His Scandalous Lessons

by Katrina Kendrick

  Leo’s grin was slow and deadly. “Yeah, he does.”

  Fear flashed in Malloy’s eyes. He jerked to his feet, but not before Richard grasped his hand and bent back a finger. Malloy’s sharp cry of pain was drowned out by the screech of the fiddle.

  “Sit back down,” Richard said evenly, “or I break this finger, Malloy.”

  The other man sat, his chest rising and falling rapidly. He looked like some prey animal ready to dart. “What do ye want?”

  Richard smiled as the serving girl set a tankard of ale in front of him and Leo. She didn’t blink twice at the fact that he was still holding Malloy’s finger at a painful angle.

  “Thank you, darling,” Richard said with a charming wink. She passed him a grin and left. He returned his attention to the man across from him. “First, let me establish rules.”

  “Rules?” Malloy flinched as Richard shoved his finger back farther. “Fuck. Please don’t—”

  “Quiet,” Richard said firmly. “Yes, rules. Leo here isn’t a fan of them, are you Leo?”

  “Nope.” Leo smirked. “Can’t say I abide ‘em.”

  “See? So it’s best to listen to me, or you’ll have to deal with O’Sullivan here, and he’s not nearly as pleasant as I am. Understood?” Malloy nodded. Sweat was beginning to bead along his upper lip; he licked it away. “Here’s the first rule: every time you try to run, I break a finger. Got it?”

  Malloy bit his lip and nodded. “Aye. Jesus, all right.”

  “Rule two: you will answer every question I ask, without complaint, or I break a finger. Nod.” Malloy nodded again. “Good. Rule three: if I reach four broken fingers on this hand—” he wiggled the hand in question — “you get to deal with Leo. I’ll save your thumb because I’m feeling benevolent, and your other five fingers because every man needs one working hand for those lonely nights. I doubt Leo will let you off so easily. Will you, Leo?”

  “No.” Leo’s eyes glinted behind his spectacles. “I will not.”

  “Agreed, Malloy?”

  His eyes darted to Leo, then to where Richard still held his finger back. He must have sensed the futility of resistance, because he shut his eyes and muttered, “Fuck. Aye.”

  Richard smiled. “Good. Now tell me about the Duke of Kendal.”

  Malloy made some noise like a frightened animal and shoved away from the bench. Richard was faster. With a swift jerk of his hand, he broke Malloy’s forefinger and grasped the next. The other man’s sharp cry caused more than one head to turn in their direction, but after a swift survey of the scene, the other patrons looked away.

  This was life in Spitalfields. No one saved you from your own stupidity. They were all immune from the ugliness of crime, intimidation, bribery. This was their normal, not a sight to gawk at. They minded their business.

  “Sit down, or I break the next finger.” Richard’s voice was low, dangerous. He had never used such a tone — never had the need. This was brought on by the knowledge that he was about to uncover an atrocity that would leave him cold. That would shake the very foundations of the British government.

  And Anne was caught in the middle of it.

  Malloy sat, his breath heaving now. “Please — please don’t — he’ll kill me.”

  Richard narrowed his gaze. “And you think O’Sullivan is going to spare you? Make your choice, Malloy. Tell me about Kendal or I break the next fucking finger.”

  “He’s just some toff—” Malloy shrugged helplessly with a high, thin laugh — “comes ‘round every so often.”

  Richard’s lips curled into a chilling smile. “Malloy, Malloy, Malloy. Do you think me daft? Try again.”

  Malloy’s eyes darted between Leo and Richard. “He, uhhh, he pays up for ‘em, but I dunno what he does with ‘em, I swear to God. Please don’t hurt me. I don’t—”

  Richard increased the pressure, and Malloy let out a whimper. “Pays up for whom?” At Malloy’s hesitation, he snarled, “If you value your hand, tell me.”

  “Them kids.” He looked around and dropped to a whisper. “What come from them orphanages. He tells me what he wants and I pick ‘em up and deliver.”

