When Marrying a Scoundrel (5 page)

“No,” he replied, more gruffly than he intended. “She
gave up waiting a long time ago. But I think I’m better off sleeping alone tonight, despite the offer of such beautiful company.”

Obviously more curious than offended, she didn’t protest. She simply smiled and said, “Some other time, perhaps?”

Jack returned the smile. “Perhaps.” But it was a lie. There were too many complications in sharing this woman’s bed, no matter if money was exchanged or not. She reminded him of home, of things he’d left behind and things he’d lost.

She stood when he did and escorted him to the door. On his way to the stairs he saw his friend from downstairs sandwiched between two blond beauties, stumbling into an open room as one tried to remove his coat. The man, he noticed, didn’t look any happier than Jack felt.

Outside, it had started to rain, and Jack climbed into the carriage he’d secured for his time in London, thankful that he didn’t have to go looking for a hack at this time of night, in his current state. He’d be an easy target for any footpad.

Slumping against the squabs, he stared out the window as the carriage rolled away from the curb and the little house of pleasure. Kathleen had told him to come back whenever he wanted, no matter the reason. If he wanted a lover or just someone to talk to, she would make herself available for him. It had been sweet of her to offer.

But there was no way in hell he was ever going to face her again.

The inside of his mouth tasted like arse.

Daylight battered Jack’s eyelids, blessedly muted by sopping clouds, gray sky, and a thick curtain of rain. Unfortunately, the rain seemed to strike the glass of his bedchamber windows with all the force of a room full of petulant children throwing marbles at his head.

Continuing to drink after returning home last evening had not been one of his more inspired ideas, but it had certainly seemed the right course at the time.

He reached for the blankets to pull over his face and regretted it as both brain and stomach rolled in protest. Moving was obviously not a good thing.

He lay there a little while longer, until the pressure in his belly gave him a choice—get up or piss the bed. He seriously considered making water where he lay, but decency and common sense won out and he slowly—painfully—inched out of bed. His head felt as though it had been cracked open like a soft-boiled egg.

He managed to make it to the bath and relieved himself in the commode. He barely managed to flush before everything left in his stomach became too disgusted to stick around any longer and came rushing up his throat. Retching, Jack doubled over the porcelain and heaved until nothing was left.

He felt somewhat better after that, well enough to strip off his befouled evening clothes and turn on the water for the shower. Thank God this hotel had all the modern amenities he had become accustomed to. Of course, it helped that he was half owner of the establishment. He and
Trystan both had private apartments on the upper floors of the Barrington Hotel. The towering brick structure had been completed earlier that year and was located between the Strand and Victoria Embankment, not far from Charing Cross. Trystan had predicted that the area was ripe for this kind of growth and since his instinct had never been wrong before, Jack jumped in with both feet. Vienne La Rieux had been one of their heaviest investors, which was part of the reason Jack had met with her almost immediately upon his arrival in London. The rest of the reason he wasn’t quite clear on, but if Trystan wanted to be vague, he’d earned the right.

As for the Barrington, it hadn’t been opened for long and already it was doing a smashing business. It was expensive, luxurious, and over the top in comfort and elegance. Rich people, Jack knew, would pay a lot of blunt to be kept in comfort and even more for other people to
see
them being kept in comfort.

After showering, he shaved and dressed, and found to his delight that coffee and breakfast had been delivered while he bathed. Nothing cured a hangover like a big sloppy breakfast and strong coffee, and he dug into his eggs with gusto.

After eating, he brushed his teeth and then set off for Mayfair. He had letters for Trystan’s brothers Greyden, the Duke of Ryeton, and Archer, both of whom were investors in several of the ventures Jack and Trystan had financed together, and many others which Trystan had instigated before Jack became his full partner. He had promised Tryst he’d deliver the letters as soon as pos
sible; and this morning was perfect as he had a meeting later in the afternoon, with a new tenant of one of their shop properties.

The rain had let up by the time he exited the carriage in front of a large neoclassical-styled home in the prestigious West End not far from Hyde Park. It was the kind of house that inspired envy, of course, but Jack also had to wonder just what exactly the upper class did with all that extra room when they weren’t entertaining. Places such as this were deuced hard to heat in the winter. He would know; he’d grown up in a house almost as opulent as this.

He knocked on the door and was shown into the house by the butler, an unassuming-looking older man who introduced himself as Westford, and took Jack’s hat and coat before escorting him to a large withdrawing room in shades of blue and cream. There, he found part of the Kane family waiting for him.

