Suzi Love

by Embracing Scandal

  Becca bit her lip and squirmed under his gaze. He could read her mind too well. She was searching for a feasible excuse to dispatch him from her life. Their relationship so far had been an endless sea of highs and lows. Advancements and withdrawals. And he’d reached the end of his tether. It needed to be settled before he went mad.

  After a long silence, she spoke, but there was a catch to her voice that told of threatening tears. “That carriage was primarily aimed at me yet, it was you who got hurt. It’s better to make a clean break, now, before it becomes obvious that we’ve formed a lasting connection.”

  He felt elated over this one small victory. “Ah, a lasting connection. So, you do admit to the relationship we have.”

  She shuffled her feet. “Obviously, we’re friends.”

  He stepped closer and was gratified to note that his proximity had robbed her of breath. It was only fair after the numerous times she’d rendered him speechless, either through anger or desire. He touched her face, keeping his caress gentle.

  “Just friends, Becca? Then the time you’ve spent in my arms, revelling in pleasure, meant nothing to you.”

  She shook her head. “No, of course they meant something. But now, it must end.”

  “No.”

  “You can’t just say decide what will happen between us.”

  “I can and I will, my dear. I have. We will continue to be seen together, but you will only attend large gatherings. Under no circumstances will you go about unprotected. No more disguises.”

  “Do not issue orders at me.”

  “And you’ll not be attending any more gambling hells.”

  “If those men are picking their targets in those places then that is where someone needs to be watching for their next move.”

  “My brothers can do that. They’re eager to be of assistance and it’ll keep them out of mischief.”

  “No, Cayle. I’ll not take that risk with your brothers’ lives either.”

  “Stop being so contradictory. You said yourself, if Michael goes to those places, he’s making himself available to more pressure. If you go, you become a target for assassination.”

  She gasped. “Assassination?”

  “Yes, because that’s what was intended tonight. That coach wasn’t just aiming to maim you, it was aiming to kill you. Therefore, neither you nor your sisters will visit those hells again. Nor will you search any more desk drawers. And you will stay as far away from Bennett as you can. I don’t trust him.”

  “Now who sounds jealous?”

  “I am not jealous of a worm like Bennet but I will ensure that you live to see another year. So, that leaves me to finish the investigation.”

  “No, I will not be responsible for your life either.”

  “Devon will accompany me. And Henry, and Tristan as well, if it will ease your mind.”

  For a long moment she studied him, biting her lower lip as she did when worried. She shook her head. “No, I can’t allow it. I appreciate your backing but our partnership is over. You will no longer be involved.”

  After that, she straightened her back and turned towards the door. Pulling it open, Becca almost fell upon Jenner who hovered outside. “Jenner, I would like to return to my home.”

  Jenner threw a glance at his employer, torn between obeying the lady’s wishes and appeasing the glowering looks being directed at him by his employer.

  Cayle threw up his hands and growled his disgust. “Very well, I surrender. For tonight.”

  He spun away from her in frustration. “Send her home, Jenner.”

  As Jenner departed to arrange the coach, Cayle followed Becca’s path to the door with long determined strides.

  “But, be warned, Rebecca Jamison. We’re not finished. I’ll call on you tomorrow and we’ll discuss this. Once and for all, we need to decide where our affair is headed.”

  She raised a haughty brow and informed him in a cool voice, “I will inform my butler that I’m no longer at home if the Duke of Sherwyn calls.”

  “Dammit all, Becca. Stop being so stubborn about this.”

  “I am not stubborn. I’m being practical. We can’t be seen together anymore.”

  “You,” he spat out, pointing an accusing finger at her, “are the most obstinate, contrary — ”

  “Goodbye, Your Grace. It’s been wonderful being a part of your life, even for so short a time.”

  “Do not walk away from me again. If you do, I won’t be crawling after you. We will be truly finished if you leave now. Do you hear me?”

  “Jenner, I am ready to leave, thank you.”

