Never Judge a Lady by Her Cover_The Fourth Rule of Scoundrels

by Sarah MacLean

He looked to her. “I imagine you would have done the same.”

  She lifted her chin. “With my dying breath.”

  He put his hand to her face, cupping her cheek in its warmth. “Caroline is lucky to have you.”

  “I am lucky to have her,” she said. “Just as your mother was lucky to have you both.”

  “There should have been three of us,” he said. “The third was stillborn. A brother.”

  “Duncan,” she said, putting her hand to his on her cheek, her eyes filling with tears for him. For what he had seen.

  “I was fifteen. Cynthia was five.” He paused. “And my mother . . . she died as well.”

  She’d known it was coming, but the words still tore at her.

  “He killed my mother,” he said.

  She nodded, tears spilling down her cheeks for the loss of the woman she would never know. For the loss of the boy she would never know. For Duncan. She filled in the rest. “You ran.”

  “I stole a horse.” A grey stallion. “It was worth five times what I was worth. More.”

  It was worth nothing compared to him. “And you took Cynthia.”

  “Kidnapped her. If the earl ever wanted her . . . if he ever found us . . . I would hang.” He looked toward the ballroom. “But what could I do? How could I leave her?”

  “You couldn’t,” she said. “You did the right thing. Where did you go?”

  “We were lucky . . . we found an innkeeper and his wife. They took us in, fed us. Helped us. Never once asked about the horse. He had a brother in London who owned a pub. We went to him. I sold the horse, planning to pay the pub owner to take care of Cynthia while I enlisted in the army.” He stopped. “I would never have seen her again.”

  There was fear in the words, as he was lost to their memory. She spoke. “But you did. You see her every day.”

  He returned to the present. “The night I returned, money in my pocket, ready to change our lives, there was a man in the pub. He owned a newspaper. Offered me a job running ink and paper at the press.”

  “And so you became Duncan West, newspaperman.”

  He smiled. “A few steps in between—a careful investment in a new printing press—the retirement of a man who saw something in me that I did not know was there—but, yes. I started The Scandal Sheet—”

  “My favorite publication.”

  He had the grace to look chagrined. “I apologized for the cartoon.”

  “I was happy that you felt you owed me a penance.”

  The laughter in his eyes disappeared at the reminder of their deal—of his promise to help her marry. She hated herself for bringing it up.

  “Once I was Duncan West”—he looked back to the ball—“I suppose I should have expected Tremley to find me once he inherited the title and took his place in Parliament. But once he did, he owned me.”

  She understood, immediately. “He holds your secrets. And they are more valuable to him in private, where he can use you for news, than in public, where you end up in prison.”

  “Horse stealing is a hanging offense,” he reminded her, all macabre. “As is fraud.”

  Her brow knit. “Fraud.”

  “Duncan West does not exist.” He looked down at his feet, and she saw a glimpse of the bruised boy he’d once been. “There was another boy who saw us leaving,” he said, the words soft and full of memory. “He tried to follow.

  “But he was younger, and he wasn’t strong enough, and I already had Cynthia. I made him take his own horse.” Dread pooled in Georgiana’s stomach. “It was dark, and his horse balked at a jump. He was thrown. Died.” He shook his head. “I left him. I got him killed, and I left him.”

  She placed her hand to his face. “You hadn’t a choice.”

  He still did not look at her. “His name was Duncan.”

  She closed her eyes at the words. At the trust he must have for her in order to confess it.

  A trust she had not shown him.

  “What was yours?”

  “James,” he said. “Jamie. Croft.”

  She pulled his face down to hers, letting their foreheads touch. “Jamie,” she whispered.

  He shook his head. “Gone now. Forever.”

  That word, promise and weapon at once.

  “And Cynthia?” she asked.

  A cloud crossed over his face. “Cynthia does not remember anything before the innkeeper and his wife. She doesn’t remember our mother. She thinks we shared a father. Thinks his name was West.” He shook his head. “I didn’t want her to know the truth.”

