Restless Rake (Heart's Temptation Book 5)

by Scarlett Scott

  Julian rose as well, grimly accepting every last drop of the anger Clara’s father spewed at him. He deserved it all and more. “I can assure you, Whitney, that no one loathes me more than I loathe myself. I never, not in my wildest imaginings, not for one second, believed my wife was in danger. I don’t have an inkling who is behind all this or why, but after last night, I’m determined to remove everyone I love from harm. That’s why I’m here now, to beg you to take in Clara and my sisters both as expeditiously as possible.”

  “Everyone you love?” Whitney sneered. “Don’t expect me to believe you’re capable of such an emotion, my lord. Do me the favor of ceasing to maintain your pretense of caring for my daughter. She is and always has been worthy of far more than a man who’s whored himself for half the ton. She confessed the truth of your union to me, and I know it for the hogwash it is.”

  So Clara had revealed the truth to her father. It startled him to realize she had done so and had never said a word to him about it. What else could she have said to her father? he wondered. And what was her motivation for telling him?

  He couldn’t think about any of that now, though, could he? For the moment, he needed to focus on what was the most important task: securing safety for Clara and his sisters by their distance from him. “In that we are very much in accord. Clara is worthy of a far better man than I, and that’s why I’m setting her free. Look, I don’t expect you to believe a word I say, Whitney. But it may surprise you to discover that your opinion isn’t the arbiter of my finer emotions.”

  Whitney scowled, striking his desk with his fist with enough violence to make pen and papers dance about. “Nothing surprises me, Ravenscroft. Particularly when it comes to fortune hunting vultures who prey on innocent, good-hearted girls like my Clara. She may be foolish enough to fancy herself in love with you, but I see you for the blackguard you are. You don’t fool me, goddamn your hide.”

  Clara fancied herself in love with him? Something inside him, some stupid hope he couldn’t seem to quell, rose to the surface. “Clara said she loves me?”

  Whitney’s eyes narrowed. “Of course she did. The girl lives with her head in the clouds. She’s too much like her mother, easily swayed by a handsome face. I all but begged her to come with me and she wouldn’t leave your sorry arse. Much good it did her. Nearly murdered in her own bed. Jesus, I’m of half a mind to kill you myself, earl or no, and beat whoever’s after you to the punch.”

  His heart ached in his chest, ached to think that she felt what he did, this bone-deep connection, this all-consuming desire to be one with her and protect her. He wanted to be the only man who ever touched her, to make her his forever. But perhaps she was just a dream sent to taunt him, to prove to him how contemptible he was, how what he needed the most would forever remain beyond his reach.

  Something inside him, raw and true, broke free in that moment. He met Whitney’s glare without flinching. “Believe whatever you like of me, Mr. Whitney, but know this: I love Clara. I don’t deserve her. I never have and I never will. She’s good and smart and caring and brave. She swept into my life with the force of a bloody summer thunderstorm, and I’ve relished every second I’ve been in her presence.”

  He paused, warming to his cause before continuing. “I love her and I want her safe and happy. I want her on a ship bound for Virginia as soon as possible—that’s what she’s wanted all along, and she ought to be far enough away from me and whatever faces me there. I want her to have the life she’s dreamed of. As for my sisters, I hope that they can stay in your home until I can be certain that whoever wants me dead would not come after them as well. I ask you all this as one man who loves Clara to another.”

  Whitney stared at him wordlessly, appearing to take his measure. “My God,” he said at last. “I must be losing my mind, for I’m almost persuaded to believe you.”

  “Believe me,” he said fiercely. “I’ve never met as fine a woman as Clara. I’ll do anything to protect her, even if it means giving her up forever. I want her safe more than anything. I’m no good for her, and I never will be.”

  The fight seemed to seep from Whitney’s body. “I don’t like you, Lord Ravenscroft.”

  The feeling was fairly mutual. “You don’t need to like me. We have the same goal: keeping Clara safe. She isn’t safe with me. I was too damn stupid to realize it, but I won’t make the same mistake again.”

