How to Catch a Wicked Viscount

by Amy Rose Bennett

  “Ha, it’s clear you’ve done this before,” declared Arabella. Following Charlie’s example, she used a taper to light her cigarrillo before placing it between her lips. She drew a breath and then promptly burst into a fit of coughing so violent, her glasses were dislodged.

  Charlie’s brow dipped into a concerned frown. “Gently, gently. Don’t breathe in too deeply.”

  “Oh . . . that’s . . . that’s truly awful,” gasped Arabella. Her face had turned a sickly shade of green. “I’m sure my lungs will never be the same again.” Wrinkling her nose, she held the smoking cigar away from her like one might hold a dead mouse by the tail. “I’m sorry, Charlie. I don’t think I want any more.”

  “That’s quite all right.” Charlie took it from her, then glanced between Olivia and Sophie. “Would either of you like to try?”

  Olivia shook her head and Sophie crossed to the window, drawing back the dull blue utilitarian curtains. “No thank you, Charlie. And I think we should let some fresh air in. If Mrs. Rathbone notices the smell—”

  “Mrs. Rathbone has noticed the smell. And the raucous laughter and chatter.”

  Oh no. Oh no, no, no. Her heart vaulting into the vicinity of her throat, Sophie whirled around then nearly fainted. In the open doorway, her plump arms folded over her ample chest, stood a glowering Mrs. Rathbone. Even though she only wore a rumpled night rail, a coarse woolen shawl, and a linen cap that was askew, her informal attire didn’t diminish her gravitas or the seriousness of the moment in the least. From beneath heavy gray brows, her pale blue eyes skewered them all in turn. Arabella’s countenance was green again, Olivia was as white as the bedsheets, and Sophie wondered how she continued to remain upright when her knees felt as though they were made of blancmange.

  Charlie, on the other hand, looked remarkably unperturbed. She tossed both of the cigarrillos into the fire and lifted her chin. “Our apologies for disturbing your sleep, Mrs. Rathbone. We shall, of course, retire immediately. If you would just give me a moment to gather my things—”

  Charlie had barely taken a step across the rug when Mrs. Rathbone raised a hand. “Stop right there, my gel,” she barked. Her glare swept over Sophie’s bedside table and bed, and then her fleshy face turned an alarming shade of crimson when she took in the nature of the scattered sketches. “What. Are. Those?” she demanded in a shaking voice. When no one responded, she raised a quivering hand to her equally quivering jowls. “And what have you all been drinking? Brandy? Is that brandy I see in your cups? And what’s that other bottle on the bed?”

  “Port,” replied Charlie without batting an eyelid. She started to add, “They’re for medicinal pur—” but Mrs. Rathbone jabbed a finger in her direction.

  “Not another word out of you, Lady Charlotte.” The headmistress all but charged across the room and snatched up both bottles. Although her expression still bordered on furious, Sophie thought she detected a covetous glimmer in the woman’s eyes. “This behavior is outrageous,” she continued as she tucked both bottles into the crook of one arm. “Beyond the pale. Smoking? Imbibing alcohol? Studying lewd material? And all in the middle of the night! I can scarcely believe it. In all my years as the headmistress of this establishment, I have never, ever encountered such shocking conduct from young ladies. You should all be ashamed of yourselves. Just wait till the school’s patrons and your parents hear about it!”

  Charlie inclined her head. “Yes, it is shameful,” she agreed in a contrite tone that almost sounded sincere to Sophie’s ears. “And although you forbade me to speak, Mrs. Rathbone, I feel compelled to confess that everything you see on the bed—the books, the sketches, the cheroot cigars—and the bottles of port and brandy, all of it belongs to me. I alone bear the blame. Miss Brightwell, Miss Jardine, and Miss de Vere are innocent of any wrongdoing.”

  Mrs. Rathbone narrowed her eyes. “Yet all of these proscribed items are in Miss Brightwell’s and Miss de Vere’s bedchamber. And”—her gaze darted about the room—“I spy four teacups of brandy.” She gave an inelegant sniff and looked down her flushed nose at them all. “As far as I can see, each one of you is guilty of unladylike conduct in the extreme and, subsequently, you are not fit to remain within this academy’s walls. In the morning, I shall send word to your families and begin the process of having you all expelled.”

