her expression softened. “I understand,” Miss Dawes told her. “I even sympathize. I can only give counsel on the likely outcome.”

  “Then counsel me on another option.”

  Miss Dawes pressed her lips together and said her next words very carefully. “Ben could make a case for cruelty.”

  Something squeezed in Alexandra’s chest. “But Nick hasn’t . . .”

  At least, not in a way that mattered to a judge. Betrayal was not considered under the legal grounds for cruelty. Neither were broken hearts. No, those were carried often in marriages, always hidden, a great burden that wasn’t visible to the eye.

  “Mr Thorne’s reputation in the Houses of Parliament is tumultuous,” Miss Dawes said. “He hasn’t bothered to refute rumors over the years. If you claimed he were cruel to you, the public would believe it. A judge would believe it, no matter the arguments Mr. Thorne made in his defense.”

  The pressure in Alexandra’s chest grew tighter. “But it would be a lie.”

  “Yes.” Miss Dawes leaned forward, regarding Alexandra with a piercing gaze. The other woman’s eyes were a startling shade of gold, as bright as honey. “But these cases always become a matter of public opinion. Spectators will gawk at you from the viewing gallery, and they’ll decide whether what you’ve said is a truth or a lie. Your entire marriage will be up for public consumption and debate no matter what case we make. You know that.”

  Alexandra’s legs were unsteady. She had come into this office with so much anger, but as she lowered herself into the chair across from Miss Dawes’ desk, she was only tired. “I can’t do that,” she whispered. “I can’t lie about him like that.”

  Nick deserved her rage. He deserved her loathing and utter contempt for the way he got her to that anvil. Some days she remembered his smile at the lake, the way he spoke to her, and she wondered if any of it was real at all.

  But she could not go into a courtroom and tell the public that kind of lie. Not when it was reality for so many women in worse circumstances.

  The solicitor let out a breath. “Very well. New tack. Is there any chance that your husband has remained faithful to you after a four year separation?”

  Alexandra held back a flinch. Why should it matter so much to her if Nick slept with someone? Why did she imagine him in bed with another woman, and why did that thought hurt so bloody much?

  “No.” She raised her chin. She squashed the image from her mind. It would not help her here. “None at all.”

  “Very well.” Miss Dawes began gathering her papers. “We shall try that option. Take this suggestion as you like, but the process would be more expedient with his cooperation.”

  “You want me to talk to Nick,” Alexandra said flatly.

  Miss Dawes put a hand up. “As I said, it’s a suggestion. If he challenges your case, this will become unpleasant. The gossips will be merciless.” She looked up, as if a thought occurred to her. “Are you planning to release a book anytime soon?”

  Alexandra’s cheeks burned. She had spoken to no one of her latest work. Of the interviews, pouring over shipping contents, collecting and annotating departures and arrivals of cargo. Of the sleepless nights she spent writing of illegal opal smuggling and the people trafficked to Australia to work endless hours in the mines.

  She had not told anyone that she was working to expose a Member of Parliament for his crimes.

  “You are,” Miss Dawes said, reading Alexandra’s expression. She made a noise. “I’m almost afraid to ask: how will the public receive it?”

  Alexandra bit her lip. “It will cause an uproar.”

  Miss Dawes murmured a word very softly. A swear? No, it couldn’t have been. The solicitor was too in control of her emotions. “Take my advice as you wish: hold the manuscript and ask your husband if he’s willing to accept a divorce. Either way, I suggest you make plans to retreat to the country. The public will not be kind.”

  Alexandra didn’t tell Miss Dawes that she had already made plans. That there was a ship in her future that would take her far away from England.

  And far away from the man who had caused her so much hurt.

  The Earl of Kent’s residence in St. James’s seemed to loom as Alexandra trudged up the steps. The problem wasn’t the house itself, but how large and empty it had become in the absence of her brother and his wife. James and Emma had always been there to greet her, and these last few months had grown lonely indeed.

  Jeffries, the butler, bowed as he let her in. “My lady—”

  “I’ve only arrived for a change of clothing, Jeffries,” Alexandra said, passing him her gloves. “Please send one of the maids up to my bedchamber.”

