Never Surrender to a Scoundrel

by Lily Dalton

  “Girls!” Clarissa mimicked, with her free hand balled imperiously on the hip opposite the one that Michael occupied. “I know very well that you both have perfectly accurate timepieces—”

  “—because Aunt Vivian gave each of you one for your last birthday,” concluded Daphne, in the same familiar voice.

  Mrs. Brightmore, descending the ladder, cast them a gently reproving look.

  Clarissa flushed and bit her lower lip, abashed at being overheard.

  “Oh, Mrs. Brightmore, all in good fun!” Daphne giggled good-naturedly. Looking at Michael, she extended her arms. “Come here, darling. Won’t you let Auntie Daphne hold you?”

  He peered at her with tearstained eyes, and a smile broadened his lips. Such a sweet child. To think, it wouldn’t be long until she had a child of her own. Quinn would make a wonderful father. She couldn’t wait until they were a family.

  Michael leaned toward her sister, his arms outspread, and Clarissa gave him up. Daphne danced with him toward the door.

  Yet Clarissa lingered behind a moment more. She could only stand motionless, savoring the bittersweet immensity of the moment, because just as her sisters’ lives had changed as far as finding love and being married, so would hers. By now, Lord Quinn would have concluded discussions with his father, the duke. All matters could proceed and financial arrangements be made and he could approach her grandfather tonight with his suit.

  She was almost sorry to see their game of secrecy end, one in which they’d stolen away for every moment and exchanged clandestine notes of the most intimate kind, but for a couple as deeply in love as they were, certainly all that would continue even after they were wed.

  A moment later, upstairs on the first-floor landing, Daphne turned to her with Michael already half asleep on her shoulder.

  “I’ll take him to the nursery,” she whispered. “You go on to your room and take a nice long bath.”

  “It won’t be long now,” Clarissa replied softly.

  “Just a few hours more,” answered her sister, continuing toward the next rise of steps. Her white muslin skirt rippled as her legs moved, a picture of Grecian elegance.

  Only then Daphne paused…and returned to squeeze Clarissa’s hand.

  “I’m so very proud to have you as my sister,” she murmured, her eyes bright. A moment later, she smiled, as she had done almost constantly since marrying Lord Raikes. Clarissa could only interpret her happiness as a sound endorsement of that venerable state. “It’s your turn to find happiness. Next time I see you, you’ll be making your entrance on this grand staircase. I’ve no doubt a score of gentlemen will rush to offer for your hand—”

  “A score!” Clarissa laughed quietly, so as not to disturb Michael, who had begun to snuffle and snore. “Certainly not.”

  Just one. A very special one.

  Daphne’s expression became serious. “I’m so happy with Raikes. I want you to find the same sort of happiness. Promise me you won’t rush into anything. Wait until you know the person and that the moment is right.”

  Clarissa’s family had always believed her to be impetuous. She knew they all worried she would choose recklessly, based on some flash-fire attraction. But the person was right, and so was the moment. Quinn. She closed her eyes, savoring the rush of happiness that coursed through her, from head to toe. She could not imagine anything ever being more right.

  “I promise,” she agreed. “Only when the person and the moment are right.”

  That moment would be tonight.

  “I shall see you at Miss Bevington’s ball tonight, then, Mr. Kincraig?” inquired his companion, Lord Havering, as they exited the doors of White’s, the club where they had spent the previous hour reading newspapers and drinking coffee.

  “Any chance to reacquaint myself with Wolverton’s liquor cabinet is a welcome opportunity indeed,” Dominick replied with a wink.

  His scant belongings had been packed and his rented town house, largely closed up. He expected to receive his new orders tonight or tomorrow. Why not spend one last evening beneath the glittering chandeliers of a London ballroom? Who knew where tomorrow would take him, or whether the circumstances would be as comfortable?

  Havering studied him as he drew on his gloves slowly. “I suspect there’s more to it than that, such as that you’ve grown fond of Wolverton and the ladies, despite yourself.”

