My Scandalous Viscount (20 page)

“That you weren’t a virgin? Yes,” he murmured cautiously. “Since our wedding night.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

He turned to her. “Why didn’t
you
?”

She faltered. “I was frightened.”

“Of me? Honestly?” he demanded in a low tone of indignation. “Why? What did I ever do to make you see me as a threat?”

“No, that’s not what I meant—I didn’t want to lose you!”

“I see.” Such an answer was a test for a cynical man. “So you deceived me out of love? Is that your claim?”

“Beau, please. I didn’t know how you’d react if I tried to tell you beforehand. If you’d back out of the marriage after we had placed ourselves in a scandalous situation. And then, afterward, after our wedding night when you didn’t seem to notice, I didn’t know how I could possibly bring it up! I just wanted to leave well enough alone. Then he showed up. And once again, he wanted money. That horrible—parasite.”

“Well.” He folded his arms across his chest. “I would say your taste in men has greatly improved.” He looked askance at her. “At least now I understand why you’re obsessed with the gossip.”

“If it ever comes out, I shall have embarrassed you along with myself. I can’t believe I’ve been so selfish. I never even thought of the impact on your reputation until after we had married.”

“Oh, I’m pretty hard to embarrass,” he drawled in a low tone though he could not say why the hell he was making this so easy on her. She deserved to suffer, or at least to grovel, just a little.

She gazed at him with large, soulful eyes full of sorrow and regret. “I was only—with him once. It was nearly two years ago, a youthful indiscretion. I never intended for it to happen, it just did.”

“Please, I don’t need to know this.”

She let out a pained scoff with tears in her eyes. “Am I to tell you or not? You’re angry at me if I speak or stay silent—”

“It’s not the fact that you slept with him that hurts me. For God’s sake, I’m not a saint myself,” he muttered, shocked to hear himself admit that anything could hurt him in the first place. He looked at her, at a loss. “It’s that you clearly didn’t feel that you could trust me. All this time, you thought you got away with it. You really must take me for a fool.”

“No!”

“I’m not a fool, Carissa. I was trying to be kind to you. Ever since that night, I have been as patient as I know how to be. Waiting for you to come to me and confide in me. I gave you every opportunity to try me so you could see that I would understand. I wanted you to know that you were safe. I thought surely, if I gave you some time, you’d finally open up to me and see that you could trust me. But you never did.”

She started crying softly again, her hand to her lips.

“What did you think I would do, throw you out?” he asked wearily, offering her his handkerchief. “After all the women I’ve been with? I’m not that great a hypocrite—though I will admit, I was a little disappointed. How could you misrepresent yourself to me?”

“I’m so sorry.”

“For what, lying to me or getting caught?”

“I shouldn’t’ve lied.”

“No, you shouldn’t,” he agreed, struggling to remain firm in the face of her tears.

Her emerald eyes searched his beseechingly while the rosy lips he’d kissed so many times trembled with remorse. “My lord, can you forgive me?”

He gazed at her, at his wit’s end. “What sort of ogre wouldn’t?” he exclaimed. “Please stop! I hate to see you cry. I’m not going to hurt you, Carissa. It’s not a matter of forgiving you. Don’t you see that? To be honest, I scarcely know what to do with you at the moment. You can’t tell me the truth. You don’t do anything I say. If you won’t trust me, then how can I trust you? And if there’s no trust, how are we supposed to love each other?”

“But I do love you! I do love you, Beau.”

The way the words wrenched from her for the first time, so passionately, so pained, with tears streaming down her face, nearly overwhelmed him. He stared at her in silence, taken off guard by her fierce declaration. Lovers had said that to him before, but never in a way that had made him believe it, until now.

Until Carissa.

He stepped closer, drawn to her, more desperate than he had ever dared admit for the love she offered, true or false; incapable of one word, he gathered her into his arms, his heart pounding. She trembled in his embrace as he lowered his head and claimed her tender mouth in a fierce storm of need.

Pulling her closer against his body, deepening the kiss as she wound her arms languidly behind his neck, all he knew was that no other woman had ever made him feel such things. He wanted to throttle her at the very same time that he wanted to hide her away in a safe, velvet jewel box where no one could ever hurt her. He yearned to lose himself in her, the oblivion of her yielding body, the tenderness of her heart; and at the same time, just as strongly, like a horse that had never been tamed, he wanted to run from her, but he could not.

She had got inside his soul, and he feared her for it, knowing she could destroy him if she ever left him, for that’s what women did. They were not to be trusted. Today was proof of that. His sire had told him so at an early age, and somewhere deep inside, he still believed him.

