Marquess of Mayhem (Sins & Scoundrels Book 3)

by Scarlett Scott

  “She is the Marchioness of Searle now,” he reminded his friend, sending another damning gulp of spirits down his gullet. By God, for a moment, there was not one Whitley exuding ferocious disapproval but two. He closed his eyes, collecting himself as a wave of dizziness assailed him.

  If he passed out in the midst of the public rooms, would Kirkwood have his arse hauled to a private room? Perhaps Whitley could help him to his carriage. It may be time to execrate—er, extricate himself—from The Duke’s Bastard.

  “You look hideously cup-shot, Morgan. Let me get you to your carriage before you pass out on the floor and piss yourself.”

  How like Whitley to couch a friendly request with an insult. Morgan thought about consuming more whisky, but his gut roiled at the notion. The familiar sights and sounds of the club swirled at the edges of his vision. Perhaps he ought to have spent the day at Gentleman Jackson’s saloon with Monty, beating him to a pulp. Violence was a restorative where drink was a curse.

  “I can get myssself to m’bloody carriage, Cris,” he slurred, attempting to stand and falling back on his arse in an undignified heap.

  Well, this had certainly taken a turn for the best. Er, the worst.

  His mind was muddled, as if it had been stuffed with cotton. The warm glow of oblivion that had been tingling within him now felt like the heat of the sun, burning him, making him sweat. Or perhaps that was his newfound sense of guilt, eating him alive. Damnation, he had taken up the whisky to avoid such unpleasant emotions, not to wallow in them further.

  He blamed this entire cratastrop-catastero…eternal hellfire, why had even his brain ceased functioning? This entire catastrophe, he blamed upon the Duke of Whitley. Without his presence, Morgan never would have consumed so much whisky in such a short amount of time. Never mind that he had already been well on his way to becoming drunk as an emperor before Whitley’s arrival.

  “I shall have Duncan prepare a private chamber for you,” the duke said coolly. “I am not certain you can travel in this state. Whatever has happened to you, Morgan, I can assure you that playing the toss pot at one’s club is decidedly not the rage.”

  “I do not need a private chamber, and nor do I give a proper goddamn what is the rage,” he snarled, growing angry with the duke for his cursed persistence.

  Kirkwood appeared at his elbow then, and it should hardly come as a surprise, for Morgan had learned quickly that the man presided over his club like a king seated upon his throne.

  “Lord Searle, allow me to direct you to a private chamber for your comfort,” Kirkwood offered, his tone convivial but with an underlying edge even Morgan could discern, in his cups though he was.

  Kirkwood was not making a polite request of him but making an order.

  Christ, he had not imagined the day when the Duke of Whitley and the bastard son of a duke would become his bloody jailers. He stood, and this time managed to keep his balance, grinding his jaw as he allowed the two men to flank him and lead him into a side door which led to a series of interior halls Kirkwood no doubt used to manage the club.

  In icy silence, the three of them traveled to a private chamber that was comfortably appointed. The door had scarcely closed before Kirkwood was upon him. “See here, Searle, as you are the husband of Mrs. Kirkwood’s most beloved friend, I am choosing not to toss you on your arse or ban you from my club. But by God, if you dishonor or embarrass Lady Leonora in any fashion, I will not hesitate to cut you to size and lay you low. Am I understood?”

  “It seems to me you are too fond of my wife, Kirkwood,” he countered, a sharp pang of possessiveness shooting through him. “I will remind you she is now the Marchioness of Searle and Lady Leonora no longer.”

  “Consider yourself warned, Searle.” Kirkwood bowed, and then exchanged a look with Whitley before leaving.

  Whitley turned to him then, his gaze frank and assessing. “What happened to you, Morgan? In Spain, the day you were taken captive?”

  The mere word Spain was enough to make the snake coiled within him strike. He could not control himself, not his rage, not his tongue, not his fists when such moods came upon him. “What happened to me is that I was savaged, Whitley. I was taken captive first by a cutthroat band of Spaniards and then by an even more cutthroat and vicious group of Boney’s forces. They tortured me until I bled. They made me scream so they could laugh. Is that what you want to hear?”

