Lady Scandal Page 4

  Out of the corner of her eye, she took note of the man’s long, assessing glance. Finally, he settled back into the bench. Perhaps he, too, had something to hide.

  She cursed the siren call of sleep. She may not need to fear judgment for Baneham’s crime, but her current danger was real.

  She snapped her mirror shut and leaned back into the bench, ignoring the way the horsehair stuffing bit into her back. She dreamed of traveling in her plush landau, and would have even preferred a newly constructed Royal Mail coach—mail coaches moved more quickly than private coaches, and they also had the benefit of an armed guard, thanks to Mr. Pitt and his recently-authorized routes. Her landau was out-of-the-question and the Royal Mail only left London in the evening. Timing had made discomfort an imperative.

  As much to discourage further conversation as to ease the sting of weariness, she closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and recounted her protections.

  One, Randolph would be at a loss as to how she had escaped the building…unless Thea or Lavinia told him about the secret passage to the old Wynchester mansion.

  But no, they would never.

  Two, he would waste essential time questioning every hackney driver in the vicinity of dowager Emma’s house while she put ever more distance between them.

  Three, even if he somehow discovered her direction, he would have no idea where she was headed.

  A sick feeling accompanied the rogue thought that the Earl would have been proud of her preparation and quick thinking—just as Randolph had intimated the night before.

  She tightened her grip on the leather strap, still warm from the morning sun, and concentrated on her breath.

  In—slow like a full-measure note strung hard across a violin string. Out—quiet as a rabbit hidden in brush. Within the movement of her breath, she spoke silent reassurance: Randolph will not find me.

  Three times she repeated the phrase, and three times her assurance failed.

  Randolph was Baneham-trained. He would have informants in places no one would suspect. The moment she let down her guard was the moment she would lose.

  Randolph and Kasai hunted her. She must reach the one place neither would ever look. God help her, even she would not seek herself where she was headed.

  She glanced out the window. When would her time in hiding be over?

  She was nothing more than a pawn. If the search for her grew too cumbersome, the combatants would likely return to their true aim. If she was lucky and smart, the hunted could become the hunter.

  She suspected, as did Randolph, that Baneham had left something hidden. Something, besides her own life, that Kasai wanted.

  Once she was certain Randolph and Kasai had given up their search for her, she would assess. If Kasai was still a threat, she would find, or pretend she had found, whatever it was he wanted, and then she would reel in her father’s killer.

  If Randolph had been involved, he would pay. If not…

  There was not any cause for an “if not.” Randolph had to have been involved. He said he wanted to protect her against Kasai, not deliver her to him, but if true, why had he taken so long to return? Why would he have concealed the extent of his dealings with her father? Why would he have spent so much time drawing her into a false trust?

  No, he saw her only as the key to Baneham’s lost information. Once Randolph had what he wanted, he would deliver her to Kasai or dispose of his unwanted bride in his own way…

  She shifted, hot from the added padding she wore and sweat-drenched with a rush of fear.

  I am disguised. I will prevail.

  The padding she’d added beneath her servant’s clothes concealed her true age and shape, but her odd behavior had placed her at risk and she needed to stay unremarkable.

  Someone a man might forget if he was, say, questioned by an enraged peer.

  When she changed out of this disguise and into the next, she would not miss the padding. She wished she could have made a believable man. She imagined slipping her legs into buckskin—smooth and fitted. But no, Thea had been right. She curled her lips into a wry smile, thinking of their last conversation.

  “Promise you will not try to disguise yourself as a man,” the duchess said.

  “Why not?” she asked.

  Thea raised her brow. “You know you couldn’t stop the feminine roll of your hips if your life hung in the balance.”

  The duchess was, simply put, right.

  As long as Sophia could remember, she had loved the heady power of being a woman. Loved sending smoldering glances, loved sweeping her lashes down in breathless anticipation of a wayward touch.

  Such interests—and the desire to get away from her father—had led, as they often do, to her early elopement.

  Her first husband had no title. Yet she had taken a great pleasure in his freckled shoulders, the hot look in his bright eyes, the way his hungry hands had passed over her flesh like wind on the surface of the ocean. They had little in common but for the depths of carnal joy—which might well have worn thin, if the earl had allowed him to live.

  The memory of the pleasure they had shared was why she had fallen so deeply under Randolph’s spell. Marriage to Randolph may have seemed a simple solution to her lonely state, but it had been a carefully laid trap.

  Her mind traveled back to the first time she had allowed him to linger after a soiree, and join her as she entered the night’s draw into her ledgers.

  …Heavy-lidded, he lounged on her settee. His extraordinary eyes drank her in as if she were the first sip of wine from a vintage cask, and he an exacting vintner.

  “When,” he asked, “are you going to come to my bed?”

  Sophia glanced up from her calculations. “I have told you, Randolph. I am not that kind of woman.”

  “And yet you have invited me into your inner sanctum. What will the servants think?”

  “My study hardly rises to sanctum-level.” She lifted a brow. “And my servants are loyal and discreet.”

  “What of your fellow Furies?”

  “Must you even ask?”