  “That her father was a monster? Of course you didn’t.”

  He met her eyes. “I took her from that life. She had no choice.”

  “You did what was best.”

  “She is half aristocrat.”

  “And all West.” She refused to let him be ashamed of it. “You chose that for yourself?”

  “I chose it for her,” he said, and she understood that more than he could ever know. “When we left Tremley Manor, it was dusk. We rode toward the sunset.”

  “West.”

  She lifted herself onto her toes and kissed him, long and slow and deep, as though they had all the time in the world. As though their secrets weren’t thundering toward them at breakneck speed.

  His hands were at her jaw, cradling her with such care, that she thought she might weep—if she did not want him so very much. She sighed into his mouth as he kissed her again and again, pulling her tight against him, fitting them together in a way that made her wish they were somewhere else. Somewhere indoors. Somewhere with a bed.

  He pulled back finally, and said, “So, you see, I keep Tremley’s secrets for Cynthia. But now that they are with Chase . . .”

  Of course, now that Chase knew Tremley’s secrets, Duncan and Cynthia were under threat. And there it was, the reason he had pressed her for Chase’s identity. The reason he had threatened her.

  And now Georgiana knew Duncan’s secrets, she would do anything to protect them. To protect him.

  Tremley had asked her to choose—Chase or West. And there was no question anymore.

  She might not be able to have him with her forever, but she could ensure that his forever was happy, and long, and without fear.

  He was so noble. There was so much about this man that she adored. He was deeply, undeniably worthy of this world. Of life. Of love. She came up on her toes and pressed her forehead to his. “What if we married?”

  It was not meant in seriousness. It was a strange dream in this quiet moment. And still, he felt he should answer her honestly. He shook his head. “I cannot marry you.”

  The words shocked her. “What?”

  He saw immediately what he had done. “I cannot—I would never saddle you with my secrets. If my past were revealed, my wife would be destroyed. My family. I would absolutely go to prison. And I would likely hang. And you would suffer with me. And Caroline.”

  “If we keep Tremley quiet.”

  He shook his head. “As long as Tremley lives, my secrets live with him.” He paused. “And besides, I can’t give you the title.”

  “Hang the title.”

  He smiled, and there was sadness in the expression. “You don’t mean it.”

  She didn’t. This whole life—everything she had ever done for the last decade—had been for Caroline.

  “I wish . . .”

  She trailed off as his arms came around her. “Tell me.”

  “I wish we were other people,” she said, quietly. “I wish we were simple, and all we cared about was food on our table and roofs over our heads.”

  “And love,” he added.

  She did not hesitate. “And love,” she agreed.

  “If we were other people,” he asked, “would you marry me?”

  It was her turn to look to the sky, to imagine that instead of here—in Mayfair, by the light of a glittering ballroom, wearing a gown worth more than most people made in a year—she was in the country, children pulling on her apron strings as she pointed
out the constellations.

  And how magnificent that would be. “I would.”

  “If we were other people,” he said, pleasure in his tone as his fingers stroked over her face, “I would ask you.”

  She nodded. “But we aren’t.”

  “Shh,” he hushed her. “Don’t take it away. Not yet.” He turned her in the darkness, until her face was in the light. “Tell me.”

  She shook her head, sadness coming quickly, on a wave of tears. “I shouldn’t,” she said. “It is not a good idea.”

  “I have made a life on bad ideas,” he said. “Tell me.” He kissed her, quick and lovely. “Tell me you love me.”

  The tears spilled over, but she could not look away from him. She could not tell him that she loved him, because she might not be able to walk away from him then. And if she could not walk away from him, all of this—this entire mess into which she had dragged him—would be for naught.

  “Tell me, Georgiana,” he whispered, sipping the tears from her cheeks. “Do you love me?”

