His Scandalous Lessons

by Katrina Kendrick

  Anne was preparing for bed when her father burst into her room. “Get her dressed,” he said as two maids — Aileen and some housemaid — followed closely behind him. “Pack her things. I want her ready within the hour.”

  Alarmed, Anne stood. “What’s happening?”

  Her father glanced at her. Though he had every appearance of being calm, it was a deception. His face was flushed, hair disheveled as if he had been running his hands through it. Something was wrong. “We’re leaving for Kendal’s estate. You’re to be married tomorrow morning.”

  Oh, god. Anne tried not to show any panic. She could not have him think she intended to run. So she forced some puzzled expression, stupid and wide-eyed. “But I thought . . . the wedding isn’t until next week.” No, that wasn’t enough of a performance. Beauty, not brains, remember? “Goodness, my dress hasn’t even come in!” she said, forcing some high laugh that sounded shrill to her own ears.

  Stanton looked at her in disgust. “Forget the damn dress.”

  She allowed herself a bemused smile. “Forget the dress? But it’s a wedding. It requires a—”

  Crack! His hard slap sent her reeling. Her cheek stung as Anne gripped the bedpost for balance.

  But he wasn’t finished with her. He came forward and gripped her arm. “I said forget the dress,” he snarled. “It won’t make a bloody bit of difference if your groom is waiting to hang and we’re thrown into the streets with debt. My enemies in Parliament would sooner spit in your fucking face than help you.”

  Anne froze, staring at her father in astonishment. Even the maids were stunned. His words, his actions — they weren’t just angry. They were urgent. The rage and panic of an animal caught in a snare, lashing out at whomever came close.

  As if sensing that he’d revealed too much, Stanton released Anne and shoved a hand through his hair. He struggled to smooth his expression, but his eyes were wild. He couldn’t hide that. “I will deal with this,” he hissed. “In the meantime, you will marry the duke, do you hear me?” Without waiting for her to respond, he snapped at the maids, “Get to work. Both of you.”

  Anne trembled as Aileen began to undo the buttons of her nightrail and prepare her for the journey. It would take hours to reach Rosewood, Kendal’s estate in Hampshire. If she knew her father, he would insist she marry the duke practically upon arrival.

  The red hot sting of her cheek was a reminder that her father was not thinking clearly. And that made him dangerous.

  She had to warn Richard.

  “Pardon me,” she said as the other girl finished dressing her, “I must . . .” she didn’t finish as she dashed to the desk to write a note. Her abysmal penmanship betrayed her mounting alarm.

  Richard,

  PM sensing his demise. I require your urgent assistance on the road to Rosewood. He will take the main highway. Hurry.

  —A

  She quickly folded the paper and went to Aileen, grasping the startled girl’s hands. She didn’t care that the other maid, who was packing her things, had paused in dismay. “You said you would help me if I asked it of you. Take this outside after I leave. There will be a man looking to go after me in the carriage, but whatever you do, don’t let him. Tell him to take this note to Mr. Grey urgently. He must do whatever he can to find Mr. Grey tonight, and as quickly as possible.”

  “Oh, miss, I can’t—”

  “Please.” Anne glanced at the other maid, who returned to packing the suitcase as if she didn’t notice the conversation in the room. “Please. I need your help, and his.”

  Aileen took the note and shut her eyes with a sigh. “Yes, miss.”

  “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

  All she had to do was hold out until Richard found her.

  Chapter 35

  Richard shoved his way into his brother’s residence, startling the hell out of the butler. “Bit of an emergency, Jeffries.”

  James’s residence was closer to Kendal’s than Richard’s townhouse, and he wasn’t about to make that child journey to Bloomsbury in her condition. Thorne carried the terrified, filthy girl in his arms, and shut the door behind him with a backward kick of his boot. The girl hadn’t said a word since leaving Kendal's, but came with them willingly after they soothed her with offers of help. She was exhausted, barely capable of walking. Richard suspected she hadn’t eaten for days, probably had little to drink, either. She was small — no older than twelve — her body little more than skin stretched over bones.

