Wickeds Scandal by Kathleen Ayers
6
“My lord, you have a guest awaiting you in your study.” McMannish wrinkled his enormous bushy black eyebrows and frowned as he saw the tear in Sutton’s jacket and the scrape against Sutton’s cheek. “My lord? Have you been teaching Viscount Lindley that Chinese fighting again? Looks like he got one off on you.”
Sutton nodded to McMannish but didn’t answer. The man who attempted to slit Sutton’s throat as he left the solicitor’s office decided to have his windpipe crushed rather than tell Sutton who employed him. Sutton was sure that even without the man’s confession he knew who’d hired the would-be assassin. Three attempts on his life in such a short time span, one prior to his departure from Macao, the other just after his return to London, and the third today, left Sutton little doubt as to the identity. She was the only one with much to gain by his death and everything to lose if Sutton continued to live.
He shook his shoulders, trying to force the dampness of London from his body. He had been back from Macao for nearly two years, but still he couldn’t get warm. Every fireplace in the townhouse was kept stoked day and night to banish the cold. Still Sutton shivered. McMannish complained of slowly being cooked to death and suggested his lordship wear wool undergarments.
“Can you be more specific as to the guest?”
The two giant, black caterpillars over McMannish’s eyes attempted to climb into the man’s hairline. A sure sign of trouble. McMannish was a large man of Scottish extraction and made quite an imposing butler. Sutton had found him drunk and surly in a tavern on the wharf one evening. The man bemoaned his fate. He came to London to escape the poverty of his Scottish village only to be unable to find work. His imposing size, stern countenance, and Scottish burr gave potential employers pause. Sutton, knowing how it felt to be an outcast, hired McMannish on the spot. The grateful Scotsman was both butler and bodyguard.
“Robbins tried to warn you. He sent ’round a note.” McMannish lowered his tone.
“A lady, McMannish?” Damn Robbins. Sutton had found his erstwhile valet at a house party held by the Earl of Lantham. Robbins spilled out of an upstairs window after being discovered with the Earl’s mistress. The man was a decent valet but could be distracted by a show of leg or a pretty smile. He was likely just now recalling he needed to get a note to Sutton.
McMannish sniffed. “I’m sure some would call her that. No lady I know would show up at a gentleman’s home, unescorted in her widow’s weeds.”
Ah. It was Caro then, and not his stepmother. Thank God. He really wasn’t up for sparring with Jeanette this afternoon, especially since she was trying to have him killed. The morning at the solicitor’s had been quite illuminating. Jeanette spent the Cambourne fortune at a furious pace. Her dressmaker’s bills alone boggled the mind. She ordered jewels and fripperies by the dozen. Employed a servant just to hold a parasol over her in the garden least the sun spoil her complexion. Her allowance, exceedingly generous, seemed to disappear amongst the pile of gambling debt she accumulated. Sutton instructed the solicitor that the Marchioness no longer had an open line of credit, anywhere. He alone controlled Jeanette’s allowance. She was not going to bleed Cambourne any longer with her excess.
“Cam, darling? Is that you?” A feminine voice echoed down the hallway.
McMannish wiggled his brows in distaste. His lips pressed firmly into a grimace of disapproval. “It’s that Lady Fellowes.”
“I see.” Sutton sighed in frustration. Caro refused his polite brush-off at Lady Dobson’s. He did not wish things to become nasty, but Caro wasn’t taking the hint.
He approached the study, swinging the door open.
“You should shut the door, darling. I wouldn’t want to catch cold,” Caro giggled.
Lady Caroline Fellowes was spread across his leather coach in nothing but a lacy chemise. The filmy garment hid nothing of her form beneath. Her flaming red hair trailed over the arm of the couch to pool on the floor below.
“Come warm me up.” Her arms opened wide to greet him, a seductive smile on her lips.
Sutton quietly shut the door. He would have to instruct McMannish that Lady Fellowes was not to be let in the townhouse again. A headache began behind his eyes. His near murder and the excess of his stepmother exhausted him. Sutton wanted a drink, a warm fire, and to be left alone.
Her blue eyes widened as they took in the scratches on his cheek and the torn jacket. “What happened? Did you fall off your horse?”
