To Seduce a Scoundrel (4 page)

She stared up at him. “I can’t go back there.” Her voice was soft, tremulous.

He tugged her away from the wall, along the dark path toward the house. He cast a furtive glance behind them, but doubted the criminals would follow them into the garden and certainly not into the house.

He paused a moment to catch his breath. “We can’t go back that way.” In the dim light, he eyed her torn bodice. He grasped one edge. “Here, hold this up. We’ll go in through the scullery.”

Her eyes were wide, scared. “And then what?”

“There are gowns inside. We’ll get you a new dress and get out another way.” He eyed the streaks of blood on the lower part of her skirt. “If you’re not hurt, is all of that blood his?”

She nodded. “When he fell, he hit his head. He seemed to be unconscious, but then he began to moan and ask for help. I knelt and used my skirt to dab at the cut on his head. It was bleeding terribly.” Her voice quavered. “Then he grabbed me. He had a knife.” She pressed her bodice more tightly against her chest, and he saw that blood had seeped through her gloves to stain her hands.

He cringed, hating what he’d allowed to happen to her. Hating himself. “Will you come?”

She nodded again and walked beside him while he scanned the back of the house for a servant’s entrance. They passed beneath the terrace from whence came muted sounds of conversation and laughter. Finally, when they reached the other corner, there was a staircase leading down to the scullery.

Ambrose led the way, hoping they could sneak in unnoticed. He paused at the door and slowly eased it open. The scullery was empty save a cat curled up on a rug near the fireplace. Its ears pricked as he entered, but other than that the animal didn’t stir. He turned back and gestured for Philippa to follow.

She stepped inside and the firelight accentuated her pallor. And the blood caking her skirt. And the deep shivers wracking her frame. Another sharp stab of self-loathing.

He glanced around the scullery in search of a basin of water. Finding nothing, he went into the next room, the main kitchen, where two retainers were working. He spied a basin of water on a table in the corner.

His understanding was that guests at Lockwood House could request the private use of any room at any time. “Good evening,” he said, “I need this room for a few minutes.”

The retainers merely nodded and left. He turned back toward the scullery. “There’s water in here.”

Philippa came in, almost silently, her feet scarcely making a sound against the floor.

“It’s likely cold,” he said, but she had already submerged her blood-dappled hand. Ambrose found a cake of soap and gave it to her. She scrubbed mercilessly for at least a minute, the water turning a murky rust color as she worked.

Finally, she raised her hands. Ambrose searched for something with which she could dry them. His eyes lit on a scrap of toweling hanging from a hook. He crossed the room and grabbed it, then froze upon seeing a girl sleeping in the corner. She’d been hidden by a large worktable.

Lightly, he made his way back to Philippa. He handed her the towel then put his finger to his lips and gestured toward the sleeping girl.

The kitchen fire was low, but he tossed her ruined gloves on top of it anyway and poked them into the coals. They caught and burned.

He went to the basin and cleaned the blood off his hand. His injured knuckles burned as he scrubbed the abraded flesh. He contemplated their next move.

Lockwood House kept a large stock of gowns and other items of clothing. Guests often arrived here after attending other, more acceptable engagements and had need of altering their appearance. They were given cloaks to wear until they donned new costumes in one of Lockwood’s dressing chambers.

Ambrose didn’t know where any of these chambers were located, but he was aware of a room upstairs filled with a variety of props, including women’s gowns. He only prayed the chamber wasn’t currently in use.

He took Philippa’s hand as she clasped her bodice to her chest once more and led her up the back stairs. He paused on the landing at the top of the stairs. “What happened to your mask?”

“I dropped it. Out in the alley.” She glanced away.

Ambrose wanted to reassure her. “It’s all right. If we see someone, I’ll find a way to shield your identity.”

She looked up at him. Her eyes were hooded but held a touch of spark. “Am I to expect another kiss?”

Her tone was light, not derisive or accusatory. This had to be the worst thing that had ever happened to her and she hadn’t devolved into a hysterical fit. Quite the contrary. He was impressed. And perhaps even a bit charmed.

While kissing her had been quite pleasurable, he was in no position to indulge such fancy, and definitely not with a proper miss like her. Never with an innocent like her. “I’m certain we can avoid another kiss.”

