by Clee, Adele
“Us?”
“The cynical.”
“I doubt I would ever trust a man again,” she agreed.
“You never told me the name of your husband’s mistress.” Whoever it was paled in comparison to the Scarlet Widow. “It might be an idea to add her to the list of suspects.”
She swallowed her champagne and placed the empty glass on a tray carried by a passing footman. “Madame Larousse.”
“Madame Larousse? The French actress?”
“Oui,” she said with a giggle, and he caught a glimpse of the innocent woman to whom he owed his life. “Though I’m told she has another benefactor and has no gripe with me. If anything, I would like to offer her a reward.”
Damian would have liked to watch the widow’s expression when she learnt the news of her husband’s demise. “The madame’s voracious appetite is to be commended.”
“Indeed.” The widow cast him a brilliant smile.
Somehow it found a chink in his armour and infused his chest with a warm glow. To add to this unsettling sensation, he saw his father striding through the crowd, heading in his direction.
Damnation!
Damian reached into the pocket of his evening coat, removed a silver flask and downed two mouthfuls of brandy. “You told Rathbone you wanted to pay homage to your host.” He slipped the flask back into his pocket and tugged the cuffs of his coat. “Here’s your chance.”
Anger burned in Damian’s veins as his father drew closer. Over the years, he’d tried every means possible to eradicate the feeling. Absence. Dismissal. Vengeance. Nothing tempered the ugliness inside, the hostility battling for a voice.
The marquis joined them. A few years had passed since Damian last stood within a few feet of the suave lord. Silver streaked the dark hair at his father’s temples, but it only added to his air of sophistication. The marquis’ dark eyes shone with the confidence and arrogance of a man who commanded attention.
“I cannot decide what I consider most shocking,” the marquis said smoothly, capturing the widow’s hand and pressing a kiss to her knuckles. Most ladies melted beneath the lord’s sultry stare, but not the widow. “The fact you dishonour your husband’s memory by wearing red, or that you’re having an intimate relationship with my son.”
“Illegitimate son,” Damian corrected. Bitterness brought bile to his throat. “Or had you forgotten you refused to marry my mother?”
The marquis’ amused gaze drifted over him. “Maria did so enjoy telling her bedtime stories.”
Damian straightened to his full height. “Are you calling my mother a liar?”
“Would I do that when you duel with every man who so much as brushes against you in a distasteful manner?”
“Would I call you out when you boast that your skill in every regard is greater than mine?” Damian countered.
A man might hate his kin, but that didn’t mean he wanted them dead.
“Greater in all things but one.” His father glanced at the widow, a sinful smile tugging on his lips. “You appear to have outplayed most men of the ton, though I consider seducing a woman to win a bet rather crass.”
“Then you lack my skill on more than one count. The widow seduced me.” It wasn’t a lie. Being proficient in the art of manipulation, she had found his one weakness.
Your mother would be ashamed of you.
Those words had cut deep. Sliced through the iron casing around his heart. It was one thing being aware of one’s own hypocrisy, another to have someone call you out. Indeed, if Maria Alvarez could look upon her son, would she see his whoremonger of a father staring back?
“Then the widow means to use you,” the marquis said blatantly as if challenging her to refute the claim, “use you for her own devilish ends.”
Damian focused on the stranger who’d sired him, on the hatred that made life easier to bear, and tried to determine the reason for his attack. Had the marquis tried to bed the widow and failed? The lord’s languid demeanour gave nothing away.
“For a gentleman with impeccable breeding, you banter like a commoner, my lord,” the widow said in the haughty manner of a blue-blooded matron. “You may arrive at the riverside in your gilt carriage, but you seem intent on washing your soiled linen with all the other housemaids.”
A muscle in the marquis’ cheek twitched.
Before his father could utter a word, she turned to Damian, “I expect no less from you.” And the comment pricked his pride. “As you both think it fair game to use me to score points, I shall take my leave in pursuit of finding less toxic air.”
