Duke of Depravity (Sins and Scoundrels Book 1)

by Scarlett Scott

  The words defied Crispin’s expectations so severely for a moment, they rattled about in the air and his dumbstruck mind could not ingest them. Could not make sense of them. Taken apart, they made sense. Foreign Office. Plot. The Marquess of Searle.

  He could not have been more shocked had Duncan withdrawn a bayonet and proposed to run him through. “A plot against Searle? What in the bloody hell? I was there the day in the farmhouse when the guerillero turned on us.”

  “That is not all,” Duncan said quietly. “Following his decimation at the hazard tables, he turned his attention to one of my ladies. She sought me out after their encounter because he mentioned your name.”

  “In what fashion?” he demanded, his grip upon the glass so tight he feared it would shatter into a thousand angry shards.

  Duncan tossed back a long swallow of his own whisky, grimacing and exhaling before continuing. “He told her you were responsible for the plot against Searle. That you led him to his death because you were colluding with the French.”

  Silence descended. Words floated through his mind, but he could not make sense of them. They made no cursed sense when strung together.

  Plot against Searle.

  Colluding with the French.

  You were responsible. You were responsible. You were responsible.

  Crispin closed his eyes as a wave of unwanted memories returned to him. The pain exploding in his head, the darkness, waking up to the grisly sight of the captain who’d been burned alive. The corpse’s face had been scorched into a contortion of agony. All the blood. Morgan’s hand, neatly hacked off and lying in the pool. Heat prickled him, then cold, then heat again. His heart pounded. It was as if a band had been fashioned around his chest, squeezing the life from him until he could scarcely breathe.

  Everything returned at once, full force. His entire body tremored beneath the force of it.

  There had been so much blood. The scent of death and burnt flesh. A raven had flown in through one of the broken windows, ready to peck at the dead. El Corazón Oscuro’s threat returned. You will regret your words, Searle. I will take great pleasure in making you eat them before I let the birds peck out your tongue.

  Bile clamored up Crispin’s throat.

  He slammed his fist into the desk, banishing the memories, beating them back with the pain that radiated up his arm. Silencing them with the rage that coursed through his veins. He had been helpless on that day, unprotected and taken unaware. He had not been able to help himself or Morgan.

  But he would be damned if he would not defend himself now. “I was beaten and left for dead,” he told Duncan tightly. “I woke with a roasted enemy captain hanging above me, with a broken rib and a badly beaten skull.”

  Duncan winced, the pity in his eyes as undeniable as it was unwanted. “According to my lady, your accuser suggested your injuries were elaborated upon, and that they were staged as part of the conspiracy.”

  “My accuser,” he spat. “Who the hell is he, Duncan, and when did this supposed information make its way to the Foreign Office?”

  Duncan held up a staying hand. “Before I tell you, there is more you must hear. And I will also have your promise that you will not tear into his private chamber and demand satisfaction. I love you like a brother, but this club is only as good as its reputation. If one lord were beaten to death or challenged to a duel here, it would ruin me.”

  “He is still within these walls?” Every part of him itched to rise. To tear apart plaster and brick until he located the rotter.

  “Yes. Sleeping off his drink, as it were.”

  Crispin raised the glass to his lips at last, taking a long pull of whisky. It simmered down his throat but did nothing to dull the maelstrom rising up inside him. This was not what he had expected. Not what he had needed. By God, he was blindsided. He could not have been more shocked had an entire brigade of enemy troops poured into The Duke’s Bastard at that very moment, bayonets and musket fire at the ready.

  He slammed his glass down upon Duncan’s desk, realizing belatedly he had drained the content and still, he felt nothing. “I promise you. Give me his name, Duncan.”

  “The Earl of Kilross,” Duncan said.

  And once again, he found himself flummoxed. Utterly confounded. He could not recall one occasion in his life upon which he had ever crossed paths with Kilross. “I have never met him. How can he possibly have evidence against me of a crime which I never committed?”

  Duncan refreshed both their glasses from the decanter he had left upon his desk. “The man is a braggart in addition to sporting a limp prick, apparently. For while he was more than willing to sing his own praises, according to my lady, he could not perform. But she is loyal to a fault, and she primed him with additional drink so she might encourage his loquaciousness. He claimed you continue colluding with the French, and that you are in possession of ciphers to prove it. He also said one of the domestics at Whitley House is in his employ, reporting back to him. He told her that within the next fortnight, you will be exposed and he shall be hailed as a hero.”

  Bloody hell, if the nonsense Kilross had spouted to Duncan’s lightskirt was to be believed, he was being spied upon in his own home as if he were some sort of vile traitor. Worse, should the spy in question locate the planted ciphers, he would look guilty as sin.

  “My God,” he said aloud, marveling at the ease with which his life could potentially be torn asunder. Mere hours before, his only concern had been how he would convince Jacinda to become his bride, how quickly he could obtain a license, and whether or not it was appropriate to marry her since his year of mourning for Phillip was not yet concluded. “Someone planted those ciphers in my study to make it look as if I was a conspirator against Morgan. To implicate me in his death.”

  Someone was trying to prove he was a traitor, damn it all.