  Arabella sucked in a startled breath, Olivia wrung her hands, and Sophie felt as though a massive weight had just crushed her chest, driving all the air from her lungs. Oh, dear God, no. This can’t be happening. What would her family say? Her mother? Her stepfather?

  The ton?

  But it was happening. Even Charlie’s face was ashen.

  As Sophie struggled to drag in enough air to breathe, Mrs. Rathbone issued instructions to Charlie and Arabella to gather up all of the offending items off the bed, and Olivia was ordered to tip the contents of the teacups out of the window into the frosty garden bed below.

  “I’m sorry,” mouthed Charlie as she picked up her bandbox and followed a tearful Arabella and a righteously indignant Rathbone out of the room.

  As soon as the door clicked shut, Sophie sank onto her bed and hugged a pillow against her chest. Hot tears of mortification and despair scalded her eyelids.

  There was sure to be a scandal of monumental proportions. Thrown out of a young ladies’ academy. Her reputation and that of all of her friends would be ruined. There would be no invitations to Almack’s. No invitations to anywhere at all. Only stares and whispers, closed doors and censure wherever she went.

  Her parents would be livid, her younger sisters heartbroken.

  She was only eighteen, but she would be forever branded as a woman of loose character and questionable morals. A hussy.

  A slut.

  Sophie swallowed, attempting to dislodge the gathering ache in her throat. How on earth was she to meet her love match now? She’d never make a socially and financially advantageous union as her family had hoped she would; indeed, without such a marriage, there was a very real chance her stepfather might lose Nettlefield Grange and the accompanying estate. How shocking that her dreams and her family’s livelihood could be crushed to dust because of her folly.

  The weight on her chest was back, and her heart felt as though it might crack beneath the strain.

  “Do . . . do you think there’s any chance Rathbone m-might try to hush things up? To preserve her own and the school’s reputation?” murmured Olivia in a voice husky with tears.

  Sophie dashed away her own tears with shaking fingers. “I expect she might try to, but word is bound to get out. Who doesn’t love a juicy piece of gossip? And besides Charlie, none of us has any social connections that would hold sway with Rathbone. I really don’t think there is anything we can do to stop our expulsion.”

  Olivia’s eyes glimmered with fresh tears. “We’ll be socially destroyed then.”

  Sophie’s heart broke just that little bit more at witnessing her sweet friend’s distress. She cast aside her pillow and crossed to the other bed. “Yes, Olivia,” she whispered as she enveloped the trembling girl in a hug. “I’m afraid we will.”

  CHAPTER 2

  The great drawers caper!

  What sort of gentleman would wager another to procure a pair of a certain noblewoman’s drawers? Surely not a respectable one, but then some might say boys will be boys, especially when the boys in question are the ton’s most notorious rakehells. Read on to discover what happened last night at one of London’s most prestigious addresses . . .

  The Beau Monde Mirror: The Society Page

  Astley House, Cavendish Square, London

  Midnight, March 5, 1818

  Bloody hell, Nate,” growled Gabriel Holmes-Fitzgerald, Lord Langdale. “How in the devil’s name are you going to climb up there?” He gestured at the second floor of the elegant white brick town house. “You’ll break your neck.”

  Nate Has
tings, Lord Malverne, grinned as he shrugged out of his dark blue superfine evening jacket and tossed it to Hamish MacQueen, Lord Sleat. The marquess had agreed to stand guard with Maximilian Devereux, the Duke of Exmoor, while he fulfilled the dare they’d challenged him to earlier in the evening. At stake was a wager of four hundred pounds, and he was determined to win. “Maybe. But aren’t you coming with me, Gabriel? If I’m to pilfer a pair of the infamous Countess of Astley’s drawers, I’ll need someone to witness that they’re actually hers, don’t you think, and not a guest’s or even the housekeeper’s?”

  Gabriel grimaced and ran a hand through his disheveled black hair. “God damn you. All right.” He blew out a resigned sigh before throwing his own jacket to a scowling MacQueen.

