My Scandalous Viscount

by Gaelen Foley

  Trust him? It was such a silly thing to say, coming from a libertine.

  She felt him pressing warm wet cloths to her head, then heard him wringing them out, bloody rags, in a bucket of water. “That’s good. Good girl,” he whispered.

  When she looked again, she whimpered at the sight of her own blood, reddening the water. “I don’t want to die, Beau.”

  “You’re not going to die,” he said calmly, sounding much more certain of that now than he had in the carriage. “I’m happy to say the bullet only grazed you. You need a few stitches, then you’ll be all better. Did you ever get stitches before, sweeting?”

  “No!” She cowered from the needle. “Does it hurt?”

  “Just a pinch. Nothing compared to getting shot, and you’ve already withstood that like a trooper.”

  She cringed again. He caressed her cheek, holding her gaze with stalwart confidence in his blue eyes. “Don’t worry. I’ll have you sewn up in a trice.”

  “Wait, you’re going to do it? Where’s the surgeon—”

  “I can do it.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I’ve done stitches loads of times, including on myself. It’s nothing. Just close your eyes and let me work, all right? The sooner we close this cut, the better off you’ll be. This will stop the bleeding. Now, relax. And trust me.”

  “I wish you would stop saying that.” She let out a low, unhappy, and dubious little moan, but she cooperated as he tilted her head so he could get started.

  Then, by the blaze of the lamps and candles everywhere, she noticed a long lock of her hair lying by some scissors on the table. “You cut my hair?” she protested.

  “Just the smallest bit! Well, I had to! It was in the way. I promise, you won’t even be able to tell. If you don’t like it, I’ll take you to the best milliner’s shop in London and buy you any hat you want. Now, can we please get this over with?”

  She closed her eyes again. “I hate you.”

  “I know, love.” She could hear the smile in his voice, feel the dangerous warmth of his charm. “Now, be still, or I’m going to kiss you again. Just like that day in Whitehall.”

  She smiled faintly, forgetting to scowl; then she peeked at him with one eye, and he flashed a roguish half smile at her. But when she saw him holding the needle over the candle flame to purify it, she went woozy again.

  Ugh, needles and bullets, all in one night!

  He took hold of her head. She squeezed her eyes shut, but somehow stopped herself from squirming away, realizing he was only torturing her like this in order to help her.

  Then he got down to business, holding the torn ends of her skin together and piercing both with his needle.

  “I’ve decided,” he remarked in an idle tone as he worked, “that when all this is over . . . I am going to find you a husband.”

  “Oh, really?” she muttered, aware that he was talking to distract her from his work on her wound.

  “Mm-hmm. You need someone looking after you, I daresay. Some nice, safe chap to hold the leash.”

  “I’ll give you a leash,” she muttered.

  “Some good, solid, sensible fellow who’ll stop you from following every impulse like a harebrain. Why did you follow me? Just to snoop? Haven’t you ever heard what curiosity got the cat?”

  “Not to snoop,” she mumbled. “I was coming to save you.”

  “Save me? What are you talking about?”

  “I saw him. I saw the man. And I didn’t warn you. I’m so sorry . . .”

  “Oh, there, darling, don’t cry. I forgive you.”

  “That’s why I came over toward your theatre box tonight. I wanted to trade information, but you wouldn’t. You were so stubborn. What kind of viscount are you, anyway, that you know how to make stitches?”

  “You should see my fancy embroidery.”

  “Is this really the time for a joke, when a person has been shot?”

  “That’s the perfect time for a joke, in my experience. I have a good one for you. This toad goes into a tavern—”

  “I have blood coming out of my head!”

  “Yes, but not nearly as much as I’d feared. Believe you me, I’m thrilled about this. Delighted. You have no idea how happy I am right now that this wasn’t worse.”

  “Worse?”