  She gave his butler a gracious smile, the sort she reserved for everyone but him it seemed, and Jenner like every other warm-blooded male jumped to do her bidding. There was something provoking and tantalising about the Jamison women that made men want to perform extraordinary feats to impress them. Cayle threw up his hands in disgust, but let Becca leave. As he watched the carriage pull into the street, he was furious, aware that once again she’d bested him.

  That infuriating, condescending little minx had dismissed him for the last time.

  He would waste no more of his days, or nights, worrying about her. Once again, his words sounded empty and ridiculous.

  Chapter 19

  Not even a full day since he’d declared himself finished with her, a seething Cayle unlocked his front door and hustled Becca through. He steered her small body, cold, shivering and shapeless under her wet coat, to the library where thankfully Jenner had left a fire burning. Fury raged through him, but his first concern was to warm Becca and see to her physical comfort. Then, he would be free to tear strips of her hide. Admittedly a delicious and all-too-tempting hide, but also a rebellious, nonconforming, contradictory one.

  After the carriage accident the previous night and her renouncing of his assistance, of his very existence, he’d been determined to forget ever knowing this bane of his existence. Perversely, he’d then spent a long sleepless night tormenting himself by imagining the sort of trouble Becca might attract when he wasn’t on hand to disentangle her.

  No matter how angry he was, he couldn’t live with himself if anything happened to her. Becca’s life always had been and always would remain, more precious than his own.

  So, early that morning, he’d penned a scathing note to her and had enclosed a long list of convincing reasons as to why he’d taken charge. Therefore, she’d had no basis for continuing to expose herself on London streets. No call to frequent gaming establishments. No rationale for searching locked drawers.

  Unfortunately, he’d neglected to add brothels to his long list of places he’d forbidden her from venturing. Or entering. But what gentleman could imagine that the lady he’d sworn to protect would even consider entering a brothel. Of course, he should have considered it. With Becca he needed to be prepared for any eventuality. He shuddered to think what the outcome of this night might have been.

  To his dying day, he’d relive the horror, the utter terror, he’d experienced when she’d followed him into that building. A brothel. A whorehouse.

  An establishment no decent woman should recognise, let alone enter. And one that was burning. By running inside to warn him of the fire, Becca had nearly trapped herself in the wall of flames that had engulfed the right side of the house. It had only been his training and quick reaction time that prompted him to drag her through the upper bedrooms and back down again using the outside steps on the far side of the building. The inhabitants and their customers had already used that route when the first licks of smoke rose but Becca had been entering the front when most were leaving out the back.

  His intrepid heroine had run to that room because she’d seen him go there. And as if the fire and smoke, and her, in the building weren’t enough to turn his hair white, buckets of water had drenched them as they fled. The damping down had doused the sparks lighting their clothes as they’d escaped but had left them miserably cold.

  Consequently, neither of them had been prepared for
the pistol shot that whistled past their heads. If Becca hadn’t bent to brush ash from her cloak at that precise moment, if he hadn’t noticed the flash from the gun barrel in the streetlight, the bullet would have found its mark. In all probability, one of them would be dead. No, she’d be dead.

  Cayle shivered in reaction to that terrifying idea and shook his head several times in a futile attempt to clear his mind. It was unbelievable. Even at the worst the carriage accident would have only maimed Becca, perhaps broken a limb and prevented her from visiting the Exchange, but not kill her. But a gunshot, accurate enough to have been fired from one of the new Colt revolvers, became an attempted murder. A very accurate and very nearly successful attempt. For the second night in a row, Becca stood as frozen as a statue in his house, in shock, though still braced for his outburst. He felt unsure whether she was more concerned with his imminent flare-up or with what had occurred. Her face was pinched with cold and pain and he needed to act quickly before she became ill.

  Cayle had observed it firsthand many times. Danger brought a new strength to people yet when it passed, they floundered in a sea of despair, regrets, or horror.

  “Becca, you need to get warm.”

