The Notorious Scoundrel (20 page)

He’d almost asked her the daft question. In truth, it didn’t matter whom she set her cap on, for
he
would never be one of her suitors. He was a former pirate. He wasn’t good enough for the woman.

“Cry off,” he suggested.

“I can’t.” She balled her fingers around the chair. “It’s complicated, Edmund. I’ve been away from society for so long, folks view me with suspicion. A respectable
match will assure my standing in good society, but if I cry off, I’ll disgrace my parents, especially my father, who made the betrothal contract. I’ll be branded a jilt, too.”

“I understand,” he said gruffly, her words sinking into his skin like sharpened teeth. He looked at her thoughtfully. “I’m sorry you’re unhappy, lass.”

She quieted and shrugged. “I might not be for very long.”

“Do you intend to poison your fiancé?”

“No.”

“I won’t breathe a word of it, I promise.”

She huffed. “I’m
not
going to poison him.”

“Pity.”

She glared at him. After a short pause, she said, hesitant, “I have another idea.”

That she was scheming to be rid of the marquis livened his heart, warmed his blood, and while some other coxcomb might woo her one day, he’d enjoy the subterfuge for a time—even if it offered him false hope. “What is it?”

“If the marquis’s reputation is publicly tarnished, my father will break the betrothal contract; he’ll insist I
not
marry the lord, and no one will think ill of me for obliging him. After all, I can’t be expected to wed an unrespectable gentleman.”

He snorted at her mettle. She’d acquired the manipulative traits of every other gentlewoman in society, so her marriage to the marquis seemed a pointless front to Edmund; she
was
a proper lady.

“And how do you intend to tarnish his reputation?”

“I can make a past indiscretion public. Anonymously, of course. Once the tale’s printed in the scandal sheets, I’m free.”

“Oh?”

“I know it sounds hypocritical. I lived as Zarsitti for three years; I’ve my own past indiscretions to hide, but I
can’t
wed him. Besides, he’s a man. A marquis! He’ll endure the gossip without discomfort.”

“I’m not judging you, Amy.”

“You judged me last night,” she countered with spirit, her green eyes bright. “You thought me a selfish harlot, admit it.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, the muscles taut. “I was angry with you.”

She humphed. “Well, I’m not, you know.”

He looked at her bottom lip, pouting. “I know.” After a short pause: “Well, what’s the indiscretion?”

She lowered her voice. “I’m not sure. I followed him today.”

“Where?”

“A small churchyard on the outskirts of Town. It’s also where I first spotted the attackers. There’s a grave there with a pair of doves etched into the marker and the letters RUD.”

There was a growing warmth in his belly. “You’re learning to read?”

“I am, but I’ve still more to learn.” She pushed a lock of loose hair behind her ear. “The deceased is twenty
years of age and he or she is buried in unconsecrated ground.”

“Really?”

She nodded. “The grave means a lot to the marquis.”

“And you hope to unearth some salacious gossip about it?”

“I don’t
want
to hurt him,” she contended, her cheeks a deep rose. “But I don’t see any other way out.”

He stroked the back of his head, disorderly thoughts stomping through his skull. “Fine. Let me take care of it.”

She looked at him with wide eyes. “The grave?”

“The grave. The bandits. Everything.”

“Edmund—”

Quincy entered the dining room; he opened the door without rapping on the wood, breathless, as if he’d sprinted through the streets.

“Anything?” from Edmund.

“It’s clear.” Quincy then glanced at Amy. “You’re safe.”

She sighed. “For now.”

And always.

Edmund turned toward his brother. “Take her home, Quincy.”

The pup nodded.

Amy gathered her reticule, her eyes alert, probing. “What are you going to do, Edmund?”

“First, I’m going to muzzle the hounds chasing after you.”

T
he low candlelight, the soft furnishings ensnared the senses. It was easy to dream at the Pleasure Palace. It was easy to imagine a shapely figure, out-fitted in sensuous silks, dancing across the platform, gyrating its hip bones, undulating its waist in rhythm to the haunting drumbeats.

“Mr. Hawkins.”

Edmund shifted his gaze away from the stage area. He eyed Madame Rafaramanjaka as she slowly approached him, swinging her voluptuous hips in a lush ensemble of fine green glacé silk.

