Bargaining With a Rake (A Whisper of Scandal Novel) Page 7

  Alex swirled the remaining liquor in his glass before setting the glass down. He’d had his limit, and he knew better than to have any more.

  “Interesting that Lady Staunton has set her cap on you again,” Cameron said.

  “Not really. She knows I’ll be duke someday.”

  Cameron’s face relaxed visibly.

  “Were you worried for me, little brother?” Alex asked with a laugh.

  “She is beautiful.”

  “And vile,” Alex retorted. “Don’t worry. Besides, Father will probably outlive us all.”

  “That’s not what Catherine says.”

  “What has our dear sister been saying now?” Alex jerked his hands through his hair at the reminder of the duty he’d left untended. He had to get to Sheffield soon and speak to Catherine’s husband about her constant gossiping and need for drama. He would stop in on his way to the hunt in Yorkshire. “Why isn’t Forrester controlling her tongue?”

  “You know as well as I Catherine cannot be controlled. She’s taken it into her head Father’s going to drink himself to an early grave, and she’s apparently been lamenting about it all over Sheffield.”

  “Well that explains Lady Staunton’s renewed interest in me.” Alex glanced away from Cameron and toward the front door. He wanted to get out of here and forget everything, just for an hour. Catherine was right to worry about Father―he had been drinking too much. But he’d been doing it since the day Robert had killed himself and the old codger appeared none worse for the liquor.

  The front door to White’s slammed open, and Alex’s friend Dansby loomed in the doorway. Alex raised his hand to wave him over. Judging by the way Dansby shoved through the crowd of men around the books and strode toward Alex, the visit must be urgent. He stood to greet Dansby.

  “What brings you out at this late hour?”

  “Your father sent me to find you and your brother.”

  Alex’s gut clenched. His father never involved anyone in family affairs. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s your sister, Allysia.”

  “Damnation.” He grabbed his coat and jerked it on. “I knew something was wrong with her. Is she ill?”

  Dansby shook his head.

  “Well, what is it?”

  Dansby’s gaze shot to Cameron and then Sutherland.

  “Spit it out,” Alex demanded, barely containing his temper.

  “She’s dead.”

  * * * * *

  “I wish I were dead!” Gillian fell backward onto her bed. She pulled the covers up over her head and stared into the darkness.

  “Gillie, don’t say such a thing, even in jest.” Whitney plopped onto the bed and tugged the covers away from Gillian’s face. “You know I couldn’t get on without you. I’ve every confidence you’ll manage to avoid marrying Mr. Mallorian.”

  Gillian struggled into a sitting position at the note of desperation in Whitney’s voice. Whit needed her. “Don’t fret, Whit. I’m just allowing myself a moment of pity that Father wants to rid himself of me so badly that he would betroth me to Mr. Mallorian.”

  Whitney shook her head. “Father loves you. He just…” Whitney gave Gillian a pleading look. “You know Father. He doesn’t think things through when he’s imbibed too much.”

  Gillian pressed her lips together on her retort. Father had thought things through, and that was the point, but Whitney needed to cling to her hope that Father adored them both. There was no point in trying to make Whit see the truth now when they were hopefully escaping soon.

  A shudder ran through Gillian as she pictured herself posed for a Westonburt family portrait flanked by Lady Westonburt and Mr. Mallorian. The idea of Lady Westonburt being her mother-in-law was enough to make her ill, without even bringing the woman’s son into the picture. As usual, Gillian got that funny creeping sensation over her skin when she thought of the baroness. When they happened to cross paths in church, the woman always looked at her as if she knew Gillian’s secret. Lately, it had gotten worse. Lady Westonburt’s sly stares had become scathing, direct looks. It was impossible the woman could know anything. Completely impossible. Even still, Gillian breathed deeply to calm her jangled nerves.

