The Rogue's Last Scandal

by Alina K. Field

  “That woman is my wife,” Kingsley said. “And what have you done to Miss Kingsley?”

  “Bugger your wife, and bugger that whore.”

  Even in the dim light he could see Kingsley’s face flush a dark shade of red. “Made a deal with the devil, haven’t you, Kingsley, and you’ll just have to walk with it. I’ll need a fresh shirt.”

  Kingsley’s mouth firmed, but he left the room.

  Kees finished ripping the shirt and stowed his knife.

  “And you.” He turned on the man. “I can smell the gin on you. You let her walk right past, didn’t you?”

  Kees frowned. “I did as you told. I tended to the horses. I ignored any noises from in the house.”

  “You sat in the stables and drank.”

  The man lifted his shoulder. “No one passed by. Coming or going. It was quiet as death outside.” He poked at the skin around the wound. “It is not so bad. I have had worse. I will need a...a something to pull on the thread. Wait here.”

  As he left, Kingsley returned bearing a stack of white flannels. “The water is boiling. A servant will bring a shirt. Where is she?”

  “You tell me. Where would she go?”

  “Did you take her first?” Kingsley’s mouth twisted.

  “We will say that I did. And you might search your garden. She may be splattered below. She went out the window.”

  Kingsley’s eyes widened. “Three stories up?”

  “Consider that she was probably allowed to run wild on her father’s ships.”

  “I would have put bars on the windows had I thought of it.”

  “You didn’t need bars until you let her child escape. Find the child, and you’ll find the mother.”

  Kingsley swiped a hand over his face, went to a sideboard and poured two glasses.

  “Here.” He handed Carvelle a snifter and took a healthy swallow from his own glass.

  “Enjoying my brandy, Kingsley? If you want to keep yourself in brandy and your wife in frills, you had best bring that girl to the altar. It will be worse than a debtor’s cell for you, Kingsley. The new king may allow one more drawing and quartering.”

  “You shall be right at my side on the gallows.”

  Carvelle stood and threw the glass against the empty fireplace. “You dare to threaten me? You forget I have ships and men who serve me. I can be far away from English justice. Perhaps I’ll find a true Spanish aristocrat to wed, not your cast-off pirate spawn. Find her.”

  Kees entered then, carrying a steaming bucket, the elderly manservant in attendance, and Kingsley stalked out

  Chapter 7

  Removing her chemise was not as painful as it had been earlier in the evening at Kingsley House.

  Mrs. Windle, who had made no comment at Graciela’s lack of stays, had her stand facing the warm fire and peeled the lightweight cotton over her shoulders and down her back. Graciela grasped the cloth in front and covered her breasts. Behind her, gruff, mumbling, half-swallowed oaths poured from the older maidservant.

  A soft warmth settled over Graciela, a velvet wrap so plush she rubbed her cheek against it. It smelled of a light lilac perfume. She let the chemise fall to the floor and stepped out of it.

  “I should beat the man who did this to you myself if he was here,” the servant said. “Has Mr. Everly seen this? No. Of course he hasn’t.” She clucked her tongue. “Best he not, or he will go a murderin’. Wait here. I have a salve to help the broken places heal and ’twill keep the cloth from sticking. Drink up your tea, my lady.”

  Graciela smiled. “I am but a miss, Mrs. Windle. Miss Kingsley.”

  “Aye then, Miss Kingsley. We’ll get you fixed up fast.”

  She went to the door and whispered to the man outside. It was a far longer chat than needed to conduct her business.

  Mrs. Windle returned clutching a silver handled hair brush. “There now. Master Charley will get the salve, and I will brush your hair. Please to be seated on this ottoman.”

  Bemused, Graciela clutched the wrapper closed and settled onto the backless cushion. The little housekeeper had just sent an earl’s son on an errand. It was expedient, and he had not balked. Such would never occur at Kingsley House. She did not know what to make of it.

  Mrs. Windle’s fingers were as gentle as ever Francisca’s would be untangling her unruly hair.