  Clara’s father sighed, and it was the sigh of a man who felt every one of his years in his very joints. “She won’t leave you easily, you know. When Clara is determined, Lord help anyone who stands in her way.”

  Julian nodded. “She’s too stubborn for her own good. That’s why I’m enlisting your help, sir. I know she won’t listen to me alone.”

  Whitney inclined his head in acknowledgment. “You seem to know my daughter well, Lord Ravenscroft. I begin to think I may have misjudged you.”

  Ah, how ironic. On any other day, he would have appreciated the change of tides. It seemed that Jesse Whitney was realizing that he wasn’t the only man in the world capable of loving his daughter. Indeed, the usual rancor that had underscored their every conversation had dissipated.

  Even so, never let it be said that he couldn’t own his faults. “You didn’t. I’m not worthy of your daughter, sir. My reputation is as black as you think and then some. But I love her with everything in me. And the thought of anything happening to her…I can’t bear it. Help me, please.”

  “You needn’t beg, man.” Whitney skirted the desk and delivered an awkward clap on his back, the first show of anything other than enmity between them. “I’ll be happy to welcome her and your sisters into my home. And if I’ve any say in the matter, she’ll be Virginia bound by this time tomorrow.”

  Thank God. The assurance left him feeling hollow and shattered. In less than a day, Clara would be sailing away from him. But by God, at least she would still be alive.

  “Thank you, Mr. Whitney.” Relief coursed over him, blunting the soul-sick dread that threatened to overwhelm. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have some other matters that require my attention.”

  The biggest matter of them all was uncovering who was behind the attempts on his and Clara’s lives and getting retribution. More and more, he couldn’t seem to keep one name from swirling through the murk of his thoughts.

  Lottie.

  And if she was somehow behind all this, there’d be hell to pay.

  he faint strains of light emerged through the window dressing, piercing the depths of Clara’s slumber and forcing her to wake. She rolled over, stretching, her body singing still with pleasure. She fully expected to find her husband at her side. The bed was empty and cool to the touch, counterpane carefully drawn tight to the pillow as if to suggest he’d never even been there at all.

  But he had been there, and a niggling sense of foreboding settled in her gut that he was not there any longer. Aware of an unprecedented amount of footsteps sounding in the hall outside and doors opening and closing, she rose with grim intent, determined to find out what was happening.

  Her dressing gown awaited her, neatly laid out on a chair by the bed. Had he done that? It was difficult indeed to imagine the Earl of Ravenscroft collecting her dressing gown and laying it out for her like a lady’s maid. She threw it over herself, belting it with care, and made her way to the door joining their chambers.

  The door had splintered from his effort to break it down the night before, and it no longer closed properly. She would need to see to its repair, of course. The abundance of footfalls in the halls and the broken door were the least of her concerns, however, and that much became apparent when she stepped over the threshold to find a most unexpected tableau unfolding before her.

  No, nothing about the day was as troubling as what she saw now. What was troubling indeed was that a number of servants were currently engaged in packing up her personal effects. She stopped, mouth opening in shock.

  The contents of her wardrobe were scattered over the chamber, her
gowns and undergarments separately arranged, trunks laid out, some already closed. The maids working diligently to pack her belongings all stilled at her unexpected entrance. Where had they come from? She’d yet to select domestics from the characters she’d been reviewing the day before.

  She found her lady’s maid in the crowd. “Anderson, what is the meaning of this?” she demanded.

  “My lady.” Anderson curtsied and hastened to her side, her expression lined by worry. “His lordship instructed Osgood that we are to pack up all your things as you’ll be moving back to live with Mr. Whitney.”

  Betrayal settled deep into her bones, cold as winter and just as merciless. He was sending her away. Sending her back to live with her father. And he hadn’t even had the nerve to inform her of his decision to her face. No, instead, he’d abandoned her in his bed as if she were no better than a harlot he’d paid for the night so that she could learn the truth from her lady’s maid and her own two eyes.

