Melting Miss Wynter (Rogues and Gentlemen Book 17)

by Emma V. Leech

  By the time he reached London and discovered where the infamous Marie de Wynn lived, it was only to be told that the family had left England. He’d tried bribery and intimidation, but no one would tell him where the lovely de Wynns had gone. Now, though, everyone knew that they were returning. The scandal sheets were full of the news, and extraordinary bets filled the book at White’s where the favourite for winning the prize was the Duke of Sherringham. For Guinevere de Wynn was returning to London from wherever she had hidden herself and would finally make her long awaited debut.

  Over his dead body.

  “Ye intend to run with her, don’t ye?”

  Sampson’s head snapped up in shock, to see Ross’s shrewd green eyes studying him. His heart thudded in his chest and he knew Ross had figured it out. How, he didn’t know, but though they’d known each other such a short time, his brother seemed to always know what was in his mind.

  “I cannae take all the credit,” Ross said, his expression wry. “It was Samuel who first suspected. He was curious as to why ye were spending so much time on getting the family’s affairs in order this past month when ye had neglected everything for weeks after she ran from ye. It seemed obvious enough to me what ye had planned.”

  “If we leave, if we disappear, the scandal will die down, and by the time the girls come out we’ll have been forgotten.”

  There was a snort of derision. “I doubt that, and in the meantime those girls will break their hearts over the loss of ye.”

  Sampson put his head in his hands. He was being torn in two and the pain was unbearable, but he could not see Gwenn forced into a life that would destroy her, and it would destroy her. He knew her, knew her heart and all that it longed for. Such a life would break her spirit in no time at all. Even if he could find a way to live without her—which after the past months seemed doubtful—he could not live with that.

  “What would you do?” Sampson asked, his voice bleak. “What would you do if it were Freddie?”

  Ross nodded. “I ken well that I’d kill any man whose name was on that godforsaken list, but I would nae abandon my family.”

  “Christ!” Sampson exploded, surging to his feet. “You think I do this without a second thought? You think it isn’t tearing me apart to even consider leaving….”

  His voice broke as he remembered Susan and Selina’s devastation in the days after Gwenn had left and the uncannily silent journey back to London. They’d clung to him, unwilling to let him out of their sight, as if they’d known his heart was more damaged than their own, and feared to leave him alone.

  Sampson walked to his desk and leaned upon it, struggling to keep his composure when he wanted to scream and rage and weep and destroy everything he could lay his hands on. For a short time he’d seen the world in the brightest colours, he’d seen the possibility of everything life could be with the woman he loved beside him, and now all he could see was an endless swathe of grey.

  “Nae,” Ross said, getting to his feet. “I dinnae think that nor anything of the sort.” He laid a heavy hand on the back of Sampson’s neck. “But I think ye are too broken to see what is before ye, and I intend to set ye straight, for ye cannae leave those girls, Sampson. They’ve lost one father and, whether ye like it or nae, ye have taken his place. If ye leave, I fear what it’ll do to them.”

  “They’ll have Sam, and Sherbourne and Solomon, it’s not as if they’ll be alone,” he said, though his heart was filled with guilt, shame, and sorrow, and he couldn’t bear the idea of not being here with them, to see them grow and keep them from harm himself.

  “It’s yerself they look to, Sampson, and I ken how it feels to be abandoned. I’ll nae let ye do it, mo bhràthair.”

  Sampson spun around, knocking Ross’s hand away. “Then what?” he raged. “What would you have me do, for I cannot… I cannot….” To his horror, his throat closed, and tears spilled from his eyes and he turned away and put his head in his hands.

  “Ye have forgotten something important, brother,” Ross said, his voice low and sure. “Ye have a family around ye. I dinnae ken what that meant for a long time, but I now I do, and I mean to teach ye for ye have forgot. Ye also have friends. I saw that myself the night I came here to face the evil bastard that sired us, may he rot in hell.”

  Sampson rubbed a hand over his face and steadied himself, turning to face Ross. “And so…?” he demanded, hoping to God Ross had something worthwhile to say, for if he was getting his hopes up for nothing, he’d bloody kill him.