  This feminine chamber must belong to the lady of the house. The four-poster was not overly large, but would easily accommodate two. The wing chairs and table by the fire would make for a comfortable tête-à-tête or dining. She wondered about the couple who used this home but didn’t live here, and especially the lady, whose room and hair brush she was usurping.

  “Have you served the family a long time?” Graciela asked.

  “Aye. Decades.”

  “Will her ladyship be angry that I am here using her things?”

  The hand paused. “Lady Sirena? No. She was in much the same circumstance as you. Lord Bakeley rescued her from a ruckus on the docks and brought her here. They were married the next day.”

  Awareness raced through her in a jumble of nerves. She could not be carried off into marriage, not by anyone. She would never marry.

  Yet...Mr. Everly’s gentle touch. His scent. His warmth. And he was handsomer than sin, with his light brown hair and merry eyes. He sent her nerves spinning.

  Because he was a rake and a rogue of course, a man who would always have many women falling at his feet. And he would always pick them up in the moment. Each of them. All of them.

  She must remember that.

  “She had not suffered as you have, though. ’Twas her men who had been beaten, not her. Lord Bakeley and his brother rescued them all.”

  “Mr. Everly?”

  “Ah no, there is another brother, Bink Gibson. He is Lord Shaldon’s eldest. Born on the wrong side of the bed, he was. I’m not speaking out of turn; it is but a fact, and a fine man, he is.”

  “The father has acknowledged him?”

  “He has.”

  Then perhaps Lord Shaldon truly was honorable, and she could indeed trust him, as her father had said.

  She thought about the other rescued lady. She would like to hear that story, to help gauge her own danger.

  Or perhaps she should just cut to the heart of it. “You’ve known Mr. Everly for some time?”

  “I was a nursery maid when he was young.”

  “I see.” She tried to frame her next question, and was not sure what she wanted to ask.

  “He will act a gentleman with you, miss, or I’ll have a piece of his hide, I will.”

  Graciela exhaled. The maid knew of Mr. Everly’s reputation and did not approve.

  Strong fingers worked her scalp, easing her humors down to her toes. “He has not hurt me.” Yet. “And I do not wish at all to marry him tomorrow. I am not English. I will return to my own country and the scandal will not matter there, so far away.”

  “You’re not English? I couldn’t tell it from your speech, miss. Where is home, if I may be so bold.”

  “The new country of Mexico. My father was an Englishman who immigrated to New Spain. He is participating in the War of Independence there.”

  “I have heard summat of it. Lady Sirena was not English either.”

  “No?”

  “She’s Irish. The Everly men seem to like... Well, you have naught to fear from our Master Charley.” A tap at the door stayed her hand. “And here is our salve.”

  After a moment the door closed firmly.

  Mrs. Windle pushed Graciela’s hair away, lowered the top of the robe, and muttered quietly.

  Camphor stung her nose, but it was cut with something sweeter. “The smell is quite strong,” Graciela said.

  “Aye. And it’ll sting your flesh for a moment. That’ll pass and you’ll feel relief.”

  At the first touch, tears sprang to her eyes. But the sting, as Mrs. Windle had said, soon turned to seeping warmth.

  “There now,” the older lady said. “I hav
e a fresh new chemise for you here if you’ll take off the robe and stand.”

  Graciela clutched the robe to her chest and glanced over her shoulder. “I thank you. It is our custom to be modest. If you will kindly leave it, I will dress myself.”

  When the servant had left she quickly donned the clean chemise, wrapped herself in the velvet robe, and went to check the latch on the window.

  Perspiration beaded Charley’s forehead as he sat in a matching wing chair opposite Miss Kingsley in front of the ebbing fire.

  Thank the gods, she’d finally warmed and asked for no more coal. Mrs. Windle had returned the coat he’d wrapped around the young lady, but he’d thrown it over a chair and let the servant glare her disapproval of his shirtsleeves from her perch in the corner of the room.

  “Have another sip of the brandy,” he said. “It will strengthen the blood.”

  She looked at him from under her lashes and swirled the liquid in her glass.