  “Jeffries,” Richard said, “I need you to take this child to the kitchen. Get her something to eat and drink while Mr. Thorne and I talk in the library.”

  Jeffries eyed the girl with concern as Thorne set her down. She clung to his hand, clearly reluctant to let go. “Yes, sir. Shall I . . . clean the girl up a bit first?”

  “No,” Thorne said sharply. “Food and drink. And you’ll be gentle with her or I’ll stick your bloody head on a platter.” At Jeffries’s flush, Thorne made a satisfied noise and crouched to speak to the girl. “Don’t you worry now, little one. You follow ‘im to the kitchens, and when you’re through, have ‘im bring you back to me, all right?” She made a noise of protest. “I know. But he won’t hurt you, sweetheart. You’re safe.” He gave her a gentle nudge toward the butler. “Go on.”

  Jeffries gently took the girl’s hand and led her to the kitchens. The two men went into the library, where Richard proceeded to pour them each a finger of brandy, then thought better of it. Two fingers.

  “Here,” he said.

  Richard passed the snifter to Thorne, who immediately downed the contents in a single gulp, then held it out in an indication for a refill. Richard obliged him and splashed more of the amber liquid into a glass.

  “Fuck,” Thorne muttered, shoving a hand through his hair. “Fuck. Skin and bones, that one. You fucking toffs. You just pull ‘em off the street, and—” he broke off and slammed back more of the brandy.

  “Are you all right?” Richard asked. He was shaken himself, seeing the conditions that child had been in. No light at all, bruises across her small arms, haunted gaze.

  She wouldn’t speak.

  “I’m going to snap his neck,” Thorne said, his voice like the scrape of a blade across stone. Richard had never heard the Irishman like this — cold enough to commit murder. This was the lord of the criminal underworld. King of the East End. A man people didn’t dare cross. “I’ll take him to Whitechapel and let the people there have him. The East End ain’t kind to—”

  “No,” Richard said. “Justice needs to be done through the proper channels.”

  “Fuck your proper channels, Grey.”

  “Thorne—”

  “Richard?” His sister’s voice. Alexandra stepped into the library. She was dressed for bed already, her blonde hair loose. She smiled at him. “I heard your voice from upstairs. What—” She froze when she saw Thorne, her eyes going wide. “Nick?”

  Nick? Richard straightened. “Wait a moment, you two know each other?”

  Alexandra’s lips flattened. Ignoring her brother, she marched right up to an impassive Thorne and hissed, “How dare you show your face here, you utter bastard?”

  “Bastard I am,” Thorne said emotionlessly. “But you already knew that. How about a more creative insult, darling? You’re a writer. Try harder.”

  Alexandra’s hands curled into fists. “I’ve had enough of your games.” Her voice shook with emotion. “Don’t think, for one moment, that you can walk back into my life after what you did. You don’t get to command me, Nicholas.”

  “The law might have some disagreement there,” Thorne said, his eyes flashing.

  “The law?” Alexandra raked him with a disgusted look. “You don’t give a damn about the law. Why start now?”

  “Someone tell me what the hell is going on,” Richard interrupted.

  Thorne and Alexandra merely glared at each other, both refusing to answer. They looked like two cats in a bloody standoff.

  Before Richard
could get a word out of them, Jeffries scratched on the door. The little girl was behind him. “Sir? The child is fed. She’s . . . she’s insisting to see that one.” He gestured to Thorne.

  Thorne made some small noise and held his hand out to the girl. “Come ‘ere, little one,” he said, his Irish accent thickening — for the child’s benefit, Richard gathered. She tentatively placed her hand in his. “That’s right. You know a man from th’ rookeries when you see ‘im, aye? You've heard the name Thorne. You know I’ll protect you.”

  Alexandra stared down at the child with growing alarm. “Nick,” Alexandra whispered, kneeling so she was eye level with the child. “My god, the poor thing is frightened and ill. She’s not yours, is she?”

  Thorne shook his head. “Found ‘er at Kendal’s.”

  Alexandra’s brows rose in shock. “Kendal? As in the duke of?” She looked from Thorne to Richard. “You both have a great deal of explaining to do.”