Anxiety and worry suffused her lovely features. He admitted that Caro probably did care something for him. She loved the jealous looks from other women when he chanced to escort her out. Loved his wealth. Adored his title. So transparent, his dear Caro, but one had to admire her tenacity.
“I stumbled in the street. It’s of no import.”
Rain trickled down the study windows in rivulets, giving a wavering appearance to the street outside. Sutton shivered. Damn, he was cold. The flames in the fireplace roared into a crescendo of heat. Caro looked nice and warm, even in her chemise. No, it was England that chilled him. This cold, hard island of his birth. Did he even belong here?
At night he dreamt of a suffocating heat, a heat so wet with warmth a man had difficulty breathing. The kind of heat in which no cold could live. A man woke every day with sweat already clinging to his brow. The dense, green jungle, reeking of rotting vegetation mixed with the exotic, floral scents he much preferred over the rotting refuse to be found in the streets of London. Mornings in Macao, he awoke to the sound of monkeys chattering in the thick brush that surrounded his compound. Well, he mused, he still heard the chattering of monkeys, but here the monkeys were called the ton. Sutton chuckled.
“What’s so funny?” Caro sat up. She lifted one ivory shoulder, allowing her chemise to dip low, nearly exposing one round breast.
Sutton ran his hand through his hair, determined not to bodily throw her out. “What are you doing here, Caro?” He didn’t bother to hide the irritation in his voice.
Caro ignored his tone. “Well, the other night,” she said, stretching like a cat, “you seemed quite put out with me and I think I know why.” Her full lips pursed in apology as she tossed a coppery strand over her shoulder. The chemise rode up her thighs.
Sutton walked to the sideboard and poured himself a large glass of brandy. Clearly Caro was bent on seduction. It was much too early in the day for brandy, but Sutton didn’t care. The brandy was from his father’s private store, and quite expensive. His father, he thought with a smile, enjoyed a good brandy. He sipped the smoky warmth and wished his father still alive. He missed him. Sutton thanked God that Donata had forced him home, even though the circumstances were not of Sutton’s choosing. He had been with his father at the end.
Caro gave a puff of irritation. She hated to be ignored.
“You were saying?” He didn’t even bother looking interested, because he wasn’t, not in the least. He imagined the woman on his sofa to be smaller, but no less voluptuous.
Alex.
The hair a profusion of chestnut curls, not copper strands. The eyes, gray, not blue. The smell of tart, green apples filled his nose. An image of Alex, naked on his lap, reading to him, her mass of hair trailing over his arms, as he turned the pages of a book, flashed before him. He took another sip of the brandy.
“Darling, I sense you are cross with me. Have I made you jealous?” Caro batted her eyes at him and tried to sound despondent. “Viscount Lindley did steal a kiss, but it meant nothing. I should not have taken a turn around the terrace with him. You aren’t going to challenge him, are you?” Her face fairly beamed in delight at the thought of two Wickeds fighting over her. How Caro would enjoy the uproar.
Sutton snorted. Nick, Viscount Lindley, could care less about Lady Caroline Fellowes. Nick thought Caro a witless, vapid creature with only a nice pair of tits to recommend her. Caro’s machinations did not impress Sutton’s best friend. Nor did they impress Sutton. His patience with Caro and her maneuvering in and out of his bed were over.
“You ignored me at the opera, Cam. I’ll admit when Viscount Lindley asked me to take the air with him, I thought to make you jealous. I had no idea,” she paused dramatically, “that he would try to take liberties.” Caro slid across the couch, perching herself on the edge in a display of half-naked flesh.
Sutton swirled the brandy in his mouth. Caro had flounced over to Nick begging him to take her out for a breath of fresh air, lest she faint.
“You know I’m not interested in Viscount Lindley. His eyes….” Caro shuddered delicately, “Well they terrify me. Besides, it’s you I adore. I love everything about you. There is no other man for me,” she declared, allowing her breasts to spill out of the chemise.
Sutton pretended to mull over her declaration. “Hmmm. What is my younger sister’s name?”
Caro froze, looking like a startled deer. She bit her lip, at a loss.
“Well, I’m not sure you ever mentioned her to me.”
