Never Judge a Lady by Her Cover_The Fourth Rule of Scoundrels

by Sarah MacLean

  “You think you are our first member with a bastard of a husband? It will take more than that to destroy us,” Georgiana said with more bluster than she felt. She dipped Imogen’s hands in the warm water, hating the way the woman hissed her pain at the sensation. “He is not the first to threaten us, and he will not be the last.”

  “What did you do with the information?” the countess asked. “What will become of it? When will it be used against him?”

  “Soon, I hope,” Georgiana said. “If it does not appear in the News of London within the week, I shall release it myself.”

  Imogen froze at the words. “The News of London. West’s newspaper.”

  Georgiana nodded. “We passed the information to Duncan West for release.” The countess stood, wavering on her feet. Georgiana stood with her. “My lady, please, you should sit until the doctor arrives.”

  “Not West.”

  The words, filled with shock and something dangerously, disturbingly close to fear, struck deep. Georgiana shook her head. “My lady?”

  “West has been in his pocket for years.”

  Georgiana froze. Hating the way the words struck. Hating the fact that she knew, without question, without hesitation, that the countess told the truth.

  Bourne’s report earlier in the day.

  West at the Worthington Ball, at the Beaufetheringstone Ball, on the sidelines because he could not dance—speaking to the earl.

  She should have known it. Should have seen it . . . that Tremley and West were partners in some strange, perverse play.

  It could not be true.

  Why not? It would not be the first time she’d thought she knew a man. It would not be the first time she thought she loved a man.

  Except she did not think it this time.

  She knew it.

  And so the betrayal hurt infinitely more.

  Memory flashed, the night he came to the club and revealed her as Anna. The threat she’d goaded him into issuing.

  I shall tell the world your secrets.

  She didn’t want to believe he would do it, but suddenly, she did not know him.

  Who was he?

  She crossed her arms tight over her chest, resisting the urge to grab the lady by the shoulders. Resisting the pain that flared high and tight. “Do you have proof?”

  Imogen laughed, the sound high-pitched and wild. “I don’t need it. The earl has boasted about it for years. Since before our marriage. He tells anyone who will listen that West is his lapdog.”

  Georgiana pulled back from the word. Lapdog.

  It did not sound like Duncan. She could not imagine him lying down for anyone, let alone such a monster as Tremley. Collusion with the earl would mean that Duncan knew everything—Tremley’s treasonous activities, his penchant for hitting his wife, his black soul.

  It did not seem right.

  But here the countess sat, bloody and bruised, more than one part of her broken, Georgiana had no doubt, and she told the tale of Tremley and Duncan as cohorts.

  She was transported to the night she’d met him as Georgiana, on the balcony, when he’d removed a feather from her hair and painted it down her arm, across the skin of her elbow, making her wish she was bare to the tickling touch. To him.

  Wouldn’t you rather know precisely with whom you are dealing?

  The question had been so forthright, and she’d given herself over to it. To him. Telling herself that she knew fact and fiction, truth and lies.

  She knew good men, and bad.

  And then he’d come to her club. Followed her there.

  On purpose? Dread came with the thought. Was it possible he’d followed her? Was it possible he’d known from the beginning that she was two instead of one? That she was both Anna and Georgiana?

  Was it possible he’d always intended to use her to get whatever Chase might be able to find on Tremley? Was it possible that he would use this woman? Collateral damage in whatever battles the earl fought?

  Christ.

  He’d kissed her. He’d touched her. He’d come a heartbeat from promising her a future.

  But he hadn’t promised her any kind of future.

  In fact, even as he’d lain her bare and made love to her, he’d told her they had no future together. As I am . . . we are impossible.

  She went cold at the memory.

  Christ. Who was he? How had he teased and tempted and lied his way into her heart? She, who wielded such control over the wide world . . . how had he come to control her so well?

  What is your relationship with Tremley?

  What is your relationship with Chase?

