Never Surrender to a Scoundrel (4 page)

The carriage traveled farther down the street until, despite straining his eyes and altering his position, he could see no more.

He fell back against the cushion, his jaw clenched tight. How…regretful. Did Clarissa know? The memory of her smiling face flashed in his mind. Certainly she did not. It had been only Tuesday afternoon, at the most recent of Lady Margaretta's garden luncheons, when he'd observed another flirtatious glance between the young couple and the furtive touch of their hands behind the garden column.

No, he had not particularly cared for Quinn as a match for Clarissa, but the news would devastate her. Shatter her innocent heart. Because of that, he could take no pleasure, no satisfaction in what he'd seen. He could think of no honorable explanation for what Quinn had done. His fingers curled into his palms and he resisted the urge to order his driver to turn around so that he might confront the lecher directly, in front of his new bride and their families.

Yet…despite the insistence of his conscience that he call Quinn out in defense of Clarissa's honor, it was not his place. For almost two years he had been the family's protector—but the role had been a professional assignment, he reminded himself, not an obligation of the heart.

So instead he held silent, telling himself she would be grateful to discover the truth of Quinn's faulty character now rather than later. Thank heavens she had enjoyed such a careful upbringing, which only allowed for the most chaste of entanglements. Perhaps, even, the whole incident would teach her a valuable lesson about love and trust, and guarding one's heart a bit more closely.

Once home, he washed and dressed and, as usual, did an intentionally incompetent job with his cravat, and mussed his hair, making sure he looked his usual part. Though he was to have an audience with Wolverton this evening before the ball got under way, he had no wish to arrive too early. He didn't want to cross paths with Clarissa. Despite all his careful training to never reveal his country's secrets even if tortured, he feared one look into her crystalline blue eyes and he would be compelled to inform her of what he had seen.

Why was he even thinking about the chit again? He should be wholly focused on the acceptance of his next assignment.

Yet his conscience chided him for his inaction. He wished Havering had been in the carriage with him when he saw Lord Quinn's wedding. Havering was more like a brother to Clarissa and would know the appropriate thing to do.

Havering, yes, now there was his answer. Knowing Clarissa as long as he had, Fox would know how to best break the unfortunate news, and most important, when—before or after the ball? Fox could comfort her after “Mr. Kincraig” was long gone.

He felt such relief at having arrived at this solution. Once the information was passed to Fox, Dominick would be free of all obligations and ready to depart London on a moment's notice.

Calling the carriage around once again, he traveled directly to Wolverton's house. Upon entering, he observed from a distance a small army of confectioner's assistants in the ballroom setting up some sort of display of little pink cakes or meringues on a table, while at the center of the house workmen finished the installation of a God-awful pink carpet onto the grand staircase, pink being Clarissa's favorite color. The scent of flowers—pink and white flowers, of course—hung everywhere, so strong he fought the urge to sneeze. He marveled at the silly frivolity of it all, most certainly a reflection of Clarissa.

He hated to destroy her happiness with word of her feckless lover's betrayal. Perhaps it would be best she not hear the news until tomorrow? He would leave that decision to Havering. Once the information was passed, his conscience would be troubled no more.

Ah—there, Havering stood just around the corner, speaking to Claxton. Dominick moved toward them, his intention to draw Fox aside for a private conversation—

Only to be intercepted by Mrs. Brightmore, who subtly lifted a hand, indicating he should proceed toward Wolverton's chambers.

“Ah.” He paused midstep. “Now?”

“Indeed.”

“It's early yet.”

She winked. “Some of us have other duties to perform this evening, besides sauntering about in fancy clothes and drinking pink lemonade from a little crystal cup.”

His gaze returned to Havering, but in the end duty called. He would find him afterward and discreetly share his concerns for Clarissa then. He changed direction, taking the corridor to Wolverton's chambers as he had so often done over the past two years under the guise of being summoned, or more often
commanded
, by the earl to do so. His role, after all, had been to play a gambler and a drunk. Someone consumed by his own addictions but, more important, inattentive to his surroundings. Though he'd played double duty as a personal guard to Wolverton, his primary assignment had been to lure into the open the man or men whom vague whispers of intelligence said wanted Lord Wolverton and his every living heir dead. The earl's own past in foreign secret service perhaps provided a motive for any number of surviving enemies, known and unknown, at home and abroad. Lady Harwick and the young ladies hadn't been told because the earl had no wish to frighten or burden them with unsubstantiated explanations of past tragedies, namely the deaths of his son and grandson.

Entering the anteroom, Dominick joined his team—O'Connell, His Lordship's valet, Mr. Ollister, the first footman, and Mrs. Brightmore, the housekeeper, the last of whom stepped through a small doorway on the opposite side of the room.

