Sins & Scoundrels Books 1-3: A Regency Romance Series Bundle

by Scarlett Scott

  “You transposed the words,” she continued, ignoring him.

  He raked a haughty brow. “I beg your pardon?”

  “Full fathom five thy father lies,” she repeated, for she knew the Shakespeare by memory. “Of his bones are coral made; Those are pearls that were his eyes: Nothing of him that doth fade, but doth suffer a sea-change into something rich and strange.”

  “Brava, Mrs. Turnbow,” he said coolly. “Perhaps you have a wish to tread the boards. I shall not object, but only after I am finished with you, naturally.”

  Anger roared through her, but she persisted. “That is the correct order of words which I recited to you just now. However, the very first cipher you gave me as a test transposed ‘rich and strange to ‘strange and rich.’ It stayed with me, for it not only ruined the rhyme but was incorrect. How odd, then, that all seven of the ciphers I translated were marked by the same confusion of word order.”

  He stared at her, his gaze dark and fathomless. “Your conjecture proves nothing.”

  Her lip curled with disgust she could not subdue. “On the contrary, my lord. My conjecture proves everything.”

  “It will be your word against mine, my dear,” he said, a note of smugness entering his voice. “You have already so foolishly provided me with the proof of Whitley’s guilt.”

  “Have I?” she asked innocently.

  His face darkening, he tore open the first folded paper from the small stack she had given him. An inhuman growl of pure rage emanated from his throat. He moved to the second, and then the third.

  “I am afraid you shall find them all the same, my lord,” she said sweetly. “Blank. For that is the evidence of the Duke of Whitley’s guilt, represented on the page. There is none.”

  “You simple-minded whore!” Slamming his fists on his desk, he stood, skirting it until he was so near, she could smell the stale scent of his sweat.

  She stood her ground, refusing to cower. “Why do you seek to destroy him?” she dared to demand.

  The earl grabbed her hair, jerking her head back with such force, that tears blurred her eyes. He snarled into her face, crowding her with his body. “Why do you seek to save him? Have you been warming his bed? Is that what this show of defiance is about?”

  “He is the sort of man you could never be,” she taunted, needing to drag the truth from him. Needing his confession. She would endure anything, accept any pain or debasement, if it meant getting the answers she needed so she could help Crispin. “Perhaps you are jealous of him? It must be difficult to watch a man of his looks and talent, to hear him praised as a war hero. To know every woman wants him and every man wants to be him.”

  He jerked her hair again, his face twisting. “He is the devil’s spawn, the same as his brother before him, and he deserves his fate.”

  Blinking away the tears clouding her vision once more, she continued, certain she was on the right course. “What has his brother to do with this?”

  “Everything,” Kilross bit out, his other hand clamping on her neck. “His bastard-of-a-brother destroyed my sister. He ruined her and tossed her away as if she were worthless. She died birthing his bastard, and he did not even have the grace to stop carousing and drinking on the day she was laid into the earth.”

  His fingers tightened on Jacinda’s throat, as if he were choking the life from the former duke instead of her. “You wanted revenge upon Whitley’s brother?” she choked out, desperate to keep him talking.

  “The whoreson died before I could mete out the punishment he so richly deserved.”

  It all made sudden, horrible sense. Crispin’s wastrel brother had ruined the earl’s sister without compunction. In the absence of someone to blame, Kilross’s horrible need for vengeance had settled upon Crispin instead.

  “Let her go, Kilross.”

  The deep, familiar voice made her hair stand on end. Relief and love swirled through her.

  Crispin was there.

  But she did not have a moment to rejoice or even wonder how or why he had found his way to her with so much haste. Because the earl spun her about and hauled her against him, his arm hooking around her neck so tightly, she could scarcely breathe.

  There he stood on the threshold of Kilross’ study, a lone, menacing figure. His expression was grim, but he did not even allow his gaze to settle on Jacinda. He was intent upon the earl.

  “Your quarrel is with me,” Crispin continued, slowly making his way into the chamber step by step, hands raised in a placating gesture.