  Their secrets matched.

  Something broke in her . . . something she had not realized had ever been repaired from when she was a child. Something that was utterly, completely different from when she was a child.

  She had not loved Jonathan. She knew that now.

  Because she knew, beyond question, that she loved Duncan West. And that such love—powerful beyond reason—would destroy her.

  She met the countess’s gaze. “I did this,” she confessed. “I brought you here and put you at risk.” She shook her head. “He—”

  A knock sounded at the door and she was saved from finishing the thought aloud. But as she crossed the room, she finished it a dozen times in her head.

  He lied to me.

  But why?

  She turned back to the countess, standing, fists clenched, as though she might have to do battle. “It is the surgeon—nothing else.”

  Lady Tremley nodded once, and Georgiana opened the door to find Bruno, serious and sentinel. She tilted her head in question, and his gaze flickered over her shoulder, lingering on the countess behind. “Tremley is here,” he said, quietly.

  Georgiana met his gaze, all Chase. “As he is not a member, he is not our concern.”

  “He says he knows his wife is here, and he is willing to bring the royal guard with him the next time if we do not let him in now.”

  “Tell the others.”

  “He wants you.”

  She looked over her shoulder to ensure that the countess was far enough away not to overhear, then leaned toward the massive man. “Well, he can’t very well have Chase.”

  Bruno shook his head. “You misunderstand. He wants Anna.”

  Fear shot through her at the words, strange and unfamiliar. “Anna,” she replied.

  “He says that you are the only person to whom he will speak.”

  “Well, then me he shall have,” she said.

  “You and a security detail,” Bruno said, all protection.

  She did not disagree with the plan. She turned back to the lady. “I have been summoned by your husband, it seems.”

  Imogen’s eyes went wide. “You cannot face him. He will force you to tell him everything.”

  Georgiana smiled, hoping to give the countess hope. “I am not a woman who is easily forced.”

  “He is not a man who is easily defeated.”

  That much, she knew. But he was a man who understood power and sway. And she was not afraid to use it to do battle with him.

  “All will be well,” she assured the other woman, her gaze sliding over cuts and bruises that no woman deserved, anger flaring deep within her. For Imogen. For Duncan.

  For the truth.

  The words whispered through her on a thread of faith—faith that he had not lied to her. Hope that he was what he seemed, and nothing less.

  Was it possible for the man to be all he seemed?

  Because he seemed a great deal.

  She put the thoughts out of her mind as the surgeon arrived to assist Lady Tremley. Confident that the newest resident of The Fallen Angel was in capable hands, Georgiana navigated her way through a vast network of passageways and corridors to a small room on the men’s side of the club, reserved for its worst offenders.

  Among the staff, the room was called Prometheus, a reference to the overlarge oil painting within—Zeus in the form of an eagle, punishing Promet
heus with slow, excruciating disembowelment for stealing fire from the gods. The painting was designed to intimidate and to terrify, and she had little doubt that it helped to ensure that when she entered the room, flanked by Bruno and Asriel, to face Lord Tremley, the earl’s heart skipped a beat or two.

  He stood at the far end of the windowless room, a wide oak table between them. Georgiana did not hesitate to begin the conversation. “May I help you?”

  The earl smiled at her, and it occurred to her that at a different time, as a different woman, she might have found him attractive. He was empirically handsome, with dark hair and deep blue eyes and a line of straight white teeth that made her wonder if perhaps he’d been born with more than the usual amount.

  But his eyes did not smile, and she had seen enough evil in the world to know that it lurked in him.

  “I am here for my wife.”

  Her head tilted to one side with practiced innocence. “There are no women at the club, my lord. It is men only. In fact, I was rather surprised you would ask for me.”

  His gaze narrowed. “I hear you speak for Chase.”

  She played coy. “You flatter me. No one speaks for Chase.”

  He leaned forward, his hands forming fists on the oak table. “Then perhaps you can fetch him for me.”

