His Scandalous Lessons

by Katrina Kendrick

  Richard smashed his fist into St. Vincent’s face. One hard left hook and the fool collapsed onto the carpet, unconscious and bleeding.

  With a broken nose, from the looks of things.

  Leo sighed. “Goddamn it, Grey.”

  “I told him to get out,” Richard said with a shrug. “He chose not to go. Do you know the man he spoke of? Malloy?”

  Leo shook his head. “I’ll make some inquiries.”

  “Keep it from Thorne, for now. I’ll tell him when the time is right.” Richard glanced at the pathetic lord on the floor. “What did he mean about Thorne outside my brother’s home?”

  Now Leo looked uncomfortable. “Not my business to say.”

  “Leo—”

  “Not. My. Business.” He made some noise and knelt beside St. Vincent. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to deal with this foul bastard and find information on that name.”

  Richard finally noticed Gemma was still there, watching the whole show with a great deal of amusement. He dug into his pocket and came out with a wad of notes. “How much was he offering to pay you for the night, darling?”

  Gemma smiled. “Ten quid.”

  “Lies and damned lies, but I admire your savvy as well as your silence. Want to keep it?” He handed her some notes. “Here’s triple.”

  She gaped at him, but the expression was quickly replaced by an appreciative, lingering look over his body. “You lookin’ for company tonight?”

  “I appreciate the offer, but I’m very much taken and in love.”

  Gemma sighed. “Lucky girl.”

  Chapter 30

  The Prime Minister’s house had finally gone quiet.

  Anne had waited all morning for her father to depart for his scheduled meetings. He was in some awful mood, his shouted commands to the servants heard even behind the walls of her bedchamber. The slam of the front door had come as a relief.

  There was still time to search Stanton’s rooms. Anne had approximately ten minutes before the servants began cleaning the wing of the house where his bedchamber was located.

  She hurried down the hall and slipped quietly into his bedchamber. The sheets were strewn about the bed, as if his slumber had been restless. Stanton was a light sleeper. He retired late and rose early. These past few days were even worse for his rest; he had been more agitated than usual, no doubt a result of the upcoming vote on the ballot act.

  “Key,” she murmured, moving to his dressing table. “Where would he keep a key?”

  While he was out, Stanton’s study remained locked. The servants were never allowed to clean in there; her father was overly suspicious by nature, unwilling to risk any chance of information leaking out of his home.

  While he burned incriminating information after telling Anne, Stanton was also prone to leaving paperwork in there until he’d seen her. The reason was simple: for a man as clever and manipulative as Stanton Sheffield, his memory was poor. Details escaped him. Even when debating in the Commons, he compensated for this weakness by making grandiose claims, regardless of whether they skirted the truth — after all, charisma could make the grandest of lies seem believable. But even deception required knowledge of his adversaries, and Stanton lacked the retentiveness to recall which bribe had been made to whom.

  It was also why he relied so very much on Anne.

  Stanton’s terrible memory, in this case, was also an unexpected benefit: he required the key to his study to remain in the same place. He had raged for days the one time he pocketed it and forgot.

  Anne dug through a few drawers, but found no items of interest. With a frustrated sound, she moved to the bureau. It was an antique, built with plenty of different compartments. She turned the brass key so the built-in desk fell forward.

  Aha! There, in the small compartment to the left, was the skeleton key to his study.

  Anne snatched it up, hurried out of the room, and down the stairs. On the way, she passed the maids who were just going up to clean.

  Too close.

  “Quickly,” she told herself as she unlocked the door to the study. “Quickly.” She wasn’t certain when her father would be returning, and she still needed time to return the key.

  She started at the desk. The papers were all dull details: bills coming up to vote, letters from constituents, a few details pertaining to property. His ledgers were open, detailing their many, many expenditures. Yes, this house was not inexpensive. Neither were bribes. This was not new information.

  The hidden compartments of his desk told the same story.

  Nothing.

