Scandalous Duke

by Scott, Scarlett

  But that was the old part of her. The careless girl she had once been. The one who still longed and hoped and dreamed. The one she must do everything in her power to ignore.

  “Come inside with me now, Johanna,” he urged. “Do not be stubborn, I beg of you. You need my help, and I am more than willing to give it.”

  “Why?” she bit out, her emotions careening wildly inside her as she stared up at his handsome face. “Why do you want to help me? Why would you do such a thing, put yourself in jeopardy, for a woman you scarcely know?”

  It could not merely be because he wanted to bed her.

  She knew men found her attractive, but she did not fool herself that her wiles were so strong.

  His bright-green gaze plumbed the depths of hers. For a beat, he said nothing, simply held her in his thrall with his magnetic intensity. The energy crackling from him was like live electric wires.

  “Because I care about you,” he said at last, his voice rough and low. Almost a growl. “I want to see you safe because I cannot bear the thought of more harm coming to you. When I think of how you have already suffered, what you have lost, and yet the way you have continued on, holding your head high, building a name for yourself, forging a career from the dust…I am in awe of you, Johanna McKenna. I have been from the moment I first saw you. And I want to be the man who keeps you safe rather than the man who makes you fear.”

  His words reached inside her to a place she had not known she possessed. And although a gust of wind picked up, whipping at her skirts and making her shiver, she was somehow warmed. Warmed from the inside out. No one had ever said something like that to her before.

  No soliloquy in the finest play could compare.

  She was softening, yielding. She knew it. But still, she had to try. For his sake as well as Verity’s and for Johanna’s sake too. If Drummond was indeed in London, it meant no one was safe. And Johanna was determined to never open her heart again. To never trust another man.

  “I have never feared you,” she said softly. Sadly. Desperately. “You have only been kind and good to me, Felix, and for that I must thank you. But please do not take this on. This is my battle to fight, my war to wage.”

  “Our battle to fight,” he insisted. “Our war to wage.”

  “No.” Tears sprang to her eyes anew. “It cannot be. You must stay out of this.”

  “I won’t,” he vowed, his tone determined, his voice strong. “You cannot keep me from your side. If that vicious bastard is out there somewhere, I will tear him apart with my own bare hands before I allow him to hurt you. Do you understand? He is not going to hurt you, or anyone else, ever again if I can help it.”

  He was so vehement, so determined, so fierce.

  But he was a duke, not a warrior. He was elegant and refined. He did not have a network of men at his disposal, ready to do his bidding.

  “You cannot save me,” she said. “I am already lost.”

  “You are not lost.” He searched her face. “You are here, with me. Exactly where you belong.”

  She wanted him to be right. Oh, how she did. But deep in her heart, she knew he was wrong. Still, she allowed him to lead her back inside.

  She told herself it was because she needed her reticule, pelisse, and hat.

  But it wasn’t the first lie she had ever told herself, and she had a feeling it would not be the last.

  Chapter Nine

  Felix was in the devil of a muddle.

  “Tell me this again,” commanded Lucien, Duke of Arden and leader of the Special League. “I am sure I must have misheard you, because it sounded as if you just told me the actress Rose Beaumont is Drummond McKenna’s sister, that she has a trunk full of dynamite hidden in her hotel room, and that she is currently staying at the townhome where you keep your mistresses, along with your daughter. Surely none of that is what you said just now.”

  They were seated in Lucien’s study, accompanied by his duchess, the former co-leader of the Special League who was taking a step back from her duties since she was now with child. Once a Pinkerton agent, the duchess had been hired several months ago by Felix himself to aid Arden in his task. Using a ruse, she had infiltrated McKenna’s inner circle in New York City, posing as a servant.

  That, more than anything, was the reason Felix had made the duke and duchess his first stop after seeing to the addition of guards at his townhome to ensure Verity—and Johanna too—were safe. He trusted the duchess implicitly and respected her greatly. Her case history spoke for itself. No one had been closer to McKenna than she had.

