The Day of the Duchess (Scandal & Scoundrel 3)
The guard he’d hired to man the door of The Singing Sparrow several weeks ago tried again. “They don’t look whores, American.”
Caleb gritted his teeth at the moniker, which he seemed unable to shake. Indeed, he seemed unable to convince anyone in the country to call him anything but the American—including the man in question, a Samoan hired away from his cargo hook on the London docks, along with a half-dozen other men, decent and strong. “Well, then let them in,” he said. “Women’s money spends as well as men’s.”
Fetu grinned, white teeth showing bright in the shadows. “They’re already in. I didn’t think I could turn away the Sparrow herself.”
The words caught his attention. Caleb looked toward the door, unable to see much in the crush of bodies stacked deep, with no care for the summer heat—not when there was entertainment and booze to be had. Instead, he set the bottle down and leaned over the bar. “She’s back?”
“Beautiful, tall, and angry as a fox when I questioned her identity.”
He had no doubt of that. What the hell was she doing back in London? Had the duke picked a wife? That’s when the other bit sank in. They. Sera wouldn’t have done it. Wouldn’t have risked her sisters’ reputations.
Her sister’s reputation.
He smacked his hand on the bar. “You said they.”
Goddammit. Sera hadn’t brought her here.
“There are two of them.”
“What’s the other look like? Plain and bookish?” Perhaps it was Sophie. “Tall as a tree?” Or Seleste. “Dripping in jewels?” Seline, maybe.
“Female.”
“What does that mean?”
Fetu’s grin again, this time, enhanced by enormous hands tracing an outrageously curved figure in the air. “Female.”
Caleb grabbed Fetu’s shirt in his fist, jerking him close enough to see the ink in the tattoo covering the crown of the man’s bald head. “You don’t notice that. She’s not female to you.”
The other man’s brows rose high on his bald head, but he was interrupted before he could reply. “Am I female to you?”
Caleb released Fetu and spun toward the words. Toward the woman.
Dammit, he didn’t want her to be female.
“No. You’re a nuisance.”
She laughed. The sound sin and sex, and welcome as the damn sun.
But she wasn’t welcome. He didn’t want her here.
Even if she was like a cool breeze in the hot, smoky room, hair up in pins that had worked too long a day, letting long, errant curls twist and cling to her neck and shoulder, the tip of one sneaking its way into the line of her dress. There was color high on her cheeks, a dewy sheen over the beautiful smooth skin there, and those lips, pink and full and perfect.
She raised a brow. “You can’t escape. Not unless you’re willing to leap over the bar and crash through a few dozen people clamoring to get a decent spot to watch the Sparrow perform.”
He pointed to Fetu. “Go back to the door.”
Fetu executed a short bow in Sesily’s direction. “A pleasure to meet you, Sparrow’s sister.”
She smiled at him and dipped into a little curtsy. “And you, American’s protector.”
Caleb wanted to break something. “He’s not my protector,” he said, hating that he felt the need to say anything at all. He didn’t care what she thought. Her thoughts were not for him to care about. “I don’t need a protector.”
She turned to him. “Oh? So why do you employ him?”
“Because he needs a protector,” Fetu said with a smirk.
“Go back to the door,” Caleb said, picking up a bottle and pretending to pour whiskey for men who were not waiting for drink. Once Fetu sauntered off, he tried for casualness, looking at Sesily once more. It was not easy, as she was far too beautiful to look at without fearing repercussions. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“I wouldn’t have had to come if you’d been less of a coward.”
He grew hot with frustration. “A man would become acquainted with my fists for such a suggestion.”
She smirked. “Well, as we’ve already established, I am not a man. So I think I shall take my chances.”
With a near growl, he tossed the bottle onto a low table and came out from behind the bar, taking her by the arm and guiding her through the throngs of people, into the back room of the pub, where there was nothing but whiskey and gin to play witness. He released her and closed the door behind him.
