The Art of Ruining a Rake (46 page)

A rake was one thing.

A cicisbeo… There was nothing romantic about a man who traded his virility for shirtwaists.

“How can you stomach it?” Edward asked as she finally found the door handle and leapt from the phaeton. “He went to her last night. He’ll go to her again.”
 

Lucy’s ears rang.
He went to her last night.

Edward chortled as the blood drained from her face. “I plan to withdraw my support for his quarry. When I do, he’ll be strapped for blunt. What will you do when the man you love spends his nights earning your keep on his back?”

“No,” she said, willing her head to cease spinning. Edward was lying. Roman wouldn’t have done that. He loved her. He had no reason to seek out anyone else.

Did he?

“You think I won’t turn back my shares?” Edward laughed darkly. “There’s a great deal of money to be made in his quarry, but I’d rather see him fail with you. I have no desire to finance a man who will always be a rival.”

“No,” she said more forcefully, glaring into Edward’s hateful face. “No, he’s not
visiting
anyone.”

Edward smiled a terrible, gleeful smile. “Oh, Miss Lancester, but he is. I saw him enter her house with my own eyes. I wasn’t alone in that—Steepleton brought it to my attention, after he’d witnessed Roman skulking about twice earlier in the week. Steepleton and Lady Letitia are neighbors, you see. He’s been following the affair from his window for years. So has most of the
ton,
I’m told.”

She didn’t trust herself to speak.
Last night.
He’d gone to her
last night
.

“To be perfectly honest, I thought that was why you’d summoned me today.” Edward gave her a smug, pitying look. “I thought you knew.”

Chapter 23

ROMAN HAD GONE to another woman.

Lucy burrowed deeper under her coverlet and wept anew. In the hours since she’d walked home from St. James’s Park, painfully stoic in her determination not to publicly embarrass herself over a man, she hadn’t been able to think of anything else. She hadn’t even bothered to change out of her carriage dress. Simply climbed into bed and sobbed.

She’d already wasted so many tears, yet she couldn’t stop. While she’d been agonizing over whether she could overlook Roman’s past and trust him with her heart, he’d been reverting to his old tricks.

Or had he never stopped in the first place, though he’d told her he had?

After what seemed ages of excruciating misery, it occurred to her that he might have gone to Lady Letitia’s to end things once and for all. Perhaps he’d decided to prove his devotion to Lucy by finalizing his separation from his benefactress.

Lucy’s wretchedness lifted enough for a self-deprecating, hiccupped laugh to escape. Of course. She should have realized it sooner. He’d only visited the rich widow to set matters to rights.

She opened her eyes and saw that darkness had fallen. She had the vague recollection of sending Carson away when the girl had tried to muster her for supper, and another memory of the maid attempting to prepare her for bed. The house was quiet below. It must be very late. Too late to find Roman and speak to him?

It didn’t matter. She needed to find him and ask him for an explanation. Immediately. Giving him the opportunity to answer was what she
should
do. Why, she ought to have done it from the start. She’d been so quick to believe Edward! When by his own admission, he was bitter and jealous of a man he considered his foe.

She tossed off the coverlet and searched for her boots. It might be near to midnight or just after; the small clock by her bedside had stopped. She didn’t let it trouble her. It shouldn’t be too difficult to locate him, no matter the hour. She knew his favorite haunts.

She knew where he lived.

Waiting until tomorrow was out of the question. She wouldn’t sleep until he’d reassured her. Her new confidence in him was tentative at best. As much as she wanted to believe he was innocent of this latest offense, deep down, she was afraid.

She drew on her half boots and tightened the laces. She couldn’t think like that. She must be patient and allow him the chance to explain. Suspicion was dangerous.
 

But as she rose and went to her chest of drawers, her doubt crept back. As she donned her gloves, it took root. Unbidden, a new explanation occurred to her. She closed her eyes and concentrated on keeping upright as the most obvious answer assailed her.

Edward wasn’t wrong. Roman
had
gone to another woman’s bed. He was a physical, passionate man, one who wore his heart on his sleeve. She’d rejected his vows of devotion.
 

She’d sent him away.
 

Why hadn’t she seen it? In the fortnight since he’d delivered her manuscript with a final, chaste kiss, he hadn’t called, nor sent a letter. He’d given her guidance, then disappeared. She’d had everything she’d said she ever wanted. Why
would
he have returned? She hadn’t wanted
him
.

It wouldn’t be the first time he’d replaced her. That night during her Season when he’d mistaken her for a courtesan, it had been because he’d sought a woman who resembled her. He’d thought her off-limits, so he’d sated himself with a female who was close enough. Was it any surprise he’d done so again, after she’d repeatedly spurned his suit?

As the truth became obvious, she felt her old self return. She wasn’t really spending her day prostrate in bed, weeping over a reprobate who’d broken her heart. Not her. She was stronger than that. She deserved better than that.

She wasn’t a pitiable, helpless victim.

Red fury exploded just beyond her vision.
He was cavorting with another woman.
Jealousy shot through every nerve in her body. Liquid and hot, it spared no part of her. She remembered clearly the last night she’d seen her mother.
I want him to die,
she’d screeched.
I want him to suffer.

Lucy’s head spun. She didn’t want to become Mother. But her body numbed past reason as her rage consumed the weak justifications she’d made for him. She’d promised herself she’d never rationalize his behavior. Look at her. He didn’t need to lie to her. She was more than capable of devising defenses for him on her own.

