Bargaining With a Rake (A Whisper of Scandal Novel)

by Johnstone, Julie

  Alex pounded on Lady Davenport’s door. When it swung open, he was surprised to see the entrance hall flooded with light. At such a late hour, he had assumed everyone would be sleeping, and his appearance would be the thing to wake them. But he distinctly heard several women speaking, and by the sound of it, they were all trying to talk at the same time.

  “Might I help you, my lord?” The butler, if Alex was not mistaken, looked amused.

  What the hell was going on in there? “I’m here to see Lady Davenport.”

  “Yes, indeed. She has quite the turnout of company at this late hour. I’m afraid it may be a while.”

  Alex shoved past the butler, giving the man a reassuring pat on the shoulder as he stepped into the receiving hall. “I’ve got to see her now.”

  He strode toward the voices with the butler on his heels. When he rounded the corner, he came to a stop, dumfounded for the second time in the space of an hour.

  “Peter,” Alex bellowed, “I assume you have an excellent explanation as to why you’re here with Miss Mills.”

  “Don’t be surly with me, Lion.” Peter glared. “Miss Mills showed up at my home but an hour ago looking for you.”

  “For me?” Alex glanced at Caprice. “How in the world did you end up here in the country and at the Primwittys’ to boot?”

  Breaking away from Peter, Caprice rushed past Lady Davenport and Whitney to fling herself into Alex’s arms and hug him fiercely. “I don’t mean ta cause trouble for no one, but I had ta find ye. It took me two days ta track ye here. You’ve got a right snooty butler. He didn’t want ta tell me where he thought ye might be.”

  Alex glanced at Lady Davenport and was met with a cold gaze. It was nothing compared to the frigid glare Gillian’s sister bestowed on him. He set Caprice away from him and faced the women. “I can explain.”

  Lady Davenport cocked her head. “That’s good to know. I would hate to think I wasted my time scheming to get you and my niece together only to find you’re a scoundrel.”

  He laughed at her admission. “I thank you for your help.”

  Whitney stepped toward him, her hands on her hips. “Not so fast, Lord Lionhurst. What are you doing here? And where is my sister?”

  He cast a glance at Caprice, then back to Whitney. “If you’ll give me a moment to speak with Miss Mills, I’ll explain everything to you shortly.”

  Whitney and Lady Davenport nodded their agreement. Alex faced Caprice. “Why are you here? Is something wrong with Bess?” He might have ended his arrangement with his former mistress, but he still cared for her welfare. She was a good woman.

  “Nothing’s wrong with her. She’s the one that set me on the path of where ta find ye. I’m leaving London and this life.”

  The chit had trekked across the countryside and dragged his best friend into his personal affairs to say goodbye. Alex wanted to growl with frustration. “Caprice, I don’t have time for long goodbyes. I’m sorry. God speed to you.”

  “No, silly.” Caprice slapped his arm lightly. “I want ta pay ye back for being so nice ta me.”

  Alex rubbed the back of his aching neck. Women would never make sense to him. “You want to give me money?”

  “No, information. Listen ta me, Lord Lionhurst. I’ve come ta warn ye. Harrison”―Caprice glanced at the ladies and flushed crimson. “Beg pardon, my ladies. I meant ta say Lord Westonburt. He came ta visit me. Banged me up, he did.” She pointed to her cut lip and held up a bandaged hand.

  Alex curled his hands into fists. He should have killed Westonburt when he had the chance. “What does your visit have to do with Westonburt?”

  “If ye’ll remember, I told ye he’s quite the talker when he’s um, er, ye know?”

  “Go on.” Alex nodded.

  “As ye wish. Seems Lord Westonburt knows a secret that he’s using to marry Lady Gillian. He’s blackmailing her father. I know you’ve a special interest in the lady. Bess let it slip.”

  Alex grabbed Caprice’s elbow. “Perhaps we should retire to another room after all.” If Caprice knew what he thought she did, he did not want her to be the one to spill the secret to Whitney. That was what he was here to do. Better him than a perfect stranger.

  Before he could take one step with Caprice, Whitney and Lady Davenport moved in front of him. “Don’t even think of taking this woman from this room,” Whitney commanded, surprising him with the strength of her voice. “Miss Mills, why was Lord Westonburt blackmailing the Duke of Kingsley?”

