Duke of Depravity (Sins and Scoundrels Book 1)

by Scarlett Scott

  “You are the youngest,” Lady Honora told her sister. “You carry it.”

  Naturally, Lady Constance protested. “But I already carried it through the kitchens and all the way through the house to Crispin’s seat at the table.”

  “My ladies,” she interrupted. “Time is wasting, and soon this wretch will begin to stink.”

  “Oh, very well,” Lady Constance grumbled, flouncing forward to accept Jacinda’s offering.

  Jacinda’s smile grew, a feeling of immense satisfaction blossoming inside her. Now this, at least, was progress.

  Chapter Five

  Why had he insisted upon his sisters and the flame-haired governess joining him for dinner? It was the fifth consecutive evening of foregoing his club in favor of dining at home with the hellions that were his sisters and the woman charged with correcting their ways. The fifth day of excruciating torture wherein the minxes chattered, acted inappropriately, the governess hid her fiery locks beneath an ungodly mobcap, and he pretended not to recall the silky smoothness of Miss Governess’s creamy skin upon his tongue.

  Crispin stabbed at the unfortunate slab of Westphalian ham on his plate.

  “Lady Honora,” the governess’s soft, husky voice rose above the gentle din of cutlery on Sèvres porcelain, “would you care to inform His Grace about the lessons you received today?”

  He issued an unnecessary, fierce cut to his already eviscerated ham. Damnation, why did even the sound of her voice make his cock twitch in his breeches? Somehow, he had imagined, lost in the depths of his own arrogance, that spending time in the woman’s presence, flanked by his sisters, would lessen the effect she had upon him. But having her at hand and treating her coolly did not force his inconvenient attraction to her to abate. But gentleman was not a role he played well, and he had been wrong. Thoroughly, stupidly, utterly wrong.

  That night in his study when he had almost lost his bloody wits and lifted her skirts had left him enraged. Determined to prove he could inure himself to whatever hold it was she had upon him. But even the efforts she had undertaken to make herself as unnoticeable as possible were wasted upon him. Beneath her drab brown muslin, he knew the seductive flare of her hips, the softness of her thighs parting to welcome him. Hidden behind her matronly fichu and far too much lace, he knew her bosom swelled high and lush and full. He knew her nipples would harden, beg for more.

  “The dancing master arrived,” Honora said sullenly. “He is an evil, beady-eyed little French weasel, and I do not like him.”

  Miss Governess gasped in outrage, her rosebud-pink mouth opening in such fashion that Crispin could not help but envision his cock sliding home within it. He stuffed a bite of ham into his mouth, feeling every bit of the animal that he had become. It was wrong to lust after a female in his household he had hired as the governess for his innocent—though admittedly wild—sisters. But he could not summon even a pinch of outrage as he made Miss Governess his sole concentration. Those lips quivered. He longed to lick them.

  “Lady Honora, your conduct is not becoming of a lady. Please apologize to His Grace and the table at once.”

  Damn, but she took his breath. Miss Turnbow. He didn’t like the name and he refused to use it on principle. Her Christian name was what he wanted. That and so much more. He also wanted her beneath him again. Willingly this time, and not because he had stumbled upon her inadvertently in the darkness.

  But he could not have her.

  Honora huffed. He hated to tell Miss Governess, but ‘ladylike’ and his sisters did not belong in the same sentence. They were cut from the same, wicked cloth as he. No one could tame them.

  “Lady Honora,” she pressed, her tone sharp, unrelenting. No one could deny Miss Governess possessed backbone. “We are all awaiting your apology.”

  Another inelegant snort issued from his sister, this one smaller than the last. “Very well. I am sorry, Crispin, for my unfortunate choice of words. I apologize to you as well, Miss Tornblossom, and Con of course.”

  Miss Governess pursed her lips, drawing his attention once more back to her lush mouth. Damnation, why had he not found some dog-faced chit to tend to these spawns of Satan instead of a vixen disguised as a spinster? Nothing had ever tantalized him more than the notion of peeling away her endless lace fichu to bare the creamy swells of her breasts.