  Whitley had paled, his nostrils flaring. “No. Christ, no, Morgan. You are my friend. I have carried with me for so long the guilt of that day, knowing I failed you, wishing it had been me instead.”

  “It never would have been you,” he said, stopping himself when he realized he had revealed too much.

  Whitley did not miss the revelation. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because…” He swayed as the chamber spun about him.

  Because it had been planned by their superior officers. Because El Corazón Oscuro was the alias of the Earl of Rayne, and because Rayne had been given orders to secret Morgan behind enemy lines in what would have been a highly dangerous mission. He had known the mission was coming, but he had not known El Corazón Oscuro was actually one of his own forces. That knowledge had only come much, much later, and even then, purely by accident during his recovery.

  One eavesdropped conversation. The shuffle through some encoded correspondence. And the truth had been his. So, too, the need for revenge. Rayne’s ineptitude had been the cause of his imprisonment. Rayne deserved to suffer.

  But for now, Morgan was the one suffering as the room continued to spin. His gut protested. His stomach clenched. Remembrance crashed down on him, the sound of the whip cracking upon his flesh, the searing pain. Being forced to his knees, bound and gagged. One of the French soldiers, a grim-faced little fellow with an ugly scar marring his right cheek, had taken excessive pleasure in his torture. The scent of his own flesh burning would never leave him, and it returned now, as if it were real, making him gag with a violence he could not suppress.

  “Chamber pot?” Whitley asked grimly.

  A fresh, crashing wave of sickness overtook him. He forced the bile back down his throat. He could persevere. He always had. “Perhaps I just require a rest. A wink of sleep.”

  The duke guided him to the neatly made bed, watching with ill-concealed disgust as Morgan fell back upon it. “You need to sleep this off, Searle. When you wake, go home to your marchioness. It is where you belong now, at her side. Whatever lies in your past, you must look to the future. She is your future. Let the past die. Let it go, or it may well kill you.”

  “Go to hell,” he muttered weakly, passing a weary hand over his face.

  Whitley did not know what he had endured. Whitley had been in London, finding a wife, making himself happy, transforming himself into the forbidding sot who cast judgment upon a man clearly in need of consuming a bottle of whisky. He was about to say as much when he glanced about him and realized the chamber was empty.

  The duke had gone.

  Heaving a sigh of self-loathing, Morgan lay on his back on the bed, staring up at the orgy depicted on the ceiling’s fresco. None of the ladies could hold a candle to his sweet Leonie. His eyes were heavy, his stomach a sea of sick.

  Perhaps he could rest, just for a bit.

  When he slept, he dreamt of his wife. And when he woke at last, he was covered in sweat, stomach protesting, mouth dry and tasting as if he had licked the floorboards of the public rooms.

  He rose, found the chamber pot not a moment too soon, and dropped to his knees. It was, he thought, a fitting end to the day.

  Chapter Ten

  Searle had failed to join her for dinner that evening, as had become their customary routine. Nor had he sent word of a delay or when she might expect him. Leonora had waited, postponing dinner and agitating Monsieur Talleyrand before finally relenting and dining in silence. The courses had been customarily exquisite, but they may as well have been crafted of ash for all Leonora tasted them.

  After dinner,
she had withdrawn to the drawing room where she sat in miserable silence, contemplating the pastoral oil scenes depicted upon the walls and stabbing her needlework more viciously than necessary as her ire climbed. Even poor little Caesar, who had cuddled up next to her, whined every few minutes, staring at her askance with his chocolate eyes, as if to ask where Searle was.

  Finally, she had retreated to her chamber, requesting a bath to soothe her troubles away. It had proved a pleasant enough diversion but hardly restorative, and now, she was pacing the floor, dressed for bed but unable to rest for even a moment as her dudgeon increased with each tick of the mantle clock. Her hair was unbound, falling in heavy waves down her back, completely dry now, and still, her husband had yet to return.

  Where had he gone?

