The Last Wicked Rogue

by Lauren Smith

  Lily had finished changing the linens and exited her lady’s bedchamber. But as she passed by the master’s room, she heard sounds, a man muttering to himself.

  She pushed open the door wider and saw Sir Hugo. He was pacing in his bedchamber. She started to close the door, but it creaked and she froze.

  “Who’s there?”

  She guiltily pushed the door open and revealed herself.

  “Oh, it’s you. Bring me some brandy,” he said without emotion.

  Lily rushed to fetch a decanter and glass from his study and handed them to him. He had settled himself in the chair by the fireplace, which wasn’t lit.

  “Shall I fetch someone to light it for you?” she asked. His distant gaze told her his thoughts were miles away.

  “Sir?” she prompted.

  “No, leave it,” he muttered, looking at the dead hearth. “It seems strangely appropriate.”

  Lily could see he was troubled, and she wanted to help. There was a terrible pain inside he was trying to hold back.

  “Sir, was your mother not well when you saw her?”

  “Oh, she was well.” His reply was cold. “Her life has been just fine without me in it.”

  “She was not happy to see you?”

  Sir Hugo huffed. “She was quite happy to see me. I thought perhaps things would be different between us now. Only she then proceeded to ruin everything.”

  For a second Lily didn’t know what to make of his snapping outburst. She reached out to touch his shoulder, the way she would a friend.

  “I’m so sorry, sir. I’m sure she didn’t mean any harm.”

  Hugo’s hand was white-knuckled around the glass as he slowly set it down on the table by his chair. “Perhaps. But it does not change the facts laid before me.”

  Lily wasn’t sure what she wanted to say, but she wanted to offer him some words of comfort. “Sir, I know it’s not my place, but…is there anything I can do? To help?”

  His eyes flicked to her hand, which still rested on his shoulder. “Help? You think you can help me?”

  “Sometimes it helps when people talk about what pains them. Takes the weight off their shoulders.”

  Hugo slowly rose from his chair, and her hand dropped from his shoulder. She watched him quietly close the door to his chamber, blocking the only way out of the room.

  “Who sent you?”

  “Sir?”

  Hugo approached her. She felt powerless to move, even as he reached up and took her by the throat, though he didn’t squeeze.

  “Who. Sent. You?”

  “I don’t understand, sir. I was leaving my lady’s room when I heard you in distress. I only wished to help.”

  Hugo looked her over, eyes narrowed. For a moment he looked ashamed, as if he realized he’d made a mistake. She thought he would let her go. Then his eyes hardened, and he began to squeeze.

  “You think because you see me upset, that you can help me? Do you presume to think you understand anything about me? You know nothing about pain or suffering.” His dark eyes raked over her body.

  “But you will.”

  “Sir? Please don’t.” She whispered the words, not understanding anything except that she was in danger.

  Before she knew what was happening, she was dragged into the mistress’s bedchamber and thrown onto the bed. Minutes later she lay on the bed, her skirts tossed up past her hips, pain coursing through her. But she dared not move, dared not do anything but draw shallow breaths and try not to think. He gripped her waist tight, the hold hard enough that her skin would blacken with bruises in a few hours.

  Hugo finally climbed off her. “You know when to be quiet. That’s good. I could find other uses for someone who can control themselves like that.”

  A tear leaked from her eye and dampened the pillow below her chin. She stared at the fibers of the pillow as the reality of what had happened set in.

  “Tell my wife anything and you will lose both your wages and your employment. I will see to it that no one else hires you.” He nodded at the box on his wife’s bedside table, the one that held Melanie’s collection of jewels.

  Hugo exited the bedchamber. Lily stayed still, like a frightened rabbit hiding from a fox, knowing the danger was all too near.

  When she finally got up, she dropped her dress back down and used the cloth and the water from the washstand to clean herself up. There was blood on her thighs and the sheets. Sheets she would be expected to clean.