“How charming to see you again,” she said in a throaty voice as she joined him at the corner table: the same corner table where he’d first set eyes on Zarsitti. “You wished to speak with me?”

“Good evening, Madame Rafaramanjaka.”

She folded her smooth hands, wove her fingers together, and rested them on the table’s polished surface. “And to what do I owe the honor of your visit?”

“I’d like you to call off your hounds.”

She lifted a dark, slender brow. “I beg your pardon?”

In an idle manner, he skimmed his eyes across the thinly populated gentlemen’s club. “It’s quiet here tonight.” He looked at the shrewd queen again, her features aglow. “Isn’t Zarsitti scheduled to perform?”

“Zarsitti doesn’t perform here anymore,” she returned tightly. “She’s been kidnapped by a Turkish sheik. I’m working on retrieving her from the harem.”

“Hmm…without the dancer, you’re operating just another whorehouse—and not a very popular one at that.”

The woman’s lips soured. “What do you want, Mr. Hawkins?”

“You must be very angry with Lady Amy for deserting you.”

“Who?”

“I’m sure you read the papers…Your Highness.”

She narrowed her black eyes on him. “You’re the bitch’s lover, aren’t you?” She firmed her fists. “I hope she slowly roasts in hell. She abandoned me, the ungrateful harlot.”

“She’s the daughter of a duke.”

“She’s a slut! And she left me without a show. I’m still training her replacement. It’ll take the new girl many more months to learn all the seductive dances.”

“I’m sure it will,” he drawled. “I’m also sure you’d like nothing better than to see Lady Amy suffer for it.”

“That’s right,” she said succinctly.

He glowered at her. “Well, that’s why I’m here. Call off your hounds.”

“Is the whore in trouble?” She smiled. “How marvelous.”

“If you hurt her,” he said with a darkened expression, “I’ll see you hang.”

The woman’s eyes flashed. A dark fire burned in the murky pools. “I’d like nothing better than to see the tart dead, but I’m not willing to hang for the pleasure.” She lifted from her seat and leaned over the table. “I’ve sent no hounds after her. I don’t hate the slut enough to burn alongside her, Mr. Hawkins.”

Slowly the dethroned queen sauntered away.

Edmund stared after her curvy figure, frowning. The deceitful woman refused to admit her involvement with the attackers. The arrogant, narcissistic queen might cherish her neck, but she possessed a wicked, vengeful spirit, too. She’d orchestrated the threat against Amy, he was sure. But how was he going to prove it?

Edmund departed the Pleasure Palace in brisk strides and headed through the Covent Garden district. He passed through Bow Street, making his way toward Anne Street, where he entered an apartment structure. On the third floor, he located the proper loft door and pounded on it with his fist.

In a few moments, the barrier opened, and Edmund swaggered inside the room, disgruntled.

“I need a favor, John.”

The investigator yawned and closed the door. “Didn’t I already do you a favor?”

As Edmund folded his arms across his chest, he leaned against the wall. “What do you do when you know someone’s guilty of a crime but you don’t have enough evidence to prove it?”

“What’s going on, Eddie?” He scratched his head, somnolent. “Are you in trouble?”

Amy was in trouble, at the mercy of bandits, but it was their “employer” who really posed a threat, for if the attackers were apprehended, there was nothing preventing the queen from hiring more cutthroats to torment the lass.

“Just tell me, John.”

John rubbed his eyes. “Look for more evidence, I guess.”

Edmund frowned. “I’m not in the mood for jests.”

“Nor am I. What time is it, anyway?”

“I don’t know.” Edmund stalked across the room, restless. “Well?”

“Why don’t you just beat a confession out of your suspect?”

“I can’t.”

“Why?”

“It’s a woman.”

The investigator lifted a curious brow. “Are you going to tell me what this is about, Eddie?”

“No.”

John stroked his chin, then sighed. “Well, what’s your suspect’s motive?”

“Revenge,” he returned succinctly. “And why were
you
so sure the footman from the dowager Lady Steven
son’s estate had nabbed the family jewels? You didn’t even have the baubles in your custody at the time.”

