Sins & Scoundrels Books 1-3: A Regency Romance Series Bundle

by Scarlett Scott

  When he had delivered her to her chamber earlier, she had been too distraught to give him a proper greeting. After several hours of solitude, she had calmed herself enough to allow happiness to overtake her at this unexpected reunion with him, even if it had occurred for all the wrong reasons. She loved Alessandro very much, and she was pleased to see him once more, though this new version of him appeared harder, harsher, and gaunter than the brother who had last departed for Spain.

  “Forgive me, am I intruding, hermanita?” he asked, his accent less pronounced now than it had been earlier during his angry confrontation with Searle.

  “Of course not. You could never intrude,” she assured him. “Come, sit with me.”

  Caesar growled, his hackles raising. She patted the pug, calming him, wishing the little fellow had exhibited the same protective instinct whenever she had been in Searle’s presence. Perhaps she would have taken a hint from his instincts and guarded her heart better.

  Alessandro seated himself opposite her, looking brooding and dark and very much out of place in the faded femininity of the marchioness’s apartments. “Are you in much pain, my dear?”

  Only the most excruciating pain she had ever experienced. A broken heart hurt more than a broken bone, the agony blossoming from within, radiating throughout her entire body. Not even falling from the staircase as a girl had been so traumatic. Or perhaps it was that too much time had elapsed, and her memories had begun to fade. She could not be certain.

  All she was certain of was that she hurt. Dear God, did she hurt. Everywhere.

  She swallowed down another rush of tears, brought on by the combination of her brother’s concern, and her inner self-loathing. “I shall be fine.” The smile she managed for Alessandro’s benefit was tremulous at best. She wondered if her nose was red and swollen.

  His countenance gentled with sympathy. “Is it the old break in your bone, or is it your pride?”

  “Both.” She sniffed. “But, also, my heart, I am afraid.”

  Her brother’s jaw clenched. “You have feelings for Searle, hermanita?”

  She nodded grimly, unable to form the words lest she once more burst into tears.

  “I will kill him,” he vowed savagely. Rage vibrated in his voice, darkening his expression. “I was going to shoot to maim him on the field of honor, but by God, I shall kill him for you, Leonora. No one in the world would mourn such a vile excuse for a man.”

  “No,” she implored, finding her voice at last. “I do not want the two of you to duel. I beg of you, cry off. Do not go.”

  She feared for her brother, and in truth, she feared for Searle as well. She had witnessed the virulence of the enmity between the two men with her own eyes, and she did not know what each was capable of. As angry and hurt as she was, as deeply entrenched in despair over Searle’s betrayal, she did not wish for anything ill to befall him. And neither did she want Alessandro to be injured or worse on her behalf.

  Alessandro’s expression tightened even further, his mouth flattening into a pinched line. “I must go. He had no right to use you as a pawn in his quarrel against me. You are my family, my sister. Can you truly believe I would allow him to ruin you without making him answer for his sins?”

  She flinched, for here was the answer she feared. While Alessandro had spent much of his life abroad where he felt more at home than within the stifling constraints of English ballrooms, he was her brother, and she loved him fiercely. Like her, he was an outsider, laughed at behind fans because his mother had been a Spanish tavern wench when she had wed Leonora and Alessandro’s father. From all accounts, Alessandro’s mother had been miserable as a countess until her untimely death, even though her match with the former earl had been one founded in love.

  “I was not ruined, Alessandro,” she said, using his given name for effect. “Searle and I were alone in a salon when Mama and some of my friends happened upon us.”

  “Ruined,” her brother repeated grimly. “Precisely as that bastard intended.”

  “What happened between the two of you?” she asked then, needing to know. She had overheard fragments of his conversation with Searle, but not enough for her to know for certain what had occurred between them.

  Alessandro’s lip curled. “What happened is none of your concern.”

