When Marrying a Scoundrel (15 page)

If one wanted to get nitpicky about it, she’d done nothing wrong. It wasn’t a sin to shag one’s own husband, was it?

Perhaps not, but when the devil had she begun thinking of Jack as her husband again? That wasn’t the first time she’d used that title to describe him that evening. Had she used it before this night, or was this a result of said shagging? Because it didn’t change anything. It only made the situation more complicated—for her anyway.

Despite that cynical thought, her mind couldn’t help but drift back to what had taken place in the salon. She remembered every touch, every taste and sensation as though it were happening at that very moment. It had been far too long since she’d felt like that, and she had an awful sinking feeling that it would be a long time before she felt that way again.

Good thing she had a good memory.

They were probably halfway through the journey when Mason finally spoke, “You disappeared earlier. Were you all right?”

Thank the Lord for the carriage’s dim lighting; he couldn’t see her flush. “Yes. I just needed a little peace. Sometimes I find society so tedious.”

“Of course. I’m sure it would be, with everyone going on about Mr. Friday and the astronomical amount he paid for you.”

Perhaps it was just her guilty conscience, but that
sounded vaguely insulting. She tried to be flippant about it all: “It’s the most anyone’s ever paid for a reading.”

Mason’s gaze narrowed. “I don’t think the reading was what he bid on.” His tone wasn’t accusatory, more sarcastic.

“Oh?” This was dangerous territory, but she couldn’t help but push. “What do you reckon was his real aim?”

He made a scoffing sound, as though she couldn’t possibly be so dense. “To spend time alone with you.”

“He could have simply booked an appointment and had the same amount for a great deal less.”

“Yes, but where’s the grand gesture in that? Especially with no witnesses.”

She wanted to tell him that he didn’t know Jack at all, and that he was wrong, damn it, but she couldn’t, because she wasn’t supposed to know Jack Friday either. “It was for a fine cause,” she replied, rather lamely at that.

“The only cause Friday’s concerned with is his own.”

“Why do you hate him so much? Because he bid on my reading, or because he embarrassed you by being able to bid more?” It might be a bit low on her part, but it was a legitimate question.

The light in the carriage might be dim, but it was bright enough for her to see the tightening of Mason’s jaw. What was it about men? They could wage wars and build amazing monuments, but impugn their manhood or their pocketbooks and they came totally unhinged.

“I don’t trust him,” came the clenched reply. She
wasn’t the only one full of lame comments it seemed.

Sadie didn’t bother to ask if he trusted her. If he did she didn’t deserve it and if he didn’t he was wise not to. All and all, it was a no-win situation as far as she was concerned.

“It was for charity,” she muttered.

A smirk curved Mason’s well-formed lips. It was a most unbecoming expression for him. “You’ve never been naïve, Sadie. Don’t start now. Charity was the last thing on Jack Friday’s mind when he made that bid.”

Sadie leaned forward, a feeling of menace twitching at the base of her spine. She was heartily fed up with everyone thinking the worst of Jack. Why didn’t they think so ill of her? “What do you suppose was on my mind at the time, Mason? Do you think I agreed to read his leaves with the hope that he would ravish me? Or perhaps that I entertain hopes of seducing him?”

He drew back, obviously disconcerted by the question—and the vehemence with which it was asked. “Of course not.”

“Of course not,” she echoed bitterly, massaging her temples with her fingertips. Her head was pounding now. She sat back against the cushions and closed her eyes.

“But I do think you like the attention,” Mason said in a quiet voice.

He was right, and Sadie couldn’t find her voice to deny it, not even to spare his feelings.

Neither of them spoke again until the carriage rolled to a stop in front of her door.

They sat quiet for but a moment before a footman
opened the door and lowered the step. Mason walked her to the door, silent still.

“Would you like to come in?” she asked on the step. Not that she wanted him to come inside, but she felt as though it was rude of her not to offer.

“No.” His gaze met hers but for a split second. “I’m leaving the city tomorrow and I want to get an early start.”

“Leaving the city?” This was the first she’d heard of it. “Where are you going?”

“Yorkshire.”

“When will you return?”

“I’m not certain.”

Understanding dawned. Her wits were dulled by the headache, else she might have realized before this. What did it say about Mason’s feelings for her if he left town rather than stay and fight for their fledgling romance? Either he gave up too easily or he saw a side of her character that wasn’t very attractive.

