And The Widow Wore Scarlet: Scandalous Sons - Book 1

Home > Romance > And The Widow Wore Scarlet: Scandalous Sons - Book 1 > Page 9
And The Widow Wore Scarlet: Scandalous Sons - Book 1 Page 9

by Clee, Adele


  “I shall be your protector this evening.” Though he appeared resolute, the sharp angles of his face relaxed. “There is little your servant can do from the coach park.”

  “Please,” she said softly enough so he would know she spoke from the heart, “she is the only person in the world who cares for my safety.”

  “Not the only person,” he said but then quickly added, “I share the burden until the debt is repaid.”

  The last comment was like salt to a wound. Her whole life, she had been someone’s burden. “Please. You must know I would not ask were it not important.”

  The sound of raised voices outside captured Mr Wycliff’s attention. “I imagine your coachwoman is attempting to take her seat,” he said with some frustration.

  Scarlett touched his arm then. “Alcock does not deal well with aggressive men. You don’t know how she has suffered.”

  Mr Wycliff’s gaze slipped to where her hand rested. His sigh of surrender sent a rush of jubilation to her chest, but she dared not show it. “Then we should rescue Cutler before she has time to retaliate.”

  Having dismissed Hanson, Mr Wycliff opened the door, and Scarlett accompanied him outside to find Alcock standing with her hands braced on her hips, and Mr Wycliff’s vicious-looking coachman growling back.

  “Alcock is riding with you, Cutler,” Mr Wycliff commanded. “You are responsible for her, and she will remain with you in the coach park at Vauxhall. Is that understood?”

  “Sir, there ain’t room—”

  “I don’t pay you to argue, Cutler. I pay you to drive.”

  “As you say, sir,” the fellow conceded. He glared at Alcock, and through gritted teeth said, “Climb up, sit tight and don’t say a word.”

  Scarlett knew from Alcock’s sudden intake of breath that she was about to say something untoward. “Mr Wycliff has been good enough to permit you to ride atop his carriage,” Scarlett informed her servant. “Gratitude is the only emotion one should express.”

  “Yes, milady.” With reluctance, Alcock inclined her head to Mr Wycliff. “Thankin’ ye, sir.” And then she climbed up to the box and settled next to Cutler.

  Mr Wycliff turned to Scarlett and opened the carriage door. “Now, can we proceed to Vauxhall?”

  “Of course.” She offered him a warm smile. “And might I say you can be quite the considerate gentleman when it pleases.”

  Scarlett glanced inside the carriage to find Mr Cavanagh and Mr Trent sitting together on the left-hand seat. From her enquiries she knew both were also illegitimate sons of the aristocracy’s elite. The three men had formed lasting friendships at school, by all accounts. When Damian Wycliff was not gallivanting abroad, the rogues attended many of the demi-monde’s gatherings.

  “Yes,” Mr Wycliff began, noting her slight hesitance, “I’m afraid you have the misfortune of sitting next to me.”

  “No doubt I shall endure the hardship,” she said as he cupped her elbow and assisted her ascent. She settled into the seat opposite Mr Trent, a brooding fellow with piercing green eyes, a hard, sculpted jaw and a deep cleft in his chin.

  “And a hardship it will be,” Wycliff replied. “I am possessed of rather wide thighs.” He slammed the door shut and dropped into the seat next to her. The sudden movement sent the carriage rocking on its axis. “Having taken a blade to my breeches, I’m sure you remember.”

  Remember?

  How could she forget?

  “I have a vague recollection.” She had washed the blood off those muscular legs, gripped his firm, powerful thigh while sewing the wound.

  Mr Cavanagh smiled, his blue eyes twinkling with mischief. “Tell all, my lady. I imagine Wycliff was a rather surly patient.”

  “On the contrary,” Scarlett said, relishing an opportunity to remind Mr Wycliff that he had the capacity to be kind and charming. “I found him respectful, understanding and extremely considerate under the circumstances.”

  Mr Cavanagh frowned. He glanced at Mr Trent, who arched a brow and then snorted with amusement.

  “I’ve heard Wycliff called many things,” Mr Trent said, “considerate isn’t one of them. He must have made a lasting impression. Is that why you enlisted his help?”

