The Scoundrel in Her Bed (Sins for All Seasons #3)

by Lorraine Heath

  Dedication

  In loving memory of my great-niece Carolyn Rae.

  Your sweetness brightened the world, and you brought so much joy to so many. You are deeply missed, precious girl.

  With my love always.

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  The Duchess in His Bed

  About the Author

  By Lorraine Heath

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  She’d survived.

  Breathing heavily, bathed in sweat, after hours of nearly unbearable pain and screaming, the discovery came as somewhat of a surprise. The midwife had warned her that her hips were too narrow for what was to come, terrifying her with the dire possibility of death, and yet the fear, the agony, and the doubts that had plagued her now faded away in direct contrast to the increasing volume of the indignant wails filling her bedchamber. The robust cries were a sign of health and well-being. A gentle smile curled her lips upward as unheralded joy pierced her heart and swept unerringly through her, taking up permanent residence in every nook and cranny of her being. How could a creature so small have such tremendous impact?

  “Is it a boy?” she asked, unable to gain a clear view as the midwife quickly swaddled the babe in starched white linen before offering it to her mother, dressed all in mourning black, her face an immutable mask lacking in any emotion whatsoever, very much resembling a ghastly ghoul as she stiffly took the child.

  “Mother.” She held up her arms imploringly, waving her fingers as a beggar in want of coins might. “Bring it here. Let me see for myself if it’s a boy or a girl.”

  Without even glancing her way, the woman who had brought her into this world spun about smartly—her heels clacking out a steady and foreboding staccato as she headed with purpose for the closed door.

  Terror gripped her, threatening to tear her world asunder. Despite her weakened state, she struggled to sit up, to scramble out of the bed, but strong hands, far too many hands, were suddenly there to hold her down as effectively as iron imprisoned the condemned. “Mother, no! Please don’t take the babe from me. Please. I’ll be a good girl. I’ll never sin again. Please! I beg of you! Don’t do this!”

  A young female servant dutifully opened the door.

  Tears stung her eyes, rained down her cheeks. “No! Have mercy! At least let me cradle it once—”

  In my arms died on her lips as her mother swept through the doorway like an avenging angel bent on destroying all in her wake, disappearing into the darkened hallway beyond, taking the precious bundle with her. The door closed with a resounding and ominous snick that would forever reverberate through her soul. For a few more minutes she fought to free herself, race after her mother, and stop her from doing the unthinkable, from farming the child out to someone who could not possibly love it with all the fervor that she did. But the past several hours had not been kind, leaving her drained, exhausted, and faint.

  “There, there, my dear girl,” a maid cooed to her. “Calm yourself. Tomorrow all will be as right as rain.”

  With gut-wrenching sobs racking her body, she sagged down onto the mattress in despair, while all that remained of her young tender heart shattered into tiny shards that would be impossible to ever piece back together.

  Chapter 1

  Whitechapel

  Early November 1871

  With a shiver, Lady Lavinia Kent brought the hood of her pelisse up over her head. There was a chill in the midnight air that had been lacking on other evenings, and she wasn’t altogether convinced it was a result of autumn giving way to winter but had more to do with the possible peril awaiting her. She was a woman with a purpose, had been since August when she’d escaped her aristocratic life to seek something that would bring her more fulfillment than what had previously been mapped out for her without her consult and none of her desires taken into consideration.

  Although her current mission brought with it dangers that lurked unseen in shadowy corners, she was beyond being frightened. Rather she was spurred on by a calling she could trace back a decade to a boy on the cusp of manhood she’d met when she’d been but a girl on the threshold of womanhood.

  He’d been some unnamed lord’s by-blow, considered beneath her in every regard, in spite of his noble—albeit tainted—blood. Although he knew the identity of his father, he never confided that information to her. She still remembered the sadness in his voice when he’d confessed he knew nothing at all about—had no memory of—the woman who’d given birth to him because he’d been immediately taken from her and handed over to a baby farmer. Learning of his experiences had introduced her to a world she hadn’t even known existed, a world through which she now traveled, her bare hand tightening around the cold carved wolf’s head that decorated the walking stick that was a constant and reassuring companion when she made these late-night sojourns. Through him, she’d learned the truth of baby farming and the horrors that sometimes accompanied the practice. She learned how the women, usually widows, advertised their services. Recently she’d taken to searching out their adverts, writing to them, meeting with them, paying them. Not to take care of a child as her letter initially indicated, but to give the children presently in their keeping over to her. With the blessings of the Sisters of Mercy who sheltered her, she brought the children to their foundling home, regretting she hadn’t the means to open her own shelters. Theirs would soon be full, and then what was she to do?

  The women with whom she corresponded were only willing to meet at night, in the darkest of alleyways and mews, the latest of hours, when the streets were ominous with the click-clacking of rats’ paws, the odd song with words slurred by too much ale, the occasional grunt, the rare screech. And the feeling, always the feeling, of being watched.

