“You claimed that Charles had disappeared. Was that a lie?”
“No.” The duke shuffled his feet, moving closer to the desk to stare at his son. “You saw what he had done to Allegra. Charles was missing. I thought—” He cleared his throat. “It no longer matters what I thought. Charles had gone into hiding, and I had given up hope of finding him on my own when he suddenly returned to the house.”
“Did he admit to strangling Mrs. Randall?”
“You know how Charles is when he gets in one of his moods. Churlish. Difficult. Stubborn. He brushed aside all civility. Someone had told him that you were searching for him, and he was furious, so furious that you had people hunting for him like he was a criminal.”
Dare resisted pointing out that his father had done the same thing. Both of them had been concerned that Charles was too unstable to be left wandering the streets of London.
The duke reached out and stroked Charles’s hair. “He wasn’t making any sense. Somehow he got it in his head that with the help of your friends, you were setting him up for the widow’s murder. He was convinced of it. Charles intended to murder you. I chased after him, pleading with him to rest while I summoned a surgeon. There was a fever in his brain. Anyone who saw him could see that he needed to be bled until the madness left his eyes.”
“It wasn’t your fault. I doubt anyone could have reasoned with him.”
“Charles took one of the daggers from the wall. He brandished it in the air, and told me that I would be burying you on the morrow.” His father lifted his gaze to Dare’s face, silently willing him to understand. “I had to stop him. You would have never anticipated such an attack from him.”
Dare was aware that Charles would have fought anyone who was foolish enough to stand in his way. “You had no choice,” he echoed softly.
“I put my hand on Charles’s arm, and he struck me across the face.” The duke’s visage reddened. “Can you believe it? A son hitting his own father? No man would tolerate such disobedience. In a rage, I threw myself at him and we fell to the floor. When I rolled off Charles, I saw the handle of the dagger protruding just below his sternum.”
He brought his hands to his head and clawed at his hair. “It was so thoughtless of me to forget about the dagger. Christ, I murdered my own son.”
* * *
Regan remained in the sitting room, obediently sitting on the settee while the marchioness slipped into the bedchamber to check on the duchess. The door opened minutes later. Lady Pashley brought her finger to her lips as she quietly shut the door.
“Her Grace is still sleeping,” she said apologetically. She chose the chair to the left of Regan and sat down. “She was so upset earlier. It would be kinder not to disturb her sleep.”
“I agree.” Regan allowed her gaze to wander about the handsomely appointed room. On the floor next to the marchioness’s chair, she noted that the duchess had left her sewing basket. “Why was Her Grace moved to another room?”
Although quite comfortable, this private sitting room was smaller than the duchess’s.
“It was the physician’s suggestion,” Lady Pashley explained as she gracefully crossed her hands on her lap. “Everyone fears Her Grace might never recover from Charles’s death. After all, he was her favorite. You have seen for yourself that she will take to her bed for even minor upsets. The physician hopes to break the duchess’s predictable routine by having her wake in a different room.”
Regan nodded politely, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. It was not her place, but she was not overly concerned by the duchess’s desire to surround herself with comforting possessions when she was upset. She suspected the physician would not be invited back to the residence when her mother-in-law learned that he was responsible for her new bedchamber.
“Perhaps we should adjourn downstairs to the drawing room.”
“With His Grace locked in the study with Charles’s corpse, I predict that Hugh will be unable to return to your side for hours.”
Regan’s stomach soured. “Lord Pashley’s body is truly—”
The marchioness nodded. “His Grace insisted that the body be carried into his study. The duke’s grief is so acute, he refuses to leave Charles’s side. As for me, I cannot bear to look at him.”
“You may not believe it, but I am sorry for your loss.” Regan had not lost anyone close to her. Her father had died when she was very young, and while her mother had been absent from her and Frost’s lives for years, she had left nothing behind for them to grieve over.
The marchioness reached down and pulled out the duchess’s sewing scissors from the basket. Idly she tested the point with her finger. “You must think me a cold woman for not standing and wailing over my husband’s corpse.”
Regan blinked in surprise. “Not at all.”
Lady Pashley rose from her chair. “Charles was not an easy man to live with. I suppose Hugh spoke of the difficulties in our marriage.”
Regan glanced away.
“I see. Well, Hugh has managed to surprise me. That is twice in a single day.” She trailed her fingers over the back of the settee. “He rarely speaks of what happened between us. I hurt him dreadfully, and then there is Louise.”
“You are Charles’s wife. Despite your differences, you are still his family.”
“Yes, I am intimately acquainted with Hugh’s bloody honor.” She offered Regan a coy smile. “Although my feelings are really none of your business, I will tell you that my love for Charles was squandered away a long ago. I will wear mourning clothes out of respect for him and the family, but anyone who expects more from me will be sorely disappointed.”