  Irritation surged within her, momentarily supplanting her inner torment. “How dare you say such a thing? The bad blood between you is the reason I now find myself here, the Marchioness of Searle, with a husband who has spent the entirety of our acquaintance lying to me.”

  Her brother made a low sound of disgust. “All the more reason for me to aim with the intention of killing.”

  “Alessandro,” she bit out, the ferocity of her response making Caesar stir uneasily at her side. “Please.”

  His nostrils flared. He resembled nothing so much as a horse about to bolt. But at last, he appeared to calm himself, relenting. “It is not done to speak of war before a lady.”

  “I do not care,” she countered. “We are not in a drawing room, and the laws of propriety do not govern us here, not with so much at stake. Tell me, Alessandro. I deserve to know, do I not?”

  A guttural, vicious oath escaped him, but it was in his mother’s tongue and not hers, so its definition was lost upon Leonora, and she deemed her ignorance just as well. For the expression upon her brother’s face was murderous.

  “You wish to know? Very well,” he growled. “I shall tell you. I have been aiding our army in my mother’s homeland. Because I have spent so much time there, because I have a reputation amongst the people, I am able to move freely there. Unlike here, I am trusted there, treated with honor and respect. When the war came to us, I decided I needed to do my part.”

  Of course he would. His most recent, lengthy absence from home made perfect sense now.

  “Oh, Alessandro,” she said softly, her heart aching for him. All this time, she had imagined him simply gone, and he had been at war. “What have you done?”

  He shook his head. “You need not worry yourself with it, hermanita. I am here when many other good men are not. I was working with our army, using my men to pierce enemy lines and obtain important information about their positions. I was meant to aid Searle, but the detail I sent with him was ambushed by French troops and he was taken captive. My men were either slain or taken prisoner and then sent to the gallows.”

  Leonora pressed a hand over her mouth to stifle a sudden sob that threatened to break free. She had not imagined. Had not even begun to guess at the true nature of Searle’s hatred for her brother or the reason for it.

  “He believes you are responsible for his capture,” she concluded at last.

  “Yes, the fool does,” Alessandro acknowledged, his tone grim. “And not just that, but that I somehow arranged it. He thinks I personally arranged for my men to capture him to make myself seem more fearsome. In truth, I was acting upon the orders of our superior, who felt Searle would be better served in the event of his capture to be viewed as the prisoner of Spanish guerrilla soldiers rather than being complicit with them. Napoleon’s army executes spies. If Searle had been considered a spy…”

  “He never would have escaped,” Leonora finished for her brother. Even though Searle had hurt her badly, and even though he was safe and presumably somewhere in the vicinity of his study, entertaining himself with drink and his own bitterness for company, the notion of Searle facing execution sent a shiver down her spine.

  Alessandro inclined his head. “He would have been hanged on the gallows, without question. Dozens of better men than the Marquess of Searle have already been captured and met their fates at the end of the hangman’s noose.”

  Another thought occurred to her then. Or rather, another question she wanted to know the answer to. “Was Searle a spy?”

  Her brother did not hesitate. “One of the best. His capture was a tremendous blow, and I have taken the blame for it.”

  “From others, beyond Searle?” she probed.


  “Yes, hermanita. From my superior officers. From everyone who is important.” Alessandro’s lip curled. “When Searle escaped, he made certain everyone was aware I was responsible for his confinement, at least in his version of events. He made a campaign of undermining my credibility. I lost my position on the same day I received word my sister was being forced to marry the Marquess of Searle. Information which was kindly sent by your bastard-of-a-husband.”

  She struggled to make sense of the information he had just divulged. “I do not understand, Alessandro. How could Searle make you lose your position?”

  “Easily.” Her brother’s smile was bleak. “I never purchased a commission, and my involvement with the army was informal, at best. When I was no longer useful to them, they turned their backs upon me. But not before letting me know my sister had become the means by which Searle intended to gain his vengeance upon me.”

  “Searle wanted you to know he had compromised me,” she said, her mind frantically working.

