Never Judge a Lady by Her Cover_The Fourth Rule of Scoundrels

by Sarah MacLean

  “Suffolk.”

  Not a lie, but neither was it the whole truth.

  And he did not stay for more questions.

  “Tomorrow night,” he said, and the words left no room for refusal.

  She nodded, a mix of anticipation and nervousness threading through her “Tomorrow night.”

  He turned and left her, and she watched his retreating back as his long legs dissolved the distance between him and his sister, who was already halfway to his curricle. Tomorrow night.

  What had she done?

  “Mother?” Caroline interrupted her rumination, and Georgiana looked to her daughter, poised a few yards away, both their horses in tow.

  Georgiana forced a smile. “Shall we head back? Are you through?”

  Caroline looked to West’s retreating back—Georgiana would not think of him as Duncan, it was too personal—then to her mother. “I am through.”

  She would marry another man. She would give Caroline the world she deserved. The opportunity she deserved. But was it asking too much to find a moment of pleasure for herself in the meantime?

  What would be the harm?

  Chapter 10

  . . . This paper has it on excellent authority that a certain impoverished Lord has taken an interest in a very well dowered Lady. While we cannot confirm the lord-in-question’s plans, we can confirm that they spent a quarter of an hour on a dark balcony several nights ago. We are assured that, while Lord L— was a perfect gentleman, he shan’t need to be for much longer . . .

  . . . Truly, there are few couples we adore more than the Marquess and Marchioness of R—. It has been more than a decade that we’ve watched them make eyes at each other, and of such obvious adoration, this paper does not tire. Rumor has it that they even fence together . . .

  The gossip pages of The Weekly Britannia,

  April 29, 1833

  The columns were beginning to work.

  Georgiana had danced with five potential suitors at the Beaufetheringstone Ball, including three impoverished fortune hunters, an ancient marquess, and an earl of questionable breeding. And the night was only half over.

  Now, as the orchestra paused between sets, she stood at the refreshment table at the far end of the room with Viscount Langley, no doubt waiting for the music to begin so the two could dance—and she could take the next steps in securing her future role as viscountess.

  The attention might have been because the Duke of Leighton had called in all his chits to get his sister married. The duke and duchess were in attendance, as were the duchess’s extended family including the Marquess and Marchioness of Ralston, and Lord and Lady Nicholas St. John.

  Or it might have been because the owners of The Fallen Angel were also in attendance, though their support was required to be slightly less public. But they were in attendance, nonetheless, which was something of a marvel, as there were few things the Marquess of Bourne and Earl Harlow enjoyed less than Society functions. Yet they were here, posted about the room like silent sentries.

  It might have been because of the wives—each a power in her own right, newly minted, a new generation of the aristocracy. Some scandal, some utter societal perfection.

  It might have been any of those things, but West knew better.

  It was the newspaper columns.

  And West wasn’t certain how he felt about their success.

  He stood watch over the entire scene, observing as Lady Beaufetheringstone, the most gossip-prone doyenne of the ton, lifted her lorgnette and cast a discerning eye in Georgiana’s direction. After a long moment, Lady B lowered the glass and nodded once before turning to the ladies in her surrounds, no doubt to discuss the new addition in her ballroom.

  It was remarkable that Georgiana required West’s support—what with the collection of lords and ladies in her orbit, those who had navigated the myriad pitfalls of Society themselves in their own scandalous journey to acceptance. But there was nothing in the world more dangerous than a woman cloaked in scandal and without marriage.

  So it had been when Eve had tasted the apple, when Jezebel had painted her face, when Hagar had lain with Abraham.

  He watched as she lifted a glass of champagne and drank. When she lowered the glass and smiled at her companion, West imagined her lips gleaming with residual wine, imagined sipping it from them.

  It might have been days since their kiss, but the taste of her lingered, and every moment he thought of her or caught a glimpse of her, he grew more desperate for this ball to end, and the night to begin. He was simply biding his time until he could touch her.

  Langley placed a hand at her elbow, guided her to the ballroom floor for their dance.

  He was beginning to dislike Langley.

  He was beginning to dislike the viscount’s easy smile and his perfectly tailored coats and his untouched cravats. He was beginning to dislike the way he moved, as though he were born for this place, for this world, and perhaps for this woman. It didn’t matter that such a thought was supremely irrational, as Langley had been born for all those things.

  And he was really beginning to dislike the way the viscount danced. All smooth grace and gentlemanly movements. And the way Georgiana smiled up at him as they twirled across the floor—not up at him, West edited disagreeably, as Langley was equal to her in height and no taller.

  He tried his best to avoid the scowl that threatened. He didn’t like how handsome a couple they made. How easy it was to see them as one.

  How easy it was to realize that they would make handsome children.

  Not that he cared about their children.

  She met his gaze, and pleasure shot through him. She was beautiful tonight. Even at six and twenty, she was brighter than most of the women in attendance. She fairly glowed in the candlelight, the silk of her gown gleaming as Langley twirled her through the room, her golden curls brushing against the place where the long column of her neck met her shoulder. The place where she smelled of vanilla and Georgiana. The place he intended to lick the next time they were alone.