  She met his eyes. “I am sorry, my lord. Chase is unavailable.”

  Something flashed in his gaze. “I grow tired of this conversation.”

  “I am sorry we have wasted your time.” She smoothed her skirts and made to turn away. “One of these fine gentlemen will be happy to escort you out of the building.”

  “I would rather these . . .” He trailed off, his disdainful gaze flickering over first Asriel and then Bruno. “Well, I’m not about to call a pair of moors gentlemen.” She stiffened at the disgust in his tone. “But why not have them leave altogether, and we can discuss my concerns with this establishment one-on-one.”

  “The gentlemen stay.” The words brooked no refusal. “Though if you refer to them with disrespect again, I shall not.”

  “Let’s dispense with the trivial, Anna,” he said, as though they’d met a thousand times before. “I don’t care what happens to the men. Or to you, for that matter. Or to my wife, whom I have no doubt is somewhere else in this massive building. Save her life, don’t save her life. It does not matter to me. I am only sorry she ran before I could kill her.”

  “If we are dispensing with the trivial, my lord, I would be very careful about how you threaten the lady. Need I remind you what the Angel knows about you?” Georgiana wondered if London would miss the disgusting man if he were disappeared. “I should not have to tell you that we are more than willing to release it.”

  “I am well aware of what you have on me.”

  “To be clear, we are speaking of proof of your treason?” she asked, wanting to see him flinch. Enjoying it immensely when he did. When his perfect teeth clenched, she smiled. “It’s widely known among the staff of the Angel. A lovely file, filled with a great deal of proof. You, sir, are a traitor to the crown.”

  He leaned back. “You have discovered my dark secret.”

  “I am certain there are darker ones.”

  The smile was back, cold and grotesque. “No doubt.”

  She released a sigh. “Lord Tremley, now it is you wasting our time. What precisely do you wish?”

  He raised his brows. “I want Chase’s identity.”

  She laughed. “I think it is amusing that you think I would ever dream of giving that to you.”

  He smirked. “Oh, I think you will give me precisely that for which I ask, because I am prepared to take from you something that you hold very dear.”

  “I cannot imagine what it is you think that might be.”

  He leaned in again. “I am told that you and Duncan West have an arrangement.” She did nothing to acknowledge the words, her heart pounding at Tremley’s mention of Duncan. Were they friends or foes?

  “At first, I thought it was the way things are here at The Fallen Angel. He’s handsome, rich, and powerful—a tremendous catch if you like the common man.”

  She narrowed her gaze on him. “These days, I prefer them to aristocrats.”

  He laughed, the sound cold and unsettling. “Clever girl. Smart mouth.”

  Her lips twisted in a smile. “My time, my lord. You consume it.”

  “But you’ll want to hear this bit,” he said casually, pulling out a chair and sitting, leaning back, enjoying holding court over them all. “At any rate, I thought you were simply a plaything for him. But then I spoke to him. And he seemed rather . . . committed to you. It was all very chivalrous.”

  She wanted to believe it. But there was a connection between these men—one she did not understand. One she did not trust.

  Tremley went on. “Not being a member, how was I to know that you did not whore yourself out to the highest bidder?”

  Bruno and Asriel stiffened behind her, but she did not look to them. “What are you trying to say?”

  The earl waved a hand. “I hear that you and West have an arrangement. You were seen together here, apparently caught in a scandalous act by the Duke of Lamont. You were seen in an unmarked carriage at his office, and again at his home. I was told you appeared significantly more . . . used, shall we say? On the way out than on the way in.”

  Her heart began to pound.

  “And he was quite put out when I referred to you by your profession instead of your name.” He paused. “Though, to be honest, I’m not certain I’ve ever heard your name in full. You’re usually simply referred to as Chase’s whore. But now you’re West’s whore. So . . . there is that.”