  “Stop right there,” Kilross ordered in a growl she felt rumble against her back. His arm tightened. Something cold, circular, and metal pressed to her temple.

  A gun.

  Dear God.

  Crispin stiffened, his eyes flicking to hers at last, and she read the distress there before he looked away, keeping his face an impassive mask. “How do you suppose the murder of an innocent woman will aid you in your quest for vengeance, Kilross?”

  “She is your whore, is she not?” Triumph gilded the earl’s voice. “Why else would you be here if it were not so? But perhaps you make your decision, you ought to know just how duplicitous she is. Not a scant five minutes before your unexpected arrival, she gave me everything I wanted.”

  There was no doubt as to what Kilross implied. He was suggesting she had not only betrayed Crispin but had willingly given herself to the earl. Struggling to find her breath, she beseeched Crispin with her eyes, trying to convey what she could not say.

  Robbed of air, she mouthed the words.

  I would never betray you.

  I love you.

  He nodded, the only sign he had taken note of her desperate attempts to communicate with him. “Let the lady go, Kilross. Face me on the field of honor if you must.”

  “I do not wish to duel you, Whitley. I want to see you suffer.”

  The conviction in the earl’s tone had not wavered. He was set upon his revenge, and he would not settle for anything less. But Jacinda was not about to surrender. She was no meek miss, and she was not about to allow Kilross to harm anyone she loved. The time to act was now.

  In a burst of action, she stomped his foot and elbowed him in the gut with all her might. The force of her blows made his grip upon her go slack, and she took advantage, twisting away from his grasp. As she made a dash for freedom, a gunshot echoed through the chamber.

  Terror unfurling, she looked back at Kilross to find him crumpling to the floor, red spreading over his chest. She pressed a hand to her heart and looked back to Crispin to discover he was not alone. Father had joined him, and it was his pistol, held in his shaking hands, and not Crispin’s, that had discharged, a small curl of smoke emerging from the barrel.

  Somehow, Crispin and Father had saved her. Together. Her heart thudded at the sight of them, the two men she loved above all else, standing together. And only then could she allow the relief to wash over her. Only then could she accept what she saw before her.

  It was over. Kilross was dead.

  The room seemed to spin about her then. Shock descended. Darkness claimed her, and she fell headlong into it.

  Chapter Twenty

  Crispin had never before played the role of suitor.

  Indeed, the notion had not once entered the realm of his thoughts. He did not attend Almack’s. He did not pretend to drink orgeat. Nor did he eschew the waltz. When he kissed, he always used his tongue, and when he loved a woman… well, bloody hell, he had never loved any woman until one flame-haired siren had swept into his study one day.

  Now, he could not imagine living his life without her at his side. It had taken him a few days to get his affairs in order. Engaging in an unmitigated amount of caution lest any hint of scandal taint Jacinda, he had kept his distance from her until the inquiry into Kilross’s death was at an end. That had been completed yesterday, and Crispin wasn’t about to spend another day without knowing that she was his. With her father’s approval, and with a special license in hand, he was en route to his destinati
on, prepared to court her like a lovesick swain.

  Because a lovesick swain was precisely what he was. But he was not alone as he arrived at Jacinda’s father’s modest townhome far from his own Grosvenor Square address. No indeed, his sisters had accompanied him.

  The minxes had insisted, and in truth, he knew Cin harbored a tender place in her heart for the two hellions. If bringing them along might further his cause, he was not above bringing them to her.

  As their carriage came to a stop, he gave each hoyden a careful, stern stare. “You are both to be on your best behavior this morning. I am in love with Miss—” here he caught himself, for in the wake of the revelations that had unfolded, he had come to know that Jacinda was not an unwed miss at all, but instead, a soldier’s widow. “Ahem, with Mrs. Turnbow.”

  “Of course you are,” Nora said, rolling her eyes with a dramatic flourish. “Con and I have known as much from the moment you could not stop staring at her and ordering her about.”

  Had he ordered her about? He did not think it possible. The incident involving the dead mouse returned to him then, and he could not help but to smile as he recalled her defiance. Only later had he learned she had forced Con and Nora to dispose of the thing. And he silently applauded her for it.