  “’Cause he knew that the duke didn’t kill his wife. The daughter did, and the duke paid dearly ta keep his secret and protect his daughter.”

  “Do you mean to say that Lady Gillian killed her mother?” Gillian’s aunt demanded.

  “Gawds, no.” Caprice turned to Alex and patted his arm. “Don’t worry. ’Twasn’t her. I mean ta say the other one did. What’s her name?”

  “Whitney?” Whitney whispered through bloodless lips.

  “Yep.” Caprice snapped her fingers and pointed one at Whitney. “That’s her. Pushed her, she did. Right into the river and the woman drowned.”

  Early the next morning, Gillian dressed carefully in black for her wedding. Her clothing fit her mood. With a glance in the looking glass, she grabbed her brush off her dresser.

  Her maid frowned at her. “Will you not even let me dress your hair?”

  “No,” Gillian replied, gleaning a certain pleasure from the ghastly picture she presented. She patted her hair, smiling at the severe chignon. She turned to Clara and held up the folds of the silk dress. “How do I look?”

  “Like you’re in mourning.”

  “Perfect.” Gillian nodded with satisfaction.

  “What are you mourning on your wedding day, my lady?”

  Walking to her bed, Gillian picked up the gown that she had worn yesterday. Clara had tried to take it earlier to wash it, but Gillian had refused to let her. She pressed the gown to her nose, inhaling the scent lingering on the fabric. She could still smell Alex on the material. She would never forget their day or what they had shared. Setting down the dress, she met Clara’s inquiring gaze.

  “My wedding.”

  Her maid raised her eyebrows. “Wedding nerves.” She nodded as if nerves explained everything.

  Gillian sighed. “Go on, Clara. Come to fetch me when the vicar is here or my aunt and sister arrive.”

  Before Clara could bob a proper curtsy, a knock resounded on Gillian’s door. “My lady,” the butler called. “I think perhaps you’re needed downstairs now.”

  So soon? Her stomach clenched in fear. She wanted to run away, find Alex and beg him to forgive her. Instead, she stuck her feet in her slippers, clutched Clara for support and made her way down the hall to the stairs. She could not abandon Whitney or her father.

  Midway down the stairs, Auntie’s agitated voice reached her ears. Gillian hurried her step toward the library, her brow furrowing at the jumble of raised voices coming from within. What could possibly be going wrong now? She burst through the door and stopped, stunned by the scene before her.

  In the far corner, Father and Whitney huddled with their heads together. Father patted Whitney, who spoke between hiccupping sobs. And on the other side of the room, a bald giant of a man struggled to subdue Lord Westonburt, who twisted until Gillian thought his arm might tear from the socket. Alex―Alex was here? She blinked, but he was indeed still here and yanking Lord Westonburt’s other arm back behind his back.

  “What’s happening?” Gillian cried out, afraid to hope, but the possibility was there.

  “I’ll be back,” Lord Westonburt growled, gazing wildly at her. “They can’t keep me forever. You can’t prove I ravaged that bar wench.”

  Gillian gasped and looked at Alex. He pointed to the Duke of Primwitty. “He saw the whole thing. Didn’t you, Primwitty?”

  The duke nodded. “Certainly. But the woman fled when I struggled with you. Didn’t see her again until last night when I talked her into pressing charges.”<
br />
  “You filthy liar,” Lord Westonburt roared.

  He was right on one account. They were lying. The duke had no more seen Lord Westonburt ravish the woman than Gillian had. But there was nothing filthy about the men. They were quite impeccably dressed and ravishing. She smiled with the beauty of fate.

  Lord Westonburt lunged for her, but his captor jerked him back. “You’re my fiancée, do you hear me? Mine. If you forsake me, I’ll ruin your sister. I swear I will.”

  Alex’s fist flew through the air. Lord Westonburt howled with pain as he grabbed at his nose. Blood seeped from between his fingers. “Take him, Constable Stevenson,” Alex demanded. “The Duke of Primwitty will accompany you, and Kingsley and I will be down later to verify the whole story.”

  “Gillian,” Lord Westonburt cried as the constable dragged him toward the door.

