The Heart of a Scoundrel (7 page)

The whispery soft quality of Miss Phoebe Barrett’s voice slipped into his mind. Now she occupied his thoughts for entirely different reasons. Her sultry tones were best reserved for wicked games upon satin bedsheets and a familiar stirring of lust struck him. Edmund strode down the handful of steps to his waiting carriage.

The liveried driver yanked the door open.

“Home,” he commanded in clipped tones. He climbed inside and sat upon the crimson squabs. The door closed with a firm click behind him and then the carriage dipped with the young driver scrambling atop his box. A moment later, the black lacquer conveyance rocked into motion. He peeled back the edge of the curtain and peered out at the passing unfashionable, seedy streets. He’d long preferred the sordid London hells to the respectable, polite White’s and Brooke’s. The world of dark and deception was, at least, sincere in what it represented unlike the façade of polite, wedded lords and ladies who’d simultaneously gasp with outrage at the fabric of a person’s garments while taking their pleasure with another.

He considered his meeting with Lord Waters. The greed and desperation gleaming in the man’s eyes indicated he’d do anything and everything Edmund required of him. Though this particular meeting had proven useless, avarice was a powerful motivator. What the old, fat letch didn’t know of Miss Fairfax, he soon would.

From the crystal windowpane, his evilly grinning visage stared back at him. An unsought-after creature such as Phoebe Barrett would welcome any hint of attention bestowed upon her. No, it would take no effort at all for a scoundrel like Edmund to slip through her defenses so he might, in turn, ruin her friend.

The carriage continued to rattle down the cobbled roads. His smile dissolved into a scowl. However, the lady he intended to bind himself to had proven herself suitably guarded and cynical. Such a woman was the perfect match for an emotionless bastard like him. How ironical to find he preferred the idea of bedding that prattling lady with her well-rounded buttocks presented on Lord Delenworth’s balustrade, all the more.

His carriage rocked to a slow stop before his fashionable Mayfair townhouse. He didn’t await his coachman’s assistance, instead he shoved the door open and jumped out. With purposeful steps, he strode down the pavement and up the stairs of the white townhouse. His butler, an older man with white hair, pulled the door open.

“Lord Rutland,” he greeted. Despite his stooped and aged form, he sketched a flawless bow.

He frowned. “Wallace,” he said tersely. “I told you, you needn’t bow,” he snapped as the old servant closed the door behind him.

A twinkle lit the man’s rheumy blue eyes. “It is good for my constitution.”

Edmund snorted and shrugged out of his cloak. Wallace held his hand out. He eyed the gnarled fingers and thick, dark green veins jutting at the top of the man’s hand. The loyal servant should have retired twenty years ago. Sheer pride and no small amount of obstinance kept him at his post. Edmund had offered him a sizeable pension at some point ten years ago, and continued to present the offer, but the man refused. Edmund suspected the old, withered figure would die at the damned doorway.

Wallace followed his gaze and cleared his throat. “It’s merely the cool weather,” he confided.

Edmund released his cloak into those ancient hands. Tightening his jaw, he said nothing. It was age and rheumatism. He’d not debate the merits on the man keeping his position at this late hour. He started up the winding, white marble staircase.

“I understand you’ve begun attending respectable events, my lord?”

Alas, old, bold, and mouthy Wallace had little point in allowing Edmund his much-welcomed, solitary presence. “You learned long ago I don’t answer questions,” he said with far more patience than the man deserved. Edmund didn’t answer to anyone. Cheeky servants. Cloying mistresses. Eager young ladies with a taste for darkness. Powerful peers. He owed nothing to anyone.

Edmund reached the top landing and turned down the corridor, making his way to his office, the vexing Wallace forgotten. He stopped beside his sanctuary and pressed the door handle, stepping inside the ominous room. He closed the door behind him and locked it, welcoming the hum of quiet and the eerie shadows that danced off the plaster walls. This room, once belonging to his father, held many dark memories. He’d learned long ago to embrace those memories. They’d shaped him into the man he’d become, driven all weakness from him, and transformed him into the cold, powerful nobleman who roused terror in the hearts of most. How many years had he spent despising his parents for the pain of his past? Yet, his selfish parents had shaped him. Strengthened him in a way that he could not be hurt. That was the greatest gift they could have ever given, not that useless sentiment people called love.