“Well,” she said, uncertain of what else to say, and too tired to be bothered to think of anything. “Safe journey.”

A sharp, harsh burst of laughter broke from his lips. “Right.” He looked down at his feet, at the door, everywhere it seemed but at her. “Good-bye, Sadie.” Then he turned and walked back to the carriage, his shoulders rigid in that manner men employed when trying very hard not to slump.

It was too bad that it had to end like this between them, but Sadie couldn’t bring herself to cry over it. She
felt regret, but not loss. She opened the door, entered her house, and went straight to her room. She had just finished taking a headache powder when Indara knocked.

One look at her friend, who always understood no matter what she’d done, and Sadie’s resolve finally broke.

“Oh, Indara,” she sighed, her eyes filling with hot tears. “I’ve done the worst thing.”

T
here was very little either nimble or quick about Jack after three hours of heavy drinking with the Kane brothers. The duchess had let Ryeton out to play, after all, and the three of them had carried on, going to a club Jack couldn’t remember the name of, though he was certain his grandfather would be well acquainted with it, the person who founded it, its political leanings, and whether or not any of its members were worth half a damn. So long as the old man wasn’t a member himself, Jack didn’t give a damn what his grandfather’s opinions were of his current surroundings. Still, in his drunken state, he pondered it regardless.

“You don’t conduct yourself like most men of business, Friday,” Ryeton remarked over the rim of his glass. The duke, Jack noticed, was decidedly less sauced than either he or Archer. Of course, His Grace had a beautiful wife to go home to and sobriety was always desirable when climbing into the marriage bed. Unless, of course, both were piss drunk. He remembered he and Sadie having
more than a few very enjoyable romps after too much cheap wine.

“Obviously someone neglected to hand me a copy of the code when I signed on,” Jack remarked with good-humored dryness. He felt very comfortable with these two, and he knew it showed. That perhaps was his first mistake.

Ryeton regarded him with a gaze that put Jack in mind of the threat of rain on a spring day—not quite blue and not quite gray. It wasn’t an unfriendly gaze by any measure, but Jack found himself twitching under it regardless. Too late he realized that the Duke of Ryeton was one of those rare people who paid attention, always looking for what lay just below the surface.

“You should speak to my brother about that,” came the duke’s equally dry reply. “I believe he wrote the chapter on
gentlemen
who traffic in trade.” The slight emphasis on “gentlemen” turned Jack’s mouth arid.

“What the hell are you on about?” Archer demanded, words slightly slurred by too much scotch. “Of course Friday’s a gen’lemen, despite having a day for a last name.”

Neither Ryeton nor Jack glanced at the younger of the brothers. To be honest, Jack was afraid that if he tore his gaze away the duke might see it as a sign of weakness. Again, it was another mistake, because any man not born to the same world as the Kanes would have lowered his eyes by now.

“I know he’s a gentleman.” Ryeton’s reply was smooth and deceptively light. And then: “What I want to know is why he pretends otherwise.”

“Bollocks.” Archer scowled at his brother, even as Jack’s stomach took a dip. “Jack’s top-notch. Cheats at cards, though.” The unexpected and entirely untrue remark drew Jack’s surprised stare. Archer didn’t notice.

“Pay him no mind,” Ryeton said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “He’s always done that.”

“Lie?” Jack asked, his gaze once again turning to the older man. Christ, now he knew how butterflies pinned to a board must feel—aside from dead.

Ryeton nodded, a slight smile tilting his harsh mouth. “He means it as a joke. He only does it to people he either really likes or thinks are simpletons.”

Jack raised his brows. The movement seemed to cause his brain to tilt inside his skull. “Can’t take offense to that then, can I?”

The duke’s smile grew and Jack was reminded of Tryst. He’d been the victim of the youngest Kane’s wit as well. Sadistic bastards, the lot of them. “My brother doesn’t make friends easily.”

“Astounding.”

That drew a chuckle. At least the man appreciated when sarcasm was directed back at him. “I see now why both my brothers were quick to like you, Friday.”

Jack watched him carefully. In the chair beside him Archer was singing a bawdy tune in a mumbled, off-key baritone. “But you are more cautious, aren’t you, Your Grace?”

A dangerous glint brightened Ryeton’s gaze—not threatening, but a little worrisome all the same. The Duke of Ryeton was on to him. And like a hungry dog,
he wasn’t about to give up that juicy bone now that he’d finally gotten his teeth in. Especially not when Jack was so close to his baby brother.