  Her foot came in contact with the wastebasket. Kneeling, she picked through the crumpled papers in there — nothing of import. Only quick reminders he didn’t need her for. Meeting at 8:15. Schedule dinner after next week’s session.

  Then, one that made her frown:

  Grey & Spencer — Gretna

  September 4, 1868

  Did he mean Richard? And who was this Spencer?

  A voice outside in the hallway made Anne freeze. “Well, where the bloody hell is she? Her father informed me she would be at home.”

  “I’m terribly sorry, sir,” Bates said, sounding at a loss. “She was in her room—”

  Anne didn’t hear the rest of his answer as she quickly tossed the crumpled papers into the bin and slipped out the door. She grasped a book — whatever had been sitting in the hallway on one of the shelves — and hummed to herself, pretending as if she had just been reading as she made her way down the hall to the foyer.

  “Ah, here she is,” Bates said, sounding much relieved. “Miss Sheffield, His Grace has—”

  “Been left waiting,” Kendal interrupted, scrutinizing her. “And I don’t like to be left waiting. We’ve discussed the matter, haven’t we?”

  Anne shut the book softly. “My apologies. I was in the library and didn’t hear anyone.” She nodded to the butler and said, “Tea for His Grace, please.”

  “I’m not interested in tea. Come with me to the sitting room.”

  Kendal turned and started down the hall, clearly expecting her to follow.

  Anne lingered in the foyer with the butler. “I’ve never asked this of you,” she said very softly to Bates, “but if . . . if I’m still in there in ten minutes, bring Owens and call me away on some emergency.”

  Bates nodded, concern plain in his expression. “Yes, miss.”

  He left, but not before she saw the pity in his features. There was not a servant in this house that liked Kendal; they all knew how he treated Anne. They had been instructed to ignore it. After all, what could servants do against a duke?

  This small act was the only thing.

  When she got to the sitting room, Kendal settled onto the chaise and nodded to the door. “Close it. I don’t want us to be disturbed.”

  Anne held her breath and did as he bade. She knew what was coming. Another lesson. If they didn’t hurt, they were intended to leave her humiliated. Her spirit whittled away until what remained was a woman carved into she shape of his ideal, but it still wasn’t enough.

  “What did you wish to speak about?” she said with a false smile that took all her effort to keep in place.

  That smile was how she’d survived all these years. It was another part of her performance that was beginning to wear around the edges. She wasn’t certain how much longer she would be able to play it.

  Kendal leaned back and examined her closely with those cold, blue eyes. Remarkable in color, yes, but not like Richard’s. There was no warmth in that blue. They were as cold as the sea in winter.

  “I met with your father yesterday at our club. He tells me you’ve been difficult since returning from the Duchess of Hastings’s estate,” he said casually. “I thought surely he must be mistaken — you seemed manageable enough at the Ashby ball. But then I was made to wait this afternoon while your useless butler wandered around trying to find you.”

  Manageable. That’s all she was, a possession to be managed. This man and her fathe
r cared not about her mind, or her feelings; she was not a person to them. She was just some valuable in the shape of a woman, one who had been bought and sold. It would be more convenient to them had she no thoughts at all.

  “I didn’t mean to—”

  “I haven’t given you permission to speak yet.” He beckoned with his fingers. “Come.”

  Her footsteps were quiet as she moved across the carpet. Don’t show weakness. Show nothing. He will get nothing from you.

  “You’re not so simple-minded as to misunderstand that I’ve always loathed you,” he continued, placing his hand on her waist as she stood before him. “I didn’t want you, and I don’t take well to being bribed. But I think now may be a good time to face facts: we are marrying, and that’s the end of it. But you should do whatever it takes to please me even before then, shouldn’t you? Speak.”

  “Yes, Henry,” she whispered.

  “Good. Then take off your dress.”

  You are stone. Stone does not yield. It can sharpen a blade. Your mind is that blade. Your mind is a weapon.

  With trembling hands, she reached back and began undoing the hidden hooks of her day dress.

