And The Widow Wore Scarlet: Scandalous Sons - Book 1

by Clee, Adele

  “Joshua visits his tailor far too frequently for a man riddled with debt.” Scarlett scanned the next few pages. “And he visits a place on Russell Street at least twice a week. Always at night.” She squinted. The name of the establishment proved hard to decipher. “It reads like Alter Bags.”

  She laughed and handed Wycliff the notebook.

  He perused the pages, flicked back and forth before the corner of his mouth curled into a grin. “It doesn’t say Alter Bags but rather Altan Bagnio.”

  Scarlett wrinkled her nose. “I’ve never heard of the place. What do they sell?”

  “Pleasure.” He chuckled. “Well-heeled clientele lounge in the Turkish baths before supping and moving on to more vigorous entertainment.”

  “You mean Joshua is visiting a brothel?” What would stiff old Jemima say when she discovered her precious brother entertained prostitutes?

  “Altan Bagnio is more than just a brothel. It caters to the more deviant appetites. Restrictive apparatus proves very popular, so I’m told.”

  “Restrictive apparatus?” It sounded more like something one might find at a science lecture. “Might you speak the king’s English, sir?”

  Wycliff laughed. “No doubt Joshua Steele enjoys having his wrists tied to the bedpost while seeking his pleasure. And that is me conjuring a rather tame image.”

  “Surely not.”

  While she knew men sought a variety of means to satisfy their needs, she couldn’t imagine the timid fellow enjoying that level of domination. That said, Lord Steele’s need to inflict pain was unnatural. Perverted. And what’s in the roots must surely come out in the branches.

  Wycliff seemed to find the thought of Joshua’s unusual craving amusing.

  “Do not mistake me,” he said, “you may tie my wrists to the bed, love, and do what you want with me. But at that pleasure house, the lord will be treated like a slave.”

  Scarlett snatched the book from him. And yet she could not shake the image of Damian Wycliff strapped to the bed while she devoured every delectable inch.

  She flicked through the pages, stopping abruptly at one particular entry. “Joshua visited the bank and then took a hackney to a house in Ely Place, off Holborn Hill.” She cast Wycliff a sidelong glance. “What if that’s where he hired the man to throttle me in my bed?”

  Wycliff frowned as he repeated the street name. “I don’t suppose O’Donnell noted a description of who he met there?”

  “No, only that he stayed for an hour before returning home.”

  “It could be an address of a solicitor or doctor. Or someone he met at the bagnio who entertains certain clients at home. I’ll ask Trent to investigate.”

  A light knock on the door brought the footman with the breakfast tray. Wycliff insisted on eating in bed, and so Scarlett nibbled on toast while reading the entries in the book.

  “When you’ve finished eating, I intend to lick every crumb off your chest,” he said in the sinful tone that stirred the hairs on her nape.

  “Had you told me that before, I would have gnawed on the bread like a savage.”

  He leant over and kissed her shoulder.

  It took nothing more than a suggestive comment and one chaste kiss to ignite a fire in her core. “I get the sense we might not venture far from bed today.”

  “As I’m in debt to you for eighteen hours’ worth of pampering, I imagine not.”

  She turned the page in the book, gazed at the words, but they failed to penetrate her brain. “We must at least attempt to find something useful in this book,” she said when Wycliff trailed his finger the length of her arm.

  “We have. We will calculate when Joshua intends to visit the bagnio and surprise him there. He can hardly refuse to answer our questions when strapped to all four corners of the poster bed. And I shall send word to Trent and ask him to visit the house on Ely Place today. Flannery has men watching this house, so what else can we do in the meantime?”

  True.

  But she couldn’t help but wonder about Jemima.

  “Do you not think we are making a mistake focusing all our attention on Joshua? There are other suspects.”

  The marquis was on their list, but she supposed neither of them cared to pay the pompous lord a visit. One did not threaten or bribe such a prominent member of the aristocracy.

  “Joshua is the one with the most to gain.”

  “At the time the intruder struck, I was no threat to your father’s ambition to see you wed. That does not mean he wasn’t involved in the shooting at Vauxhall.”