  He nodded his head in her direction, and she flushed, looking away instantly. He wanted to crow his success. She wanted him. He was willing to bet nearly as much as he wanted her.

  And they would both have what they wanted tonight.

  He itched to touch her. He’d thought of little else since the moment she’d turned to him in the park the prior day and said, “I choose you.” Christ, he’d wanted to lift her into his arms and carry her into the nearest copse of trees and lay her bare and worship every inch of her with every inch of him, damn the world into which she’d been born and the one in which she’d chosen to live.

  I choose you.

  It did not matter that she’d likely said the same words to a dozen other men in her life. That she likely knew their power and wielded it like an expert.

  When she’d said them to him, he’d been hers. Instantly. Filled with a dozen ideas of how to make her his. His desire had been primitive at best—he’d wanted her. Fully.

  And tonight, he’d have her.

  “Did you receive my note?”

  He stiffened at the words, turning to face the Earl of Tremley, now at his shoulder. “I did.”

  “You have not run the article we discussed.”

  The war in Greece. Tremley’s support of the enemy. “I have been busy.”

  “Gambling and socializing are not business. I do not like being ignored. You would do well to remember that.”

  Everything about the words angered West, but he knew that the marquess was angling for a fight. “I am paying attention now.”

  “Because one word from me and every one of these people would happily turn up to see you hang.”

  West hated the truth in the words—the fact that, no matter the reasons for what he did, no matter the outcome of the actions, no matter the power he now wielded as a newspaper magnate, he was not one of them.

  He never would be.

  He ignored the thought, turning back to the ball, p
retending to care, as he had for more than a decade, about this world that would never be his. “What do you want?”

  He asked the question as a collection of young men passed, no doubt looking for a card game to pass the time at a ball their mothers had forced them to attend. Several of them turned to acknowledge Tremley and West, finding nothing strange about the two men deep in conversation.

  They both held important positions—Tremley, as an advisor to King William, and West as a newspaperman to whom much of Society was beholden. There was only one other man who shared their influence.

  The man Tremley had come to discuss. “I want Chase.”

  West laughed.

  “I fail to see the humor in it,” Tremley said.

  West raised one brow. “You want Chase.”

  “I do.”

  He shook his head. “You and the rest of the known world.”

  Tremley smirked. “That may be, but the rest of the known world doesn’t have you.”

  That much was true. For a decade, West had been funneling information about Society to Tremley as blackmail payment for the earl’s silence about his past. About their mutual past.

  And every day, every piece of information he shared and printed killed West a little more. He was desperate to get out from under this vicious man. Desperate for the information that would free him.

  Years of practice kept him from revealing the fury and frustration that roiled in him whenever Tremley was here. “Why Chase?”

  “Come now,” Tremley said, the words low and nearly teasing. “There are only two men in London who come even close to having my power. One of them is in my pocket.” West’s fists clenched at the words even as Tremley continued. “The other is Chase.”

  “That’s not enough for me to go after him.”

  Tremley laughed, cold and full of hate. “I like that you think you’ve a choice. He’s shown an interest in my wife. I don’t like being threatened.”

  Anger flared as West considered Tremley’s treatment of his wife. “Chase is not the only man who might threaten you.”

  “Surely you don’t mean yourself.” When Duncan did not reply, the earl continued. “You can’t ruin me, Jamie.”

  The whisper of the name, decades old and unused, sent a thread of unease through Duncan. It made him itch to destroy the smug earl. It made him willing to do anything for the information Lady Tremley had offered for her membership to The Fallen Angel.

  He took a breath. Affected calm. “You think I have not looked for Chase before? You think I am not aware of how well that reveal would sell papers? While I’m flattered by your confidence, I assure you, not even I can gain access to Chase.”

  “But the whore can.”

  The words—the word—rocketed through him, and it was only the ball whirling around them that kept West from sinking his fist into the earl’s smug face. “I don’t know whom you mean.”

  “You are tiresome when you wish to be,” the earl sighed, feigning interest in those dancing past. “You know exactly who I mean. Chase’s woman. Now, apparently left over. To you.”

  West stiffened at the description, at the way she was tossed about as nothing more than an accessory. At the way he referenced her—cheap and used and unwanted.

  She was the daughter of a duke, for Christ sake.

  Except she wasn’t to Tremley. Just as she wasn’t to the rest of London.

  “There’s no use denying it,” the earl continued. “Half the ton saw you steal into a private room at the casino the other night. I’ve heard three different stories that say Lamont stumbled upon you up her skirts. Or was it she who was down your trousers?”

  He wanted to roar his anger at the insult. If anyone else dared speak in such a manner, West would destroy them. They would suffer for a week at his hands. And they would suffer for years at the tip of his pen.

  But Tremley was safe from West’s anger, because he knew too well how it had been used in the past. What it had fought for. What it had won.

  And so instead of beating him bloody, West said, “You should be careful with how you speak of the lady.”

