His Scandalous Lessons

by Katrina Kendrick

  He was going to make the duke regret ever putting his hands on Anne.

  First, he went to gather more information from his brother.

  James was an active participant in the House of Lords, and had debated with Kendal on more than one occasion. He ought to know a thing or two about the man’s character — his weaknesses, his strengths. Anything of use.

  But when Richard swept into the house on Pall Mall, the butler looked concerned. “He may not wish to be disturbed just now, sir,” Jeffries said.

  “Christ,” Richard muttered. “Don’t tell me he’s got a woman in his study.”

  Jeffries hesitated. “Not a woman, sir. But he . . . may be feeling a bit under the weather.”

  “All the more reason to see how he’s getting on.”

  “But, sir—”

  “Don’t mind me, Jeffries,” Richard said, brushing past the butler. “You know he always blames me for escaping you.”

  Richard strolled down the hall to James’s study and stood at the doorway. He watched his brother drink deeply from a bottle and mutter something about damnable women.

  The ton had a habit of mistaking Richard and James for twins. After all, they shared the same dark blond hair and blue eyes, the same height and musculature. But anyone who paid attention to their mannerisms told them apart easily. After all, James was considered the practical one. Richard, the wild one.

  Until that moment, of course. They were easy to tell apart. Any half-blind fool could do it.

  Because James looked like absolute shite.

  Ah, now the damnable women mutterings made sense.

  “So you’ve turned to spirits now,” Richard said, leaning against James’s study doorway. “No wonder your butler looked concerned when I came in. Do you know it smells in here?”

  James squinted at him and groaned, grasping the nearest gin bottle. He looked as though he’d seen something unpleasant. Like a small rodent, or a bug in his food. Considering Richard had a habit of interrupting him at inopportune times, he couldn’t blame his brother. Only this time he actually needed his brother to be the practical one, and here he was. Wallowing in abject misery.

  “If you’re not going to say anything useful,” James said, sounding — and, frankly, looking — like he’d just crawled out of the devil’s arse, “then get out.”

  “I assumed that was useful knowledge. When was the last time you changed clothes? Hell, when was the last time you bathed?”

  James merely shrugged and finished off the bottle. Good god, what trouble prompted this mess? “Don’t you have something else to keep you busy, Richard? A new lover to entertain you?”

  His brother was one to bloody talk, considering he was sitting here, melodramatically drinking in the middle of the afternoon and grousing over some woman. “I don’t care to discuss it.”

  “Ah. It’s to do with Miss Sheffield, then. Did you fuck her?”

  Richard set his jaw. It bothered him that his brother would think of Anne as just some woman he’d bedded. He supposed he couldn’t blame James. This facade was one he had put on for years: the careless rake who fucked every woman who was willing to have him.

  But Anne was his goddamn betrothed. He wasn’t about to let her be disrespected by his drunk, idiot sibling.

  Richard strode forward and snatched the glass out of James’s hand. The scent was foul. “Jesus Christ, James. Gin? Where did you get this?”

  “A gin palace in Spitalfields. At least it’s not opium.”

  Richard snorted. Opium, gin — what difference? Both were only distractions. “Am I supposed to be relieved? No wonder you’re such foul goddamn company. Have you seen yourself?”

  “If I wanted to hear a sermon, I’d attend church.” James grasped the glass with surprising quickness for a man who was fucking soused. “Go home.”

  Richard stared at his brother. What the bloody hell had happened in his absence? He didn’t seem this much of a mess at the Ashby ball. Good god, it had only been a few days, and now James was useless just when Richard needed his help.

  Certainly, political information could be garnered easily from a drunk. Richard had done that numerous times. Those men were also not his brother, and while he considered his morals to be loose, they weren’t completely nonexistent.

  With a sigh, he said, “I assume your efforts to destroy yourself didn’t come out of thin air. What happened with your masked woman?”