“Mr. Friday,” a man older but having about the same build as Jack said as he rose to his feet. “We meet at last. I’m Ryeton.”

The duke was an impressive-looking man, handsome save for a wicked scar that ran down the left side of his face. He had dark hair and blue eyes the same as Trystan, and Jack could see a similarity around the nose and mouth as well.

He bowed. “Your Grace.”

“May I present my wife, the duchess?”

Another bow as a beautiful woman came forward to greet him. The duchess was a brunette with sparkling
dark eyes and cheeks as soft and pink as her name. No wonder Ryeton had courted scandal to have her.

But it was the third occupant of the room that brought Jack up short. Lord Archer Kane flashed him a cheeky grin as he came forward and offered a glass of scotch. He was the chatty stranger from Chez Cherie’s. No wonder he’d seemed familiar. He was Trystan’s brother. “Nice to see you again, Friday.”

Jack’s smile came easier than he expected. “And you, Lord Archer.”

The taller, leaner man waved his hand and continued to grin. He didn’t seem much worse the wear for his debauchery the night before, but Jack knew a man on a downward spiral when he saw one. “Just Archer, you’ve unfortunately earned that intimacy.”

Lady Ryeton was immediately curious and she made no effort to hide it. “The two of you know each other? Really, Archer. How could you not tell us?”

Her brother-in-law looked vaguely apologetic. “I didn’t know who he was, my dear. Besides, it was only last evening.”

“Where did you meet?” She asked.

Archer winked at Jack. “A club.”

Jack took a drink of his scotch to avoid having to comment, but it seemed there was no need. The duchess rolled her eyes at both of them. “I do not want to know.”

“No,” Archer agreed. “You do not.”

“Well, I do,” Ryeton spoke, pinning his brother with a pale gaze. “You can tell me all about it later. Meanwhile,
why don’t we sit?” He gestured for Jack to be seated in a comfortable wing-back of dark blue brocade. Jack did so willingly, hoping His Grace didn’t decide to interrogate him as well.

He gave both men the letters from Trystan, and when the duke asked why he had come ahead of the youngest Kane brother, he explained that Trystan had wanted him to take care of several business matters around town in his absence.

The duke laughed—a brash sound that made Jack jump. “Meaning he wanted to send you in to soften up Madame La Rieux.”

There didn’t seem much point in hiding it, even though Jack wasn’t quite sure that was exactly what he’d been sent to do. So, he merely smiled.

“Did you attend the function at Saint’s Row last night, Mr. Friday?” Lady Ryeton inquired as she sat on the sofa, sipping her wine.

Jack rolled the glass of scotch between his palms. His stomach rebelled at the thought of taking a drink. How did Archer manage it? “I did, Your Grace.”

She rested her temple on her knuckles as she regarded him with interest. “Did you have your fortune told by Madame Moon?”

The mention of Sadie threatened a return of his breakfast. He swallowed. “I did not have that honor, no.”

The duke leaned back in his chair and stretched out his long legs, crossing them at the ankle. Dressed all in black as he was, he was an intimidating sight. “Not a
big believer in fate, destiny, and all that, Friday?” He asked good-naturedly.

“I believe in making my own.”

The duke grinned. “Don’t we all—and then something happens to make a man reckon it’s all preordained.” The look he flashed his wife made Jack uncomfortable. He glanced away. Archer met his gaze and grimaced. Jack stifled a chuckle. He liked Archer. In fact, it seemed as though he was in danger of liking the entire Kane clan. Of course, he had yet to meet the mother and the sister, but if they were as lovely as Trystan claimed, Jack couldn’t imagine not liking them too.

“You should sit with Madame Moon if ever you get the chance,” Lady Ryeton continued. “She’s quite good.”

“I’ve no doubt she is.” The little charlatan.

“She saw Grey in my cup plain as day.”

If he’d only a penny for every time he’d heard Sadie tell some gullible young woman that she saw love in her leaves. It worked almost every time—except for that one time when Sadie had mistakenly taken a girl for one of the Sapphic sisterhood. The young lady had pitched a fit of monstrous proportions. That one had bothered Sadie for days. She had actually convinced herself that she was right and the girl had lied to her.

“She must be good,” he allowed. “Madame La Rieux wouldn’t contract her services if they were less than top-notch.” He smiled—a little limply, unable to muster a full grin. “Bad for business.”