  “I thought I was going to find the bullet lodged in your old noggin, but I’m happy to say, your clever brain’s untouched by all the fuss. It only grazed you. You were incredibly lucky, to be honest. An inch lower, and it could have taken off your earlobe and scratched your pretty face. Or worse. Which I don’t care to think about. And I don’t recommend you think about it, either.”

  She cringed. “So, what about the toad?”

  “Right. So, the toad hops up onto a stool at the bar and orders a pint . . .”

  He continued with his inane little story, but as endearing as she found his effort to comfort her, Carissa could not pay attention to a joke when the man was coolly stitching her scalp back together.

  She squeezed her eyes shut, determined to bear it through. Ultimately, she succeeded in distracting herself at last by reliving the pleasant memory of his kiss that day.

  “Hang on, sweet. One more. We’re almost done. You’re doing well. There we are . . . Done.”

  “How many?”

  “Lucky seven. Luckier than you realize.” He pulled the needle through one last time, then proceeded to tie the end of the thread into a knot. “Good show, my girl. Now you are officially—a soldier.”

  And now, if you will excuse me, I believe it’s my turn to pass out. Beau took a swig from the nearby bottle of brandy to steady himself after that ordeal, then offered it to her. “Go on, take it. It’ll help dull the pain.”

  Her smooth brow puckered in slight disapproval, but she accepted the liquor warily and tipped it to her lips.

  Beau gazed at her in soul-deep relief. She was alive. She’d be fine.

  Finally, he could exhale.

  Only now he began to notice the throbbing in his arm. It hurt like hell. He took the bottle back from her and took another large gulp of the fiery spirits.

  The brandy warmed him to the belly but not as much as the sight of her, milky-skinned and tousled, with the bodice of her evening gown loosened and her long hair spilling free over her bared shoulders.

  Everything in him hungered to ravish her.

  He refused to believe that even he was that depraved, after all she’d been through. Yet, oddly, he felt closer to her now, as if the night’s mess had bonded them in some strange way.

  Filled with a protectiveness toward her the likes of which he had never known, the urge to claim her for himself stormed through him. He looked away, took a fresh rag out, and spilled a little brandy on it.

  “Last step,” he murmured, pressing it to her stitches. That done, he leaned down and kissed her forehead, letting his lips linger at her hairline.

  As he closed his eyes, he said a prayer of thanks that she had been spared. “You were very brave.”

  “Well,” she said uncertainly, “the toad helped.”

  “You’re a toad,” he told her fondly.

  “No, I’m not, you are.”

  “But if you kiss me, I might turn into a prince.”

  “We both know you’re already a prince.”

  “I think someone’s a little woozy from blood loss.” He pulled back. “Do you want to see your stitches?” He offered her the hand mirror he had brought along in case he needed Gray to hold it for him to focus the light or to give him a better angle on his work.

  She glanced reluctantly into the reflection. “How about that,” she murmured, peering at them. “Lord Beauchamp,” she said hesitantly, “I think you saved my life.” Then she shuddered and looked away.

  Probably so.

  “Now for the bandage, then you’ll be done.” He stood to wrap her head. She sat obediently, watching him as he wound a fresh white strip of bandaging around and around her head, hatband style. “Too tight
?”

  “No, it’s good. Thank you.”

  He tucked the end of the bandage under, then offered her the bottle of brandy again. She did not argue but took it from him and helped herself to a swig.

  Beau sat down again, reached for a fresh rag, and dipped it in the clean bowl of warm water. Then he reached across to her and gently used it to clean the dried blood off her skin, dabbing, wiping tenderly.

  She did not object.

  At length, she let out a sigh, lay back on the couch again, and closed her eyes. “I’m going to be ruined now, aren’t I?”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “Dante House. Wicked Inferno Club. Ruined. My uncle will throw me out,” she mused aloud. “I’ll have nowhere to go . . . tossed out in the street.”

  “Come, that’s not going to happen. Your uncle may be a stern bit of stuffing, but he doesn’t strike me as a cruel man. Besides, no one needs to know you were ever here unless one of us tells them.”

