The Rogue's Last Scandal

by Alina K. Field

  “She’s armed and as ruthless as her father.” He should have known. He should have paid closer attention.

  “But who is helping her, Kingsley?” A fist came down on the table, plump, but surprisingly powerful. His jaw had encountered it more than once, in one of her tirades. “I searched all her things, read all her papers and books, and found nothing. I was present for all of her callers. She didn’t ride with beaus or go shopping with other girls. She had no friends.”

  “She had the two darkling servants. They planned this. They ran away first, and then her. Find them and we find her.”

  “They’ve taken her to some squalid rooms somewhere. She had no money.”

  He glared at her. “Yes, and she had no weapons either, wife.”

  She blinked, and quickly recovered her bully stance, always her first approach to a dispute.

  She’d been tasked with insuring the obstinate girl’s room had no writing paper, no money, no weapons. She’d failed miserably.

  Her own day of reckoning would come if they did not find the girl.

  “I shall pay calls,” she said. “I shall say the chit is still ill.” She drew herself higher and balled her fists. “We’ll need to put a good face on this. We have done nothing wrong. Once we find the girl, we’ll have the wedding here and arrange for a public appearance before Carvelle takes her away.” She paused and her plump cheeks, for once, washed pale. “We must make sure her father is truly lost.”

  He looked down at the scandal sheet. If Tristan Kingsley walked through the door of Kingsley House, he could count out the rest of his life in minutes. He must resolve this. Must resolve his business with Carvelle. Must get the girl married to the man. And then Captain Kingsley—should he miraculously return—could spend his revenge on another man.

  “Yes. I’ve been assured we have nothing to worry about from that quarter.”

  Charley and his companion sat back in their hackney, trailing at a distance behind the unmarked coach. A boy strode into the street with his broom, halting their progress for the well-dressed pedestrian following him. Charley’s driver flung a colorful curse at the street sweeper, and the boy shouted some indecipherable cant in reply.

  The heavy black coach stopped in front of a discreetly marked building. Watelford and Grinley, the sign would say. He couldn’t see it from their station so far down the street, but they had driven by earlier.

  A couple exited the vehicle, a handsome strapping gentleman and a lady, Graciela’s size, all veiled in black. Juan jumped down from his perch on the coach and came to stand next to them.

  The couple looked around, like country folk come to town early for the coronation festivities, making a jaunt to their new solicitor’s office, uncertain of their surroundings. The man bent to speak into her ear.

  As they approached the door, two men jumped from nowhere and attacked, one large, the other small and swarthy as a Moor, both dressed in wide-legged sailors’ slops.

  “They’re good,” Charley said.

  “Aye, but we’re better,” Kincaid muttered from his perch in the driver’s box.

  Indeed. Before the big man could rip the woman’s veils, she’d landed a hard one in his kidneys and Juan was atop him. Other men poured from inside the coach, and the sweeper and his pedestrian joined the fray. In mere moments, they wrestled both men into the carriage. The gentleman and lady retreated down a side street where another coach would be waiting. The sweeper abandoned his broom and shovel, and he and his walker disappeared into the London traffic.

  With the street clear, the horse stepped out and Charley leaned back against the squab.

  “I see now.” Graciela’s voice shook. She smoothed an ungloved hand along the rough fabric of her breeches.

  The coats she’d acquired from young Roddy stretched tight across her bosom. “Lean back, my dear.” He adjusted her hat, and took her hand. She was trembling.

  “Will Carvelle and Kingsley be here also?” she asked.

  Charley squeezed her hand. “Kingsley is not here now, but our man spotted him returning from some early errand. Carvelle will likely be about though. Ah, there, perhaps.”

  A coach had stopped around the corner, blocked by a cart that had tangled with another hackney.

  His heart raced like a green recruit’s. It had been a mad frantic morning, and he hoped this plan would work. He didn’t wish to lead either villain to his destination.

  “Don’t worry,” Kincaid said. “We won’t be followed.”

