Lady Scandal Read online

  A reckoning he hoped would end more in his favor than the battle with his wife.

  He had begun the evening confident he could, as ordered, secure brothel records damning men highly placed in Pitt’s newly-formed government; confident he had, by marrying Sophia Baneham, ensured the protection of his mentor—her father’s—youngest and only legitimate descendant; and confident he would soon, through Sophia, have the means to destroy his mentor’s deadly nemesis, the infamous Kasai.

  Then Sophia had uncovered his past connection to her father. And next, his agent had turned. He should have predicted his agent’s sedition. He should have known Sophia would unearth his secret. He’d been dazzled by her charm before he’d glimpsed the shrewd mind beneath the beauty. And then…

  Well, then he’d been entranced.

  Sophia—sensual, witty, sly—was indisputably his to protect, now. Setbacks or not, he must win this deadly game.

  He stepped over the body soaking in a crimson pool, narrowly avoiding the blood seeping into the brothel floorboards. The Under Secretary looked up from the papers he had been examining. His wig of white curls appeared out-of-place in the scene of carnage.

  “This is one unholy mess, Randolph.” He was not speaking of the body.

  “I am well aware.”

  “I understand,” the Under Secretary said, “one of your agents has gone astray. Have you located the woman?”

  “No.” Simple answers must serve—at least until Randolph’s blood cooled and he could finally think.

  The Under Secretary folded his hands behind his back in mock deliberation. “Men at the highest levels of the East India Company lauded you for your brilliance and cunning. Yet, you placed an untrustworthy agent in a key position, allowed her to steal the records I hired you to secure, and then you lost her?”

  In fact, he had. He ignored the question, and instead followed the secretary’s accusation to the inevitable conclusion.

  “The records,” he said with bitter realization, “are missing as well.”

  “Yes.” The secretary shoved the sheets off the sideboard. They scattered into the air the way leaves scattered in a squall. “What was left here incriminates no one of importance. The vital records are gone—and along with them, proof of perfidy capable of, once again, toppling Parliament. By God, Randolph, we just suffered through an election—the country cannot bear further instability.”

  Behind the Under Secretary’s anger, Randolph smelled fear—fear he could use. The Under Secretary himself, or someone very close to him, must have been implicated in those records.

  “You will have your vital documents.” Randolph steadied and lowered his voice. “The resolution to our problem has merely been delayed.”

  “Our problem?” The Under Secretary snorted. “Why should I allow you to keep your position? Sources tell me you compromised the mission with other priorities. They say on this day, the very day our work here was to be complete, you put to use a special license and were married—by the Bishop of London, no less.” His eyes narrowed. “How is the new Lady Randolph?”

  Devastatingly beautiful and utterly furious.

  “I had to take action,” he said, “to secure Baneham’s daughter.”

  And yet, his marriage had compromised the mission. That he had done so in response to a greater threat did little to deaden defeat’s burn.

  …Never admit defeat.

  A rule from Baneham’s book came to mind—with a consequent soothing effect. Slowly, the night’s shattered pieces reconfigured. The developments did not necessarily spell disaster.

  He would fix his mistakes. He would find Helena, his missing agent. Though his wife had hurled insults at him with hatred and disgust, he would protect Sophia at all cost, even if he must protect her against her will.

  And, he would accomplish his ultimate goal: to put a definitive end to Kasai.

  The Under Secretary drummed his fingers on the sideboard.

  “I find myself at a loss,” he said. “How do the late Earl Baneham and his daughter relate to your mission?”

  Randolph studied the Under Secretary, a man renowned for his effectiveness. How much did the Under Secretary know about Kasai, Baneham, the East India Company, and the atrocities committed in the name of profit and revenge?

  “When the Company warned you one of their enemies would attempt to buy Montechurch’s brothel records, they told you little, I expect, of the enemy.”

  The Under Secretary raised an imperious brow. “They told me he has been a thorn in the company’s side since the days of Clive.”

  “Thorn?” Randolph made a sound of derision. “He is so much more than a thorn. Kasai is not his name—no one knows for certain who he is—but they know enough of his work to call him a word meaning butcher.”

