THE LAST WICKED SCOUNDREL
A Scoundrels of St. James Novella
LORRAINE HEATH
DEDICATION
For all my lovely readers who give my characters a home in their hearts.
CONTENTS
* * *
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Epilogue
An Excerpt from When the Duke Was Wicked
About the Author
Also by Lorraine Heath
An Excerpt from All I Want for Christmas Is a Cowboy by Emma Cane, Jennifer Ryan, and Katie Lane
An Excerpt from Santa, Bring My Baby Back by Cheryl Harper
An Excerpt from The Christmas Cookie Chronicles: Grace by Lori Wilde
An Excerpt from Desperately Seeking Fireman by Jennifer Bernard
Copyright
About the Publisher
PROLOGUE
* * *
From the Journal of William Graves
I was born to a woman who deemed me worthless, except when I provided her with a convenient spot for the back of her hand. I learned well to avoid her, to hide in corners, to find a way to be far from her reach. As soon as my legs could keep up, I began to accompany my father on his nightly runs to the graveyards.
He was a grave robber, you see. And he treated me much more kindly than did my mum. He saw potential in me, because I was willing to help him dig for the treasures. That was what he called them. Often the well-to-do were buried with their jewelry. Some fancy gents had gold teeth. All were cadavers, needed by the hospital for teaching potential physicians about the intricacies of the human body, and they put coins in my father’s pockets.
I never feared the dead. They could no longer hurt me.
When my mum died, my father took her straightaway to the hospital because she would fetch us a tidy sum. But that time—after they paid my father—I lingered about, caught glimpses of the reverence with which the bodies were handled and the secrets they revealed.
When I returned home, my father was gone. I never saw him again. I don’t know if he was robbed and killed for his flush pockets or if he decided he wanted to be rid of me, realized my mum was correct and I wasn’t worth the effort of keeping alive.
I was eight at the time, and soon found myself on the streets where I fell in with a fellow who went by the name of Feagan. He managed a group of child thieves, and soon taught me to rob swells of their silk handkerchiefs. My fingers were nimble and quick, well suited to the task.
However, Fate is a fickle lady. Eventually it was discovered that one of Feagan’s lads was actually a lost child of the aristocracy, and when Luke went to live with his grandfather, the Earl of Claybourne, he took me with him. I was tutored in mathematics, penmanship, and reading. When I was of a proper age, I gained admittance to a teaching hospital.
I was comfortable around the cadavers, eager to understand all they could share with me. In time, I was able to apply what I learned. I became a renowned physician, treating the poor and aristocracy alike. Eventually, my skills became known to the queen, and she bade me to serve at her pleasure, which I did gladly.
But I never forgot my humble beginnings, never forgot that the dead always tell their secrets.
CHAPTER ONE
* * *
London
1854
Winifred Buckland, the Duchess of Avendale, had never been more terrified in her life. Something was wrong, dreadfully wrong, and she feared that if she told anyone what was happening that they would see her straightaway to Bedlam.
So as people arrived for her charity ball, she stood at the foot of the stairs that led into the grand salon and pretended nothing was amiss. With a warm smile, she thanked the most influential and affluent members of the aristocracy for coming in support of her plans to build a hospital. It was a grand undertaking, but managing the project had served to bolster her confidence.
She began hosting the event shortly after her first year of mourning. Her husband had died in a fire at Heatherwood, the Earl of Claybourne’s ancestral estate. The reason for his being in the manor was still a bit murky, but his death was clear. She’d seen his charred remains and had the ducal rings removed from the ash of his fingers. With his demise had come her freedom—her freedom from pain, humiliation, and paralyzing fear. He’d been a brute, if she were honest. Although only a handful of people knew that truth. It wasn’t something about which one boasted.
After greeting the latest arrivals, she experienced a small respite and took a moment to glance around. The orchestra situated in the balcony was playing a waltz. Morning lilies, her favorite flower, were arranged in lovely vases, bringing their sweet fragrance into the ballroom. Through a nearby door, her guests wandered into another room where they were greeted with an abundance of food and drink on long linen-covered tables. Champagne flowed. Laughter floated through the rooms. She loved the laughter most of all. Such a joyous sound when there had been little enough in her life for some years.
Where once arranging balls had been a tedious ordeal that often undermined her self-esteem because her husband always found fault with one thing or another, now she enjoyed the task immensely because her ball served the purpose of repaying the man who had quite literally rescued her from death’s door.
Glancing back up the stairs, she felt her heart give a little stutter as she watched William Graves descending. With his blond hair curling about his head like a halo, he reminded her of an angel. Her angel. He had not only seen to her injuries, but had provided her with sanctuary after the last horrible beating her husband had given her before his accidental death.
It was because of William Graves that she hosted this affair every year. She very much intended to use the funds to establish a hospital in his honor as a way to repay him for all he’d done for her.