The duchess fixed him with an odd look, and he
couldn’t quite tell if she thought he was laughing at her, or if she was actually laughing at him. As much as he detested being the joke, he’d rather that than the alternative. Pissing off Trystan’s family was not what he wanted to do, especially when said family—despite being slathered in scandal—was a very old and powerful one.

“So when is that brother of ours due to join us?” It was Archer who asked, and Jack could have hugged the man for saving him from any more of the duchess’s questions or gazes.

“His last telegram said he hoped to be in London by month’s end.” By then Trystan claimed these “mysterious” plans of his would be set in motion, whatever that meant. But it was his business, not Jack’s.

“So you are with us for a while longer,” the duke commented. “You must come to dine with us one night next week.” He glanced at his wife who nodded. “Rose will send an invitation ’round to your hotel.”

Jack bowed his head. “You’re most generous, Your Grace.”

Ryeton made a scoffing sound. “Hardly. You can give Archer and me all the dirt on what our little brother’s been up to these past years. And call me Ryeton, I’m not much for ceremony.”

That seemed to be a family trait, Jack thought to himself, but he smiled at Ryeton and his wife. They were perfectly likable people, or rather they would be if Lady Ryeton would stop looking at him like that. Dinner with them would be a welcome distraction, provided the Amazing Madame Moon didn’t come up in conversation again.

He just had to get through the next few weeks before Trystan returned and took over. Then he could leave England and never return. Surely he could get through the days without seeing Sadie again? It wasn’t as though they ran in the same circles. Surely God would smile upon him—just this once?

T
he northern section of Bond Street, which was sometimes referred to as ‘New’ Bond Street, was one of
the
most prestigious shopping areas in London. Every day the fairer members of London’s upper crust entertained themselves by spending vast amounts of their husbands’ money there. Money that Sadie wanted a share of, and planned to one day have.

It wasn’t arrogance or snobbery that led her to this location for her tea shop, but rather a conversation with Vienne after a long day of their own shopping. Tired and weary, Sadie had remarked upon how much she could use a cup of tea, a scone, and a loo—not necessarily in that order. And Vienne had replied that wouldn’t it be nice if someone opened such an establishment, where ladies could relax and refresh themselves at some time during their shopping excursion?

It hadn’t taken long for them to start planning. After all, Sadie had made no secret about wanting her own shop, and Vienne’s instinct for business said Bond Street was
the perfect location. Things were changing in the West End. Women were changing, and they were demanding shops change with them. Smart shopkeepers knew what side of their bread had the thickest butter. Vienne knew shopping, and she knew business, so Sadie decided to trust her own instincts and went looking for property to rent.

And that search had led her here—to a sweet little shop in a creamy stucco building with a large bay window. The rent was high but worth it, and Sadie had no doubt she could pay it and a staff, and still turn a profit. Her regular clientele alone could keep her afloat, and then some.

Thanks to Vienne’s business sense, Sadie had invested most of the money given to her by the Earl of Garret, and now had a sizable nest egg. Rather than sitting on it any longer, she was going to use that money—which she no longer felt guilty about keeping—to realize her dreams.

It was a lovely day, the early afternoon sun warm but not uncomfortably so. Gray clouds threatened on the horizon, but for now the rain was held at bay by a sweet breeze and an otherwise perfect summer day. Soon, the Season would wind down and most of the crowd would leave town for the country. Her life would return to some semblance of normalcy.

Perhaps most would find this the wrong time to open a business, when most of her clientele would be elsewhere, but she needed time to set up, to make changes to the
interior. She wanted to be settled, work out the kinks, and have a rhythm established before next Season struck. Better prepared than surprised, she believed.

Sadie was early for her meeting—intentionally so. Anxious now that she was so close to seeing her dream a reality, she stood outside the shop and studied every visible inch of storefront, searching for a flaw. There had to be a flaw—something that would ruin this endeavor. Something always happened to add a bitter taste to her happiness.

Vienne often called her a pessimist, but how could she be anything else when life itself had taught her such a lesson?

Peering inside the window at the clean, posh space, Sadie caught sight of her reflection in the glass. She looked tired and pale, hollow around the eyes. She hadn’t slept well the night before. Thoughts of Jack kept her awake for hours. So many feelings were tied to her life with—and without—him that she felt as though she’d been put through a gigantic, emotional butter churn. Unfortunately she also looked it. Not even the rich peacock blue of her tailored walking jacket could camouflage her fatigue. She’d paired it with a flounced bronze skirt and matching hat, the wide brim of which was pinned up on one side and decorated with peacock feathers. Usually calling attention to the clothes rather than the face served her well, but not today.

