His Scandalous Lessons

by Katrina Kendrick

  Anne tried not to let anything show on her face. She had heard such language from him before with regards to Richard, but never so desperately.

  What was it about this bill?

  “Do we?” she asked softly. At Stanton’s sharp look, she lowered her gaze. “It’s only that you’ve lost votes before, and I don’t wish to see you so upset.”

  Stanton didn’t look any less disgusted. “I ought to have recalled that you’re a woman and women are too simpleminded to understand anything beyond the season. Not a day passes that I don’t wish I’d had a son with that memory of yours, so I wouldn’t have to bother with you.”

  Her fingernails sank into the skin of her palm, but not enough to draw blood. Don’t show anything. Don’t show your anger.

  It helped to think of Richard. Of what he would say in response. It would be profanity-laden, she knew. Plain speak. She missed it already.

  This is for him. Remember? This is for him.

  Straightening, Anne said, “Forgive me. As you say, I am too simpleminded to understand such matters.”

  “Stop sniveling, Anne.” He shoved the stack of papers he’d been working on aside. “If you were a son, you would understand more about money. I have landlords I’m beholden to. Businessmen and lords keep us in this lifestyle, otherwise we’d still be in that hideous ruin in Dorset with the leaking roof.” He shoved his chair away from the desk and stood. “Do you think they’re going to keep paying me when their tenants are voting against their interests? When those fucking Irish dogs use that secret ballot to vote in some independent party to force Home Rule?”

  When she didn’t answer, he made some move towards her, as if to strike with a fist.

  Anne flinched, forcing her gaze down. Her father was unpredictable with his violence — as if to keep her in suspense. She could never tell when he intended to follow through with a hard knock that left her bruised for days. He went weeks without hitting her. Months, even. Then . . .

  Stanton aborted the gesture. Instead, he grasped her chin hard, yanking her head up. “Do you think anyone is going to give a damn about you if things go sour? Not the duke, certainly. He never even wanted you.” His eyes narrowed. “Bribes aren’t cheap, Anne. Neither is this house. Do you understand now?”

  Anne pressed her lips together. Calm. “Yes, papa.”

  But his grip only tightened. “And I’m not going to be known as the prime minister who lost us Ireland. The Fenians may lack public sympathy after Clerkenwell, but it’s been five years. They won’t even need to slaughter people with a damn bomb if they can just vote in secret. Yes?”

  “Yes, papa,” she repeated in a whisper.

  Stanton made a soft noise and finally released her. He strode over to the window and looked out. “Tell me everything you know about Richard Grey, so I can have you out of my sight.”

  Anne straightened, knowing what he was asking her: to speak as if she were reading him a page in the book of someone’s life. Just the information, precisely as she knew it, without opinion, inflection, or emotion.

  To him, this was her worth: her memory. How perfectly it captured information, how easily he could use her to call it forth. It must have chafed for a man like Stanton Sheffield to rely on a woman to keep his secrets, especially when his own memory was so poor. Anne was some cosmic joke, a reminder of his own ineptitude.

  And he hated her for it.

  It gave her some thrill to use the talent he’d always exploited to ruin him. For it was her skill now. Hers. She was reclaiming it for herself.

  “Richard Grey is a liberal, though many would call him a radical. His first major contribution to politics was in bribes to pass the Second Reform Act, then military reforms, civil service, and local government initiatives to aid the lower classes. At his sister’s behest, he has taken an interest in legislation concerning women and children, particularly those in workhouses, and engages with MPs on ways to meet the demands of the working classes. I can write a list of the laws he’s taken personal interest in, but specifically: the Caldwell reforms, the Irish Land Act, the Education Act, Universities Tests Act, the—”

  “Get on with it, Anne,” he father snapped. “You sound as if you’re espousing the man’s bloody virtues.”