  Havering—or “Fox,” as he was called by those who knew him best—had no discernible family of his own and had since childhood been thrown by circumstance into the midst of Wolverton’s welcoming brood. While Dominick’s circumstances were far different, he too was very much alone in the world. Perhaps for that reason he felt closer to Fox than to the other gentlemen of Wolverton’s circle—as close as he could feel to anyone. His occupation was largely a solitary endeavor and did not lend itself to making longtime friends. Sometimes he regretted that.

  “They are all very nice people,” he conceded.

  He looked out over St. James’s Street, crowded with carriages and hackneys, uncomfortable with revealing anything more. It had taken him years to perfect the obscurement of his true thoughts and feelings. He wasn’t about to start emoting now, here on the pavement, in front of God and Fox and everyone. He kept his manner and tone cool. “Whatever the case, I wouldn’t miss it.”

  He wouldn’t miss it. Though it would take a team of horses to pry the sentiment from his tongue, he’d grown exceedingly fond of the earl and the ladies who made up the elderly gentleman’s surviving family, even though he found the whole idea of a debut ball frivolous and silly, especially when the young lady in question had been out in society for quite some time already—since the marriage of her sister Sophia to Claxton, to be precise.

  He didn’t have a younger sister, not anymore, but he told himself if he did, he might understand better the wishes of a young lady’s heart.

  What he did know was that for whatever reason, Clarissa had thought enough of him to insist that he attend, and he would not disappoint her or Lady Margaretta, who just yesterday had pressed Claxton to call on him and confirm he would indeed join them tonight. Even the always-distant duke had seemed more sincere in his manner, just as they all had been since learning he wasn’t their relation. Since that day just one week ago, there had been invitations to suppers and parties and rides in the park, some of which he’d accepted and others not. Now that they knew he wasn’t an “imposter,” it seemed their suspicions about him had eased, as had their minds. Now, on the precipice of his departure, he felt more a part of their family than when he had supposedly been their cousin.

  His carriage approached, having come from the nearby livery.

  “I will see you tonight, then,” he said, tilting his hat in adieu to Fox.

  “Until then.”

  With that, Dominick climbed into the conveyance and settled back for what would be a brief ride to what had been his abode for almost two years.

  It was time to leave.

  The first rule of subterfuge was that one did not become attached to one’s human assignments, which was just as well because life had only ever made sense when he was alone.

  Just then, his carriage passed a chapel where a small group crowded the pavement, throwing rose petals high over the heads of a newly wedded couple. All the ladies wore diaphanous summer dresses and fancy bonnets done up with flowers and ribbons, and the gentlemen stood distinguished in their gray morning suits. The idyllic scene momentarily transported Dominick back in time to another wedding.

  His own.

  All the air left his lungs at remembering. He had been so happy that day. So full of passion and dreams.

  But Tryphena was dead for three years now, and even though he still walked and lived and breathed, sometimes he believed he was dead as well. Her passing had forever altered him. Without thinking, he pressed his hand to his heart, which hurt, as if a gaping hole existed there. There wasn’t a hole, of course, but there might as well have been for the jolt of agony those memor
ies brought.

  The sight of a familiar face on the chapel steps jerked him back to present, and his hand fell away.

  What? No.

  He flicked the curtain aside and peered more intently out the window. In an instant he recognized the groom as none other than Lord Quinn, smiling broadly and standing hand in hand with a slender, dark-haired young woman who wore a lace veil and held a white bouquet. If there was any doubt in Dominick’s mind as to the event he observed, Quinn put it to rest by seizing his new bride against his chest and pressing an enthusiastic kiss onto her lips.

  The carriage traveled farther down the street until, despite straining his eyes and altering his position, he could see no more.

  He fell back against the cushion, his jaw clenched tight. How…regretful. Did Clarissa know? The memory of her smiling face flashed in his mind. Certainly she did not. It had been only Tuesday afternoon, at the most recent of Lady Margaretta’s garden luncheons, when he’d observed another flirtatious glance between the young couple and the furtive touch of their hands behind the garden column.

