Seductive Scoundrels Series Books 4-6: A Regency Romance

by Collette Cameron

  He meant to coax her out of her self-imposed isolation. A trip to Gunter’s was in order for a long-overdue ice. The more they were seen together, the more credibility would be given to his break with Miss Brighton and his betrothal to Jessica.

  Crispin had no druthers about revealing Lilith’s little secret. In fact, he was prepared to make her condition very public if Brighton didn’t cooperate. He’d wait until his investigators had gathered all of the relevant facts to make his case impenetrable. Blackmailing a peer wouldn’t weigh in her or her father’s favor.

  Dandridge, Pennington, Westfall, Asherford, Sheffield, Waycross, and several other friends and members of Bon Chance had vowed their support. No one was fool enough to take on a dozen powerful dukes.

  He rapped again, surprised the door hadn’t opened at once.

  Did Jessica ride?

  He flicked a speck of dust off his lapel. He’d never observed her riding in Colechester, but then again, her family was as poor as proverbial church mice. He rather imagined she’d enjoy his stables at Pickford Hill Park. There was something satisfying when a foal was born. As if Crispin had contributed something pure and innocent and useful to this wretched world.

  The door finally opened, and Sutcliffe’s bland-faced butler ushered him inside. Ah, he’d forgotten Rumsfeld never rushed at anything. Steady as she goes and slow as a tortoise. Or a snail. Through molasses. In wintertime.

  “Good day, Rumsfeld.”

  “Your Grace,” Rumsfeld, intoned in his usual monotone. After accepting his hat, gloves, and cane, the butler laid them aside and closed the door. Each movement slow and methodical. He lifted a gloved hand, the gesture practiced and perfected to convey haughty deference. “This way, if you please,” he droned, sounding rather like an oversized, lazy bumblebee.

  Crispin quirked a cynical eyebrow. His butler was stodgy and stuffy, but Rumsfeld made him seem like a drunken court jester.

  “I do know the way, Rumsfeld.” He couldn’t resist teasing.

  “Indeed.” Rumsfeld returned without breaking his measured stride or inflecting any emotion into his voice. Momentarily, they arrived at the salon. “His Grace, the Duke of Bainbridge,” he proclaimed, in the same tones one would deliver a deadly diagnosis.

  Before he finished announcing his arrival, Crispin sought Jessica. She sat beside her sister, her flaxen hair twisted into a loose chignon at the back of her head. A few brazen curls had escaped their confines and lay teasingly over her shell-like ears.

  Today, she wore pink and white—fresh as a morning rosebud—and a matching ribbon graced the crown of her head and was tied at her shapely nape. Dark bluish-purple smudges shadowed her eyes, which, to his immense satisfaction, lit at the sight of him.

  She’d never looked lovelier, and he wished he had the right to take her into his arms and kiss her until the worry left her precious features. Until she was relaxed and went all feminine softness against him. Until she believed there’d never be another woman for him.

  Poised, a practiced, benign smile arching her kissable mouth, she met his regard. Hope and something undefinably warm shone in her aquamarine eyes.

  Crispin’s pulse kicked up a notch in anticipation. Perhaps he hadn’t given her enough credit, and she hadn’t believed Brighton’s drivel after all.

  He returned her smile, putting into it all he couldn’t say aloud. Not here and now. Later, if he was permitted a few minutes alone with her.

  James Brentwood stood at his entrance and bowed. “Bainbridge.”

  “Brentwood.” What the devil was Jessica’s brother doing here?

  Brentwood resumed his seat, appearing anything but relaxed. Unusual for him. Even though he’d chosen law as his profession and possessed a brilliant mind, he tended to be good-natured, though never jovial.

  Neither was he a rogue, who with his looks and flush pockets, he might’ve been. There’d been a woman, years ago, if Crispin recalled correctly. She’d jilted him for a duke.

  He possessed the same blue-green eyes as Jessica, but whereas his sisters had light hair, his was a rich auburn.

  Recently, Brentwood had dabbled in several lucrative, very successful investments. He had an uncanny nose for sniffing out unusual, profitable ventures, and Sutcliffe and Crispin had both engaged in fruitful business dealings with him.

