Never Judge a Lady by Her Cover_The Fourth Rule of Scoundrels

by Sarah MacLean

  You do that when you want someone to think that you aren’t interested in what they are about to say.

  Georgiana’s instant understanding of his interview tactic had unsettled him when she’d noticed it. No one else ever had.

  Tremley certainly did not. His gaze narrowed. “What do you have on him?”

  “Chase?” West asked, pretending to brush a piece of lint from his trouser leg. “Nothing.”

  Tremley straightened. “Then you are wasting my time. Get out. Come back when you have something. Soon. Or I shall pay our Cynthia a visit.”

  West resisted the urge to lunge for the earl the moment the words were spoken, the possessive pronoun hanging in the air like an invective. Instead, he played his first card. “I don’t have anything on Chase, but I do have something on you.”

  Tremley smiled, arrogant and unperturbed. “You do.”

  West matched the expression. “Tell me, do you think His Royal Highness would be interested in hearing that his closest advisor is skimming the exchequer?”

  Something shifted in Tremley’s eyes, the barest proof that West was right about the embezzlement. But what of the rest of the file—Lady Tremley’s accusations? Her proof? Had she made worthy payment for membership at the Angel? “You haven’t proof of anything close to that.”

  West’s smile did not waver. “Not yet. But I do have proof that you took the money to pay for arms in Turkey.” Tremley stilled, and West continued. “And I’ve proof that the Ottoman Empire is happily paying you to keep them well supplied with information.”

  Tremley shook his head. “There is no proof of that.”

  “No?”

  The earl met his eyes. Lied. “There is no proof, because it’s a false accusation. And I should have you run up on charges of slander.”

  “It’s libel in the papers.”

  “You wouldn’t dare cross me.” West heard the edge of nervousness in the earl’s voice. Uncertainty, for the first time in years. “You don’t have proof.”

  West sighed. “Oh, Charles,” he said, letting all his disdain show in the name he had not used since they were both children, when their power was far more imbalanced. When Charles was preceded by “Lord,” and West had had no choice but to take the blows he struck. “Have you not learned that I am exceedingly good at my job? Of course there is proof. And of course I have it.”

  “Show it to me.” Tremley was nervous.

  West was growing more excited by the moment. It was true. This was it. He was going to gain his freedom. He cocked a brow. “I think it is time you offer me breakfast after all, don’t you?”

  Tremley was furious, darkness and shadows coming over his face as he placed his hands to the edge of the desk. “Your proof.”

  “Letters from Constantinople. From Sofia. From Athens.”

  The earl stilled. “I should kill you.”

  “And the threat of murder to top it all off.” West laughed. “You are a prince among men. No surprise why His Royal Highness is so very beholden to you . . . But he won’t be for long, will he? Not after this is revealed.” He paused. “I wonder if you’ll be hanged in public?”

  Tremley’s eyes had narrowed to slits. “If I hang, you hang right alongside me.”

  “It’s doubtful, that,” West said. “You see, I haven’t committed high treason. Oh, it’s quiet, nearly undiscovered high treason, but it is high treason nonetheless.” West paused, loving the look of vitriolic fear on Tremley’s face. “Don’t worry, though. I shall be there when they hang you. You may look into my eyes at the end. It would be the least I could do.”

  Tremley regained his confidence, clearly deciding that he should soldier on. “If a breath of it gets out—I ruin you. I shall tell everyone who will listen about your past. Coward. Runaway. Thief.”

  “I’ve no doubt you would,” West said. “But I am not here to destroy you, however much I would like to do just that.”

  Tremley’s gaze went curious. “What then?”

  “I’m here to offer you a trade.”

  The earl immediately understood. “My secrets for yours.”

  “Precisely.” The thrill of the win shot through him.

  “Tit for tat.”

  He’d last heard the phrase on Georgiana’s lips. He hated hearing it on Tremley’s. He inclined his head. “However you would like to define it. I prefer to call it the end of your dominion over me.”