  From Mr Trent’s tone, his question had nothing to do with prying and everything to do with protecting his friend.

  Interesting.

  Wycliff shuffled uncomfortably in the seat beside her. During their meeting at the tavern, he had made a point of informing her that he kept no secrets from his friends. And yet she sensed they knew nothing about the gold cross given to reinforce his promise.

  Mr Wycliff proved her theory by saying, “Tell them nothing, Widow, lest my friends use your words to taunt me.”

  “Did he act the perfect gentleman?” Mr Cavanagh teased as if there was something distasteful when a man behaved with sensitivity and good manners. “I seem to remember him begging for a moment’s privacy. Did he bow over your hand whilst delivering flowery felicitations?”

  “Were we not in the presence of a lady, Cavanagh, I would curse you to the devil,” Wycliff growled. “Perhaps it did not occur to you that a man would be nothing but respectful to the angel who saved his life.”

  Lord above!

  Mr Wycliff had referred to her as a lady and an angel in two consecutive sentences.

  “Hence the reason you’re behaving rather oddly,” Mr Cavanagh countered, determined to torment his friend. “You asked Mrs Crandell to hire exotic dancers and then failed to show.” With amusement filling his eyes, Mr Cavanagh turned to her and asked, “Do you happen to know where Wycliff was last night?”

  “Don’t answer that,” Wycliff snapped. “They both know we went to the Marquis of Blackbeck’s ball.”

  “And afterwards?” Mr Cavanagh pressed.

  Mr Wycliff removed his top hat and brushed his hand through his mop of coal-black hair. “That is none of your damn business.”

  Scarlett pasted a perfect smile, but her stomach roiled. Where had Mr Wycliff gone after he’d left her? Certainly not the extravagant party hosted by a member of the demi-monde. Then again, she had to ask herself why she cared.

  An uncomfortable silence descended.

  Scarlett thought to say something to defuse the tension but could think of nothing other than the heat from Mr Wycliff’s thigh as it pressed against hers. She glanced at Mr Trent, who clearly found nothing amusing in the men’s banter. Indeed, with the same brooding look she had witnessed earlier, he stared out of the window in a dream-like state as they headed towards Vauxhall.

  “What is it, Trent?” There was a serious edge to Mr Wycliff’s tone that hinted at a problem or dispute. “You may speak freely in front of Lady Steele.”

  Scarlett was almost flattered. But Mr Wycliff knew enough about her secret affairs to silence her for good. Indeed, hearing Mr Trent’s revelation would help to even the odds.

  Mr Trent glanced at her from beneath hooded lids. Those sharp green eyes, when cold and glassy, would frighten away the most vicious predators.

  “We’ll be at Vauxhall soon,” he said, avoiding the subject of his odd mood. “You’ve yet to tell us why you insisted we come.”

  The gentleman’s ploy to move the conversation away from his own dilemma worked. Mr Wycliff relaxed back in the seat, his broad shoulder brushing against her. “You’re free to entertain whomsoever you wish. All I ask is that you keep us in your sights. Pay particular attention to those in the vicinity, those who seem to show a specific interest in our attendance.”

  “Praise the saints, Wycliff. You are joking.” Mr Cavanagh snorted. “You draw attention wherever you go. With the Scarlet Widow hanging on your arm, even the musicians in the orchestra will be agog.”

  “We’d need the numbers of an army regiment to follow those curious about your intimate connection,” Mr Trent added with a hint of frustration. “And the marquis is sure to attend. I daresay he will find someone to distract Lady Steele while pushing prospective brides your way.”


  Prospective brides?

  Was Damian Wycliff inclined to marry?

  “I thought you said marriage was not for the cynical.” Scarlett’s teasing tone disguised the pang of jealousy slithering in her chest.

  She felt Mr Wycliff’s penetrating stare a few seconds before he spoke. “The marquis suffers from confusion and often acts as if I am heir to his fortune. It is his wish I marry, not mine. If Parklands was too grand a home for my mother, then it is too grand a home for me.”

  Perhaps his father wished to make amends. Then again, the marquis had a devious streak. Every action served his own end.

  “Then seeing us together at Vauxhall will no doubt annoy him.”