  She didn’t move a muscle, just stared at him.

  “Sweetheart, take off your coat.”

  With a groan, he realised the only way her sodden clothes would be removed fast enough would be if he did it for her.

  “God must be punishing me,” he muttered under his breath.

  Puzzled, she turned her face to his as his fingers reached for the clasp of her coat, now so laden with water it almost dragged her to the floor.

  “Why would God punish you? You saved me. You’re still my knight in shining armour.”

  The look she fixed him with was one of awe and wonder. The hand she reached up to touch his face felt cold and blue though she failed to notice.

  “Damn it, Becca. I’m no knight. And you’re trying to distract me again. Just last night you announced we were finished. Despite which, I still worried about you. Enough that this very morning I sent you a note expressly forbidding you to go to any more unsavoury places.” He threw his hands up in the air in frustration. “I even wrote lists. Named specific places.”

  “But I went there tonight because I was worried about you. I saw your face when Arthur danced with me at Lady Moreland’s. And when he threatened us both. I knew that when you met him there tonight, at that place, there’d be trouble. I saw the coldness in you, Cayle, and it frightened me.”

  “I assure you, I’m capable of dealing with a miserable wimp like Bennett, without your interference.”

  “I wasn’t sure what you’d do, although I do understand what you’re capable of. I’ve seen that look in your eyes, on your face. I already know you did more than export goods while you were away. But the explanation is in the lethal knife you carry in your boot. It tells me that you didn’t merely dance with merchant’s wives and flirt with diplomat’s daughters. I imagine that when necessary, you also took lives.”

  He gulped and nearly choked. Hell, Becca’s astuteness would be the death of him. Knowing he’d never be able to hide anything from her was an unsettling thought and he couldn’t decide how he felt about her knowing him through and through. It seemed that only in the matter of his feelings for her was she oblivious, or at least she pretended to be unaware. For what reason he wasn’t sure, though he held his suspicions.

  He studied her feigned innocence with mistrust.

  “Damn! You knew I was meeting Bennett and his cohorts there, at Mistress Duval’s, didn’t you?”

  “I may have spoken with Arthur tonight, briefly,” she remarked, with a pretence of detachment. “He dined at the Markham’s.”

  “Correction. He followed you to dinner again. He admitted that much. Flaunted it in my face, in the front vestibule of that brothel. Your precious Arthur deliberately stirred my anger.”

  “He is not my anything. Besides, he was with Miss Johnston.”

  “Her presence didn’t stop his accosting you, did it?”

  “Arthur is no more than an irritating flea in my life. What matters is what you learned tonight about the conglomerate’s plans.”

  Cayle hesitated, but after a sigh of resignation told her. “I started out tonight hoping to convene with Mitchell and Melrose. And I wanted to warn Bennett away from you, frighten him enough that he’d notify the others too. They need to know whom they’re now dealing with. But then at that brothel, I decided the only way to rid myself of the torment of one redheaded termagant was to bed another.”

  After his cruel taunt, he waited for the meaning of his words to hit her, waited for the shock and revulsion any young miss would exhibit. He waited in vain. Becca never did the expected. Or, said the expected.

  “There, there, Cayle. Don’t berate yourself for a moment’s passing fancy.” In a gesture of comfort, she patted his chest as if he was a child who’d attempted to steal a lick of the jam spoon. “I know you weren’t long enough inside the parlour to do anything unseemly. When Mistress Duval sent me the message, I hastened straight there and watched.”

  He was aghast, so beside himself with rage he could hardly speak. “Watched? You watched me? From where?”

  “From a carriage on the street. You see, Mistress Duval is a cousin to Madame Faberge.”

  “You mean … You’re telling me, just now, that you’re acquainted with other, more than one, brothel mistresses?”

  “If you would let me explain, without interruption.”