What the hell am I doing?

It was all suddenly more than he could take. The cold, solitary, all-surviving part of himself that he had never shared with any lover—the part that had let him enjoy a night of bed-sport with whomever, without the slightest risk to his heart—was suddenly clamoring like hell for him to get out of there, keep this woman at arm’s length. Before she destroyed him.

He ended the kiss and pushed her away, panting and confused amid the sudden, ironic realization that apparently, he didn’t trust anybody any more than she did.

Heart pounding, all he knew was that if he did not get back control of this situation, he was doomed.

“You must go to the country,” he ground out, refusing to let himself become any more pathetically wrapped around her finger.

At least she didn’t know he was.

She clung to him, the tears shimmering in her eyes like melting emeralds. “Please don’t send me away, Beau,” she begged him in heartbreaking, sensuous need. “Don’t make me leave you, my darling husband. Not now.”

“No.” His voice sounded rough and strange even to him. “It’s time for you to do as I say and show me you can be a proper wife.” He swallowed hard, gently pushing her hands away from his face. “You will go to the country and wait with the other ladies until it’s safe. Then I will send for you. You will be quite comfortable there, and safe.”

“What about Nick? You said he knows about the place.”

“I will send special instructions to Sergeant Parker to apprise him of the situation. It will be fine.” He felt more normal when he looked away and put his mind back on business. “Besides, I don’t intend to give Nick time to hear about your relocation. I’m going to hunt him down as soon as you leave London. I’ve got to settle this with him now,” he growled, avoiding her stare.

But he could see from the corner of his eye that she seemed to be getting the message. He was putting his foot down. “Promise me you’ll be careful.”

“Of course.”

She jumped with a startled gasp when the clock suddenly chimed.

The two of them were so quiet that the silvery little tune seemed like a din in the stillness of the drawing room.

Beau rested his hands on his waist, pained by a memory of their wedding day and all its hopes. But he told himself this was not the end of the world. Every marriage had its fights. Yet, for some reason, he could not meet her gaze while that little melody played. Every note was slightly agonizing to him at the moment.

“Come. Time to go,” he clipped out at length when the song had finally finished.
Before I change my mind.

“Must I?” she whispered.

“You leave me no choice!” he said rather too vehemently, refusing to be swayed. “Damn it, I have too much else to worry about without you meddling and making everything harder! I’m sorry, but you’ve brought this on yourself.”

She lowered her head. “Then I will go.”

Damned right you will.
Jaw clenched, he escorted his errant wife out of the drawing room with a light touch on the small of her back. He walked her down the stairs into the entrance hall, where he handed her her reticule, and gently set her pelisse over her shoulders to keep her warm. Then he led her outside to the waiting coach and pressed a light kiss to her knuckles before handing her up.

She went with a true lady’s stoic grace and dignity.

It seemed very un-Carissa-like to him, but for all he knew, maybe now that she was free of her secrets and could be real with him, she might turn out to be an entirely different person. Only time would tell. He hoped the real Carissa wasn’t too different. He liked her an awful lot just the adorable, maddening way she was, lies and all.

Maybe that was the problem. Maybe deep down, they were too much alike.

As she took her seat in the large and comfortable traveling chariot, she looked back at him through the open door of the carriage, as though half expecting him to change his mind.

Beau refused to. “Write me a line to let me know as soon as you’re safely there.”

She nodded. “I’m sorry,” she whispered one last time.

He stared back at her, torn with regret and the need to keep her out of harm’s way. “I know, sweeting.” Once more, emotion nearly unmanned him, but he quickly shoved it down, keeping his mind on the facts. “Say,” he asked, changing the subject, “before you go, did you happen to learn anything useful about French Revolution artists at those galleries?”

“No.” She shook her head rather bitterly. “All my meddling was for naught. It was all a waste.”

He frowned, hearing the cold note of self-directed anger and disgust in her low-toned answer. “You were only trying to help,” he conceded.

She just shook her head and looked away, her lips a taut line. “Good-bye. Close the door, please. Driver!”

Beau shut the carriage door and said good-bye to Margaret, who had been sitting inside the coach, awkwardly playing deaf and dumb during their exchange, as only the best of servants could.

“All set, Jamison! Keep them safe.”

“Aye, milord!” the coachman called, then he chirruped and snapped the reins over the horses’ rumps.

Beau stood on the pavement, watching the carriage pull away. He folded his arms across his chest as an unsettling question floated like a dark phantom through his mind. Could it be that part of his reasons for staying silent about knowing Carissa’s secret was because it was a way of keeping a safe distance between them?

