Scandalous Duke

by Scott, Scarlett

  Why should the Duke of Winchelsea stand out in a sea of so many? Why should he call to her in a different way, in a way no other before him had? It seemed dreadfully unfair, particularly given the tragedy which had become her own life.

  He returned with the wine, offering the glass to her in a disquieting echo of the night they had met. Had it only been a mere two nights ago? How did it feel as if it had been much longer? This time, however, she took great care not to tilt the glass as she grasped the stem, accepting it from him.

  He raised his goblet. “A toast is in order, I should think. To The Rose of New York. Long may she reign over the stage and the hearts of men.”

  She raised her glass by rote, but the wine tasted less than sweet on her tongue. For she had never reigned over the heart of any man, and no one knew that better than she did.

  Talk of hearts inevitably made her think of Pearl, and when she did, her own heart gave a pang. She took a long sip from her glass, hoping the wine would numb her pain though she knew it would not. Nothing ever did.

  “You are frowning,” the duke observed.

  Instantly, she smoothed her expression. Her years as an actress had given her great awareness of her countenance. Ordinarily, she was able to keep her features a mask of indifference. The true emotion was reserved for plays.

  It disturbed her to know her mask had slipped.

  That he had seen beneath it, if just for a moment.

  “I never frown,” she countered, taking care to enhance the French accent she had long-ago adopted as part of her persona as Rose Beaumont. “Life is filled with too much color and joy.”

  A lie, as it happened. Perhaps the lives of others were. But never hers.

  From the moment she had been born, it had been nothing but sorrow. Her father blamed her for her mother’s death. He had been a cold and unforgiving man by nature, but the whisky had changed him. He had become consumed by it. And then, the violence had begun.

  Thank God she had escaped.

  “Nevertheless, you were frowning now,” Winchelsea observed. “I do hope I am not the source of your distress.”

  No, he was not, but she would not think of Drummond now. Rather, she would focus upon the five thousand pounds she needed to win. She would think of her freedom, of doing what she must, regardless of how much it cost her. Of being far beyond her brother’s reach forever.

  You are Rose Beaumont, she reminded herself.

  The darling of the stage.

  She took another sip of her wine, feeling its warmth suffuse her, and recalled this, too, was a role she played.

  She smiled. “You could never be the source of my distress, Your Grace. You have been far too solicitous and charming to me. I shall be spoiled.”

  “Have you not already been spoiled by others?” he asked, an edge creeping into his tone.

  No, she had not. She had loved. Too much, too hard. She had lost as well. Those parts of her could never be regained or restored.

  “I have never met a gentleman like you, I think,” she said carefully, realizing it was true.

  She could not quite discern what it was about him that made him different, but he was. He was different and she was drawn to him. And being drawn to any man was dangerous indeed.

  Five thousand pounds, she thought again, a litany. Your freedom. Think of never again looking over your shoulder. Never again knowing the sick taste of dread, the grip of fear in your gut. Think of all the good that will be done when Drummond no longer has the capacity to hurt anyone.

  Those funds could aid her in the future she sought. From London, she would go to Paris. And from there, Berlin. Drummond would never chase her that far if he somehow escaped prison, and if he did, she would outrun him. Five thousand pounds could hide her quite well, and she must not lose sight of that unexpected windfall.

  “I am not certain if I should consider that a compliment or an insult,” the duke said wryly, watching her with a twist to his lips she could not help but to find irresistible.

  “Perhaps both.” Her own smile deepened, and it was not feigned. He amused her. Intrigued her.

  This was not good.

  How would she manage to resist him through the next hour? The next five days? Ever?

  “I can honestly say the same of you, Mademoiselle,” he told her.

  Their gazes held. “But surely you know a great deal of other actresses.”

  There it was again, the knife’s edge of jealousy creeping into her heart. She did not know why the notion of him seducing others before her should bother her so.

  “I have known others,” he agreed mildly. “But there is only one Rose of New York.”

  She wondered, then, if he was attracted to her because of her notoriety. Some men had sought her out and attempted to woo her for just that reason. They wanted Rose Beaumont on their arms. Rose Beaumont warming their beds. They wanted to parade her before their friends and cronies as if she were a prized stag.

  “You were familiar with me, then, before my performance?” she pressed.

  “I had seen your photograph,” he said carefully.

  Ah.

  She did not know what to make of his words. Her stomach tightened. But there was an undeniable burst of pleasure inside her too. “You arranged with Mr. Saville to meet me.”

  It was not a question but rather a statement, for she knew the answer already.

  “I did,” he acknowledged, before taking a sip of his wine.

  This man wanted her. She had known it from the first moment his vibrant emerald eyes had burned into hers. Had felt it, deep within her. He had made it apparent. But she knew his kind, she was sure.

  “You wanted me because the notion of a famed actress on your arm appeals to your manly sensibilities,” she guessed.

  “If I have manly sensibilities, no one has made me aware of them.” He drained his glass and placed it upon the sideboard before sauntering toward her. “They sound dreadfully boring and terrifically unctuous.”