“I am,” the duke replied. “Do you have any siblings?”

Jack shook his head. “I had an older brother. He died of scarlet fever as a child.” Liam’s death had made Jack’s betrayal all the worse, walking away from that which hadn’t been his birthright, but an honor bestowed upon him by a ten-year-old who left this world far too soon. He’d disgraced his brother’s memory doing what he’d done, or so the old man had said.

All Jack had done was elope with the girl he loved, but whom his grandfather despised.

“My condolences,” Ryeton said. Jack wasn’t surprised to hear real feeling in the words. Obviously the duke could imagine the pain of losing a brother. “Were you close?”

Jack’s throat tightened and an embarrassing burning sensation attacked the back of his eyes. “As two boys nine and ten often left to their own devices can be.”

The duke nodded, understanding. “Did you not have other playmates?”

“Occasionally we were allowed to play with the village children.” That was how he’d met his Sadie. “Grandfather did not encourage it.”

Ryeton rested his chin on his hand, all innocent curiosity. “And who is your grandfather, Mr. Friday, that he should deem village children unfit companions for his precious grandsons?”

Caught.

Looking into those damn overcast eyes, Jack saw just how sober Ryeton was, and how readily he had fallen into the duke’s trap. Nervous, he glanced at Archer, but his new friend was passed out cold in his chair and could offer no assistance.

Indignation rose within Jack’s breast, along with a gluttonous portion of pissed-off defiance that destroyed the last of any pretense he might attempt to cling to.

Bracing one forearm on the table, he leaned closer. Ryeton didn’t budge. In fact, the other man lowered his arm so that they mirrored each other, staring each other down like two pugilists eager to draw blood.

“My grandfather,” Jack began in a low, controlled tone despite the furor inside him, “is the kind of man who would cast out his only heir for disobeying his wishes. And I, sir, am the kind of man who would rather be measured by my achievements than the misfortune of having been born to a class where men value wealth and blood more than decency and character.”

For a second—perhaps two—the two of them stared each other down. Then Ryeton said, “Not all of us value wealth and blood above all else, Mr. Friday.”

“No, but if someone said you must choose between your duty and your wife, what would you do?”

“I’d tell them to fuck off,” the duke replied without pause.

Jack smiled tightly. “That’s what I did.”

“And so you were turned out without a penny.”

“I was.”

“Was she worth it?”

The question gave him pause, but the answer sprung immediately his lips. “Without a doubt.”

“What happened?”

“I left with your brother to make a better life for us. She grew tired of waiting.” It surprised him that he could say it without experiencing the flood of anger that usually came with thinking of that day when he’d walked into their flat and found it empty, Sadie long gone. In fact, saying it suddenly made him think of how it must have been for her without him there.

She’d been, what, seventeen?…alone in London. And he’d been so busy, he hardly had time to write as he wanted. Additionally, moving around so much, she was rarely able to find him. Sending home large amounts of money had seemed the perfect way to prove to her that he’d done the right thing, that he was working for their future.

He should have taken some of that money and brought her to him, but they’d done so much traveling and most of it rough. She would have hated it. Wouldn’t she?

“I handled it badly,” he added, ashamed. “I’d do anything to fix it if I could, but no amount of wealth can turn back time.”

Ryeton blinked—not the quick surprised kind, but the slow, seeing-the-whole-picture kind. “The tea-leaf reader,” he murmured, astonished. “Christ on a pony.”

Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. He might have been safe if he hadn’t mentioned money, but that coupled with his outrageous bid on Sadie that very evening revealed all.

He didn’t deny it. He didn’t confirm it either. What
he said didn’t matter. It was what the duke planned to do with the information that was important.

“For the love of God, man,” Ryeton snapped. “I’m not going to take an advertisement in the
Times
. Although it would be nice to have the gossips talk about something other than whether or not I’ve gotten Rose pregnant yet.”

“Have you?” Jack asked dumbly, all too happy to discuss something that had nothing to do with him.

The duke smiled. “You don’t ask me and I won’t ask you, Friday. How’s that sound?”

Jack found himself smiling as well. “That sounds fair.”

Suddenly Archer bolted upright in his chair. “Damnation!”

Jack moved his chair a little to the left just in case his companion decided to eject the contents of his stomach.

“What did you forget?” Ryeton asked with a bored air. He glanced at Jack. “He’s made a habit of this lately as well—getting sauced and forgetting a prior engagement. It’s because of a woman.”