Maybe he wasn’t so bloody noble, sparing her the confrontation all this time. Maybe he had just been sparing
himself
the risk of getting truly close to her.

He breathed a self-directed curse as her coach pulled out of sight around the corner. Bloody hell. He was a hypocrite. The thing he hated most, after Prometheans.

Maybe . . . dear God, maybe he was even a bit of a coward, he thought, cringing. Danger in battle had never made him hesitate, but no woman before Carissa had ever had this kind of power over him. Knowing the jeopardy it placed him in made him downright itchy, jumpy, restless. Anything was better than dwelling on this subject.

He thrust all his tangled questions away, turning back to the house and back to the business at hand. Marching inside, he threw himself back into the realm of life where he was master.

He quickly wrote, then coded a secret message for the Order’s team in Calais who ran the safe house—the men who had picked him and Carissa up on the coast when they had gone to see Madame Angelique. ‘
Trouble in England. Tell Rotherstone and his team to stay in France until I send for them.’
Short and to the point. He only hoped that he was not too late.

Then he returned to the docks, not far from where he had sold Roger Benton to the press gang, to have his message delivered.

Striding down the quay, he found the old fisherman he’d hired before to take messages for him across the Channel; he paid the grubby captain a small fortune and warned him with the usual dire threats never to speak of this. The old man agreed. Their bargain made, Beau waited around to watch the fishing boat sail off down the Thames.

Then, satisfied, he turned to face the city, his eyes narrowed as he moved on to his next task, considerably more challenging.

Find Nick.

Chapter 21

C
arissa was in misery, but the reunion with her friends was a comfort. Daphne and the other wives were shocked by her unannounced arrival at the idyllic country estate tucked away in a remote corner of the Hampshire countryside, a few hours’ drive from London. The sculpted gardens and wooded park created a tranquil atmosphere, but the presence of armed guards was a stark reminder of the danger.

The other women made much of her, welcoming her with hugs and tears, then, with cries of astonishment when she told them she had married Lord Beauchamp.

“Why didn’t you write and let me know immediately?” Daphne shouted, hugging her in congratulation.

“I wanted to tell you in person.”

“Oh, I knew it—I told you he was mad for you!” Daphne released her, but Kate studied Carissa, tilting her head.

“You don’t look terribly enthusiastic about it,” the dark-haired young duchess observed, folding her arms across her chest.

“We are in a quarrel,” Carissa admitted, and it was all she could do not to burst into stupid tears again. She could not believe the man had made a watering pot of her.

But Daphne fondly took her under her wing. “Poor thing. There, there, dearest. Come in and tell us all about what that rogue has done to you.”

“I’d rather not talk about it,” she said with a dignified sniffle. How humiliating it would be to admit that she had finally told her husband she loved him, and he hadn’t said it back.

Not that she could blame him after what she had done.

She was a liar and a hussy and a sneak, and she didn’t deserve him. He might not think that, but she did.

“Well, we’re here to listen whenever you need to talk,” Daphne comforted her. “For now, you just come and settle in and we will do our best to cheer you up. It’s wonderful you’ve come, just when we were quite beside ourselves with boredom! I’ve missed your wit. We are going to have fun together here and make the best of it. We are Order wives, after all, and we understand our duty! Isn’t that right?”

The other two ladies nodded though they were looking at Carissa rather strangely. She supposed she did not seem at all like her usual feisty self.

Daphne put her arm around her. “Now, then. There are a couple of pretty bedchambers for you to choose from . . .” The blond marchioness escorted her into the beautiful manor house, and the others followed.

Inside, Carissa paused to smile at Mara’s adorable little two-year-old son, Thomas, from her previous marriage. At thirty, Mara, Lady Falconridge, was several years older than the rest of them. She had been widowed before her recent marriage to Jordan, Lord Falconridge.

Carissa did not know Mara as well as she knew the others. Indeed, she had been skeptical of her, not only because the gossips had whispered that she was the mistress of the Regent but because she knew that Mara had broken the wonderful Jordan’s heart when the two were barely twenty. But they had recently made up—and more.

Little Thomas clamored for his mama to pick him up. Mara lifted him for a snuggle, then set him on her hip.

“Has Beauchamp received any word from our husbands?” Kate murmured.

Carissa shook her head. “Not that I’ve heard, sorry.”

She sighed. “I miss my Beast.”

Carissa smiled at the nickname the other men had given ages ago to Kate’s husband, Rohan, the Duke of Warrington.