He strode over to his desk and settled into the familiar folds of his winged back chair—his only addition to the office. This was his. The single piece of dark leather furniture represented his conquering of the old, long-dead marquess’ hold—upon this room, and more, his hold upon Edmund. With deliberate movements, he pulled open the top drawer and removed his leather folio. He flipped open the book and shuffled through pages.

Lord Exeter. Weakness Faro and French mistresses. Debt one thousand pounds.

He flipped to the next.

Lord Donaldson. Weakness diddling his servants. Whist. Debt country cottage in Devonshire.

He skimmed the following names and then stuck his finger in the book to halt the pages turning.

Miss Honoria Fairfax?

He picked up a pen and dipped it into the crystal inkwell and added one more name.

Miss Phoebe Barrett.

Edmund proceeded to mark notes upon the pages of his leather folio and then sat back in his seat. The lady’s weakness was her friends, and that weakness would guide him to Miss Fairfax, the woman he’d ruin and wed. Last night, he’d seen Miss Phoebe Barrett as a vexing interference in his plans for another woman. After he’d taken his leave of her, however, he’d realized the serendipitous meeting with the too-trusting miss. With her regard for Honoria Fairfax, Phoebe would ultimately aid him in his quest for revenge.

His attention should be devoted to the woman he’d make his marchioness, and yet… He drummed his fingertips on the arms of his chair, studying the most recent addition to his folio. Phoebe remained firmly entrenched in his thoughts, for reasons that did not have anything to do with revenge. No, it had to do with her lithe frame and well-rounded buttocks.

With a growl, he forcibly thrust back thoughts of the woman and focused on Honoria Fairfax, whom he’d gathered little about. By her lineage alone, he knew she was surely a title-grasping, scheming miss who’d part her legs and sell her soul for the title of duchess. After all, hadn’t he himself been cut of the same cheap fabric as his sire? He’d little doubt Miss Fairfax was any different than her mother. The muscles of his stomach clenched. Or her aunt.

Edmund drew in a slow, steadying breath, detesting the slight showing of weakness that proved Margaret’s defection still rankled. Ah, Margaret. The lady who’d won his heart and made his twenty-one year old self believe he could know love when his parents had not. The hopefully optimistic, lovesick swain had merely been a two-month interlude from reality. For in the end, she’d chosen another—a duke. A now dead duke. And Edmund had become that which he’d always be—an emotionally deadened, heartless scoundrel who took his pleasures where he would. He trained his eyes on the name of Margaret’s niece. Then eight years later, she returned from her period of mourning and the foolish hope he’d not known he carried that she’d come to him had died. She’d returned to London and chosen another. Again.

He had little doubt she’d come to regret that decision. An ugly laugh rumbled up from his chest. He closed his folio.

S
eated on the comfortable ivory cushion of the parlor windowseat, Phoebe studied the street below. Her books on Captain Cook’s explorations lay scattered at her feet, untouched since her world had been thrown into upheaval. Lords and ladies walked arm-in-arm while carriages rattled by. She absently played with the cashmere textured dupioni curtains thinking of another slip of cashmere—an object retrieved by a mysterious gentleman. The same gentleman who’d kissed her. Her first kiss. Quick, because she’d ended it. Hot, because, even now, warmth swirled in her belly in remembrance of it. And she’d insulted him. Because for as much as he’d insisted on being captivated by her beauty, she knew what she was and what she looked like and was quite comfortable in that. A gentleman who possessed such luxuriant, chestnut hair with tones of black, and brown eyes the color of warmed chocolate did not…well…he did not go about kissing ladies such as she.

And ladies such as she, who’d taken care to protect her name, virtue, and respectability since she’d learned the extent of her father’s vile ways and the words whispered about him, and their entire family. She had pledged to never be so enticed by a gentleman who might go about kissing her. She dropped her head back against the wall.

“What has you so quiet, my dear?”

A startled shriek escaped her at the sudden, unexpected appearance of her oft-smiling mother. “Mother,” she greeted the gentle-spirited woman who’d been all things good and loving to her children, when their father had been absent and, oftentimes, vicious with his words. She swung her legs over the edge of her seat and made to rise, but her mother waved her off.

