by Allison Lane
Triumph twisted her face. “Willingham leaves by eight.”
He nodded. “In the meantime, I must call on my tailor.”
“Until eight, darling.” With a blatant caress across his groin, she left, her smile sending chills down his spine that stifled any guilt. He’d not precisely lied. And it would do the lady good to spend an evening alone.
Helen was glaring daggers at Lady Willingham. Cursing, he whisked her into the carriage – Lady Willingham was the sort who couldn’t resist a last flirtatious glance before she vanished – then opened his mouth to explain.
His breath caught.
He’d thought yellow suited her, but black turned her into a red-haired enchantress. No wonder Dudley wanted her. She looked bold, dashing, and quite the most desirable woman he’d seen in years.
Which was good. Her stunning beauty would explain why they’d wed so precipitously. He could describe his recent absence from town as courtship. The friend he’d visited was practically a hermit, so he was unlikely to talk.
“I need a bonnet and black gloves,” Helen said coolly. “Someone recommended Michelle’s Millinery. Do you know it?”
“Of course. It is around the corner.” But he cursed while she finished her shopping. Her tone would freeze the balls off a brass monkey, as his military friends liked to say. She must have overheard him arranging an apparent assignation. Or perhaps Lady Willingham’s blatant flirtation appalled her. Yet he could hardly ask without making matters worse. Besides, they had other problems to address. Like her claim that she’d run her estate for years. Such behavior was so far outside the accepted range that it was bound to cause trouble.
He pondered that while they headed for the City.
In every loving marriage he’d known, the wife had begun with a minimal dowry. Yet despite his long determination to avoid that trap, he’d wed a girl with assets. He could only pray that they didn’t equal his. Steven’s claim that Helen’s fortune exceeded Alice’s was troubling.
His fear that he’d fallen into his worst nightmare was so powerful that he almost welcomed Helen’s interruption.
“Everyone is discussing you today,” she said when they paused for the first tollgate.
“I expect so. My affairs have filled conversational voids for ten years – rarely with facts. Tomorrow will be worse, though at least people will have the truth by then.”
“Will they?”
“The public truth, I should have said. It will be best to claim a love match, Helen. The guardianship should explain our acquaintance and halt further speculation.”
“I doubt it. Most people believe that you seduced Miss Pauling because you need her fortune to pay gaming debts. Heaven knows what they’ll think of me.”
“Preposterous!”
“Is it? You don’t keep a low profile.”
Rafe scowled. “Actually, I do.” Not that it helped. If anything, circumspection made the gossip worse.
“How—” She halted, dropping her gaze to her hands. “I need the truth, Rafe. It is obvious I will face more than curiosity about our marriage. If I’m to avoid looking shocked, I must be ready.”
“Which stories did they trot out?” Damnation! He didn’t need this. No wonder she’d glared at Lady Willingham. He’d hoped to build some trust before explaining his reputation. A futile hope, he now saw. Gossips would delight in exposing him. Short of locking her up, he couldn’t protect her from rumors.
“One concerned a tryst in the Serpentine. Another involved chasing a nude lady through Berkeley Square. Or perhaps you were the nude one. It wasn’t clear.”
“Those are ten years old and so twisted that I barely recognize them.”
“Really?”
He sighed. It was a long drive to her bank, so he might as well talk. “My mother died just after I came down from Eton. We were very close. I couldn’t handle the grief. The Serpentine incident happened the night I returned from her grave. It was hot, and I’d had too much to drink. The lake looked cool, so I went swimming, retaining just enough sense to remove my clothes first. Lady Melthorpe spotted me in the water. I hadn’t expected anyone in the park at midnight.”
Helen snorted.
“All right, I wasn’t thinking clearly. But I hadn’t expected a lady. Especially one without an escort. She’d had a row with her husband and stormed out of the house – it overlooks Hyde Park. She was tipsy enough to join me. It was completely innocent, but when Lady Beatrice drove by – she is the most malicious gossip in town – Lady Melthorpe repaid her husband by jumping me. Melthorpe arrived moments later and nearly called me out, though in the end, he accepted the truth.”