  You can endure this. You will endure this.

  “Your corset closes in the front, I see. Take it off. Underthings, as well,” he said when she had finished.

  Don’t you understand how strong you are? You’ve survived all this time. You saved yourself. You’ll save yourself again.

  As each article of clothing pooled at her feet, Anne imagined herself outside her body, watching from afar. If only she could close her eyes and picture Richard—

  No. She would never give Kendal the satisfaction of such weakness. She refused to close her eyes and pretend. He would not have such power over her, ever.

  What she shared with Richard wouldn’t be sullied in this room. She would not let Kendal blacken the only true intimacy she ever experienced.

  “There we go,” he murmured when she was naked. His fingertips grazed her bare waist. “Let me take a look . . .”

  He cannot break you. He cannot break you. He cannot break you.

  “Good god.” Kendal laughed. “All these hideous freckles.”

  Before she could stop herself, the memory of Richard’s voice came fast: My god, I love them. I’m going to kiss every last one. You’ll never tear me away.

  Anne bit her lip. Don’t think of him. Not now. Not here.

  This is your body. This is your mind. They belong to you, and no one else. This man cannot take them from you. No one can.

  “Your breasts are too large, Anne,” the duke muttered. “I do hope you don’t intend to eat the way you have been after we marry. But this—” His hand grasped her bottom — “is nicely shaped. Come sit on my lap. I’d like to have you to myself for—”

  An urgent knock sounded at the door. “Miss Sheffield!” Bates. God in heaven, she could kiss the man. “Miss Sheffield, I’m afraid something requires your urgent attention.”

  “Christ, man, can’t it wait?” Kendal answered for her.

  “No, Your Grace.” This from Owens. The bodyguard’s rough voice sounded disgusted. “I’m afraid Miss Sheffield must come straightaway.”

  Kendal made a noise of displeasure and shoved Anne aside. “Go,” he said. “Handle the matter with your servants. I’ll take my leave.”

  “Yes, Henry,” she said.

  “And Anne?” Kendal paused at the door. “There won’t be any servants to save you from my bed.”

  He threw open the door and left. Anne clutched her clothes to the front of her, shaking so badly that she couldn’t do much of anything but stand there.

  Bates and Owens entered the drawing room, carefully pretending not to notice her undressed state. They both shared expressions of concern. Relief overwhelmed her.

  They had helped.

  They had helped her.

  “Thank you,” she whispered, her fingers tightening around the muslin. “Christ god, thank you. Bates, if you could summon Aileen, I believe I’ll require a bit of assistance . . .”

  “Yes, miss,” he said with a firm nod.

  “Owens, please ask cook to make a cup of tea . . . I think I need one.”

  “Happy to, miss,” the bodyguard replied.

  As both men did her bidding, Anne tried not to sink to the floor. She remained standing.

  She would not be broken.

  Chapter 31

  The knock on Richard’s hotel room door came well after midnight.

  Richard opened it to find Leo standing nonchalantly with his hands in his pockets. The Irishman looked as if this were some casual call and not criminal business. Richard supposed that, to a man like Leo O’Sullivan, criminal business was about as normal as a daily ablution.

  “Nice hotel,” Leo said, pushing his way inside Richard’s room. “I stopped at your place in Bloomsbury and surprised some pretty little thing in the middle of tea. She looked miserable. Have a row with your lover?”

  “She’s my brother’s lover,” Richard said distractedly, shutting the door.

  Leo wrinkled his nose in disgust. “You share your brother’s women? You aristos are—”

  “No, no.” Good Christ, he needed sleep. He was exhausted. “James is an idiot. Emma is staying at my house until he realizes she’s the love of his life. And I’m here.”

  “Romantic,” the Irishman said shortly. “I can’t say I ever took you for one.”

  Richard shook his head. “Just tell me why you’ve come.”