  “I’m not trying to muddle you. And I have sent for Francisca.”

  Her hand shook when she lifted the glass and he beat down another wave of anger. Besides the bruise beginning to mottle her jawline, her wrist bore a band of bright pink that would bloom to purple, courtesy of her battle with Carvelle. And she sat as erect as the Virgin in a medieval Spanish painting he had seen somewhere.

  He’d waited like a schoolboy out in the corridor, while Mrs. Windle had helped Miss Kingsley into some of his sister-in-law’s things. The housekeeper had said very little more than muttered oaths as she’d passed him the bloodied flannels and the pink-tinged water, grim-faced and frowning, and sent him on errands as if he were a footman.

  He had no idea what Miss Kingsley wore under the velvet dressing gown. He tossed back his drink. Nor could he think about that now.

  The girl was clearly hurting.

  “We didn’t tell your people of our plot to rescue you at the party tonight. They were both collapsing from their worry, and we made them take beds in the nursery. Perry likely had to wake them and give them time to dress. We are a stretch away from Shaldon House, and they would need to travel through the late-night traffic. They’ll have to change to a different carriage and take a roundabout way, in case Carvelle’s injuries have been discovered and watchers set.”

  She blew into her glass, studying the rippling liquid, making him smile. She would, perhaps, never fit in here with the Almack’s crowd. He counted that a good thing.

  “And Reina?”

  He heard the worry in her voice. “And that is likely the other holdup. Perry is persuading them that Reina will be safe with her.”

  Her gaze shot to him.

  “She will be. I promise. What do you know about my father, Miss Kingsley?”

  She pursed her lips. “He is a powerful lord. And my father apparently trusts him.”

  “He was a diplomat during the wars. Did you hear much about the wars?” At the flash in her eyes he added, “You would have been but a child then.”

  “The French killed their king and queen. Then Napoleon took over. He invaded all his neighbors. Lord Wellington went to Spain and defeated him, and they locked him up on an island. Then he escaped, and Wellington fought him at Waterloo. I hope Napoleon dies soon so he will cause no more trouble.”

  “Your wish may come true soon.” Napoleon was gravely ill, had perhaps even died already, or so everyone hoped. “However, we must be sure of it. There was a rumor of Napoleon’s death some years ago that caused no end of trouble. Even in death the man is a nuisance. Father has probably sent a man to St. Helena.”

  “I see.” She raised an eyebrow, making him smile.

  “My father was more than a diplomat. He directed the services of men and women seeking information on our enemy’s activities.”

  Her eyes widened. Good. He had distracted her from her black thoughts.

  “Spies?” She laughed ruefully. “How nicely you put it.”

  She glanced at the fire and then back at him, eyes narrowed.

  Time to gabble before she launched questions about his line of employment. “The servants of Shaldon House are carefully screened—for their loyalty first of all, and their discretion, and their skills.” The bad apples that had slipped through the net and threatened Bakeley’s wife were disposed of. There was no need to share those details and add to Miss Kingsley’s worries. “You will see. Perry will keep Reina safe. Perry is quite adept.”

  “As are you. You are also a spy?”

  He took a sip and grinned. “I'm the troublesome younger son. Am I not, Mrs. Windle?”

  A loud huff sounded from the corner, a reminder to Miss Kingsley if she needed one.

  She set her glass upon the side table. “I note that you did not answer my question.”

  He should issue a denial, but he did not want to lie unless he must. He lifted his glass and drained the last few drops.

  “I take that as a yes. What are you planning to do with me, Mr. Everly?”

  “I would like to visit your solicitor.” This particular solicitor would likely be known to Bakeley, but Bakeley was in the country. Penderbrook could accompany Charley. He would ask his brother Bink to guard the lady in his absence.

  “I will go with you.”

  “It’s the first place they’ll expect you to go.”

  She looked away, thinking.

  “Can they snatch me up, do you think? Would they do so?” She stared into the embers and nodded. “Carvelle would. He will marry me, ensure possession of my money, and arrange for me to die painfully.”