Finally he reached her, took her gloved hand, and pressed a kiss to it. “Your Grace, you’re looking lovely this evening.”
“Dr. Graves, I’m so pleased you could join us.” She wished she didn’t sound so breathless, as though she were the one who had just descended the stairs, and descended them at a hurried clip. She didn’t know why he always made her struggle for breath, in a rather pleasant way that implied anticipation rather than dread. Considering the treatment she’d endured at the hands of her husband, she was very much surprised that she didn’t fear all men.
But there was something about William Graves that had always put her at ease. The devilment dancing in the blue of his eyes perhaps or the way he smiled somewhat roguishly as though he were very adept at holding a lady’s secrets, especially if he were the reason for those secrets. His was the face of Adonis, and while his evening clothes provided him with an elegance and veneer of civility, she knew power resided beneath the fabric. He had carried her with such ease three years ago. Barely conscious at the time, she’d still been extremely aware of being cocooned within the shelter of his strong arms. His voice had issued quiet but insistent commands, urging her not to succumb to death’s clutches. She suspected most of his patients healed because of his unwavering insistence that they not do otherwise.
He took in his surroundings with the attention of someone who never failed to overlook the tiniest of details. “You have a rather nice turnout. I’m not sure I’d have been missed.”
Rubbing the bridge of her nose, she said, “You would have been, I assure you. And you’re correct about the attendance this evening. This year’s donations will provide the fund
s to see that the work on the hospital begins in earnest.”
His blue gaze came back to bear on her. “A hospital will be much appreciated. You’re very generous to give it your time and such devotion.”
“It’s no sacrifice, I assure you. Perhaps if you have a couple of spare hours in the next few days, we could discuss some of the details. I want to ensure that it suits your needs.”
“I trust your judgment.”
He would never know how much those words meant to her. Her husband had sought to control every aspect of her life, had never trusted her judgment. In the end, she began to doubt it as well. “Still, I value your opinion.”
“Your Grace, it should have nothing to do with me.”
It had everything to do with him. “Please,” she urged, knowing that next he would tell her again that he had done nothing out of the ordinary in caring for her. She liked him, rather a lot, but he kept a respectful distance and was always so formal with her. She knew he had grown up on the streets and was a friend to the Earl of Claybourne. It was how she had met him as the earl had also assisted that awful night. “It gives my life purpose. I’m going to build a hospital whether or not you assist me, but doing it on my own, I may muck things up.”
He smiled, a soft upturn of his lips. “I doubt you will muck things up, but I suppose I could add some insight regarding the needs of a hospital. I’ll make time in my schedule to look over your plans.”
“I appreciate it.”
“Now, can you make time in your hostess schedule to dance with me?”
Joy burst through her. It was the first ball where she had not worn her mourning garb. In her pale blue evening gown, she felt young again, not weighted down with the poor decisions of her youth. “I can indeed. My dance card is completely open. Widows are not nearly as sought after as young single ladies.”
“Personally, I prefer a lady with some experience in life to the ones who are too innocent.” The strains of another waltz started up. “Will this dance suffice?”
She couldn’t contain her pleasure. “It will do very nicely.”
As he led her onto the dance floor, she did experience a moment of disappointment. She would have felt far more self-possessed if she were wearing the sapphire necklace that once belonged to her mother. It would have gone perfectly with her gown and would have served to distract from her misshapen nose that listed slightly to one side—a parting gift from Avendale. But when she’d gone to the safe earlier to retrieve the sapphires, they hadn’t been there. She didn’t know how the necklace could have been stolen when the safe was secure and she was the only one with the key. She tried to remember when she had last worn it, and if she might have placed it elsewhere, but she always took such care with the jewelry, more because of its sentimental value than its monetary worth.
But thoughts of the necklace slipped from her mind as William Graves took her into his arms and swept her over the gleaming marble floor. Her favorite part of the evening was always this singular dance with him. He would only ask her once. It mattered not that no one else escorted her onto the dance area. After these few minutes, he wouldn’t intrude on her evening again—as though she would consider any time spent with him an intrusion.
As his eyes held hers, she wondered if he saw her as she was now or as she’d been. She didn’t wish to be vain, but it seemed that she was nonetheless. A diagonal white line marred one brow. She had a tiny scar on one cheek. Beneath her gown resided several others. William knew of their existence because he’d been the one to stitch her up, the one who had held ice against all the various areas that had swollen and bruised. He was the one who had spooned broth into her mouth when she could barely move her jaw.
She had been a married woman who, within only a few days, began to hold affection for a man who wasn’t her husband. Then Avendale was gone, and her guilt over her feelings toward William had spiked. Entirely inappropriate for her to think of him as anything other than her physician. And William, bless him, had never taken advantage of the situation, had never indicated that he saw her as anything other than a patient.