  And why had he not come back?

  She completed what seemed her eightieth circumnavigation of the chamber, heedless of the ache in her leg, and at long last, she heard it, the soft closing of a chamber door. His chamber door, to be precise. Then footfalls, familiar in their cadence.

  Her husband was home. Relief swelled within her, for in truth, she had begun to worry. But left with no knowledge of his whereabouts, she had precious little recourse. Not to mention her sudden, frenzied need for him to return to her side, coupled with the troubling realization she had made during her call to Freddy, had left her in an odd state of bemusement. She had not been certain if her apprehension sprang from her overzealous emotions where he was concerned or from a true need.

  But now he had returned at last, her disquiet over his absence dashed, and in its place, the monster of her inner misery grew like a weed in a summer garden. Questions swirled, ones she almost dared not ask. Questions, perhaps, she did not have the right to ask.

  Questions she could withhold no longer.

  She knocked at the door joining their chambers, and when the familiar, deep rasp of his voice bid her to enter, she did, crossing the threshold into his domain. It occurred to her then that for the last week, he had been coming to her chamber rather than bringing her to his. Each night, he made love to her before returning to his own bed. A customary habit, she had reassured herself. No need to fret.

  She stopped when she saw him, icy tendrils of dread curling around her heart and squeezing. He was the picture of the dissolute rakehell, wavy, dark hair mussed, his cravat hastily tied, as if by his own hand rather than a valet’s, his coat rumpled.

  “Madam,” he greeted her, a chill in his voice she did not like. “You are yet awake. What is the hour?”

  “I do not know,” she lied, for somehow, her religious study of the time seemed a detail she ought to keep to herself. “Where have you been, my lord? I expected you at dinner.”

  His lips tightened. “I was otherwise occupied.”

  A horrid thought occurred to her then. What if he had been occupied with another woman? He had told her he did not have a mistress, but that had been a fortnight ago. He could have changed. She had never demanded fidelity of him, foolishly not thinking it a necessity.

  “Occupied in what manner?” she asked, dread burning a destructive path through her.

  “Does it truly matter? I am tired, and I would like nothing more than to call for my valet and go to bed. So, unless you wish to quarrel with me, or unless you want to play valet for me, I suggest you return to your chamber.” His tone was flat, emotionless.

  The man standing before her little resembled the bold lover who had wooed her for the last week. He seemed, instead, incredibly weary. Had the demons of his days at war returned to haunt him? She had not heard him crying out in the night, but she was a sound sleeper, and with him in another chamber, it was possible she would not hear him.

  Instead of retreating as he had encouraged her to do, she moved forward. The strong smell of spirits assailed her. Had he spent the entirety of his day drinking, then? She studied him with new eyes, noting he did not appear soused now.

  “It matters to me,” she said quietly. “When you failed to appear at dinner, I was concerned.”

  He closed his eyes briefly, a faint wince crossing his features. “Forgive me. I was otherwise detained. You would be wise to accustom yourself to the notion I will not always be available to you. I have many matters that require my attention.”

  She did not appreciate his condescension. “I understand you are a busy man with estates to run. However, I do not think it unfair of me to ask you to send a note home if you find yourself delayed. I kept dinner waiting for over an hour, and Monsieur Talleyrand was quite displeased.”

  “Monsieur Talleyrand can go to the devil. He gets handsome recompense for the indignity of keeping his dinner warm.”

  Mama had warned her that most gentlemen kept mistresses. That it was to be expected and ignored. A matter of course. Was that what had happened? Had his interest so easily strayed? A man like the Marquess of Searle—handsome, tall, dashing, a national hero—had to have any number of ladies falling at his feet. Particularly ladies of a certain ilk.

  “If you have grown bored of me, you need only say so, my lord,” she told him quietly, a surge of humiliation making her throat threaten to close.

  She had never felt more foolish than she did now, her heart all but pinned to her sleeve for him to savage while he stood before her in the evidence of the dissolution in which he had wallowed. Had the last week meant nothing to him? Why did he face her now with the cold, stark countenance of a stranger?

