Regency Scandals and Scoundrels Collection Page 7

  “You owe me more funds than you own,” Kilross interjected.

  Good God, it was even worse than she supposed. Naively, she had imagined Father’s eagerness to carry out the earl’s plan was because he did not wish to lose his position. Now, it would seem his eagerness was caused by his desire not to lose everything.

  “I… Jacinda, I am indebted to Lord Kilross.” Her father’s pallor grew. “I was caught up in the thrill of the game, and I am afraid I lost my prudence. He requested I infiltrate Whitley’s home in search of documents proving the duke’s guilt in return for forgiving a number of my vowels. That was when I had to admit I cannot decipher as I once was capable. That you have been carrying the weight for me for some time now, and that if anyone should be sent, it had to be you.”

  The breath slowly left her lungs, a searing sense of betrayal following in its wake. Father, who she depended upon, Father, who she loved, had lost everything to the Earl of Kilross. Worse, he had admitted his frailty to a wolf in sheep’s clothing, a man who would not hesitate to use that knowledge against him at the slightest provocation.

  She had thought she was saving Father from discovery. But instead, she was saving them both from utter ruin. They were at the mercy of the Earl of Kilross in every sense.

  “So, you see,” Kilross said smoothly, a triumphant smile creasing his face, “you have no choice, Mrs. Turnbow. You will return to Whitley House, and you will find evidence against the Duke of Whitley. Break every blessed lock you must. Do you truly imagine the man would leave evidence of his guilt strewn about for anyone to see?”

  She flushed. “No, my lord, though I confess I do not possess the sort of mind that thrives upon duplicity.”

  His countenance darkened. “You have three weeks remaining to find the documents I need. If you fail to do so in that time, not only will your father lose his position with the Foreign Office, but you will both lose this home and all of your possessions. You will be cast into the streets where you both belong, and I shall not feel a moment’s pity for either of you.”

  She looked back to her father, heart sinking. “Father?”

  He heaved a mournful sigh, closing his eyes. “It is true, Jacinda. Every word of it. You must find what Lord Kilross seeks. The very roof over our heads depends upon it.”

  Sick, she excused herself from the room and fled back to Whitley House before her absence went noticed. Now, more than ever, she needed to uncover the evidence Kilross sought. For she knew without a doubt the heartless scoundrel would have no compunction about taking everything and leaving her and Father in the streets as he’d promised.

  One thing was certain. She needed to find her way into the locked drawer of Whitley’s desk, no matter the means.

  *

  Crispin stared at the indecent mural painted on the ceiling above him. A lush, naked pair of nymphs were kissing open-mouthed and pleasuring each other’s cunnies. His prick didn’t even stir. Cursed organ. Did it not know its use?

  Obviously not.

  He had been awake for a day. Or perhaps it was three.

  Who the bloody hell knew?

  He’d been indulging in drink and gambling at The Duke’s Bastard and distracting himself from thoughts of a red-haired siren governess as best as he knew how. Which meant playing the tables, losing himself in whisky and gin, and retreating to a private chamber where he could pretend to sleep or reluctantly dismiss the lightskirts that Duncan sent him in what seemed to be an endless procession.

  For although it had been his intention to find a bit of quim and satisfy the hungers raging through him, something dashed odd had happened to his cock. Something—he had no doubt—caused by Miss Governess herself. His ample opportunities for release had been met with an utter dearth of enthusiasm on the part of the necessary appendage.

  And never let it be said that Duncan Kirkwood, proprietor of The Duke’s Bastard, did not do everything within his significant power to see his patrons had entertainment aplenty by any manner of vice they chose. Wagers, faro, hazard, liquor, or cunny, Duncan had it all at the ready.

  There had been blondes, brunettes, an exotic raven-haired beauty, another whose tresses were clearly blackened by her own hand, and a redhead who had almost suited him but not as well as the original flame-haired witch beleaguering his thoughts.