  “Quite silly of you really, going on and keeping us in suspense without courting her in the slightest,” Con added with an eye roll of her own. “But now that you have recognized the error of your ways, we would dearly love to have a new sister, and there is no one we should like better than Miss… er, Mrs. Turnbow.”

  Yes, she was perfect for him in every way. Perfect for them.

  He could only hope that she felt the same way.

  “Either way,” he continued, undeterred, “I will thank you not to ruin this for me.”

  He, Con, and Nora were ushered into the modest brick affair by a smiling house maid, who directed them to Sir Robert’s study, where Mrs. Turnbow could be found. She was seated alongside her father, head bent over a sheaf of papers, quill in hand. Her fingers were ink-stained, her brilliant sunset hair was confined in an artless bun, she wore a simple gray morning frock, and he had never seen a more beautiful sight.

  “Mrs. Turnbow,” he greeted formally, offering her his most elegant bow.

  Flanking him, Con and Nora dropped into proper curtsies.

  There, he thought with an absurd surge of pride. This wild Ashforth clan—or rather what remained of it—could be respectable when the situation merited it.

  Jacinda stood, surprise evident on her lovely face as she, too, dipped into a curtsy. With a wink, her father rose as well, sketching a bow.

  “Crispin,” she greeted, a frown furrowing her brows. “Forgive me, Your Grace. What are you doing here?”

  He held out the bouquet of hothouse flowers he had come armed with. “For you, my love, and I hope this time you shall not crush them into my chest and then discard them on the floor.”

  An adorable flush stained her cheeks as she came forward and took the flowers, burying her nose in them for a moment before glancing back up at him. “Thank you. They are lovely.”

  “Not as lovely as you,” he said quietly, forgetting for a beat that they were not the only occupants of the chamber.

  Then Con giggled, and he felt the tips of his ears go hot. Why the devil had he brought the minxes along, anyway? He cast a warning glower in his sister’s direction.

  Con blinked innocently. “What? I did not even say a word.”

  “But if she were to say anything at all,” Nora interrupted with a serene smile, “she would say we do hope you will be our sister, Mrs. Turnbow. Indeed, we should like nothing better.”

  “And not just because you bake the most divine sweets either,” Con added. “Though, to be sure, it is most appreciated.”

  Crispin ground his jaw. “Devil take it, you two.”

  Sir Robert cleared his throat. “Perhaps Lady Constance and Lady Honora might like to sample some of the Portugal cakes Jacinda made earlier this morning.”

  “Portugal cakes? Oh, my yes, do let’s, Nora,” Con said happily.

  Sending a look of gratitude to Sir Robert, Crispin waited until his sibling interlopers had been shepherded from the chamber and the door helpfully closed behind them before turning back to Jacinda. She watched him with a cautious expression, her warm sherry eyes unreadable, the flowers still clutched in her hands.

  “What my sisters were attempting to say, albeit with a notable lack of aplomb, is they are in desperate need of a sister who will watch over them and keep them from sliding down the stairs on salvers.” He took a step forward. “And I am very much in need of a wife who will love me in spite of all my faults and scars. Who will not hesitate to give me a dressing down when I deserve it. Who is braver than I could ever be, and kinder and lovelier and my better in every way.”

  Her lips parted. “Have you forgiven me?”

  “There is nothing to forgive, my love.” He did not stop until her skirts pressed against him, until there was noting separating them but the bouquet he had brought her. “You did what you had to do to protect yourself and your father.”

  Unshed tears glistened in her eyes as she searched his gaze. “But I deceived you. I should have come to you, revealed everything. Mayhap then we could have stopped Kilross sooner.”

  “No.” He shook his head slowly, banishing her protests. “There was no other way for it to unfold, Cin. The important thing is his machinations are over and you are safe from harm. That is all I care about.”

  “I am so very sorry, Crispin.” Her lush lower lip trembled.

  He pressed a gloved thumb there, stilling the tremor. “As am I, darling. I should have believed in your love. I should have known you would never betray me. Do you forgive me for doubting you? I swear to you it will never happen again.”