All the men had known each other since boyhood.

“It’s hard being apart,” Daphne agreed, taking the role of leader, just like her husband, Lord Rotherstone, did with the men. “But they’re doing what needs to be done,” she declared, flashing a smile. “Besides, I’m sure they miss us even more than we miss them.”

Carissa said nothing, knowing her husband didn’t miss her at all. He was glad that she was gone.

Then the ladies showed her around inside the house.

Their patient willingness to bear up with whatever sacrifice was required of them completely chastened her.

No wonder Beau was exasperated with her if he was comparing her to model wives like Daphne.
You can’t tell me the truth, you won’t do anything I say . . .

Now that she was back among her friends, their bond of shared secrecy among them all as Order wives foremost in her mind, at last, she realized how she had risked everyone’s safety by asking all those questions at the art galleries. Dear God, she could have put them all in danger! If she had said too much, if her questions got back to the artist who had hired Nick, then the villains, whoever they were, could trace her to Beau, to the other men, to the women, and even to little Thomas. The danger she had put her friends in sickened her, on top of how she had lied to Beau.
How stupid! How arrogant! How blind.

She had thought the risk was only to herself, and she had been prepared to face that danger with sufficient courage. But if she had stopped to see the links and for once, not thought of herself as solitary, with no real bonds to anyone, as she had ever since she was an orphaned child—then she would have listened to her husband and not gone snooping today.

It didn’t matter that she was only trying to help. She had unwittingly risked the safety of everyone she cared about. What on earth had she thought she was doing, meddling like that? She was not a spy! She had no training. Who was she to conduct an “investigation”?

Just some foolish ton gossip, pretending she knew what she was doing. She buried her face in her hands after the others had left her alone in her assigned bedroom. The servants had brought in her luggage, and the other ladies had given her some privacy to make herself comfortable before supper.
Another blunder.

She had overstepped her bounds like a little know-it-all on top of throwing away her virginity on a cad and lying to her wonderful husband about it.

She shook her head, disgusted with herself, and utterly depressed. She vowed that henceforth, she’d leave the snooping to the spies. She wanted nothing further to do with all this intrigue, did not even want to discuss it with her friends, which was good, considering Beau had ordered her not to talk about it with them.

At least, thanks to his getting rid of Roger Benton, she would no longer have to monitor the ton gossip. Indeed, she thought, it was past time for her to start minding her own business.

As for Beau, she couldn’t blame him if he hated her right now though that tortured kiss had been anything but hateful. She knew she had hurt him, and she ached with sorrow from head to toe because of it.

What would he do now? she wondered. Would he pull back from her forever? Would he punish her by going out to find some other female to satisfy his more manly needs while she was gone? The thought sickened her, but it wouldn’t have surprised her. He had not said “I love you” back, after all. She closed her eyes, feeling just awful.

She really did not know where she stood with him right now. But all she could control at this point was her own actions and she decided the time had come to change.

The only way she could redeem herself was to show him that she could obey like a proper wife; she
could
tell the truth, and she
would
accept his rightful authority as her husband. God knew, they had to start somewhere.

She’d take her sentence of being exiled to the country without complaint. Placing her hand on her heart, she raised her head and made a private vow to be a good, obedient, Order wife—like Daphne.

From this moment on.

T
hat night, Beau wove through the noisy, all-male crowd gathered to watch the prizefights. Ale and blue ruin flowed; the air was thick with the smoke of countless cigars; rough laughter burst from a group where a man had just told his mates a very dirty joke. Most of all, the wagers flew, which was why he had come.

It was as likely a place as any to find his mercenary friend. He had checked in with his various contacts, whom he’d told to keep their eyes and ears open for him for any news of Nick. But his watchers had nothing to report. The bastard was obviously being careful. But since they had been friends for years, Beau decided to check at gambling hells he knew Nick fancied.

Madame Angelique had said Nick had already received a portion of his payment. Knowing him, it wouldn’t be long before he was back at the tables.

Beau knew from experience that Nick always turned to the heady distraction of gambling when he was under particular pressure, as now.

When he had heard at one of those gaming hells that Tom Cribb would be fighting tonight in Covent Garden, he knew this would be the place to look.

Nick loved to wager on the milling matches above all, and the English champion was his favorite pugilist. Cribb would be starring in tonight’s headline battle.

Beau knew Nick had to be here. He scanned the crowd continuously for any sign of him.

Meanwhile, inside the rails, the intermediate match would be starting in a few minutes. The meaty pugilists were receiving last instructions from their trainers.