  “Where is his lordship, Anderson?” she asked, trying to keep the violence of her emotions from coloring her voice. She would be calm. She would confront him, learn the meaning of this. She would not, by God, be sent away. Not like this.

  Anderson blanched. “He’s not at home, my lady.”

  Not at home. Her teeth ground together. “Where has he gone, if you please?”

  “I’m sure I’m not privy to his lordship’s schedule for the day,” Anderson said faintly. “I’m so sorry, my lady, for what happened to you last night. It’s given the household quite a fright. Are you well today?”

  “No,” she admitted, her gaze traveling back over the chamber once more. The other maids had continued their work, diligently sorting and folding. “I’m not well at all.”

  “Let’s get you dressed, my lady. The doctor will be arriving soon at Lord Ravenscroft’s request.” The lady’s maid’s gaze dropped to Clara’s throat, her brow furrowing. “Begging your pardon my lady, but are you in much pain?”

  Yes. She hurt everywhere. Most especially in the vicinity of her heart. “I’m not seeing a doctor,” she decided.

  Julian could make as many high-handed decrees as he chose, but their issuance didn’t necessitate her submission. For never let it be said that Clara Elizabeth Ravenscroft had ever obeyed the edict of any man. If he thought he could simply pack her up and excise her from his life without putting up a fight, he was wrong.

  “But my lady, surely you ought to see the doctor as his lordship wishes?” Anderson persisted gently. “You’ve a great deal of bruising, I’m afraid.”

  Clara’s hand stole to her neck, absentmindedly stroking the reminder of the previous night’s horrors. “I’ll see no one other than the earl himself.”

  A reckoning was in order.

  The time to confront his past had arrived, though the act gave him no satisfaction. Indeed, he knew only a deep-seated tug of anger mingled with self-loathing in his gut as his carriage stopped on a familiar street.

  He was no stranger to the Duke of Argylle’s Mayfair home. Indeed, he suspected he’d spent more time there than Argylle himself, who preferred rusticating in the country or staying in St. John’s Wood with his mistress when in the city. After Lottie had produced two healthy sons, she’d been free to pursue as many lovers as her heart desired. And as it turned out, her inconstant heart had desired a great many.

  Julian had been only one of an endless procession, though he’d been witless enough to believe their affair was different than the others who’d gone before him. Fucking came easy to Lottie—she had a beautiful face and body, a husband who didn’t give a damn, and a voracious sexual appetite. As a favorite of Bertie’s, she enjoyed free reign of the Marlborough House set.

  But she also had a reputation beyond her eagerness in the bedchamber, one that he’d ignored in his lust and her declarations of love. A reputation for vindictiveness. She had a history of cutting and ostracizing the wives of her lovers. There had been whispers that she’d had a helping hand in Lady Morehaven’s madness and subsequent incarceration in an asylum in Chiswick after Viscount Morehaven had very publicly flaunted their affair. That had been before Lottie and Julian became lovers and he hadn’t paid the gossip much mind at the time. Naturally, Lottie had dismissed such notions with the wave of an elegant, well-manicured hand.

  Julian had simply accepted her word, for the Morehaven scandal wasn’t any of his affair and he had enough whispers darkening his own reputation not to give a damn for idle gossip. Now, however, he had every cause to wonder. There had been the troubling altercation at the Devonshire ball, after all. Not to mention the call Lottie had later paid upon Clara. It had left Clara with enough misgiving that she’d seen fit to share it with him.

  He descended from his carriage and strode up the front walk in a fog of troubled thoughts. As Julian gave the butler his card and cooled his heels, his mind sifted feverishly through the facts. He didn’t want to believe Lottie capable of hiring a thug to commit murder on her behalf. She was frivolous, callous, and faithless, but he’d never for an instant before today believed her dangerous.

  Sill, someone was responsible for the two acts of violence perpetrated upon his home, that much was certain. It seemed Lottie had the best motive of anyone he could countenance. And if she was behind the attacks, Lord have mercy on her soul, for he couldn’t be certain what he’d do to her.