  No, he had not particularly cared for Quinn as a match for Clarissa, but the news would devastate her. Shatter her innocent heart. Because of that, he could take no pleasure, no satisfaction in what he’d seen. He could think of no honorable explanation for what Quinn had done. His fingers curled into his palms and he resisted the urge to order his driver to turn around so that he might confront the lecher directly, in front of his new bride and their families.

  Yet…despite the insistence of his conscience that he call Quinn out in defense of Clarissa’s honor, it was not his place. For almost two years he had been the family’s protector—but the role had been a professional assignment, he reminded himself, not an obligation of the heart.

  So instead he held silent, telling himself she would be grateful to discover the truth of Quinn’s faulty character now rather than later. Thank heavens she had enjoyed such a careful upbringing, which only allowed for the most chaste of entanglements. Perhaps, even, the whole incident would teach her a valuable lesson about love and trust, and guarding one’s heart a bit more closely.

  Once home, he washed and dressed and, as usual, did an intentionally incompetent job with his cravat, and mussed his hair, making sure he looked his usual part. Though he was to have an audience with Wolverton this evening before the ball got under way, he had no wish to arrive too early. He didn’t want to cross paths with Clarissa. Despite all his careful training to never reveal his country’s secrets even if tortured, he feared one look into her crystalline blue eyes and he would be compelled to inform her of what he had seen.

  Why was he even thinking about the chit again? He should be wholly focused on the acceptance of his next assignment.

  Yet his conscience chided him for his inaction. He wished Havering had been in the carriage with him when he saw Lord Quinn’s wedding. Havering was more like a brother to Clarissa and would know the appropriate thing to do.

  Havering, yes, now there was his answer. Knowing Clarissa as long as he had, Fox would know how to best break the unfortunate news, and most important, when—before or after the ball? Fox could comfort her after “Mr. Kincraig” was long gone.

  He felt such relief at having arrived at this solution. Once the information was passed to Fox, Dominick would be free of all obligations and ready to depart London on a moment’s notice.

  Calling the carriage around once again, he traveled directly to Wolverton’s house. Upon entering, he observed from a distance a small army of confectioner’s assistants in the ballroom setting up some sort of display of little pink cakes or meringues on a table, while at the center of the house workmen finished the installation of a God-awful pink carpet onto the grand staircase, pink being Clarissa’s favorite color. The scent of flowers—pink and white flowers, of course—hung everywhere, so strong he fought the urge to sneeze. He marveled at the silly frivolity of it all, most certainly a reflection of Clarissa.

  He hated to destroy her happiness with word of her feckless lover’s betrayal. Perhaps it would be best she not hear the news until tomorrow? He would leave that decision to Havering. Once the information was passed, his conscience would be troubled no more.

  Ah—there, Havering stood just around the corner, speaking to Claxton. Dominick moved toward them, his intention to draw Fox aside for a private conversation—

  Only to be intercepted by Mrs. Brightmore, who subtly lifted a hand, indicating he should proceed toward Wolverton’s chambers.

  “Ah.” He paused midstep. “Now?”

  “Indeed.”

  “It’s early yet.”

  She winked. “Some of us have other duties to perform this evening, besides sauntering about in fancy clothes and drinking pink lemonade from a little crystal cup.”

  His gaze returned to Havering, but in the end duty called. He would find him afterward and discreetly share his concerns for Clarissa then. He changed direction, taking the corridor to Wolverton’s chambers as he had so often done over the past two years under the guise of being summoned, or more often commanded, by the earl to do so. His role, after all, had been to play a gambler and a drunk. Someone consumed by his own addictions but, more important, inattentive to his surroundings. Though he’d played double duty as a personal guard to Wolverton, his primary assignment had been to lure into the open the man or men whom vague whispers of intelligence said wanted Lord Wolverton and his every living heir dead. The earl’s own past in foreign secret service perhaps provided a motive for any number of surviving enemies, known and unknown, at home and abroad. Lady Harwick and the young ladies hadn’t been told because the earl had no wish to frighten or burden them with unsubstantiated explanations of past tragedies, namely the deaths of his son and grandson.

