Scandalous Duke

by Scott, Scarlett

  Attempting to be as calm as possible, she walked back to her brother. He grasped her elbow. “Come with me, Jojo.”

  He walked them hurriedly to the end of the alleyway and turned a corner to where another vehicle waited.

  “Get inside,” he told her, nudging her with the pistol barrel. The force he exerted sent a rush of pain through her, and she knew there would later be a bruise. But a bruise was the least of her worries as she allowed herself to be shoved into the vehicle. She tripped on her hem and sprawled to the floor as she attempted to scramble onto the bench.

  “Up, you clumsy cow.” Drummond caught her chignon and roughly pulled her to her feet. Tears stung her eyes as sharp pain lanced through her.

  Choking back a sob, she righted herself before hastily sitting.

  Drummond climbed inside and settled across from her, his gaze as hard as flint as he pointed the pistol toward her. The carriage seemed extraordinarily small. But larger still than her chances of escaping this situation alive.

  She could run, but her past always found her. The carriage lurched into motion, bearing them to an unknown destination.

  “I have heard a great deal about you, sister,” Drummond said then, sneering. “You have been whoring yourself for the Home Office and Scotland Yard.”

  She flinched at his viciousness. “I was not doing anything of the kind.”

  “I have it on good authority you were,” he said bitterly. “All I do for you, sister, and as soon as you are out of my sight, you are a slut for the enemy. I expected better from you.”

  “All you have done for me is terrorize me and force me to assist you in your plotting,” she said, her outrage getting the best of her and making her speak too freely. “You were being watched in New York and you knew it, and that is why you used me in your schemes.”

  “I see being a duke’s whore has given you airs,” he said coolly, assessing her as one might an insect about to be squashed. “I would advise you against using them with me. You won’t like the consequences.”

  “Where are you taking me?” she demanded.

  His smile was ugly. “To a place where you will be most useful to me, Mademoiselle Beaumont.”

  “You can tell everyone who I am,” she said, meeting his stare. “I won’t cower to you any longer. I won’t do what you want me to do. Tell the world I am Johanna McKenna. See it printed in every newspaper. I will explain the monster I was running from. Rose Beaumont is just another role.”

  “Ah, but you are cowering to me now, Jojo,” he countered, his tone one of mock sympathy.

  “You have a pistol pointed at me, Drummond,” she said. “And me, your own sister. Your flesh and blood. What else am I to do?”

  “You were always weak,” he spat. “Just like Ma.”

  He was so much their father’s image in that moment—the feral beast, the snarl and the rage—that she wanted to retch.

  “And you were always a brutal monster, like Pa,” she returned.

  He gave her a cruel smile, but it did not reach his eyes. His eyes—the reflection of hers, in the same shade of deep blue as their father’s—were flat. “I am who the world has made me.”

  She supposed he was right about that. He was the product of their father’s rages, his beatings. She had escaped at a young age, while Drummond had become their father.

  “Where are you taking me?” she asked again.

  “I am taking you to where I have been staying during my time here in London,” he said, his tone turning conversational. “Just over an apothecary’s shop. I am afraid it will not be comparable to a duke’s home, but you will manage well enough.”

  There again was the dig at Felix. She wondered how Drummond had found out about her relationship with him. Just how long had he been in London? And had he been watching her? Suddenly, everything made sense.

  Her imagination had not been at work on the instances when she had been so convinced she had seen him.

  “It was you,” she said as realization hit her. “I saw you watching me. You have been here in London all along, haven’t you?”

  “I have,” he confirmed, sounding pleased with himself. “I knew you were not to be trusted, but the dynamite was best smuggled by a woman. They are suspicious of almost all my men. The risk of having the powder confiscated, a man arrested, and the entire plot unraveled, was too great. As it turned out, you were not my only worry. Rourke, that sniveling little coward, turned Queen’s Evidence the moment Scotland Yard arrested him.”