“Do not bother yourself. Not on my account,” she said softly and slid into the seat beside her.” She glanced down at the books Phoebe had abandoned reading a long while ago. “You’re not reading,” she said it with a faint accusatory edge underscoring her words. She bent and retrieved one of the books and held it up, as though there might be a question as to what books she referred to.

“No. I’m…just… thinking.”
About a gentleman, a stranger, who stole into the gardens and has since captured my thoughts.

Her mother lowered the book of travels onto her lap. “You?” she scoffed. “Unable to think of traveling?” Yes, for as horrid and uncaring and all things unfeeling as Papa was, her mother had long been devoted to each of her children’s interests. When other mothers would have burned the pages of works that documented the journeys of powerful, brave, and bold explorers, her mother had given Phoebe her own pin money so she could read more and learn more. “What, nothing to say?” her mother prodded, bringing her back to the moment. A twinkle lit her kindly blue eyes. “Only one thing can account for this sudden, inexplicable inability to read, as you are wont to do.”

Please do not say it.

“You’ve met a gentleman.”

She’d said it.

Phoebe glanced away from the smiling question in her mother’s eye. “No.” Even as the word left her mouth, she realized how halfhearted the belated response was. “Yes,” she amended. Her mother’s eyebrows shot to her hairline. “Not in a way that was inappropriate.” Except, as soon as those words left her mouth, she recognized how damning they truly sounded. “Er…I dropped something and he retrieved it and…” She fell silent. Her mother continued to sit there, eying her in that knowing way. “But there’s not more there.” Other than her first kiss, which would be memorable to any lady regardless of whom the kissing gentleman was, or ever would be. “It was just a fortuitous meeting in which he rescued Honoria’s shawl,” she said, more to herself.

Her mother’s lips pulled up in the corner. Phoebe froze a moment wondering how a woman who lived an existence with a cad like the Viscount Waters as her husband should ever manage such a beautiful and alive smile. “It is never a chance meeting. There is no such thing,” she said with a widening smile.

How was the other woman able to smile? How could she do it so freely and sincerely and beautifully when she remained trapped in marriage to a vile reprobate? And more, how could she believe in the dream of love and romance for others, when life had so cruelly stolen the hope of those emotions from her?

Suddenly uncomfortable with thoughts about her mother’s marriage and Phoebe’s heart, she swallowed back the question that would only cause the other woman pain. A knock sounded at the door and she glanced up. From the entrance of the room, the butler cleared his throat. “Lady Gillian and Miss Honoria.” He sketched a respectful bow and backed out of the room.

Phoebe scrambled to her feet, never more glad for the sudden appearance of two people. These two people, particularly. The young ladies filed into the parlor like a pair of geese and dipped matching curtsies. “My lady,” they said in unison.

“Good morning, Gillian. Honoria.” Her mother greeted them with a smile and then a twinkle lit her eyes. No doubt she knew her daughter well enough to detect the relief at the young ladies’ interruption. With a quick kiss on Phoebe’s cheek, the older woman sailed from the room in a flurry of skirts.

Ever garrulous Gillian broke the silence. “Shall we be going? Honoria is not permitted to remain out long. She has—oomph.” Gillian glared at Honoria. “Did you kick me?”

“I daresay that should be fairly obvious,” Honoria muttered.

Phoebe looked questioningly between her friends.

When it became clear Honoria intended to say nothing else, Gillian explained. “It is Lord Thistlewait.” The gentleman in question had made no secret of his interest in Honoria. And Honoria had made no secret of her
disinterest
in that gentleman. Gillian skipped over and claimed a spot on the gold upholstered sofa. “I’ve heard horrid things of Lord Thistlewait,” she said on a conspiratorial whisper. “They say he is a stodgy bore.” Which in no way explained a priggish gentleman’s attention on one of the most notorious, unwed young ladies.

Honoria patted her brown curls. “I’ve not heard any
truly
ill thoughts on the gentleman.” She stifled a yawn with her fingers. “He is a bore.” She wrinkled her nose, ruining her whole affected attempt at maturity. “Which I would suppose constitutes an ill thought,” she muttered under her breath.