  Today, pensive and somber, he appeared ready to present a criminal defense case in court.

  “Come, Your Grace.” The duchess waved him toward an empty chair. “Have a seat. I believe you prefer your tea plain?”

  “Yes, please, and do address me as Crispin or, if you must, Bainbridge. We are to be family, after all.”

  The smile affixed to her face never faltered, but he didn’t miss the strained look that passed between Brentwood and Sutcliffe.

  Jessica busied herself with stirring her tea—she took hers with milk and sugar—and then she set the spoon aside and took a sip before meeting his eyes again. “Your Grace—”

  “Crispin,” he corrected, refusing to fall back into starchy formality. The room fairly crackled with unspoken tension. He accepted his cup of tea and, as he raised it to his mouth, asked, “Why is everyone so Friday-faced?”

  Scratching his nape, Sutcliffe grimaced. “We’ve run into a bit of a snag.”

  “I’m aware Brighton bribed the clergy at my parish, if that’s what you refer to.” Crispin relaxed into the chair, hooking one knee over the other. “I should’ve expected it. I always like to believe men of God are above such machinations, but they’re only human, and at times temptation—”

  At the crushed expression washing over Jessica’s face, he could’ve bitten his tongue. Blast and damn.

  The duchess saved him from his blunder. “It is disappointing.” She referred to her father, he’d wager. “I suppose, just like everyone else, they justify their sins.”

  “As you know, I petitioned for a special license on your behalf, as you requested.” Brentwood leaned forward and accepted tea from his sister, neatly changing the subject. “It was denied. I suspected when the archbishop took so long to approve the request, that would be the case.”

  “It seems Brighton’s reach is farther than I anticipated.” Irritation, sharp and swift washed over Crispin.

  “His brother is a close confidant of the archbishop,” Sutcliffe offered, crossing his legs.

  Ah, there was that connection Crispin hadn’t been able to identify earlier.

  “So no special license and no reading of the banns in London.” He angled toward Jessica. “I suppose that means we’ll have to journey to Colechester and wed in your old parish by common license. I regret the inconvenience, but it cannot be helped.”

  He’d plant Brighton a facer if he were present, older man or not. How dare he manipulate him? He’d learn soon enough he’d taken on the wrong foe.

  Would it be difficult for Jessica to marry in Colechester? The parish had been her father’s before he was disgraced. Or would she welcome the opportunity? To be wed in familiar surroundings?

  Her chest rose and fell with a long sigh. “James just came from there. The new vicar won’t perform the ceremony, either. I had hoped to escape London—”

  Bloody damn hell.

  That left Scotland. And they all knew it.

  Holding her gaze, he said, “It’s to be Scotland, then.”

  Jessica forced what she hoped was a tranquil mien to her face and took another long sip of tea. Her life had tumbled teakettle over spout in a week. After her treatment in St. James’s Park, she never wanted to set foot anywhere in London again. Never wanted to encounter the critical, mean-spirited denizens of High Society who’d taken it upon themselves to judge her.

  In fact, the urge to pack her trunks and flee to Ridgewood Court, Victor’s country estate, and never show her face in public again sounded quite lovely indeed. Then, that part of her which rebelled at unjustness reared up and refused to let her take such a cowardly route.

  Jessica hadn’t done anything wrong. She
was the victim, dash it all.

  Nonetheless, Hammon Brighton was a greater, more cunning adversary than Crispin or Victor had anticipated. With relative ease, he’d made it impossible for her and Crispin to wed in England. The man wasn’t a peer of the realm, yet his powerful hand was far-reaching. Wealth and bribery trumped position and status in this case, it seemed.

  Firming her mouth against the disgust riddling her, she stared into her teacup.

  She didn’t believe Crispin had fathered Miss Brighton’s child. The girl had proven herself to be a liar and manipulator. Foolish and rash, she’d been seduced, no doubt. And then, when her lover had abandoned her, she wrongly believed she could falsely accuse Crispin to save her skin. She was beneath contempt.

  Or perhaps Lilith Brighton wasn’t behind the false claim. Mayhap her sire was.

