Never Judge a Lady By Her Cover: Number 4 in series (The Rules of Scoundrels series) (30 page)

She met his gaze. “You can’t give me the title.” He opened his mouth to reply. She stopped him. “The title, Duncan. It’s the title that matters.”

There was a moment when she saw everything in his gaze, all the truth and sadness and frustration that she felt, mirrored in his beautiful eyes. And then it was gone. Replaced with calm reserve.

“Then you are lucky, my lady, that Chase paid his fee. My papers are at your disposal. Your title you shall have.”

She wanted to reach for him. To beg him to make good on their arrangement. She wanted her two weeks. Perhaps two weeks with him would be enough to survive a lifetime without him.

She couldn’t stop herself from asking, “What of tonight?”

What of his touch? Of his promises?

What of his control?
 

It turned out he was in control after all.

“Get dressed,” he said, ending the evening. She was dismissed. He was already turning away. Heading for the door. “Get dressed and get out.”

Chapter 14

… The darling of this year’s season continues to win her peers with honest charm and unimpeachable beauty. The Lady was spotted at Mme. H—’s modiste shop this week, purchasing gowns in proper, pale silk with perfect, high necks. She is modesty incarnate…

… With utter glee, we report that Lord and Lady N— are in town for the Season, an unexpected change for a couple who so rarely leave their house in the country. The lady has been spotted in several storefronts on Bond Street, allegedly purchasing clothing for newborns. Perhaps the winter will deliver Lord N— a long awaited son now that he’s quite full of daughters?

The News of London
, May 2, 1833

The next morning, Duncan handed his card to the butler at Tremley House at half-nine, only to be told that the earl was not in.

Unfortunately, the butler at Tremley House had not been alerted that Duncan West was through with aristocrats turning him away.

“The earl is in,” he said.

“I am sorry, sir,” the butler said, attempting to close the door.

Duncan set his boot in the jamb, preventing his dismissal. “Strange, as you do not sound sorry at all.” He set a hand to the door, pushing firmly. “I shall stand here all day. You see, I haven’t a reputation to uphold.”

The butler decided it was better to let Duncan in than to do battle in the doorway, where anyone wandering through Mayfair might see them. He opened the door.

Duncan raised a brow. “Smart man.” The butler opened his mouth, no doubt to assure Duncan that the earl was not, in fact, in. “He’s home and he’ll see me.” Duncan removed his coat and hat and thrust them into the servant’s hands. “Will you fetch him? Or shall I find him myself?”

The servant disappeared, and Duncan waited in the great foyer of Tremley House, feeling not nearly as satisfied as he should.

He should be elated, finally, finally in possession of something that would free him from the yoke of Tremley’s blackmail and threats. Today, finally, West would show his hand and win.

And now, after eighteen years of it, he would be able to stop running. Stop hiding.

He would be able to live a life. Mostly.

He should be celebrating his victory.

Instead, he was thinking of his defeat the night before. He was thinking of Georgiana, bared to him, cast in the golden glow of his fireplace, on the edge of his most prized possession – his most beloved location – in the wake of a pleasure that he had never known. He was thinking of the way she’d closed herself off, resisted his promises and his help even as she vied for his touch.

He was thinking of her rejection.

He’d never offered anyone what he’d offered her in that dark room. He’d never offered his protection. His funds. His support.
Himself.

He turned, stalking to the far end of the foyer. Christ. He’d told her his secrets. He’d never told anyone about his childhood. About his obsession with cleanliness. About his past.

When she’d asked where he’d been when he was a child, he’d nearly told her. He’d nearly revealed everything… in the hopes that his honesty would unlock her own. Would help her to trust him. To tell him the truth about herself. About her past. About her mistakes.

About Chase.

But he didn’t. And thank God for that.

Because she didn’t want his truths. She didn’t want him.

I was thinking that I should tell you the truth
 

Her words from the prior evening rang through him as though she stood next to him. She should have told him the truth. He could have helped. But she hadn’t. She’d rejected his assistance.

Rejected him.
 

Instead, she wanted what he could do for her. The papers. The gossip. The restored reputation and the title that would come with it.

And even as he thought the words, he knew she was right. Because his truths changed nothing. Even now, even as he prepared to face the man who had controlled him for years, as he prepared to free himself, West remained unmarriageable.

Even now, as he wielded power and fortune and might, he would never be more than the boy born into nothing, raised in nothing.

He would never be enough to raise her out of scandal. He had nothing to give her. No title. No name. No past.

No future.
 

He was a means to her end.

So why not take what she offered? Her premarital arrangement? Why not lay her bare and make love to her in a dozen places in a score of ways? She did not wish him to play her savior, fine. She did not wish to share her truths, fine. But she offered herself. Her pleasure. Their mutual pleasure.

Why not take the pleasure and leave everything else?

Because he’d never been good at leaving things behind.

“It’s damn early,” Tremley said from the first-floor landing, drawing Duncan’s attention as he descended the stairs, his hair still damp from his morning ablutions. “I hope you’ve brought what I asked.”