  “Oho, she’s a lady now? The whore”—he emphasized his crass wording—“must be tremendous between the sheets if you’re elevating her so far.” Tremley looked back at him. “I don’t care what you do to her. But she’s Chase’s whore first and foremost. And you’ll get me his identity.”

  One day he would destroy this man, and it would feel glorious.

  The earl seemed to hear the unspoken thought. “You loathe it, don’t you?” he said, watching West carefully. “You hate that I have so much power over you. That with a single breath, I could ruin you. That you are beholden to me. Forever.”

  Hate was too easy a word for what West felt for Tremley. “Forever is a very long time.”

  “Indeed, you would learn the truth of that statement if you were ever found out. I am told that forever in prison is even longer of a time.”

  “And if I cannot get you his identity?”

  Tremley looked away and West followed his gaze, the way it flickered over the ton, finding his wife in the throngs of dancers. West noticed the lady’s eye, yellowed around the edge. It took a moment to realize that Tremley was not in fact looking at his wife; her partner turned her, revealing the couple behind. The woman behind.

  Cynthia.

  “She’s a pretty girl.”

  West’s blood ran cold at the threat. “She stays out of it. That’s always been the deal.”

  “It was. It still is. After all, the poor thing doesn’t know the truth about her perfect brother, does she? What you did? What you took?”

  The words were a cold, brilliantly crafted threat. West did not look to the earl. Could not guarantee that if he did, he would not assault the man. Instead, he took the words Tremley spoke. “It would be a pity if she were told the truth. What would she think of you then? Her unimpeachable brother?”

  It was a perfect threat. Not empty in any way. It did not threaten West’s future. It was enough to keep him under Tremley’s thumb without being enough to force Tremley to make good on the larger, constant threat that hung between them.

  He did not threaten to reveal West’s secrets.

  He threatened to reveal Cynthia’s.

  “You cannot save all the women in the world, Jamie.”

  Anger flared, hot and nearly unbearable. He spoke, a low, dark promise. “I will wreck you someday. I shall do it for me, yes, but for everyone else you’ve ever hurt.”

  Tremley smirked. “Such a hero. Tilting at windmills. Still the boy who cannot win.” The words were designed to make Duncan feel powerless. “I don’t care how much money or influence you have, Jamie, I’ve the protection of a king. And your freedom exists only through my benevolence.”

  With the words, Duncan was a child once more, furious and eager for a fight. Desperate to win. So desperate for a different life that he was willing to steal one.

  He did not reply.

  “That’s what I thought,” said the other man, taking his leave.

  West watched him as he approached a young woman, a duke’s daughter, just out, and asked her to dance. She smiled and accepted the offer, sinking into a deep curtsy, knowing that a turn with the Earl of Tremley, who held King William’s ear, would only increase her value.

  It was ironic that the aristocracy did not notice the filth among them—only its title.

  He needed to know what Chase knew about Tremley.

  Immediately.

  She’d had too much to drink.

  It was unplanned. Unexpected, even. Indeed, she could drink scotch with the best of them. She had drunk scotch with the best of them.

  But tonight, she’d had too much champagne. And champagne, as everyone who had lived since Marie Antoinette knew, was perfume going in and something altogether different once it got there.

  She paused. Was it Marie Antoinette with the champagne?

  It did not matter. What mattered was that she had had too
much champagne, and now she was expected to dance. And later, she would be expected to do other things entirely.

  Things she wanted to do. With Duncan West.

  Things she’d asked to do.

  Things she was terrified of doing incorrectly.

  But all those thoughts were for a different time. Now, all she had to do was dance.

  Thank heavens that Viscount Langley was an excellent dancer.

  It should not have come as a surprise, as he was exceedingly well bred—charming and amusing and more than willing to keep up his end of the conversation—but Georgiana was always surprised when the viscount whirled her across the ballroom without a single misstep, ignoring the fact that she was not an exceedingly talented follower at this point in the evening.

  She didn’t think she’d ever danced with someone so clearly athletic.

  She had enjoyed it in the past, and might have done so this evening if she hadn’t had too much champagne, which she would never have done if she weren’t so damn focused on another man, who was not dancing. Indeed, Duncan West had not moved from his post at one end of the ballroom since he’d arrived at Beaufetheringstone House an hour earlier. And his lack of motion was making it quite difficult for her to watch him without being caught.

  Nonetheless, she met his gaze across the room, excitement and nervousness spiraling in the pit of her stomach.

  Tonight was tomorrow night.

  I am in control.

  The thought of his words from the prior evening, of their promise, sent a wash of color across her cheeks. She tore her gaze away.

  Good Lord. It was possible she’d made a terrible mistake in making such a bold, brazen suggestion. Now she was going to have to go through with it.

  She’d never simultaneously wanted and been terrified of something so much.

  “What has you so interested in Duncan West?”

  And it was clearly, thoroughly obvious.

  She turned her gaze to Lord Langley, affecting surprise. “My lord?”

  Langley smiled, all affability. “I am not without powers of observation.”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know what you mean.”