  “In my experience, Lady Honora, your memory is faultless,” said Miss Governess then, “which is perhaps why I find it so perplexing that you cannot recall my correct surname. Lady Constance, will you aid your sister in remembering it?”

  Con grinned, because of course, she was as much of a minx as her sister, merely two years her junior. “Of course I shall aid her, Miss Towerbottom. It is Towerbottom, is it not?”

  Bloody hell. Did the little miscreant not know she could not go about mentioning bottom and the governess in the same sentence? Now his palms ached to be filled with the supple curves of her arse. There was no chance of him withstanding a fifth evening of such torture.

  He needed to visit The Duke’s Bastard, his favorite hell, forthwith. To find a willing whore to warm his bed and distract him. The inconvenient fascination he had for Miss Governess was becoming a distraction that could only be remedied in one fashion. But sinking his cock into the governess upon the dinner table as his impressionable sisters watched on seemed depraved, even by his nonexistent standards.

  Miss Governess was saying something now in her most scolding tone, but he was too preoccupied to pay her much mind. This simply would not do.

  “… But I would not presume to… disrespectful… apology at once…”

  Curse it, the female was more long-winded than a parson being paid by the minute.

  “Forgive me for the interruption,” he said, his sense of ducal and brotherly obligation weighing upon him in a manner it had not in as long as he could recall. “Lady Constance and Lady Honora, apologize to your governess at once.”

  “But Crispin—”

  “We have not said a word that—”

  “Silence,” he bellowed, eliminating the twin dissension that was his sisters’ voices. “You are being disrespectful, just as you have been every moment since Miss Turnbow came into this household. If you cannot admit your wrongdoing and apologize, you may both spend the next sennight in your chambers, penning apologies since none will spill forth from your lips.”

  His sisters stared at him in wide-eyed fascination.

  He instantly regretted his interruption, for it revealed too much. Crispin was acutely aware he had not taken an interest in a domestic. Ever. Certainly, he had never championed a prior governess or invited one to sit at the table with him. Hell, he ordinarily did not even sup these days, unless it was upon cunny or whisky or both at once.

  Supping upon Miss Governess certainly held its appeal.

  Damn it to hell.

  He glared at the feral young ladies it had fallen upon his black soul to look after, following the death of their brother. Why could not the Lord have blessed him with brothers? He would have known what to do with lads. Females were another matter altogether. “I do not hear apologies, my ladies.”

  “Pray forgive us,” they chirped in unison.

  “You are both forgiven,” Miss Governess said in that august air she possessed that made her sound more like a queen than a lowly governess.

  “I expect you to treat her with the respect she is due from this moment forward,” he added, not entirely certain why he was coming to the defense of Miss Governess. Boredom? A desire to fuck her? Both?

  She turned her attention to him, meeting his gaze for the first time since their unfortunate interlude several days past involving the dead mouse. He was aware he had been an ass. But the woman nettled him. He had not been able to return to sleep or even drink whisky the night after she had suggested he would force himself upon her, for he did not like to think his depravity had sunk so low.

  The shock in her eyes—those orbs like dark, molten honey had a way of cutting straight to the
marrow of his bones—made his cock twitch once more. He gritted his teeth and turned his attention back to his ham, pretending he had not noticed her or the gratitude shining in the luminous depths of those eyes. Christ on the cross, she had been looking at him as if he were someone worthy of her adulation.

  No one in Christendom was less worthy of her admiration.

  He clenched his jaw. “Lady Constance and Lady Honora, I expect a response when I speak to you.”

  “Yes, Crispin,” Con muttered, her inner sense of rebellion already peeking through her feigned contrition.

  “Of course, Crispin,” Nora added, not even making an effort to excise the sarcasm from her tone.

  Why should his sisters be saints when he was the greatest sinner of all? It stood to reason that, since they had all fallen from the same rotten tree, they would be horridly imperfect regardless of their sex. And yet, he resented his sisters for their wildness. For being creatures who required his guardianship and effort when all he wanted was to bury himself in the darkness and numb his mind and soul.