“It is not my place to judge you, Lady Pashley. According to my brother, very few people had kind words to say about your husband. For that, you do have my sympathies.” Sensing the end of their civility, Regan stood. “I believe I will quietly pay my respects to the duchess before I go downstairs to find Dare. Do not worry; I have no intention of waking her.”
Regan stealthily walked to the closed door of the bedchamber and placed her hand on the latch. She opened the door just wide enough to peer inside. With the draperies shut, the room was dark. Still, one thing was apparent.
Dare’s mother was not sleeping on the bed.
The soft whisper of fabric caused Regan to glance over her shoulder, but it was too late. Lady Pashley gave her a hard shove that sent Regan stumbling into the empty bedchamber.
The attack stirred an elusive memory, but Regan did not have time to pursue it. Her shoulder collided with one of the bedposts, and she landed on her backside.
Regan glared up at the marchioness.
“You were the one who pushed me into the street traffic!”
“If I had known Hugh was contemplating marriage to such a silly chit, I would have pushed harder.”
The older woman tackled Regan, knocking her onto her back. Although they were similar in height and weight, the marchioness was astonishingly strong for a woman.
Struggling for her freedom, Regan struck her opponent with her fists. One of her blows hit Lady Pashley in the eye. The woman howled in outrage, and reached for something that she had tucked into her bodice.
The duchess’s sewing scissors.
“No!” Regan twisted and tried to buck the angry woman off her. She grabbed the marchioness’s wrist and used all her strength to push the point of the scissors away from her face.
The scissors stabbed a section of carpet above Regan’s head.
“Why did you have to ruin everything?” the woman seethed, lifting the scissors again.
Regan wildly punched at the marchioness’s arm, sending the scissors flying.
Before she could savor her victory, Lady Pashley wrapped her hands around Regan’s neck. “Why? Why? Why?” she screamed into her face.
Regan gasped and choked as she fought to pry the woman’s ruthless fingers from her neck. Lady Pashley gritted her teeth and leaned forward to increase the pressure around Regan’s neck.
&nb
sp; Her blood was a roar in her ears as swirling dark spots appeared in Regan’s vision. She was losing strength with each passing second. Regan could not break Lady Pashley’s unyielding grip, so she aimed for the closest thing within reach. She punched the woman in the nose.
“No!”
Those merciless fingers withdrew, and Regan immediately replaced them with her own to prevent Lady Pashley from renewing her attack. She was so busy drawing air into her starved lungs that it took a few minutes to realize she was not alone.
Unable to speak, she watched Dare as he struggled to subdue his sister-in-law. Regan rolled over on her side, and the duke’s face came into view. His lips were moving, but she could not hear anything above the roar of blood in her head. Maffy suddenly appeared in the doorway. Dare pushed Lady Pashley into the butler’s arms and turned his back on her.
The rage and agony on the woman’s tormented visage would haunt Regan in the days to come. The duke joined the butler, and the two of them managed to drag her out of the room.
“Regan!” She started at the light slap to her cheek. She must have fainted because she did not remember Dare pulling her into his arms. “Stay awake.”
“Bully,” she croaked, softening her accusation with a smile.
“Christ, Regan … I thought—” He hugged her too tightly, but she was in no condition to complain. “What the devil did you say to Allegra to send her into a murderous fury?”
“I pitied her,” Regan said, her abused throat causing her voice to crack and fade to a hoarse whisper. She had also underestimated the woman. “Trust me, I will not make the same mistake twice!”
Epilogue
The physician insisted that Regan remain in bed for a week.
If her throat wasn’t bruised, she could have told the man that she rarely heeded orders, even well-intentioned ones.
Regan’s compliance lasted the length of a nap.
She found Frost and Dare in the library quietly talking as they drank their brandies.
“You were supposed to remain in bed, Regan,” Dare said mildly, his disapproval just as annoying as her brother’s.
Frost must have guessed her uncharitable thoughts. “I suggest you tie her to the bed next time. Or beat her. It is the only way to handle a stubborn wench.”
Regan stuck her tongue out at her brother. Frost was only teasing. He had never laid a hand on her, no matter how badly she had behaved. It was the marchioness who should fear her brother’s wrath. When he had learned of Lady Pashley’s attack, it had taken Dare, Saint, and Vane to stop him from marching down to the magistrate’s office and throttling the woman with his bare hands.
The notion that Frost was willing to kill on her behalf was touching, though entirely unnecessary. The marchioness would suffer for her crimes.
Since the gentlemen were seated in two chairs, she pointed at the sofa to let Dare and Frost know that she planned to join them with or without their permission. Dare captured her wrist and shook his head. Instead, he tugged her into his lap.
Regan did not protest. Since Dare had carried her out of his family’s town house, he had not strayed far from her side. He had glowered over the physician’s shoulder during his examination, and his hand had poured that ghastly laudanum down her throat so she could sleep without seeing Lady Pashley’s face sneering at her.