  Tremley looked at him with thorough vitriol. “I could kill you now.”

  “You should have killed me years ago,” West said. “Your problem is that you enjoyed using me.”

  “No one would ever doubt my innocence if I did it,” Tremley pointed out.

  “Killing me would never free you from the fear of discovery. You see, I am not the only one who has the proof of your transgressions.”

  There was a long silence as the earl considered the possible identities of West’s coconspirator, shock finally flashing when he realized the truth. “Chase?”

  West did not reply.

  Tremley swore harshly, then laughed, shrill and humorless, the sound unsettling. Duncan did his best to remain still, to affect a state of utter calm. “You think you’ve won,” Tremley said. “And perhaps you would have if it were merely you and me in the game.” He paused. “But you brought in a third player. And in doing so, you’ve lost everything to him.”

  The words sent a chill through Duncan, but he said, “I doubt that.”

  Tremley laughed again, the sound turning cold. Humorless. “You’ve made a terrible mistake getting into bed with Chase. Sharing information with him. You think he won’t hesitate to destroy me if need be? Hell, if he has even an inkling to do so? When has Chase ever hesitated to end a man?” Duncan heard the truth in the words. Knew instantly what came next, but could not understand how he had not seen it before. “Our fates are intertwined now, by your design,” Tremley said. “If Chase ruins me, I ruin you.”

  Christ.

  “So you see, you may no longer have to worry about me,” said the earl, “but now you must worry about Chase.” He looked down at the floor, seeming suddenly much more comfortable with the events of the morning. “And he is not the kind of dog easily kept on a leash.”

  When he returned his gaze to Duncan, it was to issue a dark, cold-blooded order. “Now he is the enemy, Jamie. He is the one who must be silenced.”

  How had he not seen it?

  He collected his coat and hat from the Tremley butler, and headed for the door, prepared to exit the town house and head to his office to spend the day researching Chase.

  How had he not seen it?

  How had he been so very off his game that he had not recognized that the information Chase had offered him had the power to destroy even if Duncan himself never used it? Had he been blinded by power? By the heady promise of freedom?

  He’d like to say yes. He’d like to say every moment—every step of this plan—had been in service to a vengeful, blinding god who wanted nothing more than for Duncan and Cynthia to be free of Tremley and his horrifying hold. Certainly, that would have been the reason a year ago. A month ago. A week ago.

  But as a man who lived lies so well, he did not care much for lying to himself, and so he admitted, there, on one side of the great door of Tremley House, that he hadn’t seen the logical flaw in his reasoning because of the woman who was so exquisitely tied to this particular exchange of information.

  She was exquisitely tied to Chase, as well.

  Chase, the puppet master, who set them all to dancing on his whim.

  I do not like it when you do not share.

  Even the words in the note, delivered with a parcel of information that Chase could never have imagined existed, made certain that West knew who was in control of their partnership. And now that Chase had the information on Tremley, it was only a matter of time before he either decided to use it or wondered why West wasn’t using it.

  And then he’d have to explain everything to this man shrouded in da
rkness and mystery, who was reviled and adored in equal measure. Sometimes by the same person. He thought of Georgiana again, knowing that her actions had, from the start, been the result of Chase’s threats. Of Chase’s power.

  West left the house, the main door closing sharply behind him, loud enough for him to hear its meaning—Do not return.

  Surely she reviled Chase more than she adored him.

  Shouldn’t she?

  He thought of his mother, who had never found the strength to choose revulsion. Dear God. Was it possible that Georgiana was the same?

  His mind reeled. Now, with Tremley’s secrets known and his own valuable enough to threaten his future, West had no choice but to go after Chase. And if he did, the outcome was not debatable—he had to win without hesitation. Without any question.

  And to do that, he had to go after the only thing Chase held dear.

  His identity.

  Tit for tat. Chase’s name to protect his own.