  A thought struck with the sharpness of a well-honed arrow. Perhaps she wasn’t with child at all.

  How awful to be the progeny of a man who’d force her to wed someone she didn’t want to. Daughters were little more than pawns and possessions, and God help the women whose fathers used them as such.

  Jessica cut a covert glance to Theadosia. She’d faced a similar unpleasant fate, and their father had been—was—a vicar. He should’ve been above such maneuverings. Thank God above, Victor had rescued her sister.

  Who, pray tell, would rescue Jessica?

  Did she want rescuing?

  Through half-lowered lashes, she peeked at Crispin. He seemed surprisingly at ease. Confident and self-assured. And a softness, a gentleness, tempered his features.

  It wasn’t that Jessica objected to a match with him. She didn’t. She’d have preferred a courtship, and a bit of wooing by the wicked duke—who wasn’t so very wicked after all—wouldn’t have gone amiss. Nonetheless, one persistent, aggravating thought continued to plague her; would he ever have considered her for his duchess if this situation hadn’t forced them together?

  Jessica wanted to believe Crispin would have done. He’d claimed a long-held attraction to her. But the truth of it was dukes didn’t marry country nobodies or vicars’ daughters. At least he’d receive her substantial dowry, thanks to Victor’s generosity.

  Dear Victor. He’d treated her as a beloved younger sister.

  “I’d hoped elopement to Scotland wouldn’t be necessary,” Theadosia said quietly, a pinched look about her eyes as she sliced a distressed glance to Victor.

  Jessica’s heart twinged. So had she. She wouldn’t pretend eloping to Gretna Green didn’t distress her. It did, but what alternative was there? She could at least voice her objection.

  “And what if I don’t wish to elope to Scotland?” There she’d said it. “It makes me so angry those people are forcing our hand.”

  “We’ve exhausted the other possibilities, Jessica,” Crispin said, not unkindly. His perceptive gaze narrowed the merest bit, shrewdness replacing his earlier ease. “Unless you’ve changed your mind.”

  Theadosia cut him an appalled look. “She cannot.”

  “And I did not,” Jessica said with more heat than she’d intended. “I simply resent having no control in any of this.” She waved her hand in a circle in the air. “You’re making all of these plans, and not once have any of you consulted me. This is my life.”

  “At this juncture,” her sister said cautiously, “Scotland appears the only viable option, Jessica. Naturally, we shall accompany you.”

  As if that made everything well and good.

  Victor gave a sharp nod, although his stern expression didn’t relax.

  Did he worry the journey was too much for Theadosia’s delicate condition? The babe wasn’t due for another three months, and they needn’t dash pell-mell to Scotland. A more sedate pace might be set, which would accommodate her health, yet the concern couldn’t be overlooked or dismissed.

  How could she contemplate all of this with such cool detachment? How? Because if she permitted the whorl of emotions and feelings bubbling ever higher behind her ribs to escape, she’d become a distraught, watering pot. And blubbering and weeping would serve no purpose—

  would change nothing and only serve to make her appear weak.

  “How soon should we depart?” Theadosia asked. “Should I order the staff to prepare our trunks? Or do we need to travel light? Perhaps just a valise with the barest essentials?”

  James set his teacup down then ran a finger down the side of his nose. His features settled into his solicitor’s expression.

  Ah, he was about to present an argument.

  “I’d recommend two coaches be prepared,” he said. “Bainbridge’s, containing decoys—Theadosia and Sutcliffe—which will set out first but ramble around the outskirts of London for a few hours. And another unmarked conveyance with myself, Bainbridge, and Jessica. We shall be accompanied by armed outriders that will join us once on the road north.”

  That pronouncement set Jessica back on her heels. Was there truly such a need for deception? Or armed outriders? She hadn’t considered that.

  She didn’t like this turn of events in the least. “What if Brighton arranges to have their coach waylaid? I shan’t have Theadosia or the baby discommoded or endangered.”

  “I agree with Brentwood. Two coaches are wise.” Crispin leaned forward, catching Jessica’s attention. Encouragement and kindness glinted in those pearl-gray eyes. A gleam of emotion decidedly more combustible glittered in those tantalizing depths, too. “If your sister’s coach is stopped—and I suspect Brighton might be imprudent enough to attempt such an ill-conceived act—the men we’ll hire to protect your sister and Sutcliffe will close in on them.”