  Richard glanced at Leo, whose jaw was tense. He was staring at Malloy with murder plain in his features. It was frightening. It was called for. Yes, the Irishman had some notion of where this led. The Viscount of St. Vincent had already made clear the duke’s obscene predilections. It didn’t take a bloody map to follow the rest.

  “How many?”

  “Dunno.” Malloy bit his lip. “Coupla dozen, maybe, over th’ years.”

  “Christ god,” Leo breathed, his nostrils flaring. Richard imagined it was only the grace of God that kept the pugilist from lunging over the table to smash Malloy’s face in.

  “How much does he pay you?” Richard asked. He had to finish this up before Leo snapped.

  “A dragon each kid,” Malloy said in a low voice. At Leo’s sharp intake of breath, he said defensively, “What? He asked!”

  “You sold children for a fucking sovereign,” Leo snarled.

  “I got a life of me own, don’t I? Need ooftish to pay me landlord, don’t I?”

  “And it doesn’t matter to you what happens to them?” Leo shoved away from the table, his chest heaving. “Does it, Malloy?”

  “Leo—”

  Richard was too distracted by Leo’s sudden anger. He made the mistake of looking away from the man in his grip.

  Malloy finally took his chance.

  He yanked free of Richard and knocked over a tankard of ale as he fled. Liquid spilled all over the floor. A man shouted a foul curse at Malloy as he careened into a serving girl. Spinning, he scampered through a crowd of patrons and darted out the door of the Bells.

  Leo moved to go after him, but Richard put a hand on his chest. “Don’t. Let him go.”

  The Irishman was breathing hard, his spectacles fogged over with heat. He yanked out of Richard’s grip. “You have your answer. Satisfied?”

  “No. How could I be anything but horrified by that answer?”

  Leo looked around with a helpless, almost wild expression on his face. He grasped the tankard of ale and drank deep. “I’ll find him, Grey,” he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You’re prolonging the inevitable.”

  “You gave me your word you wouldn’t tell Thorne yet.”

  The Irishman looked at him sharply. “You’ve got brass bollocks to ask for my silence after tonight.” At Richard’s quiet stare, he curled his lip. “A few days, Grey. That’s it. Because once Thorne hears of this, he and I will find that bastard and float his arse in the Thames.” He slammed the empty tankard onto the table and shoved past Richard.

  Richard couldn’t help but notice how Leo O’Sullivan’s hands shook.

  Chapter 32

  One day had not made Anne any less afraid.

  After Kendal left, she had remained in the sitting room. Controlling her emotions ought to have been easy after all these years, but Anne feared she was beginning to lose the talent. She had been trembling so much that Aileen held her hand and whispered soft words. The lady’s maid, it seemed, had experience in comforting upset women.

  Anne needed air. She couldn’t remain in that house; the walls were smothering. The air was stale. She couldn’t breathe.

  Anne was unsteady when she left the house for Hyde Park with Owens.

  No amount of walks could help her forget how defenseless she felt in that drawing room with Kendal. Her mind might be a weapon honed after all these years in her father’s home, but this performance put her at risk. Every hour she spent in that house was a danger — she understood that better now.

  She would not forget it again.

  The note she wrote Richard before leaving the house was crumpled in her gloved hand. His man was nowhere in sight.

  Had he abandoned her, then? Was she to be left alone once more?

  Owens must have noticed her worry. “Are ye all right, Miss Sheffield?”

  Anne swall
owed. “I’m afraid I’m very much not, Owens,” she said quietly. “After yesterday . . .”

  She let her words trail off. She ought to have more care, speaking so freely in front of servants paid to report her every move. But her hands were shaking, and her breathing remained uneven. She could not control these things anymore than she could the circumstance that brought them. Anne was not so talented an actress.

  A day was not enough to quiet her fear that at any moment, the duke would return and resume where he had left off.

  The bodyguard was quiet as he strolled beside her. “I ain’t been in service to your father long, but . . . I think ye a kind sort.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “I appreciate you telling me so.”