“Where?” she croaked, gesturing at the empty chairs. Before Dare had bullied her into taking a nap, Sin, Vane, Reign, Hunter, and Saint all had called on the Bishop residence. Like all good older brothers, they had taken turns cursing, offering sympathy, and fussing over her whenever tears threatened to ruin her composure. She wished that she gotten the chance to bid them farewell.
“They were only following the good physician’s orders,” Frost assured her. “Once they know you are receiving visitors again, I am certain we will be burdened with a lot of unwelcome guests.”
Regan rolled her eyes at her brother. He could not fool her. Frost privately loved seeing their old house filled and bustling with life and laughter.
She glanced at Dare. “Your father?” she mouthed.
“At home with my mother.”
He did not mention that his parents were preparing to bury their son.
Dare absently stroked her fingers. “I met with the magistrate while you were sleeping. Even if charges are filed against my father, the magistrate predicts that he will be acquitted. It is quite apparent that the Duke of Rhode was defending himself from Charles’s attack.”
“Your father did London a favor killing a murderous madman,” Frost drawled, taking a sip of his brandy. “The French pox has claimed the sanity of more than one hapless gent.”
The surgeon who had examined Charles’s corpse had also insisted on examining Lady Pashley. He had concluded that the marquess was not the only victim of his reckless debauchery. When he had been trying to beget his heir, he had passed the incurable disease on to his beautiful wife. Charles had always been violent and irrational. No one had noticed that his marchioness had been slowly succumbing to the disease.
The duke had been so certain that Charles had murdered Mrs. Randall. Regan disagreed. She had experienced the brute strength of the madness growing within Lady Pashley. Although she regretted her attack on Regan once she calmed down, Regan thought the woman capable of murder.
Since it hurt too much to speak, she had written down her suspicions. Grim-faced, Dare had read her ideas out loud to his friends. Although she had no proof, it was a plausible theory. She and Mrs. Randall had one thing in common. Dare. Everyone knew of his interest, including Lady Pashley. When Dare had left the ball with the widow, Regan had not been the only one who had been distressed by their departure. Had the lady given in to her blind rage and murdered Mrs. Randall?
Regan’s bruised and swollen throat had convinced the magistrate that the murders could be laid at Lord and Lady Pashley’s feet. He was not particular which one took the blame. Charles was dead, and his wife would eventually join him after the disease ravaged her body. For now, she would live out the rest of her life locked away in an asylum so she could not harm herself or others.
In time, Regan would come to forgive Lady Pashley, who was as much a victim as the woman she had murdered. It was Louise who truly deserved her sympathy. The poor girl had lost her mother and father on the same day. The duke and duchess wanted her to remain with them, but Dare and Regan would be there for her, too. This was not the first scandal the Mordare family had weathered, but God willing it would be the last.
Dare’s thoughts were wholly focused on her. “How are you feeling? Do you want me to carry you back to bed?”
Regan shook her head. If she was going back to bed, she would not be climbing back in alone. She quirked her right eyebrow at his askance look.
“Not fragile,” she whispered in his ear.
Dare shivered and slid his hand over the curve of her hip. He angled his head and Regan leaned in to meet his lips. Her hand tightened on his shoulder as she savored the soft, worshiping caress of his mouth. No, her husband did not think she was fragile. He was holding her as if she was priceless.
Frost’s low chuckle reminded them that they were not alone. “As much as I enjoy observing enthusiastic lovers now and then, I confess even I have my limits.”
Without taking his hungry gaze off Regan’s face, Dare said, “There must be some young pretty wench in desperate need of seducing.”
“There always is, my friend.”
Regan silently concurred as she watched her brother put down his glass of brandy and abandon his chair.
Dare winked at her. “Why do you not go find her?”
He and Regan were both remembering what had happened the last time they were alone in the library.
Frost bent down long enough to kiss Regan on the top of her head. “And with a little dedication, I shall find them all.”
With a farewell wave, he closed the door behind him.
A testament to his strength, in one fluid move Dare tran
sferred them from the chair to the floor. Regan wiggled her shoulders and stretched out on the thick rug as Dare settled between her legs.
It was fortunate that she still wore her nightgown. It would take less time for Dare to get her out of her clothes.
He collected a small length of her hair and blew on the ends. “So what now, my lady wife?” He tickled her nose with her own hair, making her smile. “Is seduction on your mind?”
“Every day, for the rest of our lives?” she said huskily, her feelings lending strength to her voice. “I love you.”
His hands shook as he cupped her face. “Then I am the luckiest scoundrel in all of England!”
St. Martin’s Paperbacks Titles
by Alexandra Hawkins
All Night with a Rogue
Till Dawn with the Devil
Praise for the Lords of Vice novels
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After Dark with a Scoundrel Page 22