Society's Most Scandalous Viscount

by Anabelle Bryant

  She thrashed a bit beneath him, the pain intense, and he kissed her muzzle with gentle care before he pulled away. Gritting his teeth, he wiped his face with the back of his hand and removed all emotion, hating the action since every cell in his being screamed in objection. He stuttered another breath and with a pain that sliced through the center of his chest, bent to his right boot. It took two tries to prepare the shot, his hands unsteady as he held paper and powder. Then he whispered his last apology and squeezed the trigger.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Two weeks later

  To London

  Kellaway breathed deep and opened the double doors of his bedchambers. He’d dressed, shaved, and gathered his thoughts with an alacrity that had escaped him the past fortnight. Not to suggest the time lay wasted. By no means would he label it so.

  Fourteen days provided adequate time to heal. Time enough to suppress the memory found in the shape of a lover’s mouth during a breath-stealing kiss. Time to drink in excess, gaze through the telescope, and plot a clearly defined future. Time to break old habits and discard regret as easily as a liquor bottle shattered on the rocks below his terrace.

  He stepped into the hallway verbally equipped for any ready objection Bitters might fling in his direction, having not seen the servant for days. All Kell recalled was a blurry glimpse of the man’s receding shadow a few nights past. Yet the brandy was always there and some way or another Kell slept in his bed each night.

  He took the stairs with determination, not to outrun mordant judgment or trenchant speculation, but to reach his destination all the sooner. Today provided the beginning of opportunity and the devil take anyone who stood in his way.

  His trunks were packed and the carriage prepared as per his ordered command through the closed panel of his chambers days earlier. Welcome the execution. Things were about to change in London.

  He closed the solid six-paneled door at the front of the house, turned the key, and dropped it into his breast pocket. His waistcoat was freshly pressed and strained against his shoulders. He relished the crunching protestation of the gravel beneath the soles of his boots, an echo of every promise and regret he’d examined and discarded during the fortnight he’d remained shut in. He would have what he wanted. Once and for all.

  Reaching the end of the drive he waited, counting an impatient beat before his carriage appeared from the stable. Two well-matched chestnut stallions led the conveyance and his heart winced at the noticeable absence of a particular black mare. He sucked in his despair with a sharp breath and faced Bitters who’d hopped down from beside the driver.

  “Why is he on the box?” Kell narrowed his eyes and viewed the stout coachman, formally hired as groundskeeper, now dressed in proper livery uniform atop the seat.

  “James has taken ill. Moira is a qualified replacement. With the sudden decision to leave—”

  A distinct yowl broke the brisk conversation.

  “What does Moira have in the basket, Bitters?” The question asked the obvious as the split lid of the wicker hamper cracked open and a paw of furry tangerine swiped the air as if to say: How dare you question my presence? Now go away, you dreadful man, or at the least get into the carriage so we can be off.

  “Moira is taking his possessions and relocating to the city. The feline shan’t be any trouble.” Bitters swung the coach door wide and extended the steps.

  “If you’re wrong, I’ll set the cat free and you’ll occupy the hamper.” Kell brushed past, conscious of the carriage frame, and lowered his head, folding his physique into the banquette to prepare for the long journey.

  “The hair’s an improvement as well as the appropriate attire.” Bitters settled on the opposing bench, his expression expectant of a convivial conversation in response to his complimentary remark. “And the new team—”

  “Don’t speak of it.” The hard edge of his words served as warning.

  “I meant to reassure.”

  “I have little use for reassurance.” Kell dragged in a long breath. “My entire life I’ve done without the luxury; I’ve no need of soft words now.”

  “You’ve experienced the worst.” Bitters nodded in what could only be interpreted as sympathy.

  “Spare me the platitudes. I’ve lost everything important and I’m stronger for having fallen. My family, Nyx, my freedom… The world believes I take what I want and live a satisfied life, but the perception is convoluted, bits and pieces of the truth.” He pinned Bitters with a glare meant to stifle any forthcoming opinions. “For once I know exactly what I need and challenge anyone to counter my success.”