  The butler returned. “Her Grace is not at home.”

  Of course he shouldn’t be surprised that she’d refuse his call. Anger boiled within him. “Kindly inform Her Grace that I’ll not leave until I receive an audience. It’s a matter of grave import.”

  The servant’s brows snapped together but he did as he was asked, his distaste of Julian’s gauche refusal to accept polite pretense quite clear. Julian didn’t give a goddamn what the butler, the Duchess of Argylle, or anyone else thought of him. All he cared about was finding out who had dared to cause Clara harm.

  The butler returned just when Julian had begun to contemplate storming into the home and finding her himself. “Her Grace will see you, my lord.”

  Biting back a retort, he stalked to the big, cheerful drawing room where Lottie had always preferred to receive callers. As usual, it was bursting with flowers. He’d never known if she had such a surfeit of admirers or if she sent the bouquets to herself. Whatever the case, they were an omnipresent installation.

  He found her sprawled elegantly on a settee, looking sated and relaxed. “Julian,” she greeted him throatily, extending a hand. “I hope you don’t mind if I don’t rise? I’m not accepting callers this morning, you see.”

  He bowed but refused to take her hand, not wanting to so much as touch her. This near to her, he could see that her pupils were large and onyx in her eyes. Perhaps she’d once more taken to playing with opium. For Lottie there would never be a thrill great enough to cure her appetite.

  “Thank you for accepting my call, Your Grace,” he said stiffly, careful to remain formal. “Do you know why I’m here?”

  She raised an indolent brow before raking her gaze down the length of his body and lingering on his cock. “You’re not satisfied with that little American jezebel you married? What’s the matter, darling? Doesn’t she like to be tied up?”

  His skin went hot at her allusion to the depraved romps they’d once shared. “Do not speak of my wife, madam.”

  “She likes being tied up, then?” Lottie’s full lips curved into a feline smile. “Perhaps I do her discredit. You’ve come here to suggest an assignation between the three of us? Would you like me to taste her cunny while you watch, Julian?”

  He struggled to maintain his composure. An unholy rage rattled through him, straight to his bones. How dare she speak of his wife as though she were no better than some tart he’d hired for the night? How dare she imagine for even a moment that he would consider subjecting Clara to such debauchery? That he would want it?

  Jesus, he was disgusted. Disgusted with her, with himself. Disgusted he’d ever imagined
he could care for such a vapid woman, whose only care in life was her own pleasure.

  Just barely, he suppressed the urge to yank her from the settee. “Enough, Lottie. I’ll not hear another world of filth from you. I didn’t come here for that.”

  Her lips formed a moue of disappointment. “Why are you here then? I’ll admit, when I first saw you I was reminded of how well we got on in bed. It made me miss you, darling.”

  He ignored that. “Someone attacked my wife in her bed last night.” He studied her reaction for any sign that she knew more than she pretended.

  Her face remained a delicate mask of lethargy, as though she hadn’t a care. Perhaps she didn’t. “Attacked her? Whatever do you mean?”

  “Someone attempted to murder her,” he bit out. “He strangled her in her sleep.”

  At long last, the words seemed to percolate the opium cloud she currently inhabited. “Good God, Julian, I don’t like the chit but that’s truly awful. How is she?”

  Not the words he would expect from the person who had orchestrated such a violent crime. He swallowed. “As well as can be expected.”

  “Why are you here telling me this when we haven’t spoken intimately in months?” Her gaze narrowed. “You think I had something to do with it?”

  “Someone tried to kill me as well,” he said instead of answering her question. “Two such incidents in such a small span of time are very suspicious. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Of course they’re suspicious, you dolt. Someone is trying to kill the both of you by the sounds of it. But if you fancy that I care enough about you and that American bit of skirts you married to hire someone to do you both harm, you’re sorely mistaken, Ravenscroft.” Her smile faded. “When I heard you were marrying some green chit, I was jealous. I’ll own that. I tried to scare her away from you. That much is true. But you cannot believe I’m capable of murder. Not even I am that depraved.”