  She’d heard the word a hundred times over the years, as she rollicked and reigned over the club floor. A thousand but now, here, tonight, it stung in ways she had never imagined it could.

  Somehow, in all of this, she had become the mask. She’d become Anna. She would give herself to Langley for the most obvious of reasons. For the title. And she would resist giving herself to West, because he could not pay her price.

  But it did not make her care for him less.

  “I will ask you one more time. What is it you are attempting to say?”

  “This is the bit where it would be better to speak without your sentry,” he said. “Because it’s the part where I convince you to betray your employer.”

  “As it will never happen, there is no need for them to leave.”

  His brows rose in surprise at the insolence in her tone. “You give me Chase’s name and I will leave this place and never return. Consider it collateral against any . . . future engagement.”

  “We keep your secrets, you keep ours.”

  He grinned. “What they say is true, you are not just a pretty face.”

  She did not return the expression. “You, sadly, appear to only have a pretty face, Lord Tremley. You see, the arrangement you suggest only works if both parties have information the other wants protected.” She leaned forward and spoke to him as though he was a child. “We have your secrets. You don’t have ours.”

  “No, but I have West’s.”

  She stilled. “Mr. West is no longer a member. We have no need for his secrets.”

  “Nonsense,” he said. “I am not a member, and you took information on me. Besides, even if Chase does not want these secrets, you will. They are legion.”

  She met his gaze. “I do not believe you.”

  If West’s secrets were big enough to be worth a trade for Chase’s identity, she would know them already. He would have told her, wouldn’t he?

  As she had told her secrets?

  She met Tremley’s gaze, saw the humor there, as though he read her thoughts. “There is my proof,” he crowed. “You care for him. You care for him, and he hasn’t told you, has he?” His tone turned falsely sympathetic. “Poor girl.”

  She feigned disinterest, ignoring his words. “If he had secrets worth knowing, the club would know them.”

  He me
t her gaze. “Shall I tell you? Would you like to know who your love is? Really?”

  She ignored the questions, the way they baited her.

  The way they made her want to scream, Yes.

  He leaned forward and whispered, “I shall give you a hint. He’s a criminal.”

  Her gaze flew to his. “We are all criminals in one way or another.”

  He smiled. “Yes, but you have no illusions about me.” He stood. “I think you should ask him yourself. Ask him about Suffolk. Ask him about the grey stallion. Ask him about the girl he kidnapped.” He paused. “Ask him his real name. Ask him about the boy from whom he stole it.”

  Her heart pounded at the words, as she struggled to believe them. As she struggled not to believe them. As she fought the twin emotions of feeling that she was betraying Duncan by even listening to the earl, and feeling as though Duncan had betrayed her bitterly by not telling her his truths before he tempted her into his arms and his life and his damn swimming pool.

  Before he made her love him.

  Who was he?

  “Get out,” she said to the earl, low and quiet and full of threat.

  “You think I won’t hurt him? You think I wouldn’t wreck him? He means nothing to me . . . but he seems to mean quite a bit to you. Are you sure you want me to leave? Without giving me what I ask?”

  “I am sure that I do not wish to breathe your air ever again.”

  He smirked. “Shouldn’t you end that sentence with ‘my lord’? You really are too comfortable with your betters, aren’t you?”

  She looked to Asriel. “Get him out. He is no longer welcome here.”

  “I shall give you three days,” the earl said. “Three days to confirm that everything I have said is true.”

  She shook her head, turning away. She did not need three days. She knew it was true.

  She did not even know his real name.

  She knew about secrets. Had built a life on them.

  Who was he? Why hadn’t he told her?

  Why didn’t he trust her?

  What is your relationship with Tremley?

  What is your relationship with Chase?

  The irony of her questions was not lost on her. They held too many secrets between them.

  It was best, likely. Honesty made one dream.

  “Anna.” She turned back to look at the earl from the open doorway as he repeated, “Three days to decide where your loyalty lies . . . with Chase, or with West.”