  And they were doing an awfully bloody good job of it, too.

  “All evidence points in that direction.” Duncan was grim. “My man working on the ciphers you brought me has yet to decipher them, but he feels he will soon have answers. Without knowing what the ciphers say, we cannot be sure of how they implicate you.”

  “I need to remove them from my desk,” he said. “And destroy them.”

  His friend nodded. “The sooner you are able to do so, the better. I suggest burning them to ash. Then turn every inch of your study upside down in an effort to be certain there are not more lurking elsewhere. You cannot afford to be caught unawares.”

  His shock gave way to anger then. Someone was conspiring against him. Planting evidence against him. Plotting to see him imprisoned or worse. This disgrace was not to be borne.

  He had risked his life for years, had been the best damn soldier he knew how to be, had been shot and stabbed and nearly killed. Had suffered the sights, sounds, and smells of so many atrocities he still could not sleep at night. And now some whoreson’s baseless accusations had rendered him suspect by his own Crown?

  He shot to his feet, for he could not sit civilly for one moment more. The beast in him raged. His hands were trembling with a violence that had not occurred in some time. Stalking the length of Duncan’s office, he paced to the window and then back, feeling so helpless and impotent and furious he could not speak.

  His mind whirled, galloping at the speed of a runaway stallion. He needed to calm himself. Needed to think. Form a plan of attack. This was no different than a battle formation. The enemy thought it could penetrate his line of defense and slay him in his sleep, but he was no longer unaware of the danger. He would defend himself to the death if necessary.

  “Did the bastard suggest who in my employ was spying against me?” he asked then, knowing it was unlikely, but needing to ask the question all the same.

  Duncan eyed him. “Have you hired any new domestics within the last two months?”

  By God, Whitley House was crawling with any number of domestics, none of whom he took note of beyond their peripheral presence. It could be any damned one of
them. “Not that I am aware of, though admittedly, I leave that sort of thing in the capable hands of my housekeeper.”

  “Think carefully, Cris. If you must ask questions, do so with discretion,” Duncan cautioned. “Should it be discovered I provided you with such damning information…”

  “You need not say more.” Crispin was grateful to his friend for warning him of the impending storm, and he well understood the reputation of the club was paramount for Duncan. At least he could face what lie ahead of him prepared. He could search the ranks of his domestics, isolate the traitor, and go about building the case for his innocence. “You have my promise no one shall be the wiser. I greatly appreciate the favor you have done me. Your loyalty as a friend is unparalleled.”

  Duncan gave a jerky nod. “I know you are innocent, Cris, else I would not have come to you and compromised myself in such a fashion. No man in London is your equal, and any enemy of yours is an enemy of mine.”

  His friend’s unshaking belief in him humbled him. “Thank you. Your trust means more to me than you can know.”

  Duncan sighed. “You must think. The charges against you are serious, if what Kilross spouted off tonight is to be believed. Given you found planted ciphers in your study, I cannot imagine there is not a legitimate threat against you. If there is a traitor in your midst, you must weed them out. Your reputation could well be used against you, should the right ammunition come to light.”

  He thought of all the carousing he had done, the endless drinking and whoring. For six solid months, he had been convinced that numbing himself was the only way to survive what he had endured. The only way to quiet the ghosts that would not cease haunting him.

  “Ammunition,” he repeated. “Yes, I have created more than my fair share of that since my return to London.”

  He had not earned his sobriquet as the Duke of Depravity by living the life of a monk. How easy it would be for an unknown enemy to turn his demons into the noose that would tighten around his neck.

  “Cris.” Duncan stood, rounding his desk, his countenance lined with worry. “I hesitate to say this, but I would not be your friend if I did not. You have one new domestic beneath your roof, and you must not forget it.”

  Air roared in Crispin’s ears.

  Yes, there was one new domestic beneath his roof. But he had fallen so deeply beneath her spell, so helplessly in love with her, he could not see her as a servant any longer. When Duncan had first posed the query, it had never even occurred to him to include her.

  Because it could not be her. Not his Cin. He needed her far too much. She had but to look at him with her wide, sherry eyes, and all he could see was warmth and light and everything good. Not to mention redemption. She was his future duchess, damn it all.

  Yet, his mind swirled with questions. Was she not the newest addition to Whitley House? And had he not found her in his study?

  No.

  Damn it all to the devil.

  It could not possibly be Jacinda.

  No, curse it, no.

  Doubt began to swim through him, making him ill all over again.

  She had not been forthcoming about her past apart from mentioning a dead soldier. He’d dismissed it as something that did not affect him, a part of her that had come before she had known him just as he had not come to her an innocent either. Their pasts were their pasts, and he had not questioned it. But now, for the first time, he wondered what else she could be hiding from him.

  He could not bear to contemplate her duplicity, and yet he needed to, for his good name and possibly even his freedom depended upon his impartial review of everyone in his midst. Even her.

  “Cris?” Duncan’s concerned voice shook him from his turbulent thoughts.

  He blinked, took another shuddering breath. “Jacinda came highly recommended by the Earl of Aylesbury, and she has worked wonders with Con and Nora.”