  To protect Cynthia.

  To protect Georgiana.

  But what then? Georgiana still wouldn’t be his. She still couldn’t be his. He couldn’t marry her. Couldn’t give her the life she deserved. The life she wanted.

  It did not matter, he realized as he stood outside his enemy’s home, all of Mayfair around him, as he’d still not be enough for her.

  You can’t give me the title.

  He wondered how many times he’d hear those words before he forgot the sound of them on her lips. He couldn’t give her a title. But he could get her free of Chase. And in doing so, free himself.

  He caught a movement across the street—a man leaning against a tree, hands in his pockets, who should not have been worthy of notice, but whom West noticed nonetheless.

  With the longtime training of a skilled reporter, West did not look, and yet saw everything. He saw how the man’s collar was tipped up against the cold, as though he’d been standing there for a long while. He saw broad shoulders beneath beautiful clothing—broad enough to be built somewhere beyond butcher shops and boxing rings. This man was no common appearance. He was clearly trained for his size.

  Duncan headed to his curricle, pretending not to notice the brute. He could be there for any reason—Tremley had no doubt given spies enough reason to pay close attention.

  But those spies did not travel in a carriage with blackened windows, altogether too like the one he’d ridden in the previous evening.

  First, he thought it was she. That she’d followed him. And he struggled to decide if he was furious at or exhilarated by her presence. But as he moved closer to the conveyance, the guard came off the wall, making it clear that Duncan would have to fight for proximity, which, considering the activities of the previous evening and her obvious willingness to continue them, seemed off.

  And then he realized that she wasn’t there.

  And that the carriage was not supposed to have been noticed.

  He was being followed.

  As though he was a child.

  He moved more quickly, the guard moving to stand in front of West as his destination became clear and his temper became hot. He met the guard’s gaze and spoke, without hesitation, all the anger and frustration of the morning roiling within him.

  “I am certain you were told not to lay a hand on me.”

  “Don’t know who you are, sir.” The words were a long, low drawl.

  West lifted his chin. “I wonder what it would take to restore your memory.”

  The thug smiled, a gap in the expression where one of his front teeth should have been. “I’d like to see you try, gent.”

  West threw a punch, but at the last second—while the bodyguard flinched and prepared to block the blow—he feinted, turning, instead, to the carriage and opening the door to peer inside.

  Recognition dawned.

  The Marquess of Bourne was inside the carriage.

  He was being followed by The Fallen Angel.

  Goddammit. He moved to lift himself into the coach, but the pause as he recognized Bourne gave the man outside enough time to recover and catch West’s coat sleeve, pulling him back.

  He turned on the guard. And this time, his punch connected. Intentionally. The security detail at the Angel were not amateurs. The guard hit back, quick and economical, hard enough to sting. Before West could attack again, Bourne spoke.

  “Enough. It’s Mayfair in broad daylight.” Bourne grabbed West’s shoulder and stayed his blow. “Get in the damn carriage. You’re shocking the ladies.”

  Sure enough, there were two young women across the street in their pretty outdoor finery, eyes wide, mouths agape at the utterly unprecedented scene. West removed his handkerchief, pressing it to his nose to discover that he was bleeding. The brute had excellent aim. The other man’s eye was swelling shut, which gave West a modicum of pride. Removing his hat, West slapped the man on the back and turned him to face the ladies. “Good morning, ladies.”

  He was impressed that the women’s eyes did not escape their sockets, particularly when his companion bowed and said, “Lovely mornin’.”

  “Christ,” Bourne said from inside the carriage, and West returned his attention to the matter at hand. He released his opponent, and lifted himself into the carriage, placing himself across from the marquess, who opened his mouth to speak.

  “No,” West said, anger having turned to fury. “I don’t give a damn why you are here. I don’t give a damn what you want or what you think or what you have to say. I am through with the lot of you—managing me, following me, negotiating with me. Fucking manipulating me.”