  Before he could answer, the door burst open and Susan and Selina came through at a run, launching themselves at Ross.

  “Ross!” they cried in unison as the big man scooped them up, one in each massive arm, beaming at them and kissing their cheeks as they threw their skinny little arms about his neck and hugged him.

  “Ach, well I never did see such bonnie wee lasses in my life,” he said, hugging them until they squealed. “What a grand welcome, and worth every minute of the wretched journey just for that.”

  “Have you come to make Sampson happy again?” Susan asked, such hope in her eyes that Sampson wanted to bawl.

  “Will you help him get Miss Wynter back?” Susan added breathlessly.

  Sampson’s heart twisted in his chest. Though he’d tried his best, he knew the house had been smothered in gloom since they returned, as if Gwenn’s absence had stolen some vital part of the world and the sun no longer deigned to shine upon them. That the girls had felt it so keenly though, that tore at his soul… and that they knew the reason for his misery was even worse.

  “I have,” Ross said, his tone decisive. “And I will.”

  “Ross!” Sampson snapped, too shocked and furious to hide his anger. “You have no right to say such things, to make promises that you can’t possibly keep.”

  “Oh, ye think I cannae?” Ross said, something steely in his eyes. “Ye forget who ye talk to, does he nae, my beauties?” he said to the girls.

  “He thinks people won’t speak to us if he marries Miss Wynter,” Susan said, shocking Sampson to his bones as she summed up the situation to a nicety.

  Where in God’s name had she heard that?

  “But that’s stupid,” Selina chimed in. “Because we don’t want to speak to the people who wouldn’t like us if he married her.”

  “Aye,” Ross said, nodding at them as though that was the wisest thing anyone had ever said. “Quite right, too.”

  “Susan, Selina.” Sampson took a deep breath, trying to explain without making them too unhappy, but he must not allow them to hope. “You are too young to understand, and Ross too pig-headed to accept it, but one day you will want to marry, and if such a scandal is attached to our name—”

  “It will scare off all the stupid men we wouldn’t like to marry anyway,” Susan said, looking at him as if he was daft. She clung tighter to Ross, her blue eyes glittering and angry now. “Anyone who can’t see that Miss Wynter is the most perfect lady is utterly stupid.”

  “Yes,” Susan said, in perfect accord with her twin. “Guts for brains, leather-headed lobcocks, cod’s heads—”

  “Susan!” Sampson exclaimed, shocked and startled by both her outburst and her vocabulary.

  “That was very good,” Ross said, looking impressed. “Will ye teach me some more later? I liked ‘leather-headed lobcock,’ very descriptive.”

  The girl giggled and nodded, and Sampson threw up his hands. “Madness,” he muttered, moving to fix himself another drink.

  “Leave that glass be,” Ross growled, a threatening note to his voice. “The girls have given ye some very sound advice, and I am about to give ye a deal more, and then, we are going to go and call on some friends.”

  Unwilling to cause a scene before the girls, Sampson put the glass down—for now—and contented himself with glowering at his brother. “What friends?” he demanded, wondering what the hell Ross had in mind, and not allowing himself to dare hope it had a chance in hell of succeeding.

  Ross kissed
each of the girls on the forehead and set them down, telling them to run along and leave everything to him. They did, having implicit belief in Ross’s ability to make everything all right. Sampson stared at his brother, some childish corner of his heart wanting to believe the same thing.

  “What friends?” he said again, once the door had closed and the girls were out of earshot.

  Ross grinned at him and winked. “Dangerous ones, aye?”

  Chapter 23

  “Wherein dangerous friends make useful allies.”

  Alexander Sinclair, the Earl of Falmouth, regarded them from behind his massive desk, his face impassive. Sampson fought the urge to fidget. He felt like he used to when hauled before the masters at school, usually in the moments before being sent down.

  Alex steepled his fingers, considering, and Sampson wondered at his cool demeanour. If anyone had just made such an outrageous suggestion to him, he’d be throwing a fit.