“There were too many coincidences.” He shrugged. “It was logical to assume the footman had discarded the jewels to protect himself.”

That was Edmund’s trouble, too. It was too great a coincidence, the circumstances between Amy’s attackers and the Pleasure Palace: a coincidence he wasn’t able to ignore. But coincidence wasn’t akin to proof.

“What about another suspect?” suggested John. “Can the clues point to a different villain?”

Edmund pinched his brows in contemplation. Another suspect? He mulled over the prospect that the attackers were working independently of a master, but he quickly dismissed the idea, for it implied the bumbling cutthroats were savvy enough to orchestrate an abduction on their own.

Could one of the guards at the Pleasure Palace be involved? But what would be the man’s motive? Greed? Did he think to sell Amy to a real Turkish sheik? Edmund doubted the athletic yet dim-witted sentries capable of formulating such a complicated plan. And there was still the matter of Amy’s anonymity. She had always veiled her features and painted her eyes to protect her true identity. The attackers knew her as the lowly dancer from the city’s rookeries. How had they discovered she was Lady Amy, the Duke of Estabrooke’s daughter?

Someone
had
to have informed the attackers about
her true heritage…and every bit of evidence pointed to the queen.

“No,” said Edmund with confidence. “I’m certain it’s her.”

John scratched his belly. “Follow her, then. If she’s engaged in criminal activity, catch her in the act.”

Madame Rafaramanjaka was too shrewd to be prowling the streets at night, hunting Amy, hence she’d hired the attackers to hound the lass. She’d not associate with the brutes again, he was sure. He had to find some other way to implicate the cruel woman.

“That won’t work, either.”

John chuckled in a hoarse voice. “Why don’t you do what I do when I’m flummoxed…sleep on it?”

Edmund sighed, disgruntled. “Not yet, I’m afraid. I’ve still a cemetery to visit.”

The shouts from the rowers mixed with the babbling ladies and trilling birds, the mesh of vivacious voices such a contrast to the quiet sunset.

The riverside terrace at Mortlake was brimming with an evening tea party. Amy observed the enchanting parkland from her seat at the table. She twirled her parasol between her fingers as she admired the glowing sun, sinking behind the arched bridge. The water shimmered like liquid fire, the ripples like small flames. Boats glided across the surface, dark silhouettes against the brilliant backdrop.

“Is everything all right, my dear?”

“Yes, Mama,” said Amy. “It’s a beautiful summer night, isn’t it? I think I’ll take a turn through the grounds.”

The duchess smiled. “Don’t soil your dress.”

Amy chuckled. She was one-and-twenty years of age and yet her mother persisted in treating her like a child. She didn’t mind, though. She had to make up for fifteen years of missed coddling.

Amy excused herself from the gaggle of matrons. She strolled the terrace in harmony with the cool breeze that floated off the river, stirring her pristine white hemline. She descended a series of stone steps, leading toward the well-hewed turf. As she passed between the noble trees, she searched the terrain for the marquis. He was at the tea party, too, trolling the grounds. She soon spotted his solitary figure.

Amy paused. She observed the morose man as he stared at the sunset in silent contemplation. She had learned his secret at last. It was a sad tale; he hadn’t a tainted past worthy of the scandal sheets. And his “indiscretion” was a matter of opinion. It’d disturbed her father, an elitist, but it had saddened Amy.

As she spied the lonely lord, she reflected upon her own bitter, turbulent past. A more compassionate tactic might suit her aims better. If she appealed to his heart, she might get
him
to end their engagement, instead.

She gathered her composure and slowly approached the brooding figure.

He turned his head slightly. “Do you grow tired of the gossip, Lady Amy?” He looked back at the sunset.
“I’m afraid that doesn’t bode well for your future as a marchioness.”

She stilled beside him. “And what qualities should the future Marchioness of Gravenhurst possess, my lord?”

“She should be of good stock, prideful, manipulative…a gossip.”

“I’m afraid I won’t make you a very fine wife, then.”

He glanced at her sidelong. In the burning twilight, his gold eyes sparkled red. “I think you have your father’s blood.”

She looked away from him, suppressed a creeping chill. What did her father have to do with her being a good wife?