  There had been full breasts, small breasts, hard nipples, lush hips, and eager mouths. They had come in pairs and even trios, touching and caressing and kissing each other in a bid to arouse him. One had fallen to her knees, burying her face between the thighs of another. The wet sounds of her tongue and suction should have aroused him.

  But he had been left feeling distant, unmoved. Vaguely disgusted by the depths to which he had sunk. Utterly unappreciative of the show they’d offered him.

  He couldn’t recall the names of any of the whores. Didn’t remember what they had been wearing. He could not even call to mind the image of the lightskirt who had been so intent upon licking her comrade to submission. At the very least, he ought to have been able to free his cock from his breeches and stroke himself to oblivion as he watched the two women pleasure each other.

  But the notion held no appeal. Not while they appeared before him half naked and hungry for each other and certainly not now when he looked back upon it, an hour or so after their abrupt dismissal.

  The only thing that hardened his cock was thoughts of Miss Governess.

  Which was why he was laid out on the bed in his private chamber, fully clothed, half drunk, and hollow.

  A rap sounded at the door.

  It was likely a fresh round of harlots. And he didn’t want any more painted faces and bare bubbies. He was tired to his bloody bones, sick to death of everything and everyone. Weary in a way he could not convey with words. His friend was dead. Nothing could ameliorate his guilt. He had wards to protect and a governess he should not want and no direction in his life or desire to live it.

  “Be gone,” he growled, gazing up into the mural.

  “I come bearing whisky, Whitley,” came the familiar voice on the other side of the portal.

  Duncan.

  He heaved a sigh. Kirkwood had become a trusted friend to Crispin. His only friend, in truth, now that Morgan was gone. Largely because Crispin spent a great deal of time and coin within the man’s walls. But, also, because he and Duncan understood the ugly underbelly of life. They’d taken stock of each other and possessed a hearty amount of mutual respect. Though they came from disparate backgrounds, they had much in common in their mutual bitterness and cynical views of the world.

  And with his vast connections to both the lowest rabble and the highest nobility, Duncan ruled the underworld like a king while quietly keeping the polite echelons under his thumb. It was said half the peerage was indebted to him, and Crispin did not doubt the veracity of the claim. If there was one person a man needed to know and have by his side in London, it was Duncan Kirkwood.

  Another knock sounded. “Have you gone deaf? I do believe I said your favorite word just now, and nary a response.”

  “Haven’t you a hell to run?” Crispin called out grimly.

  “The beast runs itself these days,” his friend responded, sounding irritatingly cheerful. “Do you want the whisky or not, Cris? It is an excellent year. Perhaps we can give the bottle a black eye together.”

  Crispin folded his arms beneath his head and grinned. “Am I expected to pay for the privilege or are you about the nasty business of getting me soused so that I lose a king’s ransom at your tapis vert?”

  “The whisky is my pleasure.” An edge of irritation hardened his friend’s voice. “Damn it, may I enter or are you en déshabillé? The last thing I wish to see is your hairy arse. I shan’t be able to sleep for at least a week if I am forced to witness such a travesty.”

  He grinned, not bothering to rise from the bed. Born in the stews of London, Kirkwood could nevertheless ape the upper crust of society that would forever remain above his touch with unprecedented perfecti
on. Duncan had been born to a Covent Garden doxy but his father was the Duke of Amberly. Though the miserable old sod refused to acknowledge him, Duncan had taken his revenge by building the most sought-after hell in all London, with an apt name that his sire could not help but be aware of.

  “Do you intend to play valet if I am?” he called, darkly amused.

  “Fair warning, Your Grace.” Duncan’s tone was grim. The door opened, and he swept inside, dressed in his customary black, down to his shirt and cravat. Even the man’s ring was a skull. He was a dark, formidable presence on the best of days and a hulking menace on the worst.

  Crispin sat up with great reluctance, and only because consuming whisky whilst resting supine was devilishly untidy. The chamber spun for a moment before settling. He noted the full bottle of spirits in Duncan’s grip and smiled. Here was an offering he would gladly accept this evening. Or morning. Afternoon? Of all the delights the establishment boasted, heavily curtained windows that rendered daylight immaterial was by far one of Crispin’s favorite.