  It was that thought, the idea of her doing all the work to hide this shame while he pretended that nothing happened, that broke her. She rushed down the hall and through the kitchens, fighting off tears. She could not stay here. She could not work for that monster. Without a word to anyone, she slipped out the back door and fled into the streets, never looking back…

  Lily jerked awake. Her throat filled with a scream that would not come. Then she remembered where she was. She was in Charles’s home. Safe. At least for now. She wasn’t within Hugo’s easy reach, not here.

  Yet in truth she was always within his reach. She was his puppet, dancing on his strings. She leaned down over her baby and brushed the backs of her fingers over Katherine’s velvety cheeks. She should have been a horrific reminder of that night, a black spot in her memory, but Lily refused to see Katherine that way.

  You are my child. Mine. You will never be his.

  She kissed her baby’s forehead before she slipped out of bed. Night had fallen, and only embers were left in the tiny fireplace. Lily used a poker to stir the flames back to life, adding a fresh log from the pile. Lily smiled. Davis must have brought them up sometime earlier that day. She stoked the flames until they burned steadily. When she returned to her bed, she picked up her daughter, carrying her over to her crib and setting her down inside.

  Lily had let the afternoon escape. She still had work to do, including polishing the boots, as she had promised for Davis. With a heavy sigh, she left her chamber and walked down the hall. It was quiet. Most of the staff were now attending to their own supper down by the kitchens. But Lily wasn’t hungry.

  She was just coming down to the ground floor when she heard the front door knocker. The usual footman wasn’t there since Charles was supposed to be out for the evening. Lily hastily smoothed her clothes to look presentable and rushed to open it in his place. A dark shape lurched inside, grabbing at her as he collapsed. At first she tried to dodge the man’s hold, but for a second she thought it was Charles who was reaching for her. She tried to grab him as he tumbled to the ground.

  “Charles…” the body on the floor groaned. “Need…help.” The man soon sank into unconsciousness.

  Lily rolled him onto his back and got a better look at him. He was badly beaten, his face bruised and swollen, but there was no mistaking the familial resemblance. It was Graham, Charles’s younger brother. She’d only seen the man a few times in the last year, and Charles rarely spoke of him. Whatever had happened between the brothers had been so bad they continued to keep their distance. Now Graham was here, begging for his older brother’s help.

  “Mr. Humphrey?” she asked, but the man didn’t stir. She checked his wounds, but there was no evidence that he had been stabbed, only beaten. She ran for the kitchens, calling for the butler. Mr. Ramsey rushed to meet her just outside the servants’ dining room.

  “Tom? What on earth?”

  “It’s Mr. Humphrey, his lordship’s brother. We must fetch the doctor.” Lily led Ramsey back to the entryway. The butler cursed as he knelt by the fallen man.

  “I’ll get him to the drawing room. There’s a couch there. Have Davis fetch Dr. Shreve on Duke Street.”

  “Yes, Mr. Ramsey.” The butler shouldered Graham into the drawing room. She’d never been more thankful that Ramsey was a strong, fit man, albeit in his fifties. He had no trouble getting Graham into a place where he could rest safely. By the time Lily had sent Davis to Duke Street and returned to the drawing room, Ramsey had removed Graham’s coat and waistcoat and was exami
ning him for further injuries.

  “How did you find him, Tom?” Ramsey asked.

  “He was pounding on the door. When I opened it, he collapsed on me. He asked for help before he passed out. He wanted to see his lordship.”

  Ramsey removed Graham’s neckcloth and winced at the dark-blue finger marks that circled Graham’s throat.

  “Someone tried to strangle him,” Lily said.

  Ramsey nodded. “I believe so.”

  Lily’s hands rose to her own neck reflexively. Vivid, painful memories of when Hugo had her by the throat. How she had tried to escape him, but that escape had been short-lived.

  “I wish his lordship was here,” Ramsey muttered.

  “Where is he? I could fetch him,” Lily offered.

  “I’m not sure. He left for Vauxhall, but you know how he is. The man changes his direction like the wind. He could be anywhere now. You would never find him.”

  “What should we do?” Lily asked. Graham lay still, but his breathing was deep, not shallow.

  “Once the doctor assesses him, we shall put him up in one of the spare rooms. When his lordship returns, we will explain the matter to him and he will decide how to proceed.”