  “Then how about the last of your guests, who likely noticed I remained behind? Aren’t you concerned they will gossip?”

  She peeked at him through her lashes. “My guests are not interested in gossip. They are interested in dissipation. Besides, Lady Scandal must maintain a certain reputation.”

  “And so the truth is finally spoken.” He placed his hand over his heart. “The lady uses me.”

  “Perhaps.” Sophia rested her chin on her fist and sighed, admiring his form. “Then again, maybe I just like to look at you.”

  He groaned. “Just one small indiscretion. You would enjoy the lapse.” His voice deepened. “I swear.”

  “Of that much, I am sure.”

  He laced his fingers together and placed them behind his head. “Shall I deepen your certainty?”

  “You may try,” she replied, “so long as you stay where you are.”

  His right leg fell to the side. “Turn your chair and face me.”

  Her heart did a fluttery little dance as she turned. “Yes, my lord?”

  “Ah,” he said as if sinking into warm water. “A yes from your lips is straight from my dreams.”

  “Then you,” she quipped, “have been asking the wrong questions.”

  He closed his eyes. Sophia studied the seam on his breeches. He had an excellent tailor.

  “Some men,” he said, “are seized with the need to sail unchartered waters, desperate to be the first to set foot on virgin land.”

  “Is that the reason you travel?”

  “I said some men. Not me.” He opened one eye. “I find virgin places over rated. I prefer places long-settled. Places that have had time to cultivate beauty and grace.”

  A blush traveled up from her chest to her cheeks—not a mad rush of heat but a gentle warming. “And what do you like to do when you travel to such places?”

  “I like,” he whispered, opening both eyes, “to enjoy the view.�
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  She swallowed. “I am sure you have enjoyed many a pleasant view.”

  “None so affecting,” he said, “as the one before me now.”

  “Randolph—” she said in warning.

  “As promised, I have not moved.”

  “Very well,” Sophia said. “Go on.”

  “Where was I?”

  “You were speaking of a view.”

  “Ah yes. I enjoy a view, but what excites me most is the many diversions such cultivated places have to offer.” His gaze traveled over her body as if she were a table of sweets and all he need do was make a choice. “Gardens, for example.”

  “Travelers are often not permitted to indulge in such diversions.”

  “If so, I would ask the monarch for special dispensation in the name of knowledge.” His smile was faint, and his breath slightly shallow. “She would agree, of course. I have a way with women.”

  “Do you?”

  “Yes. And then I would begin an exhaustive exploration.”

  “Exhaustive?”

  He nodded. “Every enthusiast of travel knows, one must explore with all the senses—scent, sight, sound, touch, and, my favorite…taste. I have a weakness for anything sweet.”

  “Some fruits are forbidden.”

  “Within your garden, I would devour every fruit—forbidden or not.”

  Sophia’s blush deepened to a smolder. “I am not sure I could survive such an exploration.”

  “I would temper your ability to resist.”

  “How?”

  “I would untuck the inciting bit of gauze peeking out from your bodice—”

  “Fichu,” she interrupted.

  “—and I would use it to tie your tiny wrists behind your back.”

  Sophia gasped.

  “With your permission,” he said gravely, “of course.”

  “And then?” she asked, having intended to tell him to stop.

  “And then safe from hands threatening to betray your body’s need, I would release your hair from all those troublesome ribbons and pins.”

  She inhaled.

  “Your locks,” he continued, “would weigh heavy in my hands. They would move like silk through my fingers and I would let them fall against your breasts.” He tilted his head to the side. “Each light brush of hair would tease your skin.”

  She swallowed, but her throat was strangely dry. She rested her hand on her neck. “And what would I be doing?”

  “You would be raising your face in the hope of being kissed.”

  “A service,” she said, “I am sure you would willingly provide.”

  He shook his head; his eyes remained wolfish and fixed. “Not then. You see, without the fichu, that lovely, fitted bodice would be ever so slightly loose. And those beautiful breasts of yours would be a temptation more irresistible than spun sugar.”

  She meant to say, “oh,” but her lips parted, only to freeze in silence.

  He continued, “I would edge the soft fabric down until I freed each darkened nipple. Naturally, your back would arch. I would welcome each jutting tip with a kiss, feeling your sighs against my skin.”

  He stretched out his other leg and dropped one hand to the top of his thigh. How could he lay there, stretched out as if he hadn’t a care in the world—lie there blithely, as she burned?

  “I would stroke beneath the curve of your breast as I learned your taste and preference—would you prefer a gentle lick, slight graze, or something harder? You would not need to speak. I would know when your peaks grew hard inside the softness of my mouth.”

  As if compelled by some unnatural force, Sophia’s hand fell from her neck to her breast.

  “Would you not prefer my tongue?” he asked with a low chuckle.

  “Fiend,” she said, but not with anger. She straightened her back and folded her hands firmly in her lap. “Go home, Randolph. I have had enough of your teasing.”

  He stood slowly and bowed. “Sweet dreams, sweetness.” He smiled. “Until next we meet.”

  She placed her hands over her heated cheeks, and forced her breath to slow.