  Recognizing love had proven a blind spot. He’d never experienced that kind of emotion. But he’d grown to understand himself better in the last two weeks than during his entire adulthood and nothing would prevent him from finding Angel and confessing his intent. She was meant to be his, owned his heart, lived there still, and he knew without a shred of doubt, whatever kept her from him was not of her doing. She loved him. He saw it in her eyes, felt it in her touch. He wouldn’t be wrong this time.

  “I am reassured to see you—”

  “Cease.” God help Bitters if he uttered another word.

  For once, the valet remembered his place.

  They rode in silence a great many hours, enduring only unavoidable respite for lunch, water, and necessities. The tabby proved co-operative and likewise Moira handled the carriage well, accomplishing excellent time in their return trip to London. Kell contemplated the order of events he’d perpetuate come the morning. Tonight, he’d settle into his apartments with quiet resolve before braving the tasks he’d set for himself: most importantly, a visit to his grandfather, the Duke of Acholl. His Grace, nearing seventy years, remained as obstinate and opinionated as the collective upper ten thousand, yet everyone endured his temperament in deference to his title. A responsibility that would become Kell’s once his grandfather passed. The weight of that reality could sink the strongest.

  Kell had squandered years in meaningless debauchery, reckless gambling, and indulgent pleasure-seeking. His grandfather did not approve, although he rarely complained, too occupied with his daughter’s poor decisions and son-in-law’s disgraceful behavior. Kell maintained his grandfather would be pleased to see him, though their conversation would turn to confrontation eventually. Once His Grace realized Kell meant to subsume his past into a more directed future, he hoped to persuade the old man time had arrived for acceptance of responsibility. Kellaway was a changed man. Not only in appearance, but in attitude as well. He clenched his jaw tight to ram the decision home.

  He’d visit Jasper on the morrow for no other reason than to wash away the bitterness that would accompany the morning discussion with his grandfather. Perhaps he’d message Oliver and Penwick as well. He’d stayed away too long. Been alone too long. A sliver of memory threatened, ribbons of blond hair and long shapely legs, and he crushed the thought. Alone felt better. Safer.

  He rested his head against the bolster, the velvet brushing his neck where his starched cravat pulled away from his collar. With any luck, the monotony of the carriage’s motion would lull him to sleep, yet he dared not dream.

  Angelica paused at the wash-hand stand and filled the bowl from the pitcher. Her maid, Beatrice, would scold her for splashing water against the wood. Angelica’s concentration was less than focused. She dried her face with the towel and settled near the hearth, her stockinged feet quick to warm against the fender. London proved, as always, gray, damp, and lonely. Was it any wonder she adored trips to Brighton to visit grandmother? At present the city seemed more desolate than ever before. Memories of Benedict threatened but she forced them away, locking them into her heart for another time, a different morning, no matter his remembrance always lingered a breath away. Perhaps if she absorbed the sounds of the city, she could drown out the echo of Brighton in her soul.

  Slowly she deciphered the rattle of carriage traffic on cobbles—livestock and their multitude sounds, the sharp crack
of a driver’s whip as he hurried the team—but for all her efforts Brighton lived in her still. The dismal gray skies of the city would never overtake her brilliant memories.

  She forced her eyes to the connecting door that led to her sister’s bedchamber. Poor Helen. The constant worry for her welfare was the only sentiment that eclipsed the gnawing ache inside. Life had become uncertain, ill-evolved, where decisions and consequences were beyond all control. Was it not difficult enough to grow older without a mother, to then be deprived of her sister’s company? Perhaps recent occurrences composed a plan for her future in that she should learn to be silent, reflective and meditative. Her father spoke of God’s plan, but truly to place one’s trust in circumspection when it stripped life of all joy seemed ill-advised. The rattle of the door handle interrupted her glum considerations.