  The fine hairs on the nape of her neck suddenly stood on end. She abruptly halted and listened. Tightening her hold on the wolf’s head, she quickly lifted the walking stick, grabbed it midway with her other hand, and had the rapier partially free of its cleverly disguised scabbard as she swiftly swung around, her eyes scouring the area intently. No one was about save what appeared to be a beggar curled on the stoop of a building across the way. She’d not seen him before because the alcove hid him from view of anyone coming from that direction. He was only visible—and barely—from her current position. She waited, watching, listening, hearing his occasional snuffling snore. Deeming him harmless, she slid the steel back into place and carried on.

  She’d been delighted to find the weapon in a pawnshop and equally relieved the pawnbroker had been willing to take the earbobs she’d worn on the day she was to wed in exchange for it. When she was nineteen, she had been tutored in fencing, loved the challenge of it, and become quite skilled. Her brother had only ever engaged her in a duel once. Being a sore l
oser, he hadn’t taken kindly to being bested, although he had confessed to being surprised by her mastery of the sport. But for her, it had always been more than a sport. It had been a way to survive and retain her sanity in a place that catered to madness.

  She shook off the unsettling thoughts. All that mattered was the future, moving forward one step at a time. Forgetting what couldn’t be forgotten. So she concentrated on her present and her surroundings, aware she must remain ever alert if she was to meet with success during the possible confrontation that awaited her.

  Usually revelers were about after finishing their evening at a pub or tavern, but tonight’s meeting was occurring a bit later than customary in an area more deserted than that to which she was comfortable. But nothing could deter her from her purpose. It was all she had now, all she wanted. It nurtured, sustained, and gave her cause to crawl out of bed in the morning.

  She was nearing the cross streets that had been written in the missive telling her where and when the meeting was to occur. Carry on to the other side, she reminded herself, fighting to ignore the sense of foreboding, concentrating instead on following to the letter the words inked in barely decipherable scrawl. Turn left into the first alleyway you find. Halfway down—

  She stopped where the light from the streetlamp did. To go farther would be to step through a curtain of blackness. Her courage and foolhardiness had limits.

  With discreet, barely perceptible movements, she slowly glanced around the narrow confines, hemmed in on two sides by the brick walls of buildings, the windows dark, the rooms beyond probably uninhabited. These assignations usually occurred in desolate areas where no witnesses could observe the transactions. In the event she was being watched, she fought not to give the impression she was quite suddenly having misgivings regarding this arrangement.

  She kept her breathing steady, even though she could feel her palms beginning to sweat and heard the pounding of her own heart. The sisters had warned her more than once that she shouldn’t go out alone, but she couldn’t accomplish her objectives if she remained hidden away like a frightened child, and she’d spent far too much of the past eight years in hiding, concealing her true wants and desires from not only herself, but from others. She was weary of it. Done with the past. She was starting over, determined to lead her life as she felt it should be led.

  It was the very reason that three months earlier she’d left a good man standing at the altar in St. George’s. Not that her abandonment of the Duke of Thornley hadn’t worked out in his favor as far as she was concerned because he’d quite recently taken to wife a woman he dearly loved. The last time she’d seen him—secretively and to beg his forgiveness—he’d expounded on the virtues of Gillian Trewlove, and she’d heard in his voice the raw emotion of a man who had well and truly fallen. It hadn’t surprised her to learn soon after that he’d taken her to wife. Much better than taking one he couldn’t love and who, with time, as he learned the truths about her, would come to despise, as she so very often despised herself for her past failures and weaknesses.

  She heard a scrape, a footstep. Spinning around, she faced a woman of bulk with a hat very much resembling that of a farmer’s brought low over her brow shading a good bit of her face. The click click click of additional steps as two more women, one as thin as a matchstick, the other as tall as a tree, entered the alleyway, the three of them hemming her in with only the dark unknown at her back. Her appointment was with only one.

  “I’m here to meet with D. B.” She was rather pleased she’d managed to keep her voice calm and level.

  “Last week ye met with Mags. She were arrested the followin’ morn. Word is she’s likely to ’ang for the farmin’ she done,” the bulky one said.

  Which meant, in all likelihood, the authorities had somehow managed to already discern that she’d murdered at least one of the children who’d been placed in her care.

  “I don’t know any Mags.” She knew them only by initials. Was Mags the M. K. who’d handed over three little ones to her last week in exchange for the five quid Lavinia offered her? Most farmers were paid in full when the by-blows were dropped off by a parent or someone close to the mother who sought to spare her shame. Oh, a few paid in weekly installments—those who had an interest in the child’s welfare—but many simply disbursed the higher one-time fee and walked away expecting—wanting—to never encounter or be bothered with the child again. Since no more money was to be had after that, those infants were often neglected and then perished, buried without ceremony in unmarked graves so no one would suspect those caring for them of nefarious deeds. To many, one babe looked like another. Who bothered to keep tally of the number in a particular household, especially when there was soon another to replace the one lost? “I certainly didn’t report her to the authorities. I’m interested only in the babes and their welfare.”