“Iz-not,” Archer muttered, swaying a little in his seat, “’s because of a heartless jezebel an’ now Lady Martinique won’t have me.”

Jack wasn’t quite sure what one had to do with the other, but he suspected Lady Martinique was the aforementioned missed engagement.

“I haf to go.” Archer started to lurch to his feet, but his
brother rose quickly and managed to catch him before he could crash into the table.

“The only place you’re going is home, you great awful mess.” Ryeton smiled a bit as he spoke, turning the insult into an endearment. He glanced at Jack. “Drop you somewhere, Friday?”

Jack shook his head. “I appreciate the offer, but no.”

Ryeton merely shrugged. “Suit yourself. Good night.”

Jack watched them go. Archer mumbled something that he took as a farewell and allowed his brother to take him away. Jack waited until they were gone before making his own exit.

Home. It sounded good. He wanted to go home, and he was just drunk enough to punish himself by doing just that.

He took a hack to a decent but by no means affluent neighborhood in the theater district. A narrow little street with neat brick townhouses lined up like a child’s blocks. He had a key for the front door of one and he walked up the stairs to the first floor flat.

It was exactly as she’d left it. Exactly as he had left it these long years. Only now it was musty, the remaining furniture covered by dust clothes.

He walked into the bedroom, to the narrow bed, and pulled the sheet from it, revealing a worn quilt beneath. He didn’t even take off his shoes, he simply lay down on top of the quilt and stared up at the ceiling.

If he closed his eyes he could almost imagine Sadie
there beside him, curled against him as she always had, her fingers making lazy circles on his chest as they made their grand plans for the future. So many dreams they’d shared in this bed. Dreams, hopes, fears. And passion. A lot of love and passion.

Remembering it so clearly now, with dust and remorse clogging his throat, there was one thing Jack couldn’t remember.

Why the hell he’d thought leaving Sadie was the right thing to do.

Every other Sunday Sadie visited a friend in the old neighborhood not far from Covent Garden. Helen Maguire was twenty years her senior, a retired courtesan and perhaps the most intelligent, interesting woman she had the pleasure of knowing—which was saying a lot considering her friendship with both Vienne and Indara.

Helen was her only remaining tie to this place—one she refused to give up. Unlike Jack, she wasn’t hell-bent on obliterating the entirety of her past. If someone discovered her real identity, so be it. She had nothing to be ashamed of, but realistically she knew that it might not be good for her business.

And she certainly didn’t want people to know she was married to Jack, though worse things could happen.

Regardless, it was highly unlikely that any of her clientele would be in Covent Garden on a Sunday morning, and even less likely that anyone would care should they see her there. She was beneath them, after all.

Sometimes, when Sadie drug up past bitterness at not
being considered good enough for Jack by his grandfather, she reminded herself that if the old man had accepted her she would never have met Helen. She wouldn’t be friends with Indara, and probably wouldn’t be friends with Vienne either, though she would no doubt be well acquainted with Saint’s Row on a different level. It didn’t take long for the bitterness to go away.

She enjoyed the life she had and adored the people who cared about her enough to be part of it. Though, now it seemed to be short one person with Mason’s abrupt departure. That would no doubt affect the way his sister Ava greeted her when next they met. But there was nothing she could do about that. Mason’s pride would heal soon enough. There were plenty of women who would eagerly take her place as his escort.

The fact that she thought that was proof of just how little she’d felt for him romantically. She missed his companionship more than anything else. True, she had been attracted to him, but no real attachment had been formed. She hadn’t felt a real attachment since Jack.

What was it about him that had captivated her so? Back then Jack would look at her like she was the most amazing thing he’d ever seen, and that had been enough. He’d been willing to lose everything to be with her, but then…he’d decided he wanted it all back, only in a different way. That’s why she hadn’t been able to bring herself to stop Jack from leaving. She’d felt guilty for all he’d lost in marrying her.

He’d achieved everything he wanted, but he didn’t seem happy—no more than she truly was. Had it been
worth abandoning their marriage—for either of them? Probably not. Yet, she reckoned both of them would do the same all over again.

Truth be told, she held some admiration for the man Jack had become. He worked for what he had, no longer expecting it to be handed to him on a silver salver. He was successful without the old man’s help, and that unsettled her perhaps more than she wanted to admit, as did her physical reaction to him. She’d been on him like sauce on pudding, and she’d most likely do it again if given the opportunity.