  “Last year, Mr. John Hardy MP got in a public row with Mr. Grey’s sister, Lady Alexandra Grey, over his criticisms of her essays on women’s suffrage. Mr. Hardy later voted against your party on the Caldwell reforms, likely after Mr. Grey’s interference. His brother is the Earl of Kent, who—”

  “Enough,” her father said shortly. He tapped a finger against the desk and stared out the window. “Put this information together, and what does it tell you? Give it a think.”

  Anne wanted to tell him that it made her love Richard more. That sharing the details of his life, his influence, it was all for the benefit of those without as much as he had. He cared.

  That brought her to mind of all those years Stanton had ranted about Richard’s accomplishments. He came home from debates in the Commons in some terrible moods, for while Richard had never been present, his ideas and money and influence were undeniably manifest in the tide of votes.

  After all these years, Richard Grey had become a swear in this household. A curse. Her father spoke of him as some horrible dragon that relied on periodic sacrifice for appeasement.

  Anne learned that the dragon was not a monster at all. Not some terrible curse. But a man of flesh and blood, who was happy to meet his match in a woman.

  And he was hers.

  Anne schooled her features into a blank, vapid stare. “What a difficult puzzle. You’ll have to tell me.”

  Stanton barely appeared to be listening. He murmured, “Aside from being quite the bleeding heart for the poor, his family is rather a sore spot, isn’t it? Especially the sister.”

  Something cold settled in Anne’s belly. She waited for him to say more, but he was quiet for so long. Whole minutes passed. Finally, Anne murmured, “Is that all, papa?”

  He looked at her and blinked, as if just recalling her presence. “Yes.” Then, as she turned to leave: “Wait, no. Send in your maid. I’d like an update.”

  Anne froze. She had forgot about Mary, who would no doubt be settled into her new position by now. She hadn’t anticipated returning to explain the absence of her maid.

  Don’t show alarm. Breathe.

  Instead, she allowed herself to look confused. “Mary? Why, I thought she came back here.”

  Stanton’s eyes narrowed. “Explain.”

  Anne frowned, playing up her stupidity for all it was worth. “She wasn’t on the train with me, papa.” She widened her eyes and leaned forward as if to impart a secret. “I think she has a beau. I’ve seen her sneaking out at night after finishing up her duties, and I distinctly recall her being especially fidgety the morning I left. Do you know—”

  “Enough,” snapped Stanton. “I don’t want to hear any details. God help that girl if she tries to come back to this house expecting to retain her position.” When it seemed as if he would send her away, Stanton scrutinized her in her dress. “Tell Bates to inform the cook that you’re to be on bread and water for the foreseeable future. You know how the duke hates plump women.”

  Anne swallowed hard and tried to keep her face impassive. “Yes, papa.”

  “Good. Now get out of my sight.”

  She left that study with a renewed sense of purpose. She uncurled her fists, not even flinching when she realized her fingernails had sunk into her palms hard enough to draw blood.

  This was a small matter. She had more important things to consider.

  She was going to destroy her father.

  Chapter 23

  The first place Richard went upon arrival to London was his brother’s house in St. James's.

  The Earl of Kent’s residence on Pall Mall was a fine example of the Palazzo Style, with rows of tall windows set amidst ornately decorated cornices. Richard found it too ostentatious — he preferred his smalle
r, more comfortable townhouse in Bloomsbury — but it suited his more austere brother, James, quite well.

  James was also more abreast of social events than Richard. Despite attending very few of them, he was invited to every ball, garden party, dinner, and gathering held among the beau monde. It was both the benefit and curse of being the most eligible bachelor in London.

  Since Richard couldn’t very well show up on Anne’s doorstep to check after her welfare, he would quietly do so at the season’s various parties and balls. It wasn’t enough to have one of Thorne’s men stationed outside her property to keep watch; Richard wanted to see her for himself.

  Christ, he missed her.

  She’d only been gone a matter of hours and he missed her.

  Richard let himself into his brother’s house, much to the chagrin of James’s butler, Jeffries, who had recently given up all hope of announcing him.