  She supposed Rourke was the man she had met at the Royal Aquarium. The one who had offered evidence against her.

  “But I did not give the dynamite to anyone,” she said, struggling to make sense of what had happened. “How were the bombs assembled?”

  Drummond laughed. “How foolish you are, Jojo. You can memorize all the lines of a play, and yet you failed to realize someone had come to your hotel and replaced the dynamite in your trunk with biscuit boxes containing actual biscuits instead of powder.”

  The revelation chilled her.

  “You sent someone into my room to obtain the dynamite?” she asked. “When?”

  “During your rehearsals.” He whistled lowly. “Oh, Jojo. You truly had no idea, did you? It was the dynamite you smuggled here that blew a hole in the outer wall of your duke’s townhome. It was also the same dynamite that exploded outside the Scotland Yard offices the day you were being questioned. So you see, you had a part in your own downfall. Not so high and mighty now, are you?”

  She felt as if she had turned to ice. She had been so certain the dynamite she had smuggled had still been in her possession, unable to harm anyone. And Drummond had outfoxed her. Not only that, but he had used that same dynamite as a weapon to harm herself and those she loved.

  “You are a devil,” she accused. “How could you have laid a bomb outside a home? A child could have died because of you.”

  “She would have died because of you as well,” Drummond said. “That is what troubles you most, isn’t it, Jojo? You think yourself such an angel, but you are just as soiled and fallen as all the rest of us.”

  “Tell me what you intend to do with me, Drummond,” she said then. “I will have you remember that I am your sister. I share your blood.”

  His eyes narrowed upon her with lethal intent. “Fine time for you to recall that, Jojo.”

  And she knew her fate was sealed.

  Felix was reading Verity a story when word reached him, via an urgent missive sent from Theo’s Crown and Thorn. And then via an urgent communication from the Duke of Arden.

  The unthinkable had happened. Johanna had left the theater, escaping the watch of the stagehand who was being paid additional wages to guard her. By the time the man had noticed her exit of the building, he had discovered her with a stranger who described himself as an old friend. Johanna had reassured the man all was well, but the stagehand thought her manner had been troubled.

  Arden’s men had been watching the theater as well, and one of them had followed the stranger and Johanna to an apothecary’s shop in the East End. It appeared to the agent as if Johanna was being controlled by the man in question. A man who was almost certainly Drummond McKenna.

  Denial, rage, and despair twisted in Felix’s gut. He had done everything in his power to keep Johanna safe.

  And yet, it had not been enough.

  Because her bastard of a brother had come for her anyway. And he had not been there to protect her. Not that she would have wanted him to. Because of the secrets he had kept from her, she still did not trust him. Perhaps she never would again. And he could not blame her for his own failures.

  He could only blame himself.

  But that did not mean he was about to rest on his laurels while Johanna was in danger. He had to get to her.

  “What is the matter, Papa?” Verity asked, concern in her voice.

  Still the picture of her mother. He hugged her to him and kissed her crown. “Nothing is wrong, poppet. It is time, however, f
or young ladies to go to bed. You need your rest, and I shall see you in the morning.”

  Though he did his best to keep his tone controlled and even, dread held him in its claws.

  “Why are you sad?” Verity asked suddenly.

  She was dreadfully perceptive for a child of five years.

  “I am not sad at all,” he lied, clutching the missives so tightly his knuckles ached with the strain.

  “Papa?”

  He glanced up at her. She was tucked into her bed, an innocent girl with Hattie’s dark curls and his eyes. When he looked upon her now and saw the resemblance, the knife in his chest was no longer lodged quite as deep.

  “Yes, poppet?” He was keenly aware of how precious every second was.

  Arden had given him the address of the apothecary’s shop, though he had warned him to stay away. But there was no bloody way Felix was going to sit calmly by while Drummond McKenna held Johanna captive. Still, he had no wish to alarm Verity.