  “And it ain’t me place, but —” Owens cleared his throat — “I think yer duke is a right foul bastard, miss. If ye don’t mind me sayin’ it.”

  “Between us . . .” She glanced around and found their path empty. “I think him right foul bastard, as well.”

  Owens let out a shocked laugh. “And I’m thinkin’ yer more clever than ye let on?”

  Anne’s smile was small. “Can you keep a secret, Owens?”

  “Aye, miss.”

  “I hate shopping for hats. I only wanted to leave the house.”

  He stared at her, then threw back his head and laughed. “Aye, clever lady, ye are. I never even suspected.”

  After a while, their laughter faded and they walked in companionable silence. “Thank you,” Anne said. “For yesterday. And today, as well.”

  Owens flashed a smile. “My pleasure, miss.”

  An hour later, as they neared the Serpentine Bridge, Anne noticed Richard’s man approaching on the pavement. Though he had done a great deal to change his appearance, she’d memorized the way he walked. It was a leisurely stroll, hands in his pockets, as if he were only here to enjoy the park like everyone else.

  Anne breathed a sigh of relief. He had not abandoned her after all.

  When she passed him on the bridge, she grasped his hand and — ignoring his startled jolt — silently slid the note into his palm.

  It was time to return to her prison.

  Anne paced her room, repeating the message she’d written to on that small scrap of paper in her mind.

  Take this to Mr. Grey.

  The staff go quiet after midnight. The back garden is protected by a gate that I have left open. The tree outside my window (third floor, directly above the statue of Bacchus) is easily scalable.

  Yours,

  Anne

  Anne was so distracted with worry that she didn’t notice Richard climb through the window. She jumped when his arms closed around her from behind.

  “Easy,” Richard said softly. “It’s only me.”

  She whirled and pulled his body hard into hers, shutting her eyes as she breathed him in. His shirt was redolent with the scent of him: smoke and soap and brandy and the fresh aroma of laundry. Yes, this was safety.

  As if understanding her need for comfort, Richard’s body responded to hers. He sank a hand into her hair with some small, rough noise and held her tightly.

  You’re safe, she tried telling herself again. You’re safe. He’s holding you, and you’re safe.

  But the memory of Kendal’s touch was too much, too recent. It had been so close. He’d had her stripped bare. He’d had his hands on her, squeezing and grasping and cold—

  It wasn’t until Richard gripped her shoulders that she realized she was trembling. “Anne? What is it?”

  Breathe. Breathe . . .

  She shook her head, burying her face in his shoulder. “It’s nothing.”

  “You’re shaking, sweetheart. It’s not nothing.”

  “Just hold me,” she whispered. “Please just hold me.”

  His scent, his touch, his voice — she clung hard to these things. Each were little reminders that she was not helpless, not alone or without allies. She had saved herself.

  He made soothing sounds and stroked her back. She was so unaccustomed to comfort, to any sort of tender touch. How had she lived for so long without it?

  No, not living. Surviving was not the same as living. This was all she did in her father’s home: survived one day to the next, planning her escape. The only time she had ever been alive was after she had met Richard.

  Wonder filled her as she pulled back to stare up at him. He was hers, and she was his. She never had anything that belonged to her — and no one to whom she had freely given.

  She was not his by coercion. He did not purchase her. He had earned her affection. Her trust, her love, her everything.

  His thumb brushed her cheek. “Were you worried about me? Is that it?”

  Telling him about Kendal’s visit would accomplish nothing. She would not have him lose focus, not now.

  So she pushed that earlier encounter out of her mind. She was with Richard now. She would not have the memory of Kendal ruin it.

  “Of course I worry about you,” she told him. “You ought to take more care.”

  His smile was warm, slightly wicked. Beautiful. “Darling, I told you. I’m always careful.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Oh?” He leaned forward. She shivered as he flicked his tongue across her pulse. “So you’re calling me a liar?”

  “You’re in politics,” she said simply.

  Richard kissed his way across her collarbone. Anne squeaked when his free hand cupped her bottom. “Mmm. You don’t feel like politics to me.”

