The Scandalously Bad Mr. Milroy

by Alexandra Hawkins

  Nevin’s mottled coloring deepened at the insult. “For a few, my death would matter.”

  “No doubt.” Keanan stood and wiped his hands off on his trousers. Approaching the agitated stallion, he crooned soothing nonsense while he stroked its neck. The horse shook its head and tried to step on his foot. Shifting his position, he chuckled. Eventually, Keanan felt the animal’s muscles relax under his touch. “If you had hurt this fine beast, I might have been tempted to deal with the complications.”

  Recovering from his injury, Lord Nevin got to his feet and came closer. Unconsciously, his expert gaze checked over the stallion. “You have chosen well.”

  Keanan nodded, uncomfortable with the praise, and slightly appalled that he wanted it. Gruffly, he said, “Now that you are feeling agreeable, would you kindly explain your unusual greeting?”

  “Wynne.”

  He stooped down and retrieved the currycomb. “I have no time for your warnings, Nevin. What is between me and the lady is our own.”

  His movements were as efficient as they were gentle. For one season in his best-forgotten childhood, he had worked in the stables. He would have to hire some grooms to care for the horses he purchased. Still, he found pleasure when once it had been hard, unrewarding work.

  “How can you stand there smiling after what you have done?”

  The frustrated rage in his half brother’s cracking voice had him pausing. “You are going to have to speak plainly. Not all of us present have had the benefits of a tutor.”

  “You seduced her. Do not bother denying it. Wynne admitted as much after we overheard several gentlemen, including your friend Lothbury, discuss how they planned to celebrate the ruination of a beautiful, generous lady while you gain the five-hundred-pound purse.”

  Keanan tried not to dwell on the image of Wynne sharing tearful confidences with Nevin. He forced himself to concentrate on the heart of the accusation. “You think I seduced her and then went about town bragging to all who would listen that she was my mistress?”

  Even knowing they were not evenly matched, his temper prodded Nevin into grabbing Keanan by the shirt and shoving him. “You were in town long enough to study your enemy. You knew I was in love with Wynne. Seducing her away from me was too tempting for a scoundrel like you. Why would you care if a young woman becomes a casualty in your private war?”

  He could not deny it. In the beginning, Wynne had been the key to Nevin’s vulnerability. Her connection to the family had encouraged him to pursue her. What he had not expected was that soon he would crave her as much as he desired revenge on the Reckesters. Seduce her? How could he steal what was so generously given? Keanan recalled Reckester’s visit and his improbable offer of legitimacy. He suddenly felt cold with the dawning horror that someone had figured out that Wynne had become his vulnerability as well.

  “Will you accept the purse?”

  The question jarred him from his thoughts. “This money. It was for some sort of bet?” He snarled at Nevin’s derisive expression, “What bet?”

  “Rebuffed suitors can be cruel, especially when a younger sister marries before the elder. First, there was talk that there must be something wrong with her, if her face and her father’s wealth could not secure her a match. Her family squelched the rumors, but they could not prevent them from making the wager. Five hundred pounds to the man who could seduce her.”

  “Bedegrayne would never permit such an insult. Nor Tipton.”

  “True. As I said, they have been discreet. It is part of the game.”

  Eyes narrowing, Keanan took a menacing step toward him. “What about you? Are you part of it?”

  Nevin shook his head. “I found out by chance.”

  “And you did nothing to end it?”

  Defensive, he argued, “Would it have been any kinder for everyone to know? I did what I thought best. I went to Wynne and warned her. She agreed that no one should know of their wager.”

  Wynne kept her secrets, and for what price? Every man who approached her, she greeted with distrust. The existence of that terrible wager on her innocence had kept her from finding a man to love, from marriage and a family. Her one failing had been trusting him, and now these vultures were preparing for a celebratory feast.

  They stood nose to nose. Furious that he had been an unwitting pawn, he attacked. “You stand here crowing about your noble motives. You are just as guilty of manipulating our fair Wynne. Telling her and keeping her family out of it served you well. You wanted her.”

  “More than you, it appears. I am willing to marry her.”