  “The devil beneath his cool facade will be hopping mad. Apparently, marriage to a lady of his choosing, a lady bribed to take an illegitimate scoundrel as her husband, is the only thing that can save me from a life of damnation.”

  A chuckle burst from Mr Cavanagh’s lips. “A preposterous notion.”

  “Preposterous, indeed,” Scarlett agreed, for Damian Wycliff need be under no illusion when considering marriage. “Love is the only thing guaranteed to save your soul, sir.”

  “L-love?” Mr Cavanagh could barely say the word for laughing.

  Even Mr Trent found her comment humorous. “It seems you’re doomed to roam the fiery pits of hell, Wycliff.”

  “Better to spend an eternity with debauched sinners than virtuous saints,” Mr Wycliff replied. “What do you say, Cavanagh?”

  Something in his tone forced Scarlett to turn her head and look at him. It wasn’t amusement she saw flashing in his dark eyes. Sadness lingered beyond the veil of contempt. How did she know? Because she had seen the same sorrow in the looking glass too many times to count.

  The need to ease his pain—and her own, too—saw her thread her arm through his and say, “Well, you will be in good company, for I imagine we are all heading there.”

  The muscle in his cheek twitched. He looked at her as if she were a mysterious object unearthed with his bare hands. Heat flooded her body. Butterflies tickled her stomach. The other men sharing the confined space turned to each other and continued a hushed yet private conversation.

  “You’re mistaken,” he whispered, edging far too close for comfort. “But I appreciate the sentiment. While we walk the same path, I fear we are heading in opposite directions.”

  For some reason the thought proved painful. The sudden rush of emotion forced her to swallow. “You think I am destined for heaven, Mr Wycliff?”

  A smile touched his lips, one of the few genuine expressions she had seen since reuniting. It only served to feed these odd cravings within.

  “You’re not one of the wicked,” he said, his rich tone caressing her senses. “You’re one of life’s survivors. One day you may be rewarded with the peace you deserve.”

  Others would be astounded to hear a hint of tenderness in his voice. Not her. Still, she drank it in like a woman parched, a woman who longed for love and affection. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve said to me.”

  “Remember it,” he said before slipping his mask back into place. “Such moments are rare for a rake.”

  She might have argued that there was so much more to him than his licentious reputation. She might have silently chastised herself for caring more than she should. But the carriage jerked to a halt.

  Mr Wycliff’s outstretched arm prevented her from flying forward in the seat. The coachman’s cries of complaint reached their ears. The sound of horns and bells rent the air.

  Mr Trent lowered the window and peered out. “They call them the pleasure gardens and yet one has to suffer the pain of waiting in endless traffic just to gain entrance.”

  “A pin in the eye would be preferable to sitting in a stationary coach for an hour squashed between three such large gentlemen,” Scarlett agreed.

  “Then we’ll walk across the bridge.” Mr Wycliff shuffled to the edge of the seat. “Trent, as you have the window open, inform Cutler of our plans.”

  Mr Trent did as requested, and they alighted from the vehicle onto New Vauxhall Road. Many people had a similar idea. Coach doors opened and slammed. A mild sense of panic thrummed in the air as people struggled to walk along the crowded pavement. A few broke into a jog. No one wanted to stand for too long in the queue.

  Damian Wycliff captured Scarlett’s hand and placed it in the crook of his arm. Straightening to his full height, and with his usual intimidating bearing, he set the pace—a relaxed stroll over Vauxhall Bridge.

  No one barged into his shoulder.

  No one pushed them aside to hurry past.

  “The air here is so clean it cleanses the lungs.” Mr Wycliff closed his eyes briefly as he inhaled through his nose, exhaled through his mouth.

  “Fresh air cleanses the mind, too,” she said, though at the present moment she could think of nothing but the powerful man playing escort. “Judging by Mr Trent’s comment, we’ll need our wits tonight. The marquis seems set on making mischief.”

  “The marquis always makes mischief.” His tone conveyed the depth of his disdain. He cast her a sidelong glance. “Do not let your stubborn streak overrule your logic tonight. Remain at my side regardless of what takes place.”