He opened a door and led her into a corridor. He took a moment to get his bearing. He wasn’t precisely sure where the prop room was located, but it was rumored to be at the back of the house in the western wing. He turned left and motioned for her to follow. He worried she was still a bit too pale.

Sconces flickered at intervals along the corridor, casting long shadows over the rich cobalt-colored carpet running down the center. A moan floated on the air from behind a closed door. Ambrose glanced back at Philippa who stared at the door. Color flooded her cheeks.

The corridor branched right and left. Ambrose went left and immediately thrust Philippa against the wall as a couple walked toward them. He pressed against her to shield her from view. “Keep your head down,” he murmured.

Ambrose turned his head toward the wall, but not before the gentleman, Viscount Heresford, noted him. Heresford gave a half smile and inclined his head before continuing on.

Philippa rested her cheek against his chest, and though it was part of keeping her identity secret, the motion was sweet and trusting. “You could’ve kissed me again,” she said softly. “It was nice, actually.”

Ambrose couldn’t let her think he—or his kisses—were nice. He stepped back abruptly and turned. At the end of the corridor was a large, curved alcove with a door. He walked toward it without a word, knowing she’d follow.

Two chaises sat against the walls of the alcove—the famed waiting area for those who wanted to use the prop room. Ambrose slowed and quietly said, “There could be someone inside, in which case we’ll have to wait.”

“Why?”

There were many questions in that one word and he wasn’t sure which one she wanted answered, so he gave her just the information he thought she needed. “That room contains dresses.”

He tried the door handle but it was locked. A bell pull dangled to the left. Ambrose wasted no time in tugging it, though he was unsure what the result might be.

Behind them, a door—completely hidden in the wall—scratched open. A massively built footman stepped out. “My lord? Do you wish to watch?”

“No. And we don’t want to be watched either.” He glanced at Philippa, but her head was cast down, her gaze fixed on the carpet. “We’re waiting for our turn.”

The footman gave a quick nod. “The current occupants are just finishing up.”

“Do you have a mask we might use?” Ambrose asked.

“There are masks in the room, my lord.”

“Thank you,” Ambrose said, inclining his head in dismissal. The footman betrayed no reaction to Philippa’s torn and bloodied gown. He likely ignored just about everything he witnessed at Lockwood House. Which was doubly good since Philippa wasn’t masked.

She turned and sat on one of the chaises, keeping her head bent. Ambrose sat beside her, careful not to get too close. “You should turn away from the door.” She did as he instructed. “Just a bit further, toward the wall almost. Yes, that’s it.”

“He called you ‘my lord.’ Does he know who you are?”

Ambrose had also noticed that, but couldn’t imagine how the footman might recognize them. “I can’t fathom how. He probably addresses everyone that way.”

“Yes, though so far it seems as if only retainers have seen me. Presumably they have no idea who I am.”

He noted the hint of hope in her tone. “I’m sure you’re right. Just keep your face averted when the occupants leave the room.”

They were quiet a moment and then Ambrose couldn’t contain his regret another moment. “I’m sorry about what happened.” The apology was wholly inadequate, but it was all he had.

She kept her face toward the wall, but her eyes darted a glance at him. “Why was that Jagger person looking for you? Are you really the ‘Vicious Viscount’?”

A ridiculous moniker given to him when he’d been a prizefighter in another life. “It’s an old nickname.”

“And you prefer not to discuss it?”

His lips quirked up. Her shrewd assessment immediately vaulted her in his opinion. “Just so.”

Besides, he’d no idea who Jagger was. But if he knew Ambrose as the Vicious Viscount, whatever he wanted had to do with prizefighting.

She kept her gaze fixed on the wall. “If you won’t tell me about that, explain what the footman meant by ‘occupants.’ What are they doing in there?”

Another question he’d rather ignore, but she deserved some semblance of truth after what she’d endured. “Similar to what we saw downstairs.”

She turned her head to look at him, her eyes wide. “A woman on a table?”

“More like the other room. With the couples.”