“Reports?” asked Mrs. Brightmore as she briskly circled round to collect a sealed envelope from each man, which she quickly secured inside her apron.

Dominick, aware his next assignment could come any day, had written out his final report the night before. Though he gave no outward indications, his heart beat fast. The ensuing moments might bring him great satisfaction or a devastating blow, in that he might receive his new orders. He closed his eyes, sending up a brief prayer that his superiors would see fit to return him to foreign service, as he so fervently wished.

“How is Wolverton?” he asked O'Connell, his interest sincere.

“Very well today,” O'Connell replied succinctly. “His Lordship wishes to see you when we are concluded here.”

Mr. Ollister straightened. “Let us finish our business, so we can all return to our posts.” He looked to Dominick and nodded cordially. “As we all suspected, the Secretary of State has seen fit to revise the scope of our mission. Now that the earl has a true heir in young Michael, your role, Mr. Kincraig, has been substantially compromised in that you are no longer the assassin's lure you were intended to be.”

Even when meeting in private, they used their “character” names to ensure consistency at all times.

They all listened, rapt, as Mr. Ollister continued. “Even though no attempts have been made against Wolverton's life since these indications of endangerment came to light, we will continue to secure the premises and maintain Wolverton's safety as well as that of his family, which now includes the child. Mr. Kincraig, you could certainly remain on indefinitely as security, but no one believes you would look very convincing in a nanny's apron and cap—”

Everyone chuckled.

“As such, the powers that be have seen fit to assign another agent to fulfill the nanny role: Mrs. Hutton.”

Yes, Dominick had met Mrs. Hutton before. He agreed with the choice. She would be a formidable protector for the child.

“I believe some of you have worked with her before. You, Mr. Kincraig, will receive new orders.” Bending, Mr. Ollister extracted a folded square of parchment from his ankle boot, which he handed over to Dominick.

Dominick's heart thrummed with excitement. This was the moment he'd been waiting for. He would either be disappointed by another assignment from the Home Office or elated to be assigned abroad once again.

Mrs. Brightmore said quietly, “I hope it is all you wish for.”

“Indeed,” murmured O'Connell.

They all knew his situation and that this small-scale home assignment, for him, had been intended as a demotion. As professional exile. Perhaps at last his superiors would forgive him for Tryphena's death, though he would never forgive himself.

Breaking the seal, he opened his orders and read.

A
smile broke across his face and he exhaled, his cheeks warmed by a rush of happiness and relief. Hot, fiery pride coursed through his veins.

At last, his superiors had seen fit to return him to foreign secret service. Even more important, his new role was as prestigious as any he had occupied before his fall from grace, proof that he had regained their trust and respect.

Since then he had suffered such self-doubt and, yes, shame over the mistake he would live with for the rest of his life. Perhaps now, at last, he could forgive himself. Perhaps now, at last, he could be free. Tonight, he turned a page.

God, he felt like he was a hundred feet tall.

He felt like a ferocious, swaggering dragon and that if he dared throw open the window to roar his satisfaction to the city of London, the sound just might be accompanied by a blazing stream of flames.

Life, at last, felt bloody good.

“I can see from your reaction that you will be going abroad again. Congratulations are in order. Well deserved!” exclaimed O'Connell, gripping his shoulder.

“Very good.” Mrs. Brightmore clasped her hands in front of her apron. “I'm so happy for you, Mr. Kincraig.”

They would not, of course, press for further details. As professionals, they knew better than to do so. As required, Dominick tossed his orders into the fire.

“As are we all,” said Mr. Ollister, grinning. “But there is little time for celebration. Let us all return to our duties—that is, except for you, Mr. Kincraig. Enjoy your last evening in London before you are returned to the jaws of danger.”

“Which, as we all know, is precisely where you wish to be,” said O'Connell with a wink. “The earl is waiting.”

After confirming his orders had burned to nothing, Dominick continued on to the earl's private chambers.

Wolverton sat in his wheeled bath chair beside the window, dressed in his finest for the ball. Seeing him sitting there so dignified, with his kind eyes twinkling in welcome, Dominick suddenly found himself at a loss for words, and his chest grew tight.

Something about the moment made him think of his own father, from whom he had long ago become estranged. They had never been close—his father always far too busy to trouble himself with the company of children. Then once Dominick had reached a certain age where he could see the world through his own eyes and make his own opinions, everything had truly fallen apart. There had been terrible disagreements over
responsibility
. Endless silences. And always the expectation that he, and only he, should change. Things had only gotten worse after he'd become a man.

Yet he knew he would look back on this time and remember each moment with Wolverton as a treasure. Dominick, who had felt so lowered—so
humiliated
—at being demoted to a security detail had learned so much from the man with whose safety he had been charged, about loyalty, and honor and pride. Looking back on the past two years, he could feel nothing but gratefulness for the time he'd spent with the earl.

