The Art of Ruining a Rake (47 page)

His confirmation struck her like an iron-tipped lash. Pain ripped through her. The agony was nearly more than she could bear and she gasped aloud.
It was true.
Some part of her must have believed she was wrong, because hearing Lord Antony verify her deepest fear felt like her lungs being ripped from her chest.

It took her a moment to catch her breath again. Then she tightened her grip on her small, heavy satchel. “I have heard,” she replied in a strained voice that hinted at the tempest roiling just beneath her surface. “I wish to hear it from him.”

Lord Antony sighed and ran a hand through his brown hair. He looked away, then at her. “I’d thought him done with all that. Are you sure?”

She blinked, momentarily nonplussed. “You aren’t?”

His doubtfulness didn’t seem to bother him as much as it did her. “He doesn’t tell me details. Never has. I’ve heard rumors, of course. I’ve confronted him once or twice, so I’m certain he has been…involved. I did think him beyond those sordid assignations. When I—” He seemed to choose his words with care. “When I heard he was pursuing you, I worried. His exploits are an embarrassment, to say the least. He’s been accused of breach of promise no less than three times. His arrangement with certain widows is beyond the pale, even for a marquis.”

She would have stopped him there, for she had no desire to hear more of Roman’s unsavory history. But Lord Antony seemed to be driving to a point.

“While I always approved a match with you,” he continued, causing her heart to twist, “I despaired of him ever being a good husband. Then he summarily changed. I can say with more experience than anyone else, my brother is not the same man he was just three months ago. When he told me he’d extricated himself from his…mistresses…I believed him.”

Lucy stood as stiffly as her deteriorating body could. “And now?”

He ducked his chin as if pleading with her to think carefully. “Are you very certain there hasn’t been a mistake? I know one of the…women…has been making things very difficult for him. If he’s been seen about with her, he might be trying to reason with her. Is it possible you’ve been wrongly informed?”

Lucy had to bite her tongue to keep from answering
yes
. Emotion swelled and she tried to tamp it back. She wouldn’t cry in front of Roman’s brother. But she hated, hated this back-and-forth swinging from hope to despair. What if she
were
wrong? What if Roman truly loved her and only her?

“I don’t know why he was there,” she admitted, her voice strained. “Mr. Barton-Wright said your brother has been seen entering her house these past few days. I came to confront him. As much as I’d like to be wrong, my lord…”

“Don’t say it’s not likely,” Lord Antony replied, his tone gentle. “It’s not impossible he’s changed. I thought the same thing before he knew you, and now I find myself back in Parliament instead of running Plymbridge Hall.”

A tear leaked. She squeezed her eyes closed. Lord Antony stepped forward, then touched her awkwardly on the shoulder. “Don’t cry, Miss Lancester. It may come out all right.”

“I must
know,
” she whispered, her eyes still squeezed shut. “I can’t bear it if he’s…” A sob escaped. Then another. They tumbled forth after that, for her heart truly was exhausted. She was weary of being strong.

To his credit, Lord Antony didn’t shy away from her maidenly outpouring of heartache. She let him draw her into an embrace as awkward yet sincere as his tentative tap on the shoulder had been, and she cried until she was limp with it. For a man she didn’t know well, and whose reputation for austerity rivaled Trestin’s, he was rather kind.

When she was done with her tears, she pulled away. He foraged for a kerchief in his pocket and handed it to her. “You may sit in the drawing room as long as you like. I’ll let Mr. Benjamin know to keep the candles burning, and ask for refreshment to be brought in. Is there anything special you require?”

She sniffled and shook her head. Lord Antony showed her into the dimly lit drawing room. After she seated herself, he made a few cursory checks of the space, verifying all was in place. When he was satisfied the fire was warm enough, the sconces were lit and the windows were sealed tight, he bowed and excused himself.

His footsteps retreated into the house. Above stairs, a door closed. The house went silent. After a time, the footman returned with a glass of cool lemonade, a plate of biscuits, and a damp, soothing chamois towel.