  “Is Miss McKenna ever going to come back to sing with me again?” she asked. “She was ever so much fun. I have not laughed so much since I met her, and neither have you.”

  If he had anything to say about it, she would come back as his duchess. But he knew that was out of his hands. And Johanna was in terrible danger. Danger he could not allow himself to contemplate.

  Already, he could feel one of his fits beginning. His chest hurt. His heart was pounding. He kept his eyes pinned upon Verity, forcing himself to remain clam.

  “I hope she does come back one day soon, poppet,” he said, his voice thick with suppressed emotion.

  “I like it when you laugh, Papa,” Verity said softly. “It makes my heart happy.”

  He smiled, grateful anew for his daughter. She had been the guiding light through all his darkness, and she would continue to remain so. “It makes my heart happy, too. Rest well, poppet. I shall see you in the morning.”

  He lowered the lights and made his retreat.

  Just as he crossed over the threshold, her small voice stopped him once more.

  “Papa?”

  “Yes, Verity?” He turned back, the light from the hall slanting over her bed and illuminating nothing more than her sweet little face.

  “Miss McKenna makes my heart happy, too.”

  A wall of emotion hit him. “Mine too, Verity,” he choked out. “Mine, too.”

  And then, before he said anything more, he gently closed her door. He had not given up on fighting for Johanna yet.

  “Sit down, Jojo.”

  Drummond’s order cracked through the air of the room where he had taken her. It was a humble abode, consisting of nothing more than a large room with a stove and sparse furniture.

  She looked at the chair he had pointed to with the barrel of his pistol, and then to the ropes in her brother’s hand. “No.”

  “Sit,” he repeated. “If you do as I say, no harm will come to you.”

  “I do not believe you.” She could not bear to be tied. To be unable to defend herself. To be unable to move.

  Surely, this was the end for her. Perhaps Drummond was taking pleasure in prolonging her inevitable death. Making her suffer. When they had been but children, he had drowned a sack of puppies in the Hudson. He hurt and killed because he liked it.

  He was sick. A sick man who was using a worthy cause as an excuse to hurt others.

  “Do you want me to shoot you, or do you want to sit in the bleeding chair?” he asked sharply. “You have until the count of five, Jojo.”

  The hated name rankled.

  “One. Two. Three…”

  She sat. Her mind was still whirling, grasping at ways she might conceivably escape. If he shot her now, which she had no doubt he would, there would be no escape.

  “What do you want from me?” she asked him.

  “I want you to shut up,” he snapped. “Put your feet together.”

  She did as he asked, suppressing a shudder when he wound the rope around her ankles. She could kick him, she realized. Use both feet at once. She wore sturdy boots tonight because the sky had been overcast and she had supposed it would rain.

  One kick, perhaps to his chin…

  Suddenly, the door burst open. Drummond scrambled to his feet. His instincts were quick, far quicker than hers. Before she could attempt to flee, he was behind her, an arm pressed tightly around her throat.

  The lone man standing on the threshold was painfully familiar. Painfully beloved as well.

  “Felix,” she cried out, though the pressure of her brother’s arm on her throat was almost enough to choke her.

  His gaze did not waver from Drummond. He held a gun in his hands, as naturally as if it were an extension of himself.

  “McKenna,” he said in a low, angry growl. “We meet at last.”

  “Winchelsea,” Drummond greeted, training his pistol upon Felix’s head. “Lower your weapon now, if you please.”

  Felix’s jaw clenched. His gaze flitted to Johanna’s before returning to her brother. “I will not drop it until you release her.”

  “I knew you would come,” Drummond said, triumph in his voice as he ignored Felix’s demand. “My whore of a sister did her job well.”

  Dear God.

  He had planned for Felix to find them.

  And there was only one reason why he would have such an aim.

  Horror clawed at her.

  “Felix,” she called out, her mouth dry, her voice barely functioning, so great was her terror. “Go. Save yourself. Think of Verity!”