  “No, although he finds the thought of revenge utterly distasteful.”

  “He doesn’t strike me as a man who creeps around in the dark, or a man who hires someone to threaten and intimidate on his behalf.” And they knew with absolute certainty that he had not left his supper box.

  Silence descended.

  Scarlett continued looking through the book, knowing that guilt’s rigid finger did indeed point to Joshua Steele. But then another entry caught her attention. It took a moment for her eyes to absorb the words. Scarlett flicked frantically through the pages looking for similar listings. She found two more.

  “What is it?” Wycliff asked.

  “At no point since the death of that abominable creature I married have I seen Joshua in the company of Lord Rathbone. And yet he has visited the lord’s house in Portland Place three times in two months.”

  “Perhaps Steele feared Rathbone was competition. Perhaps he thought that if you grew close to the lord, you might divulge his secrets.”

  “But they are both members of White’s.” She knew that, but did not know if Rathbone had taken part in the wager. “Why not conduct their conversation in one of the private rooms? And Lady Rathbone made no mention of the visits.”

  Consumed with suspicion, she could not shake the feeling that both lords were conspiring to bring about her downfall.

  While Wycliff took the notebook and scanned the pages, Scarlett’s mind concocted all sorts of villainous plans. And yet Lord Rathbone had appeared sincere in his attentions. Then again, Lord Steele had seemed just as trustworthy when she married him three years ago.

  “By my calculations, Joshua will visit the bagnio either tonight or tomorrow night. Cavanagh will visit the madam of the house and use his seductive skills to persuade her to divulge information.”

  “And what will we do?”

  Wycliff arched a sinful brow. “For the time being, I need to work on banishing the fearful thoughts from your head.” From the way he moistened his lips, she knew what he had in mind. “And hopefully tonight we will visit a brothel for the dissolute. We will give Joshua Steele the pain he so desperately craves. We will discover the truth.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Altan and bagnio were not words that rolled easily off the tongue. Translated, they meant golden brothel or something to that effect. No doubt the owner thought the name created an air of mystery. Or was it that with such specialised services on offer, they did not need to attract the usual patrons?

  Damian didn’t care who saw him entering the establishment, but he cared what the gossips said about Scarlett. “I can speak to Joshua alone if you’d prefer to wait in the carriage.”

  They were standing on Russell Street, a mere three feet from the door to the house that from the outside looked like any other respectable townhouse. If the walls could talk, they would tell a somewhat different story.

  “I’ll not sit in the dark while those women try to entice you with their whips and chains. Besides, I’d like nothing more than to drag a confession from Joshua’s lying lips.”

  “Assuming he’s here.”

  A whole day had passed before they received news from Cavanagh that Joshua Steele planned to visit the brothel tonight. Having paid the bawd fifty pounds for the information, Wycliff was to pay a further two hundred to gain entrance. It would have been vastly cheaper to hire a harlot and go snooping around the rooms.

  “But the madam assured Mr Cavana
gh that Joshua would keep his usual appointment.”

  Damian arched a brow. “The woman would recite gibberish to earn fifty pounds.” He pulled his watch from his pocket and inspected the face beneath the dim light of the street lamp.

  “What time is it?”

  “A little after nine.”

  “We shouldn’t have too long to wait.”

  They waited for five minutes. Damian considered knocking on the door, but the bawd had insisted she’d not have her patrons witness such a blatant breach of privacy.

  Another few minutes passed before a woman—dressed in a purple gown as fine as anything worn by an aristocratic lady—opened the door and ushered them quickly inside.

  “I believe the price to visit our friend in his chamber is two hundred pounds.” Damian kept his voice low. “No doubt you seek payment in advance.”

  “I’ll not talk here,” the madam murmured. “Follow me.” Scanning them both with some suspicion, the bawd—who looked no older than thirty—directed them to a room further along the hall.

  They passed a drawing room decorated with sumptuous gold furnishings. Women dressed like innocent debutantes sat playing cards and sipping sherry while awaiting their gentleman friends. One played the pianoforte. Another appeared engrossed in a book.