“I haven’t,” West said, putting Georgiana out of his mind, not wanting her here, in this place, sullied by this man and his sin. “I’ve brought something infinitely better.”

“I’ll be happy to judge that.” Tremley paused at the bottom of the stairs, straightening his sleeves, and a memory flared.

West watched the careful play of fingers at the earl’s cuffs, and finally said, “Your father used to do that.”

Tremley stopped fidgeting.

West lifted his gaze. “Before anyone of import might see him, he would even his shirtsleeves.”

Tremley raised a brow. “You remember my father’s eccentricities?”

He remembered more than that. “I remember everything.”

One side of the earl’s mouth lifted. “I fairly quake in my boots.” He sighed. “Come, West. What have you? It is early, and I have not yet had breakfast.”

“You could invite me to eat.”

“I could,” the earl said. “But I think my family has fed you enough for a lifetime. Don’t you?”

West’s fists clenched, and he did his best to keep his anger at bay. This was his game. His win. He took a breath, rocked back on his heels. Affected the kind of boredom that came with power. That had always oozed from the Earl of Tremley. “Would you like to hear what I have learned?”

“I told you. I want Chase’s identity. If it has nothing to do with him, I don’t care to know it. Certainly not at this hour.” He turned to a footman at the far end of the hallway and snapped his fingers. “Tea. Now.”

The servant moved without hesitation, and West detested the way Tremley’s sharp orders were delivered and obeyed… in the same manner his father’s had been done. Without question. Out of fear of retaliation. Cruelty ran in the family, and young servants learned quickly to move fast enough to escape the notice of the Earls of Tremley.

He watched the young footman scurry away and turned to Tremley. “As a matter of fact, this does have something to do with Chase.”

Tremley waited for Duncan to speak. When he did not, the earl said, “Christ, West. I haven’t all day.”

“Your study would be a better place for it.”

For a moment, West thought he’d disagree. And, to be honest, he wanted to do it here, in near public, where the walls of this immense house, bought and paid for with treasonous funds, had ears. He wanted to reveal his knowledge – the contents of the supremely edifying file from Chase – in front of a half-dozen servants who wanted nothing more than the destruction of their unyielding, unpleasant master.

But revelation to the world was not the goal.

The goal was that of all discussions of information since the dawn of time. A trade. West’s secrets for Tremley’s. Freedom for them both. Revelation for neither.

He waited a heartbeat. Two. Five.

He had waited much, much longer.

The earl turned on his heel and led the way to his office, dark and enormous, filled with unused windows, heavy velvet curtains blocking the light and any prying eyes beyond.

Duncan was keenly aware of the pistol in his boot. He did not think he would need to use it, but he was comforted by its presence in the dark room. He sat in a wide leather chair by the fireplace, stretching his legs long across the floor of the space, crossing one ankle over the other, resting his elbows on the arms of the chair and tenting his fingers together above his chest.

“I did not say you could sit,” Tremley said.

Duncan did not move from his position.

Tremley watched him for a long while. “You seem terribly sure of yourself for someone who is a heartbeat from jail with a single word from me.”

Duncan considered the wide ebony desk on the other side of the room. “That was your father’s.”

“What of it?”

Duncan lifted a shoulder. “I remember it. I remember thinking it was massive. That I’d never seen a desk as large. That he must have been very powerful indeed to require such an enormous piece of furniture.”

He remembered other things, too. Remembered staring through a keyhole, knowing he shouldn’t. Seeing his mother on that desk. Seeing the old earl take what he wanted. Give nothing.

Not love. Not money.

Not even help when they needed it most. When
she
needed it the most.

Tremley leaned against the desk, crossing his arms and blocking the memories. “And? Your point?”

“Only that it does not seem so large anymore.” West shrugged one shoulder, knowing the movement would irritate Tremley.

You do that when you want someone to think that you aren’t interested in what they are about to say.
 

Georgiana’s instant understanding of his interview tactic had unsettled him when she’d noticed it. No one else ever had.

Tremley certainly did not. His gaze narrowed. “What do you have on him?”

“Chase?” West asked, pretending to brush a piece of lint from his trouser leg. “Nothing.”

Tremley straightened. “Then you are wasting my time. Get out. Come back when you have something. Soon. Or I shall pay our Cynthia a visit.”

West resisted the urge to lunge for the earl the moment the words were spoken, the possessive pronoun hanging in the air like an invective. Instead, he played his first card. “I don’t have anything on Chase, but I do have something on you.”

Tremley smiled, arrogant and unperturbed. “You do.”

West matched the expression. “Tell me, do you think His Royal Highness would be interested in hearing that his closest advisor is skimming the exchequer?”

Something shifted in Tremley’s eyes, the barest proof that West was right about the embezzlement. But what of the rest of the file – Lady Tremley’s accusations? Her proof? Had she made worthy payment for membership at the Angel? “You haven’t proof of anything close to that.”

West’s smile did not waver. “Not yet. But I do have proof that you took the money to pay for arms in Turkey.” Tremley stilled, and West continued. “And I’ve proof that the Ottoman Empire is happily paying you to keep them well supplied with information.”

Tremley shook his head. “There is no proof of that.”