  Chapter 9

  Graciela’s heart pounded at the sight of the grand house that was Charley’s home. Mr. Kincaid stopped the battered carriage in front, and called out a fare to them over his shoulder. No footmen or grooms appeared. She exited the hackney behind Mr. Everly, jumping down without a hand to hold, and took the empty package he handed her, pressing it to her chest as he’d instructed. She handed Kincaid some coins, and followed her master into the grand house.

  Inside, a liveried servant reached for the package and quickly averted his eyes.

  The hat rose from her head, uncoiling her plaited hair down her back.

  Mr. Everly tossed the hat to the servant. “Give Roddy his hat back. Cass, take Miss Kingsley up to the nursery.”

  Out of thin air, a maid had appeared, as quiet as a ghost. Her heart lifted and she quelled the trembling that threatened. “Yes, please, Cass.”

  But her feet did not want to work. The grand house was like the palaces of old Spain Papa had seen in his younger days, or like the home of a fairy tale king, and Mr. Everly was the prince who lived here. Marble floors stretched through a high entry hall, and twin stairs led up, cushioned with the Aubusson carpeting so coveted by Lady Kingsley. There was gilding on wood trim, and flocked wallpaper, and delicate footed tables and a vase that was surely Sevres.

  His hand touched her waist sending warmth coursing through her. “Go,” he commanded. “I must have a word with Perry.”

  “I have a dress ready for you, miss,” the maid said.

  “A dress,” Charley said, leaning close. “There you go. I won’t continue to be tortured by the shapely outlines of your legs.”

  With Mr. Everly’s whisper tickling her ear and fine-tuning her senses, she could make out every finger of his hand through the thin coats.

  She lifted her chin and looked over her shoulder. “I may not wish to change. These clothes are so freeing.”

  No expression touched his face, but his eyes went very dark. And then he grinned. “As you wish. But you smell like horses, hay, and onions.”

  “Do I?” She sniffed her sleeve and smiled back at him. It was true. And he was kind enough not to mention the musk of the boy whose clothing she wore. “So I do.”

  His clear gaze sent the air around them humming and heating and she realized she must be blushing. The male servants had slipped away. The maid waited patiently, studying the immaculate floor.

  Graciela moved away from his hand which somehow was still connected, as if the heat had branded it in place. “I shall go then to Reina. Please give Lady Perpetua my thanks.”

  “You may do that yourself in a bit.”

  His sister would be joining her, but not too soon, she hoped. She needed to spend time with Reina. She needed a private talk with her maid. Juan had agreed to act as a lure today, and he would want to stay for the questioning and take pieces of those men’s flesh. She needed him to come to her, as quickly as possible. She needed to make her own plans. “Lead the way, if you please, Cass.”

  Cool air rushed to where his hand had rested, and she felt suddenly adrift and mentally muddled. She must pull herself together. She must not grow dependent on Charles Everly, especially when he had this effect upon her. Stiffening her spine, she followed the maid.

  The large suite of rooms that comprised the nursery was tucked at the back of the house on the uppermost floor below the attic rooms.

  “It is a longer walk to this nursery than my voyage to England,” Graciela said.

 
“It’s indeed a large house, miss.”

  “With many windows and doors.” Escape would be easy.

  The maid stopped at one of those doors, its raised panels darkened by time and regular oiling. “You and the babe, and your people, will be safe here, miss. Mr. Everly will see to it.”

  The girl’s fierce look was belied by a blush. She had a tendre for Mr. Everly.

  Was he dallying with servants?

  “My husband is a footman here. He served Lord Shaldon in the war. You will be safe.”

  Graciela’s heart fluttered. He was not dallying. The servants of Shaldon house were carefully screened, he had said. Loyalty, discretion, skills. This one was of middling height, and—she peered more closely—perhaps not as young as she’d first thought.

  “Thank you, then, Cass. It will be good to feel safe for awhile.”

  She pushed open the door to bright light pouring through the windows. This was a playroom, and had recently been torn asunder, the plunder still scattered about. It was a world away from the grimy, austere attic nursery at Kingsley house. Here there were toys, and games, and paints, and even a pair of hobbyhorses.