  Except, it would seem, for the woman he was now harboring beneath his own roof.

  Therein lay the muddle.

  Because he believed Johanna. Everything within him wanted what she had revealed to him to be true. Needed it to be true. Because his feelings for Johanna McKenna were murky. He had been intimate with her. Kissed her. He desired her.

  Bloody, sodding hell.

  “I believe you heard Winchelsea correctly, Arden,” the duchess said, fixing Felix with a solemn but searching look. “Winchelsea, have you gone to Scotland Yard with this information yet, or to the rest of the Home Office?”

  “I have not,” he admitted. “It is a breach of protocol not to inform them, I know. But given the sensitive nature of my relationship with the lady in question, I deemed it best.”

  The Home Office was aware of his plan to obtain information from Johanna, but as far as they were concerned, she was Rose Beaumont, mistress to Drummond McKenna. Not Johanna, sister to the devil, woman who had smuggled lignin dynamite into London.

  Ye Gods.

  That bitter fact still sent a knife of fear twisting into his gut.

  “I never saw Mademoiselle Beaumont in the Emerald Club during my covert operations there,” the duchess said then.

  Her words chased the fear with a burst of relief. He was aware, of course that “Rose Beaumont” had been seen in McKenna’s presence on innumerable occasions about New York City. That she had interacted with known Fenians within McKenna’s circle on a regular basis. But it stood to reason that if she had not been within the club, what she had told him about her brother using her as a courier of sorts made sense.

  “Miss McKenna,” he corrected softly. “I am inclined to believe her when she tells me she is McKenna’s sister. I do not believe she had a reason to dissemble. Not about that, anyway.”

  Of course, she had every reason to deceive him about an endless list of things. If she had any hope of saving herself and remaining free from prison, she would have to win his trust. But he was still determined to rely upon his instincts.

  For if he could not, then he had kissed a viper and taken her beneath his roof. She was sleeping three doors down the hall from his own daughter. Such folly did not merit contemplation.

  “Good God, Winchelsea,” Arden interrupted then. “There is dynamite at this female’s hotel. In her trunk? Lignin, you say?”

  “Yes.” He sighed, for that was the most damning fact of all in Johanna’s entire, convoluted tale. “Although, to be precise, there was dynamite at her hotel. I have since had it moved to another location, lest McKenna discover that his sister will be turning Queen’s Evidence against him.”

  He had arranged for the trunk to be brought to his townhome, fearing McKenna’s men would catch wind of what was afoot and attempt to confiscate it. It would seem they were already aware of Johanna’s connection to him, hence the bombs which had been laid at Halford House. Either that, or they had merely targeted him because of his work with the Home Office, the Special League, and Scotland Yard. The investigation was in its infancy, and it was far too early to tell.

  “Christ, now you are telling me you are harboring dynamite?” Arden demanded. “Have you lost your bloody mind, man?”

  “I have not,” he denied calmly, even as part of him inwardly suspected he had. For he had certainly never gone to such great lengths for a female before. “I am keeping the evidence safe. I need to arrange for the colonel
to confiscate it and conduct tests. He will be able to determine the veracity of Miss McKenna’s claims in regard to the lignin. It will be important to take note of whether or not the material has come from the same source. He should be able to use the samples he retained from other bombs as comparison.”

  “Why did you not go to the colonel first?” Arden asked, his expression a mask of implacability.

  Felix was acutely aware of how easily their fortunes had changed. Months ago, he had come down upon Arden with ruthless precision for a lapse in his judgment as leader of the Special League, forcing him to take on a partner. And now, it would appear—to outside observers, at least—that Felix himself had made the gravest error of all.

  “Because I am concerned about the manner in which Miss McKenna will be treated,” he answered honestly, aware of how it sounded.

  As if he had tender feelings for her. As if he wanted her in his bed. And much to his shame, both of those things were true. Truer by the day, the hour, the minute, the second.