  Responsibility was the devil.

  And he had suffered enough of it. He wasn’t hungry for ham. He was hungry for Miss Cursed Governess, who he could not bed regardless of how much he wanted her. For even if he could persuade her to become his mistress, he would be left finding another governess to reign in his intractable sisters and he would have the black mark against his soul of having debauched an innocent. Though he already had enough black marks against his soul to send him to hell where he belonged, he did not wish to make Miss Governess the cause of one more.

  He would find another, far more suitable substitute for his inconvenient lust. A lovely one, with generous bubbies and an accommodating mouth eager to suck every last drop of…

  He stood, not caring for propriety or manners or anything in that moment other than his need to remove himself from the ruinous presence of the bloody governess. When in the deuce had a brown gown ever been so alluring?

  “I bid you ladies a good evening,” he managed, bowing. “I fear I have other obligations for the evening. Please do continue in my absence, and sisters, I shall meet with Miss Governess in the morning. Should she have anything negative to report to me, you shall be facing the consequences.”

  With that, he turned and fled from the room. Con’s voice traveled after him.

  “Miss Governess? Forgive me for the confusion, but I could have sworn your name was Miss Turnbow.”

  At least the cheeky minx had gotten the surname right this time, when he intentionally had not.

  Crispin left the unwanted tableau behind him, eager in the pursuit of distraction. Anything to escape the darkness that was never far from his heels.

  *

  The papers she had liberated from the duke’s study had proved worthless, nothing more than mundane correspondence between him and others. She had not been able to discover any enciphered passages for all the hours she had spent poring over them into the night.

  Which meant another visit to his study was necessary.

  Jacinda waited until her charges had gone to bed and she was certain Whitley had left before venturing once more to his study. The benefit of her ruse was she had access to belowstairs, which afforded her an endless supply of useful information. It had not taken long to discover the weaknesses of the domestics, or to discern who would be a valuable ally and who she ought to avoid.

  Confident in His Grace’s absence, she closed the door and extracted a rolled strip of linen from the hidden pocket in her gown. She sank to the plush carpet on her knees and wadded the fabric beneath the crack between the carved mahogany door and the floor to impede light from being seen from the hall. Not wasting time, she rose and lit a candle.

  Jacinda softly padded to the duke’s large, intimidating desk and placed her candle upon it, memorizing the order and positioning of his papers before she began sifting through them. She had been far more cautious with this evening’s foray into the duke’s territory. Fortunately, he’d been willing to dismiss the last occasion as an innocent error. He would not be so understanding should there be another such discovery of her in his study.

  She had gleaned, both from listening to chatter belowstairs and from Lady Constance and Lady Honora, that the Duke of Whitley was a creature of habit. He did nothing in small measure, and his black moods defined him. When he left for evening entertainment, he was not expected to return, oftentimes for days. She shuddered as she imagined how much depravity he could undertake in the span of several days.

  At least his debauchery meant Jacinda was once again free to riffle through the duke’s correspondence and private papers without fear of being discovered or—worse—finding herself beneath him. Yes, he could wield his formidable member upon a female who would appreciate his ardor and attentions. The sharp stab in her middle at the notion was not jealousy. Nor was the ache between her thighs caused by the remembered intimacies she’d shared with him.

  She felt nothing for Whitley except disdain.

  Her first impression of him, a man surrounded by darkness, trapped in a hell of his own making, returned. He had not seemed capable of treachery. He had seemed a man in desperate need of change. Dissipated and troubled, unable to sleep, tasked with a pair of sisters who were undeniably minxes, burdened by a duchy he’d never intended to claim…

  No. She must not think of him in such a manner. He did not deserve her sympathy or her desire. He was a traitor. A means to an end. She could not lose sight of who he was, who she was, and why she was there.