  “You’re awake then. Very good.” Beatrice rushed into the room with her usual joyful efficiency and issued a shallow curtsey. She snapped up the ivory brush from the vanity as she passed and set to task, the brush immediately entangled, snagged, and held firm in Angelica’s hair. Despite the tumultuous past month, some things never changed. With care, Beatrice would need to work through each knotty tangle the same way Angelica must sort and manage her complicated decisions.

  “Have you any news to share?” How pathetic for the daughter of an earl to ply servants for information, but her father had forbade her leaving the house. Upon returning, he’d discovered that a missive from the vicar waited. The earl’s countenance transformed as he read the letter, yet he hadn’t shared the information and, instead, dashed the foolscap into the fire before Angelica could glean the tiniest detail.

  “Nothing, my lady. I’m afraid no one belowstairs has an inkling of your sister’s whereabouts.” Beatrice placed the brush on the mantle and began to plait the lengths with her usual competency. “We are all delighted to have you home again.”

  “I’m not here for long, Bea.” Emotion caused her voice to tremble. “It’s a small dose of serendipity that has kept me in London these past two weeks. Otherwise I was off to the convent to marry the vicar upon my return. Father hasn’t revealed a word concerning the change in plans. At the same time, he refuses to allow me to leave the house. The entire situation is troublesome and I’m expected to wait and wonder, unaware of my own future. It’s a horribly isolating feeling.” Perhaps one which prepares a woman to enter a convent, shut away from all the happiness of life and mollified into a daily ritual of prayer and solemn contemplation,to marriage with a man she didn’t love. This realization became a shadow of her soul.

  “You no longer wish to search for Helen? Last night you spoke of nothing else.” Beatrice paused and leaned over Angelica’s shoulder to meet her eyes. “Certainly if time is of the essence, we need to work harder to garner clues. Servants I’ve spoken to have spread word through conversation across several residences. Someone need only supply the smallest bit of information, which will lead us to discover another trace and so on from there. It’s an intricate network of associations that lends well considering the circumstances.”

  Beatrice meant to encourage, although Angelica doubted a single person would produce anything helpful after so much time had passed. It was nearing a month. Who would recall a woman on the run in the middle of the night? Servants only. At least their sympathies were in kind and the maid’s question welcome to chase away her fear.

  “I hope with all my heart.” A slight tug on her scalp indicated Beatrice had returned to her efficacious duties. “I hope to see my friends before I’m sent away and impart whatever I discover of my future whereabouts, because if ever someone discovered information concerning Helen, I would need to know as soon as possible.” All this supposition proved a fool’s game. Her father held Angelica fixed beneath his thumb. She feared disobeying him and at the same time yearned to break free and run away, just as she’d encouraged Helen to do. But what became of her sister? And how foolish to believe it would be so easy to gain independence. She shuddered a stilted breath, the ever-present memory of her father’s walking stick lashing against her confidence, thrashing her self-reliance to shreds. “My world has changed significantly in such a short span of time, I can hardly keep up with emotion.”

  A soft rap sounded and Angelica whipped her head in the direction of the door, worried she’d be summoned downstairs, her time in London all at once at an end. But no, it was Nora, her sister’s maid who now assumed common duties. She poked her head through the opening but didn’t wait for any other indication before she hurried forward.

  “I’ve something to share.” The opposite of Beatrice’s controlled efficiency, Nora composed a furious energy that had suited Helen perfectly.

  “What is it?” Angelica pulled her hair from Beatrice’s grasp and stood. The maid was startled albeit equally intrigued.

  “I’ve had it from a footman who is friendly with a maid in a home on Lockhart Close who believes she saw Helen one week past. The maid and her beau supped at a small restaurant in Hay Market where they thought they saw Helen working in the establishment. Of course, they knew they must be mistaken, with her being gentry and all, but now that we’ve spread the word of her departure, this clue has surfaced.”

