The Rogue's Last Scandal: A Regency Romance (Sons of the Spy Lord Book 3)

by Alina K. Field

  The Rogue’s Last Scandal

  Alina K. Field

  Havenlock Press

  Contents

  The Rogue’s Last Scandal

  Untitled

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Epilogue

  Untitled

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Alina K. Field

  The Rogue’s Last Scandal

  Book Three, Sons of the Spy Lord

  Alina K. Field

  To the savers, the memoirists, the letter-writers, the genealogists, and all the quiet historians who make the past come alive.

  *****

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  Like any good rogue, he was after a lady.

  Saving a young heiress from wedding a scoundrel might just ease Charley Everly’s boredom with his current assignment. He’s been looking for a lady: beautiful, rich, Spanish, and the key to a traitor.

  Could Grace Kingsley be the one?

  Falling—literally—into the arms of the ton’s most outrageous rogue seems a risky path of escape, but Maria Graciela Kingsley y Romero has no other choice. Only the great Earl of Shaldon can help her, and he is not to be found.

  So his son will have to do.

  Chapter 1

  London, 1821

  His lady had not made an appearance tonight, not that he’d have any reason to expect her at a Kingsley soirée.

  Charles Rupert Armstrong Everly took a long drag upon his cigarillo and surveyed the shadowed tangles of the garden.

  Lady Kingsley had failed to place inviting lanterns outside to lure ball-goers into wickedness. And in all the preparations for the Kingsleys’ grand party, no servant had been sent to sweep away dead leaves from the previous autumn, or chase away whatever vermin were rustling around in them.

  Of course, Lady Kingsley had also discouragingly locked the ballroom’s terrace doors.

  He and his old school chum, Quentin Penderbrook, had required little more than a minor diversion and their wits to manage the Kingsley servants and the flimsy terrace door lock.

  “Kingsley is pockets to let, I hear,” Penderbrook said. “Wonder how he financed this grand display?” He took a long drag. “The heiress, I suppose. As my aunt used to say, you need money to draw in the grand mark.”

  “Your aunt was a font of wisdom.”

  Penderbrook laughed. “Outspoken, she was, for a clergyman’s wife. It’s a pity I don’t have a title. I wonder if my chance of a position in the Home Office would suffice for the Kingsleys? From what I saw, the girl looks to be a beauty.”

  Charley tapped off a bit of ash. “She looks to be a handful.”

  His friend laughed. “You didn’t see her up close, as I did, Everly.”

  That was true enough. They’d been dragged off to this ball by his sister, Lady Perpetua Everly, and had arrived blessedly late. From the crowded distance of the ballroom floor, the heiress’s back bore the usual outline of white muslin and piled up hair. “I’m speaking from general principles. Spanish women.”

  “Ah. Spanish women. Well, you would know.”

  He would, and he did. He was looking for a Spanish woman, wealthy and beautiful. He had tracked down more than a few in this pre-coronation social whirl.

  “She’ll be miserable if he throws her to that slimy fish,” Penderbrook said.

  The door clicked behind them and a lady appeared, the light behind her shadowing her face. Nothing, however—not the furbelows and flounces on her white dress, not the dim light—nothing could hide that figure.

  Speech failed him—as it never did. He dropped his tobacco and bowed, his eyes traveling over her, down and up. She was exquisite.

  She cast a trembling glance back, and he caught his breath, tasting the fear rolling off her.

  A ray of light from the ballroom flashed in her eyes as they widened.

  Before he could even stutter, she put a finger to her lips and disappeared down the crumbled stairs to the brush below, as quick and as wispy as a water wraith, albeit a curvy one.

  “Well.” Penderbrook dropped his own cigarillo and ground it with the heel of his scuffed dancing slipper.

  Almost never at a loss for words was his friend Penderbrook. And if he thought to pursue the young lady, he would have to knock Charley out of the way.

  The terrace door slammed open and all of his senses went to high alert.

  “Come to join us?” Penderbrook’s words rolled out smoothly over the roiling tension. “Dreadfully hot in there,” he drawled.

  “Smoking?”

  That voice. Charley would recognize it anywhere, even without the dripping disdain, forged by the self-serving corruption of a smuggler’s lordship.

  He’d met this particular slimy fish previously in Brussels.

  Charley staggered against the crumbling terrace wall, slipped a flask from his pocket and swigged it.

  “A flask? At a ball, Everly?” The man moved closer.

  “Why, by Jove, it’s Gregory Carvelle.” Charley wiped his mouth and managed a belch. “Penderbrook, let me introduce you. I have not seen you since Brussels. Lady Devonshire’s ball, wasn’t it. What have you been up to all these many years, old man?”

  “You are drunk.”

  “Drunk?” Penderbrook said. “No one could be drunk on Kingsley’s lemonade. Not even Everly here, who we know cannot hold his liquor. I say, Everly, why not let your man here have one of those excellent Spanish cigars? Join us, Carvelle.”

