A strange matching of awe and horror replaced his calm pretense. Keanan sprung up from the chair and began pacing. “The devil fetch her and all intractable females! I told her not to interfere in business that did not concern her.” He glowered at his companion. “A firm hand to her backside is what that woman needs.”
His tirade seemed to ease the tension in Tipton’s posture. Settling back in his chair, he shifted that ominous-looking cane from his lap to a vertical stance near the chair. “I doubt Sir Thomas would disagree.”
Keanan felt the blood drain from his head. “Has he touched her?”
“Well, well, is this not telling?” The viscount mused, “You want her beaten, yet are prepared to kill the man who tries. Shall I offer you my skilled opinion on your incurable condition?”
Keanan scrubbed the grit from his eyes. “I don’t need your skills or your opinion.”
“Fair enough. What do you want from Wynne?”
His lungs constricted, and he could not seem to breathe. Maybe he did require a surgeon, after all. Unconsciously he patted his chest. “I do not want her suffering on my behalf.” What feelings he had for her were private, and Tipton would not be privy to them. “Are we finished?”
That cold pewter gaze scrutinized him. A lesser man would have been tempted to fidget. “I have what I came for.” The viscount stood without the assistance of his cane. “I wonder how long it will take you to do the same?”
Feeling goaded, Keanan could not resist gibing, “For a warning, I expected more from a man like you.”
Before he could take his next breath, the point of a twelve-inch blade was pressed into the shallow impression of his throat. The stealth and swiftness of the move revealed the lethalness of his nocturnal caller.
Tipton’s amused expression belied the seriousness of the moment. “If I were issuing a warning, my friend, you would not have to question my, ah, execution.” He withdrew the blade and sheathed it. With a mocking bow, he let himself out of the room.
Appreciating the reprieve, he felt his knees buckle, and Keanan collapsed heavily into the chair. He would never again misjudge the ingenuity of a skilled anatomist wielding honed steel.
* * *
Reclining on her bed, an arm draped over her eyes to block the brightening of the approaching dawn, Rae listened to the coach on the street below heralding her husband’s arrival.
She rolled to her side. If she had bothered to look out the window, she would have witnessed her husband’s ignoble sprawl when he departed the coach. What his drunkenness stole from his agility, it compensated him by bestowing numbness, both of mind and body. Rae resented his respite when all she could do was lie in her bed and worry. His persistent pounding below meant the coachman had been able to pull him to his feet and prop him at the door. The scene below had been played out countless times over the years. It no longer amused her to watch.
The pounding stopped abruptly. One of the blurry-eyed servants had opened the door. Sitting up, Rae came to a decision. If she had no peace, then neither should he. Rising, she picked up her discarded woolen shawl from the chair and wrapped it around her shoulders.
Approaching the stairs, she could hear him talking to someone, even though their conversation was muffled. Her hand skimmed the railing, steadying her silent descent since she had not bothered lighting a candle. She focused on the welcoming light below.
She saw him as the last twenty steps of the staircase curled inward. What she had mistaken for dialogue was, in truth, incoherent murmurs of lust. One of the maids was doubled over the Italian rococo marble-surfaced console table in the hall, a wedding gift from her mother. Her skirts were shoved over her head, concealing her identity. Rae paused on the stairs, preferring to stare at the servant’s white-knuckled fingers digging into the gilded scrolling of leaves and flowers than watch her husband’s savage thrusts.
She managed a cool, brittle smile when she said, “A bit early in the day to be debauching the servants, is it not, Reckester?”
The maid screamed. Twisting onto her back, she struggled out of her master’s embrace. “Oh, madam!” she wailed, horrified she was going to be sacked. The table, not made for its current abuse, rocked precariously.
“Damn you, hold still!” Reckester roared, managing to grab one of her kicking legs. The table tipped over, dumping the maid. Caught unawares, her husband collapsed on top, his breeches twisted around his knees.
