The Last Hellion (Scoundrels 4)

Macgowan arrived at Ainswood House early Thursday afternoon to report that S. E. St. Bellair had been hanged in effigy in the Strand.

Macgowan was in raptures.

He pronounced the Duchess of Ainswood a genius.

Ainswood had carried Lydia to the drawing room sofa, and she had a crowd with her. Consequently, Macgowan’s announcement was perfectly audible to Emily, Elizabeth, Jaynes, Bertie, and Tamsin—as well as the servants near the door. Oblivious to Lydia’s frown, the editor went on rhapsodizing, and consequently leaving no one in the slightest doubt who S. E. St. Bellair really was.

Carried away by excitement, he was slow in realizing what he’d let slip. At the moment he did, he clapped his hand over his mouth. Above the hand, above the scarlet face, his alarmed gaze met Lydia’s.

She waved a hand dismissively. “Never mind. The world knows the rest of my secrets. It might as well know this one.” She shook her head. “Hanged in effigy. By gad, people do take their romantic fables seriously. Well.” Her gaze swept the onlookers, whose expressions ranged from incredulity to consternation…to polite nothing whatsoever. “Sentimental swill it may be, but it’s popular swill, it seems, and it’s mine.”

“Oh, but it’s so disappointing,” said Emily. “Diablo was my favorite.”

“And mine,” said her sister.

“And mine,” Bertie said.

Tamsin held her tongue. She had faith in Lydia.

Ainswood had been standing in a corner of the room by the window, observing his guests, his face one of the “nothing whatsoevers” but for the devils dancing in his eyes. “I thought the choice of weapon was a lovely touch, Grenville,” he said. “I can think of few more ignominious ends than being stabbed to death with a spoon.”

She acknowledged this dubious compliment with a gracious nod.

“More important,” her husband went on, “you’ve caused a sensation. When word leaks out of the author’s true identity, the ensuing clamor will drown out the present one. All those benighted souls ignorant of Miranda and her doings will be forced to make up for lost time.”

He turned his attention to Macgowan. “If I were you, I’d begin bringing out bound volumes of several chapters apiece. One cheap edition for the masses, and one handsome leatherbound with gilt for the nobs. Capitalize on the excitement before it fades.”

Lydia quickly masked her surprise. Ainswood was the last man one would expect to care about, let alone devise ways of exploiting, the commercial potential of her “scribbling.” But then, he loved an uproar, she reminded herself.

“That’s what I was thinking,” she said. “Though not about bound volumes—which is a brilliant idea. Still, we don’t want the readers to lose interest in the rest of the story, now their favorite is en route to hell.”

She considered briefly. Then, “You must put out a notice, tomorrow morning,” she told Macgowan. “You will announce a special edition of the Argus, to be available on Wednesday next, containing the four concluding chapters of The Rose of Thebes. If Purvis complains that he can’t do the illustrations in time, you must get someone else.”

Macgowan already had the next two chapters. Lydia sent Tamsin for the final ones, which were locked up in the study desk.

Very shortly thereafter, the editor departed with the precious chapters, even more excited than when he’d come. Doubtless this was because he’d discerned another leap in profits in the very near future.

After he’d gone, Ainswood shooed the others from the room.

He plumped the pillows behind Lydia and rearranged the lap robe. Then he drew up an ottoman and perched upon it. His elbow resting on his knee, his jaw resting on his knuckles, he gazed at her reproachfully.

“You are evil,” he said.

“That’s just as you deserve,” she said.

“It’s a damned dirty trick,” he said.

She shaped her expression into limpid innocence. “What is?”

“I don’t know exactly what it is,” he said, “but I know you’ve played the world a trick, because I know you. No one sees the devil in you. I do.”

“I reckon it takes one to know one.”

He smiled then, the killer smile. Beyond the windows, the sun could make no headway through heavy grey clouds. Where she lay, though, golden sunshine penetrated every pore and cell, and its warmth stole into her brain and melted it to syrup.

“That’s not going to work,” she told him, aware of the blissful, thoroughly stupid smile with which she helplessly answered his lethal one. “I’m not going to tell you the rest of the story. All you’re doing is making me amorous.”

He let his rogue’s gaze travel slowly from the crown of her head to the toes curling under the lap robe.

“If I could get you panting with lust, you’d tell me,” he said. “But that’s against doctor’s orders.”

“He said only that I was to avoid exertion, and put no strain on the wound.” She shot him a sidelong glance. “Use your imagination.”

He got up and started walking away.

“It seems you don’t have any,” she said.

“Think again,” he said, without turning. “I’m merely going to secure the doors.”

As it was, Vere had barely enough time to restore his wife’s and his own clothing to rights after the intimate interlude. This was because the girls—who apparently had no sense of discretion—decided to start banging on the drawing room doors at the precise moment he was starting to interrogate his wife about Miranda.

“Go away!” he commanded.

“What are you doing? Is Cousin Lydia all right?”

“Woof!” This from Susan.

He heard the panic in their voices and

recalled that they’d been shut out of their brother’s room when he fell mortally ill.

He went to the door, pulled away the chair he’d fixed under the handle, and opened it.

He looked down into two pale, worried faces.

“I was only beating my wife,” he said. “In a friendly way.”

Two sea-green gazes shot to Lydia, who rested in a dignified semirecumbent posture upon the sofa. She smiled.

“How can you—ow!” Emily cried, as Elizabeth elbowed her in the ribs.

“He means you-know-what,” Elizabeth whispered.

“Oh.”

Susan sniffed him suspiciously. Then she went to the sofa to sniff her mistress. Then she grumbled something to herself and flopped down at the foot of the sofa.

Emboldened, the girls advanced upon the duchess as well, and flopped down on the carpet next to Susan.

“Sorry,” Elizabeth said. “It never occurred to me. Aunt Dorothea and Uncle John never locked themselves into the drawing room for that purpose.”

“Or any other room,” Emily said. “At least not that I ever noticed.”

“In the bedroom,” Elizabeth said. “They had to do it sometime. They’ve nine and three-quarters children.”

“When you have nine and three-quarters,” Vere said, approaching them, “I reckon the bedchamber is the only place you can have a prayer of privacy—if you bolt the doors.”

“You can do it wherever you want,” Elizabeth said magnanimously. “We shan’t interrupt again. We didn’t realize, that was all.”

“Now we do,” said Emily, “we’ll keep away—and try to picture it,” she added with a giggle.

“She is very young,” her sister said. “Just ignore her.”

“We like Susan,” Emily told Lydia. The girl commenced scratching behind the mastiff’s ear. This was all the encouragement Susan needed to drop her big head into the girl’s lap, close her eyes, and subside into canine bliss.

“When she’s not hunting villains, she’s very sweet,” said Elizabeth. “We’ve half a dozen mastiffs at Longlands.”

“I missed them,” said Emily. “But we couldn’t bring even one to Blakesleigh, because they drool too much, Aunt Dorothea says, and dogs put their tongues in improper places. She prefers dogs that don’t slobber so much. They are more sanitary, she says.”