Her heart burned to a black, empty crisp as her hard-won control vanished in a fireball.

It happened in a blink, so quickly that she hardly had time to acknowledge, let alone stop it. Then it was gone. Replaced by cold determination, and unwavering certainty in what she must do next.

On trembling legs, she went to her wardrobe and retrieved her mantle. The heavy cloak settled over her shoulders like a suit of armor. Next, she withdrew her satchel. She lifted a small purse from it and weighed it. Enough for a few hack rides and an entrance fee, should she need it.

Then she went to her bedside table.

The hour was late. No decent person was about at this time.

Including Roman.

Including her.

Numbness detached her from her actions as she opened the drawer. She carefully extracted the dueling pistol and enfolded it in a soft cloth. The narrow, heavy package fit snugly in her satchel. She tugged the strings tight and looped the ends around her wrist. The pistol’s weight was satisfying yet deadly, like the sensation of moving too quickly in a carriage or swimming too deeply into a stream.

Creeping from the house proved far easier than Trestin would like to believe. Mr. Gordo and the rest of the staff had gone to bed; there was no one to see her sneak out through the servants’ entrance. Within moments she was hurrying through the silent streets. She tugged the hood of her mantle low and navigated to the nearest thoroughfare, where she found a cab.

The hack driver did not ask questions.

Roman was unlikely to be home at this hour, but a chance remained he’d returned early. Too, Merritt House was closer than any of the other places he might be, such as Madame Claremont’s—and it was private.

The dark drive gave her plenty of time to consider what she’d do once she found him. She concluded it was altogether better if they were alone. What she had to say wasn’t fit for society’s ears, not even the society he kept.

May the gods help him if he was at Lady Letitia’s.

By the time the hack pulled in front of Merritt House, Lucy had built herself into a fine fit. While she’d been pining for him like a naïve child, he’d been enjoying the favors of another. He was touching, teasing and tasting some wicked widow’s body and to Lucy’s complete shame, others knew it.

That blackguard. That lying, unfaithful
cad
.

Her hands shook as she counted out the hack fare. Then she marched to the door and clanked the knocker until it opened. “Lord Montborne, if you please,” she commanded the surprised manservant as she bustled past him.

“My lady, the master is not at home—”

Her stomach sank, but she didn’t pause. She quickly buoyed herself up. No reason to be disappointed just because she’d verified her suspicions. He was out whoremongering; it shouldn’t come as a surprise. It was why she was here, after all.

“I’ll wait,” she said, and turned to enter the nearest parlor.

“Miss Lancester.” The deep voice came from her left. She stilled. Her heart leapt.

But no, it wasn’t him.

Slowly, her chin lifted with as much dignity as she could muster. She turned toward the man on the staircase. “Lord Antony. My apologies if I’ve disturbed you.”

A light burned in the room behind him. The billiards room, if she remembered correctly. He seemed to have come out of it.

“Not at all, Miss Lancester,” he said smoothly. “I was just about to enjoy a nightcap. May I pour a brandy for you?”

Her fingers gripped the strings of her satchel. She’d come ready for battle, not refreshment. “No, thank you. I’ll wait here.”

He glanced at the footman behind her. She couldn’t see the manservant, but she inferred that Lord Antony had conferred silent instruction to him. The footman left the room.

Lord Antony made his way down to the foyer and indicated for Lucy to proceed him into the drawing room. “I can take my brandy in here, if you prefer it.”

She didn’t move. Her back remained ramrod straight as she looked levelly at him. “I’d rather wait alone.”

A muscle tightened at his jaw. She didn’t flinch.

“You’re here to speak to Roman,” he said, eyeing her up and down. “You’re incensed.”

She clutched the velvet strings of her satchel and pressed her lips firmly together. “I won’t leave until I see him.”

Lord Antony looked at the harmless-seeming bag dangling from her wrist. Then he looked back to her. “Lucy,” he said softly. “Don’t.”

Her heart stopped. Her hands dampened. She almost turned and fled. Did he suspect why she’d come?

How could he?

She forced herself to calm. Little by little, she released her death grip on the ties. He couldn’t know. He meant,
don’t rail at Roman.
It was kindness, nothing more.

She didn’t want his sympathy. In a clipped, accusing tone, she informed him of the situation. “Your brother is a lying, sodding scoundrel. I intend to tell him so the moment he returns.”

Lord Antony looked taken aback.

“Furthermore,” she continued, “I want to be alone while I wait. I have much to think about.”

His lips turned in a faint, approving smile. “By Jove, Miss Lancester. You are formidable.”

His cheeriness did nothing to improve her disposition. She glanced pointedly at the room he’d abandoned upon her arrival. “If you don’t mind, my lord, I’d like you to go away.”

He smiled outright then. “I couldn’t possibly allow you to brood by yourself. Montborne may be a lying, sodding scoundrel, but he’s still my brother. It’s my job to patch up what I can before you have your go at him.”

She drew herself up. Frustration seethed from every pore. “The last thing I desire is to be sweetened up. I assure you the effort is wasted, in any case. Your blackguard of a brother will wander in careless as he pleases, smelling of that
doxy
who’s been bedding him. One whiff of her perfume and I will remember
precisely
why I’m here.”

Lord Antony’s shock could not be more apparent. He tried to recover quickly, though his dismay couldn’t be concealed as easily as his surprise at her coarse language. “So you’ve heard.”