  “You’re trying to distract me,” she said with a sigh.

  “Yes. Is it working?”

  “I’m interpreting your distraction as defeat. I’m right.”

  He tutted. “I refuse to concede. You’ll have to convince me. Go on.”

  She shook her head and laughed. “How about this? My father is determined to destroy you, you’ve a habit of employing confidence artists and thieves, and men are notoriously reckless creatures with little regard for their own lives.”

  He chuckled, his breath tickling her skin. “Oh, I assure you, I value my life quite highly. It’s the criminals who make it interesting.” At her snort, he said, “Very well. You win. As always.”

  “I like that answer.” She hooked an arm around his neck and gave him a quick kiss on the lips. “What do I win?”

  Now his smile was wicked. “I’m sure I can think of something, brilliant girl.” As if to illustrate his point, his began pulling the pins out of her hair. “You’ve been terrifying the devil out of Samuel, by the way. My felonious hireling.”

  Anne pulled back, her curls loose now. “Just a moment. That man was a criminal? You have a criminal following me about?”

  Richard laughed, tossing her hairpins onto the nightstand. “Criminals make excellent agents. There’s not much they won’t do when they’re well-paid, and being in my employ gets them off the streets. Samuel is a retired thief.”

  “Well, I suppose in the realm of criminality, retired thief is preferable to retired murderer.”

  “A gentleman has to have standards on the sort of criminal he has guarding his lady,” Richard agreed. “Samuel’s never been noticed before he began watching you. He’s starting to think he’s losing his touch.”

  “No, no,” she reassured him as his arm came around her waist again. “He’s very good. I just notice—”

  “Everything,” Richard finished for her. “Clever Anne,” he whispered, grazing his thumb across her lower lip. “Beautiful Anne. What did you wish to tell me?”

  She recalled the note from her father’s study. “Do you know anyone named Spencer?”

  Richard considered the question a moment. “I don’t believe so. Why?”

  “Because there was a note in my father’s study that said simply, ‘Grey and Spencer, Gretna — September 4, 1868’. Does that mean something to you?”

  “No,” he said with a frown. “There’s little to do in Gretna other than get married at the anvil. A decision I’ve only had re
cent interest in pursuing.”

  She flashed a quick smile, warming at that. “Could your sister have?”

  “Alexandra?” Richard laughed. “Good god, no. If she met a man she was that desperate to marry, James would have given his blessing in a heartbeat. Or my father; he would have been alive four years ago in September.”

  “And your brother . . . ?”

  “James showed no interest in matrimony until recently, and he almost made a hash of it. I’ve had his woman staying at my place while he figured out how to grovel.” At Anne’s guarded expression, he chucked. “Jealous, sweetheart?”

  Anne pressed her lips together. “No.”

  “Liar.”

  “You’re calling me a liar now?”

  He leaned forward and nipped at her earlobe. Then, a murmur in her ear, “What was it you told me? You’re in politics.”

  “Tangentially,” she countered.

  “Same. So that’s good enough for me,” he argued. “Jealous.”

  “You’re an admitted rake.”

  “Reformed rake.”

  “Who just days ago talked about fucking me against a bookcase.”

  Richard’s laugh was husky at her throat. “Now there’s a cure for jealousy. I knew you were brilliant.” The flick of his tongue made her shiver. “She left. To America,” he murmured. “He followed.”

  She was too distracted by what he was doing with his lips to comprehend his words. “Hmm?”

  “My brother and Emma. James left to convince her to marry him.”

  “Did he?” She smiled now. “That’s lovely.”

  Richard tipped up her chin. “If he feels for her a fraction of what I do for you, he’d follow her clear across the earth. Yes?”

  After surviving her father’s home for nearly twenty years, pursuing someone she loved across the world seemed the easier journey. Anne felt, sometimes, as if she and Richard were already separated by some vast ocean, passing each other like hailing ships. Finding precious moments where they could.

  They had only hours in this room, before the sun came up. Before he had to leave, and she would once again be alone in her gilded prison.