She wiped away the traces of her tears and drank every last drop of the lemonade. When the servant’s footfalls subsided, she stood.

Enough time had passed that she was fortified. Did she want to wait for Roman all night and allow her imagination to get the better of her again? Or did she want to find him and see for herself what he was doing?

Edward had said Lady Letitia’s door was visible from Lord Steepleton’s window. The earl lived just a few streets from Merritt House; Mr. Tewseybury had pointed out the whitewashed town home while on a drive one afternoon.

She tiptoed into the hallway and slipped out through the front door. She didn’t bother with a hired hack this time—there wasn’t one to be found on this street of private homes, anyway. She strode in the direction of Lord Steepleton’s house. Her hand gripped the pistol through her satchel. Walking alone wasn’t something she ought to be doing, but woe to the man who encountered her now. She was armed, and of a humor to be tested.

She reached Lord Steepleton’s grand house without incident. Unlike Merritt House, its façade was kept in fine repair. She turned at the gate and evaluated the street.

From here, five doors were easily visible, three to the front and one on either side. Three of the five she easily eliminated, as they were buttoned up tight for the night. Of the remaining two, one was ablaze with light.

In the other, a single window cast a yellow glow over the street.

She’d start with the house fully lit.

A carriage turned the nearest corner before she could cross the street. Much to her dismay, the conveyance slowed in front of Lord Steepleton’s house. Desperate to avoid recognition, she pulled her mantle across her face and began to cross the street.

“Ho, Miss Lancester!” came a voice behind her.

She spun around.
“Shh!”
she hissed, bringing her finger to her lips. The only thing worse than being discovered was having her name shouted down the street.

Mr. Tewseybury and Lord Steepleton were alighting from the carriage. They seemed to be holding each other upright.

“I say, what brings you here?” Lord Steepleton slurred loudly.

Mr. Tewseybury hobbled toward her, dragging his friend over with him. “Have you lost your way, Miss Lancester?” he said too boisterously. “You shouldn’t go wandering these streets at night. It’s dangerous.”

“Perfectly safe.” Lord Steepleton waved off the concern. “The best neighborhood in London.”

Tewseybury’s eyes shone. “Ah, my James is so humble. But tell me, Miss Lancester, do you require assistance? You may have our carriage. We’ll not need it tonight.”

Lucy had too much to distract her to wonder why Mr. Tewseybury would choose to stay with Lord Steepleton for the night when he might make use of the carriage himself.

“I’m perfectly well,” she assured him shortly, lest he try to take her under his care. “But can you tell me which house belongs to Lady Letitia?”

Mr. Tewseybury gasped comically. Lord Steepleton guffawed. “Ten for me, old boy!” he said, slapping his friend’s shoulder. “I told you she’d learn of it.”

“I wish she hadn’t! Poor gel!” Mr. Tewseybury sent her a sympathetic look.

She really didn’t want to go through the despair of wondering again. Was Roman there? Was he with Lady Letitia now?

What had these gentlemen espied from Lord Steepleton’s window?

“The house, sir?” she prodded impatiently.

The earl tripped over his feet for no reason. As he sank against Mr. Tewseybury, the latter sighed.

“I was surprised to see Montborne in the area again,” Mr. Tewseybury admitted, placing a steadying hand on the earl’s chest. “It’s been months since the marquis darkened her door. Thought better of him of late, but…what they say about old dogs, you know.” Mr. Tewseybury cast her a despondent look.

Lucy was more than done with this conversation. “If you please, Mr. Tewseybury. I’d like to get on with it.”

A blush deepened his liquor flush. “Forgive me. Her house is that one. With the upstairs light. Usually that means… Well, you know.”

She pressed her lips together.

“G’night, Miss Lancester,” Lord Steepleton mumbled.

“Good night, my lord, Mr. Tewseybury.” She curtseyed.

“It’s bed for you, James,” she heard Mr. Tewseybury say as she walked away toward Lady Letitia’s house. “Come along and I’ll tuck you in.”