  Whitney propped herself onto her elbows and kicked off her shoes. “I saw Lady Westonburt in Town yesterday when I was purchasing ribbon. She gave me the evil eye and turned away. She didn’t even acknowledge when I said hello to her. Isn’t that funny? She had to have known you were becoming her daughter-in-law. Why would she act so odd?”

  “I don’t know, Whit, but just try to avoid her if I’m not with you.”

  “Gillie, you cannot play mother to me forever. At some point, you have to let me take care of myself.”

  Gillian rested her hands underneath her chin. “Don’t worry. The minute our feet hit American soil, you won’t have me hovering over you anymore.”

  Whitney screwed up her face. “I don’t understand your fascination with America. Do you really fancy yourself in love with Mr. Sutherland?”

  “Not yet, but I’m sure I will be. He’s perfect for me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, Whit.” Gillian scrambled onto her knees and stared into her sister’s eyes, hoping she would understand. “According to the gossip sheets, he wants a wife with a brain, not a woman to treat as chattel. I refuse to be stuck in an unhappy marriage like Mother and Father’s, and I refuse for you to be stuck in that either. Is that what you want?”

  “No, but perhaps you could get out of marriage to Mr. Mallorian and find someone here in England who would make you happy.”

  Gillian sighed. They couldn’t stay in England. Not just because of the person sending the threatening notes, but also because of Father. She certainly could not mention the notes to Whitney, but she had to make her understand. “Father will not budge. I already tried to reason with him, and he fairly shoved me out of his study. It’s pointless. He was standing beside me tonight when Mr. Mallorian told me my future duties, and Father didn’t even raise an eyebrow.”

  “What did Mr. Mallorian say?”

  “I’m to adorn his arm, silent and smiling at every ton function, provide him with children, ask no questions and run his household as he tells me to.”

  “Oh, that is bad, Gillie. What are we going to do now that Father has made this move?”

  Gillian rubbed her temples, trying to think clearly. “Father may have won the first round, but I intend to win the match. I’ve thought about it, and I’m going to send a message to Sally with an invitation to Auntie’s house party in honor of Trent.”

  Whitney frowned. “How is that going to help you avoid marriage to Mr. Mallorian?”

  Gillian scooted off the bed, feeling better by the second. “Sally can see that Mr. Sutherland attends the party. Then I’ll have an entire week to get the man to agree to marry me.”

  “Oh, yes.” Whitney nodded with a smirk. “That sounds utterly reasonable. Mr. Sutherland will surely jump at the chance to attend a week-long party for our cousin whom he doesn’t even know.”

  “I disagree. He’s an avid foxhunter and Vingt-et-un player, so I’ll make sure Sally mentions both.”

  “Shouldn’t you ask Auntie first?”

  “I’ll send her a note straightaway explaining the additional guests. You know how she detests Lady Westonburt.”

  “And how she’s a firm believer in marriages of love. Given her and Uncle’s.”

  Gillian nodded. “She’ll help.”

  “Father will never forgive us for going against him.”

  A lump formed in Gillian’s throat. Did she want or care about her father’s forgiveness? Her heart squeezed. She loved him. It was useless to try to deny it. No matter what, she loved her father. “He may not, but we have to take that chance. To not take it…” Gillian glanced at the jewelry box that held the threatening letter. “That’s simply not an option.”

  “So you say,” Whitney murmured. “But I feel as if you are leaving out a piece of this puzzle.”
<
br />   Gillian grasped her sister’s hands and squeezed. The only piece she was leaving out was the piece of the past that could irrevocably harm her sister and the piece of the present that would definitely harm her. “I’m not,” she lied.

  Cheapside

  London, England

  At the break of dawn, Harrison Mallorian stumbled out of the whore’s bed to make his way to his parents’ town house. Damn his mother for being an early riser. He’d have slept till noon if he didn’t need to go home before she awoke. She’d make his life a living hell if he wasn’t there with all the details of how her plan had gone.