Sesily was too surefooted, already taking one long step toward him, and Caleb had to work not to back away. She was distilled danger. And that was before she said, low and sultry, as if she were testing the depths of his wildness, “Perhaps not so much a coward, after all. What do you intend to do with me here?”
The question produced so many vivid, stunning, devastatingly wanton answers that he required a moment to wrap his mind about them. Of course, he did not intend to act upon even one of those answers, even as he quite desperately wanted to.
He was, after all, a man with a pulse.
Clearing his head, he searched for a safe topic. Seized upon it. “Where is your sister?”
She stepped closer, her deep cerulean skirts now brushing against his legs. Not that he felt them. Not that he ached for them. “She left the moment we arrived. Argued with Mr. Fetu, gained entrance to the main room, and left to the stage, muttering something about entertainment.”
“She should not have brought you.”
“Are you afraid I shall be ruined?”
“Someone should be.”
She tilted her head. “Hasn’t Sera told you that my sisters and I are ruined before we begin? We are the Dangerous Daughters. The Soiled S’s. Interestingly, we are so ruined that we cannot shock Society. We can run from our husbands. Toss dukes into fishponds. Horserace. Hie off to Scotland in carriages with men we do not know. And all we do is prove the world’s point. One of my sisters is a duchess. Another a marchioness. Another a countess. And the last richer than the other three combined. Ruin has served us quite well.”
He narrowed his gaze. “Not you, though.”
Something flickered in those eyes, blue as the shimmering fabric of her dress. Something that he would have called sadness if he were willing to pay attention. Which he wasn’t.
“No, not me. But perhaps I simply haven’t given it everything I have.”
And then she laid hands on him, one palm high on his chest, flat against the buttoned linen vest he wore over shirtsleeves when he worked. The touch was like fire. He reached for that criminal, glorious hand, certain he was going to lift it from his person. She was a flirt—the worst kind—the kind that made a man want to sit up and beg.
He didn’t move the hand. Instead, he pressed it tighter to him.
Those blue eyes captured his. “Your heart is pounding, American.”
“Incidental,” he said. “I thought I made it clear that I am not for toying.”
“Tell me why, and I shall allow it.”
He couldn’t help a little laugh at that allow. As though the entire world bent to her whim. As though she and her kind ruled it like queens. And perhaps they did. “Because I’ve vowed off women like you.”
Her voice went soft and smooth. “Women like me?”
“The dangerous kind.” Was he leaning down to her?
“Is that not all of us?” Perhaps she was stretching up to him.
“Lord knows it’s most of you.” She was right there, lips parted like a promise. Like a secret.
“You seem a man who likes a bit of danger.” The words were a breath against his skin, that hand sliding up to his shoulder, to his neck. He fisted his hands at his sides.
“Not the kind that lands me married.”
She watched him, beautiful defiance in her eyes. “I never said I wanted to marry you.”
He deserved a damn medal for not kissing her then. For not accepting the tacit offer she voiced—the kiss. The touch. And whatever else Sesily Talbot, the most dangerous o
f the Dangerous Daughters, wanted.
He deserved to have President Jackson walk into the damn room and present him with a cabinet post. He deserved to be knighted by the damn king. Riches and power beyond his dreams. All of it. Because, surely, stepping away from her was the single noblest act anyone had ever performed. Arthurian in scope.
Made even nobler when he said, “Go home to your cat, kitten.”
Sesily’s lips flattened in something like disappointment, and then she sighed. “My cat is still at Highley.”
“Why? Decided you did not require a feral sidekick?”
She replied, dry as sand. “Brummell went into hiding after you skulked off.”
“I didn’t skulk.”
She ignored him. “He longed for his American scratching post.”
He scowled. “Perhaps you should go fetch him, then. I don’t much care what you do, frankly, as long as you find yourself another tree up which to bark.”
“Your skill at mixing metaphors truly is unparalleled,” she said.