  She tapped her foot in that repetitive movement he found so annoying, the one she did when she was irritated. Well, her irritation was nothing compared to the desire he felt to wrap both hands around her neck, her slim, pale neck, and …

  Oh hell, whom was he fooling? The only thing he wanted to do her neck was kiss it, maybe give tiny little nibbles up one side and down the other. He was doomed, without a doubt, doomed.

  “Arthur was already inside and I was frantic. It was completely insane of you to even consider fighting with him, over me.”

  His wits reeled, her words leaving him flabbergasted. She’d been at a brothel, apparently not for the first time, and she was irritated with him. The situation was spinning out of his control, again. Stamping down his raw emotions, he returned to undoing her wet clothing, struggling with buttons and ties taut with water.

  “Oh, please, do continue. I eagerly await your convoluted explanation of why you followed me. And why you were outside a brothel. Alone. Although, it is insanity to listen to any of it. I should just lock you away somewhere until all this is over.”

  • • •

  Her glare silenced his outburst. His stiff fingers eased away wet garments yet she appeared unaware of his actions or that her own fingers were mimicking the procedure on him. Without being aware, she shed him of his great coat and helped him shrug out of his fitted evening jacket. One by one, his shirt buttons were being opened.

  “Madame Faberge and Mistress Duval are cousins. They’re both customers — ”

  “Customers!”

  “Eh, no, not customers, more associates, in financial matters.”

  “In general, brothel owners have customers,” he snapped. “They’re not customers themselves.”

  “Just let me finish. We’ve collaborated on several matters. And in return, those two women and several others — ”

  “Others! How many others do you know?”

  “Without seeming immodest, I’m acquainted with most of the proprietors of that category of establishments in central London. Naturally, I don’t visit all of them, especially the ones situated in the seamier parts of the city.”

  “Oh, naturally.” At his sarcasm, she merely raised one haughty brow. “That could sully the reputation of a constrained and reputable gentlewoman, such as yourself.”

  “Oooh! In return for my assistance in managing their funds, these ladies graciously gather evidence for us. I have, on occasion, visited their premises.
More often, we meet with their friends in the park.”

  Cayle, in the midst of slipping the saturated gown down Becca’s arms, felt himself pale. “You and your sisters meet with street girls, in the park?”

  She ignored his irate questioning. “Please don’t refer to them by that lowering name. It’s not their fault they were forced to seek such occupations. They prefer to be called gentlemen’s friends.”

  Cayle grabbed his head in frustration and groaned. “Jesus, Becca. What next? Your family is involved with men who think nothing of snuffing out the opposition. You consort with working girls — ” He sucked in a gulp of air. “Pardon me. Gentlemen’s friends. You visit brothels. The wonder is that no one’s shot at you long before this.”

  “Oh, they have. Shot me, that is.”

  Without a care, she tugged the gown off her waist where it had caught as it fell and stepped out of it, dropping it in a soggy heap on the floor behind her. In an instant, his mouth turned dry. He couldn’t swallow for the lump in his throat.

  Now he was the one frozen to the spot as he watched her, all conversation forgotten in the delight of seeing her unclothed. Her wet chemise clung to every lush curve and the enchanting pink of her nipples was clearly visible. Just as his hand reached out, her words registered in his slow-witted mind.

  “Did you just say you’ve been shot? Before tonight.”

  “No. Tonight I was shot at, not shot. There’s a difference.”

  Through gritted teeth, he asked, “Where were you shot?”

  As from a distance, he watched her hand reach up and hook her fingers under the edge of her chemise and pull it down to expose creamy skin, soft skin that he dreamed of incessantly.

  “There.”

  Belatedly, he realised she wasn’t fulfilling his ultimate fantasy of undressing for him in the soft glow of firelight, but was indicating a puckered scar on the outside of her left arm. Although he must have been blind to not notice it before, it was a gunshot wound, and he should know. He’d suffered one himself and tended to others. Having suffered one, he understood the pain. Yet, this tiny bundle of womanhood exposed her wound for his examination as if it was an insect bite.