  She met his gaze and prayed he could see just how much she detested him. “I told you I wouldn’t marry you.”

  He gripped the side of the door as the men tried to tug him from the room. “I need you, Gillian. You can’t forsake me. Without you, I’ll never belong. I’ll never be someone.”

  “But you are someone,” Whitney said, stomping past her. Gillian watched in stunned disbelief as her sister marched up to the man who was the greatest threat to her future happiness. “You’re a cruel devil and a black-hearted scoundrel. That’s why you’ll never belong. May you rot in hell.” Whitney reached out just as Lord Westonburt’s fingers popped away from the door ledge and slammed it in his face.

  Shaking with relief and concern, Gillian rushed to her sister’s side. “Whit, you don’t know what you’ve just done.”

  “I know everything.” Whitney crushed Gillian to her. “Miss. Mills told me about Mother.”

  Gillian pulled back with a frown. “Who is Miss Mills?”

  “It doesn’t matter.” Whitney waved a hand in Alex’s direction. “He’ll explain everything to you later.”

  Gillian swept her gaze around the room until she found Alex. Walking towards her, he shrugged, a seductive smile pulling at his lips. “It’s complicated, my love. But remember, you trust me completely as you asked me to trust you.”

  “Oh, Alex.” She threw herself into his arms. “I’m sorry.”

  “Shh.” He brought her hand to his lips. “I understand. But I must say you’re lucky.”

  “Am I?”

  He nodded. “I’ve never been good at following dictates.”

  “Thank God,” she replied and pressed her head to his shoulder.

  His lips came to her ear. “You can make it up to me later. I’ll think of something.”

  “I’ve no doubt you will,” she whispered in his ear.

  A throat cleared beside her, and Gillian released Alex and met her sister’s eyes. “I’m so sorry you and Father felt you had to hide the truth from me all these years. Do you hate me?”

  “Hate you?” Gillian hugged her sister fiercely. “I love you.”

  Whitney drew away and looked down at her hands. “But I pushed her. Funny, I still don’t remember a thing. I killed our mother.”

  “No, darling.” Gillian reached for her sister and petted her head as she’d often done when they were children. “You ran to help her. You were a child. Don’t blame yourself because if you do then I’ll have to keep blaming myself for not stopping you when you ran from me. If I had stopped you, Mother would be alive.”

  She glanced at her sister, wanting to hold her and protect her, but in Whit’s eyes she did not see fear, only sadness. “You’re not afraid of Lord Westonburt?”

  “No. Anyone worth my time won’t hold such a thing against me. Give me the chance to take care of myself, Gillie. I’m stronger than you think.”

  Dear heavens. Whitney knew everything and did not seem to be crumbling under the truth. Gillian was free. She was actually free to think of her own future. She turned back to Alex, wanting to run to him, but she paused at the sight of her aunt and the vicar standing side by side.

  “Reverend,” she called. “I’m sorry for your troubles, but there will be no wedding today.” She shivered at the thought that she might have been married to Lord Westonburt in a few short minutes.

  The vicar nodded. “I’ll be on my way, then.” He did not get a step before Alex grabbed the man’s arm.

  “Reverend, can you be persuaded to come back to this house in three days to actually perform a wedding this time?”

  The vicar’s eyebrows rose into a bushy arch as he regarded Alex with curiosity. “And who’ll be the happy couple?”

  Gillian dropped her sister’s hand and reached for Alex. His fingers enclosed her hand, and he squeezed gently. “We will, Reverend,” Alex said, his words filling her heart with joy and love.

  About the Author

  Julie Johnstone is a bestselling author of Regency Romance. She has been a voracious reader of books since she was a young girl. Her mother would tell you that as a child Julie had a rich fantasy life made up of many different make believe friends. As an adult, Julie is one of the lucky few who can say she is living the dream by working with her passion of creating worlds from her imagination.

  When Julie is not writing she is chasing her two precocious children around, cooking, reading or exercising. Julie loves to hear from her readers. You can send her an email at juliejohnstoneauthor@gmail.com.

  Now Available!

  What A Rogue Wants

  Lords of Deception Book 1

  Keep reading for a sneak peek!