  “You want to make certain Miss McKenna is treated fairly,” the duchess observed.

  “Of course I do,” he said. “It is our duty to treat everyone with whom our paths cross with fairness. The Crown has imbued us with such an obligation.”

  “But there is more,” she noted, her countenance softening. “You care about her, do you not? You began all this with the notion that you would bring McKenna to heel by using his mistress against him, but you have fallen for the mistress yourself along the way.”

  “She is not his mistress,” he said before he could stay the words.

  How foolish he sounded. How like a man who was being held helplessly in the thrall of one Johanna McKenna. Because he was. Yes, indeed. He was.

  “So says the lady in question,” Arden added. “A woman who is an actress by trade.”

  Yes, this too, was damning, and he knew it. Johanna was incredibly skilled at her trade. Easily the most compelling actress he had ever watched on stage. Her command of her art was unparalleled. But he had also, he thought, come to know the woman beneath the great Rose Beaumont’s façade. That woman had a heart, a past, pains and hurts and scars.

  That woman was the one he kissed. The one toward whom he possessed tender feelings.

  He sighed. “I understand your skepticism, Arden. Indeed, I am battling against my own inner cynic. Johanna is undeniably a skilled actress. But I have reason to believe everything she has revealed to me thus far.”

  Arden’s expression was one of undeniable disgust. “Forgive me, Winchelsea, but it seems to me that you are thinking with your…” His words trailed off as he sent a glance in the direction of the duchess, as though belatedly realizing he had been about to say something he ought not in the presence of a lady.

  Even if the lady was his wife and had likely heard far worse.

  And, since the lady and duchess in question was formerly the famed H.E. Montgomery, Felix could only presume she had.

  “You were going to say something inexcusable to Winchelsea,” the duchess accused Arden before turning back to Felix. “I think what my husband is trying to convey is that you must take care to separate the way you feel about Mademoiselle Beaumont—er, Miss McKenna—from the duties facing you. We must all take care and proceed with great caution, while we determine the lies from the truth. In the meantime, given the recent explosion at your townhome, it is paramount that we do everything in our power to see you and your daughter safe and to see McKenna caught once and for all.”

  “Ever my better half,” Arden said on a sigh, sending his duchess a besotted look.

  Felix cleared his throat, feeling suddenly ill at ease. His neck cloth had perhaps been tied too tightly that morning. For the strangest sensation struck him as he watched the ease and undeniable love between the Duke and Duchess of Arden. Surely it could not possibly be envy.

  He was pleased with his life exactly as it was. He had no desire to marry another woman. Hattie was the wife of his heart, the wife of his soul. No other could take her place or compare.

  “We will divert some guards to your current residence,” the duchess said.

  “I have already taken the measure of moving some myself,” he said, relieved that husband and wife had realized they were not alone in the chamber once more. “But if you have more to spare, I would gladly accept them. I want Verity safe. And Miss McKenna as well. I think it would be best if the League and Scotland Yard together confer to obtain the trunk. But that brings me to another matter.”

  Scotland Yard. While Felix was often the binding thread between Scotland Yard and the Special League, the police force had recently developed a new counter-Fenian division that was working in concert with the League. And the number of arrests of suspected Fenian sympathizers had tripled since then.

  “I cannot promise you Miss McKenna will be safe from charges, Winchelsea,” Arden said then. “You know as well as I that such a thing is impossible.”

  “The devil you cannot,” he argued. “You are working closely with the head of the Criminal Investigation Department.”

  “She could be guilty as sin,” Arden returned flatly. “As I said before, your judgment is clouded by the way you feel about the lady. Regardless of what her story is, she is a known associate of one of the most dangerous blackguards of our times. Even if she is truly the man’s sister, she could still be taking her orders from him. Has it not occurred to you that she could be using her wiles for her brother’s nefarious gain?”