  Lily nodded. Ramsey was aware, even more so than she was, of the precarious nature of the relationship between the two brothers.

  In an effort to help, Lily brought clean clothes and a basin of water and wiped the blood on Graham’s split lip and the dirt on his face. It looked as though he’d fallen a few times before arriving at Charles’s doorstep.

  The drawing room door opened and Davis entered, followed by Dr. Shreve. The doctor was hardly a stranger to the Lonsdale household, given Charles’s fondness for boxing.

  “Over here,” the butler said. Lily shifted over but kept close to watch the doctor as he lifted Graham’s shirt. More bruises and welts covered his chest.

  “Someone beat this man quite severely.” The doctor’s sharp eyes assessed Graham’s condition. “He has a few broken ribs, here. It is important that he rest in bed as much as possible for the next few weeks.” The doctor leaned close, touching Graham’s throat. Graham suddenly stirred, tossing restlessly like a fitful child.

  “Charles?” Graham groaned. The sound was oddly pitiful, like a boy desperate for his older brother, because he was the only person who could make things right. Lily brushed a wet cloth over Graham’s brow, trying to comfort him. His eyes opened, and she glimpsed those light-gray eyes, so much like Charles’s.

  “Easy,” the doctor said. “Rest, Mr. Humphrey. You are out of danger, but you need to sleep. You understand?”

  “Yes,” Graham replied.

  “If it hurts to speak, then rest your voice as well,” said Dr. Shreve. “It looks like someone tried to crush your windpipe.”

  Ramsey joined Lily near Graham’s head. “His lordship isn’t here, but we will bring him straight to you once he has returned.”

  “Phillip…is dead.” He coughed and seized with pain, no doubt from his broken ribs. Lily stroked her fingertips over his forehead, trying to calm him. Then she smoothed a wet cloth over his brow.

  “Who is Phillip?” asked the doctor.

  “The Earl of Kent… They beat him to death… Lewis Street… I barely escaped.” Graham’s eyes rolled back into his head, and he slumped on the couch.

  “Lord Kent? Dead?” Ramsey whispered, his eyes wide.

  “Who is he?” Lily asked the butler.

  “A friend of Mr. Humphrey’s. Since they were just lads. A good man.”

  Lily shuddered. A man was dead, and Graham was badly beaten. She feared Hugo was somehow involved, making another move in his deadly game. Had he intended for Graham to die as well? Or was it important for him to live, to be here, battered and bruised?

  “Put him to bed and I’ll leave some laudanum for the pain.” Dr. Shreve and Mr. Ramsey picked Graham up, one arm around each of their shoulders, and carried him from the drawing room. It was a tricky thing to get him up the stairs, but they managed it.

  Lily remained with Graham for an hour, keeping a vigil at his bedside. She owed it to Charles, after everything he’d done for her and Katherine.

  Graham woke as she was bathing his forehead with a cloth. His eyes fixed on her, a feverish gaze, but no less intense.

  “Does he know?” Graham asked drowsily.

  She put a glass of water to his lips. “Know?”

  “Yes…” Graham caught her wrist, his thumb touching her racing pulse. “Your eyes…too kind.” He fell back asleep, leaving Lily to wonder what it was he meant.

  7

  “This is a terrible idea,” Cedric muttered as he followed Godric, Ashton, and Lucien down a hedgerow in Vauxhall Gardens.

  “I’d like to point out that most of Godric’s ideas are terrible,” Lucien replied in a low whisper. “But it hasn’t stopped any of us from participating before.”

  “I don’t see any of you with better ideas,” Godric snapped, glowering at Lucien and Cedric.

  Cedric smiled. It was like old times, when he and Godric had run wild in Cambridge, before they had been pulled into Charles’s orbit like four moons, before Peter had been lost to them all forever. It had been a binding of five souls over the loss of one. And tonight, like they had the night they’d saved Charles all those years ago, they were once again trying to rescue Charles, this time from himself.

  “How do we even know Charles is here?” Cedric asked.

  “I have reason to believe he may be searching for companionship tonight,” Ashton replied.

  “Hold on, the last thing I want to walk in on is Charles naked and—”

  “Oh hush,” Lucien laughed. “One of us will go then.”