  If she told him she loved him, she knew without question that he would never allow her to do what must be done.

  And so, instead of answering his question, she answered Tremley’s question from the night before. She reached up, slid her fingers into her love’s hair, and pulled him down to her, grazing her lips against his once, twice, before saying, “I choose you. Always.”

  She chose West. Here and now.

  He kissed her, deep and long and wonderful, rewarding the words even though they weren’t precisely what he wished for. When he pulled back, he said, “I choose you as well, my lady. Forever.”

  She adored this man, in all the dark corners that she’d thought she’d locked away forever.

  Forever.

  It was a long time . . . and belonged to him.

  She would give it to him. “I can repair this,” she said.

  He grew curious. “Repair what?”

  He began to walk again, edging them through the garden gate to the mews at the side of the massive house, where a crush of carriages waited for their owners to call for them.

  “All of it,” she said, her fingers trailing over the great black wheels of a coach, then along the silky flank of one of its horses. “I can convince Tremley never to betray your information.”

  “How?”

  “With Chase.” For the first time since they had met as Georgiana and West, she did not feel guilty referring to Chase as other. Not now, not as she was willing to sacrifice the false identity to save Duncan.

  He stopped, turned to her. “I don’t want you anywhere near this, Georgiana. Isn’t it time you leave him? Isn’t it time you begin your life without him?”

  She shook her head. “Duncan, you don’t understand—”

  He took her arms in his grip. “No, you don’t understand. I’ve taken care of it.”

  Everything inside her stilled. “What do you mean?” Was he planning to confess? “Duncan, you must not—”

  “I have taken care of it,” he repeated. “But listen to me. Chase is dangerous. He has the power to bring us all down if he wishes. This entire mess exists because Tremley does not trust Chase not to release the information on his treason.

  “I don’t know what it is that keeps you so beholden to him—I swore I would not ask ever again. But I do know that it is time for you to sever whatever ties you have to this massive, mythical man.” His words grew more impassioned and his anger began to show. “It is time for you to leave him. To leave that place. To end this part of your life.”

  “I know.”

  His hands cradled her face once more, tilting her up to meet his. “Christ, if you don’t do it for yourself, or for Caroline . . . do it for me.”

  She was doing it for him. “I will.”

  “Do this one thing for me,” he begged. “End it with him . . . whatever it is. Stay away from the club.”

  “I will.” Two more days, and she would never look back at it.

  “Do this, and I will never ask you for another thing again.”

  She wanted him to ask. She wanted to be his partner in this. His Amphitrite. “Duncan . . .” she trailed off, not knowing what to say. Hating fate and fortune, and wishing she were someone, anyone else. Wishing she were a woman who could fall into Duncan West’s arms and spend the rest of her life there.

  “Promise me,” he whispered, his lips on hers, neither of them caring that they were in full view of half of London’s coachmen. “Promise me you won’t let him win in this.”

  She returned the kiss. “I promise.” It was the closest that she would ever come to telling him she loved him. “I promise,” she repeated, and it was truth. Chase would not win this.

  They walked to the next carriage in the line, and he opened the door. She peered in. There were newspapers scattered across the floor. Her heart began to pound. It was his carriage. Was he taking her to his home? Abducting her away from this place? From all the things that kept them chained to this world?

  He handed her up into the carriage. “And promise me something else . . .”

  “Anything.”

  The wide world.

  His hand slid down her leg, sliding under the skirts of her dress, his fingers caressing the skin of her ankle.

  “Stay out of the club tomorrow.”

  He closed the door and banged on the side of the carriage, signaling to the driver. “Take the lady to Leighton House,” she heard him say as the conveyance lurched into motion. She instantly understood what had happened—he didn’t want her sleeping at the club, so he was sending her to her brother’s house in his own carriage.

  She should have been annoyed, but she could not quite muster the energy. She was using too much of it to love him.