  “So ye say.”

  “I’m not one to lie. Am I speaking with D. B.?”

  “Even yer small words sound posh. But they ain’t gonna save ye. We can’t ’ave ye ruinin’ our business.”

  Business. Her stomach roiled with the confirmation these women viewed children as products, produced by women they didn’t know, to be sold away to women who had no love for them. “I don’t care about you, I don’t care what you do.” Which wasn’t entirely true. She did care; otherwise, she wouldn’t be here. “I simply want the children, and I’ll pay to take them off your hands.”

  “We’ll take yer coins . . . after we take yer life.”

  Swiftly she unsheathed the rapier and brandished it so the steel blade reflected off the distant streetlamp and was visible to them. “Stay back.”

  The bulky woman smiled, revealing dark caverns where teeth should have been. “Ever wielded a sword before, lass? Ever felt the way it slides into skin and muscle, sinkin’ deeper and deeper till it ’its bone, the manner in which the quiverin’ of the wounded flesh slithers up yer arm as it gives way to steel?”

  “Come at me and discover the truth of things.” Taking a ready stance, still clutching the wooden scabbard to use as an additional weapon if needed, with the rapier, she sliced a swift X through the air, loving the way the whooshing filled the silence with menace. Although she’d never cut into flesh, she wouldn’t hesitate to bring pain to these creatures who fed on the desperation of others. “Only you won’t, will you? Because I’m not helpless or vulnerable or afraid. I’m nothing at all like the sort to whom you usually deliver death.”

  The bulky one looked at her comrades, then unexpectedly rushed forward while they stepped back. She doubted their actions were spurred by a desire for fairness but rather were prompted by spinelessness. She didn’t want to deliver a killing blow if it wasn’t needed—she wasn’t a barbarian after all—so she made an upward swipe across the woman’s face where no cloth protected it, cutting into her cheek, knocking off her hat. With a shriek, the noxious trader in misery reeled back, slapped a hand to her wound, and glared. “Come on, gels. We can take ’er if we all strike at once.”

  “Not without sustaining a few more wounds, I’d wager,” a deep voice said from within the blackness that hovered at the edge of the light.

  Lavinia stiffened but didn’t dare turn around, didn’t dare take her eyes off the women before her.

  “Who ye be?” the leader asked, narrowing her eyes.

  “It doesn’t matter. I don’t like the odds. And I daresay, the lady and I could dispatch the three of you in a thrice. She seems rather skilled.”

  His emphasis on the word lady alerted her that he wasn’t using it without purpose, but to refer to her station, to acknowledge the fact she was indeed nobility. His tone also alerted her that he didn’t think much of it. How had he discerned who she was? Was he one of the men her brother had hired to find her and escort her home? Something about his voice was familiar and yet—

  “Yer a cocky one,” the beefy one said.

  “Not without justification. Ask any man who’s crossed me. Now then, I have a use for h
er, so off with you.”

  The woman sneered. “Then take ’er. Enjoy ’er. But if she continues to put ’er nose where it don’t belong, she’ll find she ain’t got one no more.”

  As she watched in stunned fascination, the women scattered, neither gracefully nor quietly, unlike the fellow in the shadows who approached on silent feet and relieved her of the rapier as smoothly and easily as she might a spoon from a distracted child.

  She swung around. “See—” The remaining words of reprimand died in her suddenly knotted throat as the distant light revealed what shadows had held secret.

  As though he were the lord of the underworld, hard and unforgiving, filled with malice, ready to mete out justice, the man stood there decked out in clothing so dark it blended in with the night, the hem of his greatcoat swirling about his calves in the slight breeze that also worked to tangle the strands of his long blond hair, left free as he wore no hat—strands she’d once knotted her fingers around and found joy in so doing.

  He was tall, looming. Little wonder they’d run. She remembered how she’d had to stand on the tips of her toes to wind her arms around his neck, how his would come around her and he would lift her with such ease, as though she weighed no more than a billowy cloud in the summer sky. How he had made her believe herself . . . treasured.

  She resented it now, the way he had made her feel, that she had ever given him leave to touch her.

  While she knew she should be grateful for his arrival, it was his departure from her life—or more specifically his failure to show—eight years earlier that had her fuming with incensed outrage, shaking with fury, needing to lash out at the injustice of it all, especially the way her long-dead heart at that very moment seemed to come alive with his presence. Damn the thing for being as traitorous as he was.

  He tossed the rapier slightly, and she knew he was testing its balance, weight, craftsmanship, and that he’d not find it lacking in any regard. “Not very practical. A sword, knife, pistol—they can all be taken from you, used against you. Better to learn how to wield your fists as weapons.”