  “Just so we are clear,” Alex said, his grey eyes moving between Sampson and Ross, the two of them sitting side by side as they awaited his reply. “You wish to know if either myself or my son-in-law have any hold over the Marquess of Davenport?”

  “Aye,” Ross said, leaning forward in his seat.

  Sampson was glad Ross answered as his own tongue was tied in a knot, too terrified to form words. Whether that was because he feared Alex was about to throw them out of the house or agree to a plan which could probably see them all hauled up before a judge with God knew what charges against them, he wasn’t sure.

  “And if we do, you wish for us to use whatever influence we may have on him to—”

  “Aye,” Ross said again, clearly impatient as he waved a hand at Alex. “Ye have understood just fine, my lord. The question is, have ye, and will ye?”

  Sampson glared at his brother for treating Alex in such a cavalier fashion. It was true that Alex had been a good friend to Sampson in the past. It was also true that his reputation was the kind that suggested it was a bad idea to upset him. A very bad idea.

  Sampson noted the first threads of grey in the thick black of the earl’s hair, though there was no question that the fellow was still in the prime of life. Those wicked grey eyes glinted, a slight curve twitching the corner of a mouth that appeared cruel and implacable.

  “We have,” Alex said, satisfaction in the words. “And yes, I rather think we will.”

  Sampson let out a breath he’d not realised he’d been holding.

  “Did you doubt me?” Alex regarded him, a mild look of reproach settling upon Sampson. “You know well enough that I have promised to support you and your family in the past.”

  “Yes,” Sampson agreed, knowing it was true, but acknowledging a friendship instead of cutting someone in the street was not the same as this… this outrageous plan, if one could even call it that? Treasonous, perhaps? Insane, certainly. “But… but this—”

  “This is exactly the kind of scheme that will make my wife think me a heroic figure who will do anything in his power to ensure love triumphs over all obstacles,” Alex said with a wry smile. “Believe me when I tell you my motives are entirely selfish.”

  Sampson laughed, knowing—as all the ton knew—that the terrifying Earl of Falmouth was besotted, enamoured with, and utterly devoted to his wife, a beautiful French émigrée many years his junior.

  “And Black Rule?” Ross asked. “What of him?”

  Sampson waited Alex’s answer with interest. Luther Blackehart, or Black Rule, had been crowned Lord of London’s underworld years ago. There were rumours that he’d become respectable in the time since he’d married Alex’s daughter, but no one would say that to his face. The man was universally believed to be ruthless, dangerous, and best avoided.

  Alex chuckled. “Believe it or not, my son-in-low is a pussy cat. He’ll agree. For one thing, neither of us are much enamoured of the marquess. Davenport is a weak man who treats those he ought to care for with contempt. He never makes provision for his illegitimate children, the callous bastard.” The earl’s face darkened. “His wife was a good woman, a kind soul who died too young. She deserved a great deal better than he ever gave her, as do his children, all his children. I think I shall very much enjoy calling in his debts.”

  He sat back in his chair and met Sampson’s eye. “So, Guinevere de Wynn. Is she as beautiful and mysterious as the rumours suggest?”

  “More beautiful,” Sampson said softly. “But not the least bit mysterious. Not to me, at least. Her heart is an open book. She wants security and love and a family around her, not….”

  He waved his hand, unwilling to put the life Gwenn was resigning herself to into words.

  Alex nodded, his smile warm. “Well, then. We had best call on Luther. There are plans to be made.”

  ***

  Gwenn stared at herself in the looking glass as Marie fussed around her, tweaking a lock of hair here, tugging at her neckline to expose a little more of her décolletage. She said nothing, allowing Marie to do as she would. She didn’t much care. When she had returned to London—once the flames of Marie’s fury had died away—her mother had been swift to act. She had packed up her household with the efficiency of a wartime general and taken her daughter to Italy. There she had hidden Gwenn from the world and allowed her the time to grieve for her broken heart.