  The rat-a-tat of the Under Secretary’s fingers grew more pronounced, accenting his impatience.

  Randolph took a step closer and continued, “Kasai is brutal. He is without loyalty to any country or king. Chaos brings him wealth and opportunity to feed his well-documented thirst for blood.”

  “I have heard, of course, of Kasai,” the Under Secretary said. “An ambush he planned led to the death of the Duke of Wynchester’s brother.”

  “The same ambush survived by Maximilian Harrison—the duke’s confidant and former judge of Calcutta’s high court.”

  The Under Secretary shook his head. “I had to convince the enraged duke he was needed here—not in India trying to hunt down a shadow.”

  “Kasai is responsible for Wynchester’s brother’s alleged death,” Randolph clarified, “among more burning atrocities.”

  The Under Secretary froze, head cocked. “Did you say alleged death?”

  Randolph nodded. “This morning, two survivors of that massacre identified Lord Eustace, the duke’s supposedly dead brother and only heir, as the translator traveling with Kasai’s emissary—the man attempting to buy the records.”

  Calculations shifted in the Under Secretary’s gaze the way counting beads slid across an abacus rod. When the Under Secretary’s finger-drum resumed; Randolph sensed the mental equation had not been reconciled in his favor.

  “The records are likely with your missing agent,” the Under Secretary said, “which means Kasai and Lord Eustace, if he is indeed alive, remain the Company’s concern. Not mine.”

  “The Company’s concern?” Randolph held the Under Secretary’s gaze, direct and secure. “A menace is now on English soil. A menace you cannot begin to fathom.”

  “I have dealt delicately with France, Russia, and Prussia,” the Under Secretary said in a vinegar-drenched tone. “I believe I am capable of identifying the priority.”

  “Kingmaker-games,” Randolph said, “are undoubtedly essential in the power-jockeying between nations. But Kasai is not a nation. …In some ways, he is worse.”

  “How?” The question was sarcastic. “His greatest weapon is the disruption of Company profits.”

  “Kasai has set Mughal against Mughal. He thrives on chaos and incites internal divisions that result in bloody battles.”

  “Perhaps he can play such games in India.” The Under Secretary sniffed and stood tall. “We are a civilized nation.”

  Arrogant bastard. Randolph inhaled slowly. “Kasai’s attempt to buy these secrets is not a chess move against the Company. The Butcher has set his sights on England.”

  “The Company told us the records could injure their allies in Parliament—among others.”

  “Exactly. Those records are a means for Kasai to gain influence in Parliament.”

  “If you are right…” The Under Secretary words faded like snuffed tallow smoke and the darkness behind his eyes deepened in the absence.

  Randolph smelled blood—and not from the body on the floor. “Kasai wishes to take down our government. If you do not believe me, consider this: Last year’s Treaty of Paris put an end to French support of Sultan Tipu, one of Kasai’s many employers. He no longer has the means to drain the Company
using his army of mercenaries. He will turn, instead, to the source of the Company’s power.”

  “Where is Kasai’s emissary now?” the Under Secretary asked.

  “Dead.”

  The Under Secretary’s face grew red—a stark contrast to his wig. “Why? And by whose hand?”

  “I do not know, but Eustace and my agent are headed north—and I have to assume one or both are working under Kasai.”

  “Why would he have his own man killed?”

  “I intend to find out. I have assigned a man to their trail, a former soldier intimately familiar with Kasai’s methods. They will be apprehended; the records will be retrieved.” And Sophia will be safe.

  The Under Secretary’s eyes narrowed. “You have not explained the connection to Baneham and the new Lady Randolph.”

  The look in the Under Secretary’s eyes suggested he knew more than he was admitting.

  “In the final year of Baneham’s life, the Company charged him to discover Kasai’s true identity. Attempts had been made before, but not by anyone of Baneham’s level or experience. Baneham sent his only female agent—his illegitimate daughter Helena—to infiltrate Kasai’s camp, and then he led an attack. The attack failed. Only he survived. He was sent back to England to heal.”