  “I told her to bed you,” Drummond continued, his tone taunting now. “And she did. How does it feel to know you lied to protect a traitorous whore?”

  “He is lying,” she denied, tears swimming in her eyes. She clawed at her brother’s arm to no avail. He would not release her, and her efforts only earned her a vicious blow to the side of the head, courtesy of his pistol.

  “Silence,” Drummond ordered. “Stop moving, or this will go badly for you, sister.”

  She struggled for a breath, but his arm had tightened.

  Felix looked as if he were made of stone, all his attention upon Drummond, the gun still pointed at him. He crossed the threshold slowly. “Your true quarrel is with me, is it not?” Felix asked. “Let your sister go.”

  “Stop right there,” Drummond warned, and then the barrel of the pistol was a cold metal threat butting into her temple. “If you take another step, I will put a bullet in her brain.”

  Her breathing was already altered from the tightness of his hold upon her, but now she could scarcely breathe at all. “Please,” she managed to croak. “Go, Felix. This is not your battle.”

  It was hers.

  It had always been hers.

  She had run, but not far enough. And she had been strong. But not strong enough.

  That was going to change today. Because the man she loved was in danger, and she could not bear for anything to happen to him.

  Her hands were free. Though she did not possess strength enough to tear her brother’s arm from her neck, there was the possibility she could move slowly enough—stealthily enough—to attempt to hit the hand holding the pistol. If she could knock it away from him…

  “I knew about your plot, you know,” Drummond said to Felix. “You intended to use Jojo against me, but in the end, I used her against you. I have eyes and ears everywhere, you see. I knew I was being watched at home. I was being followed every day for weeks, even before we carried out the bombings at Praed Street and Charing Cross.”

  Felix took another slow step closer. “So you used your sister. Forced her into your tangled web so you could remain at your club and maintain your façade of innocence.”

  Drummond jammed the pistol into her temple with punishing force. “Not another step forward, Winchelsea. I needed someone who would not be watched. Someone no one would suspect. The press caught on, believed she was my mistress. It was an excellent cover. I could not have planned it all out better myself. Until you intervened.
”

  “You orchestrated the bomb that exploded at my home,” Felix said, his gaze flitting briefly to Johanna once more.

  His gaze gave her comfort. Reassured her. She could do this. She must do this.

  “And others,” Drummond confirmed with cold triumph. “There will be more. We will never stop until Ireland is free of tyranny.”

  “There are other ways to achieve the ends you desire.” Felix’s eyes went to something over Drummond’s shoulder. He appeared to give an almost imperceptible nod. “But if it is victory you want over me, then leave Johanna out of this. I will lower my weapon if you promise to remove your gun from her temple.”

  “No,” Johanna attempted to cry out her denial. But she was still gasping for air, her throat held in such a tight grip she could not manage to project.

  It felt like the nightmare which had plagued her in the months following Pearl’s death. The dream where she could see Pearl about to be taken from her, and she tried so desperately to reach her, and yet she never could. Her body had been paralyzed, her voice frozen. She had wrenched herself from slumber so many nights, body covered in sweat, still trembling from the helplessness and the sheer anguish.

  This moment was every bit like that nightmare, but worse.

  Because it was real.

  And Felix was before her, doing the unthinkable—lowering his pistol to the floor at his feet—all whilst keeping his hands on display, his eyes pinned to Drummond. Her brother would not hesitate to kill Felix. She knew it. This was what he had come here for.

  Felix slowly stood, leaving his gun on the floor.

  “Kick it toward me,” Drummond ordered.

  She attempted to cry out again, but it only made her brother’s hold on her throat tighten.

  Felix did as her brother asked, nudging the weapon with his shoe.

  The pistol slid noisily across the floor, stopping halfway between where Felix stood and the chair where Drummond was holding Johanna captive. The pistol barrel left her temple, and it was pointed instead directly at Felix.