  This much, at least, her mother had understood, and she would not let her daughter ruin her chances by exposing her to scrutiny before she was ready.

  It was impossible to hide from her fate forever, though. During those days, hidden away in a tiny village in a beautiful valley, she had stared at the lovely scenery and wept until she had no tears left, and little by little she had ceased to be herself. As she mourned the loss of everything she’d never really had, she set her heart to one side and learned to wear the mask of the perfect courtesan, just as her mother had taught her. She had become a commodity, something to be bought and sold.

  Marie stood back, regarding her daughter with a critical air. “I almost hate to admit it, but I think you are more beautiful than I ever was.”

  “Surely not, Mama,” Gwenn said, smiling a little. “I find that hard to believe.”

  Marie gave a low laugh and moved to her daughter, taking hold of her hands. “It’s true.” She stared at Gwenn, warmth and sympathy in her eyes. “Strangely enough, I think it is the sorrow in your eyes that adds to your allure. There is an air of fragility, of something that needs protecting that the men will find irresistible. I was so angry with you when you returned. Such a foolish, foolish thing to have done, but now… I cannot help believe that this doomed love affair will not affect your price at all.”

  “I’m so relieved you are not disappointed,” Gwenn said, the words brittle.

  Marie gave a bitter laugh, shaking her head. “I know you think me a cold bitch, Gwennie,” she said, her voice low and sad. “But I would have saved you this heartache. I did try,” she added. “The world is far crueller and colder than I, my girl, and we must all do what we can to survive. Women have little power, and that which we do have must be stolen and snatched at. That pretty face will only endure so long, my love, as I can attest to.” Marie sighed with regret and Gwenn knew it was her moment to ensure Marie that her looks were not fading, but she could not find it in her heart to soothe her mother’s ego tonight.

  Marie laughed again, amused now, no doubt aware of the petty turn of her thoughts.

  “Come, my beautiful daughter. The wealthiest and most powerful men of the ton await you, and you may take your pick from them. I think you’d do well to choose Sherringham. He’s known for being a generous lover and he’s a good man at heart, not one you need fear would ever abuse you, but it will be your decision. I will not interfere in this. Only, think carefully before you decide.”

  Gwenn nodded, too numb to speak. She felt sick. The urge to run, to flee, was rising in her chest. It had all seemed so inevitable when she’d left Sampson. The life she’d been bred for was all she knew, and if she
could not have him… well, what did it matter? Yet, it did matter. It mattered a great deal. How could she give herself to another man, a man she didn’t even know yet, let alone care for—after everything she had shared with Sampson?

  A sob rose in her throat and she forced it down. It was too late. There was no escape.

  “There will be an hour for the men to put in their offers,” Marie continued, unaware of the turmoil in her daughter’s breast. “That will give them a chance to view you and realise just what a prize there is to win, as well as note their competitors. Then I will select the best ten for you to make your choice from. You will announce your choice at midnight.”

  Gwenn nodded again. Her chest was tight, and she could not breathe. What would Sampson think of her, if he could see her now?

  Don’t think of it, she told herself, fighting for calm. He’s lost to you, they are all lost to you. What other talents do you possess, who would employ you? Who would you lie to next? You cannot starve on the streets, nor become a burden to Marie.

  You must do this.

  “Are you ready?” Marie asked her.

  You have no choice.

  Where will you run to?

  Who would you go to?

  Who else would you taint with the burden of your name?

  “Yes, Mama,” she said, turning away from the mirror, from the image of the greatest whore that the great city would ever see. “I’m ready.”

  ***

  Sampson glanced at the unhappy figure beside him. Luther Blackehart was the only man he’d ever met who could match Ross for breadth and height. A veritable mountain of a man, he possessed an innate quality of power that sent other men scattering before him. Although—like Sampson and every other man here—he was in impeccable evening dress, he was not a gentleman, and no one would ever mistake him for one. The ragged scar that marred the right side of his face suggested this was not a man who was a stranger to violence. It would be correct. He was a survivor of the worst that London and poverty could throw at a man.