  After that night, Baneham had not been the same. He had returned from the battle suspicious and threatened. When Randolph had been alone with Baneham, Baneham had raved that there was a larger plot afoot—raved about timelines, sapphires, and traitors. Officials in the Company had believed him mad. Randolph had believed him mad.

  “What happened to the illegitimate daughter?” the Under Secretary asked.

  “I made it my mission to rescue the woman.” He lifted one brow. “I thought I had earned her loyalty.”

  Light dawned in the Under Secretary’s eyes. “Baneham’s bastard is your missing agent, Helena.”

  “Yes.”

  The Under Secretary’s eyes narrowed. “And the new Lady Randolph? How does she fit?”

  Randolph felt the darkness gathering in his chest—the putrid result of a wrong he’d spent the past year trying to atone. “Baneham repeatedly told me Kasai would aim to gain influence in England, and part of his plan would involve making Sophia his prize. Kasai wants Sophia. I have her. She is the key to breaking up this plot.”

  The spymaster rubbed his forehead. “Recover the documents, the agent, and the duke’s brother. I want to speak with Eustace Worthington.”

  Thank the fates for one small favor…

  “…As for Kasai’s personal vendetta against Baneham,” the Under Secretary continued, “Baneham is dead. That particular game has come to an end. Lady Randolph is irrelevant.”

  “With all due respect,” Randolph said. “Death did not end Baneham and Kasai’s rivalry.” Randolph had ensured that Sophia was indeed less relevant, now married with her fortune protected, but Baneham had believed Kasai would attack him first and then come for his daughter. “I would not have leg-shackled myself on a whim.”

  The Under Secretary snorted. “Half my men attend those gambling parties Baneham’s daughter and her friends host—what do they call them? Lady Scandal, Lady Vice, and Duchess Decadence? I am not fool enough to believe you failed to note Lady Scandal’s famous charms.”

  Warning shivered in Randolph’s spine. “To question my allegiance is to question my honor.”

  The Under Secretary hit the sideboard with his flattened palm. “The mission will come first—I will have your word on this.”

  Randolph put the full force of the vow into his eyes. “The mission will always come first.”

  In the excruciating silence, the Under Secretary deliberated.

  “I must go against my inclination and trust you…” he started.

  Randolph exhaled.

  “…But fail again, and I will assume your loyalty is not with the crown.”

  Randolph nodded. He took his leave before the spymaster could change his orders.

  Strange quiet haunted the courtyard behind the brothel. Hints of dawn lightened the cloud-covered sky. He paused at the edge of the street, where a few lit lanterns cast a faint glow.

  He had never before failed in a mission. Never.

  Clearly, he had been off his game and there was only one reason.

  Sophia.

  Before they had met, Randolph had thought of Sophia as an evil-made-necessary—a means to probe the secrets Baneham had left behind. But then she had turned her cornflower blue eyes on him and everything had changed.

  …Hours after returning from India, he arrived at a Fury soiree—uninvited. Lady Sophia’s footman stuttered under his glower, but the man refused to grant him entry. No one could be admitted to the soiree, the man insisted, without approval of the hostess, even if accompanied, as Randolph was, by the hostess’s cousin.

  He remained in the hall, suffering the indignity of his wait with hands clasped behind his back. The entry was hardly what he had expected of Baneham’s home. The man had been the epitome of male. These furnishings could only be described as—he suppressed an inward shudder—dainty.

  He peered into the rooms beyond. The dandies within did nothing to dilute the feminine air. The library was a rainbow of velvet jackets and frothing cravats, topped with clouds of fluffed white wigs. Even from the distance, the scent proved this the motliest male collection of Eau du Cologne enthusiasts ever assembled.

  “Cousin Charles has brought me a gift, I see.” Her voice sang over his veins the way the wind sang against lines of a hoisted sail—the song sank all the way into his cock.

  He turned.