“Seems a good enough reason to find yourself another man with whom to toy, Sesily,” he said, steeling his tone. “I am not green enough to be tempted into the game.”
He’d made her angry, if the color that flooded her cheeks was any indication. But before she could reply, the air changed. From what seemed like an immense distance, in the room beyond, quiet fell, soft and heavy with anticipation.
Sesily looked to the door, hearing the silence. “What’s happening?”
“Your sister is about to sing.”
She turned to him. “I’m not leaving without hearing her.”
“Stay if you like,” he said, affecting disinterest. Hoping for it. “But don’t expect me to stay with you.”
She lifted one brow and straightened her shoulders. “And so I was right.”
“You were wrong. I am not another man to be ensorcelled by you.” Perhaps if he said it, she would believe it. Perhaps he would.
She did not. Indeed, she seemed utterly unmoved by the words. By the insult he’d intended in them. Instead of turning tail and making an exit, she smiled, bold as ever. “No, Caleb, I was right. You are a coward. Unwilling to see the truth.”
She’d said the words before. In the country. He didn’t have to ask her to clarify, as they remained etched in his memory.
How good it would be.
He shook his head. “Go home, little girl, before you get yourself in trouble.”
She watched him for long enough to unsettle him before she smirked. “I don’t think I am in any danger of getting into trouble, American.”
“The world shall think I’ve ruined you if you’re not careful.”
“And they shan’t think it at all if you are careful.”
He hated the way he responded to her bold brashness. To her words, so shocking and so damn welcome. He hadn’t felt this way—this awake, this on fire, this hard—in years. Attempting to ignore all that, he spoke, steeling his voice. “What do you want, Sesily? I must return to the tavern.”
“I want you to kiss me.”
He shook his head. “No.”
She moved toward him. “Why not?”
“Because I don’t kiss girls.”
“As I’ve told you, I’m not a girl.”
He clung to the emotion, hoping to push her away—far enough that she’d never return. “But you’re young and spoiled, aren’t you? Always have been.”
“Then I should get what I wish, no?”
“I’m not interested.”
“In spoiling me?”
“In kissing you.”
The words landed and stung. He saw it in her beautiful blue eyes for a barely-there moment before she shuttered the emotion and nodded. “Then I shall find someone else.”
“To spoil you? That’s an excellent plan.” He didn’t care. She wasn’t his problem.
She turned without a word and headed for the door, opening it and turning back before she replied. “No. To kiss me.” She was into the throngs of people beyond before he could catch her.
He stared after her for a stretch of time, long after she’d disappeared into the crowd. She was safe, and not his concern.
She wouldn’t leave without Sera. Indeed, she’d probably make her way behind the stage to find her. She was safe, and not his concern.
There were half a dozen men in that room who had been hired to keep the peace. She was safe, and not his concern.
He’d just convinced himself of that fact when the brawl began.
Mal rode straight to Covent Garden, making up much of Sera’s head start, arriving outside The Singing Sparrow to find lanterns ablaze, throngs of raucous revelers blocking the street beyond, cursing and shouting from pleasure and drink.
Hitching his mount outside and tossing a coin to a boy nearby to ensure the beast’s protection, he headed for the door, desperate to get to Sera, whom he knew without question was inside. Mal pushed past the large doorman—grateful for the American’s obvious good sense at least in the matter of hiring the fellow for security, as few would risk the wrath of such brawn—and into the room, dark and smoky and rank with the smell of London in summer. The room was oddly quiet, anticipation and excitement in the air. His gaze went immediately to the stage, empty but perfectly lit, the candles long and flickering, as though they, too, trembled with the excitement of the room.
“I hear she’s back,” a man announced to a group seated at the table immediately to his left.
“Cor,” came the scoffing reply. “They’ve been saying that every night since she left. I heard she’s flown back to America. Sparrow didn’t like the pickings here.”
Another chimed in. “Aye, they say she came looking to sign on as mistress to some rich toff, and none of them want her.”