“Her? I have two sisters. I’m positive I’ve mentioned both. You’ve met Miranda several times, I believe. Elizabeth, the younger, is away at boarding school in Scotland. I’m quite sure you know my grandmother, don’t you?”
Caro frowned, offended. Everyone in London knew the powerful Dowager Marchioness.
He wagged a finger at her, enjoying her discomfort. “Here’s an easy one then. How many properties do I have?”
She smiled brilliantly, sure of herself. “Five. Cambourne House, this townhouse where you currently live.” She waved her arms about the room. “A bachelor’s house with ill-mannered servants, which we will sell, once we’re married. I can’t imagine why you prefer this place to Cambourne House.”
Sutton raised a brow but didn’t stop her. Apparently, Caro didn’t care for McMannish.
She held up a hand, counting off the Cambourne assets. “Blackburn Heath, the family’s seat, Gray Covington, and Baylor Manor in Scotland.”
“Well, at least you know I have a home in Scotland.” Sutton clapped his hands at her recital. Greedy, greedy Caro. She made the Prussian mercenaries look like schoolchildren. “I’m sure you know my income from each of my estates as well, do you not?”
She smiled and proceeded to tell him. She stood and strode over to him, her hips swaying and a lascivious look in her eye. The chemise floated about her hips. Her nipples, small and dusky, pointed through the thin silk. Smooth white arms wrapped around Sutton’s neck as she kissed him on the cheek. “See. I do know everything about you.” She shook her head as if he were a naughty child.
Sutton mused that Caro was no better or no worse than any other woman of her station. Groomed from childhood to be the ornamental wife of a wealthy, titled man, Caro simply did as she was trained to do. When Sutton was no more than a child, Jeanette, his stepmother, reminded him on a daily basis that Sutton’s only value in this world, his only meaning to others, was as heir to Cambourne. Oh, he was beautiful, Jeanette would admit, women would adore him, want him and he would have no lack of lovers. No Marquess had a lack of lovers. Cambourne was everything, and without the estate and title, Sutton was nothing. Jeanette would remind him that Cambourne didn’t actually belong to Sutton. Not really. She knew the truth. As soon as she produced a son, well, Sutton would be sent off to the army in India or some other place. Robert would want his real heir, an heir Jeanette would produce, to inherit Cambourne. Robert, his father, regarded Sutton as a duty, an obligation, and would expect Sutton to do the right thing.
Sutton took another long, draught of the brandy, praying for the dark liquid to do its work and numb him to the past. Jeanette was a greedy, ambitious, depraved bitch. He witnessed the depth of her depravity with his own eyes. She convinced him, ice blue eyes spilling with tears, to not tell his father.
I am with child. A son. I’m sure of it.Your father’s heir.
Jeanette pleaded with Sutton. Think what the scandal would do to the Cambourne family. What about Miranda, Sutton’s adored younger sister? She would be spat upon. Shunned. Jeanette was the only mother Sutton had ever known. If he had an ounce of love for her, he would leave England, never confessing Jeanette’s accidental misstep to Robert.
Sutton loved her then. He believed her. Stupidly, he did as Jeanette asked and left for Macao. What a fool he had been. He deserted Miranda and left his newborn sister, Elizabeth, all because of that harpy. Jeanette hadn’t even been with child.
Sutton gently set the brandy glass down on the table. The brandy failed to warm the chill in his heart.
Caro waited, her face turned up to his, waiting for his declaration of…love? Caro reminded him so much of Jeanette at that moment he found it difficult to look at her.
He pulled Caro’s arms from around his neck, pushed her body away from him. “You need to leave, Caro. Do you require assistance?” He pointed to her gown, crumpled and lying on the floor. “Or can you manage? I can call one of the maids if you wish.” Jeanette’s wounds on his soul reopened, freshly bleeding. Bitterness and resentment soured the taste of brandy on his tongue.
Caro’s mouth gaped open, fishlike, then closed abruptly. She trembled, but her eyes remained hard on him.
Sutton knew Caro told nearly everyone in the ton that he was about to offer for her. She took out credit, telling merchants all over London she would be the future Marchioness of Cambourne. She had done it all with poor Lord Danvers on her arm. Sutton felt no pity for her.