  London, England

  1804

  Lord Grey Adlard entered White’s gentlemen’s club, intent on one purpose―to find and wring the neck of Gravenhurst, his former best friend as of roughly twenty minutes ago. Before Grey got two steps into the entranceway, Henry, White’s stuffiest and Grey’s favorite footman, appeared.

  “Milord, may I take your hat and coat?” As usual, Henry’s droopy eyelids made it hard to gauge his reaction, but Grey bet his soggy state shocked the proper footman. Hell, it shocked him, and he was far from proper.

  He held out his dripping coat and hat, trying to ignore the water pattering against the floor from his garments. He looked like a damn fool. At Henry’s annoyed inhalation, Grey narrowed his eyes, daring Henry to say a word. After being forced to traverse down a thorny rose trellis and take an unplanned midnight swim in a freezing lake to escape the sudden appearance of Lady Julia’s irate father, Grey was in no mood for Henry’s reproach. “Is Gravenhurst here?”

  “Of course.” Henry took Grey’s coat with the tips of his fingers and eyed it distastefully. “Lord Grey, you are dripping on my floor.”

  Grey glanced at the puddle at his feet, his neck warming in irritation. His favorite shoes were ruined, not to mention his trousers. Tiny rips covered the front of the fine, black material. Gravenhurst would pay to replace these, if he decided to let the man live. “Sorry, Henry. Might I have a towel?”

  “You might. But first, you must promise no fisticuffs. I’d hate to have you and Lord Gravenhurst thrown out again.”

  Grey scanned White’s for Gravenhurst. He found the man positioned diagonally from the entranceway, one blond eyebrow raised, left foot propped leisurely on his right knee, coat off, cravat loose, drink in hand, and perfectly dry. The man deserved to be dumped in the lake. “Might I have that towel before I catch my death?”

  “Milord, your promise?”

  Henry’s brazenness made Grey smile. He preferred audacity over timidity any day. “You’re impertinent.” He said it to goad Henry. The man’s sharp-witted responses never disappointed.

  “Yes, milord.”

  “That’s it?”

  Henry’s mouth twitched upward in a faint smile. “I’m afraid so, milord. We’re very busy, and short-staffed.”

  Bollocks. There was no fun to be found anywhere tonight. “Fine. I promise no fisticuffs.” He dried himself with the towel Henry handed him. When he was as dry as he could manage, he handed the towel to Henry. “I’d li
ke to remind you that my fight with Gravenhurst was years ago.”

  “All I remember are the broken chairs and tables, milord.”

  Grey eyed Henry. “Gravenhurst and I are now far too old and wise to engage in fisticuffs inside White’s.” Outside was implied, of course.

  “I agree with too old.” Henry’s eyebrows rose in challenge.

  Entertainment at last. “You know―” Grey ran a hand through his disheveled, wet, hair. “―I’m not sure why I put up with your insolence.”

  “I believe, milord, it’s because you know I’m right, and our verbal sparring amuses you.”

  “I’ll never admit such a thing,” Grey tossed over his shoulder as he strode away. He nodded to Lords Peter and Perkins, who gaped in return. He could count on those two dimwits to gossip all over Town about his appearance, which if nothing else, would cause his father a moment of discomfort. Grey smiled. The night wasn’t a total loss after all.

  He pulled out a chair and sat, his trousers smacking wetly against the wood. The candlelight from the center of the table glowed on Gravenhurst’s tan skin and light hair and made him look wicked. Fitting. No telling what the man was up to now. “Do not,” he said as Gravenhurst started to snicker, “laugh or say a word to me until I’ve had a drink or I’ll rearrange your nose for you, which might be an improvement to the crooked thing.”

  Grey grabbed the full glass Gravenhurst put in front of him and downed the liquor. A slow warmth started in his mouth and spread to his chest, pushing away a little of the iciness clinging to his damp skin. He would need a least two more drinks to warm himself and cool his irritation, but now he could talk civilly. Setting his glass down, he leaned back and allowed himself to relax for the first time in over an hour. “Your information was incorrect.”

  “You don’t say?” Gravenhurst replied, a smile pulling at his lips. “I thought as much when I saw you enter. So her father’s back in Town?”