  “The message was sent by him, and it was received by me.” Her brother paused, the frown on his brow deepening. “It is the reason I left Spain and returned to England with as much haste as possible. It is also the reason why I followed the two of you here rather than awaiting your return to London. I could not bear to think of another day of you being at his mercy. Has he harmed you physically? If he has, I will call the devil out this very night, our seconds be damned.”

  It had not occurred to her until that very moment just how badly a part of her had been hoping Searle’s deceptions had not been as egregious as she had initially supposed. Just how badly she had longed for evidence of his innocence rather than his guilt, proof he had not intended to use her against her brother, proof he had not been so reckless or careless with her love for him.

  But it would seem she was doomed for disappointment, because the Marquess of Searle had not only planned to use her against Alessandro; he had laid the foundation with the efficiency of a master builder. Stone by stone, beam by beam, he had raised the testament to his hatred from the ground. And he had built that hatred into a thing of awful, ugly beauty. He had built it until it festered and ruined everything in its wake.

  Her tongue felt as numb as the rest of her at this latest realization of the depths of her husband’s betrayal. But she forced herself to speak anyway, because she knew her brother expected an answer and because she could not bear for any more violence or upset this evening.

  She wanted peace.

  She was tired.

  And sad.

  So very, very sad.

  “Searle has never raised a hand against me.” Her voice was flat and dull, even to her own ears. A testament to the turmoil raging through her. Her brother had revealed so much, and she had so many questions. She required so many answers. “He would not harm me physically.”

  Of that much, she was certain. The marquess was a confusing and complicated man. But she did not fear him. His touch had only ever brought her pleasure. Though Searle had savaged her heart, she would not pretend he had harmed her otherwise when her brother posed the question.

  “I will spare him for another day, then,” her brother growled.

  “You will not face him in a duel,” she insisted. Even after everything she had heard, she did not wish for her brother and her husband to face each other with pistols at dawn.

  “I must, hermanita.”

  Her brother’s voice was tinged with a sad acceptance, as if he, too, did not wish to fight a duel but somehow found it necessary.

  “You must not,” she countered, and at last, all the fragments in her mind came together, settling into awful, ruinous place. “Only think of it, Alessandro. A duel is precisely what he wants from you. Why else would Searle have conducted such a concerted campaign here in England, making every effort to reach you abroad? Why would he have made certain word of his compromising me reached you? He wanted you to leave Spain, and he wanted you to come back to England to avenge my honor. He wants to duel you.”

  Because he wants to kill you.

  The last sentence hung unsaid in the air between Leonora and her half-brother. But it was true, nonetheless. She saw it all so clearly now, for though her husband had done his best to hide his true intentions from her, she knew precisely what they were now. She realized, too, why he had acted as he had.

  “I understand Searle,” Alessandro said then, his tone bitter. “Perhaps better than he knows himself. In Spanish, we have a way to describe men who are forever changed by the horrors they have seen at war, estar roto. He is a man broken, and he blames me for whatever he faced at the hands of the French. He will not give in until he has what he wants. Nothing has stopped him yet.”

  Estar roto.

  The unfamiliar phrase turned itself over in her mind. Yes, the Marquess of Searle was a man who was broken on the inside, where he wore even more scars than he did on his skin. Little wonder he had never confided in her. That he had never shared anything more than the physical with her. Caring for her was beyond his capacity. His quest for vengeance had overtaken him, until nothing remained for her.

  “I do not believe in this duel,” she persisted. For the more she thought about it, the more terrified she became.

  No good could come from Searle and Alessandro meeting each other with pistols at dawn. The past had already shaped them, made them who they were, left them scarred. Sins had already been committed which could not be undone.

  “I love you, hermanita, and I will make him pay for what he has done to you,” her brother told her, rising to his feet. “See that you get some rest this evening. Tomorrow will be a long journey back to London, and I hate to see you in pain.”