What an odd pair of ducks.

After verifying that they had slipped through the earl’s door, Lucy turned back to Lady Letitia’s house. The nearest side led to the mews. She stepped carefully over uneven cobblestones as she made her way to the rear gardens. Her stomach roiled at the sight of four more upstairs windows awash in light. Gauzy, pale curtains were pulled tight, but she didn’t need to see clearly to know what was happening. A naked male silhouette moved across the screen.

A nude woman’s followed.

Her stomach upended. With a groan she heaved forward and tried to cast up her accounts. It had been hours since her last meal. Tears came to her eyes as her stomach tried to turn itself out anyway.

Her involuntary weeping gradually became grief as she accepted the facts. He was here, and judging by what she’d seen, it was not for the end of his arrangement.

She didn’t wish to look, but she forced herself to anyway. She must remember this plainly, so she never made excuses for him again.

They’d turned toward each other. He stood in perfect silhouette, kissing the woman’s collarbone. Her head was thrown back in ecstasy. He ran his hands down her backside, drawing her closer. How could he?
How could he?

By degrees, Lucy’s fury returned. Maybe he did think her indifferent. Perhaps he had given up on her ever admitting her love for him. But he’d not told her so. When he’d left her the last time, she’d expected him to return. Yet he was here. Doing
this
.

Violence exploded inside her. She unlatched the rear gate and stole into the garden’s shadows. Stealth wasn’t something she’d practiced, but the pair in the window didn’t heed her approach.

The unlocked rear door opened soundlessly. Even from below stairs, she could hear the husky, assured murmur of a woman’s voice. It slithered down Lucy’s spine and constricted around her middle. She almost lost her confidence. Lady Letitia commanded the favors of a marquis. She must be powerful indeed. What was Lucy doing, confronting such a woman in her own bedchamber?

Then she heard it. A man’s cry of pleasure.

Hatred flared in Lucy’s breast. She tried to unwind the velvet noose from her wrist. The strings had tangled, or else her hands trembled too much for her to grasp them properly.

Once freed, she gingerly reached into the pouch and withdrew the dueling pistol. Her heart slowed to a stop as the wooden grip settled in her hand.

Her anger raged on, but she ceased to feel. She’d been born to this moment. All her life, fate had destined to bring her here.

He’d doomed himself with his duplicity. What was left for her to do but give in?

She tested the firearm’s weight. It was heavy, full of powder and lead. She paused. This was no night terror. She could walk away. What she believed herself capable of doing was madness.

Simply being here was madness.

She could leave. As easily as she could raise her pistol, she could curse him to Hades, gorge herself on Devonshire cream, and try to live her life without revenge.

Yet her fate was something she couldn’t escape. She might falter today, but one day she wouldn’t. Never seeing him again was unbearable. Forgetting him was impossible. There was a hollow comfort in having it be done.

The smooth familiarity of steel and wood made her heart hammer. Slowly, she cocked the flintlock. Raising the pistol against her cheek, barrel pointed upward, she began to enter the house.

She knew her role. She crept through the maze of furniture and narrow doors without hesitation. Everything was as she’d practiced a thousand times in her mind. The deeper she entered, the more distant she felt. But it was real, too. She could hear them. Roman. Lady Letitia. She listened for their moans and followed the unrestrained sounds of their passion.

Finally, she reached the uppermost landing. The grunts were louder here. Roman was there, behind that door. With
her
.

She moved toward the closed door with mechanical motions. Her heart hung suspended, lifeless in her chest. The pistol seemed an extension of her hand. None of this was real.

She waited at the door for an unknown number of minutes. Her head was full of noise, so much noise. The ringing and moaning and demanding sounds of a woman taking her pleasure; the bang of a gunshot. The imaginary screams of a man bleeding to death and a frightened woman terrified of being next.

“That’s it, you naughty boy,” Letitia’s velvety murmur crooned. “You like that, don’t you? It’s so good. You want to come so hard for me, don’t you?”