And The Widow Wore Scarlet (Scandalous Sons 1)

As the only person able to read his mind, clearly she noticed his flagging equilibrium. “Where will you sleep tonight?”

She cast a semblance of a smile. “I have been sleeping in the room next to yours. Mr Trent insists you prefer privacy and so I am happy to return home now you’re through the worst.”

Trent was right. Damian shared nothing with no one. That way a man was not disappointed. And yet the need to keep the widow close overrode all else. He wanted her to intrude, to disturb his solitude.

“You being here adds a certain credibility to our story. And if you find the room too cold, the bed too lumpy, there is plenty of room in this one.” Indeed, he might cry out in the night, find some excuse to have her settle beside him beneath the bedsheets.

“I have managed so far,” she said. “After years spent in the cold, draughty halls of a seminary, I’m sure I shall cope sleeping in a plush bed with a mound of blankets.”

A picture formed in his mind of a young girl with ebony hair, living without kin and sleeping in morbid dormitories. Those who knew her now would assume she was the strong one. The one who took charge. The one who accepted her fate with the same confident disdain as the Scarlet Widow. But strength came from suffering. Aside from her scars, this woman had suffered more than most.

“Before you race from my bedchamber, tell me why Flannery failed to collect you from the seminary.”

She stood between the bed and the door, clutching her book to her chest as if it had the power to ward off the evil spirits who came to haunt her in the night. Ghouls named Loneliness and Despair. The ones who visited him, too, when he forgot to raise his defences.

“Mr Flannery could not collec

t me from the seminary in Bath because I had left a week earlier. No doubt it proved a shock when he arrived. The house mistress usually waits a week before writing to a parent or guardian.”

“No, I suppose one’s family pays to know their offspring are safe, not gallivanting about town.”

“During my time in various establishments, I only ever wanted one thing.” A sad sigh left her lips. “To go home. But despite many attempts, my requests were denied. I’d grown tired of wondering why.”

The powerlessness of childhood affected people in different ways. “Some parents believe education guarantees a long and successful life. That it matters above all else.”

“And yet I cannot help but think that was not the reason I was there.” She swallowed deeply and said, “My father struggled to love me. Perhaps I reminded him of my mother. Maybe he saw a child as a burden.”

The throbbing in Damian’s arm was replaced by a new and shocking sensation—an ache in his heart. Surprisingly, it had nothing to do with his own misfortune, and yet the similarities were undeniable. Were he not stark naked beneath the sheets, he might have climbed out of bed and pulled her into a comforting embrace.

“Whatever the reason, it is not your fault. From your vague description and your association with Mr Flannery, I assume your father owned a gaming establishment.”

She nodded. “He owned The Jewell.”

The Jewell?

The club catered to the upper echelons, to the wealthy who could afford to lose thousands, to the second sons who chose gaming as an occupation. Many aristocrats had lost their fortunes there until the club closed abruptly and news of the owner’s suicide spread. It explained why she resorted to living like a pauper in Covent Garden.

“Your father was Jack Jewell?” He would wait for her to broach the delicate subject of suicide.

“Indeed. Hence the reason he placed me in the seminaries under the name of Scarlett Hawthorne.”

Hawthorne? Yet another fake identity to add to the confusion.

“Then it is clear to me that he placed you there for your own safety.” Did she not say that she rarely remained in one place for longer than a year?

“An opinion Mr Flannery shares. One he reiterates whenever I mention the subject of my unconventional upbringing.”

It seemed the time had come to learn more about the Irishman with forearms as wide as a normal man’s thigh. “While our outing to Vauxhall proved unsuccessful in leading us to the culprit”—though not so fruitless when it came to seduction—“I thought we might visit The Silver Serpent tomorrow night.”

Her eyes widened, and she blinked rapidly. “But you’re not well enough to venture out into the cold and must remain abed. Dr Redman said—”

“What?” He propped himself up on his elbows. “That I must rest until the wound has healed? I know my limitations. This isn’t the first time I’ve recovered from a life-threatening injury.” Did her reservations about accompanying him to the gaming hell stem from something other than concerns about his health? “But if you think bed is the best place for me—”

“I do for the time being.”

“Then would you mind grabbing the pot and assisting me with my aim?”

She responded to his comment by raising her chin to disguise the blush. “You have servants more equipped than I to handle the task.”