“Would you want her? It’s not as though she’s a lady.”
Haven gritted his teeth, loathing these men and this place and everything it represented—the life she’d chosen over him. How she must have loathed him to pick this life. He had to get to her.
Before he could, the first man spoke again, punctuating his words with a rude hand motion. “All the more reason to have her. Chit knows how to do.”
The men laughed uproariously as Haven turned toward them, taking note of the large tankards of ale on the table as he crouched low and took a shoulder in hand. “Say it again.”
The words were low and ominous, and the men just drunk enough not to see the danger ahead. “Wot, that the Sparrow seems a good plow?”
It was the hours of frustration, riding alone in the dark, desperate for her. It was the weeks of frustration, wishing for her with him even as she stood inches away, impossible to reach. It was the years of frustration, knowing that he’d made every possible mistake. Fearing that he might never find her.
Without all that, perhaps he might not have flipped the table, sending the quartet flying backward, out of the way of furniture and fury.
Perhaps he might not have grabbed a tankard of ale virtually from midair and cracked the most vocal of them on the side of the head, enjoying the mighty thud that came with the blow more than he should.
The man landed on the ground with a wild curse, the throngs that had seemed dense and immovable scattering to clear a wide space, someone calling out “Brawl!”
The room exploded with activity, the razor-edge anticipation of Sera’s return performance translating into a wild curiosity about the fight that had broken out. Women shrieked and yanked their skirts out of the way as men began to call out wagers.
Mal did not pause to hear the over-under on his success, however. He was too busy fighting, his fists connecting quickly and powerfully, punishing the remaining three members of the foul-mouthed group with his fury. “You do not speak of her that way,” he said, bloodying one man’s nose before turning to block a chair wielded by another.
The furniture crashed over his arm, and he turned away from the shower of splintered wood before landing a massive blow to his attacker’
s jaw. “You do not speak of women that way,” he roared.
“Sod off!” came the retort from the first man down, now once more on his feet, blood on his cheek. “I’ll say what I like, where I like!”
Mal went for him again, taking him by his grubby shirt and tossing him, bodily, toward the enormous guard, who appeared less interested in the disgusting refuse of a human at his feet, and more interested in getting to Mal, no doubt to stop his bout of fury.
Mal raised his hands in surrender. He was not after the men who protected Sera. “I am not here to—”
He was unable to finish the thought, however, as a feminine screech sounded behind him. He turned, uncertain of what to expect.
He certainly did not expect to find his final foe mere inches from him, arms flailing, fists diverted from their original path by the woman who had attacked the cretin from behind. Sesily. His sister-in-law, who looked directly at him and said, “Go on then, take your shot!”
He did. One wicked jab that would have made his boxing instructor at Eton immensely proud. The man fell like a tree, Sesily atop him.
She sat up remarkably quickly, and with an impressive flourish, as though wrestling beasts to the floor while wearing skirts were a particular talent. She grinned up at him. “We’re in a bit of trouble, I’d think.”
Sesily was, as ever, superior at understatement.
The room was riotous, hooting and harrumphing and cheering and hissing consuming the group, money changing hands, and one enterprising bookmaker calling out, “As no one wagered that a girl would enter the fray, no one wins!”
Suffice to say, those assembled for their winnings were unsatisfied.
As they waged war among one another, several large men emerged from the woodwork to remove the four offending men. Mal reached down, offering his sister-in-law a hand, helping her to her feet.
She smirked. “I knew you would come, but I did not expect such an impressive entrance, I confess.”
He scowled. “I don’t know that she’ll feel the same way.”
She shook her head. “Don’t be silly. Women love a grand gesture.”
Mal wasn’t certain that destroying a tavern and bloodying four men was quite the same as a roomful of hothouse roses, but the guard reached him before he could argue the point, massive hands coming to Mal’s shoulders and yanking him back toward the entrance. “Time to go, toff.”