  James reached for the bottle again and then seemed to think better of it. “She lied to me and didn’t care for honesty. So we went our separate ways.”

  Richard couldn’t help but laugh. The Masquerade, where James had met this mysterious woman, had a rule about revealing identities. The entire purpose was to bed other people in anonymity.

  “It’s the Masquerade, James. A lack of honesty is rather the point.”

  “I know that,” James said.

  Something in his tone made Richard’s smile disappear. “You let her see your face.”

  “More than that,” James said bitterly.

  Bloody hell. “You offered to marry her?” When James didn’t reply, Richard ran a hand through his hair. “Good god. What did she say?”

  Oh no, his brother was reaching for the brandy in the drawer of his desk. The glass he poured was far too damn much. This was no good.

  “I’ve been drinking the foulest liquor in London for three days, Richard. What do you think she said?”

  Richard let out a breath. As pathetic as his brother was at that moment, Richard understood. After all, hadn’t he been a mess in Anne’s absence? He spent at least half the day worrying over her, thinking of those bruises on her shoulder, and contemplating whether or not he could get away with murdering a duke.

  Yes, he could see the appeal of drink, but getting foxed never helped matters. All it got you was the same trouble and the additional misery of a headache.

  His expression softened. “James. A man doesn’t turn to drink — especially one as bloody disgusting as gin — because a woman rejected his proposal. You love her.”

  James looked at him sharply. “That would be a foolish decision.”

  “Ah, and yet here you are. Drunk, smelly, and foolishly in love.”

  “Then no wonder I’m a mess,” James murmured, staring at his drink. “Love does terrible things to people.”

  “Not everyone. You’re thinking of Mother,” Richard said softly. “Kent . . . she’s far from an ideal example. She was ill.”

  James shook his head. “You were too young to remember the months between Father’s visits. When Mother was pregnant with Alexandra, he stayed away for the last six months. Do you know she refused food from the servants?” Richard slowly shook his head. “No, you wouldn’t have. Our governess made certain you kept busy in the nursery.”

  “I recall some things.” The few memories he had were enough. The countess had not concerned herself with her second son; he was not important to her.“I didn’t see her often then. She was always in bed.”

  James nodded. “Mother would only take food if I brought it. The doctors made certain that I knew the pregnancy would kill her if I wasn’t watchful. She . . .” He let out a breath. “She kept herself ill.”

  All right, that he didn’t know. “What? Why?”

  “Why do you think?” His brother let out a dry laugh and drank a little more liquid destruction. “She’d hoped father would hear of it and come home. Love is a disease that clouds all reason, Richard.”

  “Is it?” Richard thought of Anne. He’d never been more clear-minded in his entire life. “I don’t believe that.”

  Because it was bollocks.

  Utter fucking bollocks.

  “You didn’t see her, so you don’t know,” James said.

  No, but he had two memories that gave him all the information he needed.

  The first was after Richard had run into her room during a nightmare, and the countess had shooed him away as if he were some bothersome pest. No more than a burden.
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  And the second? When Father did visit and she’d cooed and fretted over him, only to turn her back the moment the old earl left. He’d been nothing but some pawn in a revenge scheme.

  What she had felt for their father was not love, no matter how many pretty words she used.

  No, it was vindictiveness.

  If James’s woman loved him, then she had her reasons for turning down his proposal. Women didn’t chance their reputation for nothing. Yet here was Richard’s brother, stumbling around his study and imbibing bottle after bottle, who refused to even consider the price of such a sacrifice.

  Anne was the one who taught Richard just how high that price was.

  “My, what a convenient excuse,” Richard said in disgust. “It’s fashioned to absolve one of any responsibility for their own destruction. Here’s the truth: Mother cared more about punishing Father than taking care of her own damn children. She made that clear on more than one occasion. Perhaps you ought to ask yourself why an unmarried woman would risk ruin for a mere dalliance. Here’s a tip, James: it would require tearing yourself away from a bottle for longer than five seconds.”