  “You first,” Richard muttered.

  Alexandra scowled at him, then returned her attention to the child. “Sweet child,” she murmured. “Would you like to stay here and rest?”

  “She’s from the East End, Alex,” Thorne said shortly. “Means she’s mine to protect.” He looked over at Richard. “I’m takin’ her. If you don’t do anything about that fucking toff, his life is mine, along with that name you promised.”

  “No.” Alexandra reached out to grasp Thorne’s arm, and Thorne tensed at her touch. “You’re not taking her to that gambling den of yours. She’s only a child.”

  “Better there than ‘ere. She’ll be with ‘er own.” He stared at Alexandra. “We’ll both be.”

  Alexandra flinched, releasing him. “Very well. Take care of her, won’t you?”

  “You wanna come check on her,” Thorne said gruffly, “then you’ll have to see my face some other time, won’t you?” Alexandra looked away as Thorne lifted the girl into his arms and, with a brief nod to Richard, allowed Jeffries to escort him out of the house.

  The room was quiet after that. Alexandra wouldn’t look at Richard.

  “I’m going to ask you to explain,” Richard said. “But I have a horrible feeling I already know.”

  “Then let’s start with you.” Alexandra crossed her arms. “How about you explain how you came to find that child at Kendal’s residence, and why she looked as if she were in the middle of a waking nightmare?”

  “Alexandra.” Richard’s patience was hanging on by a thread, after tonight. And that thread was bloody well fraying. “That wasn’t an invitation to avoid the question. Tell me how you seem to be on such intimate terms with Thorne, the lord of the goddamn criminal underworld.”

  Alexandra grimaced. “Fine. I only ever knew him as Nicholas Spencer.”

  Richard’s eyebrows went up. “Nicholas Spencer? The man who writes essays about the underclasses and tears your work apart in literature reviews, that Nicholas Spencer?”

  Richard had read those articles. They were exceptional — hardly something he’d ever expect Thorne to write. But—

  Ah, hell.

  Spencer.

  Spencer and Grey.

  The note Anne discovered in Sheffield’s study came to mind. Grey and Spencer, Gretna — September 4, 1868.

  He needed to sit. No, he needed a drink.

  Alexandra watched him pour another finger of brandy into his snifter. “Yes, that Nicholas Spencer.” She glared at the door Thorne had just left through. “His real name, I came to discover later, was Nick Thorne. And he’s a liar, thief, criminal, and confidence artist. But by then, it was too late.”

  Richard’s gut clenched. “Christ. You married him, didn’t you? I can’t believe you—”

  “Yes.” She played with the laces of her nightdress. “I married him. We’ve been married for four years, since I was nineteen.”

  Richard squeezed air out of his lungs and tossed back his drink. He was grateful for the burn down his throat. “Holy hell. Holy fucking hell. How was it possible I didn’t know about this?”

  Stanton Sheffield had found out. This was a disaster. Alexandra would be ruined. All of them would be.

  “No one knew except the old earl.” Alexandra looked helpless. “He orchestrated the whole thing.”

  Had he heard correctly? “Father. Orchestrated your marriage. To Nicholas Thorne.”

  His sister sighed. “It’s complicated. I’m illegitimate, Richard. He wasn’t my father.”

  This was too much. He needed another drink. He needed a whole damn bottle. He—

  “Sir?” Jeffries was at the door again. “You’ve another visitor. He says it’s urgent. His name is Samuel.”

  Samuel. He wouldn’t have come here unless it had to do with Anne. Something was wrong. As he strode out of the room, he told his sister, “We’ll talk about this later. First chance I get.”

  But now he had to help Anne.

  Chapter 36

  The carriage rocked fretfully along the country road. Anne clasped and unclasped her hands as her heart knocked against her ribs. The interior was quiet, tomb-like. Nothing but soft breathing and the occasional whisper of fabric broke the silence between father and daughter.

  “You will stay with His Grace once we arrive,” Stanton finally said. His voice seemed so loud in the small, dark space. “Rosewood is to be your new home.”