Beau continued on the hunt, privately cursing himself for not telling Virgil long ago about Nick’s gambling problem. Every time he had nearly gone to the old Scot about it, Nick had talked him out of it and promised he would change.

On three different occasions, Beau had allowed himself to be persuaded because Nick was like a brother to him and because he wanted to believe. Certainly, he had not wanted some new, green agent replacing his best friend on the team. Nick was a damned fine spy, fearless, lethal.

Not to mention it went against Beau’s nature to be disloyal. He had been blinded by his loyalty, perhaps, forgiving to a fault. And now look where it had got them. Aye, he was paying the price for it now—though not as high a price as Trevor was paying.
Hang on, mate,
he mentally told his other closest friend, Nick’s hostage.
I’ll get you out of this, wherever you are.

Winding his way toward the bet makers’ tables, Beau leaned against a post where he could see the men coming and going as they went to lay their wagers.

Excitement was high in the crowd; loud and boisterous talk filled the air. Everywhere, men were debating the various strengths and weaknesses of the two pugilists about to begin and airing their opinions on the last brawl.

All of a sudden, Beau spotted Nick in the crowd.

Instantly, he was in motion, striding toward him. He had his loaded Mantons at the ready beneath his coat in case his friend needed persuading. He was not above forcing Nick’s compliance with a pistol in the ribs.

One way or the other, he was going to put an end to this—and then there was still the matter to sort out of the bastard coming after Carissa.

Beau was very eager to pay him back for scaring his wife. Even Nick knew when he had gone too far.

But highly honed senses must have alerted Nick to the approach of a hostile party.

Beau was no more than ten feet away from him when the black-haired mercenary glanced over his shoulder and saw him coming.

He bolted.

Beau instantly ran after him, pushing through the crowd, while in the ring, the opponents were announced. The boxing fans started chanting for their favorite while Nick did his best to lose him in the crowd.

Beau spotted him just before Nick vanished out the door. He barreled after him. “Damn it, get back here!” he roared as he burst out into the dark, wet night.

Nick slipped around the corner. Beau was undeterred, sprinting after him, leaving the glow of the building’s doorway lanterns.

The narrow streets around the place were choked with the parked carriages of all the spectators crammed inside. Beau hunted his quarry through the maze of vehicles, his weapon drawn. When he bent down to glance beneath the endless rows of carriages, he saw running legs.

He chased. “Don’t make me shoot you again, you stupid bastard!” he shouted into the darkness. “Stop running like a coward and talk to me! I know what’s going on! I spoke to Angelique!” he shouted.

“Your wife is very pretty,” Nick taunted from the shadows somewhere nearby.

Beau rocked to a halt on his heels and glanced around, his chest heaving. He had heard him, but he couldn’t see him. He suddenly yanked open the door of the nearest carriage, but Nick was not inside. “Come near her again, and I will forget you and I were ever friends.”

“Relax, Beauchamp, I was only making a point.”

“What, that you’ve forfeited all honor?” Beau crept toward an alleyway ahead. “Who do they want you to kill?” he persisted, trying to keep him talking so he could home in on his location.

“Don’t know yet. Probably find out soon.” Nick paused. “Not that it’s any of your affair.”

“It’s madness, man. You don’t even know who hired you. It doesn’t smell right, and you know it.” He whirled around the corner with his pistol in position, but Nick wasn’t there. “Where are you?” he shouted, losing patience. “Come out and face me like a man!”

But there was no answer.

He continued searching, but Nick had slipped away.

Beau cursed under his breath, dragging a hand through his hair as he whirled in frustration, scanning in all directions one last time. Nick was nowhere to be found.

He stopped, took a deep breath, closed his eyes to clear his mind, and pressed his eyelids with his thumb and middle finger.
What now? Think.

His heart still pounding, fury in his veins, it took but a moment to choose his next strategy. Then he was striding to his carriage. If Nick was going to be difficult, he had other angles to pursue.

There was only one gunsmith in London that the Order agents really trusted to produce the weapons on which their lives so frequently depended.

Hans Schweiber was a Hessian-born gunsmith whose family had been in the trade for generations. He was one of the primary contacts Beau had first alerted to keep an eye out for Nick, but he had heard nothing back and decided tonight it might be worth his while to stop in and check with the old man.

When Beau walked into his shop half an hour later, Schweiber peered over the small, rectangular spectacles perched on his nose. The rest of the shop was dark, and the weathered gunsmith was alone, working by candlelight on one of his sleek, well-balanced creations.