The widow thrust her pretty nose high, turned on her heel and headed towards the terrace.
Any other time, and with any other woman, he would have said to hell with it and moved to pastures new. Yet the widow had slithered under his skin. Perhaps he lived in the hope of finding Scarlett—the caring soul lost beneath the hideous disguise. Perhaps he hoped her goodness would cure him of his sickening malaise, too.
Whatever it was, something made him turn to his father and say, “I’m sure you have more important guests in need of your attention.” He did not pay the lord the courtesy of inclining his head but merely turned his back.
“Why do you fight against the inevitable?” The marquis caught Damian’s coat sleeve, stalling him momentarily. “Parklands awaits its master. You only need marry a lady of my choosing.”
And Parklands could fall into rack and ruin for all Damian cared. Thankfully, his mother had been wealthy in her own right and so rarely accepted financial help from the lord.
“With the right alliance, society will forgive you anything,” the marquis continued.
Forgive him!
He wasn’t the one who had made a mistake. “You created a bastard, and you can damn well live with the consequences. Now remove your hand before I make a devil of a scene.”
“The aristocracy are governed by different rules.” The marquis’ hand slipped from Damian’s evening coat. “Complicated rules you wouldn’t understand.”
Damian glared down his nose, the same blasted nose he had inherited from this man. “If you’d loved her, you would have married her. What is so complicated about that?”
“You know nothing of the situation,” the marquis countered, but Damian was keen to put some distance between them and so marched away without a backwards glance.
Before heading out onto the terrace, he barged purposely into Jemima Steele, bowed over her hand and slipped her a note whilst making his apologies.
He found his widow outside, her body stiff and rigid, her palms resting on the stone balustrade as she stared at the rows of lanterns illuminating the manicured garden. No doubt he should offer an apology for his ill-mannered comments. And yet the only question that mattered hung like a ton weight from his tongue.
“How many times has the marquis tried to seduce you?” Damian breathed deeply to calm his racing pulse. The answer mattered more than he cared to admit.
She shrugged but did not turn to look at him. “Perhaps once or twice, but he behaves that way with everyone.”
“If he has laid a finger on you, I’m done here.”
She swung around to face him, her blue eyes wide. Once, the cyan pools had spoken of hope and honesty. Now, they carried the heaviness of grief, though not for her husband.
“Not that I have to explain myself to you, but I am not in the habit of bedding men to climb the social ladder. I am not in the habit of bedding men at all, let alone one who would do so just to prove his superiority.”
Damian stepped closer. “The marquis always gets what he wants.” Except for control over his illegitimate son. His only son for that matter.
“Then he will be sorely disappointed.”
Not for long. The marquis knew how to manipulate people to do his bidding. “Does your reluctance for a liaison have something to do with your scars?” Did the widow’s shame make her immune to his father’s charms?
“My scars?” she said incredulously. “Despite my no
torious reputation, Mr Wycliff, I still possess an ounce of pride.”
And yet she had sacrificed her dignity to reveal the hideous marks.
“And if the marquis makes another attempt to lure you into his bed, will your answer be the same?” He’d once thought he might forgive his angel anything, but he could not forgive that.
“To use your own words, Mr Wycliff, I am done here. The marks on my body tell the story of a woman who refused to cower and pander to a man. Having borne such suffering, I shall not crumble to my knees beneath the weight of your veiled threats.”
“You’re saying you no longer want my help?”
Panic surfaced.
The uncharacteristic feeling proved shocking.
Confusion followed.
The widow moved to walk past him but stopped level with his shoulder. “You swore an oath while holding your mother’s cross. An oath to help me, not to threaten me and attempt to exert control. Help me unconditionally, Mr Wycliff, or do not help me at all.”