  “Mr. Grey, sir, it’s good to see you again,” Jeffries said.

  “Ah, you’ve missed me, haven’t you Jeffries? I haven’t been around to keep you on your toes with my unexpected visits. I’m going to have to make up for that, aren’t I?”

  Before Jeffries could respond, Richard heard a voice that could only belong to his sister. “Finally, you’re home. It was beginning to grow dull around here.”

  Richard looked up to see Alexandra strolling down the stairs with a wide, welcoming smile. He dismissed Jeffries and sketched a comedic bow. “Yes, the errant second son has returned from his adventures elsewhere. Here to greet his beloved sister and—”

  Alexandra rolled her eyes. “So dramatic.”

  “—declare his admiration for her, for she is the greatest sister upon this earth—”

  She was laughing now. “Stop. Stop. Before you murder the English language.”

  Richard shrugged with amusement. “What can I say? I’m not quite the wordsmith you are.” He kissed her cheek. “How have you been, darling? Destroy any men lately?”

  Every time he saw Alexandra, it surprised him again how grown up she was. Gone was the little girl who used to follow him about the house whenever he visited. She had been replaced by a graceful woman with a devilish streak that had widely caused scandal. While Alexandra was considered a great beauty by society’s standards — she had their mother’s coloring, after all, with pale blonde hair and bright, vivid blue eyes — it was her essays that got her into considerable trouble. Many people did not appreciate women who spoke publicly about politics at all, let alone one who made money writing about it.

  At twenty-three years of age and five seasons under her belt, Alexandra was considered quite firmly on the shelf. In her, Richard had the clearest example of how men were utter and complete fools.

  “On my best days, I destroy a man before noon,” Alexandra said with a cheeky grin. “It’s hard work. So many essays to write, scathing criticisms to offer, protests to attend.”

  Richard grinned. “My baby sister, a revolutionary. I couldn’t be more proud.”

  “That’s why you’re my favorite brother.”

  “Really?”

  “For today, yes. But James is absent; he may very well take first place by the evening,” she said with a wink.

  Which reminded him . . .

  Richard looked past Alexandra to James’s study for some indication of his brother’s presence, but saw none. The door was firmly shut. “Is he here? I need to speak with him directly.”

  Alexandra raised an eyebrow at his impatience. “No. He’s been out quite a bit these days. Doesn’t come home until the early hours of the morning, if at all.”

  “Christ.” Richard ran a hand through his hair. “Where is he? At his club?”

  “I’m not his keeper, Richard. He’s a grown man, last I checked.”

  “Damn,” he breathed, much to Alexandra’s surprise. He generally tempered his language around her. She was his little sister, after all. “Fine. Send me a note when he gets back, will you?”

  As Richard turned to leave, his sister grabbed his sleeve. “Oh ho! I don’t think so. You can’t come here and happily greet me, then grow all moody and leave. Sit with me a moment. Have some tea and biscuits and tell—”

  “No.”

  Alexandra’s mouth fell open in shock. “What the devil? You’ve been gone for almost a month and you won’t even stay for tea?”

  “I’m busy. And don’t you have protests to attend? Some men to destroy? Get back to it.” Richard said, stalking out the door and into the bright sunlight of St. James’s.

  But his sister was right on his heels. “I cannot believe this. Are you avoiding me?”

  “If I wanted to avoid you, I wouldn’t have bothered coming around. I simply didn’t expect you to follow me onto the street like a stray dog.”

  Richard tried to keep his voice down, but they were already attracting more than a few curious stares from the other residents. After all, Richard was walking down the street at quite an alarming clip that more closely resembled a run, and his sister was trotting after him with an expression caught between alarm and a desire to put his head on a platter.

  “Stray dog? Stray dog? I’m your bloody sister!”

  “God help me,” Richard muttered. “Go home.”

  “Not until you tell me what’s going on.”

  “Nothing is going on. I have places to be, Alexandra.”

  “Ah,” she said with a sweet smile as she finally kept up pace with him. “It’s a woman, then.”