  The carriage lurched and swayed as the driver turned into their destination, a posting stable yard.

  She checked the mirror—still no sign of Randolph. She clicked it closed and dropped it into the pocket beneath her skirts.

  A horse neighed and the carriage rolled to a stop.

  “Right.” The clerk leaned over to glance through the glass. “Reprieve at last.”

  The sound of the stair squeaked as the coachman let it down and opened the door. Without a glance to the clerk, she took the coachman’s hand and descended, putting distance between herself and her memories.

  First, she intended to hire a post chaise with the story she was making arrangements for her elderly aunt whose walk was stiff and slow and more than a little hunched. Then, she would have a bite at the inn and find a tree against which she could rest. Once fed, she’d darken her tresses and remove the padding beneath her dress.

  She would make certain her “aunt” caught the coach on time.

  …

  Earl Baneham’s Rules for Winning

  “If you must modify your plan, do so intentionally.”

  Randolph scowled as he rounded the corner of a busy London square. He ignored cheerful bird-chatter in the branches, sun-lit shadow patterns on the walk, and cart wheels’ rattle on the rain-washed streets. Instead, he headed with single-minded resolve toward the dowager duchess’s home.

  He hoped his formidably reluctant wife had kept her word, because the fruits of this morning thus far had been setback and adversity.

  Though Maximilian Harrison had appropriate skill and ample cause, he had declined to join in the pursuit of Eustace and Helena. Randolph had been counting on Harrison’s help, but the foolish man had refused.

  Randolph suspected Harrison’s refusal involved Sophia’s fellow Fury, Lavinia, Lady Vaile—known as Lady Vice to Sophia’s Lady Scandal. Why would any man deliberately choose female folly over the opportunity to exact revenge?

  He could not understand. Nor could he understand women in the least. Not that he had ever tried. He had been content to let them occupy their world without interference—case in point, his mother and much older sisters—so long as they did not interfere with his.

  Where Sophia was concerned, respectful indifference was not possible.

  Last night, he had improvised a plan: Nurture her concern for her friends and keep her arguing. Once she lowered her dammed hackles, he had planned on replacing “arguing” with “in bed.” Not his best plan, admittedly. Of course, everything had gone to shit.

  Apart from throwing her over his shoulder and waking half of Mayfair to scandal, he had to give in to her request to remain the rest of the night while he met with his superior. He hoped his concession, however involuntary, would earn him some advantage. Even a slight easing of her distrust would help. The distraction of his marriage had cost too much already. A price he would have refused, if he had not fallen for her…

  He froze mid-step.

  Have I fallen for Sophia?

  No! He would swear on the fiery pits of hell that he had not. Not in the traditional sense.

  Dreams of pleasuring her in ways so intimate, they would make a high-priced courtesan blush, filled his nights, but those dreams were simple lustful wanting—basic to the nature of man. He was not fool enough to develop an attachment capable of compromising all his plans.

  He shook his head as if he could banish the idea.

  He admired Sophia’s wit. He lusted for her body. That was the sum. One did not develop an attachment for a pawn when one was held in check by a madman.

  He resumed walking at a slightly slower pace and quickly spotted his man. The fellow fell into step at his side.

  “Any trouble last night?” Randolph asked.

  “No one’s come or gone.”

  Thank heaven for small favors.

  “Keep watch,” he said. “We cannot have h
er leaving out the back while I come through the front, can we?”

  The man gave a discreet nod and fell away, leaving Randolph to stand at the foot of the dowager’s steps, staring up. He took a deep breath and climbed the stairs, two at a time. The butler opened the door before he had a chance to knock.

  “I have come to see my wife,” he said, dropping the hand he had raised to click the knocker.

  “I suspect you have,” the butler replied, face as bland as his voice. “This way.”

  Something in the butler’s lack-of-tone made icy fingers trail up Randolph’s neck.

  The servant stepped aside to allow him entry to the sitting room. Just as the night before, the white marble mantle was there. His palm-print on the glass was there. Even the blasted poker was still there.

  Sophia, however, was not.

  Lavinia, Lady Vaile, and Thea, the Duchess of Wynchester stood at the far end of the room. Apparently, they intended to use the settee as an embattlement.

  “Where is my wife?” he asked, voice astonishingly even.

  “Lady Sophia is not present,” the duchess said.

  “I can see Lady Randolph is not present.” He took two steps forward. “Where is she?”

  Lady Vaile’s grip on the settee tightened. “We do not know.”

  “You do not know,” he repeated, not recognizing his own hoarse voice.

  “We would not tell you if we did,” the duchess added.

  He took another step and the duchess held up her hand. “Think before you act, Lord Randolph. Strangling a duchess is frowned upon.”

  The haughty harpy. No wonder the duke and duchess remained estranged.

  “Thea,” Lady Vaile scolded with a brief shoulder nudge against the duchess. She cleared her throat. “Lord Randolph, Sophia has gone. She did not tell us her destination, nor did she say how long she would be absent.”

  “What did she say?” he asked.

  Lavinia visibly swallowed. “…she said she had good reason and we should give her our trust.”