Rae strolled past the embarrassing tangle. “Since you tend to be brief in these matters, husband, I will expect you in the library in a few minutes.” She halted. Glancing back at the sobbing maid, she said, “My dear, you are dismissed. I will leave your references to my husband.”
Entering the library, she was not as unmoved as she had appeared. Picking up one of the porcelain doves from the library table, Rae hurled it at the wall. It shattered quite nicely. A second one joined its unfortunate companion.
Reckester charged through the door, the threat of retribution gleaming in his dark gaze. He had fastened his breeches, but his pulled-out, rumbled shirt reminded her of his perfidy. She seized another bird and threw it at his head. He ducked. She missed him by inches. Translucent shards pelted him like hailstones.
“Damnation, woman, don’t plead a broken heart. In all these years, you have never complained. I am not convinced you even own one.”
“You are welcome to your ugly sluts,” she raged. Wisps of gray hair had slipped from her immaculate braid. “But keep them out of my house. I deserve that much.”
Shaking off the shattered porcelain, Reckester brushed past her to the brandy. “How was I to know you’d be prowling about at this hour?”
Rae clenched her teeth at his pathetic reasoning. He had probably rutted with every female servant in the household. “I hope she gave you the tetters,” she purred with vicious relish.
“Ah, finally a suitable incentive for seeking out your bed, my duchess.”
Strangling on her suppressed fury, she charged him. The impact knocked the glass of brandy out of his hand. He crossed his arms over his face, warding off her clawing blows. She loved him. She hated him. The duality of her feelings made her pray for his death, if only to end her torment.
“Enough, you rabid bitch!” He shoved her away.
She fell against the library table. A table globe crashed to the floor. “You disgust me,” she spat. “You are quick to bully a woman, and yet you cannot stand up to your own bastard. What did he do? Embrace you or have his servants throw you into the street?”
“Silence!”
“I know about your losses. Mr. Tibal was quite concerned and regretted selling our shipping interests. Who do you think bought up those shares? Shall I tell you or would you rather turn it into a game?”
Defensive, he grumbled, “Those shares will be ours again.”
“Those shares belong to Keanan Milroy, and nothing short of death will force him to sell them back to us. Polite society enjoys gossip. Your endeavors and failings always provide them with new fodder. Do you know what else your bastard has stolen from us?”
“I can manage Milroy.”
“Obviously, you cannot. Where you failed with Sir Thomas Bedegrayne, Mr. Milroy succeeded with the daughter.” Smug that her barb had found its mark, she straightened, feeling more in control.
Reckester scowled, probably recalling his disastrous meeting with the baronet. “Bedegrayne will not hand his daughter over to Milroy.”
“Marriage is inconsequential to a man like him. I cannot think of a more gratifying revenge than seducing the lady our son wanted for his bride.”
“There are other ripe maidens and dowries,” he said, dismissing the severity of their loss.
A slight stinging sensation drew her regard to her hands. She had not noticed that her fingers, fiercely rolled into fists, were causing her nails to cut crescent-shaped wounds into her palms. “Milroy is ruining everything. You promised to see to him.”
The slyness in his expression did not com
fort her. “You place too much importance on him. Families greater than ours have weathered the scandalous machinations of a by-blow.” He yawned and stretched his limbs.
She watched him stagger wearily toward the door, probably off to his bed. The blind fool considered the matter of Keanan Milroy settled. Rae disagreed. The man was a risk to her family.
Men always underestimated women. It took a unique fortitude to nurture life within one’s body and endure the searing pain of birth. There was no limit to the measures they would go to protect their own.
* * *
“Miss Bedegrayne, your absence has been noteworthy,” Lord Nevin said, formally bowing over her extended hand. He did not sit but seemed reluctant to move from her side.
Aunt Moll, who sat at one of the tables in the room, looked up from her cards. Wynne inclined her head in the earl’s direction, marking her approval.
“I have been unwell, my lord,” she said, not wanting to explain her seclusion and the complicated battle of distrust between her and her father.