He crossed the room and joined Wolverton at the window. The panes had been pushed open and a pleasant breeze wafted through, carrying in the scent of flowers from the window boxes. Below, carriages crowded the street and elegantly turned out guests proceeded to the door.

“And so, it is time for us to say good-bye,” said His Lordship.

Dominick bowed his head. “Yes, my lord. I depart tomorrow.”

“Very good then.” The old man smiled up at him, his eyes warm with admiration. “We have spent a lot of time together, you and I.”

“Indeed we have.”

“I just want you to know that this old man has enjoyed your company,” the earl said quietly. “Our conversations and your humor. I find myself regretting that we must say farewell.” He tilted his head forward. “Not because I wish you to remain here in your official capacity. I know you are capable of much greater things. But I have come to consider you as my friend.”

On this, his last night in London, there were no words Dominick would rather hear. They bolstered his pride, and he knew he would remember them in the challenging and exciting days to come.

“I am honored, my lord, and feel the same.”

The earl smiled. “I know this assignment was not your first choice and that you are eager to return to more exciting pursuits.”

“Spy games have always been my true calling.” Just speaking the words aloud sent a ripple of excitement through Dominick's blood.

Wolverton chuckled, lifting a wrinkled hand that bore a gold and onyx ring that had once been deeply etched but had been worn smooth by wear and time. “There was a time when I played a few of those games myself.”

“So I have been told. You are quite the legend.”

The earl chuckled, clearly delighted by the compliment, but then his smile dwindled. “My only regret is if my actions somehow placed my family in any sort of danger, resulting in this need for protection.” A deep sadness came into the earl's eyes, and Dominick knew he was thinking about the son and grandson who had died such untimely deaths.

“Yes, my lord, but we don't know that.”

The earl nodded. “I just want you to know how very much I have appreciated your devotion to myself and my family. I thank the Lord every day your particular skills were not needed, but I must admit I slept more peacefully at night knowing you, along with O'Connell, Mrs. Brightmore, and Mr. Ollister, were there to protect us.”

“Thank you for saying so, my lord.”

“Would you care for a parting brandy?” He nodded toward a small cabinet. “Oh, forgive me—I momentarily forgot that despite your very skilled portrayal of a drunkard, you never—”

“Never touch the stuff.” Dominick nodded.

“Well, then. Godspeed, young man, and good-bye.”

“Stay there, out of sight!” Sophia instructed over her shoulder, before again looking out over the guests who crowded the cavernous vestibule and beyond, into the wide corridor that led to the ballroom. “Mother will give the signal.”

Clarissa stood at the top of the staircase, with her sisters and eight of her dearest friends, each of whom held wreaths covered in flowers. Well, six of her dearest friends and two Aimsley sisters because her mother had quite insisted, even though they were the worst gossips, but their grandfather had been such a dear friend of Lord Wolverton's in earlier times. They all clustered about her, in a happy crush of silk, perfume, and flower petals.

“Everything is so lovely, Clarissa.”

“We're having such a wonderful time.”

“I can't wait until the dancing starts.”

“What a wonderful way to end the season.”

 Daphne gestured. “Ladies, it's time.”

Sophia quickly lined them up into the order they'd agreed upon. In the ballroom, the orchestra began to play. Each of the young ladies held her wreath and made her way toward the stairs, smiling down over an admiring crowd gone suddenly silent. The moment was just as Clarissa had imagined. The first two ladies began their descent.

Clarissa asked Sophia, “Do you think the wreaths and the procession and the carpet are too much?” She looked down under their feet, where the pink carpet radiated pinkness back at her. What a perfect hue. She didn't want to be pretentious, but at the same time, she'd wanted to do something different. The grand finale of the evening would be her engagement.

The duchess chuckled. “Don't be silly. It's your night. Besides, I had twelve attendants, in case you've forgotten, and they were all wearing those ridiculous ostrich plumes.” She winked.

Clarissa moved to take her place on the landing, and the crowd, seeing her, murmured in admiration. In response, a flush moved up her neck, into her cheeks. Her mother and grandfather waited at the bottom of the stairs, their faces beaming up at her, and everyone else, but…

She tried to be discreet as she searched the guests' faces, and searched them again.

“Where is Quinn?” she murmured, and she paused on the step. She couldn't very well descend the stairs if her fiancé-to-be was not even in the room to see her. But her sisters urged her to follow her attendants down the steps, and she complied.

“Who did you say you were looking for?” said Daphne, from where she followed just behind.

Again her gaze swept the room. Had he been delayed? Her blush of happiness turned to one of disappointment. Why wasn't he here?

“Did you say Lord Quinn?” said the eldest Aimsley sister, Elspeth, glancing over her shoulder.