  He staggered down the creaking steps of Madame Lovelace’s small establishment and raised a hand to shield his eyes from the first traces of sunlight streaming into the sky. Imbibing too much whiskey to celebrate his success and dull the image of Allysia Trevelle had not been his most brilliant idea. Cotton occupied the better part of his head, a nasty acidic taste filled his mouth and the sun hurt his bloody eyes.

  He tripped down the last step, only maintaining his upright position thanks to his coachman quickly coming to grasp his arm. He straightened to thank the man but caught his smirk. Anger replaced any trace of gratefulness. “Need I remind you of the beating you took last week?”

  Hallsworth shook his head. “Ye need not, sir.”

  “Good. Mind you to remember not many in London would employ a man dismissed on accusation of stealing from his former employer.”

  “I know it, sir.” Hallsworth touched the fading bruise on his eye. “I don’t reckon I’ll forget yer generous nature after yer last lesson.”

  Harrison turned and settled into the carriage, trying to get comfortable. He pulled his overcoat tight to capture some warmth and blew into his hands. His breath swirled white into the air.

  “Are ye ready, sir?”

  “Yes,” he snapped, rubbing his aching head. “I hardly want to sit here in the freezing cold.”

  The carriage jolted to a start, causing his head to jerk back with the force of sudden movement. He clenched his teeth, gripping the edge of the cushion. Hallsworth hated him, but that was perfect. The lower class often disliked their superiors. They begrudged showing the proper amount of respect. It may have taken several beatings for the coachman to learn his place, but the man knew it now and would not forget it. Everyone had a place in Society, like it or not. And he’d learned years ago only the strongest and smartest could possibly change their place. The coachman was mad because he was too stupid and too weak to change his own life.

  Harrison was changing his life, though having to rely on his mother in order to accomplish his goals grated on his nerves. But that situation would change when he married Lady Gillian and his father succumbed to his sickness.

  He ran a hand through his hair, trying to set it to rights. There was no need for his mother to know what he had been doing last night. She’d not approve, but soon she’d learn who was in control. As a matter of fact, his headstrong fiancée needed that same lesson immediately. She’d offered him little regard at the Primwitty ball.

  He would show her he was more than a lowly baron’s son. The carriage jerked to a halt in front of the town house. No lights burned in the window. Finally, things were going his way.

  If he could just get a bit of sleep before facing his mother, he could tolerate her screeching. He was damn sick and tired of screeching women. Though Allysia had probably had a right to be so upset with him. He had used her to get back at her pompous brother just as she had accused him of doing.

  He still boiled with anger at the way his attempt to buy into Lionhurst’s shipping company had been so easily crushed by the man. Who was insignificant now? Not him. He’d bedded the pompous ass’s sister. So why did he not feel better? Had he not made his enemy’s favorite sister a whore?

  His gut twisted on the thought. He smashed his fist into the seat. She was a weapon. A means to an end. There was no room for guilt. But it was there. Her pleading words rang in his ears. He pressed his hands to either side of his head. She was wrong. And he was right. Her pompous father would never have let her marry him. No, indeed.

  He’d been right to discard her. That would wound Lionhurst all the more. Harrison took a deep breath and got out of the carriage. A lowly baron’s son needed a secret to marry upward into the haute ton. He paused in his steps, considering yet again how Mother knew the Duke of Kingsley would consent to a match. It was a mystery she refused to unravel for him. Yet another reason he despised her.

  Inside the town house, he rounded the corner to the stairs and cursed. The old witch had waited up for him.

  “Hello, Mother.” He tried to sound loving.

  She cackled from the top of the steps, her gray hair shimmering silver from the glow of the candle in her hand. “I can smell a whore’s perfume from fifty paces.” She descended the steps, her gnarled hands gripping the banister. “Harry, you’re a fool to risk your future with Lady Gillian. Remember, my secret will only take us so far in Society. I suspect the duke has his limits, and I’m not keen to test just where they might be.”

  “I’m sorry, Mother.” He felt ten again. Damn woman.

  “I take it by your stench that you celebrated your good fortune?”