“Damn you, Jack,” she whispered at the wan woman staring back at her.

“Christ,” came a voice from behind her. “You have
got
to be joking.”

Sadie froze as malicious fate seized the heart in her chest. It was beyond cruel that she should feel any joy at the sound of Jack’s voice, but that awful flutter was there all the same. She looked up, too cowardly to turn, and met his gaze in the glass. He stood just behind her, looking far too
right
in his gentlemanly clothes. Vertical furrows cut deep between his scowling brows and his lips were pursed just enough to call attention to the thin grooves around them. When had those lines carved themselves in his beautiful face? Had it taken years to etch them, or had they sprung up quickly—after he discovered that she had given up waiting for him?

She hoped it was the latter. She hoped he searched for her and wondered where she’d gone. She hoped finding her missing had ripped the black heart right out of his chest.

She hoped he had missed her half as much as she missed him. That he had wanted her even a quarter as much. What if he were to learn that he could have found her if only he’d looked in the least likely place?

Thoughts of the past—the taste of old bitterness—gave her the courage to turn and face him. He stood before her, tall and broad in a camel frock coat and chocolate trousers with just a hint of rust pinstripe. He’d never been one for a fussy cravat or head gear and that hadn’t changed; the knot at his throat was simple and plain, as was the brown coachman hat on his head. Despite
all this, he was still a startlingly handsome figure of a man. Bastard.

“What are you doing here, Mr. Friday?” She asked, intentionally using his alias.

“My company owns this building.”

“But that would make you—” Sadie’s hand went to her throat in horror. “No.” Fate wouldn’t be so cruel, would it?

He didn’t appear any happier about the situation than she was, though slightly less horrified. “I assume that you are our new tenant?”

She nodded, unable to wrap her tongue around the jumble of thoughts in her head. She’d known something would happen to ruin this. Damn him!

Jack glanced around, aware of the people passing by on the busy street. People who didn’t bother to hide their curiosity as they walked by. He took a key from his coat pocket. “Let’s move this inside.”

It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him she’d rather run naked through a nest of vipers than enter the shop with him, but he was her landlord and this shop was something she’d wanted for a long time. Perhaps he would keep their personal history out of the transaction. Surely both of them could do that?

He held the door open for her and she brushed past him to cross the threshold, catching the scent of cloves as she did. The smell brought back such a rush of memories and sensations that she almost stumbled on the threshold. Washing his hair in the bath while birds chirped outside their bedroom window; burying her face in the hollow
between his neck and shoulder and breathing deep, their limbs entwining, clutching at each other as they made love. That smell had meant love and security to her once upon a time.

She turned to face him as he closed the door behind them. God only knew the expression on her face, but if it was anything like the one on Jack’s, they were well matched. What did he remember of their marriage in that moment?

If only he hadn’t left her. What would their lives be like if he had decided that she was more important than proving himself to an old man?

He stared at her from beneath a fringe of thick lashes. Haunted. “You look good, Sadiemoon.”

The regret in his tone was almost her undoing. Sadie closed her eyes against the tightness in her chest. He remembered. Of course he remembered. Sadiemoon, one of the pet names he had for her, because he said she was his moon and stars. Of course he’d been eighteen when he first said it, so perhaps she’d been foolish to think he meant it. Even more foolish to take it as her new surname.

“Remember me now, do you?”

Jack’s expression turned to wry exasperation. “I tried to forget, trust me.”

It was meant as an insult, but Sadie couldn’t quite take it as such. It did her poor heart good to know that he hadn’t been able to put her entirely behind him—no more than she had been able to erase him from her own memory.

“That’s a god-awful hat,” he commented when she said nothing. “I don’t remember you having rotten taste in head wear.”

“Heaven forbid I change in your absence.” It came out sharper than she intended.

Whatever humor he had vanished. “I came home and found you gone.”

“You left first, Jack. Even you can’t have forgotten that.”

Those furrows between his eyebrows were back. He practically vibrated with tension. Good. Nice to know she had the same affect on him that he had on her. “I left to make a better life for us.”

“Well, you certainly made a better one for yourself. When it became apparent that you didn’t want me in that life, I decided to make a better one on my own.”

“Without me.”

For a second, she fancied she saw real hurt in his gaze, real anguish, and it cut her to the bone. “Yes.”