  She spotted a silent maid on her knees, gathering building bricks. The girl—this one was a girl, quite too young for the wars that had ended six years earlier—stood quickly, bobbed, and pointed toward an open doorway.

  Graciela hurried through to another room. Her gaze went to the table in the corner. A low affair, it had seating for at least six in child-sized chairs. Francisca huddled there, knees crammed under the table edge, a spoon poised for entry through Reina’s rounded lips.

  She caught the maid’s eye and smiled a greeting. The lines that crinkled the tired corners of Francisca’s eyes went deeper.

  “Gracias a Dios,” the maid said.

  “Thank God, you are safe also,” she answered in Spanish.

  “Y Juan?”

  “He is overjoyed and relieved that he was able to punch someone.”

  Francisca’s frown eased.

  “And how is la Reina?” Graciela asked.

  Reina’s faced puffed out like that animal that stored food in its cheek pouches. Gruel ringed her lips.

  “Look at you. Will you share with me? I am hungry,” she said in English.

  Papa had always spoken to her in English, and Mama in Spanish. Reina would learn both English and Spanish as she herself had, except that Juan and Francisca would teach her the Spanish.

  The little girl scowled and looked away.

  She shooed Francisca and took her seat next to the child. “I think I should like to ride one of the horses out there.”

  The contents of Reina’s mouth oozed down her chin. She jabbed a fist into the air and said “No.”

  Graciela swallowed a smile. That reply was clear enough in any language. She grabbed the napkin, but the child jerked away, gruel hitting the bib tied at her neck.

  Her heart seemed to cave in on itself, like a sinkhole in a desert place. After only two nights apart, Reina felt abandoned.

  “I will request you some food.” Francisca went to the door, exchanged some words with the maid in the playroom and came back. All the while, Reina’s pout didn’t lift.

  “What in God’s name are you wearing?” Francisca asked. “We brought you a dress this morning, and you tried it on, and it fit.”

  That brought Reina up short and halted the temper that was building.

  “The disguise was Mr. Everly’s idea, and an excellent one.”

  “Mr. Everly.” The maid clucked and scowled. “It is indecent. What would your father say? Ay Dios. How we have failed you, Juan and I. We promised to look after you. We promised to keep you safe. It is indecent.”

  Reina’s face scrunched, easing Graciela’s heart. She smiled at the girl.

  “My sweet, I was playing dress-up. We are together now. And I am safe. And you are safe.”

  Francisca wrung her hands. “Safe. From the lair of one wolf to the lair of another. I do not think...the way he looks at you—”

  Throat-clearing, distinct, loud and male, made Francisca’s eyes go wide. Reina craned her neck at the sound, her eyes narrowing, then brightening.

  “Cha.” She shrieked, scooted out of her chair and ran to the doorway where Charley Everly was crouching to receive her.

  She is the child of your heart. He understood, because Reina had charmed him too.

  Or…he had used his rogue’s powers on her.

  The girl ran into his open arms and he lifted her up in the air and they both filled this bright room with laughter.

  She batted down the spark of jealousy flaring within, balling her fingers to keep from grabbing the child away from him.

  “Aargh,” he roared.

  Reina chortled in reply. She locked her chubby child’s arms around his neck and nuzzled there.

  Swallowing the lump in her throat made Graciela’s eyes start to water. If Charley Everly loved the girl as he seemed to, he would fight to keep her safe and that was really what mattered. Best to be grateful. She forced a smile.

  He tucked the little girl closer and looked at Francisca, who glared back. He had heard their conversation. With his hair spiked and waving in complete disarray, he was like a wild lion, or indeed, a tawny-colored wolf.

  Yet he did not look as if he were about to devour either of them. His eyes sparkled and reflected back some of the rare golden sunlight. “Juan shall return soon,” he said to Francisca in perfect Spanish. “When he returns, you should both rest. It was a very long night. Miss Kingsley will be safe, even from me. And this one…” The corner of one lip twisted up. He laid his palm on the baby’s back and Graciela shivered, as if she felt that warm touch herself. “This one has drooled on yet another coat, I fear. We must only protect her from my valet. I shall tell the maids to keep him away from the nursery.”