“Oh.” Her cheeks flared red before she turned back around. She allowed silence to root and grow for a few minutes before asking, “How do people come to be here? At this party, I mean.”

“Special invitations.”

“So my mother was invited.”

“Or her escort. Gentlemen are allowed to bring guests.”

“Why were you invited?” She turned her head to look at him and the sconce above them highlighted the unique color of her eyes, a warm golden brown, which he likened to a freshly drawn ale. A single curl feathered against the base of her neck, just above her collarbone, inviting him to stroke its softness. Or, better yet, he could run his fingers along her lustrous skin, which was the color of thick, decadent cream. The kind he loved to lick from the knife after spreading it atop his scone.

Ambrose averted his gaze. For a host of reasons, it wouldn’t do to indulge a physical reaction to her, not the least of which was her status as a respectable unmarried young lady and his as a worthless scoundrel.

“Another question you don’t want to answer?” she asked.

He gave her a lop-sided, rakish smile. “You know me, I’m the type who’s invited to these sorts of parties.”

“And I see you attend. But are you the type who participates?”

Ambrose was surprised by the edge of doubt in her tone. He’d planned to participate—at some point—but a five-year-long vow of celibacy was difficult to put aside. Thankfully the door opened, interrupting further discussion on the topic.

She quickly turned back toward the wall as the couple—nay, trio—departed the room. A man and woman arm in arm followed by a heavy-set man whose florid cheeks were just discernable under the edge of his mask.

Once they had exited the alcove, Ambrose jumped up. “Come.”

They went into the room and he locked the door behind them. Three black-clad maids cleaned the room in silence. They redressed the bed, fluffed pillows on the various pieces of furniture strewn about, and one busily reorganized the unseen contents of an armoire.

Philippa stood with her back to them. Ambrose let go of her hand. “Almost there,” he said.

When he turned back to the room, the maids were gone. Whatever exit they’d used was well hidden. It was as if they’d never been there.

Ambrose went to the armoire, certain he’d find the gowns he sought. Instead, an array of… instruments greeted him. Best if Philippa didn’t see them. He slammed the doors shut and turned abruptly. She’d followed him.

“What was all that?”

“Nothing we care about. Ah, there’s another armoire over there in the corner.”

They skirted the oversized bed draped in rich purple silk. An image of Philippa lying amongst the pile of opulent pillows flashed in his mind. A lovely thought, but one he would never indulge.

He opened the next armoire much more carefully, peeking at its contents before throwing the door wide. Gowns and other garments. He allowed himself to relax for just a moment.

Philippa stopped next to him. He fingered a deep, rust-colored silk and held the skirt out for her perusal.

She cocked her head at him and narrowed her eyes. “Really?”

Foolishly he realized the color resembled the dried blood on her skirt.
Idiot
.

She reached for a dark yellow piped with royal blue. He helped her pull it out and she held the gown to her frame.

“Too long,” he said.

She cast it aside while he pulled a vivid rose with cream-colored flounces at the hem. She made a face—clearly she didn’t like it—and he thrust the garment back into the armoire.

She ran her fingers along the sleeves of several gowns and then stopped abruptly. “This.” She removed a dark emerald velvet and laid it on the bed. She looked up at him dubiously. “You’ll have to help me with my dress.” She turned her back, but not before he caught bright spots of color on her cheeks.

She was beautiful and smelled of lilac and honey. Fresh, sweet, unspoiled. His lust roared strong once more. The irony of his powerful response—finally—with a young miss like her nearly made him laugh.

She looked over her shoulder, perhaps sensing his hesitation. “Pretend I’m your sister.”

“I don’t have a sister. Though I do have an aunt in Sussex.”

“She’ll do.” Philippa’s shoulders were tense, but her tone was light. She really was trying her best to get through this series of disasters, and he admired her for that.

Reluctantly, Ambrose lifted his hands and unhooked the back of her gown. She turned her face away and tipped her head slightly down. It was a struggle to keep his fingers from brushing her neck as he started, but he managed not to touch her. As he worked to open the gown, his knuckles brushed her stays, but he was fortunate not to come into contact with her skin. The dress gapped open and then fell to her waist. She wriggled a bit and it fell to the floor. Ambrose pivoted away.