  “Are you certain we’re at the right place?” Scarlett whispered.

  Damian drew her closer as they followed the madam into the room at the end of the hall. “Deviants like to appear respectable.”

  Scarlett raised her chin in acknowledgement. “That explains the surprising air of normality.”

  The bawd gestured to a desk sporting a fancy ink pot and quill. “Two hundred pounds for the key to your friend’s room, and your word you’ll not mention my kind act to another soul.”

  Kind act? The woman demanded an extortionate sum.

  Damian flicked his coattails and dropped into the seat at the desk. He withdrew the crisp notes from his pocket and flattened the corners. “And what name shall I scribe?”

  The bawd gave a coy grin. “Here, I’m known as the mistress of every manoeuvre, but you can make the notes payable to Iris Blyth.”

  Damian dipped the nib of the quill in the pot and scratched the woman’s name along with his signature. “You may take the notes in good faith. Coutts is a reputable bank.”

  The madam snatched the notes from the desk. She made sure the ink was dry before folding them neatly, hiking up her skirts and placing them in her petticoat pocket.

  “The lord you’re looking for declined the use of our basement baths. Heather took him up to the room on the second floor.” She reached into the porcelain pot on the desk, retrieved a key and handed it to Damian. “Turn left once you reach the top. Give the key to Heather before you leave.”

  “How long has our friend been upstairs?” Better to interrupt the lord whilst he was restrained in an embarrassing position.

  Iris Blyth glanced at the mantel clock. “Half an hour.”

  “Then it’s time we interrupted the party.”

  They were about to leave the room when the madam called after them. “I have girls free tonight if you find yourselves a little curious.”

  Damian snorted. “Having had some experience with domination, I must decline.” He was not referring to his own need for control. “Three years spent on one’s knees is long enough.” He turned to Scarlett and whispered, “Though I might need to bow between your legs during the carriage ride home.”

  Scarlett batted him on the arm as they left the room. “Do you approach every challenging situation with devilish joviality?”

  “There is nothing challenging about pleasuring you.”

  Scarlett breathed an exasperated sigh. “I am speaking of the situation with Joshua.”

  “Of course.”

  They mounted the stairs in silence. From the loud splashing emanating from the basement and the painful cries echoing from numerous bedchambers, Damian doubted the lords would hear the cavalry approaching.

  There was but one door on the second floor to the left of the stairs. With deft fingers, Damian slipped the key into the lock and turned it carefully. He eased the door from the jamb and peered into the dark room. Heather had drawn the curtains on the near side of the poster bed. Candles flickered in the standing candelabrum, casting an amber glow over the dark wood and burgundy furnishings.

  Scarlett clutched Damian’s arm upon hearing the whimpering from beyond the curtain. He took hold of her hand, and together they crept into the room and closed the door.

  “You think I don’t know what goes on in that stupid head of yours?” The woman’s harsh voice sliced through the air, the words accompanied by a sudden and rather sharp slap. “You think I don’t know what you say about me?”

  “I swear—” The man groaned painfully. “I swear, I have said nothing.”

  “You’ve been whispering to your friends. Telling little tales.”

  “No!”

  Damian might have found the whole thing laughable, but Scarlett gripped his hand so hard her nails dug into his skin. He cast her a sidelong glance, noted the panic in her eyes even in the faint light.

  “Liar!” the woman called as some unseen and undoubtedly violent action tore another whimper from Steele’s lips.

  “Please, Damian,” Scarlett whispered, pressing her forehead to his shoulder. “I cannot bear it. Please, make it stop.”

  It occurred to him that the setting reminded her of a painful memory. That despite the contrived scene, it drew parallels with her own tortured past.

  Damian cupped her head and pressed a kiss to her hair. “Wait here,” he mouthed when her troubled gaze met his. The harrowing sight tore at his heart.

  She nodded, though it took a moment for her to release his hand.