“Nothing serious, I pray.”
“Not really. My father is overprotective.”
She owed this afternoon’s outing to her aunt. Once again, she and her calm persuasion had broken through her father’s stubbornness. She had pointed out that her niece’s abrupt absence from the town’s amusements would stir as much talk as her association with Keanan Milroy. Her father had relented, but his disappointment scraped at her conscience.
“I assume you will depart for the country soon?” Lord Nevin asked, his aquamarine eyes filled with concern and a pain she refused to acknowledge.
She smiled at her aunt, silently assuring her that she was fine. “The season is almost over. I shall retire, and bear the shame of not securing a husband.”
His jaw tightened at her light mockery of her unwedded state. “Wynne, you could have married years ago. You could claim a husband this season if you chose. Instead you—” He resisted finishing the sentence.
“You may speak plainly, my lord.”
For a few seconds, she watched the internal struggle he waged. Facing her polite lightness, his restraint burst its dam of civility.
“He will never grant you what you crave. A man of his stamp cannot love. If he defied convention and offered marriage, you would be just another possession to him. You are too passionate to accept such a cold contract.”
There was no point in pretending she did not recognize the man who had stood between them. “For a man of logic, you lose all reason when you speak of your brother.”
“Half,” he said, the word slicing like a blade.
“Blood is blood, my lord.” Wynne stood and shook out her skirts. She longed for a walk outdoors to clear her head. “You and Keanan obsess on your differences. Mayhap it is time to appreciate your commonalities.”
“You will not listen. I feel responsible for the damage he will inflict.”
“Let us walk in the gardens. I find the room a bit stifling,” she said, loud enough to appease the curious. She waved to her aunt and mouthed her destination.
They walked in silence while she decided whether she should confess what her friend already suspected. Wynne did not want to hurt him. Her caring for the earl had been capricious. It had eventually transformed to sisterly affection once she had met Keanan. She suspected that was the confession he was prepared to argue about, so she chose a truth he would never be able to refute. “I love him, Drake.”
He staggered visibly at her words. Her own heart ached, seeing the grief she was responsible for inflicting. “He will never be worthy of you.”
“Your half brother would agree, I suppose. Alas, I cannot direct the course of my heart.”
Masculine laughter floated to them on the light, sweet breeze of honeysuckle and jasmine before they could cross the room. She froze at the mention of Keanan’s name.
“I won a thousand pounds on Milroy. Though one cannot help but admire his punishing fists, I care little for the man,” a man drawled.
“He has my respect,” another man said. “I did not think there was a man about town who could attract Bedegrayne’s fussy princess, let alone tup her.”
“Aye,” several men concurred, chuckling.
Lord Nevin stood a step forward. His visage was murderous. “I will challenge every one of those bastards,” he vowed, keeping his voice low.
Wynne clutched the arm of his coat. “No, please.” She was trembling. A part of her had never doubted that one day someone would discover her affair with Keanan. It was the men’s cruelty and savage satisfaction in her ruination that struck at her heart. “I cannot have you issue challenges on what is essentially the truth.”
He covered the hand that held him back with his own. It was a gesture meant to comfort. “God, Wynne.” As he closed his eyes against the pain she had caused him, Wynne felt his condemnation as if it were a lash.
“Lothbury, you are his friend,” one of the unidentified men interjected. “Why do you not lure him to the club? To honor him we will hold a supper and present the five hundred pounds.”
“What you propose is too bold. Sir Thomas Bedegrayne will insist on meeting us all at dawn if he learns of our plans,” Lothbury argued.
“His daughter is a whore,” was the merciless reply. “Defending her will only make him a laughingstock.”
“Enough,” she whispered, feeling betrayed and as sullied as her reputation. “I can bear no more.” She pulled on Lord Nevin’s arm, trying to lead him away from the men. He resisted for a moment, then took a good look at her. Whatever he saw in her expression allowed her to drag him out of the room.
