How to Catch a Wicked Viscount

by Amy Rose Bennett

  Ordinarily, Nate would have asked for a brandy as well, but now didn’t seem quite the right time. Besides, it probably wouldn’t mix well with the guilt beginning to gnaw at his gut. Even though his father was clearly overreacting, it seemed an apology was in order. He sat forward and schooled his features into a suitably contrite expression. “Look, I’m sorry, Father. Truly I am. But honestly, no real harm has been done. We’re not the first ton bucks to engage in a bit of harmless horseplay.”

  “Harmless horseplay? It’s outrageous debauchery, that’s what it is. Aside from publicly cuckolding Lord Astley—and yes, everyone knows it’s his wife’s drawers you intended to steal—you’ve essentially committed burglary. How am I supposed to walk into the House of Lords with my dignity torn to shreds? Having to deal with Charlotte’s scandal three years ago was bad enough. And now this?” He gestured at the paper again. “I’m fast becoming the resident laughingstock of Parliament! What would your mother say—God rest her soul—if she were still here?”

  Ouch. Nate grimaced as a sharp stab of guilt sliced through his heart. His mother would have been both mortified and ashamed of him. “I’m certain it will blow over soon enough,” he offered. Hopefully.

  “Until next time.” Lord Westhampton poured himself another brandy. His narrowed gaze was as hard and cold as the crystal of the decanter as it met Nate’s. “But there won’t be a next time. Of that I can assure you.”

  Foreboding pricked its way along Nate’s nape. “What do you mean?”

  His father sipped his drink before flipping out his coattails and taking a seat behind his desk. “If you can’t be trusted to behave as any decent gentleman should, I’m going to have to put measures in place to make sure that you do.”

  Nate swallowed, his mouth suddenly as dry as the Arabian Desert in midsummer. “What measures?”

  His father placed his tumbler very carefully on the burgundy red leather blotter before pinning him with another fulminating glare. “You have until the end of the Season to mend your libertine ways. Not only will you stay out of the scandal rags, you’re going to begin taking responsibility for Deerhurst Park instead of leaving it up to your long-suffering steward and me to manage.”

  Nate inclined his head. “Of course, sir.” His father had gifted Nate the estate on his twenty-fifth birthday, after he’d returned from Waterloo. It was true he didn’t visit often enough. Or take as much interest as he should. Even though his father knew why, it seemed his forbearance had at long last run out. And Nate only had himself to blame.

  “But that’s not all.”

  Damn. Nate inwardly cringed. This couldn’t be good.

  “During the Season proper,” his father continued, his tone as cutting as any lash, “you will begin attending respectable ton events with a view to finding a suitable wife. The Duke of Stafford’s daughter, Lady Penelope Purcell, springs to mind. I know you’re reluctant to marry, but it’s high time you at least made some effort. As my heir, it is your duty. And while I don’t expect you to forgo all amorous pursuits such as keeping a mistress or visiting certain clubs, you’ll do so discreetly. Profligate behavior such as this”—he gestured at the Beau Monde Mirror again—“will not be tolerated. Not anymore.”

  Double damn. But it could be worse; at least his father hadn’t demanded he actually propose to Lady Penelope or any other young chit by the end of the Season. Drawing a fortifying breath, Nate braced to receive the final blow he knew was coming. “And if I don’t comply?”

  His father’s steely-eyed glare was unwavering. “I’ll take back Deerhurst Park and cut off your funds. Come to think of it, I’m also going to close up Malverne House. You’ll move back here—today in fact—so I can keep an eye on you. And once a week, we shall meet for dinner. Whether it’s here at Hastings House or at White’s, I don’t much care. But I must see that you are taking your responsibilities seriously, as well as keeping your nose out of trouble. Do I make myself clear?”

  “Yes, perfectly.” Nate rose and bowed. “If there’s nothing else, I shall see you anon. I take it dinner is still at seven?”

  “Yes. I look forward to it. And I know your sister will be pleased to see you too. She misses you.”

  Nate’s hand was on the brass door handle when his father spoke. “Son, these demands seem harsh, and I know how difficult things have been for you, especially since Waterloo . . .”

