And The Widow Wore Scarlet (Scandalous Sons 1)

“Indeed, one might go to great lengths to keep such a secret.”

Lady Rathbone harrumphed. “Leave now, or I shall have you removed. Osmond!”

Damian was about to say he loved a good fight, but Alcock came bursting into the dining room followed by the harassed butler clutching his bloody nose. One look at her mistress lying helpless in Damian’s arms and the woman bared her chipped teeth and growled l

ike a ravenous hound.

“I thought I instructed you to wait with Cutler.”

“Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but you ain’t my master.”

Damian suppressed a frustrated sigh. The woman was a law unto herself. “Your mistress is alive, Alcock, but if you want to help her, punch Lady Rathbone if she attempts to leave this room.”

Alcock stepped in front of the door, her bulky frame making it impossible for anyone to push past. “Right you are, sir. I’ve no qualms in hitting her ladyship.”

A whimper escaped the matron’s lips, but she gathered herself and stamped her foot. “You cannot tell me what to do in my own house.”

“Have no fear, my lady,” Osmond cried from the safety of the corridor. “I have sent for the night constable.”

“You fool, there is no need for the constable.” For the second time this evening, fear flashed in the matron’s eyes. “This is nothing more than a misunderstanding.”

“There’s every need for a constable.” Now he had come this far, Damian would have the truth from this deceiver’s lips. “Perhaps he would like to hear how you’ve spent years secretly hounding Lady Steele. I also have the note you sent to the runner offering a reward once he’d dispensed with her in a warehouse in Shoreditch. An expert will surely verify the handwriting.” Or more than likely not. “And the runner’s confession will give the magistrate much to contemplate.” He omitted the part about the runner’s dive to the bottom of the Thames.

Lady Rathbone gulped.

A tense silence ensued while everyone awaited her response.

A faint murmur from Scarlett’s lips broke the stillness. Her eyes flickered open, and she looked at him. “D-Damian?”

Regardless of the onlookers, he kissed her forehead and whispered, “Rest, love. This will be all over in a minute. Alcock will take you to my carriage, and we will seek the advice of a doctor.”

“Sh-she wants me d-dead.” Scarlett raised a limp hand though lacked the strength to point at Lady Rathbone.

“This is all conjecture.” The matron gave a weak chuckle. “She simply fell when I reached for her arm and then she hit her head on the table. Ask Percival. He will tell you.”

“Was that before or after choking on a fishbone?” Damian said. “You were missing from your booth the night I was shot at Vauxhall. Perhaps you pulled a pistol from your muff intending to kill Lady Steele.”

“Preposterous poppycock!” The matron’s cheeks ballooned.

Lord Rathbone, who had remained subdued throughout the exchange, was instantly overcome with a surge of anger. “You do possess a pocket pistol. You told me you carried it in your reticule for fear of footpads at Vauxhall.”

“Be quiet, Percival! Half the ladies in London carry one when visiting the pleasure gardens.” The matron shuffled backwards, her gaze constantly shifting to the door. “Possessing such a weapon is not proof of guilt but merely common sense.”

With his injured arm aching from holding Scarlett for so long, Damian turned to Alcock. “Take your mistress to the carriage. I shall join you the moment the constable arrives.”

“The constable?” Lady Rathbone scoffed. “He will believe a respected member of the ton over a good-for-nothing bachelor’s son. Now stand aside. I refuse to listen to these ridiculous tales a moment longer.”

“What a shame, as this good-for-nothing bachelor’s son won’t rest until every member of the nobility knows of your depravity. Indeed, the Marquis of Blackbeck seemed most interested in hearing my theory when he confirmed you were mother to Christopher Rathbone. Imagine his shock when I tell him the truth about why I asked.”

Silence.

The deafening sound filled the room. The striking absence of noise threatened like an invisible spectre.

For a moment Lady Rathbone appeared defeated. Years of using devious methods to hide the truth had come to naught. But then the matron’s loud gasp tore through the room. Her eyes turned dangerously wild, yet there was a distance there as if she had finally sunk to the dark depths of her depravity.

“You can’t tell the marquis!” The matron’s high-pitched screech caught them all by surprise. Her body shook with barely contained rage. “You will tell no one, do you hear?”

Damian shook his head. “It is too late for negotiations.”