Worried about his silence, Wynne begged, “Promise me you will not challenge them.”
Denied vengeance, his temper flared at her. “Do you think they plan to keep this scandalous tale to themselves? It is merely rumor now, which is bad enough. If Milroy accepts this reward, you will be ruined, and beyond all respectable alliances.”
She stumbled. Only his hold on her arm kept her from completely disgracing herself. “I realize your opinion of Keanan is not lofty, but he would never betray me.”
“You wagered your honor and your father’s name to crawl into bed with him. I am glad one of us is so certain.”
His sarcastic words hurt. “Curse you and your hypocrisy.” She wrenched her arm from his grasp. “What bothers you is not the notion that I gave myself to a man, but rather that the man was not you!” Wynne marched away, ignoring his plea to halt.
Drake ground his fist into his hand. He wanted to race after Wynne and beg her forgiveness, right after he shook her for falling in love with the wrong man. The desire to turn around and challenge every one of those swaggering rogues for betting on her virtue pushed at him, too. He did neither. There was one man responsible, and he looked forward to seeing his half brother pay for his misdeeds.
* * *
Rae watched Miss Bedegrayne enter the room. The young lady nodded to her aunt but did not join her eccentric relative. Instead, she found a seat near the window that gave her a decent view of the ladies’ archery contest.
Years of being Reckester’s duchess had given her control over her emotions. She could laugh and speak gaily even if she felt crippled and bleeding within. Blocking out the chatter around her, she noted Miss Bedegrayne’s pale coloring and the distracted brightness in her gaze. Granted, the young lady had the rudimentary talent to fool the casual observer, but Rae recognized a kindred wounded soul.
It appeared the seeds of rumor she had discreetly planted had already borne fruit. The efficiency of innuendo whispered in polite society’s cultured ear always surprised her. It was rewarding to be on hand, witnessing Miss Bedegrayne’s disgrace. If the situation had been different, Rae might have regretted such a harsh punishment. In truth, she thought the young lady quite intelligent, and she would have been a charming countess for her Drake.
Her opinion had altered at the first hint of a tendre for Mr. Milroy. Whether the dear lady had been foo
lish enough to offer more than her sympathy to her enemy was not an issue. Implication was as lethal as action in their world.
The duchess smiled at the stone stillness in the young lady’s carriage, and only felt admiration. Miss Bedegrayne would need such courage for the rest of her life. She was the key to getting to Mr. Milroy, and Rae was callous enough to stake the lady’s reputation out as bait to lure him into her trap.
Sixteen
The attack came from behind. The black roan stallion that had been delivered from Tattersall’s an hour earlier kicked its hind legs into the empty air as Keanan was tackled to the ground. He rolled away from the nervous animal, taking his tenacious attacker with him. The dirt rose and clung to them like smoke, blurring his vision and clogging his lungs.
An unscrupulous fighter when the situation demanded, he twisted his body forward. His attacker landed a nasty punch to Keanan’s right kidney. Grunting, he responded by ramming his elbow into the man’s throat.
The man fell back, clutching his throat. Keanan leaped to his feet, prepared to kick him into the street. The blow never landed. His attacker was too busy sucking in air to defend himself.
“Hell, Nevin. Spit out one reason why I shouldn’t drag your blueblood arse within range of my stallion’s hooves and let him finish the task.”
“Y-you—” Lord Nevin choked.
“Save your breath,” he retorted. “I’ve heard all your remarkable opinions about my character.” Taking pity on him, Keanan knelt down and untied his cravat. He took a moment and examined the bruising that was already forming at his throat. “Nothing is crushed. It looks like your fancy knot padded the blow. By rights, a direct hit like that should have killed you.”
“You,” his half brother croaked, the disbelief evident in his ruined voice, “trying to kill me?”
“Any man who attacks from the back is either a coward or intends to do some killing himself.” He showed his teeth. “Neither is much of a loss to this world.”
The Scandalously Bad Mr. Milroy Page 21