  Nate turned back; his father had risen from his seat, and instead of censure, concern creased his brow. “I appreciate your understanding.”

  “It’s just . . .” Lord Westhampton took a deep breath before continuing. “If you could just direct your considerable energy into things that really matter instead of living each day as though it were your last, I would worry less about you and your future. And if you won’t do it for yourself, do it for me. And Charlotte and your younger brothers. God knows”—the earl ran a hand across his face, his expression suddenly gray with weariness—“we don’t want to lose you too.”

  Nate dredged up a smile, even as dark remorse threatened to drag him under. A failure he might be, but despite that, he could see his father still loved him. Strangely, that knowledge hurt him more than believing his father no longer cared. But he couldn’t put all that into words, so aloud he simply said, “You won’t, Father. I promise you I’ll make an effort. And that I’ll be all right,” even if he feared that last statement might be a lie.

  CHAPTER 4

  When will the wicked Lord M. return to London for the Season?

  Most ladies of the ton would agree: town just isn’t the same without him . . .

  The Beau Monde Mirror: The Society Page

  Hastings House, Berkeley Square, Mayfair

  April 1, 1818

  Sophie!” Charlie enveloped her in a warm hug as soon as she crossed the threshold of Hastings House. “It’s been far too long, my darling friend.”

  “Indeed it has.” Stepping out of Charlie’s embrace, Sophie pulled off her slightly askew bonnet—during her enthusiastic greeting, her friend had knocked it a little sideways.

  Charlie, on the other hand, was the picture of refinement and self-assurance. Her bright chestnut locks had been tamed into an elegant Grecian-style arrangement of cascading curls, and her exquisite day gown of pale lemon silk and Belgian lace looked like a design plucked straight from the pages of the latest issue of Ackermann’s Repository.

  After Sophie handed her bonnet and gloves to the waiting liveried footman, Charlie helped her out of her traveling pelisse, then exclaimed, “My goodness, Sophie. Just look at you. You are quite the elegant beauty now. All of the ton gentlemen will flock around you as soon as we set foot outside.”

  Sophie promptly blushed at the well-meant praise even though she doubted the veracity of her friend’s assertion. Her plain traveling gown of navy blue worsted wool had definitely seen better days, her hair was escaping its pins, and she was certain her left cheek bore crease marks from snoozing too long against the squabs. “I suspect you might need spectacles, Charlie. My mama thinks I’m far too thin.”

  “Well”—Charlie linked an arm through Sophie’s and led her across the perfectly polished black and white parquetry tiles of the vestibule—“I don’t agree. But in any case, a few visits to Gunter’s Tea Shop on the other side of the square will soon rectify that. In fact, why don’t we go tomorrow? I’ll send an invitation to Arabella and Olivia straightaway.”

  “Oh, how wonderful! I didn’t know they would both be here in town as well.”

  Charlie’s smile slipped a fraction as they paused at the bottom of a sweeping mahogany staircase covered with the plushest carpet Sophie had ever seen. “Yes . . . Olivia’s guardians have recently rented a town house in Grosvenor Square, but I’m afraid they can be quite—how shall I put it?—difficult when it comes to letting Olivia get out and about. As for Arabella, her family is whisking her off to the Continent for a grand
tour in a day or two, so our Society for Enlightened Young Women will be short one member for most of this Season. But I’m sure she’ll have a brilliant time. I must admit”—Charlie leaned a trifle closer in that conspiratorial fashion of hers that Sophie had almost forgotten but loved—“I’m a trifle jealous. But I digress. Let me show you around the house while your luggage is taken up to your room. It’s right next to mine, by the way. It used to be Nate’s.”

  “Oh”—Sophie’s brow knit with a frown—“I hope I haven’t caused your brother any inconvenience.”

  “Not at all.” Charlie patted her hand and led her toward a set of double mahogany doors with impossibly bright brass handles. “It’s a guest room now. Besides, Nate’s away at the moment, tending to matters at his Gloucestershire estate. Actually, he used to reside at Malverne House in St. James’s and only moved back recently. He muttered something about renovations needing to be done. At any rate, he’s taken the room at the far end of our hall and he’s hardly ever in. I suspect we shan’t see much of him at all.”