  Nate suspected the burly Scot, who looked more like a pirate than a Highlander because of his eye patch, hadn’t reckoned on playing the part of valet during their alcohol-fueled escapade.

  Oblivious to MacQueen’s glowering stare, Gabriel circled his shoulders and cracked his knuckles as he added, “Might I suggest we scale the iron fence and then try to find a way in around the back?”

  “My thoughts too,” drawled Max. He dropped the stub of his cheroot onto the pavement and ground it out with the toe of his glossy black Hessian boot. “Only, why don’t I pick the lock on the gate to minimize the spectacle of several men illegally entering Lord and Lady Astley’s town house in the dead of night. I don’t know about you, but I don’t fancy spending the rest of the evening explaining myself to the Runners if a passerby or a neighborly good Samaritan notices us.”

  “Good point,” agreed Nate. He stepped aside to give the duke room to work his magic on the gate’s lock. Within moments, the gate swung open on well-oiled hinges and then all four of them ducked down the side path that led to the enclosed courtyard garden at the back of the house.

  Rubbing his hands together—the night was devilishly cold—Nate craned his neck and examined the upper floors at the back of the house. Subdued light filtered out of a central second-floor window—probably the casement window above the main staircase—and through the filmy curtains hanging in another window farther along to the right. The windows and French doors on the ground floor that led onto a flagged terrace were completely dark. “Have any of you been inside before?”

  MacQueen gave a soft huff of laughter. “Aye. At Covent Garden a few years back. Lady Astley and I shared a theater box. But a gentleman isn’t supposed to kiss and tell, is he?”

  “I meant the town house, you dog. Not the countess.”

  “I have,” said Max. “I attended a ball here a while ago, but from memory, the main bedrooms are on the second floor on the eastern side.” He nodded toward the window on the right.

  “It’s a dashed nuisance that there’s no trellis to scale or even a nearby garden wall to climb,” murmured Nate. He turned to Max. “Do you think you could pick the lock to the French doors?” He was still well liquored after spending the last six hours drinking at White’s, and he didn’t really want to crack his head open over a scandalous countess’s drawers. Skulking about the inside of the Astley town house, while risky, was a far less dangerous prospect than attempting to scale unclimbable walls with only the pitiful light of a thin crescent moon to see by. He might be foxed but he wasn’t stupid.

  Max shrugged a wide shoulder. “Probably. But it will cost you.”

  “Go on. Name your price then.”

  Max’s white teeth gleamed in the darkness. “Your bottle of Renaud and Dualle cognac. The ninety-five vintage.”

  Bastard. Nate heaved a sigh. “Very well. Agreed.”

  Max withdrew a penknife from the inner breast pocket of his black evening jacket and proceeded to prize open the second lock with a few deft slides and twists of the knife’s small, thin blade. He carefully pushed open the door and stepped aside with an exaggerated flourish. “Gentlemen . . .”

  MacQueen chuckled softly from behind them. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

  Cheeky sod. As if he’d even think about seducing one of the Scot’s former conquests. Nate cast a sideways glance at Gabriel as he followed him through the door. He wouldn’t put it past the Earl of Langdale though. He was the randiest devil out of the lot of them.

  The room they’d entered appeared to be the library; the glowing coals in the banked fire gave off enough light for Nate to make out floor-to-ceiling bookcases, the bulky form of a large desk, and several wingchairs by the fireside.

  Praying his new leather Hessian boots wouldn’t squeak, Nate quickly traversed the room, then cracked open the door. The hall beyond was softly lit by several wall sconces, and halfway along he could see a wide staircase with ornate iron balustrades. Thankfully, there was also no one in sight. Apparently, Lady Astley liked to retire early. Or perhaps she wasn’t even here at all, a circumstance that would be most fortuitous considering Nate had to steal into her chambers.

  “We’re sure Astley is away, aren’t we?” Gabriel murmured from behind him.

  “Yes. Max overheard him chatting at Gentleman Jackson’s two days ago. He’s returned to his Gloucestershire estate for a week or two.”

  “Excellent.”