  Stay calm. “Am I not returning to London?”

  He lifted a shoulder. “There’s little point. If I need your assistance on political matters, I will call for you. No sooner.”

  So he intended to leave her there, a possession sold and transported to its new owner. She was to remain sequestered in the country like some dusty old artifact, to be used only when convenient. Such a future he and Kendal had planned for her. Such little regard they had for the inconvenient fact that she possessed feelings at all.

  Anne stared at the dark corner of the carriage where he sat. Though she could barely see her father’s face, she felt his eyes on her. “Are you staying for the wedding?”

  “Kendal has a special license and staff who can serve as witnesses. I have business to attend to.”

  “What business?” Could she ask? Did she dare? She wondered if it mattered now. What use was her performance past tonight? “In my bedchamber, you seemed troubled.”

  “I don’t believe I asked your opinion on the matter.” He made a dismissive sound. “Good god, Kendal will have to work a great deal to undo the Duchess of Hastings’s influence. I don’t see that her lessons had a positive effect on you, if your insolence is any indication.”

  Oh, Anne wanted to be insolent. She wanted to rage. She wanted to show him who she really was, and it wasn’t some subservient daughter who sought approval from him where she could find it. Never that.

  “The duchess is my friend,” she said.

  “Your friend. I doubt Kendal will think too kindly on her once he sees how impertinent you’ve become. Some time alone at Rosewood with him ought to remind you of his lessons.”

  His lessons. Liberties no man should have with a girl so young. Touches she had only recently discovered were a perversion of intimacy, a mockery. And her own father approved of it.

  “I don’t care what he thinks. His lessons were an affront to decency.”

  Stanton looked at her sharply. “Stop whining, Anne, and don’t stare at me like that. Look down, for god’s sake. Have I taught you nothing?”

  Rage burned inside her so hot and intense that her skin heated. She’d had enough. Let the performance shatter — she had no need of it. Her mind was her own once more, her memory a weapon. It belonged to her; no one else. “Oh, you’ve taught me very well. I’ve learned so much from you about how to manipulate men. How to gather information.”

  “Anne, you will cease this—”

  ”Where are the children Kendal adopted, Father? Somehow, I think you know.”

  Stanton froze. She heard sounds from him, as if he wasn’t quite sure what to say. Then, before she could blink
, he was across the seat, grasping the front of her dress. “Where did you hear about that? You can’t—” He let out a brittle laugh, realization dawning in his features. “Richard Grey. Seems you’ve been more busy than I thought. I’d wondered what prompted him to start looking into Kendal. Should have known it had to do with a woman. I underestimated you, haven’t I?”

  “You always have,” she said softly.

  His lips thinned. He shook her hard enough that her teeth clicked. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done? You bloody little idiot.”

  “What I’ve done? You’re prepared to hand me over to a man who takes children from the rookeries and . . . and does what? Abuses them? Kills them? Both?” At her father’s silence, Anne shook her head. “I knew you were heartless; I didn’t expect you to be an absolute monster.”

  “I had to,” he hissed. “Do you have any idea of the funds it takes to become a politician of note, let alone prime minister? We came from nothing, Anne. No money, no connections. That pretty dress you’re wearing? This carriage? Who do you think has paid for all this?” He made a sound of derision. “Children die in the rookeries every day. They’re of no consequence. A few less mouths to feed. Their mistresses were happy to be rid of them.” He leaned in too close, his next words were spoken in a hiss that sent a shiver down her spine. “It’s easy to get away with murder when no one gives a damn for the victims.”

  “Yes,” Anne said in disgust, “a complete monster.”

  “Monster I am. If Richard Grey takes all this away, what will you be left with? Nothing.” Stanton tightened his grip on her. “But I’m going to fix this. Once I let him know I’ve found out his sister is a bastard, married to a criminal from the rookeries, he’ll keep his trap shut or she’ll face ruin. His family is his weakness.”

  Anne stared at her father. “And if he doesn’t?”

  He was quiet a moment. Then: “I have other ways. I’d rather not use them, but I will if I have to. And I will take care. Some people are missed more than others, after all.”