  Francisca’s lips firmed and she gripped her hands at her waist.

  Mr. Everly went to the table and settled his large self into a chair. He looked up at Graciela as if she had protested when in truth she had said nothing. “Don’t worry. These chairs survived the worst kind of mischief from Bakeley, Perry and me. They’re quite sturdy.”

  That mischief still glittered in his eyes, and sent her blood dancing through her, sparking hot warmth in her cheeks. His gaze did not leave her face, yet she felt his attention on her in her coats and the tight breeches. Freeing she had said they made her feel. Now she just felt naked.

  That warmth turned to anger. It was his attention making her feel that way. It was the way of all men. If she could simply go unnoticed…

  “Here you are.” Lady Perpetua swept into the room and held Graciela at arms’ length. “Oh, you do look very dashing. We shall have to get you back into a dress, else every maid will fall for you as they do for our Roddy.” She peered closer. “Graciela—may I call you that? And you must call me Perry. You are quite all right? They are bringing a luncheon up.” She smiled. “It will be like old times, Charley, only none of this awful gruel.”

  “You must dress first,” Francisca said, interrupting.

  Lady Perry turned kindly eyes on the maid. “Do not worry, Francisca. It is only us. Our brother Mr. Gibson has arrived, and Penderbrook who is a friend. They are both coming up. Mr. Kincaid said he will catch up with us later. I shall stay with Graciela and protect her from the gentlemen.”

  Graciela marveled—that speech had also been delivered in Spanish and was meant for her understanding as much as Francisca’s. Because Charley had not turned away. His gaze still probed her in that intimate way.

  “Do you not love wearing pantaloons?” Lady Perry whispered in English. “They are so liberating.” She drew a paper from her pocket. It was a news sheet. “Now, you’ll sit and I’ll show you what we’ve done, and we’ll talk about what we must do next.”

  Chapter 10

  The gentlemen’s knees knocked into the table’s edge, and Reina insisted on remaining in Mr Everly’s lap and helping herself to bits of
food from his plate, as she used to do with Graciela’s father. No one quite lost their good manners entirely, but it was clear right away, the men were ravenous. All that was needed was to have the room sway to one side and a large splash of seawater arrive through the window, and it would feel much like a meal on her father’s ship.

  The scandal sheet lay next to her own still almost full plate, and her eyes kept coming back to it.

  Shocking Tale of Scandal

  Unthought of perhaps in this modern day, Dear Readers, we have just learned of the story of an Heiress confined as it were to a Tower by her Guardian for her unwillingness to be wed to a Man of Ill Repute. We may not mention names here, but we will say that the poor child’s only Parent serves the Crown honorably, the Guardian holds one of the oldest titles of the Realm, and to think of the Duress he has inflicted on the Poor Girl, Duress of such force that one wonders if she may bear the Stripes of it on her Back through the rest of her life. This Writer had prayed that she might find Nine Lives to carry her past the Nine Tails of her Torturer’s Wand.

  But lo, this Writer has learned that the Unfortunate Girl who did not appear with her Guardians for a recent Society Assembly has DISAPPEARED. One must wonder, after the degree of Displeasure she has inflicted upon her Noble Host, if the last Exercise of Discipline has broken the Delicate Creature entirely. For indeed, it is said that the Noble Lord was waxing so wroth he dismissed all of his retainers the evening the Lovely Creature vanished, and when they returned the next day, her Bedchamber had been the scene of a Violent Struggle and BLOODLETTING, and the Young Lady was GONE and has not since been heard of or SEEN. To the Veracity of these words, I rely on the testimony of an EYEWITNESS.

  Her eyes watered reading it. She’d been tossing back and forth between waves of anger and moments of relief at her rescue, and her hand trembled around the fork she was clutching. If Lord Kingsley were here, she would stab him with it.

  Put as it was in the news sheet, it was astonishing she’d braved all the peril. Her body had heated and chilled with anger and fear so many times in the last few days she felt like a brittle blade, ready to break.