  Feeling the devil’s fury in his chest—the need to punish any man with the surname Steele—he strode around the bedpost, ready to pummel the lord for taking pleasure from these repulsive games.

  The sight that met him stopped him in his tracks.

  Joshua Steele was not spread naked on the bed with his wrists shackled and his jutting erection pointing skyward. Oh, he was naked, but he was on his knees, huddled into a ball while the scantily clad woman at his side gripped a riding crop.

  All anger dissipated. Perhaps because Damian saw a vision of Scarlett cowering in the lowly position, not her depraved stepson.

  “I suggest you sit up, Steele,” Damian said in a voice hard enough to make the devil pause. “Unless you want me to take that crop and teach you a lesson you will never forget.”

  The lord shot up from his foetal position, exposing the angry pink welts on his chest. He squinted in the dim light. Recognition dawned. “W-Wycliff?”

  As if she’d been awaiting her cue, Heather sidled from the bed, taking the crop with her. She held out her hand and Damian dropped the key into her sweaty palm, then she slipped from the room as quietly as they had entered.

  Steele grabbed the coverlet and yanked it across his lap to cover his modesty. “What the hell are you doing here?” His cheeks flamed crimson. “Y-you’ve come to the wrong room. Since when were you a patron?”

  “I’m not here to see Heather.” Wycliff ground his teeth. “We are here to speak to you about your sudden interest in Lord Rathbone. And to ask why your sister knows nothing about the son you fathered with your mistress in Ely Place.”

  It hadn’t taken Trent long to discover the information.

  The lord opened and closed his mouth, but no sounds tumbled out. It was as if an uncontrollable panic began in his toes and took a minute to reach his brain. His limbs started shaking. He rocked back and forth, his teeth chattering before a wealth of suppressed emotion burst from him like a geyser from the ground.

  “Lord, please, no! You cannot tell Jemima.”

  “Tell Jemima what? That you sired a child out of wedlock?” Disdain for all men who failed their illegitimate offspring clung to every word. “You had better hope I find nothing unto
ward at that house. And you will double whatever you’re paying your mistress for the upkeep of your son.”

  “Double?” The lord gulped. “I’m not even sure it is mine.”

  “It?” Damian clenched his fists. He was ready to pound Joshua Steele’s face. One punch for this pathetic lord. A second punch meant for the damn Marquis of Blackbeck. That said, not once had the marquis denied Damian was his son. “I’ve a mind to thrash you, yet I fear you might enjoy taking a beating.”

  Scarlett came to stand beside him. A gentle hand on Damian’s arm helped to relax the tense muscles, helped rid him of the need to punish the world for one man’s mistake.

  “Jemima deserves to know she has a nephew.” Pity, not anger or disgust, flashed in Scarlett’s eyes when she looked upon the sorry creature cowering on the bed. “It is about time you acted like a responsible gentleman and not a henpecked nincompoop.”

  Steele stared at Scarlett with round, red-rimmed eyes.

  “What is this about?” Scarlett gestured to the marks on Steele’s chest and frowned. “And do not say it is about pleasure, not to me.”

  How could anyone understand the need to experience pain, least of all a woman who had suffered greatly at the hands of a monster?

  “Tell me,” she urged when he failed to reply. “Your father is dead. None of us need fear him anymore.”

  Joshua rubbed his eyes. “Neither of us stood and faced him. Neither of us held him to account for the terrible things he did.”

  Had the dead lord taken his temper out on his son, too?

  “Trust me it would have served no purpose other than to bring more misery down upon us all.” She raised her chin. “And so I ask again, when did you develop a need to punish yourself?”

  “Can I at least put on my shirt?”

  “No,” Damian interjected. “You’ll tell us what we want to know, and you will tell us now.”

  He could not lose sight of the fact that this man might be responsible for the shooting at Vauxhall. This man might have orchestrated the accidents in the park, hired someone to break into Scarlett’s home to get rid of her for good.

  “Tell me when, Joshua.” Scarlett took a step closer to the bed. While she might have shown disgust, her countenance spoke of compassion. “Does it have something to do with your father? Something to do with me?”