Caro’s perfect porcelain complexion flushed until it turned mottled and red. She stood tall. Staring down her patrician nose she gave him a haughty look and lifted her chin.
“Are you casting me off? Dismissing me?” Her voice remained cool. “Don’t be a fool. Danvers will offer for me in an instant. He wants me terribly. Do you want him to have this?” She pulled down the chemise, baring her large breasts, the nipples erect. “We have an understanding, Sutton. Everyone knows that.” Her blue eyes watered in the most fetching manner.
“Do we?” He looked her straight in the eye, trying desperately to keep the disgust he felt for her out of his words. “I believe you have misunderstood.” He picked up the brandy glass, intending to refill it. “Good day, Lady Fellowes.”
Caro reeled back against the couch as if he slapped her. “Oh, come now, Cam,” she cajoled, “surely, you can overlook a minor transgression with Viscount Lindley. It was a kiss. He took advantage.”
“This has nothing to do with Viscount Lindley. Although I do admire you for attempting to become a duchess as well as a marchioness.”
Caro’s face contorted into a mask of ugliness. Her lip curled into a sneer. “Bastard.” She said the word slowly, emphasizing the syllables.
Sutton halted, the glass held mid-air. Brandy sloshed out. He could feel the heat rise in his cheeks. He nearly killed a man recently for inferring the same thing about his parentage. How dare she?
Caro gave a short nasty bark. “Oh yes, all the ton knows. Did daddy really marry your lowly born mother before you were born or after? What side of the blanket did Sutton come into the world on?” Caro’s voice was brittle. “A vicar’s daughter, a nobody. Some tart who was your father’s mistress! Little better than a whore. Who marries their mistress?”
A horrible rage built inside Sutton at Caro’s words. He knew about the scandal that surrounded his birth, mostly he ignored it, and sometimes he made an example of the person stupid enough to challenge him with it. There was no proof of his birth prior to his parents marrying. None. He was the Marquess of Cambourne. He doubted anyone alive knew the real truth except the Dowager. The gossip would have died but for Jeanette. She planted the seeds of the rumor when Sutton was a child. Nourished the scandal when she carried his sisters, hoping she would give birth to a son and Sutton would be pushed aside. He should have sent his stepmother to exile the moment he returned to England. But he hadn’t. Instead he tolerated the whispers, tolerated his nickname. But he would not hear a word against his mother. Not Madeline. Lord Robert Cambourne grieved Madeline’s loss every day of his life. His father kept a miniature of Madeline in his pocket with him always. His father’s last breath on this earth had been her name. Madeline may have only been a vicar’s daughter, not wealthy, or titled, but she had been deeply loved. Something the pampered, spoiled bitch in front of him would never understand. Madeline deserved respect. The woman who stood smugly before him wasn’t good enough to speak his mother’s name. Whatever brief affection or kindness he felt for Caro died.
“Tread carefully, Caro.”
Caro backed away from the threat in Sutton’s voice.
“Oh my God. I... You... I was just angry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean...”
“Yes, you did. I’ll be sure and remember you to my grandmother.” Sutton knew that was petty of him, to threaten her social standing. His grandmother could ruin Caro with a flick of her cane.
Caro paled.
“McMannish will escort you out.” Sutton pulled the bell cord and the butler immediately opened the door. The damned Scot was probably listening at the door.
“Sir?” McMannish kept his eyes focused on Sutton’s face, choosing to ignore the scantily clad, red-faced Caro.
“Please have Lady Fellowes’s carriage brought around. She is leaving. Immediately.”
McMannish raised a bushy brow at the evident disrespect in Sutton’s tone, but merely nodded and left the room.
Caro jerked her gown over her head. He’d long suspected Caro would be a complete bitch if thwarted, but never did he think her stupid enough to disparage his mother, Madeline, to his face.
McMannish stepped back into the study.
“Ah, my lady, your cloak.” He held it out to her, careful to keep his eyes averted from her state of undress.
Caro ripped the cloak from the butler’s hands, wrapping the wool around her half-dressed form.
“You will regret this, Cam. I am not some common whore.”
“No, you are not,” he scoffed, “a common whore has better manners.” Sutton filled the brandy glass from the sideboard and walked from the room just as Caro began to scream.