  “I will not. I am looking for a young lady. Has anyone else come out?”

  Charley laughed, and threw back his head, projecting his voice to the garden. “Ah, April, dressed in all his trim, hath put a spirit of youth in everything.”

  “Shakespeare,” Penderbrook explained. “The sonnets.”

  “Indeed,” Charley laughed again. “Is the young lady pretty?”

  Penderbrook joined in with the laughter and snatched the flask. “If a girl had come out here, Everly would have pushed me back inside. Now that you have someone else to entertain you, Everly, I shall find some lemonade and doctor it up.”

  “Don’t let my sister catch you at it. She’ll roast you for a week.”

  Penderbrook laughed as if he hadn’t a care in the world, as if he wasn't leaving Charley alone with a disreputable thug.

  As if there wasn’t a beautiful woman hiding in the wild scrub below them.

  His friend had made it known he was angling for a spot in the Earl of Shaldon’s service, desperately, from what Charley could surmise. If only Pender knew how dreadfully tedious it could be, working for Father. Chasing down a Spanish woman who was the key to a spy had proved to be less than heroic.

  Th
ough perhaps, this wouldn’t be one of those times.

  Charley pulled a case from another pocket his clever tailor had managed to craft for him. “Will you have one of these tiny cigars?”

  Carvelle waved him away. “I’m surprised you are here tonight, and not off at Mivart’s swinging your way down from the Duquesa’s hotel window. But, oh yes—the Duque has arrived in town, hasn’t he.”

  Charley laughed. “Has he? I’m not keeping track, Carvelle, but I see you are.”

  “I make it my business to keep track of many things. How is your father, the great Lord Shaldon?”

  “Father? I imagine you must know.”

  “He is in Bath.”

  “Quite. Ill enough to take the waters.”

  The other man’s lips turned up unpleasantly. “Your brother must be counting the hours until his succession.”

  Heat spiked within him. “Perhaps.” He made himself drawl lazily. “Bakeley and I do not speak much.” It was not entirely a lie. Since his recent marriage, his elder brother, Viscount Bakeley, was busy with affairs of the heart.

  That marriage, however, had restored the relationship between father and son. One thing Charley knew for sure, Bakeley did not wish his father dead.

  “And what will become of you, eh, once the great diplomat, Lord Shaldon, is not around to pull his strings for you?”

  “Have you not heard, Carvelle? I’ve entered Parliament. A politician never starves.”

  “A smart politician. Not a drunken gambler who spends his time jumping through the beds of married women. You will need to marry money.”

  Well, and wasn’t that interesting—the man was feeling very confident to speak so bluntly, the ignorant ass. Drunk or sober, another man might have called Carvelle out.

  Charley managed a hiccup. “Have you got someone in mind for me?”

  Again, that sneer.

  He hiccupped again and tapped a finger against his cheek. “I hear Kingsley’s ward is very rich.”

  Carvelle’s hand locked around Charley’s wrist. “You are not to touch her.”

  His blood rose as he studied the hand grasping his. He counted to three, silently, forced it down. Made himself laugh.

  Duty required him to let it be. This time.

  The door rattled and a cloud of emerald silk filled the doorway.

  “Gregory.” Lady Kingsley advanced on them bringing with her a gagging cloud of lavender. “Sir.” She curtsied her deference to the son of a powerful and very rich earl. “Gregory, you’ve not found her?”

  “No.”

  Her plump little hands clenched as tightly as the bodice displaying her generous wares, as tightly as her scowl. She was a handsome enough woman, even now, if one could stomach a social-climbing harpy.

  “This is the want of a rod,” she said.

  Charley’s ears pricked up, aware that the wildlife in the untamed garden had gone silent.

  “Which I have not, nor will not spare, nor should you, Gregory, when...”

  She must have remembered his aristocratic presence, and with her pause he staggered again, bracing himself on the balustrade.

  Her back stiffened. “Perhaps we should check again in the nursery. I will go myself. Carvelle, you are wanted inside by my husband.”

  Charley let the door shut on them and waited. The night time noises rose again—the clattering of wheels on a nearby street, a watchman’s call, a breeze fluttering the new leaves of the untamed foliage.

  “I hear there is a packet running daily from Portsmouth to Calais,” he said.

  The bushes below rustled. He hurried down the terrace stairs.

  Chapter 2

  The brick against her back was cold, stirring the ache in her wounded heart, soaking the dampness into her soul.

  A packet running daily from Portsmouth to Calais. And he’d quoted from the Sonnets. She sighed and rubbed her fists against her cheeks.

  She could not leave. She must not cry.

  His smell reached her before his footsteps, tobacco and leather, like her papa’s, and some subtle masculine scent unique to this man. She inhaled deeply and squeezed her eyes a moment.

  Hold the waterworks, my Gracie.

  When she looked, he stood more than an arm’s length away. The blood danced in her veins and her breath tightened. Tall and broad shouldered, she had seen that his hair was a thick tawny brown, and he was handsome as sin.