  Nate slipped through the door and walked as swiftly and silently as he could to the marble staircase. At least it wouldn’t creak. Gabriel trailing close behind, they slunk up the stairs until they reached the dark gallery. Again, the area was deserted and silent as the grave save for the ticking of a nearby longcase clock; its gold face gleamed in a ray of pale moonlight that had penetrated the casement window above the staircase landing.

  “God only knows which room is Lady Astley’s,” whispered Gabriel as they started down the hall. The thick Turkish runner deadened their footfalls as they passed potted palms, marble busts, and several closed doors.

  “There.” Nate stopped and pointed to a strip of light edging the bottom of one of the doors. “I suspect this might be it. It’s worth a try at any rate.”

  Gabriel cursed beneath his breath. “Christ. I hope she’s asleep.”

  “Me too.”

  Inhaling a bracing breath, his pulse pounding like a battle drum, Nate tried the brass handle. When the lock clicked, he grimaced. Shit.

  He waited for the space of a breath. And then another, but nothing happened. Expelling a measured sigh, he pushed the door open a fraction and peered into the softly lit chamber beyond. The glow from the fire and several low burning candles revealed a sitting room with decidedly feminine furnishings: the overstuffed armchairs were upholstered in pale blue and gold brocade, the window was festooned with frothy lace curtains, and a floral Aubusson rug carpeted the floor before an elegant fireplace of white marble.

  But best of all, the room was empty of occupants.

  Nate slid inside and Gabriel followed.

  “Hopefully the countess has a dressing room apart from her bedchamber,” Gabriel whispered.

  Nate nodded and pointed toward a door that stood ajar on the other side of the room. If Lady Astley was actually asleep, perhaps he just might pull off this prank and win the wager after all. He hoped to God the rumors were true that the notorious countess did indeed wear drawers. Perhaps he should have asked MacQueen a bit more about his amorous encounter with the woman.

  He’d made it halfway across the sitting room when all hell broke loose. A yapping terrier, no bigger than a sewer rat, charged from the open doorway and launched itself at Nate’s ankles.

  Fuck. Nate stooped down to pick the dog up in the hopes of muzzling it, but it latched onto the cambric sleeve of his shirt. Snarling, its beady black eyes glimmering with hellfire, its tiny fangs bared, it threw its small weight backward, yanking and tugging in a series of rhythmic jerks. The distinctive sound of fabric tearing filled the room.

  “Do something,” growled Nate over his shoulder at Gabriel, but his friend’s attention was focused on the door from whence the
terrier had come.

  Bloody, bloody hell.

  “Bexley!”

  Nate straightened and his gaze locked with that of a very attractive, very scantily clad woman. Her flaxen locks tumbled over one pale, slender shoulder, and her silk and lace night rail was so flimsy, it was practically transparent. Indeed, Nate was certain he could see the dusky pink of her jutting nipples. The triangular shadow at the apex of her thighs . . .

  He swallowed and summoned his most charming, lopsided smile. “Lady Astley,” he said as smoothly as he could with a small bow—a maneuver that was no mean feat considering Bexley was still attempting to chew through his left boot as though on a mission to sever his Achilles tendon. “My sincerest apologies for invading your rooms and disturbing you at this late hour. But please allow me to introduce myself. I am Nathaniel Hastings, Lord Malverne. And my companion”—he gestured over his shoulder—“is Gabriel Holmes-Fitzgerald, the Earl of Langdale.”

  Lady Astley crossed her arms, an action that pushed up the creamy mounds of her round, tempting breasts. She arched an eyebrow. “I know who you both are,” she drawled in a voice husky with sleep. “Why are you here? What do you want?”

  I want you to call your vicious rat of a dog off my ankle, was Nate’s first thought, but instead he simply donned his rake’s smile once more. “I’m afraid it’s rather an inane and innocuous reason, really. I was dared by my friends to filch a pair of your famous drawers.”

  He didn’t see the point in lying to the woman. And anything else he could come up with on the spur of the moment would sound equally as bad.

  She threw back her head and laughed, a sinful, throaty sound that curled around his spine and made his balls twitch. “You know, I’m inclined to believe you, Lord Malverne,” she said, her eyes dancing with amusement. Her gaze dropped to the ravaging terrier and she clicked her fingers. “Hush, Bexley. Come.”