  Biting her lip, she focused on the papers before her, her eyes traveling over his words. His penmanship was bold and slanted, surprisingly well-formed for a man who seemed determined to drown himself in drink and other excesses. She extracted a cipher wheel from her skirts, examining the content of the letters.

  The bulk of the letters seemed to be innocent communication concerning his various estates. With a practiced eye, she searched the nuances of his words and found nothing to suggest he was sending hidden messages to his correspondents.

  She checked the time every quarter hour without fail, via a man’s timepiece in her hidden pocket, staying attuned to her surroundings. The drawers on Whitley’s desk were all unlocked, save one. The only evidence she unearthed in the drawers was proof the duke did not possess as black a heart as she had supposed.

  A packet of envelopes bound together by a neatly tied ribbon revealed that Whitley was corresponding with the Marquess of Searle’s dowager mother. And as much as Jacinda would have been pleased to discover otherwise, the letters suggested the duke was a caring and concerned friend. A man who, in spite of his eccentricities and undeniable darkness and licentiousness, nevertheless cared enough about his dead comrade to contact Searle’s mother.

  Five letters in, she realized not only was Whitley communicating with the dowager Marchioness of Searle, but he was also sending her funds.

  It was an interesting and somewhat sobering development.

  One she wouldn’t have expected, for it was far easier to imagine the duke as a cold, calculated despoiler of innocents and avaricious murderer of a national hero. Far easier to imagine him as a villain than a man who oversaw the comfort of his dead friend’s mother.

  Jacinda read each letter thrice before returning them to their original envelopes and binding them with the ribbon once more. A cursory examination of the remainder of his papers yielded nothing but his efforts to raise his sisters, settle his brother’s debts, and look after those most important to him.

  She made certain she set Whitley’s study back to rights before dousing her candle and slipping back into the darkness of the hall. Clearly, she would need to do some more searching if she wished to unearth the Duke of Whitley’s guilt.

  Chapter Six

  Fortunately, the Duke of Whitley’s absence from his townhome, coupled with his somewhat disorganized, lackadaisical household, allowed for Jacinda to escape at dawn the next day. By early morning light, she had arrived as
promised at her father’s home, half expecting the earl to be in attendance and yet still hoping he would not be.

  Naturally, the earl was there, sharpening his talons, eager for the scent of blood. But she could not help him on that score.

  “I have found nothing to implicate the Duke of Whitley,” she reported. “Not a single letter is out of place, and there is not a thing to indicate he is guilty of anything.”

  Aside from being an arrogant reprobate, that was, she added silently.

  “Nothing?” Kilross repeated, his tone as harsh as his countenance. He stood by the fireplace in Father’s study, hands clasped behind his back, the picture of outrage. “Do you mean to suggest you have been ensconced in Whitley House for an entire week and have yet to read any of the duke’s papers, Mrs. Turnbow?”

  Jacinda blinked, taking a moment to recover from both the earl’s raw, unabated ire and the newness of being referred to as Mrs. Turnbow once more. Just a fortnight ago, she had stood in this same study, terrified that the man before her would take Father’s position from him and rob him of the one thing that brought him joy. Now, she wondered what the earl would do if the proof he sought against the duke never emerged. Each foray she made into Whitley’s study rendered that notion more and more likely.

  “What I am telling you, Lord Kilross,” she explained coolly, “is that I have been acting as governess at your behest. I have also scoured the duke’s correspondence, ledgers, and any scrap of paper I could find that is not kept behind lock and key. Not one letter is enciphered or written in French.”

  “That is absurd.” The earl slammed his fist into the mantelpiece, giving Jacinda a start. “Not only absurd but impossible. The man has been consorting with the French. I have it on good authority he continues to receive and send ciphers.”

  “I invite you to weed through His Grace’s correspondence in my place,” she said before she could still her tongue. She knew to be on her best behavior. Kilross was unpredictable and cruel at best and Machiavellian at worst. “I have done everything asked of me, and the evidence you seek is simply not there. Short of inventing it, I have nothing to give you.”