She shook her head.
“As for Berkeley Square, that was stupidity, pure and simple,” he admitted with a sigh. “I’d been out of control for a month, doing anything to take my mind off grief. I’d borrowed a friend’s brougham – my allowance didn’t cover even a riding horse, let alone a carriage – but I didn’t notice that the coachman was drunk.”
“You didn’t notice the coachman?”
“I was eighteen. Between grief for my mother and fury at my father, there were many things I didn’t notice. At any rate, he took a corner too fast and overturned. The clamshell top popped open, spilling us out. The naked part is a lie, though I have to admit to disheveled. The scandal shocked me into reform. I haven’t lost control since.” Except for his latest confrontation with Hillcrest, which had pushed him into marriage.
“Reform? That’s not what society claims – showing up half naked at a masquerade, fleecing Lord Creevey, duels over mistresses—”
“Enough!” And he’d thought gossip at the clubs was bad. “Those tales range from gross exaggeration to outright lies. Half naked. My God!”
“Lady Horseley was outraged.”
“I don’t doubt it, but she is a self-righteous meddler who has made it her mission to despise me – as have several of her closest friends. If my behavior seems too tame, they make up scandal. My costume was Robinson Crusoe. While it’s true that I wore no coat or cravat and my breeches were tattered, it was hardly obscene. There were pirates at that ball who wore less. And one of the Aphrodites—” He shook his head, for the lady might as well have been naked.
“As for Creevey, that arrogant boasting about his sense of smell has annoyed society for years. I finally called him on it. He set the terms for that test himself – one good sniff of ten substances while blindfolded. He swore he could identify anything. The fool lost, of course.”
“What did you use?” Interest replaced the challenge in her voice. A smile tickled the corner of her mouth.
He grinned back. “Obvious scents to start with – sandalwood, vinegar, rotten fish.”
“Deadening his sense of smell.”
“Exactly.” He caught her hand, twining his fingers with hers, delighted when she squeezed. “We finished with a wool scarf and pure water. He couldn’t tell the difference.”
“Because his jacket was wool. Clever.” She nodded. “So you won the thousand guineas.”
“Twenty, actually. The rest went to the other witnesses.”
“Then why do people think it was all yours?”
“I take the blame for lots of things – even duels that never happened.” He grimaced, but there was no way out. “Some of it is my own fault. The gossips loved my exploits ten years ago. I was young enough so that they could cluck their tongues and forgive me. Since I settled down before they grew tired of the game, their clucking never turned to censure. But instead of accepting that month as an aberration, they decided I’d learned circumspection. So whenever they need sensational tales to relieve boredom, they speculate about my secret activities. And if I do anything to draw notice, they magnify it into flamboyant scandal. They’ll never change. Accepting the truth would mean admitting ten years of delusions.”
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“It does, unfortunately. Hillcrest rants against me, so society accepts that I’m incorrigible. Their speculation increas
es my notoriety, convincing Hillcrest that I am indeed a godless wastrel. His condemnation breeds new speculation. And so it goes. Year after year.” He snapped his mouth shut, appalled that he was whining. He hadn’t meant to go this far.
Hillcrest’s public criticism had hurt far more than their private war, for it affected him every time he spotted suspicion in someone’s eye or watched a new acquaintance back away after a whispered warning. He hated the man for his unjust persecution nearly as much as for mistreating his mother.
“If he hates you, why does he continue your allowance?” she asked.
“He doesn’t. I’ve not received a groat from him in ten years.”
* * * *
Helen bit her lip. Rafe sounded sincere, but Alex had taught her that sincerity could be faked and that men twisted their own foibles to make them seem better. While she could accept that his reputation was exaggerated, she doubted that the incidents were as benign as he claimed – Alex had sworn that he barely knew a disreputable moneylender in Taunton, yet Helen had seen the pair retire into a private office for two hours. And her father had disclaimed any fault when his carelessness injured a footman.