  She kissed his thumb. “As you said, there is nothing to forgive. We have both wronged each other in our own ways. I thought you never wished to see me again.”

  “You are all I want to see, now and forever,” he vowed, taking the bouquet from her and settling it upon her father’s desk so he could take her into his arms. “I love you, Jacinda Turnbow. My heart is yours if you will have it.”

  “I love you, too,” she whispered. “So much it hurts. My heart is yours as well. Forever.”

  “Will you marry me, Cin?” he asked. “Be my duchess. Spend all your days and nights at my side.”

  “Yes.” A gorgeous smile stole over her face, and it was like the sun breaking free of the clouds after a storm, light and transformative, glowing and bright and beautiful. “I would be honored to be your duchess.”

  He could not wait another moment to claim her lips. Their kiss was open-mouthed and starving, laden with promise. She tasted of tea and Jacinda, and nothing had ever been more delicious on his tongue. “Thank God,” he muttered against her mouth, pressing their foreheads together. “I was terrified you would not want me.”

  “There will never be a day when I do not want you, Crispin Ashforth. I love you so much it hurts.” She kissed him, long and slow and sweet.

  He caught her around the waist and spun her around and around until they were both breathless and laughing and dizzy. Joy burst in his chest like a volley of cannon fire. “I feel the same way, my darling. What do you say to the notion of getting married today?”

  Her warm eyes blazed into his, her smile soft. “I would like nothing better.”

  Epilogue

  Jacinda surveyed herself in the looking glass, taking in her elaborate coiffure and how it showed her bold red locks to perfection. Her gown was pink, all the better to complement her hair, and it hugged her form, celebrating her figure in a way that none of her old gowns had dared. At her neck, she wore the Ashforth diamonds. Her ruby and diamond earbobs were new, commissioned by Crispin himself, matching the breathtaking collar that wreathed her throat.

  She had been the Duchess of Whitley for three months now, and at times, she still could scarcely beli
eve it was real. That she had married the one man she loved above all others. That they had defied the odds against them to find their happiness, together as one.

  “You are so bloody beautiful it hurts to look upon you, Duchess.”

  Jacinda turned to her husband, feasting her eyes upon the sight he presented in his navy coat, crisp cravat, and buff trousers. With his tall, lean form outfitted to perfection, she could not help but stare. A surge of heat pooled between her thighs. “As are you, Duke.”

  “How do you feel, darling?” He drew her to him gently and kissed her as she loved best, hot and hungry and open-mouthed, as if he could not get enough of her.

  “I feel well enough to attend Duncan’s wedding,” she assured him when their mouths parted at last and she was breathless, a fresh ache of need building inside her. She supposed it would always be thus between them—fierce and all-consuming. And she would not have it any other way.

  Thankfully, the sickness that had been plaguing her in the mornings had seemed to subside in the last few days. This morning, she felt no nausea at all. Instead, she felt nothing more than deep, abiding happiness. Not just contentedness, but the swelling sensation she was precisely where she was meant to be, in the arms of the man who owned her heart.

  “Mmm.” Her husband’s mouth settled upon the hollow behind her ear, driving her mad. “I still cannot countenance Duncan is about to be wed.”

  Nor could she. The raffish gaming hell owner’s abrupt nuptials had come as a surprise. As had his choice of bride. All London was abuzz with the news, as it was not every day that one duke’s bastard wedded another duke’s daughter. The scandal sheets were rife with speculation and caricatures calling it the mésalliance of the age. For Duncan’s sake, Jacinda hoped he would find the same love and passion with his new wife she and Crispin had found together.

  “Much has changed,” she said softly.

  Father had taken up residence in Whitley House, and Con and Nora were getting on famously with their new governess. Nary one dead rodent had been hidden in recent months, nor had any impromptu sledding sessions occurred down the main staircase. Crispin’s nightmares had grown far less frequent and pronounced, and word had recently reached London the Marquess of Searle had been liberated from the enemy forces holding him captive.