  Cedric followed his friends through the dark gravel walkways of the expansive gardens. They came to a path that had three distinctive archways featuring a realistic painting of the ruins of Palmyra. As a lad when he had first visited, Cedric had been convinced that the paintings had been real ruins.

  “Should we check the dark walk?” Godric suggested.

  “Might as well,” Ashton whispered. “Best place for trysts.” They tried to move unnoticed in the paths until they reached the farthest promenade. The dark walk, or lovers’ walk, was narrow and offered a clandestine, very close place for lovers to meet in the evening. Cedric had brought a lady or two here himself, before he had married Anne. He imagined taking her here, pushing her into the velvety leaves of the bushes and hiking up her skirts. The fantasy brought a smile to his lips. Perhaps once Hugo was finally dealt with, he could bring Anne here and show her some of his more wicked fantasies.

  “Cedric.” Lucien’s hiss pulled him from his thoughts. He realized that his friends had all ducked across the crossway of merging paths and were waiting for him to join them. He glanced down the path, making sure that no one was watching, then hastily ducked in beside the others as they proceeded once more in single file. The sudden clang of a clear bell froze them in their tracks.

  “Bloody hell,” Godric growled. “We forgot. It’s nine o’clock. The show.”

  All around them the paths began to fill with ladies and gentlemen who moved toward the famous cascade at the center of the garden, which could only be viewed at nine o’clock for fifteen minutes. A miller’s house had been constructed there with a rippling waterfall that created a heavy froth at the bottom as the wheel turned.

  Colored dyes had been added to the water, and floating luminaries created a beautiful sight of dancing light and colored water. People clapped and cheered as fireworks exploded overhead.

  The four of them were pushed toward the water’s edge of the massive fountain. Cedric cursed. They would not be able to escape the crush until the spectacle was over. He scanned the crowd and caught a glimpse of a familiar face.

  Charles.

  He stood at the back of the crowd, half in shadow. Only the fireworks illuminated him. But he was alone. No woman was with him, and his face was… Cedric tried to read his expression, but it pro
ved difficult in the growing gloom. Charles never had trouble securing companionship, yet tonight during the Vauxhall magic of the fountains and the fireworks he was alone, decidedly so.

  Cedric had the strange feeling that he was intruding upon something intimate and personal. Whatever had brought Charles here tonight was not meant for anyone else to witness. A man’s loneliness was somehow sacred, belonging only to him, and it was not right for others to witness it like this.

  “We should go,” Cedric said to Ashton once they were able to push their way past the visitors to the gardens and reach their other companions.

  “We all agreed he needs intervention,” Godric reminded him. The duke’s eyes were full of a pain that Cedric felt deep in his bones. When one man in the League hurt, they all hurt. It wasn’t easy to explain, but it was undeniably true.

  Resigned to his duty, Cedric pointed out Charles. They turned to look where he was pointing. All the faces in the crowd were turned skyward to watch the fireworks, but something was amiss. A man about twenty feet from Charles was watching Charles. Then he seemed to notice the League watching him.

  “My God, it’s him,” Cedric said, half to himself.

  “Who?” asked Godric.

  “Gordon.” Cedric would never forget the face of the man who’d almost murdered him and his sister Horatia. He remembered the gardener’s cottage burning all around them, and how he’d been left blind for months afterward.

  The man locked eyes with Cedric and gave him a nod, then turned his attention back on Charles and reached into his coat.

  “Who is Gordon?” Godric asked.

  “My former footman,” said Lucien. “One of Hugo’s assassins!”

  Ashton spurred them into action. “Go! Stop him!”

  The League broke apart, each man shoving at the crowds around them, trying to find the quickest path to Charles and the man stalking him.

  Charles turned away and slipped into the hedgerows, vanishing from view, unaware of his peril. The assassin followed him like a black wraith into the shadows. Cedric was not a man to dwell on fanciful notions. He was a sportsman who needed to believe in things he could feel and touch, but the sight of that man haunting Charles’s steps in the cloaked gloom made Cedric wonder if devils were in fact real.