  Keanan ignored the taunt. “I would guess she was reluctant. A sensible reaction, considering our sire. Abruptly, she was thrust into the awkward position of not being able to trust any man but her loyal friend.” He seized Nevin by the coat. “You cunning son of a bitch.”

  “Cunning, indeed,” Wynne said with heartrending sadness. “Gentlemen, there is no need to best each other. I feel liberal enough to offer you both credit on your magnificent performances.”

  “Wynne, how long have you been listening?” Keanan tensed, wanting to go to her, but she was poised to flee.

  “Long enough not to trust either of you.” Her attempt at laughter was a dismal parody. “And here I rushed over to stop you from killing each other.”

  “You have no part in this,” Nevin said.

  “Hatred consumes. What feelings you have for me, gentlemen, if you are even capable of them, certainly are in the pale.”

  Not caring whether he spooked her, Keanan released his half brother and ran after her, hauling her into his arms. “I did not know of this wager.”

  Her green eyes glittered, not with tears but cold with fury. “Perhaps not. You had other uses for me, and I was ripe for seduction. How could you resist?”

  “You know it was more!” he said, shaking her for refusing to look beyond her pain.

  “Cannot speak the words, Mr. Milroy? Despite all your nefarious deeds, you simply refused to lie about your heart. Nobility, after all.”

  Too stunned to move, he stood as she gently shrugged out of his grip and walked away from him. Desperate, he reached for her again.

  “No! Keep that pity for yourself.”

  Impotent, he released her. He had never felt so alone.

  Lord Nevin walked up behind him. “Letting her go?” he asked, somber. “I was right about you.”

  The subtle baiting was not enough to penetrate the numbness he felt. He had ruined her. It did not matter whether it had been intentional. She was too wary of him and his anger at the Reckesters to trust him. Her lack of faith ached more than any injury he had ever received in the ring. “She is too angry to listen. And I have better things to do than crawl for your pleasure.”

  * * *

  Reckester entered the Silver Serpent, searching for the lady who could satisfy at least two of his needs. Perhaps three, if she was willing.

  “Your Grace.” Mrs. Chabbert curtsied, giving him ample view of her generous bosom. “It has been days since we last saw you. I hope you have not found a new establishment for your amusements?”

  “Nay, I have been to the Midlands,” he said, affectionately patting her hip. “Could you find me something for this headache? I am too sober to bear it.” He had kept away from spirits because he needed to think clearly while he made his plans.

  “A pint pot of beer will revive you, Your Grace,” the woman said, setting the drink in front of him. “And another for your ails.” She gave him a flirtatious wink.

  Reckester swallowed down the contents of the first. The bitter taste provided its own comfort. Pushing the empty pot aside, his fingers circled the second. “Have you seen Milroy?”

  The casual question had Mrs. Chabbert gaping. For all his years of frequenting her establishment, he had never acknowledged her friendship with his son. “Uh, no, sir. Sometimes it’s weeks afore I see him.”

  He nodded, glancing at the second pint of beer. His tongue constricted in anticipation. No, he n
eeded a clear head. The papers he had stashed within his coat were too valuable, and he tended to get mouthy when he had too many. “Put the word out that I am looking for him.” After one regretful last look at the beer, he stood.

  “You could stay while I send a boy for him?”

  “Too tempting, I fear.”

  Reckester shouldered his way out the door into the night. There were a few other places he could check before he returned home. The hackney coach he hired had moved on without him despite the promise of extra blunt if he remained. He had never feared the night. Hell, he had passed out in worse sections of town. Still, seeing it through wary, sober eyes made him feel vulnerable and nervous. He clutched the edges of his rumpled coat and strolled down the street, refusing to allow his gaze to meet anyone he passed. Nor did he glance back at the curious dragging noise he heard from behind. The blow to his head lit up his vision like a flash of lightning. Pain was a whiny scream in his ears. The second blow blinded him. He coughed, tasting grit and blood, not realizing he was facedown in the dirt. The third blow deprived him of life.