  He looked at James and Victor for confirmation. They both nodded their assent.

  “I’ll be armed as well,” Victor said, his features gone fierce.

  Her sister looked rather ill, and Jessica couldn’t blame her.

  “This sounds much too dangerous to me,” she objected. She’d never have believed it could be so challenging to wed. The danger, plotting, and subterfuge stripped their elopement of any hint of romance. “How do you intend to protect Theadosia and Victor if Brighton or his henchmen become aggressive?”

  “They’ll be detained,” Crispin said, as if it were the simplest, most logical of things. “And Sutcliffe will decide what should be done with them for accosting a duke and his duchess. It won’t go well for them if they are foolish enough to act so recklessly.”

  “And I,” James announced, giving Crispin a hard stare before turning a tender gaze upon her, “shall act as chaperone and assure no one can contest the legitimacy of your vows. No blacksmith’s anvil for these two.” He levered two fingers between her and Crispin. “They’ll have a proper church ceremony conducted by a man of God.”

  Theadosia’s face fell. “But I wanted to be present at Jessica’s wedding.” She tossed her husband a helpless look. “Especially since our parents aren’t here.”

  Jessica couldn’t prevent the resentment billowing inside her toward the Brightons and Brookmoore. Their selfish actions had wreaked havoc on more lives than just hers and Crispin’s. Not only was she being denied a proper wedding with her friends in attendance, her beloved sister wouldn’t even be there to witness the ceremony.

  Tears threatened, but she doggedly willed them to subside. None of them were choosing this path. Circumstances and evil people had forced this course upon them.

  Don’t forget it’s a forced wedding, too.

  Not precisely forced, but most certainly one of inconvenience.

  James shook his head. “You’ll need to pretend to be Jessica, Thea. You look enough alike that you can pull it off. I’ve thought about this the entire journey back from Colechester. Brighton has gone to great extremes to prevent our sister and Bainbridge from wedding. And we all know how essential it is that the ceremony takes place as soon as possible. Granted, his claim that his daughter is breeding complicates the matter, but that’s Brighton’s problem.”

  That was true enough. Did
Brighton honestly think Crispin would marry his daughter now? The man was dicked in the nob if he did.

  “He’s mad enough to try something devious,” Victor murmured as he settled on the settee beside his wife and took her hand, offering her comfort.

  “The fruit didn’t fall far from the tree in that family, did it?” Jessica quipped, amazed she could do so. “One bad apple and all that rot.”

  Four pairs of eyes swung to her, but it was Crispin’s that held her gaze. A glint of humor sparked there. He’d understood the poor pun and her failed attempt at humor to lighten the mood.

  Warmth burgeoned within her. He understood her as no one else ever had. It strengthened the connection she felt with him. Made her want to be alone with him to explore it further.

  “Brentwood is right,” he said, giving a considering nod. “I wouldn’t put anything past Brighton.”

  Could this become any more ridiculous? Or scandalous? Or infuriating?

  Jessica cleared her throat, heartily regretting ever coming to London. She’d take the country’s sedate pace and lack of intrigue any day. Give her chickens, a library, paints and a canvas, and a puppy, and she’d be content.

  Poppydash and codscock.

  “So, where does that leave us?” she asked.

  “We must depart for Scotland as soon as possible. The extra men to protect the coaches can be arranged for today, and I’ll alert the authorities to our suspicions.” Crispin took her hand, giving the fingers a gentle squeeze. “I know marrying in Scotland isn’t what you wanted.”

  Tenderness and understanding softened the corners of his eyes.

  “It’s not what you wanted, either.” How awkward to have this discussion in front of others.

  “Perhaps we should permit Bainbridge and Jessica a few moments of privacy?” Theadosia suggested, ever the considerate hostess and always able to discern Jessica’s innermost thoughts.

  Victor looked as though he was about to object, but after leveling Crispin a stern glance conceded. “Very well. We’ll adjourn to my study to work out the details. Join us there when you are finished.”