  Richard stopped so suddenly that Alexandra stumbled. “How do you know that?”

  “Easy. Only a woman would have a man this out of sorts. You’ve that look about you.”

  He had a look? Was it that obvious? “What look?”

  “It’s difficult to describe. Like seeing a man experience emotions for the first time. It generally manifests as an expression caught between anger and constipation.”

  Richard glared at her. “If I had another sister, you would be my least favorite today.”

  Her grin grew wide. “Oh, I do love you. Let me guess: you’re interested in a lady of the lower classes and wish to seek James’s permission to marry her.”

  He resumed walking. He didn’t have time for this. “No.”

  “All right, then.” She was following him again. Plague take irritating sisters. She tapped her lips, keeping up with him even as he strode briskly. She gasped, then asked in a low voice, “You haven’t got a woman with child, have you?”

  “Good god, no.” Then, before he thought better of it: “At least, I don’t believe so.”

  After all, he’d spilled inside Anne, hadn’t he? She could very well be carrying his child. He ought to have been alarmed by the idea, but instead it gave him a warm glow he didn’t understand. Anne. Her body swelling with his child. His.

  Oh, he was beyond besotted.

  Alexandra must have noticed the change in his expression, because her gaze softened. “Richard . . .”

  He drew in a breath and shook his head. “I have work to do. I’ll call on you later.”

  This time, she let him walk away without following.

  It had been days.

  Richard checked in with Thorne’s man, Samuel, who was tasked with watching the prime minister’s house for any sign of Anne. But while her father had come and gone, Anne had yet to leave the property.

  Richard was growing desperate.

  He went to see Caroline, who had finally returned to her London residence after the house party. She didn’t seem at all surprised to see him, nor was she shocked by Richard’s state of dishabille, which was a combination of lacking sleep and threatening men into compliance for the ballot vote. He didn’t resort to violence as a general rule — that was Thorne’s approach — but Stanton Sheffield was doubling his efforts to get men into line. The battle for that vote was growing brutal.

  “Good afternoon,” Richard said, strolling into Caroline’s studio after being announced. “Apologies for the state of my person.”

  The Duch
ess of Hastings was at the easel of yet another painting. It was one of her landscapes, the proper work she did under her own name. She had several hanging in the National Gallery, and from the looks of things, this one was about to be another masterpiece of a Cornish coastline.

  “I find the state of your person quite normal,” Caroline murmured, stroking the white tops along the waves. “Agitated, out of breath, bruised and slightly bloodied — ah, yes, you’ve been out making threats with Mr. Thorne again, haven’t you?”

  “How well you know me. Perhaps I ought to be alarmed by your lack of alarm. I look like hell.”

  She made some noise of agreement, but kept painting.

  Ordinarily, he would look on these works with appreciation. He ought to make some comment about the beauty of the piece, the cleverness of her strokes — things he would have said before Anne Sheffield swept into his life an upended his entire existence.

  “Nice painting,” he offered. Terrible. Try again. “The strokes are good.” No better. “You—”

  “Say another word about the painting and I’ll have you thrown out,” the duchess said, setting down her brush. “Simply ask your favor.”

  “I’m a cad.”

  “Sometimes, yes.”

  “A complete bounder.”

  “That, too. Richard, you don’t require my presence to pummel yourself. What do you want?”

  He crossed his arms. “I’ve asked so much of you already that I am silently cursing at myself for coming to you again.”

  The duchess spared him from his dithering. She tossed her paintbrush into the pot of turpentine. “I’m not a politician, Richard. I’m your friend. You don’t have to praise me before requesting a favor.”

  Richard’s expression softened. “I know that.”

  “Then you may inquire. But if it has to do with Anne, I’ve told you—”

  “Yes, yes, let her do what needs to be done. I understood very well when you almost broke my fingers saying it.”

  “Then?”

  He loosed a breath. “She hasn’t been out in days, Caro. I’m worried for her.”