  “This bloody ceiling mural is appalling,” he offered by way of greeting.

  “A gift from my predecessor,” Duncan acknowledged with a grim smile, retrieving two glasses and pouring three fingers into each.

  Crispin eyed the whisky and debated whether or not he was motivated enough to rise and retrieve his glass. “Why are you here, aside from the obvious?”

  Duncan took a sip of his own whisky, quirking a raven brow. “You declined the companionship of all my ladies.”

  He snorted and rose, deciding he wanted that whiskey after all, if this was to be the nature of their interview. “I fail to comprehend your insistence upon referring to your lightskirts as ladies.”

  Duncan scowled, offering him his glass. “They are ladies, Whitley.”

  Crispin had seen very little to suggest the veracity of Duncan’s claim, though it was true the occasional Cyprian ball overtook The Duke’s Bastard. On such occasions, the ladies turned themselves out with aplomb. Before long, however, the libidinous nature of the parties gathered always won out.

  The last such soiree had been a blur of flipping skirts, wandering hands, bare breasts, and flushed cheeks, followed by the disappearance of most said ladies to private quarters. Others had been content to perform in the ballroom with an audience.

  “I regret to say your ladies are the furthest one can reasonably get from the definition of a proper lady.” He took a healthy gulp of whisky, relishing its fiery race to his gut.

  The need to numb his body and mind had never been stronger. Miss Governess’s face could not be shaken. How was it her lush form had burned into him as if a brand? A conflagration threatened to begin deep within him, and he could not countenance it. Would not.

  He drank more.

  “Ladies whose company you decline,” Duncan persisted, observing him in that uncanny fashion he possessed. His light-blue gaze seemed to dissect a man.

  Bloody hell, his cheekbones had gone ruddy. He blamed it on the spirits and took another healthy gulp, finishing the contents of his glass. “Your whores are tired,” he snapped. “Would it be too much trouble to rotate them? Think of it thus, Kirkwood. A man does not always wish for the same horseflesh to pull his phaeton or his curricle.”

  Duncan finished his whisky and replenished both their glasses before meeting Crispin’s gaze. “Each girl I sent you tonight was new.”

  “They were more interested in each other’s cunnies than in ought else,” he said coldly. “It would behoove you to find ladies who take pleasure in cock rather than quim, old friend.”

  “Forgive me.” Duncan handed him his glass, solemn-faced. “You never took exception to multiple ladies entertaining you at one time in the past.”

  He accepted his glass and tossed back the entire content, swallowing with a complete disregard for the burn or the fact he had likely already consumed more than enough. Miss Governess and her mobcap and her ridiculous fichu mocked him. “Go to hell, Duncan.”

  He extended his glass.

  His friend refilled it.

  “Is something amiss, Whitley?” Duncan asked.

  “Yes. Everything is bloody well amiss.” He sneered. All the words he wished to say clamored for his tongue, but he would not forget that despite their friendship, he and Duncan came from vastly disparate circumstances. And though Kirkwood had never shown an inclination toward either vice or treachery, Crispin had learned to trust no one. “War devils.”

  As explanations went, it would have to suffice. Nor was it a lie, for the demons of his past haunted him each day. His days as a soldier were why he could not sleep unaided by drink or exhaustion. Memories of the last time he’d seen his best friend, about to face a more horrific fate than Crispin could fathom, made his hands shake and his gut clench.

  He had seen what horrors the guerillas could visit upon a body.

  “Not woman troubles, then?”

  Was the man a soothsayer now as well as a peddler of vice? Duncan’s query, too close to the truth, jolted him from the darkness that threatened to consume him. “Why the devil do you ask?”

  And why did Miss Turnbow’s lush skin taste like every sin he longed to commit? Here he sat, half-disguised, drinking whisky and declining willing wenches, taunted by the sweet scent of jasmine and the fanciful notion of flaming tendrils of hair unfurled on his pillow. Pathetic, really. It was just as well his prick was broken for everyone but her.

