And The Widow Wore Scarlet (Scandalous Sons 1)

“Would you care to make a wager?”

“What I’d care to do is have you tell me why two men bundled you into a carriage at Vauxhall. Why the same two men carried you into a house in Bruton Street, and why Scarlett spent three nights sleeping under your roof.”

Good Lord!

Dermot Flannery must have hired men to watch her. Shock rendered her momentarily speechless. No wonder he had been acting strangely since she told him about the incidents with her horse and the savage dog in Green Park.

Dermot turned to her and raised his hand in surrender. “Now, now, I know I never told you about hiring the guards to—”

“Guards!” she blurted, feeling somewhat suffocated by the thought this man had monitored her every movement. “For heaven’s sake, Dermot, I am not a child. You had no right—”

“You might be a fancy lady,” Dermot replied as he folded his thick arms across his chest, “but your father made me swear an oath, and I’ll not go back on my word.”

Wycliff cleared his throat. “And while I’d like to tell you to rot in hell, Flannery, for your interference means I must pack my belongings and lease a new abode, respect for the lady at my side prevents me from telling you about our little sojourn to Vauxhall.”

“Would you care to make a wager?” Dermot said.

Wycliff arched an arrogant brow. “Don’t ask me to betray Scarlett’s confidence. But know that I, too, swore an oath. Hence the reason I am sitting here listening to your patriarchal drivel.”

Scarlett sucked in a breath. Wycliff promised to mind his tongue.

Dermot’s eyes grew large and round. “Listen here, lad.”

“I am not your lad. Scarlett is not your daughter.”

Dermot sneered. “And she’s not your wife, yet you kept her in that house of yours for three days. Yer man doesn’t need a Cambridge education to know why.”

Wycliff shot forward and gripped the edge of the desk. “Then if you’re so adept at reading people, one look into my eyes will tell you the lady nursed me from the brink of death, nothing more.”

Silence descended once again.

Beneath hooded lids, Dermot stared into Wycliff’s eyes. Seconds passed before he said, “Maybe we should call a truce. Mark it with a friendly arm wrestle.” Just as Scarlett was about to object, he added, “Just to appease old Flannery.”

As a man who favoured his right hand, a man with a wound to the same arm, Wycliff had no choice but to decline. Nonetheless, Scarlett knew with absolute certainty he would not refuse.

“Dermot, this is ridiculous,” she pleaded, hoping to make him see sense. “Mr Wycliff is here as my guest. You have no reason to distrust him.”

She would never call rank and play the heavy-handed proprietor with Mr Flannery. The man worked tirelessly to protect her investment. Having lost her once, he lived to ensure he never failed her again. And he was the closest thing to kin she had.

“You can learn a lot about a man when he flexes his fist.” Dermot yanked one arm out of his coat, pushed the ledger aside and settled his elbow on the desk. “Come on, Mr Wycliff.” A chuckle escaped him as he wiggled his fingers. “Let’s see if you’re as strong as you look.”

When Wycliff leant forward and placed his elbow on the table, Scarlett shot to her feet. “Mr Wycliff is unwell. Are you determined to see him keel over from the strain?”

The gentleman in question cleared his throat. “You may beat me in an arm wrestle but let us see how you fare with swords or pistols.”

“Fops fight with swords.” Dermot laughed. “Cowards fight with pistols. Real men fight with their fists.”

“Make no mistake. I can throw a decent punch. Indeed, I would take great pleasure putting you on your Irish arse.”

The loud slap of their palms clashing echoed in the room. Both men bared their teeth as they adjusted their grips. Wycliff—the damn fool—was in danger of ripping open his stitches, of bleeding out onto Dermot’s well-trodden rug.

“Stop this at once.” Scarlett thumped the desk with her clenched fist though seemed powerless against two such stubborn men. “If only you could see how absurd you look.”

“Let’s begin on the count of three.” Dermot shuffled in the seat, placed his best foot forward and angled his body closer to the desk. “One.”

“Mother Mary have mercy on both your poor souls.” Scarlett glared at them. ?

?If you hurt Mr Wycliff, I shall never forgive you.”