  Sophie tried to ignore the sinking feeling in her chest. But she didn’t have time to dwell on her disappointment for long because Charlie was opening the doors to reveal the room beyond. And it took her breath away.

  It was a library, the likes of which she had never seen.

  Enormous oak bookcases filled with fine leather-bound volumes lined every wall. A richly carved mahogany desk dominated the center of the room, while off to one side, an arrangement of leather wing chairs and a velvet chaise longue graced a luxurious Persian hearthrug of deep reds and blues. Firelight glinted off the silver candelabra, cabinet knobs of brass, and the gilded edges of wall sconces and chair legs. Even the arrangement of snow white lilies in a porcelain vase seemed to gleam.

  “Oh, my goodness.”

  Charlie smiled. “I knew you would love it. And you must feel free to explore and borrow as many books as you like at any time. Father does use it on occasion”—she gestured toward the imposing desk—“but don’t let that stop you.”

  Sophie advanced into the room, praying her boots weren’t crusted with mud. “It’s . . . it’s so quiet. I feel as though I’m in a church,” she whispered.

  Charlie laughed. “Well, yes. It is quiet. Jonathon, Daniel, and Benjamin—my younger brothers—are away at Eton. And my father is . . .” She waved an expansive hand. “He’s currently off doing whatever it is he does.”

  After Charlie had introduced Sophie to the housekeeper and butler and showed her the location of Hastings House’s equally elegant drawing room, morning room, and dining room, she escorted her upstairs to her bedchamber. Charlie’s young maid, Molly, was already busily unpacking Sophie’s traveling trunk and valise.

  “I suspect you might like to rest after your journey,” Charlie said as she perched in the window seat, “but if you’re not too tired, I propose a visit to Hatchards in Piccadilly. It’s not far but if you’d prefer not to walk, I can have the carriage brought around. Father has an account so we can purchase whatever books or magazines we’d like. Oh, and Father would very much like us to join him and my aunt, Lady Chelmsford, for dinner. I believe Cook has prepared four courses.”

  Sophie’s head was spinning. The life Charlie led was so different from her own; the extravagance was astounding. Nevertheless, a walk to the bookstore to clear her head, as well as sharing dinner with her magnanimous sponsors, sounded perfect, and she said as much to Charlie.

  The excursion would also afford her the opportunity to see the range of titles currently available in the children’s section of Hatchards—she assumed there was such a thing—and if there were any books like hers; she liked to think her idea was original, but one couldn’t be sure. And as soon as she had the opportunity, she’d pay a visit to a publisher or two about town. She hadn’t quite decided who that might be, but perhaps the visit to Hatchards would help.

  In the meantime, Sophie was certain Charlie would keep her so busy, she wouldn’t have time to fret about how her book would be received. And hopefully she wouldn’t think too much about the wild and elusive Lord Malverne. Glancing at the four-poster bed, and its rich blue counterpane and hangings, she couldn’t help but blush. Hadn’t Charlie mentioned this room used to be his?

  As her friend left to change into her walking gown, she paused in the doorway and remarked with a luminous smile, “Even if we don’t get invited to any social events, or fail to meet our perfect love matches, Sophie, I know we are going to have a splendid time.”

  And Sophie, her heart at long last brimming with the promise of bright possibility, didn’t doubt her pronouncement for a moment.

  * * *

  * * *

  Damn and blast.” The unladylike expletives escaped Sophie as she tipped up her traveling inkpot and gave it a shake over her sloped writing box. It was empty. Practically bone dry.

  At least there was no one to hear her swear at this late hour; the gilt clock on the white marble mantel in her bedroom proclaimed the time to be half past eleven. And Charlie, in the chamber next door, was likely to be sound asleep.

  Unlike herself. Sophie sighed. Unaccustomed to her new surroundings—and her mind abuzz with all sorts of thoughts about the coming Season—she’d at last given up tossing and turning in favor of putting quill to paper.