He snorted and looked away, but not before she saw his expression. He looked as though she’d slapped him. What would his reaction be if she told him why she’d left? But there was no reason to tell him except to hurt him, and Sadie couldn’t bring herself to be quite so cruel.

Instead, she watched as his gaze moved about the space, settling on the display cases and the kitchen beyond. “What are you going to open here?”

Sadie swallowed. “A tea shop.”

He turned to her, eyes narrow. “A tea shop.” He made
it sound surreptitious, degenerate somehow. “With a back room for private
readings
?”

He made it sound sordid. There was nothing wrong with her plans. She refused to be made to feel anything different. His opinion didn’t matter, not anymore. She lifted her chin. “That’s right.”

Jack gave his head a little shake, as though he couldn’t believe what he’d heard. “I understand doing it for fun, for charity, but you’re going to stake a business on the dregs in the bottom of a teacup?”

She tilted her head, a sad smile flirting with her lips. He never had understood. “Yes. I’ve made a very good living from those dregs.”

Those pretty lips of his twisted in disgust. “I bet you have.”

“Don’t you dare judge me, Jack Farrington.” This time she used his legitimate name—a reminder of their history. “You don’t have the right.”

“Don’t I?” He growled the words.

“No.” Ire pricked, she took a step forward. “You gave that up a long time ago, as did I. Jack Friday and Sadie Moon are business associates and nothing else.
Nothing
.”

He glared at her, jaw tight. He looked as though he didn’t know what to do with her.

You never did
,
Jacky Boy
. As much as she’d loved him—as much as she’d known he loved her—he never understood who she was or what she could do. To be fair, she’d never really understood either, not until left on her own.

But once, a long time ago, she’d thought he knew her better than anyone. Inside and out.

“It’s your
business
that concerns me.” His jaw was still clenched.

“What of it? I make good money. My rent will be paid promptly and in full, you needn’t worry about that.”

“What I worry about is having the law breathing down my neck. Did being almost arrested teach you nothing?”

She had wondered how long it would take him to bring that up. “Besides that, you weren’t above using your grandfather’s name when it suited you? Yes, it taught me that people won’t believe what’s too good to be true.”

He ignored her. “They could have put us in jail, Sadie. Put you in jail.”

“For a scheme of your making, Jack.” She couldn’t help but add, “You know, the magistrate’s wife is still one of my best customers. First Thursday of the month, just like clockwork. Surely if I were doing anything underhanded, she’d detect it?”

At that moment, Jack looked as though he could cheerfully strangle her. Color bloomed high on his cheeks, but he’d always been one of those men who looked good flushed. His eyes were bright, his mouth set in a manner that reminded her of arguments they’d had a lifetime earlier. Thinking of those arguments also reminded her of making up afterward. She smiled at those memories—just a little, but he saw it. And her amusement—at his expense—angered him.

He whipped his middle finger off his thumb and flicked
the brim of her hat, hard. It jerked on her head, the pin simultaneously digging into her scalp and pulling her hair.

Sadie scowled at him as she reached up to readjust the broad brim. “Stop that!”

He did it again. This time, she retaliated by shoving both hands against his chest, knocking him back a few steps. “Sod off, you great stupid arse!”

This time when Jack came at her he didn’t touch her hat. Instead, he seized her by the face, his palms cupping her cheeks as his strong fingers curved around the back of her skull. He pulled her forward, forcing her up onto her toes. Sadie grabbed hold of his lapels to keep from falling into him. She should slap his face, but she couldn’t seem to lift her hands once they met the solid wall of his chest.

Jack tilted her head backward, his eyes bright like green-flecked amber. The muscle in his jaw ticked as he stared down at her, and Sadie could do nothing more than stare back. Was he going to kiss her? Was it wrong of her to wish he would? Just once she’d like to feel those lips against hers again, taste the rich sweetness of his mouth, desperate and hot.

For a second, she thought he might actually give her what she both wanted and despised, but he didn’t. Instead, a look of great determination took hold of his features, tightening his brow. “I won’t let you do this.”

“Do what?” she whispered, so confused now she hardly knew what she was about.

“This,”
he replied, releasing her with a little shove. He
pointed a finger at her. “I won’t let you harm what I’ve worked so hard to build, and I’ll do whatever it takes to keep you from harming yourself.”

“How in the name of God will a tea shop harm me, or you?”

“Jesus, Sadie, you’re a fraud!”

She froze, slapped still by his words. He’d never come right out and said it before, though she’d always known how he felt. Still, that word sounded so terrible on his tongue. So low and base. Dirty.