  The voice came from a petite, provocatively curved woman sewn into her pink silk bodice—he could think of no other way the fabric could fit so tight. Her hair powder was laced with a matching pink hue. She looked like strawberries and cream and, if he was permitted a taste of her lips, he was certain she’d be as mouthwateringly sweet.

  Her gaze dropped from his face and traveled boldly down his body.

  By Saint George, he wanted a sampling of her sweetness.

  “Lord Randolph,” he said, “at your service.”

  Her faint smile implied a flirtatious scold. “You do not have an invitation, Lord Randolph.”

  “Soon remedied, I hope. I am recently returned from the continent.” She did not need to know which continent—nor how recently. “I have heard your soirees are the must-attend events for any London rake worth his salt.”

  “Do you fancy yourself a rake, then, Lord Randolph?” She sounded hopeful, blast her sensual voice.

  He leaned forward and whispered, “Issue me an invitation, sweetness, and I will provide any proof you may require.”

  “No proof is required…” a faint, secret smile teased her mouth—both challenge and invitation, “…at present.”

  It had been lust at first sight. She lit a carnal fire in his blood and the resulting burn was hotter and deeper than any he’d known. He’d pursued her with both the urgency of his mission and the force of his desire. She had held herself aloof for months, but, in the end, the lust running between them had been a grinding stone to her resistance. And now?

  Well, once her rage had passed—a slow smile spread his lips. He would make sure they picked up where they had left off—her seduction.

  He would draw in Sophia. Sophia, in turn, would draw in Kasai. Nothing angered a man like an enemy’s possession of something—or someone—the man considered rightfully his. All he need do was master his own intoxicated response to her touch.

  He pulled out his hair-tie and shook out his locks.

  The road out of the city called to him with a Siren’s persistent pleading. The Under Secretary is right. Lust has blinded me. I must join my men in pursuit of Eustace.

  No. His most trusted men were already in pursuit. He’d make a few necessary arrangements and, by tomorrow afternoon, he would collect his wife. If he played things right, he’d put an end to Kasai and Sophia would be his prize.

  H
e began the long, ill-scented trudge through vile lanes. Though vermin infested streets beneath his bloodied boots portended doom more than auguring triumph, he did not credit omens and augurs.

  A clatter of rain erupted yet again, quickly strengthening with a force so great it would have given Noah pause.

  Chapter Three

  Earl Baneham’s Rules for Winning

  “Be prepared. And if you cannot be prepared, persevere.”

  The stage clattered on, the din of London’s shopkeepers and merchants slowly receded, and the view changed from house-row to hedgerow. Still listless, Sophia drifted into a dream.

  The closed carriage became an open, airless plain and thudding horses’ hooves became thudding soldier boots—an army marching through hard-packed desert sand. This army was not dressed in the smart military attire of the dragoons. They were dressed, instead, in white…all except for their leader. He bore an executioner’s black robes and hood.

  She wanted to run, but her feet were buried in the sand and covered with stones. She screamed, but the sound was lost to the wind whipping the executioner’s garments into demon-wing frenzy.

  He looked down on her from atop his horse; his voice was a rolling baritone she knew well. Randolph.

  “For crimes committed by the Earl Baneham, I sentence you to death.”

  A polished sword caught the light of the sun as he lifted it high. Glittering, it fell. Her eyes flew open and she gasped.

  “Madam!” her fellow traveler exclaimed. “Are you quite well?”

  “Yes.” She blinked. “I beg…your pardon.” Her voice scratched like a garden hoe through her throat.

  She lifted a small mirror and angled it to see the rear of the carriage, checking to make sure she could not see a lone rider with an all-too-familiar shape. The jumbled reflection showed nothing but a slow-moving farm cart, pale gravel, and mottled green hedge.

  The man’s gaze grew speculative. “You would not be checking for the law, now would you?”

  “My mistress warned me not to speak with strange men,” she said in the accented tones of the servant class. With as much dignity as her disguise allowed, she shifted her shoulders and returned her gaze to the window as if offended by his presumptuous intrusion. “If you must know, I was not looking for someone but something. I have little trust in the straps holding my valise. I just dreamt it had been lost.”