  She eyed him dubiously. “How’s that?”

  “Well—” He rinsed the rag out again, then stroked it down her shoulder. “How good a liar are you?”

  She started laughing, wearily, cynically.

  He was intrigued. “What is it?”

  “Oh, I’m a very good liar—when I need to be. Don’t you worry about that.” She took another swig of brandy.

  He arched a brow. “All right. Then we’ll make up some story, and no one will be the wiser.”

  “Do you really think we can get away with this?”

  “Of course.” He studied for a moment. “First, I have to know. Why didn’t you warn me I was walking into a trap?”

  “I said I was sorry. You were a beast. You know you were! I thought at last you’d finally learn your lesson about dallying with all these married women. But then I felt guilty, so I followed.”

  He eyed her ruefully. “You are a piece of work,” he said.

  She settled back against the cushions. “So, who was he? The jealous husband, I mean.”

  “Oh, that wasn’t a jealous husband.”

  She blinked. “No? Who was it that shot us, then?”

  He snorted. “That was my best friend. You’d better give me that brandy.”

  She looked at him in astonishment.

  Beau shrugged and took a swig from the bottle, which was dwindling fast.

  “What did you do to him? Why did he try to kill us?”

  “Why do you blame me? You just assume I did something wicked? Did it ever occur to you I’m rather a good chap?”

  He did not wait for an answer, but she was thinking it over.

  “Trust me, if Nick had wanted to kill us, we would be dead. He’s frightfully good at that sort of thing. On that note, if you’ll excuse me, I have to tend my arm.”

  “Your arm?” she echoed. Then she gasped loudly. “Why didn’t you tell me you were injured, too?”

  “Er, because you were unconscious?”

  With a stricken look, she pressed her hand over her mouth.

  After all the inconvenience she had caused him this night, he took some amused satisfaction in the soulful contrition that crept into her big green eyes.

  “I’ll be fine,” he said, as she lowered her hand slowly from her lips.

  “You should have said something! I didn’t realize you were hurt!” Staring at the torn flesh of his arm, she began to turn rather green around the gills. “Would you like some help?” she offered with a gulp, nonetheless.

  He laughed. “No, thanks. I can take care of myself.”

  Relief flashed across her face. “Are you sure?”

  “Gray can help me if I need it. That’s the butler. Call him if you need anything.”

  “Oh—well, then—if you’re sure.”

  “Get some rest, Carissa. You lost a lot of blood. You must feel like the very devil. Let me dress this wound,” he said, nodding down at his arm, “then I’ll take you home.”

  “All right.” She sank back against the cushions.

  He dimmed the brightly lit room so she could relax. He blew out a few of the candles and turned down the oil lamp; then he picked up a few of the medical supplies and turned to go.

  He would have to remove his shirt in order to tend his arm, and this was one young lady whose sensibilities had already been put through enough for one night. She did not need a bloodied, half-naked man in front of her, as well.

  “Lord Beauchamp?” she murmured, as he headed for the door. The sound of his name on her tongue heated him better than the brandy.

  He turned back. “Yes?”

  “Thank you for saving my life,” she said earnestly.

  He dropped his gaze. “It was my fault you got shot in the first place.”

  “No, it wasn’t. The fault was my own. If I had warned you straightaway about seeing that man switch the note, this never would’ve happened. But I was too proud, too stubborn. I hope you will forgive me.”

  “I’m just glad the bullet only grazed you,” he replied, looking into her eyes.

  She offered him a tentative smile, which he returned. The gaze they exchanged warmed him to the core. A little abashed, he nodded farewell and started once more to leave.

  “Um, Lord Beauchamp? There is one other thing.”

  “Yes, Miss Portland?” He glanced back over his shoulder.

  “You were right,” she admitted. “I was a little jealous.”

  “Aha!” he said with a knowing grin that spread from ear to ear. With a roguish chuckle, he took his leave of her. I knew it.