She had taken two steps towards the glass doors before he clasped her wrist and brought her to a halt. “I made a promise to a downtrodden actress, not a notorious widow.” The pang in his chest returned. The same ache that had forced him to offer his saviour more than bread and firewood. The same need to make his mother proud.
How was it no other woman roused those feelings in him?
The widow swallowed deeply. “You will find the actress still lives beneath my disguise if you take the time to look.”
“My father has a way of rousing the devil in me,” he said by way of an apology. It was the best she would get, more than he ever gave. Indeed, he did not feel at all like himself, which explained why he stroked his thumb over the smooth skin on the inside of her wrist.
She inhaled sharply. “Perhaps working together is not such a good idea.”
“I made a vow, so I’m afraid you’re stuck with me.”
She glanced at the place where his fingers rested on her wrist. “It seems so.”
“At least until we prove Joshua and Jemima Steele are guilty of attempted murder and you free me from my oath.” He did not want her to think this was a permanent partnership.
“And if they are innocent?”
“That’s highly improbable.” In their grief, the siblings looked to blame someone for their father’s death. And the widow’s obvious disdain for the man made her the prime candidate. “But there is only one way to find out.”
Indeed, they should head to the library, wait for Miss Steele and put an end to the matter. It would not take much for the chit to crack. Based on what Damian had written in the note, the woman would be desperate for his attention.
Chapter Six
The Marquis of Blackbeck’s library carried the same air of grandeur as the rest of his mansion house. An autumn palette of leather-bound books lined the polished oak cases. Sumptuous dark blue curtains trimmed with gold tassels and brocade framed two large windows. Despite the plethora of gilt candelabras and the vibrant red pattern on the Aubusson rug, it was an inherently masculine space. Indeed, Mr Wycliff looked perfectly at home as he lounged in the leather chair, his feet propped on his father’s imposing desk.
Scarlett had climbed the spiral staircase to the upper-level housing rows of rare books and antique tomes. From her elevated position in the shadows, she had a perfect view of the seating area in front of the fire, and of the complicated man who had taken a letter opener to prise the lock on the drawer containing a box of cigars.
Mr Wycliff proceeded to light one from the candle lamp he had lit a few minutes earlier. “Do not let Miss Steele know you’re here,” he instructed before drawing the fumes from the cigar deep into his lungs and blowing them out in his usual devil-may-care manner.
Scarlett gripped the balustrade. “I highly doubt she will come. Jemima is as stiff as a starched cravat. And every woman in Christendom knows you’re a scandalous rogue.”
“Oh, she’ll come,” he said, blowing a ring of smoke in her direction. “Besides, the invitation mentioned nothing about an illicit liaison.”
“Why? Do the prim ones prefer it when you’re less direct?” Damian Wycliff could read from the dinner menu, and it would sound seductive.
Would you care for a sweet cherry jus drizzled over succulent breasts?
He stubbed his cigar out on the red leather inlay covering the desk. “The note merely said that if she wanted to know what really happened to her father, she should come to the library alone on the stroke of the hour.”
“So you would rather pander to her suspicions than trust your seductive skills when it comes to tempting an innocent?” Given enough time, Scarlett had no doubt Mr Wycliff could lure the maiden into bed.
He pushed out of the chair and headed for the drinks tray.
“You more than anyone should know not to listen to gossip.” The crystal stopper chinked as he pulled it from the neck of the decanter. “Contrary to popular belief, I have grown rather selective about the women I bed.”
“But not whose breasts you fondle.” Having witnessed his liaison on the sofa in the billiard room, she would call him out for his hypocrisy.
He chuckled as he sloshed the amber liquid into a glass. “Do you want the truth, Widow?”
Scarlett sighed. She hated him calling her that. “As you’re a man who professes to deal only in the truth, yes.”
Glass in hand, he turned to face her, his gaze fixed on hers as he downed a mouthful of liquor. “The lady’s husband is a dear friend of my father’s. A few more witnesses to the act and I would have found her wholly unsatisfactory. Everyone would think the worst, of course, including the marquis.”