Then there was the lady who had been caressing Rafe’s thigh when Helen emerged from the dressmaker’s. Despite his vow that marriage meant something, he’d wasted no time arranging an assignation. He might not have set up a formal mistress after releasing Lydia, but that didn’t mean he was celibate.
So she must take his latest claims with a grain of salt. By his own admission, he’d been penniless ten years ago, then had his allowance cut off. Gaming was an uncertain source of income. Even imagination, skill, and intelligence could not guarantee favorable results.
Which revived her problem. Rafe was the one man in England who might know her worth to the last shilling – even Steven had only guessed at its extent. Rafe had demanded marriage the moment she’d introduced herself. Helen St. James of Audley Court, Somerset … uncle wants my estate. He might claim ignorance, but how could she believe him? The letter from Alquist’s solicitor was a formality demanded by law. He would have written the same missive whether Rafe had attended the will reading or not.
The only way to protect herself was to keep her wits about her. Letting him play on her emotions must lead to trouble. Her reputation could not withstand another mistake. Nor could her heart.
“Tell me about Sir Steven,” Rafe demanded, releasing her hand to pull her against his side.
She shivered as his heat penetrated her gown, but accepted the change of subject. He needed all the information she could give him if he was to adequately protect himself. And she needed time to identify his goals. This wasn’t the place to admire how elegantly his morning coat stretched across his shoulders. Or recall what lay beneath his tight-fitting pantaloons.
“I already told you that he hated Papa. They grew up in London after Grandfather lost his estate. Steven’s manipulation turned Grandfather against Papa, so Papa inherited only the baronetcy. Steven got everything else.”
“Ouch.”
She shrugged. “There wasn’t much by then – a third rate town house and a few hundred guineas, which Steven immediately lost at cards. Papa had a modest income from an investment he’d made while still in school, but he refused to support a gamester. Steven was furious.”
“That fits what I know of him.”
“His wife brought him a sizeable dowry, which helped for a time, and he won a small estate at the tables. But he lost far more than he won, sinking into debt. Then Papa backed a couple of ventures that paid well and bought Audley. He barred Steven from the estate, so his appearance at Papa’s burial was the first time I’d seen him since childhood.”
“Expecting an inheritance?”
“No. Determined to steal one. Papa left him nothing – as promised. After he set up my trust, he warned me to avoid Steven. But though he swore Steven was unscrupulous, the only vice he ever mentioned was gaming.”
“You don’t like gaming, I take it.”
“It’s dangerous.” She twisted until she could glare at him.
“For some,” he admitted, dropping a light kiss on her nose. “But all gentlemen play cards. A few guineas for an evening’s entertainment is not evil. The intelligent ones know when to stop. The really intelligent ones don’t mix gaming and drinking, for that is what leads to ruin.”
She wanted to ask why an intelligent man would support himself by inflicting misery on others, but refrained. It was more important to keep him complacent so he wouldn’t ask questions at the bank. To that end, she curled into his side.
“What about Dudley?” he asked, touching his scarred cheek. His voice had deepened.
“Papa despised Steven, but he feared Dudley. Even as a child, Papa never allowed him to call on us, claiming something was broken in Dudley’s head. So I met him for the first time when he returned from the Peninsula last month. He is vicious, especially when drunk, which is his usual condition. I’m grateful that war kept him away.”
“He was never a gentleman.”
“You know him?”
“Not well, thank God.” His face darkened, making his scars stand out alarmingly. “I last saw him when he was sent down from school. Is he also obsessed with Audley?”
She frowned. “Determined would be a better description in his case. Steven wants everything his brother had, regardless of value. He would covet Audley even if it were mortgaged to the hilt. Dudley wants money, period. Audley produces ten thousand a year.”
Rafe whistled. “That’s four times what Hillcrest Manor brings in.”
Helen stifled a sigh. Her test had worked too well. Dudley had reacted the same way upon learning Audley’s income. Avarice was a powerful force. She had nothing with which to counter it. He might want to bed her at the moment, but she could never distract a rake for long.
* * * *
Rafe fingered his scars as Helen sank into silence. Dudley sounded worse than ever.