  Lady Chelmsford was partly to blame for her unsettled state. During dinner, the marchioness—who proved to be as delightful as Charlie had said she would be—was so impressed to hear Sophie had written a children’s book, she’d immediately declared her personal secretary would be at Sophie’s disposal to collect the manuscript tomorrow morning and deliver it to any publishing house she wanted. And so Sophie had decided the only way to quiet her overactive mind was to write the covering letter that would accompany The Diary of a Determined Young Country Miss; or, a Young Lady of Consequence.

  But now she’d run out of ink, which was most bothersome; a perfectly phrased sentence hovered in her mind, and she didn’t want to lose it before she’d written it down. Unfortunately, her only pencil was broken and she’d left her penknife at Nettlefield Grange, so she couldn’t sharpen it. Of course, Charlie might have some ink or a pencil in the sitting room adjacent to her bedchamber, but Sophie didn’t wish to disturb her by creeping in and rummaging about.

  There was simply no avoiding it; she was going to have to go in search of something to write with in the library. Surely Lord Westhampton wouldn’t mind if she borrowed a teeny bit of ink. From what she had seen of him during dinner, he didn’t seem to be the stingy sort. And after all, it was in aid of a worthwhile cause.

  Putting aside her writing box—she’d carefully propped it on a pillow on her lap while she sat in bed—Sophie slipped out from beneath the covers and donned her slippers and a plain woolen shawl. She supposed she could have thrown on a gown, but that seemed like too much bother. Lord Westhampton had already retired for the night, and besides, she’d be back in her room in a jiffy.

  * * *

  * * *

  Good evening, my lord.”

  Nate acknowledged the night footman’s greeting with a quick nod as he wearily stepped into the vestibule of Hastings House. He’d set out from Deerhurst Park well before dawn, and while in hindsight he probably shouldn’t have stopped by White’s on his way home, he hadn’t been able to resist the urge to catch up with Gabriel, Max, and MacQueen. After all, it had been over three weeks since he last saw his friends. It had also given him the opportunity to nip a new scandal in the bud. In his absence, MacQueen had somehow procured four vouchers to Almack’s. Once inside the assembly rooms, the Scot had proposed they all change into kilts, thus shocking all and sundry, and hopefully generating another monumental scandal.

  A grin tugged at Nate’s mouth as he pulled off his gloves and handed them and his beaver hat to the footman. He could see the Beau Monde Mirror now: The great kilt caper!

  Wouldn’t that impress
his father? Of course, Nate had declined to take part, and with a chorus of good-natured ribbing that questioned his manhood ringing in his ears, he’d bidden his friends good night.

  After passing his garrick coat to the footman, Nate crossed the hall, heading for the library. Although he was dog tired and had already imbibed a considerable amount of very good claret during the evening, he rather fancied a nip of his father’s fine French brandy before retiring. It would also give his valet time to fuss about with unpacking his trunk before he collapsed into bed.

  At least he’d be able to rest easy tonight knowing he’d played his part in ensuring his estate was running smoothly. And according to his friends, his name had appeared only once in the Beau Monde Mirror during the last month, a rather weak piece lamenting his absence from town. Surely his father couldn’t blame him for that.

  Nate pushed open the double doors to the library. If only he didn’t have to attend any damnable ton balls or soirees. God, the idea of courting a simpering debutante like Lady Penelope Purcell was enough to turn his stomach—

  A decidedly feminine gasp and a dull thud stopped him dead in his tracks.

  What the deuce?

  Behind his father’s desk stood a raven-haired angel. A beautiful young woman wearing nothing but a pale blue shawl over a thin white night rail, and an expression of sheer terror.

  “Lord Malverne. Oh, heavens. Oh, my goodness.” The angel’s shocked, wide-eyed gaze dropped to the desk, and then, much to his amusement, he was certain she muttered something not so angelic like blast beneath her breath.

  Nate’s gaze followed hers. Blast indeed. His father’s cut crystal inkwell was on its side, and a black pool of ink was rapidly spreading across the dark red blotter, heading inexorably toward the young woman’s pristine nightgown. In the next instant, as he strode toward the desk to offer assistance, she whipped off her shawl and pressed it against the inky puddle.