Scarlett did not know whether to feel sad or disgusted. Could he not see that his disreputable actions hurt no one but himself? Was he able to see everyone’s truth but was blind to his own?
“A pretender is not a master of the truth, Mr Wycliff.”
He snorted. “Says the person who has personified her pain by masquerading as the Scarlet Widow.”
The comment proved her point. Her pain lived as a separate entity. It was the only way to preserve her soul. She suspected Mr Wycliff had a similar agenda.
“Then it seems we have something else in common, sir. The difference is I have put a name to mine.”
“I do not need to hide behind a fake name,” he said, his tone bearing a hint of frost. “When I score the winning shot in the game, I prefer to take the glory.”
Winning might soothe his wound.
It would not ease his pain.
“For all our similarities, I imagine your winning prize looks vastly different to mine.” Hers involved a house amid rolling green hills, a sanctuary away from the ton. A place where she could strip away the weight of her burden and move freely again. A place where she did not have to live in constant fear for her life.
Silence ensued.
The rattle of the doorknob gave neither of them time to dwell on their hopes and dreams. Scarlett darted back into the shadows, while Mr Wycliff collapsed onto the sofa, his arms spread wide across the back, his knees bent, legs open in invitation.
Scarlett held her breath as she heard the creak of the door opening, the click of the lock as it closed.
“Miss Steele, what a pleasant surprise.” Mr Wycliff cast a look of cultivated arrogance. “Would you care for a drink? I can recommend the brandy. Fire hits the throat in just the right spot.”
“I have n-not come to drink liquor, sir. You s-said you knew what happened to my father.” Despite her apparent nerves, the lady had no problem coming straight to the point. “Your note suggested foul play.”
“Sit down.” Mr Wycliff gestured to the chair opposite. “I won’t bite. Not unless you drop to your knees and beg.”
“I—I prefer to stand.” She stepped into Scarlett’s view.
While Lord Steele had taken pleasure in beating his wife, he treated his daughter as if she were heaven sent. It was easier to spot controlling behaviour when
it came with a vicious tongue and a sharp hand. Not so easy when packaged as love and tied with a pretty bow.
“My brother is waiting in the hall should you have cause to live up to your reckless reputation.”
Mr Wycliff was no fool. Joshua stood outside because fear kept him from entering.
Mr Wycliff smirked. “What gentleman worth his weight sends his sister into a viper pit whilst lingering safely in the corridor? That said, your brother is welcome to pull up a chair and watch me flex my fangs.”
“I—I know you like to shock.” The lady clasped her hands in front of her body. The gesture made her appear childlike. “Mischief is your middle name.”
“Debaucher is my first, but I draw the line at ruining innocent maidens.” He stared at the waif-like creature trembling before him. The lady did not know that beneath the bravado was a man capable of kindness, great tenderness. “There is nothing more disappointing than a limp hand and a weak stroke.”
Jemima Steele slapped her hand to her mouth.
“Now,” Mr Wycliff continued, “tell me what you know about the threats made to Lady Steele’s person.”
Jemima shook her head. “Lady Steele? But I thought you had information about my father.” She glanced around the room. “Is this another of your ploys to unnerve me?”
A devious grin formed on Mr Wycliff’s lips. “My plan to unnerve you involves telling everyone willing to listen that you were surprisingly free with your affections. You’ll be amazed what people believe when one tells a story with conviction.”
Jemima’s frantic gaze shot to the door.
“Your brother cannot help you,” the wicked rogue continued. “Best keep him on a tight leash. You wouldn’t want to give me a reason to meet him on the common at dawn.”
Wringing her hands, Jemima cried, “Just tell me what you want and let me go.”
Mr Wycliff jumped to his feet, and Jemima gasped. He prowled towards her, and she shuffled backwards. “I want to know what gripe you have with your stepmother.”