  Leo looked amused now, as if it delighted him to irritate Richard. Richard supposed it probably did please a man like O’Sullivan to have the opportunity to frustrate a gentleman. A perverse pleasure, perhaps, in taking a man from the upper classes down a notch. Richard would normally let Leo have his fun, but tonight was an exception. Anne’s safety was his priority.

  “You told me to look into that name last night.” Leo asked. He gestured to himself. “Well, here I am. You still want that information, or not?”

  “Quick, aren’t you?”

  “I’m good at my job,” he corrected, wandering over to the table where Richard had left a glass with half a finger of brandy. Without ceremony, Leo tossed back the contents. “Malloy hangs around a public house in Spitalfields. The Seven Bells. You know it?”

  “I’ve heard of it, yes.”

  “Good. You’d best speak to him tonight, because he’ll bounce once he hears I’ve been looking for him.”

  “And why would that be?”

  Leo set the snifter down sharply. “Because men I’m looking for tend to be found floating in the Thames.” At Richard’s scowl, Leo’s lips curled into a smile. Behind those spectacles, his eyes flashed with a darkness that surprised even Richard. “But you were already aware of that.”

  “Yes. I just don’t particularly approve.”

  Leo lifted a shoulder and pushed past Richard to the door. “Are you coming?”

  “I’ll come,” Richard said, grabbing his coat. “But you had better follow my lead tonight, Leo.”

  “Tonight,” Leo conceded. “After that, I make no promises.” Then, looking over Richard’s rumpled attire: “And unless you want your pocket picked, you’d best change out of those clothes.”

  The Seven Bells loomed at the end of a busy thoroughfare. It stood as a sanctuary for the people of Spitalfields — a place to drink their worries away.

  Like every establishment in the immediate area, it wasn’t a pretty place. That wasn’t its purpose. For unlike the Brimstone, the Seven Bells was not meant for those who had acquired or been born into wealth. Patrons of the Brimstone might have come here, once or twice, in the days before making their fortune.

  The men who came here didn’t have overflowing pockets — just enough to spend for the night. And the women? They were looking for someone with a bit of extra coin to purchase a quick fuck against a dark alleyway wall outside.

  In the distance, Richard heard the shattering of glass, then screams, laugh
ter, chatting. Spitalfields at night could closely resemble some circle of hell, where the coal was thick enough to choke on, poverty ruled, and drink became a refuge for those with little else to look forward to.

  Leo and Richard strolled past an unconscious man lying prone on the pavement with a bottle in his hand. Then past the prostitute being tupped in plain view. As they neared the front of the Seven Bells, a man drunkenly stumbled out of the double doors and fell into the gutter.

  None of these sights surprised Richard. After all his years coming to the East End on some business, he’d grown used to it. As for Leo, the pugilist certainly wasn’t bothered. He’d been raised in these streets. For him, this was home.

  They pushed their way into the public house. The dim lighting within the Seven Bells only contributed to its casual atmosphere. In the corner, a man had struck up a fiddle to play, and people stomped their boots to the tune. They sang bawdy drinking songs that would make anyone from Richard’s part of the city flush with embarrassment. Mugs of ale were waved to and fro, and spilled drunkenly onto the sticky hardwood floor.

  Serving girls weaved between tables. Leo stopped one and spoke low into her ear. She nodded to a table at the far end of the bar, where a man sat alone with a tankard of ale.

  Leo nudged Richard forward.

  Malloy was thin and sickly from malnourishment — Richard could tell by the way he trembled as he lifted his tankard. He was also younger than Richard had thought at first glance. Living in this part of the city aged a person; he was probably no older than Alexandra. Stringy black hair hung limply around his face, which was marked with scars from some childhood ailment. He looked alarmed when Richard and Leo sat across from him.

  “Malloy, yes?” Richard asked casually, waving to get the serving girl’s attention. He held up two fingers, then focused once more on the man across from him.

  The other man’s eyes narrowed. “Who’s askin’?”

  “I’m Richard Grey.” He gestured with a nod to Leo. “And you must know Leo O’Sullivan by reputation.”