  She settled back into the soft seat of his carriage, considering all the things she had to do prior to her deadline with Tremley tomorrow—most importantly, telling the other partners that Chase was about to be revealed.

  How many times had she shaken her head at the actions of men in love?

  They were nothing in comparison to the actions of a woman in love.

  A light from a streetlamp outside shone bright in the window, illuminating the newspaper on the seat next to her.

  She stilled, sure she had misread.

  She lifted the paper, not believing it at first, turning the page to the street, waiting for a light to confirm the words. And then the date. The paper she held in her hand would release the next day, ironically, on the same date that Tremley’s offer expired.

  There, across the entirety of the page, was a single headline:

  Reward for the Identity of The Fallen Angel’s Owner

  And beneath:

  £5,000 for proof of the identity of the elusive Chase

  Chapter 20

  Editors of this prestigious paper have had enough of the monopoly of power that exists in London’s darkest corners. We encourage our readers to do what they can to ensure that the country have only one monarch, and one who reigns in public . . .

  —The News of London, May 17, 1833

  The Fallen Angel was under siege.

  As it was only half-eleven in the morning, the casino floor was dark, but there was nothing quiet about the space, filled with echoing shouts from outside the steel doors of the casino, loud banging on the doors of the building, and the constant din of men outside, filling St. James Street in the hopes of getting their chance for five thousand pounds.

  Inside, Temple and Cross sat at a roulette table, waiting for a member of the security team to appear with news.

  Bourne arrived first. “What in hell is happening?” he called, pushing through the inner door to the casino from the entrance hall, barred with double locks and a door-man twice the size of a normal person.

  Cross looked to Bourne. “You look as though you’ve been through a war.”

  “Have you seen how many people there are out there? They’re desperate for entry. Do they simply think we’re going to announc
e Chase’s identity? Simply because West has lost his mind?” He looked down at the sleeve of his coat and swore roundly. “Look what the bastards did to me! They tore my cuff.”

  “You are like a woman when it comes to clothes,” Temple said. “If I were you, I would be more concerned about arm tearing. As in limb from limb.”

  Bourne scowled at Temple. “I was concerned about that. Now that the immediate threat is gone, I’m irritated about my cuff. I’ll ask again; what in hell is going on?”

  Temple and Cross looked at each other, then at Bourne. “Chase is in love,” Cross said, simply.

  Bourne blinked once. “Honestly?”

  “Besotted,” Temple said. The word was punctuated by a crash high above, where a well-aimed rock broke a small window and rained glass down onto the casino floor.

  They watched the fall of glass for a long moment, before Bourne turned back to his partners. “With West?”

  Cross nodded. “The very same.”

  Bourne thought for a moment. “Is it me? Or does it seem fitting that Chase’s love story is the one that nearly destroys the casino?”

  “It’s going to do more than nearly destroy it, if West doesn’t call off his dogs.”

  Bourne nodded. “I assume you’ve—”

  “Of course,” Temple said. “First thing. The moment we saw the paper.”

  “And she doesn’t know.”

  “Definitely not,” Cross said. “Did she ever give us the courtesy of letting us know that she was going to meddle in our affairs?”

  “She did not,” Bourne said with a sigh as he sat. “So we are waiting, then?”

  Temple waved to a seat nearby. “We are waiting.”

  Bourne nodded. They were quiet for a long moment, all watching Cross spin the wheel again and again. Finally, Bourne said, “It’s less fun when there’s no ball.”

  “It isn’t that much fun when there is a ball.”

  “I wonder why Chase loves it so much,” Temple said.

  “Because roulette is the only game of chance that is entirely random,” Cross said. “You cannot force a win. And so, it is even ground.”

  “Pure chance,” Bourne said.

  “No calculated risk,” Cross agreed.

  There was heavy banging on the door, long and loud and with little threat of giving up. When it stopped, and a door opened, the security team no doubt using all their might to keep the crowds at bay.