  She had not expected levity. He was smiling now. And she could not shake the impression it was a true smile. She drank more of her wine because she did not know what to say.

  He was watching her, and his smile made him seem younger than his years. Almost boyish. An answering ache she did not want to feel flared to life at the sight of those lips curved. The urge to feel them against hers was strong.

  But foolish.

  She would not give in.

  “You are making light of me, Your Grace” she observed at last, because she had finished her wine, and because it seemed he was waiting for her to speak.

  It had been her turn, after all.

  Why did he make her feel so off-kilter? The same way she had after traveling on the steamer from New York. For days after her arrival, she had still felt as if she were swaying on the rolling tides of the sea. It had been most disconcerting.

  “I would never make light of you, Mademoiselle.” Neatly, he plucked the empty glass from her fingers. “Dinner should be ready by now. Are you hungry, my dear?”

  As if on cue, her stomach gave a rather aggressive rumble as response. Her ears went hot as she flattened her palm over it. “Forgive me, Your Grace. I am hungry, yes. Between rehearsals and the performance, I do not believe I consumed more than tea and bread all day.”

  “Tea and bread?” His smile vanished, replaced by a scowl. “Is Saville working you into the grave? Surely there was time for more of a repast.”

  There had been, but she had spent the afternoon soaking in a hot bath and attempting to calm herself. She had sworn, for a moment that morning, when she had returned to her hotel, that she had spied her brother. Though the man had been swallowed up by the crowd of the street and she had not seen his face, she was sure by now it had been her imagination. Drummond would not have followed her here, to where he was most in danger.

  She hoped.

  It was one of the chief reasons she had booked her passage and escaped New York City, bringing along the documents and fund
s he had requested. She had done so knowing she could be arrested herself should her connection to The Emerald Club and her brother be discovered and should the incriminating evidence be found in her belongings. The risk had been worth the reward, and she had grown daring enough to take the gamble, given the sudden offer from the Crown and Thorn. It had seemed almost too good to be true, the chance to free herself at last.

  Still, the realization her brother could have followed her here had filled her with a grim sense of foreboding she had found difficult to shake. But shake it she had, and shake it she would continue to do so, for the duke was awaiting her response.

  “The bread and tea were all I managed today, but the fault was not Mr. Saville’s,” she explained. “He is a remarkably forward-thinking theater owner, and it is my privilege to be upon his stage.”

  Over the years, she had endured all manner of theaters, managers, owners, fellow actors and actresses…nothing would surprise her any longer.

  “You must take time for more,” Winchelsea said, frowning at her. “Fortunately, I am here to feed you.”

  Yes, he was. And yesterday, he had been there to rub her aching feet. To worry about her tight slippers.

  Warmth she did not want to feel suffused her. No one had worried about her in years. The last man who had claimed to do so was long gone from her life. Nothing but a memory best forgotten.

  Her stomach growled again, and she could not stifle her own horrified laugh.

  He winked at her, then offered her his arm. “And not a moment too soon.”

  By the time dinner reached its conclusion and the dessert course arrived, Felix was faced with a disconcerting and wholly unwanted realization.

  Part of him liked Rose Beaumont.

  And it wasn’t just his cock, he was ashamed to admit. He was not merely physically attracted to her beauty and undeniable allure. Not only carrying out a duty. Somehow as the dinner had progressed and the wine had begun to flow—enabled by his assiduous servants—he had somehow forgotten the reason he was seated across from her at the table.

  But he forced himself to remember now. She was a dangerous woman. Deeply involved with Drummond McKenna. Suspected of colluding with the most violent faction of the American Fenians. She had information he needed. She was the most potent lure he could use against McKenna to bring him to English shores.

  One day, in the coming weeks, it was possible he would have to see her arrested.

  But despite the endless litany of why he must not allow himself to soften toward her, he did. She was clever and sleek and mysterious. He wanted her for all the wrong reasons.

  He wanted her in spite of the villain she had taken to her bed, in spite of the deeds she herself may have committed. As he watched her consume her plum tartlet, he had to wonder how she could bear the touch of such a man. She was an intelligent woman—he had discerned as much with ease from the first moment they had met. Surely she had to abhor the evil McKenna was about. How could she take part in it?

  Duty and obligation, those twin bugbears, returned. He reminded himself the reason for this dinner was to attempt to uncover information. To glean more facts. Anything to bring him closer to finding McKenna and bringing the villain to justice. He had to use Rose Beaumont however he must.

  She was but a pawn in this deadly game he played.

  “How long is your stay in London?” he asked, determined to continue on the course he had agreed upon in the wake of the bombings on the London underground.

  Two massive explosions, tearing rail cars into twisted metal and shattered glass, as if they were nothing more than children’s toys. McKenna had been responsible. The puppeteer pulling the strings from afar. Felix needed to clip those strings.

  “I will be here for six weeks, and then I am on to Paris,” Rose told him. “From there, Berlin. And from there, wherever I may roam and find my way upon the stage.”

  “What of New York City?” he asked, for the itinerary she mentioned was news to him. “When do you plan to return? Surely, the Rose cannot be without her city for too long, or the city without its Rose?”