  “I sent you ten of my loveliest new additions, and you refused to bed even one of them,” Duncan observed, sipping his whisky with both greater aplomb and prudence than Crispin.

  Damn. The governess was rendering him maudlin. Perhaps he ought to bed one of Duncan’s bloody ladies just to remove the poison of lust from his blood and empty his ballocks. But the thought made his prick wilt faster than a plucked daisy in the July sun.

  He tossed back the dregs of his second glass and stalked away from Duncan’s keen eyes. “Damnation.”

  “More whisky?” came the wry query.

  Crispin spun on his heel and paced back, holding his glass out like an offering. “Preposterous Enquiries and Other Gems by Duncan Kirkwood.”

  Grinning, Duncan offered his refill with a flourish. “I never fancied myself a scribbler, but I would not mind seeing my name on a spine, particularly if it would rankle dearest Papa.”

  Crispin took another hearty sip. Yes, this was just the thing. In no time at all, he’d be feeling right as rain, ready to collapse upon the bed and sink himself into oblivion, where he could no longer be troubled by the governess and her luscious body and curious predilection for wandering about in his study under the cover of darkness.

  “Has the old bastard threatened you with legal action again?” he asked, spurred as much by curiosity as he was the need to divert attention from himself.

  “Who is she?” Duncan evaded, his grin fading. He did not often speak of the duke who had sired him. The enmity he possessed for Amberly was obvious, but aside from the occasional reference and the name of his hell, he revealed little.

  The whisky glasses had begun to do their work, bathing Crispin’s mind in a comforting glow. “The new governess,” he admitted, his grip on his glass and his jaw both tightening simultaneously.

  His friend raised a brow. “Much as I hate to say this Whitley, if the governess is the woman you wish to bed, why do you tarry here?”

  Why indeed? It was easier, for one thing. Safer, too. Here, he could not be interrupted by duty or importuned by sisters he had never wished to be responsible for. He had not wanted the title, damn it. Had not even wished to return to England. Or to live, for that matter. Guilt was a festering internal wound to rival that caused by any bullet or saber.

  “It is a valid question, Kirkwood,” he admitted. “Would you believe the answer is honor?”

  Duncan cocked his head. “Have you any left?”

  “Precious little,” he grumbled, taking one more sip of whisky. “The feeble remnants of which dw
indle with each passing moment.”

  His friend gave him a half-smile, approaching him and taking the glass from his hands with ease. “Get some rest, Whitley. Then go home on the morrow. Tup the governess if you must. Above all, sleep. You look like something Beelzebub raked up from the coals.”

  Tup the governess.

  If only he could.

  He inclined his head, knowing that like it or not, egregious lapse of judgment or no, he was returning to Whitley House this evening. Or morning. Or whatever the bloody hell time of godforsaken day it was. “How long have I been here, Kirkwood?”

  The proprietor’s brow furrowed. “I do believe this is the fourth day. Pray do yourself a kindness before you depart in the morning and avail yourself of the bathing chamber. With all respect, Your Grace, you stink.”

  He’d lost four whole days. He had no doubt Duncan was correct and he did look like some festering soul that had been sent to the bowels of Hades.

  Hell. He was a festering soul. He would never understand the unfair whims of a God that had taken Morgan’s life and left him behind to the agony of life after war. Of having to spend each waking moment drowning all memories of the atrocities he had witnessed and committed by pouring spirits down his throat.

  He did not even take umbrage at Duncan’s words. In another time, another place, and when he had been a different man—a gentleman who had never known the evils of the world, who had never met the horrors of war or the bitter fear of staring death in the face in the throes of battle—he would have been affronted and horrified. He would have issued a crushing setdown and put Kirkwood in his place.

  But he was the man who had watched the lifeblood seep from his enemy, the man who had held his comrades in his arms as they breathed their last. He had faced cannonades and swords and hails of musket fire. He had ridden into battle knowing he may not return alive.