  Scarlett’s heart lurched as a sense of uneasiness took hold. “You think something untoward might happen at the gardens?”

  “From the nervous croak in your voice, you fear it, too.”

  It had been ten days since the intruder near throttled her in her bed. A boy had delivered the arsenic-laced flour two weeks before that. Thank heavens her housekeeper had the foresight to raise a query over the unexpected package.

  Would the villain make another attempt on her life?

  Fear pushed to the fore.

  Where better to commit murder than in the secluded corners of the pleasure gardens? The stewards might not find the body for days.

  “Based on statistics,” she said, “we should be on our guard.”

  Every step towards the entrance brought her fears closer. Waiting in line afforded her time to concoct stories, to imagine the host of horrific crimes possible in the dark corners of the gardens.

  “You know what people say.” Mr Wycliff paid the attendant their four shillings and seven pence entrance fees.

  “No, what do they say?” she said, prompting him to reply as they followed Mr Cavanagh and Mr Trent out onto the Grand Walk.

  “Anything can happen at Vauxhall.”

  Chapter Nine

  It wasn’t the luscious greenery, the grand architecture or the array of marble statues that captured one’s attention as they entered Vauxhall, but the stunning illuminations. Thousands of lamps, in various shapes and vibrant colours, lined every avenue, decorated the pavilions and colonnades. People gazed in awe, their breath stolen by the spectacular sight.

  And yet tonight, Damian was one of the rare few who found something else more captivating.

  “No matter how many times I visit Vauxhall,” his widow began as she looked about her with wide eyes of wonder, “the majesty of the place holds me spellbound.”

  Damian drank in the vision of loveliness, of moist lips parted on a gasp, of long lashes fluttering, of the soft swell of her heaving bosom. He saw her then—his Scarlett—the woman with an innocent smile and a pure heart. No matter how hard he tried to fight the feeling, he was the one who stood in awe … in lust … crippled with longing.

  “Yes, it’s all rather enchanting.” His weary sigh masked his carnal craving.

  She turned to him, her blue eyes still glistening with brilliance, and his knees almost buckled. “You do not have to be polite, Mr Wycliff, at least not with me. I would much rather you be yourself.”

  He managed a thin smile. He was always himself. The one half he permitted the world to see.

  “And I would rather you called me Damian or Wycliff. I find your formal use of mister somewhat grating.”

  Three years ago he had said a similar thing, and she h
ad called him by the name many men revered. Were he at a gaming table at The Silver Serpent, he would stake his entire fortune on her making the same choice again.

  She raised her chin. “I might pay you the courtesy if you agree to refer to me by something other than Widow.”

  To do that would mean saying the name that haunted his dreams. Scarlett. The name his heart had whispered once as he stroked her hair and cradled her from the cold.

  “Your point is noted, my lady,” he said, breaking into a bow.

  She curtsied in response. “Then tell me, Wycliff, tell me honestly. What is your real opinion of Vauxhall?”

  Damn. Had he placed the bet, he’d be as rich as Croesus.

  Conscious that Cavanagh and Trent had wandered too far in front, Damian captured her hand and settled it in the crook of his arm. A mere five minutes had passed, and already, he had lost sight of his motive for attending the gardens.

  “You want the truth?” He didn’t wait for the answer. “I find Vauxhall pretentious. While it feeds the appetites of many, it does little for me.”

  Her pretty nose crinkled. “Sir, you are quite the conundrum.”

  “How so?”

  Cavanagh turned to face them and signalled to the large crowd gathered around the orchestra. Some couples danced on the outskirts of the throng. Some watched the military band dressed in their blood-red coats embellished with gold brocade. Damian nodded in response. While he preferred being alone with his widow, they would have to mingle if they hoped to observe Joshua Steele.

  “Well,” his lady began, “as a man who indulges his desires, who scoffs at restraint, a man with a thorough disregard for the rules, one would think the pleasure gardens were your playground.”

  One would think that if licentious behaviour brought him pleasure. But it only quenched his thirst for power. It was better to command and control than be a pawn on the chessboard of life. Who wanted to be the man people cast aside? Who wanted to be weak and dispensable?

  “When a man sups ale day and night, it loses its potency and soon tastes bland.”

 

‹ Prev