  * * *

  Keanan swore when he sighted the Reckester crest on the approaching coach. The door opened. The identity of his unwelcome visitor had him sneering, “If I wanted an unlicked cub for a companion, you would have received an engraved invitation.”

  “Milroy,” Lord Nevin said, unperturbed by the insult or the unfriendly greeting. “I stopped being a lad at two and ten when our benevolent father took me to the stews and bought me an education no book or grand tour could ever provide. Climb up, and spare yourself the hunt for a hackney.”

  Snarling his gratitude, Keanan climbed into the coach. His half brother had also chosen to dress in black for this evening’s festivities. “Have I mentioned your exalted peers have the morals of plague-ridden dock rats?”

  “Once or twice.” Nevin signaled the coachman to commence. “Tell me, what rung are you hanging from if you are crawling your way up to join the rats?”

  Morose, Keanan decided he was somewhere between their droppings and carrion. “Tried to see her, you know.” He pressed his fingers into his closed lids, attempting to stem the increasing pressure. “Christ, what a tangle. Me standing there, screaming her name like a madman. Servants blocking the door, keeping me out just as much as they were preventing her incensed father from taking aim and putting a ball through my eye. Everyone shouting threats and pleas. Aunt Moll stood at the window watching the folly, looking both sad and disappointed that I turned out to be the cur all had warned her I was.”

  Making a defeated gesture, he dwelled on the fact that Wynne had not roused herself to the window to gloat over his inability to get past the barriers she had thrown in his way. “Tipton is probably waiting somewhere in the shadows with his fancy lethal cane prepared to slit my throat if Bedegrayne fails at murdering me himself.”

  “Normally, learning that another family was crying for your blood would have overjoyed me,” Nevin admitted, emotion darkening his blue eyes. “Not this time. Not for this price.”

  “The damage can be fixed,” Keanan insisted, his anger flaring to life again. He would bargain, beg, or kill to heal that wounded look he had seen in Wynne’s expression. “I am willing to call a truce concerning us if needed.”

  His half brother stared thoughtfully out the window. “Considering your feelings, you must truly love her to offer this sacrifice.” The sounds of the street filled his silence. “If I agree, this does not mean I like you.”

  “Nor I you, Nevin.”

  The bargain was struck.

  * * *

  “We thought we might find you here,” Devona said, standing on the steps leading down into the conservatory. Tipton, attired for an evening out, was steadfast and supportive at her side. Wynne fiercely envied the closeness they took for granted.

  “Since Papa has ceased yelling, I assumed you both had grown weary of his present tirade and departed.” She sat, hands clasped, at the small table they sometimes used in the morning.

  Her sister sat next to her, covering Wynne’s cold hands within her warm ones. “I cannot bear this discord betwixt you and Papa. He refuses to speak a word directly to you, and you did not eat one bite of your supper.”

  “He is entitled to his anger. I have shamed him and our family with my selfishness. Mere deprivation of a meal is better than I deserve.” She caught Devona’s beseeching glance to her husband.

  Coming out from the shadows, Tipton chose the chair on the opposite side. His fingers lightly brushed her jaw. “You have skipped more than one meal, Wynne. You have lost weight and are too pale for my liking.” Always the surgeon, he pressed his fingers to the pulse at her wrist and frowned, not pleased at its hurried rhythm. “I thought you were a fighter, dear sister. I never envisioned you as a martyr.”

  Her chin came up at his mocking challenge. “I am not seeking pity, Tipton. Nor do I run from my responsibilities,” she said, already regretting her stab at his past. “Forgive me; that was inexcusable.”

  “Apologizing for speaking the truth. Now you disappoint me,” he teased, unruffled by her comment. “I prefer seeing you chin up and prepared to take a poke at me instead of curled up nursing your hurts alone.”

  “I was not quite candid about my association with Mr. Milroy. My deception has come to haunt me, and all of you will be drawn into a scandal if the rumors persist.”

  Tipton smiled one of his rare gentle smiles that were generally reserved for his wife. “I have lived more than half my life shrouded in superstition and scandal. Then Devona entered my life. She and her schemes did little to quell the gossips.” He picked up his wife’s hand and leaned over to kiss her fingertips.