  She had also asked him about Spain. Had questioned him about Morgan.

  Damn it all to hell.

  His vision darkened, his reaction to the notion of her betrayal so visceral and raw he did not even know how he would react should it be proved a reality. She had made him feel whole again. He had slept through the night for the first time last night without a nightmare because she was at his side. And yet, the evidence against her was too strong to be ignored.

  “Trust no one until we can be more certain of what is at play here,” Duncan advised, his tone harsh. “Suspect everyone. Investigate her to the fullest, Cris. This will not go away. It will come to a head, and I very much fear what shall become of you if you are ill-prepared to defend yourself.”

  He tamped down the bile rising in his throat. “Bloody hell, you are right, and if it is indeed her, then I am the worst sort of fucking fool. I will do as you suggest and make a thorough examination of everyone, Jacinda included.”

  Especially Jacinda.

  In the morning, he needed to pay a call to the Earl of Aylesbury. But first, he needed to get back to Whitley House so he could destroy the ciphered letters. Even if everything in him longed to hunt down the Earl of Kilross and slaughter him in his sleep, he could not, for it was entirely possible the earl was nothing more than a pawn or an emissary. This was not a battlefield but his life, and he had to do everything in his power to uncover who was trying to tear it asunder.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Jacinda began poring over the ciphers the moment she returned to her apartments. Unlike the incredibly intricate numeric ciphers from the Peninsula that she and Father had been attempting to decipher, the messages from Crispin’s desk were alphabetic. A cursory examination of them led her to believe they relied upon a key phrase known by the sender and recipient. All she needed to do was study the pattern of the letters, watching for telling sequences and repetitions, and she would be able to make an educated guess at the phrase.

  As afraid to discover their contents as she was to remain in the dark, she sketched out an alphabetic square much like the one she had used to decipher the message Kilross had provided as her test. While she worked, her mind fretted. Her hands trembled, dread churning her stomach into a sick sea. The more she considered the information Kilross had initially given her about Crispin versus the man she had come to know, the less sense it all made.

  Why would Crispin plot against his friend? Why would a soldier who had fought with honor for years secretly collude with the enemy? She had witnessed the agony of his grief when he had spoken of the Marquess of Searle. It had not been feigned. The Crispin she knew was not capable of such treachery. Beneath his tortured exterior beat the heart of a good man.

  No matter how she looked upon it, there were only two possible scenarios that made sense. Either the ciphers were not from the French, or they had somehow been planted to make Crispin appear guilty. But who would want to harm him, and why? How would Kilross have come upon his knowledge of the ciphers?

  The more her mind spun with questions, the more frustrated she became. She made several guesses at the key phrase to no avail. Just as she settled upon a new phrase, a discreet tap sounded at her door, and she froze.

  She knew at once it was Crispin.

  Shaking, she scrambled to gather up the ciphers and the paper upon which she had been scratching out her attempts to break them. Folding them all, she stuffed them inside a book she had borrowed from the library but had yet to read. With a deep breath, she stood, smoothing the skirts of her brown muslin she had yet to change out of.

  Another knock.

  Would he take one look at her and see the guilt written on her face? Would he know she had gone through his personal effects yet again, that the evidence of her sins were tucked into a book he owned some scant few feet away? Willing her frantic heart to slow, she crossed the chamber and opened the door a sliver.

  Crispin stood in the hall, candle in hand, bathed in a warm glow. He still wore his evening clothes, his cravat snowy-white perfection, his long, muscled thighs perfectly delineated in his buff breeches. Their gazes clas
hed, his burning with an emotion she could not define.

  “Let me in, Jacinda.”

  Not a question, not a lover’s plea, but a demand.

  A cool prick of warning slid down her neck, but she stepped back wordlessly, watching as he stalked into the room, commanding it with his mere presence. She closed the door softly and spun to face him, girding herself for what he would say. Had he discovered her treachery? Had he realized the ciphers were missing from his desk?

  He placed his candle on the writing desk where not even a minute before she had been scouring the correspondence she’d stolen from him. Shame skittered down her spine as she forced herself to meet his gaze.

  She had never felt more wretched in her life.

  “You baked the cheesecake,” he said into the silence, his low baritone doing unsettling things to the flesh between her thighs.

  It was not what she had expected. Not at all. She blinked. “Yes.” She paused, wondering if she had displeased him. “I hope I have not overstepped my bounds. I enjoy making sweets, and I will own that plying Lady Constance and Lady Honora with the efforts of my labors has gone a long way toward making them more amenable to our studies.”

  A brief smile flitted over his lips. “You are most adept at making those around you amenable, Cin.”

  There seemed to be a warning hidden in his words, or perhaps a judgment. She could not be sure. “It is my duty as governess.”

  “I do not refer to my sisters alone.” He moved toward her, stopping only when he was near enough to run a finger along her jaw. “But to me.”

  She held herself still as he trailed his caress down her throat. “How have I made you amenable, Your Grace?”

  His gray eyes darkened as it dipped to her mouth. “You make me forget everything and everyone but you. You walk into a chamber, and you are all I can see. All I want. Sometimes I even smell your scent when you’re not there. In my study just now, for instance.”