Confounded, she pressed on with “I can’t even read.”

“I’m aware of your defects,” he said tersely. He folded his hands behind his back. “But your faults won’t prevent our wedding.”

“And what will?” she wondered, trembling.

He returned quietly, firmly, “Nothing.”

Her heart shuddered. “We are not suited, my lord.”

“I’m not concerned with our suitability, Lady Amy.”

“But you didn’t even
want
to marry me a few months ago; I heard you tell my father so in the study.”

He shrugged. “I’ve changed my mind. I’ve decided to honor my duty. And I suggest you do the same.” He peeked at her askance, his eyes seedy. “I’ll not take too
kindly to being jilted, Lady Amy. In truth, I’ll be
very
displeased.”

She frowned at the veiled threat, her skin warming, yet she resisted quarreling with the unpleasant man. He was a wounded soul, she reminded herself. He had suffered,
still
suffered. She might reach his heart yet.

“You must see that’s impossible, my lord.” She looked at the distant terrace, at her beloved mother. “I’d disgrace my family.”

“Even if it means losing your lover?”

She stiffened at the murmured words and blushed at the memory of the marquis’s inappropriate regard that night in the garden. He had peeped at her and Edmund, ogled their most intimate encounter. It roiled her blood, the recollection.

“I don’t have a lover,” she returned in a stiff voice.

He chortled; the vibrato rattled like chains. “There’s no need to be missish, my lady. I’ve already told you, I won’t stand in the way of true love…you do love Mr. Hawkins, don’t you?”

Amy’s heart cramped. She firmed her muscles, pinched her lips to keep the marquis
out
of her soul. He was rummaging through her innermost reflections, and she bristled at the thought that he’d pried into her most private ruminations.

“I’ve been away for fifteen years,” she said tightly. “Do you want me to cause my parents even more pain?”

“I care nothing for your parents’ feelings!”

The savageness in his voice disarmed her, and she blinked. “There is compassion in you, I know it.”

“Do not fool yourself,” he said brusquely as he stepped in front of her, glaring. “You will be very disappointed.”

“You have a heart, Gravenhurst,” she insisted, and clutched the parasol with greater vim. “Call off the betrothal and spare us both a lifetime of misery.”

“I am already miserable.” He eyed her with fierce, piercing regard. “My life will not change for having you as my wife…and I’ve not a heart for you to milk, Lady Amy.”

“Yes, you do.” She maintained her poise even as he blustered and her heartbeats increased. “You’ve concealed it well, but I know you have it…I’ve seen it.”

“What do you think you have seen?” he drawled in a low voice.

Amy licked her lips. “I saw you at the cemetery…a-at Ruby’s grave.”

He quickly rotated his heavy form and presented her with his towering backside. She spied his knotted fingers at his rear, the appendages white. The man’s wide shoulders ballooned as he swallowed deep mouthfuls of air.

Amy sagely waited for him to gather his composure. She had received word from Edmund about the grave at the outskirts of Town. She had misread the letters in her ignorance, and the “RUD” was, in truth, the start of “RUBY”: a Miss Ruby Duncan.

“I know you loved her,” she said softly. “I know she ended her own life and you’re grieved by her loss, so have mercy—”

Amy shrieked and dropped the parasol as two fists came at her. He slammed his knuckles into the rough bark behind her head, blood spurting from the wounds; she sensed the light spray on her cheeks.

“If you utter one more foul word, I’ll rake my knuckles over your teeth.”

She trembled, pinned between his snarling features and the tree. She wanted to scream. She glanced at the terrace and the coterie of females engaged in gossip. If she screamed, it’d cause a scandal. She pinched her quivering lips before she attracted their attentions, her heart in her throat, constricting her airway.

“Never,” he growled. “Never again.”

He pegged her with a black expression. Tears welled in her eyes. She struggled with her gibbering thoughts, her harried breath. She ached with a stiffness in her bones as she girded her muscles in anticipation of the madman’s savage blows.

“Never say her name in my presence, you cursed, wretched spawn!”

Amy swallowed her tears, choked on them. She flinched as he pressed his bloody thumb across her cheek, smearing the warm fluid.