  “How can that be true? It sounds farfetched and ridiculous, my sister working there. I gave her money enough to take a coach far from London. Whyever would she stay and work just a few miles away?” Angelica’s expression matched the incredulity of her words. “When she fled she had no direction or assistance and I’ve worried myself sick for having sent my sister and her unborn babe into the streets of London, helpless and alone. Are you saying she is well and good? That she is working and happy in Hay Market of all places?”

  Hay Market comprised a bustling, congestive collection of restaurants, theaters, and taverns, littered with the occasional inn or tobacco shop. While this section of the city catered to those looking for entertainment, the definition of such activities spanned all levels of the population and one might find a prostitute as easily as a dowager who visited the opera house.

  The two maids searched each other’s faces, hopeful the answers to Angelica’s questions would become the other’s responsibility. At last Nora spoke.

  “I’m only relaying what was told to me this morning, but the only way to discover the truth is to go to Lockhart Close.” Nora shrugged her shoulders. “You can speak directly to the footman who made the claim.”

  “No. I must believe your friend’s statement because my time is sacred. The smarter choice is to go directly to Hay Market to see if Helen is employed in an establishment there.” A buoy of hope surfaced. Could it all be this easy? To find Helen and ensure she had the proper care?

  “Hush, both of you, this idea is addle-brained and dangerous. Besides there are dozens of taverns and inns in the area.” Beatrice shook her head with vigor. “How would you find her? I cannot advise you to go traipsing into the night to try to find your sister. It is far too perilous.”

  “It’s the only choice I have. I’m tired of being timid.” With a bittersweet sweep of her fingertips, she brushed her left shoulder, drawing strength from the remembrance of her candle ash tattoo. “It’s time I make a strong decision for myself as well as Helen.” She switched her attention to Nora and addressed the maid’s suggestion. “I’ll visit each inn or restaurant and eliminate possibilities as I go. They’re sure to remember Helen once they see me. We’re near identical.” The more she discussed the problem, the more determination took hold and solidified the plan. Little by little resolve replaced doubt.

  “Your resemblance is strong in appearance only. I fear this plan is foolish and dangerous. You’re bound to draw unwanted attention with your flowing hair and fine dress.” Bea’s face expressed genuine concern, her eyes narrowed in worry.

  “Then weave her hair into a coronet to hide under a cap. That way no one need notice you.” Nora whispered the conspiratorial suggestion and waited. “More importantly, how will you get out of the ho
use?”

  The opposing views of the maids mirrored Angelica and Helen’s relationship, and the similarity was not lost. Still, Angelica remained resolute, not influenced by her maid’s doubt. She tapped her fingertip to her upper lip in concentration, one completed braid atop her shoulder, the other unfinished and unraveling fast.

  “You began your monthly yesterday, did you not?” Beatrice leaned in and whispered into Angelica’s exposed ear. “I can inform the earl you’re in a terrible way and wish to dine alone in your chambers, resting through the evening. If I explain in detail, he’s sure to quiet me with haste and I may never need to embellish with an untruth.”

  “That would work. He dare not disturb me then.” She didn’t voice her father’s distorted perception of her womanly flux. He believed it purified her soul of sinful transgressions, cleansing away such aberrant habits as lust for new fashion, idleness while reading or sewing, and laughing too loudly while spending time with lady friends. He referred to her monthly as divine purification, not just proof she remained absent of prurient desire, but a healthy release of any contaminating carnal longings. Tonight his convoluted religious beliefs would aid her goal.

  “You’ll never manage three blocks into Hay Market dressed in that.” Nora interjected while motioning to the dress made ready for the day ahead.

  Three heads swiveled toward the wardrobe where an emerald green day gown hung awaiting attention. Several pristine layers of lace-trimmed undergarments were piled atop the nearby bureau.

  “Nora is right, but I have an idea.” Angelica released a satisfied sigh, the plan congealing with ease. “Beatrice, where is the brown walking dress I wore while in Brighton? The simple muslin with the squared neckline.”