  “He will not marry you. And he will not hurt you. Nor will Lord Kingsley, nor his wife. I will not allow it.”

  Her mouth firmed. “I want to go home.”

  “To Kingsley House?”

  He knew what she’d meant but he couldn’t resist the prod.

  She sighed. “To Alta California. I have family there. Cousins.”

  “Are you not bound for Spain and Reina’s family? It’s what your maid told me.”

  She grimaced. Frowned. Firmed her lips. “Papa wrote to them. I do not know if there has been an answer back.” Her gaze lifted with a look that reminded him of the little girl back at Shaldon House. “Will you take me to a ship? Lady Kingsley said that Captain Llewellyn has arrived in Falmouth. You can turn me over to his care. He is my father’s friend and—”

  “Miss Kingsley—”

  “Carvelle has visited my bedchamber, and I am sitting in a house with a notorious rogue with only the servants as chaperones. I am ruined, most thoroughly, according to your stupid English standards. No respectable man will marry me, not even for my money, if Lord Kingsley has not spent it all. I will take what is left and go home, and buy some land and perhaps, someday, find a strong man who I can respect.”

  “Miss Kingsley—”

  “In my country, a woman does not lose all her property to a husband.” She flung out a hand. “Girls are sold into marriage, of course, by uncaring fathers to rich old men. It is the way of things. But a woman alone with some wealth may choose.” She jumped to her feet and began to pace.

  He gave up and lolled back to watch her.

  “I will say I am a widow.” She paused and braced her hands on the mantel, staring into the hearth. “I shall say Reina is mine. It is what everyone believes anyway.”

  Guilt niggled him. He had wondered it himself.

  She turned, reading his thoughts.

  He groped for the right words. “She is the child of your heart.”

  “Yes.” That had pleased her, and tears sprang to her eyes. Her hands twisted at her waist. “Her mother was our dearest friend, recently widowed, who almost died giving birth on our way overland to Veracruz. We fed Reina with the milk of a nanny goat we tethered behind our cart.” The hands came apart and formed into white-knuckled fists. “The Kingsleys had naught but contempt for the child. Francisca and Juan did their best to keep her quiet and keep her safe, but her presence was a constant taunt to the Kingsleys’ vile tempers. I kne
w their servants would not stop mine from sneaking away with her. And I knew I could not—could never—marry that odious man who smells like death. I made a sacred promise to protect her.”

  “Carvelle would not have let you keep her.” But I would. And where had that thought come from?

  She pounded the mantel. “I should have killed him.”

  “You are sure you did not?” He had debated sending an anonymous message to Kingsley at the rout to return home immediately.

  “He...he ran into my dagger. Here.” She pointed to a spot at her waist. “He did bleed much. He had removed his coats before coming to...to attack me. If they clean the wound well, he should survive.” She bit her lip. “I do not think the vase did more than knock him out.”

  Charley shot from his chair and took her hands. They were cold again, and in the candlelight, her wide eyes gleamed with unshed tears. Her beauty almost undid him.

  Almost. He’d had many dealings with this sort of beguilement, enough to know to be wary.

  Tears streaked her cheeks, and he pulled her to him. He reached for her back, remembered her injuries, and rested his hands on her shoulders, his fingers tangling in thick locks of hair there, his chin resting on the top of her head. She trembled under his touch, but there was no wailing. Perhaps a girl who’d spent as much time as she had on a ship full of men had learned to throw tantrums quietly. A rush of desire swept through him.

  Mrs. Windle cleared her throat loudly.

  The reminder helped him recover his breath. “You’re very brave, Miss Kingsley. We’ll not pretend we don’t have obstacles ahead, but you mustn’t worry. We’ll deal with them and keep Reina safe. If Carvelle comes after you again, I shall kill him myself.”

  It would, in fact, be his pleasure. He suspected his father would have scores to settle there anyway.

  Graciela could not pry her head from the broad chest where it rested, reminded of the solace she’d found there during the journey in the coach. It was as warm and comforting as Papa’s embrace, except that the stroking of Mr. Everly’s ungloved palms upon her shoulders made her skin ripple.