  He nodded and tried to quell the hatred swelling in his chest. Soon he would rule a woman; soon he would be his own master.

  His mother pursed her lips. “The apple never does roll far from the tree. But you seek out a lower class of whore than your father did. At least his indiscretion made us rich. Weak fool. Go say goodbye to your father. He’s finally dying.” She pushed past him, sauntering along the hall as if the death of her husband did not affect her in the slightest.

  Harrison trudged up the stairs toward his father’s room. The sickly sweet stench of death filled the air, and he swallowed back the nausea threatening to erupt. He ambled over to his father’s side. His eyes lay closed, but his raspy breathing filled the air.

  Harrison dropped into a chair by his father’s bed. Struck with an idea, he smiled and pressed his lips close to his father’s ear. “Tell me your secret, Father. Tell me everything, and I’ll make sure Mother knows who is in charge from here on out.”

  His father’s eyes cracked open, and his gaze flickered around the room.

  “We’re alone, Father,” Harrison whispered encouragingly.

  His father nodded, then licked his cracked lips. “Isabella Rutherford, Lady Kingsley, was my life.”

  Two days later

  Sheffield, England

  Loxley Castle

  Alex stood with the other mourners huddled at the top of the hill and stared down at Lissie’s coffin. Everything was wrong. The air refused to warm, though it was near noon. The day should have been cloudless, but damnable clouds covered the sun. Shadows blanketed his sister’s grave. She would have hated that. And if she had still been alive she would have bemoaned the hint of rain to come that filled the air. She would have disliked everything about this day, yet the conditions seemed fitting to him. Her death had stopped life around the place just as Robert’s had years before.

  Alex tried to focus on what the priest said about Lissie’s sudden and tragic death, but the word “tragic” bothered him. The single word did not do justice to how his heart twisted. It was more than tragic that he would never see his poppet again or experience her smile or laughter. When in the blazes had she quit smiling? His head ached as the priest grew quiet and nodded to the caretaker to throw the first shovel of dirt onto his sister’s grave. The dirt hit the coffin and resounded like a thunderclap inside his head.

  His mother moaned beside him, her soft sobs filling the quiet. He stared at the smattering of dark brown dirt now covering Lissie’s pale wood coffin. The air around him smothered him with the moisture beginning to fill it. He swallowed, every breath a struggle. Lissie could feel nothing, but he had the insane desire to jump into the grave, throw open the lid and allow fresh air to flow around her. The wind picked up and pushed a cold, inv
isible hand against his body. He stepped forward, only to be stopped by a firm grip around his arm.

  Alex’s gaze locked with Cameron’s. Did Cameron feel the same? A sense of being smothered? They gripped arms until the final shovel of dirt was thrown. He clenched his teeth to suppress the bellow of rage in his throat. He could not think on what had befallen her now in front of all these people.

  If Mother had not insisted on her family’s bizarre tradition of inviting everyone who knew them to the graveside, he would have simply left the grave and be damned if his family got angry. But he would not embarrass Mother or Father in front of all the prying eyes surrounding them. It baffled him, his Mother’s notion that a funeral was a time everyone should come together to say their goodbyes to the person. This was not a damned celebration. Lissie was not off to boarding school. She was dead, and she sure as hell was never coming back to them.

  Someone coughed to his right, and he looked up to meet the slanted violet eyes of Lady Staunton. Her bold, flirtatious smile made him ill. Did she have no decency? Stupid fool. You know the answer to that one. He glared and pointedly fixed his gaze on her husband to remind the wretched woman she was still married.

  Dear God, but Lord Staunton had declined. The man didn’t look as if he would make it past this day alive. His gray skin and dull eyes did not bode well for his future. Alex’s gaze flickered back to Lady Staunton and the small smile tugging at the corner of her lips finally disappeared as he stared. Within seconds, she brushed a few tears off her cheeks. He wanted to shake her to get her to cease her act. She had not changed a bit in the years since Robert’s death. The need to be the center of attention was still at her core.