  Richard strode out of the room and shut the door hard behind him.

  He would find no help here.

  “I need you to tell me about the Duke of Kendal.” Richard said after he was announced at Caroline’s. “What do you know about him? Leave nothing out.”

  Caroline was once again in her studio, sitting in front of her easel. She spent a great deal of time there of late. Richard knew from their years as friends that Caroline painted when she sought comfort the most. She’d told him of the reassurance she found in the silence of painting, the ritual of moving her brush across the canvas. He regretted his part in interrupting this, but he needed her help.

  Again.

  Caroline frowned. “I’ve only met him a few times,” she said. “Hastings might be able to better answer your questions were he here.” She leaned forward to scrutinize her painting, wrinkling her nose in distaste at it. “Have you tried asking your brother? Kent ought to know Kendal well from their debates in the Lords. I’ve heard they’re quite . . . exciting.”

  “One careless word from a brawl, you mean.”

  Her lip curled. “If you like.”

  Richard shook his head. “James is useless at the moment. I went by this morning to find him unwashed and drinking gin and moaning about life’s eternal question.”

  “The answer to the universe and everything?”

  “God, no. Nothing so dramatic — although the way he’s carrying on, you’d think he was in the middle of some existential crisis. It’s about whether he’s in love.”

  Caroline stilled, looking away from her painting with a flinch. “Ah,” she said. “That eternal question.”

  The way she said it made Richard frown in concern. “What is it?”

  He came around the easel to see a portrait of her husband there. The Duke of Hastings had such austere features. High cheekbones. A small, mysterious smile. Catherine had caught him in a moment of surprise, as if the viewer and the duke spotted each other across a ballroom and communicated in a silent language. The portrait was lovingly done, meticulous in its coloring.

  “You’re staring,” Caroline said. She cleared her throat. “Do you hate it so much?”

  If he were being honest, he’d praise it as her best work. But such a comment would be both a compliment and squarely placed barb. He would not hurt her with such words.

  “All your work is lovely,” he said, after a moment’s hesitation. “This is no exception. I had no idea the duke was such a skilled model.”

  “Yes,” she said quietly. “My first, in fact. He used to sit for hours for me. I wish I had never asked, truth be told.”

  Richard stared down at the duchess. In secret moments like this, when she wasn’t charming crowds, he thought her the loneliest person he knew. And that broke his heart. “Why?”

  Caroline shook her head. “I fell in love with him each time.”

  Her love for the duke explained the level of detail in his portrait. There was a longing to it, Richard knew now. In the brush strokes, in the moment she had chosen to capture. What had caused such tension between them, that it felt insurmountable to a woman so beautiful and kind? Someone willing to help him without question or obligation? What a woman to squander.

  “You miss him,” Richard said. “I see it in your painting.”

  “Sometimes I do. Other times I’m so angry at him that I—” She let out a breath and grabbed the corners of the portrait to lift it. “You’re a liar, Richard — it’s a terrible piece of work. I ought to have burned it years ago.”

  When she moved as if to throw the painting in the fireplace, Richard grasped her arm gently. “Don’t. That was no lie, and you well know it.”

  “Fine,” she said. “No lie. Then how about this? It’s been seven years. If he had gone off to battle, that would be a long enough absence to declare him dead. Why can’t he be dead to me? Why am I still holding onto a man who doesn’t want me? This damn portrait is proof. Why not burn it?”

  “Because you love him still.” At her jolt, he said softly, “I only wonder if he deserves you.”

  She lowered her lashes. “Yes, I loved him. And he loved someone else.”

  Caro had never told him that before. “Who?”

  “Our friend Grace,” she said, extricating herself from Richard’s grip. She placed the portrait back onto the easel, and Richard didn’t miss how her hands lingered on it. “It wasn't reciprocated. She died of scarlet fever just after he and I wed. He never forgave me for how I trapped him into a marriage.”