“I didn't actually
say
Quinn—” She'd only barely murmured it, more like a whisper to herself. Her chest tightened. She hated fibs, even small ones. They made her feel terribly guilty and like a sneak. “But now that you mention him, why wouldn't he be here when he and all the rest of his family replied that would attend?”

The younger Aimsley, Ancilla, turned and said, “I don't know about the rest of them, but he won't be coming, of course. He married Emily FitzKnightley this afternoon, and they are already off on their honeymoon.”

Clarissa's heart stopped beating.

“That can't be true,” she mumbled, her lips numb. She gripped the banister and replayed the words in her head, certain she'd misheard or misunderstood. Blood pounded in her ears, so thunderously she could hardly hear. “Wouldn't we all have known?”

“They married by special license. It came as a surprise to everyone. We ought to know, we are Emily's cousins and served as her bridesmaids.”

Elspeth and Ancilla laughed gaily and continued down the stairs, leaving her exposed to the collective attention of the crowd looking up from below. Clarissa's cheeks burned and her face felt locked in its shocked expression.

“Wait,” she whispered. “I don't think…I don't think I can…”

“Clarissa, what are you waiting for?” Sophia nudged her from behind. “Everyone's waiting. It's your turn to go down. Straighten up and smile.”

Clarissa did stop whispering. Indeed, she stopped everything, as a rush of dizziness pushed through her. That night in the garden. Quinn's kisses…his touch. The words and promises they'd spoken. And now he had married someone else? It couldn't be true.

And yet she knew it was.

The chandelier above the staircase seemed to…twist and spin on its chain. The faces around her veered close, as if magnified with a looking glass, and then—in a blink—became distant. She swallowed and shook her head, attempting to regain control over herself, to no avail.

“I'm so sorry, but suddenly I—” she murmured, swaying forward…then to the side, her arms and legs trembling as if from a sudden fever.

“Clarissa?” inquired Daphne, touching a hand to her elbow.

The world pitched—flipping upside down in an ugly tangle of silk, feminine squeals, and pink.

Dominick read the Aimsley girl's lips and saw Clarissa's face go white. Damn it. That she should find out the news of Quinn, there on the stairs in front of everyone.

He watched, helpless and separated by a sea of people, as Clarissa wavered, then went limp. The room erupted with shouts and screams.

He didn't think twice, he just reacted, pushing through the crowd to where she lay amidst a tangle of flowers and feminine limbs, her face pale and eyes closed. Her sisters, who had been behind her, rushed down the stairs calling her name. Gathering her up in his arms, he lifted her, sweeping her away, past Claxton and Havering and Raikes who had rushed forward as well, down the hall.

Was she hurt? He couldn't tell. If not, she had to be more than humiliated. For a tender girl with such big hopes and dreams to take such a public fall, on such an important night…

Bloody hell, he felt responsible. After meeting with the earl, there'd been no opportunity to speak to Havering, no chance to ensure she would be prepared for the unfortunate news she was bound to hear.

Lady Margaretta followed. “Clarissa?”

“Tell her…I'm fine,” Clarissa pleaded against his neck, her voice thick and her words barely discernible. Her gloved hand curled into his coat collar, and she burrowed more tightly against him. He clenched his teeth, wanting only to make the moment and every miserable emotion she must be feeling disappear at once.

“She is well, I believe,” he called back, twisting round halfway. “She must have fainted from the excitement.”

Her Ladyship nodded and paused midstep with her hands raised. “I shall come straightaway after seeing to the other girls. I pray no one has been injured!”

Dominick carried her into a small sitting room, where he deposited her—or attempted to deposit her—on a small settee. Her arms seized his neck.

“Let go, Clarissa.”

“No,” she retorted, her voice thick with tears.

“You're strangling me.”

She held even tighter and sobbed into his shirt. “For once…j-j-just be a gentleman, please, and suffer through.”

Knowing not what else to do, he simply sat with her there clinging to him, trying very hard not to notice how disturbingly soft and warm and perfect she felt, because that would serve absolutely no useful purpose at all.

Fox rushed in. “Is she all right?”

Thank God. He had no intention of being Clarissa's savior. That honor ought to belong to someone else. Someone permanent in her life.

“Take her, please?” Dominick asked, hands raised imploringly behind her back.

Fox took one step toward them, as if intent on complying, but just then Clarissa's sisters and their husbands arrived, pushing the young lord off to the side.

“Oh, Clarissa,” exclaimed Daphne, rushing toward them, arms outstretched. “I'm so sorry.”

Sophia pressed close as well, touching a gentle hand to her sister's tousled curls, and bending low to murmur near her ear, “Did you slip? Or did you faint? I couldn't see, dear, because I was standing behind you.”