  “You had each other. I am not in a position to make assumptions about Mr. Milroy.” Her hand slipped from her sister’s grasp and rested on her abdomen. Though it was still invisible to the cruel, shallow world they lived in, Wynne did not need a physician to confirm her delicate condition. She longed to share her suspicions with Devona, but in fairness, she had to confront Keanan with the news before she told her family. She doubted either side would be pleased.

  “Why did you not tell us about this sordid wager?” Devona demanded. “Papa or Tipton would have dealt with those men.”

  “For that very reason, sister. I would not risk the men I love for what seemed like a childish game in the beginning. I thought they would tire, become bored. My acceptance of Mr. Milroy’s advances seemed to fuel their wickedness.”

  “Do you believe Milroy participated in their group?”

  Wynne sensed the thread of menace in Tipton’s tone. She shook her head, still prepared to defend her lover. “He was a novelty to some due to his connections and money, but I suspect he was not accepted by all. No, he was too focused on his hatred for the Reckesters to bother with silly club wagers.”

  “Not too focused,” her sister said, not unkindly.

  Wynne, struggling not to cry, ignored the concerned look the couple exchanged. “No, you are quite right, and it is the root of my fears. Was I simply a means to bedevil Lord Nevin, or just an amusing windfall?”

  “Confirming either casts your Mr. Milroy into a most criminal guise.”

  She despised doubting him, but the exchange she had overheard between Lord Nevin and Keanan did not ease the ache she felt. “Whether or not he is my Mr. Milroy has yet to be proved.”

  “Maybe Papa has the right notion. Tipton, how difficult is it to summon a press-gang?” Devona wondered aloud.

  For the first time in hours, Wynne smiled. Her sister was always a little ferocious when it came to protecting the people she loved. No matter what happened, she had the love of her family.

  * * *

  Heads lifted, and murmurs stirred in their wake as Nevin and Keanan entered the club together.

  “Milroy, you might have convinced Lothbury and his cronies to keep their triumph to themselves. However, our amicable entrance will be the talk of the evening.”

  Tense, and n
ot feeling particularly friendly, he gritted his teeth and cordially nodded as they passed several tables of gentlemen playing hazard. “Altering their focus was our primary intention. I trust you can tolerate the strain of my company.”

  “Just, Milroy,” was Nevin’s dry reply.

  The Marquess of Lothbury met them at the entrance of the private room. His anxious gaze traveled onward, preferring to linger on Lord Nevin. If he was curious about Nevin’s presence, the man decided it was safer to hold his questions. Once, Keanan had regretted exploiting the young lord and his enthusiasm for pugilism to gain him entrance to the elite of society. Now he understood that he had also been well used.

  “You have the makings of a tolerable footman, Lothbury,” Keanan drawled, pleased to see him recoil. Irritation suffused his pale features. “What is your opinion, Nevin?”

  His half brother pretended to consider the question. “His livery is too somber. Yellow appears to be his color.”

  The marquess was too intimidated by them to challenge the insult. Needing to stand as their equal, he appealed, “Milroy, we are not enemies. I honored your request, convinced them that you would accept their congratulations in the same secrecy in which the wager was forged.”

  “Why allow the shredding of a decent woman’s reputation to diminish your pleasure?”

  Lothbury glanced warily at Nevin, obviously not pleased by his presence or his opinion. “Perhaps we should keep this amongst friends.”

  “A regretful impossibility,” Keanan interjected. “I have learned to survive my disappointments, and so shall you. Nevin stays.”

  “Not exactly a cordial recommendation,” his half brother grumbled from behind as they followed the marquess into the room.

  Eyes narrowed, Keanan curled his upper lip in disgust. “If you had not been more interested in pressing your own advantage, then you would have dealt with these purported gentlemen or alerted her family.”

  Undisguised sorrow furrowed Nevin’s brow. “I had reasons, none of which I care to share with you at this time. Still, I would have changed my selfish course if it prevented Wynne from learning of their depravity.”