  “You trapped—”

  “Yes. Youthful stupidity, Grace and me. She was so certain he would come to love me. But how could he, when Grace deserved his affection more than I? She was . . . wonderful. The best person I knew.” She looked up at Richard. “Hastings saved her from Kendal, once.”

  Richard frowned. “Saved her how?”

  “Grace was beautiful, even as a younger girl. She was uncomfortable with the amount of attention she received.” Caroline pressed her lips together. “Men tended to disrespect her space, you understand? She wasn’t from a wealthy family. Impoverished gentry, like mine, but her father had nearly gambled their fortune to ruin. Except for Hastings, men were not interested in marrying her.”

  Richard swallowed. “Go on.”

  “Kendal came to visit Ravenhill when me and Grace were both thirteen, far too young for his attentions. He made her feel uncomfortable from the start. Hastings found Kendal in the gallery being quite rough with Grace, and he hit Kendal over the head with a Ming vase. Hastings was only sixteen at the time, still rangy and awkward, but he managed to rough the duke up enough to leave him bleeding.” She forced out a dry laugh. “The only time I ever saw Kendal again was when he wanted to become a patron for my orphanage, if you can believe it. I turned him down.”

  Something was unfurling in Richard’s gut. Anger, rage, instincts honed from years of keeping secrets and using them against men. “What was the reason he gave for wanting to be a patron?”

  Caroline pressed her lips together. “He said, and I’m quoting directly, that he had quite an affection for children. He made my skin crawl.”

  Chapter 28

  Anne was being followed.

  The man thought he was being careful — and he probably was — but Anne could memorize small details. Clothes, faces, movements — anything that stood out to her as a pattern.

  She visited the milliners and seen him outside on a bench reading a newspaper. She sat in the teashop and he’d passed by as if he were every other patron.

  Richard was having this man keep an eye on her.

  Anne understood the concession he made after seeing her bruises. He had let her walk out of that room at the Ashby ball and stand alongside Kendal as the engagement was announced. She had asked so much of him that night in Lord Ashby’s library. Too much.

  The
man passed by the window at the modiste — for the second time.

  Perhaps Anne ought to have been outraged, but she couldn’t muster the emotion when it was so eclipsed by relief. She felt safe knowing she was not alone anymore.

  The night she had escaped to Richard’s house in Bloomsbury, help was a foreign concept. One she believed must be earned through blackmail information. She found trust easier now, for she had allies. Aileen and Richard, and Richard’s men — strangers, yes, but secret confederates in this battle against her father.

  And now she had to warn Richard about the locations and times on the map.

  You must be careful, she reminded herself.

  Stanton had hired a new bodyguard — for her protection, he told her. The ballot act was an important law to Irish separatists and he claimed his public position on the vote made them a target. Anne wasn’t certain how she felt about the separatist movement — five years later, she could still recall where she was the day of the terrible bombing at Clerkenwell — but she did know that allowing men like her father to dictate the votes of others only kept corrupt men in power.

  It had kept him in power.

  No, it wasn’t the Irish he feared, not the Fenians. It was losing his grip on people who were too impoverished and desperate to vote against landlords who treated them like less than human. Landlords who gave her father money to ensure they always had control over others.

  Corrupt men did terrible things in the pursuit of money and influence. Stanton was among the worst.

  So she watched Richard’s man, memorized his movements, and waited for her opportunity.

  “I think I shall visit the bookshop,” she told her bodyguard. Richard’s man would be coming down the pavement in a moment. She’d gathered he did one circuit of the street — the approximate timing matched up to her outings.

  “Prime Minister Sheffield’s asked me to have you home by mid-afternoon,” the bodyguard — Owens — said.

  “It will only be a quick visit, Owens,” she said, walking away from him. “I shan’t be long, I pro — oof!” She collided with a man’s chest. Right on time, she thought. “My goodness,” she exclaimed. “I’m so terribly sorry, sir!”