  Entering the anteroom, Dominick joined his team—O’Connell, His Lordship’s valet, Mr. Ollister, the first footman, and Mrs. Brightmore, the housekeeper, the last of whom stepped through a small doorway on the opposite side of the room.

  “Reports?” asked Mrs. Brightmore as she briskly circled round to collect a sealed envelope from each man, which she quickly secured inside her apron.

  Dominick, aware his next assignment could come any day, had written out his final report the night before. Though he gave no outward indications, his heart beat fast. The ensuing moments might bring him great satisfaction or a devastating blow, in that he might receive his new orders. He closed his eyes, sending up a brief prayer that his superiors would see fit to return him to foreign service, as he so fervently wished.

  “How is Wolverton?” he asked O’Connell, his interest sincere.

  “Very well today,” O’Connell replied succinctly. “His Lordship wishes to see you when we are concluded here.”

  Mr. Ollister straightened. “Let us finish our business, so we can all return to our posts.” He looked to Dominick and nodded cordially. “As we all suspected, the Secretary of State has seen fit to revise the scope of our mission. Now that the earl has a true heir in young Michael, your role, Mr. Kincraig, has been substantially compromised in that you are no longer the assassin’s lure you were intended to be.”

  Even when meeting in private, they used their “character” names to ensure consistency at all times.

  They all listened, rapt, as Mr. Ollister continued. “Even though no attempts have been made against Wolverton’s life since these indications of endangerment came to light, we will continue to secure the premises and maintain Wolverton’s safety as well as that of his family, which now includes the child. Mr. Kincraig, you could certainly remain on indefinitely as security, but no one believes you would look very convincing in a nanny’s apron and cap—”

  Everyone chuckled.

  “As such, the powers that be have seen fit to assign another agent to fulfill the nanny role: Mrs. Hutton.”

  Yes, Dominick had met Mrs. Hutton before. He agreed with the choice. She would be a formidable protector for the child.

  “I believe some of yo
u have worked with her before. You, Mr. Kincraig, will receive new orders.” Bending, Mr. Ollister extracted a folded square of parchment from his ankle boot, which he handed over to Dominick.

  Dominick’s heart thrummed with excitement. This was the moment he’d been waiting for. He would either be disappointed by another assignment from the Home Office or elated to be assigned abroad once again.

  Mrs. Brightmore said quietly, “I hope it is all you wish for.”

  “Indeed,” murmured O’Connell.

  They all knew his situation and that this small-scale home assignment, for him, had been intended as a demotion. As professional exile. Perhaps at last his superiors would forgive him for Tryphena’s death, though he would never forgive himself.

  Breaking the seal, he opened his orders and read.

  CHAPTER THREE

  A smile broke across his face and he exhaled, his cheeks warmed by a rush of happiness and relief. Hot, fiery pride coursed through his veins.

  At last, his superiors had seen fit to return him to foreign secret service. Even more important, his new role was as prestigious as any he had occupied before his fall from grace, proof that he had regained their trust and respect.

  Since then he had suffered such self-doubt and, yes, shame over the mistake he would live with for the rest of his life. Perhaps now, at last, he could forgive himself. Perhaps now, at last, he could be free. Tonight, he turned a page.

  God, he felt like he was a hundred feet tall.

  He felt like a ferocious, swaggering dragon and that if he dared throw open the window to roar his satisfaction to the city of London, the sound just might be accompanied by a blazing stream of flames.

  Life, at last, felt bloody good.

  “I can see from your reaction that you will be going abroad again. Congratulations are in order. Well deserved!” exclaimed O’Connell, gripping his shoulder.

  “Very good.” Mrs. Brightmore clasped her hands in front of her apron. “I’m so happy for you, Mr. Kincraig.”