  “Alessandro.” She gripped his coat sleeve when he leaned down to buss a brotherly kiss over the crown of her head. “If you love me, you will not do this.”

  “Rest now.” His mouth was once more compressed into a harsh line. “My love for you is the reason I am meeting him on the field of honor.”

  Leonora watched her brother take his leave, a true feeling of helplessness swelling within her like a river after heavy rains.

  Sometime later, a second supper tray arrived. She did not miss the brilliant red strawberries in their fine porcelain bowl, in stark contrast to the muted colors of the rest of the meal.

  And she knew without question Searle had sent them to her.

  Why? To mock her, or as a reminder? She could not be certain. All she did know was that, despite her growling stomach, she could not bear to eat a single bite of food from him.

  “Tell his lordship the thought of strawberries makes me want to retch,” she relayed to the maid who bore the tray.

  If only it did.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Morgan told himself it was just as well his idyll at Westmore Manor—a false happiness, not meant to last—had come to an abrupt end. He told himself he did not miss her delicate floral scent or the soft, seductive sounds his wife made when she spent. He told himself he was on the precipice of garnering what he had wanted ever since he had burrowed his way out of the old stone barn in which he had been kept during his imprisonment, revenge.

  And then, he told himself to finish his claret and pour another.

  So, he did.

  What else was there to do, after all, awaiting the appearance of his scapegrace cousin, who was presently not at home according to the disapproving butler? If Monty was not at home, it meant he was probably still abed, even though it was nearly four o’clock in the afternoon. Not much had changed in Morgan’s absence while he was away at war, at least not where his cousin was concerned. Monty had become a duke early in life, and, blessed with the sort of looks that made the fairer sex swoon, he spent his days drinking and fucking his way through the demireps and dissatisfied wives of London.

  Morgan was halfway through his second claret when Monty appeared at the threshold, clad in what appeared to be the previous day’s evening wear. His breeches were rumpled, and he wore no coat, only shirtsleev
es, waistcoat, and flattened cravat. His hair was mussed, and beneath his eyes, he sported the telltale bruises of a man who had spent the night carousing.

  “Seated upon my throne,” drawled Monty, raising a brow. “Drinking my bloody claret. What is next, Searle? Tupping my mistresses?”

  Mistresses. Naturally, Monty possessed more than one.

  But there was only one female he wished to tup, and it was the same female who had refused to dine with him, speak to him, and subsequently, ride in a carriage with him for the lengthy return trip to London the day before. Nor had she deigned to acknowledge him this morning, so he had promptly left Linley House in search of his errant cousin. He chased those thoughts from his mind, because he had not ferreted out Monty so he might pine over Leonie.

  Morgan stood, vacating his cousin’s chair. “You look as if you spent the evening swilling blue ruin and slept in your clothes,” he told Monty.

  Monty’s dissipation was an old story, but Morgan had spent the last few years staring into the face of not just his own mortality but that of everyone around him. As he traded places with his cousin, he could not help but to think Monty was getting older. Three-and-thirty now. Surely far too old to still be playing the young buck about town.

  “You sound like my mother,” Monty quipped, grinning unrepentantly. “She pecks me like a hen. Montrose, you need a wife. Montrose, you need an heir. Montrose, you must stop drinking to excess. Montrose, if you insist upon keeping company with slatterns, you will get the pox. It’s all deadly boring. I do not regret sending her to Scotland with my sister for a moment.”

  Morgan had just taken a healthy gulp of his claret when his cousin had begun his impersonation of Aunt Letitia. The falsetto, combined with the bit about the pox, nearly made him choke. “Good God, please tell me Aunt did not say anything so untoward.”

  “She did,” Monty confirmed, splashing some claret into a glass for himself and settling into his chair with an undignified plop. “Now tell me why you have come, daring to rouse me from my much-needed slumber. As you mentioned, I had not even the time to prepare myself, and I have been forced to greet you in the garments in which I slept. Dreadfully de trop, I am afraid.”