  Alexandra was going to have to talk to her damned husband, and she was not about to visit his club wearing a dress splattered in city mud. No, no. She needed to arrive in something intimidating. Something that said, I’ve come to menace you.

  “My lady—”

  “And tell Amelia that she’s not to touch the papers on my desk. I have them right where I want them.”

  “But, my lady—”

  “Spit it out, Jeffries. I’m mere hours from threatening a man, and I’m eager to finish it.”

  Would red silk be too much? Too dramatic?

  The butler straightened. “A gentleman inquired after you at the service door a short time ago.”

  Perhaps a soft, pastel pink. One that gave the impression, I am here for your destruction before my afternoon tea.

  “Did this gentleman come with a name?” she asked distractedly.

  Or blue? Blue always suited her coloring. She could wear it to terrorize a man.

  Jeffries hesitated. “He said he was your husband.”

  Alexandra froze. All thoughts of dresses disappeared from her mind. “I see. Did he happen to leave a message?”

  “No, but—”

  “So he appeared and vanished, rather like a noxious odor. That does sound like Nicholas. Thank you for telling me, Jeffries. That will be all.” The emerald green, then. It gave the impression of wanting to burn his life to the ground. Alexandra started for the stairs, but the butler cleared his throat. “Unless there was something else?”

  Her butler shifted on his feet. “The gentleman in question is . . . still outside, my lady. Across the road. He’s requested your presence in the park.”

  All at once, Alexandra’s anger returned. Fine. She could make threats of divorce in a mud-splattered dress. It saved her a trip to that monstrosity he called a business. “Very well.”

  Alexandra snatched the newspaper from the table beside the door and strode out of the house. As she crossed into the park, the tall man who had been leaning against a nearby tree straightened.

  Damn her traitorous heart, it still stuttered at the sight of Nick. If anything, he had only grown more handsome in the four years since their disastrous marriage. No, not handsome. That was a common word; something far too simple. It didn’t describe his striking combination of elegance and ferocity.

  Alas, beautiful suited him perfectly. His black hair gleamed in the rare London sunlight; it seemed Nick had no use for anything as mundane as a hat. Such an object might make him seem tame.

  As she approached, his ink black eyes met
hers directly, bold and unflinching. Such things were meant to intimidate, and Nick used them to his advantage.

  But he could never intimidate Alexandra.

  “The servant’s entrance?” she asked, stopping in front of him. “Are you trying to terrify the staff or annoy me?”

  Nick lifted a shoulder. “Figured you’d think it more considerate than showing up at the front door.”

  “I’d think it more considerate if you didn’t show up at all.”

  His black eyes gleamed. “Did that for over four years.”

  “Try it for another four. Perhaps then I can read my morning broadsheet”— She launched the paper at his chest—“without us being the featured scandal.”

  Nick caught the sheet and stared down at it. His gorgeous grin made Alexandra unaccountably angry. She’d spent the last four years wishing warts onto his face, a lump on his nose, dozens of unattractive spots, perhaps thinning hair. All she got for her efforts was a husband whose face reflected nothing of the black lump of rock in his chest he called a heart.

  “I take it you’re the witch beating defenseless men in this illustration,” he said in his Irish lilt. He’d hidden it from her, all those years ago in Hampshire. His accent then had been as English as Her Majesty’s.

  The reminder infuriated her.

  “Look behind me.” She thrust her finger at him. “That is you, you absolute buffoon of a man.”

  Nick started to laugh. “I’m the devil?”

  His laugh shocked her. More than the smile, it hurt to look at; she hadn’t seen him laugh since the day of their wedding.

  You’re stuck with me now, Nicholas, she’d told him with a smile.

  He’d laughed and said, That sounds like the start of an adventure.

  Her lips flattened at the memory. An adventure, when they’d married, had sounded exciting. Now she knew what he’d meant: it was the start of his adventure. His life. Her role was only as a bank account he could access in his quest. How dare he laugh? How dare he?