  Chapter 5

  When he had gone, Carissa closed her eyes and tried to rest. But now that the worst had passed, and she knew she was going to live, her curiosity returned with a vengeance.

  Dante House!

  She couldn’t believe she was inside the legendary gentlemen’s club where the men behaved like anything but gentlemen. Too jittery after her brush with death to relax, she sat up slowly on the couch and looked around.

  Lying there like some wilting violet was not quite her style, after all. Bad enough she had fainted like a ninny—no doubt Lord Beauchamp was never going to let her live that down.

  In any case, she had not been quite as unconscious as Beau had believed when he had returned with the physician’s bag, stepping through the odd doorway concealed behind the bookcase. She had a notion to get a closer look at that.

  Glancing over to make sure no one was coming, Carissa took a deep breath, then gathered her strength and stood. Still wobbly but feeling much better, all in all, she steadied herself. Perhaps the brandy he had given her had gone to her head, but the sensation of his hands on her persisted. The way he’d taken charge so expertly with her clothes and her hair had her feeling most improper. Likely it was the influence of this wicked place that encouraged bad thoughts of yielding to temptation.

  Well, she wouldn’t be here long, she told herself, and honestly, how many decent young ladies ever got the chance to find out firsthand what really went on in this scandalous den of iniquity? Why, as a lady of information, it was practically her duty to have a look around so she could tell Daphne and Kate about their husbands’ club.

  And so, Carissa set out to snoop.

  Well, the décor was certainly garish, she noted. Red velvet furniture, black leather—Lud! Tiptoeing across the room, she had questions in abundance. Why did they have secret doors and such vicious guard dogs? Why did Lord Beauchamp know what to do in a medical emergency? And why, out of all the jealous husbands he had cuckolded, was it his best friend who wanted to kill him?

  So many mysteries . . .

  As she headed across the parlor toward the bookcase that he had opened like a door, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror and was rather aghast at what she saw.

  Drying blood down the side of her gown made her look like the madwoman in some Gothic novel. But she was even more shocked by the impropriety of her appearance.

  Her loosened bodice was slipping off her shoulders; her stays w
ere untied, her hands ungloved; her hair hung freely to her waist, as only her maid and her family members ever saw it on the rarest occasions!

  Egads, the man had more or less undressed her.

  Maybe it was an everyday occurrence for him, making free with a lady’s person, but she was scandalized by his handiwork. Of course, his chief handiwork on her had been the stitches in her head, and without them, she supposed she would still be losing blood.

  Taking a step toward the mirror, she stared at the bandage wrapped around her head, morbidly amazed.

  Why, I look like one of Welly’s troops on the march home from fighting Boney. Wide-eyed, she shook her head at her reflection. What on earth was she going to tell her uncle?

  Miss Trent and her cousins must be beside themselves by now, wondering what had happened to her.

  Or maybe not. She glanced uncertainly at the clock on the wall. What time is it, anyway? A quarter to midnight. The play would be ending soon.

  Her head began to pound as she wondered how to explain this to her family. She braced herself on the back of the nearest gaudy chair, then closed her eyes until the wave of dizziness had passed.

  No, she couldn’t think about that right now.

  In a little while, she told herself, she would come up with some clever explanation to account for her absence and her shocking appearance. For now, she had only a small sliver of time to investigate the mystery of that secret doorway before he returned.

  The knight of the needle.

  She giggled, blood loss and brandy making her silly. Hastily retying her stays, pulling her gown up, and fastening it as best she could behind her back without the help of a maid, she went over to the bookcase and studied it, tapping her lip as she tried to figure out how it worked.

  She experimented by poking around at a few of the books and knickknacks on the shelves, but nothing happened until she laid hold of an unobtrusive bookend—a small bronze head of some past king.

  The clue came when she tried to pick it up; it wouldn’t move. It was attached to the shelf, and that didn’t make any sense.

  Then she found that she could twist it: The bookcase clicked forward from the wall. She drew in her breath and gripped the edge of it, pulling it open slowly, fascinated.