  Everly, his name was. Son of Lord Shaldon, Carvelle had said. She made herself breathe and waited.

  As did he, respectful, watchful. Not, she decided, drunk. That had been a feint, and why?

  Because he was smart, because he could recognize evil. Which did not mean he was himself to be trusted.

  She curtsied. “Lord Everly.”

  “I do not wish to disappoint,” he said softly, “but I am only a mister. Mr. Charles Everly.”

  The test had produced humor. Perhaps he would help her.

  “And I am a simple miss. Miss Maria Graciela Kingsley y Romero.” She held out her hand.

  “Señorita.” He bent over her white glove and kissed it.

  Warmth bloomed where his lips touched silk, soaked through the thin covering, rippled up her arm, and, even after he'd released her, caused a shiver to tumble through her.

  “You are cold.” He started to disrobe.

  “No please. You must stay dressed.” We both must.

  Or must they? Would a scandal in the garden with a notorious rogue, with this notorious rogue, cause Carvelle to cry off? He had implied that Mr. Everly was having an affair with a Duquesa. He had told Mr. Everly not to touch her, Graciela.

  She thought of little Reina. And the witch’s rod, and she hugged herself tighter.

  “Por favor, señor. Ayudame.” Please sir, help me.

  Charley moved closer and took both of her hands. The thin gloves only amplified the chill of her. Fear had made her slip into Spanish.

  He was looking for a Spanish woman, wealthy and beautiful. Not this Spanish woman, who he well knew was not really Spanish, but a product of an Englishman and a creole woman of New Spain.

  He moved her into a thread of light and examined her again. A great deal of skin showed above her bosom. She didn’t look like she’d felt the other lady’s rod, not lately anyway.

  “I will help you,” he said in Spanish. “Will you leave with me? I will take you directly to my brother and his wife.” His eldest brother, Bink, was in town. He and his wife Paulette would take in the girl and hold their curiosity until a later time.

  She shook her head. “No. I thank you.” She had found her English again. “I did not arrive alone and I cannot leave without the others who accompanied me.”

  That was news, and surprising, to boot. A villain generally dispensed with his victim’s allies quickly. “He will sack your servants as soon as you are gone.”

  Again, that quick head shake. “There is a child. I am her guardian.”

  A child. Lady Kingsley was going to the nursery. Children were the best of leverages, if one’s victim cared about them at all.

  A window creaked somewhere above them. “Please,” she whispered, “I wish very much to meet your father. Can you kindly arrange it?”

  That sent a prickle through him. His father had many friends and many enemies. In truth, his father had never said whether her father, Captain Tristan Kingsley, was either. They’d never talked about the man at all. “You are all politeness,” he said, stalling.

  Her mouth firmed. “I am not polite, señor. I am desperate.” She pulled her hands away. “I cannot be seen with you.”

  “Wait.” He touched her bare arm, above the buttoned glove. “He’s in Bath. I’ll find a way when he returns.”

  “That will be too late.”

  “Then I’ll help you.”

  She looked up at him. “My father said I could trust your father. I am not so sure about you.”

  His reputation had preceded him, as it always did. The feckless, whoring, drunken younger son of
one of England’s greatest. Only occasionally did he regret his ill repute. Only occasionally did it work against him. Like now.

  “I will help you, and I will not importune you in any way. You can trust me. Have you a plan?”

  She straightened. She hesitated, and then tucked her hand around his arm. “Tonight, I will raise the false flag. I will play the coward and faint. You may catch me if you will.” They proceeded up the stairs and at the top she stopped. “Please. No duels. I do not wish any more blood upon my conscience.”

  “Me? Duel? With whom? Carvelle?”

  She nodded.

  He released her hand, took a step back, and smiled. “I prefer to deal with villains in a more expedient way.”

  That did not cheer her as he'd hoped. Instead her mouth firmed more. Before she could speak the door opened and Penderbrook walked out with Charley’s sister, Perry.

  Charley made the introductions and watched Miss Kingsley attempt polite small talk. She was no better at it than his passionate, opinionated, intelligent sister, who quickly surmised a problem.

  “There you are, Grace.” Lady Kingsley barreled through the doors. “We have been looking all over for you. Where have you been?”

  Perry moved into her path before she could snatch up Miss Kingsley. “She was with me.” Perry smiled and pushed up her spectacles.

  She used them to ward off all the idiots after her grand dowry, but Charley knew she only fiddled with them like this when she was nervous.

  “I am most anxious to visit the Caribbean and Mexico someday. And, oh, my dear Miss Kingsley, I heard the news about your father’s ship. I feel certain the report must be mistaken. Why, how many times, Charley, did we receive word that Father was dead? And he wasn’t. And our brother’s wife, Sirena—her brother was reported dead, and it is a marvel how that turned out. You must not lose hope, Miss Kingsley.”

  Dear Perry. She was far too feeling for the bloodless ton, even the members who lurked around the fringes of high society.