And The Widow Wore Scarlet (Scandalous Sons 1)

“Most couples are forced to wed when caught in a clinch, so they are.”

Wycliff pushed away from the door and straightened his coat. He gazed into her eyes, a look to remind her that honesty was the best way forward.

“Being a widow, the same rules do not apply. Besides, you know only too well that I’ll never marry again.” She glanced at Wycliff, hoping his expert ears had failed to catch the lie. She would marry for love. But the only man who had ever touched her heart was a notorious rake who rarely settled in one place for longer than a few months.

“Well, Scarlett?” Dermot said in the comforting tone of a caring parent. “Will you be sitting down to tell a tired man how our friend happened to take a lead ball in the arm?”

It was time to stop hiding the truth. The threat had escalated. And she would die inside if anything untoward happened to Wycliff. “Perhaps I should begin by telling you how I first met Mr Wycliff. And then I’ll tell you how fate conspired to bring us together again.”

“Why do I get the impression I’ll need more than ale to calm my nerves?” Dermot gestured for them to follow him back to his basement office.

They all returned to the dimly lit room. Both men sat in silence as Scarlett relayed her tale. Numerous times Dermot cursed and thumped the desk for she had never told him about the scars, or the cruelty she’d suffered at the hands of Lord Steele. Wycliff’s face remained stone-like though she could feel the fire raging within.

After dragging his hand down his face, Dermot said, “Had you not escaped from the seminary, had you but waited a few more days, I could have saved you years of pain and heartache, so I could.”

“If life is about learning lessons, then things happened as they ought.” Had she not fled from the seminary, she would never have taken work as an actress, would not have ventured into an alley off Drury Lane to save the life of the rogue sitting quietly at her side.

“Had yer man Steele not thrown the miniature of you into the gambling pot, I might never have found you.”

That was the first night fate had been kind.

Despite a lengthy argument about where Scarlett should reside while they investigated the attacks, they agreed she would remain with Wycliff, and Dermot’s men would watch over the house on Bruton Street.

The conversation turned to the suspects.

“Ever since you told me about the dog attack in the park,” Dermot began, “I’ve had someone spying on yer man Steele. You should never have told him you owned his vowels.”

“It was the only way to regain control.” The information was akin to putting a noose around her husband’s and stepson’s necks. She held the rope, knew when to give it a hard tug.

“It’s a sure way to end up dead in a ditch,” Wycliff countered.

“At the time, I wanted peace from the nightmare.” It had given her leverage against her husband—a means to bargain for her safety and security. But Wycliff was right. She had failed to consider Joshua a threat. “In hindsight, I’ve made many mistakes. Mistakes that may have forced Joshua to act out of character.”

“If you die, he gets the house in Bedford Street.” Wycliff gave a weary sigh. “He can sell it and relieve his burden.”

“I’m certain it wasn’t Joshua who throttled me in my bed.”

“So you say.” Dermot growled. He knew nothing about the intruder, which supported Scarlett’s theory that the villain entered the house via the garden. “But I’ll have the blackguard by the end of the week. Whoever he may be.”

“You think the intruder was a hired thug from the rookeries?” Wycliff said. “Few people have the arrogance to murder someone in their own home.”

Dermot nodded. “And I want to know where your cook buys her flour. There’ll be a record of the transaction, so there will.”

“I have already attempted to extract that information. Marleys have no record of the order.”

Wycliff snorted. “Mr Flannery means someone took the order, someone paid to taint the flour with arsenic.”

“And by the time I’m finished, someone will tell me everything they know unless they want to take a dip in the Thames.” Dermot opened the desk drawer and rummaged inside. Retrieving a leather notebook, he pushed it across the desk, not to Scarlett, but to Mr Wycliff. “Everyone the Steele boy has visited, every place he’s been for the last two months, yer man recorded in there.”

“I’m sure it will make for interesting reading.” Snatching the book from the desk, Wycliff flicked to the last page and then turned to Scarlett. “We should examine it at length. I imagine it will either prove Joshua Steele’s guilt or his innocence. The last entry made was three weeks ago and will shed no light on the attack in your bedchamber.”

“That will be in O’Donnell’s new book. I’ll have it sent to you in Bruton Street.” Dermot turned to Scarlett, his green eyes brightening. “You’re welcome to stay here if you’d rather, you know that, so you do.”

Why would she stay above a noisy gaming hell, when she might spend the night in bed with Damian Wycliff?

Lust, tinged with something far more potent, fluttered in her belly. She had waited three years to press her naked body against his. Only in her wildest imagination had she ever thought her dream might come true.