The younger students had rarely crossed his path, so their first meeting had occurred on a sunny day in April twelve years earlier when a free afternoon sent Rafe to the confectioner’s shop for his favorite apple tart. He arrived to find the baker unconscious and Dudley forcing himself on the man’s unwilling daughter.
After a lifetime under Hillcrest’s thumb, Rafe hated bullies. In a flash, he hauled Dudley off the girl and slammed him into a wall. Dudley fought back. The struggle took a toll on the shop, overturning chairs, breaking crockery, and smearing both combatants with pastries. But the bigger, stronger Rafe was well on his way to winning when three other students approached.
At the first sound of footsteps, Dudley grabbed a broken bottle, slicing Rafe’s cheek as he twisted the jagged edge toward his eyes. A knee to the groin jerked his hand back, and before Dudley could slash a second time, Rafe subdued him. But the damage had been done. Eton sent Dudley down for the incident, but he showed no remorse. His parting words vowed vengeance.
Now Rafe had again interfered with Dudley’s desire. Dudley wasn’t the sort to let Helen’s marriage interfere with his plans.
* * * *
Steven slammed into St. James House, seething from the encounter with Thomas. His shoulders burned where Thomas’s servants had twisted his arms. The bitch’s foot had likely cracked a rib. His groin still throbbed. A glance in the hall mirror confirmed a black eye, swollen jaw, and scraped forehead. Thomas would pay – with his life.
But his first priority was money.
“You’re fired!” he snarled at the butler. “The staff, too. Now.”
“Sir Steven!” The butler lost his impassive countenance.
“You’re wasting time. Anyone here in one hour will be arrested for trespass and their possessions confiscated.” Satisfaction bloomed as the man fled.
Helen would find a vacant house when she came to claim it. Very vacant. The epergne on the dining table would fetch a few shillings. And that Chinese vase in the drawing room, the Queen Anne writing desk�
�
He hurried upstairs to wake Dudley.
The boy was snoring. “Get up,” ordered Steven, whipping the covers off. Cuts and bruises decorated Dudley’s body. Yesterday’s disappointment had sent him looking for trouble. He must have found it.
“Get up!” he repeated, slapping Dudley’s backside. “I found Helen.”
“Where?” Dudley opened bleary eyes. “The bitch needs a lesson in obedience.”
“It must wait. She’s married.”
“What?” He leaped to the floor. “I’ll kill the bastard. Helen is mine.”
“Agreed, but we have to handle this carefully. Do you want to face charges?”
Dudley glared.
“Now that she has a champion, she will claim this house,” explained Steven. “They could be here any minute – I left them at breakfast.” Fury returned at the memory. “We can’t afford a brawl. They may bring runners with them.”
“Why?”
“To haul you off to prison, of course. He’s already champing at the bit in his eagerness to attack you. She must have spun a wicked tale.”
Dudley’s face darkened. “Who is he?”
“Rafael Thomas. The man whose lies expelled you from Eton.”
Dudley roared, drawing Steven’s most satisfied smile. There was more than one way to wreak revenge on the bitch.
Leaving Dudley to do his worst, Steven ordered his secretary, Stone, to load the most saleable items into the baggage carriage, then headed for Helen’s room. Her trunk stood forlornly in the corner.
Glass crashed downstairs – hopefully a window. Mirrors were unlucky.
This was a minor setback, he reminded himself as he rifled her trunk. Audley was his, as anyone of sense agreed. It would take a few days to deal with Thomas, but in the end, he would prevail. He couldn’t afford otherwise.
For twenty years he’d lived on expectations. After Arthur’s wife nearly died birthing Helen, the doctor had forbidden another pregnancy. Thus everyone had known that Steven was Arthur’s heir. The knowledge had kept the duns at bay until news of Arthur’s will reached London.
“Damn that bastard for cutting me out,” he growled again. Canterbury should have overturned the trust. Leaving everything to a puling female was clearly mad. Yet the archbishop had refused his petition. His only chance for justice was to wed her to Dudley.