  Something in her expression changed. There was a subtle tensing of her lips, her jaw. Her gaze flitted down to the table. Her smile faded. “I have no plans of returning.”

  What the devil?

  No plans of returning to New York City? This news, like her itinerary, was unexpected. The Special League double agents stationed in New York had reported seeing her in the company of McKenna the day before she had boarded a passenger ship bound for Liverpool.

  But he must not allow his surprise or confusion to show. Mademoiselle Beaumont had a particular manner of studying his expression, as if she were mining beneath the surface for some greater treasure. Undoubtedly, it was down to her undeniable talent as an actress.

  “You have no plans of returning ever?” he asked nonchalantly.

  “No.” She met his gaze, and for a moment, the haunted expression on her face, the desolation in her eyes, was undeniable. But it was gone in a flash, so quickly he doubted he had ever witnessed it. “I have a number of offers from theaters throughout the Continent. I will travel. See the world.”

  “But surely you have someone awaiting you in New York,” he pressed.

  He did not miss the tremble in her hand as she lifted her wine glass to her lips for a lengthy sip. “There is no one.”

  He could not allow the pronouncement to go unquestioned.

  “No family?” Felix asked.

  In truth, for as famed as she was, with hundreds of articles written about her, her likeness everywhere, there was almost no information to be had concerning Rose Beaumont herself. Endless accolades about her performances, gossip about her lovers, descriptions of her dresses, her hair. But her origins were murky. Some stories suggested she had been born in Paris, others in the French countryside.

  “No family,” she said quietly.

  But there was a tenseness in her voice that was unmistakable.

  “No lover?” he prodded, reasoning such a query, though invasive and unspeakably rude, may be the sort of question a man determined to make her his mistress would pose.

  In truth, he wanted to gauge her reaction. It was possible she had thrown Drummond McKenna over. Or he could have done the same, given her impending travels. The time apart was long. But he found it difficult to believe McKenna would relinquish the opportunity to have yet another person he could control within London. Yet another soldier hiding in plain sight.

  Felix needed to uncover the truth of the matter, and with all haste. Because if she was no longer McKenna’s mistress, that meant using her as a weapon against McKenna may not prove as potent a lure as he had originally supposed.

  “There is no one,” she repeated, her gaze steady upon him.

  He wondered then if he could believe her. It was entirely possible she was lying to protect McKenna. Perhaps even that she suspected Felix or his connection to the Home Office. This development was something he would need to take to the Special League. The League leaders would relay the information to their double agents in America, who could determine the veracity of her claims.

  Together, they would retool their plans for McKenna’s ultimate capture, however they must. Too much was at stake.

  “That news bodes well for me,” he said then, his gaze melding with hers.

  She smiled at him sadly. “There is a reason I do not have a lover. I do not have one, and neither will I take one.”

  That was certainly a lie.

  She had one, and he was a cold-hearted bastard who orchestrated bomb explosions on the railway. Who sent his villains to do his bidding, laying dynamite everywhere innocent civilians could be hurt or killed.

  He reminded himself of who Rose Beaumont was, and how she had come to be here. What manner of man she allowed to share her bed. And his heart hardened. “Yet you are here, Mademoiselle Beaumont. One cannot help but wonder why, if you are so set against taking a lover.”

  She finished the last b
ite of her tartlet, and damn him, but even the way she consumed her dessert was seductive. An art form. “Your Grace all but coerced me into settling upon this dinner, if you will recall.”

  “How different our memories are.” He paused, studying her. “I extended an invitation, and you accepted. Because you find my manly sensibilities irresistible, no doubt.”

  She bit her lower lip to stifle her smile. “On the contrary, I accepted because you were insistent, and I grew weary of arguing with you.”

  He had noted she was not a woman given to lightness. Her mien was often grave, and there were shadows in her extraordinary eyes. She wore sadness like a cloak, wrapped all about her.

  The ridiculous urge to hear her laughter surged inside him. To win her smiles. To ease the weight she seemed to hold heavy on her shoulders.

  He banished the unwanted desire. For he was not meant to like her. Indeed, he was not meant to think of her as a person at all. She was a means of aiding his quest to bring Drummond McKenna and all those within his web to justice. Perhaps herself included. He did not dare trust her.

  “I shall consider myself fortunate you were weary, then,” he said, before deciding to change the subject. There was a table between him and his quarry, and while they had shared an enjoyable repast, he had still managed to wrangle precious little information from her. “Would you care to withdraw to the salon, Mademoiselle?”

  Her eyes widened, and he did not think he imagined the flare of awareness within them. The understanding an audience alone with him, unattended by servants producing an endless barrage of courses, was forthcoming. That it would be the prelude to something more.

  “While I thank you for the invitation, the hour grows late,” she said. “I have a morning rehearsal, and I should probably be on my way.”

  He could not let her go so easily. His days with her were limited, and he needed to pounce upon the information only she possessed while he could. He knew how to goad her into getting what he wanted.

  “I understand,” he told her. “You are afraid.”

  “I am not afraid.” Her shoulders stiffened, her spine going straight, chin tipping up in defiance.