  “There is no place for maudlin sentiment in our union, madam.” He remained aloof as ever.

  Why should she be surprised? He had warned her, had he not?

  This is all I need from you, he had told her so crudely, referring to their lovemaking.

  It is not your duty to concern yourself with me. Your sole duty is to bear my children and refrain from cuckolding or embarrassing me publicly.

  Yes, she was the worst sort of fool, because she had entered into a marriage with a man who had never claimed a tender feeling toward her. A man who was hard and dangerous, haunted by the horrors of his past. A man who had abandoned her on the day of their wedding. Who was cool and remote whenever he was not setting her aflame with his mouth and his touch. Who had married her out of necessity and duty rather than out of need or want.

  And she had spent the last sennight falling in love with that man.

  “Forgive me,” she told him stiffly, the need to flee rising within her lest she further embarrass herself before him. “I was foolish enough to think you may have had a care for my feelings as your wife. I will not be so foolish again. Good evening, my lord. I leave you to your valet.”

  Attempting a curtsy that ended in a searing ache of pain in her leg, she turned and made great haste in her exit.

  “My lady,” he called after her.

  But she closed and latched the door at her back. For the first time, the ache in her heart eclipsed the ache in her limb.

  *

  He had muddled things badly.

  Morgan woke the next morning to a throbbing head, a dry mouth, and the rampant high tide of guilt washing over him. He dressed with the aid of his valet, Carr, who had been considerate enough to bring him a vile concoction he swore would cure Morgan’s maladies. He had gagged the bitter potion down, but noted no lessening in his headache when he reached the breakfast table and discovered his wife was absent.

  When he inquired after his marchioness with Huell, his butler informed him that her ladyship had requested a tray and her correspondence taken to her chamber as she was feeling ill. An illness he was the cause of, no doubt. Perhaps she could not bear to see him after he had been such an ass last night.

  Grimly, he settled in to his customary plate of sausages, coffee, hothouse fruit, and eggs. The Times was laid out for his perusal. The food smelled as delicious as always. His stomach had begun to feel—at bloody last—as if he had not just spent the last week tossing about on the ocean in a small, unseaworthy vessel. Never again would he attempt to numb himself with a bottle of Duncan K
irkwood’s smuggled whisky. The devil’s own elixir, that rot.

  Indeed, all was as it should be. The morning sunlight shone in the mullioned windows with a brightness that should have instilled him with cheer rather than dread. But all he could see was the empty table setting where his wife should be seated. All he could think about was the naked expression of hurt on her lovely face when he had all but sent her running from his chamber the night before.

  She had done nothing to earn his scorn, and he knew it. His beautiful wife was everything he had told her she was—good and sweet and innocent. She deserved far better than to be his plaything, the dangled bait of his revenge, nothing more than his leverage against her brother.

  He had lashed out at himself first, then his old friend Whitley, and then Leonie herself. And he had done so in an effort to maintain the distance he needed between the two of them. For so long, he had lived on nothing but determination and the desire to exact vengeance. For too long, it was true, for they alone had sustained him through the darkest nights of his captivity. He did not know what manner of man he was, stripped of those twin motivations.

  He was terrified of discovering it.

  Terrified of losing the will to treat the Earl of Rayne to the pain and suffering he so richly deserved because Morgan had developed a weakness for his own wife. But something else burned within him, brighter and hotter than that terror, overwhelming it. Overwhelming him.

  And the longer he sat here, a steaming plate laden with food he had no desire to eat before him, Leonie’s empty chair mocking him, the more demanding it became, roaring into an insistent life of its own. Until it could no longer be ignored.

  He stood with such sudden force, his chair upended and toppled backward. Huell, ever the mask of polite indifference, allowed a brief flicker of alarm to cross his countenance before stifling the rare slip.

  “I have finished my breakfast,” he announced. “Have it cleared away, Huell.”

  “Of course, my lord,” the butler said in calm accents. “Did you not find it to your liking? Shall I have Monsieur Talleyrand send something more agreeable to your lordship this morning?”