  Of course it had, but it also made precious little sense.

  “If that were indeed the case, she would have come to me immediately, rather than the other way around. And there would have been no need to reveal her true identity. She came to me in good faith and provided her knowledge of evidence against McKenna that I believe will prove invaluable to our efforts to see him apprehended.” He paused, warming to his cause. “But Miss McKenna will only provide the evidence if she is given the assurance that no charges will be laid against her.”

  The last was pure fiction on his part. Johanna had made no such stipulation, but the Duke of Arden’s reaction to Felix’s revelations concerned him. For he knew that Arden’s suspicions would only be magnified by Ravenhurst, the inspector leading Scotland Yard’s newest counter-Fenian division.

  Ravenhurst was a stickler. Suspicious of everyone. A coldhearted bastard.

  And there was no way Felix was throwing Johanna upon the mercy of such a man. Not without some reassurance. Since Arden had been working closely with Ravenhurst, he was just the man to obtain that reassurance.

  “That is very wise of Miss McKenna,” said the duchess then, pinning Felix with a frank look that said she knew precisely what he was about.

  The damned woman was too intelligent for her own good, but that was part of what had made her such a tremendous asset to the Special League.

  “I agree,” he said to the duchess, meeting her gaze unflinchingly. “She is already taking a great personal risk in providing us with the evidence. Her brother has threatened her life should she speak against him or turn over the trunk in her possession.”

  “If she is innocent as you believe,” the duchess prodded thoughtfully, “why did she not volunteer this information sooner? Immediately upon her arrival in London, for instance? Instead, she harbored the dynamite and the documents. She also met with one of the Fenians.”

  It was a fair question, and one that had also troubled him. But as he searched inside himself now, he could honestly say, his previous concerns had dissipated. Perhaps it was the tender ease she had with Verity. Perhaps it was something more. Whatever the reason, she had won him over.

  “She was buying herself time,” he replied. “Miss McKenna has been abused, controlled, and threatened by her brother for the last year. Coming to London was to be her means of escaping him at last. However, she also was keenly aware of the dangerous reach her brother has. She was hoping to wait until the end of her six-week turn on the stage to contact police, so she
could then carry on to Paris and not have to remain in a city where her brother has so many foot soldiers willing to carry out his evil for him.”

  This, too, made sense. His doubts about Johanna were falling away, one by one, like leaves dropping from an autumn tree. Soon, there would be none remaining. There would be only the other emotions he felt for her. Emotions he would not examine now. Perhaps not ever.

  “I must admit, that, too sounds plausible,” the duchess said slowly, casting a glance back at Arden. “I have seen many cases in my past where a family member—a wife, a sister, a daughter—had been too fearful to speak out against someone they knew had committed a crime.”

  “I will speak with Ravenhurst,” Arden relented. “If the situation is as you say, and McKenna does indeed have a history of terrorizing his sister, I have no doubt he will be amenable to avoiding laying charges against Miss McKenna.”

  “Thank you.” He felt as if a weight had been lifted from his chest. “All I ask is for Miss McKenna to be treated with respect and fairness, and to be kept safe.”

  “I make no promises,” the duke warned. “But I will try. God knows you have been responsible for aiding me more times than I can count. And since you helped to save my wife’s life, I am eternally indebted to you.”

  Arden referred to when the duchess had been held prisoner by some of McKenna’s men within a London warehouse. By the time their contingent of Special League and Scotland Yard forces had arrived, the Fenians had detonated bombs and set off a roaring fire. Arden, the Duke of Strathmore, and the duchess had just narrowly escaped with their lives.

  It was a chilling reminder of just how deadly the men working for McKenna were. Just how great their potential for savagery. They would stop at nothing to gain what they wanted, but he would be damned before anyone else paid in blood.

  He rose and bowed. “Thank you, Arden. Duchess. Come to me when you have Ravenhurst’s reassurance, and the investigation can proceed.”