  West registered the calm in Bourne’s gaze, as though he were not surprised by the words. “If I did not wish for you to know you were being followed, I assure you, you would not know.”

  Duncan cut him a look. “No doubt you believe that.”

  “Tremley is a monster,” Bourne said. “Whatever you plan to do with the information you have on him—whatever you’ve told him—he’s a monster. And as a friend—”

  West sliced a hand through the air. “Don’t. Don’t call yourself my friend. You and Temple and Cross and your fucking owner have called me a friend too many times meaning too little of it.”

  Bourne’s brows lifted. “Our owner? I don’t like the sound of that.”

  “Then perhaps you ought to release yourself from Chase’s apron strings and make a name for yourself on your own.”

  Bourne whistled, long and low. “You are angry, aren’t you.”

  “I’m merely disgusted by you people.”

  “We people?”

  Bourne knew well enough to whom Duncan referred. “Aristocrats who think the world bends to their whim.”

  “Well, when you have the money and power we have, the world does bend to your whim,” Bourne said. “But this isn’t about us, is it?”

  West narrowed his gaze. “You don’t have a single idea what this is about.”

  “I do, though. I think it’s about a woman.”

  A vision flashed, the woman to whom Bourne referred. Half sin, half salvation, equally as beholden to the men of The Fallen Angel. To their leader. So beholden to him that she did not have room for West.

  Not that it mattered.

  He met the marquess’s gaze. “You deserve a thrashing.”

  “And you think you’re the man to give it to me?”

  He was. He was the only man in London who could give it to him. He was tired of being manipulated and used with complete disregard.

  “I think I’m the man to end you all,” he said, the words cold and dark and unsettling in the quiet.

  End them and save her.

  Bourne stilled. “That sounds like a threat.”

  “I don’t make threats,” Duncan took hold of the door handle and opened the door.

  “Now I know it’s about her.”

  Duncan turned back, resisting the urge to take out his anger on the marquess. To do to him what he wished to do to Chase—the mysterious, unknowable Chase.


  Instead, he said, “It’s not a threat. Tell that to Chase.”

  Chapter 15

  . . . Our favorite Lady was seen eating lemon ice from Merkson’s Sweets with Miss P— earlier this week. It seemed not to concern either flaxen-haired beauty that the weather was far too cold for lemon ice. It should be added that a source close to Merkson’s reports that a certain Baroness will be stocking lemon ice at her next ball . . .

  . . . London’s finest casino continues to indebt gentlemen with little sense and less money, apparently. We have it on good authority that several aristocrats will be offering land in exchange for loans this spring, and we pity their poor, put upon wives . . .

  The News of London, May 4, 1833

  “Cross says that you’ve selected a husband.”

  Georgiana did not look up from her place by the fireplace in the owners’ suite, where she pretended to be enthralled in a pile of documents requiring her attention. “I have.”

  “Are you planning to tell us who it is?”

  In The Fallen Angel and the lower club the founders owned, seventeen members owed more than they could repay from their cash coffers, which meant that she and the other partners needed to decide what they were willing to accept in lieu of money. This was not a small project, nor was it to be taken lightly. But there was no possible way a woman could work with her business partners’ wives collected about her.

  She looked up to find all three seated nearby, in the chairs that usually housed their husbands.

  Or, at least, the chairs that had housed their husbands before those husbands had gone soft. Now they housed a countess, a marquess, and a duchess and future duke—aged four months.

  Lord deliver her from men’s wives.

  “Georgiana?”

  She met Countess Harlow’s serious gaze, wide and unblinking behind her spectacles. “I feel certain that you know the answer to that question, my lady.”

  “I don’t,” Pippa replied. “You see, I’ve heard two possible names offered.”

  “I heard Langley,” Penelope, Lady Bourne piped up, reaching to take the infant from the arms of his mother. “Give me that sweet boy.”