But now she almost believed she saw desire smoldering in his eyes. They didn’t speak. It seemed there was no need for words. But she was acutely aware of his hand holding hers tightly, his other hand pressing into the small of her back, his legs brushing against her skirt. He was tall, broad-shouldered, but she wasn’t threatened by his physical traits. Rather, she felt safe, protected.
Perhaps it was a result of the days she’d spent under his care. He had secreted her and her son away to his town home. His friend, Frannie, who later became the Duchess of Greystone, had seen to caring for Whit, while William had devoted all his time ensuring that Winnie recovered from the ordeal. It was more than the physical healing that had been required, and he saw to her emotional needs masterfully.
So many nights she awoke with a start from a nightmare to see him sitting in a chair beside the bed keeping watch over her. He filled her hours of recovery by reading Shakespeare and Dickens to her, playing chess, carrying her out to the garden so she could enjoy watching her son kicking a ball around with Frannie. He seemed to know what she needed without her voicing it. He was so attentive, and while she told herself that it was only because he was seeing to her recovery, in a small corner of her heart she could not help but believe that he enjoyed his time with her, that he welcomed excuses to be in her company a bit longer. Sometimes they would talk about nothing in particular into the late hours of the night, until she drifted off into restful slumber. She always seemed to sleep better when she carried his voice into her dreams.
Now the music drifted into silence, and very slowly their movements came to a halt. He appeared on the verge of saying something, asking for another dance perhaps. Or at least she hoped those were the words he would utter. She didn’t care if only two dances was proper. She would dance every one with him if he but asked.
Instead, he gave her a small smile and began to lead her toward the sweeping staircase where she could be on hand to greet any latecomers. Once they reached their destination, he again took her hand and kissed the back of it.
“Thank you for the dance,” he said.
“It was my pleasure.”
His eyes darkened. “No, Duchess, as always it was mine.”
With those parting words, he strode away, becoming lost in the thicket of guests. She had little doubt that he was off to search out his friends who were here. Others who had grown up on the streets with him supported her efforts, more for the good doctor’s benefit than hers, she was certain. He seemed to instill loyalty in people. But then that probably wasn’t unusual considering his skill at warding off death’s advances.
Yet she did often find herself wishing she had met him under different circumstances, that she had met him before she had ever become a wife.
Standing in a darkened corner of the terrace, William Graves sipped the whiskey that he’d pilfered from the library. He preferred the bite of hard liquor to champagne. It was more in line with the darkness that resided inside him.
Dancing with Winifred Buckland, Duchess of Avendale, served as his favorite moments of the year. Even though the activity was pure torment.
Three years ago, he’d done what was necessary to save her, although not everything was exactly legal. Not that he’d ever suffered any guilt over skirting the law. But he wasn’t certain she would be as accepting of his wrongdoing. As a matter of fact, he was rather certain she would despise him for his role in her husband’s demise, and so he kept his distance when he would prefer to close the gap between them.
Or at least explore the possibility of closing it. He was drawn to her in ways he’d never been drawn to another woman. She possessed a vulnerability that he suspected hid a reservoir of strength, and he would dearly love to help her uncover that secret about herself, but he feared her discovery of his secrets.
His secrets that could very well destroy not only her but every other soul about whom he cared.
So for two years now, he came to this blasted ball. He danced once with her. He inhaled her jasmine fragrance, felt the heat of her skin seeping through her clothes and his gloves to mingle with the warmth of his hands. He gazed into her somber brown eyes, and wished to God that he possessed the power to make her laugh. He studied her crooked nose, which in spite of its origins he found endearing, and wondered if she were aware how many times she rubbed the bridge of it, how many times she seemed to try to hide it. He was familiar with the scar across her eyebrow, the one on her cheek, and the faint one on the underside of her chin that she might not even know was there. He found no fault with them, as they were signs of survival, but he loathed the reasons that she possessed them.
Still, he often thought of how it would feel to trail his mouth over them, and wondered if in the process he would heal the inner hurts with as much success as he’d managed to heal the outer ones.
He longed to remove the pins from her mahogany hair. He doubted she was aware that during some of her moments of delirium he had brushed it to keep it from becoming so infested with tangles that it would need to be shorn. It fell to her waist, and was so beautiful. As beautiful as she was. He could gaze into her brown eyes for hours, but he’d done all the gazing he allowed himself for the night. One dance. A few moments. He dared not torture himself further by taking more. His ability to resist her was on a weak tether.
He downed the contents of the tumbler before setting it aside on the railing. Time to be off, to find another woman to distract him from his desires. Although unfortunately, since he’d met her, all other women paled in comparison, left him wanting. He often worked himself to exhaustion simply so he wouldn’t carry her into dreams, because she never wore a stitch of clothing there, and his frustration with past actions merely increased. But even knowing the price he paid, he would do it again without hesitation. He would do anything at all to protect her.
The Last Wicked Scoundrel Page 1